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: The Broken Window.
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"You are the most troublesome boy in the village, Reuben Whitney, and you will come to a bad end."
The words followed a shower of cuts with the cane. The speaker was an elderly man, the master of the village school of Tipping, near Lewes, in Sussex; and the words were elicited, in no small degree, by the vexation of the speaker at his inability to wring a cry from the boy whom he was striking. He was a lad of some thirteen years of age, with a face naturally bright and intelligent; but at present quivering with anger.
"I don't care if I do," he said defiantly. "It won't be my fault, but yours, and the rest of them."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," the master said, "instead of speaking in that way. You, who learn easier than anyone here, and could always be at the top of your class, if you chose. I had hoped better things of you, Reuben; but it's just the way, it's your bright boys as mostly gets into mischief."
At this moment the door of the school room opened, and a lady with two girls, one of about fourteen and the other eleven years of age, entered.
"What is the matter now?" the lady asked, seeing the schoolmaster, cane in hand, and the boy standing before him.
"Reuben Whitney! What, in trouble again, Reuben? I am afraid you are a very troublesome boy."
"I am not troublesome, ma'm," the boy said sturdily. "That is, I wouldn't be if they would let me alone; but everything that is done bad, they put it down to me."
"But what have you been doing now, Reuben?"
"I have done nothing at all, ma'm; but he's always down on me," and he pointed to the master, "and when they are always down on a fellow, it's no use his trying to do right."
"What has the boy been doing now, Mr. White?" the lady asked.
"Look there, ma'm, at those four windows all smashed, and the squire had all the broken panes mended only a fortnight ago."
"How was it done, Mr. White?"
"By a big stone, ma'm, which caught the frame where they joined, and smashed them all."
"I did not do it, Mrs. Ellison, indeed I didn't."
"Why do you suppose it was Reuben?" Mrs. Ellison asked the master.
"Because I had kept him in, half an hour after the others went home to dinner, for pinching young Jones and making him call out; and he had only just gone out of the gate when I heard the smash; so there is no doubt about it, for all the others must have been in at their dinner at that time."
"I didn't do it, ma'm," the boy repeated. "Directly I got out of the gate, I started off to run home. I hadn't gone not twenty yards when I heard a smash; but I wasn't going for to stop to see what it was. It weren't no business of mine, and that's all I know about it."
"Mamma," the younger of the two girls said eagerly, "what he says is quite true. You know you let me run down the village with the jelly for Mrs. Thomson's child, and as I was coming down the road I saw a boy come out of the gate of the school and run away; and then I heard a noise of broken glass, and I saw another boy jump over the hedge opposite, and run, too. He came my way and, directly he saw me, he ran to a gate and climbed over."
"Do you know who it was, Kate?" Mrs. Ellison asked.
"Yes, mamma. It was Tom Thorne."
"Is Thomas Thorne here?" Mrs. Ellison asked in a loud voice.
There was a general turning of the heads of the children to the point where a boy, somewhat bigger than the rest, had been apparently studying his lessons with great diligence.
"Come here, Tom Thorne," Mrs. Ellison said.
The boy slouched up with a sullen face.
"You hear what my daughter says, Tom. What have you to say in reply?"
"I didn't throw the stone at the window," the boy replied. "I chucked it at a sparrow, and it weren't my fault if it missed him and broke the window."
"I should say it was your fault, Tom," Mrs. Ellison said sharply--"very much your fault, if you throw a great stone at a bird without taking care to see what it may hit. But that is nothing to your fault in letting another boy be punished for what you did. I shall report the matter to the squire, and he will speak to your father about it. You are a wicked, bad boy.
"Mr. White, I will speak to you outside."
Followed by her daughters, Mrs. Ellison went out; Kate giving a little nod, in reply to the grateful look that Reuben Whitney cast towards her, and his muttered: "Thank you, miss."
"Walk on, my dears," Mrs. Ellison said. "I will overtake you, in a minute or two.
"This will not do, Mr. White," she said, when she was alone with the master. "I have told you before that I did not approve of your thrashing so much, and now it is proved that you punish without any sufficient cause, and upon suspicion only. I shall report the case at once to the squire and, unless I am greatly mistaken, you will have to look out for another place."
"I am very sorry, Mrs. Ellison, indeed I am; and it is not often I use the cane, now. If it had been anyone else, I might have believed him; but Reuben Whitney is always in mischief."
"No wonder he is in mischief," the lady said severely, "if he is punished, without a hearing, for all the misdeeds of others. Well, I shall leave the matter in the squire's hands; but I am sure he will no more approve than I do of the children being ill treated."
Reuben Whitney was the son of a miller, near Tipping. John Whitney had been considered a well-to-do man, but he had speculated in corn and had got into difficulties; and his body was, one day, found floating in the mill dam. No one knew whether it was the result of intention or accident, but the jury of his neighbours who sat upon the inquest gave him the benefit of the doubt, and brought in a verdict of "accidental death." He was but tenant of the mill and, when all the creditors were satisfied, there were only a few pounds remaining for the widow.
With these she opened a little shop in Tipping, with a miscellaneous collection of tinware and cheap ironmongery; cottons, tapes, and small articles of haberdashery; with toys, sweets, and cakes for the children. The profits were small, but the squire, who had known her husband, charged but a nominal rent for the cottage; and this was more than paid by the fruit trees in the garden, which also supplied her with potatoes and vegetables, so that she managed to support her boy and herself in tolerable comfort.
She herself had been the daughter of a tradesman in Lewes, and many wondered that she did not return to her father, upon her husband's death. But her home had not been a comfortable one, before her marriage; for her father had taken a second wife, and she did not get on well with her stepmother. She thought, therefore, that anything would be better than returning with her boy to a home where, to the mistress at least, she would be most unwelcome.
She had, as a girl, received an education which raised her somewhat above the other villagers of Tipping; and of an evening she was in the habit of helping Reuben with his lessons, and trying to correct the broadness of dialect which he picked up from the other boys. She was an active and bustling woman, managed her little shop well, and kept the garden, with Reuben's assistance, in excellent order.
Mrs. Ellison had, at her first arrival in the village three years before, done much to give her a good start, by ordering that all articles of use for the house, in which she dealt, should be purchased of her; and she highly approved of the energy and independence of the young widow. But lately there had been an estrangement between the squire's wife and the village shopkeeper. Mrs. Ellison, whose husband owned all the houses in the village, as well as the land surrounding it, was accustomed to speak her mind very freely to the wives of the villagers. She was kindness itself, in cases of illness or distress; and her kitchen supplied soups, jellies, and nourishing food to all who required it; but in return, Mrs. Ellison expected her lectures on waste, untidiness, and mismanagement to be listened to with respect and reverence.
She was, then, at once surprised and displeased when, two or three months before, having spoken sharply to Mrs. Whitney as to the alleged delinquencies of Reuben, she found herself decidedly, though not disrespectfully, replied to.
"The other boys are always set against my Reuben," Mrs. Whitney said, "because he is a stranger in the village, and has no father; and whatever is done, they throw it on to him. The boy is not a bad boy, ma'm--not in any way a bad boy. He may get into mischief, like the rest; but he is not a bit worse than others, not half as bad as some of them, and those who have told you that he is haven't told you the truth."
Mrs. Ellison had not liked it. She was not accustomed to be answered, except by excuses and apologies; and Mrs. Whitney's independent manner of speaking came upon her almost as an act of rebellion, in her own kingdom. She was too fair, however, to withdraw her custom from the shop; but from that time she had not, herself, entered it.
Reuben was a source of anxiety to his mother, but this had no reference to his conduct. She worried over his future. The receipts from the shop were sufficient for their wants; and indeed the widow was enabled, from time to time, to lay by a pound against bad times; but she did not see what she was to do with the boy. Almost all the other lads of the village, of the same age, were already in the fields; and Mrs. Whitney felt that she could not much longer keep him idle. The question was, what was she to do with him? That he should not go into the fields she was fully determined, and her great wish was to apprentice him to some trade; but as her father had recently died, she did not see how she was to set about it.
That evening, at dinner, Mrs. Ellison told the squire of the scene in the school room.
"White must go," he said, "that is quite evident. I have seen, for some time, that we wanted a younger man, more abreast of the times than White is; but I don't like turning him adrift altogether. He has been here upwards of thirty years. What am I to do with him?"
Mrs. Ellison could make no suggestion; but she, too, disliked the thought of anyone in the village being turned adrift upon the world.
"The very thing!" the squire exclaimed, suddenly. "We will make him clerk. Old Peters has long been past his work. The old man must be seventy-five, if he's a day, and his voice quavers so that it makes the boys laugh. We will pension him off. He can have his cottage rent free, and three or four shillings a week. I don't suppose it will be for many years. As for White, he cannot be much above sixty. He will fill the place very well.
"I am sure the vicar will agree, for he has been speaking to me, about Peters being past his work, for the last five years. What do you say, my dear?"
"I think that will do very well, William," Mrs. Ellison replied, "and will get over the difficulty altogether."
"So you see, wife, for once that boy of Widow Whitney's was not to blame. I told you you took those stories on trust against him too readily. The boy's a bit of a pickle, no doubt; and I very near gave him a thrashing, myself, a fortnight since, for on going up to the seven-acre field, I found him riding bare backed on that young pony I intended for Kate."
"You don't say so, William!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed, greatly shocked. "I never heard of such an impudent thing. I really wonder you didn't thrash him."
"Well, perhaps I should have done so, my dear; but the fact is, I caught sight of him some time before he saw me, and he was really sitting her so well that I could not find it in my heart to call out. He was really doing me a service. The pony had never been ridden, and was as wild as a wild goat. Thomas is too old, in fact, to break it in, and I should have had to get someone to do it, and pay him two or three pounds for the job.
"It was not the first time the boy had been on her back, I could see. The pony was not quite broken and, just as I came on the scene, was trying its best to get rid of him; but it couldn't do it, and I could see, by the way he rode her about afterwards, that he had got her completely in hand; and a very pretty-going little thing she will turn out."
"But what did you say to him, William? I am sure I should never stop to think whether he was breaking in the pony, or not, if I saw him riding it about."
"I daresay not, my dear," the squire said, laughing; "but then you see, you have never been a boy; and I have, and can make allowances. Many a pony and horse have I broken in, in my time; and have got on the back of more than one, without my father knowing anything about it."
"Yes, but they were your father's horses, William," Mrs. Ellison persisted. "That makes all the difference."
"I don't suppose it would have made much difference to me," the squire laughed, "at that time. I was too fond of horse flesh, even from a boy, to be particular whose horse it was I got across. However, of course, after waiting till he had done, I gave the young scamp a blowing up."
"Not much of a blowing up, I am sure," Mrs. Ellison said; "and as likely as not, a shilling at the end of it."
"Well, Mary, I must own," the squire said pleasantly, "that a shilling did find its way out of my pocket into his."
"It's too bad of you, William," Mrs. Ellison said indignantly. "Here is this boy, who is notoriously a scapegrace, has the impertinence to ride your horse, and you encourage him in his misdeeds by giving him a shilling."
"Well, my dear, don't you see, I saved two pounds nineteen by the transaction.
"Besides," he added more seriously, "I think the boy has been maligned. I don't fancy he's a bad lad at all. A little mischief and so on, but none the worse for that. Besides, you know, I knew his father; and have sat many a time on horseback chatting to him, at the door of his mill; and drank more than one glass of good ale, which his wife has brought out to me. I am not altogether easy in my conscience about them. If there had been a subscription got up for the widow at his death, I should have put my name down for twenty pounds; and all that I have done for her is to take eighteen pence a week off that cottage of theirs.
"No, I called the boy to me when he got off, and pretty scared he looked when he saw me. When he came up, I asked him how he dared to ride my horses about, without my leave. Of course he said he was sorry, which meant nothing; and he added, as a sort of excuse, that he used from a child to ride the horses at the mill down to the ford for water; and that his father generally had a young one or two, in that paddock of his by the mill, and he used often to ride them; and seeing the pony one day, galloping about the field and kicking up its heels, he wondered whether he could sit a horse still, and especially whether he could keep on that pony's back. Then he set to, to try.
"The pony flung him several times, at first; and no wonder, as he had no saddle, and only a piece of old rope for a bridle; but he mastered him at last, and he assured me that he had never used the stick, and certainly he had not one when I saw him. I told him, of course, that he knew he ought not to have done it; but that, as he had taken it in hand, he might finish it. I said that I intended to have it broken in for Kate, and that he had best get a bit of sacking and put it on sideways, to accustom the pony to carry a lady. Then I gave him a shilling, and told him I would give him five more, when he could tell me the pony was sufficiently broken and gentle to carry Kate."
Mrs. Ellison shook her head in disapprobation.
"It is of no use, William, my talking to the villagers as to the ways of their boys, if that is the way you counteract my advice."
"But I don't always, my dear," the squire said blandly. "For instance, I shall go round tomorrow morning with my dog whip to Thorne's; and I shall offer him the choice of giving that boy of his the soundest thrashing he ever had, while I stand by to see it, or of going out of his house at the end of the quarter.
"I rather hope he will choose the latter alternative. That beer shop of his is the haunt of all the idle fellows in the village. I have a strong suspicion that he is in league with the poachers, if he doesn't poach himself; and the first opportunity I get of laying my finger upon him, out he goes."
A few days later when Kate Ellison issued from the gate of the house, which lay just at the end of the village, with the basket containing some jelly and medicine for a sick child, she found Reuben Whitney awaiting her. He touched his cap.
"Please, miss, I made bold to come here, to thank you for having cleared me."
"But I couldn't help clearing you, Reuben, for you see, I knew it wasn't you."
"Well, miss, it was very kind, all the same; and I am very much obliged to you."
"But why do you get into scrapes?" the girl said. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be suspected of other things. Mamma said, the other day, you got into more scrapes than any boy in the village; and you look nice, too. Why do you do it?"
"I don't know why I do it, miss," Reuben said shamefacedly. "I suppose it's because I don't go into the fields, like most of the other boys; and haven't got much to do. But there's no great harm in them, miss. They are just larks, nothing worse."
"You don't do really bad things?" the girl asked.
"No, miss, I hope not."
"And you don't tell stories, do you?"
"No, miss, never. If I do anything and I am asked, I always own it. I wouldn't tell a lie to save myself from a licking."
"That's right," the girl said graciously.
She caught somewhat of her mother's manner, from going about with her to the cottages; and it seemed quite natural, to her, to give her advice to this village scapegrace.
"Well, try not to do these sort of things again, Reuben; because I like you, and I don't like to hear people say you are the worst boy in the village, and I don't think you are. Good-bye," and Kate Ellison proceeded on her way.
Reuben smiled as he looked after her. Owing to his memory of his former position at the mill, and to his mother's talk and teaching, Reuben did not entertain the same feeling of respect, mingled with fear, for the squire's family which was felt by the village in general. Instead of being two years younger than himself, the girl had spoken as gravely as if she had been twenty years his senior, and Reuben could not help a smile of amusement.
"She is a dear little lady," he said, as he looked after her; "and it's only natural she should talk like her mother. But Mrs. Ellison means well, too, mother says; and as for the squire, he is a good fellow. I expected he would have given it to me the other day.
"Well, now I will go up to the pony. One more lesson, and I think a baby might ride it."
As he walked along, he met Tom Thorne. There had been war between them, since the affair of the broken window. Reuben had shown the other no animosity on the subject as, having been cleared, he had felt in no way aggrieved; but Tom Thorne was very sore over it. In the first place, he had been found out; and although Reuben himself had said nothing to him, respecting his conduct in allowing him to be flogged for the offence which he himself had committed, others had not been so reticent, and he had had a hard time of it in the village. Secondly, he had been severely thrashed by his father, in the presence of the squire; the former laying on the lash with a vigour which satisfied Mr. Ellison, the heartiness of the thrashing being due, not to any indignation at the fault, but because the boy's conduct had excited the squire's anger; which Thorne, for many reasons, was anxious to deprecate. He was his landlord, and had the power to turn him out at a quarter's notice; and as there was no possibility of obtaining any other house near, and he was doing by no means a bad trade, he was anxious to keep on good terms with him.
Tom Thorne was sitting on a gate, as Reuben passed.
"You think you be a fine fellow, Reuben, but I will be even with you, some day."
"You can be even with me now," Reuben said, "if you like to get off that gate."
"I bain't afeared of you, Reuben, don't you go to think it; only I ain't going to do any fighting now. Feyther says if I get into any more rows, he will pay me out; so I can't lick you now, but some day I will be even with you."
"That's a good excuse," Reuben said scornfully. "However, I don't want to fight if you don't, only you keep your tongue to yourself. I don't want to say nothing to you, if you don't say nothing to me. You played me a dirty trick the other day, and you got well larrupped for it, so I don't owe you any grudge; but mind you, I don't want any more talk about your getting even with me, for if you do give me any more of it I will fetch you one on the nose, and then you will have a chance of getting even, at once."
Tom Thorne held his tongue, only relieving his feelings by making a grimace after Reuben, as the latter passed on. In the various contests among the boys of the village, Reuben had proved himself so tough an adversary that, although Tom Thorne was heavier and bigger, he did not care about entering upon what would be, at best, a doubtful contest with him.
Contenting himself, therefore, with another muttered, "I will be even with you some day," he strolled home to his father's ale house.
The change at the school was very speedily made. The squire generally carried out his resolutions while they were hot and, on the very day after his conversation with his wife on the subject, he went first to the vicar and arranged for the retirement of the clerk, and the instalment of White in his place; and then went to the school house, and informed the master of his intention. The latter had been expecting his dismissal, since Mrs. Ellison had spoken to him on the previous day; and the news which the squire gave him was a relief to him. His emoluments, as clerk, would be smaller than those he received as schoolmaster; but while he would not be able to discharge the duties of the latter for very much longer, for he felt the boys were getting too much for him, he would be able to perform the very easy work entailed by the clerkship for many years to come. It was, too, a position not without dignity; and indeed, in the eyes of the village the clerk was a personage of far greater importance than the schoolmaster. He therefore thankfully accepted the offer, and agreed to give up the school as soon as a substitute could be found.
In those days anyone was considered good enough for a village schoolmaster, and the post was generally filled by men who had failed as tradesmen, and in everything else they put their hands to; and whose sole qualification for the office was that they were able to read and write. Instead of advertising, however, in the county paper, the squire wrote to an old college friend, who was now in charge of a London parish, and asked him to choose a man for the post.
"I don't want a chap who will cram all sorts of new notions into the heads of the children," the squire said. "I don't think it would do them any good, or fit them any better for their stations. The boys have got to be farm labourers, and the girls to be their wives; and if they can read really well, and write fairly, it's about as much as they want in the way of learning; but I think that a really earnest sort of man might do them good, otherwise. A schoolmaster, in my mind, should be the clergyman's best assistant. I don't know, my dear fellow, that I can explain in words more exactly what I mean; but I think you will understand me, and will send down the sort of man I want.
"The cottage is a comfortable one, there's a good bit of garden attached to it, and I don't mind paying a few shillings a week more than I do now, to get the sort of man I want. If he has a wife so much the better. She might teach the girls to sew, which would be, to nine out of ten, a deal more use than reading and writing; and if she could use her needle, and make up dresses and that sort of thing, she might add to their income. Not one woman in five in the village can make her own clothes, and they have to go to a place three miles away to get them done."
A week later the squire received an answer from his friend, saying that he had chosen a man, and his wife, whom he thought would suit.
"The poor fellow was rather a cripple," he said. "He is a wood engraver by trade, but he fell downstairs and hurt his back. The doctor who attended him at the hospital spoke to me about him. He said that he might, under favourable circumstances, get better in time; but that he was delicate, and absolutely needed change of air and a country life. I have seen him several times, and have been much struck with his intelligence. He has been much depressed at being forbidden to work, but has cheered up greatly since I told him of your offer. I have no doubt he will do well.
"I have selected him, not only for that reason, but because his wife is as suitable as he is. She is an admirable young woman, and was a dressmaker before he married her. She has supported them both ever since he was hurt, months ago. She is delighted at the idea of the change for, although the money will be very much less than he earned at his trade, she has always been afraid of his health giving way; and is convinced that fresh air, and the garden you speak of, will put new life into him."
The squire was not quite satisfied with the letter; but, as he told himself, he could not expect to get a man trained specially as a schoolmaster to accept the post; and at any rate, if the man was not satisfactory his wife was likely to be so. He accordingly ordered his groom to take the light cart and drive over to Lewes, the next day, to meet the coach when it came in; and to bring over the new schoolmaster, his wife, and their belongings.
Mrs. Ellison at once went down to the village, and got a woman to scrub the cottage from top to bottom, and put everything tidy. The furniture went with the house, and had been provided by the squire. Mrs. Ellison went over it, and ordered a few more things to be sent down from the house to make it more comfortable for a married couple and, driving over to Lewes, ordered a carpet, curtains, and a few other little comforts for it.
James Shrewsbury was, upon his arrival, much pleased with his cottage, which contrasted strongly with the room in a crowded street which he had occupied in London; and his wife was still more pleased.
"I am sure we shall be happy and comfortable here, James," she said, "and the air feels so fresh and pure that I am convinced you will soon get strong and well again. What is money to health? I am sure I shall be ten times as happy, here, as I was when you were earning three or four times as much, in London."
The squire and Mrs. Ellison came down the next morning, at the opening of the school; and after a chat with the new schoolmaster and his wife, the squire accompanied the former into the school room.
"Look here, boys and girls," he said, "Mr. Shrewsbury has come down from London to teach you. He has been ill, and is not very strong. I hope you will give him no trouble, and I can tell you it will be the worse for you, if you do. I am going to look into matters myself; and I shall have a report sent me in, regularly, as to how each of you is getting on, with a special remark as to conduct; and I can tell you, if any of you are troublesome you will find me down at your father's, in no time."
The squire's words had considerable effect, and an unusual quiet reigned in the school, after he had left and the new schoolmaster opened a book.
They soon found that his method of teaching was very different to that which they were accustomed to. There was no shouting or thumping on the desk with the cane, no pulling of ears or cuffing of heads. Everything was explained quietly and clearly; and when they went out of the school, all agreed that the new master was a great improvement on Master White, while the master himself reported to his wife that he had got on better than he had expected.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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2
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: The Poisoned Dog.
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The boys soon felt that Mr. Shrewsbury really wished to teach them, and that he was ready to assist those who wanted to get on. In the afternoon the schoolmaster's wife started a sewing class for the girls and, a week or two after he came, the master announced that such of the elder class of boys and girls who chose to come, in the evening, to his cottage could do so for an hour; and that he and the boys would read, by turns, some amusing book while the girls worked. Only Reuben Whitney and two or three others at first availed themselves of the invitation, but these spoke so highly of their evening that the number soon increased. Three quarters of an hour were spent in reading some interesting work of travel or adventure, and then the time was occupied in talking over what they had read, and in explaining anything which they did not understand; and as the evenings were now long and dark, the visits to the schoolmaster soon came to be regarded as a privilege, and proved an incentive to work to those in the lower classes, only those in the first place being admitted to them.
Reuben worked hard all through the winter, and made very rapid progress; the schoolmaster, seeing how eager he was to get on, doing everything in his power to help him forward, and lending him books to study at home. One morning in the spring, the squire looked in at Mrs. Whitney's shop.
"Mrs. Whitney," he said, "I don't know what you are thinking of doing with that boy of yours. Mr. Shrewsbury gives me an excellent account of him, and says that he is far and away the cleverest and most studious of the boys. I like the lad, and owe him a good turn for having broken in that pony for my daughter; besides, for his father's sake I should like to help him on. Now, in the first place, what are you thinking of doing with him?"
"I am sure I am very much obliged to you," Mrs. Whitney said. "I was thinking, when he gets a little older, of apprenticing him to some trade, but he is not fourteen yet."
"The best thing you can do, Mrs. Whitney. Let it be some good trade, where he can use his wits--not a butcher, a baker, or a tailor, or anything of that sort. I should say an upholsterer, or a mill wright, or some trade where his intelligence can help him on. When the time comes I shall be glad to pay his apprentice fees for him, and perhaps, when you tell me what line he has chosen, a word from me to one of the tradesmen in Lewes may be a help. In the meantime, that is not what I have specially come about. Young Finch, who looks to my garden, is going to leave; and if you like, your boy can have the place. My gardener knows his business thoroughly, and the boy can learn under him. I will pay him five shillings a week. It will break him into work a little, and he is getting rather old for the school now. I have spoken to Shrewsbury, and he says that, if the boy is disposed to go on studying in the evening, he will direct his work and help him on."
"Thank you kindly, sir," Mrs. Whitney said. "I think it will just be the thing, for a year or so, before he is apprenticed. He was saying only last night that he was the biggest boy in the school; and though I know he likes learning, he would like to be helping me, and feels somehow that it isn't right that he should be going on schooling, while all the other boys at his age are doing something. Not that I want him to earn money, for the shop keeps us both; but it's what he thinks about it."
"That's natural enough, Mrs. Whitney, and anything the boy earns with me, you see, you can put by, and it will come in useful to him some day."
Reuben was glad when he heard of the arrangement; for although, as his mother had said, he was fond of school, he yet felt it as a sort of reproach that, while others of his age were earning money, he should be doing nothing. He accepted the offer of the schoolmaster to continue to work at his studies in the evening, and in a week he was installed in Tom Finch's place.
The arrangement was not the squire's original idea, but that of his younger daughter, who felt a sort of proprietary interest in Reuben; partly because her evidence had cleared him of the accusation of breaking the windows, partly because he had broken in the pony for her; so when she heard that the boy was leaving, she had at once asked her father that Reuben should take his place.
"I think he is a good boy, papa," she said; "and if he was clever enough to break in my pony, I am sure he will be clever enough to wheel the wheelbarrow and pull weeds."
"I should think he would, lassie," her father said, laughing, "although it does not exactly follow. Still, if you guarantee that he is a good boy, I will see about it."
"Mamma doesn't think he is a very good boy," Kate said; "but you see, papa, mamma is a woman, and perhaps she doesn't understand boys and girls as well as I do. I think he's good, and he told me he never told stories."
The squire laughed.
"I don't know what your mamma would say to that, puss; nor whether she would agree that you understand boys and girls better than she does. However, I will take your opinion this time, and give Reuben a chance."
The subject was not mentioned again in Kate's hearing, but she was greatly pleased, one morning, at seeing Reuben at work in the gardens.
"Good morning, Reuben," she said.
"Good morning, miss," he replied, touching his hat.
"I am glad you have come in Tom's place, and I hope you will be good, and not get into scrapes, for I told papa I thought you would not; and you see, if you do, he will turn round and blame me."
"I will try not to get into scrapes, Miss Kate," Reuben said. "I don't do it often, you know, and I don't think there will be much chance of it, here."
Kate nodded and walked on, and Reuben went about his work.
There was, however, much more opportunity for getting into scrapes than Reuben imagined, although the scrapes were not of the kind he had pictured. Being naturally careless, he had not been there a week before, in his eagerness to get home to a particularly interesting book, he forgot to carry out his orders to shut the cucumber frames and, a sharp frost coming on in the night, the plants were all killed; to the immense indignation of the gardener, who reported the fact, with a very serious face, to the squire.
"I am afraid that boy will never do, squire. Such carelessness I never did see, and them plants was going on beautifully."
"Confound the young rascal!" the squire said wrathfully, for he was fond of cucumbers. "I will speak to him myself. This sort of thing will never do."
And accordingly, the squire spoke somewhat sharply to Reuben, who was really sorry for the damage his carelessness had caused; and he not only promised the squire that it should not occur again, but mentally resolved very firmly that it should not. He felt very shamefaced when Kate passed him in the garden, with a serious shake of her head, signifying that she was shocked that he had thus early got into a scrape, and discredited her recommendation.
The lesson was a useful one. Henceforth Reuben paid closer attention to his work, and even the gardener, who regarded boys as his great trial in life, expressed himself satisfied with him.
"Since that affair of the cucumbers I must own, squire," he said a month later, "that he is the best boy I have come across. He attends to what I say and remembers it, and I find I can trust him to do jobs that I have never been able to trust boys with, before. He seems to take an interest in it, and as he is well spoken and civil, he ought to get on and make a good gardener, in time."
"I am glad to hear a good account of him," the squire replied. "He is sharp and intelligent, and will make his way in life, or I am mistaken. His father was an uncommonly clever fellow, though he made a mess of it, just at the end; and I think the boy takes after him."
Among Reuben's other duties was that of feeding and attending to the dogs. These consisted of two setters, a pointer, and a large house dog, who was chained up at the entrance to the stables. Reuben was soon excellent friends with the sporting dogs, but the watchdog, who had probably been teased by Reuben's predecessor, always growled and showed his teeth when he went near him; and Reuben never dared venture within the length of his chain, but pushed the bowl containing his food just within his reach.
One day, he had been sent on an errand to the stables. He forgot the dog and ran close to the kennel. The animal at once sprang out. Reuben made a rush, but he was not quick enough, and the dog caught him by the leg. Reuben shouted, and the coachman ran out and, seizing a fork, struck the dog and compelled him to loose his hold.
"Has he bit you badly, Reuben?"
"Well, he has bit precious hard," Reuben replied. "I think he has nearly taken a piece out of my calf," as, on pulling up his trousers, he showed his leg streaming with blood.
"Put it under the pump, lad. I will pump on it," the coachman said. "He's a bad-tempered brute, and I wonder the squire keeps it."
"The brute ought to be killed," Reuben grumbled angrily. "I have never teased it or worried it, in any way. I wish you had stuck that fork into him, instead of hitting him with it. If you hadn't been within reach, he would have taken the bit out of me. He will kill somebody some day, and it were best to kill him, first."
The gardener pumped for some time on Reuben's leg; and then, going into the kitchen, he got some strips of rag from the cook and bound it up.
"You had best go home now," he said. "I will tell the gardener, when he comes round, what has happened to you. I doubt you will have to lay up, for a day or two."
As Reuben limped home, he met Tom Thorne walking with another boy.
"Hello, Reuben!" the latter exclaimed. "What's come to you? Yer trousers bee all tore."
"That brute of a house dog at the squire's has had hold of me," Reuben answered. "The savage beast has had a try, a good many times; but this time he got hold, and he has bit me pretty sharp."
Reuben had to keep his leg quiet for three days but, the third evening, he was well enough to go down the village to the schoolhouse. After the lesson was over he walked for some distance up the road, for his leg was very stiff; and he thought it would be a good thing to try and walk it off, as he intended to go to work next morning. On getting up early in the morning, however, he found it was still stiff and sore; but he thought he had better go and try to work for a bit.
"I am glad you are back again," the gardener said, when he saw him, "for there's a lot of work on hand; but I see you are still lame. The coachman tells me it were a nasty bite."
"It's pretty sore still," Reuben replied, "and I don't think I can walk about much; but I thought I might help in some other way."
"Very well," the gardener said. "There are a lot of plants which want shifting into larger pots. You do them, and I will take up the fork and dig up that piece of ground I want to put the young lettuces into."
Reuben worked hard till half-past eight, and then went off to his breakfast. On his return, he was told the squire wished to speak to him.
"It's about that dog, I expect," the gardener remarked. "I suppose you know he were poisoned last night."
"No, I didn't know," Reuben replied; "but it's a precious good job. I wish he had been poisoned before he got his teeth into me."
Reuben, on going round to the back door, was shown into the library, where the squire was sitting. The coachman was with him.
"Now then, Reuben," the squire said, "I want you to tell me the truth about this matter. The coachman told me, three days ago, that you had been bitten by the yard dog, and I made up my mind to get rid of him, on the first opportunity; but I find he was poisoned, yesterday evening."
He stopped as if expecting Reuben to say something; but the boy, having nothing to say, merely replied: "Yes, sir, so the gardener has told me."
"What do you know about it, Reuben?"
"I don't know anything about it, sir," Reuben replied, opening his eyes.
"Now, look here, lad," the squire said gravely, "I am disposed to think well of you; and although I consider it a serious offence your poisoning the dog, I shall consider it very much worse if you deny it."
"But I didn't poison it, sir," Reuben affirmed. "I never dreamt of such a thing."
The squire set his lips hard together.
"Just tell me your story over again," he said to the coachman.
"Well, yesterday evening, squire, I went down into the village to buy some 'bacca. Just as I got back to the gate, out runs a boy. It was too dark for me to see his face, but I naturally supposed it were Reuben, so I said, 'Hello, Reuben, how's the leg?' But the moment I spoke, he turned off from the path and ran away.
"Well, I thought it was queer, but I went on to the stable. About a quarter of an hour afterwards, and as I was a-cleaning up the bits, I heard Wolf howl. He kept on at it, so I took a lantern and went out to see what was the matter. He was rolling about, and seemed very bad. I stood a-looking at him, wondering what were best to do, when sudden he gave a sort of yell, and rolled over, and he was dead. I thought it was no good telling you about it till this morning; and thinking it over, and seeing how sudden like it was, I come to the 'pinion as how he had been poisoned; and naturally thinking that, as he had bit Reuben, and as how Reuben said he ought to be killed, and seeing as I had met the boy a quarter an hour afore the dog was took bad, it came to me as how he had done it.
"This morning I knew for certain as the dog had been poisoned, for just outside of the reach of his chain there was that piece of paper a-lying, as you have got before you."
It was a piece of blue paper, about four inches square, on which was printed: "Rat poison."
"You hear that, Reuben? What have you to say?" the squire asked.
"I have got nothing to say, sir," Reuben answered, "except that whoever the boy was, it wasn't me, and that I know nothing about it."
"Well, Reuben, it will be easy for you to clear yourself, by saying where you were at the time.
"What o'clock was it, Robert, that you saw the boy?"
"It was just a quarter past eight, squire. The quarter struck just as I opened the gate."
"Were you out or at home at that hour, Reuben?"
"I was out, sir. I went to the schoolmaster's."
"What time did you leave there?"
"I left at eight, sir."
"Then if you got in just after eight, it is clear that you were not the boy," the squire said. "If your mother tells me that you were in at five minutes past eight, that settles the question, as far as you are concerned."
"I didn't get in till half-past eight, sir," Reuben said. "I walked about for a bit, after I came out from school, to try and get the stiffness out of my leg, so as to be able to come to work this morning."
"Was anyone with you, Reuben? Is there anyone to say what you did with yourself, between eight and half-past eight?"
"No, sir," Reuben said quietly. "I didn't speak to a soul; and didn't see a soul, so far as I know, from the time I came out of the gate of the schoolhouse till I got home."
"Does your mother sell packets of this poison?" the squire said, pointing to the paper.
Reuben looked at the paper.
"Yes, sir; I believe she does."
"Well, my lad," the squire said, "you must acknowledge that the case looks very ugly against you. You are known to have borne bad feelings against the dog; naturally enough, I admit. A boy about your size was seen by Robert in the dark, coming out of the gate; and that he was there for no good purpose is proved by the fact that he ran away when spoken to. A quarter of an hour later, the dog dies of poison. That poison you certainly could get at home and, by your own admission, you were out and about at the time the dog was poisoned. The case looks very bad against you."
"I don't care how bad it looks," Reuben said, passionately. "It wasn't me, squire, if that were the last word I ever had to speak."
"Very well," the squire said coldly. "In my mind, the evidence is overwhelming against you. I have no intention of pursuing the matter further; nor will I, for your father's and mother's sake, bring public disgrace upon you; but of course I shall not retain you here further, nor have anything to do with you, in the future."
Without a word, Reuben turned and left the room. Had he spoken, he would have burst into a passion of tears. With a white face, he walked through the village and entered his mother's shop.
"What? Back again, Reuben?" she said. "I thought your leg was too bad to work."
"It isn't my leg, mother," he said, in a choking voice. "The squire has dismissed me. He says I have poisoned his dog."
"Says you poisoned his dog, Reuben! Whatever put such an idea into his head?"
"The coachman saw a boy coming out of the yard, at a quarter past eight last night. It was too dark for him to say for certain, but he thought it was me. A quarter of an hour later the dog died of poison, and this morning they picked up a cover of one of those rat powders you sell. I couldn't say where I was at a quarter past eight, when the coachman saw the boy; for as you know, mother, I told you I had walked out a bit, after I came out from the school, to get the stiffness out of my leg. So, altogether, the squire has made up his mind 'tis me, and so he has sent me away."
Reuben had summed up the points against himself in a broken voice, and now broke into a passion of tears. His mother tried in vain to pacify him; but indeed her own indignation, at her boy being charged with such a thing, was so great that she could do little to console him.
"It's shameful!" she exclaimed, over and over again. "I call it downright wicked of the squire to suspect you of such a thing."
"Well, mother, it does look very bad against me," Reuben said, wiping his eyes at last, "and I don't know as the squire is so much to be blamed for suspecting me. I know and you know that it wasn't me; but there's no reason why the squire should know it. Somebody has poisoned his dog, and that somebody is a boy. He knows that I was unfriendly with the dog so, putting things together, I don't see as he could help suspecting me, and only my word the other way. It seems to me as if somebody must have done it to get me in a row, for I don't know that the dog had bit anyone else. If it is anyone, I expect it's Tom Thorne. He has never been friends with me, since that affair of the school window."
"I will go at once and speak to his father," Mrs. Whitney said, taking down her bonnet from the wall.
"No, mother, you can't do that," Reuben exclaimed. "We have got nothing against him. The squire has ten times as good reason to suspect me, as I have to suspect Tom Thorne; so as we know the squire's wrong, it's ten times as likely we shall be wrong. Besides, if he did it, of course he would deny it, he is the worst liar in the village; and then folks would say I wasn't satisfied with doing it myself, but I wanted to throw the blame on to him, just as he did on me before. No, it won't do, mother."
Mrs. Whitney saw that it wouldn't do, and sat down again. Reuben sat thinking, for some time.
"I must go away, mother," he said at last. "I can't stop here. Every one in the village will get to know of it, and they will point at me as the boy as poisoned the squire's dog, and then lied about it. I couldn't stand that, mother."
"And you sha'n't stand it, my boy," Mrs. Whitney said, "not a day. I will give up the cottage and move into Lewes, at once. I didn't go there before, for I am known there, and don't like folk to see how much I have come down in the world."
"No, mother, you stop here, and I will go up to London. They say there is lots of work there, and I suppose I can get on as well as another."
"I will not hear of your doing such a thing. I should never expect to hear of you again. I should always be thinking that you had got run over, or were starving in the streets, or dying in a workhouse. No, Reuben, my plan's best. It's just silliness my not liking to settle in Lewes; for of course it's better going where one is known, and I should be lost in a strange place. No; I daresay I shall find a cottage there, and I shall manage to get a living somehow--perhaps open a little shop like this, and then you can be apprenticed, and live at home."
An hour later, Mrs. Ellison called. Reuben had gone upstairs to lie down, for his leg was very painful. Mrs. Whitney did not give her visitor time to begin.
"I know what you have called about, Mrs. Ellison, and I don't want to talk about it with you. The squire has grievously wronged my boy. I wouldn't have believed it of him, but he's done it; so now, ma'm, I give a week's notice of this house, and here's my rent up to that time, and I will send you the key when I go. And now, ma'm, as I don't want any words about it, I think it will be better if you go, at once."
Mrs. Ellison hesitated a moment. Never, from the time she entered the village as the squire's wife, had she been thus spoken to; but she saw at once, in Mrs. Whitney's face, that it were better not to reply to her; and that her authority as the squire's wife had, for once, altogether vanished. She therefore took up the money which Mrs. Whitney had laid on the counter and, without a word, left the shop.
"I do believe, William," she said as, greatly ruffled and indignant, she gave an account of the interview to the squire, "that the woman would have slapped my face, if I had said anything. She is the most insolent creature I ever met."
"Well, my dear," the squire said seriously, "I can hardly wonder at the poor woman's indignation. She has had a hard time of it, and this must be a sad blow. Naturally she believes in her son's innocence, and we must not altogether blame her, if she resents his dismissal. It's a sad business altogether, and I know it will be a worry and trouble to me for months. Mind, I don't doubt that the boy did it; it does not seem possible that it should be otherwise. Still, it is not absolutely proved; and upon my word, I wish now I had said nothing at all about it. I like the boy, and I liked his father before him; and as this story must get about, it cannot but do him serious damage. Altogether it is a most tiresome business, and I would give a hundred pounds if it hadn't taken place."
"I really do not see why you should worry about it, William. The boy has always been a troublesome boy, and perhaps this lesson may do him good."
The squire did not attempt to argue the question. He felt really annoyed and put out and, after wandering over the ground and stables, he went down to the schoolhouse after the children had been dismissed.
"Have you heard, Shrewsbury, about that boy Whitney?"
"No, sir, I have heard nothing about him," the schoolmaster said. "He was here yesterday evening, as usual. His leg is no worse, I hope. Those dog bites are always nasty things."
"I wish it had been worse," the squire said testily; "then he would have been laid up quietly at home, instead of being about mischief."
"Why, what has he done, sir?" the schoolmaster asked, in surprise.
The squire related the history of the dog's death, and of his interview with Reuben. The schoolmaster looked serious, and grieved.
"What do you think of the matter, Shrewsbury?" the squire asked, when he had finished.
"I would rather not give any opinion," the schoolmaster replied quietly.
"That means you think I am wrong," the squire said quickly. "Well, say it out, man; you won't offend me. I am half inclined to think I was wrong, myself; and I would as lief be told so, as not."
"I don't say you are wrong, sir," the schoolmaster said, "except that I think you assumed the boy's guilt too much as a matter of course. Now, I have seen a great deal of him. I have a great liking for him, and believe him to be not only a singularly intelligent and hard-working lad, but a perfectly truthful and open one. I allow that the circumstances are much against him; but the evidence is, to my mind, completely overbalanced by his absolute denial. You must remember that he saw that you were quite convinced of his guilt; and that, in your eyes, his denial would be an aggravation of the offence. Therefore you see he had no strong motive for telling a lie.
"Who killed your dog I do not know but, from my knowledge of his character and assurance of his truthfulness, I am perfectly convinced that Reuben Whitney did not do it. The boy is, in some ways, very superior to the other lads I teach. I hear that his father was in a good position, as a miller; and his mother is of a different class, altogether, to the other women of the village. The boy has a certain refinement about him, a thoughtfulness and consideration which set him apart from the others. Mischievous and somewhat inclined to be noisy as he generally is, on days when I have not felt quite equal to my work he would notice it at once and, without saying a word, would, by his quietness and attention to his work, try to save me trouble; and I have heard him try to quiet the others, as they trooped out. The boy has a good heart as well as a good intellect, and nothing save his own confession would make me believe that he poisoned your dog."
"But he said he wished it was killed," the squire urged, as in defence of his own opinion.
"He said so, squire, at the time he was smarting with the pain of a severe bite; and I think probably he meant no more than a man who, under the same circumstances, would say, 'Confound the dog!' or even a stronger oath."
Mr. Ellison was silenced, for when in wrath he was, himself, given to use strong expressions.
"I don't know what to say, Shrewsbury," he said at last. "I am afraid I have made a mess of it; but certainly, as I first heard it, the case seemed to admit of no doubt. 'Pon my word, I don't know what to do. My wife has just been up to see Mrs. Whitney, and the woman blazed out at her, and wouldn't let her say a word, but gave notice that she should give up the house at the end of the week. If it hadn't been for that, I might have done something; but Mrs. Ellison was very much aggrieved at her manner. Altogether, it's one of the most annoying things I ever had to do with."
In the evening the schoolmaster put on his hat and went up, with his wife, to Mrs. Whitney. The women had seen a good deal of each other, as they both stood somewhat apart from the rest of the village and, in thought and speech, differed widely from the labourers' wives; and on evenings when the sewing class did not meet, the schoolmaster's wife often went up for an hour or two to Mrs. Whitney's, or the latter came down to the Shrewsburys' cottage.
"We have come up, Mrs. Whitney," the schoolmaster said as they entered, "to tell you how sorry we are to hear that you are going to leave, and that we are still more sorry for the cause. Of course, neither my wife nor myself believe for a moment that Reuben poisoned the squire's dog. The idea is preposterous. I told the squire as much, today."
Mrs. Whitney burst into tears. She had kept up all day, sustained partly by indignation, and partly by the desire that Reuben should not see that she felt it; but the thought that all the village would believe Reuben guilty had cut her to the heart, and she had felt so unwilling to face anyone that, as soon as Mrs. Ellison had left, she had closed the shutters of her little shop; but she broke down, now, from her relief at hearing that someone besides herself believed the boy to be innocent.
"I don't know what I shall do without you, Mrs. Whitney," Mrs. Shrewsbury said, when the widow recovered her composure. "I shall miss you dreadfully. Is it quite settled that you will go?"
"Quite settled, Mrs. Shrewsbury. I wouldn't stop in the squire's house for an hour longer than I could help, after his believing Reuben to be guilty of poisoning his dog, and not believing the boy when he said he had nothing to do with it. He ought to have known my boy better than that. And he coming up only the other day, and pretending he felt a kindness for my dead husband."
"I think the squire was too hasty, Mrs. Whitney," the schoolmaster said. "But you see, he did not know Reuben as we do; and I think, if you will excuse my saying so, you have been a little hasty, too. The squire came in to me to tell me about it, and I could see he was not satisfied in his mind, even before I gave him my positive opinion that Reuben was innocent; and I do think that, if you had not given Mrs. Ellison notice so sharply, the squire would have taken back his words; and said that at any rate, as there was nothing absolutely proved, he would hold his judgment in suspense until the matter was cleared up."
"And having everyone pointing the finger at my boy in the meantime! No, thank you, Mr. Shrewsbury, that would not do for me. I was not a bit hasty. Mrs. Ellison came in here prepared to talk to me about Reuben's wickedness; I saw it in her face, so I wouldn't let her open her lips. If she had, I should have given her a piece of my mind that she wouldn't have forgot, in a hurry."
"I can quite understand your feelings, Mrs. Whitney," the schoolmaster said, "and I have no doubt I should have acted as you did, if a son of mine had been suspected in the same way. Still, I think it's a pity; for if Reuben had stayed here, there would have been more chance of the matter being cleared up. However, we won't talk about that now. Now tell me, what are your plans?"
Mrs. Whitney told her visitors what she had determined upon. As Lewes was only four miles off, the schoolmaster said that he and his wife would sometimes come over to see her; and that he hoped that Reuben, whatever trade he was apprenticed to, would still go on with his studies. He would give him any advice or assistance in his power.
The next day Mrs. Whitney and Reuben moved, with all their belongings, to Lewes.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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3
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: The Burglary At The Squire's.
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"What is that woman Whitney going to do with her boy?" the squire asked the schoolmaster, when he happened to meet him in the village about a month after she had left. "Have you heard?"
"Nothing is settled yet, sir. My wife had a letter from her, two or three days ago, saying that she had been disappointed in getting Penfold the mill wright to take him. He wanted fifty pounds premium, and she could only afford to pay twenty, so she is looking out for something else. You have heard nothing more that would throw any light on that affair, squire?"
"No, and don't suppose I ever shall. Have you any opinion about it?"
"My opinion is that of Reuben, himself," the schoolmaster said. "He believes that someone did it who had a grudge against him, on purpose, to throw suspicion on him."
"Who should have a grudge against him?" the squire asked.
"Well, squire, there was one boy in the village who had, rightly or wrongly, a grudge against Reuben. That is Tom Thorne. Reuben has not a shadow of evidence that it was this boy, but the lad has certainly been his enemy ever since that affair of breaking the windows of the school, just before I came here. Thorne, you know, did it, but allowed Reuben to be punished for the offence; and the truth would never have been known had it not been, as I heard, that your daughter happened to see the stone thrown. Since that time there has been bad blood between the boys. I do not for a moment say that Thorne poisoned your dog. Still, the boys are near enough of a size for one to be mistaken for the other in the dark; and Thorne knew that Reuben had been bitten by the dog, for Reuben spoke to another boy about it, that afternoon, while Thorne was standing by. Of course, this is but the vaguest suspicion. Still, if you ask my opinion, I should say that I consider, from what I have heard of the character of Tom Thorne, that he would be much more likely to poison the dog, in order to get Reuben into disgrace, than Reuben would be to do so out of revenge because the dog had bitten him."
The squire took off his hat, and passed his hands through his hair, in perplexity.
"I don't know what to think, Shrewsbury," he said. "It may be as you say. I look upon Thorne as the worst character in the village, and likely enough his son may take after him. That ale house of his is the resort of all the idle fellows about. I have strong reason to believe he is in alliance with the poachers. The first time I get a chance, out he goes. I have only been waiting, for some time, for an opportunity. I can't very well turn him out of his house without some excuse.
"What did you say was the name of the mill wright at Lewes Mrs. Whitney was wanting to get her son with?"
The schoolmaster repeated the name, which the squire jotted down in a notebook.
"Look here, Shrewsbury," he said, "don't you mention to Mrs. Whitney that you spoke to me about this matter. Do you understand?"
"I understand, sir," the schoolmaster said.
And he was not surprised when, a few days afterwards, his wife received a letter from Mrs. Whitney, saying that Mr. Penfold had come in to say that he had changed his mind, and that he would take Reuben as his apprentice for twenty pounds; adding, to her surprise, that he should give him half a crown a week for the first year, and gradually raise his pay, as he considered that boys ought to be able to earn a little money for themselves.
Reuben, therefore, was going to work on the following week. The half a crown a week which he was to earn was an important matter for his mother. For although she had found a cottage and opened a little shop, as before, her receipts were extremely small, and she had already begun to fear that she should be obliged to make another move, Lewes being too well supplied with shops for a small concern like hers to flourish. The half crown a week, however, would pay her rent; and she expected that she should make, at any rate, enough to provide food for herself and Reuben.
Mrs. Whitney had hoped that, although Lewes was but four miles from the village, the story about the dog would not travel so far; for it was not often that anyone from the village went over to the town. In this, however, she was mistaken for, a week after Reuben had gone to work, the foreman went to his master and said: "I don't know whether you are aware, Mr. Penfold, about that new boy; but I hear that he had to leave Tipping, where he was employed by Squire Ellison, for poisoning the squire's dog."
"How did you hear it?" Mr. Penfold asked.
"William Jenkins heard it from a man named Thorne, who belongs to the village, and whom he met at a public house, yesterday."
"William Jenkins had best not spend so much time in public houses," Mr. Penfold said shortly. "I heard the story before I saw the boy and, from what I hear, I believe he was wrongfully accused. Just tell Jenkins that; and say that if I hear of him, or any of the hands, throwing the thing up in the boy's face, I will dismiss them instantly."
And so Reuben did not know, till long after, that the story of the killing of the dog was known to anyone at Lewes.
For three years he worked in Mr. Penfold's yard, giving much satisfaction to his employer by his steadiness and handiness. He continued his studies of an evening, under the advice of his former master; who came over with his wife, three or four times each year, to spend a day with Mrs. Whitney. Reuben was now receiving ten shillings a week and, although the receipts of the shop failed, he and his mother were able to live in considerable comfort.
One day, about three years after coming to Lewes, he was returning to work after dinner when, as he passed a carriage standing in front of one of the shops, he heard his name pronounced, and the colour flushed to his cheek as, looking up, he saw Kate Ellison. Timidly he touched his cap, and would have hurried on, but the girl called to him.
"Stop a minute, Reuben. I want to speak to you. I am glad I have met you. I have looked for you, every time I have come to Lewes. I wanted to tell you that I am sure you did not kill Wolf. I know you wouldn't have done it. Besides, you know, you told me that you never told stories; so when I heard that you said you didn't, I was quite sure about it."
"Thank you, miss," Reuben said gratefully. "I did not kill the dog. I should never have thought of such a thing, though every one seemed against me."
"Not every one, Reuben. I didn't think so; and papa has told me, since, that he did not think so, and that he was afraid that he had made a mistake."
"I am glad to hear that, miss," Reuben said. "The squire had been very kind to me, and it has always grieved me, very much, that he should think me capable of such a thing. I felt angry at the time, but I have not felt angry since I have thought it over quietly; for the case seems so strong against me that I don't see how the squire could have thought otherwise.
"Thank you, miss. I sha'n't forget your kindness," and Reuben went on with a light heart, just as Mrs. Ellison and her elder daughter came out from the shop.
"Who were you speaking to, Kate?" she asked, as she took her seat in the carriage.
"I was talking to Reuben Whitney, mamma. He was passing, so I called him to tell him that I did not believe he had killed Wolf."
"Then it was very improper behaviour on your part, Kate," her mother said angrily, for she had never quite recovered from the shock Mrs. Whitney had given to her dignity. "You know my opinion on the subject. I have told you before that it is one I do not care to have discussed, and that I consider it very improper for a girl, of your age, to hold opinions different to those of your elders. I have no doubt, whatever, that boy poisoned the dog. I must beg of you that you will never speak to him again."
Kate leaned back in the carriage with a little sigh. She could not understand why her mother, who was so kind to all the village people, should be so implacable on this subject. But Kate, who was now between fourteen and fifteen, knew that when her mother had taken up certain opinions they were not to be shaken; and that her father himself always avoided argument, on points on which he differed from her. Talking alone with his daughter the squire had, in answer to her sturdy assertion of Reuben's innocence, owned to her that he himself had his doubts on the subject, and that he was sorry he had dismissed the boy from his service; but she had never heard him do more than utter a protest, against Reuben's guilt being held as being absolutely proved, when her mother spoke of his delinquency.
But Kate was not one to desert a protege and, having been the means of Reuben's introduction to her father's, she had always regarded herself as his natural protector; and Mrs. Ellison would not have been pleased, had she known that her daughter had seldom met the schoolmaster without inquiring if he had heard how Reuben was getting on. She had even asked Mr. Shrewsbury to assure him of her belief in his innocence, which had been done; but she had resolved that, should she ever meet him, she would herself tell him so, even at the risk of her mother's displeasure.
Another year passed. Reuben was now seventeen, and was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow. During these four years he had never been over to Tipping, in the daytime; but had occasionally walked over, after dark, to visit the Shrewsburys, always going on special invitation, when he knew that no one else would be there. The Thornes no longer occupied the little public house. Tom Thorne had, a year before, been captured with two other poachers in the squire's woods, and had had six months' hard labour; and his father had at once been ejected from his house, and had disappeared from that part of the country. Reuben was glad that they had left; for he had long before heard that Thorne had spread the story, in Lewes, of the poisoning of the dog. He felt, however, with their departure all chance of his ever being righted in that matter was at an end.
One evening in winter, when Reuben had done his work, he said to his mother: "I shall go over and see Mr. Shrewsbury tonight. I have not been over for some time and, as it is not his night for a class, I am pretty sure not to find anyone there. I told him, when I was there last, that I would take over a few tools and fix up those shelves for him.
"I don't suppose he will stay very much longer at Tipping. His health is completely restored now, and even his wife admits that he could work at his own business again. He has already been doing a little, for some of the houses he worked for in town, so as to get his connection back again. I expect, every time I see him, to hear that he has made up his mind to go. He would have done it, two years back; but his wife and the two little ones are so well that he did not like the thought of taking them up to London, till he was sure that his health was strong enough to stand steady work. I shall miss them very much. He has been a good friend, indeed, to me."
"He has indeed," Mrs. Whitney said. "I think anyhow, Reuben, you would have got on at your trade; but you would never have been what you are now, if it hadn't been for him. Your poor father would be proud of you, if he could see you; and I am sure that, when you take off that workman's suit and put on your Sunday clothes, you look as well as if the mill had never gone wrong, and you had been brought up as he intended you to be. Mrs. Tyler was saying only the other day that you looked quite the gentleman, and lots of people have said the same."
"Nonsense, mother," Reuben answered, "there is nothing of the gentleman about me. Of course, people say things that they think will please you, knowing that you regard me as a sort of wonder. I hope I shall make my way some day, and the fact that I have had a better education than most young fellows, in my position of life, of course may make some little difference; and will, I hope, help me to mount the ladder, when once I put my foot upon it."
But although, no doubt, Mrs. Whitney was a partial judge, her opinion as to her son was not an incorrect one; for with his intelligent face, and quiet self-assured bearing, he looked very much more like a gentleman than many young fellows in a far better position in life.
The stars were shining brightly when he started, at seven o'clock in the evening; and he walked with a brisk step, until he arrived within half a mile of the village. As he passed by the end of a lane which ran into the road, he heard a horse impatiently pawing the ground; the sound being followed by a savage oath, to the animal, to stand quiet. Reuben walked on a few steps, and then paused. The lane, as he knew, only led to some fields a short distance away. What could a horse be doing there? And who could be the man who spoke to it? There had, lately, been several burglaries on lonely houses, in that part of the country; and the general belief was that these had been perpetrated by men from London.
"I daresay it's nothing," Reuben said to himself. "Still, it is certainly curious and, at any rate, there can be no harm in having a look."
Walking upon the grass at the side of the road, he retraced his steps to the end of the lane, and then stood and listened. He heard a murmur of voices, and determined to follow the matter up. He walked quietly down the lane. After going about a hundred yards, he saw something dark in the road and, approaching it very cautiously, found that it was a horse harnessed to a gig. As he was standing wondering what to do next he started, for the silence was broken by some voices near him.
"It was a stupid thing to get here so early, and to have to wait about for four hours in this ditch."
"It was the best plan though," another voice replied. "The trap might have been noticed, if we had been driving about the roads after dark; while in the daylight no one would give it a second thought."
"That's right enough," the first speaker said, "but it's precious cold here. Hand me that flask again. I am blest if the wind does not come through the hedge like a knife."
The voices came from the other side of the hedge, on the opposite side of the lane. Reuben crossed noiselessly. There was a gate just where the cart had stopped, and the men had evidently got over it, to obtain the shelter of the hedge from the wind. Reuben felt the gate, which was old and rickety; then cautiously he placed his feet on the lower bar, and leaned forward so as to look round the hedge.
"What time are the others to be here, Tom?"
"They said they would be here at nine o'clock. We passed them about six miles on the road, so they ought to be here to time."
"I suppose there's no doubt about this here being a good business?"
"I will answer for that," the other said. "I don't suppose as there's much money in the house, but there's no end of silver plate, and their watches, and plenty of sparklers. I have heard say as there's no one in the county as has more jewels than the squire's wife."
"You know the house well, don't you?"
"I never was inside," the other said, "but I have heard enough, from them that has, to know where the rooms lie. The plate chest is in the butler's pantry and, as we are going to get in by the kitchen window, we are safe to be able to clear that out without being heard. I shall go on, directly the others come, and chuck this meat to the dogs--that will silence them. I know the way there, for I tried that on once before."
Reuben had thought that the voice was familiar to him, and the words gave him the clue--the speaker was Tom Thorne--and he, and those with him, were going to commit a burglary at the squire's. He was hesitating whether to make off at once, to warn the squire of what was intended; or to listen and learn a little more of their plan, when suddenly a light shone behind him, and a voice exclaimed with an oath: "Who have we here?"
He leapt down, and was in the act of turning round to defend himself, when a heavy blow with a cudgel struck him on the head, and felled him insensible to the ground. While he had been listening to the conversation, two men had come quietly up the lane, walking on the grass as he had done; and their footsteps had been unheard by him, for the horse continued, at times, impatiently to paw the ground. The sound of their comrades' voices had told them where they were sitting and, turning on a bull's-eye lantern to show them the gate, they had seen Reuben leaning over it, in the act of listening.
When Reuben recovered consciousness, he found that he was lying in the ditch, his hands tightly bound to his sides, and a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth. The four men were gathered close by, talking in low tones.
"I ain't going to give up the job, now we come so far to do it," one said, with an oath. "Besides, it's not only the swag, but the grudge I owe the squire. If I am ready to go on, I suppose you needn't be afraid; besides, he don't know us."
"Best cut his throat and a done with it," a voice, which Reuben recognized as that of his old enemy, said. "I owe him one, and it will be safest to stop his mouth."
"No, no," a third voice protested; "I ain't going to have nothing to do with cutting throats. I don't mind running the risk of Botany Bay, but I ain't going to run the chance of being scragged. But let's move a bit away from here, while we settle it. You hit him pretty hard, but he will be coming round presently. I thought at first that you had killed him, but he's bleeding too free for that."
The men moved some little distance away, and for some time Reuben could hear a murmured talk, but could make out nothing of what had been said. It was, he judged, a quarter of an hour before the conversation ceased. They did not return to him but remained at some distance off, and Reuben thought that he heard the footsteps of one of them going down the lane. He could feel, by a warm sensation across his cheek, that the blood was flowing freely from the wound he had received on his temple. A dull torpid feeling came over him, and after a time he again lost consciousness.
How long he remained in this state he did not know, but he was at last aroused by being lifted and thrown into the bottom of the cart. Four men then climbed up into it and the horse was started. They drove at a quick pace, and Reuben wondered why they were taking him away with them. His head ached terribly, and he suffered much from the tightness of the cords which bound his arms. The men seemed in high good humour, and talked and laughed in low tones; but the noise of the vehicle prevented Reuben hearing what was said.
It was, as far as he could judge, full two hours before the vehicle stopped. He was roughly taken out of the cart, his arms were unbound; and the men, leaping up, drove away at full speed. The spot where he had been left was very dark, for trees overshadowed it on both sides. Where he was he had no idea, but he judged that he must be fully twenty miles from the village.
His first impulse was to take the handkerchief from his mouth, and he then walked slowly along the road, in the direction from which he had come. It was, he felt sure, no use shouting; for they would have been certain to have selected some lonely spot to set him down, and there would be no chance of awakening the inhabitants of any distant cottage. He walked slowly, for he was faint with loss of blood.
After proceeding about a quarter of a mile, he emerged from the wood and came upon a spot where the road forked. Having no clue whatever as to the direction in which Lewes lay, he sat down upon a heap of stones and waited patiently for morning. He had no doubt that the burglary had been a successful one, and he bitterly regretted his neglect to keep a watch down the lane, to see that he was not surprised by the men he had heard were coming. At any rate, he hoped that he should be able to give such information as would set the constables upon the track.
It seemed to him that some three hours passed before a faint light began to dawn in the sky. By this he knew that it must be about half-past six, and calculated, therefore, he must have set out in the trap about half-past one. He now started to walk along the road, hoping that he should soon meet some labourer going to work. Stopping by a small stream which ran across the road, he washed his head and face; as he had lain on the ground after being struck, the blood had not flowed on to his clothes.
After the wash he proceeded with a brisker step. Half an hour later he met a ploughman, riding one of his team to the fields.
"Is this the road to Lewes?" Reuben asked.
"Lewes? Noa, this baint the road to Lewes. I don't know nothing about the road to Lewes. This bee the road to Hastings, if you goes further. So they tell me; I ain't never been there."
"Is there a village anywhere about here?" Reuben asked.
"Ay, half a mile or so on."
Reuben walked on till he got to the village; and then, going to a public house, obtained some refreshment and learned, from the landlord, the direction he should take to get to the main road leading to Lewes; which was, as he expected, some twenty miles away. He found that the cart had not followed the main road towards London, but had driven by crossroads for a considerable distance, before turning north.
It was late in the afternoon before Reuben arrived at Lewes, for he had been obliged to rest often by the way, and had made but slow progress. When within a few doors of his mother's house, one of the constables of the town came up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
"I arrest you in the king's name!"
"Arrest me! What for?" Reuben exclaimed.
"For breaking into the house of Squire Ellison, of Tipping, that's what it's for."
Reuben laughed.
"You have got the wrong man this time. I have no more to do with the burglary than a child."
"It's no laughing matter," the constable said. "If you are innocent you have got to prove it; that ain't no business of mine. All I have got to do is to arrest you."
So saying, and before Reuben knew what he was about, he slipped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. Reuben flushed up. Hitherto he had scarcely taken the matter seriously, but to be marched handcuffed through the streets of Lewes was an indignity which enraged him.
"Take these off," he said angrily. "I will go quietly with you."
"You may or you may not," the man said doggedly. "You are younger than I am, and maybe can run faster. I ain't agoing to chance it."
Reuben saw that it was of no use to argue and, silent and pale, he walked along by the side of the constable, who retained a tight hold of his collar. A little crowd gathered speedily round, for such a sight was unusual in Lewes; and Reuben felt thankful when they reached the cells, and he was sheltered from the gaze of the public. A minute later the head constable came in.
"Now, my lad, don't say anything to criminate yourself," he began; "the less you talk, the better for you. I am sorry to see you here, for I knew your father, and I have a good character of you from your employer; so I give you my advice--keep your mouth shut."
"But I am not going to keep my mouth shut," Reuben said indignantly. "Here am I, arrested in the public streets, marched handcuffed through the town upon a most monstrous charge, which has been brought against me without a shadow of evidence."
"Don't be talking, don't be talking," the constable said testily; "you will hear the evidence in time enough."
"But I will talk. I want to tell you what's happened, and you will see that I am innocent, at once."
"Very well, if you will you will; but mind, don't blame me afterwards."
Reuben told the story of his adventures from the time of leaving.
"There," he said when he finished, "isn't that enough to show that I am innocent?"
"No," the chief constable said gravely, "it's not enough to prove anything, one way or the other. I am bound to say the story looks a likely one; and if it weren't for two or three matters which I heard of, from the constable who came over from Tipping, I should have no doubt about it. However, all that is for the magistrate to decide. There will be a meeting tomorrow."
"But can't I be taken before a magistrate at once? There's Captain Fidler, within a mile."
"What would be the good?" the chief constable said. "You don't suppose anyone would let you out, only on the strength of the story you have told me. He could only remand you, and you could gain nothing by it."
"Can I see my mother?" Reuben asked next.
"Yes," the constable said, "I will send her down a message, at once."
Mrs. Whitney soon came up. A neighbour had brought her in the news when Reuben had been arrested, and she was on the point of starting to inquire about it when the message arrived. She was more indignant than grieved, when she heard the charge which had been brought against Reuben.
"The idea of such a thing!" she exclaimed. "These constables don't seem to have natural sense. The idea of charging anyone who is known as a respectable young man with such a thing as that, and shutting him up without a question. Why, there can't be any evidence against you."
"There's no saying, mother," Reuben replied. "You mustn't be too sure of that. Don't you remember that affair of the dog? Well, the same hand is at work now. Before, I only suspected who had done it; but I am sure now. However, whatever evidence they may have got, we know it isn't true. I have four years' good character here to speak for me. Still, it is hard that I should get into positions of this sort, without any fault of mine."
"It's better that it is without any fault of yours, Reuben."
"That is right enough, mother, so we will both keep up our spirits."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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4
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: The Trial.
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There were three magistrates on the bench on the following morning, when Reuben was brought up. The justice room was crowded, for the series of burglaries had caused some excitement; and the news that the house of Mr. Ellison had been broken into, and that one of the men who had been taken turned out to belong to Lewes, had created quite a sensation.
Mr. Ellison was the first to give his evidence. He testified that, on waking on the previous morning, he found that someone had been in his room during the night. He was not in the habit of locking his door, and had not been awakened. He found that a box which stood on the dressing table, containing some valuable jewelry, was gone; that his watch and that of Mrs. Ellison had been taken; that the drawers had been opened, and a case containing the more valuable jewels of his wife had also been abstracted. This was not discovered till afterwards. He first missed his watch.
He rang the servants up, for it was still early; and it was then discovered that the lower premises had been broken into, the plate chest in the butler's pantry broken open, and a large quantity of plate stolen.
"What do you estimate the value of the articles stolen, Mr. Ellison?"
"The value of my wife's jewels I should put down, roughly, at two thousand pounds; the silver plate might have been worth three hundred more; the watches and other articles, so far as I yet miss them, say another hundred."
The servants proved that they found the kitchen window open, on going downstairs. It had been opened by the catch being forced back. It was not the custom to put up shutters. The pantry door, which was a strong one, had been cut with a saw round the lock. The butler testified to the plate having been safe, the night before, and the strong chest in which it was kept having been forced open.
Directly it was discovered, the constable of the village was placed in charge of the room, with orders to admit no one; and a man on horseback was sent off to Lewes, to the chief constable. The village constable gave evidence as to the state of the place, when he was put in charge.
The constable who had been sent over from Lewes then stepped into the witness box. He testified to the marks of entry of the thieves, and said that the manner in which they had gone to work, and in which the door had been sawn through, and the chest forced open, seemed to show that it was the work of practised hands. On examining closely the butler's pantry, he found a powerful screwdriver and a heavy chisel. These corresponded to marks in the lid, and had evidently been used for the purpose of forcing it open. They had the initials "R W." burnt in the handles. The inmates of the house all denied any knowledge of these tools.
Mr. Ellison had been present when he showed them to Mrs. Ellison. On looking at them she said at once: "R. W. Why, that must be Reuben Whitney, that wicked boy, again."
Upon making inquiries, he found that the man named worked at Mr. Penfold's, the mill wright at Lewes. He returned there at once and, going to Mr. Penfold, found the prisoner was absent from work. The men identified the brand on the tools as that of the prisoner. Another constable proved the arrest.
The chief constable then read the statement that the prisoner had made to him. The magistrates conferred together for a few minutes, in an undertone.
"Mrs. Ellison," the senior of them said, addressing that lady, who was sitting on a chair placed at the upper end of the court, "we are sorry to trouble you, but we must ask you to go into the witness box.
"I wish to ask you," he went on, when she had taken her stand in the box, "how it was you at once connected the initials with the prisoner?"
"Because he had at one time lived in the village, and was employed assisting our gardener. He was discharged on suspicion of having poisoned a watchdog which had bit him; and as the three dogs about the place had all been poisoned, on the night when the house was broken into, his name had been in my mind and, on seeing the initials, I naturally recognized them at once."
There was a deep silence in the court, when Mrs. Ellison gave her evidence. Hitherto the impression had been rather favourable to the prisoner. His story, though strange, had been by no means impossible and, if true, would have completely accounted for the finding of the tools, which were the only evidence against him. The evidence of Mrs. Ellison, however, entirely altered the complexion of the case.
Reuben had stood, quiet and composed, during the hearing. His countenance had evinced no surprise or emotion, when the tools were produced. He had, indeed, upon thinking the matter over before coming into court, come to the conclusion that the tools, which he had in a small basket at the time he was attacked, had been found in or near the house; having been left there purposely, by Tom Thorne, in order to throw suspicion upon him. Their production, therefore, was no surprise to him.
A slight shade had passed over his face when Mrs. Ellison entered the witness box. Glancing at the squire as she gave her evidence, Reuben saw that Mr. Ellison looked greatly vexed and annoyed. As before, at the conclusion of the evidence of each witness, Reuben was asked if he had any question to put. He hesitated for a moment and then, as before, replied in the negative.
Again the magistrates consulted together.
"Mr. Ellison, we shall be obliged if you will enter the witness box again. In your former evidence, Mr. Ellison, you said nothing in any way relating to the prisoner; but it now seems you had a previous acquaintance with him. Will you tell the court what it is?"
"I have not much to say," the squire said. "As a boy he lived in the village with his mother, a most respectable person; and widow of Jacob Whitney, a miller in a good way of business, who, as it may be in your memory, was found drowned in his mill pond some seven or eight years ago. The widow, being in reduced circumstances, settled in Tipping. The boy was an intelligent lad and, when the boy employed in my garden left, I gave him the place. He gave every satisfaction. One day he was severely bitten by the watchdog and, three days later, the dog was found poisoned. My gardener saw a boy running away from the spot, a quarter of an hour before the dog died. He believed it to be the prisoner, but it was too dark for him to distinguish the features.
"At the time, I certainly suspected that he had been guilty of poisoning the dog and, in spite of his denying that he had anything to do with it, as he was unable to account for where he was at the time the boy was seen, I discharged him. I wish to say publicly that I have deeply regretted having done so, ever since, and that I consider I acted hastily and wrongly in so doing. Considering his previous good character, I ought not to have assumed his guilt without more positive evidence than I had before me. I may also say that the schoolmaster of our village will give the prisoner the highest character for truthfulness, and he has known him ever since. His present employer, Mr. Penfold, is also, I believe, ready to testify to his excellent conduct during his four years of apprenticeship."
"I suppose, Mr. Ellison," the senior magistrate said, "you have not, at any time since the poisoning of the dog, obtained any actual evidence which would show that you were mistaken in your first view, and that your subsequent change of opinion was due solely to your general view of the boy's character, so far as you knew it."
"That is so," the squire assented and, no further question being asked, he resumed his seat. His evidence had caused surprise and some little amusement in court. It was clear that there was a strong difference of opinion between him and his wife on the subject; and that, while the lady had something like an animus against the prisoner, the squire was strongly impressed in his favour. After some consultation, the magistrate said: "The case will be remanded until this day week, to see if further evidence is forthcoming; but I may say that, under the present circumstances of the case, we shall feel ourselves obliged to send it for trial. The prisoner's account of his proceedings, from the time he left Lewes on the previous evening up to that of his return and arrest here, may be true; but so far it is entirely unsupported. On the other hand, we have the evidence of the tools, admitted to belong to him, being found on the scene of the burglary. We have the further important fact that he had been formerly employed upon the place; and had, it may be supposed, some knowledge of the premises. He had been discharged upon a suspicion, rightfully or wrongly entertained, of his having poisoned a dog belonging to Mr. Ellison, and there is reason for the belief that the dogs poisoned before the burglary were got at by some one acquainted with the place."
"Will it be any use my calling evidence as to character, at the next meeting?" Reuben asked.
"No," the magistrate said. "Evidence of that kind will be useful at the trial, when the matter will be thoroughly sifted. We only have to decide that there is prima facie evidence connecting you with the offence, and of that there can be no doubt."
At the sitting a week later, no fresh evidence was produced; and Reuben was committed for trial at the next assizes. Public opinion in Lewes ran high on the subject of Reuben's guilt or innocence. The other workmen at the mill wright's were strongly in his favour--he was very popular among his fellows--and they pointed out that several hands must have been concerned in the business, that he was never seen about in public houses of an evening, or was likely to have any connection with bad characters. Was it probable, if he had gone about such a job as that, he would have taken tools marked with his own initials; or if he had, that he would have been fool enough to leave them behind?
Upon the other hand, opinion in general ran strongly against him. His story was declared to be utterly improbable, and a fellow who had once been dismissed for poisoning a dog would be likely, at any future time, to revenge himself upon the employer who turned him off. As to Mr. Ellison's declaration of his subsequent opinion that he acted hastily, little weight was attached to it. Everyone knew Squire Ellison was a kind-hearted man, and as he acknowledged himself that he had obtained no evidence which would satisfy him that he had acted wrongly in the first case, it was clear that it was from mere kindness of heart that he had changed his mind on the subject.
At Tipping the subject was never mentioned. The squire and Mrs. Ellison had, on the drive home, had the most serious quarrel which had ever taken place during their wedded life; which had ended by the former saying: "If anyone had ever told me before, Mary, that you were a vindictive woman, I should have knocked him down. I might do so now, but I should know in my heart that he had spoken truly. For some reason or other you took a prejudice against that boy, and you never forgave his mother for standing up in his defence. I was shocked, downright shocked, when you gave your evidence in court."
Mrs. Ellison had been too much offended to reply, and the rest of the drive had been passed in silence. Upon their return home the girls were full of eager questions, but the squire said shortly: "My dears, the less we talk about it, the better. Your mother and I differ entirely on the subject. She believes that Reuben Whitney is guilty. I am absolutely convinced he is innocent. Therefore, if you please, we will not discuss it."
The following morning Kate Ellison went down to the school house.
"Mr. Shrewsbury," she said, putting her head in at the door, "could you come out for two or three minutes? I want particularly to speak to you.
"Have you heard what took place yesterday, at Lewes?" she asked when he came out.
"Yes, Miss Ellison. I saw Jones the constable last night, and he told me all that had been said in court."
"And you think Reuben Whitney is innocent?" she asked eagerly.
"I am quite sure of it, Miss Ellison--as sure as I am of my own existence. For anyone who knows him to have a doubt is absolutely absurd. A finer young fellow than Reuben it would be hard to find."
"But what did he say? How did he account for his tools being found there?"
The schoolmaster repeated the account Reuben had given, and said: "When the trial comes off I shall, of course, go over; and testify both as to his general conduct and to the fact that he had, as he said, promised to bring over his tools to put up some shelves in my cupboards."
"Do you think he will get off, Mr. Shrewsbury?" she asked anxiously.
"I should hope so, Miss Ellison, but I can't disguise from myself that it is by no means certain. That unfortunate old business about the dog will tell terribly against him; and though I am perfectly sure that his account of what took place is correct, there is nothing to confirm it. It is just the sort of story, they will say, that he would naturally get up to account for his absence, and for the tools being found. Of course, if the jury knew him as well as I do the result would be certain; but I have been trying to look at the facts as if he were a stranger, and I can't say what decision I should come to, in such a case. Still, of course, the high character that will be given him, and the fact that there is no evidence whatever connecting him, in any way, with bad characters, must count immensely in his favour."
The assizes were to take place only a fortnight after the date of Reuben's committal. Mrs. Whitney had engaged a lawyer in the town to defend her son and, to the surprise of this gentleman, Mr. Ellison called upon him two or three days later, and said: "Mr. Brogden, I hear that you have been engaged by Mrs. Whitney to defend her son. I don't believe the young fellow is guilty, and therefore I authorize you to spend any sum that may be necessary in getting up his defence; and I wish you to instruct a counsel to appear for him. Of course I cannot appear openly in the matter, and my name must not be mentioned, but I will guarantee all expenses.
"It seems to me that it would be desirable to find out, if possible, the village where he says he breakfasted, and asked the way to Lewes. In his story he says he didn't know the name of the village but, as he was told it was about twenty miles from Lewes, and he can describe the road he followed, there ought to be no difficulty in finding it.
"I should advise you to have a chat with Shrewsbury, the schoolmaster at Tipping. He is a great friend of the lad's, and a very intelligent fellow. He may be able to suggest some points to be followed up. At any rate, do all you can."
Reuben had another adherent who was also acting on his behalf. The afternoon before the trial, Kate Ellison stopped before the blacksmith shop in the village and, seeing that Jacob Priestley the smith was at work, alone, she entered.
"Is it true, Jacob, that you have been summoned on the jury at Lewes tomorrow?"
"Yes, miss, it bee true, sureley. It be four years since anyone in the village was summoned, and it be mighty hard that they should have picked upon me. Still, I have never been called before, so I suppose I mustn't grumble; but it be hard to be taken away from work, to waste one's time in a court, and they say the 'sizes ull last for three days."
"Well, Jacob, you know that Reuben Whitney is going to be tried for robbery at our house."
"Yes, miss; so they says."
"Well, what do you think about it, Jacob?"
"I don't think nothing one way or the other, miss. Most folks says as how he must have done it, 'cause as how he poisoned squire's dog afore."
"He didn't do anything of the sort, Jacob; and it's very wicked of people to say so. He is innocent, quite innocent. I am sure he is, and papa is quite sure, too; and he will be terribly put out if he is found guilty. So I want you to promise me that, whatever the others think, you will hold out that he is innocent."
"Well, miss," the smith said, scratching his head, "if you be sure of it, and squire be sure, I suppose there can't be no doubt about it, for who should know better than squire; and I am sure I wouldn't go to put him about, for a better landlord than squire ain't to be found in the county. So you tell him, miss, as I will hold out."
"But papa doesn't know that I have come down here, Jacob. It wouldn't do for him to interfere, you know; especially as he is a magistrate himself. You mustn't mention to anyone that I have spoken to you about it--not to anyone, Jacob, not even to your wife--but I can tell you the squire will be heartily pleased if he is found innocent, and he will be terribly put out if he is found guilty."
"All right, miss," the smith replied. "I understand, and no one sha'n't know as you have spoken to me aboot it. It be quite enough for I to know as the squire knows as he's innocent. It ain't likely as I should stick my opinion up against his."
The day after he heard of Reuben's arrest, the schoolmaster went over to see him; and as he was the bearer of a letter from Mr. Ellison to the governor of the jail, he was able to obtain admittance.
"Was there ever such an unfortunate fellow as I am?" Reuben exclaimed, after the first hearty greeting. "Here am I for the second time accused of a crime of which I am innocent; and from which, indeed, in the present case I am a sufferer; and all this has come about, simply because I went out of my way to inquire into what seemed to me a suspicious business."
"Tell me all about it, Reuben. I have heard the statement you made to the chief constable; but tell it me again, with every detail you can think of. Some circumstance, which appears to you as trifling, may furnish a clue."
"I have seen Mr. Brogden, the lawyer. I have told him all that happened," Reuben said; "but of course, I will gladly tell you again."
And Reuben repeated the story of the adventure, with every detail that he could think of; speaking slowly, as the schoolmaster wrote it down at length.
"I will see what I can make of it, when I think it over," Mr. Shrewsbury said. "Of course, as it stands, it is so natural and probable that it would clear you at once; had it not been for that unfortunate dog business before, and the supposition, excited by it, that you had a feeling of hostility to the squire. I shall be able partly to dispose of that, for I can swear that you have frequently spoken to me of the squire in tones of respect and liking; and that, although you regretted the manner in which you left his service, you felt no ill will against him on account of it. Moreover, I shall be able to prove that the reasons you gave for having your tools with you was a true one; and although I cannot swear that I expected you specially on that evening, the fact that you were in the habit of coming over, at times, to see me, cannot but corroborate your story.
"I shall get leave for two or three days, and will hunt up the village where you breakfasted."
"Thank you very much," Reuben said, "though I have been thinking it over, and do not see that the evidence of the people at the public house would help me much. It will simply prove that I passed through there in the morning; but will not show, in any way, whether I went willingly as far as that, as one of the party who broke into the house, or whether I was taken there."
"They can probably prove that you looked pale and exhausted," the schoolmaster said.
"I fancy I should look pale, in any case," Reuben said, "if I had gone through such a night's work as that of breaking into the squire's."
"Well, keep up your courage, Reuben. You may be quite sure that your friends will do all in their power for you. I shall go now and have a chat with your mother. I am afraid that she will want comforting more than you do."
"Yes," Reuben agreed, "I am afraid so. Somehow I don't seem to take it to heart much. I shall feel it more afterwards, perhaps; but at present, the whole thing seems so extraordinary that I can't quite realize that I am in danger of being sent to Botany Bay. The worst of it is that, even if I am acquitted, lots of people will still think I am guilty. There is only one thing that can really prove my innocence, and that is the arrest of Tom Thorne, and his father."
"I hear," the schoolmaster said, "that the chief constable has written up to Bow Street, for them to put the runners on the traces of those two scoundrels. Whether they believe your story or not, it is quite evident that more than one person was concerned in the affair. Their theory, of course, is that you quarrelled with the others over the division of the spoil; and got that knock on the head, which is a very severe one. I went down yesterday with Jones, to see the spot where you said you were assaulted. There were marks where the horse stopped, and marks of feet in the field, and a patch of blood; all of which goes to prove that your story may be true, but unfortunately it doesn't prove that it was because, according to the theory against you, you might have been assaulted after the robbery, as well as before it."
"But in that case," Reuben said, "why should they have taken the trouble to carry me twenty miles away?"
"Yes, there is of course that question," the schoolmaster said thoughtfully; "but then, on the other hand, why did they take the trouble in case you were not an accomplice? In both cases the answer is the same--they did it to prevent your giving the alarm, until they had got far away from the scene. They didn't like to murder you, because of the consequences to themselves; but they would not risk your recovering consciousness and getting up an early pursuit. It cuts both ways, you see."
"So it does," Reuben assented. "It's just a question of belief; and I own, myself, that that old dog business is very much against me; and that I can't blame anyone who considers me guilty."
Reuben's was the last case taken at the assizes, and occasioned a good deal of interest in that part of Sussex, partly owing to the position of Squire Ellison, partly to the nature of the defence set up, as to which opinion was a good deal divided. The evidence for the prosecution was, to a great extent, similar to that given at the inquiry before the magistrates. Unfortunately for Reuben, the judge was notoriously a severe one; and his bias, from the first, appeared to be against the prisoner. Mr. Ellison was closely questioned by the prosecutor as to the poisoning of his dog, as this was considered to show a particular animus on the part of Reuben. He again repeated his conviction of Reuben's innocence in that affair.
"But what reason have you, Mr. Ellison," the counsel for the prosecution asked blandly, "for changing your opinion on the subject?"
This was just the question which the squire could not answer satisfactorily; and was a particularly irritating one, because it had often been triumphantly asked by his wife.
"I can really give no particular reason," he said, "except that, on reflection, the boy's previous character and antecedents convinced me that he could not have done such an act."
"In fact," the counsel said suavely, "you were influenced by your own goodness of heart, Mr. Ellison, in thus laying aside a conviction which the facts had, at the time, forced upon you."
"I don't look upon it in that light," the squire replied shortly. "I consider that in the first instance I acted hastily and unadvisedly, and on consideration I saw that I had done so."
"I am afraid, Mr. Ellison," the counsel said, "that you will not persuade the jury to agree with you."
"I have only one or two questions to ask you," the counsel for the defence said, when he rose to cross-examine, "for indeed your evidence is, as I think the jury will agree, altogether in favour of the prisoner. In the first place, was the lad, when in your employment, ever upstairs in your house?"
"Not that I know of," the squire replied. "Certainly in the course of his duties he would never be there. Indeed, it would be very seldom that he would even enter the kitchen, except to bring in vegetables. Certainly he would never pass through to go upstairs. He could not possibly have done so without exciting attention and remarks."
"He would therefore, Mr. Ellison, have no means of possessing any knowledge as to the internal arrangements of your house, beyond that possessed by the other people in the village?"
"None whatever," Mr. Ellison replied.
"Now, as to that unfortunate affair of the poisoning of your dog. Your opinion, as to the innocence of the prisoner in that matter, is not a recent one--not the outcome of his after good conduct and character?"
"Not at all," Mr. Ellison said. "I changed my opinion on the matter very shortly, indeed, after the affair."
"Within a few days, I think I may say?" the counsel asked.
"Within a very few days; I may almost say within a few hours," the squire replied. "The boy's story, told not to me but to another, that he believed the dog was poisoned by another lad in the village who owed him a grudge, and who has since turned out an exceedingly bad character, struck me as being very much more probable than that he should do it, himself."
Mrs. Ellison was next called. Her evidence as to the robbery was a mere repetition of that given by the squire. The counsel then turned to the question of the poisoning.
"I would rather say nothing about it," Mrs. Ellison said. "It is a matter which has been productive of much pain to me, and I would rather say nothing about it."
"But you must, madam," the judge said sharply. "You are here to answer any question which may enable the jury to form an opinion on this case."
"I am sorry to press you, Mrs. Ellison," the counsel continued, "but I really must do so. You took a different opinion to that held by your husband?"
"I regret to say that I did. Mr. Ellison told me the reasons he had for suspecting the boy. I thought those reasons sufficient, and have seen no cause for changing my opinion."
After the evidence for the prosecution had been given, the counsel for the defence pointed out that there was, in fact, no evidence whatever connecting Reuben with the robbery, beyond the discovery of his tools on the premises; and that, as to this trumpery story of the poisoning a dog, four years before, apparently only for the purpose of showing some sort of animus, he regarded it as altogether contemptible. When a man meant to commit a burglary in a house, he did so in order to obtain possession of the goods, and not from any spite against the owner. Had this young fellow felt any malice, for this ridiculous charge on which he had been dismissed, he would not have allied himself with burglars to rob the house; but would probably have vented his spite in the usual fashion, by setting fire to a stack or outhouse; but so far as he could see, there was no foundation for the charge brought against him, and they had already heard Mr. Ellison declare that he regretted he had suspected him, and that he believed him to be innocent.
But even had it been proved, up to the hilt, that the prisoner had poisoned the dog, he should still hold it as wholly unconnected with the present matter. If he had poisoned the dog, what then? It was not a heinous sin, nor would it affect his moral character. No boy likes having a piece taken out of his calf by a savage dog, and there would have been nothing so very dreadful had he revenged himself. It was probable that, even among the jury, there was one or more who, if he had not absolutely set poison for his neighbour's cats, for destroying his young chickens or scratching up his flower beds, had threatened to do so, and would not have regarded it as a very serious crime had he done so.
Therefore he contended that the jury should put this trumpery affair altogether out of their minds; on the double ground that, in the first place, the prisoner at the bar did not poison the dog; and that, had he done so, it would have had nothing whatever to do with the present affair.
"Why, gentlemen," he said, "it is an insult to your understanding to ask you to credit that this young fellow--whose character, which I shall presently prove to you, by unimpeachable evidence, is of the highest kind--has, for four years, cherished such malice against his employer, for dismissing him mistakenly, that he has become the consort of thieves and burglars, has stained his hands in crime, and rendered himself liable to transportation, for the purpose merely of spiting that gentleman. Such a contention would be absolutely absurd. I must beg you to dismiss it altogether from your mind, and approach it from a different standpoint, altogether. Divested of this extraneous business, the matter is a most simple one.
"The prisoner left his mother's cottage, at seven o'clock in the evening, to go over for an hour or two to his friend Mr. Shrewsbury, the schoolmaster of Tipping. He took with him a few tools, as he had promised to put some shelves in his friend's house. On the way he heard some talking down a lane, which he knew led to only a field. Thinking it strange, he went to see who it was and, some distance down, he found a horse and cart standing and, listening to the conversation of two men who were sitting under the hedge, he heard enough to inform him that a burglary was intended upon the house of Mr. Ellison. He was about to make off to give the alarm, when he was suddenly attacked by some men who had come up behind, and was felled to the ground. While lying insensible, he was bound hand and foot and left in a ditch; where he remained till the burglars returned from completing the work on hand. They then threw him into the cart, and put him down some twenty miles away. Being greatly exhausted by loss of blood, it was late in the afternoon before he arrived at Lewes, when he was at once arrested.
"This, gentlemen, is the prisoner's story, as related to the chief constable when he was taken to the lockup. Nothing can be simpler or more probable; and in some points, at least, I shall be able to confirm it by independent testimony. Mr. Shrewsbury will tell you that the prisoner had arranged to come over to see him, and bring his tools. He will also tell you that, two days after the prisoner's arrest, he went with Jones, the village constable, and found the marks where the horse and trap had stood; while, just inside the field, the grass was trampled with feet; and in the bottom of the dry ditch was a great dark patch, which he was able to ascertain to be blood. Doctor Hewitt will tell you that he was called in to strap up the prisoner's head, after his arrest; and that the cut was a very severe one, and must have been inflicted by a heavy weapon, with great force.
"I am convinced, gentlemen, that after hearing this evidence you will agree with me, not only that the prisoner is perfectly innocent of the charge, but that he is a most ill-used person; and that it is a matter of surprise and regret that the magistrates should have committed him for trial, when the only shadow of evidence against him was the discovery of these tools, a discovery which he at once explained. Of other evidence, there is not one jot or tittle. No attempt has been made to prove that the prisoner was in the habit of consorting with bad characters; no attempt has been made to show any connection, whatever, between him and the men who came in a horse and trap across the hills, for the purpose of effecting a burglary at Mr. Ellison's; and who, as we know, did effect it. No scrap of the property stolen from the house has been found upon him and, in order to account for the severe wound on his head, the counsel for the prosecution has started the hypothesis that it was given in the course of a quarrel, during the division of the plunder.
"But had that been the case, gentlemen, the prisoner would not have been standing here alone. Robbed and ill-treated by these companions of his, he would naturally have put the officers of justice on their track and, as he must have been in communication with them, and well acquainted with their ways and haunts, he could have given information which would have led to their early arrest. He could well have done this, for the crown would have made no difficulty, whatever, in promising a lad like this a free pardon, on condition of his turning evidence against these burglars; whose mode of procedure shows them to have been old hands, and who are, no doubt, the same who have committed the various robberies which have lately taken place in this part of the country.
"The prisoner is the son of highly respectable parents. His employer will come before you, and give you evidence of the extremely high character he bears. Mr. Shrewsbury will tell you that he has, for the last four years, devoted no inconsiderable portion of his leisure time to improve his education, and enable him to recover the position occupied by his father, who was a much-respected miller in this neighbourhood. I shall leave the case in your hands, gentlemen, with an absolute confidence that you will, without a moment's hesitation, find a verdict proclaiming the innocence of my client; and enable him to leave the dock, without a stain upon his character."
|
{
"id": "20031"
}
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5
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: Not Guilty!
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The schoolmaster was the first witness called for the defence. After stating that, although no evening was actually settled for his coming over, he expected the prisoner one evening that week; and that he had promised to bring his tools over, to do a little job of carpentering; he also detailed his visit to the lane, and the result of his observation there; and then gave Reuben the highest character, saying that he had known him for five years, and that he had an absolute confidence in his integrity and honesty.
"He has from the first," he said, "proved a most intelligent and hard-working boy, anxious to improve himself and to get on in the world. He has learnt all that I could teach him, and more. He is one of the last persons in the world whom I should consider capable of the crime with which he is charged. As to his having any animosity to Mr. Ellison, I can swear that, on many different occasions, he has expressed his high opinion of him; and has declared that it was quite natural that, with the evidence before him, he should have thought him guilty of poisoning the dog."
The keeper of the wayside public house, where he had breakfasted, proved that he was struck with the prisoner's appearance when he entered; that he was very pale, and seemed scarcely able to walk. He had asked him the nearest way to Lewes, and had inquired whether there was any chance of getting a lift; as he was anxious to get back, as soon as possible.
Mr. Penfold was the next witness. He said that the prisoner had been apprenticed to him, four years previously; that his general conduct had been most excellent, and that he was remarkably quick and intelligent, and was an excellent workman. During the time that he had been employed, he had never lost a day.
"At the time he was apprenticed to you, Mr. Penfold," Reuben's counsel asked, "were you aware that the lad had been summarily discharged by Mr. Ellison?"
"I was aware of that fact," Mr. Penfold answered; and Reuben, with surprise, looked at his employer.
"From whom did you hear of it?"
"I heard of it from Mr. Ellison himself, who called upon me about the matter."
"How was it he came to call upon you, Mr. Penfold?"
"The prisoner's mother had applied to me about apprenticing her son. I had asked 50 pounds premium, and said that it wasn't my custom to pay any wages for the first year. She said she could only afford 20 pounds, and I thought that was an end of the matter until, a few days later, Mr. Ellison called upon me, and said that he had heard from the schoolmaster in his village, who was a friend of the boy's mother, how matters stood; and that her application had fallen through, owing to her being unable to find more than 20 pounds.
"I said that this was so. Mr. Ellison then said that he was prepared to make up the deficiency, that he had a regard for the boy's father; and that, moreover, he himself had, through a hasty misconception regarding the poisoning of the dog, discharged the lad from his service; and that he felt uneasy, in his mind, at having been guilty of a piece of injustice. Over and above the 30 pounds, he gave me six pound ten; in order that I might pay the boy half a crown a week, for the first year, which he said would be a matter of consequence to his mother. He requested me on no account to let Mrs. Whitney know that he had intervened in the matter, but to represent that I changed my mind, and was willing to take the 20 pounds she offered as a premium. He was particularly anxious on this point; because, he said, she would certainly refuse to accept assistance from him, owing to that unfortunate affair about the dog.
"I may say that, from that time to this, I have not mentioned the fact to anyone; and the sum of 20 pounds was inserted in the indenture of apprenticeship."
There was a little movement of applause in the court, as Mr. Penfold gave his evidence; and Reuben looked gratefully towards Mr. Ellison, and said heartily: "I thank you, sir, with all my heart."
The foreman of the yard was next examined. He confirmed the high character Mr. Penfold had given Reuben, and adding that he knew the lad never entered a public house, but spent his evenings almost entirely at home studying; for that he himself had, many times, called in and had, upon every occasion, found him so employed.
The counsel for the prosecution then addressed the jury, and threw discredit upon Reuben's narrative; which, he said, was unsupported in any material particular. That he met the rest of the party in the lane was likely enough. He may have returned there with them after the burglary, and probably it was there that, in a quarrel over the spoil, he received the blow of which you have heard.
"My learned friend has told you to dismiss from your mind the question about that poisoning of the dog, four years ago; but it is impossible for you to do so. You have heard that the dog was poisoned, and that the evidence was so strong that his employer at once dismissed him. It is true that Mr. Ellison has told you that he afterwards changed his mind on the subject; but after the evidence which Mr. Penfold has given, of the kindness of that gentleman's heart, you will readily understand that no great stress can be laid upon this. The matter, so far from being trivial, as my friend represents it, is highly important; inasmuch as here we find that, again, the dogs have been poisoned just as on the first occasion. It is clear that burglars from London would be ignorant of the whereabouts of the kennels, and were not likely to have come down provided with a store of poisoned meat; had they not known, from persons well acquainted with the place, of the steps that would have to be taken before an entry could be effected into the house. You will therefore see the extreme importance of this point.
"I am perfectly ready to admit that the evidence is of a wholly circumstantial nature but, from the nature of the case, it is necessary that this should be so. Had Mrs. or Mr. Ellison awoke, when the thieves entered their room, it is probable that much more evidence would be forthcoming. It is, however, for you to weigh the probabilities of the case. You have to consider whether the theory which I have laid before you, as to the connection of the prisoner with this affair, or this wild story which he tells you, is the most probable."
The judge then summed up, with a strong bias against Reuben. He told them that evidence for character was, of course, of importance; but that it must not be relied upon too far. The prisoner appeared undoubtedly to be intelligent and well-conducted, but unfortunately his experience told him that many criminals were men of unusual intelligence. Stress had been laid, by the counsel for the defence, upon the fact that the prisoner was not known, at any time, to have consorted with suspicious characters; but this, after all, was only negative evidence. Affairs of this sort were always conducted with secrecy and, had one of these men come down from London, as was probable enough, to make inquiries as to houses which could be broken into with a prospect of good booty, he would naturally not make himself conspicuous.
They had heard the two stories, and must judge for themselves; but he agreed, with the counsel for the prosecution, that the fact that the prisoner had been discharged by Mr. Ellison for poisoning a dog, and that on the night of the robbery other dogs were found poisoned, and that probably by some one acquainted with the locality, could not but have an influence upon their minds. At the same time he would tell them that, if they had a doubt in their minds, it was their duty to give the prisoner the benefit of that doubt.
The jury consulted together for a minute or two in the jury box, and then expressed their desire to retire. A buzz of talk arose in the court, when they had left. Opinion was divided as to what the verdict would be. When the counsel for the defence sat down, the general opinion was that the prisoner would be certainly acquitted; but the speech of the counsel for the prosecution, and the summing up of the judge, had caused a reaction, and few doubted now that the verdict would be guilty.
So Reuben himself thought. It was he felt hard that, standing there to be tried for burglary, the decision should, in fact, depend upon that unjust charge which had, four years ago, been brought against him. Reuben was in the habit of what he called arguing things out by himself; and as he stood there, waiting for the verdict, he tried to put himself in the position of the jury; and he felt that, in that case, he should have difficulty in coming to a decision.
It was not until after the lamps had been lighted that the jury returned into the box. The crier shouted for order, and there was not a sound heard, as the foreman told the judge that they were not agreed upon their verdict.
"Then you must go back, gentlemen, until you are," the judge said.
"We are eleven one way, and one the other. Won't that do, my lord?"
"No, sir," the judge replied. "You must be unanimous."
The jury again retired, the judge and counsel went off to dine at the hotel, and almost all the public trooped out. Two hours later, as the jury did not return, Reuben Whitney was taken back to the jail, and the court closed. At nine o'clock in the morning, a warder entered.
"The jury have come back into the court," he said. "They are going to return a verdict."
Reuben was again placed in the dock. The seats open to the public quickly filled, as the news spread through the town. Several of the members of the bar dropped in, and then the judge came in and took his seat.
Reuben had occupied the time in trying to judge, from the faces of the jury, what their verdict was going to be. They looked sulky and tired. But as Reuben's eye rested on Jacob Priestley, whom he had at once recognized among the jury, the smith gave him an encouraging wink. At least, so Reuben thought; but as the next moment he was looking as surly as the rest, he thought that he must have been mistaken.
"Are you agreed, gentlemen, as to the verdict you find in this case?" the judge asked.
"We are, my lord," the foreman replied.
"Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty, my lord."
"Very well, gentlemen," the judge said tartly. "It is your verdict, not mine."
At the foreman's word a thrill had run through the court; for when it was known, the evening before, that eleven were one way and one the other, the belief had been general that the majority were for a conviction. Reuben himself had so understood it, and the verdict was a complete surprise to him.
[Illustration: Reuben Whitney Acquitted of the Charge of Burglary] The constable raised the bar for him to leave the dock, and as he moved out his friend the schoolmaster pushed forward, and shook him warmly by the hand.
"Thank God for that verdict, Reuben. I am indeed rejoiced, and I own I hardly expected it."
"I didn't expect it at all," Reuben said in a choked voice, for his sudden liberation had shaken him, more than his arrest or any of the subsequent proceedings had done.
"I congratulate you heartily, Reuben," Mr. Ellison said, putting his hand on his shoulder.
The squire had waited at Lewes until ten o'clock on the previous evening, and had driven over again the first thing in the morning, so anxious was he about the verdict.
"I didn't believe you guilty this time, my boy, from the first. I was glad indeed to hear the verdict; for after the judge's summing up, I was sorely uneasy.
"And now, Reuben, I hope," he said, as they entered the street, "that you have quite forgiven me for that old business. It has been the unfortunate cause of getting you into this affair. Had it not been for that no one would ever, for a moment, have doubted the truth of your story."
"There is nothing to forgive, squire," Reuben said. "I never blamed you for it, from the first; and even had I done so, your goodness, of which I only heard yesterday, would have made up, many times, for any mistake you may have made then."
"That is right, my lad," the squire said. "I am glad that matter is made up. And now I will not keep you, for I know you will want to be off home to your mother."
Reuben walked quietly home, so as to give the schoolmaster, who had hurried on ahead, time to break the news of his acquittal to his mother. Mrs. Whitney had remained in court during the trial, but had retired when the jury left to consider their verdict, being completely overcome with agitation and excitement. The schoolmaster had slept in the house, and had persuaded her not to go to the court in the morning; fearing as he did that the verdict would be a hostile one. She completely broke down when she was told the news, and was still sobbing when Reuben arrived.
The schoolmaster at once took his leave, leaving mother and son together; and promised them to return in a day or two. When he again came over, he saw at once that Mrs. Whitney was looking depressed and unhappy.
"What do you think, Mr. Shrewsbury? Reuben says that he shall go abroad, out to Australia. I have talked against it till I am hoarse, but it's no good. I hope you will persuade him to give up such a mad idea."
"I will hear what he has to say first, Mrs. Whitney. Reuben has generally a good deal to say for his side of a question, and I must hear his reasons before I can argue against them.
"Now, Reuben, what have you to say for yourself?"
"I made up my mind while I was in jail," Reuben replied, "that if I was acquitted, I would go right away. These things stick to a man all through his life. That first affair, four years ago, nearly got me transported now; and if a small matter like that did me such harm, what will this do? If I had been proved to be innocent, it would have been different; but as it is, I believe nine people out of ten in court thought I was guilty; and I am convinced that the jury were eleven to one against me, only the twelfth was more obstinate than they were, and so they gave in. I believe it was Jacob Priestley the blacksmith who held out, for the sake of old times.
"At any rate, a great many people will think me guilty, all their lives, unless something turns up to prove my innocence. Mother says we might settle somewhere else, where we ain't known; but I should never feel safe. Years on, someone from Lewes might see me and tell the story; or Tom Thorne might keep on my track. I won't risk it.
"I have been to Mr. Penfold, and he says if I am determined to go, he will cancel my indenture for me. I have no doubt I shall find work of some sort, out there. I am a pretty good workman now at my own craft and, if I can't get work at that, I can turn my hand to something else.
"My only trouble is about mother. I want her to go with me. I could make a living for her out there, but she won't have it. She says six months at sea will kill her, and then she has all sorts of ideas in her head about the natives. However I hope that, in two or three years' time, I shall be able to write and tell her that I have comfortably settled, and have a good home ready for her to come to; and that then she will join me."
"Never," Mrs. Whitney said, excitedly. "I was born at Lewes, and I have lived near it all my days, and I will die here. I am not going to tramp all over the world, and settle down among black people, in outlandish parts. I could not do it, Mr. Shrewsbury. It's cruel of him to ask me."
The schoolmaster was silent for a minute. He saw that Reuben's mind was firmly made up, and he could not deny the force of his reasoning. It was true that many people still considered him guilty. It was true that this story might crop up again, years on, and ruin his life. It did seem that the best thing he could do was to leave the country.
"Australia is not so bad a place as you fancy, Mrs. Whitney," he said at last. "They do have troubles with the natives, certainly, in the outlying settlements; but in the towns you have no more trouble than you have here. Besides, every year the white population is increasing, and the black diminishing. Six months' voyage is not so dreadful as it seems. And though I do think that, if Reuben goes out, it will be better for you to remain quietly here till he has a home prepared for you, I think that, when the time comes, you will change your mind about it.
"As to Reuben himself, I must own there's a good deal of force in what he says; and that until those Thornes have been sent out of the country, his story might follow him. And I have no doubt he would do well out there. He is a good workman for his age and, as he says, can turn his hand to almost anything. Labour is scarce out there and, as he has got his head screwed on the right way, I have no doubt that he will fall on his feet."
"I didn't expect this of you, Mr. Shrewsbury," Mrs. Whitney said, beginning to cry. "I thought you would have taken my part, and now you are going right against me."
"Not against you, Mrs. Whitney, for I think that Reuben's plan is best for you both. He cannot but suffer, if he remains here; and you will be unhappy in seeing him suffer. Great as the loss would be to you, I believe that you would be happier here, alone, than you would be were you to see him in constant trouble and worry. At any rate you would have the option, if you found life intolerably dull here, of joining him out there at any time.
"But how do you intend to get out, Reuben?" he asked, seeing that Mrs. Whitney made no answer, but again relapsed into tears.
"I shall work my way out," Reuben replied. "I can do any rough work as a smith or a carpenter, and I should think I ought to get my passage for my work. Anyhow, I have got twelve pounds saved up; and if I can't get out free, that and my work ought to take me."
In a short time Mrs. Whitney, finding that Reuben was not to be shaken in his determination, ceased to oppose it; and began to busy herself in preparations for his departure, which he had arranged to take place as soon as possible.
A day or two before starting, he walked over to say goodbye to Mrs. Shrewsbury. He stopped as he passed the smithy and, seeing Jacob Priestley at work alone, he went in.
"Ah, Reuben, is it you?" the smith said. "Better here than in the dock at Lewes, eh? I hears a talk of your going to foreign parts."
"Yes, I am off," Reuben said, "and I have just come over to say goodbye to Mrs. Shrewsbury; so I looked in as I passed, knowing as you were one of those who found me not guilty, and would perhaps give me a shake of the hand, before leaving."
"That will I, lad. Yes, I found you not guilty; and I jest tipped you a wink, from the box, to let you know as it were all right; but my eye! what a game we had had of it. Never had such a game, in all my born days."
And the blacksmith sat down on a stool, to indulge in a great fit of laughing.
"What was the game?" Reuben asked.
"Well, you know, Stokes he was the foreman, and a Cockney sort of chap he be. He turns round in the box and, says he: "'In course you are all agreed.' " 'Agreed as how?' says I. "'Why, agreed as he's guilty, in course,' says he. " 'Nothing of the sort,' says I. 'I believes he's as innocent as a child unborn.'
"Then they all comes round me and jaws; but seeing as I wasn't going to give in, Stokes he asked the judge for leave to retire.
"Well, when we retires they all pitches into me, and says as it's monstrous one man should hold out agin eleven; and that, even if I didn't feel sure myself, I ought to go as the others went. So I didn't say much, but I sits myself down and brings out a big chunk of bread and bacon, as my good woman had put into my pocket, and I begins to eat. " 'Look you here,' says I, 'I ha' got four parcels like this. Today be Friday, and I can hold on easy till Tuesday. That's how I looks at it. This young chap ain't had nothing to do with this 'ere robbery, and I ain't going to see he transported for what he never done.'
"Well, there we sits. Sometimes they would all talk at once, sometimes two or three of them would give it me. Ten o'clock comes and they got desperate like, for only one or two of them had put anything into their pockets, thinking that the matter was sure to be finished that night. When the messages were sent out again, as we couldn't agree, I sits down in a corner and, says I: "'I ain't a selfish man, and any of you as changes your mind can have a share of what I have got.'
"I dozes off, but I hears them jawing away among themselves. It might have been two o'clock when one of them comes to me and gives me a shake and, says he: "'Give us a cut of that bread and bacon. I am well-nigh starved. I have got a wife and children to think of, and it don't matter to me whether this chap goes to Botany Bay, or whether he don't. It didn't seem to me a certain case, all along, so I will go along with you.'
"Gradually two or three more comes, and when it got light I could see as some more was hesitating so, says I: "'Lookee here, my friends. Those who has agreed to give this young chap another chance has lessened my stock of bread and bacon pretty considerable, and I ain't got more than enough for one more, so who's the next?'
"Four more spoke out at once. I divides the bread and bacon among them; then, as there was nine of us agin three, we goes at them and tells them how wrong it is as we was all to suffer from their obstinacy, and we works on their feelings about their wives and children; and then, says I: "'I call it downright ridiculous, when there's a hot breakfast on twelve tables waiting for us, as three men should keep the rest from tucking in, just acause they won't give an innocent lad the benefit of the doubt.'
"Well, that finished them. The thought of the hot breakfast made the other chaps so ravenous as I believe they would have pitched into Stokes and the other two, if they hadn't have given in. So they comes round, and we sends out to say that we had agreed on the vardict. It were the best game I ever seed in my life."
"Well, Jacob, I am sure I am heartily grateful to you, and I shall not forget your kindness; though what made you so sure of my innocence, while all the others doubted it, I don't know."
"Lor', Reuben!" the smith said, "There ain't nothing to thank me about. I didn't know nowght as to whether you was innocent or guilty; and it was a good job for me as I had made up my mind about that there vardict, afore I went into court; for I should never have made head or tail of all that talk, and the fellows with white hair on the top of their heads as kept bobbing up and down, and asking all sorts of questions, was enough to turn an honest man's head. The question was settled when Miss Kate Ellison--that's the little un, you know--came in here. Says she: "'Jacob, you are on this jury, I hear.' " 'Yes, miss,' says I. "'Well, I hope you are going to find Reuben Whitney innocent,' says she. " 'I don't know nothing about it,' says I. 'Folks seem to think as he did it.'
"Then she went at me, and told me that she was sure you was innocent; and the squire he was sure, and he would be moighty put out if you was found guilty. So I told her natural that, the squire's being a good landlord, I wouldn't disoblige him on no account; and she might look upon it as good as settled that you should be found innocent. So she tells me not to say a word to anyone, and I ain't, not even to the ould woman; but in course, I don't consider as she meant you."
Reuben could not help laughing as he learned that he had been acquitted, not from any belief in his innocence on the part of the jury, but by the intervention on his behalf of the girl who had, before, fought his battles. Shaking hands with Jacob, he went on to the schoolmaster's.
As he was sitting there chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Shrewsbury, he saw Kate Ellison come out of her father's gate along the road with her basket, as usual. Catching up his hat, he ran out and stood bareheaded, awaiting her.
"Ah, Reuben!" she said, with a smile and a nod, "I am glad to see you before you go; for Mr. Shrewsbury told me, yesterday, you were going to leave Lewes and emigrate. I am glad,"--and she hesitated a little--"very glad that they found you innocent. I was quite sure you would not do such a thing."
"I am glad I came over today, Miss Ellison," Reuben said quietly. "Very glad that I have met you; for I have just learned, from Jacob Priestley, that it is to you I am indebted that I am not, in the present moment, a prisoner in jail, under sentence of transportation."
The girl flushed up hotly.
"Jacob Priestley is very wrong to have spoken about it. I told him he was never to mention it."
"I hope you will not blame him, Miss Ellison. He told me he had never spoken a word to anyone else, but he thought you did not mean it to apply to me. I am very glad he has spoken; for I shall carry away with me, across the sea, a deep gratitude, which will last as long as I live, for the kindness you have shown me; not only now, but always--kindness which has saved me from a terrible punishment, for an offence of which I was innocent.
"May God bless you, Miss Ellison, and render your life a happy one."
"Goodbye, Reuben," the girl said, gently. "I hope you may do well, in the new land you are going to."
So saying, she went on her errand. Reuben stood watching her, until she entered one of the cottages. Then, putting on his cap, he returned to the schoolmaster's.
A week later Reuben was wandering along the side of the London Docks, looking at the vessels lying there, and somewhat confused at the noise and bustle of loading and unloading that was going on. He had come up the night before by the carrier's waggon, and had slept at the inn where it stopped. His parting with his mother had been a very sad one, but Mrs. Whitney had so far come round as to own that she thought that his plan was perhaps the best; although she still maintained that she should never venture, herself, upon so distant a journey. He had promised that, should she not change her mind on this point, he would, whether successful or not, come home to see her.
The squire had driven over, the day before he left, to say goodbye to him. He had, through Mr. Shrewsbury, directly he heard that he was going, offered to help towards paying his passage money; but this offer Reuben had gratefully, though firmly, declined to accept.
"Well, Reuben, I wish you every good luck on your adventure," he said. "The place you are going to will be a great country, one of these days; and you are just the fellow to make your way in it. I am sorry you wouldn't let me help you; because I am in a way, you know, at the bottom of this business which has driven you from home."
"Thank you, squire, for your kind intention," Reuben answered; "but I am so much in your debt, now, that I would rather not go further into it. I am old enough now to make my own way in life. My only regret in the matter is that I cannot persuade my mother to go with me."
"I think she is right, Reuben," the squire replied. "You can transplant a young tree, easily enough; but you can't an old one. Somehow they won't take root in new soil.
"Well, lad, I wish you every success. I suppose I shall hear through Shrewsbury, from time to time, how you are going on."
As Reuben walked along the dock, he stopped to read the notices of their destination, affixed to the shrouds of most of the vessels. He had already gone on board three or four, which were loading for Australia, but in none was there a vacancy for a carpenter. He stopped before a fine-looking barque, to which no notice was attached.
"Where is she going to?" he asked a sailor, who was passing along the gangway to the shore.
"She's bound for Sydney," the sailor said. "She warps out of dock tonight, and takes on board a cargo of prisoners in the Medway."
"Do you mean men sentenced for transportation?" Reuben asked.
"Yes," the man said, "and I wish she had any other sort of cargo. I have been out with such a load before, and I would as soon go with a cargo of wild beasts."
Reuben felt a sudden chill, as he thought how narrow had been his escape of forming one of a similar party. However, he stepped on board, and went up to the mate, who was superintending the cargo.
"Do you want a carpenter for the voyage out?"
"A carpenter!" the mate repeated. "Well yes, we do want a carpenter. The man who was to have gone has been taken ill. But you are too young for the berth. Why, you don't look more than eighteen; besides, you don't look like a carpenter."
"I am a mill wright," Reuben said, "and am capable of doing any ordinary jobs, either in carpentering or smith work. I have testimonials here from my late employers."
"Well, you can see the captain, if you like," the mate said. "You will find him at Mr. Thompson's office, in Tower Street, Number 51."
Reuben at once made his way to the office. The captain refused, at first, to entertain the application on the ground of his youth; but ship's carpenters were scarce, the time was short, and there was a difficulty in obtaining men for convict ships. Therefore, after reading the very warm testimonial as to character and ability which Mr. Penfold had given Reuben, he agreed to take him, on the terms of his working his passage.
Reuben went back at once, to the inn where he had stopped, and had his chest taken down to the docks; and went on board the Paramatta which, at high water, warped out of dock into the stream.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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6
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: On The Voyage.
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The next day the Paramatta weighed anchor and proceeded down the river. Reuben had no time to look at the passing ships, for he was fully occupied with the many odd jobs which are sure to present themselves, when a ship gets under weigh. The wind was favourable, and the Paramatta ran down to the mouth of the Medway before the tide had ceased to ebb. She anchored for three hours, and then made her way up to Chatham, where she brought up close to the government yard.
It was not till late in the evening that Reuben had finished his work, and was at liberty to look round, and to take an interest in what was going on on deck.
"This is your first voyage, my lad, I reckon," an old sailor, who was standing leaning against the bulwark, smoking his pipe, remarked.
"Yes," Reuben said cheerfully, "this is my first voyage. I have shipped as carpenter, you know, to work my way out to Sydney."
"You could not have chosen a better ship than this 'ere barkee," the sailor said; "though I wish she hadn't got them convicts on board. She will sail all the faster, 'cause, you see, instead of being choked up with cargo, the deck below there has been set aside for them. That will make easy sailing and quick sailing; but I don't like them, for all that. They are a lot of trouble, and they has to be watched, night and day. There's never no saying what they might be up to; there's mostly trouble on board, with them. Then one can't help being sorry for the poor chaps, though they does look such a villainous bad lot. They are treated mostly like dogs, and I have been on board ships where the rations was not what a decent dog would look at."
"But I thought there was regular food, according to a scale," Reuben said.
"Ay, there's that," the sailor replied, "and the government officers see that the quantity's right; but, Lor' bless you! They don't trouble as to quality, and some of the owners buys up condemned stores, and such like; anything, thinks they, is good enough for a convict ship--biscuits as is dropping to pieces, salt junk as 'as been twenty years in cask, and which was mostly horse to begin with. No wonder as they grumbles and growls. A convict is a man, you see, though he be a convict; and it ain't in human nature to eat such muck as that, without growling."
"What tonnage is the vessel?" Reuben asked. " 'Leven hundred and fifty ton, and as fine and roomy a ship as there is in the trade, and well officered. I have made three v'yages with the captain and first mate, and the second mate was with us on the last v'yage."
"How many hands are there, altogether?"
"Twenty-five, counting you as one, and not a-counting the two stewards."
"We are going to take some passengers, I see," Reuben said. "I have been at work, putting up pegs and shelves for them."
"Yes, there's eight or ten passengers, I hears," the sailor said. "Passengers don't mostly like going by convict ships, but then the fares are lower than by other vessels, and that tempts a few. Besides, the Paramatta is known to be a fast ship, and the skipper has a good name; so we shall have a better class of passengers, I expect, than usually voyages with convict ships; and besides the passengers there will be the officer of the convict guard, and a surgeon, so we shall be pretty full aft."
"And what will my duties be, when we are at sea?"
"It just depends on the captain," the sailor said. "You will be put in a watch, and work with the others, except that they may not send you aloft. That depends on the terms that you shipped."
"I shipped as carpenter, and to make myself generally useful, and to obey orders. I shall be happy to do anything I can; hard work is better than doing nothing, any day."
"That's the sort, my lad," the sailor said heartily. "Now I am sail maker, but, bless your heart! Except putting a patch on a sail, now and then, there's nothing to do that way; and when not so wanted I am one of the ordinary crew. Still, if you works your passage, it ain't to be expected as they will drive you the same as a man as is paid. He's a fair man, is the skipper; and you won't find yourself put upon, on board the Paramatta."
"Can't I go up aloft now?" Reuben asked. "I would rather accustom myself to it while we are lying steady, than go up when the wind's blowing, and she is heeling over."
"Go up! To be sure you can, and I will go up with you, and tell you some of the names of the ropes, and put you up to things. There's a pleasure in helping a lad who seems in any way teachable. Some of they boys as comes on board a ship ain't worth their salt, in these days."
The sailor led the way up the shrouds. Reuben found it much more difficult than it looked. He had seen the sailors running up and down, and it looked as easy as mounting a ladder; but the slackness of the ratlines--which, as the sailor told him, was the name of the pieces of rope which answered to the rounds of a ladder--made it at first awkward. When they reached the main top the sailor told him to sit down, and look round quietly, till he became accustomed to the height.
"It looks unnatural and risky, at first," he said; "but when you get accustomed to it, you will feel just as safe, when you are astraddle the end of a yard, and the ship rolling fit to take her masts out, as if you were standing on the deck."
As Reuben had heard the sailors laughing and joking aloft, as they hauled out the earrings of the sails, he had no doubt that what the sailor said was true; but it seemed, to him, that he should never accustom himself to sit at the end of a spar, with nothing but the water at a vast depth below. It would be bad, even with the ship lying quiet, as at present. It would be terrible with the vessel in a heavy sea.
The sailor now told him the names of the masts and stays, giving him a general idea of the work aloft, and presently asked him whether he would like to return to the deck now, or to mount a bit higher. Although Reuben was now becoming accustomed to the position, he would, had he consulted his inner feelings, have rather gone down than up; but he thought it was better to put a good face on it, and to accustom himself, at once, to what he would probably have to do sooner or later.
Holding on tight then, and following the instructions of his companion, he made his way up until he was seated on the cap of the top-gallant mast, holding tight to the spar, which towered still higher above him. He was surprised at the size and strength of the spars, which had looked so light and slender, from below.
"Very well done, lad," the sailor said approvingly. "You would make a good sailor, in time, if you took to a seafaring life. There's not one in ten as would get up there, the first time of going aloft. You don't feel giddy, do you?"
"No," Reuben replied, "I don't think I feel giddy, but I feel a strange shaky feeling in my legs."
"That will soon pass off," the sailor said. "You look at them hills behind the town, and the forts and works up there. Don't think about the deck of the vessel, or anything, but just as if you were sitting in a chair, watching the hills."
Reuben did as the sailor instructed him and, as he did so, the feeling of which he was before conscious passed completely away.
"I feel all right now," he said, after sitting quietly for a few minutes.
"All right, then; down we go. Don't look below, but just keep your eyes in front of you, and never leave go of one grip till you make sure of the next."
Five minutes later he stood on the deck.
"Well done, my lad, for the first time," the first mate said, as Reuben put his foot on the deck "I have had my eye on you. I shouldn't have let you go beyond the top, at the first trial; but I didn't think you would go higher, till you were fairly up, otherwise I should have hailed you from the deck.
"You ought not to have taken him up above the top, Bill. If he had lost his head, it would have been all up with him."
"I could see he wasn't going to lose his head. Trust me for not leading a young hand into danger. He was a little flustrated, when he got into the top; but after he had sat down a bit, his breath come quiet and regular again, and I could see there was no chance of his nerve going."
The next morning, soon after daybreak, the dockyard boats began to row alongside, with grey-coated convicts. Reuben watched them as they came on board, with a sort of fascination with their closely cut hair, bullet heads, and evil faces. Although he had no doubt that the repulsive expression was due partly to the close-cut hair and shaved faces, and their hideous garb, he could scarcely repress a shudder as he looked at them. In some faces an expression of brutal ferocity was dominant. Others had a shifty, cunning look, no less repulsive.
There were a few good-humoured faces, one or two so different from the others, that Reuben wondered whether they were innocent victims of circumstances, as he had so nearly been. Not till now did he quite realize how great his escape had been. The thought that he might have had to spend the rest of his life herding with such men as these, made him feel almost sick; and he thanked God more fervently, even, than he had done when the verdict was returned which restored him to his liberty, that he had been saved from such a fate.
A hundred and eighty convicts came on board. They were in charge of ten warders, with loaded muskets, and an hour later a party of twenty marines, under the charge of an officer, also embarked. They were on their way out to join a ship in Australian waters, and were to aid the warders in keeping the convicts in good order.
The wind being favourable, no time was lost after the marines had come on board. The moorings were cast off and sails hoisted, and the Paramatta made her way against the tide to the mouth of the Medway; and there dropped her anchor to wait until the tide began to ebb, for the wind was so light that little would have been gained by an attempt to proceed at once. Sail was made again as soon as tide turned and, on turning out next morning at daylight, for he had not yet been assigned to a watch, Reuben found that the ship was lying at anchor in the Downs.
Two or three hours passed.
"What are we doing here, Bill?"
"We are waiting for the passengers. They are all coming on board here. I expect that big lugger you see, running out direct for us, 'as got them on board."
"I wonder they didn't come on board when we started," Reuben said. "I should think it would have been pleasanter than coming all the way down to Dover by coach."
"So I should think, my lad; but you see, it ain't every time as a ship has the luck we've had. It's a long job coming down to the Downs, if the wind don't serve. We might have been beating about there, at the mouth of the Thames, for a week. So you see, most of these 'longshore chaps like to send their traps on board while the vessel's in the docks, and then to come down here and stop till she comes round."
In a few minutes the lugger was alongside, the gangway was lowered, and the passengers began to come on board. They were, as the sailor had said they would be, some ten in number. There were six men, four ladies, and three children, the latter not counting as regular passengers, as they were stowed away in their parents' cabins.
The convicts who were on deck looked over the bulwarks, and cracked coarse jokes among themselves, as the passengers ascended the gangway. Reuben found that only one-third of the number were allowed on deck at once. Two soldiers paced up and down the deck, on guard of the hatchway leading below, and two sentries were posted at other points.
A number of small boxes, bags, coats and cloaks were handed up, and then the rope was cast off, and the lugger made her way back to Dover, and the Paramatta again got under sail. While they had been waiting, the chief mate had told Reuben that, according to the captain's orders, he would henceforth be in his watch.
"As you are not regularly shipped as a sailor," the mate said, "the captain does not wish you to go aloft, unless by your own desire; but there will be plenty of work for you to do on deck, hauling at the braces, scrubbing, and so on."
"I should be glad to do my work with the rest," Reuben said, "as soon as I feel I can be useful aloft. I was up two or three times yesterday, and hope in a few days to be quite accustomed to it."
"I have noticed you, my lad, and you could not be in better hands than Bill's. He is a capital sailor, and as he has taken to you, and you are willing to learn, you will be a useful hand before we get to Sydney; and even if you never go to sea again, all your life, you will find that you have learned a great deal that is useful on board the Paramatta."
The fine weather, which the Paramatta had experienced so far, speedily left her. The sky grew overcast, and the wind freshened fast, and the next morning the ship was staggering, under close-reefed canvas, in the teeth of the southwesterly gale.
For the next three days Reuben made no advance in seamanship, being prostrated with seasickness. At times he crept out from the forecastle, and tried to lend a hand whenever he saw a party of men hauling at a rope; but the motion of the ship was so great that he could scarce keep his feet on the slippery decks, and at last the mate ordered him to go back to the forecastle, and remain there until he recovered somewhat from his sickness.
"I see you are no skulker, my lad; but you will do no good on deck here, and are not unlikely to get a heavy fall, and perhaps a nasty hurt, so you had best lie off till you get over your sickness."
Reuben was already drenched to the skin by the spray, and felt so weak that he was not sorry to avail himself of the mate's orders, and to turn in again to his bunk in the forecastle.
On the morning of the fourth day he felt himself again, and turned out. The gale had almost blown itself out, but the sea was very heavy. The fresh air was delightful to Reuben, after the confinement in the forecastle; and as his watch was on deck, he at once went up to Bill and asked him what he could do.
"Glad to see you about agin, Reuben," the sailor said. "You have had a worse time of it than most. There is a lot of difference atween chaps. Some takes it bad, and some is never ill from the first. Well, there ain't nothing to do at present, but just hold on and get to feel your legs. Don't you try to go across the deck, if the hands are called, until you are accustomed to it; else you will get a fall, to a certainty."
"Is the gale nearly over, Bill?"
"Why, it's quite over. Don't you see that for yourself?"
"It seems to me to blow hard now."
"Blow hard! Why, there ain't a capful of wind. It was blowing pretty hard yesterday, if you like, but not worth calling a gale. If you are lucky, you are like to know what a gale is, when we get south of the Cape. The wind does blow there, when it has made up its mind. That's the place where they say as the helmsman has to have two men, regular, to hold on his hair."
Reuben laughed.
"I think on the whole, Bill, I would rather get to Sydney without meeting a storm like that. This has been quite enough for me. Why, some of the waves hit the vessel's bow as if they would have knocked it in."
"Wait till you have a gale in earnest, Master Reuben, and you will know about it then. Of course it seemed worse to you, because you were lying there a-doing nothing, and was weak-like with heaving yourself up. If you had been on deck, you would have seen as it was nothing worth talking about.
"Look at the ship. Everything's in its place, and ship-shape."
"Why, what has become of the tall spars aloft," Reuben said, looking up.
"Oh, they were sent down when the wind freshened," Bill said. "There ain't nothing in that."
"Where are the convicts, Bill?"
"Oh, they are all battened down below," the sailor said carelessly. "They only come up for an airing when the weather is fine. They are like the passengers only, instead of pleasing themselves, their ways are marked out for them."
"Have any of the passengers been up?"
"Two or three of the men have shown, and a gal. It ain't her first voyage, I'll bet. A pretty thing she is, and as straight as a mast. She's been on deck, off and on, ever since we started."
The next morning the sea moderated greatly and, the wind having gone round to the southeast, the Paramatta made the most of it, to get west as far as possible before turning her head to the south.
"That's a slice of luck," Bill Hardy said to Reuben; "there's nothing like getting well off, at the start. With luck, now, we oughtn't to see the land till we make the Cape."
"But I would rather see the land, Bill. When one is going half round the globe, it is pleasant to touch at ports on the way, and to get a glimpse at foreign peoples and ways."
"Ay, I like a spree on shore," Bill agreed; "but after all, it don't last long; and when you are near land, there's always the chance that the wind may shift round, and you may find yourself dead on a lee shore. The skipper gets anxious and the mates out of temper, and if it does come on to blow hard, from the wrong quarter, there's never no saying what will come of it.
"No, my lad, there's nothing like a good open sea, with no land within five hundred miles of you, at the least. The coast of Africa ain't a pleasant neighbour. What with the low shores, which you don't see till you are pretty nigh close to them; what with the currents and the changeable winds, and the precious bad lookout there is, if you do get cast ashore, I tell you the wider berth you gives it, the better."
The next morning was so fine and bright that all the passengers were on deck, and after breakfast the word was passed forward that the carpenter was wanted. Reuben found that he was wanted to nail some strips of wood on the floor of some of the cabins, to prevent the boxes from shooting out from under the berths when the vessel rolled. As he was at work at one of these, a young lady came to the door of the cabin, and uttered a little exclamation of surprise at seeing Reuben kneeling on the floor. Then, seeing what he was doing, she said: "Oh, you are the carpenter, I suppose?"
"Yes, miss."
"I wish you would screw on some pegs I brought with me, to hang things upon. Everything does get thrown about so, when the ship's rolling. They are in that trunk, if you will not mind pulling it out."
Reuben pulled out the trunk, which the girl opened and, after some search, produced half-a-dozen iron clothes pegs. She showed him where she wished them screwed on, and stood looking on while he carried out her instructions.
"Are you the ship's carpenter?"
"Yes, miss."
"You seem very young for a carpenter, don't you?"
"I am young," Reuben replied, smiling, "and this is my first voyage. Fortunately for me, the hand who was engaged hurt himself, just as the vessel was sailing, so I obtained the berth. So far it does not appear that it is a difficult one."
The girl looked at him a little curiously. His manner of talk and conversation differed, so much, from the sailors in general.
"Are you really a carpenter?" she asked. "You don't look like a carpenter."
"Yes, I am really a carpenter," Reuben answered; "at least, I am a mill wright by trade. We are a sort of half and half between carpenter and smith.
"Is there anything else?" he asked, as he finished screwing the last screw.
"No, nothing else, thank you," the girl answered. "That will do very nicely, and I am much obliged to you."
After finishing his work in the cabins, Reuben went forward.
"Captain," the young lady said, as she went upon deck, "I have been talking to that young carpenter of yours. I am quite interested in him. Is he really a carpenter? He does not talk a bit like one."
"I believe so, Miss Hudson," the captain replied. "At least, he produced an excellent testimonial from his last employer, when I engaged him. Of course, it might not have been genuine. If there had been time, I should have made more inquiries; but he was well spoken, and had an earnest look about him. But, now you mention it, I don't know that it is very wise letting him go into all the cabins, when I know so little about him."
"Oh, I never thought of that!" the girl exclaimed. "I am sure he looks honest. It was only because he spoke so well that I mentioned it."
"He seems to be a sharp young fellow," the captain remarked, "and I see that he has taken to going aloft with the rest of the crew already. He is an emigrant rather than a sailor, for he has only shipped for a passage. I don't know whether he is going to join a man, out there; but if not, he is certainly young to go out on his own account. I do not think he's more than eighteen. He looks so young, he cannot have served all his time at his trade."
"I really feel quite interested in him, Captain Wilson," the girl said, turning to a gentleman standing by, who had been listening to the conversation. "I wish, if you get an opportunity, you would get into conversation with this carpenter of ours, and find out something about him."
"I will, if you like, Miss Hudson; but I don't suppose there's much to find out, and what there is, he's not likely to tell me. From what you say, I should guess that he had had a bad master, and had run away."
"But the captain said he had good testimonials," Miss Hudson persisted.
"As to testimonials," the gentleman said, "anyone can write a testimonial."
"How suspicious you are, Captain Wilson!" the girl laughed. "That's the worst of being a police officer, and having to do with criminals. You think whoever you come across is a rogue, until you find out he is an honest man. Now, I think everyone is honest, till I find him out to be a rogue."
"My way is the safest," the officer laughed. "At any rate, on board this ship there are five rogues to each honest man."
"Ah, but that's not a fair average," the girl objected. "Of course, in the colony one has to be careful, considering that half the shepherds and stockmen are convicts, and I must own that the natives are nearly all thieves; but how could it be otherwise, when England sends all its rogues out to us? You see, when free labour gets more abundant, and we can do without convicts, the colonists will protest against it."
"Very likely they will," the officer agreed; "but what is England to do, if she has nowhere to send her rogues?"
"That is her business," Miss Hudson said carelessly. "There is no reason why they should be shoved on to us. In the old time, when there were no colonies, England managed somehow, and I suppose she could do so again."
"She managed in a very short way," Captain Wilson said. "She hung them as fast as she caught them. It did not matter much what the offence was, whether stealing a loaf or killing a man; but she could hardly go back to that, now."
"No, she could not," Miss Hudson agreed; "but I have no doubt she can find something useful for them to do, when she has to keep them at home.
"Don't you think so, captain?"
"I daresay she could," the captain answered. "Certainly, if I were a colonist living in a lonely part of the country, I should object to transportation for, what with the natives and bush rangers and bad characters generally, no one can say their life is safe."
"Oh, it's not so bad as that, captain!" Miss Hudson said indignantly. "You are giving the place a bad character."
"I think Captain Wilson will agree it's a true one," the captain said, smiling.
"Eh, Captain Wilson?"
"I am afraid so," the latter replied. "I know they keep me pretty busy. However, after a year's holiday, I must not grumble if I find plenty to do when I get there."
The voyage down to the Cape was wholly uneventful. The Paramatta was most fortunate in her weather and, beyond trimming the sails, the crew had a very easy time of it. Captain Wilson had, as he promised Miss Hudson, taken the opportunity, when Reuben was sitting idly on deck, of having a chat with him; but he did not learn much in the course of the conversation.
"Your young carpenter puzzles me, Miss Hudson," he said to her at dinner. "He is certainly an altogether exceptionally well-spoken young fellow, for his condition of life; but I can't quite make him out. I think that he has worked as a mill wright. He spoke openly and without hesitation as to his work. But how it is he has thrown it up and emigrated, so young, I can't make out. Of course he cannot have served his time and yet, somehow, I don't think that he has run away, from the manner in which he spoke of his employer.
"He has no friends whatever in the colony, as far as I could learn. I should say he has certainly been fairly educated, and yet he seems, from his own account, to have worked three or four years at his trade.
"I certainly like the lad, though I own that, so far, I cannot altogether make him out. Perhaps I shall learn somewhat more about him, before we get to the end of the voyage, and in that case I will tell you all I know."
Miss Hudson was the daughter of a wealthy flock owner--or, as he was called, squatter--in New South Wales. Her father and mother were on board the ship with her. This was her fifth voyage. She had gone out as a baby with her parents; and had returned to England, at the age of ten, to be educated. When eighteen, she had joined her mother and father in Australia and, two years later, had come with them to Europe, and had spent some months travelling on the Continent. They were now on their way back to the colony.
The only other single lady among the passengers of the Paramatta was going out, under the charge of the captain, to fill a place as governess in a family in Sydney. Miss Furley was somewhat quiet, but a friendship had naturally sprang up between her and Miss Hudson, as the only two young women on board the ship; and the life and high spirits of the young colonist, and the musical acquirements of Miss Furley, helped to make the voyage pass pleasantly for the passengers in the Paramatta.
Captain Wilson had a good tenor voice, and sang well; and one of the other passengers was able to furnish a bass. Almost every evening, as the ship was running down the tropics before a gentle favouring breeze, the sound of solo and glee singing rose from the little party gathered on the poop; and even the convicts, on deck forward, ceased their talk and listened to the strains.
Although the passage had been a pleasant one, there was a general feeling of satisfaction when the ship dropped her anchor in Table Bay. Most of the passengers went on shore at once, to take up their quarters at the hotel till she sailed again. The captain said that it would take at least a couple of days to fill up the water tanks, and take in a supply of fresh provisions.
On the afternoon of the second day, Reuben asked permission of the first mate to go ashore for a few hours.
"Certainly, Whitney," the officer said. "You have proved a very useful hand on the way out, which is more than most do who work their passage. Nine out of ten of them are not worth their salt, to say nothing of the rest of their rations. You can stay on shore tonight, if you like; but you must come off early in the morning. We hope to get away in good time."
On landing, Reuben was much struck with the variety of the scene. In the streets of Cape Town were men of many types. Here was the English merchant and man of business, looking and dressing just as he would at home. Names over the shop doors were for the most part Dutch, as was the appearance of the majority of the white men in the streets. Dutch farmers in broad hats and homespun garments, mounted on rough ponies, clattered along through the streets. The manual work was for the most part done by swarthy natives, while among the crowd were numbers of Malays, with dark olive skins, small eyes, and jet-black hair, their women being arrayed in every shade of gaudy colour.
For some time Reuben wandered about the streets, greatly amused at all he saw. Towards evening he turned his face towards the sea, as he had no wish to avail himself of the permission given him to sleep on shore. Presently he encountered Miss Hudson and Miss Furley, walking the other way. The former nodded brightly, for she had several times spoken to Reuben, since their first acquaintanceship.
Reuben touched his hat, and proceeded on his way. He had gone but a few yards when he heard a loud cry, and everyone darted suddenly into shops or round corners.
Looking round in surprise, Reuben saw what had caused the movement. A Malay, with his long hair streaming down his shoulders, was rushing down the street, giving vent to terrible yells; in his hand he held a crease, with which, just as Reuben looked round, he cut down a native who had tried, too late, to make his escape.
The two English girls, confused and alarmed at the sudden outburst; and unable, until too late, to comprehend the cause of it, stood alone in the middle of the street and, too terrified now to move, clung to each other, regardless of the shouts to fly raised by people at the windows and doors.
[Illustration: The Ladies Saved from the Malay's Crease.]
The Malay, with a howl of exultation, made at them with uplifted crease. Reuben sprang forward, passed the terrified women when the Malay was within four paces of them, and threw himself with all his force upon him. The Malay, whose eyes were fixed upon the ladies, was taken by surprise by the assault; and his crease had not time to fall when Reuben sprang upon him.
The shock threw both to the ground; Reuben, as he fell, throwing both arms round his adversary. The Malay struggled furiously, and the combatants rolled over and over on the ground. Strong as Reuben was, the frenzy of the Malay gave him greater power; and the lad felt he could not long retain his grip of the arm with which the Malay strove to use his crease.
Help, however, was not long in coming. A native policeman ran up at full speed; and brought his heavy club, with his full force, down on the head of the Malay. The latter's limbs at once relaxed, and Reuben sprang to his feet; breathless, but not seriously harmed, although the blood was freely flowing from some slight wounds he had received from the Malay's sharp-edged weapon.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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7
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: Gratitude.
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Reuben looked round, upon gaining his feet. He saw Miss Hudson standing by the side of her companion; who had fallen, fainting, to the ground. Mr. Hudson and Captain Wilson, running at their full speed, were within a few paces of the girls. They had entered a shop to make a purchase, while the ladies strolled on; and although they had rushed out on hearing the alarm, they were too far off to render assistance and, impotent to help, had seen with horror the terrible death which threatened the ladies.
Frances Hudson had not uttered a word, from the moment when the Malay rushed down upon them; but as her father came up she turned round, and burst into tears as he clasped her in his arms.
As soon as it was seen that the Malay was no longer dangerous, the people poured out again from the houses and shops. It was no very unusual thing, in Cape Town, for the Malays to run amuck; and many of those in the streets hurried off, in the direction from which the man had come, to inquire how many victims had fallen to his deadly crease, and to see whether any friends were among them. On the Malay himself no one spared a moment's attention. A second tremendous blow, with the policeman's club, had dashed out his brains; for Malays running amuck were always killed upon the spot, partly in order to save further trouble with them, partly to strike terror into others.
Many of the bystanders gathered round Reuben, seized him by the hand, patting him on the shoulder, and praising him for the courage with which he had faced the maddened savage. A minute later, Mr. Hudson forced his way through the crowd. Miss Furley had already been raised, and carried into a shop.
"Go in with her, my dear," Mr. Hudson said to his daughter. "I will bring him to you directly.
"My brave fellow!" he exclaimed, as he made his way to Reuben and grasped his hand, "how can I thank you for saving my child's life? It seemed to us that she was lost, and that nothing could save her; when we saw you dash past her, and throw yourself unarmed upon the madman. It was a noble deed, indeed.
"You are not badly hurt, I hope," he added, as he saw the blood streaming down Reuben's face and arm.
"Nothing to speak of, sir," Reuben replied. "At least, I think not; but I feel rather queer from this loss of blood. I had better get myself bandaged up."
And indeed, Reuben was turning very pale, partly from the relaxation of the tension of the struggle; partly, as he said, from loss of blood.
"Stand back!" Mr. Hudson cried, "don't press upon him. The lad is nearly fainting. One of you help me get him into a shop. Where is the nearest surgeon to be found?"
It was as much as Reuben could do to walk across the street, aided by his two supporters. A strong glass of Cape smoke (as the native spirit is called) and water revived him somewhat. It was some minutes before a surgeon arrived; for five persons had been terribly wounded, and two killed by the Malay on his course, and the surgeons near were busily employed.
"Not very serious," the surgeon said, as soon as he examined Reuben's wounds. "Very different affairs from those I have just come from."
"I had hold of his hand," Reuben said, "so that he couldn't strike. They are only cuts he made in trying to get his arm free."
"That on your arm will not trouble you, though it has bled pretty freely. The one down your face is, fortunately, of no great consequence; except that it has cut down to the bone on the brow and cheek. If it had been an inch further back, it would have severed the temporal artery. You have had a narrow escape of it. As it is, you will get off with a scar, which may last for some time; but as it is an honourable one, perhaps you won't so much care. However, I will bring it together as well as I can, and stitch it up, and it may not show much."
The wound was sewn up and then bandaged, as was that on the arm. The other and slighter wounds were simply drawn together by slips of plaster. When all was done, Reuben said to Mr. Hudson: "I shall do very well now, sir. I am sure you must wish to go to Miss Hudson. I will sit here a bit longer, and then go on board the ship."
"You will do nothing of the kind," Mr. Hudson said. "I have just sent for a vehicle, and you will come to the hotel and get into bed at once. You are not fit to stand now, but I hope a good night's rest will do you good."
Reuben would have protested, but at this moment a vehicle arrived at the door, and with it Captain Wilson entered.
"I have just taken your daughter and Miss Furley to the hotel, Hudson," he said. "They are both greatly shaken, and no wonder. So I thought it better to see them back, before coming in to shake hands with our gallant young friend here."
"He has lost a good deal of blood, Wilson; and I am just taking him off, to get him to bed in the hotel.
"So we won't do any thanking till the morning," Mr. Hudson said, seeing that Reuben's lip quivered, and he was incapable of bearing any further excitement. "Do you take one of his arms and I will take the other, and get him into that trap."
A quarter of an hour later, Reuben was in bed at the hotel. Mr. Hudson brought him up a basin of clear soup. Having drunk this, he turned over and was, in a very few minutes, asleep. The captain and most of the other passengers were at the same hotel, and there was great excitement when the news arrived of the terrible danger the two girls had run. Mrs. Hudson had, from her early life, been accustomed to emergencies; and the instant the girls arrived she took them up to the room they shared between them, and insisted upon their going at once to bed, after partaking of a cup of tea.
"What am I to do for this young fellow, Wilson?" Mr. Hudson asked as, having seen his patient comfortably in bed, he returned downstairs, and took a seat in the verandah by his fellow passenger. "I owe Frances' life to him, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for him. The question is, what? One does not like to offer money to a man, for such a service as this."
"No," Mr. Wilson agreed, "especially in his case. The young fellow appears to me very much above his condition. Your daughter first pointed it out to me, and I have since chatted with him several times, and find him a very superior young fellow. Certainly his education has been very different from that of most men in his condition of life, and I should have taken him for a gentleman, who had got into some scrape and run away, had it not been that he seems to have been regularly apprenticed to his trade. Still, there is something a little mysterious about him. I asked him casually what part of the country he came from. He hesitated a moment, and then said, 'From the south of England.' Of course, I did not ask any further questions, as it was clear he did not care about naming the precise locality, or he would not have given so vague an answer. I feel as deeply indebted to him as you do."
Mr. Hudson nodded. Only the evening before arriving at Cape Town, Captain Wilson had spoken to him on the matter of his affection for his daughter, and had asked his permission to speak to Frances. They had known each other in the colony, but had not been intimate until thrown together on board the Paramatta. Seeing that she was an only child, and that her father was considered one of the wealthiest squatters in the colony, Captain Wilson had feared that Mr. Hudson would not approve of him as a suitor; and had therefore broached the subject to him, before speaking to her. Mr. Hudson, however, had raised no objections.
"You have taken a manly and proper course, in speaking to me first," he said; "just what I should have expected from you. I own that, with the fortune the girl will have some day, I have always looked for her making what they call a good match, and settling down in the old country; but I may tell you that while she has been in Europe she has had several opportunities of so doing, if she would have taken them. She did not think fit to do so, and I have always made up my mind not to influence her in any way, providing she didn't fix her choice upon one whose character I disapproved. Certainly I have no reasons for so doing, in the present case. Your character stands high in the colony; and personally, as you are well aware, I like you exceedingly.
"What Frances' feelings in the matter are, I have no means of knowing. There is no doubt she likes you, but as to anything more, it is for you to find out. You will have plenty of time, between this and Sydney. Anyhow, you have my hearty approval of your wooing.
"I think, between ourselves you know, you must not expect, at first, any very cordial approval on the part of her mother. She had an idea, you know, that Frances would marry a duke at least, and an offer from a prince of the blood would not have surprised her. It is a great disappointment, to her, that she should have returned unmarried; and she has already been talking to me about our returning to England, in another couple of years. So she will not take quite kindly to it, at first; but you mustn't mind that. Fond of Frances as she is, she will soon come round, if she finds that the girl's happiness is really concerned in the matter.
"Take my advice, and don't push it till we get near the end of the voyage. If Frances says yes, she is the sort of girl to stick to it; and as I am with you, you may be quite sure it will come right in the long run; but we might not have a very pleasant time of it during the remainder of the voyage, you know, and as things have gone on so pleasantly, it would be a pity to spoil them."
Thus it was that Mr. Hudson nodded, when the young officer of the constabulary said that his indebtedness to Reuben was equal to his own.
"Yes," he said, "if it had been one of the sailors, I could have set the matter right by drawing a big cheque, and I shouldn't have cared how big; but with this young fellow I do not quite see my way. However, I will shift the responsibility, by leaving the matter in Frances' hands--women are much better hands at things of this sort, that require a light touch, than we are. I do not wonder that she and Miss Furley are shaken. I feel shaken myself. I shall never forget that scene, and the two girls standing there, and that wild Malay rushing at them. My legs seemed to give way under me, and I thought I should have fallen down."
"I felt bad myself, sir," Captain Wilson said. "I have been in some tough fights, with bush rangers and natives; but I never had that sort of feeling before.
"One ran, but one felt it was no use running, as all must be over before we could get there. When it was over, I felt as weak as a child."
"Don't let us talk any more about it," Mr. Hudson said, rising. "I doubt whether I shall get a wink of sleep now; and I am sure I sha'n't, if we go on talking any more about it. Let us take a turn, and have a stiff glass of brandy and water afterwards, to settle our nerves before turning in."
The passengers by the Paramatta were up early in the morning, for the ship was to sail at nine. But early as they were, Reuben was before them; and on Mr. Hudson inquiring about him, as he turned out, he was informed that he had already gone on board the ship.
The two girls both looked pale, when they came down to their early breakfast. Both declared, however, that they had slept well.
"You must give us time, dad, to get up our roses," Frances Hudson said, in reply to her father's remarks as to their appearance. "I have no doubt a few days at sea will do it; but of course, it is only right and proper that young ladies should be pale, after going through such an adventure as we had yesterday.
"But do not let us talk about it," she said, with a shudder. "I should like not to be able to think about it, again, for six months. You used to say, dad, that I was plucky, because I wasn't afraid of wild cattle, and not very afraid of the natives or bush rangers; but I am sure I cannot lay claim to any special courage in future, for no one in the world could feel more frightened than I did, yesterday."
"Well, my dear, you were no worse than anyone else, for everyone else bolted at the first alarm. The way that street was cleared was something marvellous."
"Yes, dad; but I was too frightened to run. Not that it would have been any use if I had, for he was close to us before we knew what was the matter; and if I could have run, I don't think Emma could."
"No, indeed," Miss Furley said. "I had no idea of running and, even had there been plenty of time, I am sure I could not have got out of the way. Somehow I seemed to lose all power to move. I had just shut my eyes, and thought it was all over, when there was a shout and a rush, and I saw the Malay roll over; and then I made a snatch at Frances, and rolled over, too."
"It was a terrible moment," Mr. Hudson said. "But I agree, with Frances, that it is better for you to try and think nothing more about it, until you have perfectly recovered your health and spirits."
"I hear, dad, that the young man that saved us has gone on board ship. I asked, directly I was up, because I wanted to see him."
"And I expect, my dear, that he slipped away because he didn't want to see you. It sounds rude, doesn't it? But I can perfectly understand it."
"So can I," the girl agreed. "Did you see him this morning?"
"No, my dear. I came downstairs only a minute or two before you did, and then found that he was gone."
"Have you thought over what you are going to do, dad, for him?"
"Wilson and I have talked it over, Frances, but at present we don't see our way. It is too serious a matter to make up our minds in a hurry. Your mother is in favour of giving him a handsome present; but I don't think, myself, that that would do. Men who will do such deeds as that are not the sort of men to be paid by money."
"Oh no, dad! Surely not that. Any other possible way, but not money."
"No, my dear; so I thought. I have chatted it over with Wilson, and we have agreed that the best plan is to leave it entirely in your hands."
"I will think it over, dad," the girl said gravely. "It is a serious thing. We owe him our lives, and the least we can do is not to hurt his feelings, by the way in which we try to show our gratitude."
Reuben had slept well; and on waking, soon after daylight, jumped at once out of bed; and was glad to feel that, except for a certain amount of weakness in the legs, and stiffness in his wounds, he was all right again. He dressed quietly and, as soon as he heard persons moving about in the hotel, made his way down to the shore, and sat down there to wait for a boat from the ship; which was lying some distance out, and would, he was sure, be sending off early, as there would be many things to bring on board before she sailed.
It was not long before he saw the men descending the gangway to the boat alongside, which was soon rowing towards the shore. As she approached, Reuben saw the steward and first mate, sitting in the stern seats; and when the officer jumped ashore, his eye fell on Reuben.
"Ah, Whitney," he said, "I am glad to see you about. When the captain came off, last night, he told me all about your gallant rescue of the two ladies. I am sorry to see you bandaged up so much. The captain said you had some nasty cuts, but I didn't think they were so bad."
"They are nothing to speak about, sir," Reuben replied, "although you would think so, from seeing those bandages all over one side of the face, and my arm in a sling; but they are no great depth, and don't hurt to speak of. They were clean cuts with a sharp edge, and don't hurt half as much as many a knock I have had, with a hammer."
"Well, we all feel proud of you, my lad. It isn't everyone who would face a Malay running amuck, without weapons, I can tell you."
"I think any English sailor would do so, sir, if he saw the Malay rushing down upon two ladies. There was no time to think about danger, one way or the other. The only thing to be done was to rush at him, and so I rushed, as anyone else would have done."
"Ah, it's all very well to say so, Whitney; but I have my doubts about everyone else rushing. However, I mustn't stand talking about it now, as I have my hands full of work. The sooner you get on board the ship, the better.
"Row Whitney back to the ship, lads, and come back again in an hour's time. None of the things will be down here before that."
Reuben stepped into the boat, which at once pushed off. The men rowed easily, for they were anxious to hear the particulars of the report which had circulated through the ship. Bill Hardy was rowing the stroke oar, and did the questioning.
"You may try to make little of it," he said, "but I tell you, Reuben, it were a right down good thing--a thing any man would have right to be proud of.
"What do you say, mates?"
There was a general chorus of "Ay, ay."
"I took you in hand when you came on board, young un," Bill went on, "and I looks upon you as my chick, and I tell you I feel proud on you. I felt sure you would turn out a good un, some day, but I didn't look to see it so quick.
"In oars!"
The boat ran up alongside the gangway, and Reuben was soon upon deck. He was there met by the captain, who had just come up as the boat rowed alongside. He shook Reuben's hand heartily.
"You are a fine young fellow, Whitney; and your mother, if you have one, ought to be proud of you. I should be, if you were a son of mine. It was a lucky day for us all, when I shipped you on board the Paramatta; for it would have been a heavy day for us, if those two young ladies had been killed by that madman, yesterday.
"You look pale, lad, as much as one can see of you, and you will have to lie by for a bit. I hear you lost a great deal of blood.
"Steward, bring another cup of cocoa with mine, a large one, and put plenty of milk in."
The captain insisted on Reuben coming to his cabin to drink his cocoa.
"You had best knock off your allowance of spirits, till your wounds have healed up, lad. I will tell the second mate to serve you out port wine, instead."
Reuben now went forward, feeling very much the better for the cocoa. He again had to receive the hearty congratulations of the men; and then, rather to escape from this than because he felt he needed it, he turned into his bunk, and was soon sound asleep.
Three hours later, he was awakened by the tramp of men overhead, and knew that they were shortening the anchor chain, and preparing to be off. Going out on to the deck, he saw that the courses had been dropped, and the topsails were lying loose in their gaskets. The crew were singing merrily, as they worked the capstan. Three of the boats already hung from the davits, and two large boats were bringing off the passengers, and were already within a hundred yards of the ship; while the remaining ship's boat, with the steward, crowded with fresh stores, was but a short way behind them. As soon as the passengers were up, and the shore boats had left, she came alongside.
"Hook on the falls at once," the first mate ordered, "and run her up as she is. You can get the things out afterwards."
The anchor was, by this time, under the foot.
"Up with it, lads!" and the sailors again started, at full speed, on the capstan.
The jibs were run up, the courses and topsails shaken out and braced, and the Paramatta began to steal through the water again, for the second portion of her voyage. Mr. Hudson and his friend very soon made their way forward, and the ship was scarcely under way when Reuben, who was gazing over the bulwark at the shore, felt a hand laid on his shoulder.
"How are you today, Reuben? Better, I hope? It was too bad of you to run off in that way, this morning."
"I am all right now, thank you, sir," Reuben answered. "I felt just a little shaky at first, but the captain gave me a cup of cocoa when I came on board, and I feel now as if I were fit for duty again."
"Oh, nonsense," Mr. Hudson exclaimed, "you mustn't think of work, for days yet. No, you must come aft with me. My daughter and Miss Furley are most anxious to see you; and my wife, too, is longing to add her thanks to mine."
"You are very good, sir, but really I would rather not, if you will excuse me. It is horrid being thanked and made a fuss about, just because, on the spur of the moment, one did one's duty."
"That's all very well, Reuben; but you see, it wouldn't be fair to my daughter. If anyone did you a great service, you would want to thank them, would you not?"
"Yes, I suppose so, sir," Reuben answered reluctantly; "but really, I hate it."
"I can understand your feelings, my lad, but you must make up your mind to do it. When anyone puts others under a vast obligation to him, he must submit to be thanked, however much he may shrink from it. Come along, it will not be very dreadful."
Reuben saw that there was no getting out of it, and followed Mr. Hudson along the deck; feeling, however, more ashamed and uncomfortable even than he did when standing in the dock, as a criminal. Captain Wilson walked beside him. Hitherto he had not spoken, but he now laid his hand quietly upon Reuben's shoulder.
"My lad," he said, "I am not a man to talk much; but believe me that, henceforth, I am your friend for life."
Reuben looked up, with a little smile which showed that he understood. He had often, indeed, watched the young officer and Miss Hudson together, and had guessed that they were more than mere acquaintances.
The passengers were, with the exception of the three ladies, all gathered on the poop. But Frances had proposed to her mother that they should see Reuben in the cabin alone, as she felt that it would be a severe ordeal, to the lad, to be publicly thanked. Captain Wilson ascended to the poop and joined the others there, while Mr. Hudson went alone into the cabin.
The three ladies were awaiting him there. Frances came forward first. The tears were standing in her eyes.
"You have saved my life," she said softly, "at the risk of your own; and I thank you with all my heart, not only for my own sake, but for that of my father and mother; who would have been childless, today, had it not been for you."
"I need no thanks, Miss Hudson," Reuben said quietly.
His shyness had left him, as he entered the cabin.
"It will, all my life, be a source of pleasure and gratification to me, that I have been able to have been of service to so bright and kind a lady."
"I am not less grateful," Miss Furley said, advancing also. "I shall never forget that dreadful moment, and the feeling which darted through my mind, as you rushed past us and threw yourself upon him, and I felt that I was saved almost by a miracle."
"And you must accept my thanks also," Mrs. Hudson said; "the thanks of a mother, whose child you have saved from so dreadful a death. Believe me that there is nothing that my husband or myself would not do, to show how deeply and sincerely we are grateful to you."
Mrs. Hudson, indeed, felt rather aggrieved that she could not, at once, take some active steps towards rewarding the young man for saving her daughter's life; and she had been unable to understand the scruples of her husband and daughter on the subject. It was only, indeed, at their urgent entreaty that she had given way on this point.
"I call it monstrous, Frances," she said, almost angrily. "Of course the young man will expect something more substantial than words. It is only natural that we should reward him for preserving your life, and it would be a crime if we didn't do so. Of course, he didn't do it for money at the time, but it is absurd to suppose that a young carpenter like this, working his way out on board a ship, will object to receive a handsome present for such a service as this. Our feelings have a right to be considered, as well as his; and a nice thing it will be, for people to say that Ralph Hudson and his wife were so stingy, and ungrateful, that they did nothing for the lad who had saved their daughter's life."
"There is no fear of their saying that, mother. Everyone in the colony knows that there are no more open-handed people in New South Wales than you and my father. Besides, I do not say that we are to do nothing for him. On the contrary, I agree with you that it would be wrong, indeed, if we did not. I only say, please don't let there be a word said about reward, now. Let us thank him as one would thank a gentleman, who had done us a great service."
"Of course, I will do as your father wishes, Frances, but I call it nonsense. If he were a gentleman it would, of course, be different; but he is a young carpenter and, though you won't see it, that seems to me to make all the difference."
"From what I have seen of him, mother," Frances persisted, "I am sure that he has the feelings of a gentleman; even if he is not one by birth, about which I am not certain. Anyhow, I am much obliged to you for letting me have my own way."
"You always do have your own way, Frances," her mother laughed. "You get round your father first, and then you come to me, and what can I do against the two of you?"
Reuben briefly answered Miss Furley and Mrs. Hudson; and Mr. Hudson, feeling that the lad would rather get over the scene as soon as possible, slipped his arm though his and said: "Now, Reuben, you must just come up for a minute on the poop. The other passengers are all waiting to shake you by the hand, and they would not forgive me if I were to let you run off, as I know you are wanting to do, without a word."
Accordingly Reuben was taken up to the poop, where the passengers all shook hands with him, and congratulated him upon his courage.
"Now, I suppose I can go, sir," he said, with a smile to Mr. Hudson, when this was over.
"Yes, you can go now," Mr. Hudson laughed. "Most young fellows at your age would be glad of an opportunity for figuring as a hero, but you talk as if it was one of the most painful businesses imaginable."
"Anyhow, I am glad it's over, Mr. Hudson, I can assure you; and now, I think I will turn in again. Considering what a night I had, I feel wonderfully sleepy."
It was not until the sun was setting that Reuben appeared again on deck. Shortly after he did so, Captain Wilson strolled up to the place where he was standing.
"I wish, Reuben," he said, after a few remarks on other subjects, "that you would tell me a little more about yourself. You understand that I do not ask from mere inquisitiveness; but after what has happened, you see, we seem to have got into close relationship with each other; and if I knew more about you, I could the easier see in what way I could most really be useful to you, out there. Are you what you appear to be?"
"I am, indeed," Reuben replied, with a smile. "My history is a very simple one. My father was a miller with a good business and, up to the age of ten, it did not appear that I should ever be working as a craftsman for my living. Unhappily, at that time my father slipped, one night, into the mill pond and was drowned; and when his affairs came to be wound up, it was found that he had speculated disastrously in wheat; and that, after paying all claims, there was nothing left.
"My mother took a little village shop, and I went to the village school. At first, I think I did not work very hard; but fortunately there was a change in masters, and the new one turned out one of the best friends a boy ever had. He pushed me on greatly and, when I was apprenticed to a mill wright, he urged me to continue my education by working of an evening. I stuck to it hard, and with his help learned, therefore, a good deal more than was usual, in my station of life. My mother was always particular about my speaking and, what with that and the books, I suppose I talk better than they generally do."
"And is your mother alive?"
"Yes, sir."
"But how came you to think of emigrating, at your age; when indeed, you cannot have served out your full time?"
"That, sir," Reuben said gravely, "I cannot tell you. Some day, perhaps, if you care to know, I may bring myself to do so. I may say that it was a serious matter, but that I was really in no way to blame, whatever people may think. My conscience is absolutely clear, and yet I would rather that the story, which I left England to escape, should not be known to anyone."
"I do not seek to know further, Reuben. I think I know enough of you to be perfectly sure that you would do nothing that was wrong, and I am perfectly willing to take your word in the matter. However, I am glad that you have told me as much as you have. Your early rearing, your mother's care, and the education you have had, perfectly account for what seemed strange about you before. You have no objection, I hope, to my repeating your story to Mr. Hudson, who is as much interested in you as I am.
"And now another thing. I know that it is painful, to him, that one to whom he is so indebted should be forward here in the forecastle, instead of being in the cabin. He was afraid of hurting your feelings, by speaking to you about it; but I know that it would be a great relief and pleasure, to him and Mrs. Hudson, if you would allow them to make an arrangement with the captain that, for the remainder of the voyage, you should be a passenger."
"I am much obliged to them," Reuben said quietly; "but I could not think of accepting such an offer. I am working my way out independently, sir, and I owe no one anything. I am really enjoying the passage, and so far there has been no hardship worth speaking of. Even putting aside the fact that I should not like to accept an obligation which would, to most people, look like a payment for the service I was fortunate enough to be able to render to Mr. Hudson, I should feel out of my element. I am very comfortable, and get on very well with the men; while in the cabin I should feel strange, and out of place."
"I don't think you would seem out of place anywhere, Reuben. No one, from your manner and conversation, would judge you to be otherwise than a gentleman by birth; while there are several of the passengers, aft, whose talk and methods of expression are by no means up to the level of yours."
"I should feel uncomfortable myself," Reuben said, "even if I didn't make other people uncomfortable. So I think that, with all gratitude for the offer, I would very much rather remain as I am. Accustomed as I have been to hard work, during my apprenticeship, the life here appears to be exceedingly easy."
"Then we will say no more about it," Captain Wilson said. "It would have been a pleasure, both to me and the Hudsons, to have you aft, and I am sure you would be well received by all the passengers. However, as you think you would not be comfortable, we will let the matter drop.
"However, as to your work in the colony, we must have a say in that; and I hope that, when I thoroughly understand your wishes, we shall be able to help you forward there."
"For that I shall be extremely obliged, sir. It would be a great thing, indeed, for anyone on landing to have gentlemen ready to assist him, and push him forward. This is so at home, and is of course still more the case in a strange country. I am very anxious to get on, and am ready to work my hardest, to deserve any kindness that may be shown me."
"Well, we shall have plenty of time to think it over before we arrive.
"I fancy," Captain Wilson went on, looking upwards at the sky, "that our wonderful run of good luck, with regard to the weather, is likely to end shortly, and that we are in for a gale."
"Do you think so, sir?"
"I do, indeed; and if we do get a gale, it is likely to be a serious one. The Cape, you know, was much feared for its terrible storms by the Portuguese, and it has kept up its reputation ever since. I think it is going to give us a taste of its quality."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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8
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: A Gale.
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"Wilson tells me he thinks we are going to have a gale, Bill."
"Ay, ay, Reuben; anyone with half an eye could see that."
"Which way is it likely to come?"
"Most likely from the north or northwest. At least that's the quarter it's likely to settle into; but there ain't no saying which way it may take us. I thought things had been going on too smooth to last. Now you are going to see what a storm is, my lad. You thought it was blowing when we went down the Channel."
"Is it likely to be much heavier than that, Bill?"
"Heavier!" the sailor repeated scornfully. "Why, there's as much difference between a capful of wind in the Channel, and a gale off the Cape, as there is between a newborn baby and me."
"Do they last long, generally?"
"Last! Why they goes on for weeks. There ain't no end to them. I've wondered sometimes to myself where all the wind comes from, and where it goes to, onlass it works round and round."
"But it does work round and round, Bill?"
"Ay, when you are near the centre of it. Why, lad, in three hours I have gone round the compass three times, with the wind dead aft all the time; but that's only when you are near the centre. When you ain't it blows straight, and I have known vessels run for days--ay, for weeks--with the wind blowing all the time in the same quarter. Some have been blown down right to the edge of the ice, south. I have been among the icebergs myself, two or three times, and I guess that many a ship has laid her bones down in the ice fields there, and no news ever come back home as to what's come to them; and what makes it worse is as we have convicts on board."
"What difference does that make, Bill?"
"It don't make no difference, as long as all goes straight and fair. I have heard, in course, of risings; but that's only when either the guard are very careless, or the men is so bad treated that they gets desperate, and is ready to die on the off chance of getting free. So far we ain't had no trouble with them. The ship is kept liberal, and the poor wretches ain't cheated out of the rations as government allows them. The officer in charge seems a good sort, and there's no knocking of them about, needless; so there ain't no fear of trouble, as long as things go square. But when things goes wrong, and a vessel gets cast away or anything of that kind, then there's well-nigh sure to be trouble. The convicts seize their opportunity, and it ain't scarce in human nature for them not to take it, and then there ain't no saying what will happen."
"Why, what a croaker you are, Bill! I didn't expect that from you."
"I ain't no croaker, Reuben, but I knows what I knows. I have been through a job like that I am telling you of, once; and I don't want to do it again. I will tell you about it, some day. I ain't saying as I expect any such thing will happen, on board the Paramatta. God forbid. She's a tight ship, and she's got as good officers and crew as ever I sailed with. She has as good a chance as ever a ship had; but when I sees that 'ere sort of sky in these latitudes, I feels as we are in for a tough job."
The conversation was broken off, abruptly, by the call of the first mate.
"All hands aloft to shorten sail!"
"The bells is ringing up for the beginning of the performance, Reuben. Here goes aloft!"
The next minute the whole of the crew were climbing the shrouds, for the watch off duty were all on deck, and the order was expected; for the signs of the weather could, by this time, be read by every sailor on board. Above, the sky was still bright and blue; but around the whole circle of the horizon, a mist seemed to hang like a curtain.
"Smartly, lads, smartly," the captain shouted; "don't hurry over your work, but do it with a will.
"I hope we have not left it too long, Mr. James. I have held on longer than I ought, for every mile we get away from land is an advantage, and we have been running nearly due south, ever since I noticed the first falling of the glass when we got up in the morning."
"I think we shall have time, sir," the mate said. "We are going to have it, and no mistake, presently; but it don't seem to be coming up fast."
"The glass is going down rapidly," the captain said. "It's down an inch already, and is still falling.
"Mr. Mason," he went on, to the officer in command of the detachment of marines, "will you kindly place your men under the orders of Mr. James? I am going to send down all the upper spars, and they can be useful on deck."
Never was the Paramatta stripped more rapidly of her sails, for every man was conscious of the urgency of the work. As soon as the sails were furled, the yards were sent down. The upper spars followed them and, in little over half an hour from the time the men began to ascend the shrouds, the Paramatta was metamorphosed. Her tall tapering masts and lofty spread of sail were gone. Every spar above the topmasts had been sent down to the deck; and she lay under close-reefed topsails, a stay sail, and a storm jib. The captain gave a sigh of relief, as the men began to descend the rigging.
"Thank God, that is safely accomplished. Now we are in readiness for whatever may come."
He dived into his cabin, and returned almost immediately.
"The glass has fallen another half inch, Mr. James," he said gravely. "I have never but once seen it as low.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he went on, addressing the passengers, who were gathered in a group, talking in low tones and anxiously watching the wall of vapour; which now seemed to rise from the water's edge and reach far up into the sky, the circle of view extending scarce half a mile in any direction; "I must ask you to go below, at once. The storm may strike us any moment now, and when it does come it will come heavily. I should like the deck perfectly clear, and nothing to disturb my thoughts from the working of the ship."
Reuben had not gone aloft, as he was called back, just as he began to ascend the shrouds, by the first mate, and ordered to go round the cabins and fasten the dead lights securely. When this was done, he aided the marines in nailing tarpaulins over the cabin skylights, and then went round the deck, seeing that every movable article was securely lashed. When this was done he joined Bill who, with some others, had been at work securing all the hatches. The convicts had long since been all sent below.
"Shall I send my men down, captain?" Mr. Mason asked.
"There is no occasion for it, just at present; but you had better pass the word for all of them to hold on, when the gale strikes her. That will be the critical moment. Once past that, she will be all right till the sea begins to rise. Then you had best get them below, for we shall have the water sweeping knee deep along the waist, in no time.
"I should say send them down at once; but I know many of them have been to sea before, and may be useful in cutting away, if anything goes."
"She looks snug enough, captain," the young officer said, glancing up at the diminished spread of canvas.
"She is snug enough for any ordinary gale," the captain said; "but this is not going to be an ordinary gale. When we once get her before it, it will be all right.
"Do you think we have another five minutes, Mr. James?"
"There's no saying, sir; but I should think so. What do you want, sir?"
"I want that top sail off her, altogether."
"I will do it, sir," the mate said and, calling Bill Hardy and two others of the best sailors, he led the way up the main shrouds.
Every eye on deck was fixed on the four seamen as, rapidly but steadily, they proceeded to furl and stow the sail. There was still not a breath of wind, but a low humming noise was heard.
"Quick, Mr. James, never mind the sail. All hands on deck!" the captain shouted; but the work was just done, and the sailors ran quickly down the ratlines on to the deck.
"Thank God!" the captain said reverently, "that is done."
The ship was now under the close-reefed fore-top sail, a diminutive try sail on the mizzen, and the jib. The hum had increased to a roar, but still not a breath of wind stirred the sails.
"Look up!" Bill said to Reuben; "you may be at sea fifty years, and never see that again."
Reuben looked up. Immediately overhead was a small circle of blue sky, round and round whose edge the edging of cloud seemed to be circling, with extreme velocity. The light seemed to pierce straight down onto the vessel, and she stood, pale and white, while all around her a pitchy blackness seemed to prevail.
"We are in the eye of the storm, my lad. Here it comes. Now, hold on for your life."
In another moment it seemed to Reuben that the end of all things was come. He was pinned against the bulwark, as if by a mighty invisible hand; and the vessel heeled over and over, until the deck seemed to rise in a wall above him. Then the water poured over him and, though he still held on, he thought the vessel had capsized. Then he felt her rising beneath his feet, and his head emerged from the water.
The captain, the first mate, and two seamen were at the wheel. Reuben saw the captain wave his hand, but his words were lost in the fury of the wind. The second mate, Bill Hardy, and two or three other sailors knew what was required, and hauled upon the lee brace of the fore-top-sail yard. The Paramatta was still lying nearly over on her beam ends, but gradually her head began to pay off, and she slowly righted. A minute later she was tearing directly before the gale. Scarcely had she done so, when the fore-top sail blew out of the bolt ropes, with a report that was heard even above the howl of the tempest.
"It's done its work," Bill shouted in Reuben's ear. "I thought she was gone. Just a little more, and she would have turned turtle."
The captain had used almost precisely the same words to the first officer, adding: "She will do now, but we shall have to try to get a little more head sail on her, when the sea gets up. Call some of the hands aft, and get this try sail down. She yaws so, now the fore-top sail's gone, there is no steering her."
This was soon done and, under bare poles, the storm jib now the only sail upon her, the Paramatta tore through the water. There was little motion, for the sea had not begun to get up, seeming to be pressed flat by the force of the wind. The captain now left the helm. Two or three of the male passengers were standing at the top of the companion, peering out.
"You can come out, gentlemen, for a bit. She is running on an even keel now, though that won't last long. No one hurt below, I hope."
"Two or three of us have got bruised a little, captain; and I think we have all of us got a severe fright. We thought she was over."
"I thought so, too," the captain said. "Luckily she has got three hundred tons of iron on board, and it's all stowed at the bottom of the cargo, so that helped her up again; but it was touch and go with her, for half a minute.
"And now, gentlemen, if you will take my advice you will just look round, and then go below and turn in. Now you can do so easily. Another hour, and there will be no keeping a footing."
The captain was right. In less than the time he named, a terrific sea had got up. The Paramatta had already made more than one circuit of the compass. There was no regularity in the sea. It seemed to rise suddenly in heaps, now striking the ship on one side, now on another, and pouring sheets of water over her bulwarks. The motion of the vessel was so tremendous that even Bill Hardy and the older seamen could only move along with the greatest difficulty to carry out the orders of the captain; while Reuben clung to the shrouds, now half buried in water, now almost hanging in the air, with the sea racing along under his feet.
As yet no more sail had been put upon her, for there was no following sea. Although running almost before the gale, a slight helm was kept upon her, so as to edge her out from the centre of the storm; and the second circle of the compass took more than twice as long as the first to complete, although the vessel was proceeding with equal speed through the water.
Hour after hour the sea got up--a wild, cross, broken sea--and the motion of the vessel was so terrific as to be almost bewildering to the oldest hands. There was none of the regular rise and fall of an ordinary sea; the vessel was thrown with violent jerks, now on one side, now on the other; now plunging her bow so deeply down that she seemed about to dive, head foremost, beneath the waves; now thrown bodily upwards, as if tossed up by some giant hand beneath her. The watch off duty was sent below, for there was nothing that could be done on deck; and the water swept over her in such masses as to threaten, at times, to carry everything before it. One man had had his leg broken. Several had been seriously bruised and hurt.
"This is terrible, Bill," Reuben said, as he went below.
"Ay, lad; I have been at sea, man and boy, over forty years, and it's the worst sea I ever saw. I expect to see her masts go out of her, before long. Nothing could stand such straining as this. You had best turn in at once. Unless I am mistaken, it will be all hands to the pumps, before long. If she hadn't been one of the tightest crafts afloat, she would have been making water at every seam, by this time."
Reuben felt, the instant he lay down, that sleep was out of the question; for it needed all his strength to prevent himself from being thrown out of his bunk. The noise, too, was terrific--the rush and swell of the water overhead, the blows which made the ship shiver from stem to stern, the creaking of the masts, and howling of the wind. Night had set in, now. It was pitch dark in the forecastle, for the swinging lantern had been dashed so violently against the beams that the light was extinguished.
Half an hour after Reuben turned in, a crash was heard. A moment later the door was opened, and there was a shout: "The mizzen has gone! All hands to cut away the wreck!"
The watch turned out and began to make their way aft, and were soon engaged with knife and hatchet in cutting away the wreck of the mizzen which, towing behind, threatened, with each heavy following sea, to plunge into the vessel's stern. A cheer broke from the men as the last rope was cut, and the wreck floated astern. The mast had gone close to the deck, smashing the bulwark as it fell over the side. The motion of the ship was easier, for its loss.
"Mr. James," the captain shouted, "we must get preventer stays, at once, upon the fore mast. The main mast may go, if it likes, and at present we shall be all the better without it, but the foremast we must keep, if we can."
"Ay, ay, sir. I will set about it, at once."
Picking out a few of the best hands, the first mate proceeded about the work.
"Go and sound the well, Reuben," the captain said.
Reuben went off at once, and returned in two or three minutes.
"There are four feet of water in it, sir."
"Four feet! Are you sure?" the captain exclaimed.
"Quite sure, sir."
The captain handed over the command of the deck to the second officer, and went below with Reuben. First wiping the rod carefully, he sounded the well.
"You are right," he said. "It is three inches over the four feet. I fear that the bumping of the mizzen, before we got rid of it, must have started a butt. She could hardly have made so much water from straining."
The captain made his way aft. The saloon was empty; the passengers, one by one, had retired to their cabins. He knocked at the doors of Mr. Mason and the chief warder.
"The ship is making water fast," he said. "We must rig the main-deck pumps. I can't spare any of the crew, their hands are full. Will you set the convicts to work?"
In a few minutes the clank of the pumps was heard. Very irregularly were they worked, for it was next to impossible for the men to stand to them, with the vessel throwing herself about so wildly.
The captain had remained on deck. He placed his hand on the shrouds of the main mast. One moment they hung loosely; and then, as the vessel rolled over, tightened themselves, with a sudden jerk, till they were as stiff as iron rods. He shook his head.
"Reuben, make your way up to the chief officer, and tell him that I am going to get rid of the main-top mast. Tell him to see that everything is cut free from the fore mast."
Reuben made his way aloft with difficulty. It needed all his strength to prevent the wind from tearing him from his grasp of the shrouds, but at length he reached the fore top, where the mate was at work. He delivered the captain's message.
"Ask the captain to wait five minutes, till I get the back stay secured. I will send a man down, as soon as I am ready."
"You take this axe," the captain said, when Reuben regained the deck, "and stand by this stay. When you see me ready to cut the other, cut at the same moment."
In a few minutes Bill came down, with a message to the captain that all was ready. The latter raised his arm to Reuben. He waited till the vessel rolled over, and then lifted his axe. The two blows fell together on the stays. A moment later the vessel began to rise again. As the jerk came there was a crash above, and the main-top mast fell over the side, clear of the deck, having snapped off at the cap like a pipe stem.
"Thank God for that," the captain said, as he cut away the connections on the other side, and the spar drifted astern, "that is off our minds."
The loss of the main-top mast and mizzen greatly relieved the strain on the ship, and she worked much easier. In half an hour, the first officer returned on deck with his party, and reported that he had done all he could to secure the fore mast.
"The sea is becoming more regular," the captain said, "now that we are getting further away from the centre of the storm. We shall soon have the waves racing behind us, like mountains, and we shall have to shake out the fore sail to keep ahead of them. Now, let us see how they are getting on below."
The well was again sounded, and it was found that the water had gained two or three inches.
"When the motion gets a little more regular, Reuben, you must take two or three hands, and work your way aft in the hold, and try and find out where the water is coming in."
"I will go at once, sir, if you like."
"No," the captain replied, "it must not be thought of. Everything will be adrift, and you would be crushed to death, to a certainty. You must wait till we are out of this tumble. If the water gains no faster than it does now, two or three hours will make no material difference, and by that time I hope we shall have got a regular sea."
Finding that there was nothing for him to do, Reuben again turned in. The motion was still tremendous, but he could feel a sensible change from what it was before. The motion of the ship was less sudden and violent and, although she rolled tremendously, she rose each time with an easier motion.
An hour later the watch turned out, and the others took their place. The wind was blowing as heavily as when the hurricane began, but the aspect of the sea had changed. It was no longer a mass of leaping, tumbling water; but was running in long waves, following each other, rising high above the vessel's stern as they overtook her. Having lashed himself to the side, he remained for an hour watching the sea. The first mate then came up to him.
"The captain thinks you might manage to get aft now. I will send Bill and Dick Whistler with you, to help you move any boxes or bales."
Reuben went back in the forecastle and got some tools, a piece of old sailcloth, and a large bundle of oakum; and then made his way with the two sailors down into the after hold. The way in which the upper tier of cargo lay heaped against the sides showed that it would, as the captain said, have been impossible to enter while the motion was at its worst. The rolling, however, had greatly diminished; the vessel rising and falling with a regular motion, as each wave passed under her. The men each carried a lantern and, with some difficulty, made their way to the stern.
"Ay, it's somewhere about here," Bill said. "I can hear the rushing of water, somewhere below. Now, the first thing is to move these bales."
They worked for a time, and then Bill returned on deck to fetch two more hands. They brought hand spikes and bars, as the bales were wedged so tightly together that it was difficult, in the extreme, to move them. It took two hours' hard work before they reached the leak. As the captain had supposed, the head of one of the planks had been started, at the stern post, by a blow from the wreck of the mizzen; and the water was rushing in with great force.
"A few hours of this would have settled her," Bill said. "All the pumps in the ship would not keep down such a leak as this."
Reuben at once set to work, cutting a deep groove in the stern post. He butted some stout pieces of wood into this, and wedged the other ends firmly against the first rib. Then he set to work to jam down sail cloth and oakum between this barrier and the plank that had started, driving it down with a marlinespike and mallet. It was a long job, but it was securely done; and at last Reuben had the satisfaction of seeing that a mere driblet of water was making its way down, behind the stuffing, into the ship.
"That's a first-rate job, lad," Bill said approvingly. "Half an hour's work once a week will keep her dry, if there is no water finds its way in anywhere else."
Reuben went aft to the well. The pump was now working steadily, the gangs of convicts relieving each other by turns. On sounding the well, he found that the water had fallen nine inches since he had last ascertained its depth. Going on deck, he found that a misty light filled the air, and that morning was breaking.
The captain had two or three times come down to the hold, to watch the progress of the work. Reuben reported to him its completion, and the fall in the water.
"Yes, it's been falling the last hour," the captain said. "She will do now. But she's making water, still. Some of the seams must have opened. I have been looking her over, and can't find out where it is; and we can do nothing until the gale has blown itself out, and we can get below and shift the cargo."
Reuben found that the fore sail had been set while he was below; and the vessel was running, some twelve knots an hour, before the wind. At one moment she was in a deep valley, then her stern mounted high on a following wave, and she seemed as if she must slide down, head foremost. Higher and higher the wave rose, sending her forward with accelerated motion; then it passed along her, and she was on a level keel on its top, and seemed to stand almost still as the wave passed from under her.
In spite of the extra lashing which had been given, the hen coops, spars, and everything loose upon the decks had been swept away; and the bulwarks had, in several places, been stove in. The galley had been carried away, but the cook had just made a shift to boil a cauldron of coffee below, and a mug of this was served out to all hands. As Reuben broke a biscuit into his portion, and sipped it, he thought he had never enjoyed a meal so much. He had now been, for eighteen hours, wet through to the skin; and the coffee sent a warm glow through him.
The captain ordered all hands, save a few absolutely required on deck, to turn in; and Reuben was soon in a glow of warmth beneath his blankets and, lulled by the now easy motion of the ship, was fast asleep in a few minutes.
After four hours' sleep, he was again on deck. The gale was blowing as strongly as ever, three men were at the helm, and the vessel was still tearing along at great speed. Several of the male passengers were on the poop, and the contrast between the appearance of the Paramatta at the same hour on the previous day, and that which she presented now, struck Reuben very strongly. Sadly, indeed, she looked with mizzen mast gone, the main mast shortened to the cap, and all the upper spars and rigging of the fore mast gone. She was, however, making good weather of it, for her hold was now so dry that the pumps were worked only on alternate hours, and the relief afforded by the loss of all her top hamper was very great.
For a week the Paramatta ran before the gale. At the end of the fourth day its force somewhat abated, but it still blew much too hard for anything to be done towards getting up fresh spars; while the lost mizzen rendered it impossible for them to bring her up into the wind.
"It's bitterly cold, Bill," Reuben said. "Its been getting colder every day, but this morning it is really bitter."
"And no wonder, lad, seeing that we have been racing south for pretty nigh a week. We have been making a little easting, but that is all, and we are getting into the region of ice. We may see some bergs any time now."
"I should like to see an iceberg," Reuben said.
"The fewer we see of them the better," Bill replied, "for they are about as nasty customers as you want to meet. I expected we should have seen them before, but this gale must have blown them south a bit. They work up with the northwesterly current, but I expect the wind will have carried them back against it. No, I don't want to see no icebergs."
"But if it were a very big one, we might get under its lee and repair damages a bit, Bill. Might we not?"
"No, my lad. The lee of an iceberg ain't a place one would choose, if one could help it. There you are becalmed under it, and the berg drifting down upon you, going perhaps four knots an hour. No, the farther you keep away from icebergs the better. But if you have got to be near one, keep to windward of it. At least, that's my 'speryence.
"They have been having some trouble with the convicts, I hears. They worked well enough at first, as long as they knew that there was a lot of water in the hold; but since then they have been a-grumbling, and last night I hear there was a rumpus, and six of them was put in irons. That's the first of it, and the sooner the gale's over, and we shapes our course in smooth water for Sydney heads, the better I shall be pleased."
An hour later, Bill pointed to the sky ahead.
"Do yer see nothing odd about that 'ere sky?"
"No," Reuben replied, "except that it's very light coloured."
"Ay, that's it, my lad. That's what they call the ice blink. You see if we ain't in the middle of bergs before night comes on. I have not been whaling for nothing."
A few minutes later, the first mate was heard to be shouting orders.
"Just as I thought," Bill said. "We are going to try to rig a jury mizzen, so as to help us claw off the ice, if need be."
A spare top mast was got up from below. Guys were fixed to one end and, with the help of the marines and a party of convicts, the spar was raised alongside the stump of the mizzen mast; and was there lashed securely, the guys being fastened as stays to the bulwarks. Blocks had been tied to the top, before it was raised; and ropes rove into them; and a try sail was brought on deck, and laid ready for hoisting.
The first mate ascended to the fore top, and at once hailed the deck that ice was visible ahead. The captain joined him, and for some minutes the two officers carefully examined the horizon. No sooner did the captain regain the deck than he ordered the try sail to be hoisted on the jury mast, and a haul to be given upon the braces of the fore sail, while the ship's course was laid a little north of east.
"It is lucky the wind has gone down as much as it has," he remarked to Mr. Hudson. "The sea is still heavy but, if that jury mizzen stands, we shall be able to claw off the ice."
"Is there much of it, captain?"
"We could see a good many bergs and, from the look of the sky, I should say there was an ice field lying beyond them. However, I think we shall do, if the wind does not freshen again. If it does, we must do our best to make a group of islands lying down to the southeast, and there refit. They are a rendezvous for whalers, in summer."
"Why not do so now, captain?"
"I would, if it were not for the convicts. But, unless as a last resource, I would not run the risk of touching at any island with them on board. As long as we are at sea they are comparatively harmless and, unless there is gross carelessness on the part of their guard, there is little fear of an outbreak. But once let them get on land, the matter is changed altogether. They are nearly three to one as against the warders, marines, and crew; and I would not run the risk, on any account, if it can be possibly avoided. No, no, Mr. Hudson, unless it be a matter of life and death, we will put in nowhere till we are in Sydney harbour."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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9
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: Two Offers.
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At nightfall the Paramatta was in the midst of the icebergs, and Reuben soon understood the antipathy which Bill had expressed for them. As a spectacle, they were no doubt grand; but as neighbours to a half-crippled ship, with half a gale blowing, their beauty was a very secondary consideration to those on board.
Additional stays were fixed to the jury mast, as it might be necessary, at any moment, to attempt to bring her up into the wind; and the word was passed that both watches must remain on deck. Fortunately the night was a light one, for the moon was up, and the sky almost cloudless. The mate stood with two of the best hands at the wheel; while the second mate took his place in the fore top, with a lantern, to signal the position of ice ahead. Fortunately there were but few small floating blocks about, and the Paramatta threaded her way through the larger bergs, without once approaching near enough to render danger imminent. It was a long and anxious night but, when morning broke, it was seen that the sea was now open ahead, and by the afternoon they had left the last berg behind.
Two days later the wind went completely down, and the crew at once set to work to repair damages. Reuben, with two men under him, filled up the breaches in the bulwarks. A respectable jury mast was rigged by the stump of the main mast; and the spar, which had done such good service among the bergs, was replaced by a longer and heavier one. All hands worked vigorously, and the sailors were assisted in the heavier work by parties of convicts.
After two days' toil all was completed. Sail was hoisted again and, under a greatly reduced spread of canvas to that which she had carried before the gale burst, the Paramatta proceeded on her way. The weather continued favourable and, without further adventure, the Paramatta arrived off Sydney heads; having made the voyage in a hundred and three days, which was, under the circumstances, a quick one.
The last evening Captain Wilson asked Reuben to go with him to the poop, as he and Mr. Hudson wanted to have a chat with him.
"Now, Reuben," Mr. Hudson said, "sit yourself down here. We must have a talk together. Now we want to know exactly what you are thinking of doing."
"I am thinking of getting work, sir," Reuben said, "at my own trade."
"Well, my lad, I don't think you will make much at that. There are mills, of course, but not a great many of them; and I fancy you would find it difficult to get anything like regular work. The distances here are tremendous, and you would spend the money you made, in one job, in looking out for another.
"That is the first view of the case. The second is, that neither Captain Wilson nor I mean to let you try it. You have saved my daughter's life, and I am not going to let the man who did that tramp about the country, looking for a day's work. Captain Wilson is going to marry my girl shortly, and of course he feels just the same about it. So the next question is, 'What is the best thing we can do for you?' Now, if you have a fancy for squatting, you can come with me up country and learn the business; and this day, twelve-month, I will hand you over the deeds of a range, with five thousand sheep upon it. Now, that's my offer.
"Now, don't you be in a hurry to refuse it, and don't let me have any nonsense about your not liking to accept it. Ten such farms would not pay the debt I owe you, and I tell you I should think it downright mean, if you were to refuse to let me pay you a part of my debt. Now you shall hear Wilson's proposal."
"My offer is not so brilliant, Reuben. Indeed, as far as making money, the pay would probably be no higher, at first, than you might earn at your trade. I am, as you know, assistant superintendent to the constabulary force of the colony. Now, if you like, I will obtain you a commission as an inspector. The pay is not high, but by good conduct you may rise to a position such as I hold. It is the position of a gentleman, and the life is full of excitement and adventure. Now, what do you say?"
Reuben was silent for a minute or two.
"I am greatly obliged to you both," he said, "more obliged than I can tell you. Your offer, Mr. Hudson, is a most generous one; but I have not been accustomed to farming, and I would rather have such a life as that which Captain Wilson offers me, although the pay may be very much smaller.
"But, sir," he said, turning to the officer of constabulary, "I fear that I cannot accept your offer, because, in the first place, you see, I am not a gentleman."
"Oh, nonsense, Reuben! Your manners and language would pass you as a gentleman, anywhere. Besides which, there are several officers in the force who have risen from the ranks, and who have had nothing like the education you have had. You can put that aside at once. Is there any other reason?"
"Yes, sir," Reuben said quietly. "I had never intended to have spoken of it, and I came out to Australia in order that I might be away from everyone who knew the story, but I couldn't accept your offer without your knowing it. I am leaving England because I have been tried for burglary."
"Nonsense!" both Reuben's listeners exclaimed, incredulously.
"If you don't mind, I will tell you the whole story," Reuben said, "and then you can judge for yourselves."
Reuben then related at length the whole circumstances, with which the reader is already acquainted.
"I remember reading your story in the papers, Reuben," Captain Wilson said. "Being in the force, you know, I take an interest in these things. I own I was puzzled at the time--because, you see, I did not know you--but how anyone who did know you, could think you guilty, passes my comprehension."
"I call it infamous," Mr. Hudson added warmly. "They must be a pack of fools, down at that place Lewes."
"Well," Captain Wilson said, "I am glad you have told me your story; for I have all along been puzzled as to what made you give up your trade, and emigrate, at your age. However, the matter is explained now; but now you have told me, I see no reason whatever why you should not accept my offer. In the first place, no one but ourselves will know your history. In the next, if they did so, that is no reason why you should not hold the appointment. No man is free from the risk of being suspected unjustly. You have been acquitted by a jury of your countrymen and, even did everyone know it, no one dare throw it in your teeth.
"No, I repeat, if you like I have no doubt that I can obtain for you an appointment as officer in the constabulary. You need not give me an answer now. Think it over for a week. You will have plenty of time, for Mr. Hudson insists upon your taking up your abode with him, when you land."
"That I do," Mr. Hudson said. "I have a place a mile out of Sydney, and there you will stop for a bit. Then I hope you will go up the country with me, for a month or two, and learn the ways of the place; till Captain Wilson has got an appointment for you--that is, if you quite decide to accept his offer, instead of mine. But remember, if ever you get tired of thief hunting, the offer will still be open to you."
Sydney was at that time but a very small place; for the great wave of emigrants had not yet begun to flow, and the colony was in its early infancy. As soon as the vessel cast anchor, Mr. Hudson and his party landed, taking Reuben with them; and an hour later he found himself installed, as a guest, at the squatter's house.
It was large and comfortable, surrounded by a broad verandah, and standing in a garden blooming with flowers, many of which were wholly unknown to Reuben. He had, of course, before landing laid aside the suit he had worn on board ship, and had dressed himself in his best; and the heartiness and cordiality of his host, his wife, and daughter soon made him feel perfectly at his ease.
"We are in the rough, you know," Mr. Hudson said to him. "Everyone is in the rough here, at present. Twenty years hence things may settle down, but now we all have to take them as we find them. The chief difficulty is servants. You see, almost every other man here is either a convict, an ex-convict, or a runaway sailor; about as bad material as you could want to see, for the formation of what they call at home a genteel establishment. The number of emigrants who come out is small. For the most part they have a little money and take up land, or at any rate, go up country and look for work there. A few, of course, who have been sent out by their friends at home to get rid of them, loaf about Sydney and spend their money, till they are driven to take the first job that offers. Well, they may do for shepherds, in places where no drink is to be had for love or money, but you would scarcely care about having them as butlers; so you see, we are driven to the three classes I spoke of. I have been exceptionally lucky. The man who carried the things upstairs just now, and who is my chief man here, is an ex-convict."
Reuben looked surprised.
"He was assigned to me when he first got his ticket of leave. I found him a good hand, and he stood by me pluckily, when my station was attacked by the blacks. So next time I came down to the town, I asked what he had been sent out here for. I found it was for having been concerned in a poaching fray, in which some of the game keepers got badly hurt. Well, that wasn't so much against him, you know, so I got talking to him one day, and found out that he came from my part of England. I found he had a wife, so I sent home money to some friends, and asked them to send her out; which they did and, finding she had, before she married him, been cook in a gentleman's family, I engaged her here, and sent up the country for Watson to come down. I had told him nothing about it; for I thought, perhaps, his wife might refuse to come out, or might have married again, or anything else.
"Well, the meeting was a happy one, as you may suppose; and I then settled him down here--at least, it wasn't here, but a smaller place I had then--and he has been with me ever since. His time was out some years ago, but that has made no difference. Nothing would induce him to leave me; and I would not part with him for any amount, for a more faithful and trusty fellow never lived, and when I go away I know everything will go along like clockwork. As for his wife, she's a treasure, and she knows how to cook a dinner, as you will acknowledge presently.
"They form the mainstay of my establishment. Besides that, there's an old chap who looks after the garden, goes down to the town, and does odd jobs. He was a sailor. He was landed here when his vessel came into port, five years ago. He had fallen off the yard on to the deck, and had broken half his ribs. He was taken to the government hospital. They did not think, at first, that he would ever get over it; but though he pulled through, it was clear he would never be fit for any hard work. So the surgeon of the hospital spoke of the case to me, and I said I thought I could find a job that would suit him, and here he has been. He is quite strong enough for all the work I want him to do, and I can trust him about the place. Of course, he breaks out and gets drunk occasionally, but one cannot expect to find a man perfect.
"Then there is a black boy--they call them all boys here--he looks after the horses, and has two black boys--they are boys--under him. I found him out on the plains. He had been shot by some bush-ranging scoundrels, out of pure mischief, I should say. He was insensible when I found him, but I saw that he was alive, and managed to get him up on my horse and took him home. We were six weeks getting him round, for the bullet had gone through his body. It would have killed a white man in an hour, but these black fellows are as hard as nails.
"My wife nursed him, for she was living up the country with me at that time; and when he got well, he declared that he would never leave us. I don't know that I was much gratified at the news, at first; but I soon found out that Sam, as I called him, was a valuable fellow about a place. He could turn his hand to everything, but I found he was specially happy when he was engaged about the horses; so at last I handed over that department to him, and when we set up this place here, I brought him down with me and made him head of the stables. It's fifteen years since I first picked him up, and I don't think I have ever had cause to find fault with him, since.
"So you see, though my establishment can't be called a genteel, it's a thoroughly good-working one, and I doubt if there's a man in the colony who is as well off as I am.
"When we go up country they all go with me except the sailor, who remains in charge. He's a great man, I can tell you, when he's left in what he calls command of the ship. He's got hold of two old muskets and a brace of pistols, and these he always loads before we start, so as to be ready to repel boarders. He looks out sharply, too, for I have never lost a thing since he came; and when you consider what a number of gentry there are, about here, with experience in housebreaking, I think that's pretty well. He is always drunk and incapable, for three or four days after our return, as a reward to himself for having kept from drink all the time we are away."
"Dinner is ready," Frances Hudson said, running into the room. "Here you are, papa, talking away as usual, whenever you get the chance. Now run upstairs quickly, both of you; for Rachel will not be pleased if you let the first dinner get cold, after she has been doing her best to turn out something special, in honour of the occasion, ever since she heard the Paramatta was in port."
"I won't be a minute, Frances.
"Ah, here comes Wilson. I was wondering what had become of him. He promised to come on, as soon as he had seen his chief."
The dinner was an excellent one, and fully bore out Mr. Hudson's assertion with respect to his cook. All were in high spirits, with the exception of Mrs. Hudson, who was cool in her manners to the young officer, and was evidently desirous of showing her disapproval of his engagement to her daughter, which had only taken place two days before.
"I have news for you, Reuben," Captain Wilson said, in the first pause of conversation. "I saw the chief, and told him I wanted an appointment for a young friend of mine, who had come out in the Paramatta, and who had shown great pluck and presence of mind in an affair at the Cape, which I described to him. He said that he could appoint you at once, as young Houghton, a district superintendent, was killed three weeks ago, in an affair with the bush rangers up country. He said he was very glad to hear of someone likely to make a good officer, to fill his place. So if you make up your mind to be a constable, the place is ready for you."
"Thank you very much, sir," Reuben said, "I was thinking the matter over last night, and quite made up my mind to accept the place you were kind enough to offer me, if you think me fit to fill it."
"I have no fear on that score, Reuben. I am sure you will do credit to my recommendation. So then, we may consider that as settled."
"There," grumbled Mr. Hudson, "that's just like you, Wilson; you upset all my plans. It was arranged he was to come up to my station, and there, before you are on shore two hours, you arrange the whole business; and I suppose you will be wanting him to get into his uniform, and be off before a week's out."
"I daresay we can manage a fortnight," Captain Wilson laughed, "and I have no doubt he will have plenty of opportunities for visiting you, later on. Indeed, I don't know why he should not be able to look you up, as soon as you get there. He will, of course, be placed under an old hand for six months, to learn his duties and get to speak a little of the native lingo.
"Hartwell, who has your district, is as good a man as he can be put with. He is a careful officer, though perhaps a little slow; but he will be a good man for Reuben to serve under, and I know the chief will put him with him if I ask him, as it can't make any difference where he goes first."
"Well, if you can arrange that, Wilson, I will forgive you. And now, where are you going to?"
"For the time, I am not going anywhere in particular," Captain Wilson replied. "The chief says he thinks that things have got rather slack, since I have been away. There are several bands of bush rangers, who have been doing a deal of mischief up country; so to begin with, he wishes me to make a tour of inspection, and to report generally. After that, I think I shall be settled here for a time. At any rate, it will be my headquarters. I think it probable the chief himself will be going home on leave, before very long."
"The sooner you are settled here, the better," Mr. Hudson said; "for I know I shall get no peace, now, till Frances is settled, too. Ever since she was a child, when she once made up her mind that she wanted a new toy, she worried me till I got it for her; and you are the last new toy."
"Oh, papa, how can you say so!" Frances said, laughing and colouring. "As far as I am concerned, it may be months and months."
"Oh, that is all very well," Mr. Hudson broke in. "I know what you want. You want Wilson here to be always, neglecting his duty, and galloping over from the other end of the colony to see you. No, no, my dear, if Wilson is a wise fellow, he will bring you to book, as soon as I can either build, or get hold of, a place fit for you. We shall be having no peace, now. Every time he is off on duty, you will be picturing him as engaged in some dreadful struggle with bush rangers and blacks; and if letters don't come as often as you expect them, you will be fretting yourself into a fever."
"What nonsense, papa! I know, of course, George will have to do his duty. I don't suppose he's always going to be tied to my apron string."
"You take my advice, Reuben," Mr. Hudson said, "don't you go and lose your heart; for if you once do, there's a police officer spoiled. It don't so much matter with Wilson, because he has done his share of dangerous work, and is pretty well up at the top of the tree; but a man that has to tackle bush rangers and blacks, ought not to have a woman at home thinking of him."
"There is no fear of that, for a good many years to come," Reuben laughed. "Are these blacks really formidable fellows, Captain Wilson?"
"Formidable to the settlers," Captain Wilson said, "but not to us. They drive off cattle and sheep, and sometimes attack solitary stations, and murder every soul there; but they seldom stand up in fair fight, when we come down upon them; but they fight hard, sometimes, when they are acting with bush rangers."
"Bush rangers are mostly escaped convicts, are they not?"
"Almost always," Captain Wilson replied, "except that, of course, they have among them a few men such as runaway sailors, and ne'er-do-wells who get sick of shepherding and take to the bush; but the great proportion are convicts. It is not to be wondered at, when you look at the life many of these men have led at home, and the monotony and hardship of their lives in many of the up-country stations, allotted to men as ignorant, and sometimes almost as brutal as themselves.
"Some of them, too, escape from the road gangs, and these are generally the worst; for as often as not, they may have killed a warder in making their escape, and know that it will go hard with them if they are caught.
"It may be said that there are two sorts of bush rangers. The one are men who have taken to the bush, simply from a desire of regaining their liberty. Sometimes they join parties of blacks, and live with them. Sometimes two or three get together, and all the harm they do is to carry off an occasional sheep, for food. And the other kind are desperadoes--men who were a scourge in England, and are a scourge here, who attack lonely stations, and are not content with robbing, but murder those who fall into their hands.
"They are in fact wild beasts, to whom no mercy is to be extended; and who, knowing it, will fight to the last. They are not easy to hunt down, their instinct having made them wary; and being generally in league with the blacks, who are as cunning as foxes, and can run pretty nearly as fast as a horse can gallop, they are kept very well informed as to our movements and, the country being so immense, we should never run them down, were it not for our native trackers.
"These fellows are to the full as sharp as the Red Indians of North America. They seem, in fact, to have the instinct of dogs, and can follow a track when the keenest white's eye cannot detect the smallest trace of a footprint. It is something marvellous what some of them will do."
"Have you many of these trackers in your employment?"
"There are one or two attached to every up-country station. They are, in fact, our bloodhounds; and although some of our men pick up a little of their craft, we should do nothing without them."
The next morning, Reuben met Captain Wilson down in Sydney, and was taken by him to the chief of the constabulary, who at once made out his appointment. On his return, Mr. Hudson again started with him for the town, and insisted upon ordering his equipment. As Reuben saw that he would be hurt by any shadow of denial, he accepted Mr. Hudson's kind offer; although he had intended to ask Captain Wilson to make an advance of pay, in order that he might get what was necessary. He could not, however, have purchased such an outfit as Mr. Hudson insisted on getting for him; the latter ordering not only uniforms but suits of plain clothes, together with saddlery, holsters, a sword, and a brace of excellent double-barrelled pistols. He did not need to buy a horse, having in his stables one in every way suitable, being at once quiet and fast--it was, indeed, one of the most valuable animals in the colony.
"You will have to keep your eyes open, Reuben," he said, as he gave him the horse, "or he will be stolen from you. These bush ranger fellows are always well mounted, and anyone at an up-country station, who has an animal at all out of the ordinary way, has to keep his stable door locked and sleep with one eye open; and even then, the chances are strongly in favour of his losing his horse, before long. These fellows know that their lives often depend upon the speed of their horse and, naturally, spare no pains to get hold of a good one.
"Ah, I have a good idea.
"Jim," he shouted to one of the black boys, "come here."
The lad, who was about eighteen years of age, trotted up.
"Jim, this gentleman is going to be a police officer, and he's going to take the bay with him; now he wants a good servant. Will you go with him?"
The lad looked longingly at the horse, which he had groomed and was very fond of; but he shook his head.
"I no leave Massa Hudson."
"Yes, but I wish you to go, Jim. This gentleman is a great friend of mine, and when bad black man attacked young Missy, he saved her life. So I want him to be taken good care of; and the horse, too, and to see no one steals it. So someone I can trust must go with him. If you don't like him for a master, after you have tried him, Jim, you can come back to me again. You have been a good boy, and I have no wish to get rid of you; but this gentleman don't know the ways of the country, and I want to be sure he has someone with him he can trust."
The lad looked at Reuben gravely, with his small eyes deeply sunken under the projecting eyebrows.
"Jim will go," he said. "He look after white man and Tartar, to please Massa Hudson and young Missy."
"That's right, Jim," his employer said.
"That's a good stroke of business," he went on, as he turned away with Reuben; "if you treat these black fellows well, and they get attached to you, they are faithful to death."
"You will see that fellow will never let your horse out of his sight. If you ride twenty miles across country, there he will be by your side as you dismount, ready to take it, and looking as fresh as paint. At night he will sleep in the stable, and will be ready, at all times and places, to make a fire, and cook a damper or a bit of meat, if you are lucky enough to have one by you. All the people about the place would do anything, I believe, for Frances; and the fact that you have saved her life will bind this boy to you, at first. Afterwards he will get to care for you, for yourself."
A fortnight later Reuben, in his uniform as an officer of the constabulary, rode out of Sydney. His baggage had been sent on, three days before, by a waggon returning up country. Jim trotted, with an easy stride, behind him. Reuben at first was inclined to ride slowly, in order to give his attendant time to keep up with him; but he soon found that, whatever pace he went, the lad kept the same distance behind, without any apparent exertion; and he was, therefore, able to choose his own pace, without reference to Jim's comfort.
Four years passed. Reuben Whitney gave every satisfaction to his superiors, and was considered a zealous and effective young officer. So far he had not been placed in a position of great responsibility; for although for the last two years he had been in charge of a district, it was not far from Sydney, and his duties consisted principally in hunting for convicts who had made their escape, in looking after refractory ticket-of-leave men, and in ordinary constabulary work. He had learned in that time to become a first-rate rider, and a good shot with a pistol, accomplishments which would be of vital service when he was ordered to an up-country station. For his pistols he had as yet, however, had no actual use, as neither bush rangers nor natives penetrated so far into the settlement.
At the end of the four years' service, he received a letter from Captain Wilson, who had just succeeded to the chief command of the constabulary, ordering him to hand over charge of the district to the young officer who was the bearer of the letter, and to report himself at headquarters.
Reuben was now nearly three-and-twenty, and had grown into a very powerful young man. A life spent for the most part on horseback had hardened his muscles, and filled out his frame. He stood about five feet nine, but looked shorter, owing to his great width of shoulders. He was still quiet in manner, but he had the same bright and pleasant expression which had characterized him as a boy; and his visits to Sydney, where he was introduced by Captain Wilson and Mr. Hudson into the best society, had given him ease and self possession.
The native, Jim, was still with him. He had become greatly attached to his master, and his fidelity and devotion had been of the greatest service to him and, go where he would, the black was always at his heels.
On his presenting himself at Sydney, Captain Wilson said, after the first greetings: "I know you have been a little disappointed, Reuben, because hitherto you have been at stations where you have had but little opportunity of distinguishing yourself. However, I thought better to keep you at quiet work, until you were thoroughly master of your duties; and had, moreover, got your full strength. I don't know whether you have quite arrived at that yet, but I think you will do, anyhow," and he smiled as he looked at Reuben's shoulders.
"I think I am as strong as most of them," Reuben said, smiling too. "Four years' mill-wright's work, and four years on horseback in this bracing air, ought to make one strong, if there's anything in one to begin with. I think I shall do, in that respect."
"I think so, Reuben. I don't think there are many men in the force who could hold their own with you, in a grapple.
"And now to business. You have heard of that affair of Inspector Thomas, in the Goora district--it was a bad business. He and two of his men were out, after some natives who had driven off cattle; and he was set upon by a party of bush rangers, and he and his men killed."
"So I heard, sir," Reuben said quietly.
"Well, I have decided in sending you up in his place. It is a bad district--the worst we have, at present--and it needs a man of great resolution, and intelligence. I am sure that you have plenty of both, and that I cannot make a better choice than in sending you there. Your age is the only thing against you--not with me, you know, but others may think that I have done wrong, in selecting so young an officer--but you see, I know my man. I know, too, that several of the inspectors are getting too old for this sort of work. I do not mean too old, perhaps, in point of years, but they are married men with families, and for desperate work I prefer men without encumbrances.
"The post should be held by an inspector, but I cannot promote you, at present. It would be putting you over the heads of too many. But you will have a good chance of earning early promotion, and I know that is what you like."
"Thank you very much, Captain Wilson. I will do my best to show myself worthy of your confidence."
"You will have all your work cut out for you, Reuben. The district has, all along, been a most troublesome one. The number of settlers, at present, is small. There is a good deal of higher bush than usual about it, which makes it very difficult to run these fellows down; and the natives are specially troublesome. Besides which, at present there are two or three of the worst gangs of bush rangers in the colony, somewhere in that country. You will have to be cautious as well as bold, Reuben. It is a dangerous service I am sending you on; still, the more danger, the more credit to you."
"You could not have given me a station I should have liked better; and I hope, ere long, I may be able to give you a good account of the bush rangers."
"And now, Reuben, if you will call again in an hour, I shall be free, and then I will drive you home. You need not start for a day or two; and you will, of course, stay with me till you do."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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10
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: An Up-Country District.
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Mrs. Wilson received Reuben, as usual, with the greatest cordiality; but she exclaimed loudly, when she heard that he was going to the Goora district.
"You don't mean it, George. You can't mean that you are going to send Reuben to that dreadful place. Why, we are always hearing of murders and robberies there; and you know the last inspector was killed; and the one before recalled, because you said he had lost his nerve; and now you are sending Reuben there!"
"But I look upon it as the greatest honour, Mrs. Wilson, being chosen for such a station; and you see, there will be capital chances of distinguishing myself, and getting promoted."
"And capital chances of being killed," Mrs. Wilson said, in a vexed tone. "I do call it too bad, George."
"But, my dear, we want a man of pluck and energy. Besides, you know, we have been getting into hot water over that district. The press have been saying very severe things, about our incompetence to protect the outlying settlements, and I was obliged to choose a man who will give satisfaction; and you will agree with me that Reuben will do that."
"Of course he will," Mrs. Wilson agreed. "I shouldn't be alive now, if he hadn't had plenty of pluck and energy; but for that very reason, you ought not to send him to such a dangerous post."
"But I wish to give him an opportunity for distinguishing himself. He wants to get on, and I want to push him on; but you see, I can't promote him over the heads of some eight or ten men, senior to him, unless he does something a little out of the way."
"Well, I don't like it, George, I tell you frankly. I always thought he was wrong, to go into the constabulary at all, instead of accepting papa's offer. I can't think why you men are so fond of fighting, when you could choose a quiet and comfortable life."
"But it is not always so quiet and comfortable, Frances, as a good many have found, in the district he is going to; and after all, it is less dangerous fighting bush rangers and natives when you are prepared for it, than to be woke up of a night with a band of them thundering at your door, and with no assistance within twenty miles."
As Frances Wilson remembered how, in her childish days, her father's place had been, for three days, beset with blacks, she had no answer ready for the argument.
"Well, I do hope, Reuben," she said, "if you do go to this horrid place, you will take care of yourself, and not be rash."
"He's going to take care of others, Frances. You know, if he had taken care of himself and hadn't been rash, you would not have come so well out of that Malay business. I am sure he looks as if he could take care of himself, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he is big enough and strong enough," Mrs. Wilson agreed, "but that's no good against spears or boomerangs, to say nothing of rifles and pistols."
"Why, Frances, you are not generally a croaker," her husband said lightly, "but for once, you seem to be determined to do your best to frighten Reuben, before he starts."
Mrs. Wilson laughed.
"No, I don't want to frighten him, George. I only want to make him careful."
"I will be as careful as I can, Mrs. Wilson. That boy Jim is a treasure. I will warrant, if there are any black fellows about, he will sniff them out somehow. That fellow has a nose like a hound. He has always been most useful to me, but he will be invaluable at Goora."
Two days afterwards, Reuben left for his new command. It took him eight days to reach it. His headquarters were at Goora, a settlement of some twenty houses; besides the barracks in which the constabulary force, consisting of a sergeant, eighteen constables, and two native trackers, were quartered. The sergeant, a north-country Irishman named O'Connor, was somewhat surprised when Reuben rode up to the station; for the officers previously in command had been much older men.
Reuben's own quarters were in a cottage, close to the main building, and he asked the sergeant to come, in the evening.
"Now, sergeant," he said, after a little preliminary talk, "I have been sent up by Captain Wilson, with instructions to root out these bands of bush rangers."
The sergeant smiled grimly.
"We have been doing our best for the last three years, sir, but we have not made much of a hand at it."
"No," Reuben agreed, "and I don't suppose, of course, that I am going to succeed all at once. In the first place, tell me frankly, what sort of men have we got?"
"The men are good enough, sir, but they have certainly got disheartened, lately. One way and another, we have lost something like ten men in the last two years; and of course, that last affair with poor Mr. Thomas was a bad one."
"I understand," Reuben said quietly, "some of them are not quite so eager to meet the bush rangers as they used to be."
"Well, that is perhaps about it, sir; but I must say the men have been tremendously hardly worked--pretty nigh night and day in the saddle, often called out by false news to one end of the district; and then to find, when they return, that those scoundrels have been down playing their games at some station at the other end. It's enough to dishearten a man."
"So it is, sergeant. I was speaking to Captain Wilson about it, and saying that if we are to succeed we ought to have some fresh hands, who will take up the work with new spirit. We are seven below our force, at present; and he has promised to send me up fifteen new hands, so there will be eight to be relieved. I will leave it to you to pick out the men to go. Mind, put it to them that they are to be relieved simply because Captain Wilson thinks they have had their share of hard work, and should therefore be sent to a quiet station, for a time. Just pick out the men whom you think would be most pleased to go."
"Very well, sir. I am glad to hear the news, for to tell you the truth, I do think we want a little fresh blood amongst us."
Three days later the new detachment arrived, and Reuben saw, at once, that Captain Wilson had chosen a picked set of young men. About half of them were freshly enlisted in the force. The others had all been employed at up-country stations, and were well acquainted with the nature of the work before them. The same afternoon, the eight men picked out by Sergeant O'Connor as being the least useful on the station started for Sydney, most of them well pleased at being relieved from their arduous duties.
Reuben found that there were, in the office, a great many letters from settlers, asking for protection. It was impossible to comply with all these but, after consultation with O'Connor, he sent five parties, of three men each, to as many exposed stations; keeping ten in hand, to move as required.
Taking Jim, and two of the constables who had been longest on the station, he spent two months in traversing his district, from end to end, and making himself thoroughly acquainted with its geographical features; for he felt that, until he had mastered these, he should only be working in the dark. For a time the outrages had ceased, the bush rangers having shifted their quarters, and the natives withdrawn after the murder of the late inspector. This was a great relief to Reuben, as it permitted him to gain an insight into the country before setting to work in earnest.
Upon his tour, he and his followers were everywhere most hospitably received at the stations at which they halted. Everywhere he heard the same tale of sheep killed, cattle and horses driven off, and the insolent demeanour of the natives.
"I was thinking of giving it up, and moving back into the more populated districts," one of the settlers said to Reuben; "but now you have come, I will hold on for a bit longer, and see how it turns out. You look to me the right sort of fellow for the post; but the difficulty is, with such a large scattered district as yours, to be everywhere at once. What I have often thought of, is that it would be a good thing if the whole district were to turn out, and go right into the heart of the black country, and give them a lesson."
"From what I hear," Reuben said, "it will be next to impossible for us to find them. The country is so vast, and covered with bush, that there would be no searching it. They have no fixed villages, and the want of water would render it impossible for us to go very far. But the worst point would be that they all seem to be well informed as to what is going on. I suppose they get warnings from the native herdsmen and servants, and if we were all together to enter their country, we must leave the stations unprotected, and we should find them in ashes, on our return."
"Yes, that is true," the settler said. "I suppose it couldn't be done. But it's anxious work sleeping here, night after night, with one's rifle by one's bedside, never certain at what hour one may be woke by the yelling of the blacks. But they are not as bad as the bush rangers. If the blacks can but drive off your cattle, they are contented. You have got nothing else that is much use to them. The bush rangers don't want your cattle, beyond a head or two for present use; but they want everything else you've got, and whether you like it or not is quite immaterial to them. Thank God I have got no money in the place, and I and my three men can make a pretty good fight of it. But I pity the men with wives and daughters."
"Well, I hope we shall soon put a stop to it," Reuben said cheerfully. "We will give them a lesson if we catch them, you may be quite sure."
"I hope so," the settler said. "But you folks have been mighty unlucky, lately. Never seem to have been at the right place at the right time. Not that I am surprised at that, in such a district; but somehow they never come up with the fellows, afterwards."
"No, they seem to have had bad luck," Reuben agreed. "I hope we shall do better now."
Three days after his return from his last visit of inspection of his district, a settler rode, at full speed, up to the station.
"Captain," he said--for although Reuben had no right to that title, he was always so called by the settlers--"the blacks have been down at my place. They have killed my two shepherds, and driven off the sheep."
"Sergeant O'Connor, turn out the men at once," Reuben shouted. "See that their ammunition is all right, and let each man take a water skin and four days' provisions in his haversack.
"When was it?" he asked, turning to the settler again.
"Some time yesterday afternoon--at least, I judge so. One of the men was to have come in for supplies, and when night came and he hadn't come in, I began to be afraid something was wrong, for I knew that they were getting short. So this morning, at daybreak, I rode out with the hands I have about the house. We could see nothing of the sheep, so we rode straight to the men's hut. There, lying some twenty yards away, was the body of one of the men, riddled with spear holes. He had evidently been running to the hut for shelter, when he was overtaken. I did not stop to look for the other, for no doubt he had been killed, too."
"Well, we will do what we can for you," Reuben said. "I will be ready in five minutes."
He ran into the house, buckled on his sword, put some cold meat and a small bag of flour into his haversack, together with some dampers Jim had just cooked, and then went out again. Jim had already brought his horse round to the door. Before mounting he took the pistols out of the holsters, and examined them carefully.
By this time the sergeant and ten men were in the saddle, and placing himself at their head, with the settler, whose name was Blount, he rode off at full speed; followed by his men, the two native trackers, and Jim. Reuben soon reined his horse in.
"It will not do to push them too hard, at first. There is no saying how far we shall have to go."
"Do you mean to follow them into their own country?" Mr. Blount asked.
"I do," Reuben said. "I will follow them till I catch them, if I have to go across Australia."
"That's the sort," Mr. Blount said. "I expect you will find half-a-dozen other fellows at my station, by the time you get there. I sent my hand off on horseback to the stations near, to tell them what had taken place, and that I had ridden off to you, and asking them to come round."
"How far is it?" Reuben asked.
"About forty miles."
"But your horse will never be able to do it," Reuben said.
"I got a fresh horse at a friend's, four miles from your station, so I am all right."
"They will have more than a day's start of us," Reuben remarked presently.
"Yes; thirty-six hours, for you will have to stop at my place tonight. But they can't travel very fast with sheep, you know."
"No," Reuben agreed. "If they had had cattle, it would have been useless following them; but with sheep we may come up to them, especially if they don't think they will be followed far."
"No; that's my hope. They will know I had forty miles to ride to your station. Besides, had it not been that I was expecting the shepherd in for supplies, I might not have found it out for two or three days. So I expect they will think that they are pretty safe from pursuit. They have never been followed far into the bush. It's nasty work, you see."
"It's got to be done," Reuben said. "It is impossible to keep guard everywhere, and the only way to put a stop to these outrages is to teach the blacks that punishment will follow, wherever they go."
It was late in the afternoon before they arrived at Mr. Blount's station. They found fourteen or fifteen of the neighbouring settlers gathered there. They came out as the sound of the trampling of the horses was heard. Several of them were known to Reuben, from his having stopped at their stations.
"Glad to see you, captain, but I am afraid you are too late," said Dick Caister, a young settler whose station lay about twelve miles away.
"That remains to be proved," Reuben replied, as he dismounted.
"Oh, they have got twenty-four hours' start, and it's too late to do anything tonight. They must be thirty miles away in the bush, already."
"If they were a hundred, I would follow them," Reuben said.
There was an exclamation of surprise, and something like a cheer, on the part of some of the younger men.
"The difficulties are very great," one of the elder settlers said. "There is neither food nor water to be found in the bush."
"I know it's not an easy business," Reuben said quietly. "But as to food, we can carry it with us; as to water, there must be water in places, for the natives can no more go without drinking than we can. There must be streams and water holes, here and there. But however difficult it is, I mean to attempt it. It is the only way of bringing the blacks to book; there can never be safety among the outlying settlements, unless the fellows are taught a lesson.
"And now, gentlemen, before we go further, I want to say this: I know that you are all ready to help, that you are all thirsting to wipe out old scores with the blacks; but at the same time I would point out to you that it is likely enough that the bush rangers, who certainly work with the blacks, will follow up this stroke. Therefore, it will not do to leave the stations defenceless. I do not want a large force with me. If we once overtake the blacks, I have no fear whatever of being able to give a good account of them. Therefore I would urge, upon all of you who are married men, that it is of the first importance that you should stay at home, in case the bush rangers take the opportunity of our being away to pay you a visit. That is the first thing to be thought of. If any of the others like to go with us, I shall be very glad of their assistance. We may be away for a week or more, for ought I know."
"That is certainly the best plan, captain," Dick Caister said. "As you say, let the married men stop at home and guard their stations. I think the rest of us will all go with you."
There was a chorus of approval. Eight of those present were married men and, though reluctant to give up the thought of punishing the blacks, they were yet glad that they were not called upon to leave their wives and families. With many good wishes for the success of the expedition, they at once mounted, and rode off to their respective stations, some of which were more than twenty miles away.
"Now for ways and means," Reuben said. "What spare horses have you, Mr. Blount?"
"I have only two, besides the one I am riding."
"I should like to take at least six. We must carry a good store of provisions."
"I don't think you need trouble about that," Mr. Blount said. "We must take a supply of flour with us, and of course tea and sugar; and a few bottles of rum will not be amiss. All these I can furnish. But as to meat, I do not think we need trouble. Going as fast as the blacks will travel, there are sure to be lots of the sheep fall by the way. The blacks will eat as many as they can, but even a black cannot stuff himself beyond a certain extent, and there will be plenty for us."
"Yes, I did not think of that," Reuben replied; "in that case two spare horses will be enough."
"It would be a good thing to have a few with us, though," one of the young men said. "My place is only six miles off. I will ride over and bring back three with me; they are all good ones, and I should be sorry to find they were gone when I get back. I can lead one, my black boy can ride another and lead the third. It is likely enough some of the horses may give out, or get speared if the blacks make a fight of it, and half a dozen spare horses would come in very handy."
Reuben thought the plan was a good one, whereupon two of the others also volunteered to ride over and fetch--the one three and the other two--horses.
"That will make ten altogether, with Blount's two. We shall travel all the faster, because we can ride the spare horses by turns."
The three settlers rode off at once, and returned late at night with the spare horses. They had not been idle at Mr. Blount's. A bullock had been killed and cut up, and a considerable portion cooked, so that each of the twenty men going on the expedition would start with ten pounds of cooked meat, in order to save the time that would be spent in halting to cook the carcass of any sheep they might come upon. The question of weight was immaterial, as the meat could be packed on the spare horses.
As soon as day broke, the party were in their saddles. Mr. Blount led them first to the hut near which he had found his shepherd killed. The native trackers now took up the search. The body of the other shepherd was found half a mile away. It was in a sitting position by a tree; the skull was completely smashed in by the blow of a waddy, and it was evident that a native had crept up behind him, and killed him before he was conscious that any danger was at hand. The trackers were not long in finding the place where the sheep had been collected together and driven off, and a broad track of trampled grass showed, clearly enough, the direction which had been taken.
"How many of the black fellows do you think there were?" Reuben asked one of the trackers.
"Great many black fellow, captain," he replied.
"What do you call a great many?" Reuben asked.
"Twenty, thirty, captain; can't say how many. No use, captain, look for dem, gone right away into de bush, never find them."
"I am going to try, anyhow," Reuben said. "Now, do you lead the way."
"I tink dere are more dan thirty black fellow," Jim said to Reuben, as they started; "quite a crowd of dem. Me no much like those two black fellow," and he nodded towards the trackers, who were running on ahead. "No good, those fellows."
"What makes you think that, Jim?"
"Two days ago, Jim saw dem talking wid black fellow, half a mile from the station. Not know Jim saw dem. Secret sort of talk. Why dey never find de tracks before black fellows and bush rangers always get away? Jim tink those fellows no good."
Reuben himself had often thought it singular that such continued bad luck should have attended the efforts of his predecessor to hunt down the bush rangers, but the thought that they had been put off their scent by the trackers had not occurred to him. He had the greatest faith in Jim's sagacity and, now that the idea was presented to him, it seemed plausible enough.
"Very good, Jim, you keep your eye on those fellows. I will do the same. We shall soon find out if they are up to any tricks."
Jim had been running by his master's stirrup, while this conversation had been going on; and he now dropped into his usual place at the rear of the party. For some miles the trail was followed at a hand gallop, for the grass was several inches in height, and the trail could be followed as easily as a road. The country then began to change. The ground was poorer and more arid, and clumps of low brush grew here and there. Still, there was no check in the speed. The marks made by the frightened flock were plain enough, even to the horsemen; and bits of wool, left behind on the bushes, afforded an unmistakable testimony to their passage.
"They were not going so fast, here," Mr. Blount said, after dismounting and examining. "The footprints do not go in pairs, as they did at first. The flock has broken into a trot. Ah! There is the first, ahead."
In a hundred yards they came upon the skin and head of a sheep. Nothing else remained. Unable to keep up with the flock, it had been speared, cut up, and eaten raw by the blacks. In the next mile they came upon the remains of two more; then the track widened out, and the footprints were scattered and confused. The horses were reined up, and Jim and the trackers examined the ground. Jim returned in a minute or two.
"Black fellows give em a rest here. Could no go any furder. Lie down and pant."
One of the trackers then came up.
"They stop here, captain, five six hours till moon rise. Make fire, kill sheep, and have feast."
Reuben and some of the settlers rode over to the spot to which the tracker pointed.
"Confound them!" Blount exclaimed. "Look there! There are at least twenty heads."
"So there are," Reuben said. "There must have been a lot of natives."
"Yes, there must have been a good many," the settler agreed, "but not so many, perhaps, as you would think. Nobody has ever found out, yet, how much these blacks can eat when they make up their mind to it; but two could certainly devour a sheep. They will eat till they can't sit upright."
"They would hardly eat as much as that, with a long journey before them," Reuben said; "but allow only three to a sheep, there must be sixty of them. My man said there were a good many more than the trackers put it down at."
"So much the better. I only hope they will show fight."
After five minutes halt, the ride was continued for the next three hours. Then three dead sheep were passed. This time the flesh had not been devoured, but the poor beasts had, in every case, been speared.
"Savage brutes!" Reuben exclaimed. "They might at least have given the sheep a chance of life, when they could go no further, instead of wantonly slaughtering them."
"That's their way, always," Mr. Blount said. "They kill from pure mischief and love of slaughter, even when they don't want the meat. But I don't suppose it makes much difference. I expect the sheep have dropped as much from thirst as from fatigue, and they would probably have never been got up again, after they once fell. I fancy we shall come upon a stream, before long. I have never been out as far as this before, but I know that there is a branch of the Nammo crosses the bush here, somewhere."
Another five miles, and they came upon the river. The wet season was only just over, and the river was full from bank to bank. It was some thirty yards wide, and from two to three feet deep. A score of sheep lay dead in the water. They had apparently rushed headlong in, to quench their thirst; and had either drunk till they fell, or had been trampled under water, by their companions pressing upon them from behind.
For the next ten miles the track was plain enough, then they came to a series of downs, covered with a short grass. At the foot of these another long halt had been made by the blacks.
"We must have come twenty-five miles," Reuben said.
"Quite that, captain. The flock must have been dead beat, by the time they got here. I should think they must have stopped here, last night. We will soon see--there is one of their fireplaces."
The settler dismounted, and put his hand into the ashes.
"Yes," he said, "they are warm still. They must have camped here last night. They started when the moon rose, no doubt. Thus they have eight or nine hours' start of us, only; and as they can't travel fast, after such a journey as they had yesterday, we ought to be able to catch them long before night."
"They will go better today than they did yesterday," Mr. Blount said. "They were over-driven to start with, and that was what knocked them up; but the blacks will begin to feel themselves safe today, and will let them go their own pace. Sheep can do twenty miles in a day, if not hurried."
"Well, at any rate," Reuben said, "we will give our horses a couple of hours' rest. It is just eleven o'clock now, and I should think everyone is ready for a meal."
There was a chorus of assent. The troop dismounted at once. The girths were loosened, the bits taken from the horses' mouths, and they were turned loose to graze in the long grass at the foot of the hill. There was no fear of their attempting to stray, after their journey of the morning. Some of the men set to to cut brush, and in a few minutes a fire was lighted. One of the sheep, of which there were several lying about, was skinned and cut up; and slices, on skewers of green wood, were soon frizzling over the fire.
Twenty minutes later, the water in a large pot hanging over the fire was boiling. Three or four handfuls of tea were thrown in; and with the fried mutton, cold damper, and tea a hearty meal was made. Then pipes were produced and lighted; while several of the men, lying down and shading their faces with their broad hats, indulged in a doze.
"One o'clock," Reuben said at last, looking at his watch. "It is time to be moving again."
The horses were fetched in, the bridles replaced, and the girths tightened.
"Now, which way?" Reuben asked the trackers.
"Along here, captain, by de foot of de hill, de trail is plain enough."
It was so. A track of some width was trampled in the grass.
Reuben was about to give the order to proceed, when he caught Jim's eye, and saw that the black wished to speak to him privately.
"What is it, Jim?" he asked, going apart from the rest.
"That not de way, captain. A hundred, two hundred sheep gone that way, wid four or five black fellow. De rest have all gone over de hill."
"Are you sure, Jim?"
"Me quite sure, sar. De ground very hard; but while de captain smoke him pipe, Jim went over de hill, saw plenty sign of sheep. Went straight uphill, and then turned away to de left. Dis little party here hab only gone to frow white man off de trail."
"The trackers ought to have seen that as well as you, Jim," Reuben said angrily.
"Dey see, sar, sure enough. Could no help seeing, wid half an eye. You see, sar, dose fellows up to no good. Lead party wrong if dey can. Don't say, sar, Jim told you. If you say dat, put 'em on their guard. Massa ride along the trail for a bit, just as if talk wid Jim about odder affair; den after little way, begin to talk about trail being too small, den turn and come back here, and go over de hill."
"A very good idea, Jim. I will do as you say."
|
{
"id": "20031"
}
|
11
|
: The Black Fellows.
|
A few minutes after his conversation with Jim the party started, following the broad track through the grass along the foot of the hill. Reuben informed Mr. Blount of what Jim had told him.
"By Jove, I think he is right," the settler said. "The track is as broad as it was, but it is nothing like so much trampled down; but if your fellow says the main body have gone over the hill, why are you following this track?"
Reuben gave his reasons, and said that his man had, before, had suspicions that the trackers were in communication with the wild blacks.
"He thinks that's why it is that they have so frequently failed, here, to catch any of these fellows."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised," Mr. Blount said savagely. "The best thing would be to put a bullet into each of the rascals' heads."
"I think Jim's idea is best," Reuben said. "Now that we have once got our eyes open, they won't be able to do us any more harm; and my black fellow will see we follow the trail right. I don't want them to see we have any suspicions of them, as that would put them on their guard; and by keeping our eye upon them, we may be able to turn the tables."
"That is so," Mr. Blount agreed. "What are you going to do, then?"
"I will call to them, in a minute or two, and tell them that it is your opinion that only a small portion of the flock have come this way. Then we will have a consultation and, no doubt, some of your friends will notice that the ground is not much trampled. Then we will decide to ride back to the point from which we started, and will follow the other trail."
"Yes, that will do very well," the settler agreed.
Reuben at once called to the trackers, who were trotting on ahead, and then ordered a halt. The two blacks came back.
"Joe," Reuben said, "Mr. Blount thinks that the main body of the flock have not come this way. He says he thinks only a hundred or two have come. The ground does not look to me anything like so much trampled as it was before we halted."
"I tink most of dem hab come along here," the tracker said sullenly.
"What do you think?" Reuben asked the other settlers, who had gathered round.
"I did not notice it before," Dick Caister said; "but now Blount has pointed it out, I agree with him entirely. There are nothing like the full number of sheep have passed along here. I should say that they have not gone along more than two or three deep."
There was a general chorus of assent.
"You can't have been keeping your eyes open," Reuben said to the trackers, sharply. "If you don't look sharp in future, we shall quarrel.
"Come, gentlemen, let us ride back to the halting place, and see if we cannot find out which way the main body have gone."
Ten minutes' riding took them back to their starting place.
"They must have gone over the hill," Reuben said. "They certainly have not kept along at the foot, or we should see their tracks in this long grass."
The trackers had exchanged a few words in a low tone, and they now moved up the hill, and began to examine the ground carefully.
"Some of dem have gone this way, captain."
"Of course they have," Mr. Blount said. "A blind man might see that."
The marks of the sheep were indeed plain enough to all, when their attention had once been drawn to the subject. On getting beyond the crest the trackers turned to the left, and Reuben saw that they felt it would be hopeless to attempt, further, to mislead a party containing several settlers who were perfectly capable of following the trail.
Jim had, since speaking to his master, remained in the rear of the troop. After three miles' riding across the downs, they again came down upon a flat country, thickly covered with brush. Here and there pieces of wool sticking to thorns were visible, and the trackers went steadily on for some little time. Then their pace became slower, and finally they stopped.
"Trail ended, captain."
"What do you mean by the trail ended?" Reuben asked angrily. "Why, I can see a piece of wool, on there ahead."
"Dat so, captain; but only a few sheep hab passed here."
Some of the settlers dismounted and, having examined the ground carefully, declared that they were of the same opinion as the trackers.
"Very well," Reuben said; "then in that case, we must go back again to the foot of the hill. They were all together there, and we must take up the trail afresh."
On reaching the foot of the hill, Jim and some of the settlers joined the trackers, and penetrated the bush in all directions. Each returned bringing in pieces of wool.
"It is plain enough," Reuben said, "what they have done. They have broken up into small parties, and have scattered. The question is, 'What are we to do now?'
"What do you think, Mr. Blount? You have had more experience than anyone here, and you are the most interested in our overtaking these rascals. What do you recommend?"
"I don't know what to recommend," the settler said. "They have no doubt done it to confuse us, in case we should follow so far, and avoid being thrown off the scent the other side of the hill. The band may really have scattered, and gone off in small parties to different parts of the bush; or again, they may have scattered with the understanding that they will meet again, at some given spot, which may be ten and may be fifty miles ahead."
"The worst of it is," Reuben said, "I fear now that there is an end of all chance of coming up with them, today; and now the question of water comes in. If we could have caught them before nightfall, the horses, having had a good drink at that stream, could have done very well till we'd gone another thirty miles; but as that seems hopeless, now, we must consider seriously what we had best do, before we go any further. Does anyone here know anything of the country ahead?"
There was a general silence.
"The horses can do very well, tomorrow, without water," Mr. Blount said. "They will chew the leaves of this scrub; and can, if pressed, hold on for even two or three days upon it."
"In that case," Reuben said, "let us go on. We will break up into three parties. One shall go straight forward, the other two moving to the right and left, each following the tracks as well as they can. We will not go much beyond a walk. We have five more hours of daylight yet, and the horses can manage another fifteen miles. I will halt, an hour before it gets dark, and light a fire. The smoke will be a guide to the other two parties, who should not be more than a couple of miles to the right and left, and they will then close in.
"If you can suggest any better plan than that, Mr. Blount, please do so. Of course, I see the objection that the blacks may make out the smoke, and will know that they are being followed."
"Yes, that is an objection," Mr. Blount said; "but the chances are that they will know it without your telling them. It is more than probable that some of them have remained behind, on the watch; and that they will have signalled our coming, long ago."
"Dey have done that, sar," Jim, who was standing close to Reuben's elbow, put in. "Jim saw smoke curl up from the top of de hill, just when we turned, when we lost the trail."
"Why didn't you tell me before, Jim?" Reuben asked.
"De captain didn't ask Jim any question. Jim thought de captain see it for sure."
"I didn't see it, Jim. I don't think any of us saw it. We were all too much occupied looking for the trail. Another time, you tell me what you see without my asking.
"Well in that case, Mr. Blount, there can be no harm in my making a smoke, as they know already that they are pursued. Will you take charge of the right hand party? Sergeant O'Connor will take command of the left. Do you each take a tracker with you. I will take my boy. Three constables will go with each of your parties, and four with me.
"Will you gentlemen please to divide up, so as to make seven altogether in each party, without the natives?"
"I need not tell you to keep a sharp lookout, Captain Whitney. We know the blacks are a very strong party and, now they know that they are pursued they may, as likely as not, make a stand."
"Yes, that is quite possible," Reuben agreed. "Will you please be careful that neither of your parties get more than two miles, at the outside, away from mine? We can hear the sound of rifles, at that distance. If either party fires, the others will of course hurry to their assistance. Now, let us move forward."
With Jim in advance, Reuben's party moved on, the black carefully examining the ground and bushes as he went; and occasionally, somewhat to Reuben's surprise, rising from the stooping position in which he was walking, and looking back over his shoulder. The motive was explained when Jim exclaimed: "Dere, captain, dere are de signals again."
Reuben turned in the saddle. On the crest of the hill behind him were three columns of smoke. Scarcely had he looked at them when the smoke ceased to ascend, as if the fires had been suddenly put out.
"That's to tell them that we have divided in three parties?" Reuben asked the black.
Jim nodded, and proceeded on his way again.
"That's awkward," Reuben said, "I must warn the other two parties."
So saying, he at once ordered two of the constables to ride right and left and warn the others, who were not as yet more than a quarter of a mile on either hand, that the natives were aware that they had broken up, and that the greatest caution must, therefore, be observed. In ten minutes the two constables returned, having performed their mission.
Although he had no reason to believe that the blacks were within ten miles of him, Reuben now took the precaution of sending one constable out on each flank, to a distance of fifty yards. A third was directed to keep with Jim, fifty yards ahead of the main body; consisting of Reuben himself, a constable, and two colonists. Occasionally Reuben rode forward to question Jim.
"How many sheep do you think have gone along the track you are following?"
"About thirty sheep, and three black fellow."
"How do you know there are three black fellows, Jim? I can see marks, sometimes, of the sheep's feet; but I have not seen a man's footprint at all."
"Jim see 'em, captain, plain enough. When dey all follow sheep, not very plain to see; but sometimes, when de sheep want to scatter, Jim see one footmark on one hand and one on the other, and sure to be one man behind."
"How far are the sheep ahead, Jim, have you any idea?"
"Six, eight hours, sar, when dey pass here; but dere's no saying how far they are, now. May be long way on, may be only little way. Me tink dat they hab not gone so berry far; dat smoke berry thin, not see him more than ten miles."
"I wish you had said that before, Jim," Reuben said. "We would have kept together and have galloped on, and taken our chance of finding them."
"Might have found four or five of dem," Jim replied, "but de others all scattered. No good to find dem, till dey come together again."
"No, you are right there, Jim. We must catch them all together, if we can. There are some twelve hundred sheep, somewhere ahead. Mr. Blount said there were about fifteen hundred driven off. We have come upon a hundred dead ones, and two or three hundred may have taken that turn to the right. As you say, it would be no good coming upon thirty."
For four hours the party continued their journey.
"It is six o'clock," Reuben said, looking at his watch. "We will halt, now, and light that fire."
Two of the constables were told off to keep watch, some fifty yards in front; and the others dismounted, and gathered together materials for a fire. This was soon done, and the smoke mounted straight and clear, a signal to the other two parties to close in.
Suddenly a cry was heard from one of the sentries. The men stooping round the fire leaped to their feet, just in time to see one of the constables struck from his horse by a boomerang, while a dozen spears whizzed through the air at the other. He fell forward on his horse, which carried him up to the fire; as he fell from the saddle, as it stopped, he was caught by two of the others. Three spears had pierced him.
"Stand to your arms. Steady, for your lives," Reuben shouted.
"Jim, throw the horses at once, and fasten their legs.
"We must defend ourselves here," he continued, turning to the others, "until help comes."
Not a moment was lost. The little party threw themselves down in a circle, each taking shelter behind a bush; and Jim speedily got the eight horses down in the centre, for each party had with it three of the spare animals. The whole time, from the first alarm until all was ready to receive the natives, did not occupy two minutes.
The horses of the sentries had galloped wildly on, both having been struck by spears; and Jim had no difficulty with the remainder, which were all standing in a group when the alarm was given, the owners not yet having removed their saddles.
All was done without flurry or excitement, although the yells of the natives rose from the bush all round them. The bush was fortunately not very thick at the point where they had halted, Reuben having selected it for that very reason; but the bushes were sufficiently near to each other to enable an enemy to creep up, within thirty yards or so, without being seen.
"Don't throw away a shot," Reuben called out; "but pick off the blacks, as they stand up to throw their spears.
"Ah!"
The exclamation was accompanied by a shot from his rifle, as a native rose suddenly from the bush and hurled his spear. It missed Reuben by an inch or two only; but, as his rifle flashed out, the black threw up his hands and fell back in the bush.
"Here, sah, dis make good shelter;" and Jim propped up his saddle, almost in front of him.
"That's a good idea, Jim; help the others in the same way."
[Illustration: A Fight with the Black Fellows.]
The five men were all engaged now. The spears whizzed fast over and among them, but most of them were thrown almost at random; for the blacks soon learned that to raise themselves above the bushes, to take aim, was to court sudden death. Jim, after distributing the saddles to their owners, had lain down by the side of his master; and loaded his rifle as fast as he discharged it, Reuben using his pistols as effectually as the rifle, in the intervals.
Fortunately all the party were provided with these weapons. Had it not been so, each man would have been liable to be rushed by the blacks every time he discharged his rifle. As far as possible they fired by turns; so that each man, while loading, was covered by the fire of those on his right and left.
For half an hour the fight continued. Many of the blacks had fallen, but they continued the assault as vigorously as before, and all the defenders had received more or less serious wounds from the spears.
"The others ought to have been here, long before this," Reuben said, "if they had followed my instructions. I only hope they have not been attacked, too; but as we don't hear any firing, that can hardly be so."
"I hope they will be up before dusk," Dick Caister said. "It will be dark in another half an hour. These fellows are only waiting for that to make a rush. If they do, it is all up with us."
"They will find it a tough job, even then," Reuben said; "but the others must be here long before that. I told them to keep within two miles of us. They have had time to ride double that distance, since we made the smoke for them."
Another ten minutes elapsed.
"Hurrah!" Reuben exclaimed, "I can hear the trampling of horse's hoofs. The moment they arrive, make a rush for your horses and charge."
"I am afraid the horses are killed," Dick said ruefully.
"In that case," Reuben said, "we must get to our feet, and pick off the blacks as they run. They will get up like a covey of partridge, as the horsemen come among them."
A loud cheer was heard, and the little party, with an answering shout, sprang to their feet and, rifle to shoulder, stood expecting the blacks to rise; but the ears of the natives were sharper than those of the whites, and they had begun to crawl away before the latter heard the approaching horsemen.
Finding this to be the case, the party ran to their horses. Four exclamations of wrath and grief were heard, for seven of the horses were completely riddled with spears.
Tartar, however, at his master's voice, struggled to rise to his feet. Reuben, aided by Jim, quickly threw off the hobbles; and leaped on to its back as it rose to its feet, just as Mr. Blount, with his party, rode up.
"Keep close together," Reuben exclaimed, as he dashed forward, "we may find some of the scoundrels."
But the chase was in vain. It was already growing dusk, and there was no saying in which direction the natives had crawled away in the bush. After riding for a mile, Reuben reined in his horse.
"It is no use," he said; "we may as well get back to the fire.
"What made you so late, Mr. Blount? We were fighting for three quarters of an hour, before you came up."
"I am very sorry," Mr. Blount replied; "somehow or other, we went wrong altogether. There is nothing to guide one in this flat bush, and the tracker who was leading the way said he was certain he was going as you ordered him. Just before six o'clock we halted, and looked in the direction in which we expected to see your smoke, but there were no signs of it. Presently one of the constables exclaimed: "'There's the smoke, sir, right behind us.'
"I looked around and, sure enough, there was a column of smoke, and a long way off it was. " 'What have you been doing, you rascal?' I said to the black. 'There's the smoke right behind us. You have been leading us wrong, altogether.'
"The black insisted that he was right, and that the fire must have been made by the black fellows. I didn't know what to make of it. It was two or three minutes past six; and I noticed, when we halted before, that your watch was exactly with mine. So I said to the men: "'We will wait five minutes longer and, if we see no other smoke, you may be sure that that is made by Captain Whitney.'
"We waited the five minutes, and then I gave the word to start, when one of the men exclaimed: "'The black fellow's gone.'
"Sure enough, he had slipped away without being noticed, while we were looking for the smoke. I felt sure, now, that something must be wrong; and we galloped towards your smoke, as fast as the horses could lay their feet to the ground. When we were about half way, we heard the sound of firing, and I can tell you that we didn't lose a moment on the way, after that. Have you had any losses?"
"Two of the constables are killed," Reuben said, "and we have all got some more or less ugly scratches. My left arm is useless for a time, I am afraid. A spear went right through it. I fear some of the others have worse hurts."
"What can have become of the sergeant's party?" Mr. Blount said.
"They must have gone the wrong way, too," Reuben replied. "I told you I suspected those trackers of being in league with the blacks, and I have no doubt your fellow led you purposely astray, in order to give them an opportunity of cutting us off before you could arrive to our assistance. I suppose the other party has been misled in the same way. It is fortunate, indeed, that you made up your mind to ride for our smoke when you did. A quarter of an hour later, and you would have found only our bodies, and would probably have been ambushed in turn."
"Yes, it has been a close thing, indeed," Mr. Blount said. "I was wrong, after what you told me, to trust that black scoundrel so entirely; but I own it never entered my mind that he was leading us astray."
By this time they had reached the fire, which was blazing high.
"How are you all?" Reuben asked. "Nobody badly hurt, I hope?"
"Nothing very bad, captain," Dick Caister replied cheerfully. "We have all had our skin ripped up a bit, but nothing very deep. That dodge of the saddles, of your black fellow, saved us. Mine was knocked over half a dozen times by spears, each of which would have done its business, if it hadn't been for it. I owe him my life so completely, that I forgive him for making our horses a barricade, to save yours."
Reuben laughed. He had noticed, when he ran for his horse, that Jim had thrown him in the centre of the others: and their bodies completely sheltered him from the spears of the natives.
"It was not fair, perhaps," he said; "but my horse would have been killed, as well as yours, had he not done so; and Jim loves him almost as well as he does me. He has watched over and guarded him for the last three years."
"I am not angry with him," Dick said. "Nothing could have saved our horses from being killed, and if one was to be saved, it is as well it should be Tartar, and not one of the others, as yours was far the most valuable of the five."
"Pile on the bushes," Reuben said to one of the constables. "Make as big a blaze as you can. It will act as a beacon to the sergeant and his party."
Half an hour later the trampling of horses' hoofs was heard and, a few minutes later, the sergeant and his party rode up.
"I am sorry I am so late, sir," the sergeant said. "Somehow or other we went wrong altogether, and saw nothing of your smoke. I was afraid something was wrong, but did not know what to do; so we halted till it came on dark, and presently made out a fire; but it was miles away, and right in the direction from which we had come. I did not think it could be you but, whether it was you or the blacks, that was the place to ride to."
"Have you got the tracker with you, sergeant?"
"Yes, sir; at least, I saw him trotting ahead, ten minutes ago. Why, where has he got to?"
The tracker was not to be seen.
"He has made off to join the blacks, I expect," Reuben said. "You have been led astray purposely. We have been attacked, and Brown and Simpson are killed."
An exclamation of rage broke from the men, who were in the act of dismounting.
"I expect," Reuben said, turning to Mr. Blount, "that the fellows noticed the talk I had with Jim, before we turned back from the false trail, and concluded that we had some suspicion that they were in league with the blacks; and so, when the party separated, they determined to lead the two flanking columns astray, so as to give their friends a chance of attacking us, and then to bolt."
"I expect that is it," Mr. Blount agreed. "And now, the first thing is to get something to eat. When that is done, we will have a consultation."
While the meat was cooking over the fire, Reuben told off a party of eight men to bury the bodies of the two constables who had fallen. The task was speedily completed, two holes being easily scraped in the light, sandy soil.
After supper was over, the settlers gathered round Reuben.
"Now, captain, what do you mean to do?" Mr. Blount asked. "I have given up all hope of seeing my sheep again, so don't let them influence you, but just do as you think best. The blacks are in strong force, that is evident; and it will be a serious business pursuing them any further, in their own country."
"I am going to pursue them till I catch them," Reuben said; "that is to say, as long as there is a sheep track to serve as a guide. I don't ask you, gentlemen, to go further, for I know it is a serious risk; but it is my duty to hunt those fellows down, and give them a lesson, and I mean to do it. We shall never have safety in the settlements, until those fellows come to understand that, whenever they attack us, they will be hunted down."
"I think you are right," Dick Caister said, "and as long as you go on, I go with you for one, whatever comes of it. But how I am to go without my horse, I don't know."
"There are the spare horses," Reuben said; "Fortunately we have still got six of them."
"So we have," Dick exclaimed joyfully. "I had forgotten all about them. What luck, our bringing them with us!"
The other settlers all announced their intention of continuing the chase, as long as Reuben was willing to push on.
"I will tell you what my idea is," Reuben said. "The horses are already worn out and, by the end of another day, they will be half mad with thirst. I propose that we take two days' supply for ourselves, in our water bottles; and that we push forward on foot, sending two of the constables back to the stream, with our horses. I propose that we should push forward tonight. I expect the track we are following is the true one, and the stars will do as a guide.
"At daybreak we will lie down in the bushes. The blacks will probably leave some fellows behind, as scouts. They, seeing nothing of us, will suppose we have given it up and gone home, and they will make but a short journey. At night we will go on again, and the chances are that, before morning, we shall catch sight of their fires, and will fall upon them at daylight. What do you think of the plan?"
"I think it is a good one," Mr. Blount said, warmly. "A capital plan. Of course we don't much like leaving our horses, for in this country one almost lives on horseback. Still, it will be the best plan, certainly; for as you say, the poor brutes will be half mad, by tomorrow night, with thirst."
"It will be a long tramp back again," a settler said dismally.
"We won't tramp all the way," Reuben said with a smile. "Directly we have overtaken the blacks, and given them a lesson, I will send Jim back again for the horses. He can cover the ground at a wonderful pace, and coming back he will ride one of them, and help the two constables to keep them together. They will have had two days' rest, and plenty of food and water, and will meet us before we get halfway back. There will be no fear of the blacks attacking them."
All agreed that the plan was excellent, and half an hour later the whole party--with the exception of the two constables, who were to start at daybreak with the horses, for the river--set out on their march. The sky was cloudless, and the stars would have been a sufficient guide, even had they not had Jim with them. The black, however, took his place at the head of the party, and strode along as unhesitating as if it had been broad daylight.
|
{
"id": "20031"
}
|
12
|
: The Bush Rangers.
|
Scarce a word was spoken as the little party marched along. It was possible, although very improbable, that the natives, on scattering before the charge of Mr. Blount and his companions, might have left some of their number behind, to watch the movements of their pursuers. They would, however, certainly not anticipate the whites pushing forward that night. The fire had been piled high, the last thing before leaving, and the two men left there were told to keep it burning brightly till morning, and to start before anyone watching in the distance would be able to see whether the horses were mounted, or not. Should any natives approach the fire, after they had gone, they would take it for granted that the whole party had ridden back to the settlement.
All night, Reuben and his companions marched steadily forward; and were glad to throw themselves down on the ground, at the first appearance of daybreak. Four sentries were placed, with strict orders to keep a bright lookout through the bushes, but on no account to raise their heads above their level; and, arrangements having been made for their relief, every two hours, the rest of the party were soon sound asleep.
Except to relieve the sentries, there was no stir among them until late in the afternoon. Then there was a general movement, and soon all were sitting up, and appeasing their appetite upon the cold meat and dampers they had brought with them.
"There is no harm in a pipe, I suppose, captain?" Dick Caister said laughingly.
"No, I think we can risk that," Reuben replied. "The eyes of the savages may be wonderfully keen, but they would be a great deal sharper than I can give them credit for, were they to notice the smoke of a dozen pipes, curling up among the bushes."
"I suppose, Mr. Blount," Reuben said as, after the meal was finished, the party lighted their pipes and drew closely round the fire, "you have heard of a good many bad businesses, with the blacks and bush rangers, in your time?"
"I have, indeed," Mr. Blount replied. "In the early days, the settlers had a hard time of it with the blacks; who were, of course, stronger than they are now and, after they had got over their first fear of firearms, more fearless of the whites. The bush rangers too were, when first they began to send convicts here, more numerous than at present. I do not know that they were as desperate as they are now--not so ready to take life, without provocation. You see, there was a very much larger run of country open to them; and many convicts who escaped, and took to the bush, were content to have gained their freedom. Some of them took black gins, and never troubled the colonists again; beyond, perhaps, coming down to a station and carrying off a sheep or two, or a bullock, when they got sick of kangaroo meat and wanted a change.
"You see, the first settlers were generally poor and hard-working men. Young men with a little capital had not as yet been attracted here, so there was but little inducement for the escaped convicts to meddle with them. There were, of course, some notorious scoundrels, who seemed to murder for the pure love of the thing. The worst of them, I think, was a fellow who went by the name of Cockeye. What his real name was, I never heard.
"That man was a perfect devil; and was, for a long time, the terror of the settlers. He never worked with other white men, but lived among the blacks. Of course, in those days the police system was in its infancy, and we had to rely upon ourselves. I had a narrow escape, once, of losing my life, from him and his blacks.
"When I was about seventeen, I lived with my father and mother in a station about fifty miles from Sydney, or as it was called then Port Jackson. It was at that time quite an outlying station. We had two convicts allotted to us, both of them honest fellows enough, who had been transported for poaching or something of that kind--anyhow, they were not old hands, and gave no trouble. My father was a kind master, and we always felt that, in case of need, we could rely upon them just as upon ourselves. In those days it was next to impossible to get hired hands for, as there was plenty of land for anyone to squat upon, comparatively close to the port, the men who came out generally set up for themselves, at once.
"One day I had been out on horseback, to look for a couple of bullocks which had strayed away; and was on my way back when, ahead of me, I heard the cooey of the blacks. I didn't think much of it, because they were common enough at that time, and a party had made a sort of encampment at a stream, about a mile from the house; but when, a minute later, I heard a gun fired, I guessed that there was mischief.
"The sound seemed to come from away towards the right, where I knew that one of our men was out, herding the bullocks; so I clapped spurs to my horse, and rode in that direction. When I got near, I saw the cattle running wildly about, and a mob of black fellows among them. I could see no signs of our man, and guessed that he must have gone down; and that I had best ride and warn them, at the house.
"The blacks saw me, and started at a run in my direction, but I soon left them behind. I was within a quarter of a mile of the house, when a native yell burst out ahead of me, followed by two shots. I rode on and, when I got near the house, saw a lot of black fellows round it.
"Then came a flash from one of the upper windows, and I saw one of them roll over. That was a satisfaction, for I knew they hadn't caught my father asleep. I knew the doors and shutters were strong, and that he could make a good fight of it. Still, there was only him and my mother at home, for both the men had gone out before I left in the morning; and one man hasn't much chance of holding a house, attacked on all sides. So I made up my mind to try to dash through them, when the shutter opened a little, and my father shouted out: "'Ride for help, Bill. I will keep them off, till you get back.'
"So I turned; but when I had gone a few yards I looked over my shoulder, and I saw a man dash out from behind the house on horseback, and start at a gallop after me. It was a bay with a white leg, and I knew that Cockeye used to ride such a horse, and that there wasn't a better in the colony. Almost at the same moment I heard a shot again, but I didn't look round.
"I can tell you I felt pretty badly frightened, for there was no mercy to be expected from that scoundrel, and I knew that he was a good deal better mounted than I was. The next station was about four miles off, and I had about two hundred yards start, but before I had gone half a mile, he was within fifty yards of me. I could hear him, cursing and swearing and shouting to me to stop, but I had made up my mind I would not do that.
"I had got a brace of pistols with me, but I wasn't much of a shot. I had, soon after I started, pulled them out of the holsters and shoved them into my belt in front of me; so that, as he came up, he shouldn't see my hand go down for them. My hope was that he would ride straight up to the side of me, not knowing that I was armed; and that would give me a chance of suddenly letting fly at him.
"You would think the chance was a poor one; and that he would, to a certainty, shoot me down before he got up. I did not much think he would do that, for I guessed that the scoundrel would do with me as he had in some other cases; namely, take me and carry me back to the house, and there either threaten to shoot me, or hang me up over a fire, or some such devilry, to make those inside give in. I was determined this shouldn't be, and that if I could not shoot him I would be shot myself; for otherwise he would have got my father and mother, and it would have been three lives instead of one.
"Presently--crack! --came the sound of a pistol, and I heard the bullet whiz close by. I expect that it was only to frighten me into stopping; but in a second or two he fired again, and the shot just grazed my shoulder, so he was in earnest that time.
"I bent low on my saddle, got a pistol out of my belt, and prepared. There was another shot, the horse gave a spring and I knew he was hit, but for a time he went faster than ever; still, the last shot wasn't from more than twenty yards behind; and I expected, every minute, to see his horse's head coming up beside me. Then I heard a curse and a sudden fall and, looking round, saw his horse was down.
"Cockeye was on his feet in a moment, and drew another pistol from his holster; so I concluded to keep on as hard as I could go, without waiting to make inquiries. I guessed pretty well what had happened. The shot I had heard my father fire, as he started after me, had hit the horse; and the poor brute had kept on until he dropped. I understood the fellow's firing, now. He felt his horse was failing under him, and his only chance was to stop me.
"I kept on till I got safe to the station. The three men there started in different directions, to fetch assistance, and by the evening we had a score of men assembled there, and started back to our station. We heard a cooey when we were within a mile of the place, and guessed it was a fellow on the watch. By the time we got there they had all cleared off, but it was a close thing.
"My mother was a courageous woman, and had defended the back of the house, and my father the front. The blacks had made several attempts to burn the place down; but the roof, like the walls, was made of solid timber; which is the only safe way to build a house, when you are exposed to attacks of the blacks.
"As long as daylight lasted the old people had done very well, and had kept the blacks at a distance; and we saw, by the marks of blood in the morning, that they must have killed or wounded eight or ten of them; but if we hadn't come up before the blacks had darkness to cover them, it would have gone hard with them. Of course we knew that, and calculated so as to get there before nightfall."
"What became of the bush ranger?" Reuben asked.
"Well, curiously enough, that was the last time he ever troubled the settlements. We never knew exactly what became of him, but it was said that the blacks killed and eat him. I know that was very often the end of those fellows. As long as all went on well, the blacks were friendly enough with them, and were glad to follow their lead; but after a repulse like that they got at our station, or perhaps as a result of some quarrel about the division of the plunder, or their gins, or something of that sort, they would fall suddenly on their white friends, and make cooked meat of them."
"I suppose the blacks seldom spare any whites who fall into their hands?" Reuben asked.
"Scarcely ever," Mr. Blount replied. "That was why they were more dreaded than the bush rangers. The latter would kill, if they were in the humour for it; but if there was no serious resistance, and none of their number got hurt, more often than not they contented themselves by leaving everyone tied, hand and foot, till somebody came to unloose them.
"I remember one horrible case, in which they so tied up three white men at a lonely station, and nobody happened to go near it for three weeks afterwards. It struck someone that none of them had been seen, for some time; and a couple of men rode over and, to their horror, found the three men dead of hunger and thirst.
"Now the black fellows don't do that sort of thing. When they do attack a station and take it, they kill every soul; man, woman, and child."
"I suppose, in that affair you were telling us of," Reuben asked, "both of your ticket-of-leave men were killed?"
"Yes. One seemed to have been surprised and speared at once. The other had made a stout fight of it, for the bodies of three natives were found near him."
"I remember one case," one of the others said, "in which the blacks did spare one of the party, in a station which they attacked. It was a little girl of about three years old. Why they did so I don't know; perhaps the chief took a fancy to her. Maybe he had lost a child of the same age, and thought his gin would take to the little one. Anyhow, he carried her off.
"The father happened to be away at the time. He had gone down to Sydney with a waggon, for stores; and when he got back he found the house burned, and the bodies of his wife, two boys, and two men, but there was no trace of that of the child.
"He was nearly out of his mind, poor fellow. The neighbours all thought that the body must have been burned with the house; but he would have it that there would have been some sign of her. No one else thought so; and besides, it wasn't the custom of the blacks to carry off anyone. The father got a party to try and follow the blacks, but of course it was no use. They had pretty near two days' start.
"The father never took to his farm again, but hung about the out stations, doing a job here and there for his grub. Sometimes he would be away for a bit, and when he came back, though he never talked about it, everyone knew he had been out hunting the blacks.
"I do not know how many of them he killed, but I know he never spared one, when he got him outside the settlement. After a time the blacks never troubled that part. So many of them had been killed that they got a superstitious fear of the man, and believed he was possessed of an evil spirit; and I don't believe twenty of them, together, would have dared to attack him.
"At last, from some of the half-tamed blacks in the settlement, he got to hear some sort of rumour that there was a white girl, living with one of the tribes far out in their country, and he set out. He was away four months, and he never said what he had been doing all the time. In fact, he started almost directly for the port, and went home by the next ship.
"However, he brought his child back with him. It was four years since she had been carried off, and she was a regular little savage, when she arrived in the settlement with him. Of course she could not speak a word of English, and was as fierce as a little wildcat. I expect she got all right, after a bit.
"I didn't see the man, but I heard he was worn to a shadow, when he got back. He must have had an awful time of it, in the bush. What with hunger and thirst, and dodging the blacks, I don't know how he lived through it; but he looked contented and happy, in spite of his starvation, and they say it was wonderful to see how patient he was with the child.
"They got up a subscription, at Sydney, to send them both home. I heard that the captain of the ship he went in said, when he came back the next voyage, that the child had taken to him, and had got civilized and like other children before they got to England."
"Of course, such fellows as Cockeye and Fothergill are the exceptions, and not the rule," Mr. Blount said. "Were there many of such scoundrels about, we should have to abandon our settlements and make war upon them; for there would be no living in the colony till they were exterminated. Most of these fellows are the colonial version of the highwaymen, at home. It is just 'Stand and deliver.' They content themselves with taking what they can find in a traveller's pockets, or can obtain by a flying visit to his station."
"Yes, I had several of those in my last district," Reuben said. "They were just mounted robbers, and gave us a good deal of trouble in hunting them down. But none of them had shed blood during their career, and they did not even draw a pistol when we captured them. That style of bush ranger is a nuisance, but no more. Men seldom carry much money about with them here, and no great harm was done."
"You see," Dick Caister said, "these fellows have a remarkable objection to putting their necks in the way of a noose; so that although they may lug out a pistol and shout 'Bail up!' they will very seldom draw a trigger, if you show fight. So long as they do not take life they know that, if they are caught, all they have to expect is to be kept at hard work during the rest of their sentence, and perhaps for a bit longer. They don't mind the risk of that. They have had their outing, sometimes a long one; but if they once take life, they know its hanging when they are caught; and are therefore careful not to press too hard upon their triggers.
"But once they have killed a man, they don't generally care how many more lives they take. They are desperate, then, and seem to exult in devilry of all kinds. As to being stuck up by an ordinary bush ranger, one would think no more of it than of having one's pockets picked, in England.
"It's lucky for us, on the whole, that the black fellows have such a hatred of the white men. Were it not for that, a good many of these fellows would go all lengths, relying on taking to the bush when they had made the colony too hot to hold them. But there are only a few of them that have ever got on well with the blacks, and many a man who has gone out into the bush has found his end there. You see, there's no explaining to a dozen natives, who jump up and begin to throw spears and boomerangs at you, that you are a bad white fellow, and not a colonist on the search for fresh runs.
"No, the bush rangers on the whole are not such a bad lot of fellows. I suppose there is not one of us, here, who hasn't had men ride up and ask for food; who were, he knew pretty well, bush rangers. Of course they got their food, as anyone else would who rode up to a station and asked for it.
"Once, only, I was told to hand over any money I had in the house. As, fortunately, I had only a few pounds I gave it up without making a fight for it. It's no use risking one's life, unless for something worth fighting for. I suppose most of us here have had similar experiences."
There was a general chorus of assent among the settlers.
"Many of them are poor-spirited wretches. Two of them bailed up a waggoner of mine, coming out with a load from the port. He pretended to give in and, as they were opening some of the boxes, he knocked one over with the butt end of his whip. The other fired a hasty shot, and then jumped on to his horse and galloped off again; and my man brought in the fellow he had stunned."
"Did you hand him over to the police?" Reuben asked.
"Not I," the settler laughed. "I thought he had got what he deserved, so I bandaged up his head and let him go. Those poor beggars of convicts have a dreadful hard time of it, and I don't think there are many settlers who would hand over any man who had escaped, and taken to the bush, even if he had occasionally bailed up a waggoner or so. We know what a flogging the poor wretch would get and, as long as it's only an occasional robbery, to keep themselves from starving, we don't feel any great animosity against them. It's different, altogether, when they take to murder. Then, of course, they must be hunted down like wild beasts.
"And now I vote that we have a nap. My pipe's out, and I suppose we shall be on the tramp again, as soon as it is dark."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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13
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: Bush Rangers.
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As soon as it became dark, the journey was renewed.
"Now, Jim, you must keep your eyes well open," Reuben said. "There is no saying when we may come upon them, now."
"I tink dey not berry far off, sah. Dose sheep too tired to go far. Black fellow glad to stop and rest, when he see no one coming after him.
"De ground more up and down here. Must no make noise. May come upon dem sudden."
It was nearly midnight when Jim suddenly halted.
"What is it, Jim?" Reuben asked, in a low voice.
Jim stood sniffing the air.
"Me smell fire, captain."
Reuben sniffed the air, but shook his head.
"I don't smell anything, Jim."
"I smell him, sah, sure enough; not very close, perhaps, but in de air."
"What is it, Captain Whitney?" Mr. Blount asked, as he came forward and joined them.
"Jim says he smells fire, but I can't smell it."
"Oh, you can trust Jim's nose," the settler said. "It is wonderful how keen is the scent of these natives. They are like dogs in that respect; and can perceive the smell of a fire, when the wind brings it down to them, miles away."
"Dis way now, sah," Jim said, turning off to the left, at right angles to the course which they had been pursuing. "Smell come down the wind, dat's sartin. We follow him far enough, we sure to catch dem."
For fully two miles, Reuben followed the black without speaking. Then he said: "I don't smell any smoke, Jim. Are you quite sure you are right about it?"
"Quite sure, sah. De smoke much stronger than he was. Some of dese bushes make very sharp smell; can smell him very far away."
"That's all right, Jim, on we go then. I must take your word for it."
After another half-an-hour's walking, Reuben thought that he too could smell an odour of burning wood and, soon afterwards, he became convinced that it was so. The ground on which they were crossing was slightly undulated and, on nearing the crest of one of the slight rises, Jim said: "De smoke am getting strong now, sah; and Jim can hear de bleating of de sheep. If de captain will wait here, Jim will go on ahead, and find out where dey lie."
"But perhaps you won't be able to find us again."
"Der no fear of dat, sah. But if I not come straight back, I give a little whistle-like this--when I get on to a rise; and if the captain answer in just the same way, then I come straight back to him."
So saying, Jim glided away in the darkness; while Reuben gave the word for the men to halt, and lie down till his return. There was, however, no occasion for a signal for, in little over half an hour from the time of Jim's leaving, he rejoined them again; his coming being unnoticed until he stood among them, so noiseless were his footsteps.
"We hab dem dis time, sure enough, captain."
"Why, is that you, Jim? You quite startled me. Well, what is your news?"
"De black fellows and de sheep are a little over a mile away, sah. Dey got a big fire down in a bottom. Some of dem eating still, but most of dem fast asleep round de fire."
"How many are there of them?"
"About fifty, sah--at least, dat about the number Jim saw. I expect I was right when I tell you dat there was well nigh a hundred, at fust. Some ob them go off wid de sheep, de odder way, and we kill over twenty in dat fight."
"Do you think we killed so many as that, Jim?"
"I went round, sah, and counted sixteen of dem; and some sure to have crawl away and die in de bush. Dere were over twenty killed altogether, for sure; and I specks dat some more hab left de party today, and gone off wid dere share of de sheep to der people."
"Well, what do you think, Mr. Blount--shall we attack them tonight, or wait till morning?"
"I should say wait till morning, certainly," the settler said. "We might shoot a few if we attack them now, but the rest would be all off, at the first flash of our gun; and we should never get another shot. I think our best plan would be to remain where we are, for another couple of hours--it is two o'clock now--then Jim will guide us to the place, and we can take up our position as close as we can get, and wait for daylight."
"There is no fear of their making a move before it is light, Jim?"
"No, sah. Dey tink dey am safe now, and eat one big feast. Dey not move till light, sartain."
"Very well, Mr. Blount, then we will do as you say. When we get near them we will divide into four parties. You, with four men, shall move up close to the sheep, Sergeant O'Connor, with four others, shall work up from the other end of the bottom. Five others shall make a detour, and get right on the other side of their fire; and I, with the other three and Jim, who you see has got one of the constables' rifles and ammunition, will come down on them from this side.
"Jim will place all the parties, taking them by turns, as near the fire as he thinks safe; and will then return to me. Only, as we shall attack them from four sides, let everyone be careful about his shooting; otherwise we shall have casualties from our own shots.
"All will remain quiet until I fire. Then a general volley must be poured in, with bullet and buckshot; and when the rifles and guns are empty, go right at them with pistol and sword."
The plan was carried out as arranged and, before daybreak, the four parties were lying in the positions allotted to them, within forty yards of the blacks. A few of these were seen sitting by the fire, the rest were all asleep.
Gradually the light began to creep over the sky and, as it became lighter, there was a movement among the blacks. As soon as he could see perfectly, Reuben was about to fire in the air; for he did not like to fire at unsuspecting men, in spite of the deeds of blood and rapine they had performed in the settlement.
Presently, however, his eye fell upon one of the treacherous trackers, who had so nearly brought destruction upon them. He levelled his rifle and fired, and the man fell dead in his tracks.
As the rest of the blacks leapt to their feet, a volley from nineteen guns was poured into them--followed by seven or eight more, as most of the settlers were armed with double-barrelled guns; a few buckshot being dropped into each barrel, over the bullets. Then came the sharp cracks of the pistols, as the whites rushed down to the assault.
The natives attempted no resistance. Panic stricken at the sudden appearance of the foe, whom they imagined by this time far back on their way to the settlements; and paralysed by the slaughter made by the first volley, they thought only of flight. A few caught up their spears and waddies, as they made a dash for the bushes, and strove to effect their escape between the parties advancing on each side of them; but the latter were now close at hand and, for a minute or two, a fight took place between the whites, with their clubbed muskets, and the natives with their spears and waddies. But it was soon over, for the natives only fought to escape and, as soon as they saw an opening, bounded away into the bushes.
Only one of the assailants was killed, but several were more or less severely wounded by the spears; while no less than thirty-four of the blacks were killed. The victors made no attempt at pursuit but, as soon as the last of the natives had escaped, they gathered to ascertain what loss had taken place, on their side.
"Poor Phillips is killed," Mr. Blount said, as he examined the body. "The spear has gone right through his throat. Fortunately he was a single man. He has only been out here a few months, and was staying down at Dick Caister's."
"Poor Tom," Dick said, in feeling tones. "He was a capital young fellow, and I am deeply sorry. Fortunately he has left no one behind to grieve more than I do for him, for he lost his father and mother shortly before he came out, and was alone in the world."
"I am thankful it's no worse," Mr. Blount said. "We have given the blacks a terrible lesson. I think, as far as they are concerned, we can sleep in peace for a long time. Of course we have not done with them, for they are very revengeful; but a blow like this will render them careful, for a long time, how they attack us.
"How many of them have fallen?"
"Thirty-four," Reuben said. "Jim has just been counting them up.
"Now, Mr. Blount, we will have another of your sheep for breakfast, and then we'll be off."
The sheep had scattered somewhat, at the alarm of the fire, but were soon driven together again. One was caught and killed, and slices of the meat were stuck up on ramrods, and were soon frizzling before the fire.
"Well, Mr. Blount, how many sheep do you think there are here?"
"I have just been looking them over," the settler replied, "and I should say there must be nearly twelve hundred; so that, allowing for two hundred driven off in the other direction, and a hundred dropped by the way, the whole flock are accounted for. I am indeed obliged to you, and to my friends here. I never expected to see a tail of them again, when I found they were off."
"I am very glad you have recovered so many of them," Reuben said, "and still more, that we have given the blacks such a lesson. We will, as soon as we have finished, be on the march. Jim will go on ahead at once, as we agreed; and he tells me will get to the stream where the horses are before night, and will start out with them at once, so that we may be able to meet them tomorrow, early. I fancy our water bottles are all getting very low, but we can hold on for today."
As soon as he had finished eating, Jim started off at a run, which Reuben knew he would keep up for hours. The body of young Phillips was buried; and then, collecting the flock and driving it before them, the rest started upon their return. The sheep could not travel fast, for many of them were footsore with their hurried journey; but they had found plenty of nourishment in the grass at the bottoms, and in the foliage of the bushes and, being so supplied, had suffered little from thirst.
Jim, before starting, had pointed out the exact line they were to follow, and this they kept by compass. With only one or two short halts, they kept on until nightfall and, leaving the sheep in a grassy bottom, lit their fire on the crest above it, in order that its flame might serve as a guide to Jim, should he get back with the horses before daylight.
There was but little talking, before each stretched himself at length before the fire. They had been twenty-four hours without sleep, and all were now suffering severely from thirst. The last drops in the water bottles had been emptied, early in the day; and they were parched not only by the heat of the sun, but by the stifling dust raised by the flock as they travelled.
There had been but little supper eaten. Indeed, most of them contented themselves with chewing pieces of raw meat, to satisfy their thirst rather than their hunger. Although they had no fear of the return of the natives, Reuben thought it only prudent to keep watch, and each of the party had half an hour on sentry duty.
The day was just beginning to break, when the man on guard exclaimed: "I can hear the trampling of horses!"
The news brought everyone to their feet, and in a few minutes the two constables and Jim rode up, driving before them the horses of the rest of the party.
"Well done, Jim!" Reuben exclaimed. "Now, the first thing, get one of the water skins off."
One of the skins was unfastened in a minute and, after copious draughts, everyone felt refreshed and ready for work again.
"We cannot start for a few hours," Reuben said. "The horses must have come over forty miles, and won't be fit to travel till the afternoon; fortunately there is plenty of grass for them in the bottom. And now that my thirst is allayed, I begin to discover that I am hungry."
There was a general chorus of assent. The fire was made up again. The men went down to the bottom, and killed and brought up a sheep; and all were soon engaged in making up for their twenty-four hours' fast.
In the afternoon a start was made; but although they travelled all night, they did not reach the stream until the following afternoon, as they were obliged to accommodate their pace to that of the sheep. The following morning Reuben rode forward to the settlements, leaving Mr. Blount, with two of his friends, to come on with the flock at his leisure.
At the first farm he reached Reuben heard that, as he feared, the bush rangers had taken advantage of so many of the settlers being away to recommence their attacks. At the first two houses they visited, they had found the inmates on the watch, and had moved off without making any attack. At the third they had surprised and killed a settler, his wife, and two hired men, and had sacked and burned the house. Reuben learned that some of the police had gone off in pursuit.
Leaving his horse to the care of the settler, Reuben borrowed a fresh animal and rode off to the scene of the outrage, which was some thirty miles distant. Just as he arrived there he met the party of eight police, who had been in pursuit of the bush rangers, and they reported that they had lost all trace of them.
For the next two or three weeks Reuben did not return to his headquarters, spending the time in riding from station to station, with a small party of police, and urging upon the settlers the necessity not only of strongly barricading their houses, but of keeping a watch by turns; as the bush rangers seldom attack a place, unless they can gain the advantage of a surprise.
As nothing had been heard of the bush rangers, Reuben determined to return to his barrack. He was spending the last night at Dick Caister's when, just as they were about to turn in, the sound of a horse's hoofs, at full gallop, was heard.
"Something is the matter," Dick said. "Men don't ride like that, at night, for nothing."
He went to the door and opened it, just as the horseman stopped in front.
"Quick, Caister!" the man said as he leaped down, "the bush rangers are not fifty yards behind."
And indeed, the sound of the trampling of other horses sounded close behind.
"Come in, come in!" Dick cried. "Ah! Is it you, Shillito? Never mind the horse, he must look after himself. Luckily the captain's here, and we will give it them hot. Just run round and see that all the shutters are fastened."
As Dick spoke he was barring the door, and he now shouted at the top of his voice to the two hired men, who were in bed upstairs; but before any answer could be returned, there was a thundering knocking at the door.
"What is it?" Dick shouted.
"Open the door, and be quick about it, or it will be worse for you. We want that chap that's just ridden up, and we mean to have him, so he had best come out at once. If you don't open the door at once, we will cut the throats of every soul in the house."
"You have got to get at our throats first, my fine fellow," Dick said jeeringly.
The knocking was at once renewed, but with greater violence.
"The door's a strong one," Dick said to Reuben, "and it will stand a good deal of that sort of thing; but we may as well move the table and benches up against it, then we can see how things stand."
Reuben had been busy taking down the guns, which hung over the fireplace; dropping a ramrod into them to see that they were charged, and putting fresh caps on to the nipples. His own rifle stood in the corner; and was, he knew, ready for service.
"What arms have you altogether, Caister?"
"I have that rifle and double-barrel gun. Both my hands have got muskets; I got them up from Sydney, a few months back."
The two men now came running down from above, each with his musket.
"Where is Jim?" Reuben said, looking round.
"He went out about ten minutes ago," Dick said. "I fancy he went to look after your horse. He takes as much care of that animal as if it were a child."
"I hope they won't find him in the stable, and cut his throat," Reuben said. "He is wonderfully faithful and attached to me. I would not have harm come to him, for anything.
"Now, I will go upstairs and reconnoitre. Now those fellows have left off knocking at the door, they are a good deal more dangerous than when they were kicking up all the row."
"Mind how you show yourself, captain, as likely enough one of them is on the watch, expecting that we should be sure, sooner or later, to take a look out of that window. So keep well back. The night is pretty light, so I expect you will be able to make them out."
"Can we get a view of the stable from that window?"
"Yes," Dick replied, "I rather had that in my mind's eye, when I put the stable up. It's always a good thing, men knowing that their master can have an eye upon them, when they least expect it. Why do you ask?"
"Because if the window commands the stable door, we can prevent them getting the horses out."
"Yes," Dick said, "after losing two in that last affair, it would be a serious matter to have the rest of them carried off."
Reuben went up the stairs and made his way towards the window, standing a short distance back. He could see no one moving about in the yard, and he was about to move close to it, when a tremendous crash took place below, followed by loud shouts. He ran downstairs again.
The bush rangers had moved round to the back of the house and, there picking up a young tree which had been brought in, to saw up into billets for firewood, they used it as a battering ram against one of the shutters; and at the very first blow broke it off its hinges, and then made a rush at the window. Two shots rang out almost together; and then, firing a hasty volley into the window, the bush rangers began to climb in. But by this time Reuben had arrived, and the sharp cracks of his pistols rang out.
"They have got the police here!" one of the men exclaimed, as he caught a sight of Reuben's uniform.
"Draw off, lads, I expect it's that accursed captain," another voice exclaimed. "He's always riding about, with nobody but that black fellow with him. He has got to go down, that fellow has, or he will give us no end of trouble; but draw off from that window, for a moment."
"What will they do next, I wonder?" Dick Caister said as, leaving the two hands to guard the window, he returned into the other room with Reuben.
"I rather expect they are going to try to burn us out. We must keep them from that, if we can.
"Mr. Shillito, will you go up to the upper room, and keep an eye on the stables? Shoot down anyone who may pass your line of sight.
"Haven't you got any loopholes, Caister?"
"Yes, of course I have," Dick replied. "I had forgotten all about them. Yes, there are two loopholes in the logs in each side of the house, upstairs. They have been shut up by wisps of straw, ever since the house was built."
Giving strict orders, to the two men, to shout instantly if anyone moved near the window, the two young men went upstairs.
"Have you seen anything, Shillito?"
"Not a thing. One would almost think that they have bolted."
"They will hardly do that, I fancy," Reuben said. "There are ten or twelve of them, but I think one or two must have got a bullet in them."
"I wish they would come on," Dick said, as he pulled out the straw from the loopholes.
Reuben went to them all in succession, and looked out, but nothing could be seen of their assailants. Presently, however, a number of dark figures appeared, each bearing a burden.
"They have been cutting brush wood!" Reuben exclaimed. "I was right, you see. They are going to try to smoke or burn us out. Now I think it's time to give them a lesson."
"Look, look!"
The exclamation was excited by a sudden glare of light, on the other side of the stables.
"The scoundrels have set fire to the stables!" Shillito said.
"What shall we do--make a sally?" Caister asked. "I am ready for it, if you think right."
"No," Reuben said, "they would only shoot us down as we come out. They must guess that some of us are up at this window, or they would try to carry the horses off, instead of destroying them.
"I only wish we were on the poor beasts' backs. We would go for them, though they were twice as many.
"I don't see the others now--they must have gone round to the other side of the house."
Scarcely had Reuben taken up his station, at one of the loopholes behind, than he again saw the dark figures. He took steady aim and fired. There was a sharp cry, and one of the fellows fell to the ground. The others at once threw down their burdens, and fled. Three minutes later there was a shout.
"Look here, you policeman, and you, Caister, you shall pay dearly for this night's work. I swear it, and Bill Fothergill never forgets his word in that way. It's your turn, this time. It will be mine the next, and when it is, take care."
The only reply was a shot from Reuben, aimed in the direction from which the voice came. A minute later there was a trampling of horses.
"They are gone!" Shillito exclaimed.
"Perhaps it is only a trick, to draw us out," Dick suggested.
"No, I don't think it's that," Reuben said. "They are not strong enough to send a party off, and to attack us with the rest. No, I think they have gone. They know that we can't follow them.
"They have taken good care of that," he added bitterly, as he glanced at the stables, which were now a sheet of flame. "However, we will look round and see."
The three men descended to the room below and, being joined by the two hands, removed the furniture piled against the door, and threw it open.
"We mustn't go round to that side of the house, so as to get into the glare of the fire, till we have looked round," Reuben said. "I believe they are all gone; but they may have left a couple of them lurking, somewhere about, to pick us off when we show in the light.
"I will take one of your hands, Caister, and scout round on one side. Do you three go the other side."
A quarter of an hour later the two parties met near the stables, where the fire was now burning low. The roof had fallen in, and only some of the uprights were erect, with flicking flames licking them as they stood glowing above the mass of still blazing debris.
"I wonder whether that poor fellow is under that?" Reuben said.
"I hope not, indeed. I fancy he must have got away. He might have slipped off when they first rode up. He may be hiding somewhere round, afraid to come near till he knows how matters have turned out."
So saying, he gave a loud cooey. They stood silent for a minute, but no answer came back.
"There is nothing to be done, till morning," Dick said, "and it's no use hanging about here. Before it gets light I will start for Watson's. There are two of your men there; and they, with the two Watsons and ourselves, can set out after these fellows, if you are agreeable. That is, as soon as we get hold of some horses."
"I hardly think I shall be justified in taking you," Reuben said, as he walked back towards the house. "These scoundrels are all armed to the teeth, and they are first-rate shots. They know every foot of the country, and against anything like equal numbers they would make a desperate fight of it, even if they did not thrash us. Of course, in anything like an equal number of my own men I should not hesitate, but I don't think it will be fair for you settlers to undertake such a service as that."
"Listen!" Shillito exclaimed, "they are coming back again."
Surely enough, on the night air the sound of horses, galloping at full speed, could be heard.
"I don't think it can be them," Reuben said. "They would have no motive in coming back, after they once rode off. They would know we should be ready for them."
"I don't see who else it can be. At any rate, all our guns are loaded; and if it is them, all the better."
Suddenly a loud cooey was heard.
"That's Jim!" Reuben exclaimed. "I should know his call among a thousand. He must have made off to get help at once, but I don't know how he can have done it in time."
"Why, it's the Watsons and my men!" he exclaimed, as the party rode up into the light.
"All safe?" one of the settlers cried, as he jumped from his horse.
"All safe, thank God," Reuben replied. "Did Jim bring you news that we were attacked?"
"Yes; fortunately we were sitting up late, talking, when he rode up; so there was not a minute lost."
"Rode up!" Reuben repeated, in surprise; "why, where did you get a horse, Jim?"
"Rode master's horse," Jim said.
"What!" Reuben exclaimed in delight, "what, is Tartar safe? I was afraid his body was under those ruins. Why, how did you get him out?"
"Jim was in de stable, sah, when bush ranger ride up. De horses was stamping, and I not hear dem till dey come quite close, den it was too late to run out.
"De moment dat dey began to make bobbery at door, I opened stable door and bring out de three horses."
"What! Did you get mine out, too?" Dick shouted. "Jim, you are a trump, and no mistake."
"Den," Jim went on, paying no attention to the interruption, "me led de other two hosses little way, and let them go loose, sure not go far from home; and I jump on Tartar, and ride like de debel to Watson's for de police."
"Well done, Jim. You have done capitally. Now let us talk over what we had better do."
The party re-entered the house. Fresh wood was thrown on to the fire, and one of Dick's hands proceeded to put food on the table, and prepare tea, while the others consulted what course should be pursued.
It was agreed, at once, that more aid would be necessary, before they could think of attacking the bush rangers; but all were ready to join in the hunt for them. Therefore it was decided that Dick Shillito and the two Watsons should each ride, at once, to neighbouring stations to bring aid. At one of the stations two more policemen would be found, and as in the pursuit they should probably pass near other stations, their numbers would swell as they went. When this was settled, the party sat down to the meal.
"How did you come upon them, Shillito?" Caister asked.
"I had been spending the day with the Wilkinsons. I did not start to ride home till it was rather late, and I was riding fast when, about a quarter of a mile before I got to my place, I rode right into the middle of a lot of men on horseback. They evidently hadn't heard me coming, and were as much surprised as I was.
"There was a general shout of 'Bail up!' and I saw at once what sort of gentry they were. However, I didn't stop, but in the confusion dashed through.
"A few shots were fired at me. I suppose they were too surprised to aim straight. Then they started off after me. I knew it was no use making for home, for there was only one man there; so I swept round and made for your place. My horse is a good one, you know, and I gained on them all except one man, who must have been capitally mounted, for he gradually crept up to me. He wasn't twenty yards behind me when he shouted: "'Stop, or I fire!'
"I pulled straight up and, as he came up to me, let fly at him. He tumbled off his horse, and I galloped off till I got here."
"What has become of your horse, I wonder?"
"I gave him a cut with my whip, as I jumped off. He cantered away. Of course they may have caught him, but I don't think it's likely."
"You will find him somewhere about at daylight, I expect. I will ride Caister's spare horse, now."
For Jim, with one of the hands, had gone out to fetch in the two horses from the spot where they had been turned loose.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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14
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: An Unexpected Meeting.
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As soon as it was light the party were assembled and started, Jim leading the way, at a swinging pace which kept the horses going at a hand canter. The marks were, for a time, perfectly easy to follow. Five miles on the tracks led to a shepherd's hut. At their call, the man came out.
"You had a visit from bush rangers last night?"
"What if I did?" the man replied gruffly. "I can't help where the bush rangers pay their visits. Yes, they came in here and said they wanted some supper; and you may guess I did not keep them waiting long, for they were not in a particularly good temper. From what they said, three of their men had been killed."
This was already known to the party, as Jim had found three bodies at a short distance from the house. Two of these had evidently been carried there from the back window, where they had been killed in trying to effect the entry. The other had been shot when approaching to fire the house.
"The captain of the gang was terrible put out, and was a-cussing and swearing as to what he would do to those as did it. I wouldn't be in their shoes, if they were to fall into his hands."
"They didn't say anything which would give you an idea as to the direction they were taking?"
"Not they," the man replied. "You don't suppose they would be such fools as that and, if they had, you don't suppose as I should be such a fool to split on 'em. Not likely. I ain't no desire to wake up, one night, and find the door fastened outside and the thatch on fire."
"We may as well ride on," Reuben said. "We shall learn nothing here. The fellow is a ticket-of-leave man, and as likely as not in league with these scoundrels.
"I wonder what they came here for," he added, as they started again.
"I tell you, sah," Jim said. "Dat fellow has driven his herd ober their trail--all stamped out--no saying where they hab gone to."
"We must follow the herd, then," Reuben said. "If we look sharp, we ought to be able to see the traces where they left them."
Jim shook his head.
"No find," he said decidedly. "Plenty places where de ground am berry hard, and horse feet no show. Dey choose some place like dat and turn off; perhaps put rug under horses' feet, so as to make no mark. Me sarch, sah. Jim look him eyes very hard, but tink no find."
And so, to their great disappointment, it turned out. They followed the tracks of the herd three miles, until they came upon them, quietly grazing; but nowhere could they see any trace of a party of horsemen turning off. All the party were greatly vexed at the ill success of their expedition; for all had hoped that they were, at last, going to overtake the gang who had done such mischief in the colony.
Reuben was especially disgusted. He had, only the day before, received a letter from his chief acknowledging the receipt of his report describing the pursuit of the blacks, and congratulating him warmly upon his success. The letter ended: "If you can but give as good an account of the bush rangers, we shall be indeed grateful to you. As it is, you have more than justified my selection of you for the post."
Leaving two constables as guards, at Dick Caister's station, in case, as was probable enough, the bush rangers should return to take revenge for the repulse they had experienced there, Reuben rode back to his headquarters, from which he had now been absent some time. The evening after his return, he called Jim into his room.
"Jim," he said, "I want your advice as to the best way of finding out where these bush rangers are quartered. How do you think we had better set about it? Would it be of any use, do you think, for you to go among the natives and try and find out? There is no doubt they know, for they have often acted with the bush rangers. Do you think you could pass among them?"
"No, sah," Jim said at once. "Me no speak deir way. Me understand black fellow, me talk dar language, but not same way. They find out difference directly and kill me. De wild black fellows hate those who hab lived wid de white men. We hate dem just de same way. We say dem bad black fellow, dey say we no good."
"But those rascally trackers who led us wrong, that day of the fight, they were friendly with them."
"Yes, sah, but dey not so very long away from the bush, and always keep friends wid the others. Meet dem and talk to dem, and tell dem dey set the white men on wrong tracks."
"Well, Jim, but could not you do the same?"
"No good, sah. Me brought up among de whites, eber since me little boy. Dey not believe me if I go and say dat to dem. Jim ready to get killed, if de captain want him; but no good at all him getting killed in dat way."
"I don't want you to get killed in any way, Jim, and if that's your opinion about it, we will give up the plan at once. Can you think of any other way?"
"Me tink a lot about him. Me know de captain want very much to catch dose fellows, but Jim no see how dat can be done, for sure. But de best plan me can see is for Jim to go out by himself, and search de country outside white man's bounds. If he find de track of horses, he follow dem up. Me know about de way dey ride off after dey be killing people at de stations. If Jim look, and look, and look berry sharp he find dar track for sure; and once he find dem, he follow dem up. Must be water, for sure, where dey live. Dat good guide to begin with.
"But captain must not hurry; Jim may be long time before he find dem, dar no saying how long. Captain wish Jim to go?"
"Well, Jim, I don't want you to go; that is to say, I should miss you very much; but if you could find out the haunts of these scoundrels, you would be doing me a very great service, as well as the people of all the stations."
"Jim no care about oder people," the black said. "He care for de captain, and will go out and try and find tracks."
"Be careful, Jim, and don't get into trouble with them. If you were to fall into their hands, and they were to find out you were connected with the police, they would shoot you like a dog."
"Dey won't find out. White man not understand. Black fellow all one to him. You hab no fear for Jim. Who look after hoss, while Jim away?"
"I shall appoint one of the policemen as my orderly, Jim, and he will look after him."
Jim made a contemptuous gesture, to signify that he had little confidence in the power of any white man to look after Tartar. For the rest of the evening Jim was occupied in cooking, and in the morning he was gone.
A week later, Reuben was among the outlying stations again. He had heard nothing of the bush rangers, and no fresh attacks had been made by them, since that upon Dick Caister's station.
One evening, just as he had gone up to bed, he was roused by a sharp knocking at the door of the house in which he was stopping. The settlers had grown cautious now, and an upper window was opened, and Reuben heard the questions, "Who is there?" and "What is it?"
"Is Captain Whitney here?"
"Yes, do you want him?"
"Yes, I want to see him directly."
In a minute, Reuben had opened the door.
"I am Captain Whitney," he said. "What is it?"
"I am glad I have found you, sir. They told me at the next station you were here yesterday, but they did not know whether you were here now.
"Well, sir, I am shepherding some twenty miles away; and this afternoon, just as I had got back to my hut, in runs a black fellow. It is a lonely spot, and I reached for my gun, thinking there was more of them, when he said: "'No shoot, me friend. Me sarve Captain Whitney of de police. You know him?'
"I said I had heard your name. " 'You know where he is?' the black asked.
"I said I did not know for certain; but that when my mate went in for grub, two days before, he had heard say that you had been along there that morning.
"The black said: 'Good. You run and find him.' " 'Thank you,' says I. 'What for?' " 'I find out about the bush rangers,' he said. 'You go and tell captain dat, tomorrow morning before de day begins, dey attack the station of Donald's.' " 'Are you quite sure?' says I. "'Quite sure,' says the black. 'Me heard dem say so.'
"So as I hates the bush rangers like poison, I saddles up and rides into the station; and when I had told the boss, he said I better ride and find you, if I could. You would be at one of the stations this way. I stopped at three of them, and at the last they told me you was here."
"Thank you greatly, my good fellow. Donald's! I don't know the name. Where do they live?"
"They have only been here a couple of months," Reuben's host, who was standing beside him, replied. "They bought that station of Anderson's. He was a chicken-hearted young fellow, and sold out because of the bush rangers. There is a man, his wife, and her sister, I believe. I fancy they have got a pretty fair capital. They took Anderson's stock, and have been buying a lot more. That's why the bush rangers are going to attack them."
"I thought," Reuben said, "that Anderson's was not one of the most exposed stations."
"No, that was what everyone told him, before he sold it."
"How far would you say it was from here?"
"Thirty-five miles," the settler said. "It's ten miles from Barker's, and I reckon that's twenty-five from here."
"Well, of course I shall ride at once; as there are women there, it makes the case all the more urgent. I have got my orderly, and there are two more men at the station, this side of Barker's."
"I will go, of course," Reuben's host said, "and will bring two men with me.
"You had best stop here for the night," he added, turning to the shepherd. "You have ridden pretty well thirty miles already, and that at the end of your day's work."
"Not I," the man replied. "Jim Walsh is not going to be lying in bed, with the thought of two women in the hands of them murderous bush rangers. You might lend me a fresh horse, if you have got one. If not, I must try and pick one up at one of the stations, as we go along."
"I have plenty of horses in the yard," the settler said.
"Well, let us be off as soon as possible," Reuben put in. "It's past twelve o'clock now, and we have thirty-five miles to ride, and to stop at two or three places, so we haven't a minute to lose."
In a few minutes the horses were saddled, and the six men dashed off at full gallop. At three stations, which they passed on the way to Barker's, they picked up seven more. There was but little delay as, the instant the news was told, the men hurried up, saddled their horses, and rode after the party, who pushed straight on when they had told their story. At Barker's they were joined by Barker himself, and two men. Two constables had also been picked up on the way.
The others overtook them here, and the party now numbered twenty men. There was a pause to allow all to come up, and to give the horses breathing time, for they had traversed twenty-five miles at a rapid pace, with scarce a halt.
Mrs. Barker herself prepared a meal, to which, while the horses got their breath, their riders did justice. Then they mounted again, and rode for Donald's.
"It all depends," Reuben said, "as to our being there in time, whether the man keeps a careful watch. If he does they may not attack till the doors are opened, and then make a sudden rush and catch them unawares. If, when they arrive there, they find the whole house is asleep, they may burst in at once."
"I think they will be careful," Mr. Barker said. "I know Donald is very anxious; and no wonder, with two women with him, both young and pretty--quite out of the way, indeed. In fact, he told me the first day I rode over, he had no idea of the unsettled state of the district, and wouldn't have taken the place if he had, not even if Anderson had given it as a gift; and he wrote down at once to some agent, and told him to sell the place again, for whatever he can get for it; but I expect there will be some trouble in finding a purchaser. The district here has had a bad name for some time and, if Donald had not arrived fresh from England, he must have heard of it.
"Listen! I thought I heard the sound of firing."
There was a momentary pause, but no one could hear anything. Nevertheless, they went on at redoubled speed. They were now within three miles of the station.
Suddenly, on coming over a crest, a faint light was seen ahead. It increased rapidly, and a tongue of flame leapt up.
"Come on, lads!" Reuben exclaimed. "The scoundrels are at their work."
At a hard gallop they crossed the intervening ground, until they were within half a mile of the station, from which a broad sheet of flame was leaping up. Then Reuben drew rein, for he had outridden the rest of his party, and it was important that all should ride together.
"Now," he said, when they were gathered; "let us keep in a close body.
"If they ride off as we arrive there, do you, Jones and Wilkins, stop at the station and see if you can render any help. If not, follow us at once.
"Let the rest keep on with me, straight after the bush rangers. There is already a faint light in the east. In half an hour it will be broad day so, even if they have got a start, we shall be able to follow them. Now, come on."
At the head of his party, Reuben rode at full speed down to the station. As he neared it he saw, to his satisfaction, that the flames arose from some of the outbuildings, and that the house itself was still intact; but as no firing had been heard, he hoped that it still resisted.
There was a shrill whistle, when the party approached within a hundred yards. Men were seen to dash out of the house, and to leap upon their horses.
With a shout, Reuben rode down. He did not pause for a moment, but dashed past the house in the direction in which the bush rangers had fled. They were, he knew, but a hundred yards ahead; but it was not light enough for him to see them, especially after riding through the glare of the fire. The sound of the horses' feet, however, afforded an indication; but as there was no saying in which direction they might turn, he was forced to halt, every two or three minutes, to listen.
To his mortification he found that, each time, the sound was getting more indistinct; for the speed at which they had travelled had taken so much out of the horses, that they were unable to compete with the fresher animals ridden by the bush rangers, who were all well mounted, many of the best horses in the district having been stolen by them. At last the sound could be heard no longer, and Reuben was reluctantly obliged to give the order to halt; for he feared he might override the trail.
"It is no use," he said, as he reined in his horse. "They will know as well as we do that they are out of hearing now, and might turn off anywhere. It is terribly annoying. We are too late to save the station, and the bush rangers have escaped.
"However, we will take up their trail as soon as it is daylight. Indeed, I am expecting every moment to be joined by Jim, who is sure to be somewhere near, and can perhaps guide us direct to their hiding place."
Deeply disappointed, the party dismounted from their horses.
"The scoundrels must have had someone on the watch," Reuben said, "or they would never have taken the alarm so soon. I am sorry, now, that we did not send a party round to the other side before we charged down upon them; but my blood was on fire at the sight of the burning station, and at the thought of the women in the hands of those scoundrels."
A minute later, a man rode up at full speed from behind.
"Is that you, Jones?" Reuben said, stepping forward.
"Yes, sir," the man replied, reining in his horse. "I left Wilkins behind, and rode on to tell you what had happened."
"What has happened, Jones?"
"It's a bad business, sir, a shocking bad business; but it might have been worse. It seems they broke in about half an hour before we got there. One of the hands was supposed to be on watch in the stockyard; but either he was asleep, or they crept up to him and killed him before he could give the alarm. Then they got up to the house and burst in the door, before the others were fairly awake.
"They shot the two hands at once; but I suppose, as their blood wasn't up, and no resistance was offered, they thought they had plenty of time for fooling; for they must have reckoned that no force they need be afraid of could be got together, for three or four hours. So they made Donald and his wife and sister get breakfast for them. The women, it seemed had got pistols, and both swore they would blow out their brains if any man laid a hand on them. However, the bush rangers did not touch them, though they told them they would have to go off with them.
"They made Donald sit down at one end of the table, while their captain took the other; and the two women, half dressed as they were, waited on them. It was lucky for them that we were so close when the alarm was given, for all made a rush to get to their horses; only the captain stopping a moment, to let fly at Donald."
"Did he kill him?" Reuben asked.
"No, sir, the bullet hit him in the body, and the ladies were crying over him when I went in, thinking he was dead. I thought so, too, but I found he was breathing. They poured some brandy down his throat, and presently he opened his eyes; then, as there was nothing for me to do, I thought I had best gallop on and give you the news, for I knew that you would be anxious to know what had taken place."
"Thank you, Jones, you did quite right. What an escape those poor ladies have had! Another quarter of an hour, we might have been too late, for those villains would not have kept up the farce long."
"No, sir, especially as they were drinking wine. The table was all covered with bottles."
"You did not see anything of Jim, did you?" Reuben inquired.
"No, sir, I did not see or hear anyone stirring about the place."
Reuben gave a loud cooey.
"That will bring him, if he is anywhere within hearing."
But no answering call came back.
"I hope nothing has happened to the poor fellow," Reuben said, after a pause.
"He could not possibly be here by this time," Mr. Barker said. "The place where he warned the shepherd must be sixty miles from here."
"Yes, quite that; but he can run nearly as fast as a horse can go, and he would be ten miles nearer here, in a straight line, than the way the man went round to fetch me."
As soon as it became light they followed the track, which was plainly visible; but when they had gone half a mile further, there was a general cry of dismay--the ground was trampled in every direction.
"Confound it," Mr. Barker said, "they have done us! Do you see, they have ridden right into the middle of a large herd of cattle, and have driven them off in every direction; and have, no doubt, themselves scattered among the cattle. They may go like that for three or four miles, and then draw off from the cattle at any spot where the ground is hard, and no tracks will be left; to meet again at some appointed place, maybe fifty miles away."
"Then you don't think it's any use in pursuing them?" Reuben asked, in a tone of deep disappointment.
"Not a bit in the world," Mr. Barker replied decisively. "If we had a native tracker with us, he might possibly follow one horse's track among those of all the cattle, discover where he separates from them, and take up his trail; but I doubt, even then, if he would be successful. These fellows know that a strong party is in pursuit of them, and each of them will do everything they can to throw us off the scent. They are sure not to go straight to their place of meeting, but each will take circuitous routes, and will make for thick bush, where it will be next to impossible for even a native to follow them. No, they have done us, this time."
"Well, gentlemen, I hope you will all wait as long as you can at the station here. If my boy has not been shot by those scoundrels, he is sure to find his way here; and will be able, in all probability, to set us on the right track.
"At any rate, though the bush rangers have given us the slip, we may congratulate ourselves on our morning's work. We have at least saved those poor ladies."
So saying, Reuben turned and, with the party, rode slowly back to the station. On arriving there, they dismounted and unsaddled their horses, and turned them into a paddock close to the house, to feed. Reuben and Mr. Barker then went up to the house. The constable who had been left behind came out.
"Well, Wilkins, how is Mr. Donald, and how are the ladies?"
"He is sensible now, sir; but I don't think there's much chance for him."
"We ought to get a surgeon, at once," Reuben said. "Who is the nearest, Mr. Barker?"
"The nearest is Ruskin."
"Is there no one nearer than that?" Reuben asked. "Why, he lives about halfway between where I was sleeping last night, and my own place. It must be seventy miles away."
"He's the nearest," Mr. Barker said; "take my word for it."
"I'll tell you what will be the best plan," Reuben's host of the night before said. "I will ride at once to Mr. Barker's and, if he will let me get a fresh horse there, I will gallop straight back to my place, and will send a man off the moment I arrive there to fetch Ruskin.
"It is only eight o'clock now. I can be home before noon, and my man will do the next stage in a little over four hours. If he finds Ruskin in, he can get to my place by ten o'clock at night, and can start again at daybreak; so by eleven o'clock tomorrow he can be here. If he isn't here by that time, it will be because he was out when my man got there. At any rate, he is sure to start directly he gets the message."
"That will be the best plan," Reuben agreed; "and I am sure the ladies will be greatly obliged to you, when I tell them what you have undertaken."
"Oh, that's nothing," the settler said. "We don't think much of a seventy miles' ride, here."
Without any further delay, the settler saddled his horse and went off at a gallop towards Mr. Barker's, where he was to get a fresh mount.
"And now, how are the ladies, Wilkins?"
"They are keeping up bravely, sir. I think, as far as they are concerned, Donald's being hit has done them good. It has given them something to do, and they have not had time to think about what they have gone through, and what a narrow escape they have had."
"Which room are they in, Wilkins?"
"In there to the left, sir."
"As you have seen them, Wilkins, you had better go in and tell them that we have sent off, at once, to fetch a surgeon; and that they may rely upon his being here some time tomorrow, we hope before noon. Ask if there is anything that we can do for them, or for Mr. Donald."
The policeman went in, and Reuben called one of his other men.
"Perkins, do you, Jones, and Rider go in and fetch out the bodies of the men who have been killed. Don't make more noise than you can help about it. Carry them out to that shed there, and then get a bucket and wash down the floors, wherever there are bloodstains about. I want to have the place straight, so that those poor ladies may avoid seeing anything to recall the scene they have passed through. Of course, you won't go into the room where they are now."
Three or four of the settlers at once volunteered to set to work to dig a grave.
"Choose a place a bit away from the house," one of them said. "The farther, the better; it will remind them of this affair, whenever they see it."
While Reuben was arranging this point, the constable had come out and told Mr. Barker the ladies would be glad to see him.
"It's a terrible business," the settler said to Reuben, as he turned to go into the house. "I feel downright afraid of facing them. To think how bright and pretty they looked, when I rode over here ten days ago; and now there they are, broken hearted."
He returned in a few minutes.
"How is Donald?" was the general question.
"He is hard hit," the settler said, "just under the ribs on the right-hand side. I expect the fellow aimed at his head, but he was starting from his seat at the moment. He isn't in much pain. I have told them they must keep him perfectly quiet, and not let him move till the surgeon comes.
"They have asked me to see about everything. It's better we should not be going in and out of the house, as he must be kept perfectly quiet; so I think we had better establish ourselves under that big tree over there. There are some sheep half a mile over that rise, if two of you will go over, kill one and fetch it in. If you will light a fire under that tree, I will hand out from the house flour, tea, sugar, and some cooking things."
There was a general murmur of approval, for all felt silent and awed at being so close to the house of death and sorrow. Two men got their horses, and rode off to fetch the sheep. The others carried the various articles requisite up to the place fixed for the bivouac, while Wilkins was installed in the house, to assist in anything that might be required there.
"The poor things told me to tell you, captain, how grateful they felt to you for the exertions you have made. I told them how it was we came to be here; and how you had ridden, when you got the news, to be here in time. Mrs. Donald did not say much, poor thing, she seemed half dazed; but her sister, who seems wonderfully cool and collected, quite realized what they had escaped; and there's many a young fellow who would give a good deal, to win that look of gratitude she gave me when she said: "'I shall never forget what I owe you all.'
"I am just going to send off one of my men, to fetch my wife over here. It will be a comfort to the two girls, for they are little more, to have a woman with them."
"There's nothing to be done for Donald, I suppose?" Reuben asked.
"Nothing. The wound is hardly bleeding at all. I told them that, as far as I knew, the best thing was to keep on it a flannel dipped in warm water, and wrung out; and that they should give him a little broth, or weak brandy and water, whenever he seemed faint. My surgery does not go beyond that. If it had been a smashed finger, or a cut with an axe, or even a broken limb, I might have been some good; for I have seen plenty of accidents of all kinds, since I came out twenty years ago, but a bullet wound in the body is beyond me, altogether."
After the meal was cooked and eaten, there was a consultation as to what had best be done next. Two or three of the settlers who were married men said that they would go home, as their wives would be anxious about them. The rest agreed to stop for, at any rate, another day.
Mr. Barker had found out from Mrs. Donald's sister the direction in which the sheep and cattle were grazing, and two or three of the party rode off to tell the shepherds and herdsmen--for there were three men on the farm, in addition to those who had been killed--what had happened; and to tell them that they had better bring the sheep and cattle up to within a mile or so of the house, and come in themselves for their stores, when required.
A grave was now dug, and the three men buried. In the afternoon Mrs. Barker arrived, and at once took charge of the affairs of the house. In the evening Mr. Barker came up to the fire round which the men were sitting.
"Will you come down to the house, Captain Whitney? The ladies have expressed a wish to see you. They want to thank you for what you have done."
"There is nothing to thank about," Reuben said. "I only did my duty as a police officer, and am disgusted at those scoundrels having got away. I have done all I could, since I arrived; but I can't help feeling, being in command of the force here, that we are to some extent to blame for these fellows carrying on, as they have done for months, without being caught."
"I think you had better come down, Whitney," Mr. Barker said. "There is something bright and hopeful about you, and I think that a talk with you might cheer the poor things up a bit. When people are in the state they are, they seem to turn to everyone for a gleam of hope, and comfort."
"Oh, if you think I can do any good, of course I will go; though I would rather stop here, by a good way."
So saying, Reuben went down with Mr. Barker to the house. A lady met them at the door.
"Arthur has just dozed off," she whispered. "Mrs. Barker is sitting by him. She insisted on our coming out. Will you come in here?"
As silently as possible, the two men followed her into the kitchen, and closed the door after them. The fire was blazing brightly, Wilkins having piled on some fresh logs before going out to smoke a pipe. Mrs. Donald was sitting in a dejected attitude, by its right, when her sister entered with Mr. Barker and Reuben. She rose and, coming towards Reuben, said: "How can we thank you, sir, for the exertions you have made, and for having saved us from I dare not think what fate? As long as we live, my sister and I will bless you."
"I can assure you, Mrs. Donald," Reuben said, "that I have done nothing but my duty, and I only regret that we did not arrive half an hour earlier."
"Ah, if you had!" Mrs. Donald said. "But there--we must not repine--even in my sorrow, I feel how much we have to be thankful for."
"Yes, indeed," her sister said, "we have truly reason to be grateful."
As she spoke, Reuben looked at her more and more intently. He had started when she first spoke, outside the house.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "is it possible, or am I dreaming? Surely you are Miss Kate Ellison?"
"Certainly I am," she said in surprise, at his tone; "but I don't think--I don't remember--why, surely it is not Reuben Whitney?"
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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15
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: At Donald's.
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It is difficult to say whether Kate Ellison, or Reuben Whitney was the most surprised at this unexpected meeting. The former, indeed, was aware that Reuben had come out to Australia; but that the boy, whose cause she had championed, should now stand before her as the officer, to whose energy and activity she and her sister owed so much, seemed almost incredible.
But the surprise of Reuben was at least equal to that which she felt. He could scarcely credit the evidence of his senses, at seeing before him the young lady whom he had believed to be thousands of miles away, in England. As is usual in these cases, the girl was the first to recover from her surprise.
"And it is to you we owe so much!" she said, holding out her hand. "Mr. Barker spoke of our preserver as Captain Whitney; but somehow it never, for a moment, occurred to me to connect the name with you.
"Is it not extraordinary, Alice?" she said, turning to her sister.
"The surprise to me is even greater than to you, Miss Ellison," Reuben said. "Mr. Barker always spoke of Mrs. Donald and her sister, and I had not the least idea that you were in the colony. My mother wrote to me, a year ago, telling me of the changes which have taken place; but although she said that you had left Tipping, she said nothing about your coming out here."
Reuben had, in fact, been much disturbed in his mind, a year previously, by hearing from his mother that Mr. Ellison had died suddenly. He had, it seemed, lost a large sum of money, from the failure of a bank in which he was a shareholder, and the blow had killed him. The estate was, when Mrs. Whitney wrote, for sale.
Reuben had written back, begging his mother to send him all particulars that she could gather; but communication between Australia and England was in those days very slow, and no answer had yet been received. Another letter had, indeed, told him that the estate had been sold. Mrs. Ellison, he knew, had died a few weeks after he had left England.
"It is very simple," Kate Ellison said quietly; "although of course it seems so strange to you, our being here. My sister was engaged to Mr. Donald before papa's death and, as you know, almost everything went owing to that bank; and as I had no reason for staying in England, I came out here with them."
Reuben subsequently learned that Mr. Ellison had disapproved of the engagement of his daughter with Mr. Donald, who was the younger son of a neighbouring squire. When, after his death, Mr. Ellison's affairs were wound up, it was found that there remained only the six thousand pounds, which his wife had brought him, to be divided between her daughters. Mr. Donald possessed no capital, and had no prospects at home. He and Alice were quietly married, three months after her father's death, and had sailed a week later for New South Wales; where, as land could be taken up at a nominal price, it was thought that her little fortune would be ample to start them comfortably. All this, however, Reuben did not learn until some time later.
After chatting for a short time, he returned to the camp fire.
"This is very awkward, Mr. Barker," Mrs. Donald said; "do you know that Captain Whitney was, at one time, gardener's boy to our father?"
"Oh, Alice!" her sister exclaimed, "what difference can that make?"
"It seems to me," Mrs. Donald said, "that it makes a very great difference. You know mamma never thought well of him, and it is very awkward, now, finding him here in such a position; especially as he has laid us under an obligation to him.
"Do you not think so, Mr. Barker?"
"I do not pretend to know anything about such matters, Mrs. Donald," Mr. Barker said bluntly; "and I shouldn't have thought it could have made any difference to you, what the man was who had saved you from such a fate as would have befallen you, had it not been for his energy. I can only say that Captain Whitney is a gentleman with whom anyone here, or in the old country, would be glad to associate. I may say that when he came here, three or four months ago, my friend Mr. Hudson--one of the leading men in the colony--wrote to me, saying that Captain Whitney was one of his most intimate friends, that he was in every respect a good fellow, and that he himself was under a lifelong obligation to him; for he had, at the risk of his life, when on the way out, saved that of his daughter when she was attacked by a mad Malay at the Cape.
"More than that, I did not inquire. It was nothing to me whether he was born a prince, or a peasant."
Mrs. Donald coloured hotly, at the implied reproof of Mr. Barker's words. She had always shared her mother's prejudices against Reuben Whitney, and she had not been long enough, in the colony, to become accustomed to the changes of position which are there so frequent.
"You do not understand, Mr. Barker," she said pettishly. "It was not only that he was a boy employed in the family. There were other circumstances--" "Oh, Alice!" Kate broke out, "how can you speak of such things? Here are we at present, owing more than our lives to this man, and you are going now to damage him by raking up that miserable old story.
"Mr. Barker," she said impulsively, "my father, one of the most just, as well as one of the most kind of men, had the highest opinion of Reuben Whitney; believe me, there was nothing in the circumstances to which Alice alludes which could cast the slightest slur upon his character."
"I feel certain of that, my dear young lady," Mr. Barker said, "even without your assurance. Your sister is shaken by the events of the day, and no wonder; and I am quite sure that when she thinks this matter over she will see that, whatever her preconceived ideas may be, it would be most ungrateful and ungenerous to breathe a single word in disparagement of Captain Whitney."
So saying, he turned on his heel and left the room; and Kate, wishing to avoid further words on the matter with her sister, followed his example.
Mrs. Donald's reflections were not pleasant. She felt that Mr. Barker's reproof was well deserved, and that she had acted ungratefully and ungenerously. As a rule, Mr. Ellison's elder daughter was by no means of an unkind disposition; but she was essentially her mother's child.
The question of Reuben Whitney had been one which had caused more serious dissension, between her father and mother, than any she ever remembered. She had taken her mother's view of the case, while Kate had agreed with her father; and although the subject had been dropped, by mutual consent, it had been a very sore one; and at the sight of Reuben, the remembrance of the old unpleasantness had caused her to play a part which she could not but feel was mean and unworthy. She felt angry at herself--angry with Mr. Barker, with her sister, and with Reuben.
She was standing there, with her lips pressed together as she thought over the matter, when Mrs. Barker came into the room.
"He is awake now, my dear. Perhaps you had better go in to him."
Then she dismissed from her mind the events of the last few minutes, and went in to take her place by the side of her husband. But as, during the long hours of the night, she sat there and thought over what had passed since the preceding evening, the thought of how much she owed to Reuben Whitney was uppermost in her mind; and when in the morning Mrs. Barker relieved her, she went into the other room, where Mr. Barker and Kate were about to sit down to breakfast, and said: "Mr. Barker, I thank you for what you said to me last night. You were right and I was wrong. I was ungrateful, and ungenerous. I can only say that it was a very sore subject, and that in my surprise I thought of the past, and not the present. Believe me, I am very sorry for what I said."
"That is quite enough, Mrs. Donald," Mr. Barker said heartily. "I am very glad you have said what you have. I was sure that you would, upon reflection, feel that whatever the old grievance might have been, it could not weigh an instant against what you owe to that young fellow now. Let us say no more on the subject. You were shaken and not yourself, and I was wrong in taking you up so sharply, under the circumstances."
Kate said nothing, but her face showed that she was greatly pleased at her sister's change of tone.
"What is going to be done, Mr. Barker?" Mrs. Donald asked. "Of course, the friends who came to our rescue cannot stay here; and there is no chance of my husband being moved, for a long time."
"I am afraid not, indeed," Mr. Barker said. "Most of them will leave this afternoon, in time to get back to their stations tonight.
"I have been speaking with Captain Whitney, and he says that he with his men will certainly stay here, for the present. He sent off a messenger, last night, for six more of his men to join him here; for he still hopes to get news from his native boy, which may set him on the tracks of the bush rangers. You need, however, be under no alarm; for I think there is no chance, whatever, of the bush rangers returning.
"By the way, Whitney would like to speak to you, after breakfast. He wants you to give him as minute a description as you can of the fellows you saw. We have already descriptions of four or five of them, given by men whom they have stuck up; but the band must have increased lately, and any particulars might be useful."
Reuben came round in a quarter of an hour later. Mr. Barker fetched him into the room where Mrs. Barker and Kate were sitting.
"Mr. Donald is no worse, I am glad to hear," he said, as he shook hands with the two ladies.
"I see no change whatever," Mrs. Barker said. "He is conscious, but does not speak much. He asked me, this morning, to tell you and all your friends how deeply he feels indebted to you."
"His thanks are due to the settlers, rather than to me, Mrs. Barker. They were volunteers, you know, while I was simply on duty. We had, however, one common interest--to get here in time to save the station and, above all, to catch and break up this gang of scoundrels.
"And now, Miss Ellison, if you feel equal to it, would you kindly give us an account of what happened? Mr. Barker said that he would not ask you, yesterday; but something, perhaps, let drop by chance, might serve as an indication to us as to the direction in which these fellows have gone."
"I will tell you, certainly," the girl said, her face paling a little; "although it is dreadful, even now, to think of. We of course had no idea of attack, and had gone to bed as usual. One of the men was always on guard, on the outside of the house; for these attacks made Mr. Donald nervous for the safety of my sister, and myself. Simpson was on guard that night. Whether he went to sleep or not, I cannot say."
"He did, Miss Ellison," Reuben interrupted. "We found his body round by the end of the house. He had evidently been sitting down on a log, against the house; and had been killed by a crushing blow with some heavy instrument, probably one of the tools they used for breaking in."
"The first we knew about it," Kate went on, "was a tremendous crash downstairs, which was followed by a continuous thundering noise. I think they must have burst the door in with crowbars, or something--that was the first noise we heard--but a strong wooden bar, inside, kept the door in its place till they battered it down with a log.
"I hurried on some things. Just as I had done--it was not a minute, I think, from the time I woke--Alice ran in, partly dressed, too. I had heard Mr. Donald shout to the men, then there was another great crash as the bar gave way, and then some shots were fired.
"Mr. Donald had been standing just behind the door, and had fired through it the moment before it gave way. He had not time to step back, and was knocked down by the door. It was fortunate for him, for the bush rangers rushed in and shot down the two men, instantly.
"Alice would have run down to see what had happened to her husband, but I would not let her out of my room. She could have done no good, and might have been shot. Then we heard them moving about the house, swearing and using all sorts of horrible language. Then they shouted up to us to come down, or else they would come and fetch us; so we opened the door, and came down at once.
"Alice gave a little cry of joy, as she entered the room and saw her husband standing unhurt, though still looking dazed and confused from his blow.
"The leader of the band--I suppose you have not seen him, Captain Whitney?"
"No, indeed," Reuben said. "I would give a good deal to catch sight of him."
"What do you know about him?"
"I only know that he is a young fellow, not much older than I am myself. His was a life sentence. He was concerned in a burglary in the country, in which two old ladies were killed. Two of his accomplices were hung for it, but in consideration of his youth, and as it was not proved that he took an absolute part in the murder, he got off with a life sentence. I heard about the case from Captain Wilson.
"He came out here about a year after I did. He had not been here a month when he killed one of the guard, and made his escape. Since that time he has been a scourge to the colony. Not a week has passed without complaints of his bailing up and robbing teamsters on their way down to Sydney. He soon gathered two or three others about him, and his daring and impudence soon made him a noted character. Several times he, with two other men, rode into good-sized villages and, pistol in hand, went from house to house, and carried off every shilling in the place. He has ridden into large stores single handed, and compelled the storekeepers to hand over the contents of their tills. Sometimes they bring spare horses with them, and ride off laden with groceries and stores. He has committed at least a score of murders, always using his pistol at the slightest show of opposition; and sometimes murdering, apparently, from pure love of the thing."
"Do you know his name?" Kate asked.
"His real name? No, I don't know that I ever heard it. He is always spoken of as Fothergill."
"I will tell you his real name, presently," Kate said. "As my sister and I came into the kitchen, he took off his hat and made a deep bow and said: "'Ladies, me and my mates are sorry to put you to any inconvenience; but as we happen to be hungry, we must trouble you to get us some supper. You need not bother to make tea, wine is good enough for us.'
"Of course, as we were in their hands there was nothing to do but to obey his orders; so we spread the cloth, and brought out what there was in the larder. Then we fetched in the wine, and I brought several bottles of spirits; for, as I whispered to Alice, 'If they get drunk, we may be able to get away from them.'
"Before they sat down, the captain told two of his men to go upstairs with us and fetch down our watches and jewelry, and the money there was in the house. Mr. Donald had already told them where they would find that.
"We lit four candles, and put them on the table. The captain ordered Mr. Donald to sit down facing him, saying with a sort of mock politeness that they should not really enjoy their food, unless their host took the head of the table. Several times, while they were eating, I saw the captain looking hard at Alice and me. Presently he said: "'I have it now. Why, you are the Ellison girls, ain't you?'
"I was astonished, as you may suppose, but I said: "'I am Miss Ellison, and Mrs. Donald is my sister.' " 'By Jove, who would have thought it!' he said. 'Do you know who I am?'
"I said I didn't, although really I seemed to have some sort of recollection of his face. " 'Why,' he said, 'don't you remember Tom Thorne, whose father the squire turned out of the public house? And to think, now, that the squire's daughters are waiting on me. This is a piece of luck. " 'Well, my dears,' he went on, with a horrible grin, 'you need not tell me how you came here now, you will have plenty of time for that. We have made up our minds to take you both with us, for it's a horrible lonely life in the bush, without the pleasure of ladies' society. But I never dreamt that I was in for such a slice of luck as this.'
"Mr. Donald jumped from his seat as the fellow spoke, but in a moment he levelled a pistol at him and shouted: "'Sit down or I fire.'
"Alice rushed to her husband, and pushed him down into his seat. " 'I had rather die than go with you,' I said to him quietly. " 'Perhaps so, my dear,' he replied; 'but you see, you haven't got the choice.'
"Then he went on taunting us about old times, and especially reminding me that I had got him a thrashing, over breaking the school house window. When I went out to get them some more wine, for they wouldn't touch the spirits, I got a knife and hid it in my dress; for I made up my mind to kill myself, rather than that.
"A little later I stole upstairs and brought down a brace of pistols, which Mr. Donald kept under his pillow, and slipped one into Alice's hand. Presently they began to get noisy, and the captain ordered me to come and sit on his knee. Then Alice and I showed the pistols, and said we would shoot ourselves, if one of them laid a finger on us.
"The captain muttered some order to his men, which I didn't hear; but I guessed it was to leave us alone, for the present. I had no doubt what they intended to do was to catch us off our guard, and wrench the pistols from us; and I was glad I had the knife hidden away, for if they did carry us off, I was sure to be able to find some opportunity for using that.
"It was awful!" the girl said, putting her hand to her face. "Awful to be standing there and hearing them laughing and shouting and cursing. I was tempted to go behind him, and shoot him suddenly; but the others would have been just as bad, and we should have gained nothing by it. I would not go through that half hour again, for all the money in the world.
"The men had just finished and were getting up from the table, and I knew the moment was coming fast, when we heard a sudden shout outside. My heart gave a bound, as they rushed to the door. The captain fired a shot at Mr. Donald, just as he was getting up; and as he ran out, shouted to me: "'I will come back for you, missy.'
"If it had not been for Mr. Donald falling to the ground, I should have fainted; but Alice called me as she ran to him, and I think I was trying to lift him up when the constable ran in, and I knew we were saved."
Reuben had given a sudden start, when Kate Ellison mentioned the name of Tom Thorne, but he had not interrupted her.
"I had a score against that scoundrel before," he said, as she finished; "and by heavens, I will settle accounts with him when I meet him. I could have forgiven him for the wrongs he did me; but now--" and his fingers closed on the hilt of the pistol in his belt.
Kate, who had been looking down as she told her story, raised her eyes at the tone of intense passion in the young officer's words; and a sudden flush of colour mounted into her cheeks, which were pale from the terror and excitement through which she had gone.
"I say ditto to Captain Whitney," Mr. Barker said. "I don't know anything about his previous doings against him; but I know that, if ever I come across the scoundrel, I will shoot him as a dog.
"Even you can't say anything against that, wife, though you are always on the side of mercy."
"No," Mrs. Barker agreed. "I would say nothing to stay your hand there, John. Even putting this aside, he has committed a score of murders; and there will be no more wrong, in shooting him, than there would be in killing a wild beast.
"That is the sound of a horse coming, at a gallop. Perhaps it is the doctor."
Hurrying to the door they found, to their great satisfaction, that Mrs. Barker's guess was verified. The surgeon had been at home when the messenger arrived, and had started five minutes later, arriving three or four hours earlier than they had even ventured to hope.
Mrs. Barker at once led the way into the next room and, a few minutes later, came out again for hot water and sponges. Kate had stolen away upstairs, when the surgeon had entered the house. The two men remained to hear the verdict.
"He is going to probe the wound. He can give no opinion, yet, till he discovers what course it has taken; but he says that it is a favourable symptom that the pulse is so strong and regular. He wishes you both to come in, as it will be necessary to hold his patient's hands, while he is making the examination."
"I cannot give any positive opinion," the surgeon said, when he had finished the examination. "I can't find the ball, and I cannot tell for certain what course it took, after entering; but I think, judging from the pulse, and I may say from the expression of his face, that no vital part is injured."
An exclamation of thankfulness broke from Mrs. Donald.
"We must not be too sanguine," Mr. Ruskin went on; "but there is certainly strong ground for hope. I shall be able to give a more definite opinion, in the course of a few hours. He must, of course, be kept perfectly quiet; with no more nourishment than is absolutely necessary, and that in the shape of beef tea. I should make him a bed here. We will manage to slide a door under him, and lift him on to it, with as little movement as possible.
"At any rate, madam," he said, turning to Mrs. Donald, "I can congratulate you upon the fact that the bullet did not strike a couple of inches higher. Had it done so, my ride would have been a useless one."
A bed was at once brought from a room above and made up, and Mr. Donald was placed upon it, in the manner which Mr. Ruskin had suggested. Then with lightened hearts the party, with the exception of his wife, left the room.
Kate and Mrs. Barker at once set to to prepare a meal for the surgeon; while Reuben went over to give his companions the good news, that the surgeon had strong hopes that Mr. Donald would recover.
In the afternoon all the party, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Barker and the constables, rode off to their respective stations; assuring Reuben of their readiness to assemble again, at once, should he obtain news which would afford a hope that the gang could be traced.
A few hours later, the other four constables for whom Reuben had sent rode up. An outhouse was now prepared for the reception of the police, Reuben himself taking up his abode there, although Mrs. Donald strongly urged him to come into the house; but with Mr. and Mrs. Barker and the surgeon there, and the time of one of the ladies taken up with the wounded man, Reuben thought that their hands were perfectly full, and said that he should prefer to mess and sleep with his men.
"You see, Mrs. Donald," he said, as she tried to induce him to alter his determination, "I shall have to be sending out men and receiving reports, and may be obliged to ride out in the middle of the night; therefore, you see, as absolute quiet is ordered for your husband, it will be far better for me to be outside the house; as the coming and going would be sure to disturb him, and he would naturally want to know what is going on."
"You will not, I hope, take all your party away in pursuit of these men, Captain Whitney," she said anxiously. "They might get up some false alarm, to take you away, and then come down upon the house again. I have been too much taken up with my husband to think much about it; but although Kate keeps up bravely, I know that she is greatly shaken, and terribly anxious. I don't know whether she told you; but it was to her, chiefly, that horrible man spoke; and it was she he told, as he rushed out, that he would come back to fetch her. She will never have a moment's peace, or tranquillity, till we hear that he is either killed or taken."
"Nor shall I," Reuben said. "I do not think that the scoundrel will dare to attempt to carry out his threat to come back again; but with so daring a villain, it would be rash to omit the smallest precaution. You may be quite sure, Mrs. Donald, that in no case will I leave the house unprotected; and that if I should be called away I will leave two men here who, during my absence, will remain in the house; and with them, Mr. Barker, and the doctor, you may feel perfectly assured that no open attack will be made.
"But I cannot impress too strongly upon you that, seeing the man with whom we have to deal, your sister should not stir outside the house; until we have caught him, or until Mr. Donald is so far recovered as to be able to be removed. I will not tell her so myself; because I see that, now the strain is over, she is greatly shaken, and I would not add to her anxiety; but if you could break it to her, as if it were your own idea, that she had better keep within doors until this fellow's caught, I am sure that it will be well."
"You will come in this evening, I hope; and always of an evening, Captain Whitney. It will make a change, and cheer us up; besides, we want to hear all about your adventures, since we saw you last."
This Reuben gladly promised and, after it was dark, and he had placed a sentry, he came into the house. Mrs. Barker was on duty in the sick room; and Reuben, at Mrs. Donald's request, gave them an account of the voyage out, and of the circumstances which had led to his entering the police.
He would have passed very briefly over the affair at the Cape, but by many questions Mrs. Donald succeeded in eliciting from him all the details of the story.
"It was a gallant action, indeed," she said warmly. "You certainly saved the lives of those two girls, at a terrible risk of your own."
"To make the romance complete, Whitney," Mr. Barker remarked, "you ought to have married Miss Hudson."
"Unfortunately, you see," Reuben said with a smile, "in the first place I was only a boy, and she was two years my senior; in the next, and much more important place, she happened to be in love with someone else; and I did not happen to be in love with her, though she was, I admit, a very charming young lady, and had been extremely kind to me."
"How was that, Whitney?" Mr. Barker asked. "Eighteen is a susceptible age. I can only account for your coldness on the supposition that you had left your heart in England."
"I fancy my heart was, then, where it is now," Reuben rejoined, with a slight smile.
"In the right place, eh, Whitney?"
"In the right place," Reuben repeated quietly.
At this moment Mrs. Barker entered, and said that Mr. Donald would be glad if Reuben would come and sit with him, for a little time.
"Don't let him talk much," Mr. Ruskin said. "The less he talks, the better; but your talking to him, for a time, will cheer him up and do him good."
"I am glad to see you going on so well, Mr. Donald," Reuben said heartily, as he entered. "The doctor says you are not to talk much; but you are to play the part of a listener."
"Do you think you will catch these fellows?" was Mr. Donald's first question.
"I will catch them, sooner or later," Reuben said. "I will run them down if they are above ground; but I can take no steps in the matter until I hear from my black boy. I have been expecting him to turn up, ever since I got here; and shall begin to be afraid that those scoundrels have ill treated him, if he does not turn up before long."
"My wife has been telling me that they knew you at home, Whitney; and that she and her people did you some terrible injustice, somehow. But she wouldn't go into the matter. Curious, isn't it, your meeting at this end of the world; and that, too, at such a moment?"
"It is curious," Reuben said; "what people call a coincidence. But Mrs. Donald is mistaken in telling you that her people did me an injustice. Her father was one of the kindest friends I ever had, and although Mrs. Ellison somewhat misjudged me, and her daughter naturally shared her feeling, they were not in anyway to be blamed for that; for they only thought as ninety-nine people out of a hundred did."
"Whitney, Whitney," Mr. Donald muttered to himself. "I seemed to know the name, though I cannot recall where.
"Ah!" he said suddenly, "of course I remember now, for I was in the court when--" and he stopped.
"When I was tried," Reuben put in quietly. "Yes, that was me. I was acquitted, as you know, principally from the way in which Mr. Ellison stood up for me. Thank God that he never, for an instant, believed that I was guilty."
"And to think it should be you!" Mr. Donald said. "How strange things turn out! I remember I could not make up my mind about it. It seemed so strange, either way."
"We had better not talk about it now," Reuben said quietly. "I said then, and I say now, that I knew the people who did it and, strange as the circumstances have already been, you may think them stranger still, some day, if I bring one of them before you, alive or dead."
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Donald came in and said that one of the constabulary wished to speak to Reuben.
"Then I will say goodnight. I hope I shall find you getting on nicely, in the morning, Mr. Donald.
"Will you say goodnight to Miss Ellison and Mrs. Barker for me, Mrs. Donald? And tell Mr. Barker that I shall be ready, in five minutes, to smoke that pipe we talked about with him, outside."
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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16
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: Jim's Report.
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"Jones, what is it?"
"Your black has just come, sir. I would not let him come in; for the fact is, he ain't a figure to introduce among ladies."
"What's the matter with him, Jones? Not hurt, I hope?"
"He has been knocked about a bit, sir; and he is done up with travelling. The poor fellow can hardly crawl, and was half starved; so I set him to work eating, and came off to fetch you."
By this time they had arrived at the door of the shed. Jim was sitting by a fire, eagerly devouring a hunch of cold meat. The men were standing round, waiting till he had appeased his hunger before they asked any question. He looked up and nodded, when Reuben entered.
"Well, Jim, I am glad to see you back," Reuben said heartily. "I was beginning to be afraid about you. I hope you are not hurt?" --for the black had a handkerchief tied round his head.
Jim gave a grunt, but continued stuffing great lumps of meat into his mouth. Reuben saw that he must wait till the black's hunger was satisfied, and stood quietly looking on until, having devoured some five pounds of meat, he gave a sigh of contentment, and then took a long draught of rum and water, which Constable Jones handed to him.
"Jim better now," he said.
"That's right, Jim; now tell us all about it."
Jim's story was a long one, and it took more than an hour in the telling; for his English was not always distinct, and it often required much questioning, on Reuben's part, before he could quite make out its meaning. The substance was as follows: On leaving, some ten days before, on the mission of discovering the haunt of the bush rangers, he knew that it was of no use to go among the wild blacks, their allies; as the hostility against their semi-civilized fellows was so great that he would, at once, have been killed. He resolved to go back to the spot where the track had been obliterated, by that of the flock of sheep; to make a wide circuit, and pick it up beyond and, if possible, follow it until he found them. The difficulties were great, for the bush rangers had spared no pains in hiding their trail; keeping always upon hard, high ground, and at one time getting into the bed of a running stream, and following it for two miles before they again struck for their rendezvous.
However, step by step Jim had tracked them; sometimes losing the trail altogether, sometimes guided merely by a fresh-made scratch on the surface of a stone, or by a broken twig or bruised blade of grass. At last, he traced it far out into the bush, many miles beyond the furthest range of settlements, and then he lost it altogether. There had been a halt, for some time, at this spot.
Beyond this, Jim was entirely at fault. He made circle after circle round the spot, but could find no trace whatever of their passage, and returned to the point where he had missed the trail. He relit the embers of the fire which the bush rangers had made, cooked some food, and laid himself down--first to think it over, then to sleep, for it was now just the close of day.
It was clear to him that here, more than anywhere else, the bush rangers had made a great effort to throw anyone who might be pursuing them off the trail. He had no doubt that the bush rangers had muffled their horses' hoofs with cloth, and had proceeded with the greatest care through the bush, so as to avoid breaking a single twig in their passage; and the only reason for such greater caution could be that it was here, and here only, that they wished to throw the pursuers off the trail. It would have seemed, to a white man, that they had done this before, especially when they had kept in the water course; but to black Jim's perception, it appeared that they had been more careless than would be expected; and that, while apparently doing their utmost to conceal their tracks, they had really left sufficient indications to allow a practised tracker to follow them.
Why then, now that they were far beyond the settlements, and fairly in the country of their native allies, should they, for the first time, so hide their trail that he could not discover it?
The result of Jim's thoughts was that, when he awoke at daybreak, he started back towards the settlements. When he came to the river which the party had passed, in pursuit of the natives, he kept along its bank, scrutinizing the ground with the greatest care. After six miles' walking he suddenly stopped, at a point where the soft turf near the margin was cut up by the passage of the party of horsemen. Here was the confirmation of his ideas.
Arguing the matter out with himself, Jim had arrived at the conclusion that, hitherto, the trail had been a false one, the bush rangers' object being to lead their pursuers to believe that they had gone far out into the native country; whereas, in fact, their hiding place was somewhere among the settlements. Should this be so, the only way to find them was to search for their back track. This he had now found and, with a shout of triumph at his own cleverness, Jim forded the river and followed the track of the horses.
This was now clear enough, the horsemen taking no pains whatever to conceal their traces, feeling perfectly confident that any pursuers must now be thrown off the scent. Jim followed it till sundown, when he had made some thirty miles; and then, withdrawing some little distance from the tracks, he made his fire and camped for the night.
He was now inside the line of the outlying stations, and had approached to the edge of a bit of wild and broken country, which offered so few inducements to settlers that it had been passed by for the better land beyond; although occasionally, when herbage was scarce, the settlers in the neighbourhood drove the animals up to feed among its hills. The black had no doubt that the gang, of which he was in pursuit, had their haunt somewhere in the heart of this wild and little-known tract.
In the morning he again started and, after travelling several miles, entered a narrow valley with very steep sides, with trees and brushwood growing wherever they could get a foothold. He now adopted a careless and indifferent carriage and, although he kept a sharp lookout, no one who saw him would have supposed that he had any particular object in view.
Presently he noticed that the tracks turned sharply off from the line he had followed, in the centre of the valley; and entered the trees, which grew thickly here at the foot of the hills. He made no halt, even for an instant, but walked straight on. Half a mile further he sat down and lit his fire, and began to cook some food. He had no doubt that he was watched for, just after he passed the point where the track turned off, he heard a very low whistle among the trees.
As he sat by the fire, he kept his back towards the direction from which he had come; and when he presently heard footsteps, no change in his attitude betrayed that he was conscious of the fact that persons were approaching him, until two men stopped beside him. Then, with a cry as of sudden alarm, he leapt to his feet.
"Lor' a mussy!" he exclaimed, "de white man frighten me bery much. What for dey no say dey come?"
"Who are you, nigger, and where do you come from, and what are you doing here?"
"My name Jim," he said; "me going tro' the country looking for place to tend hosses. Me bery good at hosses. Me look arter de hosses ob Mr. Hudson."
"What did you leave him for?" one of the men asked, sternly.
"Someting lost from de house," Jim said quietly. "Massa Hudson tink me took it. He make bobbery, so Jim ran away and look for nodder place."
"Um," the man said; "I wonder whether you are speaking the truth? If I thought you weren't, I would put a bullet through your head, in double-quick time."
"No, sah," Jim said in great terror; "dat de truth, sure 'nough. Jim try to get work at Sydney. Couldn't get; so start away, and ask at all de stations. No one want black boy for hosses, so keep on and tink dere more chance out furder. Does massa want a boy for hoss?"
"What do you think, Bill?" the man who had spoken asked his companion. "Shall we put a bullet in this fellow's head, at once, or make him useful?"
"I dussay he is a liar," the other replied; "but then all these black fellows are liars, so that does not make much difference. A black fellow would certainly be useful for the horses, and to look after the fire. We can always shoot him when we have done with him. We shall soon see, by the way he handles the horses, whether he has been accustomed to them."
"All right," the other said. "You come along with us then."
"What wages massa pay?" Jim asked.
"Anything you may be worth. Don't you fret about wages."
Jim pretended to hold out for a fixed sum; but the man said, in stern tones: "Come along, we don't want no more jaw, so you had best hold your tongue."
No other words passed till they got back to the trees, and then turned off where the horses had previously done so. Two minutes' walk brought them to a roughly-made shed, built against the almost perpendicular side of the hill. It was built of logs, and there was nothing to show that it was inhabited. No smoke curled up from the chimney. The door and shutters were closed. Anyone who, passing through the valley, had turned among the trees and accidentally come upon it, would have taken it for some hut erected by a wood cutter.
One of the men knocked three times at the door, and it was at once opened. Jim was pushed inside, the men followed him, and the door was shut.
"Who have you got here?" a man, sitting by the side of a large fire some distance inside the cottage, asked angrily.
"It's a nigger who wants work. He says he is accustomed to horses so, as it was the choice between shooting him and bringing him here, we thought we might as well bring him to you. It would be handy to have a fellow to look after the horses, and cut the wood, and make himself useful. If we find he is of no use, there will be no great trouble in getting rid of him."
"That is true enough," the other said, "and I don't think there's much risk about it.
"Come here, you fellow, and let me look at you."
Jim stepped forward towards the fire. He saw now that the hut was built against the entrance to a cave of considerable size. In the centre was a great fire, the smoke of which probably made its way to the surface through crevices in the rock above. Four other men, besides the one who had addressed him, were lying on sheepskins against the wall. There was an opening at the further end of the cave into an inner chamber; and here Jim knew, by an occasional snort or an impatient pawing, the horses were stabled.
The chief of the party asked a few more questions as to where Jim had come from, and how he chanced to be passing through so unfrequented a country. As the black had already decided upon his story, the questions were answered satisfactory enough.
"I think he's all right," the man said, at last. "At any rate here he is, and he's not likely to go out again. We have been talking of getting a black fellow, for some time; and as here is one ready to hand, we may as well make the best of him.
"Look you here," he went on sternly, to the black; "you come of your own free will, and here you have got to stop. You will have as much to eat as you can stuff, plenty of rum to drink, and 'bacca to smoke; and if there's anything else you fancy, no doubt you can have it. Only look you, if you put your foot outside that door, unless you are ordered to do so, I will put a bullet through your black brain."
"All right," Jim said. "Plenty eat, plenty drink, plenty smoke; dat suit Jim bery well. He no want to go out of de house, if massa say no."
"That's settled then. Now, put some more logs on that fire."
Jim at once assumed his new duty, and the bush rangers, who all hated the slightest work, were soon well satisfied with their new acquisition. There were several carcasses of sheep, hanging from hooks placed in the roof, where they were slowly smoked by the fumes from the wood. A pile of logs were heaped up in one corner, and these had to be cut up into sizes and lengths suitable for the fire. At one end a space was roughly partitioned off, and this was filled with groceries, flour, and cases of wine and spirits which had been taken from waggons going up country.
In the stable were several sacks of oats; and a barrel filled with water, which was drawn from a spring, a short distance from the hut. The first time Jim went into the stable the captain accompanied him, and soon saw, by the black's handling of the horses, that his account was so far accurate, and that he was thoroughly accustomed to stable work.
The cooking was also handed over to him, and the gang passed their time in sleeping, drinking, playing cards, and discussing plans of robbery. For the first few days a sharp watch was kept up on the black, and the men went out themselves to chop wood, or bring in water when it was required. After a few days, however, they relaxed their vigilance, and Jim gradually took these tasks also upon himself.
He was perfectly aware, although he pretended to be unconscious of it, that the first few times he went out one or other of the bush rangers stole quietly after him, and watched him at work; but as nothing suspicious was observed in his conduct, this supervision was gradually given up.
"It's time to be moving again," the leader of the band said, about a week after Jim had joined them. "We settled the next job should be Donald's station. We know for certain that he generally has money by him, and there will be the watches and trinkets of the women. That fellow Thompson, who worked for them at first, says he has got a first-rate cellar of wine; and that the women were both out-and-outers. If they are as pretty as he says, we will have them here, lads, to do the housekeeping. We want something to liven us up; besides, we shall forget our company manners, if we don't get some ladies to keep us up to the mark a little."
There was a burst of coarse laughter.
"What do you say, boys; shall we start tomorrow? It's a long ride, and we had best leave about noon. We must get into the neighbourhood before dark, so as to give the horses twelve hours' rest before we begin; for we may have to ride for it.
"It ain't likely. Barker's is the nearest station, and it would be hours before they could get together men enough who would dare to follow us; but still, it's just as well to be prepared, and since that confounded new police officer has been on the station, there's never been no certainty about things. We owe him one for that last affair, which cost Smith, Wilson, and Mulready their lives; but we will pay him out yet. Who would have thought of his being there, just on that very night? I swear, if I ever catch him, I will roast him alive."
"He is no fool," one of the others said. "He gave it those black fellows hot, and no mistake. The sooner he's put out of the way, the better. He's a different sort of chap than the last fellow. I sha'n't feel comfortable till he's got either a spear or a pistol bullet in him."
[Illustration: Jim Notes the Bush Rangers' Plans for Mischief.]
Jim, who was squatting in the corner, apparently half asleep, was listening intently to every word. They did not heed his presence in the slightest; for indeed he had, since his arrival, so mixed his talk with native words that the bush rangers had no idea that he could follow their conversations.
He was thinking, now, what was his best course to adopt. In the first place, he had gathered from their talk that this was only one of their hiding places, and that they seldom stayed very long in one neighbourhood. The question, therefore, was whether they would return. It was of no use his going to give the alarm, unless he could return before his escape was suspected; or they would have made off before he could get back again.
As for the Donalds, whose station was to be attacked, it gave him no concern whatever; for the Australian blacks had little or no regard for life, except those of people to whom they were attached. It was Reuben's mission to capture the bush rangers and, had it been necessary, Jim would have remained quiet while a dozen families were slain, until he found an opportunity of bringing the police down upon them.
He listened now, intently, for any word which might afford an index to their intentions. Presently the question he hoped for came.
"I suppose you will not come back here again, Tom?"
"No, I thinks it's getting too hot to hold us, in these parts. We might ride back here, give our horses a rest, and load up with a few things we may want. We can bring two or three spare horses from Donald's. The weather is pleasant now, and we might very well put in a few weeks with the blacks. That last haul we made of traders' goods--cottons, and beads, and trumperies for the gins, and brass rings and such like for the men--will put them in the best of humours. You may be sure there will be a hot chase after us, after this business; and I should propose that we try our luck down south, for a bit."
"I agree with you," one of the others said. "We have had a very good spell here, for the last ten months; and it don't do to tempt luck too long. That losing three of our number, last week, looked as if it was going to turn."
"What's it matter?" the captain laughed. "So much the more for us to divide. We have got a goodish bit of brass, now, to say nothing of the goods we have got at each of our places. We can fill up their places easy enough, any time; and those who come in are free to their share of what there is, in the way of grub and goods, but they only share in the brass from the time they join."
Jim had heard what he wanted, and he now lay down and thought it out. They were only coming back for a short time. Possibly they might change their minds, and not return at all. It would be a risky thing to depend upon it; besides, his master might be blamed if this attack on the Donalds succeeded.
It would be better, then, to try to get word to him, in time for him to be there before the bush rangers arrived. He himself would return to the hut; so that, if the police arrived too late, he would be able to continue with the bush rangers till some fresh opportunity occurred for bringing his master upon them. It was possible, of course, that one of the men would be left in the hut, in which case he had only to wait.
The next morning the men busied themselves examining and cleaning their arms, and after dinner they went to the inner cave, and led out their horses.
"Now, look here," the leader said to him, "we are going away, you see."
Jim nodded.
"We come back again tomorrow. I lock this place up, you stop quiet till we come back. If anyone comes and knocks, while we away, don't Jim answer. Let them think place empty."
"All right," Jim said shortly, and went and sat down by the fire, as if he had no further interest in their proceedings.
The windows, he had already noticed, had not only shutters outside; but they were firmly closed within, with massive planks, securely nailed and fastened. Jim heard the last of the party go out, and then the door was shut, and the lock turned. Jim heard the party ride off, and then threw himself on the ground and listened, to assure himself that they kept steadily on their way.
The moment he was sure they were gone, he began to search the place for a tool which would fairly suit his purpose. Presently he found a large butcher's knife, with which they cut up the carcasses; and with this he set to work to dig a hole in the ground, close to the wall of the hut. The bottom log was only sunk a few inches in the soil, and in two hours he had burrowed under it, and made his way out beyond; then he crept back again, scraped the earth into the hole again as tightly as he could, crawling out backwards. He then placed a piece of turf over the outside hole, and stamped it down flat.
It was possible that, after he had started, they might change their mind and send one of their number back again; that, however, had to be risked, and at a steady run he set off for the settlements. He did not make for the nearest; for he had gathered, from the talk of the men, that the convict labourers of most of the settlements in the neighbourhood were in league with them.
After three hours' steady running, in which he had covered over twenty miles, he saw a shepherd's cottage and, making for it, gave the man the message which he had taken to Reuben. He had no sooner done so, and had found that the man was willing to set off with it at once, than he turned and retraced his steps to the hut, as rapidly as he had come. It was already dusk when he reached it.
Instead of approaching boldly, he made a circuit and crawled up to it on his belly; and lay for some time, listening intently, with his ear to the door. He felt convinced that no one was there; but to make sure he knocked, and then withdrew among the trees. But all was still and, feeling sure now that the place was untenanted, he removed the piece of turf from the hole and made his way back into the hut again; carefully replacing the piece of turf, and then packing earth under it, so that it would not give way if trodden upon. This, however, was a very unlikely occurrence, as he had made the opening where some bushes screened it from view.
He swept up every scrap of soil from the floor inside, filled up the hole there and trampled it down; and then, after indulging his appetite to the fullest, threw himself down and went to sleep.
When he awoke, a few streaks of light streaming through the cracks of the door showed that it was day; and he made up the fire, and awaited the return of the bush rangers.
It was four or five hours before they returned, and the instant they opened the door and entered, Jim was sure that they had failed; but to his disappointment all were there, and his plan of taking them in a trap had not succeeded. At this he was not surprised; for his own calculations, as to the distance to be traversed, had shown him that it was very questionable whether, even under the most favourable circumstances, Reuben could have got there in time with his men.
Without speaking a word to him, the men led their horses through to the inner cave, and then threw themselves down by the fire. Jim at once proceeded to unsaddle the horses, and rub them down; keeping an ear open, all the time, to what was being said by the bush rangers. Their remarks however were, for a time, confined to terrible curses as to their luck.
"How did it come about, that's what I want to know?" the leader said. "This is the second time that accursed police fellow has turned up, and put a spoke in our wheel. Why, it was not more than half an hour after the first shot was fired before they was down upon us; there must have been pretty nigh twenty of them. How could they have got such a lot of men as that together, if they hadn't known that we were coming? It beats me altogether."
"So it does me!" was the general exclamation.
"They seemed regularly to jump out of the ground, just when all was going pleasant. Never knew such a bit of luck--that is, if it was luck, and not done o' purpose--and yet, I don't see as they could have known, possible, as we was going there. Why, we didn't know ourselves till yesterday, not what day it was to be; and except ourselves, and that black fellow, no one could have known it."
"Well, it's certain none of us blabbed; and I don't see as how he could have told anyone."
"Not exactly," the leader said, "considering he's been shut up here, ever since we have been away; besides, I don't believe he knew anything about it. He don't make out half we say to him and, when we are talking together, he minds us no more than if he had been a black monkey; but if he did, it's no odds, he could not have passed through these walls and back again; and if he could, who was he to tell it to? The men round here are all our pals, and would have cut his jaw short with a bullet. But there, it's no use talking about it, he's not been out, and there's an end of it.
"Still, it beats me altogether. That police fellow seems to know what we are up to, just as well as we do ourselves. I would give all my share of the swag we have made, for the last six months, for a shot at him."
"I don't like it," one of the others said, "I don't; blest if I do; and I says as the sooner we are out of here, the better. After what's happened, I sha'n't feel safe till I am well out in the blacks' country. If he knows what we are going to do, there ain't any reasons why he shouldn't know where we are."
"Why, Johnson," his leader sneered, "you don't really believe the fellow's a sort of conjurer, do you?"
"I don't know," the man said doggedly. "After he has turned up twice as he has, I shouldn't be surprised at nothing--not if I heard the sound of him and his men galloping up outside, now."
There was a moment's silence, as each involuntarily listened.
"We are getting to be like a pack of gals," the leader said savagely, "and I agree with you, the sooner we are out of this, the better. As soon as it gets dark, we will be on the move; but I tell you, directly we get out among the blacks, I shall come back again. I am going to carry off that gal, somehow. I've owed her one for years and years, and I always pays my debts--at least, that sort of debt.
"Now then, you black, just leave them horses for the present, and come and cook us some food; the quicker, the better."
Jim hurried about, but in the bush rangers' present state of temper, nothing would satisfy them; and when, in his hurry to satisfy their angry orders, he stumbled and upset a glass of spirits and water he was handing to the captain, the latter caught up a brand from the fire; and struck him so violent a blow on the temple, with the glowing end, that he fell senseless on the ground.
He must have lain there a long time. He was brought to his senses by a bucket of water being dashed over him; and he found, when he staggered to his feet, that the band were preparing to depart. They had already packed up the bales of presents for the blacks, and placed them on the horses. Some of their more valuable belongings were packed away in a secret hiding place, the rest were left to take their chance till they returned; and indeed, except by their friends among the shepherds, there was little probability of anyone paying a visit to the hut, however long their absence might be.
Had it not been that Jim had proved himself a really useful fellow, for the last week, they would have shot him at once and tossed his body in the wood; but they found it so pleasant, having all their work taken off their hands, that after a short discussion they decided to take him with them.
The door was locked, and they started at a trot; but evening was closing in, their horses had already performed two long journeys in the last twenty-four hours, and they soon settled into a walk. They travelled for some hours and, it being then evident that the horses could proceed no further, a halt was called. No fire was lighted, for they were scarcely beyond the settlements and, for aught they could tell, an active search might still be carried on for them.
So anxious were they, that they agreed to keep watch by turns; but when morning broke, it was discovered that the black was missing. The next quarter of an hour was spent in angry recriminations; but as none could say in whose watch he made his escape, their quarrel ceased.
"It's no use bothering about it," the leader said. "There's one thing, he knows nothing, and can tell nothing against us. He may guess what he likes, but people don't waste time in listening to black fellows' stories. I expect he has only given us the slip because of that lick across the head I gave him, last night. I admit I was a fool to do it, but I wasn't in the best of tempers.
"However, if the worst comes to the worst, he can only lead them to the hut; and they won't find much worth taking, there. When we once get out to the blacks, we can snap our fingers at them."
It was, indeed, about midnight when Jim had stolen away. He was still faint and giddy, and his face was terribly burned by the blow which had been dealt him; but when once fairly away from the bush rangers, he set out in the direction in which he knew the Donalds' station lay; and never halted until he arrived there, on the following evening, utterly wearied and worn out, for he had eaten nothing on the previous day.
"Then they have got away after all, Jim," Reuben said, when he had listened patiently to the long narration. "You have done all that was possible, Jim. You have done splendidly, my poor fellow, and although we were just too late to catch the bush rangers, we saved the people here; but it is indeed unfortunate that they should have got off."
"Jim knows where dey hab gone," the black said. "Dey hab gone to de country of Bobitu--I heard dem say de name. Jim know dat country well--he come from der."
Further question showed that Jim had, indeed, belonged to Bobitu's tribe; and had come with a party of his people down to the settlements, where he was taken ill and left to die, but was picked up and nursed by Mr. Hudson.
"And you could take us there?"
Jim nodded.
"Bery long march, massa. Tree days, with horses. Plenty bad people; much fight."
"I don't care how far it is, or how much fighting we have got to do; I am bound to hunt down that fellow, however far he's gone. I suppose there is no trouble about water. If they can go there, we can."
"Four, six water holes," Jim said. "No trouble about dat--trouble from de black fellow."
"Well, we must risk it, anyhow. We can't start for a day or two. I must send and fetch up all the police, and I daresay some of the colonists will join. The news of this business here has maddened everyone, and as it is not likely that the blacks will give any trouble for some time, and as we know the bush rangers have left for the present, no one need be afraid of leaving their station for a week or two."
The next day mounted messengers were sent off in all directions, giving notice that the police would start, in three days' time, for a hunt after the bush rangers; and that there was, this time, every prospect of success, as their hiding place was known.
On the day named, no less than thirty settlers assembled; together with the whole of the police force. All were well armed, and had brought several days' provisions with them. Mr. Donald had made marked progress, and the surgeon had now every hopes of his recovery; but as he could not be moved, and it was just possible the bush ranger might return to carry out his threat, during their absence, two constables were left in the house; and Kate was charged, on no account, to put her foot outside the door.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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17
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: In Pursuit.
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The last thing before the party started, Reuben went into the house. Mr. Barker was going to remain behind. He was past middle life, and the expedition was likely to be a very toilsome one; and Reuben was glad when he said that he thought six days' severe riding would be rather too much for him, and that he should constitute himself the guardian of the ladies.
"My wife has arranged to stay here, while you are away; so I shall ride over to my place and see that all is going on straight, every day, and sleep here at night."
"Well, ladies," Reuben said, as he entered the room, "we are just off. So I will say goodbye to you; and I hope that, on my return, I shall find Mr. Donald much better. I am sure that Mr. Ruskin would not have left, this morning, unless he felt that he had quite turned the corner. Pray take care of yourselves, while we are away. You know I don't want to alarm you, but pray be careful. I shall not feel comfortable, as to your safety, till I have that villain safely in my hands."
"Goodbye, Captain Whitney. You know you have all our best wishes," Mrs. Barker said. "We will take care of ourselves, till we hear that you have destroyed the band; and above all, its leader."
"The news that you have done so," Mrs. Donald said, "will do more, I think, for my husband, than anything in the way of doctoring. But take care of yourself, Captain Whitney. I know from what Mr. Barker said that, although you make light of your expedition, it is a dangerous one. He said the police had never ventured so far in the bush, and you may expect sharp fighting with the blacks."
"We may have a brush with them," Reuben said lightly; "but do not be anxious about us. We are a very strong party, and you need have no fear of the result.
"Goodbye, Miss Ellison; pray be careful till I return."
The last words were said in an undertone, as he held her hand.
"Goodbye, Captain Whitney," she said. "God bless you all, and bring you safely back."
Two minutes later, the party rode off. Jim was, like the rest, mounted, as they would travel fast. Four led horses carried provisions; for they would not, as before, find food by the way. It was two o'clock in the day when they started, and they rode thirty miles before they halted, for the night, at a water hole. They had seen no signs of natives during the day, but Reuben at once posted four men as sentries.
It was a merry party round the fire, for all were in high spirits at the prospect of an expedition to a point far beyond that to which any white men, with the exception of fugitives from justice, had penetrated; and they were delighted with the thought of putting a stop, at last, to the operations of the band who had so long been a scourge to the settlement.
Mr. Blount, Dick Caister, and several others who had formed part of the last expedition were of the party; and the confidence which these felt in their young leader, and in the sagacity of his native follower, communicated itself to those who had not formed part of the previous expedition.
"Must start early," Jim said to Reuben, the last thing. "Long way to water. Ride all day, not get dere before dark."
They rode rapidly for some time, after starting, so as to allow the horses to take it easily, during the heat of the day, when there was a halt of three hours; but in the afternoon they quickened their pace again, and men and horses were jaded and done up when, just as the sun was setting, they arrived at their destination.
"How that black fellow of yours finds his way through this bush is a perfect marvel to me," Dick Caister said. "The country has become more undulating, this afternoon; but the first thirty miles were almost perfectly level, and I could see nothing, whatever, that could serve as an index, except of course the sun. Still, that is only a guide as to the general direction. It must have been nine or ten years since that fellow was here, and yet he led us as straight as if he was making for a church steeple."
"It seems to be a sort of instinct," Reuben said, "although possibly, for the last part of the distance, he may have seen signs of the passage of the natives. As far as I can understand, he tells me at this time of year there is no other water hole, within a long distance; so that naturally there will be many natives making for it. I am glad there are not any of them here, now.
"Why isn't that horse hobbled like the rest?" Reuben asked suddenly. "Whose is it?"
"That is the one your black fellow rode, sir," Sergeant O'Connor said.
"Jim, where are you?" Reuben called, but no reply came.
"What has become of him, I wonder?" Reuben said. "Has anyone seen him, since we rode up?"
"He jumped off, the instant we came here," one of the policemen replied; "and said to me, 'Look after captain horse,' and I haven't seen anything of him since."
"There has been somebody here, sir," another policeman said, coming up. "Here's the remains of a fire, behind this bush."
"Yes," Mr. Blount said, examining them, and pulling out a brand that was still glowing. "Do you see, a lot of sand has been thrown over it. Whoever was here must have seen us coming, and tried to extinguish the fire when they caught sight of us."
"That is most unfortunate," Reuben said. "The fellows must have made off, to carry the news of our coming to their friends. However, it's too late to do anything now. It's already getting dark, and they must have got a quarter of an hour's start. We have taken quite enough out of the horses, and can do no more with them, if they have to travel tomorrow; but I would give a year's pay if this hadn't happened.
"Well, there's nothing to do for it but to light our fires, and camp."
The knowledge that they had been seen, and that the news would be carried to those of whom they were in search, acted as a great damper on the spirits of the party; and the camp was much more quiet and subdued than it had been, on the previous evening.
"All is not quite lost," Reuben said when, two hours later, he found that Jim was still absent from the camp. "I can only account for his stealing away from us, in that manner, by supposing that he must either have caught sight of the natives, or come upon their trail; and at once set off in pursuit. I don't see what it could be, otherwise."
"But if he saw them, why didn't he tell you, Whitney?" Mr. Blount said. "Tired as our horses were, they could have got up a gallop for a bit."
"Yes, but for a very short distance," Dick Caister put in; "and as it was getting dusk, if the blacks had had anything like a start, we could not have overtaken them before it had got quite dark. Those blacks can run like the wind. It takes a well-mounted man to overtake them."
An hour after the party had lain down, one of the sentries challenged; and the answer which came back, "All right, me Jim," at once brought everyone to their feet.
"Well, Jim, what is it? Where have you been?" Reuben asked.
"Jim hungry."
"That you may be quite sure," Dick Caister said, with a laugh. "Was there ever a native who wasn't hungry; unless he had stuffed himself, half an hour before?"
"Yes, I kept some supper for you, Jim," Reuben said; "but before you begin to eat, just tell me if everything is all right."
"Everyting all right," Jim said, squatting himself beside the still glowing fire, and beginning to eat.
Reuben knew, by experience, that it was of no use questioning him until he had finished; and he therefore waited patiently, although one or two of the settlers grumbled at being kept waiting for the news. When Jim had finished his meal, he looked round. Reuben knew what he was expecting, and handed him a hornful of rum and water. The black took a draught; and then, without any further delay, began to tell his story.
He had, while still some distance from the halting place, seen a light smoke coming up, and was sure that a party was already there.
"But why did you not tell us, Jim?" Reuben interrupted. "We might have galloped on, and caught them."
"No, sah, no catch dem; horses too tired, black fellow run away, when see white men coming. Dat no do at all. Only one way to do. Let 'em tink dat no one saw dem, else dey run and run, all de way to Bobitu.
"When get near camp, Jim see dat smoke not come up, know de black fellow see white man and put out um fire. When Jim come here he jump off hoss, find fire, and follow de track. Dey four men; one go one way, one go anoder, two men go straight on. Dey go on to tell Bobitu, de oders go to black fellows in de bush. Jim not care for dem, follow de two."
"But how could you follow them, in the dark?"
"Jim were sure de way dey go, dat enough for Jim. He suppose dat dey 'top after a bit; and when dey see de white men all 'top quiet at de water hole, and light fire, dey tink it all right. No make hurry, perhaps 'top and light a fire demselves.
"So Jim go on quiet for two, tree hour; den at last he see fire, sure 'nough. He crawl up quiet and see two black fellow dar, and hear what 'em say. Dey tired, make long walk today to water hole; say no hurry, white men all go sleep round fire, not go on till sun get up, so dey stop for two, tree hour to rest demselves.
"Jim get quite close and jump up, den cut off one black fellow head with sword, run sword through de body of other, finish 'em both, and den come back to camp."
"Well done, indeed, Jim!" Reuben exclaimed, and a chorus of satisfaction rose from all the party at hearing that the men--who, had they reached the bush rangers, would have given the alarm, and so enabled them to make their escape before the expedition arrived--had been killed. The news, however, that two of the party had escaped, and might bring the blacks down upon them before morning, necessitated an increase of precautions.
Reuben at once divided the force into four parties, each consisting of five constables and seven settlers. One party were at once placed on watch, and were to be relieved in two hours' time.
"I not tink dey come before morning, sah," Jim said. "No water hole near here. Tomorrow plenty black fellow come."
"All right, Jim. We don't care for them, in the daylight; and now that I know the bush rangers won't be alarmed, I don't mind."
Jim's prediction proved correct. The night passed off quietly, and the party again started at daylight. The country became more and more broken, as they proceeded. The undulations became hills. Some of these were so steep that all had to dismount, and lead their horses up.
"Is Bobitu's camp among these hills, Jim?"
"Ober toder side, sah. Him place in valley, toder side; bush, plenty game for black fellow."
"How far is it to this valley, Jim?"
Jim's ideas of figures were but vague, and he could only say that they would get there somewhere about sunset.
"That would be a bad time to get there, Jim. We must halt, a mile or two this side of them; and you must lead half the party round, so as to cut off their retreat, even if we don't attack them till the morning. On their fresh horses, those fellows will gallop right away from us, if they once get a start.
"There is no fear, I hope, of any of the other blacks getting there before us, and giving the alarm?"
Jim shook his head.
"No. We come straight from water hole. Black fellow go round long way. No fear dey get dere. Dey fight when we go back."
"That's all right. Bobitu's fellows, and the bush rangers, will be quite enough to tackle at once. As for the others, we will make short work of them, if they venture to attack us on the march back. They fight pluckily enough against men on foot, because they know they can make off when they like; but they can't stand a charge of horsemen."
Although not so long as the journey on the preceding day, the men were heartily glad when, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, the halt was called, and they heard that the place where the bush rangers were supposed to be was but four miles away. After some consultation, it was decided that Jim should lead half the band--consisting of ten constables under O'Connor, and fifteen colonists--round through the hills, to a position near the mouth of the valley in which the blacks and bush rangers were likely to be; and that, when he had posted them there, he should come back again to their present halting place, and lead forward the party under Reuben.
"Mind," Reuben said, before the others started, "we don't want to attack the blacks, unless they show fight. Our object is the bush rangers. Jim says that, by what he heard, they have got some sort of houses they have built there. Let us make straight for them. If the blacks attack, drive them off; but we can settle with them, afterwards. The great point is to capture or kill the bush rangers."
All agreed to this, for although the blacks gave great trouble, by driving off the sheep and cattle, and sometimes killing the shepherds, there was not the same feeling of hatred entertained for them as for the bush rangers. It was felt to be natural that the natives should resent the occupation of their hunting grounds; and although they were shot down without mercy in fair fight, or if overtaken while carrying off cattle, there was no active feeling of animosity against them; and they were generally kindly treated, when they called unarmed at the stations, and asked for food.
Against the bush rangers, on the other hand, a deadly hatred was felt by the colonists; and the fact that these were constantly aided, by the ticket-of-leave labourers, increased the hostility with which they were regarded.
Jim left his horse behind him, when he started with his party; saying that coming back at night, in the dark, he would rather be without it. After their comrades had set out, those who remained behind posted two men as sentries; and then, as soon as they had cooked and eaten a meal, laid themselves down to sleep, until the time should come for their advance.
It was just midnight when Jim returned. He reported that he had seen no blacks by the way, and that he believed he had posted his party without their being observed. He himself, instead of returning by the same route that he had taken them, had come straight up the valley.
There were, he said, two huts which had been built by the bush rangers; and these were now occupied by them. There were great fires blazing, and he thought that the natives had probably only arrived there that evening. He had got near enough to find that they were in a high state of delight, at the presents which their white friends had brought them.
"Did you catch sight of any of the bush rangers, Jim?" Reuben asked.
"Two ob dem came out and spoke to black fellows at fire, but too far off to see which dey were."
An hour before daybreak the party moved forward, and halted within half a mile of the bush rangers' camp. There they stopped, till they could see the sunlight touch the top of the hill at the right-hand side of the valley. This was the signal agreed upon and, mounting, they rode forward at full speed.
Just as they got within sight of the huts, they heard a wild shouting, followed instantly by the crack of rifles. Another minute, and they had reached the scene and joined the other party, who had made straight to the huts. The blacks, awakened suddenly as they were sleeping round the embers of their fires, had hastily thrown a volley of spears, and had darted away among the bushes.
"Surrender, in the queen's name!" Reuben shouted, "and I promise you that you shall be taken down, and have a fair trial."
The answer came in the flash of a rifle, from the window of one of the huts; and a constable immediately behind Reuben fell dead, with the ball through his head.
"Dismount!" Reuben shouted, "and break in the doors."
With a shout, the men threw themselves from their horses and rushed at the doors of the huts.
"Sergeant O'Connor," Reuben said; "do you, with six of your men, keep up a fire at the windows. Don't let a man show himself there.
"Let ten of the others look after the horses. We shall have the blacks back, in no time."
So saying, he ran forward and joined those who were battering at the doors. Several of them had brought stout axes with them, and the doors speedily gave way. There was a rush forward.
Mr. Blount fell dead, and Dick Caister's shoulder was broken by a bullet; but there was no check, as the colonists poured into the huts. There was a short sharp fight, but in two minutes it was over. Three of the gang had been shot, as they leapt from the windows. Four more lay dead, or dying, in the huts.
One of them had thrown down his arms, and shouted for mercy. He had been knocked down and stunned, by the butt end of a rifle; but was otherwise unwounded.
Short as was the fight, it had given time to the blacks to rally. Their shouts were ringing in the air, and the spears were flying thickly as the party, having finished their work, rushed outside again, to assist the constables who were guarding the horses.
"Pour a volley into the bushes," Reuben shouted; "then mount, and charge them."
The order was executed and, in a minute, the horsemen were dashing hither and thither among the bushes, shooting down with their pistols the blacks who resisted, or dealing tremendous blows among them with their hunting whips. The charge was irresistible, and in five minutes the main body of the blacks were flying, at full speed, up the steep hillsides.
The victors soon gathered round the huts. Several men and horses had been wounded with spears, but none of the injuries were of a serious character.
"Well, how about the prisoners?" Reuben asked the sergeant, who had arrived before him.
"There's only one prisoner, sir. All the rest are accounted for."
"Is it their captain?"
"I don't know, sir. I have never set eyes on him; but if he's a young chap, as they say, it ain't him."
"Jim," Reuben said, "just go round and examine the bodies, and see which of them is the captain."
Jim returned in a couple of minutes.
"None of dem ain't him, sah. He not dere."
Reuben started.
"Are you quite sure, Jim?"
"Quite sure, sah."
"Are you sure none of them escaped, sergeant?"
"I am quite sure of that, sir. No one came out of either of the doors, and there were only three who tried to bolt through the windows, and we accounted for them all. Perhaps that chap who is prisoner can tell you where to find the captain. It's a bad job, indeed, if he has escaped."
"Is the man recovering his senses?"
"Yes, sir, he's just coming round."
Reuben stepped into the hut. The escape of Thorne destroyed all the satisfaction which his success would have given him. He had good reason to know the fiendish malignity of the man and, in spite of the warnings he had given Kate Ellison, and his strict orders to the police on guard, he felt a thrill of anxiety, now that he was aware her enemy was still at large.
The prisoner was sitting up, in a corner of the hut; a policeman, with drawn sword, standing near him.
"Where is your leader?" Reuben asked sternly. "The man you call Fothergill."
"He went away yesterday morning," the man said, with a grin of satisfaction. "You haven't caught him yet; and you will hear more of him, before you do."
"Where was he going?" Reuben demanded.
"You won't get nothing out of me," the fellow said. "He's been a good mate, and a true, and I ain't going to put you bloodhounds on his scent. He's gone a-wooing, that's where he's gone, and that won't help you much."
Reuben at once went outside, and called the settlers round him.
"I am sorry to say," he said, "that the leader of the party has got away. He rode off yesterday morning, and although the prisoner we have taken did not say where he has gone, I have not the least doubt he has ridden back to the Donalds, to try and carry out his threat to return for Miss Ellison.
"Therefore, gentlemen, may I ask you to start homeward, at once. The horses have only done a few miles and, if we press forward, we may manage to get to our camp of the evening before last. We have no more to do here, except to see if there are any valuables hidden in the huts, and set fire to them.
"I expect that we shall have fighting with the blacks, on our way back. Those parties the two fellows who got away went to fetch will, likely enough, bar our way. If it were not for that, I should ride on by myself; but my duty is to stop with my men until, at any rate, we have passed the place where the blacks are likely to attack us. That done, I shall push on. It is annoying, indeed, to think that that fellow must have passed us somewhere on the way, yesterday."
The settlers agreed, at once. They all sympathized with Reuben, in his disappointment at the escape of the leader of the bush rangers; and regretted the matter deeply, on their own account. They were, too, now that the work was done, anxious to be off; not only because they wished to return to their stations, but because they felt that their position was a dangerous one. They had penetrated, to a distance hitherto unattempted, into the country of the natives; and they knew that these would gather round them, like hornets, on their return march.
Ten minutes were spent in the search of the huts. The police probed the ground with their swords, and closely examined the walls. They found, under some sheepskins in one corner, a bag containing upwards of two hundred pounds; which was doubtless the amount which the bush rangers had brought back with them, from their last plundering expedition, and had not yet been added to their main store, wherever that might be. This, however, was a welcome find to the police, and they abandoned the idea of searching further; and were about to set fire to the hut, when the prisoner said: "Lookee here! I may as well tell you where the lot is hidden. It may do me good, when it comes to the trial; and you may as well have it, as for it to lay there. You dig up the ground in front of that tree, behind the hut, and you will find it."
Five minutes later a large leather bag, containing a considerable quantity of gold and notes, and a number of watches, chains, and other trinkets, was brought to light.
"Don't stop to count the money now," Reuben said. "Fasten it on one of the horses, and let us be off.
"Sergeant, let Jones ride beside the prisoner, and be responsible for his safety. See that his hands are tied behind him, and his ankles tied securely to stirrup leathers. Let four men take charge of the eight horses of these bush rangers. Do you ride ahead with four others, and keep a sharp lookout as you go. Don't press the horses, but we must go at a smart pace, for we have a long day's march before us. It is fully sixty miles to the water hole where we camped, the night before last."
A few minutes later, the party were in motion. Although disappointed at the escape of the leader of the band, they were well satisfied with the result of the expedition, and at the small amount of loss at which it had been accomplished. There was general regret at the death of Mr. Blount; but two lives were considered to be but a small loss, for the capture of so strong a body of bush rangers; who, knowing that they fought with ropes round their neck, always made a desperate resistance.
Half the journey was accomplished without incident, and Reuben felt satisfied that they would, at least, have no trouble with the tribe they had scattered in the morning. The speedy start that they had made had taken them beyond their pursuit; and if attacked, it would be by other tribes.
After an hour's halt, to feed the horses and cook some meat for themselves, the party proceeded again. Another fifteen miles were passed; then Reuben saw the sergeant, with the little party ahead, suddenly draw rein. He galloped forward to them.
"What is it, sergeant?"
"I am pretty sure I saw a black fellow's head, over that rock, sir. It's a nasty piece of ground. I noticed it yesterday, as I came along. It would be the worst place to be attacked in of any we have passed. If the blacks are here in force, they know what they are doing."
Reuben examined the position. It was certainly a nasty place to be attacked in. The valley was narrow, and thickly strewn with boulders of all sizes, which had rolled down from the hillsides. Among these the bush grew thickly, and it was only down a narrow path in the centre, formed by a winter stream, now dry, that horsemen could pass.
"I don't think it would do to make a bolt through that, sir," the sergeant said, shaking his head. "We could only ride two abreast and, if they are strong, we should be riddled with spears before we got through; and there's no charging them, among those stones and bush."
"That is so, sergeant. We shall have to dismount, and drive them out foot by foot. There's nothing else for it."
By this time all the party had come up, and Reuben explained to them the situation. All at once agreed that they could do nothing on horseback, on such ground.
The whole party therefore dismounted. The horses were tied to bushes, and the prisoner securely fastened to a tree. Then, rifle in hand, they moved forward.
The sergeant's eye had not deceived him for, as they approached the spot where the boulders and bush grew thickest, a shower of spears was thrown, and the native cry rose shrill in the air. The party were advancing in skirmishing order; and most of them threw themselves down, or dodged behind rocks, as the blacks rose to throw their spears and, a moment later, the rifles cracked out. Several of the blacks fell, and the rest disappeared among the bushes.
"Make your way forward, steadily and carefully. Let each man watch his neighbour, to the right and left, and keep in line as much as you can."
The fight now commenced in earnest, but the settlers and police gradually made their way forward. Not only had they the advantage in weapons; but the fact that they were able to fire while lying down, or stooping, gave them an immense advantage over the blacks; who had to expose themselves when rising to throw their spears, or take aim with their bows.
Several times, emboldened by their superior numbers, the blacks attempted a rush; but the heavy fire from rifle and pistol which greeted them, each time, sent them back in diminished numbers. At last the resistance became feebler, as the natives, seeing that they were being driven out of their shelter, began to slink off; so as not to be exposed to the fire of the white men, in the comparatively open ground beyond. Many, however, were not quick enough, and were shot down as they scaled the steep hillside.
The party of whites gathered, and compared notes. Many had received wounds more or less severe, but none of a nature to prevent them from continuing their journey. They quickly returned to their horses and, mounting, continued their way.
"There is no fear of any farther attack, I should think, sergeant."
"I should think not, sir. The beggars must have had enough of it. They must have lost from forty to fifty men."
Two hours later, the party arrived at the halting place.
"Now, sergeant," Reuben said, "I shall hand over the command to you; and shall ride on at once, with my boy. I am most anxious about the man who has escaped. I shall take four of the bush rangers' horses. They have not been ridden and, having had three or four days' rest, are comparatively fresh. The fellow has had only one day's start and, if I push straight on, I may be there before him."
Reuben briefly bade adieu to his friends, while Jim was transferring the saddles to two of the bush rangers' horses and, leading two others, they started together in darkness. Changing saddles every ten miles, they rode on till past midnight, when they halted; for the horses, accustomed as they were to long journeys, were now completely broken down, and Jim and his master could scarce keep their seats.
"Too much long," Jim said, as he threw himself down, after taking off the saddles and hobbling the horses; "too much long, sah."
"It is long, Jim," Reuben replied. "People in England would hardly believe horses could go a hundred miles in a day, even if led a part of the distance. Another fifty miles will take us to Donald's. It is about twenty miles to the water hole where we camped, the first night; and that was about thirty miles from the station."
"Shall Jim light a fire, sah?"
"No, Jim, it isn't worth while. There is some cold meat in my haversack, if you are hungry; but I am too tired to eat. If there are any natives prowling about, a fire might bring them round on us."
"No tink black fellows near, massa."
"I don't think so either, but I don't want to run the risk, Jim; besides, I am sure neither of us can be trusted to keep watch."
Reuben, in spite of his fatigue, was some time before he could get off to sleep. The thought that probably Tom Thorne was, at that time, camped at the water hole twenty miles ahead; and that, in the morning, his horse would be far fresher than those he had ridden, was maddening to him. At one time he thought of getting up, and pursuing his way on foot; but he was stiff in every limb, and felt that the journey was beyond him. Moreover, if the bush ranger had taken some other line, and was not camping there, he would have no means of pursuing his journey.
At the first gleam of daylight they were afoot. The saddles were put on the horses, and they continued their way. Reuben soon found, however, that the five hours he had rested had been insufficient to restore the horses and, even by riding them alternately, he could get them but little beyond a walk.
On arriving at the water hole, the remains of a fire were found. Jim examined the ground carefully, and found the tracks of a horse; and was of opinion that the rider had started three or four hours previously. Reuben carried a large flask of spirits and, having poured what remained in it down the throats of the horses, and given them a drink at the pool, he again pressed on.
Ten miles farther, he arrived at the first outlying station. The owner of this had not joined in the expedition, being a married man, and unwilling to leave his wife in such an exposed position. But upon Reuben's arrival he at once agreed to lend him two fresh horses, and to take care of those which Reuben brought with him.
While the settler was driving them in from the paddock, his wife busied herself in preparing two huge bowls of bread and milk. These were thankfully swallowed by Reuben and Jim and, five minutes later, they started on the fresh horses.
It was indeed a relief, to Reuben's anxiety, to find himself again flying over the ground at a rapid gallop, after the slow and tedious pace at which he had travelled since morning. His spirits rose, and the fears which had oppressed him seemed lifted, as if by magic. He assured himself that he had no cause for anxiety, for that the two constables would assuredly be on the watch, and Kate had promised not to venture beyond the doors of the house until his return.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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18
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: Settling Accounts.
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Reuben soon checked the speed of his horse. Anxious as he was to arrive as soon as possible, he might, for aught he knew, yet have occasion to try the animal to the utmost; and he therefore reduced the almost racing pace, at which he had started, into an ordinary steady gallop. The horses were fresh and in good condition, and for several miles kept up the pace without flagging. Then they were allowed to ease down into a walk, until they got their wind again; and then started at the pace, half canter, half gallop, which is the usual rate of progression of the colonial horses. They drew rein at last on a slight eminence, from which the Donalds' station, a mile or so distant, could be perceived.
"Thank God," Reuben muttered to himself, "I am back here, at last. There is no occasion for further hurry;" and the horses were allowed to go at an easy walk.
"Man on horseback," Jim suddenly said, touching Reuben's arm.
"Where--where, Jim?"
"Gone from de house, sah, trough dem trees. Dare he go again, he gallop fast."
Reuben had not caught sight of the figure, but he pressed his spurs against the horse's sides.
"I will see who it is, at any rate. Jim, do you ride straight on to the house, and say I shall be there in a few minutes."
As Reuben rode, at a headlong gallop, towards the point where his course would probably intersect that of the horseman, riding in the direction Jim had pointed out, he turned over rapidly, in his mind, the thought whether his anxiety for Kate Ellison was not making a fool of him. Why should he turn from his course, just at the end of a long journey, to start at full speed on the track of this figure, of which Jim had caught only a glance? It might be a stockman, or someone who had ridden over from one of the neighbouring stations to see how Donald was getting on; but even so, he told himself, no harm was done by his assuring himself of that.
It was not the way Mr. Barker would take to his station. Had it been a neighbour who had come over, he would not be likely to leave again, so early. Neither of the constables would be riding away, in defiance of his orders on no account to stir any distance from the house.
Presently he caught a glimpse of the horseman. He was not more than half a mile away now, but the view he obtained was so instantaneous that he could not distinguish any particulars.
"He is riding fast, anyhow," he said. "Faster than a man would travel, on ordinary business. He is either a messenger, sent on urgent business; or it is Thorne."
He slightly altered the direction of his course, for the speed at which the horseman was travelling must take him ahead of him, at the point where Reuben had calculated upon cutting him off. In a short distance he would get a view of him; for the trees ended here, and the plain was open and unbroken, save by low bush.
When the figure came clear of the trees, he was but a quarter of a mile away; and Reuben gave a start, for he recognized at once the uniform of his own corps. It could only be one of the men left at Donald's and, with an exclamation of anger, Reuben pressed his horse to the utmost in pursuit of the man, who was now almost directly ahead, at the same time uttering a loud call.
The man glanced back but, to Reuben's surprise, instead of stopping waved his hand above his head, and pressed forward. Two miles were traversed before Reuben was beside him.
"What do you mean, sir?" he thundered out.
But the man pointed ahead.
"He has carried off Miss Ellison, sir, and has shot Brown dead. I will tell you, afterwards.
"There, do you see, sir, over that brow there?"
At the moment, Reuben saw a figure on horseback rise against the skyline, fully two miles in front.
"Ride steadily, Smithson," he said. "Keep me in view, and I will keep him. We must overtake him in time, for his horse is carrying double. I shall push on, for I am better mounted than you are; and he may try to double, and throw us off his traces. If anything happens to me don't stop for a moment, but hunt that fellow down to the end."
Reuben had been holding his horse somewhat in hand, during the last mile, for he thought there must be some reason for the constable's strange conduct; but he now let him go and, urging him to his full speed, soon left the constable behind. He knew that, for some distance ahead, the country was flat and unbroken; and that the fugitive would have no chance of concealment, whichever way he turned.
Upon reaching the spot where he had seen the bush ranger pass, the wide plain opened before him; and he gave a shout of exultation, as he saw that he had gained considerably. The fugitive, indeed, had evidently not been pressing his horse.
"He thinks he has a long journey before him," Reuben muttered. "I fancy he's mistaken. He thinks he's only got a constable after him, and that he can easily rid himself of him, whenever he comes up to him. No doubt he learned from some of the convicts that everyone is away, and therefore thinks himself safe from all pursuit, when once he has wiped out Smithson. All the better. I shall overtake him all the sooner."
Such indeed was the view of the bush ranger, who kept along at a steady canter, troubling himself very little about the solitary constable whom he believed to be in pursuit of him. When, indeed, on glancing round, he saw that his pursuer was within a quarter of a mile of him, he reined in his horse and, turning, calmly awaited his coming.
Reuben at once checked the speed of his horse. He knew that the man was said to be a deadly shot with his pistol, but he was confident in his own skill; for, with constant and assiduous practice, he had attained a marvellous proficiency with his weapon. But he did not care to give his foe the advantage, which a man sitting on a steady seat possesses, over one in the saddle of a galloping horse. He therefore advanced only at a walk.
The bush ranger put down the change in speed to fear, caused by his resolute attitude, and shouted: "Look here, constable. You had best turn your horse's head, and go home again. You know well enough that one constable is no match for me, so you had best rein up before I put a bullet in your head. If you shoot, you are just as likely to kill the young woman here, as you are me; and you know I don't make any mistake."
Reuben was already conscious of his disadvantage in this respect, for the bush ranger held the girl on the saddle in front of him, so that her body completely covered his. She was enveloped in a shawl, which covered her head as well as her figure. Her captor held her tightly pressed to him with his left arm, while his right was free to use a pistol.
Reuben checked his horse at a distance of some fifty yards, while he thought over the best course to pursue. As he paused, Thorne, for the first time, noticed that it was an officer with whom he had to deal, and not with the constable; who, as he believed, was the only one in the district. He uttered a savage exclamation, for he felt that this materially altered the conditions of the affair.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said. "I thought it was only one of your men; but the advice I gave is as good, for you, as for him. I advise you to turn back, before all my mates are down on you."
"Your mates will never be down on anyone again, Tom Thorne," Reuben said sternly. "We have wiped out seven of them, and the other is a prisoner."
"It's a lie!" the bush ranger said, furiously. "They are two hundred miles away, in the bush."
"With your friend Bobitu, eh? Yes, they were, but they are not now, Thorne. They are lying under the ashes of that hut of yours, close to the tree where you buried your treasure; and it's I who am going to have help, not you. My man will be up in a few minutes," and he glanced round at the constable, whom the bush ranger now perceived, for the first time, less than half a mile away.
Reuben's words had the effect they were intended to excite. They filled the bush ranger with fury, and desire for vengeance; while the sight of the approaching constable showed him that, unless he took prompt measures, he would have two adversaries to fight at once.
Without a moment's hesitation, he set spurs to his horse and dashed at Reuben. When within twenty yards, he fired.
Reuben felt a sharp pain, as if a hot iron had been passed across his cheek. Thorne uttered a shout of exultation as he saw him start but, as he kept his seat, again raised his hand to fire. In an instant Reuben discharged his pistol, and the bush ranger's weapon dropped from his hand, for Reuben's bullet passed through his wrist.
Throwing the burden before him headlong to the ground, Thorne drew a pistol with his left hand; and the two shots rung out again, at almost the same instant. Reuben, however, was slightly the quickest, and this saved his life. His bullet passed through the bush ranger's body, while Thorne's pistol was diverted somewhat from its aim, and the bullet struck Reuben's left shoulder, instead of his head. In an instant, he had drawn another pistol.
"Surrender or I fire!" and then seeing, by the change in the bush ranger's face, and by his collapsing figure, that he was badly hit; he waited, still keeping Thorne covered with the muzzle, for the bush ranger had a charge left in the pistol which he still grasped in his left hand.
Twice Thorne tried to raise it, but in vain. Then he reeled in the saddle, the pistol dropped from his hand, and he fell heavily over on to the ground.
Reuben at once leaped from his horse, and ran to raise Kate Ellison; who lay motionless on the ground, as she had been thrown. Removing the shawl wrapped round her head, he found she was insensible. Kneeling beside her, he raised her head to his shoulder and, a minute later, the constable galloped up.
"Badly hurt, captain?" he asked, as he leaped off his horse; for the blood was streaming down Reuben's face, and his left arm hung useless.
"Nothing to speak of, Smithson. See to Miss Ellison, first. There is some water in my flask in the holster. Just bring it here, and sprinkle her face. I hope she is only stunned; but that scoundrel threw her off with such force, that she may well be badly hurt."
"Is he done for, captain?" the man asked, glancing at the prostrate figure of the bush ranger, as he proceeded to obey Reuben's instructions; "because if you ain't certain about it, I had better put a bullet into him. These fellows are very fond of playing 'possum, and then turning the tables upon you."
"There is no fear of that, Smithson. He's hard hit. I hope he's not dead, for I would rather that he were tried for his crimes."
It was some time before Kate Ellison opened her eyes. For a moment she looked vaguely round; then, as her eyes fell upon Reuben's face, she uttered a little cry, and raised herself into a sitting position.
"What is it, Captain Whitney? Are you badly hurt?"
"Thank God you have recovered, Miss Ellison. You began to frighten me horribly. I was afraid you were seriously injured.
"Do not look so alarmed. I can assure you I am not much hurt; only a flesh wound, I fancy, in the cheek, and a broken collarbone."
"And you have saved me again, Captain Whitney?"
"Yes, thank God I have had that good fortune," Reuben said quietly; "and this time for good, for Tom Thorne will never molest you again."
"But can't I do something? Your face is bleeding dreadfully. Please let me bind it up;" and tearing a strip off the bottom of her dress, she proceeded to bandage Reuben's face.
The constable took off the black silk handkerchief which he wore round his neck.
"I think, miss, this will make a sling for his arm; and when that is done the captain will be pretty right.
"Do you think you can ride back, sir?" he asked, when he had fastened the handkerchief, "or will you wait till I ride back to the farm, and fetch help."
"I can ride back well enough," Reuben said, trying to rise to his feet; but he found himself unable to do so.
The ball, after breaking his collarbone, had glanced downwards, and the wound was a more serious one than he had imagined.
"No, I don't think I can ride back, Smithson."
"There is a light cart at the farm," Kate Ellison said. "Please fetch that. I will stop here, with Captain Whitney, till you come back."
"I think that will be the best way, miss," the constable agreed and, mounting, he rode off at once.
It was an hour and a half before he returned, bringing the cart; but before he arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Barker had ridden up on horseback, the former having returned from his visit to the farm, just as the constable rode in. While they had been alone, Reuben had heard from Kate what had taken place.
"I did as you told me, Captain Whitney, and did not go once outside the door. The constables kept a very sharp lookout, and one of them was always on guard by the door; so there really did not seem any possibility of danger.
"This morning, as I was washing up the breakfast things with Mrs. Barker, a shot was suddenly fired outside the door and, before I had time to think what it meant, that man rushed in. He caught me by the wrist, and said: "'Come along, it's no use your screaming.'
"Mrs. Barker caught up something and rushed at him, but he knocked her down with the butt end of his pistol. Then he caught up her shawl, which was lying on the chair close by, and threw it right over my head; and then caught me up, and carried me out.
"I tried to struggle, but he seemed to hold me as if I were in a vice. I heard Alice scream, and then I must have fainted; for the next thing I knew was that I was being carried along on horseback. I was so muffled up, and he held me so tight, that I felt it was no use to struggle; and I made up my mind to lie quite still, as if I was still insensible, till he put me down; and then--I think I intended to try and seize his pistol, or to get hold of a knife, if there was one and, if I could not kill him, to kill myself.
"There did not seem the least hope of rescue. Mr. Barker was away, and would not be back for hours. I supposed that the constables were shot, and all the men round were away with you; and from the distance you said you were going, I did not think you could be back for days.
"Presently I felt him stop and turn his horse; and then, when he spoke, I knew that he had not killed both the constables, and that one of them had followed him. When you answered, I thought it was your voice, though it seemed impossible; but I could not be sure, because I could not hear plainly through the shawl. Then the pistols were fired, and I suddenly felt myself falling; and I did not know anything more, till I saw you leaning over me.
"But where are all the others, and how is it you are here alone? Of course, you must have turned back before you got to where the bush rangers were."
"No, I am glad to say we succeeded with that part of the work, Miss Ellison, and have wiped out the bush rangers altogether. We have got one of them a prisoner, but all the rest of the gang are killed.
"The distance is not quite so far as we thought it was. It was a thirty miles' march, and two sixties. We attacked them at daybreak, on the third day after leaving."
"But it is only the fourth day today, is it not? At least, it seems so to me."
"It is the fourth day, Miss Ellison. When we found that the leader of the gang was not with them, and I learned from the man we had taken prisoner that he had started to ride back here, twenty-four hours before, I was naturally very anxious about you; knowing, as I did, what desperate actions the man was capable of. So we started at once and, after a sharp fight with the blacks, got down in the evening to the water hole, sixty miles on our way back, where we had camped the second night out.
"Of course the horse I had ridden could travel no further, but I pushed on with my black boy, on two of the horses which we had taken from the bush rangers, and which had been led so far. We made another forty miles by midnight, and then halted till daybreak, to give the horses rest; but they were so done up, this morning, that we could not get them much beyond a foot pace. When we came to the first settlement we exchanged them for fresh ones, and galloped on; and, thank God, we are just in time."
The tears were standing in the girl's eyes, and she laid her hand on his, and said quietly: "Thank you. Then you have ridden a hundred and fifty miles since yesterday morning, besides having two fights; and all because you were uneasy about me?"
"I had, as you see, good reason to be uneasy, Miss Ellison."
At this moment a horse's hoofs were heard approaching, and Jim galloped up. He had, on arriving at the station, been unable to obtain any information as to what had taken place. Mrs. Donald was in a dead faint. Mrs. Barker had, just before he arrived, ridden off to meet her husband; but the dead body of the constable, by the door, and the disappearance of Kate, showed him what had taken place; and he at once started after his master.
His horse, however, was a very inferior one to that ridden by Reuben, and until he met the constable returning, he had been obliged to follow the track of the horses in front; so he did not arrive at the scene of the fray till half an hour after its conclusion. He uttered exclamations of dismay, at seeing his master's condition; for Reuben had been gradually growing faint, and could now scarcely support himself on his elbow.
Jim, however, had taken the precaution to snatch a bottle of spirits from the shelf, before he started; having an eye to his own comforts, as well as to the possibility of its being required. He now knocked off the neck, and poured some into the cup of Reuben's flask, and put it to his lips.
"Thank you, Jim; that is just what I wanted."
"Massa lie down quiet," Jim said. "No good sit up;" and, gathering a large bunch of grass, he placed it under Reuben's head; and Reuben lay quiet, in a half dreamy state, until Mr. and Mrs. Barker rode up.
Kate rose to her feet as they approached; but she was so stiff and bruised, with her fall, that she could scarcely move forward to meet Mrs. Barker; and burst into tears, as her friend threw her arms round her.
"That's right, my poor child," Mrs. Barker said. "A cry will do you good. Thank God, my dear Kate, for your rescue."
"I do indeed, Mrs. Barker. It seems almost a miracle."
"Captain Whitney seems to spring out of the ground, whenever he's wanted. He seems hurt badly. The constable said it was a broken collarbone, but it must be something a good deal worse than that."
"Oh, don't say so, Mrs. Barker, after what he's done for me. If he were to die!"
"There, there, don't tremble so, child. We must hope that it is not so bad as that; but he would hardly be looking so bad as he does, for only a broken collarbone. My husband broke his--one day the horse ran away with him, among some trees--and he was up and about again, in a day or two.
"Is he badly hurt, do you think, John?" she asked her husband, who was kneeling beside Reuben.
"I hope not," the settler said. "He ought not to be like this, only from a wound in the collarbone; but of course it may have glanced down, and done some internal mischief. I am inclined to think that it is extreme exhaustion, as much as anything--the reaction after a tremendous nervous excitement."
"He has ridden a hundred and fifty miles, since yesterday morning," Kate said, "and has had two fights, besides this. Directly he knew that the leader of the bush rangers had escaped, he came on by himself."
"Oh! They caught the bush rangers, did they?" Mr. Barker said, joyfully. "I was afraid, by his getting back here so soon, that they must have missed them somehow, and found they were on the wrong scent.
"And he has ridden all the way back, has he? A very zealous officer, Miss Ellison, a very zealous young officer, indeed."
But Kate was too anxious, and shaken, to mark the significance of Mr. Barker's tone.
"Don't tease her," his wife said, in a low voice. "She is terribly upset and shaken, and can hardly stand.
"Ah! What is that?"
The interruption was caused by a low groan from the fallen bush ranger.
"Shoot him dead, sah," Jim, who was supporting his master's head, exclaimed. "Don't let dat fellow come 'live no longer."
"I can't do that, Jim," Mr. Barker said, moving towards the fallen man. "The man is a thorough scoundrel, a murderer, and a robber; but he is harmless now. One cannot wish he should recover, even for his own sake; for there is enough against him to hang him, ten times over. However, we must do what we can for the poor wretch."
So saying, he mixed some brandy with a little water in the cup, and poured it between the bush ranger's lips.
"Is it mortal?" Mrs. Barker asked, as he rejoined her.
"I think so," he said. "I fancy he is shot through the lungs.
"You must really sit down, Miss Ellison. You look as white as a ghost, and we cannot have you on our hands, just now. We have got them pretty full, as they are.
"Ah! Here comes the cart."
The constable had put a quantity of straw in the bottom of the light cart, and Barker and Jim raised Reuben, and laid him in it.
"We must take the other, too," Mr. Barker said. "The man is alive, and we can't leave him here."
"Yes," Kate said; "he must go, too. He did Reuben a great wrong, years ago. I hope he will confess it, before he dies."
Mr. Barker glanced at his wife, as Kate used the young officer's Christian name; but she was not thinking of Captain Whitney of the police, but of the boy Reuben, who had been accused of poisoning her father's dog, and of committing a burglary from his house.
"You had better get up in front, with the constable, Miss Ellison," the settler said, when the two wounded men had been placed in the cart. "You certainly are not fit to ride.
"Or, look here, the constable shall take my horse, and I will drive; and then I can look after you, and you can use me for a prop, if you feel weak; but before we start, I must insist on your taking a sip of brandy and water.
"It is no use your saying no," he persisted, as the girl shook her head. "We shall have you fainting before you get home, if you don't."
Kate did as she was ordered. Mr. Barker then helped her up to her seat. As she got up, her eyes fell upon Reuben's face.
"Oh, Mr. Barker!" she said. "He looks dead. You are not deceiving me, are you?"
"Bless me, no!" the settler said, cheerfully. "My opinion is that he's dead asleep. The loss of blood, the sudden reaction after the long excitement, and the exhaustion of his ride have completely overcome him; and my opinion is that he is sound asleep.
"Jim, do you lead your master's horse, while the constable takes the other; and then you two had better ride on, and help Mrs. Donald get things ready. Get a bed up at once, for Captain Whitney; and get some clean straw in the outhouse, with one of the rugs over it, for the other."
So saying, he touched the horse with the whip, and the cart moved slowly on, with Mrs. Barker riding beside it. She would have gone on ahead, to have assisted in the preparations; but she expected, momentarily, to see Kate faint, and thought it better to remain with her, in case her assistance should be required.
The journey occupied some time, for Mr. Barker picked the way carefully, so as not to jolt the cart. Mrs. Barker endeavoured to keep Kate's attention fixed, by asking her questions as to what she had heard about the expedition, wondering when it would return, and whether any of the settlers were hurt. When they got within half a mile of home, she said: "I think, dear, you are looking a little better now. I will ride on. Fortunately there is the beef tea we made, last night, for Mr. Donald. I will get it made hot, and I will get a cup of strong tea ready for you. That will do wonders."
When the cart arrived Mrs. Donald ran out and, as Kate descended, clasped her in a long embrace.
"Come straight in here, my dear," Mrs. Barker said. "I have got a basin of cold water, and a cup of strong tea, and the two together will do marvels. We will attend to your wounded hero."
Reuben remained perfectly quiet and inert, as he was lifted out and carried into the house, where a bed had been made up for him in a room on the ground floor.
"Just lay him down. Throw a blanket over him, and let him lie perfectly quiet."
"Do you think he is really asleep?" Mrs. Barker asked, as she looked at the quiet face.
"I do, really," her husband replied. "Put your ear close to his mouth. He is breathing as quietly as a child.
"And," he added, placing his fingers on Reuben's wrist, "his pulse is a little fast, but regular and quiet. Twenty-four hours of sleep will set him up again, unless I am greatly mistaken. I don't expect that his wound will turn out anything very serious.
"Let me think. Was it not this afternoon that Ruskin said he would be back again?"
"Yes, either yesterday or today."
"That is lucky. He will be surprised at finding two new patients on his hands, now.
"I will go and have a look at that poor wretch in the shed. Give me a cupful of beef tea. I will pour a spoonful or two between his lips. You had better go and look after Kate. You will not be needed here, at present.
"If your master wakes, Jim, let us know directly," he said to the black, who had seated himself on the ground by the side of Reuben's bed.
"I can't call the poor fellow away from his master," he added to his wife, as he closed the door behind them; "but I am really anxious to know what has taken place, out in the bush; and whether many of our fellows have been killed. If, as Kate said, she heard the captain tell the bush ranger that all his band had been killed, except one who is a prisoner, it has indeed been a most successful expedition; and we colonists can hardly be sufficiently grateful, to Whitney, for having rid us of these pests. What with that, and the thrashing the blacks have had, we shall be able to sleep quietly for months; which is more than we have done for a long time."
Kate came out of the room, with Mrs. Donald, a minute later. The basin of cold water and the tea had had the effect Mrs. Barker predicted. A little colour had returned into her cheeks, and she looked altogether more like herself.
"How is he?" Mrs. Donald asked.
"In my opinion, he's doing capitally, Mrs. Donald. His pulse is quiet and even, and he's breathing as quietly as a child; and I believe he is simply in a state of exhaustion, from which he is not likely to wake till tomorrow morning; and I predict that, in a few days, he will be up and about. Indeed, if that bullet hasn't misbehaved itself, I see no reason why he shouldn't be up tomorrow."
"That is indeed a relief, to us both," Mrs. Donald said, while Kate could only clasp her hands in silent thankfulness.
"And now, how is your husband? I hope he is none the worse, for all this exertion."
"He was terribly agitated, at first," Mrs. Donald said. "I fainted, you know, and he got out of bed to help me up; and it was as much as I could do, when I recovered, to get him to lie down; for he wanted to mount and ride after Kate, although, of course, he is as weak as a child, and even with my help he could scarcely get into bed again.
"Fortunately Mrs. Barker ran in, before she started on horseback to fetch you, to say that the constable was off in pursuit, and that quieted him. Then I think he was occupied in trying to cheer me, for as soon as he was in bed I broke down and cried; till the constable came back to say that Captain Whitney had overtaken, and shot, the bush ranger."
Three hours later, to the great relief of all, the surgeon arrived. He was first taken in to look at Reuben, having been told all the circumstances of the case; and he confirmed Mr. Barker's opinion that he was really in a deep sleep.
"I would not wake him, on any account," he said. "It is a great effort of nature, and he will, I hope, awake quite himself. Of course, I can't say anything about the wound, till he does.
"Now for his antagonist."
The bush ranger was still unconscious, though occasionally broken words came from his lips. The surgeon examined his wound.
"He is shot through the lungs," he said, "and is bleeding internally. I do not think that there is the shadow of a chance for him, and no one can wish it otherwise. It will only save the colony the expense of his trial.
"And now for my original patient."
He was some time in Mr. Donald's room and, when he came out, proceeded at once to mix him a soothing draught, from the case of medicines he carried behind the saddle.
"We must get him off to sleep, if we can," he said; "or we shall have him in a high state of fever, before morning. A man in his state can't go through such excitement as he has done, without paying the penalty.
"And now, I suppose, I have done," he said with a smile, as Mrs. Donald left the room with the medicine.
"Yes, I think so," Mrs. Barker said. "If you had come an hour earlier, I should have put this young lady under your charge; but I think that the assurance of my husband, that Captain Whitney was doing well, has been a better medicine than you could give her."
"No wonder she is shaken," Mr. Ruskin remarked.
"Mrs. Barker tells me you had a heavy fall, too, Miss Ellison."
"Yes," she replied. "I was stunned for a time but, beyond being stiff and bruised, I am none the worse for it."
"Look here, Miss Ellison," the doctor said, after putting his fingers on her wrist, "I suppose you will want to be about, tomorrow, when our brave army returns. Now, there is nothing you can do here. Mrs. Donald can nurse her husband. The other two require no nursing. Mrs. Barker, I am sure, will take charge of the house; and therefore, seriously, I would ask you to take this draught I am about to mix for you, and to go upstairs and go to bed, and sleep till morning."
"I could not sleep," Kate protested.
"Very well, then, lie quiet without sleeping; and if, in the evening, you find you are restless, you can come down for an hour or two; but I really must insist on your lying down for a bit.
"Now, Mrs. Barker, will you take this medicine up, and put this young lady to bed."
"I hope she will get off to sleep," Mrs. Barker said, when she came downstairs again.
"I have no doubt whatever about it," Mr. Ruskin replied. "I have given her a very strong sleeping draught, far stronger than I should think of giving, at any other time; but after the tension that the poor girl must have gone through, it would need a strong dose to take effect. I think you will hear nothing more of her, till the morning."
Indeed, it was not until the sun was well up, the next morning, that Kate Ellison woke. She could hardly believe that she had slept all night; but the eastern sun, coming in through her window, showed her that she had done so. She still felt bruised and shaken all over, but was otherwise herself again. She dressed hastily, and went downstairs.
"That's right, my dear," Mrs. Barker, who was already busy in the kitchen, said. "You look bonny, and like yourself."
"How are my brother and Captain Whitney?" Kate asked.
"I don't think Mr. Donald is awake, yet," Mrs. Barker replied; "but Captain Whitney has just gone out to the shed, with my husband and the surgeon."
"Gone out to the shed!" Kate repeated, in astonishment.
"Yes, my dear. That poor wretch out there is going fast. He recovered consciousness about two hours ago. The constable was sitting up with him. He asked for water, and then lay for some time, quite quiet.
"Then he said, 'Am I dreaming, or was it Reuben Whitney I fought with?' " 'Yes, it was Captain Reuben Whitney, our inspector,' the constable replied.
"For a time he lay quiet again, and then said: 'I want to see him.'
"The constable told him he was asleep, and couldn't be woke. " 'Is he badly wounded?' the man asked. 'I know I hit him.' " 'Not very badly, I hope,' the constable answered. " 'When he wakes ask him to come to me,' the man said. 'I know I am dying, but I want to see him first. If he can't come, let somebody else come.'
"The constable came in and roused the doctor, who went out and saw him, and said he might live three or four hours yet.
"Soon afterwards, just as the sun rose, Jim came out, to say that his master was awake. Mr. Ruskin went in to him and examined his wound, and probed the course of the bullet. It had lodged down just at the bottom of the shoulder bone. I am glad to say he was able to get it out. When he had done, he told his patient what the bush ranger had said; and Captain Whitney insisted upon going out to him."
"It won't do him any harm, will it?" Kate asked anxiously.
"No, my dear, or Mr. Ruskin would not have let him go. I saw him as he went out, and shook hands with him and, except that nasty bandage over his face, he looked quite himself again. As I told you, a broken collarbone is a mere nothing and, now we know where the bullet went and have got it out, there is no occasion for the slightest anxiety.
"Here they come again, so you can judge for yourself."
A very few words passed between Reuben and Kate; for Mrs. Barker, who saw how nervous the girl was, at once began to ask him questions about what the bush ranger had said.
"He has made a confession, Mrs. Barker, which your husband has written down, and Mr. Ruskin and Smithson have signed. It is about a very old story, in which I was concerned when a boy; but it is a great gratification for me to have it cleared up, at last. I was accused of poisoning a dog, belonging to Miss Ellison's father; and was tried for a burglary, committed on the premises, and was acquitted, thanks only to Miss Ellison's influence, exerted on my behalf-- "I fear," he said with a slight smile, "somewhat illegally.
"However, the imputation would have rested on me all my life, if it had not been for Thorne's confession. I thought that he did the first affair. I knew that he was concerned in the second, although I could not prove it; but he has now made a full confession, saying that he himself poisoned the dog, and confirming the story I told at the trial."
"Oh, I am glad!" Kate exclaimed. "You know, Captain Whitney, that I was sure of your innocence; but I know how you must have longed for it to be proved to the world.
"What will you do, Mr. Barker, to make it public?"
"I shall send a copy of the confession, properly attested, to the magistrates of Lewes; and another copy to the paper which, Captain Whitney tells me, is published there weekly.
"It is curious," he went on, "that the sight of Whitney should have recalled those past recollections; while, so far as I could see, everything that has happened afterwards, his career of crime and the blood that he has shed, seem altogether forgotten."
"I suppose there is no hope for him?" Kate asked, in a low voice.
"He is dying now," Mr. Barker said. "Ruskin is with him. He was fast becoming unconscious when we left him, and Ruskin said that the end was at hand."
A quarter of an hour later the surgeon came in, with the news that all was over.
"Now, Captain Whitney, you must come into your room, and let me bandage up your shoulder properly. I hadn't half time to do it, before."
"But you won't want me to lie in bed, or any nonsense of that sort?" Reuben asked.
"I would, if I thought you would obey my orders; but as I see no chance of that, I shall not trouble to give them. Seriously, I do not think there is any necessity for it, providing always that you will keep yourself very quiet. I shall bandage your arm across your chest, so there can be no movement of the shoulder; and when that is done, I think you will be all right."
There was only one more question which Reuben had to ask, with regard to the event of the preceding day--why it was that Smithson did not go to his comrade's assistance. He then learned that Thorne rode quietly up to the back of the house and dismounted, then went to the stable, where Smithson was asleep--having been on guard during the night--and pushed a piece of wood under the latch of the door, so that it could not be raised. Having thus securely fastened Smithson in, he had gone to the front of the house, and had apparently shot down the constable there before the latter was aware of his presence.
Smithson, awakened by the shot, tried in vain to get out; and was only released by Mrs. Barker, when she recovered from the effect of the stunning blow which the bush ranger had struck her. He had then mounted at once, and followed in pursuit.
In the afternoon the party returned from the bush, having experienced no further molestation from the natives. Nothing occurred to interfere with the progress of Reuben's wound and, in the course of a fortnight, he was again able to resume his duties.
The complete destruction of the gang of bush rangers, and the energy with which they had been pursued into the very heart of the bush country, made a vast sensation in the colony; and Reuben gained great credit, and instant promotion for his conduct.
A month after the return of the party from the bush, Mr. Donald was about again and, as the danger was now past, he abandoned his idea of selling his property. The course which events took can be judged by the following conversation, between Mrs. Donald and her sister, three months later.
"Well, Kate, after all he has done for us, of course I have nothing to say against it; and I don't suppose you would mind, if I had. Still, I do think you might have done better."
"I could not have done better," Kate said hotly, "not if I had had the pick of the whole colony."
"Well, not in one way, my dear; for you know that, personally, I like him almost as well as you do. Still, I do think it is a little unfortunate that we ever knew him before."
"And I think it's extremely fortunate," Kate said stoutly. "If it hadn't been that he had known us before, and cared for me--he says worshipped, but that's nonsense--ever since I was a child, he would never have made that terrible ride, and I--" "Oh, don't talk about it, Kate; it's too dreadful even to think of now.
"Well, my dear, no doubt it's all for the best," Alice said philosophically. "At any rate, you are quite happy, and he is a noble fellow. But I hope, for your sake, that he won't stay in the police. It would be dreadful for you when he was riding about, hunting after bush rangers and blacks; for you know, my dear, there are plenty of others left in the colony."
"I told him so yesterday," Kate said shyly. "I said, of course, that I didn't want to influence him."
Alice broke into a laugh.
"You little goose, as if what you say doesn't influence him."
Three weeks later, Reuben received a letter from Mr. Hudson.
"My dear Whitney, I am glad to hear, from you, that you are engaged to be married; and the circumstances which you tell me of make it a most interesting affair. If I were you, I should cut the constabulary. I enclose a paper from Wilson, giving you three weeks' leave. Come down to Sydney at once, and talk it over with me. You know I regard you as my son, and I am going to have a voice in the matter."
Reuben went down to Sydney and, after ascertaining his views, Mr. Hudson went into town and forthwith arranged for the purchase, for him, of a partnership in the chief engineering firm in the town. When he told Captain Wilson what he had done, the latter declared that he had robbed the colony of its best police officer. Reuben protested against the generosity of the old settler, but the latter declared he would have no nonsense on the subject.
"I am one of the richest men in the colony," he said, "and it's hard if I can't spend my money as I choose."
There is little more to tell. Reuben became one of the leading citizens of Sydney and, twenty years afterwards, sold his business and returned to England, and bought an estate not far from Lewes, where he is still living with his wife and family. He was accompanied from Australia by his mother; who, in spite of her strong objections to the sea, went out to live with him, two years after his marriage.
The only point upon which Reuben Whitney and his wife have never been able to come to an absolute agreement is as to which owes most to the other.
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{
"id": "20031"
}
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1
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: A French Lugger.
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Some half a mile back from the sea, near the point where the low line of sandy hill is broken by the entrance into Poole Harbour, stood, in 1791, Netherstock; which, with a small estate around, was the property of Squire Stansfield. The view was an extensive one, when the weather was clear. Away to the left lay the pine forests of Bournemouth and Christ Church and, still farther seaward, the cliffs of the Isle of Wight, from Totland Bay as far as Saint Catherine Point. Close at hand to the south was Studland Bay, bounded by Handfast Point. Looking towards the right was a great sheet of shallow water, for the most part dry at low tide, known as Poole and Wareham Harbours, with its numerous creeks and bays.
Netherstock was an old house, with many nooks and corners. The squire was a justice of the peace but, unless there was some special business on, he seldom took his place on the bench. He was a jovial man, who took life easily. He was popular among his neighbours, especially among the poorer classes; for whom he had always a pleasant word, as he rode along; and who, in case of illness, knew that they could always be sure of a supply of soup, or a gill of brandy at Netherstock.
Among those of his own class it was often a matter of wonder how James Stansfield made both ends meet. The family had, for two or three generations, been of a similar temperament to that of the present holder; men who spent their money freely, and were sure to be present whenever there was a horse race, or a main of cocks to be fought, or a prizefight to come off, within a day's ride of Netherstock. Gradually, farm after farm had been parted with; and the estate now was smaller, by half, than it had been at the beginning of the century.
James Stansfield had, however, done nothing further to diminish it. He had a large family, but they could hardly be said to be an expensive one, seeing that little was spent upon the fashion of their clothes; and beyond the fact that the curate in charge of the little church in the village of Netherstock came over, every morning for two or three hours, to give the boys and girls the elements of education, they went very much their own way. Mrs. Stansfield had died, five years before this. Polly, the eldest girl, aged twenty, acted as mistress of the house. Next to her, at intervals of little more than a year, came Ralph and John; two strongly built young fellows, both fearless riders and good at all rustic games. What supervision the farm work got was given by them.
Patsey, the second girl, was generally admitted to be the flower of the Stansfields. She was bright, pretty, and good tempered. She was in charge of the dairy, and the Netherstock butter was famous through the country round, and always fetched top prices at the market. The youngest of the family was Leigh, who was now fourteen. He was less heavily built than his brothers, but their tutor declared that he was the quickest and most intelligent of his pupils; and that, if he had but a chance, he would turn out a fine young fellow.
The boys were all fond of boating and sailing, which was natural enough, as the sea washed two sides of the estate. They had two boats. One of these lay hauled up on the sands, a mile to the east of the entrance to the harbour. She was a good sea boat and, when work was slack about the place, which indeed was the normal state of things, they would often sail to Weymouth to the west, or eastward to Yarmouth or Lymington, sometimes even to Portsmouth. The other boat, which was also large, but of very shallow draught of water, lay inside the entrance to the harbour; and in her they could go either north or south of Brownsea Island, and shoot or fish in the many inlets and bays. There were few who knew every foot of the great sheet of water as they did, and they could tell the precise time of the tide at which the channels were deep enough for boats drawing from two to three feet of water.
The most frequent visitor to Netherstock was Lieutenant, or, as he was called in courtesy, Captain Whittier, the officer in command of the coast guard station between Poole and Christ Church; his principal station being opposite Brownsea Island, the narrowest point of the entrance to the harbour. He was a somewhat fussy little officer, with a great idea of the importance of his duties, mingled with a regret that these duties did not afford him full scope for proving his ability.
"Smuggling has almost ceased to exist, along here," he would say. "I do not say that, across the harbour, something that way may not still be done; for the facilities there are very much greater than they are on this side. Still, my colleague there can have but little trouble; for I keep a sharp lookout that no boat enters by the passage south of the island without being searched. Of course, one hears all sorts of absurd reports about cargoes being run; but we know better, and I believe they are only set on foot to put our officers from Swanage Westward, and beyond Christ Church down to Hurst Castle, off their guard."
"No doubt, captain; no doubt," James Stansfield would agree. "Still, I fancy that, although times are not what they were, it is still possible to buy a keg of brandy, occasionally, or a few yards of silk or lace, that have never paid duty."
"Yes, no doubt occasionally some small craft manages to run a few kegs or bales; and unfortunately the gentry, instead of aiding his majesty's representatives, keep the thing alive by purchasing spirits, and so on, from those who have been concerned in their landing."
"Well, you know, Captain Whittier, human nature is pretty strong. If a pedlar comes along here with ribbons and fal-lals, and offers them to the girls at half the price at which they could buy them down at Poole, you can hardly expect them to take lofty ground, and charge the man with having smuggled them."
"I do not think the young ladies are offenders that way," the officer said, "for I have never yet seen them in foreign gear of any sort. I should, if you will allow me to say so, be more inclined, were you not a justice of the peace, to suspect you of having dealings with these men; for your brandy is generally of the best."
"I don't set up to be better than my neighbours, captain," the squire said, with a laugh; "and if the chance comes my way, I will not say that I should refuse to buy a good article, at the price I should pay for a bad one in the town."
"Your tobacco is good, too, squire."
"Yes, I am particular about my tobacco, and I must say that I think government lays too high a duty on it. If I had the making of the laws, I would put a high duty on bad tobacco, and a low duty on a good article; that would encourage the importation of good wholesome stuff.
"I suppose you have heard no rumours of any suspicious looking craft being heard of, off the coast?"
"No, I think that they carry on their business a good deal farther to the west now. My post is becoming quite a sinecure. The Henriette came into Poole this morning, but we never trouble about her. She is a fair trader, and is well known at every port between Portsmouth and Plymouth as such. She always comes in at daylight, and lays her foresail aback till we board her, and send a couple of men with her into Poole or Wareham. Her cargo is always consigned to well-known merchants, at all the ports she enters; and consists of wines, for the most part, though she does occasionally bring in brandy.
"He is a fine young fellow, the skipper, Jean Martin. I believe his father is a large wine merchant, at Nantes. I suppose you know him, squire?"
"Yes, I have met him several times down in the town, and indeed have bought many a barrel of wine of him. He has been up here more than once, for I have told him, whenever he has anything particularly good either in wine or spirits, to let me know. He talks a little English, and my girls like to have a chat with him, about what is going on on his side of the water. He offered, the other day, to give Leigh a trip across to Nantes, if I was willing.
"Things seem to be going on very badly in Paris, by what he says; but he does not anticipate any troubles in the west of France, where there seems to be none of that ill feeling, between the different classes, that there is in other parts."
The departure of Captain Whittier was always followed by a broad smile on the faces of the elder boys, breaking occasionally into a hearty laugh, in which the squire joined.
"I call him an insufferable ass," Ralph said, on this particular evening. "It would be difficult, as father says, to find an officer who is, as far as we are concerned, so admirably suited for his position."
"That is so, Ralph. There is scarcely a man, woman, or child in this part of Dorsetshire who does not know that there are more goods run, on that piece of water over there, than on the whole south coast of England. I sincerely trust that nothing will ever bring about his recall. Personally, I would pay two or three hundred a year, out of my own pocket, rather than lose him. There is no such place anywhere for the work; why, there are some fourteen or fifteen inlets where goods can be landed at high water and, once past the island, I don't care how sharp the revenue men may be, the betting is fifty to one against their being at the right spot at the right time.
"If the passage between our point and the island were but a bit wider, it would be perfect; but unfortunately it is so narrow that it is only on the very darkest night one can hope to get through, unnoticed. However, we can do very well with the southern channel and, after all, it is safer. We can get any number of boats, and the Henriette has only to anchor half a mile outside the entrance. We know when she is coming, and have but to show a light, directly she makes her signal, and the boats will put out from Radhorn passage and Hamworth; while messengers start for Bushaw, and Scopland, and Creach, and a dozen farmhouses, and the carts are sure to be at the spot where they had been warned to assemble, by the time the boats come along with the kegs; and everything is miles away, in hiding, before morning.
"If it is a dark night the Henriette makes off again, and comes boldly in the next afternoon. If one of the revenue boats, either from here or Studland, happens to come across her before she gets up anchor, there she is--the crew are all asleep, with the exception of a man on watch; she is simply waiting to come in, when there is light enough to enable her to make her way up the passage."
James Stansfield was, in fact, the organizer of the smuggling business carried on at Poole, and the adjacent harbours. There was not a farmhouse, among the hills to the south of the great sheet of water, with which he was not in communication. Winter was the season at which the trade was most busy, for the short summer nights were altogether unsuited for the work; and when the cold weather drove the wildfowl in for shelter, there was splendid shooting, and Ralph and John were able to combine amusement with business, and to keep the larder well stocked.
The night signals were made from a cleft in the sand hills, half a mile from the house; the light being so arranged that it could not be seen from Brownsea Island, though visible to those on the south side, from Studland right away over the hills to Corfe Castle, even to Wareham. It was shown but for half a minute, just as the bells of Poole Church struck nine. At that hour, when the lugger was expected, there was a lookout at the door of every farmhouse and, the moment the light was seen, preparations were made for the landing at the spot of which notice had been given, by one or other of the boys, on the previous day. Then, from quiet little inlets, the boats would put off noiselessly, directly there was water to float them; for it was only at high tides that the shallows were covered. They would gather in the channel south of Brownsea, where the boys and often their father would be in their boats in readiness, until a momentary glimmer of a light, so placed on board the lugger that it could only be seen from the spot where they were awaiting it, showed the position of the craft and their readiness to discharge cargo.
It was exciting work, and profitable; and so well was it managed that, although it had been carried on for some years, no suspicion had ever entered the minds of any of the revenue officers. Sometimes many weeks would elapse between the visits of the lugger, for she was obliged to make her appearance frequently at other ports, to maintain her character as a trader; and was, as such, well known all along the coast.
It was only a year since the Henriette had taken the place of another lugger, that had previously carried on the work, but had been wrecked on the French coast. She had been the property of the same owner, or rather of the same firm; for Jean Martin, who had been first mate on board the other craft, had invested some of his own money in the Henriette, and assumed the command. It was noticed, at Poole, that the Henriette used that port more frequently than her predecessor had done; and indeed, she not infrequently came in, in the daytime, with her hold as full as when she had left Nantes.
It was on one of these occasions that Jean Martin, on coming up to Netherstock, had a long talk with the squire.
"So you want my daughter Patsey?" the latter said, when his visitor had told his story. "Well, it has certainly never entered my mind that any of my girls should marry a Frenchman. I don't say that I have not heard my boys making a sly joke, more than once, when the Henriette was seen coming in, and I have seen the colour flying up into the girl's face; but I only looked at it as boys' nonsense. Still, I don't say that I am averse to your suit. We may be said to be partners, in this trade of yours, and we both owe each other a good deal. During the last eight years you must have run something like forty cargoes, and never lost a keg or a bale; and I doubt if as much could be said for any other craft in the trade.
"Still, one can't calculate on always being lucky. I don't think anyone would turn traitor, when the whole countryside is interested in the matter; and I wouldn't give much for the life of anyone who whispered as much as a word to the revenue people. Still, accidents will take place sometimes. Your father must have done well with the trade, and so have I. "At any rate, I will leave it in Patsey's hands. I have enough of them, and to spare. And of course, you will be able to bring her over, sometimes, to pay us a visit here.
"I think, too, that your offer of taking Leigh over with you helps to decide me in your favour. They are all growing up and, if anything were to put a stop to our business, this place would not keep them all; and it would be a great thing, for Patsey, to have her brother as a companion when you are away. The boy would learn French, and in your father's business would get such a knowledge of the trade with Nantes as should serve him in good stead. At any rate, he will learn things that are a good deal more useful to him than those he gets from the curate.
"Well, you know you will find her in the dairy, as usual. You had better go and see what she says to it."
It is probable that Jean Martin had already a shrewd idea of what Patsey's answer would be, and he presently returned to her father, radiant. Patsey, indeed, had given her heart to the cheery young sailor; and although it seemed to her a terrible thing, that she should go to settle in France, she had the less objection to it, inasmuch as the fear that the smuggling would be sooner or later discovered, and that ruin might fall upon Netherstock, was ever present in her mind, and in that of her elder sister.
To her brothers, engaged in the perilous business, it was regarded as a pleasant excitement, without which their lives would be intolerably dull. It was not that she or they regarded the matter in the light of a crime, for almost everyone on that part of the coast looked upon smuggling as a game, in which the wits of those concerned in it were pitted against those of the revenue men. It brought profit to all concerned, and although many of the gentry found it convenient to express indignation, at the damage done to the king's revenue by smuggling; there were none of them who thought it necessary to mention, to the coast guard, when by some accident a keg of brandy, or a parcel with a few pounds of prime tobacco, was found in one of the outhouses.
Patsey had suffered more than her sister, being of a more lively imagination, and being filled with alarm and anxiety whenever she knew that her father and the boys were away at night. Then, too, she was very fond of Leigh, and had built many castles in the air as to his future; and the thought that, not only would he be with her, but would be in the way of making his road to fortune, was very pleasant to her. She knew that if he remained at Netherstock he would grow up like his brothers. His father might, from time to time, talk of putting him into some business; but she understood his ways, and was certain that nothing would come of it.
Martin had, before, expressed to her his doubt as to whether her father would consent to her going away with him; but she had no fear on the subject. In his quiet, easygoing way he was fond of his children; and would scarcely put himself out to oppose, vehemently, anything on which they had set their hearts. He had, too, more than once said that he wished some of them could be settled elsewhere; for a time of trouble might come, and it would be well to have other homes, where some of them could be received.
"Patsey has consented," Jean Martin said, joyously, as he rejoined the squire.
"Well, that is all right. I think, myself, that it is for the best. Of course, it must be understood that, in the matter of religion, she is not to be forced or urged in any sort of way; but is to be allowed to follow the religion in which she has been brought up."
"I would in no way press her, sir. We have Protestants in France, just as there are Catholics here; though I must admit that there are not many of them in La Vendee. Still, the days when people quarrelled about religion are long since past; and certainly at Nantes there is a Protestant congregation, though away in the country they would be difficult to find. However, I promise you, solemnly, that I will in no way try to influence her mind, nor that of the boy. He will still, of course, look upon England as his home, and I should even oppose any attempt being made to induce him to join our church. You have plenty of Frenchmen in this country, and no question as to their religion arises. It will be just the same, with us."
Six weeks later, the Henriette returned. In her came Monsieur Martin, whose presence as a witness of the ceremony was considered advisable, if not absolutely necessary. He had, too, various documents to sign in presence of the French consul, at Southampton, giving his formal consent. The marriage was solemnized there at a small Catholic chapel, and it was repeated at the parish church at Poole, and the next day the party sailed for Nantes.
It was two months before the lugger again came in to Poole. When it returned, it took with it the squire and Polly, to whom Monsieur Martin had given a warm invitation to come over to see Patsey, in her new home.
They found her well and happy. Monsieur Martin's house was in the suburbs of Nantes. It had a large garden, at the end of which, facing another street, stood a pretty little house that had been generally used, either as the abode of aged mothers or unmarried sisters of the family, or for an eldest son to take his wife to; but which had now been handed over to Jean and his wife. This was very pleasant for Patsey, as it united the privacy of a separate abode with the cheerfulness of the family home. She had her own servant, whose excellent cooking and, above all, whose scrupulous cleanliness and tidiness, astonished her after the rough meals and haphazard arrangements at Netherstock.
Whenever she felt dull during Jean's absences, she could run across the garden for a talk with his mother and sister; at meals and in the evening she had Leigh, who spent most of his time at the cellars or in the counting house of Monsieur Martin; learning for the first time habits of business, and applying himself eagerly to acquiring the language.
The squire was put up at Monsieur Martin's, and Polly slept in the one spare room at her sister's, all the party from the pavilion going over to the house, to the midday meal and supper. The squire and Polly were much pleased with their visit. It was evident that Patsey had become a prime favourite with her husband's family. Jean's sister Louise was assiduous in teaching her French, and she had already begun to make some progress. Louise and her mother were constantly running across to the little pavilion, on some errand or other; and Patsey spent as much of her time with them as she did in her own house.
Jean's absences seldom exceeded ten days, and he generally spent a week at home before sailing again. He had driven her over to stay, for three or four days, at a small estate of his own, some forty miles to the southeast of Nantes, in the heart of what was called the Bocage--a wild country, with thick woods, narrow lanes, high hedges, and scattered villages and farms, much more English in appearance than the country round Nantes. The estate had come to him from an aunt. Everything here was very interesting to Patsey; the costumes of the women and children, the instruments of husbandry, the air of freedom and independence of the people, and the absence of all ceremony, interested and pleased her. She did not understand a single word of the patois spoken to her by the peasants, and which even Jean had some difficulty in following, although he had spent a good deal of his time at the little chateau during the lifetime of his aunt.
"Should you like to live here, when not at sea, Jean?" asked Patsey.
"Yes, I would rather live here than at Nantes. Next to a life at sea, I should like one quite in the country. There is plenty to do here. There is the work on the place to look after, there is shooting, there is visiting, and visiting here means something hearty, and not like the formal work in the town. Here no one troubles his head over politics. They may quarrel as they like, in Paris, but it does not concern La Vendee.
"Here the peasants love their masters, and the masters do all in their power for the comfort and happiness of the peasants. It is not as in many other parts of France, where the peasants hate the nobles, and the nobles regard the peasants as dirt under their feet. Here it is more like what I believe it was in England, when you had your troubles, and the tenants followed their lords to battle. At any rate, life here would be very preferable to being in business with my father, in Nantes. I should never have settled down to that; and as my elder brother seems specially made for that sort of life, fortunately I was able to go my own way, to take to the sea in the lugger, and become the carrier of the firm, while taking my share in the general profits."
"How is it that your brother does not live at home? It would seem natural that he should have had the pavilion, when he married."
"He likes going his own way," Jean said shortly. "As far as business matters go, he and my father are as one; but in other matters they differ widely. Jacques is always talking of reforms and changes, while my father is quite content with things as they are. Jacques has his own circle of friends, and would like to go to Paris as a deputy, and to mix himself up in affairs.
"Though none of us cared for the lady that he chose as his wife, she had money, and there was nothing to say against her, personally. None of us ever took to her, and there was a general feeling of relief when it was known that Jacques had taken a house in the business quarter.
"He looks after the carrying business. Of course, my lugger does but a very small proportion of it. We send up large quantities of brandy to Tours, Orleans, and other towns on the Loire; and have dealings with Brittany and Normandy, by sea, and with the Gironde. He looks after that part of the business. My father does the buying and directs the counting house. Though my art is a very inferior one, I have no reason to complain of my share of the profits."
The first eighteen months of Patsey's married life passed quietly and happily. She could now speak French fluently and, having made several stays at the country chateau, could make herself understood in the patois. Leigh spoke French as well as English. Fortunately he had picked up a little before leaving home, partly from his tutor, partly from endeavouring to talk with French fishermen and sailors who came into Poole. He frequently made trips in the Henriette, sometimes to Havre and Rouen, at others to Bordeaux. He had grown much, and was now a very strong, active lad. He got on very well with Monsieur Martin; but kept as much apart as he could from his eldest son, for whom he felt a deep personal dislike, and who had always disapproved of Jean's marriage to an Englishwoman.
Jacques Martin was the strongest contrast to his brother. He was methodical and sententious, expressed his opinion on all subjects with the air of a man whose judgment was infallible, and was an ardent disciple of Voltaire and Rousseau. It was very seldom that he entered his father's house, where his opinions on religious subjects shocked and horrified his mother and sister. He lived with an entirely different set, and spent most of his time at the clubs which, in imitation of those of Paris, had sprung up all over the country.
"What is all the excitement about, Jean?" Leigh asked his brother-in-law, one evening. "There are always fellows standing on casks or bales of timber along the wharf, shouting and waving their arms about and, sometimes, reading letters or printed papers; and then those who listen to them shout and throw up their caps, and get into a tremendous state of excitement."
"They are telling the others what is being done at the Assembly."
"And what are they doing there, Jean?"
"They are turning things upside down."
"And is that good?"
"Well, there is no doubt that things are not as well managed as they might be, and that there is a great deal of distress and misery. In some parts of France the taxation has been very heavy, and the extravagance of the court has excited an immense deal of anger. It is not the fault of the present king, who is a quiet fellow, and does not care for show or pageants; but it is rather the fault of the kings who preceded him, especially of Louis the Fourteenth--who was a great monarch, no doubt, but a very expensive one to his subjects, and whose wars cost an enormous sum.
"You see it is not, in France, as it is with you. The nobles here have great power. Their tenants and serfs--for they are still nothing but serfs--are at the mercy of their lords, who may flog them and throw them into prison, almost at their pleasure; and will grind the last sou out of them, that they may cut a good figure at court.
"In this part of France things are more as they are in England. The nobles and seigneurs are like your country gentlemen. They live in their chateaux, they mix with their people and take an interest in them, they go to their fetes, and the ladies visit the sick, and in all respects they live as do your country squires; paying a visit for a few weeks each year to Paris, and spending the rest of their time on their estates. But it is not from the country that the members of the Assembly who are the most urgent for reforms and violent in their speech come, but from the towns. There were two writers, Voltaire and Rousseau, who have done enormous mischief. Both of them perceived that the state of things was wrong; but they went to extremes, made fun of the church, and attacked institutions of all sorts. Their writings are read by everyone, and have shaken people's faith in God, and in all things as they are.
"I do not say that much improvement could not be made, but it will never be made by sudden and great changes, nor by men such as those who are gradually gaining the upper hand in the Assembly. The people ought to have a much stronger voice than they have in their own taxation. They see that, in England, the ministers and parliament manage everything; and that the king--although his influence goes for a good deal, and he can change his ministers as often as he likes--must yet bow to the voice of parliament. I think that that is reasonable; but when it comes to a parliament composed largely of mere agitators and spouters, I, for my part, would rather be ruled by a king."
"But what is it that these people want, Jean?"
"I do not think they know in the least, themselves, beyond the fact that they want all the power; that they want to destroy the nobility, overthrow the church, and lay hands on the property of all who are more wealthy than themselves. Naturally the lowest classes of the towns, who are altogether ignorant, believe that by supporting these men, and by pulling down all above them, it would no longer be necessary to work. They want to divide the estates of the nobles, take a share of the wealth of the traders, and of the better class of all sorts; in fact they would turn everything topsy-turvy, render the poor all powerful, and tread all that is good and noble under their feet. The consequence is that the king is virtually a prisoner in the hands of the mob of Paris, the nobles and better classes are leaving the country, thousands of these have already been massacred, and no one can say how matters will end.
"Here in Nantes there is, as you see, a feeling of excitement and unrest; and though as yet there has been no violence, no one could venture to predict what may take place, if the moderate men in the Assembly are outvoted by the extremists, and all power falls into the hands of the latter. But I still hope that common sense will prevail, in the long run. I regard the present as a temporary madness, and trust that France will come to her senses, and that we shall have the satisfaction of seeing the scoundrels, who are now the leaders of the mob of Paris, receive the punishment they deserve.
"However, as far as we are concerned I have no uneasiness for, if troubles break out at Nantes, we can retire to my chateau, in the thickest and most wooded part of La Vendee, where there is no fear that the peasants will ever rise against their masters."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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2
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: The Beginning Of Troubles.
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"Things are getting more and more serious, Patsey," said Jean one evening. "I don't know what will come of it. The excitement is spreading here, and there can be no doubt that there will be very serious troubles, ere long. The greater portion of the people here are with the Assembly, and approve of all these decrees against the priests, and the persecution of the better classes. You know what has taken place in Paris, and I fear that it will be repeated here.
"We are split up. My father, dear good man, thinks that he has only to attend to his business, and to express no opinion whatever about public affairs, and that the storm will pass quietly over his head. My brother has thrown himself heart and soul--that is to say, as far as he has a heart to throw--into what he calls the cause of the people; and which I consider to be the cause of revolution, of confiscation, of irreligion, and abomination generally.
"I am told that my name has freely been mentioned, in his club, as that of a dangerous man, with opinions contrary to the public good. I hear, too, that that brother of mine was there, at the time; and that he got up and said that in a case like this his voice must be silent, that true patriots place their country before all things; and then affected to speak mildly in my favour, but at the same time doing me as much harm as he could. I believe the fellow is capable of denouncing his own father.
"From the Bocage I hear that the whole country is in confusion. The people, of course, side with their priests. The nobles and land owners are naturally royalists, and are furious that the king should be held in what is practically subjection; by men of low degree, and who, although they may have some virtuous men among them, have also sanguinary scoundrels who gradually gain in power, and will soon be supreme.
"They, however, can do nothing at present. The peasants know nothing about the king, to them he is a mere name; but this persecution of their priests angers them greatly; and if, as is said, orders have been given to raise an army, and to drag men away from their homes whether they like to go or not, you may be sure that, ere long, there will be trouble there.
"Now you see, dear, I am a sort of double character. At sea I am Captain Jean Martin, a peaceful trader with, as you know, but little regard for the revenue laws of your country. On the other hand, in La Vendee I am Monsieur Jean Martin, a landed proprietor, and on friendly terms with all the nobles and gentry in my neighbourhood. It is evident that I cannot continue to play this double part. Already great numbers of arrests have been made here, and the prisons are half full. I hear that a commissioner from the Assembly is expected here shortly, to try these suspects, as they are called; and from what we know already, we may be sure that there will be little mercy shown.
"They are almost all people of substance; and the people, as they call themselves, are on principle opposed to men of substance. Now, if I remain here, I have no doubt that I shall be denounced in a very short time; and to be denounced is to be thrown into prison, and to be thrown into prison is equivalent to being murdered. I have no doubt, Patsey, that you would share my fate. The fact that you are an Englishwoman was among the accusations brought against me, in the club; and although, so far as I can see, the majority of these scoundrels have no religion whatever, they venture to make it a matter of complaint that you are a Protestant.
"I have seen this coming on for some time, and must now make my choice; either I must take you and the child over to England, and leave you there with your father until these troubles are over, while I must myself go down and look after my tenantry, and bear my share in whatever comes; or you must go down there with me."
"Certainly I will go down with you, Jean. It is your home, and whatever dangers may come I will share them with you. It would be agony to be in England, and to know nothing of what is passing here, and what danger might be threatening you. We took each other for better or worse, Jean, and the greater danger you may be in, the more it will be my duty to be by your side.
"I should be very happy down at the chateau. More happy than I have been here with you, for some time past; for one cannot but be very anxious, when one sees one's friends thrown into prison, and knows that you are opposed to all these things, and that it may be your turn next. Nothing would persuade me to leave you."
"Very well, wife, so be it. I am sure that there, at least, we shall be safe. It is only in the towns that these rascals are dangerous, and in a country like ours there is little fear that the knaves will venture to interfere, when they see that they are stirring up a nest of hornets. They have plenty of work to satisfy even their taste for confiscation and murder, in the large towns. There is an army gathering, on the frontier, and they will have their hands full, ere long.
"And now, about Leigh. My brother has always shown a dislike for him and, as it is certain that he cannot remain here, he must either return to England or go with us."
"I am sure that he would choose to go with us, Jean. You say yourself that he talks French like a native now, and although he has often told me that he would never settle in France--for naturally he is as horrified as I am with the doings in Paris, and the other great towns--still I am sure that he would choose to remain with us, now. You see, he is strong and active, and has made so many trips with you, that he is almost a sailor. He is within a few months of sixteen, and of late he has several times said to me that he would like to go some long voyages, and have some adventures, before settling down in business, in England, as an agent of your house."
"I should like to have him with us," Jean said heartily. "In the first place, he is a lad after my own heart, full of life and go, and already strong enough to take his own part; in the next place, although I hope for the best, a man can never say exactly what will take place. I may be away at times, and should be glad to know that you had a protector; and if he is willing to go, I shall be more than willing to have him.
"Then, too, it would be useful to have someone whom one could trust to carry messages. My idea is that I shall not leave the lugger here for, if I am denounced, it would certainly be seized. Pierre Lefaux, my mate, is a shrewd as well as a faithful fellow. I shall appoint him captain. I shall tell him to leave here, at once, and employ the lugger in coasting voyages; making Bordeaux his headquarters, and taking what freights he can get between that town and Rochelle, Brest, or other ports on this coast. So long as he does not return here, he might even take wines across to England, or brandy from Charente. He knows his business well and, as long as we are at peace with England, trade will still go on.
"The best thing would be for him to be at Bordeaux once every fortnight, or three weeks, so that we shall know where to find him. I have a great friend at Bordeaux, and shall get him to have the lugger registered in his name, and give him a receipt for her purchase money; so that in case the people here learn that she is trading at Bordeaux, he will be able to prove that she is his own property. Then, if the very worst should come, which I cannot bring myself to believe, there will be a means of escape for us all to England.
"She will be sailing there in two or three days. I have fifty thousand francs lying in my father's hands. I shall send that over by Lefaux, and instruct him to ask your father to go with him to the bank, at Poole, and pay the money in to my account. Then, if we should have to leave France, we shall have that to fall back upon, and the lugger. I should, of course, transfer her to the English flag, and have no doubt that we should be able to get on very fairly. So you see, I am preparing for all contingencies, Patsey."
"It seems very dreadful that the country should be in such a state, Jean."
"It is dreadful, and I am afraid that things have by no means got to the worst, yet.
"Ah, here comes Leigh! After supper I shall go in and have a talk with my father. I have very little hope of having much success with him; but at least, when he sees the steps that I am taking, it cannot but make him think seriously of his own position, and that of my mother and sisters."
Leigh was delighted when he heard Jean's proposal. His own position had been unpleasant, of late. He had long since ceased to go to Jacques Martin, for the dislike between them was mutual and, do what he would, he failed to give satisfaction. And of late, even in Monsieur Martin's cellars and storehouses, he had met with a good deal of unpleasantness; and would have met with more, had it not been that he had, on one occasion, knocked down one of the chief clerks, who had sworn at him for some trifling act of carelessness. As the clerk knew that the merchant would have been very angry at the insult he had offered to Leigh, he had not ventured to make a complaint; but in many ways he had been able to cause numberless petty annoyances. Many of the others were inclined to follow his lead, and would have done so more openly, were it not that they held in respect Leigh's strength, and readiness in the science they called le boxe.
The talk that there might be troubles in La Vendee heightened his satisfaction at leaving Nantes, and going down to stay in the country. The thought of a life spent at Poole, or Weymouth, as a wine merchant and agent of the house of Martin had, for some time past, been unpleasant to him. The feeling of general unrest that prevailed in France had communicated itself to him, and he thought possibly that something might occur which would change the current of his life, and lead to one more suited to his natural activity and energy.
"You had better pack up quietly, tomorrow," Jean said to his wife, after his return from his father's. "If there were any suspicion that I was thinking of going away, it might bring matters to a head. I will get the lugger's boat down to the wharf, and four sailors shall come up here and take the boxes down, in one of the hand carts, with a tarpaulin thrown over them. I will arrange for a cart and a carriage to be waiting for us, on the other side of the river.
"There is no moving my father. He cannot persuade himself that a man who takes no part in politics, and goes about his business quietly, can be in any danger. He has, however, at my mother's entreaty, agreed for the present to cease buying; and to diminish his stock as far as possible, and send the money, as fast as he realizes it, across to England. He says, too, that he will, if things get worse, send her and my sister to England. I promised him that your father would find them a house, and see that they were settled comfortably there, for a time. He would not believe that Jacques could have been at the club when I was denounced, without defending me; for although himself greatly opposed to the doings in Paris, and annoyed at the line Jacques has taken up, he thought that there was at least this advantage in it--that in case of troubles coming here, he would have sufficient influence to prevent our being in any way molested. However, there can be no question that I have, to some extent, alarmed him; and he agreed not only to draw, tomorrow, my fifty thousand francs from his caisse, but to send over with it a hundred thousand francs of his own. Fortunately he can do this without Jacques knowing anything about it, for although Jacques and I have both a share in the business, he has always kept the management of the money matters in his own hands.
"So that is settled, as far as it can be settled. Fortunately the club does not meet this evening, so there is no fear of a demand being made, by it, for my arrest tomorrow. I have a friend who belongs to it--not, I think, because he at all agrees with its views; but because, like many others, he deems it prudent to appear to do so. It was from him that I heard what had passed there, and he promised to give me warning of anything that might be said, or done, against me. I shall go down to the lugger early, and remain on board all day, seeing to the stowage of the cargo we are taking on board, so that no suspicion can arise that I am thinking of leaving for the country."
The next evening the party started by unfrequented streets for the quay, the nurse carrying the child, now three months old. The boxes had gone half an hour before. It was nearly ten o'clock, and the quays were deserted. Monsieur Martin had himself gone down, in the afternoon, with the money to the lugger, and handed it over to Jean, and had a long talk with him and Pierre Lefaux, to whom Jean had also intrusted letters from himself and Patsey, to the squire.
As soon as the party had taken their seats in the boat, it was rowed two miles up the river, to a point where there was a ferry across to a road, leading into the heart of La Vendee. Here a light waggon and a carriage were waiting. The luggage was transferred to the former and, after a hearty farewell to Pierre Lefaux, who had himself come in charge of the boat, they started on their journey; and arrived at the chateau at nine o'clock in the morning, to the surprise of the man and woman in charge of it.
"Here we are safe," Jean said, as they alighted from the carriage. "It would take nothing short of an army to fight its way through these woods and lanes and, if the Assembly try to interfere with us, they will find it a much easier thing to pull down the throne of France, than to subdue La Vendee."
The news that the master had come down, and that he was going for a time to live among them, spread rapidly; and in the course of the day some fifteen of the tenants came in to pay their respects, few of them arriving without some little offering in the way of game, poultry, butter, or other produce.
"Our larder is full enough for us to stand a siege," Patsey said, laughing, "and I know that we have a good stock of wine in the cellar, Jean."
"Yes, and of cider, too. When the tenants are in any difficulty about paying their rents, I am always willing to take it out in wine or cider; for my father deals in both, and therefore it is as good as money. But I have not sent any to Nantes for the past two or three years and, as you say, the cellars are as full as they can hold.
"Tomorrow, Leigh, we will ride over and call upon some of our neighbours to hear the last news, for the Bocage is as far away from Nantes as if it were on the other side of France, and we hear only vague rumours of what is going on here."
The ride was a delightful one to Leigh. He had only once visited the chateau before, and then only for a day or two. The wild country, with its deep lanes, its thick high hedges, its woods and copses, was all new to him; for the country round his English home was, for the most part, bare and open. Some of the peasants carried guns over their shoulders, and looked as if accustomed to use them.
"Very few of them possess guns," Jean Martin remarked, "and that they should carry them shows how disturbed a state of mind all these people are in. They know that their priests may be arrested and carried off, at any moment; and no doubt the report that an order has been issued to raise thirty thousand men throughout France, and that every town and village has to furnish its quota, has stirred them up even more effectually. I don't suppose that many of them think that the authorities will really try to drag men off, against their will; but the possibility is quite enough to inflame their minds."
At the very first house they visited they received, from the owner, ample confirmation of Jean's views.
"There have been continual fracases between the peasants and the military," he said, "over the attempts of the latter to arrest the priests. They can scarcely be called fights, for it has not come to that; but as soon as the peasants hear that the gendarmes are coming, they send the priest into the wood, and gather in such force that the gendarmes are glad enough to ride away, unharmed. Of course, until we see that the peasants are really in earnest, and intend to fight to the last, it would be madness for any of us to take any part in the matter; for we should be risking not only life but the fortunes of our families, and maybe their lives, too. You must remember, moreover, that already a great number of the landed proprietors have either been murdered or imprisoned in Paris, or are fugitives beyond the frontier."
"If the peasants would fight," Jean Martin said, "it might not be a bad thing that there are so few whom they could regard as their natural leaders. If there are only a few leaders they may act together harmoniously, or each operate in his own district; but with a number of men of the same rank, or nearly of the same rank, each would have his own ideas as to what should be done, and there would be jealousy and discord."
"That is true," the other replied. "Of course, if this were an open country it would be necessary, to give us a chance of success, that some sort of discipline should be established; and none could persuade the peasants to submit to discipline, except their own lords. But in a country like this, discipline is of comparatively little importance; and it is well that it is so, for though I believe that the peasants would fight to the death, rather than submit to be dragged away by force from their homes, they will never keep together for any time."
"I am afraid that that will be the case. We must hope that it will not come to fighting but, if it does, it will take a large force to conquer La Vendee."
"What has brought you down here, Monsieur Martin?"
"It was not safe for me to stay longer in Nantes. If I think a thing I say it, and as I don't think well of what is being done in Paris, I have not been in the habit of saying flattering things about the men there. In fact I have been denounced and, as there is still room for a few more in the prisons, I should have had a cell placed at my disposal, if I had remained there many more hours; so I thought that I should be safer, down here, till there was some change in the state of affairs."
"And you brought madame down with you?"
"Assuredly. I had only the choice open to me of sending her across to England, and of making my home there, or of coming here. If there had been no prospect of trouble here, I might have joined the army of our countrymen who are in exile; but as, from all I heard, La Vendee was ready to take up arms, I determined to come here; partly because, had I left the country, my estates here would have been confiscated; partly because I should like to strike a blow, myself, at these tyrants of Paris, who seem bent on destroying the whole of the aristocracy of France, of wiping out the middle classes, and dividing the land and all else among the scum of the towns."
Three or four months passed quietly. There were occasional skirmishes between the peasants, and parties of troops in search of priests who refused to obey the orders of the Assembly. At Nantes, the work of carrying out mock trials, and executing those of the better classes who had been swept into the prisons, went on steadily. From time to time a message came to Jean, from his father, saying that he had carried out his determination to lessen his stocks, and that he had sent considerable sums of money across the Channel. So far he had not been molested, but he saw that the public madness was increasing, and the passion for blood ever growing.
Then came the news of the execution of the king, which sent a thrill of horror through the loyal province. Shortly afterwards it was known that the decree for the raising of men was to be enforced; and that commissioners had already arrived at Saumur with a considerable force, that would be employed, if necessary; but that the process of drawing the names of those who were to go was to be carried out by the local authorities, assisted by the national guards of the towns.
During the winter things had gone on quietly, at the chateau. There had been but little visiting, for the terrible events passing in Paris, and in all the large towns, and the uncertainty about the future, had cast so deep a gloom over the country that none thought of pleasure, or even of cheerful intercourse with their neighbours. Many of the gentry, too, had given up all hope; and had made their way down to the coast, and succeeded in obtaining a passage in smuggling craft, or even in fishing boats, to England.
Jean Martin and Leigh had spent much of their time in shooting. Game was abundant and, as so many of the chateaux were shut up, they had a wide range of country open to them for sport. Once or twice they succeeded in bringing home a wild boar. Wolves had multiplied in the forests for, during the last three years, the regular hunts in which all the gentry took part had been abandoned, and the animals had grown fearless.
One day, soon after the news of the king's death had been received, Jean, who had ridden over to Saumur on business, brought back the news that war had been declared with England.
"It would have made a good deal of difference to me," he said, "if I had still been on board the lugger; for of course there would be an end to all legitimate trade. However, no doubt I should have managed to run a cargo, sometimes; for they will want brandy and tobacco all the more, when regular trade is at an end; and prices, you may be sure, will go up. I have no doubt, too, that there will be a brisk business in carrying emigrants over. Still, of course the danger would be very much greater. Hitherto we have only had the revenue cutters and the coast guards to be afraid of, now every vessel of war would be an enemy."
As during their expeditions they were generally accompanied by half a dozen peasants, who acted as beaters, Leigh had come to understand the patois, and to some extent to speak it; and he often paid visits to the houses of the principal tenants of the estate, who not only welcomed him as the brother of their mistress, but soon came to like him for himself, and were amused by his high spirits, his readiness to be pleased with everything, and his talk to them of the little known country across the water.
It was evident, from the manner in which the drawing for the conscription was spoken of, that it would not be carried out without a strong resistance. Sunday, the tenth of March, had been fixed for the drawing and, as the day approached, the peasants became more and more determined that they would not permit themselves to be dragged away from their homes.
Three days before, a party of the tenants, together with some from adjoining estates, had come up to the chateau. Jean Martin at once came out to them.
"We have come, monsieur, to ask if you will lead us. We are determined that we will not be carried off like sheep."
"There you are right," Jean said; "but although I shall be ready to do my share of fighting, I do not wish to be a leader. In the first place, there are many gentlemen of far larger possessions and of higher rank than myself, who would naturally be your leaders. There is the Marquis de Lescure at Clisson, and with him are several other noble gentlemen, among them Henri de la Rochejaquelein--he is a cavalry officer. His family have emigrated, but he has remained here on his estates. Then, too, you have many other military officers who have served. There is Monsieur de Bonchamp, Monsieur d'Elbee, and Monsieur Dommaigne, all of whom have served in the army. If the insurrection becomes general, I shall head my own tenants, and join the force under some chosen commander; but I shall not appear as a leader. Not only am I altogether ignorant of military affairs but, were it known in Nantes that I was prominent in the rising, they would undoubtedly avenge themselves upon my relations there."
It was known that artillery and gendarmes had been gathered in all the towns of La Vendee. Two days before that appointed for the drawing, Jean said to Leigh: "I shall ride tomorrow to the castle of Clisson. I know Monsieur de Lescure. He has wide influence, and is known to be a devoted royalist, and to have several royalist refugees now at his house. I shall be able to learn, from him, whether his intention is to take part in the insurrection. It is a long ride, and I shall not return until tomorrow.
"If you like, you can ride north to Saint Florent. If there should be any tumult, I charge you not to take any part in it. You had better leave your horse at some cabaret on this side of the town, and go in on foot. It is possible that there will be no trouble there, for they are sure to have made preparations against it; and it is more likely that there will be disturbances at smaller places. Still, it will be interesting to mark the attitude of the peasants.
"You see, if there is to be a war, it is their war. The gentlemen here would have fought for the king, had there been a shadow of a prospect of success, and had he given the smallest encouragement to his friends to rally to his support. They might even have fought against the disturbance of the clergy. But they would have had no followers. The peasants cared but little for the king and, though they did care enough for the priests to aid them to escape, they did not care enough to give battle for them. They are now going to fight for their own cause, and for their own liberty. They have to show us that they are in earnest about it, before we join them. If they are in earnest, we ought to be successful. We ought to be able to put a hundred thousand men in arms and, in such a country as this, we should be able to defy any force that the Convention can send against us; and to maintain the right of La Vendee to hold itself aloof from the doings of the rest of France.
"But, as I said, until we know that they are really in earnest, we cannot afford to throw in our lot with them; so if you go to Saint Florent, keep well away from the point where the drawing is to take place. Watch affairs from a distance. I have little doubt that those who go will go with the determination of defending themselves, but whether they will do so will depend upon whether there is one among them energetic enough to take the lead. That is always the difficulty in such matters. If there is a fight we must, as I say, simply watch it. It is, at present, no affair of ours. If it begins, we shall all have our work before us, plenty of it, and plenty of danger and excitement, but for the present we have to act as spectators."
It was a ride of fifteen miles to Saint Florent and, although Leigh had twice during the winter ridden there with Jean, he had some difficulty in finding his way through the winding roads and numerous lanes along which he had to pass. During the early part of the ride he met with but few people on the way. The church bells were ringing, as usual, and there was nothing to show that any trouble was impending; but when he arrived within two or three miles of the town, he overtook little groups of peasants walking in that direction. Some of them, he saw, carried pitchforks. The rest had stout cudgels.
Saint Florent stood on the Loire and, in an open space in the centre of the town, the authorities were gathered. Behind them was a force of gendarmes, and in the middle of their line stood a cannon.
Leigh had, as Jean had told him, left his horse outside the town; and now took up his place, with a number of townspeople, on one side of the square. As the peasants arrived, they clustered together at the end of the street, waiting for the hour to strike at which the drawing was to begin. A few minutes before the clock struck, some of the gendarmes left the group in the centre of the square, and advanced to the peasants. They were headed by an officer who, as he came up, exclaimed: "What do you mean by coming here with pitchforks? Lay them down, at once!"
There was a low murmur among the peasants.
"Follow me!" he said to his men and, walking up to one of the men carrying a pitchfork, he said: "I arrest you, in the name of the Republic."
In an instant a young man standing next to the one he had seized sprang forward, and struck the officer to the ground with his cudgel.
[Illustration: 'Follow Me!' he shouted. 'Make for the gun!']
"Follow me!" he shouted. "Make for the gun!"
With a cheer the peasants rushed forward, overthrowing the gendarmes as they went. The municipal authorities, after hesitating for a moment, took to their heels in the most undignified manner. The gun had not been loaded. The gendarmes round it, seeing that they were greatly outnumbered, followed their example; and the peasants, with exultant shouts, seized the cannon and then, scattering, chased the gendarmes out of the town.
Never was a more speedy and bloodless victory. Headed by their leader, whose name was Rene Foret, the peasants went to the municipality, broke open the doors, took possession of the arms stored there, collected all the papers they could find, and made a great bonfire with them in the centre of the square. Then without harming anyone, or doing the slightest mischief, they left the town and scattered to their homes in the Bocage.
Leigh waited until all was over, returned to the cabaret where he had left his horse, and rode on. Passing through the little town of Pin a powerful-looking man, some thirty-five years old, with a quiet manner, broad forehead, and intelligent face, stepped up to him.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said; "but you have come from Saint Florent?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Has aught happened there?"
"Yes, the peasants attacked the gendarmes, who fled, leaving their cannon behind them. The peasants took what arms there were in the municipality, and made a bonfire of the papers. They then, without doing any damage, dispersed to their homes."
"They have done well," the man said. "They have made a beginning. My name, monsieur, is Cathelineau; my business, so far, has been that of a hawker. I am well known in this part of the country. Maybe, sir, you will hear my name again, for henceforth I am an insurgent. We have borne this tyranny of the butchers in Paris too long, and the time has come when we must either free ourselves of it, or die. You belong to another class, but methinks that when you see that we are in earnest, you will join."
"I doubt not that we shall," Leigh said. "I am but a lad yet; but I hope that, when the time comes, I shall do my part."
The man lifted his hat and moved off, and Leigh rode forward again. He was struck with the earnest manner of the man. He had spoken calmly and without excitement, expressed himself well, and had the air of a man who, having determined upon a thing, would carry it through.
"I expect I shall hear of him again," he said to himself. "A man like that, travelling round the country, no doubt has a deal of influence. He is just the sort of man the peasants would follow; indeed, as it seems to me, that anyone might follow."
It was late in the afternoon when he arrived home, and told his sister what he had witnessed.
"I am not surprised, Leigh," she said. "If I were a man I would take up arms, too. There must be an end to what is going on. Thousands have been murdered in Paris, men and women; and at least as many more in the other great towns. If this goes on, not only the nobles and gentry, but the middle class of France will all disappear; and these bloodstained monsters will, I suppose, set to to kill each other. I feel half French now, Leigh, and it is almost too awful to think of.
"It seems to me that the only hope is that the peasants, not only of the Bocage, but of all Poitou, Anjou, and Brittany, may rise, be joined by those of other parts, and march upon the towns; destroy them altogether, and kill all who have been concerned in these doings."
"That would be pretty sweeping, Patsey," Leigh laughed. "But you know I hate them as much as you do and, though I don't feel a bit French, I would certainly do all that I could against them, just as one would kill wild beasts who go about tearing people to pieces. It is no odds to me whether the men, women, and children they kill are French, or English. One wants to put a stop to their killing."
"I wish, now, that I had not brought you out with me, Leigh."
"In the first place, Patsey, I deny altogether that you did bring me out--Jean brought me out; and in the next place, I don't see why you should be sorry. I would not miss all this excitement, for anything. Besides, I have learned to talk French well, and something of the business of a wine merchant. I can't be taken in by having common spirit, a year or two old, passed off on me as the finest from Charente; or a common claret for a choice brand. All that is useful, even if I do not become a wine merchant. At any rate, it is more useful than stopping at Netherstock, where I should have learned nothing except a little more Latin and Greek."
"Yes, but you may be killed, Leigh."
"Well, I suppose if I had stayed at home, and got a commission in the army or a midshipman's berth in the navy, I might have been killed and, if I had my choice, I would much rather be killed in fighting against people who murder women and children, who have committed no crime whatever, than in fighting soldiers or sailors of another nation, who may be just as honest fellows as we are.''
"I cannot argue with you, Leigh; but if anything happens to you I shall blame myself, all my life."
"That would be foolish," Leigh said. "It is funny what foolish ideas women have. You could not have foreseen what was coming, when you came over here; and you thought that it would be a good thing for me to accompany you, for a time. You did what you thought was best, and which I think was best. Well, if it doesn't turn out just what we expected, you cannot blame yourself for that. Why, if you were to ask me to come for a walk, and a tree fell on me as we were going along and killed me, you would hardly blame yourself because you asked me to come; and this is just the same.
"At any rate, if I do get killed, which I don't mean to be if I can help it, there is no one else who will take it very much to heart, except yourself. There are plenty of them at home and, now that I have been away nearly two years, they must almost have forgotten my existence."
"I consider you a very foolish boy," Patsey said, gravely. "You talk a great deal too much nonsense."
"Very well, Patsey; abuse is not argument, and almost every word that you have said applies equally well to your folly, in leaving a comfortable home in a quiet country to come to such a dangerous place as this.
"Now, I hope that supper is ready, for I am as hungry as a hunter."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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3
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: The First Successes.
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The next morning, at twelve o'clock, Jean Martin reached home.
"The war has begun," he said, as he leaped from his horse. "Henri de la Rochejaquelein has accepted the leadership of the peasants, at Clisson. Lescure would have joined also, but Henri pointed out to him that it would be better not to compromise his family, until it was certain that the insurrection would become general. The young count was starting, just as I got to the chateau. He is a splendid young fellow, full of enthusiasm, and burning to avenge the misfortunes that have fallen upon his family. A peasant had arrived the evening before, with a message from his aunt, who lives farther to the south. He brought news that the chevalier de Charette--formerly a lieutenant in the navy and a strong Royalist, who had escaped the massacres at Paris, and was living quietly on his estate near Machecoul--had been asked several times, by the peasants in his neighbourhood, to take the command, and had accepted it; and that the rising was so formidable, there, that it was certain the authorities in that part of Poitou would not succeed in enforcing the conscription.
"I have told Lescure that I shall be prepared to join, as soon as there is a general movement here; but that I should attach myself to whoever took the direction of affairs in this part, for that in the first place I knew nothing of war, and in the second place I have resided here so small a portion of my time that I am scarcely known, save to my own tenants.
"After our meal, we will ride round and see how they are off for arms and powder. That is our great weakness. I am afraid, taking the whole country round, that not one man in twenty possesses a gun."
This indeed was found to be the case, as far as those on the estate were concerned. The men themselves, however, seemed to think little of this.
"We will take them from the Blues," several of them said confidently. "It does not matter a bit. They will only have time to fire one volley, in these lanes of ours, and then we shall be among them; and a pike or pitchfork are just as good, at close quarters, as a bayonet."
That the whole country was astir was evident, from the fact that the sound of the church bells rose from the woods, in all directions. All work was suspended, and the peasants flocked into the little villages to hear the news that was brought in, from several directions.
Cathelineau had, in the course of the night, gathered a party of twenty-seven men who, at daybreak, had started out from Pin, setting the church bells ringing in the villages through which they passed; until a hundred men, armed for the most part with pitchforks and stakes, had gathered round him. Then he boldly attacked the chateau of Tallais, garrisoned by a hundred and fifty soldiers, having with them a cannon. This was fired, but the shot passed over the peasants' heads, and with a shout they dashed forward, and the soldiers of the republic threw away their arms and fled. Thus Cathelineau's followers became possessed of firearms, some horses and, to their great delight, a cannon.
Their leader did not waste a moment, but marched at once against Chemille, his force increasing at every moment, as the men flocked in from the villages. There were, at Chemille, two hundred soldiers with three guns; but some of the fugitives from Tallais had already arrived there, bringing news of the desperate fury with which the peasants had attacked them and, at the sight of the throng approaching, with their captured cannon, the garrison lost heart altogether and bolted, leaving their three cannon, their ammunition, and the greater portion of their muskets behind them.
The news spread with incredible rapidity. From each village they passed through, boys were despatched as messengers, and their tidings were taken on by fresh relays. By the afternoon all the country, for thirty miles round, knew that Cathelineau had captured Tallais and Chemille, and was in possession of a quantity of arms, and four cannon.
From Saint Florent came the news that, early in the morning, a party of Republican soldiers had endeavoured to arrest Foret, who led the rising on the previous day; but that he had obtained word of their approach and, setting the church bells ringing, had collected a force and had beaten back those who came in search of him.
Close by, a detachment of National Guards from Chollett had visited the chateau of Maulevrier. The proprietor was absent, but they carried off twelve cannon, which had been kept as family relics. The gamekeeper, Nicholas Stofflet, who was in charge of the estate, had served sixteen years in the army. He was a man of great strength, courage, and sagacity and, furious at the theft of his master's cannon, had gathered the peasantry round, and was already at the head of two hundred men.
"Things go on apace, Patsey," Jean Martin said, as they sat by the fire that evening. "We only know what is happening within some twenty or thirty miles of us, but if the spirit shown here exists throughout Poitou and Anjou, there can be no doubt that, in a very short time, the insurrection will be general. This Cathelineau, by their description, must be a man of no ordinary ability; and he has lost no time in showing his energy. For myself, I care not in the least what is the rank of my leader. Here in La Vendee there is no broad line between the seigneurs, the tenants, and the peasantry; at all rustic fetes they mix on equal terms. The seigneurs set the example, by dancing with the peasant girls; and their wives and daughters do not disdain to do the same with tenants, or peasantry. They attend the marriages, and all holiday festivities, are foremost in giving aid, and in showing kindness in cases of distress or illness; and I feel sure that, if they found in a man like Cathelineau a genius for command, they would follow him as readily as one of their own rank."
On the fourteenth the news came that the bands of Stofflet and Foret had, with others, joined that of Cathelineau. Jean Martin hesitated no longer.
"The war has fairly begun," he said. "I shall be off tomorrow morning. If Cathelineau is defeated, we shall have the Republicans devastating the whole country, and massacring women and children; as they did, last August, after a rising for the protection of the priests. Therefore I shall be fighting, now, in defence of our lives and home, wife."
"I would not keep you at home, Jean. I think it is the duty of every man to join in the defence against these wretches. I know that no mercy will be shown by them, if they conquer us. But you will not take Leigh with you, surely?"
Leigh uttered an exclamation.
"Leigh must choose for himself," Jean said quietly. "He is not French, and would have no concern in the matter, beyond that of humanity, were it not that you are here; but at present our home is his. Your life and his, also, are involved, if we are beaten. He is young to fight, but there will doubtless be many others no older, and probably much less strong than he is. Moreover, if I should be killed, it is he who must bear you the news, and must arrange with you your plans, and act as your protector.
"I do not say that I should advise your leaving the chateau directly, but if the Republicans come this way, it will be no place for you; and I should say that it would be vastly better that you should, at once, endeavour to cross to England. There are five thousand francs in gold in my bureau, which are worth three or four times their value in assignats; and should, if you can gain the coast, be amply sufficient to procure a passage for you to England.
"Do not weep, dear. It is necessary to leave you, on an undertaking of this kind, prepared for whatever may happen. At present the risk is very small. As we have heard, the fury of the peasants has struck such consternation into the National Guards, and newly-raised soldiers, that they will not await their onslaught; and it will not be until the Convention becomes aware of the really serious nature of the storm they have raised, that there will be any hard fighting. Still, even in a petty skirmish men fall; and it is right that, before I go, we should arrange as to what course you had best pursue, in case of my death.
"From the first, when we came here we did so with our eyes open. If we had merely sought safety, we should have gone to England. We came here partly because it is my home, and therefore my proper place; and partly because, in case La Vendee rose against these executioners of Paris, every man of honour and loyalty should aid in the good cause."
"I know, Jean, and I would not keep you back."
"The struggle has begun and, if the Republicans conquer La Vendee, we know how awful will be the persecutions, what thousands of victims will be slaughtered. Our only hope is in victory and, at any rate, those who die on the battlefield will be happy, in comparison with those who fall into the hands of the Blues."
"You wish to go, Leigh?"
"Certainly I do," the lad said. "I think that everyone strong enough to carry arms, in La Vendee, ought to join and do his best. I can shoot better than most of the peasantry, not one in twenty of whom has ever had a gun in his hands; and I am sure that I am as strong as most of them. Besides, if I had been at home I should, now the war has begun, have tried to get a commission and to fight the French--I mean the people who govern France at present--and in fighting them, here, I am only doing what thousands of Englishmen will be doing elsewhere."
"Very well, Leigh, then you shall go with Jean. I shall certainly be glad to know you are together, so that if one is wounded or ill, the other can look after him and bring him here. I shall do the best I can, while you are away."
"I think that we shall soon be back again, and that we shall be constantly seeing you," Jean said. "You may be sure that the peasants will not keep the field. They will gather and fight and, win or lose, they will then scatter to their homes again, until the church bells call them out to repel a fresh attack of the enemy. That is our real weakness. There will never be any discipline, never any common aim.
"If all the peasants in the west would join in a great effort, and march on Paris, I believe that the peasantry of the departments through which they pass would join us. It would only be the National Guards of the towns, and the new levies, that we should have to meet; and I believe that we might take Paris, crush the scum of the faubourgs, and hang every member of the Convention. But they will never do it. It will be a war of defence, only; and a war so carried out must, in the long run, be an unsuccessful one.
"However, the result will be that we shall never be very far away from home, and shall often return for a few days. You must always keep a change of clothes, and your trinkets and so on, packed up; so that at an hour's notice you and Marthe can start with the child, either on receiving a note from me telling you where to join us, or if you get news that a force from Nantes is marching rapidly in this direction. Two horses will always remain in the stables, in readiness to put into the light cart. Henri will be your driver. Francois you must send off to find us, and tell us the road that you have taken. However, of course we shall make all these arrangements later on, when affairs become more serious. I don't think there is any chance, whatever, of the enemy making their way into the country for weeks, perhaps for months, to come."
The next morning, Jean Martin and Leigh started early. Each carried a rifle slung behind him, a brace of pistols in his holsters, and a sword in his belt. Patsey had recovered from her depression of the previous evening, and her natural good spirits enabled her to maintain a cheerful face at parting; especially as her husband's assurances, that there would be no serious fighting for some time, had somewhat calmed her fears for their safety.
"The horses are useful to us, for carrying us about, Leigh," Jean Martin said, as they rode along; "but unless there are enough mounted men to act as cavalry, we shall have to do any fighting that has to be done on foot. The peasants would not follow a mounted officer as they would one who placed himself in front of them, and fought as they fought.
"I hope that, later on, we may manage to get them to adopt some sort of discipline; but I have great doubts about it. The peasantry of La Vendee are an independent race. They are respectful to their seigneurs, and are always ready to listen to their advice; but it is respect, and not obedience. I fancy, from what I have read of your Scottish Highlanders, that the feeling here closely resembles that among the clans. They regard their seigneurs as their natural heads, and would probably die for them in the field; but in other matters each goes his own way, and the chiefs know better than to strain their power beyond a certain point.
"As you see, they have already their own leaders--Stofflet the gamekeeper, Foret the woodcutter, and Cathelineau, a small peddling wool merchant. Doubtless many men of rank and family will join them, and will naturally, from their superior knowledge, take their place as officers; but I doubt whether they will displace the men who have, from the beginning, taken the matter in hand. I am glad that it should be so. The peasants understand men of their own class, and will, I believe, follow them better than they would men above them in rank. They will, at least, have no suspicion of them; and the strength of the insurrection lies in the fact that it is a peasant rising, and not an insurrection stirred up by men of family."
At ten o'clock they arrived at Cathelineau's camp. Just as they reached the spot, they encountered Monsieur Sapinaud de la Verrie. He was riding at the head of about a hundred peasants, all of whom were armed with muskets. They had, early that morning, attacked the little town of Herbiers. It was defended by two companies of soldiers, with four or five cannon; and the Republicans of the town had ranged themselves with the Blues. Nevertheless the peasants, led by their commander and his nephew, had fearlessly attacked them and, with a loss of only two or three wounded, defeated the enemy and captured the place, obtaining a sufficient supply of muskets to arm themselves.
As Jean Martin was known to Monsieur Sapinaud, they saluted each other cordially.
"So you are coming willingly, Monsieur Martin. There you have the advantage of me, for these good fellows made me and my nephew come with them, as their leaders, and would take no refusal. However, they but drew us into the matter a few days earlier than we had intended; for we had already made up our minds to join the movement."
"I come willingly enough, Monsieur Sapinaud. If I had remained in Nantes, I should have been guillotined by this time; and I made up my mind when I left there that I would, on the first opportunity, do a little fighting before I was put an end to.
"This is my brother-in-law. He has been out here now nearly two years, and has seen enough of the doings of the murderers at Nantes to hate them as much as I do."
The streets of the little village, which Cathelineau had made his headquarters, were thronged with men. Through these the four mounted gentlemen made their way slowly until, when they came to the church, they saw three men standing apart from the others.
"That is Cathelineau, the one standing in the middle," Leigh said.
"We have come to place ourselves under your orders," Monsieur Sapinaud said, as they rode up to him; and he named himself and his companions.
"I am glad indeed to see you, sirs," Cathelineau said. "You are the first gentlemen who have joined us here; though I hear that, farther south, some have already declared themselves. We want you badly.
"One of you I have seen already," and he smiled at Leigh. "I told you that you would hear of me, young sir; and you see I have kept my word.
"These with me are Stofflet who, as you may have heard, recaptured the cannon the Blues took at Clisson; and Foret, who had the honour of striking the first blow, at Saint Florent."
"Your names are all widely known in this part," Monsieur Sapinaud said, courteously. "Well, sirs, we have come to fight under your orders. I have brought a hundred men with me, and we have already done something on our own account; for we last night captured Herbiers, which was defended by two companies, with four cannon. We have gained a sufficient number of muskets to arm all our party."
"If I do not offer to give up the leadership to you, Monsieur de la Verrie," Cathelineau said gravely, "it is from no desire on my part to be a commander; but I am widely known to the peasantry of many parishes round Pin and, perhaps because I understand them better than most, they have confidence in me; and would, I think, follow me rather than a gentleman like yourself, of whom they know but little."
"They are quite right," Monsieur Sapinaud said. "The peasantry commenced this war. It is right that they should choose their own leaders. You and your two companions have already their confidence, and it is far better that you should be their leaders. I believe all other gentlemen who join you will be as ready as we are to follow you, and I am sure that the only rivalry will be as to who shall most bravely expose himself, when he faces the enemy."
"I thank you, sir," Cathelineau said. "I believe earnestly that, in many respects, it is best that the peasants should have their own leaders. We can associate ourselves with their feelings, better than the gentry could do. We shall have more patience with their failings.
"You would want to make an army of them. We know that this cannot be done. They will fight and die as bravely as men could do, but I know that they will never submit to discipline. After a battle, they will want to hurry off to their homes. They will obey the order to fight, but that is the only order one can rely upon their obeying.
"We are on the point of starting for Chollet. It is a town where the people are devoted to the cause of the Convention. At the last drawing for the militia they killed, without any pretext, a number of young men who had come, unarmed, into the town. Many inhabitants of adjoining parishes have been seized and thrown in prison, charged only with being hostile to the Convention, and expressing horror at the murder of the king.
"The capture will produce an impression throughout the country. They have three or four hundred dragoons there, and yesterday, we hear, they called in the National Guard from the villages round, though scarce believing that we should venture to attack them. Your reinforcement of a hundred men, all armed with muskets, will be a very welcome one; for they will hardly suspect that many of us have firearms. However we had, before your arrival, three hundred who have so armed themselves, through captures at Saint Florent and Chemille."
He now ordered the bell to be rung and, as soon as its notes pealed out, started; followed at once by the crowd in the village, without any sort of order or regularity. Jean and Leigh continued to ride with Monsieur de la Verrie and his nephew.
After some hours' marching, at two o'clock in the afternoon they approached Chollet. On the way they received considerable reinforcements, from the villages they passed through. As soon as they approached the town they saw the dragoons pouring out, followed by three or four hundred National Guards.
The Vendeans now fell into some sort of order. A short council of war was held. It was arranged that Monsieur de la Verrie with his hundred musketeers, and Foret with as many more, should advance against the dragoons; while Cathelineau and Stofflet, with a hundred musketeers and the main body of peasants with their pitchforks, should attack the National Guards.
[Illustration: At the first volley, the colonel of the dragoons and many of his men fell.]
The dragoons had expected that the mere sight of them would be sufficient to send the peasants flying, and they were amazed that they should continue to advance. As soon as they were within easy range, the peasants opened fire. At the first volley the colonel of the dragoons and many of his men fell. Reloading, the peasants advanced at a run, poured in a volley at close quarters; and then, with loud cheers, charged the dragoons.
These, being but newly raised troops, were seized with a panic, turned, and galloped off at full speed. Astounded at the defeat of the cavalry, in whom they had confidently trusted, the National Guard at once lost heart and as, with loud shouts, Cathelineau with his peasants flung themselves upon them, they, too, broke, and fled in all directions.
The peasants pursued them for a league, and then returned, exultant, to Chollet. Here the leading revolutionists were thrown in prison but, with the exception of the National Guards who attempted resistance after reaching the town, no lives were taken. A large quantity of arms, money, and ammunition fell into the hands of the victors.
Scarcely had the peasants gathered in Chollet, than the news arrived that the National Guard of Saumur were marching against them; and Cathelineau requested Monsieur de la Verrie and Foret, with their following, to go out to meet them. They marched away at once, and met the enemy at Vihiers.
Unprepared for an attack, the National Guard at once broke and fled, throwing away their arms and abandoning their cannon. Among these was one taken from the Chateau de Richelieu. It had been given by Louis the Thirteenth to the cardinal. On the engraving, with which it was nearly covered, the peasants thought that they could make out an image of the Virgin, and so called it by her name. With these trophies the party returned to Chollet.
The next day being Saturday the little army dispersed, the peasants making their way to their homes, in order to spend Easter there; while Cathelineau, with only a small body, remained at Chollet. From here messengers were sent to Messieurs Bonchamp, d'Elbee, and Dommaigne--all officers who had served in the army, but had retired when the revolution broke out. Cathelineau offered to share the command with them, and entreated them to give their military knowledge and experience to the cause.
All assented. Thus the force had the advantage, from this time forward, of being commanded by men who knew the business of war.
Leigh had started for home as soon as the National Guards of Saumur were defeated; Jean Martin, at Cathelineau's request, remaining with him in order to join some other gentlemen, who had that day arrived, in calling upon the three officers, and inviting them to join Cathelineau in the command.
Leigh's sister ran out, as he rode up to the house. The news of the capture of Chollet, almost without loss, had already spread and, although surprised, she felt no alarm at seeing Leigh alone.
"I hear that you have taken Chollet, and defeated the dragoons and National Guards."
"Yes; and this morning we put to flight the guards of Saumur, without the loss of a single man. I don't know what it may come to, presently; but just now it can hardly be called fighting. The sight of peasants rushing on seems to strike these heroes with a panic, at once; and they are off helter skelter, throwing away their guns and ammunition."
"Have you come home only to tell me the news, Leigh?"
"I have come home because, at present, our army has evaporated into thin air. Tomorrow being Easter Sunday, the peasants have all scattered to their homes; so that it was of no use my staying at Chollet. Cathelineau is there, and the other leaders; among them Monsieur de la Verrie, a nephew of his, Jean, and several other gentlemen, who have just arrived there. They are going as a sort of deputation, tomorrow, to Bonchamp, d'Elbee, and another officer whose name I forget, to ask them to join Cathelineau in the command. I think that he will still remain as leader, and that they will act as his councillors, and in command of columns."
"Then your impression of this man is confirmed?"
"More than confirmed. Jean said, this morning, that he was a born leader of men. While all round him there is excitement and confusion, he is as calm and serene as if he were alone. He is evidently a man who has read a good deal, and thought a good deal; and I can quite understand the influence he has gained over the peasantry in his neighbourhood, and that it has long been their custom to refer all disputes to him.
"Stofflet is a different sort of man. He is tall and powerful in frame, stern and almost morose in manner. He has been sixteen years a soldier; and was, I hear, distinguished for his bravery."
"And Foret?"
"He is an active young woodman, evidently a determined fellow and, as he was the first to lead the peasants against the Blues, he is sure to have a following. They are three very different characters, but all of them well fitted to act as peasant leaders."
"And will Jean be a leader?"
"Not a leader, Patsey; that is to say, certainly not a general. He does not want it, himself. But he will no doubt lead the peasants on the estate, and perhaps those in the neighbourhood. You know that he would not have the church bell rung, when he started, because he did not wish the tenants to join until he had seen the result of the first fight; but when he comes home he will summon those who like to go with him."
"Yes, I have had to explain that, over and over again. Yesterday and today almost all the men have been up here, to ask why Jean did not take them. I told them that that was one reason; and another was that, had they started on foot when you did, they would not have arrived in time to take part in the fight at Chollet."
The conversation, begun as Leigh dismounted, had been continued in the house, the groom having taken the horse round to the stable.
"So the peasants fought well, Leigh?"
"They would have fought well, if the Blues had given them a chance; but these would not stop till they came up to them. If they had done so, I am convinced that the peasants would have beaten them. There was no mistaking the way they rushed forward and, upon my word, I am not surprised that the enemy gave way; although well armed, and not far inferior in numbers, they would have had no chance with them."
"And did you rush forward, Leigh?"
"We were with the party that attacked the cavalry. Jean and I fired our rifles twice, and after that we only saw the backs of the cavalry. If they had been well-drilled troops they ought to have scattered us like sheep; for everything must have gone down before them, had they charged. There was no sort of order among us. The men were not formed into companies. There was no attempt to direct them. Each simply joined the leader he fancied and, when the word was given, charged forward at the top of his speed. It is all very well against the National Guards, and these young troops; but as Jean said, it would be a different affair, altogether, if we were to meet trained soldiers.
"But the peasants seem to be quick, and I expect they will adopt tactics better suited to the country, when they come to fighting in these lanes and woods. You see, so far a very small proportion have been armed with guns, and their only chance was to rush at once to close quarters; but we have captured so many muskets, at Chollet and Vihiers, that in future a considerable proportion of the peasants will have guns and, when they once learn to use the hedges, they will be just as good as trained troops."
"Then I suppose Jean is more hopeful about the future than he was?"
"I don't say that, Patsey. He thinks that we shall make a hard fight of it, but that the end must depend upon whether the people in Paris, rather than keep fifty thousand men engaged in a desperate conflict, here, when they are badly wanted on the frontier, decide to suspend the conscription in La Vendee, and to leave us to ourselves. There can be no doubt that that would be their best plan. But as they care nothing for human life, even if it cost them a hundred thousand men to crush us; they are likely to raise any number of troops, and send them against us, rather than allow their authority to be set at defiance.
"Do you know, Patsey, when I used to read about Guy Fawkes wanting to blow up the Houses of Parliament, I thought that he must be a villain, indeed, to try to destroy so many lives; but I have changed my opinion now for, if I had a chance, I would certainly blow up the place where the Convention meets, and destroy every soul within its walls; including the spectators, who fill the galleries and howl for blood."
"Well you see, Leigh, as Guy Fawkes and the other conspirators failed in their attempt, I am afraid there is very small chance of your being able to carry out the plan more successfully."
"I am afraid there is not," Leigh said regretfully. "I should never be able to dig a way into the vaults, and certainly I should not be able to get enough powder to blow a big building up, if I could. No; I was only saying that, if Guy Fawkes hated the Parliament as much as I hate the Convention, there is some excuse to be made for him.
"Now, Patsey, I am as hungry as a hunter."
"I have a good supper ready for you," she said. "I thought it was quite possible that you and Jean would both come home, this evening; for I felt sure that most of the peasants would be coming back, if possible, for Easter Sunday; and I had no doubt that, if you did come, you would both be hungry."
"Have you any news from other districts?" he asked, after he had finished his supper.
"There is a report that Captain Charette has gathered nearly twenty thousand peasants, in lower Poitou; and that he has already gained a success over the Blues. There are reports, too, of risings in Brittany."
"There is no doubt that things are going on well, at present, Patsey. You see, we are fighting on our own ground, and fifty thousand men can be called to arms in the course of a few hours, by the ringing of the church bells. We have no baggage, no waggons, no train of provisions; we are ready to fight at once.
"On the other hand, the Blues have been taken completely by surprise. They have no large force nearer than the frontier, or at any rate nearer than Paris; and it will be weeks before they can gather an army such as even they must see will be required for the conquest of La Vendee. Up to that time it can be only a war of skirmishes, unless our leaders can persuade the peasants to march against Paris; and that, I fear, they will never be able to do.
"When the enemy are really ready, the fighting will be desperate. 'Tis true that the Vendeans have a good cause--they fight for their religion and their freedom, while the enemy will fight only because they are ordered to do so. There is another thing--every victory we win will give us more arms, ammunition, and cannon; while a defeat will mean simply that the peasants will scatter to their homes, and be ready to answer the next call for their services. On the other hand, if the Blues are defeated they will lose so heavily, both in arms and stores; and will suffer such loss of life, from their ignorance of our roads and lanes, that it will be a long time before they will again be able to advance against us."
The next morning, after the service at the church was over, the peasants came down in numbers to the chateau, to hear from Leigh a full account of the fighting at Chollet and Vihiers, a report of the latter event having arrived that morning. There were exclamations of lively pleasure at the recital, mingled with regret that they had not borne their share in the fighting.
"You will have plenty of opportunities," Leigh said. "Monsieur Martin has told me that, when he next leaves home, all who are willing to do so can go with him. But it may be some little time before anything of importance takes place; and as, at present, what fighting there is is a considerable distance away, he thinks it best that you should reserve yourselves for some great occasion; unless, indeed, the Blues endeavour to penetrate the Bocage, when, I have no doubt, you will know how to deal with them, when they are entangled in your lanes and woods."
"We will go, every man of us!" one of the peasants shouted, and the cry was re-echoed, with enthusiasm, by the whole of the men.
It was nearly an hour before Leigh and his sister were able to withdraw from the crowd, and make their way homeward.
"It is difficult to believe that men so ready and eager to fight can be beaten," she said. "Did you notice, too, that their wives all looked on approvingly? I believe that, even if any of the men wished to stay away, they would be hounded to the front by the women. I think that, with them, it would be regarded as a war for their religion; while with the men it is the conscription that has chiefly driven them to take up arms."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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4
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: Cathelineau's Scouts.
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For some days nothing happened. The insurrection spread like wildfire, in Poitou and Anjou; and everywhere the peasants were successful, the authorities, soldiers, and gendarmes for the most part flying without waiting for an attack.
The news that all La Vendee was in insurrection astonished and infuriated the Convention, which at once took steps to suppress it. On the second of April a military commission was appointed, with power to execute all peasants taken with arms in their hands, and all who should be denounced as suspicious persons. General Berruyer was sent down to take the command. The large army that had been raised, principally from the mob of Paris for the defence of that city, marched down; and Berruyer, at the head of this force, entered the Bocage on the tenth of April.
The time had passed quietly at the chateau. The peasants had dispersed at once and, except that the principal leaders and a small body of men remained together, watching the course of events, all was as quiet as if profound peace reigned.
Jean Martin had returned home. Two days after arriving, he had called all the tenants on the estate together, and had endeavoured to rouse them to the necessity of acquiring a certain amount of discipline. He had brought with him a waggon load of muskets and ammunition, which had been discovered at Chollet after the main bulk of the peasants had departed; and Cathelineau had allowed him to carry them off, in order that the peasantry in the neighbourhood of the chateau should be provided with a proportion of guns, when the day of action arrived. The peasants gladly received the firearms, but could not be persuaded to endeavour to fight in any sort of order.
"They did not do it at Chollet, or elsewhere," they exclaimed, "and yet they beat the Blues easily. What good did discipline do to the enemy? None. Why, then, should we bother ourselves about it? When the enemy comes, we will rush upon them when they are tangled in our thickets."
Leigh was somewhat more successful. The fact that he had fought at Chollet, and was their seigneur's brother-in-law, had established a position for him in the eyes of peasants of his own age; and as he went from house to house, talking with them, he succeeded in getting some twenty boys to agree to follow him. He had been nominated an officer by the three generals, who had picked out, without reference to rank or age, those who they thought would, either from position, energy, or determination, fill the posts well. Thus one company was commanded by a noble, the next by a peasant; and each would, on the day of battle, fight equally well.
Leigh's arguments were such as were suited to the lads he addressed.
"You see, if you go with the bands of men, you will be lost in the crowd. The men will rush forward in front, you will all be in the rear. You want to serve your country. Well, you can serve it much better by watching the movements of the enemy, and carrying word of it to the commander. Then, sometimes, we can have a little enterprise of our own--cut off a post of the enemy, or manage to decoy them into lanes where we know their guns will stick fast.
"It is not size and strength that are most necessary in war; but quickness, alertness, and watchfulness. You know that, already, the leaders have found that nothing can persuade the men to keep guard, or to carry out outpost duty. If we do this, even if we do nothing else, we shall be serving the cause much better than if we were to join in a general rush upon the enemy."
"But we shall have no muskets with us," one of the boys objected.
"Nor would you want them. You would have to move about quickly, and guns would be terribly inconvenient, if you had to push your way through a hedge or a close thicket. And besides, if you had guns they would not be of much use to you, for none of you are accustomed to their use, and it needs a great deal of training to learn to shoot straight.
"I am quite sure that if I were to march with twenty of you to Cathelineau's headquarters, and were to say to him, 'We have come here, sir, to act as scouts for you, to bring you in news of the movements of the enemy, and to do anything in our power to prevent you from being surprised,' he would be more pleased than if I had brought him a hundred men armed with muskets."
When twenty had expressed their willingness to go, Leigh asked Jean, who had warmly entered into the plan, to speak to the fathers of the lads and get them to consent to their going with him. He accordingly called them together for that purpose.
"But do you mean that they will be away altogether, master?"
"Yes, while this goes on."
"But we shall lose their labour in the fields?"
"There will not be much labour in the fields, till this is over; and by having scouts watching the enemy you will get early news of their coming, and have time to drive off your beasts before they arrive."
"But how will they live?"
"When they are in this neighbourhood, one or two can come back and fetch bread. If they are too far off for that, my brother will buy bread for them. In cases where they cannot well be spared, I will remit a portion of your dues, as long as they are away; but this will not be for long, for I can see that, ere many weeks are past, the Blues will be swarming round in such numbers that there will be little time for work on your land, and you will all have to make great sacrifices.
"You must remember that the less there is in your barns, the more difficult it will be for an enemy to invade you; for if they can find nothing here, they will have to bring everything with them, and every waggon will add to their difficulties. My brother tells me that one of the things he means to do is to break up the roads, when he finds out by which line the Blues are advancing; and for that purpose I shall serve out, from my store, either a pick or an axe to each of the band."
At last all difficulties were got over, and twenty lads were enrolled. Another three weeks passed. The peasants of Poitou and Anjou thought but little of the storm that was gathering round them.
General Berruyer had arrived from Paris, with his army. A portion of the army from Brest moved down to Nantes; and were in concert, with the army of La Rochelle, to sweep that part of La Vendee bordering on the coast. General Canclaus was at Nantes, with two thousand troops. General Dayat was sent to Niort, with six thousand men; and was to defend the line between Sables and Saint Gilles. Bressuire was occupied by General Quetineau, with three thousand men. Leigonyer, with from four to five thousand men, occupied Vihiers; while Saint Lambert was held by Ladouce, with two thousand five hundred. The right bank of the Loire, between Nantes and Angers, was held by fifteen hundred men of the National Guard.
Thus that part of upper Poitou where the rising had been most successful was surrounded by a cordon of troops; which the Convention hoped, and believed, would easily stamp out the insurrection, and take a terrible vengeance for what had passed.
When the storm would burst, none knew; but Jean one day said to Leigh that it was certain that it must come soon; and that, if he was still resolved to carry out his plan, it was time that he set out.
"I am quite ready to carry out my plans, Jean, as you know; but dangers seem to threaten from so many quarters that I don't like going away from home. While my company are scattered near Chollet, for instance, the Blues may be burning down your chateau."
"I don't think there is much danger of that, Leigh. It is quite certain that, as soon as these divisions begin to move, they will have their hands full. We may hope that in some cases they will be defeated. In others they may drive off the peasants, and march to the town that they intend to occupy, but they will only hold the ground they stand upon. They will not be able to send out detached parties to attack chateaux or destroy villages.
"For the present, I have no fear whatever of their coming here. We are well away from any of the roads that they are likely to march by. I don't say that any of the roads are good, but they will assuredly keep on the principal lines, and not venture to entangle themselves in our country lanes. There are no villages of any size within miles of us, and this is one of the most thickly wooded parts of the Bocage--which, as you know, means the thicket--therefore I shall, when the time comes, leave your sister without uneasiness. We may be quite sure that if, contrary to my anticipation, any column should try to make its way through this neighbourhood, it would be hotly opposed, and she will have ample time to take to the woods, where she and the child will find shelter in any of the foresters' cottages.
"She is going to have peasant dresses made for her and Marthe. She will of course drive, as we intended; and the two men will take the horse and vehicle to some place in the woods, at a considerable distance from here, and keep it there until we join her and carry out our original plan of making for the coast. Directly you are gone, I shall make it my business to find out the most out of the way spot among the woods; and ride over and make an arrangement, with some woodman with a wife and family living there, to receive her, if necessary; and I will let you know the spot fixed on, and give you directions how to find it."
In order to add to Leigh's influence and authority, Martin persuaded the village cure--who was a man of much intelligence, and perceived that real good might be done by this party of lads--to have a farewell service in the church. Accordingly, on the morning on which they were to start, all attended the church, which was filled by their friends; and here he addressed the boys, telling them that the service in which they were about to engage was one that would be of great importance to their country, and that it would demand all their energy and strength. He then asked them to take an oath to carry out all orders they might receive from their leader, the seigneur's brother; who would himself share in their work, and the many hardships they might have to undergo.
"Here," he said, "is a gentleman who is by birth a foreigner, but who has come to love the land that his sister adopted as her own; and to hate its enemies--these godless murderers of women and children, these executioners of their king, these enemies of the church--so much that he is ready to leave his home, and all his comforts, and to risk his life in its cause. Remember that you have voluntarily joined him, and accepted him as your leader. The work once begun, there must be no drawing back. There is not a man in La Vendee who is not prepared to give his life, if need be, to the cause; and you, in your way, can do as much or more."
He then administered an oath to each lad and, as had been arranged, Leigh also took an oath to care for them in every respect, and to share their risks and dangers. Then the cure pronounced his blessing upon them, and the service ended.
Very greatly impressed with what had taken place, the little band marched out from the church, surrounded by their friends. Jean Martin then presented hatchets or light picks to each, and a waist belt in which the tools should be carried. As a rule, the peasants carried leathern belts over the shoulders, in which a sword, hatchet, or other weapon was slung; but Jean thought the waist belt would be much more convenient for getting rapidly through hedges or thickets, and it had also the advantage that a long knife, constituting in itself a formidable weapon, could also be carried in it.
Patsey presented them each with a hat, of which a supply had been obtained from Saint Florent. These were of the kind ordinarily worn by the peasants, in shape like the modern broad-brimmed wide-awake, but made of much stiffer material. She had bought these to give a certain uniformity to the band, of whom some already wore hats of this kind, others long knitted stocking caps, while others again were bare headed.
She added a piece of green ribbon round each hat. Leigh objected to this, on the ground that they might sometimes have to enter towns, and that any badge of this sort would be speedily noticed; but as she said, they would only have to take them off, when engaged in such service.
A quarter of an hour after leaving the church they marched away, amid the acclamations of their friends; each boy feeling a sensation of pride in the work that he had undertaken, and in the ceremony of which he had been the centre.
"Now, lads," Leigh said, as soon as they were fairly away from the village, "instead of walking along as a loose body, you had better form four abreast, and endeavour to keep step. It is no more difficult to walk that way than in a clump; and indeed, by keeping step it makes the walking easy, and it has the advantage that you can act much more quickly. If we heard an enemy approaching, and I gave the order, 'Ten go to the right and ten go to the left!' you would not know which were to go.
"Now each four of you will form a section, and the order into which you fall now, you will always observe. Then if I say, 'First two sections to the right, the other three sections to the left!' every one of you knows what to do, instead of having to wait until I mention all your names.
"This is nearly all the drill you will have to learn. You can choose your places now, but afterwards you will have to keep to them, so those of you who are brothers and special friends will, naturally, fall in next to each other."
In a minute or two the arrangements were made, and the party proceeded four abreast, with Leigh marching at their head. For the first hour or so, he had some difficulty in getting them to keep step; but they presently fell into it, time being kept by breaking into one of the canticles of the church.
After a long day's march, they arrived at the village which Cathelineau now occupied as his headquarters; as it had been necessary, in view of the threatening circle of the various columns of the enemy, to remove the headquarters from Chollet to a central point, from which he could advance, at once, against whichever of these columns might first move forward into the heart of the country. The lads all straightened themselves up as they marched through the streets, the unwonted spectacle of twenty peasant lads, marching in order, exciting considerable surprise. Cathelineau was standing at the door of the house he occupied, conversing with Messieurs Bonchamp and d'Elbee.
"Ah, Monsieur Stansfield," he said, "is it you?" as Leigh halted his party, and raised his hat. "You are the most military-looking party I have yet seen. They are young, but none the worse for that."
"There is nothing military about them, except that they march four abreast," he said, with a smile, "but for the work we have come to do, drill will not be necessary. I have raised this band on Jean Martin's estate, sir, and with your permission I propose to call them 'Cathelineau's scouts.' It seemed, to my brother and myself, that you sorely need scouts to inform you of the movements of the enemy, the roads by which they are approaching, their force and order. I have therefore raised this little body of lads of my own age. They will remain with me permanently, as long as the occasion needs. They will go on any special mission with which you may charge them; and will, at other times, watch all the roads by which an enemy would be likely to advance."
"If they will do that, Monsieur Stansfield, they will be valuable, indeed; that is just what I cannot get the peasants to do. When it comes to fighting, they will obey orders; but at all other times they regard themselves as their own masters, and neither entreaties nor the offer of pay suffices to persuade them to undertake such work as you are proposing to carry out. Consequently, it is only by chance that we obtain any news of the enemy's movements. I wish we had fifty such parties."
"They would be valuable, indeed," Monsieur d'Elbee said. "The obstinacy of the peasantry is maddening.
"How do you propose to feed your men?"
"When we are within reach of their homes, two will go back to fetch bread for the whole; when we are too far away, I shall buy it in one of the villages."
"When you are within reach of my headquarters, wherever that may be, you have only to send in; and they shall have the loaves served out to them, the same as the band who remain here. We are not short of money, thanks to the captures we have made.
"I see that none of your band have firearms."
"No, sir. Jean Martin would have let me have some of the muskets he brought from here, but it seemed to me that they would be an encumbrance. We may have to trust to our swiftness of foot to escape and, at any rate, we shall want to carry messages to you as quickly as possible. The weight of a gun and ammunition would make a good deal of difference; and would, moreover, be in our way in getting through the woods and hedges."
"But for all that, you ought to have some defence," Cathelineau said; "and if you came upon a patrol of cavalry, though only three or four in number, you would be in a bad case with only those knives to defend yourselves.
"Do you know whether there are any pistols in the storehouse, Monsieur Bonchamp?"
"Yes, there are some that were picked up from the cavalrymen we killed. They have not been given out yet."
"Then I think we had better serve out a pistol, with a score of cartridges, to each of these lads.
"If you let them fire three or four rounds at the trunk of a tree, or some mark of that sort, Monsieur Stansfield, they will get to know something about the use of the weapons."
"Thank you, sir. That would be excellent, and would certainly enable us to face a small party of the enemy, if we happen to encounter them."
"Please form the boys up two deep," Cathelineau said. "I will say a word or two to them."
The manoeuvre was not executed in military style, but the boys were presently arranged in order.
"I congratulate you, lads," Cathelineau went on, "in having devoted yourselves to your country, and that in a direction that will be most useful. I trust that you will strictly obey the orders of your commander; and will remember that you will be of far more use, in carrying them out, than in merely helping to swell the number in a pitched battle. I have every confidence in Monsieur Stansfield. He has set a noble example to the youths of this country, in thus undertaking arduous and fatiguing work, which is not without its dangers.
"I was glad to see that you marched in here, in order. I hope that you will go a little further, and learn to form line quickly, and to gather at his call. These things may seem to you to make very little difference, but in fact will make a great deal. You saw that you were at least a couple of minutes forming in line just now. Supposing the enemy's cavalry had been charging down upon you, that two minutes lost would have made all the difference between your receiving them in order, or being in helpless confusion when they came up.
"I have no doubt that one of my generals here has, among his followers, someone who served in the army, and who will teach you within the course of an hour, if you pay attention to his instructions, how to form into line, and back again into fours."
"I will give them an hour myself," Monsieur Bonchamp said. "I have nothing particular to do, and should be glad to instruct young fellows who are so willing, and well disposed.
"Are you too tired to drill now? You have had a long march."
A general negative was the reply.
"Well, then, march to the open space, just outside the town, and we will begin at once."
Feeling very proud of the honour of being drilled by a general, the boys fell into their formation, and followed Monsieur Bonchamp and Leigh. They were at a loss, at first, to comprehend the instructions given them; but by the end of an hour, they had fairly mastered the very simple movement.
"That will do," Monsieur Bonchamp said. "Of course you are not perfect, yet; but with a quarter of an hour's drill by your commander, every day, at the end of a week you will be able to do it quickly and neatly; and you will certainly find it a great advantage, if you come upon the enemy."
A large empty room was allotted to them and, as they sat down on the floor and munched the bread that they had brought with them, they felt quite enthusiastic over their work. It was a high honour, indeed, to have been praised by Monsieur Cathelineau, and been taught by one of his generals. They even felt the advantage that the drill had given them, contrasting the quickness with which they had finally formed into line, with their trouble in arranging themselves before Monsieur Cathelineau. The fact, too, that they were next morning to be furnished with pistols was a great gratification to them and, over and over again, they said to each other: "What will the people at home say, when they hear that Monsieur Cathelineau has praised us, that Monsieur Bonchamp himself has drilled us, and that we are to be provided with pistols?"
In the morning, the pistols and ammunition were served out. Leigh had, during the previous evening, seen Cathelineau and asked for orders.
"I cannot say exactly the line the Blues are likely to take. I should say that you had better make Chemille your headquarters. Berruyer, who is their new commander, has arrived at Saint Lambert. There is a strong force at Thouars, being a portion of the army from Saint Lambert. The enemy are also in force at Vihiers, and at Parthenay.
"It is from the forces at Thouars and Vihiers that danger is most likely to come. Doubtless other columns will come from the north, but we shall hear of their having crossed the Loire in time to oppose them; and with so small a band as yours, you will be amply employed in watching Thouars. There are many roads, all more or less bad, by which they may march; as soon as you ascertain that they are moving, and by which route, you will send a messenger to me.
"Any others of your band that you may have with you, send off to all the villages round. Give them warning, set the bells ringing, promise that aid will soon arrive, and urge them to harass the enemy, to fell trees across the road, and to impede their advance in every possible way.
"I will give you half a dozen papers, for the use of yourself and your messengers, saying that you are acting under my orders, and are charged with raising the country, directly the enemy advance. But above all, it is important that I should get the earliest possible information as to the route by which they are moving; as it will take us thirty-six hours before we can gather in anything like our full strength.
"It will be useful that you should spread false news as to our whereabouts. Your boys can say, in one village, that we are marching towards Tours; in another, that we are massed in the neighbourhood of Saint Florent; in a third that they hear that the order is, that all able-bodied men are to go west to oppose the force coming from Nantes, which has already taken Clisson, and carried Monsieur de Lescure and his family, prisoners, to Bressuire."
"We shall have to tell the villagers, sir, that we wish this news to be given to the Blues, if they should come there or, if questioned, they would tell them something else. I am sure that even the women would suffer themselves to be killed, rather than give any news that they thought would be useful to the enemy."
"You are right. Yes, you must tell them that this is what we want the Blues to believe, and that it is my wish that these are the answers to be given to any of them who may enter the village."
"The only thing, sir, is that they may find the villages empty, as they come along. The women and children will, no doubt, take to the woods. The men will, perhaps, offer some resistance; but when they find how strong the Blues are, will probably hurry to join you."
"There will probably be a few old people remaining in each village. However, we must trust much to chance. The great thing is for you to let me know, as soon as their main body is in motion. Whichever way they come, we must meet and attack them. It is in the woods and lanes that we must defend ourselves."
"I will endeavour to carry out your orders, sir; and shall start tomorrow morning, as soon as we get our pistols."
As soon as the little band was well away from the town, the pistols were loaded; and each of the lads, in turn, fired three shots at the trunk of a tree, at a distance of ten yards, under Leigh's directions. The shooting was quite as good as he had expected, and the boys themselves were well satisfied.
Then, the pistols being reloaded and placed in their belts, they resumed their march. They halted at a tiny hamlet, consisting of half a dozen houses, four miles from Thouars. The inhabitants were greatly surprised at their appearance, and an old man, who was the head of the little community, came out and asked Leigh who they were.
"We are Cathelineau's scouts," he replied. "We have orders to watch the movements of the enemy. We wish to be of no trouble. If there is an empty shed, we should be glad of it; still more so if there is a truss or two of straw."
"These you can have," the old man said. "If Cathelineau's orders had been that we were to turn out of our houses for you, we should have done so, willingly."
"A shed will do excellently for us. We shall be here but little. Half our number will always be away. If you can supply us with bread, I will pay you for it. If you cannot do so, I shall have to send two of my party away, every day, to fetch bread from Cathelineau's camp."
"I will see what can be done. It will not be for long?"
"No, it may possibly be only two or three days, and it may be a week."
"Then I think that we can manage. If we have not flour enough here to spare, I can take my horse and fetch half a sackful from some other village."
"Thank you very much. However, I think that we shall only occasionally want bread; for I shall be sending messengers, every day, to Monsieur Cathelineau, and these can always bring bread back with them."
The old man led them to a building which had served as a stable, but which was then untenanted.
"I will get some straw taken in presently, lads.
"As for you, sir, I shall be glad if you will be my guest."
"I thank you," Leigh said, "but I prefer to be with my followers. They come by my persuasion, and I wish to share their lot, in all things; besides, my being with them will keep up their spirits."
There was half an hour's drill, and then Leigh led the party to the shed, to which four or five bundles of straw had, by this time, been brought.
"Now," he said, "before we do anything else, we must choose two sub-officers. At times we may divide into two parties, and therefore it is necessary that one should be responsible, to me, for what is done in my absence.
"I will leave it to you to choose them. Remember it is not size and strength that are of most importance, it is quickness and intelligence. You know your comrades better than I do, and I shall be quite content to abide by your choice. I will go outside for a quarter of an hour, while you talk it over. I don't want to influence you, at all."
In ten minutes, two of the lads came out.
"We have chosen Andre Favras and Pierre Landrin."
"I think that you have done very wisely," Leigh said. "Those are the two whom I, myself, should have selected."
He had, indeed, noticed them as the two most intelligent of the party. They had been his first recruits, and it was in no small degree owing to their influence that the others had joined him. He returned to the shed.
"I approve of your choice, lads," he said. "No doubt Andre and Pierre will make very good sub-officers. When I am not present, you must obey their orders as readily as you do mine; and I shall be able to trust them to carry out my directions, implicitly.
"Now you will divide in two parties: the first two sections, and two of the third section will form one party, and will be under Andre's command, when acting in two parties; the other two of the third section, and the fourth and fifth, will form the second division, under Pierre. You will take it in turns to be on duty. We shall not need to watch by night, for there is no chance of the enemy venturing to enter our lanes, and thickets, after dark. The party not out on scouting duty will remain here, and will furnish messengers to carry news to Cathelineau, to fetch bread, or to perform other duties."
The next morning Leigh set out with the whole band, except two. He had gathered, from the people of the village, the position of the various roads and lanes by which troops, going westward from Thouars, would be likely to travel. When within two miles of the town, he placed two boys on each of these roads. They were not to show themselves, but were to lie behind the hedges and, if they saw any body of troops coming along, were at once to bring news to him, his own point being on the principal road.
Andre and Pierre were to leave their arms and belts behind them, to make a long detour, and to enter the town from the other side. They were to saunter about the place, listen to what was being said, and gather as much news as possible. Each was provided with two francs and, if questioned, they were to say that they had come in, from some village near, to buy an axe.
"I should have gone in myself, Andre; but although I can get on fairly enough in your patois, I cannot speak it well enough to pass as a native. However, you are not likely to be questioned. In a town crowded with troops, two lads can move about without attracting the smallest attention from the military. It would be only the civilian authorities that you would have to fear; but these will be so much occupied, in attending to the wants of the soldiers, that they will not have any time on their hands for asking questions.
"Be sure, before you enter the town, that you find out the name of some village, three or four miles on the other side; so as to have an answer ready, if you are asked where you come from.
"It is probable that you will find troops quartered in all the villages beyond the town, which could hardly accommodate so large a number as are there. Remember, you must try to look absolutely unconcerned as you go through them, and as you walk about the streets of the town. The great object is to find out how many men there are in and around Thouars, whether they are looking for more troops to join them from Saumur, and when they are expecting to move forward."
As soon as they had left he repeated, to the six lads who remained with him, the orders that he had given to those posted on the other roads.
"You are to remain in hiding," he said, "whatever the force may be. It is likely enough that patrols of four or five men may come along, to see that the roads are clear, and that there are no signs of any bodies being gathered to oppose their advance. It is quite true that we might shoot down and overpower any such patrols, but we must not attempt to do so. If one of them escaped, he would carry the news to Thouars that the roads were beset. This would put them on their guard--doubtless they imagine that, with such a force as they have gathered, they will march through La Vendee without opposition--and they would adopt such precautions at to render it far more difficult, than it otherwise would be, to check their advance when it begins in earnest. We are here only to watch. We shall have opportunities for fighting, later on.
"This is a good spot for watching, for we have a thick wood behind us; and plenty of undergrowth along its edge, by the road, where we can hide so closely that there will not be the slightest chance of our being discovered, if we do but keep absolutely quiet."
Three or four times during the day, indeed, cavalry parties passed along the road. They did not appear to have any fear of an attack, but laughed and jested at the work they had come to do, scoffed at the idea of the peasants venturing to oppose such forces as had gathered against them, and discussed the chances of booty. One party, of four men and an old sergeant, pulled up and dismounted, close to the spot where the lads where hidden.
"It is all very well, comrades," their leader said, "but for my part, I would rather be on the frontier fighting the Austrians. That is work for soldiers. Here we are to fight Frenchmen, like ourselves; poor chaps who have done no harm, except that they stick to their clergy, and object to be dragged away from their homes. I am no politician, and I don't care a snap for the doings of the Assembly in Paris--I am a soldier, and have learned to obey orders, whatever they are--but I don't like this job we have in hand; which, mind you, is bound to be a good deal harder than most of you expect. It is true that they say there are twenty thousand troops round the province--but what sort of troops? There are not five thousand soldiers among them. The others are either National Guards, or newly-raised levies, or those blackguards from the slums of Paris. Of the National Guards I should say half would desert, if they only had the chance, and the new levies can't be counted on."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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5
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: Checking The Enemy.
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"You see," Leigh said, when the patrol had ridden on, "the real soldiers do not like the work they are called upon to do, and they have no belief in the National Guards, or in the new levies. It will make all the difference, in their own fighting, when they know that they cannot rely upon some of the troops working with them. I have no doubt that what they say of the National Guards is true. They have had to come out because they are summoned, but they can have no interest in the war against us and, doubtless, many of them hate the government in Paris just as much as we do, and would give a great deal to be back again with their homes and families. It is just as hard for them to be obliged to fight us, as it is for us to be obliged to fight them."
It was late in the afternoon before Andre and Pierre returned. By the time they did so, the various cavalry patrols had all gone back to Thouars. From time to time, boys had come in from the other roads. One or two patrols, only, had gone out by each of the lanes on which they were posted. It was evident that the main road was considered of the most importance, and it was probable that the greater portion of the enemy's force would move by it.
"Well, what is your news?" Leigh asked, as his two lieutenants came down from the wood behind. "I hope all has gone well with you."
"Yes, captain," Andre replied; "we have had no difficulty. The troops in the villages on the other side of the town did not even glance at us, as we went through; supposing, no doubt, that we belonged to the place. Thouars was crowded with soldiers, and we heard that two thousand more are to arrive from Saumur, this evening. We heard one of the officers say that orders were expected for a forward movement, tomorrow; and that all the other columns were to move at the same time, and three of them were to meet at Chemille."
"That is enough for the present, Andre. You have both done very well, to pick up so much news as that. We will be off, at once."
Messengers were at once sent off, to order in the other parties and, as soon as these joined, they returned to the village, where they passed the night. On arriving there, Leigh wrote a report of the news that he had gathered; and sent off one of the band, who had remained all day in the village, to Cathelineau, and the other to Monsieur d'Elbee at Chollet.
The next day's watch passed like the first. Two or three officers, however, trotted along the main road with a squadron of cavalry, and rode to within a few miles of Chemille, and then returned to Thouars.
The next morning Leigh and his band were out before daybreak and, making their way to within a short distance of Thouars, heard drums beating and trumpets sounding. There was no doubt that the force there was getting into motion. The band at once dispersed, carrying the news not only to every village along the road, warning the women and children to take to the woods, and the men to prepare for the passage of the enemy, but to all the villages within two or three miles of the road, ordering the church bells to be sounded to call the peasants to arms; while two lads started to carry the news to Cathelineau and d'Elbee. When once the bells of the churches near the road were set ringing, they were speedily echoed by those of the villages beyond; until the entire district knew that the enemy were advancing.
On the way from Chemille, Leigh had kept a sharp lookout for points where an enemy might be checked; and had fixed upon one, about halfway between the two towns. A stream some four feet in depth passed under a bridge, where the road dipped into a hollow; beyond this the ground rose steeply, and was covered with a thick wood, of very considerable extent. As soon as he reached this point, he set his band to work to destroy the bridge. As groups of peasants came flocking along, and saw what was intended, they at once joined in the work.
As soon at it was done, Leigh led them to the spot where the forest began, some thirty yards up the hill, and set them to fell trees. This was work to which all were accustomed and, as many of them carried axes, the trees nearest to the road were felled to fall across it; while on each side facing the stream, they were cut so as to fall down the slope, and so form an abattis.
Before the work was finished, to a distance of two or three hundred yards on each side of the road, several hundred peasants had come up. Of these, about a third were armed with muskets. Seeing the advantage of the position; and that, in case it was forced, the forest offered them a means of retreat, all prepared for a desperate resistance. The men with firearms were placed in the front rank. Those with pitchforks, and other rural weapons, were to keep at work till the last moment, cutting underwood, and filling the interstices between the boughs of the fallen trees, so as to make it extremely difficult to force. They were ordered to withdraw, when the fight began, to a distance of two or three hundred yards; and then to lie down, in any inequalities of the ground, so as to be safe from cannon shot Only when the defenders of the abattis were forced back, were they to prepare to charge.
A young fellow with a cow horn took his place by Leigh's side. When he blew his horn, the front rank were to run back, and the reserve to come forward to meet them; and then they were to rush down again upon their assailants who had passed the abattis, and to hurl them into the stream.
The peasants all recognized the advantages of these arrangements. Those who had come first had found Leigh in command and, by the readiness with which he was obeyed by his own followers, saw at once that he was in authority. As others came up, he showed them Cathelineau's circular. These recognized its order, and informed the later arrivals that the young officer, who was giving orders, was specially empowered by Cathelineau to take command; and Leigh was as promptly obeyed as if he had been their favourite leader, himself. They saw, too, that he knew exactly what he wanted done, and gave every order with firmness and decision; and their confidence in him became profound.
It was three hours after he arrived at the river when a party of horse came down the opposite slope. Leigh had ordered that not a shot was to be fired, until he gave the signal. He waited until the enemy came to the severed bridge, when they halted suddenly; and as they did so he gave the word and, from the long line of greenery, fifty muskets flashed out. More than half the troop of horse fell; and the rest, turning tail, galloped up the hill again, while a shout of derision rose from the peasants.
[Illustration: A scattered fire broke out from the defenders.]
Half an hour passed, then the head of the column was seen descending the road. It opened out as it came, forming into a thick line of skirmishers, some two hundred yards wide. Moving along, Leigh spread the musketeers to a similar length of front. At first, the enemy were half hidden by the wood at the other side of the slope; but as they issued from this, some twenty yards from the stream, a scattered fire broke out from the defenders.
The Blues replied with a general discharge at their invisible foes, but these were crouching behind the stumps or trunks of the felled trees, and the fire was ineffectual. Leigh's own band were lying in a little hollow, twenty yards behind the abattis; their pistols would have been useless, until the enemy won their way up to the trees, and until then they were to remain as a first reserve.
Exposed as they were to the steady fire of the peasants, the assailants suffered heavily and, at the edge of the stream, paused irresolutely. It was some fifteen yards wide, but they were ignorant of the depth, and hesitated to enter it; urged, however, by the shouts of their officers, who set the example by at once entering the stream, and by seeing that the water did not rise above their shoulders, the men followed. But as they gained the opposite bank, they fell fast. At so short a distance, every shot of the peasants told; and it was some time before a sufficient number had crossed to make an assault against the wall of foliage in their front.
Fresh troops were constantly arriving from behind and, encouraged by this, they at last rushed forward. As they did so, Leigh called up his own band; and these, crawling forward through the tangle as far as they could, opened fire on the enemy, as they strove to push their way through the obstacle.
For a quarter of an hour the fight went on. Then the assailants, having with great loss succeeded in passing over or pulling aside the brushwood, began to pour through. The moment they did so, Leigh's horn sounded; and at once the defenders rushed up the hill, pursued by the Blues, with exulting shouts. But few shots were fired, for the assailants had emptied their muskets before striving to pass through the obstacle.
Leigh and his men had run but a hundred yards into the wood when they met the main body of the peasants, rushing down at full speed. Turning at once, his party joined them, and fell upon the advancing enemy. Taken wholly by surprise, when they believed that victory was won, the two or three hundred men who had passed the abattis were swept before the crowd of peasants like chaff. The latter, pressing close upon their heels, followed them through the gaps that had been made.
The panic of the fugitives spread at once to those who had crossed the river, and were clustered round the openings, jostling in their eagerness to get through and join, as they believed, in the slaughter of those who had caused them such heavy loss; and all fled together. The peasants were at their heels, making deadly use of their pitchforks, axes, and knives, and drove the survivors headlong into the river. The horn again sounded and, in accordance with the strict orders that they had received, they ran back again to their shelter; a few dropping from the scattered fire that the troops on the other side of the stream opened against them, as soon as the fugitives had cleared away from their front.
Scarcely had the peasants gained the shelter when six pieces of cannon, that had been placed on the opposite slope while the fight was going on, opened against them.
Leigh at once ordered the main body back to their former position, scattering his hundred men with guns along the whole line of abattis, whence they again opened fire on the troops on the opposite side of the river. These replied with volleys of musketry; but the defenders, stationed as they were five or six yards apart, and sheltering behind the trees, suffered but little either from the artillery or musketry fire; while men dropped fast in the ranks of the Blues.
The cannon were principally directed against the trees blocking the road. Gradually these were torn to pieces and, after an hour's firing, were so far destroyed that a passage through them was comparatively easy. Then the enemy again began to cross the stream.
As soon as they commenced to do so, Leigh called up the men with muskets from each flank, and sent word to the main body to descend the hill again, as the cannonade would cease as soon as the attack began. Three times the assault was made and repulsed, the peasants fighting with a fury that the Blues, already disheartened with their heavy losses, could not withstand. As they fell back for the third time, Leigh thought that enough had been done, and ordered the peasants at once to make through the woods, and to proceed by-lanes and byways to join Cathelineau; who, he doubted not, would by this time have gathered a considerable force at Chemille.
By the time that the Blues were ready to advance again, this time in overwhelming force, the peasants were well away. The wounded, as fast as they fell, had been carried off to distant villages; and when the enemy advanced they found, to their surprise, that their foes had disappeared, and that only some thirty dead bodies remained on the scene of battle.
Their own loss had exceeded three hundred, a large proportion of whom were regular soldiers; and the National Guards, and the new levies, were profoundly depressed at the result of the action.
"If," they said to themselves, "what must have been but a comparatively small number of peasants have caused this loss, what will it be when we meet Cathelineau's main body?"
There was no thought of pursuit. A regiment was thrown out in skirmishing order, and advanced through the wood, the rest following in column along the road. General Berruyer had joined General Menou the evening before, with the force from Saumur and, as they moved forward, the two generals rode together.
"This is a much more serious business than I had expected," Berruyer said. "I certainly imagined that, with such forces as we have gathered round La Vendee, the campaign would be little more than a military promenade. I see, however, that I was entirely mistaken. These men have, today, shown themselves capable of taking advantage of the wild character of their country; and as to their courage, there can be no question, whatever. If this is a fair sample of the resistance that we have to expect, throughout the whole country, we shall need at least fifty thousand men to subdue them."
"Fully that," Menou said, shortly. "There is no doubt that we blame the National Guards, who were so easily routed by the peasants on the tenth of March, more severely than they deserve. I rode forward to encourage the men, at their last attack. I never saw soldiers fight with such fury as did these peasants. They threw themselves on the troops like tigers, in many cases wresting their arms from them and braining them with their own muskets. Even our best soldiers seemed cowed, by the fierceness with which they were attacked; and as for the men of the new levies, they were worse than useless, and their efforts to force their way to the rear blocked the way of the reinforcements; who were trying, though I must own not very vigorously, to get to the front.
"The peasants were well led, too, and acting on an excellent plan of defence. They must have been sheltered altogether from our fire, for among the dead I did not see one who had been killed by a cannonball. The country must possess hundreds of points, equally well adapted for defence; and if these are as well and obstinately held as this has been, it will take even more than fifty thousand men to suppress the insurrection."
"The Convention is going to work the wrong way," Berruyer said. "The commissioners have orders to hang every peasant found in arms, and every suspect; that is to say, virtually every one in La Vendee. It would have been infinitely better for them to have issued a general amnesty; to acknowledge that they themselves have made a mistake; that the cures of Poitou and Brittany should be excepted from the general law, and allowed to continue their work in their respective parishes without interruption; and that for a year, at least, this part of France should be exempt from conscription. Why, if this campaign goes on, a far larger force will be employed here than the number of troops which the district was called upon to contribute, to say nothing of the enormous expense and loss of men.
"It is a hideous business altogether, to my mind. I would give all I possess to be recalled, and sent to fight on the frontier."
Two hours after the fight, Leigh with his band, of whom none had been killed, although several had received wounds more or less serious, arrived at Chemille. They had been preceded by many of the peasants, who had already carried the news of the fight, and that the column from Thouars had been delayed for three hours, and had suffered very heavy losses.
"It was all owing, Monsieur Cathelineau," the head of one of the peasant bands said, "to the officer you sent to command us. He was splendid. It was to him that everything was due. He was cutting down the bridge when we came up, and it was by his orders that we felled the trees, and blocked the road, and made a sort of hedge that took them so long to get through. We should have been greatly damaged by the fire of their guns and muskets; but he kept us all lying down, out of reach, till we were wanted, while the men with the guns defended the line of fallen trees. When we were wanted, he called us up by blowing a cow horn, and then we drove the Blues back into the stream, and returned to our shelter until we were wanted again.
"We did not lose more than thirty men, altogether; while more than ten times that number of the Blues have fallen. We thought at first that you had chosen rather a strange leader for us; but as always you were right, for if you had been there, yourself, things could not have gone better."
"But I sent no one as your commander," Cathelineau said in surprise.
"He had a paper that he read out, saying that he was acting on your orders. As I cannot read, I cannot say that it was written down as he read it; but if you did not send him, God must have done so."
"It is strange, Bonchamp," Cathelineau said to that officer, "for I certainly did not send anyone. I never thought of defending the passage of that stream. However, whoever it is who has commanded has done us great service, for that three hours which have been gained will make all the difference. They cannot arrive, now, until after dark, and will not attack before morning; and by that time, our force will have doubled."
"Here comes our officer, monsieur!" the peasant exclaimed; as Leigh, with his party, came down the street, loudly cheered by the peasants who had fought under him.
"Why, it is Jean Martin's young brother-in-law!" Monsieur Bonchamp exclaimed and, raising his voice, he called to Jean, who was talking to a group of other officers near.
Jean ran up.
"Monsieur Martin, it is your young Englishman who has held Berruyer in check, for three hours; see how the peasants are cheering him!"
Cathelineau advanced to meet Leigh, who halted his band and saluted the general. The latter stepped forward, and returned the salute by lifting his hat.
"Monsieur Stansfield," he said, "I salute you, as the saviour of our position here. Had Berruyer arrived this afternoon, we must have retired; for we are not yet in sufficient force to withstand his attack. Tomorrow we shall, I hope, be strong enough to beat him. I have been wondering who this officer could be who, with but three or four hundred men, held the principal force of our foes, led by their commander-in-chief, in check for three hours; and, as I hear, killed three hundred of his best troops, with a loss of but thirty of ours. I ought to have thought of you, when they said that you read them an order, saying that you were acting in my name."
"It was great presumption on my part, general," Leigh said, "and I know that I had no right to use it for such a purpose; but I felt how important it was that you should have time to prepare for defence, and I thought it my duty, as there was no one else to take the matter in hand, to do so myself."
"You have done magnificently, sir, and the thanks of all La Vendee are due to you.
"I see that several of your lads are wounded," for five of them wore bandages, and a sixth was carried on a rough litter, by four of his companions. "Lads," he said, "I salute you. You have done well, indeed, and there is not a boy of your age in La Vendee but will envy you, when he hears how you, under your brave young commander, have today played the chief part in checking the advance of an army of five thousand men. I shall publish an order, today, saying that my scouts have rendered an inestimable service to their country."
"Well, Leigh," Jean Martin said, after the little band had fallen out, and one of the surgeons had taken charge of the wounded, "you have indeed distinguished yourself. I certainly did not think, when I persuaded your sister to let you go, that you were going to match yourself against the French general, and to command a force which should inflict a heavy check upon him. Cathelineau has asked me to bring you round to his quarters, presently, so that you can give him the full details of the affair; saying that a plan that had succeeded so well might be tried again, with equal effect. I cannot stay with you now, for I am going, with Bonchamp, to see to the work of loopholing and fortifying the church."
"I am going to look after my boys, Jean. They have had nothing to eat this morning, except a mouthful or two of bread each, and they have been up since two hours before daylight. Do you feel sure that the Blues will not attack tonight?"
"Yes, I think so. After the lesson you have given Berruyer of the fighting qualities of the peasants, it is pretty certain that he will not venture to attack us after a hard day's march, and a fight that must have sorely discouraged his men."
That evening, news came in from several quarters. Leigonyer had marched from Vihiers by three roads, directing his course towards Coron. Two of the columns had been attacked by the peasants and, being largely composed of new levies, had at once lost heart and retreated; the central column, in which were the regular troops, being obliged in consequence also to fall back. Another column had crossed the Loire and taken Saint Florent, without any very heavy fighting; and Quetineau had advanced from Bressuire to Aubiers, without meeting with resistance.
The news was, on the whole, satisfactory. It had been feared that the force at Vihiers would march north, and join that of Berruyer; and that they would make a joint attack upon the town. The disaster that had befallen them rendered this no longer possible. There was disappointment that Saint Florent had been recaptured, but none that Quetineau had advanced without opposition to Aubiers; for the whole of the peasantry from that locality were with Cathelineau.
In point of fact, Berruyer had not ordered the force at Vihiers to march to join him. On the contrary, he had intended, after capturing Chemille, which he expected to do without serious trouble, to march south and effect a junction with Leigonyer at Coron. He halted four miles from Chemille, harangued the new levies, reproaching those who had shown cowardice during the day's fighting, and exhorting them to behave with courage on the following day. No inconsiderable portion of them belonged to the force that had marched down from Paris, and these heroes of the slums, who had been foremost in the massacres in the prisons, and in their demand for the blood of all hostile to them, behaved throughout with abject cowardice, whenever they met a foe with arms in their hands.
After having had an interview with Cathelineau, and relating to him full particulars of the fight, Leigh, having nothing to do, strolled about the town. Presently he came upon a group of three or four peasants, who had been drinking more than was good for them. One of them, whose bearing and appearance showed that he had served in the army, was talking noisily to the others.
"You will see that I, Jacques Bruno, artilleryman, will be a great man yet," he said. "I shall soon be rich. I have had enough poverty since I left the army, but I shall have plenty of gold yet. You will see what you will see."
"How can you be rich?" one of the others said, with an air of drunken wisdom. "You are lazy, Jacques Bruno. We all know you. You are too fond of the wine cup It is seldom that you do a day's work."
"Never mind how I shall get rich. I tell you that it will be so, and the word of Jacques Bruno is not to be doubted;" and he turned away, saying, "I shall go for a few hours' sleep, now, to be in readiness for tomorrow."
"Who is that man?" Leigh asked sharply, going up to the others.
The scarf that he wore showed him to be an officer, and the peasants removed their hats.
"It is Jacques Bruno, monsieur. He is in charge of our guns. He is an old artilleryman. Cathelineau has appointed him to the post, as it needs an artilleryman to load and point the guns."
Leigh moved away. This fellow was half drunk, but not too drunk to know what he was saying. What did he mean by declaring that he would soon be rich? The peasants had said that he was lazy, and fond of the wine cup He could hardly be likely to acquire wealth by honest labour.
Perhaps he might be intending an act of treachery. Putting aside other considerations, he, as an old soldier, would scarcely care to mow down his former comrades, and his sympathies must be rather with the army than with the peasants. He had no personal interest in this revolt against conscription, nor was it likely that the cause of the cures concerned him greatly. He might, however, meditate some act of treachery, by which he would benefit his former comrades and gain a rich reward.
At any rate, it would be worth while watching. He returned to the room where his band were quartered.
"Andre," he said, "I want you and two others to keep watch with me until midnight, then Pierre and two of his party will relieve you. At that hour you will send one of your party, to guide Pierre to the place where I shall be. You will bring your pistols and knives with you, and if I come down and tell you to move forward, you will do so as noiselessly as possible."
"Shall we come at once, captain?" Andre asked.
"No, you had better lie down, with the two who are to come with you, and sleep till nine o'clock. I will come at that hour. We will say one o'clock instead of twelve for the watch to be changed; that will make a more even division for the night."
Going out again, Leigh inquired where the cannon had been placed. They were on an eminence outside the town, and commanded the road by which Berruyer's column would advance. Strolling up there, he saw Bruno lying asleep between two of the guns, of which there were five.
"It seems all right," he said to himself, "and as he cannot walk off with them, I don't see what his plan can be--that is, if he has a plan. However, there is no harm in keeping watch. The guns are against the skyline and, lying down fifty yards away, we shall be able to see if he does anything with them. Of course he might spike them, but I don't suppose that he would risk that, for the spikes might be noticed the first thing in the morning. I don't think that it would do for him to try that. It seemed a stupid thing even to doubt him but, half drunk as he was, he certainly was in earnest in what he said, and does believe that he is going to be a rich man; and I don't see how that can possibly come about, except by some act of treachery. At any rate, we will keep an eye upon the fellow tonight, and if we are not posted in any particular spot tomorrow, I will be up here with my band when the firing begins, and keep my eye on him."
He spent three or four hours with Jean Martin, and then went back to his quarters. Andre and two of the lads were in readiness. They moved out quietly, for the street was thick with sleeping peasants. There were no sentries to be seen.
"If the enemy did but know," he muttered to himself, "they might take the place without firing a shot."
Presently, however, he came upon an officer.
"Where are you going?" he asked sharply.
"I am Leigh Stansfield, and am going, with three of my party, to keep watch near the guns."
"That is good," the officer said. "I am on duty here, and Jean Martin has just ridden out. He is going a couple of miles along the road, and will give the alarm if he hears any movement of the enemy. When he gets within half a mile he is to fire off his pistols, and I shall have time to get the men up, long before their infantry can arrive. We have tried, in vain, to get some of the peasants to do outpost duty. They all say that they will be ready to fight, when the enemy comes; but they want a good sleep first, and even Cathelineau could not move them. It is heartbreaking to have to do with such men."
"I do not think that it is laziness. It is that they have a fixed objection to doing what they consider any kind of soldier work. Their idea of war is to wait till the enemy comes, and then to make a rush upon them; and when they have done that, they think their duty is ended. Some day, when the Blues have a sharp commander, and have gained a little discipline, we shall suffer some terrible disaster from the obstinacy of the peasantry."
With a word of adieu Leigh turned off the road, and made his way halfway up the eminence. Here the guns could be plainly made out. Leaving Andre and his two followers, he went quietly up the slope, to assure himself that the artilleryman was still there. Had he missed him, he was determined to go at once to Cathelineau, and state his suspicions, and his belief that Bruno had gone off to inform Berruyer that, if he advanced, he would find the place wholly unguarded, and would have it at his mercy. He found, however, that the artilleryman was still asleep, and returned to Andre.
"Now," he said, "there is no occasion for us all to watch. I, with one of the others, will keep a lookout for the next two hours and, at the end of that time, will rouse you and the others."
Leigh's watch had passed off quietly. There was no movement among the guns and, from the position in which Bruno was lying, his figure would have been seen at once, had he risen to his feet.
"If the man up there stands up, you are to awaken me at once, Andre," he said.
Overcome by the excitement and the heat of the day, Leigh dropped off to sleep almost immediately. An hour later, he was roused by being shaken by Andre.
"The man has got up, sir."
The artilleryman, after stretching himself two or three times, took up something from the ground beside him, and then went some distance down the side of the hill, but still in sight of the watchers.
"He has got something on his shoulder, sir. I think it is a shovel, and he has either a cloak or a sack on his arm."
"He is evidently up to something," Leigh replied, "but what it can be, I cannot imagine."
Presently the man stopped, and began to work.
"He is digging," Andre said, in surprise.
"It looks like it certainly, but what he can be digging for I have no idea."
Presently the man was seen to raise a heavy weight on to his shoulders.
"It was a sack he had with him," Andre said, "and he has filled it with earth and stones."
Leigh did not reply. The mystery seemed to thicken, and he was unable to form any supposition, whatever, that would account for the man's proceedings. The latter carried his burden up to the cannon, then he laid it down, and took up some long tool and thrust it into the mouth of one of the cannon.
A light suddenly burst upon Leigh.
"The scoundrel is going to draw the charges," he said, "and fill up the cannon with the earth that he has brought up."
Andre would have leapt to his feet, as he uttered an exclamation of rage.
"Keep quiet!" Leigh said, authoritatively. "We have no evidence against him, yet. We must watch him a bit longer, before we interrupt him."
After two or three movements, the man was seen to draw something from the gun. This he laid on the ground, and then inserted the tool again.
"That is the powder," Leigh whispered, as something else was withdrawn from the gun; "there, you see, he is taking handfuls of earth from the sack, and shoving it into the mouth."
This was continued for some time, and then a rammer was inserted, and pushed home several times. Then he moved to the next cannon.
"Now follow very quietly, Andre. Busy as he is, we may get quite close up to him, before he notices us. Mind, you are not to use your knife. We can master him easily enough, and must then take him down to Cathelineau, for his fate to be decided on."
[Illustration: Leigh gave the word and, leaping up, they threw themselves on the traitor.]
Noiselessly they crept up the hill. When within five or six paces of the gun at which Bruno was at work, Leigh gave the word and, leaping up, they threw themselves on the traitor; who was taken so completely by surprise that they were able to throw him, at once, to the ground. Snatching up a rope that had been used for drawing the guns, Leigh bound his arms securely to his side; and then, putting a pistol to his head, ordered him to rise to his feet.
"Shoot me, if you like,"' the man growled. "I will not move."
"I will not shoot you," Leigh replied. "You must be tried and condemned.
"Now, Andre, we must carry him."
The four boys had no difficulty in carrying the man down. As they passed the officer on sentry, he said: "Whom have you there, Monsieur Stansfield?"
"It is Bruno, the artilleryman. We have caught him drawing the charges from the guns, and filling them with earth. We must take him to the general."
"The villain!" the officer exclaimed. "Who would have thought of a Vendean turning traitor?"
Cathelineau was still up, talking with some of his officers as to the preparations for the battle. There was no sentry at his door. Leigh entered and, tapping at the door of the room in which he saw a light, went in. Cathelineau looked up in surprise, as the door opened.
"I thought you were asleep hours ago, monsieur," he said.
"It is well that I have not been, sir."
And he related the conversation that he had overheard, and his own suspicions that the man Bruno meditated treachery; the steps they had taken to watch him, and the discovery they had made. Exclamations of indignation and fury broke from the officers.
"Gentlemen," Cathelineau said, "we will at once proceed to try this traitor. He shall be judged by men of his own class.
"Monsieur Pourcet, do you go out and awaken the first twelve peasants you come to."
In a minute or two the officer returned with the peasants, who looked surprised at having been thus roused from their sleep.
"My friends, do you take your places along that side of the room. You are a jury, and are to decide upon the guilt or innocence of a man who is accused of being a traitor."
The word roused them at once, and all repeated indignantly the word "traitor!"
"Monsieur Stansfield," he said to Leigh, "will you order your men to bring in the prisoner?"
The man was brought in and placed at the head of the table, opposite to Cathelineau.
"Now, Monsieur Stansfield, will you tell the jury the story that you have just told me?"
Leigh repeated his tale, interrupted occasionally by exclamations of fury from the peasants. Andre and the other lads stepped forward, one after the other, and confirmed Leigh's statement.
"Before you return a verdict, my friends," Cathelineau said quietly, "it is but right that we should go up to the battery, and examine the cannon ourselves; not, of course, that we doubt the statement of Monsieur Stansfield and the other witnesses, but because it is well that each of you should be able to see for himself, and report to others that you have been eyewitnesses of the traitor's plot."
Accordingly the whole party ascended to the battery. There lay the spade and the sack of earth. The tool with which the work had been done was still in the mouth of the second cannon and, on pulling it out, the powder cartridge came with it. Then Leigh led them to the next gun, and a man who had a bayonet thrust it in, and soon brought some earth and stones to the mouth of the gun.
"We have now had the evidence of Monsieur Stansfield, and those with him, tested by ourselves examining the guns. What do you say, my friends--has this man been proved a traitor, or not?"
"He has!" the peasants exclaimed, in chorus.
"And what is your sentence?"
"Death!" was the unanimous reply.
"I approve of that sentence. March him down to the side of the river, and shoot him."
Three minutes later, four musket shots rang out.
"Thus die all traitors!" Cathelineau said.
Bruno, however, was the sole Vendean who, during the course of the war, turned traitor to his comrades and his country.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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6
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: The Assault Of Chemille.
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Few words were spoken, as the group of officers returned to the town. When they reached Cathelineau's quarters Leigh would have gone on, but the general said, "Come in, if you please, Monsieur Stansfield," and he followed the party in.
"This has been a trial, gentlemen, a heavy trial," the general said. "When I entered upon this work, I knew that that there were many things that I should have to endure. I knew the trouble of forming soldiers from men who, like ours, prize their freedom and independence above all other things; that we might have to suffer defeat; that we must meet with hardships, and probably death; and that, in the long run, all our efforts might be futile.
"But I had not reckoned on having to deal with treachery. I had never dreamed that one of my first acts would have been to try and to sentence a Vendean to death, for an act of the grossest treachery. However, let us put that aside; it was, perhaps, in the nature of things. In every community there must be a few scoundrels and, if this turns out to be a solitary instance, we may congratulate ourselves, especially as we have escaped without injury.
"That we have done so, gentlemen, is due solely to Monsieur Stansfield; who thus twice, in the course of a single day, has performed an inestimable service to the cause. There are few indeed who, on hearing the braggadocio of a drunken man, would have given the matter a moment's thought; still less have undertaken a night of watchfulness, after a day of the heaviest work, merely to test the truth of a slightly-founded suspicion that might have occurred to them. It is not too much to say that, had not this act of treachery been discovered, our defeat tomorrow would have been well-nigh certain. You know how much our people think of their guns; and if, when the fight began, the cannon had been silent, instead of pouring their contents into the ranks of the enemy, they would have lost heart at once, and would have been beaten almost before the fight began.
"We have no honours to bestow on you, Monsieur Stansfield, but in the name of La Vendee I thank you, with all my heart. I shall add, to my order respecting your fight of yesterday, a statement of what has taken place tonight; and I shall beg that all officers read it aloud to the parties that follow them."
"I agree most cordially with the general's words," Monsieur Bonchamp said. "Your defence yesterday would have been a credit to any military man, and this discovery has saved us from ruin tomorrow, or rather today. I will venture to say that not one man in five hundred would have taken the trouble to go out of his way to ascertain whether the words of a drunken man rested on any foundation."
There was, then, a short conversation as to the approaching fight. The number of men who had arrived was much smaller than had been anticipated, owing to the fact that the simultaneous invasion, at so many points, had the effect of retaining the peasants of the various localities for the defence of their own homes. Leigh learned that a mounted messenger had been despatched, shortly before he brought the prisoner down, to beg Monsieur d'Elbee to bring the force he commanded, at Chollet, with all speed to aid in the defence of Chemille; for if that town fell, he would be exposed to the attack of the united forces of Generals Berruyer and Leigonyer.
"Now, gentlemen, I think we had better get a few hours' sleep," Cathelineau said. "They will not be here very early, probably not until noon; for they may wait for a time before starting, in hopes of being joined either by Leigonyer or one of the other columns, and it is not likely that any news of the sharp reverse that Leigonyer has met with has reached them."
It was now two o'clock in the morning, and Leigh slept heavily, till roused at eight.
"You should have called me before, Andre," he said reproachfully, when he learnt how late it was.
"I thought it was better that you should have a good sleep, captain. Of course, if there had been any message to say that you were wanted, I should have woke you; but as no one came, and there is still no news of the enemy, I thought that it was better to let you sleep till now."
Pierre had started with his party, at five, to scout on the road by which the enemy was advancing. Leigh first hurried down to the river and had a bath, and then felt ready for any work that he might have to do. He then went to the house where Jean was lodged. The latter, who had not returned from his outpost work till day broke, was just getting up.
"Well, Leigh," he said, "I called in at Cathelineau's quarters to report. I found him already up. He told me the work that you had been doing, and praised you up to the skies. It seems to me that you are getting all the credit of the campaign. Really I feel quite proud of you, and we shall be having you starting as a rival leader to Cathelineau."
Leigh laughed.
"One does not often have two such opportunities in the course of a day, and I don't suppose I am likely to have such luck again, if the war goes on for a year. Where are you going to be today?"
"I am going to act as aide-de-camp to Bonchamp."
"And what shall we do, do you think?"
"Well, I should say you had best keep out of it altogether, Leigh. You and your band did much more than your share of fighting yesterday, and your pistols will be of no use in a fight such as this will be. Seriously, unless Cathelineau assigns you some post, I should keep out of it. Your little corps is specially formed to act as scouts and, as we are so extremely badly off in that respect, it will be far better for you to keep to your proper duties, than to risk your lives."
"How do you think the fight is likely to go, Jean?"
"It depends, in the first place, upon how the Blues fight; if they do well, they ought to beat us. In the next place, it depends on whether d'Elbee comes up in time. If he does, I think that we shall hold the place, but it will be stiff fighting."
It was not until noon that Berruyer's force was seen approaching. As soon as it was in sight the Vendeans poured out, and took up their station by the hill on which the guns were placed. In spite of what Jean had said, Leigh would have placed his band with the rest; had not Cathelineau sent for him, half an hour before, and given him orders which were almost identical with the advice of Jean.
"I wish you and your band to keep out of this battle, Monsieur Stansfield. Your force is so small that it can make no possible difference in the fortunes of the day and, whether we win or lose, your lads may be wanted as messengers, after it is over. They have done extremely well, at present, and need no further credit than they have gained. I beg, therefore, that you will take post with them somewhat in rear of the village, away on the right. I shall then know where to find you, if I have any messages to send; and moreover, I want you at once to send off one of your most active lads with this note to d'Elbee, urging him to come on at full speed, for the fight is likely to go hard with us, unless he comes in time to our assistance; and telling him I wish him to know that, even if I have to fall back, the church will be held till the last; and that as soon as he arrives I shall, if possible, again take the offensive, and beg that he will attack the enemy in flank or in rear, as he sees an opportunity. Upon the belfry of the church, half a mile on our right, you will be able to see how the battle goes; and can send off news to d'Elbee, from time to time."
"Very well, sir. I will despatch your letter at once, and then march out to the church, which I noticed yesterday."
"Here is a telescope," Cathelineau said. "We are well provided with them, as we took all that we could find, at Chollet and Vihiers. I think that, with its aid, you will be able to have a good view of what is going on."
In twenty minutes, Leigh had taken up his post in the belfry of the village church that Cathelineau had indicated. Andre and Pierre, whose party had returned an hour before, were with him. The rest of the band were in the story below them, from which a view was also obtainable. The three most severely wounded had started for their homes, early that morning. The others were fit for duty.
The fight began by a discharge of the guns of the assailants. Leigh could see that the defenders' guns had been somewhat withdrawn from their position on the top of the rising ground, where they would have been too much exposed to the enemy's fire; and their muzzles now only showed over the brow. During the course of the morning an earthwork had been thrown up, to afford protection to the men serving them. They did not return the fire until the enemy were within a distance of a quarter of a mile, then they commenced, with deadly effect.
The Blues halted, and Leigh could make out that a considerable number of men in the rear at once turned and ran. In order to encourage them they had been informed, just before they marched, of the plot that had been arranged to silence the guns; and this unexpected discharge caused the greatest consternation among the young levies. A body of cavalry were at once sent off in pursuit, and drove the fugitives back to their ranks, the troopers using the flats of their swords unstintingly.
Then the advance was resumed, covered by the fire of the guns and by volleys of musketry. These were answered but feebly by the firearms in the peasants' hands, and the Blues pressed on until, just before they reached the foot of the slope, the peasants charged them with fury.
The regular troops and a regiment of gendarmes had been placed in front. These stood firm, poured heavy volleys into the peasants as they approached, and then received them with levelled bayonets.
In vain the Vendeans strove to break through the hedge of steel. Cathelineau and his officers on one side, and the French generals on the other, encouraged their men, and for a quarter of an hour a desperate conflict reigned. Then the peasants fell back, and the Blues resumed their advance.
Three times Cathelineau induced his followers to renew the attack, but each time it was unsuccessful. The Blues mounted the hill, the cannon were captured, and the Vendeans fell back into the town. Here the ends of the streets had been barricaded and, in spite of the artillery and the captured guns now turned against their former owners, the assailants tried in vain to force their way into the town.
From every window that commanded the approaches, the men with muskets kept up an incessant fire. The mass of the peasants lay in shelter behind the barricades, or in the houses, until the enemy's infantry approached to within striking distance; and then, leaping up from these barricades, and fighting with an absolute disregard of their lives, they again and again repulsed the attacks of the enemy.
Berruyer, seeing that in spite of his heavy losses he made no way, called his troops from the assault and, forming them into two columns, moved to the right and left, and attacked the town on both sides. Here no barricades had been erected and, in spite of the efforts of the peasants, an entrance was forced into the town. Every street, lane, and house was defended with desperate energy; but discipline gradually triumphed, and the Blues won their way into the square in the centre of the town, where the principal church stood. As they entered the open space, they were assailed with a rain of bullets from the roof, tower, and windows.
As soon as the flanking movement began, Monsieur Bonchamp, seeing that the town was now certain to be taken, had hurried, with the greater portion of the men armed with muskets, to the church; which had already been prepared by him, on the previous day, for the defence. A great number of paving stones had been got up from the roadway and piled inside the church and, as soon as he arrived there with his men, the doors were closed, and blocked behind with a deep wall of stones.
Berruyer saw that the position was a formidable one and, ignorant of the number of the defenders, sent back for his guns, and contented himself for the time by clearing the rest of the town of its defenders. These, however, as they issued out, were rallied by Cathelineau and his officers. They assured the peasants that the day was not yet lost, that the church would hold out for hours, and that d'Elbee would soon arrive, with his force from Chollet, to their assistance.
Leigh, anxiously watching the progress of the fight, had sent messenger after messenger along the road by which d'Elbee would come. His heart sank, as he heard the guns open in the centre of the town, and knew that they were directed against the church. Still, there was no abatement of the fire of the defenders. An incessant fire of musketry was maintained, not only from the church itself, but from every window in the houses around it.
At last, he heard that d'Elbee's force was but a quarter of a mile away and, running down from his lookout, he started to meet it. It was coming at a run, the men panting and breathless, but holding on desperately, half maddened with the sound of battle.
"All is not lost yet, then?" d'Elbee said, as he came up.
"No, sir. The church holds out, and I could see that the peasants who have been driven out of the town have rallied, but a few hundred yards away, and are evidently only waiting for your arrival to renew the attack. I think, sir, that if you will run up to the belfry of the church with this glass, you will be able to understand the exact situation."
The officer ran up the tower, and returned in two or three minutes. Then he led his men down towards the southeastern corner of the town.
Leigh, on hearing that d'Elbee was close at hand, sent off two messengers to Cathelineau to inform him of the fact; and he now sent off another, stating the direction in which the reinforcement was marching.
"I am going to attack at that corner, instead of in the rear," Monsieur d'Elbee said to him; for now that the duty assigned to him had been performed, Leigh thought that he would be justified in joining in the attack, with what remained of his band. "If I were to get directly in their rear they would, on finding their retreat cut off, fight so fiercely that I might be overpowered. Even the most cowardly troops will fight, under those circumstances. Therefore, while threatening their line of retreat, I still leave it open to them. It is a maxim in war, you know, always to leave a bridge open for a flying foe."
In a few minutes they reached the town. None had observed their approach, the troops being assembled round the church. These were at once thrown into confusion, when they found themselves attacked with fury by a large force, of whose existence they had no previous thought.
The Vendeans fought with desperate valour. The new levies for the most part lost heart at once and, in spite of the efforts of Berruyer and his officers, began to make for the line of retreat. The movement was accelerated by an outburst of shouts from the other side of the town, where Cathelineau's force poured in, burning to avenge their former losses; and as they fell upon the enemy, Bonchamp led out the defenders of the church, by a side door, and joined in the fray.
Berruyer saw that all was lost. By great efforts he kept together the gendarmes and regular troops, to cover the retreat; and fell back, fighting fiercely. Bonchamp and his musketeers pressed hotly upon them. The peasants made charge after charge and, as soon as the force issued from the town, many of the peasantry set off at full speed in pursuit of the fugitives, great numbers of whom were overtaken and killed. Berruyer continued his retreat all night, and entered Saint Lambert before morning; having lost the whole of his cannon, and three thousand men, in this disastrous fight.
The joy of the Vendeans was unbounded. The stones were speedily removed from the shattered doors of the church, mass was celebrated, and the peasants returned thanks for their great victory.
The gains were, indeed, considerable. Three thousand muskets had fallen into their hands. They had recaptured the guns that they had lost, and taken twelve others. Their own losses had been heavy--eighteen hundred men had been killed, and a great number wounded. But of this, at the time, they thought but little; those who had died had died for their country and their God, as all of them were ready to do, and how could men do more?
On the Republican side, General Duhaus had been very dangerously wounded, and most of Berruyer's principal officers killed.
A council of war was held the next morning, at Chemille. For the moment, the victory had secured their safety; but while the peasants believed and hoped that the war was over, their leaders saw that the position was scarcely improved. They had, indeed, captured guns and muskets; but these were useless without ammunition, and their stock of powder and ball was quite exhausted. Already the peasantry were leaving in large numbers for their homes. Berruyer might return reinforced at any time, and effect a junction with Leigonyer; while the column that had captured Saint Florent would doubtless advance. It was therefore decided that Chemille must be abandoned, and that the officers should retire to Tiffauges until, at any rate, the peasants were ready to leave their homes again.
By evening that day the greater portion of the army had melted away and, on the following morning, the leaders also left the town they had so bravely defended. On the following day, indeed, Berruyer, having learned the position of Leigonyer, returned to Chemille and, two days later, was in communication with Leigonyer's force. The latter had occupied Chollet, which had been left devoid of defenders since the day they marched away.
On the other hand Quetineau had, on the thirteenth, been attacked at Aubiers, and had been forced to evacuate the place, leaving three guns behind him, retiring to Bressuire. The capture of Aubiers was the work of Henri de la Rochejaquelein. He had ridden to join Cathelineau, and met him and the other leaders retiring from Chemille. They were gloomy and depressed. They had won a battle, but they were without an army, without ammunition. Almost all the towns were in the possession of the Blues. It seemed to them that the struggle could not be much longer maintained.
The young count was too energetic and too enthusiastic to be seriously moved, and rode back to the residence of an aunt, at Saint Aubin. There he learned that Aubiers had been taken by the enemy. The peasantry around were in a state of extreme excitement. They had hoisted the white flag on their churches, and were ready to fight, but they had no leader.
Hearing that Rochejaquelein was at his aunt's house, they came to him, and begged him to take the command, promising him that in twenty-four hours ten thousand men should be ready to follow him. He agreed to the request. The church bells were set ringing and, before morning, almost that number were assembled. Of these, only two hundred had guns.
With this force he attacked Aubiers. The resistance of the enemy was feeble, and they were chased almost to Bressuire. Rochejaquelein was very anxious to capture this town, as his friends, the Lescures, had been brought from Clisson and imprisoned there; but he saw that it was of primary importance to carry assistance to Cathelineau, and he accordingly marched to Tiffauges. The church bells again rang out their summons; and Cathelineau, in twenty-four hours, found himself at the head of an army of twenty thousand men.
"I told you at Clisson that I should soon meet you again, Monsieur Martin," La Rochejaquelein said when, as he rode into Tiffauges at the head of his newly raised force, he met Jean in the street, "and here I am, you see. I am only sorry that I am too late to take part in the brave fight at Chemille."
"Right glad are we to see you, count," Jean replied. "This is my wife's brother, of whom I was speaking to you at Clisson. Cathelineau will tell you that he has been distinguishing himself rarely."
Henri held out his hand to Leigh, and said warmly, "I am glad to know you. It would be a shame, indeed, were any Vendeans to remain at home, when a young Englishman is fighting for their country. I hope that we shall be great friends."
"I shall be glad, indeed, to be so," Leigh replied with equal warmth, for he was greatly struck with the appearance of the young soldier.
Henri de la Rochejaquelein was but twenty-one years old, tall, and remarkably handsome. He had fair hair, and a noble bearing. His father had been a colonel in the army, and he himself was a cavalry officer in the king's guard. He was the beau ideal of a dashing hussar, and his appearance was far more English than French. He was immensely popular, his manner frank and pleasant, and he was greatly beloved by the peasantry on his family estates.
At this moment Cathelineau with his two generals came up, and Leigh retired from the circle. The arrival of the young count, with his strong reinforcement, at once altered the position. The leaders who had, since they fell back from Chemille, been depressed and almost hopeless, beamed with satisfaction as they talked with Henri, whose enthusiasm was infectious.
La Rochejaquelein accompanied them to his quarters. Hitherto he had only heard rumours of the fighting at Chemille, and Cathelineau now gave him a full account of the affair. Jean Martin had, at his invitation, accompanied him; and when Cathelineau had finished, Henri turned to him and said: "Indeed you did not exaggerate, Monsieur Martin, when you said that your brother-in-law had already distinguished himself. In fact, there can be no doubt that the splendid defence he made at that little river, where he held Berruyer's whole force in check for upwards of three hours--and so forced him to halt for the night on the way, instead of pushing forward and attacking Chemille at once--saved the town, for it gave time to Monsieur d'Elbee to come up. Scarcely less important was his detection of the treachery of the man in charge of the artillery. I cannot but regret that so gallant a young fellow is not my countryman, for I should have felt proud of one so daring, and so thoughtful.
"When you do not want him for scouting work, Monsieur Cathelineau, I shall get you to lend him to me. I should be really glad to have him by my side. His face pleased me much. There was something so frank and honest about it and, after what he has done, I am sure that I shall always respect his opinion."
There was another consultation as to what should be their first operation, and it was resolved that Leigonyer should be attacked at once, before he could make a complete junction with Berruyer. The next morning, at daybreak, the whole force moved off. They were only just in time, for Berruyer had already ordered General Gauvillier, who commanded the force that had captured Saint Florent, to advance to Beaupreau. Berruyer was to march to Vezins, and he himself to Jallais, and to join Leigonyer at May.
On the previous evening Henri had, after the termination of the council, requested Jean Martin to take him to the house where Leigh and his little party were quartered.
"I have been hearing of your doings," he said, "and feel quite jealous that you, who are, I hear, four years younger than myself, should have done so much; while I, with all my family influence and connection, should as yet have done nothing but chase the enemy out of Aubiers. How is it that you, who have had no training as a soldier, should have conceived the idea of arresting the march of Berruyer's army, with a force of only two or three hundred peasants?"
"It was a mere matter of common sense," Leigh said, with a smile. "I knew that it was of the utmost importance that Chemille should not be attacked, until Cathelineau received reinforcements. At first, I had no thought of doing more than breaking down the bridge, and of perhaps checking the advanced cavalry; but when I found that the peasants who came along were quite willing to aid, it seemed to me that by cutting down the trees, so as to block the road and make a shelter for us, we might be able to cause the enemy considerable delay. I hardly hoped to succeed in holding out so long, or in inflicting such loss upon him as we were able to do. It did not require any military knowledge whatever, and I should not have attempted it had I not seen that, thanks to the forest, we should be able to retreat when we could no longer hold the barricade of felled trees."
"Well, you could not have done better if you had been a general. I have Cathelineau's permission to ask you to ride with me, when you are not engaged in scouting."
"I should be delighted to do so, but at present I have no horse. However, I can send one of my lads back to the chateau, to fetch the one that I generally ride."
"I have brought a spare animal with me," the young count said. "I brought it in case the other should be shot, and I shall be glad if you will ride it tomorrow, and until yours arrives; but I would not send for one until after tomorrow, for likely enough we may make some captures before nightfall.
"We are to march at three in the morning, and to attack Leigonyer. The great thing that we need is powder. Cathelineau says that there is scarcely a charge left among his men. Mine are not much better off. We should have had none with which to attack Aubiers; but I sent off during the night to a quarry, a few miles from my aunt's, and succeeded in getting forty pounds of blasting powder. It would not have been of much use for the muskets, but the fact of its being powder was sufficient to encourage the peasants; and the Blues made such a feeble resistance that its quality made no difference to us. It enabled those who had muskets to make a noise with them, and was just as effectual in raising their spirits in attacking the Blues as if it had been the finest quality. We got a few hundred cartridges when we took the place, but that will not go very far, and I hope that, tomorrow, we shall be able to obtain a supply from the enemy."
Before the hour for starting, the force had swelled considerably. The news that Monsieur de la Rochejaquelein had retaken Aubiers, and had come with twelve thousand men to assist Cathelineau, spread like wildfire. The peasants from all the country round flocked in and, when they started in the morning, the united force had swollen to over twenty thousand men.
As soon as the young count left him, Leigh sent all his band, under his lieutenants, with orders to proceed towards Vezins; to ascertain the progress Leigonyer had made, and the position of his forces, and to send back news to him. Just as the army was starting one of the boys returned, and said that a party of twelve cavalry, and a detachment of infantry, had just entered the chateau of Crilloire. Leigh at once informed Cathelineau, who sent off a hundred and fifty men to capture the place. They were ordered to travel at the top of their speed, and Jean Martin was in command of them.
The expedition was crowned with success. The infantry, who had been stationed outside the chateau, fled at once. Their commandant Villemet, Leigonyer's best officer, charged the Vendeans with his little body of cavalry. He was received with a volley. Two of his men were killed, and he himself and nine of his men were wounded. He managed, however, to burst through the Vendeans, and to overtake his flying infantry. These he rallied and led back to the chateau, which he found deserted; for Martin, as soon as he captured the place and cleared it of the enemy, had gone off with his men to join the main body.
Berruyer had also started early, and sent five hundred men to May, where he expected Leigonyer to arrive in a few hours; but before he reached the town the Vendeans attacked the advanced guard of the latter general, which consisted of two companies of grenadiers. These old soldiers fought well, and threw themselves into the chateau of Bois-Groleau.
Leaving fifteen hundred men to surround and attack the chateau, the main army pressed forward. Leigonyer, hearing of the disaster, sent forward two thousand men to succour the besieged force; but the Vendeans fell upon them and, after a short resistance, they broke and fled into Vezins.
The arrival of the fugitives caused a panic among the whole of Leigonyer's force assembled there, and they fled precipitately; two hundred and fifty men of the regiment of Finisterre, alone, remaining steady; and these, maintaining good order, covered the retreat of the guns, repulsing the attacks of the peasantry who pursued them. Fortunately for the Vendeans, a waggon laden with barrels of powder was left behind, in the confusion caused by their approach, and proved of inestimable value to them.
Had the Vendeans pursued the fugitives with vigour, the force would have been almost annihilated; but Cathelineau, learning from Leigh's scouts that Berruyer was already approaching Vezins, feared to be taken in the rear by him, and therefore fell back to May and Beaupreau.
The garrison that defended the chateau of Bois-Groleau repulsed the repeated attacks made upon them, but surrendered on the approach of the main army, their ammunition and the food they had brought with them in their haversacks being entirely exhausted.
Berruyer, on his arrival at Jallais, heard of the defeat of Leigonyer; and marched back in all haste to Chemille, where he had left his magazines. On hearing however that Leigonyer, on his arrival at Vihiers, had been deserted during the night by the whole of his troops and, finding himself in the morning with but a hundred and fifty men of the Finisterre regiment, had evacuated the town and retreated to Doug, Berruyer wrote to him to endeavour to gather his forces together again, and to return to Chemille.
But the news of another disaster convinced him that he could not maintain himself there. The Vendeans had marched, without delay, against Beaupreau, and attacked Gauvillier. That general had already heard of the defeat of Leigonyer, and the retreat of Berruyer. His force was greatly dispirited at the news, and offered but a feeble resistance to the fierce assault. The Blues were driven out of the town with the loss of their five cannon, and were hotly pursued to Saint Florent, losing a large proportion of their numbers on the way.
The news of this fresh disaster convinced Berruyer that he must fall back without delay, and he accordingly retreated with his whole force to Saint Lambert, whence he wrote to the Convention to declare the impossibility of doing anything without large reinforcements of regular troops, as no dependence whatever could be placed upon the National Guards and volunteers and, if the insurgents marched against him, he would be obliged to march to Ponts-de-Ce in order to cover Angers, where the alarm of the inhabitants was intense.
Thus the invasion that was to crush the Vendeans failed altogether, except that some advantages had been gained by the Blues along the line of coast, the troops being assisted by the fleet. At all other points, misfortune had attended them. Quetineau had been driven from Aubiers and, a great proportion of his force having deserted, he held Bressuire with so feeble a grasp that he could not maintain himself, if attacked. Leigonyer's army had practically ceased to exist, as had that which had advanced from Saint Florent. Berruyer had lost three thousand men, and was back again at the point from which he had started. Chollet and Vihiers had been recovered without a blow.
As the result of his failures, Berruyer was recalled to Paris, tried for his conduct, and narrowly escaped the guillotine.
As soon as Berruyer retired, Cathelineau advanced against Bressuire. News of his coming at once scared the Blues from the town, and they retreated to Thouars. They did not even wait to take their prisoners with them and, as soon as they had gone, the Marquis de la Lescure with his family rode off to their chateau, at Clisson. They had scarcely arrived there when la Rochejaquelein arrived, and acquainted them with the general facts of the insurrection.
"Cathelineau's army," he said, "consists of twenty thousand men and, on any emergency, it would swell to nearly twice that number. Twelve thousand Bretons had crossed the Loire, and were on their way to join him. In lower Poitou, Charette had an army of twenty thousand; and besides these, there were many scattered bands."
Lescure at once agreed to accompany la Rochejaquelein to Bressuire; and the Marquis of Donnissan, Madame Lescure's father, arranged to follow them, as soon as he had seen his wife and daughter safely placed in the chateau of de la Boulais.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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7
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: A Short Rest.
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Leigh Stansfield had ridden with Rochejaquelein during the march of the army to Vezins, and from there to Bressuire. He was charmed with his companion, who had been the first to dash, with a few other mounted gentlemen, into the streets of Vezins; and who had thrown himself, with reckless bravery, upon the retreating infantry and, as the peasants came up, had led them to the attack several times, until Cathelineau's orders, that the pursuit should be pushed no farther, reached him.
"That sort of order is very hard to obey," he said to Leigh. "However, I need not regret that these brave fellows should escape us. We have won the battle, if one can call it a battle; and I honour the men who, when all the others have fled like sheep, still cling together and defend their guns. At least a hundred of them have fallen, since they left the town; and we have lost double that number, and should lose at least as many more, before we finally overcame their opposition. If all the armies of the Republic were composed of such stuff as this regiment, I fear that our chance of defending La Vendee successfully would be small, indeed."
On rejoining Cathelineau, and hearing his reason for calling off the pursuit, Henri at once admitted its wisdom.
"After the defeat of Leigonyer, you will see that Berruyer will not long be able to maintain himself at Chemille," he said; "and when he hears the news, I fancy that he will retire at once; for he will know, well enough, that it will be useless for him to pursue us. Still, if he were to come down on our rear as we advanced, it would have a bad effect upon the peasants; and it is much better to avoid fighting, unless under circumstances that are almost sure to give us victory. We can almost always choose our own ground, which is an enormous advantage in a country like this. It is very fortunate that it is so, for we certainly could not raise a body of cavalry that could stand against those of the line; but in these lanes and thickets they have no superiority in that respect, for no general would be fool enough to send cavalry into places where they would be at the mercy of an unseen foe. At the same time, I must own that I regretted today that we had no mounted force. With but a squadron or two of my old regiment, not a man of Leigonyer's force would have escaped; for the country here is open enough to use them, and I should certainly have had no compunction in cutting down the rascals who are always shouting for blood, and yet are such arrant cowards that they fly without firing a shot."
The day after the capture of Bressuire the Vendeans marched against Thouars, to which town Quetineau had retreated with his force. Thouars was the only town in La Vendee which was still walled. The fortifications were in a dilapidated condition, but nevertheless offered a considerable advantage to a force determined upon a desperate resistance. With the fugitives from Bressuire, and the garrison already in Thouars, Quetineau was at the head of three thousand five hundred troops; of these, however, comparatively few could be depended upon. The successive defeats that had been inflicted on the troops of the Republic, by the Vendeans, had entirely destroyed their morale. They no longer felt any confidence in their power to resist the onslaught of the peasants.
Quetineau himself had no hope of making a successful resistance. He had repeatedly written urgent letters to the authorities at Paris, saying that nothing could be done without large reinforcements of disciplined troops; and that the National Guard and volunteers were worse than useless, as they frequently ran at the first shot, and excited the hostility of the people, generally, by their habits of plundering. Nevertheless, the old soldier determined to resist to the last, however hopeless the conflict; and when the Vendeans approached, at six o'clock in the morning, they found that the bridge of Viennes was barricaded and guarded.
As soon as they attacked, the general reinforced the defenders of the bridge by his most trustworthy troops; a battalion, three hundred and twenty-five strong, of Marseillais, and a battalion of the National Guard of Nievre. So stoutly was the post held that the Vendean general saw that the bridge could not be taken, without terrible loss. He therefore contented himself with keeping up a heavy fire all day, while preparing an attack from other quarters.
The first step was to destroy the bridge behind the castle, and to make a breach in the wall near the Paris gate, thereby cutting off the garrison's means of retreat. At five o'clock a large body of peasantry was massed for an attack on the bridge at Viennes; and its defenders, seeing the storm that was preparing, retired into the town. The Vendeans crossed the bridge but, as they approached the walls, they were attacked by a battalion of the National Guard of Deux Sevres and a body of gendarmes and, taken by surprise, were driven back some distance. Their leaders, however, speedily rallied them; and in the meantime other bodies forced their way into the town, at several points.
To avoid a massacre of his troops, Quetineau hoisted the white flag. On this, as on all other occasions in the northern portion of La Vendee, the prisoners were well treated. They were offered their freedom, on condition of promising not to serve against La Vendee again; and to ensure that this oath should be kept for some time, at least, their heads were shaved before their release, a step that was afterwards taken throughout the war.
Quetineau was treated with all honour, and was given his freedom, without conditions. Although he knew well that neither his long services, nor the efforts that he had made, would save him from the fury of the Convention; he returned to Paris where, after the mockery of a trial, he was sent to the guillotine--a fate which awaited all those who failed, in the face of impossibilities, to carry out the plans of the mob leaders. Instead of blame, the general deserved a high amount of praise for the manner in which he had defended the town against a force six times as strong as his own.
Three thousand muskets, ten pieces of cannon, and a considerable amount of ammunition fell into the hands of the victors. This success left it open to the Vendeans either to march against Leigonyer--the remnant of whose army was in a state of insubordination at Doug, and could have offered no opposition, but must have retreated to Saumur--or to clear the country south and west.
The former would unquestionably have been the wiser course, for the capture of Saumur would have been a heavy blow, indeed, to the Republicans; but the peasants, whose villages and property were threatened by the presence of the Blues at Fontenay, Parthenay, and Chataigneraie, were so strongly in favour of the other alternative that it was adopted; and the force broke into two divisions, one moving towards Chataigneraie, and the other against Fontenay.
Parthenay was evacuated at once by the Republicans, as soon as news reached the authorities of the approach of the Vendeans. The latter, however, made no stay, but continued their march towards Chataigneraie. The town was held by General Chalbos, with three thousand men. After two hours' fighting Chalbos, seeing that his retreat was menaced, fell back.
He took up a position at Fontenay, where he was joined by General Sandoz, from Niort. The country around the town was unfavourable for the Vendeans, being a large plain, and the result was disastrous to them. The Republicans were strong in cavalry, and a portion of these fell on the flank of the Vendeans, while the remainder charged them in rear. They fell into disorder at once, and the cavalry captured a portion of their artillery.
The Republican infantry, seeing the success of their cavalry, advanced stoutly and in good order. In vain the leaders of the Vendeans strove to reanimate their men, and induce them to charge the enemy. The panic that had begun spread rapidly and, in a few minutes, they became a mob of fugitives scattering in all directions, and leaving behind them sixteen cannon, and all the munitions of war they had captured.
La Rochejaquelein who, after he had visited Lescure at Clisson, had rejoined the army with a party of gentlemen, covered the retreat with desperate valour; charging the enemy's cavalry again and again and, before falling back, allowing time for the fugitives to gain the shelter of the woods. The loss of men was therefore small, but the fact that the peasants, who had come to be regarded as almost irresistible by the troops, should have been so easily defeated, raised the Blues from the depth of depression into which they had fallen; while the blow inflicted upon the Vendeans was correspondingly great. It was some little time before the peasants could be aroused again.
Small bodies, indeed, kept the field and, under their leaders, showed so bold a face whenever reconnoitring parties of the Blues went out from Fontenay, that the troops were not long before they again began to lose heart; while the generals, who had thought that the victory at Fontenay would bring the war to a conclusion, again began to pour in letters to the authorities at Paris, calling for reinforcements.
On the side of the Vendeans, the priests everywhere exerted themselves to impress upon their flocks the necessity of again joining the army. Cathelineau himself made a tour through the Bocage, and the peasants, persuaded that the defeat was a punishment for having committed some excesses at the capture of Chataigneraie, responded to the call. In nine days after the reverse they were again in force near Fontenay, and in much greater numbers than before; for very many of them had returned to their homes, as soon as Thouars had been captured, and their strength in the first battle was but little greater than that of the Republicans.
Burning with ardour to avenge their defeat, and rendered furious by the pillage of all the houses of the patriots at Chataigneraie--to which town Chalbos with seven thousand troops had marched--it was against him that the Vendeans first moved. Chalbos, who had occupied his time in issuing vainglorious proclamations, and in writing assurances to the Convention that the Vendeans were so panic stricken that the war was virtually over, only saved his army by a long and painful night march back to Fontenay. Here the troops lay down to sleep, feeling certain that there could be no attack that day by the enemy.
At one o'clock, however, the Vendeans issued from the woods on to the plain, and the troops were hastily called to arms.
The Royal Catholic Army, as it now called itself, advanced in three columns. It was without cannon, but its enthusiasm more than counterbalanced this deficiency. The Vendeans received unshaken the discharge of the artillery of the Blues, pursuing their usual tactics of throwing themselves to the ground when they saw the flash of the cannon, and then leaping up again and rushing forward with loud shouts. The cavalry were ordered to charge, but only twenty men obeyed. The rest turned and fled. The infantry offered but a feeble resistance and, in ten minutes after the first gun was fired, the Republican army was a mob of fugitives. Fontenay was taken and, what pleased the peasants even more, their beloved cannon, Marie Jeanne, was recaptured, having been recovered by young Foret who, with a handful of peasants, charged the cavalry that were covering the retreat, and snatched it from their hands. After this victory the peasants, as usual, returned for the most part to their homes.
As there was no probability of further fighting at the moment, Jean Martin and Leigh started for the chateau. They had first asked Cathelineau if they could be spared.
"For the moment, yes. I hope that we shall be joined by the Count de Lescure, in a day or two. He will, of course, be one of our generals. He has great influence with the peasantry and, if he can but persuade them to remain under arms for a time, we will attack the enemy. Messieurs d'Elbee and Bonchamp, and I may say several of the gentlemen with me, are of opinion that if we are to be successful in the end, it can only be by taking the offensive, and marching against Paris. They urge that we should get Monsieur Charette to go with us with his army, cross the Loire, rouse all Brittany, and then march, a hundred thousand strong, against Paris.
"They say that although we have been most successful this time, and repulsed the invaders everywhere except on the coast, they will come again and again, with larger forces, till they overpower us. Possibly, if Monsieur de Lescure and Henri de la Rochejaquelein aid us with their influence and authority, we might persuade the peasants that it is better to make one great effort, and then to have done with it, than to be constantly called from their homes whenever the Blues are in sufficient strength to invade us. We shall tell them, too, that after the two repulses they have suffered, the Blues will grow more and more savage, and that already orders have been sent for all villages to be destroyed, and all hedges and woods to be cut down--a business that, by the way, would employ the whole French army for some years.
"However, as soon as our plans are decided upon, I will send a messenger to you. At present there is nothing requiring either you or your scouts, Monsieur Stansfield, and after the good service that they have rendered, it is but fair that they should have a short rest."
Patsey was delighted when her husband and Leigh arrived. She was under no uneasiness as to their safety as, after the repulse of Berruyer's army at Chemille, and the rout of Leigonyer, Leigh had sent one of the boys home, with the assurance that they were unhurt.
"I don't quite know how much to believe," she said, as they sat down to a meal, "of the reports that the boys have brought home. The first came and told me that on your arrival at Cathelineau's, he himself praised them all, and that Monsieur Bonchamp drilled them for an hour. Then came home two wounded lads, with a story about the great fight, in which they insisted that Leigh commanded, and that they kept the army of the Blues at bay for three hours, and killed hundreds of them. The next messenger told us a tale about Leigh's having discovered some treachery, upon the part of the man who was in charge of the artillery, and that he was in consequence shot. He insisted that Cathelineau had declared that Leigh had saved Chemille, because the enemy were so long delayed that Monsieur d'Elbee, with his band, had time to come up from Chollet and rout the Blues.
"Of course, I did not believe anything like all they said; but I suppose there must be something in it, for I questioned the boys myself; and though I had no doubt they would make as much as they could of their own doings, among their neighbours and friends, they would hardly venture to lie, though they might exaggerate greatly to me."
"Strange as it may appear, Patsey," Jean said, "they told you the simple truth and, as soon as we have finished supper, I will tell you the whole story of what has taken place since we left; and you will see that this brother of yours has cut a very conspicuous figure in our affairs."
"You are not joking, Jean?"
"Not in the smallest degree. I can assure you that if Leigh chose to set up as leader on his own account, a large proportion of the peasants would follow him."
"Ridiculous, Jean!" Leigh exclaimed hotly.
"It may seem ridiculous, but it is a real fact.
"The peasants, you must know, Patsey, choose their own leaders. There is no dividing or sorting them, no getting them to keep in regular companies; they simply follow the leader in whom they have the most confidence, or who appears to them the most fortunate. If he does anything that they don't like, or they do not approve of his plan, they tell him so. Leigh's defence of the stream against Berruyer's army created a feeling of enthusiasm among them, and I verily believe that his discovery of the plot to render the cannon useless was regarded, by them, as almost supernatural. Superstitious and ignorant as they are, they are, as you know, always ready to consider anything they can't understand, and which acts greatly in their favour, as a special interposition of Providence. I am bound to say that Leigh acted upon such very slender grounds that even Cathelineau, who is enormously in advance of the peasantry in general, was staggered by it; and told me he could not have believed it possible that anyone should, on such a slight clue, have followed the matter up, unless by a special inspiration."
"The thing was as simple as A B C," Leigh broke in.
"You will have to remain a silent listener, Leigh," his sister said, "when Jean is telling me the story. I cannot have him interrupted."
"Very well," Leigh said. "Then I will put on my hat, take a fresh horse from the stable, and ride off to see how the two wounded boys are going on."
"I can tell you that they are almost well; but still, if you don't want to hear Jean's story of all your adventures, by all means go round. I am sure that the tenants will be gratified at hearing that you rode over to see them, the very first evening you came home."
The Vendean leaders had for some time felt the necessity of having a generally recognized authority, and after the battle of Fontenay they decided to appoint a council, who were to reside permanently at some central place and administer the affairs of the whole district, provide supplies for the armies, and make all other civil arrangements; so that the generals would be able to attend only to the actual fighting. A body of eighteen men was chosen, to administer affairs under the title of the Superior Council; and a priest who had joined them at Thouars, and who called himself, though without a shadow of right, the Bishop of Agra, was appointed president. He was an eloquent man, of commanding presence, and the leaders had not thought it worth while to inquire too minutely into his claim to the title of bishop; for the peasants had been full of enthusiasm at having a prelate among them, and his influence and exhortations had been largely instrumental in gathering the army which had won the battle of Fontenay.
But although he was appointed president, the leading spirit of the council was the Abbe Bernier, a man of great energy and intellect, with a commanding person, ready pen, and a splendid voice; but who was altogether without principle, and threw himself into the cause for purely selfish and ambitious motives.
It was on the sixteenth of May that Fontenay was won, and on the third of June the church bells again called the peasantry to arms. The disaster at Fontenay had done more than all the representations of their generals to rouse the Convention. Seven battalions of regular troops arrived, and Biron, who had been appointed commander-in-chief, reached Niort and assumed the command.
He wrote at once, to the minister of war, to say that he found the confusion impossible to describe. There was an absence of any organization, whatever. The town was crowded with fugitives who, having distinguished themselves by the violence of their opinions and the severity of their measures, before the insurrection broke out, were forced to take refuge in the cities. The general reported that he had caused the assembly to be sounded again and again, without more than a tenth part of the troops paying the slightest heed to the summons.
The army was without cavalry, without waggons for carrying supplies, without an ambulance train--in fact, it was nothing but a half-armed mob. Biron himself was at heart a Royalist, and when he in turn had to meet his fate by the guillotine, openly declared himself to be one; and the repugnance which he felt on assuming the command against the Vendeans--which he had only accepted after a long delay, and after petitioning in vain to be allowed to remain at his former post--was heightened when he discovered the state of affairs, and the utter confusion that prevailed everywhere.
When sending the order for the bells to ring on the first of June, the superior council of the Vendeans issued a proclamation, which was to be read in all the churches, to the effect that provisional councils should be formed, in each parish, to provide for the subsistence of the women and children of men with the army. Receipts were to be given for all supplies of grain used for this purpose, which were to be paid for by the superior council. Those men who did not remain permanently with the army, as long as necessary, would be called upon to pay the taxes to which they were subject, prior to the rising.
The sales of the land belonging to the churches--which had been sequestrated on the refusal of the clergy to comply with the orders of the Convention--were declared null and void. As these had been bought by the upholders of the Revolution, for no devout Vendean would have taken part in the robbery of the church, the blow was a heavy one to those who had so long been dominant in La Vendee. These lands were, for the time, to be administered for the good of the cause by the parish council.
It was hoped that this proclamation would act beneficially in keeping the peasants in the field; as they would know that their families were cared for, and that if they only went out at times, they would subject themselves to taxation, and be regarded by the families of those who remained with the army as being wanting in zeal.
Upon rejoining the army, Leigh and his party of scouts learned, to their satisfaction, that it was intended to march against Saumur. They were now double their former strength, as the story of what they had done had roused the spirit of emulation among lads in the surrounding parishes; and Leigh could have had a hundred, had he chosen. He was this time mounted, in order that he might at times ride with Rochejaquelein, while at others he went out scouting with his party.
"I am heartily glad to see you back again, my friend," the young count said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "To be with you does me good, for the generals, and even Lescure, are so serious and solemn that I feel afraid to make a joke. You see, in the cavalry we have little responsibility except in an actual battle. In an open country we should scout ahead, and have affairs with the enemy's outposts; but in this land of woods, where one can seldom see more than twenty yards ahead, there is little use for us. Besides, with the exception of a score or two of gentlemen, I have no troops to command and, having health and good spirits, and enjoying life, I cannot go about as if the cares of life were on my shoulders. Your brother-in-law Martin is a capital fellow but, with a wife and child, he cannot feel so lighthearted as I do; though next to yourself he is the most ready to join me in a laugh. Sailors seem always to be lighthearted, and he certainly is no exception."
"He is a splendid fellow, count."
"Yes, he is a fine fellow; but you see, he is seven or eight years older than I am, while I feel with you that you are about my own age. By the way, it is high time that we dropped calling each other by our surnames, especially as mine is such a long one; so in future let us be' Henri' and 'Leigh 'to each other. Most of the peasants call me Henri."
"They generally speak of you as 'our Henri,'" Leigh said, "and would follow you through fire and water. I think the Vendeans are, as a whole, serious people; and they admire you all the more because you are so unlike themselves. If you do not mind my saying so, you remind me much more of the young English officers I used to meet, at Poole, than of Frenchmen."
"Yes, I have often been told that I am more English than French in appearance, and perhaps in manner; for in France most men have forgotten, for the past four years, what it is to smile; and I question whether a laugh would not be considered, in itself, sufficient to ensure a man's condemnation as an enemy of the Republic.
"Well, so we are going to Saumur! That is an enterprise worth undertaking. It may be considered as the headquarters of the Blues in these parts. There is a considerable body of troops there. If we capture it, we shall give a rare fright to Poitiers, Tours, and the other towns, and cause a scare even in Paris."
Leigh was requested to go forward at daybreak, with his band, to discover the situation of the enemy, who might come out from their situation to give battle before Doue. Leigonyer, who commanded here, had with him four good regiments; and occupied several strong positions on the right bank of the river Layon, and also a post called Rochette on the left bank.
The fact that the Vendeans were advancing against them was already known to Leigonyer for, confident as they now felt, the Vendeans made no secret of their destination, and the news was speedily carried by the adherents of the Convention, who everywhere acted as spies. Three such men were captured by Leigh's party, making their way to Leigonyer; and, being unable to give any account of themselves, were immediately shot.
Leigh had no difficulty in ascertaining the position of the enemy and, as the army was but two hours' march in the rear, he himself rode back to carry the news.
At ten o'clock the Vendeans arrived, and at once attacked the Blues; their main column throwing itself upon the centre of the position, which it speedily forced. Leigonyer's troops at Rochette and Verches were thereby threatened in flank; and Leigonyer, who was himself present, ordered the whole force to fall back to a position which he had before chosen as being favourable for giving battle behind Doue.
But the Vendeans pressed forward with such eagerness that the retreat speedily degenerated into a rout; and the troops, for the most part throwing away their arms, fled precipitately, carrying the reserve with them to Bourlan, a strong position in front of Saumur, where General Menou was stationed, and where he succeeded in rallying them.
Leigonyer, having from his previous experience great doubts as to whether he should be successful in his stand against the Vendeans, had taken the precaution to send back the waggons with the munitions and stores, together with the artillery. As his men had fled too rapidly to be overtaken, the numerical loss was not great. He himself, in his report of the fight, ascribed it to a cause that has been frequently used by the French to excuse their defeats; namely that it was due to treachery, for many of the men broke and fled, directly the action began; and these, he avowed, could have been none other than Vendeans who had disguised themselves, and enlisted for the purpose of causing discontent among the men, and confusion in their ranks, the first time they met the enemy.
Since the commencement of the campaign he had several times begged to be relieved of his command, and to return to the post that he occupied previously. He now repeated the demand, saying that he had lost the confidence of his men, and that a new commander would be far more likely to succeed with them. This time the request was granted, and General Menou was appointed to succeed him.
Fortunately for Leigonyer, the commissioners of the Convention reported most favourably of the activity and energy that he had personally shown and, although he was accused of treachery in the Assembly, this report saved him from the guillotine.
As soon as the fight was over, Cathelineau sent for Leigh.
"It is of the greatest importance that we should know what is passing at Saumur. We have learned, from one of the officers who is a prisoner in our hands, that Biron is at Tours, and is endeavouring to persuade the Paris battalions that have arrived there to march, at once, to Saumur. They have absolutely refused to do so, until the arrival of the cannon that were promised to them, before they left Paris. They may, by this time, be marching towards Saumur, with or without their cannon. General Salomon is at Thouars, with a considerable force, and it is possible that he also may march to aid in the defence of Saumur; and as he has, in addition to the new levies, a fine battalion of gendarmes, his arrival at Saumur would greatly increase the strength of the defence.
"I should say that half your scouts had better go to Thouars and, should there be any considerable movement of troops there, they should bring me word at the greatest possible speed. We shall tomorrow march forward and take post facing the enemy's positions, and on the ninth shall attack. I tell you this in order that your scouts may know where to find me.
"To you, with the other half of your party, I give the charge of watching Saumur. If one or two of them could cross the Loire and watch the road between Tours and Saumur, and bring me speedy word if they see a large body of troops coming along, we should know what force we have to encounter, and act accordingly."
"You shall have news, general," Leigh said and, saluting, at once joined his band.
Jean, who had been talking with him when the message from Cathelineau arrived, and had waited to hear what his orders were, said as he came up: "You and your regiment are off on an adventure again, Leigh?"
"Yes, we are going to watch Thouars and Saumur, and to find out, if possible, if the battalions from Paris are on their way from Tours."
"The first will be easy enough but, unless you swim the Loire, I don't see how the second is to be managed."
"I should think that a boat might be obtained, at one of the villages on the river bank. Anyhow, I shall get across somehow."
Andre was ordered to take his party to Thouars.
"Remember," Leigh said, "there is to be no fighting; not a shot must be fired. I want you and another to enter the town, if possible, from the other side; to see whether there is any unusual excitement, and especially whether there is any stir among the troops that would seem to show that they are on the point of marching away. You are to remain there until you see some such movement. The lad that you are taking in with you must go out, every hour, to the spot where you have left the rest; and one of these must at once start with your report to the general, who will tomorrow be on his way to Saumur, and will halt not far from its works of defence. Having delivered his message, he is to return to you, for you must continue to send off messengers until you hear that there is fighting at Saumur. If the commander of the Blues at Thouars has not moved by that time, you need remain no longer, but return with your party and join the army."
After Andre had left, Leigh marched with Pierre and the others to a spot up the river, ten miles above Saumur.
"Can any of you swim?" he asked.
Three only of the party were able to reply in the affirmative.
"Do you think that you could swim across the Loire?"
All of them expressed great doubt of being able to do so.
"Well, at any rate, I must take you with me," he said. "To be able to swim a little is a good deal better than not to be able to swim at all, for by making a faggot you will gain such support as will enable you to get across.
"Now, Pierre, you must for the present remain here. Tomorrow morning you can go into the village, whose church tower you can see over there, and find out whether the people there are for us or for the Blues. If they are for us you can show them Cathelineau's order, of which you have a copy, and they will certainly provide you with a boat. In that case, cross the river with your party and take post on the opposite bank, keeping the boat with you, and a man who can row. Then, as soon as one of my messengers arrives there, you will send on my report to the general who, tomorrow evening, will be not far from Saumur. Do the same with each messenger that arrives.
"If, on reaching the bank opposite the village, they do not find you there, they will follow the opposite bank down until they are opposite to you. Then they will call, and you, unless anything has happened to drive you away, will reply. The messenger will then swim across with my report, as in the other case. You will send it forward at once, and he will return to the spot I shall appoint.
"I see there is another village, a mile below us. I shall go there with my three followers, tonight. We will manage to steal a boat and row across. I shall go to that village instead of the other, because the loss of a boat may cause anger and, even if well disposed to the cause, they might not receive you well. However, I shall tie the boat up on the opposite bank when I leave it, so that it will not drift away down the river; and when they see it in the morning, they will only have to send another boat across to fetch it over."
"I understand, captain, and will do my best to carry out your instructions. Even if I find that, at the village above, they are divided in opinion, I shall surely be able to discover, from their talk, some who are on our side, and who will arrange to bring a boat down to this spot; in which case your messenger, when he does not find us opposite the village, will follow the bank down till he does so."
"At any rate, Pierre, here are a couple of crowns, so that you can arrange with a man for the hire of the boat, and his services, for twenty-four hours, if necessary."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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8
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: The Capture Of Saumur.
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The arrangements being now completed, Leigh and his band lay down in a thicket near the bank of the river, and slept for some hours. At one o'clock in the morning Leigh rose and, with his three followers, started for the village. It was but twenty minutes' walk. Not a soul was stirring, not a light visible in any window.
They found that three or four boats were lying by the bank. Leigh chose the smallest of these and, loosening the head rope from the post to which it was fastened, took his place in her with the others. Accustomed as he was to rowing, from his childhood, he soon reached the opposite bank. Here he fastened the boat up, and struck across country until he reached the road. Then he sent one of his followers westward.
"You will follow the road," he said, "until within a mile of Tours; then you will conceal yourself, and watch who passes along. If you see a large body of troops coming, you will at once strike across country and make your way down to the village above that at which we crossed. You heard the instructions that I gave to Pierre. If you find him and the others there with the boat, you will report what you have seen. He will send another messenger on with the news to Cathelineau, and you will remain with him until I arrive.
"If he is not there, you will follow the bank of the river down to the other village. You will give a shout as you pass the spot where we halted. If no answer comes, you will probably find Pierre and the boat somewhere below. You will not miss him, for I have ordered him to post two of your comrades on the bank, so that you cannot pass them unseen. As in the first case, you will remain with him until I arrive, and your message will be carried to the general by another of his party.
"In case you do not find him at all, you will know that I have returned before you, and have taken him and the others on with me. In that case, you must make a faggot sufficiently large to support you in the water, and swim across. The river is low, and it will not be many yards out of your depth."
"I could swim that without the faggot, sir."
"Yes; but it is better to have it. I don't suppose that you have ever swum in your clothes, and you would find it heavy work; therefore you had better rely upon the faggot to keep you up and, with its aid, you will have no difficulty in crossing."
The morning now was breaking, for in June the nights are short and, after waiting for an hour, Leigh and his two companions--all of whom had divested themselves of their weapons and belts, which they had left in Pierre's charge--started for Saumur. In the presence of so large a number of troops, with scarcely any training and discipline, and with the excitement that would have been caused by the defeat of Leigonyer, and the prospect of an attack by the Vendeans, Leigh felt confident that three country lads ran no risk of being questioned. However, he took the precaution of learning the name of the village he passed through, six miles from the town; so that if any one should happen to ask where they came from, and what they were doing, he could give the name of a village, and say that they had merely come in from curiosity, hearing that there was likely to be a battle. Assuredly many country people would be coming for the same purpose.
They entered the town at six o'clock. It was already astir. The citizens, with anxious faces, were talking together in little groups. Soldiers were loitering about in the streets, totally regardless of the bugles and drums that were sounding in the marketplace, and at various points outside the town. The civil functionaries, in their scarves of office, hurried fussily about, but for once they were unheeded. But a week before, a denunciation by any of these men would have been sufficient to ensure the arrest and imprisonment, and probably the death, of anyone against whom they had a grudge. Now they were in greater danger than those who had dreaded and hated them.
At present there was no talk of politics among the groups of townspeople. Men who were the chief upholders of the regime of confiscation and murder, and others who in their heart loathed and hated it, were discussing the probabilities of an attack by the Vendeans, and what would happen were that attack to be successful. Would the town be given over to sack? Would there be a massacre and slaughter, such as Chalbos and other commanders of the Blues had inflicted in the Vendean villages through which they had passed? The Vendeans in arms were called, by the Blues, "the brigands." Would they behave like brigands, or would they conduct themselves as Royal and Catholic soldiers, as they called themselves?
As the hours passed, the streets became more crowded. Numbers of the country people came in to learn the news. Spies from Doue had already brought in word that orders had been issued, by Cathelineau, that the army should march at eight o'clock for Saumur; and all doubt that it was their intention either to attack the town, or to accept battle in the plain before it, was at an end. The assembly was sounded in all quarters of the town and, presently, parties of the mounted gendarmes rode through the streets, and drove the soldiers to their rendezvous.
Presently Leigh saw General Menou, and some other officers of rank, enter a large house.
"Who lives there?" he asked a woman who was standing near him.
"General Duhoux. He is in command, you know, but he has not recovered from a wound he got at Chemille, and is unable to ride."
Leigh had no doubt that a council of war was about to be held and, bidding his companions wait for him at the end of the street, he sauntered across the road, and sat down on the pavement by the side of the entrance. Leaning against the wall, he took from his pocket a hunk of the peasants' black bread and, cutting it up with his knife, proceeded to munch it unconcernedly. An officer and two or three troopers were standing by their horses' heads, in the road opposite the door, evidently awaiting orders.
In half an hour General Menou himself came out, and said to the officer: "Sir, you will ride at once to Thouars, by way of Loudun, and deliver this despatch to General Salomon. It is most urgent. When you hand it to him, you can say that I begged you to impress upon him the necessity for losing not a moment of time. It is all important that he should arrive here tonight, for tomorrow morning we may be attacked. Take your troopers with you."
The officer and his men mounted at once, and rode off at full speed. Leigh remained quiet until Menou and the other officers rode out from the courtyard and proceeded down the street, followed by their escort. Then he got up, stretched himself, and walked slowly to the spot where his two comrades were awaiting him.
"I have learned what I wanted to know," he said. "Do you both make your way back to the spot where Pierre will be awaiting us, and tell him that I am going to swim the river, a mile above the town. He is to wait where he is until Lucien comes back from Tours--which will not be till twelve o'clock tonight, for his orders are to remain within sight of the town till six in the afternoon. If by that hour the troops there have not set out, they will not arrive until after we have captured Saumur.
"Saunter along quietly. There is no hurry."
After they had set out he, too, strolled out of the town, kept along the road for another half mile, and then struck off across the fields towards the river. Arrived there, he took off his heavy country shoes, tied them round his waist, and waded out into the river. He had but some thirty yards to swim. As soon as he reached the opposite bank, he poured the water out of his shoes, put them on again, and set out at a run. He had to make a detour, so as to get beyond the eminences on which the Republican troops were posted and, after running for a couple of miles, came down on the road.
A short distance farther he arrived at a village. A peasant, with a horse and cart, was standing in front of a cabaret.
"Do you want to earn two crowns?" he asked the man.
The latter nodded.
"Two crowns are not easily earned," he said. "I was just starting for Montreuil but, if it pays me better to go in another direction, I must put that journey off until tomorrow."
"I want you to carry me to Doue," he said, "at the best speed of which your horse is capable."
The countryman looked at him doubtfully. His clothes were not yet dry. Leigh saw that the man was not sure of his power to fulfil his promise. He therefore produced two crowns, and held them up.
"By Saint Matthew," he said, "it is the first silver I have seen for months. I will take you."
Leigh jumped up beside the peasant. The latter at once whipped up his horse, and started at a brisk trot.
"You know that the Catholic Army is there?" he asked.
"Yes, I know. I belong to it myself. I have been with it from the first."
"I would have taken you for nothing, if you had said so before," the man said. "We are all heart and soul with them, here; and if, as they say, they will come along here to attack Saumur, every man in the village will go with them. How is it that you are here?"
"I am an officer," Leigh said, "and have been, in disguise, into Saumur to see what is going on there; and am now taking the news back to Cathelineau."
Conversation was difficult, for the jolting of the cart was terrible, and Leigh found it next to impossible to talk. He was well content when the belfries of Doue came into sight. On arriving at the town, they drew up at the house where Cathelineau and the generals had their quarters. As he got down, he offered the peasant the two crowns.
"No, sir," the man said, "I will not take a sou for my service. We in this part have had no chance of doing anything, and I should be ashamed, indeed, to take money from those who have been fighting for the good cause.
"As you say they will advance tomorrow, I will wait here. It may be that my cart will be useful and, whether or no, I shall stay if it is only to get a sight of Cathelineau, whose name we all reverence."
"I will tell him of your goodwill. You had best remain here for a few minutes."
He was about to enter, when two armed peasants, who were guarding the door, stopped him.
"No one can enter. The general is in council."
"Do you not know me? I am Captain Stansfield."
The men drew back at once. It was not strange that they did not recognize him. He generally wore a sort of uniform, with a red sash round his waist, which was the distinguishing badge of the officers; but had always adopted a peasant dress, on setting out on an expedition. There was no one to announce him, and he entered a room where the leaders were sitting round a table.
They looked up in surprise. He was grimed with the dust, which had risen in clouds as he drove along, and his clothes bore signs of their immersion.
"Back again, monsieur?" Cathelineau exclaimed, "and with news, no doubt."
"Very important news, sir. I have been in Saumur, and have learned that an officer has started for Thouars, by way of Loudun, with orders to General Salomon to march instantly into Saumur, and that he is to arrive there tonight. I left the town five minutes after the messenger. Three-quarters of an hour later I struck the road, two miles this side of Saumur; and have been brought here in a cart, by a peasant. It is now four o'clock, and I do not think that the officer would arrive at Thouars before half past three."
"That is important news, indeed," Cathelineau said.
"Well, gentlemen, what do you think had best be done?"
"It seems to me that nothing could be better," Monsieur de Lescure said. "The enemy's column cannot start until five o'clock, at the earliest. It will be dark before they can arrive at Saumur. I know the road well. It runs in several places through woods and, where this is not the case, there are high hedges.
"Nothing could be more suitable for an ambuscade. I propose that half of our force should march, at once, and take post on the other side of Montreuil. It will be nearly sunset before Salomon can arrive at that town and, if we engage him at dusk, he will lose half the benefit of the discipline of the regiment of gendarmes who will, no doubt, accompany him."
"I quite approve of that plan, monsieur," Cathelineau said.
"Are you all of the same opinion, gentlemen?"
There was a general expression of assent.
"Will you, General Bonchamp, with Monsieur de Lescure, take command of that force? I myself will proceed, with the rest of our army, until past the point where the road from Montreuil falls into that from this town. In that way, if General Bonchamp fails to arrest Salomon's march, we can fall upon him; and on the other hand, if the firing should be heard at Saumur, and Menou leads out a force to assist Salomon, we can oppose him.
"General Dommaigne, your cavalry would be useless in the attack on Salomon, while it might be of great value if Menou comes out.
"You have rendered us another good service, Monsieur Stansfield. If Salomon had thrown another four thousand men into Saumur, including his regiment of gendarmes, it would have been a serious business to take the place; whereas with the troops Menou has, half of whom are Leigonyer's fugitives, I do not anticipate any great difficulty."
"I shall be glad, general, if you would speak a word to the good fellow who brought me here. I had bargained with him for two crowns but, when he found that I was one of your officers, he refused to receive anything; and moreover, he said that he would remain here with his cart, until tomorrow, as perhaps he might be useful in carrying stores. He expressed the greatest desire to see you."
"Certainly I will speak to him," Cathelineau said, as he sent out to give orders for the church bells to ring, and the horns to blow.
The man was standing by his cart, a short distance off, in the hope of catching sight of Cathelineau. The general at once walked up to him.
"This is General Cathelineau," Leigh said.
The countryman took off his hat, and dropped on his knees.
"Get up, my good fellow," Cathelineau said; "I am but a Vendean peasant, like yourself. I thank you for the good service that you have rendered, by bringing Monsieur Stansfield so quickly to us. The time it has saved may make all the difference to us and, in the future, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have played an important part in the capture of Saumur."
In five minutes the quiet street was crowded with men. The peasants had encamped in the fields round the town and, at the summons, caught up their arms and ran in hastily, feeling sure that the occasion was important, as they had been told that they were not to march until next morning.
The divisions commanded by Monsieur de Lescure and General Bonchamp speedily gathered round the distinguishing flags of those officers. Other leaders joined them with their followers, until some ten thousand men were gathered outside the town.
Leigh had changed his clothes and mounted his horse, Monsieur de Lescure having invited him to ride with him. As they were about to start, one of Andre's messengers arrived, with the news that an officer and three troopers had arrived at the town; and that, ten minutes later, the trumpets were sounding the assembly.
"It is well that we got your news first," Monsieur de Lescure said to Leigh, "for otherwise we could hardly have got our forces together, and been ready for a start, until it was too late to intercept Salomon."
The route of the column was by a byroad, between Doue and Montreuil. It was seven o'clock before they approached the town. Then, striking off the road, they marched through the fields until a mile and a half to the east of it, when they halted in a thick wood. They were now divided into three columns, of equal strength. That under Monsieur de Lescure occupied the wood on one side of the road, that under Monsieur Bonchamp the other side. The third column were posted in rear of the wood, and were to thickly line the hedges that bordered it.
It was just dusk when the force from Thouars came along. It consisted of three thousand six hundred men, with four pieces of cannon. It was allowed to pass nearly through the wood, when a heavy fire was opened upon it on both flanks.
The regiment of gendarmes which led the column showed great coolness and, animated by their example, the whole force remained steady. Darkness came on, but it was not until eleven o'clock that there was any change in the situation. Owing to the darkness in the forest, neither side was able to distinguish its foes. The men fired only at the flashes of the muskets.
Lescure then sent round four or five hundred men, who suddenly fell upon the baggage train of the enemy. The guard were completely taken by surprise. Many of the carters cut the ropes and traces, and galloped off, delighted to escape from a service into which they had, for the most part, been dragged against their will.
The alarm thus begun spread rapidly. The young troops who, encouraged by the example of the gendarmes, had so far stood their ground, at once lost heart. The darkness of the night, their ignorance as to the strength of the force that had attacked the rear, and the fear that all retreat would be cut off, would have shaken older soldiers than these and, in spite of the efforts of their officers, the wildest confusion soon reigned.
The Vendeans pressed their attack more hotly, and General Salomon, seeing that unless a retreat was made while there was yet time, a terrible disaster might take place, ordered the gendarmes to fall back in good order. The movement was effected without great loss. In the darkness it was impossible for Lescure and the other leaders to get their men together, and to press hard upon their retreating foes; and they were well satisfied at having carried out the object of their expedition, and prevented the force from Thouars from entering Saumur.
Word was sent to Cathelineau that Salomon had fallen back, and the peasants then lay down till morning.
Andre, with his little band, had joined the force when fighting began. They had, as soon as Salomon started from Thouars, followed his movements at a distance, from time to time sending off a messenger to Doue giving an account of the progress of the enemy. As soon as the firing broke out in the wood, Andre, with the twelve who still remained with him, joined the combatants and, finding that Leigh was with Monsieur de Lescure, was not long in discovering him.
"You have done very well, Andre," he said. "I don't think anything will come of this fighting. It is getting dark already, and I have no fear, now, that the Blues will break through. Neither party will be able to see the other, in this wood, and certainly you could do no good with your pistols. Practically, few are engaged on either side. The Blues have made one effort and, finding that we have a very strong force in their front, have given up the attempt to push forward. I don't believe that the new levies have courage enough to keep steady through a whole night's uncertainty.
"You had best draw off some distance and rest, till you hear, by the firing, that some change has taken place. If you hear that the Blues are retreating, follow them at a distance. It is important for the generals to know what course they are taking. They may halt in Montreuil, they may return to Thouars, they may retire to Niort or Parthenay.
"If they remain in Montreuil, let us know at once, because in that case we shall have to stay here, in case they should attempt to push on again. If they go farther, we need have no more concern about them. Still, it would be of great importance to our generals to know whether they return to Thouars, or retire farther south."
"Very well, captain; I will see that you are kept informed."
"You had better instruct your first messengers to come straight here. Cathelineau and the rest of the forces started, directly we did, and will halt at the junction of the roads, and are likely to remain there all day tomorrow. Therefore, if your messengers find the wood deserted, they have simply to follow the road, and they will either overtake us, or find us with Cathelineau."
"How long must we follow the Blues?"
"There is no occasion to go any great distance. I do not suppose that we shall pursue them. They could certainly defend themselves at Montreuil, and we should not risk suffering heavy loss, and having the men dispirited by failure, when all are needed for the work at Saumur. If you follow them far enough to determine whether they are retiring on Thouars, or are marching towards Niort, that is all that is necessary; and you will be able to rejoin us in plenty of time to see the fight at Saumur."
As Leigh thought would be probable, Monsieur de Lescure restrained the peasants from following in pursuit, when the Blues retreated. The latter had left two of their guns behind them, and a number of carts, laden with ammunition and provisions for the march, fell into the peasants' hands--the latter providing them with breakfast before they started, early next morning, rejoining Cathelineau's force two hours later. These had been apprised, some hours before, by one of the mounted gentlemen who had accompanied the column, of the success that had attended the operation; and they were received with great joy by their comrades, on their arrival.
Cathelineau, with General Bonchamp and a small escort of cavalry, had ridden towards Saumur to examine the positions occupied by the enemy, and to discuss the plan of attack. They now felt confident of success; unless, indeed, Biron should come up in the course of the day with the Paris brigade at Tours, together with its guns. The description that Leigh had given, of the confusion and want of discipline in the garrison, showed that it could not be relied upon for hard fighting; and as it was certain that the failure of Salomon to get through to its assistance would be known, in Saumur, early in the day, it could not but add to the dismay produced by the advance against the town.
This was indeed the case. As artillery had not been employed on either side, the sound of the conflict did not reach the town. However, as the officer who had taken the order to Thouars returned at seven o'clock; saying that Salomon was preparing to march, and would assuredly arrive some time in the evening, the anxiety increased hour by hour and, by midnight, the conviction that he must have been attacked by the enemy, and had failed to get through, became a certainty, and spread dismay through the town.
At five in the morning a mounted messenger brought a despatch from Salomon, saying that he had fought for four hours near Montreuil, against a large force of the enemy; and that, another column of these having fallen on his rear, he found it necessary to retire, as a panic was spreading among the National Guard, and a serious disaster would have happened, had he continued his attempts to push on. In the evening Generals Coustard and Berthier, who had been sent by Biron to act under Menou's orders, arrived in the town; and Santerre, the brewer of Paris, who had been the leader of the mob there and was now a general, arrived next morning.
Cathelineau's army was astir early. The leaders had been gladdened by the arrival, at five o'clock, of a messenger from Pierre, saying that one of his messengers had come in from Tours, and that, up to seven o'clock in the evening, no troops had left that city. It was, therefore, certain that the garrison of Saumur could receive no assistance from that quarter.
Breakfast was eaten, and the army then formed up in its divisions. Mass was celebrated, and it then set out for Saumur.
In that town all was confusion and dismay. The newly arrived generals were strangers alike to the town, its defences, and the troops they were to command. In front of the works defending Saumur ran the river Dives, which fell into the Loire, a mile or so below the town. It was crossed by a bridge; but so great was the confusion that, in spite of the representations of the civil authorities, no steps were taken either to cut or guard it.
It was not until three o'clock in the afternoon that the Vendeans approached the town, and General Menou sent two battalions of the line, one of volunteers, and eighty horse, under the orders of General Berthier, to take possession of a chateau in front of the position. Two hundred and fifty men were posted in a convent near it. Santerre commanded the force which was to defend the intrenchments at Nantilly, and Coustard the troops who occupied the heights of Bourlan.
At four o'clock the skirmishers on both sides were hotly engaged. The Vendeans advanced in three columns--the central one against the post occupied by Berthier, the left against Nantilly, and the right threatened to turn the position at Beaulieu.
Berthier allowed the force advancing against him to approach within a short distance of the chateau, and then poured a storm of grape into it, from a battery that he had established. Lescure, who was in command, was badly wounded. The head of the column fell into confusion, and Berthier at once attacked them, with his two regiments of the line, and for a time pressed the column back. His little body of cavalry, whom he had ordered to charge, fell back as soon as the Vendeans opened fire upon them; and the latter then attacked the line battalions, with such fury that Berthier was obliged to call up his regiment of volunteers. Cathelineau sent reinforcements to his troops, and these pressed on so hotly that Berthier, who had had a horse shot under him, was obliged to fall back; and the exulting Vendeans rushed forward and carried the faubourg of Fenet.
Dommaigne, with his cavalry, charged the cuirassiers and the German Legion. There was a sharp fight. Dommaigne was killed, and the colonel of the German Legion desperately wounded; but a body of the Vendean infantry, coming up, took the cuirassiers in flank with their fire, and they fell back into Saumur.
General Menou had been in the thick of the fight, and had three horses killed under him. He sent another battalion to reinforce Berthier but, as soon as they came within shot of the Vendeans, they broke and fled.
The two line battalions, reinforced by four companies of gendarmes, kept up a heavy fire. The artillery until now had zealously supported them, but their ammunition was failing. Menou and Berthier placed themselves at the head of the cavalry, and called upon them to charge; but instead of doing so, they raised their favourite cry of "Treason!" and galloped back to the town.
The line regiments and gendarmes, pressed more and more hotly, and finding themselves without support, withdrew in good order into Saumur. The Vendeans had now possession of all the works in the centre of the defenders' line. Coustard, seeing that the centre was lost, and that the Vendeans were moving towards a bridge across the Dives, by which alone they could enter the town, ordered two battalions with two pieces of cannon to hold it. He was not only disobeyed but, with shouts of "Treason!" they rushed upon him and, with difficulty, he escaped with his life.
The Vendeans seized the bridge, and established a battery for its defence. Coustard saw that it must be recaptured, as the town was now open to the enemy; and ordered a detachment of cuirassiers, commanded by Colonel Weissen, to carry the bridge. The two battalions of infantry now promised to follow.
Although he saw that to charge the battery with a handful of cavalry was to ride to almost certain death, Weissen gallantly led his men forward. The infantry followed for a short distance but, being taken in flank by a volley from a party of Vendeans, they broke and fled. The cavalry were almost annihilated, and Weissen was desperately wounded, two or three of his men alone riding back.
The main force of Coustard's division, in the redoubts at Bourlan, had not been attacked; and retired to Angers during the night. The rout of the rest of the defenders was now complete, and the town open.
La Rochejaquelein, by whose side Leigh and a small party of gentlemen rode, had made a succession of desperate charges into the midst of the fugitives; and he now said to Leigh and three other gentlemen: "Come along, we will see what they are doing in the town."
Then, dashing forward at full speed, they passed through the gate, entered the main street, and found that it contained a battalion of infantry, retreating. So cowed were these that they opened their ranks and allowed the five horsemen to dash through them. Then they made a tour of the place, and returned to inform the Vendeans, who were just entering, that all resistance had ceased. As on two previous occasions, the flying Republicans owed their safety to the piety of the peasants who, instead of pursuing at once, rushed into the churches; where the cures, who had accompanied them, returned thanks for the victory that had been gained, and thus lost the half hour of daylight that would have been invaluable.
Cathelineau, after a consultation with Lescure and Bonchamp, decided that it would be useless to attempt a pursuit in the dark. Berthier's battalion was, too, unbroken. The generals, finding that there was no pursuit, might have rallied a considerable number of the others; when the peasants, coming up in the dark, could in turn have been repulsed with heavy loss. Saumur had been taken, with all its stores of cannon, ammunition, and provisions; and it was considered that, under the circumstances, it was best to be contented with the signal success they had gained.
Berthier and Menou indeed, although both severely wounded, had covered the retreat with the line regiments and gendarmes; and carried off with them seven cannon, which they came across as they passed through the town; and would have given the peasants a warm reception, had they followed them. The rest of the army were hopelessly scattered, and continued their flight all night; some towards Tours, others to Angers, their reports causing the wildest dismay in both towns.
Had Charette, who had always acted independently in lower Vendee, been persuaded at this moment to join hands with Cathelineau, there can be little question that they might have marched to Paris without encountering any serious resistance, and that their arrival there would have changed the whole course of events. Unfortunately, however, he was himself sorely pressed, by several columns of the enemy, and was with difficulty holding his own. The great opportunity was therefore lost, never to return.
The castle of Saumur was still in the hands of the Blues. Five hundred of the National Guards of the town, and about the same number of men of different regiments, threw themselves into it before the Vendeans entered, carrying with them what provisions they could lay hands upon. The wives of the National Guards soon surrounded the chateau, crying to their friends to surrender; and asserting that, if they did not do so, the Vendeans would give the town over to pillage and fire. For a time the commandant resisted their entreaties but, feeling that his position was desperate, and that there was no hope of relief, he surrendered.
In the morning the garrison marched out. The officers were allowed to retain their sidearms, and the men to return to their homes. Eighty cannon fell into the hands of the victors, many thousands of muskets, a large quantity of ammunition, and very many prisoners.
Here, as at other places, the peasants behaved with great moderation. The agents of the Convention, who had tyrannized the town so long, were thrown into prison, as were their chief supporters; but private property was untouched. On the following day there was a council, at which Lescure, seriously wounded as he was, was present. It was agreed that it was indispensable that one man should be appointed commander-in-chief. Many difficulties had arisen from independent action, by generals and leaders of bands more or less numerous, and it was necessary that all should act under the orders of a recognized head.
When this was agreed to, the question had to be decided as to who should be appointed to this responsible post. The claims of Lescure, la Rochejaquelein, d'Elbee, Bonchamp, Cathelineau, and Stofflet were almost even. Each had a large band of followers. All had been unwearied in their devotion to the cause.
It is probable that Lescure would have been chosen. He was the largest landed proprietor, and was of the highest rank--with the exception of Rochejaquelein, who had, although the idol of the army, scarcely experience and ballast enough to take so responsible a position. Lescure himself, however, proposed that Cathelineau should be chosen. His influence was great, his talents unquestionable, and the simple honesty of his character, his modesty and untiring zeal in the cause, alike recommended him. Lescure felt that if he himself, Bonchamp, or d'Elbee were chosen, jealousies might arise and the cause suffer.
His choice was felt by all to be a good one, and Cathelineau was unanimously appointed to the post of commander-in-chief. No finer tribute was ever paid, to the virtues and talent of a simple peasant, than such a choice, made by men so greatly his superior in rank and station.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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9
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: Bad News.
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Neither Leigh nor Jean Martin was at Saumur, when this decision was arrived at. The very night that the town was taken, one of the former's band, who was wounded and, greatly against his inclination, had been left behind, arrived there on horseback. He was the bearer of terrible news.
[Illustration: He was the bearer of terrible news.]
Early on the previous day, a troop of the enemy's cavalry had arrived. They had apparently ridden all night, and without exciting any alarm on the way. They had made straight for the chateau, without going into the village. Beyond the fact that they belonged to the force operating from Nantes, none knew the route they had followed. They had doubtless expected to arrest Jean at the chateau but, on finding him absent, had seized his wife, had placed her in their midst, set fire to the chateau, and ridden off before any force could be gathered to oppose them. Jean and Leigh were horror stricken at the news.
"What is to be done?" the former exclaimed. "What can be done?"
"I should say," Leigh said, "that the first thing to do will be to tell the generals that we must, for the present, leave them. Then we must go to Nantes in disguise, find out where she is imprisoned, and see what can be done to rescue her."
"Certainly that is the best thing, Leigh. Let us start at once."
"It will be daylight in two hours, Jean, and that will make no difference. I will go and talk with my boys. They are asleep together on the steps of the church of Saint Marie. They may be useful to us, and I am sure would follow us anywhere."
Jean made no reply. He had buried his face in his hands, and deep sobs broke from him. Tears were streaming down Leigh's cheek as he spoke, but he put his hand upon Jean's shoulder and said, in a voice which he tried to keep steady: "It is terrible, Jean, but we must not give up hope. We have beaten the Blues in the field, and it is hard if we cannot manage to beat them, somehow, in this business."
The other made no reply, and Leigh, feeling that it would be best to leave him to himself for the present, went downstairs.
The lad who had brought the message was seated against the wall, holding the horse's bridle in his hand. Being a stranger in the place, he did not know where to go.
"Come with me, Philippe. The others are all in the great square, a hundred yards away. They got their bread yesterday morning, and will have plenty of it left for you and the horse. It can take a drink at the fountain, in the centre.
"Ah," he exclaimed stopping suddenly, "you said nothing about the child, and we did not think to ask. Did my sister take it away with her, or was it left?"
"I did not hear, captain. My mother ran into the house crying, and said: "'The Blues have come, and have set fire to the chateau and carried madame away prisoner. Take the horse and ride to the army, and tell Monsieur Martin what has happened.'
"I ran into the stable and saddled it, took two loaves of bread, one for him and one for myself, and started. I should have been here in the middle of the day, but I lost my way in the lanes last night, and had to stop till daylight and, even then, rode for a long time in the wrong direction."
Leaving the lad and horse in the middle of the square, Leigh went to the steps of the church. A great number of peasants were sleeping there. He was not long in finding his own band. He roused Andre and Pierre with some difficulty for, having both been up all the previous night, they slept heavily.
"Come with me," Leigh said, as soon as they were sufficiently roused to understand who was speaking to them. "I want to have a talk with you.
"I have some bad news," he went on, as they passed beyond the sleepers; "the Blues have been at the chateau. They have burned it down, and have carried off Madame Martin."
Exclamations of rage broke from both the lads. Patsey had, during the months she had spent on the estate, made herself extremely popular among the peasantry; whose cottages she constantly visited, and who always found her ready to listen to their tales of trouble, and to supply dainty food for the sick. The thought, too, that the chateau had been burned down was also a blow, for all the tenantry considered that they had a personal interest in the affairs of their seigneur.
"How was it that there was no defence?" Andre asked. "I know that most of the men were away, but surely enough might have been gathered to keep the Blues back, until madame escaped to the woods."
"It seems they rode by night, and arrived there soon after day broke. They had evidently come on purpose to seize your lord for, as soon as they found that he was not there, they went away at once, only stopping to set fire to the chateau. They were evidently in a hurry to be off.
"Here is Philippe Rehan, who has brought the news. He only knows what I have told you, as he mounted and rode off at once."
"I suppose they have taken our young lord, too?"
"Philippe does not know about that. He says they came from the direction of Nantes, and no doubt my sister has been taken there."
"What is to be done, captain?" Andre asked, as he and Pierre looked at each other helplessly, in face of this trouble.
"Monsieur Martin and I are going to leave, at once. We don't know what we are going to do yet, but we shall certainly try, by all means, to get her out of prison. How it is to be managed we have not even thought, but if it can be done, we shall do it. Now, I am sure that we can rely upon your assistance."
"We will do anything," Andre exclaimed; while Pierre said, "We will be cut to pieces for you, captain."
Leigh gave a hand to each.
"I am sure of it," he said. "And the band?"
"Every one of those we had at first we could answer for," Andre replied. "And I believe that the others can be trusted, too. They all esteem it a high honour to have been received into the band of Cathelineau's scouts. They knew that there would be danger, when they joined, and that they must be prepared to die for the cause. All would certainly be faithful; there would be no fear about that."
"I have not the least idea, at present, what I shall want you to do; but at any rate we shall go to Nantes, and it is there that you must meet us. We shall ride off in an hour's time. Let the others sleep till there is a general movement, then you can tell them what has happened, and that my orders are that you shall march home, at once. You can be there by tomorrow night, can you not?"
"It will be two long marches, but we will be there, captain."
"We shall not be much before you. By that time we shall have determined how we shall set about the matter, and shall be able to give you instructions; which will probably be that you are to meet us, at some point we will arrange, just outside the town. Of course, you will not go in a body, but singly or in pairs; crossing the river at various points, and travelling by different roads. Enter the town as if you belonged to villages round.
"I will ask Monsieur de la Rochejaquelein to let you have another pistol, each, before you leave. Of course, you will hide your arms under your clothes. I don't know that it will be necessary to use force; of course, at first we shall try bribery.
"At any rate, you will both be most useful in obtaining information. There are very many people who know Monsieur Martin by sight, and a few who know me. Possibly some of your band may have friends in Nantes; and these, if they are of our party, would be able to ask questions, and to find out the place in which my sister is imprisoned, much better than strangers could do.
"We have heard nothing of what is passing in Nantes for many weeks and, as they have sent troops to arrest Monsieur Martin, it is possible that his father may also be arrested. If he is at liberty, he would be sure to know where my sister is imprisoned."
The day was breaking now, and Leigh went next to the large house which had been set apart for the use of the generals. He knew Rochejaquelein's room, having been chatting with him till late, the evening before. The young count sat up in bed, as he opened the door.
"You have given me a start, Leigh," he said, with a smile. "I was dreaming that the Blues had retaken the town and, when the door opened, thought that it was a party come to make me prisoner.
"Is there any bad news? You look grave."
"Bad news as far as Jean Martin and I are concerned. A messenger arrived, two hours ago, with the news that a party of Blues from Nantes arrived at his chateau, without being observed, as they had travelled all night and reached it at daybreak. They had no doubt been specially sent to arrest Jean but, finding that he was away, they burnt the chateau, and carried off my sister a prisoner.
"We are going to start at once. I trust that you will explain, to the other generals, the cause of our absence."
"I am sorry, indeed, to hear your news," Rochejaquelein said warmly. "A curse upon the Blues! Why can't they content themselves with making war on men, without persecuting and massacring women?
"Certainly I will explain, to Cathelineau and the others, the cause of your absence. But what are you thinking of doing?"
"That we have not even considered. We mean to get her out of their hands, if possible; but until we see whether she has been really taken to Nantes--of which I have little doubt--which prison she is placed in, and how it is guarded, we can form no plan. If possible, we shall bribe the jailers. If not, we will try to rescue her by force.
"I am taking my band with me. I can depend upon them, and there is no one in Nantes on whom we can rely. They will, of course, enter the town singly; and will, I am sure, give us their loyal service, should we require it."
"If they serve you as well as they serve the cause, you could scarce have better assistants. I would that I could go with you. It would be an adventure after my own heart, but private friendship must give way to our country's needs. I hope, Leigh, that it will not be long before we meet again, and that I may hear that you have been successful."
Half an hour later, Leigh and Jean Martin started. The latter's first question, when Leigh returned, had been regarding the child. It was now nearly fifteen months old but, in the terrible shock caused by the news of his wife having been carried off, Jean had not thought of it till Leigh had left the room.
"The child is as nothing to me," he said, when Leigh had told him that the messenger had heard nothing of it. "It would have been, some day; but so far 'tis as nothing compared to Patsey. It slept with the nurse, and may possibly have escaped; unless, indeed, Patsey wished to take it with her."
"I do not think that she would do that," Leigh said. "No doubt it would have been a comfort, to have it with her; but she would have known that its chances of life would be slight, indeed, and for your sake she would have concealed it, if possible, before she was seized."
They reached the ruins of the chateau at noon next day, having stopped for the night at Chemille, in order to rest their horses and keep them in condition for another long ride, if necessary. The outhouse had been left standing. Francois came out, on hearing the sound of the horses' hoofs.
"Thank God you are back, master!" he said. "It has been a terrible time."
"Is the child safe, or was it taken with its mother?" Jean asked.
"He is safe, sir. Marthe saved it. When madame heard the Blues ride up, and looked out and saw their uniforms, she ran into Marthe's room and said: "'Hide the child, Marthe! Run with it downstairs, without waking it, and put it in a cupboard in the kitchen. They will never think of searching for it there. Then return to your bed again. Tell your master, when he comes back again, I have left little Louis for him.'
"I was getting up when I heard the horsemen, and guessed that it was the Blues and, without waiting a moment, dropped from my window and ran past the stable, and hid myself in the shrubbery behind it. I had scarcely done so when I heard them come round the house.
"Then there was a great knocking at the door and, a minute later, a pistol shot was fired. I heard afterwards that madame told Henri to open the door. As he did so, the officer of the Blues shot him through the head.
"For ten minutes I heard nothing more. Then someone came to the stable, took out the two horses, and then set fire to it. Looking out through the bushes, I saw the smoke coming out from two or three windows of the chateau. Then I made off as quickly as I could, got into the church, and set the bells ringing; thinking that it might frighten off the Blues, though I knew that the men were all away, and there was no chance of help.
"Soon they came riding along at full speed, and I saw madame in the middle of them. As soon as they had gone, the women all ran out from their houses. We tried our best to put out the flames, but the fire had too much hold.
"As we were doing this, I saw Marthe with the child in her arms. It had been saved well-nigh by a miracle, she said, and she told me how her mistress had run in to her. She caught up the child, and then, thinking that if they saw its clothes they would search for it, she opened the drawers, seized them all, and ran down and put them and the child into the kitchen cupboard, as her mistress had told her, then ran back to her bedroom and began to dress.
"She heard her mistress call to Henri to go down and open the door. She heard the pistol shot, and the Blues pour into the house. She hurried on her clothes and went out. They were searching all over the chateau. The officer came up to her, with a pistol in his hand. " 'Where is your master?' he said. " 'I do not know,' she replied. 'He rode away from here ten days ago, and has not been back since.' " 'That is the tale your mistress tells,' he said. " 'It is true, sir. You go into the village and ask any of the women there, they will tell you the same thing. I will swear on the cross that it is so.'
"He seemed very angry, but turned away from her. Presently the mistress came down, under a guard of two soldiers and, as she passed, she said: "'Goodbye, Marthe. Tell your master that I am thankful, indeed, that he was not here.'
"Then the officers told the men to set fire to the house, in a dozen places. They had all got bundles, having taken everything they thought of value. As soon as they had set fire to the curtains everywhere, and saw that the flames had got a good hold, they mounted and rode off.
"They had not searched the kitchen much, as they had only opened the closets large enough for a man to hide in and, not expecting to find anything worth taking, had not troubled themselves to look into the small ones; so Marthe had only to take the child out. Fortunately it had not awoke. When we found that it was hopeless to try and put the fire out, Marthe took the child over to the farm of Madame Rehan who, as soon as she got the news of the mistress being carried off, had sent her son away on horseback to tell you."
"Thank God, the child has been spared!" Jean Martin said, reverently. "We will go to the cure's.
"The boys will all be back tonight. Give the horses a good feed. We shall set out perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow morning."
"Ah, Monsieur Martin," the cure said, as they entered his house, "this is a sad homecoming for you. If we had known that the Blues were coming, but a quarter of an hour before they arrived, we could have got madame away to a place of safety. I knew nought about it until the church bells began to ring. Just as I was about to go out, five minutes later, to learn the cause, I saw them ride past with Madame Martin in their midst. We did not know that there were any of them within twenty miles of us, and thought that there was no chance, whatever, of their coming to a little village like ours."
"They came, no doubt, for me," Jean said gloomily. "If they had found Leigh and myself at home, they would not have taken the place so easily. He and I and the two men could have made a stout defence. I hear that there were not more than twenty of them, and I warrant that there would not have been many of them left, when the fight was over."
"I am sure," the cure said, "that if you had been there, and the place had been defended, all the women within sound of the church bell would have come in with arms, and would have fought like men in the defence of yourself and madame; but as it was, the whole thing was such a surprise, with everyone in bed and asleep, that the enemy were off before anyone could think of what had best be done. As it was, the women from all the farms round were here, armed with hatchets or pitchforks, half an hour after the bell began to ring. Of course, in the village here we knew that it was too late to do anything, but to flock to the church and pray for the safety of our good lady."
"Thank you, my friend. Leigh and I are going to Nantes, to see if anything can be done to get her out of prison. Leigh's band are coming also. Of course, they will travel singly. If of no other use, they will be better able to ask questions than we.
"I am going over now to Rehan's farm, to see my boy and to thank Marthe for saving him."
"It was well managed, indeed," the priest said. "I went over yesterday to see the child, and the nurse told me how its escape had been contrived. It was a happy thought on the part of its mother, and the woman carried it out well.
"But before you go, you must take a meal. I am sure that you must want it."
"I will not say no to that," Jean replied, "for we have not broken our fast this morning."
In half an hour, the cure's table was most abundantly furnished for, as soon as the news spread through the village that the seigneur had arrived, and was at the house of the priest, the women brought in little presents--a dozen eggs, a fowl, or some trout that had been caught by the boys in the stream, that morning.
One or two of the women volunteered to assist the cure's servant. Three fowls were hastily plucked, cut asunder, and grilled over the fire. As soon as they were nearly ready, they were placed in front of the fire to be finished, while the trout took their place. The repast began with these, the fowls followed, and it was concluded with an omelette.
"I have not eaten such a meal, father," Martin said, "since I rode away. I think, after this, I shall be able to take a more hopeful view of matters. In that respect the meal will be thrown away upon Leigh, for he always takes the brightest view of everything, and has never ceased to assure me that we are sure to manage to get my wife out of the hands of these villains, somehow; and as he has so far always succeeded in what he has attempted, I feel a good deal of faith in him. I should be as hopeful as he, if I knew that the Henriette was in the river at Nantes, and that I had to my hand a dozen stout fellows I could thoroughly rely on."
After paying a visit to the farm, praising Marthe, and arranging that she should continue to live there, they returned to the village.
"We will go over to the chateau, Leigh, before we do anything else. I want to see how hot the ruins are."
"I should think that they must be pretty cool by this time, Jean. You see, it is nearly four days since it was burnt."
"I have no doubt that the walls will be cool enough; but there was a lot of woodwork about it. When the roof fell in it would smother the fire for a time, but it might go on smouldering, even now."
"But what does it matter, Jean?"
"It matters a good deal. I have with me only a hundred francs, in paper, which is not worth above a third of its face value. I have here four thousand in gold, which I brought with me from Nantes, as soon as the troubles began. I buried it one day under the hearthstone of the kitchen, thinking it possible that the Blues might come here. The money is of the utmost importance now, for we may want it to bribe some of the jailers; and therefore I must get it, even if it delays us for a day."
They found indeed that, as they had feared, there was still fire among the mass of debris.
"We must quench it before we can do anything, Jean. I have no doubt that the women will help."
Francois was at once sent round and, in a short time, all the women in the place were assembled with pails. Martin and Francois worked the windlass of the well, the women carried pails of water, and Leigh threw the contents on to the smouldering mass above where he knew the kitchen fireplace must have stood. Clouds of steam rose and, from time to time, some of the women with rakes pulled off the upper layer of ashes. They worked till nightfall, by which time steam had ceased to rise.
"That will do for tonight," Jean said; "we will finish the job tomorrow morning. Your band will be here by that time, and will help us to get some of these heavy beams and timbers out of the way. We can then rake the smaller stuff out, and get at the fireplace."
At eight o'clock the band arrived. Leigh went down and spoke to them, and thanked them for the two long marches they had made. He had, during the afternoon, obtained a supply of bread and wine and, after they fell out, a meal was eaten before they started for their homes, promising to be back at six in the morning, to aid in the work of clearing away the debris.
Jean and Leigh spent a couple of hours in talk with the cure, and related to him the events that had passed since they had left. Then, thoroughly tired out, they retired to the room that had been prepared for them. The work that afternoon had been heavy; they had had a long ride previously, and neither had slept much the night before.
The next morning the work was recommenced. During the night the fire had crept in again, from the surrounding mass; but there were plenty of hands now, and in an hour it was again extinguished. The hearthstone was soon cleared and raised, and Martin brought out a crock, in which he had placed the gold.
"Now, Leigh," he said, "you had better have a talk with your boys, and arrange where they are to meet you. I should not press any of them who are unwilling to go. This is a private business, and I do not think that it would be right to urge them."
"Certainly not," Leigh agreed. "I am quite sure that all our boys will go with us, both for Patsey's sake, and because they are furious at the chateau being burnt down; as to the others, I shall put it to them that they are perfectly free to do as they wish. They can go with us, or they can rejoin the army, just as they like.
"If they go, I think that it would be as well that they did not enter the town; but should take up their quarters in a copse, or in a deserted house, a mile or two away, so that we could call them if we wanted them. Even in a town like Nantes, forty strange boys wandering about might be noticed."
Martin, after seeing that the workers all had refreshment, went to the cure's; as he never interfered in any way with the boys, thinking that it might lessen Leigh's authority, were he to do so.
"Now, I want to talk to you all," Leigh said, after they had drunk their wine and eaten their bread. "In the first place, do I understand that all who were first with me are ready to run a considerable risk to attempt, with us, to carry off Madame Martin from the hands of the Blues, and to save her from the fate that falls upon every one that they once lay a hand upon?"
"They are all willing, captain," Andre said. "We spoke to them again, just before we came in last night, and they all said that they were willing and anxious."
"Good. Remember, lads, that it is not too late to draw back now."
"We should not dare show our face in the village again," Pierre said, "if we were to hang back when there was a chance of our being of service to so good a lady."
"I thank you with all my heart," Leigh said. "I tell you fairly that I expected such an answer. Those who have shown such courage as you have done, and have been so loyal to the promises made me when I first enrolled you, would, I felt certain, not hang back now. Now, do you draw aside for a minute or two, while I speak to the others."
There was a movement, and the two groups stood apart.
"Your case is different from that of the others," he said. "In the first place, you have not been with me so long; and secondly--and this is more important--that Madame Martin is not the wife of your seigneur, and that you owe no duty to her. The enterprise on which we are going to start does not concern the cause for which we are fighting. It is a private business, and there is no occasion whatever for you to take part in it. You are free either to choose an officer among yourselves; or to rejoin the army, find Monsieur de la Rochejaquelein, and tell him that I sent you to him in order that he might find a suitable leader for you, among the gentlemen with him. I would rather that you talked the matter over among yourselves, and came and gave me an answer, in half an hour."
"Will you tell us what we shall have to do, captain?" one of them said.
"That I can hardly do, for I do not know myself. However, I think it probable that the greater portion of the band would remain outside the town. There are copses, down by the riverside, where you could wait in safety until you were wanted. Possibly you might not be wanted at all. Possibly you might be summoned to take part in so desperate an enterprise as storming one of the prisons. Of course it would be done at night, when we should have the advantage of a surprise. I can tell you no more than that.
"Now, my last word is, I shall not think any the worse of you, if you decide not to go with me."
It wanted five minutes of the time, when two of the boys returned to where he was talking with Pierre and Andre.
"We have decided, captain. You told us, when you marched away from Saumur, that Monsieur de la Rochejaquelein had approved of your taking us, and therefore we shall feel that we are still doing our duty to the cause. You have been kind, good, and thoughtful while we have been with you. All those of our own age in the army envied us who were of Cathelineau's scouts, and regarded our position as a great honour. Even if we were willing to go back, we could not do so, and tell the others that we had left you and our comrades when you were about to undertake some perilous service.
"But we do not wish it. We all desire to remain with you, and to follow wherever you may lead us, and to die in your service, if need be."
Leigh shook them warmly by the hand.
"Bravely said, and I thank you heartily. I am proud of my scouts, and am glad to see that my confidence in you is well founded. Call the others up."
After thanking these also, Leigh addressed the whole of them.
"Now, I will give you your orders. You must make your way by different routes to Nantes. There are many villages on the bank where you can find a boat that will take you across. Never travel more than two together. You must all take the green ribbons off your hats, leave your belts behind, and hide your pistols. If questions are asked you, reply that you are going to get work at Nantes, where you have friends, and that you are afraid to stay in your own villages.
"I will give each of you assignats for five francs. It would not do to give you silver. With this you can pay for your ferry across the water, and buy food on the way. It were best that, both on this side of the river and the other, you travel either by by-lanes or through the fields.
"When you get near Nantes, keep close to the river, and enter the last large copse before you get there. Andre or Pierre are likely to be there first, and will be on the lookout for you. They will join me in the town and bring you orders when necessary, and will send two or three of you in, daily, to buy food for the rest.
"I can give you no orders beyond that. Now, I hope I shall meet you all, in three days' time, at your rendezvous.
"Pierre and Andre, you will, on the evening after you arrive, enter Nantes, following the river bank. You will go along to a spot where a church faces the river. Sit down on its steps and wait for us, until the clock strikes ten. If we are not there, return and come back the next evening. If we are still not there, you will know that some bad luck has befallen us; and the band will then disperse, and you will all find your way up home.
"I should advise you all to travel by night, when you have once crossed the Loire. In that way you will avoid any risk of being questioned."
The boys then dispersed, and Leigh returned to the priest's. He and Martin had already talked over their disguises, and had agreed that those of fishermen would be the most appropriate; but until they could obtain the necessary clothes, they would go in the attire of fairly well-to-do people in a country town.
"We should only have to put on a tricolour scarf, Jean, and should look like municipal authorities."
"It would go against the grain to put that rag on," Martin said; "but your idea is a good one, and I would dress up as a general of the Blues, or as Robespierre himself, on such an errand as we are bound on.
"We cannot do better than go to Clisson. The place is in the hands of our people, and the village authorities will not dare to ask us any questions."
After dining with the cure, they mounted and rode to Clisson, arriving there at five o'clock in the afternoon. They went to the leader of the force there, as he was a friend of Jean's.
"I will send and get you the things," he said, when they told him the object of their visit. "It is just as well, if any of the people here are acting as spies for the Blues--which is likely enough--that they should not be able to give any description of you. We are all three about the same size, therefore I will go out and buy two suits.
"As to the scarves, I am more doubtful. I doubt if any shopkeeper here would admit that he had even a bit of tricolour ribbon in his possession."
"It will not matter about that," Martin said; "and, at any rate, when we get beyond the ground held by us, we shall find no difficulty whatever in getting a couple of cockades of those colours.
"Thank you very much indeed," he went on. "Here are five louis. I have no doubt that you will be able to lay them out well for us. But remember, please, that although we are all three the same height, I am some four or five inches bigger round the shoulders than Leigh; and want more room for my arms, also."
"I will remember," the other laughed. "Just let me pass this string round you, and then round Monsieur Stansfield, and tie two knots in it; and I will also measure you round the waist and leg."
In an hour he returned with one of his men, carrying two parcels.
"I had no difficulty in getting the clothes for your brother-in-law," he said, "but I had to go to two or three shops before I could get coat and breeches wide enough for you. What do you intend to do with your horses?"
"We shall ride into Nantes as we are, after nightfall, and shall put them up at a small inn. I know of one near the water. It is kept by a man who was at one time in my lugger, but he had his leg crushed in a storm, and had to have it taken off. He was a good sailor, so I set him up, and can rely upon him. He will get fishermen's clothes for us and, should we have to stay there any time, buy a boat and nets. We may want such a thing, badly."
The clothes were tried on, and found to fit fairly well. In our days the short-waisted coats with their long tails, and the waistcoats extending below the waist, would be deemed laughable; but as it was then the fashion among the middle classes, and especially the Republicans, Jean saw nothing ridiculous in it, while Leigh smiled at the figures they cut. Both had bright yellow breeches and stockings, and low shoes.
They waited till midnight at Clisson, and then mounted again, and by morning they were within a mile or two of a ferry, a short distance above Nantes. They stopped at a small village, and there purchased two tricolour cockades from the one shop it boasted, these forming conspicuous objects in the window, as a proof of the warm adherence of its owner to the Convention.
At the little cabaret they took breakfast, and saw that the horses were fed, then they rode on to the ferry. The boat was on the opposite side, and in half an hour it crossed. Then they took their places, and were ferried over. A party of soldiers were posted at the landing place.
"You are going to Nantes, I suppose, citizens?" the officer in command asked.
"We are. We come from Vallet, and are going to consult the commissary of the republic concerning some taxes that, as we consider, it is impossible for the town to pay, which the commissary there has imposed upon us."
"I should imagine that your errand is scarcely likely to meet with success," the officer said, with a light smile. "I hear the same complaints at Nantes, but have not heard that any remission has been made. Well, citizens, at any rate I can wish you luck on your errand."
It was still very early when they rode into Nantes, and but few people were about the streets. Trade was almost at a standstill. The town, which had been strongly Republican, was at once deeply discontented with the crushing taxation imposed upon it, and horrified at the constant executions that took place. Almost every house had soldiers billeted on it, as it was considered necessary to keep a large force there in order to overawe the south of Brittany and, if necessary, to send supports to the generals operating in the west of La Vendee.
There was scarcely any shipping in the river, and even the fishermen had almost given up plying their business; their best customers had fallen under the guillotine, and there was no demand for fish on fast days--for to practise any of the observances of religion was considered to be, in itself, a proof of hostility to the Convention. Therefore Jean and Leigh rode into the courtyard of the little inn without having attracted any attention, whatever.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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10
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: Preparations For A Rescue.
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"I have no accommodation for you here, citizens," a voice said, as Jean Martin and Leigh rode into the little courtyard, and a man with a wooden leg came out from the side door of the inn.
"I think you might be able to manage for us, Brenon," Jean said.
"Mon Dieu! it is--" Jean held up his hand sharply.
"Yes, it is I, Citizen Gallon, from Vallet. It is not often that I stir so far from home, but I had business here."
"Well, well, I will see what I can do for you, comrade; but as you know, I don't profess to take in horses. My clients come from the waterside, and generally my stable is full of their baskets and ropes. However, I will see what I can do. I will tie them up in that shed, for the present, and then clear out a stall for them afterwards."
The horses were led to a shed, encumbered with fishing gear of all sorts.
"What madness has seized you, mon capitaine, to put your head into this lion's den?"
"I will tell you presently, Brenon, when we get inside. I am glad that you are able to take the horses in. We don't want to be stared at, or talked about. We have come along the river bank and, so far, we have been quite unnoticed."
"All the better, all the better; to be noticed here means to have one's head cut off. Now, I will take you to a little room upstairs, where there is no chance of anyone seeing you."
"Get us up, if you can, without our being noticed by your servants, Brenon. We shall be differently dressed when we come down again."
The man nodded.
"The boy is in the front room," he said. "There are three or four fishermen there, having their morning glass. I have no other servants. My wife does what is needful, for I was obliged to discharge the girl we had, everything has been so slack of late."
He led them up to a chamber looking on to the quay. Jean was puzzled at the man's manner, for he spoke in a confused and hesitating way. When he closed the door behind him, he stood rubbing his hands together nervously.
"Have you heard lately from Nantes, Monsieur Jean?"
"No, it is five weeks since I had any news; except, of course, what was known about the troops that were here. What is it, old friend? Is there bad news?"
"There is terrible news," Brenon said, "so bad that I don't know how to tell you."
"Speak out, old friend. I have had one blow so heavy that I can scarcely be hurt more than I am."
"Well, then, monsieur, your father has been arrested and is in the prison; and you know what that means!"
"Father arrested!" Jean exclaimed; "on what grounds? He never expressed an opinion as to public affairs. That at heart he hated what has been going on, I know; but he never spoke strongly, even to me, and when I have heard his opinion asked, he has always replied that he was a trader, and that a man could not give his attention to business if he worried himself over politics. He attended to his trade, and left it to those who liked, to manage the government of the country.
"What of my mother and sister?"
"They are safe, monsieur. He sent them off a fortnight before, in disguise, to La Rochelle; at least, so I have heard from the fishermen. And as the Henriette was lying there at the time, and sailed two days after, there is not much doubt but that they sailed in her for England.
"Your father was denounced before the committee of public safety as one who was hostile to the Convention. He was accused of having sent large sums of money to England, and was believed to have sent his wife and daughter there also, with the intention, of course, of following them; and the fact that you were known to be fighting in the ranks of the brigands, as they call the Vendeans, was also mentioned as an additional crime on his part."
"Then we have a double task to carry out, Leigh," Jean said grimly.
"Now I will tell you what we came here for, Brenon. Six days ago a small party of the Blue cavalry came, at night, to my chateau. I was away, but they carried off my wife as a prisoner, and burnt the house to the ground. So we have come here to see if we cannot get her out of prison.''
"You have thought of such a thing as that?" the man exclaimed in surprise. "Ah, monsieur! It is well nigh an impossibility that you have undertaken. The villains know that there are hundreds of men, friends of the prisoners with whom they have crowded the jails, who would tear them down stone by stone, if they had the power; but in addition to the prison warders--not the men that used to be there, but men taken from the lowest class in the town--the prisons are watched by what they call the volunteers, fifteen hundred men belonging to the scum of the city--the men from the slaughterhouses, the skinners', and the tan yards Some of these are ever on guard round the prisons, night and day.
"There have been great changes here. A year ago, almost everyone thought that the Assembly was going to do wonderful things. No one knew exactly what. According to what they said, everyone was to be able to eat meat, seven days a week, to wear good clothes, and to do just as much work as pleased him and no more. Even the fishermen and sailors were fools enough to believe it.
"But there is a great change now. At first they approved of cutting off the heads of those who, they were told, were the cause of all misery and poverty; but when, every day, fresh prisoners were brought in, and it was not the nobles only but quiet citizens--tradesmen, manufacturers, doctors, and advocates--and every morning a score were carried out to be guillotined, men began to change their opinion; especially when they found that the more heads were cut off, the less work there was and the poorer they became. They began to talk among themselves and, when it came to executing women and children, as well as men, they turned round altogether.
"More than once the fishermen and sailors have tried to rescue prisoners on their way to execution. The commissioners of the republic have been hooted in the streets and, if they had had arms in their hands, our men would have turned the tables; but the town is full of troops now and, worse than all, they have enrolled this corps of volunteers, who are the terror of the place. They have spies everywhere, and no one dares whisper a word against the commissioners or the executions for, if but two or three men are standing by, the chances are that one of them is a spy."
"But surely my brother might have prevented my father's arrest, Brenon? He was one of the leading men at that Jacobin Club."
"He is still one of the leading men of the party," Brenon said gloomily. "He is established in your father's house, now, and is on the most intimate terms with the commissaries of the Convention."
"Is Monsieur Desailles still here? He was a young advocate, and a member of the Jacobin Club."
"Yes, he is a member still: but he is not in good odour with the extreme party. He is at the head of what they call the moderates. They say that sometimes these try to defend accused persons, and that is considered a terrible offence by the others. I should never be surprised to hear that he himself, and those with him, have been denounced as enemies of the state. This is an awful time, monsieur, and Heaven only knows what we shall come to.
"Now, is there anything that I can do for you, captain? You know well that you have but to say the word and that, whatever it is, I would do it, even if I were cut to pieces the minute afterwards."
"Thank you, old friend. It was because I knew that you were trusty and true that I came here. Now, the first thing that we want is fishermen's clothes. We only disguised ourselves in those things in order to pass safely through the Blues, and be able to cross the ferry. For the present they have done their work, and now we want a disguise that we can go about in, unnoticed. Of course, we don't want new things."
"I can get them easily enough, monsieur. My customers are all hard up. I know pretty well which are true men, and which are not."
"In the next place, I should like to buy or hire a boat to be at my disposal, as long as I stay here."
"There are boats and to spare, captain. Fishing goes on because men must live; though it can hardly be called living, for the prices of everything are fixed by law, now, and are fixed so low that the men can scarce earn enough to buy bread for themselves, and their families. Still, there are boats in plenty. Men have come down from towns and villages higher up, for they say that the troops are under no control and, when the boats come in after a night's fishing, they come down and help themselves and, if a man ventures to grumble, he gets a musket ball to pay him for his fish. The men here, at first, were against their fishing between this place and the sea; but the authorities stepped in, and said that the more food, the better for the people; and as the price was fixed, the men here saw that it made no difference to them. Still, like our own men, they are doing badly enough, and one could buy a boat for a mere song."
"It would be better to buy one from those men, Brenon, because the fact of our being strangers would not then be noticed. I want one rowing boat, as fast a craft as you can pick out.
"I also want to hire a boat with a cabin that will hold us both. Of course it will be a sailing boat, say of three or four tons burden. I intend that we shall live on board. It might be noticed if two strange sailors were often coming in and out of your place; whereas, if we were in a boat moored against the bank, no one would notice us. If you can get hold of such a boat, with a couple of men who seem to you to be honest fellows, strangers to the place, it will be a great thing; and we could occasionally go down the river, and do a little fishing."
"All that can be managed easily enough, captain. I know of one boat, just such a size; owned by two men, Rouget and Medart, who sailed in the Henriette for years, and only left her when you did, as they had wives and families here, and knew that she would not put in again for a long time. You could trust them as you do me."
"That would be the very thing. Make arrangements with them, on any terms they like. I will take her by the week. She carries a boat, I suppose?"
"Of course, monsieur, they could not do without one."
"If she is fast, well and good. If not, tell them to buy the fastest they can find. They can sell their own boat in part payment, or they can get her up on the quay and let her lie there, until we have gone, when they can either sell her or the new one.
"However, the clothes are the first thing. We cannot venture out in these, in the first place, because we might be questioned; and secondly, because we might be recognized; whereas in a fisherman's dress, with a wide oilskin hat and our faces dirtied somewhat, I don't think that anyone could know us."
They remained quiet until evening, and then sallied out in the disguises Brenon had obtained for them. Their first visit was to the house of Jean's friend, Desailles. It was arranged that Leigh should not go in, as Desailles would probably speak more freely to Jean, if alone. Jean had written his name on a piece of paper, folded it up, and carefully sealed it and, when he reached the house, he handed this to the woman who opened the door.
"This is for Citizen Desailles," he said. "I will wait. He may want to see me."
In a minute the servant returned, and requested him to come in. He was shown into a room where Desailles was sitting, with some papers before him. He did not speak until the servant closed the door. Then he leapt up, and held out both hands to his visitor.
"My dear Jean," he said, "what imprudence, what madness for you to venture here!"
"I don't think there is any fear of my being discovered. Even you, yourself, would scarcely know me."
"I know you, now you have taken that hat off; but I own that I did not recognize you before, and thought for the moment that you were but a messenger.
"Please do not talk loud. For aught I know, my servant has been bribed to act as a spy upon me, and may have her ear at the keyhole. To tell you the truth, Jean, things are coming to a crisis at the club. The violent party get more violent every day, and I am heartily sick of this butchers' work. I feel that, at any moment, I may be denounced."
"Then why on earth do you stay here, Jules? Why don't you come and throw in your lot with us?"
"I should have laughed at the idea, a year ago," he said; "for at that time, although I objected strongly to the doings in Paris, I yet believed that much good would come of the changes. Now I know that nothing has come of them but murder and misery, and the madness increases rather than diminishes. Hopeless as I own your struggle seems, to me, I would at least rather be killed in battle than executed here; but I would rather still get to England, if I could. As you know, I can play the violin well, and might be able to support myself, by its aid, if nothing else turned up."
"If you are thinking of going, Desailles, I will give you a letter to my father-in-law, at Poole. I hear that my mother and sister have escaped, and they have doubtless gone there, so you will not find yourself friendless.
"And now for the purpose that has brought me here. I had no idea, until I arrived, that these wretches had imprisoned my father; who is the last man to interfere in politics, and has, I am sure, never uttered a word of enmity against the Convention. I came to endeavour to rescue my wife who, as no doubt you have heard, has been seized and carried off in my absence, and my house laid in ashes. I suppose she has been brought here."
"Yes, I am aware of it," Jules said. "The party of horse who did it were specially sent from here. Of course you were the principal object of the expedition, but the officer was ordered to bring her, too--in the first place as your wife, in the second as an Englishwoman and therefore, of course, an enemy of France. You were denounced to the club; and as you were known to be one of the gentlemen who had joined the insurrection, and were fighting with Cathelineau and others, I knew that it would be useless to raise a voice on your behalf; having the satisfaction of feeling sure that you would be away from home when they got there, and hoping that your wife would receive notice of their coming, before they entered the house."
"Has she been brought here yet?"
"Yes, she arrived three days ago. She is in the old city prison, where your father is also confined."
"So far that is fortunate," Jean said.
"Now, how about my father? I should have thought that Jacques' influence would have been sufficient to protect him."
The young advocate smiled bitterly.
"Monsieur Jacques Martin poses as a Brutus, Jean. When your father was denounced in the club, he rose and said that he should take no part in the deliberations, that he was before all other things a patriot, and that he would not permit private affection to interfere with his duty as a citizen. In fact, my dear Jean, painful as it must be for you to hear, my opinion is that your brother has all along been playing a deep game, and that his object has been to grasp the whole of your father's business and property. It was a friend of his who denounced you at the club, when I before gave you warning; it was members of his clique who stirred the authorities up to send a small body of cavalry to capture you, and it was they also who denounced your father. Your brother is by far the most powerful of the committee of safety, as well as in the club. He assumes an air of perfect disinterestedness, and of a passionate love for the republic. His vote is always given for death. I think he takes Saint Just as his model, and repeats his assertion, that it is only by the destruction of the enemies of France that France can be freed.
"There is a cold bloodedness about him that sets my nerves tingling. I believe, myself, that the discovery that your father had largely reduced his stocks, and had sent the proceeds to England, decided him in either agreeing to, or bringing about, this denunciation; and that he deferred it only until he found that your mother and sister had escaped. That freed his hands, to some extent. Had they remained here, he would have been in a difficult position. Even in these days, when we are sated with horrors, he could hardly have permitted his mother and sister to be executed when, as everyone knew, he had power to save them. On the other hand, if they had remained they would have been obstacles to the success of his plan. As it is now, your father's house and all property belonging to him were declared confiscated; but the committee of safety passed a vote that, seeing the inestimable service rendered to the state by his eldest son, they would be bestowed upon him as a token of gratitude for his well doing."
"You scarcely surprise me," Jean said gloomily. "I never liked my brother--we had not a feeling in common, and for years he has never seemed to belong to the family; and certainly, since the troubles began, he has not set foot in my father's house. Still, I hardly believed that he would be such a scoundrel. I abhorred his opinions, but believed that he was at least sincere. I did not see what he could gain by a revolution. Now I understand his character better, and can see how cleverly he has played his cards. I cannot reckon myself with the scoundrel, deeply as he has wronged me and my father; but I should welcome the news that retribution had fallen upon him, by some other hand.
"And now, Jules, can you give me any advice whatever as to how to set about my scheme of getting them both out of prison?"
Jules shook his head.
"I fear, my poor friend, that that is impossible. The prison is, as you know, strong. There are, I should say, some forty warders, all ruffians and scoundrels. Any attempt to bribe even one of them would, almost to a certainty, be denounced; and it would probably be necessary to have at least half a dozen in the plot. As to force, it is out of the question. The building is very strong. There are always some twenty or thirty of the volunteers on guard outside, and an alarm would bring up five hundred in a quarter of an hour, to say nothing of the troops. What force could you bring that could have even a remote chance of success?"
"I have Leigh with me. You know him well, Jules. I rely much more upon him than I do on myself. He is full of plans and contrivances, and has rendered extraordinary services during the war. He has with him, or rather will have in the course of a day or so, a band of forty lads, of whom he is the captain, who have acted as scouts to Cathelineau. They will be in hiding, a mile or two out of the town."
Jules lifted his eyebrows.
"I am afraid that such a force as that would be of very little use to you, Jean--in fact, of no use whatever. If you had five hundred men, and could gather them for a sudden attack on the jail, and had a couple of cannon to blow in the gate, I should say it might be possible; and even then the chance of its being all done, and the fugitives got safely away, before the arrival of some three thousand troops would be very doubtful."
At this moment the servant brought in a note.
"Who brought this?" Monsieur Desailles asked.
"It was a woman, monsieur. She did not wait for an answer."
The advocate opened it. It was written in pencil.
"Dear Jules, Martin is on his feet denouncing you. Hostile vote certain. Escape at once."
After reading it, he handed it to Jean.
"That settles it," he said. "I am with you. Where are you staying?"
Martin told him, and said: "It will never do for you to stay there. But I have arranged for a boat, with a cabin. We shall go on board at once. You can come with us. I had better go out first."
"It is better that we should not go together for, if the woman reports that I went off with a fisherman, a search might be made in all the boats. I will join you on the quay opposite the inn you speak of. I shall need a quarter of an hour to burn some papers. I have already a valise packed, with a couple of thousand francs, which is all the money I could obtain without creating suspicion. I have seen this coming for some time, and had no intention of making a martyr of myself, when my doing so would be of no advantage."
"Don't delay too long, Jules. I shall be in a fever until you join me."
"I know their way, Jean. There will be a half a dozen speeches, each vying with the other in abusing me. My friends will see the uselessness of trying to defend me, when the terrorists are three to one against them. If my friend slipped out, as is probable, directly your brother rose, I can calculate on a good hour. Actually, the club have no power whatever to order arrests, but they are so closely allied now with the committee of safety that they do not stand upon legalities, except in cases likely to attract a great deal of public attention."
Jules went to the door and let his visitor out. Jean joined Leigh.
"Desailles is going to join us. He has just been denounced, and will be with us in a quarter of an hour, on the wharf. It is very lucky that Brenon completed the arrangements today for the boat, and that Rouget and Medart will be expecting us this evening. I told them that I might not come until tomorrow morning, but this settles it. There will be a sharp search for Desailles, as soon as it is found that he is gone; and it is just as well that we should be off, too. I am very glad that I had the boat taken from her usual berth to a spot half a mile higher up, because there are sure to be inquiries whether any fishing boats put out during the night."
They walked fast back to the inn. Brenon, on being told what had happened, agreed that it would certainly be safest for them to go on board.
"I have two friends living here," he said, "both of whom are carriers, and keep eight or ten horses. Tomorrow morning, early, I will take one of your horses to one and the second to the other. No one will notice them there, whereas if a search is made--and I have no doubt a search will be made of the houses near the river--they will light upon them in my shed, and they would not believe my story that I had two citizens from Vallet living here--in the first place because it is an unlikely place to put them up, and in the second because no such citizens would be forthcoming. It is lucky that you told the men to get a cask of wine and a store of provisions on board, before starting.
"Well, you know, captain, that whenever you choose to land again, my house is at your disposal; and I will carry out what we arranged, that I should get together a score of men I can trust, and to each of whom I can promise a hundred francs, for a night's work in a good cause."
They packed up their former disguises, which might come in useful again. Their pistols they had already about them. They then went out on to the wharf again and, a few minutes later, were joined by Jules Desailles.
"I have been nervous ever since I left you," Jean Martin said, as his friend shook hands with Leigh. "I was afraid that a quarter of an hour's delay might be fatal."
"I lost no time. But I feel sure that it will be an hour before anyone is down after me; they are all too fond of listening to their own voices to close any discussion, in less than an hour after the proposer has sat down. I hope the boat is not far off, for this portmanteau of mine is heavy, I can assure you."
Martin took it up and swung it on to his shoulder.
"No, my dear Jean, I won't have it."
"Nonsense, Jules. The weight is nothing to me though, no doubt, to a man who never takes any exercise it would feel heavy."
"To say the truth, it is heavier than I expected. I went on packing up everything that I did not like to leave behind, until the thing was crammed full; and after I had locked it, and went to lift it, I was thunderstruck with the weight."
"Did your servant see you go out?"
"No; I rang for her, and told her that I was going out, and did not suppose that I should be back till late, and that she could go to bed when she liked--which I knew would be a few minutes after she got permission. She is a sort of human dormouse and, nineteen times out of twenty, I have had to wait for my breakfast. I was in a fright as I walked down here, lest some one who knew me might run against me, but happily I saw no one."
"They would not recognize you, if they had seen you," Jean laughed. "The idea of Monsieur Desailles, advocate, a gentleman somewhat particular as to his attire, dragging a portmanteau weighing a hundred pounds through the streets, would seem an impossibility."
"I have left that phase of my existence behind me," Jules laughed; "henceforth I am a man of war, a rebel, a brigand, as they call you, prepared for any desperate adventure, ready to rush up to a cannon's mouth."
"That is right, Desailles. I am glad to see that you take things so cheerfully."
"My dear Jean, I feel as if I walk on air since you have taken my portmanteau. I have been living in a state of suspense for months, hating these wretches and their ways; and knowing that I was gradually falling into bad odour with them, and that the blow would certainly fall, ere long. Over and over again I have thought of making my escape from it all; but you see, I am not a man of action, as you are. I did not see how the matter was to be effected--where to go or what to do. I was like a boy shivering at the edge of the bank, and afraid to plunge in; then another comes behind him and pushes him into the water, and he strikes out, and finds that it is not as cold as he expected, and forthwith enjoys it. I have cut loose from the past. I have become a rover and a waif, and I feel as lighthearted as a boy.
"Now, let me get hold of one end of that trunk, again."
"I have got it all right and, as you see, I have not yet changed shoulders. And if I want help, it is to Leigh I should turn, and not to you. After three months' campaigning, it may be that you will be able to hold up an end as well as he can, but you certainly cannot do so now. In another hundred yards we shall be at the boat, and they must be on the lookout for us."
In a short time they saw a fishing craft, with a boat astern of her. A man was standing on the deck.
"It is a dark night, my friends," he said.
"It will be lighter in the morning," Jean replied.
The man leapt ashore.
"Ah, captain, I am glad, indeed, to see you. Brenon did not tell us, until after he had made a bargain with us, who wanted our boat, or we should not have talked about payment. Not likely, after having sailed with you since you were a boy of fourteen."
"No, indeed," said another man, who had just raised his head out of the cabin hatch; "and we are not going to take it, either."
"We will talk about that afterwards," Jean said, as he stepped on board.
"I doubted whether it was you, captain, for Brenon had only spoken to us of two; and when I saw three of you, I thought that you must belong to one of the boats higher up. There are two or three of them, a bit farther on."
"I did not know, myself, until half an hour ago. This is my friend Monsieur Desailles, who is in the same danger from these butchers of the Convention as I am. First pass this box down, and then we will follow it."
They gathered in the little cabin. It was but some seven feet long.
"It will be close work, captain," Rouget said.
"It will do very well," Jean said cheerfully. "There is room for two of us to sleep on the lockers, and one on the floor. You have got the small boat behind you, I see."
"She is there," the man said, "and a good boat she is. We bought her from two fishermen, who had come down from Saint Florent. She is very well for up there, but she is scarce fit for fishing far below Nantes."
"I am glad that she did not belong to this place," Martin said. "The fishermen might have been surprised to see two strange men in a boat they knew; but so many have come down here, from the towns above, that we shall excite no attention. Now, the first thing to do is to get up sail, and drop down two miles past the town; then you can go about your fishing as usual. Only one of us will show upon deck at a time.
"Now, as to the matter on which we are here. Brenon told you that it was a dangerous business for which you would be required?"
"He told us that it was to hide two gentlemen whom the committee of public safety would be glad to get hold of; and I knew, of course, that to do such a thing was dangerous, but we did not like it any the worse for that. All honest men are horrified at the way these commissioners from Paris are carrying things on, and would be glad enough to aid in getting anyone out of their hands."
"But the danger is greater, in our case, than ordinary," Jean went on. "You heard that my father had been imprisoned?"
"We heard it, captain, and savage it made us, as you may guess. Everyone spoke well of him and, being your father, of course we felt it all the more."
"But that is not all, lads. A party of their cavalry went to my chateau in my absence, burnt it down, and brought my wife here a prisoner. Now, it is absolutely certain that they will both of them be condemned, for they have a personal enemy on the committee of public safety, and they will be murdered, unless we can get them out; and I and my brother Leigh, whom you all know, have come for that purpose."
"Well, captain, you can count upon both of us, heart and soul. But I don't see how it is going to be done. The prison is a strong place, and well guarded. I have no doubt that we could count on getting twenty stout men, along the wharf, but that would not be much use. They have more than that on guard and, before we could get into the prison, they would come swarming down, any number of them."
"We have forty young fellows from my neighbourhood, who will by tomorrow be hidden away in the wood, a mile and a half higher up the river."
"That will be a help, sir; but even with two hundred we should not be able to do much."
"We shall have plenty of time to talk it over, afterwards. Get the sail up and drop down the river. Keep close to the opposite bank. It is important that we should not be noticed, as we pass the town."
"Well, sir, there is hardly air enough to fill the sails. I should say that we had best tow her across to the other side, in the small boat; and then drift till we are fairly beyond the town. We are safe not to be seen then."
"Perhaps that will be the best plan, Rouget."
The men went out and, in two or three minutes, the sound of the oars could be heard.
"I can't say that the lookout is very hopeful, Leigh."
"I did not think that anyone would think it so, Jean; but it seems to me that it is just because everyone seems so confident that the prison is safe from attack, that we shall have a chance. The thing that is troubling me most is where we can get a barrel of gunpowder. We must have powder to blow open the gate. I expect that any of the doors we may find locked, inside, will give way if a pistol is fired through the keyhole; but to blow in the main gate of the prison we must get powder, and a good deal of it. That, however, is a matter in which we shall find that money will be of use.
"There are too many officials in the prison for us to hope to get any one out, without eight or ten being in the plot; and as these, we hear, are all fellows who are heart and soul with the Convention, it is not possible to attempt it in that way. But when, as you know, the Blues succeeded in bribing a Vendean to tamper with our guns, it ought not to be such a difficult thing to bribe one of these fellows, who is in charge of ammunition, to let us have a barrel or two of powder."
"That certainly seems to hold out a prospect of success, so far, Leigh. I have never been able to understand your confidence in success, but certainly the first indication of your plan seems to promise well. Now, let us hear some more of it."
"Well, this is my idea, Jean. I will choose a windy night, and send Andre and Pierre, with twenty of the boys, into the worst part of the town. Each shall carry a ball of yarn dipped in turpentine, mixed with sulphur and other inflammable things. They shall also carry another ball, having but a thin coating of the yarn, and powder inside so as to explode. When the clock strikes two, we will say, each of them will smash the window of some store, light both balls, and put them in. I want the explosion of one ball to scare anyone who may be sleeping there half out of their senses, and make them rush out of the house; which will leave plenty of time for the other ball to set on fire anything that it may light upon. Twenty fires, starting at once at different spots, will create a fearful scare. Many of the guards outside the prison--all of whom are drawn from the slums--will have come from that quarter and, as they have no idea of discipline, will, when they see the flames mounting up, leave their posts and rush off to see to the safety of their homes.
"Choosing a windy night, you may be sure that the fires would burn fast, and that the rest of the volunteers, and the National Guard, would soon be so busy that they would not trouble themselves about the prison, one way or the other. Thus I calculate that, of the fifty men on guard round the prison, there would not be twenty left at the outside; and they would be so busy staring at and talking of the fire that, with a sudden surprise, they could all be disposed of without difficulty. Then the gates of the prison would be blown in, and we should rush in, shoot down all the warders we meet--keeping one only as a guide--make straight for the rooms where your father and Patsey are confined, release them and as many others as the time will allow, telling them to rush down to the wharf and seize boats, or to escape in whichever way they like; while you, with your father and Patsey, would make straight down to our boat; while I, with the boys, would follow you and cover your retreat, if any of the Blues came up to pursue you."
"Leigh, you are a genius!" Martin exclaimed, bringing his hand down on the lad's shoulder with a force that almost knocked him from his seat.
"What do you think of that, Desailles, for a plan? I told you that I relied upon Leigh's head more than my own, and you see I had good reason for doing so. I doubt whether it could be done with his forty boys, but if we can get the powder, it seems to me that, with half as many sailors to help us, there is no reason why it should not succeed."
"But you might burn half the town down," Desailles said, gravely.
"If I was sure that it would burn the whole of it down, I should not mind," Leigh exclaimed. "But there is not much fear of that. If it cleared out the whole of the slums, where the supporters of the gang of murderers they call the committee of public safety live, I should rejoice most heartily. As there are several wide streets between them and the business quarters, and as they will have all the soldiers of the town to assist in fighting the flames, I do not think that there will be any fear of the fire spreading very far."
"Well, at any rate, Leigh, you have hit on a plan that offers a good chance of success. We shall find out, in a day or two, how many of the boatmen we can get to aid us, and how far they will be disposed to go. We must learn, in some way, how long it is likely to be before it is absolutely necessary to act. If we find that there is time, we can send some of the boys off to the army, to bring their fathers and brothers back with them. The sixty might not be enough, but with a hundred of our men, I think we should be pretty sure of success."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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11
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: The Attack On Nantes.
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When three or four miles down the river the boat was anchored, and the two men were called into the cabin, and Leigh's scheme explained to them.
"It is a big affair, sir," Medart said thoughtfully, when Jean had concluded. "Now, there is no love lost between us and the ruffians who carry out the committee's orders. They call us river rats, we call them sewer rats, and there has been many fights between the fishermen and these fellows, as far back as I can remember, and lately these have been much more frequent. If the plan was only to burn down their quarters, there are a good many who would lend a hand; because it could be done quietly, and they would have no particular reason for suspecting that it was the work of the fishermen. But as for going into the jail, that would be different. We should not have time, by what you say, to hunt up and kill all the warders; and it would therefore be known, at once, that we were concerned. Five or six of our fellows have already had their heads chopped off, on suspicion of having aided Royalists to escape. They don't mind whom they lay hands on, and they don't trouble themselves to search, but just seize the first they come to who, perhaps in a cabaret, has said a word against their doings.
"As to the trials, they are no trials at all. One of their fellows comes in and says, 'I heard this man abusing the authorities, and I accuse him also of being concerned in the escape of so and so.' It is no odds what the prisoner says. The fellow who acts as judge looks at the jury, who are all their creatures; they say 'Guilty 'and he says' Death!' and the accused are marched off again to the prison, to wait until their turn comes for the guillotine. Well you see, if this prison was broken into as you propose, and it was known that the sailors had a hand in it, the chances are that they would march a couple of hundred of us into the great square, which would be choke full of the National Guard and volunteers, and just shoot us down."
Jean was silent. The probability that things would go as the man said was so evident that he had no answer.
"I think the way to get over that difficulty," Leigh said, when he saw that Jean was puzzled, "would be for you all quietly to buy other clothes or, better still, for them to be bought for you by your wives. They should be such clothes as the peasants buy, when they come into the town. It would then be supposed that the attack was made by a party of Breton peasantry. As a good many other prisoners would escape, in addition to Monsieur Martin and your captain's wife, there would be no reason to suppose that the plot was specially arranged to aid their escape, or that any of the people of this town were concerned in the matter."
"That is so, Master Leigh," Rouget said. "It might be managed in that way. But I think that most of our chaps had better be told off for firing the town. I think that a good many might be willing to undertake that job, for I have heard it said, many and many a time, that they would like to burn the sewer rats out. There are other men who would, I am sure, rather join in the attack on the jail, if they could do so without putting the lives of all of us in danger.
"As to getting hold of an artilleryman, I don't know that that would be difficult. The men employed on that sort of work are all old soldiers, and many of these, though they dare not say so, hate what is going on just as much as we do. I have met one of them with Emile Moufflet, who served with you, captain, for two or three years. When we have been chatting together, he has said things about the committee that would have cost him his head, if he had been overheard. I know that his chum is in charge of some stores, but whether they are powder or not, I cannot say. But at any rate, Emile will be able to find out for me the name of several of them who have charge of powder; and he would be likely to know which of them had sentiments like his own, and how far they could be trusted.
"That would not take long, but to get hold of forty hands for the other work would take some time. One dare go only to men one is very intimate with, and get them to approach men whom they know well; for even among us, there are fellows who take the committee's money to spy over the others, and to find out whether any trouble is likely to come, or Royalists to be shipped off. One generally knows who they are, because they overdo their parts, and rail at the Convention more roundly and openly than an honest man would dare to do. Some of them one finds out that way; others, again, one spots by their always having money to spend. If they are too shrewd to betray themselves in that way, our wives find them out for us, by telling us that their women and children have new clothes, and we know well enough that there is no buying new clothes out of fish, at their present price. Besides, most of these fellows give up fishing altogether, and lounge about the wharves talking and smoking, and one knows that a man and his family cannot live on air. Still, there may be others who are too sly to let out their secret in either way, and therefore one must be very careful whom one speaks to. One would not think of telling anyone about what is intended until, just as it comes off, one could simply say that one has heard that there is something in the air, and that report says that every man who will lend a hand will earn--how much, captain?"
"Two hundred francs."
"When one sees how a man takes that, one can go a step or two further.
"Well, I should not think of letting out to a soul what the nature of the work would be, simply saying that every precaution will be taken to prevent its being known that any fishermen are engaged in it. All that will take time. I should say that it might be nigh a couple of weeks before one could get the whole thing arranged."
"What do you think, Desailles?" Jean said. "Shall we have a fortnight?"
Desailles shook his head.
"I could not say; you might have more than that, if the prisoners were taken in the regular order in which they were condemned. The jails are crowded and, as fresh captures are effected, room must be made for them. Of course the committee have a list, and they make a mark against the names of those who are to be executed, each day. It might be three weeks before your friends' turn comes, it might be only a few days."
"I tell you what, Rouget; you and your comrade had better land tomorrow morning, and set to work. You might say that three fishermen from Saint Florent, finding their boat too small, hired yours for a week to try their luck. If they succeed they will give you a fair price for her, if not they will simply pay the hire. You can say that the price is not much, but as it is as much as you can make at fishing, you thought that you might as well have an idle week on shore.
"Leigh and I can work her. As soon as day breaks you shall shoot your nets, so that we can see exactly how you work, and be able to catch an average amount of fish each day. I am sure that no one will know us in these disguises and, at any rate, we sha'n't be clumsy either with the sails or oars. You can say that, as we are strangers, you have agreed to sell our fish for us; which will be an excuse for your coming down to us, with the news of how you are getting on, each time that we come in."
"That will do very well, captain; but in that case, as a good deal of the fishing must be done at night, we had better get out the nets at once, and show you how they are managed."
For the next three days the work was carried on. Desailles had undertaken to obtain, from a friend of his on the committee of public safety, news of what was going on, and an early copy of the names of the prisoners told off for execution on the following day.
On the third day after their arrival, Martin and Leigh rowed up to the wood where they had directed the band to assemble and found that, with two or three exceptions, all had arrived. Four or five of them were at once told to return, to the estate and to the army, with a message from Jean begging all his tenants to leave, and join the party in hiding. Many of them would, no doubt, have returned to their homes within a day or two of the capture of Saumur. Letters had already been written to Bonchamp and Rochejaquelein to say that they were intending to attack the jail, and deliver a number of captives besides Jean's father and wife; and to beg that they would pick out some fifty or a hundred determined men, and send them on. On the morning of the sixth day, when the two sailors joined them, they were in a state of high excitement.
"There is great news, captain," Rouget said; "the whole city is in a state of tumult. It is reported that Cathelineau, with his army, is marching upon Nantes; and it is also reported--but this is not so certain--that Charette is marching to join them, with all his force."
"That is grand news, if true!" Jean exclaimed. "That would indeed favour our scheme! I doubt whether they will capture Nantes, for there is a big force here, and enough of them are seasoned troops to encourage the volunteers and National Guard to make a good fight of it. However we can, at any rate, take advantage of the attack to carry out our own plans. When the fighting is at the hottest, you may be sure that every armed man will be wanted at the work, and that there will not be many guards left behind at the prison. Our band here can dispose of them; and half a dozen men each, with fireballs, can add to the confusion by setting fire to warehouses and factories. The great thing now will be the powder."
"That we have managed already, captain," Medart replied. "As I told you, I spoke to Emile Moufflet the first morning I went ashore, and he said that it was at the magazines that his chum was employed. Yesterday evening he came to us, and said that if I gave him the two thousand francs that you had given me for the purpose, he would hand us over two barrels of powder, at eleven o'clock last night. We got them; and carried them, as you told us, to Brenon's; and helped him to bury them in his shed. We also got, as you ordered, a couple of yards of fuse."
"Bravo, Medart! everything seems going well for us."
The news of Cathelineau's advance was confirmed, on the following day, by the return of the lads who had been sent to fetch assistance. They brought with them eight or ten men from the estate; and reported that la Rochejaquelein had remained at Saumur, with a portion of his army, to defend that town against a large force that Biron was assembling at Tours; while Cathelineau, having with him Bonchamp and Stofflet, was marching with the main force along the north bank of the river. They said, however, that his force was greatly diminished, for that large numbers of his men, objecting to fight outside their own country, had scattered to their villages. They, however, confirmed the news that Charette was reported to be marching north to join Cathelineau.
"That is the worst part of the whole business," Jean said, bitterly. "Our generals have no control over their men. They will fight when they want to fight, and return home when they choose. If Cathelineau had come along with a big force, he would have been joined by numbers of Bretons on the way and, if he had captured Nantes, by the greater part of Southern Brittany. Now that so many of his men have left him, it is quite possible that his attack may fail; and in that case the result will be disastrous. His army would disperse, the Blues would turn their whole force against la Rochejaquelein, and the cause that a fortnight since seemed half won would be lost.
"It shows, at any rate, that the idea of marching on Paris could not be carried out; for if men refuse to march, when they would be separated from their own country only by the river, to take Nantes, by which La Vendee is constantly threatened; certainly a greater portion still would have gone off to their homes, rather than join in what would seem to them so terrible an affair as a march on Paris. The peasants are good enough at fighting but, though they may win a victory by their bravery, they are certain to lose a campaign by their independent habits."
Feeling convinced that the approach of the Vendean army would enable their enterprise to be carried out by a much smaller body than had at first appeared necessary, Jean Martin told the two sailors that they had better abstain from broaching the matter to any more of their acquaintances. They had already obtained the adhesion of those of whose fidelity they felt absolutely assured and, should one of the others whom they intended to approach turn traitor, it would overthrow all chances of success, and might cause such alarm to the authorities that the executions would go on more rapidly than before, and the fate of their friends be precipitated.
Day by day the excitement in the city increased. Generals Beysser and Canclaux had, under their command, some ten thousand men. There was no chance of further reinforcements reaching them, but they felt confident that they could successfully defend the town with this force.
Had Charette marched to Ponts-de-Ce and, crossing there, joined Cathelineau, the danger would have been much more formidable; but instead of so doing he was advancing directly towards Nantes, on the south side of the river, the few places remaining in the hands of the Republicans being hastily evacuated on his approach. Here, however, he could give but slight aid to Cathelineau, for the bridge crossing the Loire could be defended by a comparatively small force, provided with cannon to sweep the approaches.
In order to reassure the townspeople and encourage the troops, the French generals, as the enemy approached, moved out with a large proportion of their force and threw up some intrenchments a mile and a half outside the town; feeling confident that they could withstand any attack in the open country.
As many of the peasants fled into Nantes, especially those who, in the villages, had rendered themselves obnoxious by their persecutions of those suspected of Royalist leanings, or who were personally obnoxious to them, Leigh was able to gather the whole of his party in the town. They were, like other peasants, to sleep in the open squares or down near the walls. They were always to go about in pairs, and to meet Pierre or Andre at places and hours arranged by them. They were supplied with money sufficient to buy bread, and were warned on no account to make themselves conspicuous in any way. With them were the men from Martin's estates who had answered to his summons.
Clothes had been bought for the twelve sailors engaged by Medart and Rouget. The fireballs had been prepared in the cabin of the fishing boat. Each of the fourteen fishermen was to carry two of these. Their leaders had carefully gone round the quarter, and had picked out the stores or warehouses into which the fireballs were to be flung. Among these were several wood yards No private houses were to be fired. That the flames would spread to these was likely enough, but at least there would be time for the women and children to escape.
Having decided upon the places to be fired, the sailors were one by one taken round, and the two buildings assigned to each pointed out, so that there would be no confusion or loss of time when the signal was given. Only two stores near the water had been marked down for destruction, namely, those belonging to the Martins. This was Leigh's work. As a firm the business was extinct. It was now the sole property of Jacques Martin, and there was no probability that Martin senior or Jean would ever recover a share in it. As in each of the stores a considerable quantity of spirits in addition to the wine was housed, not only would the loss be very heavy, but the interest excited in the vicinity would increase the confusion and alarm that would prevail.
Desailles was in daily communication with his friend. He learned that the list of prisoners was being taken, now, more in the order in which they stood. The farce of a trial had been gone through, in the case of Jean's wife, and she had of course been condemned. She stood a good deal lower on the list than his father. There was not much chance of the day of her execution being settled before the arrival of the Vendean forces. The number of names, however, above that of Monsieur Martin was rapidly decreasing, and there was imminent danger that he might be included in the fatal list before their arrival.
On the twenty-sixth of June the Vendeans arrived within a few miles of the town, and a formal summons was sent in to the generals. It was briefly refused. General Canclaux believed that he had so strengthened his advanced position, which was occupied by his best troops, that he would be able to repulse Cathelineau's force there. The Vendeans, however, being informed by the peasantry of the formidable nature of the intrenchments, decided that it would be dangerous to attack them; and consequently moved round so as to threaten the town from the north. Charette, on his side, moved his force up within cannon shot of the bridge.
At eight o'clock on the evening of the twenty-seventh, the sound of heavy firing was heard in Nantes. A column of the Vendeans had attacked Nort, a place lying to the north of the town. It was defended by six hundred troops of the line, and a body of the National Guard. They maintained themselves there during the night but, at daybreak, fell back upon the town, leaving their cannon behind them. A considerable body of troops moved out to cover their retreat.
Confident that the attack would begin that evening, every preparation for action was made by Jean and Leigh. The powder barrels were dug up, and holes bored for the fuses. The boys were all informed that the hour for action was at hand; and were ordered to lie down, at nightfall, in the open space facing the front of the prison, scattering themselves among others who would be sleeping there or, in expectation of the attack on the town beginning, would be standing in groups listening for it. Leigh would be among them.
As the hour neared twelve they were to gather in a body. The sailors were not to begin their work until the attack on the town commenced in earnest. Jean, with his twelve tenants, was to come up at twelve. The exact moment for the attack was to be decided upon by the progress made by the fires. When these had had their effect, Leigh was to fall upon the guard round the prison; and Jean, with his band, to run forward to the gate, plant the powder barrels against it, light the fuse and run back.
As soon as they had killed or driven away the guard, Leigh's party were to return to the front. There Andre, with half the band, were to station themselves, and to hold the gate against any armed body that might arrive; while Leigh, with the others, entered the prison and aided, if necessary, to overpower the warders and blow open the doors of the cells. The prisoners were all to be told that Charette's army was on the other side of the Loire, and that their best plan was to make their way down to the river, seize boats, and get across.
At five o'clock in the afternoon Charette's guns opened against the barricades that had been thrown up at the bridge. Canclaux, seeing that the attack upon the north had rendered it useless for him to retain the advanced post, ordered the troops there to fall back into the town, at ten o'clock in the evening; and at eleven the whole garrison were concentrated in Nantes.
Finding that, with the exception of the cannonade on both sides across the river, all remained quiet, Leigh passed the word round among his followers to remain as they were, until further orders. Jean and his men came up by twos and threes before twelve; and these, too, lay down as if to sleep, or seated themselves on the steps of the houses. Few of the inhabitants had retired to rest. They knew that at any moment the storm might break, and some awaited the attack with hope that the time of their release from the tyranny under which they had, for months, groaned, had come; while others trembled at the thought of the vengeance that, if the town were taken, would fall upon those who had been concerned in what had passed.
Martin and Desailles presently joined Leigh. As the time went on they began to fear that, for some reason or other, the Vendeans had determined to delay their attack until the next day. At half past two Charette's cannonade redoubled in vigour, and the rattle of musketry showed that his troops were advancing. The batteries of the defenders opened with equal violence, and their musketry answered that of the assailants on the opposite bank.
"I think that that must be the signal for Cathelineau to begin," Martin said.
And, ten minutes later, the attack commenced with fury upon the gates of Vannes, Rennes, and that by the river.
Every window was opened, and anxious faces looked out. The night was dark, and the few oil lamps alone threw a feeble light on the square. Suddenly a broad glare rose to the west, and the murmur, "There is a house on fire!" passed from mouth to mouth. In another few minutes flames were seen rising at a dozen points, and a cry of consternation arose.
"The brigands have entered the town! They are going to burn it to the ground."
Man after man of the little group of National Guards, who had been gathered talking in front of the door of the prison, was seen to detach himself from it and to move quietly away. Then those at the windows noticed four or five parties of men move forward, from among those who were standing talking; when within a short distance of the guard there was a sharp command, and these groups all rushed towards the gates together. There were shouts and cries, and then there was silence. Taken wholly by surprise, the guard had fallen under the knives of the Vendeans without having had time to fire a shot.
Then the majority of their assailants ran off, half one way, half the other, following the wall of the prison. Two pistol shots were fired, a moment later. The men who had remained at the gate drew back for some distance. There was a short pause, and then a tremendous explosion. All the people gathered in the place, save those who had carried out the affair, fled with cries of terror. Then Jean and his party dashed forward towards the shattered gates and entered the prison, and shot or cut down the frightened warders as these came running out, dazed and bewildered at the sound of the explosion. Jean seized one of them by the throat.
[Illustration: Jean seized one of them by the throat.]
"Where are the keys kept? Answer, or I will blow out your brains!"
The frightened ruffian at once led the way to the chief warder's room. He had already fallen, being one of the first to run down. There were two bunches of keys.
"These are of the doors of the corridors," the man said, taking down one bunch. "The others are of the cells."
"Now, go before us and open them all--every one, mind."
They were soon joined by Leigh with his party, who had made short work of the few guards who remained at their post outside the prison.
"Set your men to blow in the doors," Jean said; "It would take half an hour to unlock them all, at this rate."
Pistols were at once applied to the keyholes, and the locks destroyed. There were a few separate cells, but the prisoners were for the most part crowded, twenty or thirty together, in the larger rooms. As he entered each room, Leigh shouted the directions agreed on to the prisoners. In a short time he came upon Jean who, as had been arranged, had first gone to the rooms where his father and Patsey were confined. Jean started with these at once, with six of his men, leaving Leigh and Desailles to see to the release of the rest of the prisoners.
As soon as all rooms had been burst open or unlocked, he and his party, with that at the gate, hurried away. The streets were light, as a sheet of flame rose from the stores of Jacques Martin. The musketry fire on the wharves showed that there were troops stationed there. As they hurried along, the shouts of alarm which rose in the town showed that the news of the attack upon the prison had spread rapidly. As soon as the released prisoners knew that they were well above the bridge, and the silence on the wharves showed that none of the troops were stationed there, shouts of delight arose. There were a good many boats moored to the bank, and the fugitives threw themselves into these.
"Get out your oars and row straight across," Leigh shouted. "If you drift down the stream, you will come under the fire of the troops there."
Then, having done their work, he and his band went up a hundred yards farther, where they knew that three large boats were lying. In these they took their places and started to row across the river and, in five minutes, reached the opposite bank. They sprang out, with a shout of joy at finding themselves again in their own country. Most of the fugitives also gained the opposite bank; but some boats, in which there were but few capable of handling the oars, drifted down the river, and lost most of their number from the fire of the troops on the bank, before they could land among the men of Charette's army.
Leigh with his boys soon joined the other party, who had landed a hundred yards higher up. It was a joyful meeting, indeed, between him and Patsey.
"Jean tells me it is all your doing that we have been got out," she said. "I felt sure you would manage it, somehow."
They had already arranged their plans. Jean, with his wife and father and his twelve men, was to start at once for Parthenay, where Lescure was in command. Leigh had determined to join Cathelineau, with as many of his band as chose to accompany him. Desailles would go with Jean.
The boys, on the choice being given them, almost all decided to accompany Leigh. They were excited at the success that had attended them, and the tremendous roll of fire round the town showed how fiercely their countrymen were fighting, and they longed to join in the conflict.
Saying goodbye to those who were going, Leigh and his party towed one of the boats a mile up the river, and then crossing, soon joined the party engaged. The Vendeans had already advanced some distance, but every house and garden was fiercely contested. Hour after hour passed, and the troops were beginning to be discouraged. It was broad daylight now, and the Vendeans pressed forward at all points, more hotly than ever.
The troops were falling into disorder, and would soon have become a disorganized mass; when a musket ball, fired from a window, struck Cathelineau in the breast as, with his officers, who had been considerably increased in number owing to the many gentlemen who had joined him at Saumur, he was leading on his troops.
A cry of dismay rose from those who saw him fall, and the news spread like wildfire among the peasants, who regarded him with an almost superstitious reverence, and had a firm belief that he was protected by Heaven from the balls of his enemies. His loss seemed to them an irretrievable misfortune. The fierceness of their attack diminished. Their ardour was gone, and the Blues, gaining courage as their assailants ceased to press them, took the offensive.
They met with but little opposition. The Vendean army, lately on the point of being victorious, was already breaking up and, ere long, was scattered over the country, its retreat being undisturbed by the enemy, who could scarcely believe their own good fortune at having succeeded, when all had seemed lost.
Cathelineau was carried off; but died, a fortnight later, from the effects of the wound. His death was a terrible blow to the cause. The failure to take Nantes had, in itself, been a great misfortune; but the Vendeans had suffered no more heavily than the enemy and, had Cathelineau been but spared, matters might still have gone well with them. The effect of his death, however, was for the time to dishearten the peasantry utterly; and had at this time terms of peace, which would have permitted them to enjoy the exercise of their religion, and to be free from conscription, been offered to them, they would gladly have been accepted.
Charette, after he saw that the attack upon Nantes from the north side of the river had failed, fell back with his force, as before, into Lower Poitou. The Vendeans, now under Bonchamp, who had also been wounded, retired along the north bank of the Loire, crossing the river at various points as they could find boats.
Before joining in the fight, Leigh had told his band that, in the event of failure, he should recross the river in the boat that had brought them over. They had all kept near him during the struggle. Eight of them had fallen, several others were wounded, and he himself had received a musket ball in the shoulder. As soon as he saw that the battle was lost, he withdrew from it and made his way with the boys to the river bank; recrossed the stream, and struck across the country. After proceeding some six miles they entered a wood, and lay down and slept for some hours, and then marched to Parthenay.
Here the band broke up and proceeded to their homes; while Leigh made his way to Lescure's headquarters, learned where his friends were lodged, and joined them.
Patsey gave a cry of alarm as he entered. Fugitives had arrived before him, and it was already known that the attack on Nantes had failed, and that Cathelineau was mortally wounded.
"What is it, Leigh?"
"I am wounded in the shoulder. It is nothing very serious, I think; though I suppose I sha'n't be able to hold a sword for some time."
A surgeon was soon fetched, the ball extracted, and the wound bandaged; and they then sat down to talk over the events that had occurred. Since they had been separated, Monsieur Martin had become a broken man. The fact that his son, who assuredly had it in his power to protect him, had given him over to the terrible tribunal, had been a harder blow to him than the prospect of death; and even the devotion that had been shown by Jean scarcely sufficed to comfort him.
Patsey was pale and thin. Her imprisonment had told upon her and, still more, the thought of what Jean must be suffering on her account, and her uncertainty as to the fate of her child. But even the twenty-four hours that had elapsed since she had left her prison had done much for her. The news that the child was safe and well had taken a load off her mind; and she felt proud, indeed, that her release, and that of so many others of her fellow prisoners, had been brought about by the devotion of her husband and her brother. Before the day was out, she was laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened.
On the following morning they started early, and reached home in the afternoon. They were received with delight by their people, although many of these had lost relations in the recent battles. A house in the village was placed at their disposal, Patsey riding straight on to see her child; with which, and its faithful nurse, she soon returned.
"And now, Jean," Patsey said when, with the cure and Jules Desailles, they sat down for a quiet talk that evening, "what is to be the next thing?"
"You should ask the Blues that," he replied. "So far as I can see, it will be a repetition of what has taken place. They will invade us again, and probably we shall beat them back. Each time they will come with larger forces and, at last, I suppose we shall have to endeavour to make our way to England. I am afraid there can be no question that that will be the end of it. Fight as we may, we cannot withstand the whole strength of France."
"Why can we not fly at once?" Monsieur Martin asked.
"The difficulty in reaching the coast, and of getting a passage, would be immense. Besides, so long as La Vendee resists, so long is it my duty to fight; and I am sure that Patsey would not wish me to do otherwise. I have been in it from the first, and must stay until the end, if I am not killed before that comes. If it were possible to send you and Patsey and Leigh away to England, I would gladly do so; but I am sure that she would not go, and I think I may say the same for Leigh."
"Certainly, Jean; as long as you stay, I stay. My life is far less important than yours, for I have no one dependent upon me. I quite agree with you that the war can end in only one way; but till that comes, all those who have been the leaders of these poor peasants ought to hold by them."
"I agree entirely with you both," Patsey added, and there was no more to be said.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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12
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: A Series Of Victories.
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More formidable foes than the peasants had yet met were approaching La Vendee. Mayence had surrendered to the allies, and the garrison there, which was a large one, composed of veteran troops, was allowed to march away, on each man taking an oath that he would not again serve on the frontier.
Outside France there was no idea of the desperate struggle that was going on in La Vendee. Had it been known, in England, that it needed but little aid for Brittany and La Vendee to successfully oppose the efforts of the Republic, men, money, arms, and ammunition would no doubt have been sent; but unfortunately the leaders of the insurrection, occupied as they were with the efforts they were making, had taken no steps to send a statement of the real facts of the case to the English government. The ports were all in the hands of the Republicans and, although in Paris public attention was concentrated on the struggle, the British government was very badly informed as to what was passing there. Had the allies been aware of it, the terms granted to the garrison at Mayence would have been very different; and they would either have been held as prisoners, or been compelled to take the oath that they would, in future, not serve the Republic in any way, in arms.
As it was, they were free to act in France, and were already on the march towards La Vendee. As before, arrangements were made for the district to be attacked simultaneously on all sides. La Rochejaquelein was so much weakened by the return of the peasants to their homes that he was obliged to evacuate Saumur, and this town was taken possession of by the division from Tours, consisting of twelve thousand five hundred infantry, sixteen hundred cavalry, and four hundred artillerymen, under General Menou.
The division of Niort comprised fifteen thousand six hundred infantry, and thirteen hundred and eighty cavalry. It was commanded by Chalbos, having Westermann with him. At Sables were four thousand three hundred infantry, two hundred and fifty cavalry, and three hundred artillery. They were commanded by General Boulard.
There was but small breathing time for the Vendeans. Westermann had moved towards Parthenay with a strong force and, but a few hours after the Martins had left it, Lescure was forced to fall back from the town. This was occupied by the Blues. They pillaged and burned a village near, although no opposition had been offered, and then sent off a force which burned Lescure's chateau at Clisson.
The Martins were engaged in conversation when a messenger ran in.
"I have an order from Monsieur Lescure," he said. "The church bells are to be rung throughout the district."
All started to their feet.
"Already?" Jean exclaimed. "Why, what has happened?"
"We have fallen back from Parthenay. The Blues under Westermann, eight thousand strong, have already occupied the town. The general's orders are that all are to join him at Moulin, in two days' time. Messengers have been despatched all over the country, and Monsieur de la Rochejaquelein has been sent for, to join General Lescure at Moulin."
"That gives us twenty-four hours, then," Jean said, with a sigh of content. "I will see that your message is carried on to all the villages near. There are plenty of boys of twelve or fourteen about the place."
But the bells rang that night to deaf ears. Many of the peasants were still absent, others had returned but a few hours before, worn out and dispirited. But when on the following day the news came that Westermann's troops were burning villages, and slaying all who fell into their hands, and that Monsieur de Lescure's chateau had been burnt, fury and indignation again fired them and, that night, the greater part of them set out for Moulin.
"I wonder what has become of our horses," Jean said, as he prepared to start. "We shall never hear any more of those we left at Nantes. We must go on foot this time, and trust to getting hold of a couple of horses, the first time we defeat the Blues."
He had that day been over with Patsey, her child, his father, the nurse, and Francois to the peasant's house, deep in the forest, to which he had before arranged that she should go, in case of need. All the party were dressed as peasants. The man and woman from whom the house was hired removed to another hut, a quarter of a mile away. Francois was to go down every day in the cart to the village, to get news and letters and buy provisions. The cure had arranged to send off one of the village boys, the moment that he heard that any party of the Blues were approaching; when the whole of the occupants of the village and the farms around it would be obliged to take to the woods, for it was evident that neither age nor sex was respected by Westermann's troops.
It was morning when Jean, Leigh, and Desailles arrived at Moulin. They were warmly received by Rochejaquelein and Bonchamp, to whom Jean introduced Desailles as a new comrade.
"I know nothing of fighting," the latter said; "but, gentlemen, I shall do my best."
"That is all that anyone can do," Rochejaquelein said heartily. "We may say that none of us, with the exception of Monsieur Bonchamp and a few others, had any experience in fighting when we began; but we have done pretty well, on the whole."
"Do you think that we have much chance of holding this place?" Jean asked. "They told us, as we came in, that at present there are not much more than eight thousand men here; and Westermann, they say, has about as many."
"That is so," Bonchamp said, "and I do not expect that we shall beat them; but we must fight, or they will march through the country, wasting and destroying as they go. It is only by showing them that we are still formidable, and that they must keep together and be prudent and cautious, that we can maintain ourselves. A succession of blows, even of light ones, will break a rock."
At two o'clock the enemy's forces approached, and the engagement soon became hot. Every hedge was lined by the peasants, every position strongly defended, and only evacuated when the horns gave the signal. At the end of two hours Westermann, after losing a considerable number of men, approached ground where his cavalry could come into play; and the leaders of all the bands had been warned that, when they fell back to this point, the horn was to be sounded three times, and that resistance was to cease at once and the bands disperse, to meet at a given point, two hours later. Seven of the ten cannon they had with them were safely carried off; and although compelled to retire from their position, the peasants were well satisfied with having withstood, so long, the attack of an equal number of troops, supported by an artillery much superior to their own.
Leigh had taken no part in the actual fighting. His right arm was tightly strapped, and bandaged across his chest; and he therefore acted only as the general's aide-de-camp.
"I'll tell you what it is, Jules," Jean said to Desailles, as they retired from the field; "if you are going to expose yourself in the way you have done today, your fighting will be over before long. When it comes to leading the peasants to an attack, one must necessarily set the men an example; but when on the defence, you see, the peasants all lie down behind the hedges and bushes, and show themselves as little as possible.
"And there were you, walking about as if you were in the principal street in Nantes! I do not say that we must not expose ourselves a good deal more than the peasants, in order to encourage them; but there is a limit to all things, and one must remember that we are very short of officers, and that the peasants, brave as they are, would be useless without someone to direct them."
"I have no doubt but you are right, Jean," Desailles said with a laugh; "but in fact, I don't remember giving a thought to the matter. I was almost bewildered by the roar of the battle and the whistling of the bullets. I felt like a man who had taken too much wine; which, in my student days, happened to me more than once. My blood seemed to rush through my veins, and I would have given anything for the order to come for us to throw ourselves upon the enemy."
"You will get over that," Jean laughed, "but the same feeling is strong among the men. One can see how eager they are for the order to charge. They use their muskets, but it is to use their bayonets that they are panting. They would make grand soldiers, if they were but well drilled and disciplined.
"Unless I am mistaken, you will see them at their favourite work, before many days are over. Westermann will get to Chatillon tonight. When he gets there, he will find no provisions for his troops, and will begin to wonder whether he is wise in thus penetrating so far into a nest of hornets.
"Bonchamp will give him two or three days to forget the mauling that we have given him. By that time our force will have increased, and it will be well for Westermann if he manages to carry half his force back with him."
The news of the burning of la Rochejaquelein's chateau, on the following day, excited the liveliest indignation. The young count himself received the news with greater indifference than did those around him.
"When a man carries his life in his hand, every day," he said, "he does not fret over the loss of a house. I do not suppose that I should ever have sat down quietly in possession of it, and the cousin who is my heir may have to wait a number of years before, if ever, he comes to take possession of the estate. Had circumstances been different, the loss of the old chateau, where my family have lived for so many years, would have been very grievous to me; but at present it affects me comparatively little.
"It is lucky that I sent off four men, directly the fight was over, with a letter to my steward, charging him to hand over to them the four horses that still remained in my stables. They arrived here an hour ago. I guessed that the Blues would be paying a visit there in my absence.
"One of them is for you, Monsieur Martin, and one for Leigh; the others I shall keep as spare chargers. I have had two shot under me already, and am likely to have more. In the meantime, if your friend Monsieur Desailles likes to ride one, it is at his service."
"I thank you very much, marquis," Jules said; "but I would prefer trusting to my own legs. My profession has been a peaceful one, and I have never yet mounted a horse, and certainly should feel utterly out of my element, in the saddle, with an animal under me excited almost to madness by the sounds of battle. Of the two, I think that I should prefer being on a ship, during a storm."
Rochejaquelein laughed.
"It is all a matter of training," he said. "As for me I feel twice the man, on horseback, that I do on foot. I have never tried fighting on foot, yet; and I should certainly feel altogether out of my element, the first time that I attempted it.
"However, I will not press the animal on you. I shall send it and the other to some cottage, in the heart of the woods, whence I can have them fetched when needed."
"I am sure that we are greatly obliged to you," Jean said. "As I told you, when relating our adventure in Nantes, we had to leave our horses behind us there though, had we captured the town, we should have recovered them. As it is, the Blues carried off the two I had left behind at the chateau, and I could only buy one other, as we came through. That I detailed for the use of my wife. I certainly had not expected to obtain another, until we captured some from the enemy. We are heartily obliged to you, not only for your generous gift, but for your thoughtful kindness in sending for them for us."
"Say not another word," Rochejaquelein said. "You are a sailor and I am a soldier, and between us there is no occasion for thanks or compliments. You would have done the same for me, and I am glad to be able to set you both on horseback again. And indeed, I am not sure that I was not a little selfish in the matter; for yesterday I missed the company of your brother-in-law greatly, and felt that I would give a good deal to hear his cheery laugh, and confident tone."
As usual, the army dispersed after its victory; but there were but a few days' quiet, for on the fourteenth it gathered to oppose the advance of a strong French column, from Brissac; and on the morning of the fifteenth, early, just as the troops were getting into movement, the Vendeans burst down upon them.
Their numbers were not large, for the notice had been short, and only the peasants of the surrounding district had had time to gather. Nevertheless they attacked with such energy, led by Rochejaquelein and d'Elbee, that they fought their way into the middle of the camp, captured the headquarters with its correspondence and treasury, and scattered several battalions in utter confusion.
On the return of the advanced guard, under Santerre, the situation changed; the fugitives were rallied and, after long and fierce fighting, the Vendeans drew off.
"We must admit another failure," said Rochejaquelein; who had, with his little troop of mounted men, been in the thick of the fight; charging again and again into the midst of the enemy, and covering the retreat, when it began, by opposing a determined front to the enemy's cavalry; "a failure, but a glorious one. They were superior to us in numbers; and yet, if it hadn't been that their advanced guard returned while our men were scattered, intent upon the plunder of their headquarters, we should have won the day. However, we shall have reinforcements up, in a couple of days."
On the seventeenth, the French column resumed its march. Santerre's command led the way to Vihiers, which they reached without opposition. The rest of the division arrived in the afternoon. They had left, at their previous halting place, the heavy baggage; with a portion of their artillery ammunition. Scarcely had they arrived at Vihiers when a tremendous explosion told them that the guard left behind had been overpowered, and their store of ammunition destroyed.
A feeling of uneasiness and alarm spread through the army. Santerre's battalion were at once attacked by Rochejaquelein, who had but a small body of men with him, but who thought to take advantage of the alarm which the explosion would naturally cause among the enemy. Santerre's battalion, however, stood firm, and the Vendeans were drawn off. In the night, however, the main body of the peasants arrived and, at one o'clock next day, made their attack.
Menou himself, with the rest of his command, had now come up. Some of the battalions, as before, stood steadily; but the rest of the army, dispirited by the perseverance with which the Vendeans, in spite of failure and losses, were ever ready to renew their attack, speedily lost heart.
In two hours the right fell back in disorder, the panic spread and, in a short time, the rout became general. In vain the officers endeavoured to check the fugitives. So great was their terror that, in three hours, the panic stricken mob traversed the distance between Vihiers and Saumur.
Thus the second great invasion of La Vendee had met with no greater success than the first. The two strong columns that had advanced, in full confidence of success, had returned utterly discomfited. Westermann's division had been all but annihilated. The army from Saumur had lost great numbers of men, and had for the time ceased to be a military body. The Bocage, with its sombre woods, its thick hedges, and its brave population, seemed destined to become the grave of the Republican army; and the order to advance into it was, in itself, sufficient to shake the courage of those who boasted so loudly, when at a distance.
It was the grave, too, of the reputation of the French generals. One after another they had tried, failed, and been disgraced. The first general, Marce, was superseded by Berruyer; Berruyer by Biron, who was recalled and guillotined. Westermann was also tried, but having powerful friends, was acquitted. Generals of divisions had come and gone in numbers. Some had been dismissed. Some, at their own urgent request, allowed to return to the districts they commanded before the outbreak of the insurrection. But one and all had failed. One and all, too, had never ceased, from the time they joined the army of invasion, to send report after report to the Convention, complaining of the untrustworthiness of the troops, the bad conduct and uselessness of the officers, and the want of a sufficient staff to maintain discipline and restore order.
Indeed, the bulk of the revolutionary troops possessed little more discipline than the Vendeans themselves and, being uninspired, as were the latter, by a feeling either of religion or of patriotic enthusiasm, they were no match for men who were willing to give their lives for the cause.
The Vendeans were far better armed than when they commenced the struggle. Then the proportion of men who were possessed of muskets or firearms of any kind was extremely small; but now, thanks to the immense quantity which had been captured in the hands of prisoners, thrown away by fugitives, or found in the storehouses of the towns, there were sufficient to supply almost every man of the population with firearms; and in addition, they possessed a good many pieces of artillery.
Unfortunately they had learned little during the four months' fighting. Their methods were unchanged. Love of home overpowered all other considerations; and after a victory, as after a defeat, they hurried away, leaving with their generals only the officers and a small body of men, who were either emigres who had returned from England to take part in the struggle, or Royalists who had made their way from distant parts of France, for the same purpose.
After the capture of Saumur, too, a good many Swiss and Germans, belonging to a cavalry regiment formed of foreigners, had deserted and joined the Vendeans. Thus a small nucleus of an army held together, swelling only when the church bells summoned the peasants to take up arms for a few days.
But while the Royalists of La Vendee remained quiescent, after they had expelled the invaders; the Republicans, more alarmed than ever, were making the most tremendous efforts to stamp out the insurrection.
Beysser, who had commanded at Nantes, was appointed to succeed Menou. Orders were given that the forests and hedges of La Vendee were all to be levelled, the crops destroyed, the cattle seized, and the goods of the insurgents confiscated. An enormous number of carts were collected to carry faggots, tar, and other combustibles into La Vendee, for setting fire to the woods. It was actually proposed to destroy the whole male population, to deport the women and children, and to repeople La Vendee from other parts of France, from which immigrants would be attracted by offers of free land and houses. Santerre suggested that poisonous gases should be inclosed in suitable vessels, and fired into the district to poison the atmosphere.
Carrier, the infamous scoundrel who had been appointed commissioner at Nantes, proposed an equally villainous scheme; namely, that great quantities of bread, mixed with arsenic, should be baked and scattered broadcast, so that the starving people might eat it and be destroyed, wholesale. This would have been carried out, had it not been vigorously opposed by General Kleber, who had now taken the command of one of the armies of the invasion.
The rest of July and the first half of August passed comparatively quietly. General Toncq advanced with a column into La Vendee, and fought two or three battles, in which he generally gained successes over the peasants; but with this exception, no forward movement was made, and the majority of the peasants remained undisturbed in their homes.
Soon, however, from all sides, the flood of invaders poured in. No fewer than two hundred thousand men were now under the orders of the French generals, and advanced from different directions, in all cases carrying out the orders of the Convention, to devastate the country, burn down the woods, destroy the crops, and slay the inhabitants. Five armies moved forward simultaneously, that commanded by Kleber consisting of the veteran battalions of Mayence.
But everywhere they were met. Charette had marched to the aid of the Vendeans of the north, and the country was divided into four districts, commanded by Charette, Bonchamp, Lescure, and la Rochejaquelein. Each of these strove to defend his own district.
The war now assumed a terrible aspect. Maddened by the atrocities perpetrated upon them, the peasants no longer gave quarter to those who fell into their hands and, in their despair, performed prodigies of valour. They had not now, as at the commencement of the war the superiority in numbers. Instead of fighting generally four to one against the Blues, the latter now exceeded them in the same proportion.
But the peasants had changed their tactics. Instead of rushing impetuously upon the enemy's lines, and hurling themselves upon his artillery, they utilized the natural features of their country. As the Republican columns marched along, believing that there was no enemy near, they would hear the sound of a horn, and from behind every hedge, every thicket, every tree, a stream of musketry would break out. Very soon the column would fall into confusion. The lanes would be blocked with dead horses and immovable waggons. In vain would the soldiers try to force their way through the hedges, and to return the fire of their invisible foes. Then, as suddenly as the attack commenced, the peasants would leap from their shelter and, with knife and bayonet, carry havoc among their enemies.
These tactics prevailed over numbers, even when, as in the case of Kleber's division, the numbers possessed military discipline, training, and high reputation. For a month, fighting was almost continuous and, at the end of that time, to the stupefaction of the Convention, their two hundred thousand troops were driven out of La Vendee, at every point, by a fourth of that number of undisciplined peasants. Never, perhaps, in the history of military warfare did enthusiasm and valour accomplish such a marvel.
The second half of September was spent by the peasants at their homes, rejoicing and returning thanks for their success; but already a heavy blow was being struck at their cause. Charette, hotheaded, impetuous, and self confident, had always preferred carrying out his own plans, without regard to those of the leaders in Upper Vendee; and he now quarrelled with them as to the course that had best be pursued, and left, with the forces that he had brought with him, to renew the war in the south.
But although the peasants rejoiced, their leaders knew that the struggle could not long continue. The number of fighting men--that is to say, of the whole male population of La Vendee capable of bearing arms--had diminished terribly; indeed, the number that originally responded to the summons of the church bells was decreased by fully a half. Food was scarce. Owing to the continued absence of the peasants the harvest had, in many places, not been garnered; and wherever the Republican troops had passed, the destruction had been complete. A large portion of the population were homeless. The very movements of the Vendeans were hampered by the crowds of women and children who, with the few belongings that they had saved, packed in their little carts, wandered almost aimlessly through the country. Many of the towns were in ruins, and deserted; in all save a few secluded spots, as yet unvisited by the Republicans, want and misery were universal.
There was no thought of surrender, but among chiefs and peasants alike the idea that, as a last resource, it would be necessary to abandon La Vendee altogether, and to take refuge in Brittany, where the vast majority of the population were favourable to them, gradually gained ground.
Generals Beysser, Canclaux, and Dubayet were recalled by the Convention for their failure to obtain success, and l'Echelle was appointed to the command, having Kleber and Westermann as leaders of his principal divisions.
Jean Martin and Leigh had joined their friends, in their retreat in the forest, after the repulse of all the Republican columns. They had heard, while engaged in the thick of the fighting, of the death of Monsieur Martin. He had never recovered from the effects of his imprisonment at Nantes, and instead of gaining strength he had become weaker and weaker. The terrible uncertainty of the position, the news that constantly arrived of desperate battles, and the conviction that in the end the Vendeans would be crushed, told heavily upon him. He took to his bed, and sank gradually.
"I am not sorry, my child," he said to Patsey, the day before he died, "that I am going to leave you. I was wrong in not taking Jean's advice, and sailing for England with my wife and daughter. However, it is useless to think of that, now.
"I can see terrible times in store for all here. It is evident that no mercy is to be shown to the Vendeans. It has been decreed by the Convention that they are to be hunted down like wild beasts.
"Had I lived, I should have been a terrible burden to you. I should have hampered your movements and destroyed any chance, whatever, that you might have of escaping from these fiends. It would have been impossible for me to have supported the fatigues and hardships of a flight, and I should have been the means of bringing destruction on you all. It is therefore better, in every respect, that I should go.
"I pray that Heaven will protect you and Jean and your brave brother, and enable you to reach England in safety. You will bear my last message to my wife and Louise. You will tell them that my last thought was of them, my last feeling one of gratitude to God that they are in safety, and that I have been permitted to die in peace and quiet."
"It is a sad homecoming this time, Jean," Patsey said, as her husband and Leigh rode up to the door.
"It is indeed, Patsey; and yet, even when the news came to me, I could scarcely grieve that it was so. I had seen how he was fading when I went away, and was not surprised when I heard that he had gone. For me it is one care, one anxiety, the less, in future.
"Patsey, we will be together. I cannot leave you here, when Leigh and I are away. The child shall go with us and, when all is lost, we will escape or die together."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Jean. It has been terrible waiting here, and knowing that you were in the midst of dangers, and that even while I thought of you, you might be lying dead. I shall be glad, indeed, to share your fate, whatever it is."
For three weeks the little party lived quietly in the cottage. There were many discussions as to the future. It was agreed that, in case of a final reverse, it would be better that they should travel alone.
"The more of us there are, the more certain to attract observation," Jean said. "We must go without Francois and Marthe. Their chance of safety will be greater if they either return to their villages, or take up their abode with the family of some woodman--or rather, Marthe's safety would be greater. As to Francois, he has long been eager to join in the fighting, and it is only his fidelity that has constrained him to remain in what he considers is a disgraceful position, when every other man who can bear arms is fighting. We will therefore take him with us and, when the day of battle comes, he will join the fighting men and, if we are defeated, must care for his own safety.
"When we fight, I shall always leave you at a village, a mile or two away. You will have the horse ready to mount, and we shall join you at once, if we are defeated."
"We ought to be disguised, Jean," Leigh said.
"It would be well," Jean said, "but I hardly see what disguise would be of use to us. Certainly not that of peasants, for in that dress we should be shot down, without question, by the first party of Blues we came across. Even if we succeed in reaching the river and crossing it, we may be sure that the authorities will be everywhere on the lookout for fugitive peasants. It would be better to be shot, at once, than to await in prison death by the guillotine."
"I should say that it does not matter a bit how we are dressed, till we reach the river. We know now pretty nearly every lane in the country," Leigh said, "and I should think that we ought to be able to reach the Loire."
"That is where the difficulty will begin. In the first place there will be the trouble of crossing, and then that of making our way through the country. Certainly we could not do so as Vendean peasants."
"I should say, Jean, that the best disguises would be those of fairly well-to-do townspeople; something like those we wore into Nantes, but rather less formal--the sort of thing that ordinary tradesmen, without any strong political feeling either way, would wear. I don't say that we shall not be suspected, however we are dressed, because no one in his senses would be travelling about just at present; but when once we get beyond Tours, if we go that way, we might pass without much notice.
"Which way do you think that we ought to go, Jean?"
Jean shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't see that there is any choice. There would be very little chance of escaping from any of the ports of Brittany, and La Rochelle would be still more hopeless. As far south as Bordeaux we should be in a comparatively peaceful country, and I should hope to find friends there. The eastern frontier is of course the safest to cross, but the distance is very great and, in the towns near the border, a very sharp lookout is kept to prevent emigres escaping.
"There is a rumour that Lyons has declared against the Convention, but if we got there it is certain that it would be but La Vendee over again. Lyons cannot resist all France and, as soon as they have done with us here, they will be able to send any number of troops to stamp out these risings.
"Undoubtedly, if we could get there, Toulon would be the best place. I have heard for certain that they have driven out the extreme party, and have admitted the English fleet. Once there, we should be able to take berths in a ship bound somewhere abroad--it matters little where--and thence get a passage to England. Most probably we shall be able to arrange to go direct from Toulon, for there are sure to be vessels coming and going with stores for the British fleet."
"But that would be a terrible journey, Jean," his wife said.
"Yes, I think that would be quite out of the question. It seems to me that our best chance would be either to cross the Loire and then make for Le Mans, and so up through Alencon to Honfleur--that way we should be east of the disturbed district--or, if we found that a vast number of fugitives had made their way into Brittany, as is almost certain to be the case, we might bear more to the east, and go up through Vendome and Chartres and Evreux, and then branch off and strike the Seine near Honfleur. In that case we should be outside the district where they would be searching for fugitives from here.
"Once on the seashore, or on the Seine, it would be hard if we could not steal a fishing boat, and cross the Channel. However, one must of course be guided by circumstances. Still, I do think that it would be as well to buy the disguises Leigh suggests, without loss of time. I will ride over to Chatillon, tomorrow, and get them."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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13
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: Across The Loire.
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Marthe was filled with grief, when she heard that it had been decided that it was better that she should return to her native village; but her mistress pointed out to her that, if all went well, she could rejoin them. If things went badly, and they escaped, they would send for her wherever they might be; but in case disaster compelled them to fly, three persons were as many as could hope to travel together, without exciting suspicion. The nurse however begged that, at any rate, she might go with them to the headquarters of the army.
"Everyone is going," she said; "and they say that, if we are beaten in the next battle, they will cross the Loire and take refuge in Brittany, for the Blues will not leave a soul alive in La Vendee. I should have nowhere to go to here, and will keep with the others, whatever happens. If you are with them, madame, I can rejoin you; if not, I hope to be with you, afterward."
It was indeed an exodus, rather than the gathering of an army, that was taking place. The atrocities committed by the invaders, the destruction of every village, the clouds of smoke which ascended from the burning woods, created so terrible a scare among the peasants that the greater portion of the villages and farms were entirely deserted, and every road leading to Chollet, which was the rendezvous where the fighting men were ordered to gather, was crowded with fugitives. Francois walked by the horse's head. Patsey, the nurse, and the child, with a trunk containing articles of absolute necessity, occupied the cart. Jean and Leigh rode ahead.
The company of Cathelineau's scouts no longer existed. More than half of them had fallen in the late battles. Their services were no longer required as scouts, and the survivors had joined their fathers and brothers, and formed part of the command of Bonchamp.
On the fourteenth of October the enemy's columns were closing in upon Chollet. Those round Mortagne were marching forward, when the advanced guard, under General Beaupuy, were suddenly attacked by the Vendeans, while entangled in the lanes. The head of the column fought well; but those in the rear, finding themselves also attacked, and fearing that the retreat would be cut off, retired hastily to Mortagne. The column would have been destroyed, had not Beaupuy promptly sent up large reinforcements. After a long and obstinate fight the Vendeans were driven from the woods and, the Republican artillery opening upon them, they were compelled to retire to Chollet.
Here no halt was made. Kleber had also been fiercely attacked, but had also, though with much difficulty, repulsed his assailants. The next morning the Republicans entered Chollet, which they found deserted by the enemy.
On the seventeenth, their whole force being now concentrated there, they were about to move forward towards Beaupreau; when the advanced guard was hotly attacked and, in a short time, the combat became general. For a time the Vendeans bore down all opposition, but as the whole of the Republican force came into action, their advance was arrested.
The battle began soon after one o'clock. It raged without intermission till nightfall. No decisive advantage had been gained on either side, and the result was still doubtful, when a panic took place among the multitude of noncombatants in the rear of the Vendeans. The cry was raised, "To the Loire!"
The panic spread. In vain the leaders and their officers galloped backwards and forwards, endeavouring to restore confidence, and shouted to the men that victory was still in their grasp. In the darkness and din they could only be heard by those immediately round them, and even these they failed to reanimate; and the men who had for seven hours fought, as Kleber himself reported, like tigers, lost heart.
Lescure had fallen in the fighting on the fourteenth. Bonchamp and d'Elbee were both desperately wounded at the battle at Chollet, and were carried off by their men. La Rochejaquelein, with whom Jean Martin and Leigh were riding, had made almost superhuman efforts to check the panic; and they fell back, almost broken hearted, with a band of peasants, who held together to the last. On the previous day Leigh had escorted Patsey to Beaupreau, and it was to this town that the fugitives made their way, arriving there at midnight.
"Thank God that you are both alive!" Patsey said, bursting into tears as her husband entered the room in which she was established.
"We can hardly believe it ourselves," Jean said. "It has been a terrible day, indeed. Our men fought nobly, and I firmly believe that we should have won the day, had not an unaccountable panic set in. What caused it I know not. We were doing well everywhere, and had begun to drive them back and, could we have fought on for another half hour it was likely that, as usual, a panic would have seized them.
"However, Patsey, they would have gathered again stronger than ever, and it must have come to the same thing, in the long run. Now put on your disguise, at once. We will lie down for two hours, and see you off before daybreak. I do not know whether la Rochejaquelein, who must now be considered in command, since d'Elbee and Bonchamp are both desperately wounded, will gather a force to act as a rearguard. If so we must stay with him; but I do not think that even his influence would suffice to hold any considerable body of peasants together. All have convinced themselves that there is safety in Brittany.
"At any rate, the enemy will need a day's rest before they pursue. They must have suffered quite as heavily as we have."
The night, however, was not to pass quietly. At two o'clock two officers, who had remained as piquets, rode into the town with news that Westermann's division, which had marched through Moulet and had taken no part in the action, was approaching. The horn sounded the alarm, and the fugitives started up and renewed their flight. Marthe could not be left behind now, nor did the others desire it; and until they had crossed the Loire there could be no separation, for the whole country would swarm, in forty-eight hours, with parties of the enemy, hunting down and slaying those who had taken refuge in the woods.
Jean and Leigh had lain down in the cart, to prevent any of the fugitives seizing it. The two women and the child were hurried down, and took their places in it. Francois, who had escaped, had fortunately found them; and took the reins, and the journey was continued.
There was no pursuit. It was only a portion of Westermann's force that had arrived, and these were so exhausted and worn out, by the length of their march and by the fact that they had been unable to obtain food by the way, that they threw themselves down when they reached the town, incapable of marching a mile farther.
At Beaupreau there had been no fewer than five thousand Republican prisoners, kept under guard. On the arrival of the routed Vendeans, the peasants, as a last act of retaliation, would have slain them; but Bonchamp, who was at the point of death, ordered them to be set free.
"It is the last order that I shall ever give," he said to the peasants assembled round his litter. "Surely you will not disobey me, my children."
The order was obeyed, and the prisoners were at once sent off; and as the Republican column marched out from Chollet, the next day, they encountered on the road their liberated comrades. The sentiments with which the commissioners of the Convention were animated is evidenced by the fact that one of them declared, in a letter to the commander-in-chief of the army, that the release of these prisoners by the Vendeans was a regrettable affair; and recommended that no mention, whatever, should be made of it in the despatches to Paris, lest this act of mercy by the insurgents should arouse public opinion to insist upon a cessation of the measures that had been taken for the annihilation of the Vendeans.
The fugitives, a vast crowd of over one hundred thousand men, women, and children, reached Saint Florent without coming in contact with the enemy. The Republican generals, indeed, had no idea that the peasants had any intention of quitting their beloved country; and imagined that they would disperse to their homes again, and that there remained only the task of hunting them down. A company had been left on a hill which commanded Saint Florent, but they had no idea of being attacked, and had not even taken the precaution of removing the boats across the river.
As soon as they arrived, the Vendeans attacked the post with fury, and captured it. Twenty boats were found, and the crossing was effected with no little difficulty. There were still two or three thousand, principally women and children, to be taken over, when a party of Republican dragoons arrived. Numbers of the women and children were massacred; but the great bulk, flying precipitately, regained the country beyond the heights of Saint Florent, and took refuge in the woods.
The multitude were, for the present, safe. There was no strong force of the enemy between Nantes and Saumur, and they halted for the night, dispirited, worn out, and filled with grief. They had left their homes and all they cared for behind. They were in a strange country, without aim or purpose, their only hope being that the Bretons would rise and join them--a poor hope, since the terrible vengeance that had been taken on La Vendee could not but strike terror throughout Brittany, also.
Jean Martin and Leigh had seen Patsey and the nurse placed in one of the first boats that crossed.
"Do not go far from the spot where you land," they said. "We shall stay here, until all is over. If the Blues come up before all have crossed, we shall swim across with our horses; be under no uneasiness about us."
Taking the horse out of the shafts of the cart, and putting a saddle that they had brought with them on its back, they left the three animals in charge of Francois; and then aided other officers to keep order among the crowd, and to prevent them from pressing into the boats, as they returned from the other bank, in such numbers as to sink them. All day the work went on quietly and regularly, until so comparatively few remained that hope became strong that all would cross, before any of the enemy arrived.
That hope was destroyed when, suddenly, the enemy's cavalry appeared at the edge of the slope, and came galloping down. The officers in vain tried to get the few men that remained to make a stand. They were too dispirited to attempt to do so, and the little throng broke up and fled, some one way, some another.
Fortunately an empty boat had just returned, and into this the other officers leapt; while Jean, with his two companions, led the horses into the water. They had already linked the reins. Francois was unable to swim but, at Jean's order, he took hold of the tail of the horse in the middle; while Jean and Leigh swam by the heads of the two outside horses, and without difficulty the other side was gained. Patsey, who had had her eye fixed upon them all day, was standing at the spot where they landed.
They were near the town of Ancenis, and a portion of the Vendeans entered the place, which was wholly undefended. The inhabitants were in abject terror, thinking that the town would be sacked; and were surprised to find that the peasants did no one any harm, and were ready to pay for anything that they required. So long, indeed, as any money whatever remained, the Vendeans paid scrupulously. When it was all expended, the chiefs did the only thing in their power, issuing notes promising to pay; and although these had no value, save in the good faith of the Vendeans, they were received by the Bretons as readily as the assignats of the Republic--which, indeed, like the notes of the Vendeans, were never destined to be paid.
Had the army plunged into Brittany after the capture of Saumur, there can be no doubt that the peasantry would everywhere have risen; but coming as fugitives and exiles, they were a warning rather than a source of enthusiasm; and although small numbers of peasants joined them, the accession of force was very trifling.
Jean Martin, his wife, and Leigh held an anxious consultation that evening. They had found a poor lodging, after attending a meeting of the leaders, at which la Rochejaquelein had been unanimously elected commander-in-chief; Bonchamp having died, while d'Elbee, wounded to death, had been left at the cottage of a Breton peasant, who promised to conceal him. The young soldier had accepted the fearful responsibility with the greatest reluctance. He, and those around him, saw plainly enough that the only hope of escape from annihilation was the landing of a British force to their assistance. Unhappily, however, England had not as yet awoke to the tremendous nature of the struggle that was going on. Her army was a small one; and her fleet, as yet, had not attained the dimensions that were, before many years, to render her the unquestioned mistress of the seas.
The feeling that the Revolution was the fruit of centuries of oppression; and that, terrible as were the excesses committed in the name of liberty, the cause of the Revolution was still the cause of the peoples of Europe, had created a party sufficiently powerful to hamper the ministry. Moreover, the government was badly informed in every respect by its agents in France, and had no idea of the extent of the rising in La Vendee, or how nobly the people there had been defending themselves against the whole force of France. It is not too much to say that had England, at this time, landed twenty thousand troops in Brittany or La Vendee, the whole course of events in Europe would have been changed. The French Revolution would have been crushed before it became formidable to Europe, and countless millions of money and millions of lives would have been saved.
Throughout France there was a considerable portion of the population who would have rejoiced in the overthrow of the Republic, for even in the large towns its crimes had provoked reaction. Toulon had opened its gates to the English. Lyons was in arms against the Republic. Normandy's discontent was general, and its peasantry would have joined those of Brittany and La Vendee, had there been but a fair prospect of success.
England, however, did nothing, but stood passive until the peasantry of La Vendee were all but exterminated; and indeed, added to their misfortunes by promising aid that never was sent, and thus encouraging them to maintain a resistance that added to the exasperation of their enemies, and to their own misfortunes and sufferings.
"What are we going to do?" Patsey asked, as her husband and Leigh returned from the meeting.
"That is more than anyone can say," Jean replied. "We shall, for the present, move north. We are like a flight of locusts. We must move since we must eat, and no district could furnish subsistence for eighty thousand people, for more than a day or two.
"There can be no doubt that the impulse to cross the Loire was a mad one. On the other side we at least knew the country, and it would have been far better to have died fighting, there, than to throw ourselves across the river. It was well nigh a miracle that we got across, and it will need nothing short of a miracle to get us back again.
"Of one thing we may be sure: the whole host of our enemies will, by this time, be in movement. We should never have got across, had they dreamed that such was our intention. Now that we have done it, you may be sure that they will strain every effort to prevent us from returning. Probably, by this time, half their forces are marching to cross at Nantes. The other half are pressing on to Saumur. In three or four days they will be united again, and will be between us and the river.
"Were we a smaller body, were we only men, I should say that we ought to march another twenty miles north, then sweep round either east or west and, while the enemy followed the north bank of the river to effect a junction, we should march all night without a halt, pass them, and hurl ourselves either upon Saumur or Nantes, and so return to La Vendee. But with such a host as this, there would be little hope of success. I fancy that we shall march to Laval, and there halt for a day or two. By that time the whole force of the enemy will have come up, and there will be another battle."
"And we, Jean?"
"I see nothing but for us to march with them. We know nothing of the movements of the enemy and, were we to try to make our way across the country, we might run into their arms. Besides, Leigh and I have both agreed that, at present at least, we cannot leave Rochejaquelein."
"We could not, indeed, Patsey," Leigh broke in. "If you had seen him this evening when, with tears in his eyes, he accepted our choice, you would feel as we do. It was all very well for us, before, to talk of making off; but now that the worst has happened, if it were only for his sake, I should stay by him; though I think that Jean, with the responsibility of you and your child, would be justified in going."
"No," Patsey said firmly, "whatever comes, we will stay together. As Jean said, you cannot desert the cause now. As long as there are battles to fight we must stay with them, and it is not until further fighting has become impossible that we, like others, must endeavour to shift for ourselves."
"Well spoken, Patsey!" her husband said. "That must be our course. So long as the Vendeans hang together, with Rochejaquelein at their head, we must remain true to the cause that we have taken up. When once again the army becomes a mass of fugitives we can, without loss of honour, and a clear consciousness that we have done our duty to the end, think of our safety. I grant that, if one could find a safe asylum for you and our Louis in the cottage of some Breton peasant--" "No, no!" she interrupted, "that I would never consent to. We will remain together, Jean, come what may. If all is lost, I will ask you to put a pistol to my head. I would a thousand times rather die so than fall into the hands of the Blues, and either be slaughtered mercilessly, or thrown into one of their prisons to linger, until the guillotine released me."
"I agree with you in that, Patsey. Well, we will regard the matter as settled. As long as the army hangs together, so long will we remain with it; after that we will carry out the plans we talked over, and make for the coast by the way which seems most open to us."
The next day was spent, by Rochejaquelein and his officers, in going about among the peasants. They did not disguise from these the extreme peril of the position, but they pointed out that it was only by holding together, and by defeating the Blues whenever they attacked them, that they could hope for safety.
"It was difficult to cross the Loire before," they said; "it will be tenfold more difficult now. Every boat will have been taken over to the other side, and you may be sure that strong bodies of the enemy will have been posted, all along the banks, to prevent our returning. You have fought well before. You must fight even better in future, for there is no retreat, no home to retire to. Your lives, and those of the women and children with you, depend upon your being victorious. You have beaten the Blues almost every time that you have met them. You would have beaten them last time, had not a sort of madness seized you. It was not we who led you across the Loire; you have chosen to come, and we have followed you.
"At any rate, it is better to die fighting, for God and country, than to be slaughtered unresistingly by these murderers. You saw how they fell upon the helpless ones who were unable to cross with us; how they murdered women and children, although there was no resistance, nothing to excite their anger. If you die, you die as martyrs to your faith and loyalty, and no man could wish for a better death.
"All is not lost, yet. Defeat the Blues, and Brittany may yet rise; besides, we are promised aid from England. At any rate, La Vendee has been true to herself through over six months of terrible struggle. La Vendee may perish. Let the world see that she has been true to herself, to the end."
The fugitive priests with the army seconded the efforts of the officers and, by nightfall, a feeling of resolution and hope succeeded the depression caused by the terrible events of the preceding thirty-six hours; and it was with an air of calmness and courage that the march was recommenced, on the following morning.
The instant that it became known that the Vendeans had crossed the Loire, a panic seized the Republicans at Nantes; and messengers were sent to implore the commander-in-chief to march with all haste to aid them should, as they believed, the Vendeans be marching to assail the town. Kleber with his division started at once, followed more slowly by the main body of the army.
Another column advanced to Saint Florent and, obtaining boats, crossed the river and entered Angers; to the immense relief of the Republicans there, who had been in a state of abject terror at the presence, so near them, of the Vendeans. Kleber marched with great rapidity, passed through Nantes without stopping, and established himself at the camp of Saint Georges.
The news of what was termed the glorious victory at Chollet--although in point of fact the Republicans fell back, after the battle, to that town--caused the greatest enthusiasm in Paris, and the Convention and the Republican authorities issued proclamations, which were unanimous in exhorting the army to pursue and exterminate the Vendeans.
By the twenty-third, the whole of the French army was in readiness to march in pursuit. Kleber was still in the camp of Saint Georges, Chalbos was at Nantes with a corps d'armee, Beaupuy was at Angers.
The Vendeans had marched through Cande and Chateau-Gontier, and had without difficulty driven out the Republican force stationed at Laval. L'Echelle, the commander-in-chief, was profoundly ignorant, supine, and cowardly; and owed his position solely to the fact that he belonged to the lower class, and was not, like Biron and the other commanders-in-chief, of good family. Remaining always at a distance from the scene of operations, he confused the generals of divisions by contradictory orders, which vied with each other in their folly.
On the twenty-fourth, Kleber marched to Ancenis, and on the following day he, Beaupuy, and Westermann arrived at Chateau-Gontier. Canuel's division from Saint Florent had not yet come up. The troops were already tired, but Westermann who, as Kleber in his report said, was always anxious to gain glory and bring himself into prominence, insisted on pushing forward at once; and prevailed over the more prudent counsel of the others, as he was the senior officer.
When they approached Laval, Westermann sent a troop of cavalry forward to reconnoitre. He was not long before he came upon some Vendean outposts. These he charged, and drove in towards the town.
No sooner did they arrive there than the bells of the churches pealed out. It was now midnight but, before the army could form into order, the Vendeans poured out upon them, guided by the shouts of the Republican officers, who were endeavouring to get their troops into order. The combat was desperate and sanguinary. The peasants, fighting with the fury of despair, threw themselves recklessly upon the Republican troops; whose cannon were not yet in a position to come into action, and whose infantry, in the darkness, fired at random. Fighting in the dark, discipline availed but little. Kleber's veterans, however, preserved their coolness, and for a time the issue was doubtful.
Had Westermann's cavalry done their duty, victory might still have inclined towards them; but instead of charging when ordered, they turned tail and, riding through a portion of their infantry, spread disorder among them. Westermann, seeing that it was hopeless to endeavour to retrieve the confusion, ordered a retreat; and the army fell back to Chateau-Gontier, where they arrived in the course of the day. Here they found the commander-in-chief who, disregarding the exhausting march the troops had already accomplished, and their loss of spirit after their defeat, ordered them to return to Vihiers, halfway to Laval.
It was nightfall when they reached this place, but Westermann pushed the advanced guard some two leagues farther. Kleber, seeing the extreme danger of the position, refused to advance beyond Vihiers; and sent orders to Danican, who commanded the advanced guard, to fall back to a strong position in advance of Vihiers.
Danican had taken command only on the previous day, and the soldiers, believing that this order was but an act of arbitrary authority on his part, refused to move; and the bridge over the river Ouette, in front of Vihiers, remained unguarded save by a squadron of cavalry. Kleber had just returned from visiting the post, when he received a despatch from l'Echelle, bidding him give the order they had decided upon between them to the other two divisions. As no such arrangement had been made, Kleber was in ignorance of what was meant; but he sent a messenger to Beaupuy, who was at Chateau-Gontier, and to Bloss, who commanded a column of grenadiers, to join him as soon as possible.
Bloss arrived early the next morning at the camp. Beaupuy moved forward but, as his whole force had not yet come up, he did not arrive at the camp at the same time.
At eleven that night l'Echelle and the four generals now in the camp held a council. Westermann was extremely discontented, at finding that the heights were not occupied; but as Kleber remarked, the troops were utterly dissatisfied at the way in which they had been handled, and at the unnecessary and enormous fatigues that had been imposed upon them, and it was impossible to demand further exertions. Savary, one of the generals at the council, was well acquainted with Laval, and gave the advice that a portion of the army should follow the river for some distance, and then take possession of the hills commanding the town.
When Beaupuy arrived, his division moved forward at once, as an advanced guard; but as the army was moving a messenger arrived from l'Echelle, issuing orders in absolute contradiction of the plan that he had agreed to, when the council of war broke up. The orders were obeyed, but the generals again met, and sent off a messenger to l'Echelle to remonstrate against the attack in one mass, and a march by a single road, on a position that could be attacked by several routes; and to recommend that at least a diversion should be made, by a false attack. Westermann himself carried this remonstrance, but the commander-in-chief paid no attention to him.
Advancing, it was found that the Vendeans had taken up a position on the neglected heights. The cannon opened on both sides, and Beaupuy was soon hotly engaged. Kleber advanced his division to sustain him. L'Echelle, coming up, arrested the further advance of the division of Chalbos. Savary rode back in haste, to implore l'Echelle to order Chalbos to move to the right and attack the left flank of the enemy; but by this time the unfortunate wretch had completely lost his head and, instead of giving Chalbos orders to advance, ordered him to retreat, and himself fled in all haste.
Two columns, that were posted a few miles in the rear, received no orders whatever, and remained all day waiting for them. Kleber, seeing the division of Chalbos retiring in great disorder, felt that success was now impossible; and placed two battalions not yet engaged at the bridge, to cover the retreat. But the panic was spreading, his orders were disobeyed, and the veterans of Mayence, as well as the divisions of Beaupuy, broke their ranks and fled.
In vain the officers endeavoured to stay the flight. The panic was complete. Their guns were left behind, and the Vendeans, pressing hotly on their rear, overtook and killed great numbers. Bloss with his grenadiers, advancing from Chateau-Gontier, tried in vain to arrest the flight of the fugitives; and he himself and his command were swept away by the mob, and carried beyond the town.
A few hundreds of the soldiers alone were rallied, and prepared to defend the bridge of Chateau-Gontier; but la Rochejaquelein had sent a portion of his force to make a circuit and seize the town, so that the defenders of the bridge were exposed to a heavy fire from houses in their rear.
Kleber, with a handful of men, held the bridge; and was joined by Bloss, who had been already wounded while passing through the town. He advanced to cross; Kleber and Savary in vain tried to stop him.
"No," he said, "I will not survive the shame of such a day," and, rushing forward with a small party, fell under the fire of the advancing Vendeans.
The pursuit was hotly maintained. Keeping on heights which commanded the road, the Vendeans maintained an incessant fire of cannon and musketry. It was already night, and this alone saved the Republican army from total destruction. Beaupuy received a terrible wound in the battle, and a great number of officers were killed, in endeavouring to stop the panic.
At last the pursuit ceased and, for a few hours, the weary fugitives slept. Then they continued their retreat, and took up a strong position near the town of Angers, which was crowded with fugitives.
L'Echelle came out to review the troops who, by the orders of their generals, had already formed in order of battle; but was received with such yells of hatred and contempt that he was forced to retire. The representatives of the convention offered Kleber the command of the army, but he refused, saying that Chalbos was of superior rank, and that it was he who should take the command. They agreed to this, and sent to l'Echelle, telling him to demand leave of absence, on account of his health.
A council of war was then held. The representatives of the Convention were favourable to a fresh advance of the army, but Kleber protested that, at present, there was no army. He said that the soldiers were utterly discouraged, that some battalions had but twenty or thirty men with the colours, that all were wet to the skin, utterly exhausted, many without shoes, and all dispirited. Therefore he insisted that it was absolutely necessary that the army should be completely reorganized, before undertaking a fresh forward movement.
Their loss had indeed been extremely heavy, Kleber's division alone having lost over a thousand men. Beaupuy had suffered even more heavily; while the divisions of Chalbos, and the grenadiers of Bloss had also lost large numbers. The total loss, including deserters, amounted to over four thousand.
The whole of the cannon of the two first divisions had fallen into the hands of the enemy, the artillerymen having cut the traces. A large number of ammunition waggons, and a quantity of carts laden with provisions, had also been captured.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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14
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: Le Mans.
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The victory won by the Vendeans was one of the most important of the war. Never had they fought with greater bravery. Never did they carry out more accurately and promptly the orders of their generals. Napoleon afterwards pronounced that the tactics pursued by la Rochejaquelein showed that he possessed the highest military genius.
It was night, alone, that saved the routed army of the Republic from absolute destruction. It is probable that, at the time, the Vendean general had no idea of the completeness of the victory that he had won, or of the disorganization of the enemy. Had he known it, he would doubtless have attacked them again on the following day; when he would have experienced no resistance, could have captured Angers without firing a shot, and could, had he chosen, have recrossed the Loire. The Vendeans, however, well content with their success, returned to Laval, and there enjoyed a week's quiet and repose.
The crushing defeat that the Republicans had experienced caused an immense sensation at Paris, and in the towns through which the Vendeans would pass on their way to the capital, which was at the time actually open to them.
Patsey was delighted, when Jean and Leigh returned unwounded.
"You both seem to bear a charmed life," she said. "Leigh has indeed once been hit, but it was not serious; you have escaped altogether. What is going to be done next?"
"We are going to rest here for ten days or so. There is plenty of food to be had, and the rest will do wonders for the men. Of course, we rode back with la Rochejaquelein. His opinion was, as it always has been, that a march on Paris will alone bring this terrible business to a close; but he knows that even his authority will not suffice to carry out such a plan. As long as they are in Brittany they are among friends, and are still near their homes; but to turn their backs on these, and march on Paris, would appear so terrible an undertaking that, reckless as they are of their lives in battle, nothing would induce them to attempt it."
After ten days' delay, the Vendeans commenced their march towards the coast. The battle at Vihiers was fought on the twenty-seventh. By the sixth of November they had captured the towns of Ernee and de Fougeres, defeating at the latter place three battalions. Dol was next captured. Mayenne opened its gates without resistance.
The greatest efforts were made, by the Republicans, to place the seaports in a state of defence. Cherbourg would have been the best point for the fugitives to attack, as here they would have found an abundance of powder, of which they were in great need, and cannon; and here they might have defended themselves until the promised help arrived from England. Granville, however, had been fixed upon by the British government; and the march thither was shorter, therefore it was against Granville that the attack was directed.
A considerable portion of the force, with the artillery, were left at Avranches. Although assured that the march to the sea was made in order to obtain succour there from England, there was much fear among the peasants that the intention of the chiefs was to embark, and to leave the army to its fate. Consequently they advanced against Granville with less energy and enthusiasm than usual.
However, half a league out of the town they came upon a portion of the garrison, and repulsed them so successfully that they entered one of the suburbs with them. The garrison had, for the most part, shut themselves up in a fort which commanded the town; having erected a strong palisade across the streets leading to it. Four hundred men occupied this post.
The Vendeans had no axes to cut down the palisades, nor powder to blow then in. They were therefore obliged to content themselves with a musketry fire against it. As the garrison were well supplied with ammunition, and kept up a constant fire, they suffered heavily.
When night came, the Vendeans scattered among the houses to find food, fire, and shelter; and all night the batteries on the heights played upon them.
In the morning the Republicans redoubled their fire. It became evident that the town itself could not be taken, and the mass of the Vendeans, without orders from their chiefs, began to retire, and in a short time the whole were in rapid retreat to Avranches.
There the cry was raised, "Back to La Vendee!"
La Rochejaquelein, after halting his force on the main road a few hours, called upon the men to follow him to Caen; but only one thousand did so. On arriving at a village he learned that the bulk of the army, instead of being behind him, had marched towards Pontorson. He was therefore forced to retrace his steps and to follow them and, on overtaking them, found that they had already carried the bridge, driven away the enemy, and occupied the town.
The enemy were closing round them, but the capture of Pontorson deranged the plans of the Republicans. The place had been held by four thousand men and ten pieces of cannon and, as it could be approached only by a narrow defile, it was believed that it would be impossible for the Vendeans to force their way into it. However, after three hours' fighting, their desperate valour won the day, and the Republicans were routed, with the loss of most of their cannon.
The affair, indeed, appeared to the peasants to be a miracle granted in their favour; and with renewed heart they marched the next night to Dol. Kleber was with a large force in this neighbourhood, but the impetuosity of Westermann again upset his plans. As soon as the latter heard that Pontorson had been carried by the Vendeans, and that they had marched to Dol, he pursued them with three thousand infantry, two hundred cavalry, and four cannon. He arrived within a short distance of Dol at six in the evening and, without waiting for the infantry to come up, charged into the town, and for a moment spread confusion among the Vendeans.
[Illustration: Westermann's cavalry charged into the streets of Dol.]
They, however, soon recovered from their surprise, and drove the enemy out with loss. Westermann's infantry took no part in the action. Kleber was occupied in closing every route by which the Vendeans could leave Dol; but Westermann, who had held no communication with him, and knew nothing of his plans, marched with Marigny's division, with six thousand men, to attack the town.
This he did at two o'clock in the morning. The Vendeans at once rushed to meet them, and first tried to turn the right; but they failed here, and also in an attack on the left. They fought, however, so fiercely that Westermann withdrew his troops to the position that they had occupied before attacking. The Vendeans, however, gave them no time to form in order of battle but, heralding their charge with a heavy musketry fire, rushed down upon them. The enemy at once broke and, leaving their cannon behind them, continued their flight till they reached Pontorson.
In the meantime Marceau was advancing with his division by another road; and the Vendeans, hearing this, ceased their pursuit of Westermann's routed division and moved against him and, at four o'clock in the morning, attacked him when within a league of Dol. A combat ensued that lasted for three hours. The Vendeans then drew off, on learning that the division of Muller was on the point of joining that of Marceau.
Together these divisions could have forced their way into Dol, but Muller was hopelessly drunk and, being the senior officer, the greatest confusion arose and, had the Vendeans known what was taking place, they could have gained a decisive victory.
Marceau, seeing that he could do nothing to restore order, rode at full speed to Kleber's headquarters; and at daybreak the two generals arrived at the spot, and found the two divisions mingled in supreme disorder, the brigades and battalions being mixed up together. Finding that nothing could be done with them, there, Kleber drew them off; their confusion being almost converted into a rout, by the fire of about a hundred Vendeans. A council of war was held, and eighteen hundred men, with two guns, were sent to Pontorson to join Westermann's defeated division.
That general was ordered to advance again, at once, upon Dol. Kleber opposed this, and the rest of the council coming at last to his opinion, orders were sent to Westermann to remain on the defensive, and await fresh orders. Westermann, however, as usual, disregarded these and, marching through the night, approached the town and arrived, early in the morning, at a village close to it.
The sounding of the church bells told that the Vendeans had discovered the enemy, and in a few minutes these were seen rushing, as usual, to the attack. In spite of the reinforcements that had reached them, Westermann's troops fought worse than they had done two nights before. The reinforcements were the first to give way. The advanced guard speedily turned and fled. Westermann and Marigny, with a small party of cavalry, fought desperately to cover the retreat. Marigny however fell, and the whole force became a mass of fugitives.
Kleber, on his way the next day to reconnoitre the town, met the Vendeans advancing. Scattering rapidly, these occupied the ridges, and attacked the brigade that formed his advanced guard so fiercely that it broke and fled. Kleber sent to fetch some battalions of the troops of Mayence and, as soon as they arrived, with some battalions of grenadiers, formed them in order of battle. Other troops came up, and they prepared for a serious engagement.
At this moment the Vendean column that had defeated Westermann showed itself, on the right flank of the Republicans, and threatened their rear. Kleber ordered some of the battalions to take post further back, to cover the line of retreat. Other battalions, seeing the movement, and believing this to be a signal for retreat, followed.
The grenadiers alone stood firm, and defended themselves for three hours. In the meantime the greater portion of the Republican army was already in full flight, and a retreat was ordered. The troops remaining on the field retired at first in good order but, as the victorious Vendeans pressed on, this speedily became a rout.
Marceau, gathering together such soldiers as still retained their presence of mind, endeavoured to defend the bridge of Antrain; but the Vendeans, pressing forward, swept them away; and the fugitives fled, in a confused mob, as far as Rennes.
The Vendeans, on entering Antrain, at once scattered in search of food; disregarding the orders and entreaties of la Rochejaquelein and Stofflet, who urged them to press hotly upon the routed enemy, and so to complete the victory they had won. At Antrain they learned that the wounded, who had been left in hospital at Fougeres, had been murdered in their beds by the Blues; and they accordingly shot all the prisoners they had taken in the battle.
The victory seemed to open the way to the Loire, and the Vendeans steadily marched south through Mayenne and Laval, and arrived in front of Angers. But the city was no longer in the defenceless state in which it was when they first crossed the Loire. As soon as it was perceived to be the point for which the Vendeans were marching, four thousand troops were thrown into it, and all preparations made for a stout defence.
"If they defend themselves as they ought to do," la Rochejaquelein said to two or three of his officers, among whom was Jean Martin, "there is no hope of taking the town. We have neither cannon to blow down the walls, nor means of scaling them. Thirty-six hours is the utmost we can hope for our operations. Kleber and the rest of them will be up by that time. However--it is our sole hope--possibly a panic may seize them when we attack; but even cowards will fight behind walls and, after our failure at Granville, I have little hope of our taking Angers, especially as they must know how soon their army will be up."
The affair was a repetition of that at Granville. The Vendeans at once obtained possession of one of the suburbs. Twenty pieces of cannon opened fire upon it from the walls, while from the houses the Vendeans replied with a musketry fire. During the night a number of men laboured to undermine the wall by one of the gates, and partially succeeded. But day broke before the work was completed, and the defenders planted several cannon to bear upon them.
The Vendeans were too much discouraged to make any further effort; and when, a few hours later, news came that the Republican army was fast approaching, and would reach the ground in an hour's time, they again got into motion, and pursued their hopeless journey in search of some point where they could cross the river, if only to die in their beloved land.
On the following day Kleber was reinforced by a column, eight thousand strong, from Cherbourg; and a reconnaissance was made along the road by which the Vendeans had retreated. They found everywhere the bodies of men, women, and children who had succumbed to cold, fatigue, and misery. Westermann's cavalry set out in pursuit, Muller following with his division to support him.
Marceau was now appointed commander-in-chief, pending the arrival of Turreau and Rossignol. The latter had, almost from the commencement of the war, intrigued against every general concerned in the operations, especially against Kleber. He was himself utterly without military talent, and owed his position simply to his devotion to the Convention, and his readiness to denounce the men who failed to satisfy its anticipations of an easy victory, or who showed the slightest repugnance to execute its barbarous decrees.
With the exception of some three thousand men, who marched at the head of the Vendean column, the fugitives were now utterly disheartened. Many hid their muskets and, cutting sticks, thought that, being no longer armed, they would not be molested by the enemy. Each night numbers stole away, in groups of twos and threes, in the hope of finding a boat on the bank of the river. Others scattered among the villages, their appearance exciting compassion; but fear of the troops was more powerful, and the men for the most part were seized and held prisoners.
Of the hundred thousand men, women, and children who had crossed the Loire, more than half were dead. Of those who remained, fully fifteen thousand were women and children.
On the march, Leigh always rode by the side of his sister, generally carrying the child before him. Jean, as one of the leading officers, now rode with Rochejaquelein at the head of the column. Patsey suffered less, on her own account, than on that of the poor people who had to journey on foot. The cold was intense and, except when they entered a town, it was impossible to obtain provisions. The horses were worn out and half famished, a great proportion of the fugitives were without shoes, and the clothing of all was in rags.
In order to spare her the sight of the misery prevailing among those who marched in the rear of the column, Leigh always rode with his sister in the rear of the leading division. He himself, for the most part, walked on foot; lending his horse to some wounded man, or exhausted woman.
When the column left Angers it had been intended to march to Saumur and cross there, but the news arrived that a strong Republican force had gathered there; and it was determined to change the course, and to march through La Fleche to Le Mans. By this sudden and unexpected movement, Rochejaquelein hoped to gain time to give his followers two days' rest.
The immediate result, however, was to excite a feeling of despair among a great portion of them. Their backs were now turned to La Vendee, and it seemed to them that their last hope of reaching their homes had vanished. Rochejaquelein's idea, however, was that in their present state of exhaustion it was impossible to hope to cross the Loire--guarded as it was at every point, and with over one hundred thousand men between him and La Vendee--and he intended, after giving them the much needed rest, to march round through Chateaudun, to come down on the Loire above Orleans, and so to make his way back into Poitou.
Had he had with him only men, the project, difficult as it seemed, might possibly have been accomplished. Unembarrassed by baggage trains or cannon, the peasants could have out marched their pursuers; but hampered by the crowd of wounded, sick, women, and children, the movement must be regarded as the inspiration of despair.
Indeed, even the fighting men were no longer in a state to bear the fatigue. Bad and insufficient food had played havoc with them. Dysentery was raging in their ranks, and many could scarce drag themselves along.
"We cannot conceal from ourselves that it is nearly over," Jean said, when he told his wife and Leigh that the route was changed. "We shall get to Le Mans, but the Republicans will be on our heels, and one cannot doubt what the issue will be. Doubtless a small body will hang together, and still try to regain La Vendee; but we shall have done our duty. After our next defeat I will leave the army.
"I shall not go without telling la Rochejaquelein of my intentions. He has more than once spoken to me of you both, and it was but two days ago that he said to me: "'Martin, you are not like the rest of us. You have an English wife, and your brave young brother-in-law is English, also. You have to think of them, as well as of La Vendee. You can make your home in England, and live there until better times come. " 'It is no longer a question of defending our country. It is lost. Charette is there now, and still fighting; but as soon as we are disposed of, all these troops that have been hunting us down will be free to act against him, and he too must be crushed. The peasants have nowhere else to go; and it is not with a desire to defend their homes--which no longer exist--but to die in their native land that they seek to return. You have from the first done your utmost for La Vendee, but there can be no occasion that you should throw away your life, and those of your wife and brother, now that the cause is utterly lost, and all hope is at an end. " 'Think this over. I do not say that it is possible for you to escape; but the longer you stay with us, the more difficult will it become.'
"So you see, I am sure that when I tell him that, feeling that we can no longer be of use, I am determined to make at least an endeavour to reach England with you, he will approve."
"I think he is right, Jean. No one can say that you have not done your duty to your country to the utmost, or can blame you for now doing what you can for your family."
Just as they neared La Fleche, a squadron of the enemy's cavalry fell upon the rear of the column. They killed many of the fugitives, but were too small in number to threaten the safety of the column, which kept on until it reached the bridge across the Loir. This had been broken down, but fire was opened against the cannon planted on the other side. The gunboats that were guarding the river were driven away; and a party, moving up the bank, found two little boats, and began to cross.
A detachment of Republicans hurried to attack them; but the Loir, an affluent of the Loire, was narrow, and the musketry fire of the main body drove them away, until two or three hundred men had crossed. La Rochejaquelein went over and took the command, and on their advance the Republicans took to their heels. Rochejaquelein then recrossed, and drove off the cavalry that were harrassing the rear.
Working desperately, a strong party threw beams across the broken bridge, and the Vendeans occupied the town at daybreak. The weary fugitives slept till midday, when the enemy's cavalry reappeared; but Rochejaquelein with some mounted gentlemen attacked and defeated them, and pursued them for some distance.
In the evening a force under Chalbos approached the town, but the Vendeans sallied out and speedily scattered them. They then broke down the bridge that they had repaired, and started for Le Mans; which they captured after three-quarters of an hour's fighting.
Two days later, Kleber was in front of the town. Westermann and Muller's divisions first approached. The two days' rest had reanimated the Vendeans, and Muller's infantry were driven back three miles; but large reinforcements came up, and the peasants were forced to fall back again. Then Westermann's cavalry charged into the town, carrying dismay among its defenders; but la Rochejaquelein and his officers soon reanimated them, and the cavalry were driven out of the town, itself. They and the infantry that had come up were able, however, to maintain themselves in the suburbs.
By this time la Rochejaquelein was aware that the armies of Brest, Cherbourg, and the west were all upon him. All through the night the battle went on, without interruption. The Republican columns could gain no ground, and were frequently obliged to give way; but behind the Vendean line of defence, panic was gaining ground among the fugitives. Three or four thousand escaped by the road to Laval, but the retreat of the rest was cut off by the cavalry.
In the morning, Kleber's division came up. They at once relieved Marceau's division, which had been fighting all night, and renewed the attack. The resistance was feeble. A few hundred men disputed every foot of the way, and died with a consciousness that they had at least covered the retreat of the rest.
A hot pursuit was at once organised and, while all taken in the town were massacred at once, Westermann's cavalry pursued the fugitives in all directions, covering the plain with corpses, and pressing hard on the rear of the force that still held together.
Jean Martin had, the day before the Republican attack, gone with Leigh to la Rochejaquelein's quarters; and told him that he intended, if the town was captured by the enemy, to endeavour to save the life of his wife by flight.
"You are quite right," Rochejaquelein said warmly. "I entirely approve of your determination. As long as ten of my men hold together, it is my duty to remain with them; for I have accepted the position of their commander, and I must share their fate to the end. But it is different with you. As the cause of La Vendee, for which you have fought, is lost, your first duty now is to your wife. I trust that you will all three succeed in making your way to England, and enjoy there the peace and rest that none can have in unhappy France. I thank you for your gallant services.
"And I thank you in the name of La Vendee, Leigh, for the manner in which you have fought for her; and also for the companionship that has so often cheered me, during our last days.
"As for myself, I have no wish to live. I should feel dishonoured were the army I led to be exterminated, and I, who accepted the responsibility of leading it, to survive. We have the consolation, at least, that never in history has a people fought more bravely against overpowering odds than La Vendee has done; and though at present we are called brigands, I am sure that the world will acknowledge that we have fought like heroes, for our country and our faith. Unfortunate as we may be, I am proud to be one of those who have led them so often to victory.
"When will you go, my friend?"
"I intend to be with you to the last," Jean said. "When the fight begins, Leigh and my wife will be ready, at a point agreed on in the rear of the town. When all is lost, I shall join them there. We shall ride until beyond pursuit, and then put on our disguises."
"Then I will not say goodbye to you now," Rochejaquelein said.
"Goodbye, Leigh. May Heaven keep you, and take you safely home again."
Leigh was too much affected to speak and, after a silent grasp of the hand of the gallant young soldier, he returned with Jean to the quarters they occupied.
"Now for our plans," Jean said. "They are as vague as ever, but we must settle now. It is quite evident that the alarm is so widely spread, here in the west, that it will be well-nigh impossible to pass through even a village without being questioned. Alencon on the north has a strong garrison, at Mayenne on the west is a division, and the whole country beyond will be alive with troops on the search for fugitives. It is only to the east that the road is open to us.
"I should say that the safest way will be to travel so as to cross the Loir between Chateaudun and Nogent, and then come down on the road running south from Fontainebleau through Montargis. Travelling south through Nevers, we should excite no suspicion. If questioned, we can say that we are going to visit some friends at Macon. The unfortunate thing is that we have no papers; and I think that our story had best be that we belong to Le Mans, and fled in such haste, when the town was captured by the Vendeans, that we escaped just as we stood, and omitted to bring our papers with us.
"Fortunately we all speak French without accent, and there is nothing about us to give rise to suspicion that we belong to La Vendee. If we can think of a more likely story, as we go along, all the better. When we get as far as Macon, if we ever get there, we can decide whether to endeavour to cross the frontier into Switzerland, or to go down to Toulon.
"Now remember, Patsey, my last injunctions are that, when you perceive from the rush of fugitives that all is over, and that any firing that may still be going on is but an attempt to cover the retreat, you must not wait for me but, as soon as the sound of combat approaches, you will ride off with Leigh. You need not suppose, because I do not join you, that I am killed. The enemy may have pushed so far through the town that I may find it impossible to join you. But from whatever cause I tarry, you are not to wait for me.
"If I am shot, it will be a consolation to me to know that you will be away under your brother's protection. If I escape, I shall, if I make my way to England, have the hope of meeting you there; and shall not be haunted with the fear that you have delayed too long, and have sacrificed your lives uselessly. I want you and him to give me your solemn promise that you will act thus, and will, as soon as he considers that further delay will be dangerous, ride off. Remember that this is my last wish, this is my last order."
"I will do as you wish, Jean," his wife said firmly. "God has preserved us three thus far, and I trust that He will continue to do so. I shall have the less hesitation because I think that, alone, you will have perhaps a better chance of escaping than with us. At any rate, we will carry out your instructions. But should we miss each other, is there no place where we can arrange to meet?"
"I do not see that it is possible to make any arrangements, Patsey. You may be turned out of your course, by circumstances which it is impossible to foresee; and the same may be the case with myself. Suppose we named a seaport, there would in the first place be difficulty in finding each other. You might see some opportunity of getting across the water and, if you lost that, the chance might not occur again; and the delay might cost you your lives. I trust that we shall not be separated, dear, but I see clearly that if such a misfortune should happen, it were best that we should each make our own way, in the hope of meeting at Poole.
"You may be sure that I shall join you, if possible; for I see that, if separated, your difficulties will be far greater than mine. You, too, would have the burden of the child. But let us suppose that I was wounded, but got away and managed to obtain shelter in some Breton cottage. You might be waiting for me, for weeks, at an agreed point. Now, while travelling, you might escape many questions; but were you to stop even for a few days at any town or village, you may be sure that you would be questioned so closely, by the authorities, that there would be little chance of your getting on. I should know that, and should be fretting my heart out."
"Yes, I see 'tis best that we should do as you say, Jean. God forbid that we should be separated, but if you do not come to the rendezvous, I promise you that we will, as you wish, go on by ourselves."
"And now, dear, we will divide our money. We have still three hundred louis left. I will take one hundred, and you shall take the rest. You are much more likely to want money, if we are separated, than I. "You had best sew the greater part up in your saddle, Leigh."
"I think we had better divide it as much as possible, Jean. We can put seventy-five louis in each of our saddles, and the weight would not be so great that anyone who happens to handle one of them would notice it. I can put another five-and-forty in the belt round my waist, and keep the odd five in my pocket for expenses. Of course, if we decide to abandon our horses, I will make some other arrangement."
"The best plan, Leigh, will be for us to change the louis for assignats at the first opportunity. Gold is so scarce that each time you offered to pay with it, it would excite suspicion. I have no doubt that I can buy assignats here. We have taken a quantity from the enemy, and la Rochejaquelein will, I am sure, be glad to obtain some gold for them. It will be a double advantage: we shall have less weight to carry, and shall be able to pay our way without the gold exciting suspicion. The assignats now are only a quarter of their face value, so that for two hundred louis I should get eight hundred louis in assignats, of which I would take two hundred, and you could take the rest."
"That would certainly be an excellent plan, Jean, for two hundred louis in gold would be a serious weight to carry and, if found on us, would in itself be sufficient to condemn us as intending emigres."
Jean at once took two hundred louis, which had hitherto been carried in their wallets, and went out. He returned in an hour.
"That is satisfactorily settled," he said. "Blacquard, who is in charge of the treasury, was delighted to obtain some gold, and has given us five times the amount in assignats. Of this I will take two hundred and fifty louis' worth. You will have seven hundred and fifty louis in assignats, and we will divide the hundred louis in gold. Of the latter, you had best sew up twenty in each of your saddles, and you can carry ten about you. People are so anxious for gold that, in case of need, you can get services rendered for it that you would fail to obtain for any amount of paper."
The greater portion of the assignats and the gold, as agreed, was sewn up in the saddles; some provisions packed in the valises; and Jean and Leigh went out together, and fixed upon a spot where they were to wait. The preparations were all finished, when firing broke out. Jean kissed his wife.
"May God's blessing keep you," he said. "I trust that we shall meet again, when the fighting is over."
Then he kissed his child, wrung Leigh by the hand, and rode off to join the general. The women, children, and the men who had thrown away their arms, the sick and wounded, were already leaving the town.
"Marthe, you must go now," Patsey said to the faithful nurse.
They had bought a horse for her from a peasant who had captured it, a riderless animal that belonged to one of Westermann troopers.
"Here are fifty louis in assignats. I wish that you could have gone with us, but that is not possible. Francois is waiting outside, and will take care of you, as we have agreed. The best possible plan will be to separate yourselves from the others as soon as possible. The Blues are sure to be keeping close to them. Ride straight for the river by by-lanes and, if you cannot obtain a boat, swim your horse across, and then make for home. If we get safely to England, we will write to you, as soon as these troubles are over, and you can join us there."
"God bless you, madame. It breaks my heart to part with you and the child, but I see that it is for the best."
Leigh fetched the horse round, and assisted her to mount behind Francois. The two women, both weeping, were still exchanging adieus when Leigh said to Francois: "Ride on; the sooner this is over, the better for both."
The man nodded.
"God bless you, young master! I will look after Marthe. As soon as we get away from the rest, I shall get off and run by her side. The horse would never carry two of us far."
So saying, he touched the horse with his heel, and they rode off.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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15
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: In Disguise.
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Leigh returned into the house with his sister.
"Cheer up, Patsey," he said; "it is very hard parting, but I have every hope that they will succeed in getting safely home. Francois is a sharp fellow. They have a good stock of food, and they won't have to go into any village and, being only two, they will have a far better chance of crossing the river than if they kept with the others."
"How they are fighting!" Patsey said, a few minutes later.
Indeed the roar of musketry was unceasing, and was mingled with the louder cracks of the field guns.
"Our men are holding their own," Leigh replied. "The firing is no nearer than it was half an hour ago.
"Now, you had better lie down, Patsey. I will keep a sharp lookout and, the moment I see any signs of our men retiring, we will mount. I know there is no chance of your sleeping, but it will rest you to lie down, and we shall have a long ride before us, tomorrow."
Patsey nodded, but after he had gone out she did not lie down, but threw herself on her knees by the couch, and prayed for the safety of her husband. Hour after hour passed. From time to time Leigh returned and, towards morning, told Patsey that it was time that they should mount.
"Our men have not begun to give way yet," he said, "but they say that Kleber's division has just arrived. There is a lull in the fighting at present, but no doubt they will relieve the division that has been fighting all night, and our men cannot hope to hold out for long. I have just brought the horses round to the door. Now, I will strap the valises on while you wrap Louis up warmly."
In five minutes they started for the point agreed on. Before they reached it, the firing broke out again with increased violence. In an hour numbers of men began to make their way past them. One of them halted. He was one of Jean's tenants.
"Ah! madame," he said, as he recognized her--for it was now broad daylight--"I fear that all is lost. You had best ride at once. The Blues will not come just yet, for la Rochejaquelein, with four or five hundred of his best followers, will hold the place till the last, so as to give us time to get away."
"Did you see my husband, Leroux?"
"He was with the general, madame. They and the horsemen charged again and again, whenever the Blues pushed forward."
"Thank God he is safe so far!" Patsey said. "Goodbye, Leroux; we may not meet again."
"We shall meet in heaven, madame," the man said reverently. "They may take away our country, they may kill our cures, they may destroy our churches, but they cannot take away our God. May He protect you, madame!" and, pressing the hand she held out to him, he hurried on.
Faster and faster the fugitives passed them, but for an hour the combat continued unabated; then the exulting shouts of the Blues showed that they were making way. The gallant band of Vendeans were not, indeed, retiring; but they were being annihilated. Patsey had said but little during the anxious time of waiting. From time to time she murmured: "Will he never come? Oh, God, send him to us!"
Presently a mounted officer rode past.
"Ride on! ride on!" he shouted. "The Blues will be here in a minute!"
"We must go, Patsey," Leigh said as, without drawing rein, the officer rode on.
"No, no; wait a few minutes, Leigh. He will surely come soon."
Presently, however, a number of peasants, their faces blackened with powder, ran past.
"The Blues are on our heels!" they shouted. "They will be here in a minute; they are but a hundred yards away."
"Come, Patsey," Leigh said. "Remember your promise. We must go; it is madness waiting any longer."
And as he spoke one of the peasants, running past, fell dead, shot by a musket ball from the rear. Leigh seized Patsey's bridle and, setting his own horse in motion, they rode on. They were but just in time for, before they had ridden two hundred yards Leigh, looking round, saw the Republicans issuing from the town.
"Pull yourself together, Patsey!" Leigh exclaimed. "We may have their cavalry after us, in a minute or two. Remember, Jean trusts you to carry out his instructions."
Patsey drew herself up, struck the horse with her whip, and galloped on at full speed. They soon left the road followed by the rest of the fugitives, and turned down one leading east. The din of battle had ceased now, but a scattered fire of musketry showed that the enemy were engaged in their usual work of shooting all who fell into their hands.
After riding for an hour at full speed they drew rein at a wood and, entering it, dismounted and put on their disguises. They had no fear now of pursuit. The enemy's cavalry must have made a very long march to reach the town, and their horses must be worn out by their previous exertions; while their own had had forty-eight hours' rest, during which time they had been well fed and cared for. Moreover, any pursuit that was made would be in the direction taken by the bulk of the fugitives.
Mounting again, they rode on. It was but a narrow country road that they were traversing and, during the day, they only passed through two or three small hamlets.
"Are the brigands coming this way?" they were asked.
"No," Leigh replied. "They are fighting at Le Mans. If they are beaten they won't come this way, but will make south. We thought it best to leave the town. When fighting is going on in the streets it is time for quiet people to be off."
They rode forty miles before night, and then entered a wood; having agreed that, until they got farther away from the scene of action, and struck the road running south, it would be better not to enter any place where they would be questioned. Choosing an open space among the trees, Leigh took off the bridles to let the horses pluck what grass they could, after giving to each a hunch of bread from their store. Then he returned, with the blankets that had been rolled up and fastened behind the saddles.
"Now, Patsey, you must eat something and drink some wine. You must keep up your strength, for the sake of Louis and Jean."
Patsey had spoken very few words during the day. She shook her head.
"I will try for Louis's sake," she said; "as to Jean--" and she stopped.
"As to Jean," he said, "we have every reason to hope for the best. Many things may have happened to prevent his joining us. The Blues may have pushed in between his party and us, and he may have found that he could not rejoin us. His horse may have been shot and he obliged to fly on foot. He has gone through all these battles from the first, and has never been wounded. Why should we suppose that he has not done the same now? I feel sure that if he had lost his horse he would not have tried to join us, for he would have thought that he would have hampered our escape.
"Jean is full of resources, and has everything in his favour. He is not like the others, who have but one aim, to get back to La Vendee and die there, and whose way is barred by the Loire. He has all France open to him and, if he gains a port, has but to get some sailor clothes to pass unnoticed. He is well provided with money, and has everything in his favour. When he once gets away from Le Mans, the road would be open, for we may be sure that the enemy will all gather in the rear of the remains of our army."
"I see all that," Patsey said; "and if I were but sure that he got safely away, I should feel comparatively easy. However, Leigh, I will try and look at the best side of things. If Jean is killed he has died gloriously, doing his duty till the last. If he is not, he will some day be restored to me."
"That is right, dear," he said. "You have always been so hopeful and cheery, through all this business, that I am sure you will keep up your courage now. We have every reason to hope and, for my part, I confidently expect to see Jean, safe and sound, when we arrive home. Now let us set to; we both want something badly."
Patsey did her best and, being indeed faint from hunger, having eaten nothing since the evening before, she felt all the better and stronger when she had finished her meal; and was able to chatter cheerfully to little Louis, who had ridden before Leigh all day, and who was now just beginning to talk. Then they spread a blanket on the ground and, lying down together for warmth, covered themselves with the rest of their wraps; and Leigh was glad to find, by her steady breathing, that the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours had sufficed to send his sister to sleep, in spite of her grief at her separation from her husband.
The next day they crossed the road leading to Tours, between Chateaudun and Chartres. Once over this there was no longer any occasion for haste. There was no fear of their connection with the struggle in the west being suspected, and they had now only to face the troubles consequent on travelling unprovided with proper papers.
Late that evening they entered the town of Artenay, on the main road from Paris to Orleans, coming down upon it from the north side. Here they entered a quiet inn. The landlord was a jovial, pleasant-faced man of some sixty years of age; and his wife a kind, motherly-looking woman. As usual, the travellers signed the names they had agreed upon in the book kept for the purpose, Patsey retaining her own name, and he signing as Lucien Porson.
The landlady, seeing that Patsey was completely worn out, at once took her off to her room.
"Ah! I thought that monsieur was too young to be madame's husband," the landlord said.
Leigh laughed.
"I am her brother," he said. "Her husband is a sailor, and she is to join him at Toulon."
"I see the resemblance," the landlord said. "It is a long journey indeed for her, and with a child under two years old, and in such weather.
"But you forget that such a place as Toulon no longer exists. It has been decreed that the town that received the English and resisted the Republic is to be altogether destroyed, except of course the arsenal, and is henceforth to be known as 'the town without a name.'"
The tone, rather than the words, convinced Leigh that his host was not an admirer of the present state of things. Leigh shrugged his shoulders slightly, and said, with a smile: "Perhaps France will change her own name. Surely a Republic cannot put up with the name that has been associated, for centuries, with kings."
The landlord brought his hand down, with a heavy smack, on Leigh's shoulder.
"Ah," he said, "I see that you are too young, as I am too old, to care for the present changes. With anyone in the town I should not venture to say anything; but I am sure, by your face, that you can be trusted."
"And I can say the same to you, landlord."
"Are your papers, by the by, in good order?"
"Frankly, we have no papers."
The landlord gave a low whistle, expressive of surprise and consternation.
"And how do you expect to travel, monsieur? How you have got so far as this, I cannot make out; for at any tavern where you put up you might, of course, have been asked for them."
"We have not put up at any towns, as yet; but have slept at little places, where no questions were asked."
"But you can't get on like that, monsieur. Even in the small villages, they are on the watch for suspected persons. You must have papers of some sort."
"That is all very well," Leigh said; "the question is, where to get them?"
"What story do you mean to tell?"
"If we had been stopped anywhere on our way here, we should have said that we belonged to Le Mans; that, like most of the other inhabitants, we fled before the Vendeans entered, and in such haste that I forgot all about papers; and indeed could not have got them, had I thought of it, as all the authorities had fled before we did."
"That story, added to your appearance and that of madame as respectable citizens, might succeed sometimes, with those who are not anxious to show their zeal; but as most of these functionaries are so, you would probably, if it was a village, be sent on under a guard to the next town, and if it were a town would be thrown into prison. And you know, to get in a prison in our days is--" "Equivalent to a sentence of death," Leigh put in as he hesitated.
"You must get papers somehow--something that would pass at any rate in the villages, where as often as not there is not a man who can read. I will see what I can do. A cousin of mine is clerk to the mayor. He is a good fellow, though he has to pretend to be a violent supporter of the Convention.
"I don't know how you are situated, monsieur, but times are hard, and all salaries terribly in arrears; and when they are paid it is in assignats, and I need hardly say that when you pay in assignats you don't buy cheap."
"We have money," Leigh said, "and I would pay any reasonable sum, in gold, for proper papers."
"Sapristi! You might almost tempt the maire himself, by offering him gold. Only he would suspect that you must have more hidden away, and that by arresting you, he could make himself master of the whole, instead of only a part; but since you offer gold, I have no doubt that my cousin would not mind running some little risk. How much shall I say, monsieur?"
"I would, if necessary, give forty louis."
"That is more than his yearly salary," the innkeeper said; "half of that would be ample. I will go to him at once. It is important that you should get papers of some kind, for at any moment anyone might come in and demand to see them."
"Here are ten louis. I have more sewn up in my saddle, and can give him the other ten later on, when I get an opportunity to go to the stable unnoticed."
"That will do very well, monsieur. I will be off at once."
It was an hour before he returned, and Leigh and Patsey had just finished supper. As there were two or three other persons in the room he said nothing, but signified by a little nod that he had succeeded. A quarter of an hour later the other customers, having finished their meal, went out.
"Here are your papers," he said, as he handed a document to Leigh.
It was a printed form, blanks being left for the names, description, and the object of journey.
"Arthenay Mairie, "To all concerned-- "It is hereby testified that citizen Lucien Porson, and his sister citoyenne Martin, both of good repute and well disposed to the Republic, natives of this town of Arthenay, are travelling, accompanied by a child of the latter, to Marseilles, whither they go on family affairs, and to join citoyenne Martin's husband, a master mariner of that town."
The destination had been altered when they heard of the state of things at Toulon. The document was purposed to be signed by the maire, under his official seal.
"There is only one difficulty," the landlord said, as Leigh and Patsey warmly thanked him; "and that is that, although it will pass you when you have once left this town, it would be dangerous to use it here; and you may at any moment be asked for it. But my cousin, who is a charming fellow, pointed out the difficulty to me, and said: "'The best thing will be for me to take a couple of men, and pay the official visit to him, myself.'
"I expect that he will be here in a few minutes."
"Then, as the stableman has gone out at last--at least I see no lights there--I will go and get the rest of the money."
"Yes, I met him a hundred yards off, on my way back. There is no one about. I will take a lantern and go out with you."
In ten minutes they returned, Leigh having the ten louis required in his pocket. A quarter of an hour later the door opened, and a man wearing the scarf which showed him to be an officer of the municipality entered, followed by two men with the cockade of the Republic in their hats.
"This is citizen Porson and citoyenne Martin, his sister," the landlord, who accompanied the party, said.
The functionary walked up to the table and said gruffly, "Your papers, citizen."
Leigh handed him the document. He glanced through it.
"That is right," he said. "Citizen Porson and citoyenne Martin, of the arrondissement of Paris, travelling to Marseilles, duly signed by the maire of the arrondissement and duly sealed. That is all in order. We are obliged to be particular, citizen; there are many ill disposed to the Republic travelling through the country."
"Will you sit down, citizen, and take a glass of wine with me? Landlord, draw two stoups of wine for these two good citizens."
The two men followed the landlord out to the public room.
"I should think, Jeannette," Leigh said to his sister, "you had better to retire to bed. You have had a long day's ride, and must, I am sure, be tired out."
As soon as she had left the room, Leigh dropped the ten louis into the adjoint's hand.
"I thank you with all my heart," he said. "You have done a good action, and I can assure you that it can do no harm to the Republic, against whom I have no intention of conspiring. There is no fear, I suppose, that the maire's signature may be questioned?"
"There is no fear whatever of that, because the signature is precisely similar to that which occurs on all official documents. The maire is without doubt an excellent Republican, and a devoted servant of the Convention, but he is altogether ignorant of letters, and the consequence is that I sign all official documents for him. So you see there was no trouble whatever in filling in, signing, and sealing this letter. The only matter that concerned me was that, if by any chance you should be arrested as a suspect, possibly a demand might be made as to how you obtained this pass. However, even that did not trouble me greatly; for as I myself open and read the maire's letters, I should have no difficulty in keeping him altogether in the dark as to the purport of any letter that might come, and should myself pen an answer, with explanations which would no doubt be found satisfactory."
"And now can you tell me, sir, which in your opinion would be the best port for me to make to, to leave the country? It matters little whether we go by land or sea."
"It would be more easy for you to make your way to a port than across the frontier," the adjoint said, "but when you reach a port, your difficulties would but begin. In the first place, our trade with foreign countries is almost at a standstill, and every vessel that goes out is rigidly searched for concealed emigres.
"On the other hand, once across the frontier your troubles would be at an end; but every road is closely watched, every village is on the lookout, for the orders are precise that all persons leaving France shall be arrested and detained until in a position to prove their identity, and to place the truth of the reason given for journeying beyond all doubt. I do not say that it might not be possible to bribe peasants to take you by unfrequented paths over the Jura; but the journey would be arduous in the extreme, and probably impossible to be performed on horseback.
"But for my part, if I were in your position and desired to leave the country, I should go north instead of south. I should go in the first place to Paris, stay there in quiet lodgings for a little time until you became known, and you might then get your papers visaed to enable you to continue your journey to Calais or Dunkirk. Money will go just as far among the incorruptibles of Paris as it will here. You might obtain a passage down the Seine, to Rouen or Havre."
"That would certainly suit us best. I regret, now, that I had the paper made out for Marseilles."
"That can easily be remedied, monsieur. If you will walk back with me to the mairie, I will write a fresh paper out, and destroy the one I have given you. But what shall I say is your object in journeying to Paris? You are too young to be going to purchase goods and, indeed, would hardly be taking a woman and child with you for such a purpose.
"Now, monsieur, frankly tell me who you are. I have some relations in Paris, quiet bourgeois, who keep a small shop near the markets. If I were to give you a letter to them, saying that you have business in Paris, and have asked me to recommend someone who would provide you with quiet lodgings, no doubt they would willingly take you in. But I would not involve them in danger. You might be recognised as being members of some family who are proscribed, and in that case not only would my friends get into trouble but, as they would, of course, say that you were recommended to them by me, I might find myself in a very unpleasant position."
"There is no fear of anything of that sort. I and my sister are both English. She married the son of a merchant at Nantes, and I came over with her to learn the business. There have, as you know, been troubles in that part of France. We endeavoured to escape, but she was separated from her husband--who has, I greatly fear, been killed--and we, of course, are both anxious to rejoin our family in England."
"How long have you been in France, monsieur? You speak the language well."
"We have been over here nearly three years."
"Well, I do not think that there is any risk; unless, of course, you are caught in the act of trying to make your escape. But I think that it would be as well that my friends should be prepared for your coming. I know a man who is leaving for Paris tomorrow. I will give him my letter, and ask him to deliver it personally, as soon as he gets there; then you can follow, twenty-four hours later. Now that it is known that I have examined your papers, and found them correct, there will be no further inquiry about you and, at any rate, you could stay here for a day or two without any questions being asked."
"That would be an admirable plan, monsieur; and I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you."
"Say no more about that, monsieur; you have paid me well for it and, moreover, I am not a bad fellow, though at present I am obliged to appear to be a strong supporter of the people in Paris. Now, if you will put on your hat and come along with me, I will leave you a short distance from the hotel de ville, to which I have access at all hours. I shall of course simply put, in the passport, that you are travelling to Paris on private matters, and that you will stay with your friend, citizen Tourrier, in the rue des Halles."
A quarter of an hour later Leigh returned to the auberge, furnished with the required paper. The adjoint had said, on handing it to him: "I shall not come round tomorrow. We met as strangers yesterday, and it is as well I should not appear to be intimate with you. But should you find yourself in any difficulty, send for me at once, and I will soon set matters right."
"Is it all satisfactorily arranged, monsieur?" the hotel keeper asked, when Leigh returned.
"Perfectly. Your friend has done even more than he promised."
And he told him of the change that had been made in the plans.
"That is certainly better. I have been wondering, myself, how you would ever be able to get away from Marseilles. Now it seems comparatively easy. I have no doubt that my cousin's friends in Paris will be able to get you another pass, or to put you in the way of travelling to one of the ports; though no doubt it will be almost as difficult to get away, from there, as from Marseilles."
"I think that could be managed, landlord. I am a pretty good sailor, and there ought to be no great difficulty in getting hold of a boat and making out to sea and, when once away, I could steer for England, or get on board some vessel bound there."
He tapped at his sister's door. She was still up.
"You are very late, Leigh."
"Yes, but you will be able to sleep as long as you like tomorrow, as we are not going to start till next day, and are then going north instead of south. Our paper has been changed for Paris, instead of Marseilles; and we are going to the house of a cousin of the man who gave me the pass, so we shall be safe so far; and ought to have no difficulty, whatever, in journeying from there either to Havre or one of the northern ports. I will tell you all about it, tomorrow."
They passed the next day quietly, and both felt better for the short rest. In addition to the pass, the adjoint had given Leigh a note to his cousin. It was unsealed, and read: "My dear Cousin, "The bearer of this is Monsieur Porson, and his sister, Madame Martin, of whom I wrote to you. You will find them amiable people, who will give you but little trouble. I have assured them that they will find themselves very comfortable with you, and that you will do all in your power for them, for the sake of your affectionate cousin.
"Simon Valles, "Adjoint to the maire of Arthenay."
They journeyed by easy stages, stopping at Etampes, Arpajon, and Longjumeau, and rode on the fourth day into Paris. They had no difficulty in finding the shop of Monsieur Tourrier. It was a grocer's and, as soon as they alighted from their horses, its owner came out and greeted them heartily.
"Madame and monsieur are both most welcome," he said. "I have received a letter from my cousin Simon. I am glad, indeed, to receive his friends. Fortunately our rooms upstairs are unlet. Strangers are rare in Paris, at present."
He called a boy from the shop, and told him to show Leigh the way to some stables near. He then entered the house, accompanied by Patsey with her child. Here she was received by Madame Tourrier, a plump-faced businesslike woman, and was not long in finding out that she was the real head of the establishment.
"I have got the rooms ready for you," she said. "We were surprised, indeed, to get a letter from Simon Valles; for he is a poor correspondent, though he generally comes to stay with us for three days, once a year. He is a good fellow, but it is a pity that he did not go into trade. He would have done better for himself than by becoming adjoint to the maire of Arthenay. It has a high sound, but in these days, when men are paid their salaries in assignats, it is but a poor living. However, I suppose that it is an easy life, for I don't think hard work would suit Simon. The last time he was up we tried to persuade him that he would do better here, but he laughed and said that people's heads were safer in Arthenay than they were in Paris. But that is folly; the Convention does not trouble itself with small shopkeepers. It knows well enough that we have work enough to do to earn our living, without troubling ourselves about politics; yet if the truth were known, a good many of us are better to do than some of those they call aristocrats. This is a busy quarter, you see, and we are close to the markets, and the country people who come in know that we sell good groceries, and on cheaper terms than they can get them in their villages. We should do better, still, if my husband would but bestir himself; but men are poor creatures, and I don't know what would become of them, if they had not us women to look after their affairs."
They now reached the rooms, which were small but comfortable, and the price which Madame Tourrier named seemed to Patsey to be very moderate.
"You see, your room is furnished as a sitting room also, madame, and you and your brother can talk over your affairs here. As to your meals, I could provide your cafe au lait in the morning, but I can't undertake to cook for you. But there are many good places, where you can obtain your meals at a cheap rate, in the neighbourhood. How long do you expect to remain in Paris?"
"That I cannot say, at present. My husband is a sailor, but I have not heard from him for a long time. At Arthenay there is but small opportunity of learning what happens outside, and it may be that I shall have to travel to Havre to obtain news of him; although I am troubled greatly by the fear that his ship has been lost, or captured by the English. We have never been in Paris before, and my brother naturally wishes to stay a short time, to see the sights."
Madame Tourrier shook her head.
"There are but few sights to see," she said. "The churches are all closed, or at least are turned into meeting places and clubs. It is not as it was before the troubles began; there are few amusements, and no reviews or pageants. I do not say that it is not better so. I have no opinion on such subjects. I have never once been to the hall of representatives. I have no time for such follies and, except on Sunday afternoons, I never stir out of doors. Still, no doubt, it will all be new to him, and as you have horses you can ride over to Versailles, and other places round. There is not much of that now; people think of nothing but the Convention, talk of nothing but of the speeches there, and of Robespierre and Saint Just and Danton. It seems to me that they are always quarrelling, and that nothing much comes of it.
"Now if you will excuse me, madame, I will go down to the shop again. My husband cannot be trusted there a minute and, if my back is turned, he will be selling the best sugar for the price of the worst, then we shall lose money; or the worst sugar for the price of the best, and then we shall lose customers."
So saying, she hurried away. In a few minutes Leigh came up.
"I was told where to find you," he said. "Madame is in the thick of business, and there were half a dozen customers waiting to be served. Monsieur was standing a few yards away from the front of the shop. It was he who gave me instructions for finding your room. " 'It is best,' he said, 'that madame should be asked no questions while she is busy. I always go out myself, when customers come in. She is one of the best of wives, and manages affairs excellently, but her temper is short. She likes to do things her own way and, as it pleases her, I never interfere with her.'"
"I think he is wise not to do so," Patsey laughed. "I can see already that she is mistress of the establishment. But from what I have seen at Nantes, I think that it is generally the women who look after the shops and mind the businesses. However, though she speaks sharply, I should say that she is a kind-hearted woman. However, we may be very thankful that we have obtained a shelter where we can live, safely and quietly, until we have fixed on our plans for the future."
But although Monsieur Tourrier was, in all matters connected with the business, but as a child in the hands of his wife, he was far better acquainted with what was passing around them; and when Leigh mentioned to him that he intended to ride out to Versailles, he at once warned him against doing so.
"My dear monsieur," he said, "I know nothing of the state of things at Arthenay, and for aught I know people may go out riding for pleasure there; but it would be little short of madness to attempt such a thing here. At present things have got to such a state that for any man to seem richer than another is, in itself, a crime. Here all must be on an equality. Were you to ride out, every man you pass would look askance at you. At the first village through which you rode you would be arrested, and to be arrested at present is to be condemned. There are no questions asked, the prisoners are brought in in bunches, and are condemned wholesale. I say nothing against the condemnation of the aristocrats; but when perhaps two or three aristocrats are brought up with half a dozen journalists, and a dozen others who may have been arrested merely out of spite, and are all condemned in five minutes, it is clear that the only way to live is to avoid being arrested, and the only way to avoid being arrested is to avoid attracting attention.
"If you were really going on a matter of business, it would be different, but to ride to Versailles merely to see the place would be regarded as ample proof that you were an aristocrat; and no one would regard your papers as anything but a proof that these had been obtained by fraud, and that you were either an aristocrat, or a spy of Pitt's, or a Girondist, and certainly an enemy of the Convention. Therefore, monsieur, if you wish to go anywhere, walk, or go out in a market cart, for to ride might be fatal."
"I will take your advice," Leigh said. "I did not think that things were so bad as that."
"They could not be worse, monsieur; it would be impossible. But we who are quiet men think that it cannot go on much longer; even the sans-culottes are getting tired of bloodshed. There is no longer a great crowd to see the executions, and the tumbrils pass along without insults and imprecations being hurled against the prisoners.
"The men of the Convention, having killed all the Girondists, are now quarrelling among themselves. Robespierre is still all powerful, but the party opposed to him are gaining in strength, and there is a feeling that, ere long, there will be a terrible struggle between them and, if Robespierre is beaten, there are many of us who think that the reign of terror will come to an end. We who are too insignificant to be watched talk these things over together, when we gather at our cafe, and there is no one but ourselves present; and even then we talk only in whispers, but we all live in hopes of a change, and any change must surely be for the better."
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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16
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: A Friend At Last:
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Day after day, Leigh went out into the town. More than once he saw the fatal tumbrils going along in the distance, but he always turned and walked in the opposite direction. Once or twice, having changed his clothes for those of a workman, he fought his way into the public galleries of the Convention and listened to the speeches; in which it seemed to him that the principal object of each speaker was to exceed those who had gone before him in violence, and that the most violent was the most loudly applauded, both by the galleries and the Assembly.
Patsey was most anxious to be off, but he urged that it would not do to show haste. She did not leave the house at all, while he was out almost all day. At the end of the fortnight, he told Monsieur Tourrier that he had now finished his business, and asked him if he could obtain from the maire of the arrondissement a pass down to Havre.
"It is a pity that you did not get your pass direct from Arthenay," he said. "You say that your sister wants to make inquiries about a husband there, and that you are taking her down, and you also say that you are a sailor."
"Yes."
"Then, I should think that the best thing for you would be to dress yourself as a sailor again. It will seem more natural than for you to be in that civilian dress. I can go with you, and say that you were strongly recommended to me by the maire's adjoint at Arthenay, and that your papers are all en regle. If he asks why you did not have your papers made out in the first place to Havre, say that you had hoped to have been joined by your brother-in-law here; but as he has not arrived your sister is anxious about him, and wishes therefore to go on to Havre, which indeed he has requested her to do, as it was uncertain whether he would be able to leave his ship.
"I know, of course, that it is all right, or my cousin would not have recommended you so strongly to me; but in these days everyone is suspicious, and one cannot be too cautious. I will get one of the market authorities to go up with me. I am well known to them all, and 'tis likely that none of the people at the mairie will know me, seeing that I am a quiet man, and keep myself to myself."
Leigh had no trouble in buying a sailor's dress, at a shop down by the wharves and, having put this on, went up with Monsieur Tourrier and one of the market officers to the mairie. As the former had anticipated, there was no difficulty. Leigh's pass was examined. The market official testified to the grocer as being a well-known citizen, doing business with the market people, and taking no part in public affairs; while Monsieur Tourrier showed the letter that he had received from his cousin, the adjoint at Arthenay.
"What is the name of the ship which your sister's husband commands?" the maire asked.
"The Henriette, a lugger. Formerly she traded with England but, since the war broke out, she trades between the ports on our western coast."
"And you have been a sailor on board her?"
"Yes, citizen."
The maire nodded, and made out the pass for Jeannette Martin, travelling to join her husband, the captain of the lugger Henriette; for her brother, Lucien Porson; and for Louis Martin, aged two years, son of the above-named citoyenne Martin.
As they agreed that it would now be best to travel by water, Leigh next went to the stables and, as the horses were both good ones, obtained a fair price for them. The next morning they went on board a sailing craft going down the river and, after a cordial adieu from their host and hostess, and a promise to take up their abode there, on their return through Paris, they went on board. Leigh had sold the saddles with the horses; having, on the journey to Paris, removed the bundles of assignats concealed in them.
The accommodation on board was very fair. Patsey occupied a roomy cabin aft, the rest slept in a large cabin forward; for before the troubles began, the majority of people travelling from Paris down to Rouen or Havre went by water, and although the boats were mainly constructed for the carriage of merchandise, the conveyance of passengers formed an important part of the profits. At present, however, there was but little travelling, and Patsey had the women's cabin to herself; while one other male messenger, with the master and two hands, had the forward compartments to themselves.
The master explained that, at ordinary times, his two men occupied a tiny place boarded off from the hold, or in summer slept on deck; but that, as there were so few passengers, they lived with the rest "for," as he growled under his breath, "the present."
The voyage was slow but not unpleasant. There was scarce wind enough to fill the two sails carried by the boat, but the captain and his two hands frequently got out sweeps, to keep the boat in the middle of the current. They stopped for a day at Rouen, while the cargo destined for that town was landed. Patsey and Leigh were glad to spend the day in the town, visiting the cathedral, taking their meals at a restaurant, for the cuisine on board the boat was not of the highest character.
"We used to keep a regular cook," the captain lamented. "In those days we often carried several passengers; but at present, when we seldom have more than one or two, we cannot afford it. The Revolution is no doubt a grand thing, and has greatly benefited the nation, but it has weighed hardly on us. There are but half the boats on the river there used to be, and they are hardly paying expenses, now that no one travels. Those that go to sea are worse off still for, what with the falling off in trade, and with the English cruisers all along the coast, there is little employment for seamen, save in the privateers. However, they don't starve; for the greater portion of the men on the coast have to go in the ships of the Republic."
On the sixth day after leaving Paris, they arrived at Havre. Here they had no difficulty in obtaining lodgings, in a small auberge near the port. Their pass was, on their arrival, sent to the authorities of the town and duly stamped. Leigh's first inquiries were for the Henriette. He found that she was well known in the port, and had sailed for La Rochelle, six weeks before.
"She does not very often come up here," one of the sailors said. "Sometimes she is months between her visits. As likely as not, she may have been captured on her way down. Her port is Bordeaux and, if you wanted to find her, you had much better have gone straight there than come to this place."
"I do want to find her," Leigh said. "Is there any chance of finding a ship going down south?"
"Well, you might find one," the man said; "but you would have to take your chance of getting there. Many of the ships are laid up, for the risk of capture is great. It is small craft that, for the most part, make the venture. They creep along inshore, and either run into a port or anchor under the guns of a battery if they see a British cruiser outside. Drawing so little water, they can keep in nearer than a cruiser would dare to; and as they all can take the mud, they do not mind if they stick on the sands for a tide."
Leigh returned with the news to his sister.
"What do you think, Patsey?" he said. "I do not say that we cannot cross from here in a boat, though I have learned that the entrance to the Channel is guarded by gunboats. If we passed safely through these, we should have serious risk and many hardships to undergo. I hear that there are numerous French privateers, and we might be picked up by one of them, instead of by an English cruiser. I am afraid that our passes, in that case, would not avail us in the slightest.
"Now, if we go down to Bordeaux, we have only to wait till the Henriette comes in. Possibly she may be there when we arrive. In that case, I am sure that Lefaux will be willing to take us out, and either put us on board a British cruiser, or land us in England."
"Certainly we will go to Bordeaux," Patsey said. "We may find Jean there. If he escaped that night he would make for the Loire and, as he is a good swimmer, he would get over without difficulty, and he would then try to make his way towards Bordeaux."
"That may be so, Patsey; but I would not be too sanguine about our finding him there. It was so much nearer for him to have made for one of the northern ports that he might very well have done so and, as soon as he managed to obtain a sea outfit, he would no longer be suspected of having anything to do with the Vendeans."
They had learnt before this that, after the fight at Le Mans, the Vendeans had made for the river, had desperately fought their way through the forces that barred their march, had come down on the banks, but had failed to find any means to cross it. Then they had turned into Brittany again for a short distance, had fought two or three more desperate battles, and had again reached the Loire. There was but one leaky boat to be found. In this la Rochejaquelein, with a few of his officers, had crossed the river to bring back some boats that were moored on the opposite bank. Directly they got across they were attacked, but la Rochejaquelein, with two or three others, effected their escape.
After this the Vendeans no longer kept together. The women and children, wounded and invalids, hid themselves in the woods; where they were hunted down like wild beasts, and either slaughtered at once or sent to Nantes, where thousands were either executed or drowned by the infamous Carrier, one of the most sanguinary villains produced by the Revolution. Many of the men managed to cross the river either by swimming on rough rafts or in boats. In La Vendee the war was still going on, for Charette had marched up again from Lower Poitou, and was keeping a large force of the Republican troops engaged.
"I will try not to hope too much," Patsey said. "But at any rate, I am for going down to Bordeaux for, apart from the chance of finding Jean there, it seems much safer than putting out to sea in a little boat."
"I certainly think so," Leigh replied. "Now I will go out and make inquiries as to what craft there may be, bound south."
He returned in a couple of hours.
"I have arranged for our passage, Patsey. She is a fast-looking little craft, with very decent accommodation. She is in the wine trade, and brought a cargo safely up last week, and will start again the day after tomorrow. She carries a crew of eight hands; and I have made inquiries about the captain, and hear a very good report of him, and he seemed to me a first-rate fellow. When I mentioned the name of the Henriette he said that he knew her well, and was acquainted both with the present captain and with your Jean. He had heard, from Lefaux, that her former owner had been denounced, and had been obliged to fly from Nantes to a chateau that he had in La Vendee. The Henriette has never been into Nantes since, but went down to Bordeaux, and was there registered in another owner's name, and Lefaux had worked for him ever since. " 'I fancy,' he said, 'she sometimes makes a run with brandy to England. She was in that business before, and had, Lefaux said, been chased many a time by English cutters, but had always managed to give them the slip.'
"I was half inclined to tell him that I was Jean's brother-in-law, but I thought it better not to until we had been to sea for a day or two, and had learned a little more about him."
The next day Leigh went to the mairie and explained that, not having found the ship commanded by citoyenne Martin's husband, and thinking it likely that they would hear of him at Bordeaux, they had taken passage by the Trois Freres, which sailed the next day. The addition was made to his papers without a question, and the next morning they went on board. They were heartily received by the captain.
"You ought to bring us luck, madame," he said; "I mean citoyenne, but the old word slips out of one's mouth, sometimes. It is not often that I have a lady passenger. There are few who travel now and, before the war broke out, people preferred taking passage in larger ships than mine. Still, I will do my best to make you comfortable, and I can assure you that Leon, my cook, is by no means a bad hand at turning out dainty dishes. He was cook in an hotel, at one time; but he let his tongue wag too freely and, having to leave suddenly, was glad enough to ship with me. Fortunately he likes the life, and I do not think anything would tempt him to go back to an hotel kitchen again."
"I am not particular, I can assure you," Patsey said. "In these times we all have to rough it. Still, I own that I like a good dinner better than a bad one."
"We shall put in to a good many little ports," the skipper said. "Sailing as close as we do inshore, I always make a port if I can, as evening comes on; and we are therefore never without fresh meat, fish, and vegetables."
"How long shall we be going down?"
"That I cannot tell you. It all depends upon the wind. We may, too, be kept in port for two or three days if there is an enemy's cruiser anywhere about. We may get there in ten days, we may take three weeks."
Before the boat set sail, a commissary with two men came on board and examined the passes of the passengers, and searched below the hatches to make sure that no one was hidden there. As soon as they had completed their inspection the sails were hoisted, and the Trois Freres started on her way down the Channel. The wind was light and blowing from the southwest, and they were just able to lay their course, and anchored for the night off the mouth of the Vire river.
"I suppose tomorrow you will get round the Cape de la Hague, captain?" Leigh said.
"No, we shall not attempt that. The coast is a very difficult one, with furious currents. We shall bring up off Cherbourg and start at daylight; and shall, I hope, be well down towards the bay of Avranches by nightfall. There is no fear of a British cruiser till we get out towards Ushant. They do not care about coming inside the islands; what with the fogs, the rocks, and the currents, it is safer outside than in. Besides, there is little to be picked up except coasters like ourselves, and fishing boats. There is hardly any foreign trade between Havre and Brest. It is from there down to the mouth of the Gironde that their cruisers are so thick. From Ushant to Boulogne there are plenty of them, but these are chiefly occupied in guarding their ships going up and down the Channel from our privateers, which run out from every port: Dieppe and Havre, Granville, Avranches, and Saint Malo."
The skipper had by no means over praised his cook, who turned them out a better dinner than any that they had eaten since the troubles began, with the exception only of those they had had at Arthenay.
"He takes a pride in it," the captain said, "and you will never get good work done in any line, unless by a man who does so. A sailor who is careless about the appearance of his ship is sure to be careless about the keeping of the watch, and is not to be trusted in matters of navigation. When you see a craft with every rope in its place, everything spotlessly clean, the brass work polished up, and the paint carefully attended to, you may be sure that the skipper is as particular in more important matters. It is just so with our man. It is a little bit of a galley, but his saucepans shine like gold, everything is clean and in its place. He grumbles if we run short of anything, and is a good deal more particular about my dinner being just what it should be than I am myself.
"Sometimes when we have rough weather I say to him, 'Make me a soup today, Leon. I shall be well content with that, and it is not weather for turning out a regular dinner.'
"He always replies gravely, 'Monsieur, anyone can cook when the sea is calm. It is on an occasion like this that one who knows his business is required. Monsieur will dine as usual.'
"And up comes dinner, with three or four courses, cooked to perfection. For myself, I would rather snatch a few mouthfuls and go up on deck again; but this would hurt Leon's feelings if he saw it, and he might even consider that he must seek another employer, for that his talents were wasted upon me; so I go through it all with exemplary patience. I would not lose him for anything, not only because I own I like good food, but the Trois Freres has such a reputation for good living that, if I am in port, passengers will wait for days to sail with me, instead of going by other craft.
"And then, too, I have no trouble with my crew, and it is rarely, indeed, that I change one of my hands; for although their meals are of course much simpler than mine, they are all perfect in their way.
"It takes a great deal of trouble off my hands, too. Instead of my having a dozen little accounts to go into, at every port we enter, I allow him a certain sum and he manages on that--so much a day for my own table, so much for each passenger, and so much for the crew. How he does it, I don't know. I find that it is cheaper than it used to be, before his time; and yet I have all sorts of dainties I never dreamt of, then.
"I say to him sometimes, 'Leon, you must be ruining yourself;' but he smiles and says, 'I am well content, captain; if you are satisfied, I am so.'
"He buys the fish off the boats as they come in, and I can understand that he gets them far more cheaply than if he waited till they were hawked in the streets. He is great at omelets and, when he has a chance, he is ashore before the countrywomen come into the market; and will buy the whole stock of eggs, a pound or two of butter, and three or four couples of fowls from one woman, who is glad to sell cheaply and so be free to return home at once. At Bordeaux he lays in a stock of snipe and other birds from the sand hills and marshes, oysters, and other such matters. He is a great favourite with the crew and, in cold weather or stormy nights, there is always hot soup ready for them.
"He has only one fault. As a rule, the cooks are expected to help get up the anchor and sails, but he will not put a hand to sailors' work. He says that a cook must not have a rough hand, but that it should be as soft as a woman's. Personally, I believe that is all nonsense. However, as we have a fairly strong crew, I do not press him on the subject; though sometimes, when I tail on to a rope myself, and see him leaning quietly against his galley smoking his pipe, I am inclined to use strong language."
"I don't think that is much to put up with, captain," Patsey said with a smile, "if he always cooks for you such breakfasts and dinners as we have had today; and I do think that there is, perhaps, something in what he says about rough hands."
"Well, I feel that myself," he said. "Still, it is a little aggravating, when everyone else is working hard, to see a man calmly smoking, and never raising a finger to help."
The next day they kept very close inshore. More than once a white sail was seen in the distance, which the captain pronounced, from its cut, to belong to a British cruiser.
"The weather is fine, you see, and the wind is steady, so they are coming rather farther into the bay than usual. We shall see more of them, as soon as we are round that cape ahead, for they keep a very sharp lookout off Cherbourg."
It was not, however, until they had rounded Ushant that any British vessel came near enough to cause them uneasiness. There were two large frigates cruising backwards and forwards off Brest, and a brig-of-war came within shot, as they were doubling Penmarch Point.
"There is plenty of water for her, here," the skipper said. "However, she will hardly catch us, before we are under shelter of the batteries of Quimper."
"I should have thought that she would hardly think you worth the trouble of chasing."
"It may be that they think we are carrying fresh meat from Saint Malo to Nantes. There is a good deal of trade that way, this time of year, when meat will keep good for a week. Or it may be that they want to get news of what ships there are in Brest. However, it is certain that he is in earnest; he is politely requesting us to lower our sails."
He laughed as a puff of white smoke broke out from the brig and, a second or two later, a ball dashed up the water fifty yards ahead of them. The emotions with which Patsey and Leigh watched the brig differed much from those of the captain. They would gladly have seen the lugger overhauled and captured, but they soon saw that there was little chance of this. The lugger was a fast boat, the wind just suited her, and the brig fell farther and farther astern until, as the former entered the bay of Quimper and laid her course north, the brig hauled her wind and turned to rejoin the vessels off Brest.
Keeping close to the land, they passed L'Orient and Quiberon and Vannes without stopping, and did not drop anchor again until they entered the bay on the eastern side of the island of Noirmoutier. The next day they passed out through the narrow channel of Froment, and had gone between the island and the mainland, for a distance of two miles, when they saw a large brig making in towards the shore.
"Another of those cruisers," the captain exclaimed. "This is more serious, for there is no bay we can run into, and the fellow is bringing the wind down with him. Our only chance is to anchor under the guns of Saint Jean des Montes; we shall be lucky if we get there in time."
The brig came up fast, and was within a mile when the lugger caught the wind; then running along rapidly she held her own until off Saint Jean, when she ran in as close as her draught would permit, and anchored. Two French privateers were already lying in there, one having dropped anchor only a few minutes before the Trois Freres arrived.
"I expect it was that fellow that the brig was in chase of, and I am not by any means sure that we have done with her, yet. They are as likely as not to try to cut out one, if not both, of these privateers. Of course it would look like madness, with the guns of that battery on the height protecting them, but they have done such things so often that one can never say that one is altogether safe from them."
The brig stood in until two or three guns in the battery opened fire, when she turned and made out to sea again.
"That means nothing," the captain said. "Of course she would not attack in daylight. I dare say she will sail pretty nearly out of sight, so as to make the privateers believe that she had no intention of meddling with them. If I was sure that was her game, I would get up sail again, as soon as it is dark, and make for Oleron; but it is likely enough that she may think that that is just what the privateers will do, and will sail in that direction herself, so as to cut them off before they get there, and force them to fight without the protection of a shore battery.
"There is the bell for breakfast! Leon would not be two minutes late, if there was an action going on close to us."
Half an hour later they went on deck again.
"At any rate, the sea has saved us the trouble of discussing the matter," the captain said. "We are aground. The tide turned just before we got here. It is now half past twelve, and we shall not be afloat again for nearly twelve hours.
"Well, there is one thing: if they are thinking of trying to cut out the privateers, they are not likely to do it before two or three o'clock in the morning. As soon as we float I shall haul out, a cable's length or two, so as to ensure our being able to get off; and if they do attack, I shall get up my sails at once, and run south. They will be too much occupied to give us a thought. Whereas if I stay here, and they capture the privateers, they might take it into their heads to come on board and set fire to the lugger; which, as I am part owner, would be a very serious matter to me."
It was apparent that the privateers had no thought of the brig returning, at any rate at present, as boats went backwards and forwards between them and the shore.
"What do you think, Leigh?" his sister asked quietly, as they were sitting alone together.
"I do not know in the least," he said. "Our best chance is that the two Frenchmen seem to be so confident that they are safe under the guns of the fort, that they will take no very great precautions. One of them mounts eight guns, the other ten, and they ought to be a match for the brig, even without the forts; for we could see, by her ports, that she only carries sixteen guns. However, I think myself that she will very likely have a try at them. It will be a very dark night, for the sky is overcast and there is no moon."
It was between ten and eleven when, just as they were about to turn in, the captain ran in.
"Quick, madame, you must hurry on your clothes! I heard a sound just now that could only be made by a boat. As we are still aground, I shall bring a boat alongside and land. There is nothing like being on the safe side!"
The two privateers were lying a quarter of a mile farther out, and there were still lights burning on board them.
"The fools!" the captain growled, as Leigh and his sister came on deck; Leigh carrying little Louis, who had been put to bed fully dressed. Indeed, no time had been lost, for his mother and Leigh had agreed that it would be better to lie down in their clothes, in case of an alarm being given.
"The fools!" the captain repeated. "If they had extinguished every light, as they ought to have done, the boats would have had difficulty in finding them. Now, they could not miss them if they tried.
"Now, madame, will you please take your place in the boat with me? I am sure that there are boats coming along. Of course the oars are muffled, and there is enough sea on to prevent us hearing the splash. I think the noise I heard was caused by one of the stretchers giving way."
Reluctantly Patsey and Leigh took their places in the boat. Just as they reached the shore, a shout was heard on board one of the privateers and, a moment later, came the sound of a British cheer. It was followed by a hubbub of shouts, then muskets flashed out from the decks, and almost immediately came the sounds of conflict. A blue light was struck on the deck of one of the privateers and, by its light, those on shore could obtain a view of the conflict. The boats had boarded from the shore side. Two of them lay alongside each of the privateers, and the crews could be seen climbing up by the chains and leaping down upon the decks.
"They deserve to be taken," the captain said. "They have not even triced up their boarding nets."
A confused medley of sounds came to the shore; with the shouts of the French sailors were mingled the clash of cutlasses and the crack of pistols. The British sailors fought, for the most part, silently. On the heights above, blue lights were burning in the battery, and men could be seen standing on its crest watching the combat below, but powerless to assist their friends.
It was but five minutes after the outbreak of the combat when a loud British cheer, followed by a dead silence, showed that one, at least, of the privateers had been captured. The fighting still continued on the deck of the other craft but, from the vessel that had been captured, a number of sailors leapt down into one of their boats, and rowed to the assistance of their comrades. The reinforcements apparently decided the issue of the fight, for in a couple of minutes the British cheer was again heard, and the blue light was promptly extinguished, as were all the other lights on both vessels. Scarcely was this done when the guns from the battery boomed out.
"It is of no use their firing," the captain said. "I don't think they can depress the guns enough to bear upon them.
"There, they are making sail!" he went on, as the creaking of blocks was heard. "Of course they have cut the cables. They would not waste time in getting up anchors, with the forts playing upon them. However, it is mere waste of powder and shot on such a night as this. I don't suppose the gunners can make them out, now; for a certainty they won't be able to do so, as soon as they have moved off another quarter of a mile. Of course a stray shot may hit them, but practically it is all over.
"I think that we can go on board again. I did not think of it before, but they would hardly set fire to us, for the light would enable the gunners to see them till they were a long way out.
"There is no doubt those Englishmen can fight. Our men are all right when they are under sail, and it is a question of exchanging broadsides, but the success of so many of their cutting out expeditions shows that, somehow or other, we lose heart when we are boarded. We must have had nearly twice as many men as there were in those four boats, and yet it seemed to be a certainty, as soon as the English got among them.
"Our craft had much better have sailed out together when the brig came in this morning, and fought her fairly. They ought to have been more than a match for her. No doubt they would have done so if they had thought that they would be attacked tonight; but they relied upon the battery, and allowed themselves to be taken completely by surprise.
"I could see, even from this distance, that most of them were fighting in their shirts; and I expect that they were sound asleep when the attack began, and men roused in that sudden way can never be relied upon to do their duty as they would do, if prepared to meet it."
The party were soon on board the lugger again. Just as daylight was breaking there was a trampling of feet on the deck, and Leigh, going up, found that sail was being hoisted. Keeping close to the shore they ran down, without putting in anywhere, to La Rochelle. Here they waited for a day and then, keeping inside the Isle of Oleron, entered the Gironde and, the next day, anchored in the Garonne, off the quays of Bordeaux.
After thanking the captain very heartily for his kindness during the passage, they landed, showed their papers to an official on the quay, and then, being unhampered by luggage, walked quietly away. As there was nothing particularly noticeable in their appearance, they attracted no attention whatever. It was five o'clock when they landed, and already becoming dusk. They waited until it was quite dark and then, having inquired for the house of Monsieur Flambard, the merchant to whom Jean had assigned the Henriette, they knocked at his door.
It was a handsome house, not far from the quays. The lower portion was evidently occupied by the offices. As a servant opened the door, Leigh, seeing that his sister hesitated to speak, inquired if Monsieur Flambard was at home.
"He is," the man said shortly, "but he does not see people on business after the office is closed."
Leigh saw that his dress, as a sailor, did not impress the man.
"I think he will see us," he said, "if you take the name up to him. Will you tell him that Citoyenne Martin wishes to speak to him."
A minute later the merchant himself, a handsome man of about the same age as Jean Martin, came down.
"Ah! madame, I am glad indeed to see you," he said; for he had more than once been up to Nantes, during the time she was living there, and had been frequently at the house. "I have been in great anxiety about you."
"Has Jean been here?" she asked, in a tone of intense anxiety.
"No, madame, I have heard nothing of him for many months; not, indeed, since his lugger first came down here, with his letter and the deed of her sale to myself. Did you expect to find him here?"
"I hoped so, although there was no arrangement between us to meet here. Still, I thought that he would have made his way down here, if possible, as he would then be able to escape in the lugger."
"He may have found it more difficult than he thought," Monsieur Flambard said, soothingly. "But do not let us be standing here. Pray, come up. My wife will be glad to welcome you, for she has often heard me speak of Martin's English wife."
Leigh had been standing behind Patsey while they spoke but, as the merchant closed the door, his eye fell upon him.
"Ah, monsieur, now I recognize you. You are Monsieur Leigh Stansfield, the brother of madame. I welcome you also, cordially."
So saying, he led the way upstairs.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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17
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: A Grave Risk.
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Nothing could be kinder than the reception of the fugitives by Madame Flambard. She had heard so much of Patsey, she said, from her husband, to whom she had been married six months before, that she had quite shared his anxiety about the fate of Jean Martin, who had more than once been mentioned as being one of the leaders of the Vendeans. She soon went off with Patsey to put the child to bed and, while they were away, Monsieur Flambard took Leigh into his smoking room.
"Before," he said, "I ask you anything about your adventures, I must explain to you the state of things here. Until November last Bordeaux, and indeed the whole of the Gironde, was moderate. All our deputies--who have now, as perhaps you know, either fallen on the scaffold or been hunted down like wild beasts--belonged to that party. They were earnest reformers, and were prominent among the leaders of the Revolution. They went with the stream, up to a certain point. They voted for most of the sanguinary decrees, although in time they strove to mitigate the horrors inflicted by the extreme party; but after a long conflict the latter, supported by the mob of Paris, obtained the ascendency, and the Girondists underwent the same fate that had befallen so many others. For myself, I cannot pity them. They were all men of standing and of intelligence but, without perceiving the terrible results that must follow, they unchained the mob and became its victims.
"Up to that time there had been but few executions here, and the power remained in the hands of the moderate party. Two months since, however, there was a local insurrection. The party of the terror suddenly rose, seized the members of the council, and threw them into prison. Other prominent citizens were seized, and the guillotine began its bloody work in earnest. Since that time every citizen of position or standing lives in momentary danger of arrest. Not a day passes, but a dozen or so are seized and dragged off. I grant that, at present, there is nothing like the wholesale butchery that goes on at Nantes under that fiend Carrier; it is only those who have wealth and property that are seized. Not only in this town, but in the whole department, the agents of those who assumed power are busy. It is the Gironde, and therefore hateful to the party of Robespierre; and the proprietors of the land, who have hitherto been left unmolested, are being brought in daily.
"The trial is of course a mere farce. The prisoners are murdered, not because they are moderates, but because they are rich; and their wealth is divided among the members of the council, and the mob who support them. So far I have been unmolested. I have never taken any part in politics, business being sufficient to occupy all my time. Another thing is that I employ a considerable number of men, in addition to the crews of some ten vessels which belong to me. I believe that I am popular generally on the wharves, and it is the knowledge that my arrest might promote a tumult, and might reverse the present order of things, that has led to my being left alone so far.
"Fortunately my servant, who let you in, has been in the family for the past five-and-thirty years, and is devoted to me. Had it been otherwise the position would have been a dangerous one. A report to the council that a young man in the attire of a sailor, accompanied by a lady and child, had arrived, and been at once received, would suffice to set them in motion. I should be accused of having a suspect, probably one of the emigres hidden here, and it would be difficult for me to explain your reception. You must, in the first place, attire yourself in clothes such as are worn by the mate of a privateer. I suppose you have papers, or you would not have been permitted to land."
Leigh took out the passes and handed them to him. Monsieur Flambard glanced through them.
"You must have managed well to have got hold of these passes, and they certainly put the matter on safer ground. However, I should find some difficulty in explaining how I came to show hospitality to two persons who, by a strangely roundabout course, had made their way from Arthenay. It is a little unfortunate that your sister kept her own name. Had it been otherwise, I might have said that her husband was captain of one of my ships. But he is unfortunately not unknown here. After Martin's flight from Nantes, a claim was made by the committee of public safety at Nantes for the Henriette. Fortunately your brother-in-law had dated his bill of sale to me a fortnight before he left. The trial took place here and, as in those days law and justice still prevailed in the civic courts, the decision was given in my favour.
"It was urged on the other side that the transaction was invalid, as Martin must have parted with his vessel knowing well that he was a traitor to the Republic, and that his property would be confiscated. However, we got the best of them. There was no proof whatever that Martin was conscious that he was suspected of being disaffected, and we claimed that he had only sold it as, having married, he had decided to give up the sea and to settle upon his estates in La Vendee. Of course, at that time La Vendee had not risen, and it was not a crime worthy of death to own an estate there. Still, the case attracted attention, and the fact that my guest was a Madame Martin might recall the circumstances, and at once awake a suspicion that she was the wife of one of those who had led the insurgents of La Vendee; in which case her life and yours would be certainly forfeited, and my receiving you would be regarded as amply sufficient evidence of my connection with the insurgents.
"Now, for our sakes, as well as yours, I think that it would be strongly advisable that you should take up your abode elsewhere. Believe me that it is no want of hospitality, but a measure of precaution, both for your sake and ours. Tomorrow morning I should have to send in a statement that two guests have arrived here, and it is therefore most desirable that you should move without delay. Fortunately the wives of two or three of my captains live here; one of these especially, an excellent woman, has a house much larger than she needs, and takes in lodgers, generally captains whose families do not reside here, when their ships are in port. Therefore the fact that a sailor, with a sister and her child, have taken rooms there will excite no suspicion, whatever. She will, as a matter of course, send in your name to the police of the town, together with your passes. They will be marked and returned without, probably, being glanced at."
"I think that that will be an excellent arrangement, sir," Leigh said, "and I quite see that our stay here might be awkward for you, as well as us."
"I will at once go with you; that is, as soon as you have told your sister the reason why it will be better for you to establish yourselves elsewhere than here. I may tell you that I, myself, have been quietly making preparations for flight; but it is not all my captains whom I can trust. The Henriette, which I expect here shortly, has been delayed; but on her arrival I propose that we shall all cross the Channel together. I hear the ladies' voices in the next room. It were best that we got this painful business over, at once."
Madame Flambard was greatly distressed, when Leigh gave his sister an account of the conversation they had had, and the resolution at which they had arrived; but Patsey at once saw that it was most desirable that the change should be made, and assured her hostess that she fully recognized that their safety would be imperilled by staying at their house.
"It would be a cruel kindness, on your part, to insist upon our stopping here, Madame Flambard. We know that it is from no lack of hospitality that we are leaving, but that you are making a real sacrifice, in order to procure our safety.
"Shall I put on my things at once, monsieur?"
"By no means. I will go with your brother, first, to see if Madame Chopin has other lodgers. If so, I will go to the wife of one of my clerks, who also lets a portion of a house; or, if you would not mind poor accommodation, to another of the captains' wives as, in your brother's character of a sailor, it would be more natural for you to go to such a lodging, which may very well have been recommended to you by the skipper of the lugger in which you came here. When we have arranged things, we will return. It is but a quarter of an hour's walk, for the house stands near the river, above the bridge."
He at once set out with Leigh. On arriving at the house, they found that there were at present no lodgers there.
"This young sailor has brought a letter of recommendation to me, Madame Chopin. He has a married sister and her child with him, and I am sure that you will make them very comfortable, and can supply them with what they may require. They have just arrived by sea, from Havre; the length of their stay is uncertain. This young man is looking for a berth as mate, and shall have the first vacancy on one of my vessels. His sister may stop with you for some time, as she is hoping that her husband will return here, though he is so long overdue that I fear his ship has been either lost or captured by the English."
"I will do my best to make them both comfortable, Monsieur Flambard, and thank you for recommending them to me."
Leigh saw the rooms, which consisted of two bedrooms, and a third room which was similarly furnished; but Madame Chopin said that she would take down the bed and put some other furniture into it, so that they could use it as a sitting room.
"We should prefer that, madame; for my sister at times is greatly depressed, and we should prefer being alone."
"I can quite understand that," the woman said. "Well, you will not be troubled with society here, as I have only these three rooms to let so that, unless my husband comes home before you go, we shall be quite alone."
"I shall return with my sister in an hour's time," Leigh said; "that will not be too late for you?"
"No, monsieur, it is little past eight o'clock yet, and it will take me fully two hours to get everything straight and tidy."
"Very well, then, we will say ten o'clock," Monsieur Flambard said. "I will keep Monsieur Porson, as he has news to give me concerning the friend who recommended him to me."
On their return to the merchant's, they sat chatting for an hour over the adventures through which Leigh and his sister had passed, and the manner in which they were separated from Jean Martin.
"I think you have every reason to hope, madame," Monsieur Flambard said cheerfully. "Jean is not the sort of fellow to let himself be caught in a hole; and I expect that, when he found that he could not rejoin you, he at once struck north, either for Dunkirk or Calais, and has probably managed to be taken over in a fishing boat or a smuggler and, if he failed in doing so, he would probably make off in a boat single handed. I think that you have every reason to hope that you will find him at Poole, when you arrive there; but even should he not be there, there will be no reason for despair. He may have had difficulty in getting away. He may have been impressed for the naval service. At any rate, I have great faith that he will turn up, sooner or later. Certainly, when he has once managed to get a seafaring outfit, he will be safe from any fear of detection as one of the terrible Vendean insurgents."
At a quarter to ten little Louis was taken out of bed, wrapped up in a cloak, and carried by Leigh. Monsieur Flambard insisted on again accompanying them. The streets were now almost deserted, and they soon arrived at Madame Chopin's.
"I quite forgot to ask if you would want anything, before going to bed; but I can make you a cup of good coffee, if you would like it."
"Thank you, but we have eaten but an hour ago."
Saying goodnight to Monsieur Flambard, they went up to their rooms, their hostess leading with a candle. She had made the most of her time, since Leigh left the house. White curtains had been put up at the windows, and everything looked beautifully clean; and Patsey uttered an exclamation of pleasure when she entered the room.
"This does indeed look fresh and homelike," she said. "Thank you for taking so much trouble, madame."
The next morning Leigh procured a jacket and waistcoat, with brass buttons; and a cap with a gold band. He then sauntered along the wharves and went aboard the Trois Freres, and told the skipper that no news had been received of his sister's husband. It had been agreed that it was best that they should not go to Monsieur Flambard's house, but that the merchant should call at the lodging, after dark. When Leigh returned to the midday meal, he found that the papers had come back from the mairie, duly stamped and countersigned, and that as no one had been to the house to make inquiries, it was evident that no suspicion had been excited.
During the next four or five days Leigh went but little into the town, contenting himself with keeping near the wharves, watching the vessels loading or discharging cargo, and spending much of his time on board the Trois Freres. On the afternoon of the fifth day he saw a lugger approaching and as it came near, he made out, to his great delight, that it was the Henriette. As soon as she dropped anchor in the stream, her boat rowed to the wharves. Lefaux was sitting in the stern and, as soon as he landed, went off in the direction of Monsieur Flambard's office.
Leigh did not go near him. He thought that it would be better that the honest sailor should learn that he and his sister were there from the merchant, before he spoke to him; as any imprudent remark on the sailor's part might be caught up by one of the spies of the committee, and lead to trouble. As he expected, Monsieur Flambard came round with Lefaux, that evening.
"I am heartily glad to see you again, madame," he said, as Patsey shook him by the hand; "and you too, Monsieur Stansfield. I began to think that I never should do so, and I only wish that Monsieur Jean was here, too. Still, I feel confident that he has got safely away; trust a sailor for getting out of a scrape. You must have gone through a lot, madame, but you don't look any the worse for it."
"Except anxiety for my husband, I have gone through nothing to speak of. I had a horse to ride, and generally a shelter to sleep under, and for myself I had little to complain of; but it was terrible to see the sufferings of the peasant women and children, and of the many men broken down by sickness. And there was, too, the anxiety as to the safety of my husband and brother, in each battle that took place. But of hardship to myself there was very little."
"Well, madame, I hope that I shall soon have the pleasure of sailing into Poole again, with you and Monsieur Leigh on board; and also with my good master, Monsieur Flambard, and his wife."
"When will you be off again?" Patsey asked eagerly.
"That is what I have come to talk with you about, Madame Martin," Monsieur Flambard said. "I have pretty good information as to what passes, at the meetings of the wretches who call themselves the committee of public safety, and I hear that there will very shortly be a seizure of a number of prominent citizens, and my name has been mentioned. They are only hanging back until they can decide upon what shall be the pretext, since none of those named have taken any part in politics here. All those who have done so have been already seized. However, the blow may come at any moment.
"The Henriette has already begun to discharge her cargo. Fortunately, there is not much of it. The moment that she has finished she will drop down below the rest of the shipping, and be ready to start at any moment. If we find that the matter is not absolutely pressing, we will go quietly on board as soon as she is ready, and sail at once; as there will then be no fear of her being stopped.
"If, however, I find that the order for our arrest is on the point of being issued, I will send her down and let her lie beyond Fort Medoc and Blaye. If it were discovered that I was missing, a few hours after she had started, it would be suspected at once that I had gone in the Henriette. Mounted messengers would carry the news down to both forts, and the boat would be forced to heave to, as she passed between them.
"Therefore I shall have a light carriage, with two fast horses, kept in readiness a quarter of a mile outside the town; and a relay of horses fifteen miles on, which is about halfway, and join the ship below the forts. If, as may possibly happen, I am suddenly arrested in the streets, I shall have my servant near me. He will have his orders, which will be to hurry back home to tell his mistress to put on the disguise of a peasant woman, that has already been prepared for her, and to go with her at once to the carriage; and another man, whom I can also thoroughly trust, is to come here and say to you, 'It is a bad day.'
"Then you and your sister and the child will at once start to join my wife. She has most reluctantly consented to carry out this plan for, as I tell her, it will add to my sufferings a hundredfold, were she also to be arrested."
By dint of great exertions the Henriette was unloaded by the following evening and, half an hour after her last bale was ashore, she dropped down the river with the tide. She was to anchor off a small village, two miles beyond Fort Medoc; and if inquiry was made as to why she stopped there, Lefaux was to say that he was to take in some wine that Monsieur Flambard had bought from a large grower in that district, and that the lugger was then going to Charente to fill up with brandy for Havre.
Leigh had, the day before, gone with the merchant into the extensive cellars which adjoined the house.
"There is not a man here," Monsieur Flambard said, "who would not do all in his power for me. Some of them have been with the firm nearly all their lives. I treat them well, and I am happy to say that not one of them has taken any part in our last troubles. Indeed, I am told that is one of the matters that, if I am arrested, will be brought against me. It will be said that it was a proof of my enmity to the Convention that none of my people took the side of the patriots.
"However, it tells both ways. I have over forty men here. They have, of course, friends among the porters and others working on the wharves; and a disturbance might take place, were I arrested. However, the scoundrels have now got such absolute power that, no doubt, they feel that they could disregard any local rising and, indeed, with the plunder of my store before them, they could reckon on the devotion of the greater part of the mob of the town."
On the morning after the Henriette had sailed, the merchant took Leigh down to a little wayside inn, half a mile below the town, where he had placed his carriage and horses; and gave instructions to his coachman that he was to place himself under Leigh's orders.
"At whatever hour of the day or night he comes, you will start at once with him, and the lady and child who accompany him. You will know in that case that I am not coming, but have been arrested."
"But, master--" "It must be as I say, Pierre. Once I am arrested--and it is almost certain my wife would be arrested with me--nothing can be done to help, and it would be a great satisfaction to me to know that my friends have escaped. There will be in that case no need of extreme haste, for no one knows that they are in any way connected with me, and there will be no inquiries for them."
Leigh told Patsey that afternoon that, in the event of the Flambards being arrested, he might possibly, instead of coming himself, send a messenger to her; and that she must then start at once, and await his coming in front of the church, at the end of the street in which the merchant's house stood.
"You had better have a letter written to our landlady, inclosing the sum due to her and a week's rent in advance; and say that we are hastily called away to Blaye, but may return in a few days, and begging her to keep the rooms vacant for a week, for which you leave the money. You had better write the letter at once, so that if you get my message you can leave instantly. There is nothing like being prepared for everything. Of course the arrest of the Flambards would not really affect us in any way, or add to our danger; but if the coachman were to hear of it before we got there, he might disregard his master's orders, and return at once with the carriage."
Leigh had in his mind the very short notice that Desailles had had of his danger, and how narrowly he escaped being arrested, although he had a friend who kept him acquainted with what was going on. He thought that it was still more likely that the arrest of the Flambards would take place suddenly. It would probably be decided upon by two or three of the men, who were the leaders of the party of terror; and no word would get about as to their intentions until the arrest had been absolutely made, in which case the captives would be lodged in prison before the matter would be known, and all fear of an emeute be thereby prevented. He had therefore decided upon what was the best course to pursue, and posted himself in the street, where he could observe anyone who entered or left Flambard's house.
It was already getting dusk when he saw two commissaries of the committee, with six armed men, stop before the door and knock. It was opened. Two of the men remained outside, and the rest entered. He ran to the stores. The head cellarman had gone round the place with him and his master, and Leigh at once went to him.
"Lefranc," he said, "your master and mistress have just been arrested. Two commissaries and six armed men have gone into the house. There is time to save them yet. They have a carriage in waiting, a short distance away; and if we can overpower these men and tie them up, so that they cannot give the alarm until morning, Monsieur Flambard and his wife will get safely away. They have a vessel waiting for them in readiness, down the river."
"I am your man, sir, and every one here."
"Half a dozen will be enough. Pick out that number of strong fellows, whom you can rely upon. Let them all take off their aprons, and tear up this black silk handkerchief and, as we leave the cellar, let each man put a piece over his face, to act as a mask. There is a private door leading to the house, is there not?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, draw the men off quietly, so that the others shall not notice them; and tell them to go to that door, and to put on their masks there. Let each man take some weapon, but not a mallet, or anything used in the trade. Let them bring some stout rope with them."
The man nodded and hurried away, and Leigh went to the end of the stores abutting on the house, and stopped at the door he found there. In a minute the men began to arrive. They had, as he directed, thrown aside their leather aprons and put on blouses; so that they differed in no way, in appearance, from ordinary working men. One or two were armed with hammers, others with long knives. Each carried a piece of black handkerchief in his hand, long enough to go from the forehead down to the mouth. Leigh tied these on with strings, cutting holes with his knife through which they could see.
When the six men and the foreman had assembled, they entered the house. The old servant was standing in the hall, wringing his hands in distress.
"Where are they?" Leigh asked.
"In the master's study, sir. They are searching the drawers."
"Come on quietly," Leigh said to the men. "We must take them by surprise."
The door of the study was standing open, and lights burned within. Leigh had already instructed his followers to go at once for the armed men, and to knock them down before they had time to use their muskets. Going noiselessly up, they entered the door with a sudden rush.
The two commissaries were engaged in emptying the contents of the table drawers into a basket. The armed ruffians had leant their muskets against the wall, and had seated themselves in comfortable chairs. Flambard stood with his arm round his wife, looking disdainfully at the proceedings of the commissaries.
In a moment the scene changed. Before the men could even rise from their seats they were knocked down, bits of sacking thrust into their mouths, and their arms tied. Leigh had levelled one of the commissaries by a blow in the face, and the foreman had struck down the other with a hammer. These were also securely tied.
The Flambards stood, a picture of astonishment. The whole thing had passed so instantaneously that they could scarcely realize what had happened. When they did so, Madame Flambard, who had hitherto preserved her calmness, burst into tears; while her husband embraced Leigh with passionate gratitude.
"Now, monsieur," the latter said, "you had better collect at once any money and jewels you wish to take with you, while we are making sure of these ruffians.
"Now, my men," he went on, "take these fellows into different rooms; but first let me see that the ropes are securely tied; although, as sailors, you are not likely to make any mistake that way. Still, it is as well to be on the safe side."
He himself then examined the fastenings, and added a few more cords.
"Now, when you have got them into separate rooms, tie their feet to a heavy piece of furniture. Make a slipknot at the end of another rope, put the noose round the neck, and fasten the other end to another piece of furniture, that there may be no chance of their getting loose, till their friends come to their assistance."
He saw all this securely done. Then he said: "There is one more thing to see to. In time those fellows at the door will be getting impatient, and will begin to suspect that all is not right. We must get them inside, and then tie them up with the others. Stand back behind the door as they enter and, as I close it, throw yourselves upon them. One of you grip each of them by the throat, and another seize his musket and wrench it from him. The rest will be easy."
The men placed themselves as directed, and Leigh then opened the door and said: "You are to come in. They will take some little time over the papers, and there is plenty of good wine for you to amuse yourselves with."
With an exclamation of satisfaction, the two men entered.
"It is very dark in here," one said, as Leigh closed the door. "Why didn't you get a light?"
The words were scarcely spoken when there was a rush, a sudden exclamation, the sound of a short struggle, and then silence.
"Keep hold of them tightly, while I fetch a candle," Leigh said and, running upstairs, soon came down with the light.
The two guards were standing helpless in the hands of their captors, and gripped so tightly that they were unable to utter the least sound.
"Now, put the gags into their mouths and truss them up, as you did the others."
Leaving the men to carry out his orders, he ran upstairs again.
"Everything is arranged now," he said. "The whole of the fellows are bound, and the road is free for you. I should go out by the back way, for there is sure to be a little crowd in front of the house, attracted by the sight of the guard standing outside. I do not think that there is any extraordinary hurry, but in an hour or so, if either of the men who have ordered your arrest is waiting at the prison, he may get impatient, and send down to see what detains the party here.
"I am going, in the first place, to have the servants bound, so that they may not be suspected of having aided in this business. As soon as that is done, I shall hasten to my lodging and bring my sister and the child to the inn where you have your carriage. Of course, you will have the horses put in as soon as you get there. I shall not be very long behind you, as I shall take the first fiacre and drive down to that end of the town, and then discharge him. As I am not in any way associated with you, even if inquiries are made, our movements will throw no light upon yours."
The conversation took place in the bedroom where Madame Flambard was, with her husband, packing up a few necessaries.
"As we go downstairs," he went on, "I shall make some remark about our going straight on board. That will put them on the wrong scent, and they will waste a lot of time searching all the craft in the river. I do it principally because I want them to believe that you have been rescued by a party of sailors. You heard me say that, as sailors, they would be accustomed to tie the knots tightly; and of course my uniform will help to lead them astray. The men with me were really some of your cellarmen, under Lefranc."
"We shall be ready in three minutes. Fortunately we have not much beyond my wife's jewels that we want to save. Like your wife's brother, I have already made provision in England for this."
"I will be off as soon as I see the servants tied up."
He ran downstairs again. The two men and the maids willingly suffered themselves to be tied up, when Leigh explained to them the reasons for which it was done.
"Mind," he said, "if questioned, you say you believe that the men who rushed in and fastened you up were sailors."
Before the work was done Monsieur Flambard came down and, standing at the door which communicated with the cellars, shook hands with his rescuers as they went out; and thanked them most heartily, in the name of himself as well as his wife, for the service that they had rendered. The men, before they passed through the door, took off their masks. It had already been arranged that they should at once scatter, and return quietly to the places where they had been at work, and in so large a place it was not likely that their absence had been noticed, as it would be supposed that they had gone to another part of the cellar, and it was not above twenty minutes since they had left it.
As soon as they had gone out, the door was locked on the inside. Leigh and the Flambards went out at the back entrance into another street, and there separated, Leigh hurrying back to his lodgings. Madame Chopin opened the door.
"Madame," he said, "I have good news for my sister. I hope that we shall be able to obtain news of her husband at Blaye; for he may, if my information is correct, have sailed up the Dordogne, and we may catch him as he comes down again. If my information is not correct, we shall return here. I will therefore, if you will allow me, pay you our reckoning at once, and also the rent of the rooms for another week; so that if we return, we may find them unoccupied."
"But you are not going to start this evening, surely, monsieur?"
"Yes; I have arranged for a passage on a boat that is on the point of starting, and have not a moment to lose."
He ran upstairs to Patsey.
"They have gone on to the carriage," he said. "Put on Louis's things and your own. I will tell you all about it, as we go."
He then went down again and settled up with his landlady, who was profuse in her exclamations of regret at their departure. In a couple of minutes Patsey came down. She had the letter that she had written in her hand. Leigh took it from her.
"I have already settled up with our kind hostess," he said. "Say goodbye, dear, at once, or the boat may be starting without us."
A minute later they were out of the house. Leigh carried Louis, and led the way to a spot near, where two or three fiacres were always standing. He took the first, and told the driver to put them down in a street at the lower end of the town, the name of which he had noticed when he went with Monsieur Flambard to the inn where the carriage was standing.
When he got to the end of the street he told the driver to stop, saying that he was not sure of the number. Paying the man his fare, they walked slowly down the street until the fiacre had driven off; and then, returning, took the road leading into the country.
Ten minutes' walking brought them close to the little inn. They met the carriage coming along slowly, three hundred yards before they arrived there. It stopped at once.
"You are here sooner than I expected, madame," Monsieur Flambard said, as he alighted and helped Patsey.
As she took her place by the side of Madame Flambard, the latter threw her arms round her neck.
"Thank God this awful time is over!" she said. "It is to your brother we owe it that we are not, both, now in that terrible prison.
"Leigh is good at breaking prison," Patsey said. "He rescued me from the gaol at Nantes."
By this time her husband and Leigh had taken their places. Louis, still soundly asleep, was transferred to his mother's lap; and the carriage, turning, went back at the full speed of the horses.
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"Why did you come down the road?" Leigh asked Monsieur Flambard, as the carriage flew past the little inn. "We had not arranged for that, and in the dark we might have passed it without knowing that it was yours."
"We were on the lookout for you, and had no fear of missing you. I decided to drive back to the town as we went out. I believe the innkeeper to be an honest fellow, and he has been one of our customers for a number of years; but I thought it just as well to throw dust in his eyes. Therefore, as I got into the carriage, I said in his hearing: "'Don't go through the main streets of the town, but drive round and strike the road beyond it. Keep on to Langon. We shall stop there tonight.'
"We drove off fast, and only broke into a walk just before you met us. The innkeeper would have gone into the house again, before we met; and as I noticed that the shutters were up, he certainly would not have supposed that the vehicle which passed was our carriage, coming back again.
"Well, thank God we are all safe and together! In three hours we shall be at the village. Lefaux was to keep a boat ashore, and to be himself at the inn. There is only one in the village."
The road was a good one, and the horses fast, and in less than an hour and a half they reached the spot where the relay of horses had been stationed. Five minutes sufficed to make the change and, in a little under three hours after starting, they arrived at the village two miles below Fort Medoc. They stopped at the first house.
"Now, Gregoire," Monsieur Flambard said, as they alighted, "here are five louis for yourself. You had better drive back to the place where we changed horses, and put up there for the night. Tomorrow you can go quietly back to Bordeaux. Don't get there until late in the afternoon. Return the carriage and the other two horses to the stables where you hired them, and take my two horses back to our stables.
"You are sure to be questioned, and can tell them the truth. Say that you acted by my orders, and had no idea of the reason for which I had hired the carriage and the extra horses; that you knew that I often made flying visits to the vineyards, and you thought I wanted to see some proprietor of Medoc, on business, and to return as quickly as possible; and were much surprised when you saw that madame went with me. Do not say anything about our picking up my friends on the road."
"I understand, monsieur, and I will stick to that story. God bless you, sir, and you, madame; and I trust that, before long, you will be back again with us."
"I hope so, Gregoire, but I fear it will not be for some time to come."
They now walked forward, Leigh hurrying on in front until he came to the little village inn. It was already closed but, on his knocking violently at the door, a window above was opened.
"What are you making such a noise for, at this time of night?"
"I have come to call Captain Lefaux," he said. "A messenger has just brought an order, from Bordeaux, that he is to get up anchor at daylight."
"I will call him," the landlord said, and in three minutes Lefaux came out.
"We are all here, Lefaux," Leigh said, "and we want to go on board and get up anchor at once, and to be as far down the river as we can, before daylight."
"The saints be praised that you have all escaped, Monsieur Stansfield! We will lose no time. I have two men sleeping in a cottage, close to where the boat is made fast. They sleep on the ground floor, and I can tap at the window and get them out. I told them to turn in as they stood, as they might be wanted at any moment."
The others had now come up, and together they went down to the boat. The tide had turned about an hour before, and the boat was afloat.
"Now, I will fetch the men out," the skipper said, and in five minutes he came down with them.
They untied the head rope of the boat, from the stump to which it was fastened, and hauled it in.
"That is the lugger, I suppose?" Leigh said, pointing to a dark object, a hundred yards from the shore.
"That is her, sir, and it won't take us long to get under weigh. Everything is ready for hoisting sail."
They rowed off to the Henriette, and Leigh could hardly restrain a shout of joy at finding himself once again on board her. The crew had been unchanged since they left Nantes and, tumbling up on deck as they heard the boat coming off, greeted Leigh most heartily; and respectfully saluted Patsey and their owner. They would have broken into cheers, had not their skipper sharply silenced them.
"It will be time enough to cheer when we reach the open sea, lads," he said; "and we will do so more heartily still, when we land Madame Martin, Monsieur Leigh, and the owner and his wife either on English ground, or the deck of an English ship."
"You mistake, captain," Monsieur Flambard said. "As you know, the lugger was only passed over to me by Monsieur Martin to escape confiscation. There is no longer any need that I should appear as owner; and in fact Madame Martin, as representative of her husband, is the owner of the Henriette, and I and my wife are passengers on board her."
"I hope that you will find it all right below, madame," Captain Lefaux said. "Captain Martin's cabin--we have always called it so--is ready for you and Madame Flambard. Monsieur will take the spare cabin, and Monsieur Leigh mine."
"I will sleep on one of the sofas in the saloon, captain. I should not feel comfortable if I turned you out; and besides, I like being able to pop quietly on deck, whenever I feel inclined: so that is settled."
"Now we will have a tumbler of hot brandy and water," the captain said. "You have had a cold drive.
"What will you take, ladies?"
Both declared that they wanted nothing but to get to bed, and they at once retired to the after cabin with little Louis, who had slept without waking, ever since he had been lifted from his bed at Bordeaux. The captain had given orders, as soon as he came on board, to have the sails hoisted and, as Monsieur Flambard and Leigh sipped their grog, they had the satisfaction of hearing the water rippling past; and of feeling, by the heel of the boat, that there was sufficient wind to send them along at a good rate.
"What is she making, captain?" Leigh asked, as he went up to take a last look round.
"About five knots, but the wind is getting up. There was scarcely a breath when I turned in, at ten o'clock."
"How far do you call it to the mouth of the river?"
"It is about forty miles to the tower of Cordouan. Once past that, we reckon we are at sea."
"Eight hours going, at five knots. It is nearly twelve now. It will be daylight when we get there."
"I hope that we shall be there before that, sir. You have not allowed for the tide, nor for the wind increasing. I reckon we shall be there by six, and day does not begin to break till an hour later.
"I want to get past without being seen. There are always a couple of gunboats lying there. I fancy that they know us pretty well by this time, but sometimes as we go out they make us lie to, and come on board to see that we are not taking off suspected persons, and that any passengers we have tally with those on the manifest. If they should take it into their heads to do that in the morning, it would be awkward; and I am anxious to get past without being seen. Once out of gunshot I do not mind. I fancy that we can show our heels to either of the gunboats."
Leigh and Monsieur Flambard turned in. The latter slept soundly, but Leigh went frequently on deck.
"She is doing well," the captain said gleefully, "she is going fully seven knots an hour. You see, Master Leigh, I still keep to Captain Martin's terms, and count by knots instead of by leagues. The tide is giving us another two knots. I reckon that, at the rate we are going, we shall keep it pretty nearly down to the mouth of the river. Seven and two are nine, and as I have just been looking up the chart, and as I find that it is but thirty-seven from the village where we started, we shall do it in five hours at the outside.
"The river is wide at the mouth, and by heading south directly we get there, and running so for a couple of miles before we put straight out to sea, there will be no chance whatever of our being seen. Once away, we shall of course lay a course inside the islands till we are off Finisterre; then we can either strike out into the Channel, or coast along as far as Cape la Hague, and thence sail straight for Poole. But there is no occasion to discuss that, at present."
Satisfied with the assurance of the captain, Leigh turned in again at two o'clock, and this time slept soundly. When he awoke the motion of the vessel told him he was at sea, and he saw that it was broad daylight. Leaping off the sofa, he saw by his watch that it was eight o'clock, and he was speedily on deck. The mate was in charge.
"The captain turned in half an hour ago, sir. Do you wish him to be called?"
"Certainly not. Where are we now?"
"We are just passing between the island of Oleron and the mainland."
"Oh, yes, I see. When I came down, of course we saw it from the other way; and I did not recognize it, at first. So we managed to get past Cordouan without being seen?"
"Yes, we rounded the south point of the river before six o'clock, laid her head southwest for an hour and, just as it became light, changed our course north and passed three miles to seaward of the tower. They doubtless supposed that we were coming up from Bayonne. At any rate, they paid no attention to us."
"The wind is blowing pretty strongly."
"Yes, sir, we should have had a rough tumble of sea if it had been from the west, and should have had to lie up under shelter of the island; but as it is blowing right off shore, it is just about the right strength for us, and we shall make a quick run of it if it holds.
"I hear there is no news of Captain Martin, monsieur?"
"No, I am sorry to say there is not; but I have every hope that we shall find he has got to Poole before us."
"We are all hoping that nothing has happened to him. Of course, we heard that he was fighting in La Vendee and, as every one of us comes from one port or another there, we only wished that we had been with him."
"You were well out of it, Edouard. It was a terrible business. No one could have fought better than your people did, but they had all France against them; and few, indeed, of those who were engaged from the first can ever have returned to their homes. And even when they get there there can be no safety for them, for Carrier and his commissioners seem to be determined to annihilate the Vendeans altogether."
The mate indulged in many strong expressions as to the future fate of Carrier and his underlings.
"We heard of that attack on the jail, Master Leigh. I guessed that you were in that, for among the prisoners who were delivered the names of Monsieur Martin and Madame Jean Martin were mentioned."
"Yes, Captain Martin and I were in the thick of it. There was very little fighting to do, for we chose a time when the troops were all busy with Cathelineau's and Stofflet's attack; and we had really only to open the door of the prison, to get them out."
"The captain has been telling us that Monsieur Flambard was also in danger of arrest. It is atrocious. Everyone knows that he is a good master, and I never heard a word said against him."
"That has very little to do with it," Leigh said. "His crime was that he was rich, and the scoundrels wanted his money. They did arrest him, but he was rescued before they got him out of his house, and fortunately everything had been prepared for his flight. At the present moment they are searching high and low for him, and I expect that no craft there will be permitted to leave till she has been thoroughly ransacked, to make sure that he and madame are not hiding there."
"Ah, they are bad times, monsieur. It may be that things were not quite as they might have been, though for my part I never saw anything to grumble at; nor did any other Vendean, as far as I ever heard; but if things had been ten times as bad as they were, they would have been better than what is going on now.
"Why, monsieur, all Europe must think that we Frenchmen are devils. They say that more than a hundred thousand people have been put to death, not counting the loss in La Vendee."
"Which must be quite as much more, Edouard; and it is no consolation to know that the loss of the Blues must have been fully equal to ours."
"How is it to end, monsieur?"
"I think that the first part will end soon. As far as I could find out as we travelled through the country, and in Paris, even the mob are getting sick of this terrible bloodshed. That feeling will get stronger, until finally I believe that Robespierre and his gang will be overturned. What will come after that, I don't know. One may hope that some strong man will rise, drive out the Convention, and establish a fixed government. After that, I should say that no one can guess what will follow."
"There is one consolation, monsieur. No change can be for the worse."
"That is absolutely certain."
He went to the galley.
"Well, cook, when are you going to let us have some breakfast? I am famishing, for I have eaten nothing since twelve o'clock yesterday."
"It will be ready in twenty minutes, monsieur. I was just going to ask you if you would call the ladies, or whether you will take the cafe au lait and eggs to their door."
"I will go and ask them."
He went and knocked at the cabin door.
"Patsey, cafe au lait will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you and Madame Flambard take it in your cabin, or come into the saloon?"
"I am just dressed, and shall be up on deck with Louis in two or three minutes. Madame Flambard will not get up. It is her first voyage, and she will not take anything to eat."
He was just going to knock at the merchant's door, when there was a shout from within: "I have heard what you are saying, and shall be dressed in ten minutes."
Patsey was soon on deck.
"This is splendid, Leigh! And now that we have got away so wonderfully, I feel more hopeful than I have done before that Jean, also, will have made his escape.
"Well, Louis, what do you think of this? You had better keep hold of your uncle's hand, as well as mine, or you may get a nasty tumble."
"Nasty, bad ship, mama?"
"It is because the wind is blowing hard, and the sea is rough. We had smooth water on our last voyage, you know."
"Louis not like him," he said positively; "very bad ship."
"You will be all right, if you keep hold of your uncle's hand. He will walk up and down with you."
"This is good, indeed," Monsieur Flambard said. "If we go on as well as we have begun, we shall have nothing to grumble at."
The voyage to Ushant was accomplished without any adventure. The lugger was so evidently French that two or three privateers, who passed close by, paid no attention to them; and although they saw the sails of more than one British cruiser, they either escaped observation or were considered too insignificant to be chased.
On the voyage they had agreed that, when they came to Ushant, they would be guided by the wind. If it continued to blow as it had done, from the east, it would be a great loss of time to beat in to Saint Malo, and they would be within sight of England long before they could make in there.
As the wind was unchanged, they therefore laid their course from Ushant for the Isle of Wight. Before they had been many hours out they saw an English brig of war, making toward them. They did not attempt to escape, but slightly changed their course so as to head for her.
As the brig approached, they lowered their mainsail. The brig was thrown up into the wind, a couple of lengths away.
"Send your boat on board!" the captain of the brig shouted.
They had indeed already got the boat over the side.
"You may as well come with me," Leigh said, as he stepped into her. "Monsieur Flambard will take care of Louis while you are away."
Seeing that there was a woman in the boat, the brig lowered its accommodation ladder, and the captain was standing at the gangway.
"We are English, sir," Leigh said. "The lugger is owned by my sister's husband, if he is alive. If not, I suppose it belongs to her. We are escaping from France, with two French friends. My brother-in-law was a Vendean, and has fought through the war. We were with him until, at the attack on Le Mans, we were separated. We hope to meet him at Poole. The vessel traded between that port and Nantes until the war broke out. Some members of the family are already established there, and our father is a magistrate, living within a couple of miles of the town."
"I am sorry, madam, that I cannot offer you a passage; but I must not leave my cruising ground."
"Thank you, sir. We are doing very well in the lugger. We intend to register her as a British vessel; and the crew, who are all Vendeans, will probably remain in our service until things settle down in France."
"And were you through the war too, madam?" the captain asked Patsey.
"Not through the whole of it," she replied. "Our chateau was burned down by the Republicans, and I was carried to the prison at Nantes; and should have been guillotined had not my husband and brother rescued me, when the Vendeans were attacking the town. I remained at the farmhouse, until the Vendeans could no longer maintain themselves in La Vendee and crossed the Loire; then I accompanied my husband."
"Well, madam, I congratulate you heartily on your escape. We heard terrible tales, in England, of what is going on in France."
"However terrible they are, they can hardly give you an idea of the truth. At Nantes, for instance, the guillotine is too slow; and hundreds of men, women, and children are put into boats, which are sunk in the middle of the river. It is too horrible to think of."
"Is there anything that I can do for you, madam? Anything in the way of provisions with which we can supply you?"
"No, thank you, we have everything that we can want."
"Then I will detain you no further," he said, "and can only wish you a pleasant voyage. I see, by the course you are steering, that you are making for the Isle of Wight. You ought to be there tomorrow afternoon."
The boat returned to the lugger, the sails were filled again and, at four next afternoon, the Henriette passed Handfast Point, and headed for the entrance to Poole harbour. As the distance from home lessened, Patsey's excitement increased hourly. She could not sit down for a minute, quietly, but walked restlessly up and down the deck. She had scarcely spoken when Leigh said, after a long look through the telescope: "I can make out the house on the hill, quite plainly, Patsey."
At any other time Patsey, who dearly loved their old home, would have shown the liveliest interest; but just then her thoughts were all of Jean, and she could spare none for anything else.
"They must have made us out, by this time," she said, as they passed Durleston.
"I should think so, but I don't suppose they watch as we used to do in the old days. The revenue men up there--" and he nodded up the cliff "--must of course see that we are French; and if there are any of them who were here, three or four years ago, no doubt they know us again, and must be wondering what brings us here."
They had scarcely passed Durleston when Patsey sprang on to the rail, holding fast by the shrouds, and gazed intently at the narrow entrance of the channel, between the island and the mainland.
"There is a boat coming out," she exclaimed.
"The coast guard are sure to have launched their boat, as soon as they made us out. They would naturally come out to inquire what a French lugger is doing here."
He went forward with his telescope, and took a long look at the boat.
"Yes, it is the coast guard, rowing six oars."
In a minute or two he went back to his sister.
"Do get down, Patsey," he urged. "Of course they may have news of Jean, but you must not be disappointed, too much, if they have not. You know that we have agreed, all along, that very likely we shall be the first back; and no news cannot be considered as bad news. It will only mean that we must wait."
She shook her head, but did not reply.
"There are three men in the stern," she said at last.
Leigh sprang up onto the rail behind her.
"Yes, there are three sitters."
Suddenly one of the men stood up. The boat was still too far away for the figure to be distinguished. Leigh would have called to the captain, to use his glass; but he feared to hold out even a hope, to Patsey, that Jean might be in the boat.
A minute later the standing figure began to wave his arms wildly.
"It is Jean, it is Jean!" Patsey cried. "He has made me out."
It was well that Leigh had taken his place beside her, for suddenly her figure swayed; his arm closed round her and, calling to the captain to help him, he lowered her and laid her on the deck.
"My sister has fainted. Bring a bucket of water."
Madame Flambard took Patsey from him.
"She thinks she sees her husband in that boat," Leigh said. "Pray try and get her round, before it comes up. I think it must be he; but if it should not be, we will take her below, directly we are sure. It will be a terrible blow to her to be disappointed, now; but possibly they may have news of him, and that would be almost as good as his being here."
"She could not have recognized him, at this distance," Monsieur Flambard said.
"No, she did not; but he would have recognized her. At least, he must have seen that there was a woman standing upon the rail, watching them; and it was hardly likely that, coming in his own boat, it should be anyone but her. I don't see why anyone else should have waved his arms, suddenly, in the way that he did."
He took the bucket of water from Lefaux's hands.
"We think it is Captain Martin," he said. "Run up the shrouds and take a look through the glass."
Then, taking a double handful of water, he dashed it into his sister's face.
"But, monsieur--" Madame Flambard began to remonstrate.
"Oh, it does not matter about her being wet a bit," Leigh said. "The great thing is to bring her round.
"There, she is opening her eyes. I never saw her faint before. She is not that sort."
At this moment, there was a joyous shout from the skipper: "It is Captain Martin, himself! Hurrah, boys! It is the captain."
The crew broke into joyous shouts.
"It is Jean, Patsey," Leigh said, sharply. "Thank God, it is he.
"Steady, steady!" he added, as his sister suddenly sat up, and held out her arms to be lifted to her feet. "Are you all right, dear? He will not be alongside for some little time. Don't try to get up for a minute or two."
As Madame Flambard supported her, he ran down into the cabin, poured out a little brandy and water, and ran upstairs again with the glass.
"There, dear, drink this. You must be strong enough to greet him, as he comes alongside."
She drank it up, and then he helped her to her feet. She stood leaning on the rail, but unable to see the boat through her tears. Leigh ran up a few of the ratlines and waved his cap and, two or three minutes later, the whole crew, clustered along the side, raised a loud cheer as the boat came near.
Patsey held out her arms to Jean, who had, after his first eager signal, dropped back into his seat; and sat there, with his face covered in his hands, until within two or three hundred yards of the lugger. Then he had stood up again. He waved his cap in reply to the cheers of the crew, but his eyes were fixed upon Patsey.
[Illustration: For two or three minutes, husband and wife stood together.]
As the boat came alongside he sprang on to the channel, swung himself over the rail, Patsey falling into his arms as his feet touched the deck. The others all drew back and, for two or three minutes, husband and wife stood together. Then Jean, placing Patsey in a chair, turned and embraced Leigh warmly.
"I felt sure that you would bring her back safely," he said. "I never allowed myself to doubt it, for a minute; and as soon as I made the lugger out, from the height there, I was sure that she was on board; and ran down to the coast guard station, and Captain Whittier and the crew were in her, in a couple of minutes.
"Where is Louis?"
"Here he is!" Monsieur Flambard said, coming forward with the child in his arms.
Louis knew his father at once, and greeted him with a little shout of pleasure.
"And you, too, Flambard?" Jean said, after he had kissed and embraced his boy. "I am glad indeed that you, too, have escaped from that inferno they call France."
"Yes, and my wife too, Martin; and, like your wife, we owe our safety to Leigh."
Although they had not met before, Jean and Madame Flambard shook hands as warmly as if they had been old friends, filled as they were by a common happiness.
Captain Whittier now came on board. He had hitherto remained in the boat, in order that the family meetings should be got over before he showed himself.
"I am glad to see you, Master Leigh," he said, shaking hands as he spoke; "though I certainly should not have known you again. You ought no longer to be called Master Leigh, for you are a grown man. We have talked of you, often and often; and it was not until Captain Martin arrived, a week ago, that we had any idea of what had become of you.
"Everyone will be glad to know that you are safely back; and you too, Mrs. Martin. Everyone has missed Miss Patsey, as they still call you when they speak of you."
Jean had been shaking hands with Lefaux and the crew, and now returned.
"I don't know how we stand with this craft, captain. She has come into port of her own free will, and not as a prize. I claim that she is the property of a French Royalist, now an emigre; and as England, so far from being at war with French Royalists, is their ally, I intend to transfer her to my wife, and to have her registered as an English ship."
"Well, I suppose that you will have to settle that with the authorities, Captain Martin; but I should think that you are right, for other French craft have come across with emigres, and have always been allowed to return. Is there any cargo on board?"
"None," Leigh said. "She left Bordeaux the moment she discharged the cargo she brought there."
As they dropped anchor off the island another boat came alongside, with Mr. Stansfield and his two sons, and there was again a scene of tender greeting between them, her, and Leigh.
"Where is Polly?" Patsey asked.
"She was married, two years ago," her father said, "to Harry King, the son of the banker, you know. Of course, she lives in Poole now.
"And so this is your little boy?"
"Yes, but he cannot understand you, at present. We have always talked French with him since the troubles began as, had he spoken a word or two of English, it might have been fatal to him, and to us; but he will soon pick it up, now he is among you all."
It was a happy party, indeed, that evening at Netherstock, where Mr. Stansfield had insisted that Monsieur and Madame Flambard should stay, till they could find a lodging to suit them in Poole. Madame Martin and her daughter, Louise, arrived a few minutes after the others had reached the house; as Jean had sent off a boy to tell them, as soon as he made out the lugger; and a little later Patsey's sister, Polly, came over from Poole.
At first, innumerable questions were asked on each side; and then Leigh related all that had happened, since they left Le Mans. Monsieur Flambard interrupted, when it came to the point where Leigh had rescued him and his wife, and gave full particulars of it to Jean, who translated it to the others. Then it came to Jean's turn.
"I was with Rochejaquelein," he said. "We had made our last charge down on the head of the enemy's column. It was hot work. Desailles was shot through the head, close by my side and, as we rode off, I felt my horse stumble, and knew that it was hit. Almost at the same moment my sword fell from my hand, my right arm being broken by a musket ball.
"La Rochejaquelein had given orders that this charge was to be the last. He knew that, by this time, the main part of the army would have left the town. My horse lagged behind the others, and I was just turning it to ride to our meeting place, when it fell under me.
"I decided at once not to attempt to come to the rendezvous. In the first place, I felt sure that you had already followed out my instructions; and in the next place, had I joined you, I should have ruined your chance of escape. Being dismounted, I should have hampered your flight and, even had we escaped pursuit, your having a man with a broken arm with you would, everywhere, have roused suspicion. I therefore determined to go as far as I could, and then hide in a wood and shift for myself.
"I got a peasant, who was running past me, to stop for a moment and bind my arm tightly with my sash. It was broken high up. I walked, for two or three hours, in the direction opposite to that in which the army had retreated. The peasant who had bound my arm up accompanied me. I found that he came from a farm near us. He had recognized me at once, but I had not noticed who it was. I told him to try and save himself, but he would not hear of it. " 'Monsieur will require my aid," he said, 'and it is my duty to render it. Besides, I am as likely to escape one way as the other. Monsieur knows more about the roads than I do, and will be able to direct me.'
"Of course, I assented, for I was glad indeed to have him with me. As soon as we hid up in a wood, he cut two strips of bark off the trunk of a young tree, cut off the sleeve of my coat and shirt, put the arm straight and, with a strip torn off my sash first bandaged it, and then applied the two pieces of bark as splints, and finally bound another bandage round them.
"He had carried with him the blanket and valises he had taken off the saddle. The latter contained a bottle of wine, and some food, and on this we lived for three days. Then I determined upon starting. He went out in the evening and managed to buy, at a cottage, two loaves of bread and a couple of bottles of wine. We divided these. Then I put on my disguise, and we started in different directions, he making south for the river, which I trust the good fellow managed to reach and cross safely, while I struck north.
"My wine and bread lasted me for four days, by which time I had arrived at Louviers, on the Seine. I was now a hundred miles from Le Mans, and altogether beyond the line of action. I felt comparatively safe. My arm was so painful, however, that I felt that, at whatever risk, I must see a surgeon.
"I went first to an inn, where my appearance as a stranger, and without means of conveyance, excited the surprise of the landlord. " 'You are hurt, monsieur,' he said. " 'Yes; my horse fell under me and threw me heavily, and broke my arm. Before I could recover myself, it had run away. Fortunately a peasant who was going by bandaged my arm up, and I was able to walk on here. Who is the best surgeon in the place?'
"He mentioned the name of the doctor, and said that he had the reputation of being very skilful and kind. He offered to send for him but, being close by, I said that I would rather go to him.
"The man's face gave me confidence, as soon as I entered. I knew that it would be of no use to tell him the story of a fall, and I said at once: "'Monsieur, I believe doctors are like confessors, and that they keep the secrets of their patients.'
"He smiled. " 'Monsieur has a secret, then?' " 'I have,' I said. 'I have had my arm broken by a musket ball--it does not matter how or when, does it?' " 'In no way,' he said; 'my business is simply to do what I can for you.' " 'It is seven days old,' I said, 'and is horribly painful and inflamed.'
"He examined the wound. " 'The bone is badly broken,' he said. 'It is well for you that it has been bound up with some skill, and that these rough splints have kept it in its place. Of course, what you require is rest and quiet. Without cutting down to the bone I cannot tell how badly it is splintered and, in the state of inflammation that it is now in, I could not venture upon that. I can only rebandage it again, and give you a lotion to pour over it, from time to time.
"Tell me frankly what you are. You can trust me.' " 'I am a sailor,' I said, 'captain of my own craft. I am also a Vendean and, as the cause is now lost, I am making my way down to the sea. I hope, in some way or other, to make my escape to England, where I have friends, my wife being an Englishwoman. What I require more than anything is a suit of sailor's clothes.' " 'I will do what I can to help you, my friend. I am not one of those who think that France can be regenerated by the slaughter of the whole of the best of her people, and by all power being given to the worst. " 'Let me see; I cannot go and buy sailor's clothes myself, but my old servant can be trusted absolutely. There is a shop down by the river where such things are sold. I will get her to go down there, and say that she has a nephew just arrived from sea, and that she wants to give him a new rig out; but as he has hurt himself, and cannot come, she must choose it. What is your height?' " 'About five foot ten,' I said. " 'And how broad round the shoulders?' " 'Forty-three inches. I have plenty of money to pay for all that is necessary, and more,' and I took out my roll of assignats. " 'Since you are well provided,' he said, 'I will take some. The people are very poor, and we all suffer together. They pay me when they can and, so that I can make ends meet, I am well content.'
"In an hour the woman returned, with a suit of rough sailor's clothes, and you may imagine how glad I was to put them on, the doctor helping me on with the jacket. " 'Now,' he said, when I had dressed and eaten some food the old servant had set before me, 'it happens that at daybreak tomorrow one of my patients, the master of a river boat, is starting on the turn of tide for Honfleur. I will first go round to the auberge, and tell the landlord that your arm is badly broken, and that I shall keep you here for the night, as you will require attention; then I will go to the captain, and arrange for your passage. When I tell him that you are a patient of mine, and that I should be obliged if he would find you some quiet lodging at Honfleur, where you can remain till your arm is better and you are fit to be about again, I have no doubt he will manage it. He is a good fellow, and I shall let him understand that you don't want inquiries made about you. " 'Now, you had better lie down on a bed upstairs, and try to sleep. I will call you in time to go down to the boat.' " 'There is no fear of my getting you into trouble?' I asked. 'I would rather go on to Honfleur by road at once, than do so.' " 'There is no fear of that; the maire is a friend and patient of mine. And if, as may be the case, the landlord mentions the arrival of a stranger, and his coming to me; I shall simply tell the maire that, your arm being badly broken, I kept you for the night, and then sent you on by boat; and that as for papers, not being a gendarme, I never thought of asking you for them.'
"The next morning he dressed my arm again, and then himself took me down to the boat, and handed me over to its skipper. He absolutely refused any payment for his services; but I insisted on his receiving a couple of hundred francs, in assignats, for the use of his poorer patients.
"The skipper carried out his instructions to the letter. We got to Honfleur after dark, on the day after starting, and he went with me to the cottage of a widow of his acquaintance.
"He said to her, 'Mother, I want you to take care of this young sailor. He has broken his arm, and wants nursing. He does not want his being here to be known, because he is afraid he might be packed off in one of the ships of war, as soon as he recovers. I suppose you can manage that?' " 'Oh, yes,' she said; 'I have very few visitors, and no one would guess that I have anyone upstairs.' " 'He has plenty of money to pay your charges. Now I will leave him with you, and will look in tomorrow, to see how he is getting on.'
"I stayed there a fortnight, by which time the inflammation had pretty well subsided. No one could be kinder than the old woman was. She used to bathe my arm by the hour, and she fed me up with broth.
"At the end of that time I felt ready for work, though my arm was of course useless. So, having paid my account, I went down boldly to the river and crossed to Harfleur, and then went on to Havre. I stayed there for a couple of days, at a sailors' cabaret; where they supposed that I belonged to a vessel in port, and no questions were asked.
"Finding that it would be difficult to pass the gunboat lying there, I walked up to Fecamp, picked out a likely looking boat afloat by the quay; and at night got on board, rowed quietly out, and then managed to get the sail hoisted. The wind was offshore, and by the morning I was out of sight of the French coast. I laid my course for Portsmouth, and landed there that evening. Being fortunately able to speak English, I had only to leave the boat tied up to the quay, and go up to a small inn close by. I slept there, crossed to Gosport, and walked to Southampton the next morning; and got into Poole on the following day, and soon found where my mother and sister were staying.
"So you see I had, altogether, very little adventure on my way from Le Mans. Since then, I have spent most of my time up here sweeping the water with your father's glass. I had been watching the Henriette, for hours, before she came near enough for me to be sure that it was she; though of course, I could see that she was a French-rigged boat.
"As soon as I made her out I sent off word to my mother, and ran down to the coast guard station. I felt sure that you were on board, for otherwise the lugger would not have come over here. Still, of course, I could not be absolutely certain until I saw that the figure I could make out, standing on the rail, was that of a woman."
It was some little time before their plans were finally decided upon. It was evident that, at present, no trade could be done in French wines. However, as Jean, his mother, and his friend Flambard had sufficient capital to enable them to live without trade, for some time, they agreed that they should establish themselves at once, in London, as wine merchants. Flambard had correspondents in Spain and Portugal, from whom he could obtain wine of these countries; and they agreed that Poole did not offer opportunities for carrying on any considerable trade. Both insisted that Leigh should become a member of the firm and, a month after their arrival at Poole, the party moved up to London.
Madame Martin, her daughter, Jean and his wife took a house, between them, at Hackney; and Monsieur Flambard and his wife established themselves in another, a few hundred yards away.
From time to time came scraps of news from across the Channel. La Rochejaquelein and Stofflet, after being separated from their followers when crossing the Loire, had gathered a small band together, and gained some successes over parties of the enemy. Two grenadiers, after one of these skirmishes, were on the point of being shot by the peasants when Henri came up to save their lives. One of the prisoners, however, recognizing the gallant leader of the Vendeans, raised his musket and shot him dead.
It was not for two years after this that the struggle was finally brought to a conclusion, for the heroic people of La Vendee continued to resist all the efforts of their enemies; until Stofflet and Charette were captured and executed, the one in February, 1796, the other in the following month. The moderation and judgment of General Hoche finally brought about the end of a war which stands unexampled, in history, for the noble resistance offered by a small body of peasants to the power of a great country.
As soon as Monsieur Flambard heard, from his correspondents abroad, that a consignment of wine was on its way they took an office; for it had already been agreed that, having no connection for sales to private customers, they would work only as wholesale merchants, dealing with the trade and with large hotels and other establishments, contenting themselves with the smallest possible rate of profit until they made a connection; and at the end of two or three years, they were doing a considerable business.
The Henriette sailed for France, shortly after their arrival in Poole, as the crew preferred returning home. Lefaux was to trade as before and, being so well known at all the western ports, was certain of obtaining freights. He was to pay wages and all other expenses, and to transmit the balance as opportunity occurred.
Three years later, when the internal affairs of the country had calmed down, Jean managed to get a letter sent to the priest of their village, asking him to inquire about Marthe; and after a considerable time an answer was received, saying that she and Francois had reached home in safety, had been married shortly after their return, and were doing well; having, with their joint savings, purchased at a very low price one of Jean's confiscated farms.
Ten years later the firm of Flambard, Martin, & Stansfield were doing a large business, and when the war came to a termination, and trade with Bordeaux, Charente, and Nantes was renewed, Monsieur Flambard returned to Bordeaux and, having a large connection there, the firm soon became known as the largest importers of foreign wines in London.
Madame Martin had, long before that, died. Patsey was the mother of three boys and two girls, and Leigh had a separate establishment of his own, and had been for fifteen years a married man. Mr. Stansfield was still alive, and things went on at Netherstock in very much the same fashion as before Patsey left home.
Jacques Martin had been one of the many who were guillotined when the terror came to an end, after the death of Robespierre.
THE END.
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{
"id": "20091"
}
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1
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: Driven From Home.
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In the year 1567 there were few towns in the southern counties of England that did not contain a colony, more or less large, of French Protestants. For thirty years the Huguenots had been exposed to constant and cruel persecutions; many thousands had been massacred by the soldiery, burned at the stake, or put to death with dreadful tortures. Fifty thousand, it was calculated, had, in spite of the most stringent measures of prevention, left their homes and made their escape across the frontiers. These had settled for the most part in the Protestant cantons of Switzerland, in Holland, or England. As many of those who reached our shores were but poorly provided with money, they naturally settled in or near the ports of landing.
Canterbury was a place in which many of the unfortunate emigrants found a home. Here one Gaspard Vaillant, his wife, and her sister, who had landed in the year 1547, had established themselves. They were among the first comers, but the French colony had grown, gradually, until it numbered several hundreds. The Huguenots were well liked in the town, being pitied for their misfortunes, and admired for the courage with which they bore their losses; setting to work, each man at his trade if he had one, or if not, taking to the first work that came to hand. They were quiet and God-fearing folk; very good towards each other, and to their poor countrymen on their way from the coast to London, entertaining them to the best of their power, and sending them forward on their way with letters to the Huguenot committee in London, and with sufficient money in their pockets to pay their expenses on the journey, and to maintain them for a while until some employment could be found for them.
Gaspard Vaillant had been a landowner near Civray, in Poitou. He was connected by blood with several noble families in that district, and had been among the first to embrace the reformed religion. For some years he had not been interfered with, as it was upon the poorer and more defenceless classes that the first fury of the persecutors fell; but as the attempts of Francis to stamp out the new sect failed, and his anger rose more and more against them, persons of all ranks fell under the ban. The prisons were filled with Protestants who refused to confess their errors; soldiers were quartered in the towns and villages, where they committed terrible atrocities upon the Protestants; and Gaspard, seeing no hope of better times coming, or of being permitted to worship in peace and quietness, gathered together what money he could and made his way, with his wife and her sister, to La Rochelle, whence he took ship to London.
Disliking the bustle of a large town, he was recommended by some of his compatriots to go down to Canterbury, where three or four fugitives from his own part of the country had settled. One of these was a weaver by trade, but without money to manufacture looms or set up in his calling. Gaspard joined him as partner, embarking the little capital he had saved; and being a shrewd, clear-headed man he carried on the business part of the concern, while his partner Lequoc worked at the manufacture.
As the French colony in Canterbury increased, they had no difficulty in obtaining skilled hands from among them. The business grew in magnitude, and the profits were large, in spite of the fact that numbers of similar enterprises had been established by the Huguenot immigrants in London, and other places. They were, indeed, amply sufficient to enable Gaspard Vaillant to live in the condition of a substantial citizen, to aid his fellow countrymen, and to lay by a good deal of money.
His wife's sister had not remained very long with him. She had, upon their first arrival, given lessons in her own language to the daughters of burgesses, and of the gentry near the town; but, three years after the arrival of the family there, she had married a well-to-do young yeoman who farmed a hundred acres of his own land, two miles from the town. His relations and neighbours had shaken their heads over what they considered his folly, in marrying the pretty young Frenchwoman; but ere long they were obliged to own that his choice had been a good one.
Just after his first child was born he was, when returning home one evening from market, knocked down and run over by a drunken carter, and was so injured that for many months his life was in danger. Then he began to mend, but though he gained in strength he did not recover the use of his legs, being completely paralysed from the hips downward; and, as it soon appeared, was destined to remain a helpless invalid all his life. From the day of the accident Lucie had taken the management of affairs in her hands, and having been brought up in the country, and being possessed of a large share of the shrewdness and common sense for which Frenchwomen are often conspicuous, she succeeded admirably. The neatness and order of the house, since their marriage, had been a matter of surprise to her husband's friends; and it was not long before the farm showed the effects of her management. Gaspard Vaillant assisted her with his counsel and, as the French methods of agriculture were considerably in advance of those in England, instead of things going to rack and ruin, as John Fletcher's friends predicted, its returns were considerably augmented.
Naturally, she at first experienced considerable opposition. The labourers grumbled at what they called new-fangled French fashions; but when they left her, their places were supplied by her countrymen, who were frugal and industrious, accustomed to make the most out of small areas of ground, and to turn every foot to the best advantage. Gradually the raising of corn was abandoned, and a large portion of the farm devoted to the growing of vegetables; which, by dint of plentiful manuring and careful cultivation, were produced of a size and quality that were the surprise and admiration of the neighbourhood, and gave her almost a monopoly of the supply of Canterbury.
The carters were still English; partly because Lucie had the good sense to see that, if she employed French labourers only, she would excite feelings of jealousy and dislike among her neighbours; and partly because she saw that, in the management of horses and cattle, the Englishmen were equal, if not superior, to her countrymen.
Her life was a busy one. The management of the house and farm would, alone, have been a heavy burden to most people; but she found ample time for the tenderest care of the invalid, whom she nursed with untiring affection.
"It is hard upon a man of my size and inches, Lucie," he said one day, "to be lying here as helpless as a sick child; and yet I don't feel that I have any cause for discontent. I should like to be going about the farm, and yet I feel that I am happier here, lying watching you singing so contentedly over your work, and making everything so bright and comfortable. Who would have thought, when I married a little French lady, that she was going to turn out a notable farmer? All my friends tell me that there is not a farm like mine in all the country round, and that the crops are the wonder of the neighbourhood; and when I see the vegetables that are brought in here, I should like to go over the farm, if only for once, just to see them growing."
"I hope you will be able to do that, some day, dear. Not on foot, I am afraid; but when you get stronger and better, as I hope you will, we will take you round in a litter, and the bright sky and the fresh air will do you good."
Lucie spoke very fair English now, and her husband had come to speak a good deal of French; for the service of the house was all in that language, the three maids being daughters of French workmen in the town. The waste and disorder of those who were in the house when her husband first brought her there had appalled her; and the women so resented any attempt at teaching, on the part of the French madam, that after she had tried several sets with equally bad results, John Fletcher had consented to the introduction of French girls; bargaining only that he was to have good English fare, and not French kickshaws. The Huguenot customs had been kept up, and night and morning the house servants, with the French neighbours and their families, all assembled for prayer in the farmhouse.
To this John Fletcher had agreed without demur. His father had been a Protestant, when there was some danger in being so; and he himself had been brought up soberly and strictly. Up to the time of his accident there had been two congregations, he himself reading the prayers to his farm hands, while Lucie afterwards read them in her own language to her maids; but as the French labourers took the place of the English hands, only one service was needed.
When John Fletcher first regained sufficient strength to take much interest in what was passing round, he was alarmed at the increase in the numbers of those who attended these gatherings. Hitherto four men had done the whole work of the farm; now there were twelve.
"Lucie, dear," he said uneasily one day, "I know that you are a capital manager; but it is impossible that a farm the size of ours can pay, with so many hands on it. I have never been able to do more than pay my way, and lay by a few pounds every year, with only four hands, and many would have thought three sufficient; but with twelve--and I counted them this morning--we must be on the highroad to ruin."
"I will not ruin you, John. Do you know how much money there was in your bag when you were hurt, just a year ago now?"
"Yes, I know there were thirty-three pounds."
His wife went out of the room and returned with a leather bag.
"Count them, John," she said.
There were forty-eight. Fifteen pounds represented a vastly greater sum, at that time, than they do at present; and John Fletcher looked up from the counting with amazement.
"This can't be all ours, Lucie. Your brother must have been helping us."
"Not with a penny, doubting man," she laughed. "The money is yours, all earned by the farm; perhaps not quite all, because we have not more than half as many animals as we had before. But, as I told you, we are growing vegetables, and for that we must have more men than for corn. But, as you see, it pays. Do not fear about it, John. If God should please to restore you to health and strength, most gladly will I lay down the reins; but till then I will manage as best I may and, with the help and advice of my brother and his friends, shall hope, by the blessing of God, to keep all straight."
The farm throve, but its master made but little progress towards recovery. He was able, however, occasionally to be carried round in a hand litter, made for him upon a plan devised by Gaspard Vaillant; in which he was supported in a half-sitting position, while four men bore him as if in a Sedan chair.
But it was only occasionally that he could bear the fatigue of such excursions. Ordinarily he lay on a couch in the farmhouse kitchen, where he could see all that was going on there; while in warm summer weather he was wheeled outside, and lay in the shade of the great elm, in front of the house.
The boy, Philip--for so he had been christened, after John Fletcher's father--grew apace and, as soon as he was old enough to receive instruction, his father taught him his letters out of a horn book, until he was big enough to go down every day to school in Canterbury. John himself was built upon a large scale, and at quarterstaff and wrestling could, before he married, hold his own with any of the lads of Kent; and Philip bade fair to take after him, in skill and courage. His mother would shake her head reprovingly when he returned, with his face bruised and his clothes torn, after encounters with his schoolfellows; but his father took his part.
"Nay, nay, wife," he said one day, "the boy is eleven years old now, and must not grow up a milksop. Teach him if you will to be honest and true, to love God, and to hold to the faith; but in these days it needs that men should be able to use their weapons, also. There are your countrymen in France, who ere long will be driven to take up arms, for the defence of their faith and lives from their cruel persecutors; and, as you have told me, many of the younger men, from here and elsewhere, will assuredly go back to aid their brethren.
"We may even have trials here. Our Queen is a Protestant, and happily at present we can worship God as we please, in peace; but it was not so in the time of Mary, and it may be that troubles may again fall upon the land, seeing that as yet the Queen is not married. Moreover, Philip of Spain has pretensions to rule here; and every Englishman may be called upon to take up bow, or bill, for his faith and country. Our co-religionists in Holland and France are both being cruelly persecuted, and it may well be that the time will come when we shall send over armies to their assistance.
"I would that the boy should grow up both a good Christian and a stout soldier. He comes on both sides of a fighting stock. One of my ancestors fought at Agincourt, and another with the Black Prince at Cressy and Poitiers; while on your side his blood is noble and, as we know, the nobles of France are second to none in bravery.
"Before I met you I had thoughts of going out, myself, to fight among the English bands who have engaged on the side of the Hollanders. I had even spoken to my cousin James about taking charge of the farm, while I was away. I would not have sold it, for Fletchers held this land before the Normans set foot in England; but I had thoughts of borrowing money upon it, to take me out to the war, when your sweet face drove all such matters from my mind.
"Therefore, Lucie, while I would that you should teach the boy to be good and gentle in his manners, so that if he ever goes among your French kinsmen he shall be able to bear himself as befits his birth, on that side; I, for my part--though, alas, I can do nothing myself--will see that he is taught to use his arms, and to bear himself as stoutly as an English yeoman should, when there is need of it.
"So, wife, I would not have him chidden when he comes home with a bruised face, and his garments somewhat awry. A boy who can hold his own, among boys, will some day hold his own among men; and the fisticuffs, in which our English boys try their strength, are as good preparation as are the courtly sports; in which, as you tell me, young French nobles are trained. But I would not have him backward in these, either. We English, thank God, have not had much occasion to draw a sword since we broke the strength of Scotland on Flodden Field; and in spite of ordinances, we know less than we should do of the use of our weapons. Even the rules that every lad shall practise shooting at the butts are less strictly observed than they should be. But in this respect our deficiencies can be repaired, in his case; for here in Canterbury there are several of your countrymen of noble birth, and doubtless among these we shall be able to find an instructor for Phil. Many of them are driven to hard shifts to procure a living; and since that bag of yours is every day getting heavier, and we have but him to spend it upon, we will not grudge giving him the best instruction that can be procured."
Lucie did not dispute her husband's will; but she nevertheless tried to enlist Gaspard Vaillant--who was frequently up at the farm with his wife in the evening, for he had a sincere liking for John Fletcher--on her side; and to get him to dissuade her husband from putting thoughts into the boy's head that might lead him, some day, to be discontented with the quiet life on the farm. She found, however, that Gaspard highly approved of her husband's determination.
"Fie upon you, Lucie. You forget that you and Marie are both of noble blood, in that respect being of condition somewhat above myself, although I too am connected with many good families in Poitou. In other times I should have said it were better that the boy should grow up to till the land, which is assuredly an honourable profession, rather than to become a military adventurer, fighting only for vainglory. But in our days the sword is not drawn for glory, but for the right to worship God in peace.
"No one can doubt that, ere long, the men of the reformed religion will take up arms to defend their right to live, and worship God, in their own way. The cruel persecutions under Francis the First, Henry the Second, and Francis the Second have utterly failed in their object. When Merindol, Cabrieres, and twenty-two other towns and villages were destroyed, in 1547; and persons persecuted and forced to recant, or to fly as we did; it was thought that we were but a handful, whom it would be easy to exterminate. But in spite of edict after edict, of persecution, slaughterings, and burnings, in spite of the massacres of Amboise and others, the reformed religion has spread so greatly that even the Guises are forced to recognize it as a power. At Fontainebleau Admiral Coligny, Montmorency, the Chatillons, and others openly professed the reformed religion, and argued boldly for tolerance; while Conde and Navarre, although they declined to be present, were openly ranged on their side. Had it not been that Henry the Second and Francis were both carried off by the manifest hand of God, the first by a spear thrust at a tournament, the second by an abscess in the ear, France would have been the scene of deadly strife; for both were, when so suddenly smitten, on the point of commencing a war of extermination.
"But it is only now that the full strength of those who hold the faith is manifested. Beza, the greatest of the reformers next to Calvin himself, and twelve of our most learned and eloquent pastors are at Poissy, disputing upon the faith with the Cardinal of Lorraine and the prelates of the Romish church, in the presence of the young king, the princes, and the court. It is evident that the prelates are unable to answer the arguments of our champions. The Guises, I hear, are furious; for the present Catharine, the queen mother, is anxious for peace and toleration, and it is probable that the end of this argument at Poissy will be an edict allowing freedom of worship.
"But this will only infuriate still more the Papists, urged on by Rome and Philip of Spain. Then there will be an appeal to arms, and the contest will be a dreadful one. Navarre, from all I hear, has been well-nigh won over by the Guises; but his noble wife will, all say, hold the faith to the end, and her kingdom will follow her. Conde is as good a general as Guise, and with him there is a host of nobles: Rochefoucauld, the Chatillons, Soubise, Gramont, Rohan, Genlis, and a score of others. It will be terrible, for in many cases father and son will be ranged on opposite sides, and brother will fight against brother."
"But surely, Gaspard, the war will not last for years?"
"It may last for generations," the weaver said gloomily, "though not without intermissions; for I believe that, after each success on one side or the other, there will be truces and concessions; to be followed by fresh persecutions and fresh wars, until either the reformed faith becomes the religion of all France, or is entirely stamped out.
"What is true of France is true of Holland. Philip will annihilate the reformers there, or they will shake off the yoke of Spain. England will be driven to join in one or both struggles; for if papacy is triumphant in France and Holland, Spain and France would unite against her.
"So you see, sister, that in my opinion we are at the commencement of a long and bloody struggle for freedom of worship; and at any rate it will be good that the boy should be trained as he would have been, had you married one of your own rank in France; in order that, when he comes to man's estate, he may be able to wield a sword worthily in the defence of the faith.
"Had I sons, I should train them as your husband intends to train Phil. It may be that he will never be called upon to draw a sword, but the time he has spent in acquiring its use will not be wasted. These exercises give firmness and suppleness to the figure, quickness to the eye, and briskness of decision to the mind. A man who knows that he can, at need, defend his life if attacked, whether against soldiers in the field or robbers in the street, has a sense of power and self reliance that a man, untrained in the use of the strength God has given him, can never feel. I was instructed in arms when a boy, and I am none the worse weaver for it.
"Do not forget, Lucie, that the boy has the blood of many good French families in his veins; and you should rejoice that your husband is willing that he shall be so trained that, if the need should ever come, he shall do no discredit to his ancestors on our side. These English have many virtues, which I freely recognize; but we cannot deny that many of them are somewhat rough and uncouth, being wondrous lacking in manners and coarse in speech. I am sure that you yourself would not wish your son to grow up like many of the young fellows who come into town on market day. Your son will make no worse a farmer for being trained as a gentleman. You yourself have the training of a French lady, and yet you manage the farm to admiration.
"No, no, Lucie, I trust that between us we shall make a true Christian and a true gentleman of him; and that, if needs be, he will show himself a good soldier, also."
And so, between his French relatives and his sturdy English father, Philip Fletcher had an unusual training. Among the Huguenots he learned to be gentle and courteous; to bear himself among his elders respectfully, but without fear or shyness; to consider that, while all things were of minor consequence in comparison to the right to worship God in freedom and purity, yet that a man should be fearless of death, ready to defend his rights, but with moderation and without pushing them to the injury of others; that he should be grave and decorous of speech, and yet of a gay and cheerful spirit. He strove hard so to deport himself that if, at any time, he should return to his mother's country, he could take his place among her relations without discredit. He learned to fence, and to dance.
Some of the stricter of the Huguenots were of opinion that the latter accomplishment was unnecessary, if not absolutely sinful; but Gaspard Vaillant was firm on this point.
"Dancing is a stately and graceful exercise," he said, "and like the use of arms, it greatly improves the carriage and poise of the figure. Queen Elizabeth loves dancing, and none can say that she is not a good Protestant. Every youth should be taught to dance, if only he may know how to walk. I am not one of those who think that, because a man is a good Christian, he should necessarily be awkward and ungainly in speech and manner, adverse to innocent gaieties, narrow in his ideas, ill dressed and ill mannered, as I see are many of those most extreme in religious matters, in this country."
Upon the other hand, in the school playground, under the shadow of the grand cathedral, Phil was as English as any; being foremost in their rough sports, and ready for any fun or mischief.
He fought many battles, principally because the difference of his manner from that of the others often caused him to be called "Frenchy." The epithet in itself was not displeasing to him; for he was passionately attached to his mother, and had learned from her to love her native country; but applied in derision it was regarded by him as an insult, and many a tough battle did he fight, until his prowess was so generally acknowledged that the name, though still used, was no longer one of disrespect.
In figure, he took after his French rather than his English ancestors. Of more than average height for his age, he was apparently slighter in build than his schoolfellows. It was not that he lacked width of chest, but that his bones were smaller and his frame less heavy. The English boys, among themselves, sometimes spoke of him as "skinny," a word considered specially appropriate to Frenchmen; but though he lacked their roundness and fulness of limb, and had not an ounce of superfluous flesh about him, he was all sinew and wire; and while in sheer strength he was fully their equal, he was incomparably quicker and more active.
Although in figure and carriage he took after his mother's countrymen, his features and expression were wholly English. His hair was light brown, his eyes a bluish gray, his complexion fair, and his mouth and eyes alive with fun and merriment. This, however, seldom found vent in laughter. His intercourse with the grave Huguenots, saddened by their exile, and quiet and restrained in manner, taught him to repress mirth, which would have appeared to them unseemly; and to remain a grave and silent listener to their talk of their unhappy country, and their discussions on religious matters.
To his schoolfellows he was somewhat of an enigma. There was no more good-tempered young fellow in the school, no one more ready to do a kindness; but they did not understand why, when he was pleased, he smiled while others roared with laughter; why when, in their sports, he exerted himself to the utmost, he did so silently while others shouted; why his words were always few and, when he differed from others, he expressed himself with a courtesy that puzzled them; why he never wrangled nor quarrelled; and why any trick played upon an old woman, or a defenceless person, roused him to fury.
As a rule, when boys do not quite understand one of their number they dislike him. Philip Fletcher was an exception. They did not understand him, but they consoled themselves under this by the explanation that he was half a Frenchman, and could not be expected to be like a regular English boy; and they recognized instinctively that he was their superior.
Much of Philip's time was spent at the house of his uncle, and among the Huguenot colony. Here also were many boys of his own age. These went to a school of their own, taught by the pastor of their own church, who held weekly services in the crypt of the cathedral, which had been granted to them for that purpose by the dean. While, with his English schoolfellows, he joined in sports and games; among these French lads the talk was sober and quiet. Scarce a week passed but some fugitive, going through Canterbury, brought the latest news of the situation in France, and the sufferings of their co-religionist friends and relations there; and the political events were the chief topics of conversation.
The concessions made at the Conference of Poissy had infuriated the Catholics, and the war was brought on by the Duke of Guise who, passing with a large band of retainers through the town of Vassy in Champagne, found the Huguenots there worshipping in a barn. His retainers attacked them, slaying men, women, and children--some sixty being killed, and a hundred or more left terribly wounded.
The Protestant nobles demanded that Francis of Guise should be punished for this atrocious massacre, but in vain; and Guise, on entering Paris, in defiance of Catharine's prohibition, was received with royal honours by the populace. The Cardinal of Lorraine, the duke's brother, the duke himself, and their allies, the Constable Montmorency and Marshal Saint Andre, assumed so threatening an attitude that Catharine left Paris and went to Melun, her sympathies at this period being with the reformers; by whose aid, alone, she thought that she could maintain her influence in the state against that of the Guises.
Conde was forced to leave Paris with the Protestant nobles, and from all parts of France the Huguenots marched to assist him. Coligny, the greatest of the Huguenot leaders, hesitated; being, above all things, reluctant to plunge France into civil war. But the entreaties of his noble wife, of his brothers and friends, overpowered his reluctance. Conde left Meaux, with fifteen hundred horse, with the intention of seizing the person of the young king; but he had been forestalled by the Guises, and moved to Orleans, where he took up his headquarters. All over France the Huguenots rose in such numbers as astonished their enemies, and soon became possessed of a great many important cities.
Their leaders had endeavoured, in every way, to impress upon them the necessity of behaving as men who fought only for the right to worship God; and for the most part these injunctions were strictly obeyed. In one matter, alone, the Huguenots could not be restrained. For thirty years the people of their faith had been executed, tortured, and slain; and their hatred of the Romish church manifested itself by the destruction of images and pictures of all kinds, in the churches of the towns of which they obtained possession. Only in the southeast of France was there any exception to the general excellence of their conduct. Their persecution here had always been very severe, and in the town of Orange the papal troops committed a massacre almost without a parallel in its atrocity. The Baron of Adrets, on behalf of the Protestants, took revenge by massacres equally atrocious; but while the butchery at Orange was hailed with approbation and delight by the Catholic leaders, those promoted by Adrets excited such a storm of indignation, among the Huguenots of all classes, that he shortly afterwards went over to the other side, and was found fighting against the party he had disgraced.
At Toulouse three thousand Huguenots were massacred, and in other towns where the Catholics were in a majority terrible persecutions were carried out.
It was nearly a year after the massacre at Vassy before the two armies met in battle. The Huguenots had suffered greatly, by the delays caused by attempts at negotiations and compromise. Conde's army was formed entirely of volunteers, and the nobles and gentry, as their means became exhausted, were compelled to return home with their retainers; while many were forced to march to their native provinces, to assist their co-religionists there to defend themselves from their Catholic neighbours.
England had entered, to a certain extent, upon the war; Elizabeth, after long vacillation, having at length agreed to send six thousand men to hold the towns of Havre, Dieppe, and Rouen, providing these three towns were handed over to her; thus evincing the same calculating greed that marked her subsequent dealings with the Dutch, in their struggle for freedom.
In vain Conde and Coligny begged her not to impose conditions that Frenchmen would hold to be infamous to them. In vain Throgmorton, her ambassador at Paris, warned her that she would alienate the Protestants of France from her; while the possession of the cities would avail her but little. In vain her minister, Cecil, urged her frankly to ally herself with the Protestants. From the first outbreak of the war for freedom of conscience in France, to the termination of the struggle in Holland, Elizabeth baffled both friends and enemies by her vacillation and duplicity, and her utter want of faith; doling out aid in the spirit of a huckster rather than a queen, so that she was, in the end, even more hated by the Protestants of Holland and France than by the Catholics of France and Spain.
To those who look only at the progress made by England, during the reign of Elizabeth--thanks to her great ministers, her valiant sailors and soldiers, long years of peace at home, and the spirit and energy of her people--Elizabeth may appear a great monarch. To those who study her character from her relations with the struggling Protestants of Holland and France, it will appear that she was, although intellectually great, morally one of the meanest, falsest, and most despicable of women.
Rouen, although stoutly defended by the inhabitants, supported by Montgomery with eight hundred soldiers, and five hundred Englishmen under Killegrew of Pendennis, was at last forced to surrender. The terms granted to the garrison were basely violated, and many of the Protestants put to death. The King of Navarre, who had, since he joined the Catholic party, shown the greatest zeal in their cause, commanded the besiegers. He was wounded in one of the attacks upon the town, and died shortly afterwards.
The two armies finally met, on the 19th of December, 1562. The Catholic party had sixteen thousand foot, two thousand horse, and twenty-two cannon; the Huguenots four thousand horse, but only eight thousand infantry and five cannon. Conde at first broke the Swiss pikemen of the Guises, while Coligny scattered the cavalry of Constable Montmorency, who was wounded and taken prisoner; but the infantry of the Catholics defeated those of the Huguenots, the troops sent by the German princes to aid the latter behaving with great cowardice. Conde's horse was killed under him, and he was made prisoner. Coligny drew off the Huguenot cavalry and the remains of the infantry in good order, and made his retreat unmolested.
The Huguenots had been worsted in the battle, and the loss of Conde was a serious blow; but on the other hand Marshal Saint Andre was killed, and the Constable Montmorency a prisoner. Coligny was speedily reinforced; and the assassination of the Duke of Guise, by an enthusiast of the name of Jean Poltrot, more than equalized matters.
Both parties being anxious to treat, terms of peace were arranged; on the condition that the Protestant lords should be reinstated in their honours and possessions; all nobles and gentlemen should be allowed to celebrate, in their own houses, the worship of the reformed religion; that in every bailiwick the Protestants should be allowed to hold their religious services, in the suburbs of one city, and should also be permitted to celebrate it, in one or two places, inside the walls of all the cities they held at the time of the signature of the truce. This agreement was known as the Treaty of Amboise, and sufficed to secure peace for France, until the latter end of 1567.
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{
"id": "20092"
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2
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: An Important Decision.
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One day in June, 1567, Gaspard Vaillant and his wife went up to Fletcher's farm.
"I have come up to have a serious talk with you, John, about Philip. You see, in a few months he will be sixteen. He is already taller than I am. Rene and Gustave both tell me that they have taught him all they know with sword and dagger; and both have been stout men-at-arms in their time, and assure me that the lad could hold his own against any young French noble of his own age, and against not a few men. It is time that we came to some conclusion about his future."
[Illustration: Gaspard Vaillant makes a proposal.]
"I have thought of it much, Gaspard. Lying here so helpless, my thoughts do naturally turn to him. The boy has grown almost beyond my power of understanding. Sometimes, when I hear him laughing and jesting with the men, or with some of his school friends whom he brings up here, it seems to me that I see myself again in him; and that he is a merry young fellow, full of life and fun, and able to hold his own at singlestick, or to foot it round the maypole with any lad in Kent of his age. Then again, when he is talking with his mother, or giving directions in her name to the French labourers, I see a different lad, altogether: grave and quiet, with a gentle, courteous way, fit for a young noble ten years his senior. I don't know but that between us, Gaspard, we have made a mess of it; and that it might have been better for him to have grown up altogether as I was, with no thought or care save the management of his farm, with a liking for sport and fun, when such came in his way."
"Not at all, not at all," Gaspard Vaillant broke in hastily, "we have made a fine man of him, John; and it seems to me that he possesses the best qualities of both our races. He is frank and hearty, full of life and spirits when, as you say, occasion offers; giving his whole heart either to work or play, with plenty of determination, and what you English call backbone. There is, in fact, a solid English foundation to his character. Then from our side he has gained the gravity of demeanour that belongs to us Huguenots; with the courtesy of manner, the carriage and bearing of a young Frenchman of good blood. Above all, John, he is a sober Christian, strong in the reformed faith, and with a burning hatred against its persecutors, be they French or Spanish.
"Well then, being what he is, what is to be done with him? In the first place, are you bent upon his remaining here? I think that, with his qualities and disposition, it would be well that for a while he had a wider scope. Lucie has managed the farm for the last fifteen years, and can well continue to do so for another ten, if God should spare her; and my own opinion is that, for that time, he might be left to try his strength, and to devote to the good cause the talents God has given him, and the skill and training that he has acquired through us; and that it would be for his good to make the acquaintance of his French kinsfolk, and to see something of the world."
"I know that is Lucie's wish, also, Gaspard; and I have frequently turned the matter over in my mind, and have concluded that, should it be your wish also, it would be well for me to throw no objections in the way. I shall miss the boy sorely; but young birds cannot be kept always in the nest, and I think that the lad has such good stuff in him that it were a pity to keep him shut up here."
"Now, John," his brother-in-law went on, "although I may never have said quite as much before, I have said enough for you to know what my intentions are. God has not been pleased to bestow children upon us; and Philip is our nearest relation, and stands to us almost in the light of a son. God has blest my work for the last twenty years, and though I have done, I hope, fully my share towards assisting my countrymen in distress, putting by always one-third of my income for that purpose, I am a rich man. The factory has grown larger and larger; not because we desired greater gains, but that I might give employment to more and more of my countrymen. Since the death of Lequoc, twelve years ago, it has been entirely in my hands and, living quietly as we have done, a greater portion of the profits have been laid by every year; therefore, putting out of account the money that my good sister has laid by, Philip will start in life not ill equipped.
"I know that the lad has said nothing of any wishes he may entertain--at his age it would not be becoming for him to do so, until his elders speak--but of late, when we have read to him letters from our friends in France, or when he has listened to the tales of those freshly arrived from their ruined homes, I have noted that his colour rose; that his fingers tightened, as if on a sword; and could see how passionately he was longing to join those who were struggling against their cruel oppressors. Not less interested has he been in the noble struggle that the Dutch are making against the Spaniards; a struggle in which many of our exiled countrymen are sharing.
"One of his mother's cousins, the Count de La Noue, is, as you know, prominent among the Huguenot leaders; and others of our relatives are ranged on the same side. At present there is a truce, but both parties feel that it is a hollow one; nevertheless it offers a good opportunity for him to visit his mother's family. Whether there is any prospect of our ever recovering the lands which were confiscated on our flight is uncertain. Should the Huguenots ever maintain their ground, and win freedom of worship in France, it may be that the confiscated estates will in many cases be restored; as to that, however, I am perfectly indifferent. Were I a younger man, I should close my factory, return to France, and bear my share in the defence of the faith. As it is, I should like to send Philip over as my substitute.
"It would, at any rate, be well that he should make the acquaintance of his kinsfolk in France; although even I should not wish that he should cease to regard England as his native country and home. Hundreds of young men, many no older than himself, are in Holland fighting against the persecutors; and risking their lives, though having no kinship with the Dutch, impelled simply by their love of the faith and their hatred of persecution.
"I have lately, John, though the matter has been kept quiet, purchased the farms of Blunt and Mardyke, your neighbours on either hand. Both are nearly twice the size of your own. I have arranged with the men that, for the present, they shall continue to work them as my tenants, as they were before the tenants of Sir James Holford; who, having wasted his money at court, has been forced to sell a portion of his estates. Thus, some day Phil will come into possession of land which will place him in a good position, and I am prepared to add to it considerably. Sir James Holford still gambles away his possessions; and I have explained, to his notary, my willingness to extend my purchases at any time, should he desire to sell. I should at once commence the building of a comfortable mansion, but it is scarce worth while to do so; for it is probable that, before many years, Sir James may be driven to part with his Hall, as well as his land. In the meantime I am ready to provide Philip with an income which will enable him to take his place with credit among our kinsfolk, and to raise a company of some fifty men to follow him in the field, should Conde and the Huguenots again be driven to struggle against the Guises.
"What do you think?"
"I think, in the first place, that Lucie and I should be indeed grateful to you, Gaspard, for your generous offer. As to his going to France, that I must talk over with his mother; whose wishes in this, as in all respects, are paramount with me. But I may say at once that, lying here as I do, thinking of the horrible cruelties and oppressions to which men and women are subjected for the faith's sake in France and Holland, I feel that we, who are happily able to worship in peace and quiet, ought to hesitate at no sacrifice on their behalf; and moreover, seeing that, owing to my affliction, he owes what he is rather to his mother and you than to me, I think your wish that he should make the acquaintance of his kinsfolk in France is a natural one. I have no wish for the lad to become a courtier, English or French; nor that he should, as Englishmen have done before now in foreign armies, gain great honour and reputation; but if it is his wish to fight on behalf of the persecuted people of God, whether in France or in Holland, he will do so with my heartiest goodwill; and if he die, he could not die in a more glorious cause.
"Let us talk of other matters now, Gaspard. This is one that needs thought before more words are spoken."
Two days later, John Fletcher had a long talk with Phil. The latter was delighted when he heard the project, which was greatly in accord with both sides of his character. As an English lad, he looked forward eagerly to adventure and peril; as French and of the reformed religion, he was rejoiced at the thought of fighting with the Huguenots against their persecutors, and of serving under the men with whose names and reputations he was so familiar.
"I do not know your uncle's plans for you, as yet, Phil," his father said. "He went not into such matters, leaving these to be talked over after it had been settled whether his offer should be accepted or not. He purposes well by you, and regards you as his heir. He has already bought Blunt and Mardyke's farms, and purposes to buy other parts of the estates of Sir James Holford, as they may slip through the knight's fingers at the gambling table. Therefore, in time, you will become a person of standing in the county; and although I care little for these things now, Phil, yet I should like you to be somewhat more than a mere squire; and if you serve for a while under such great captains as Coligny and Conde, it will give you reputation and weight.
"Your good uncle and his friends think little of such matters, but I own that I am not uninfluenced by them. Coligny, for example, is a man whom all honour; and that honour is not altogether because he is leader of the reformed faith, but because he is a great soldier. I do not think that honour and reputation are to be despised. Doubtless the first thing of all is that a man should be a good Christian. But that will in no way prevent him from being a great man; nay, it will add to his greatness.
"You have noble kinsfolk in France, to some of whom your uncle will doubtless commit you; and it may be that you will have opportunities of distinguishing yourself. Should such occur, I am sure you will avail yourself of them, as one should do who comes of good stock on both sides; for although we Fletchers have been but yeomen, from generation to generation, we have been ever ready to take and give our share of hard blows when they were going; and there have been few battles fought, since William the Norman came over, that a Fletcher has not fought in the English ranks; whether in France, in Scotland, or in our own troubles.
"Therefore it seems to me but natural that, for many reasons, you should desire at your age to take part in the fighting; as an Englishman, because Englishmen fought six years ago under the banner of Conde; as a Protestant, on behalf of our persecuted brethren; as a Frenchman by your mother's side, because you have kinsfolk engaged, and because it is the Pope and Philip of Spain, as well as the Guises, who are, in fact, battling to stamp out French liberty.
"Of one thing I am sure, my boy--you will disgrace neither an honest English name, nor the French blood in your veins, nor your profession as a Christian and a Protestant. There are Englishmen gaining credit on the Spanish Main, under Drake and Hawkins; there are Englishmen fighting manfully by the side of the Dutch; there are others in the armies of the Protestant princes of Germany; and in none of these matters are they so deeply concerned as you are in the affairs of France and religion.
"I shall miss you, of course, Philip, and that sorely; but I have long seen that this would probably be the upshot of your training and, since I can myself take no share in adventure, beyond the walls of this house, I shall feel that I am living again in you. But, lad, never forget that you are English. You are Philip Fletcher, come of an old Kentish stock; and though you may be living with French kinsfolk and friends, always keep uppermost the fact that you are an Englishman who sympathizes with France, and not a Frenchman with some English blood in your veins. I have given you up greatly to your French relations here; but if you win credit and honour, I would have it won by my son, Philip Fletcher, born in England of an English father, and who will one day be a gentleman and landowner in the county of Kent."
"I sha'n't forget that, father," Philip said earnestly. "I have never regarded myself as in any way French; although speaking the tongue as well as English, and being so much among my mother's friends. But living here with you, where our people have lived so many years; hearing from you the tales from our history; seeing these English fields around me; and being at an English school, among English boys, I have ever felt that I am English, though in no way regretting the Huguenot blood that I inherit from my mother. Believe me, that if I fight in France it will be as an Englishman who has drawn his sword in the quarrel, and rather as one who hates oppression and cruelty than because I have French kinsmen engaged in it."
"That is well, Philip. You may be away for some years, but I trust that, on your return, you will find me sitting here to welcome you back. A creaking wheel lasts long. I have everything to make my life happy and peaceful--the best of wives, a well-ordered farm, and no thought or care as to my worldly affairs--and since it has been God's will that such should be my life, my interest will be wholly centred in you; and I hope to see your children playing round me or, for ought I know, your grandchildren, for we are a long-lived race.
"And now, Philip, you had best go down and see your uncle, and thank him for his good intentions towards you. Tell him that I wholly agree with his plans, and that if he and your aunt will come up this evening, we will enter farther into them."
That evening John Fletcher learned that it was the intention of Gaspard that his wife should accompany Philip.
"Marie yearns to see her people again," he said, "and the present is a good time for her to do so; for when the war once breaks out again, none can say how long it will last or how it will terminate. Her sister and Lucie's, the Countess de Laville, has, as you know, frequently written urgently for Marie to go over and pay her a visit. Hitherto I have never been able to bring myself to spare her, but I feel that this is so good an opportunity that I must let her go for a few weeks.
"Philip could not be introduced under better auspices. He will escort Marie to his aunt's, remain there with her, and then see her on board ship again at La Rochelle; after which, doubtless, he will remain at his aunt's, and when the struggle begins will ride with his cousin Francois. I have hesitated whether I should go, also. But in the first place, my business would get on but badly without me; in the second, although Marie might travel safely enough, I might be arrested were I recognized as one who had left the kingdom contrary to the edicts; and lastly, I never was on very good terms with her family.
"Emilie, in marrying the Count de Laville, made a match somewhat above her own rank; for the Lavilles were a wealthier and more powerful family than that of Charles de Moulins, her father. On the other hand, I was, although of good birth, yet inferior in consideration to De Moulins, although my lands were broader than his. Consequently we saw little of Emilie, after our marriage. Therefore my being with Marie would, in no way, increase the warmth of the welcome that she and Philip will receive. I may say that the estrangement was, perhaps, more my fault than that of the Lavilles. I chose to fancy there was a coolness on their part, which probably existed only in my imagination. Moreover, shortly after my marriage the religious troubles grew serious; and we were all too much absorbed in our own perils, and those of our poorer neighbours, to think of travelling about, or of having family gatherings.
"At any rate, I feel that Philip could not enter into life more favourably than as cousin of Francois de Laville; who is but two years or so his senior, and who will, his mother wrote to Marie, ride behind that gallant gentleman, Francois de la Noue, if the war breaks out again. I am glad to feel confident that Philip will in no way bring discredit upon his relations.
"I shall at once order clothes for him, suitable for the occasion. They will be such as will befit an English gentleman; good in material but sober in colour, for the Huguenots eschew bright hues. I will take his measure, and send up to a friend in London for a helmet, breast, and back pieces, together with offensive arms, sword, dagger, and pistols. I have already written to correspondents, at Southampton and Plymouth, for news as to the sailing of a ship bound for La Rochelle. There he had better take four men into his service, for in these days it is by no means safe to ride through France unattended; especially when one is of the reformed religion. The roads abound with disbanded soldiers and robbers, while in the villages a fanatic might, at any time, bring on a religious tumult. I have many correspondents at La Rochelle, and will write to one asking him to select four stout fellows, who showed their courage in the last war, and can be relied on for good and faithful service. I will also get him to buy horses, and make all arrangements for the journey.
"Marie will write to her sister. Lucie, perhaps, had better write under the same cover; for although she can remember but little of Emilie, seeing that she was fully six years her junior, it would be natural that she should take the opportunity to correspond with her.
"In one respect, Phil," he went on, turning to his nephew, "you will find yourself at some disadvantage, perhaps, among young Frenchmen. You can ride well, and I think can sit a horse with any of them; but of the menage, that is to say, the purely ornamental management of a horse, in which they are most carefully instructed, you know nothing. It is one of the tricks of fashion, of which plain men like myself know but little; and though I have often made inquiries, I have found no one who could instruct you. However, these delicacies are rather for courtly displays than for the rough work of war; though it must be owned that, in single combat between two swordsmen, he who has the most perfect control over his horse, and can make the animal wheel or turn, press upon his opponent, or give way by a mere touch of his leg or hand, possesses a considerable advantage over the man who is unversed in such matters. I hope you will not feel the want of it, and at any rate, it has not been my fault that you have had no opportunity of acquiring the art.
"The tendency is more and more to fight on foot. The duel has taken the place of the combat in the lists, and the pikeman counts for as much in the winning of a battle as the mounted man. You taught us that at Cressy and Agincourt; but we have been slow to learn the lesson, which was brought home to you in your battles with the Scots, and in your own civil struggles. It is the bow and the pike that have made the English soldier famous; while in France, where the feudal system still prevails, horsemen still form a large proportion of our armies; and the jousting lists, and the exercise of the menage, still occupy a large share in the training and amusements of the young men of noble families."
Six weeks later, Philip Fletcher landed at La Rochelle, with his aunt and her French serving maid. When the ship came into port, the clerk of a trader there came on board at once and, on the part of his employer, begged Madame Vaillant and her son to take up their abode at his house; he having been warned of their coming by his valued correspondent, Monsieur Vaillant. A porter was engaged to carry up their luggage to the house, whither the clerk at once conducted them.
From his having lived so long among the Huguenot colony, the scene was less strange to Philip than it would have been to most English lads. La Rochelle was a strongly Protestant city, and the sober-coloured costumes of the people differed but little from those to which he was accustomed in the streets of Canterbury. He himself and his aunt attracted no attention, whatever, from passersby; her costume being exactly similar to those worn by the wives of merchants, while Philip would have passed anywhere as a young Huguenot gentleman, in his doublet of dark puce cloth, slashed with gray, his trunks of the same colour, and long gray hose.
"A proper-looking young gentleman," a market woman said to her daughter, as he passed. "Another two or three years, and he will make a rare defender of the faith. He must be from Normandy, with his fair complexion and light eyes. There are not many of the true faith in the north."
They were met by the merchant at the door of his house.
"I am glad indeed to see you again, Madame Vaillant," he said. "It is some twenty years, now, since you and your good husband and your sister hid here, for three days, before we could smuggle you on board a ship. Ah! Those were bad times; though there have been worse since. But since our people showed that they did not intend, any longer, to be slaughtered unresistingly, things have gone better here, at least; and for the last four years the slaughterings and murders have ceased.
"You are but little changed, madame, since I saw you last."
"I have lived a quiet and happy life, my good Monsieur Bertram; free from all strife and care, save for anxiety about our people here. Why cannot Catholics and Protestants live quietly side by side here, as they do in England?"
"We should ask nothing better, madame."
At this moment, a girl came hurrying down the stairs.
"This is my daughter Jean, madame.
"Why were you not down before, Jean?" he asked sharply. "I told you to place Suzette at the casement, to warn you when our visitors were in sight, so that you should, as was proper, be at the door to meet them. I suppose, instead of that, you had the maid arranging your headgear, or some such worldly folly."
The girl coloured hotly, for her father had hit upon the truth.
"Young people will be young people, Monsieur Bertram," Madame Vaillant said, smiling, "and my husband and I are not of those who think that it is necessary to carry a prim face, and to attire one's self in ugly garments, as a proof of religion. Youth is the time for mirth and happiness, and nature teaches a maiden what is becoming to her; why then should we blame her for setting off the charms God has given her to their best advantage?"
By this time they had reached the upper storey, and the merchant's daughter hastened to relieve Madame Vaillant of her wraps.
"This is my nephew, of whom my husband wrote to you," the latter said to the merchant, when Philip entered the room--he having lingered at the door to pay the porters, and to see that the luggage, which had come up close behind them, was stored.
"He looks active and strong, madame. He has the figure of a fine swordsman."
"He has been well taught, and will do no discredit to our race, Monsieur Bertram. His father is a strong and powerful man, even for an Englishman; and though Philip does not follow his figure, he has something of his strength."
"They are wondrous strong, these Englishmen," the trader said. "I have seen, among their sailors, men who are taller by a head than most of us here, and who look strong enough to take a bull by the horns and hold him. But had it not been for your nephew's fair hair and gray eyes, his complexion, and the smile on his lips--we have almost forgotten how to smile, in France--I should hardly have taken him for an Englishman."
"There is nothing extraordinary in that, Monsieur Bertram, when his mother is French, and he has lived greatly in the society of my husband and myself, and among the Huguenot colony at Canterbury."
"Have you succeeded in getting the horses and the four men for us, Monsieur Bertram?" Philip asked.
"Yes, everything is in readiness for your departure tomorrow. Madame will, I suppose, ride behind you upon a pillion; and her maid behind one of the troopers.
"I have, in accordance with Monsieur Vaillant's instructions, bought a horse, which I think you will be pleased with; for Guise himself might ride upon it, without feeling that he was ill mounted. I was fortunate in lighting on such an animal. It was the property of a young noble, who rode hither from Navarre and was sailing for England. I imagine he bore despatches from the queen to her majesty of England. He had been set upon by robbers on the way. They took everything he possessed, and held him prisoner, doubtless meaning to get a ransom for him; but he managed to slip off while they slept, and to mount his horse, with which he easily left the varlets behind, although they chased him for some distance. So when he came here, he offered to sell his horse to obtain an outfit and money for his voyage; and the landlord of the inn, who is a friend of mine, knowing that I had been inquiring for a good animal, brought him to me, and we soon struck a bargain."
"It was hard on him to lose his horse in that fashion," Philip said; "and I am sorry for it, though I may be the gainer thereby."
"He did not seem to mind much," the merchant said. "Horses are good and abundant in Navarre, and when I said I did not like to take advantage of his strait, he only laughed and said he had three or four others as good at home. He did say, though, that he would like to know if it was to be in good hands. I assured him that on that ground he need not fear; for that I had bought it for a young gentleman, nearly related to the Countess de Laville. He said that was well, and seemed glad, indeed, that it was not to be ridden by one of the brigands into whose hands he fell."
"And the men. Are they trustworthy fellows?"
"They are stout men-at-arms. They are Gascons all, and rode behind Coligny in the war, and according to their own account performed wonders; but as Gascons are given to boasting, I paid not much heed to that. However, they were recommended to me by a friend, a large wine grower, for whom they have been working for the last two years. He says they are honest and industrious, and they are leaving him only because they are anxious for a change and, deeming that troubles were again approaching, wanted to enter the service of some Huguenot lord who would be likely to take the field. He was lamenting the fact to me, when I said that it seemed to me they were just the men I was in search of; and I accordingly saw them, and engaged them on the understanding that, at the end of a month, you should be free to discharge them if you were not satisfied with them; and that equally they could leave your service, if they did not find it suit.
"They have arms, of course, and such armour as they need; and I have bought four serviceable horses for their use, together with a horse to carry your baggage, but which will serve for your body servant.
"I have not found a man for that office. I knew of no one who would, as I thought, suit you; and in such a business it seemed to me better that you should wait, and choose for yourself, for in the matter of servants everyone has his fancies. Some like a silent knave, while others prefer a merry one. Some like a tall proper fellow, who can fight if needs be; others a staid man, who will do his duty and hold his tongue, who can cook a good dinner and groom a horse well. It is certain you will never find all virtues combined. One man may be all that you wish, but he is a liar; another helps himself; a third is too fond of the bottle. In this matter, then, I did not care to take the responsibility, but have left it for you to choose for yourself."
"I shall be more likely to make a mistake than you will, Monsieur Bertram," Philip said with a laugh.
"Perhaps so, but then it will be your own mistake; and a man chafes less, at the shortcomings of one whom he has chosen himself, than at those of one who has, as it were, been forced upon him."
"Well, there will be no hurry in that matter," Philip said. "I can get on well enough without a servant, for a time. Up to the present, I have certainly never given a thought as to what kind of man I should want as a servant; and I should like time to think over a matter which is, from what you say, so important."
"Assuredly it is important, young sir. If you should take the field, you will find that your comfort greatly depends upon it. A sharp, active knave, who will ferret out good quarters for you, turn you out a good meal from anything he can get hold of, bring your horse up well groomed in the morning, and your armour brightly polished; who will not lie to you overmuch, or rob you overmuch, and who will only get drunk at times when you can spare his services. Ah! He would be a treasure to you. But assuredly such a man is not to be found every day."
"And of course," Marie put in, "in addition to what you have said, Monsieur Bertram, it would be necessary that he should be one of our religion, and fervent and strong in the faith."
"My dear lady, I was mentioning possibilities," the trader said. "It is of course advisable that he should be a Huguenot, it is certainly essential that he should not be a Papist; but beyond this we need not inquire too closely. You cannot expect the virtues of an archbishop, and the capacity of a horse boy. If he can find a man embracing the qualities of both, by all means let your son engage him; but as he will require him to be a good cook, and a good groom, and he will not require religious instruction from him, the former points are those on which I should advise him to lay most stress.
"And now, Madame Vaillant, will you let me lead you into the next room where, as my daughter has for some time been trying to make me understand, a meal is ready? And I doubt not that you are also ready; for truly those who travel by sea are seldom able to enjoy food, save when they are much accustomed to voyaging. Though they tell me that, after a time, even those with the most delicate stomachs recover their appetites, and are able to enjoy the rough fare they get on board a ship."
After the meal was over, the merchant took Philip to the stables, where the new purchases had been put up. The men were not there, but the ostler brought out Philip's horse, with which he was delighted.
"He will not tire under his double load," the merchant said; "and with only your weight upon him, a foeman would be well mounted, indeed, to overtake you."
"I would rather that you put it, Monsieur Bertram, that a foeman needs be well mounted to escape me."
"Well, I hope it will be that way," his host replied, smiling. "But in fighting such as we have here, there are constant changes. The party that is pursued one day is the pursuer a week later; and of the two, you know, speed is of much more importance in flight than in pursuit. If you cannot overtake a foe, well, he gets away, and you may have better fortune next time; but if you can't get away from a foe, the chances are you may never have another opportunity of doing so."
"Perhaps you are right. In fact, now I think of it, I am sure you are; though I hope it will not often happen that we shall have to depend for safety on the speed of our horses. At any rate, I am delighted with him, Monsieur Bertram; and I thank you greatly for procuring so fine an animal for me. If the four men turn out to be as good, of their kind, as the horse, I shall be well set up, indeed."
Early the next morning the four men came round to the merchant's, and Philip went down with him into the entry hall where they were. He was well satisfied with their appearance. They were stout fellows, from twenty-six to thirty years old. All were soberly dressed, and wore steel caps and breast pieces, and carried long swords by their sides. In spite of the serious expression of their faces, Philip saw that all were in high, if restrained, spirits at again taking service.
"This is your employer, the Sieur Philip Fletcher. I have warranted that he shall find you good and true men, and I hope you will do justice to my recommendation."
"We will do our best," Roger, the eldest of the party, said. "We are all right glad to be moving again. It is not as if we had been bred on the soil here, and a man never takes to a strange place as to one he was born in."
"You are Gascons, Maitre Bertram tells me," Philip said.
"Yes, sir. We were driven out from there ten years ago, when the troubles were at their worst. Our fathers were both killed, and we travelled with our mothers and sisters by night, through the country, till we got to La Rochelle."
"You say both your fathers. How are you related to each other?"
"Jacques and I are brothers," Roger said, touching the youngest of the party on his shoulder. "Eustace and Henri are brothers, and are our cousins. Their father and ours were brothers. When the troubles broke out, we four took service with the Count de Luc, and followed him throughout the war. When it was over we came back here. Our mothers had married again. Some of our sisters had taken husbands, too. Others were in service. Therefore we remained here rather than return to Gascony, where our friends and relations had all been either killed or dispersed.
"We were lucky in getting employment together, but were right glad when we heard that there was an opening again for service. For the last two years we have been looking forward to it; for as everyone sees, it cannot be long before the matter must be fought out again. And in truth, we have been wearying for the time to come; for after having had a year of fighting, one does not settle down readily to tilling the soil.
"You will find that you can rely on us, sir, for faithful service. We all bore a good reputation as stout fighters and, during the time we were in harness before, we none of us got into trouble for being overfond of the wine pots."
"I think you will suit me very well," Philip said, "and I hope that my service will suit you. Although an Englishman by birth and name, my family have suffered persecution here as yours have done, and I am as warmly affected to the Huguenot cause as yourselves. If there is danger you will not find me lacking in leading you, and so far as I can I shall try to make my service a comfortable one, and to look after your welfare.
"We shall be ready to start in half an hour, therefore have the horses round at the door in that time. One of the pillions is to be placed on my own horse. You had better put the other for the maid behind your saddle, Roger; you being, I take it, the oldest of your party, had better take charge of her."
The men saluted and went out.
"I like their looks much," Philip said to the merchant. "Stout fellows and cheerful, I should say. Like my aunt, I don't see why we should carry long faces, Monsieur Bertram, because we have reformed our religion; and I believe that a light heart and good spirits will stand wear and tear better than a sad visage."
The four men were no less pleased with their new employer.
"That is a lad after my own heart," Roger said, as they went out. "Quick and alert, pleasant of face; and yet, I will be bound, not easily turned from what he has set his mind to. He bears himself well, and I doubt not can use his weapons. I don't know what stock he comes from, on this side, but I warrant it is a good one.
"He will make a good master, lads. I think that, as he says, he will be thoughtful as to our comforts, and be pleasant and cheerful with us; but mind you, he will expect the work to be done, and you will find that there is no trifling with him."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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3
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: In A French Chateau.
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The three days' ride to the chateau of the Countess de Laville was marked by no incident. To Philip it was an exceedingly pleasant one. Everything was new to him; the architecture of the churches and villages, the dress of the people, their modes of agriculture, all differing widely from those to which he was accustomed. In some villages the Catholics predominated, and here the passage of the little party was regarded with frowning brows and muttered threats; by the Huguenots they were saluted respectfully, and if they halted, many questions were asked their followers as to news about the intentions of the court, the last rumours as to the attitude of Conde, and the prospects of a continuance of peace.
Here, too, great respect was paid to Marie and Philip when it was known they were relatives of the Countess de Laville, and belonged to the family of the De Moulins. Emilie had for some time been a widow--the count, her husband, having fallen at the battle of Dreux, at the end of the year 1562--but being an active and capable woman, she had taken into her hands the entire management of the estates, and was one of the most influential among the Huguenot nobles of that part of the country.
From their last halting place, Marie Vaillant sent on a letter by one of the men to her sister, announcing their coming. She had written on her landing at La Rochelle, and they had been met on their way by a messenger from the countess, expressing her delight that her sister had at last carried out her promise to visit her, and saying that Francois was looking eagerly for the coming of his cousin.
The chateau was a semi-fortified building, capable of making a stout resistance against any sudden attack. It stood on the slope of a hill, and Philip felt a little awed at its stately aspect as they approached it. When they were still a mile away, a party of horsemen rode out from the gateway, and in a few minutes their leader reined up his horse in front of them and, springing from it, advanced towards Philip, who also alighted and helped his aunt to dismount.
"My dear aunt," the young fellow said, doffing his cap, "I am come in the name of my mother to greet you, and to tell you how joyful she is that you have, at last, come back to us.
"This is my Cousin Philip, of course; though you are not what I expected to see. My mother told me that you were two years' my junior, and I had looked to find you still a boy; but, by my faith, you seem to be as old as I am. Why, you are taller by two inches, and broader and stronger too, I should say. Can it be true that you are but sixteen?"
"That is my age, Cousin Francois; and I am, as you expected, but a boy yet and, I can assure you, no taller or broader than many of my English schoolfellows of the same age."
"But we must not delay, aunt," Francois said, turning again to her. "My mother's commands were urgent, that I was not to delay a moment in private talk with you, but to bring you speedily on to her; therefore I pray you to mount again and ride on with me, for doubtless she is watching impatiently now, and will chide me rarely, if we linger."
Accordingly the party remounted at once, and rode forward to the chateau. A dozen men-at-arms were drawn up at the gate and, on the steps of the entrance from the courtyard into the chateau itself, the countess was standing. Francois leapt from his horse, and was by the side of his aunt as Philip reined in his horse. Taking his hand, she sprang lightly from the saddle, and in a moment the two sisters fell into each others' arms.
It was more than twenty years since they last met, but time had dealt gently with them both. The countess had changed least. She was two or three years older than Marie, was tall, and had been somewhat stately even as a girl. She had had many cares, but her position had always been assured; as the wife of a powerful noble she had been accustomed to be treated with deference and respect, and although the troubles of the times and the loss of her husband had left their marks, she was still a fair and stately woman at the age of forty-three. Marie, upon the other hand, had lived an untroubled life for the past twenty years. She had married a man who was considered beneath her, but the match had been in every way a happy one. Her husband was devoted to her, and the expression of her face showed that she was a thoroughly contented and happy woman.
"You are just what I fancied you would be, Marie, a quiet little home bird, living in your nest beyond the sea, and free from all the troubles and anxieties of our unhappy country. You have been good to write so often, far better than I have been; and I seem to know all about your quiet, well-ordered home, and your good husband and his business that flourishes so. I thought you were a little foolish in your choice, and that our father was wrong in mating you as he did; but it has turned out well, and you have been living in quiet waters, while we have been encountering a sea of troubles.
"And this tall youth is our nephew, Philip? I wish you could have brought over Lucie with you. It would have been pleasant, indeed, for us three sisters to be reunited again, if only for a time. Why, your Philip is taller than Francois, and yet he is two years younger. I congratulate you and Lucie upon him.
"Salute me, nephew. I had not looked to see so proper a youth. You show the blood of the De Moulins plainly, Philip. I suppose you get your height and your strength from your English father?"
"They are big men, these English, Emilie; and his father is big, even among them. But, as you say, save in size Philip takes after our side rather than his father's; and of course he has mixed so much with our colony at Canterbury that, in spite of his being English bred, we have preserved in him something of the French manner, and I think his heart is fairly divided between the two countries."
"Let us go in," the countess said. "You need rest and refreshment after your journey, and I long to have a quiet talk with you.
"Francois, do you take charge of your cousin. I have told the serving men to let you have a meal in your own apartments, and then you can show him over the chateau and the stables."
Francois and Philip bowed to the two ladies, and then went off together.
"That is good," the young count said, laying his hand on Philip's shoulder; "now we shall get to know each other. You will not be angry, I hope, when I tell you that, though I have looked forward to seeing my aunt and you, I have yet been a little anxious in my mind. I do not know why, but I have always pictured the English as somewhat rough and uncouth--as doughty fighters, for so they have shown themselves to our cost, but as somewhat deficient in the graces of manner--and when I heard that my aunt was bringing you over, to leave you for a time with us, since you longed to fight in the good cause, I have thought--pray, do not be angry with me, for I feel ashamed of myself now--" and he hesitated.
"That I should be a rough cub, whom you would be somewhat ashamed of introducing to your friends as your cousin," Philip laughed. "I am not surprised. English boys have ideas just as erroneous about the French, and it was a perpetual wonder to my schoolfellows that, being half French, I was yet as strong and as tough as they were. Doubtless I should have been somewhat different, had I not lived so much with my uncle and aunt and the Huguenot community at Canterbury. Monsieur Vaillant and my aunt have always impressed upon me that I belong to a noble French family, and might some day come over here to stay with my relations; and have taken much pains with my deportment and manners, and have so far succeeded that I am always called 'Frenchy' among my English companions, though in their own games and sports I could hold my own with any of them."
"And can you ride, Philip?"
"I can sit on any horse, but I have had no opportunity of learning the menage."
"That matters little, after all," Francois said; "though it is an advantage to be able to manage your horse with a touch of the heel, or the slightest pressure of the rein, and to make him wheel and turn at will, while leaving both arms free to use your weapons. You have learned to fence?"
"Yes. There were some good masters among the colony, and many a lesson have I had from old soldiers passing through, who paid for a week's hospitality by putting me up to a few tricks with the sword."
"I thought you could fence," Francois said. "You would hardly have that figure and carriage, unless you had practised with the sword. And you dance, I suppose. Many of our religion regard such amusement as frivolous, if not sinful; but my mother, although as staunch a Huguenot as breathes, insists upon my learning it, not as an amusement but as an exercise. There was no reason, she said, why the Catholics should monopolize all the graces."
"Yes, I learned to dance, and for the same reason. I think my uncle rather scandalized the people of our religion in Canterbury. He maintained that it was necessary, as part of the education of a gentleman; and that in the English Protestant court, dancing was as highly thought of as in that of France, the queen herself being noted for her dancing, and none can throw doubts upon her Protestantism. My mother and aunt were both against it, but as my father supported my uncle, he had his own way."
"Well I see, Philip, that we shall be good comrades. There are many among us younger Huguenots who, though as staunch in the religion as our fathers, and as ready to fight and die for it if need be, yet do not see that it is needful to go about always with grave faces, and to be cut off from all innocent amusements. It is our natural disposition to be gay, and I see not why, because we hold the Mass in detestation, and have revolted against the authority of the Pope and the abuses of the church, we should go through life as if we were attending a perpetual funeral. Unless I am mistaken, such is your disposition also; for although your face is grave, your eyes laugh."
"I have been taught to bear myself gravely, in the presence of my elders," Philip replied with a smile; "and truly at Canterbury the French colony was a grave one, being strangers in a strange land; but among my English friends, I think I was as much disposed for a bit of fun or mischief as any of them."
"But I thought the English were a grave race."
"I think not, Francois. We call England 'Merry England.' I think we are an earnest people, but not a grave one. English boys play with all their might. The French boys of the colony never used to join in our sports, regarding them as rude and violent beyond all reason; but it is all in good humour, and it is rare, indeed, for anyone to lose his temper, however rough the play and hard the knocks. Then they are fond of dancing and singing, save among the strictest sects; and the court is as gay as any in Europe. I do not think that the English can be called a grave people."
"Well, I am glad that it is so, Philip, especially that you yourself are not grave. Now, as we have finished our meal, let us visit the stables. I have a horse already set aside for you; but I saw, as we rode hither, that you are already excellently mounted. Still, Victor, that is his name, shall be at your disposal. A second horse is always useful, for shot and arrows no more spare a horse than his rider."
The stables were large and well ordered for, during the past two months, there had been large additions made by the countess, in view of the expected troubles.
"This is my charger. I call him Rollo. He was bred on the estate and, when I am upon him, I feel that the king is not better mounted."
"He is a splendid animal, indeed," Philip said, as Rollo tossed his head, and whinnied with pleasure at his master's approach.
"He can do anything but talk," Francois said, as he patted him. "He will lie down when I tell him, will come to my whistle and, with the reins lying loose on his neck, will obey my voice as readily as he would my hand.
"This is my second horse, Pluto. He is the equal of Rollo in strength and speed, but not so docile and obedient, and he has a temper of his own."
"He looks it," Philip agreed. "I should keep well out of reach of his heels and jaws."
"He is quiet enough when I am on his back," Francois laughed; "but I own that he is the terror of the stable boys.
"This is Victor. He is not quite as handsome as Rollo, but he has speed and courage and good manners."
"He is a beautiful creature," Philip said enthusiastically. "I was very well satisfied with my purchase, but he will not show to advantage by the side of Victor."
"Ah, I see they have put him in the next stall," Francois said.
"He is a fine animal, too," he went on, after examining the horse closely. "He comes from Gascony, I should say. He has signs of Spanish blood."
"Yes, from Gascony or Navarre. I was very fortunate in getting him," and he related how the animal had been left at La Rochelle.
"You got him for less than half his value, Philip. What are you going to call him?"
"I shall call him Robin. That was the name of my favourite horse, at home.
"I see you have got some stout animals in the other stalls, though of course they are of a very different quality to your own."
"Yes; many of them are new purchases. We have taken on thirty men-at-arms; stout fellows, old soldiers all, whom my mother will send into the field if we come to blows. Besides these there will be some twenty of our tenants. We could have raised the whole number among them, had we chosen; for if we called up the full strength of the estate, and put all bound to service in the field in war time, we could turn out fully three hundred; but of these well-nigh a third are Catholics, and could not in any way be relied on, nor would it be just to call upon them to fight against their co-religionists. Again, it would not do to call out all our Huguenot tenants; for this would leave their wives and families and homes and property, to say nothing of the chateau, at the mercy of the Catholics while they were away. I do not think that our Catholic tenants would interfere with them, still less with the chateau; for our family have ever been good masters, and my mother is loved by men of both parties. Still, bands might come from other districts, or from the towns, to pillage or slay were the estate left without fighting men. Therefore, we have taken these men-at-arms into our service, with twenty of our own tenants, all young men belonging to large families; while the rest will remain behind, as a guard for the estate and chateau; and as in all they could muster some two hundred and fifty strong, and would be joined by the other Huguenots of the district, they would not likely be molested, unless one of the Catholic armies happened to come in this direction.
"Directly I start with the troop, the younger sons of the tenants will be called in to form a garrison here. We have five-and-thirty names down, and there are twenty men capable of bearing arms among the household, many of whom have seen service. Jacques Parold, our seneschal, has been a valiant soldier in his time, and would make the best of them; and my mother would assuredly keep our flag flying till the last.
"I shall go away in comfort for, unless the Guises march this way, there is little fear of trouble in our absence. We are fortunate in this province. The parties are pretty evenly divided, and have a mutual respect for each other. In districts where we are greatly outnumbered, it is hard for fighting men to march away with the possibility that, on their return, they will find their families murdered and their homes levelled.
"Now we will take a turn round the grounds. Their beauty has been sadly destroyed. You see, before the troubles seven years ago broke out, there was a view from the windows on this side of the house over the park and shrubberies; but at that time my father thought it necessary to provide against sudden attacks, and therefore, before he went away to the war, he had this wall with its flanking towers erected. All the tenants came in and helped, and it was built in five weeks time. It has, as you see, made the place safe from a sudden attack, for on the other three sides the old defences remain unaltered. It was on this side, only, that my grandfather had the house modernized, believing that the days of civil war were at an end.
"You see, this new wall forms a large quadrangle. We call it the countess's garden, and my mother has done her best, by planting it with shrubs and fast-growing trees, to make up for the loss of the view she formerly had from the windows.
"Along one side you see there are storehouses, which are screened from view by that bank of turf. They are all full, now, of grain. There is a gate, as you see, opposite. In case of trouble cattle will be driven in there, and the garden turned into a stockyard, so that there is no fear of our being starved out."
"Fifty-five men are a small garrison for so large a place, Francois."
"Yes, but that is only against a sudden surprise. In case of alarm, the Protestant tenants would all come in with their wives and families, and the best of their horses and cattle, and then there will be force enough to defend the place against anything short of a siege by an army. You see there is a moat runs all round. It is full now on three sides, and there is a little stream runs down from behind, which would fill the fourth side in a few hours.
"Tomorrow we will take a ride through the park, which lies beyond that wall."
Entering the house, they passed through several stately apartments, and then entered a large hall completely hung with arms and armour.
[Illustration: Philip and Francois in the armoury.]
"This is the grand hall, and you see it serves also the purpose of a salle d'armes. Here we have arms and armour for a hundred men, for although all the tenants are bound, by the terms of their holding, to appear when called upon fully armed and accoutred, each with so many men according to the size of his farm, there may well be deficiencies; especially as, until the religious troubles began, it was a great number of years since they had been called upon to take the field. For the last eight years, however, they have been trained and drilled; fifty at a time coming up, once a week. That began two years before the last war, as my father always held that it was absurd to take a number of men, wholly unaccustomed to the use of arms, into the field. Agincourt taught that lesson to our nobles, though it has been forgotten by most of them.
"We have two officers accustomed to drill and marshal men, and these act as teachers here in the hall. The footmen practise with pike and sword. They are exercised with arquebus and crossbow in the park, and the mounted men are taught to manoeuvre and charge, so that, in case of need, we can show a good face against any body of troops of equal numbers. It is here I practise with my maitre d'armes, and with Montpace and Bourdon, our two officers.
"Ah! Here is Charles, my maitre d'armes.
"Charles, this is my cousin Philip, who will also be a pupil of yours while he remains here.
"What do you say, Philip? Will we try a bout with blunted swords just now?"
"With pleasure," Philip said.
The art of fencing had not, at that time, reached the perfection it afterwards attained. The swords used were long and straight, and sharpened at both edges; and were used as much for cutting as thrusting. In single combat on foot, long daggers were generally held in the left hand, and were used for the purpose both of guarding and of striking at close quarters.
They put on thick quilted doublets, and light helmets with visors.
"Do you use a dagger, Philip?"
"No, I have never seen one used in England. We are taught to guard with our swords, as well as to strike with them."
"Monsieur has learned from English teachers?" the maitre d'armes asked.
"I have had English teachers as well as French," Philip said. "We all learn the use of the sword in England; but my uncle, Monsieur Vaillant, has taken great pains in having me taught also by such French professors of arms as lived in Canterbury, or happened to pass through it; but I own that I prefer the English style of fighting. We generally stand upright to our work, equally poised on the two feet for advance or retreat; while you lean with the body far forward and the arm outstretched, which seems to me to cripple the movements."
"Yes, but it puts the body out of harm's way," Francois said.
"It is the arm's business to guard the body, Francois, and it is impossible to strike a downright blow when leaning so far forward."
"We strike but little, nowadays, in single combat," the maitre d'armes said. "The point is more effective."
"That is doubtless so, Maitre Charles," Philip agreed; "but I have not learned fencing for the sake of fighting duels, but to be able to take my part on a field of battle. The Spaniards are said to be masters of the straight sword, and yet they have been roughly used in the western seas by our sailors; who, methinks, always use the edge."
The two now took up their position facing each other. Their attitude was strikingly different. Francois stood on bent knees, leaning far forward; while Philip stood erect, with his knees but slightly bent, ready to spring either forwards or backwards, with his arm but half extended. For a time both fought cautiously. Francois had been well taught, having had the benefit, whenever he was in Paris, of the best masters there. He was extremely active and, as they warmed to their work, Philip had difficulty in standing his ground against his impetuous rushes. Some minutes passed without either of them succeeding in touching the other. At length the maitre d'armes called upon them to lower their swords.
"That is enough," he said. "You are equally matched.
"I congratulate you, Monsieur Philip. You have been well taught; and indeed, there are not many youths of his age who could hold their own with my pupil.
"Take off your helmets. Enough has been done for one day."
"Peste, Philip!" Francois said, as he removed his helmet. "I was not wrong when I said that, from your figure, I was sure that you had learned fencing. Maitre Charles interfered on my behalf, and to save me the mortification of defeat. I had nearly shot my bolt, and you had scarcely begun.
"I own myself a convert. Your attitude is better than ours--that is, when the hand is skilful enough to defend the body. The fatigue of holding the arm extended, as I do, is much greater than it is as you stand; and in the long run you must get the better of anyone who is not sufficiently skilful to slay you before his arm becomes fatigued.
"What do you think, Maitre Charles? My cousin is two years younger than I am, and yet his wrist and arm are stronger than mine, as I could feel every time he put aside my attacks."
"Is that so?" the maitre d'armes said, in surprise. "I had taken him for your senior. He will be a famous man-at-arms, when he attains his full age. His defence is wonderfully strong and, although I do not admit that he is superior to you with the point, he would be a formidable opponent to any of our best swordsmen in a melee. If, as he says, he is more accustomed to use the edge than the point, I will myself try him tomorrow, if he will permit me. I have always understood that the English are more used to strike than to thrust, and although in the duel the edge has little chance against the point, I own that it is altogether different in a melee on horseback; especially as the point cannot penetrate armour, while a stout blow, well delivered with a strong arm, can break it in.
"Are you skilled in the exercises of the ring, Monsieur Philip?"
"Not at all. I have had no practise, whatever, in them. Except in some of the great houses, the tourney has gone quite out of fashion in England; and though I can ride a horse across country, I know nothing whatever of knightly exercises. My father is but a small proprietor and, up to the time I left England, I have been but a schoolboy."
"If all your schoolboys understand the use of their arms as you do," Maitre Charles said courteously, "it is no wonder that the English are terrible fighters."
"I do not say that," Philip said, smiling. "I have had the advantage of the best teaching, both English and French, to be had at Canterbury; and it would be a shame for me, indeed, if I had not learnt to defend myself."
A servant now entered, and said that the countess desired their presence, and they at once went to the apartment where the sisters were talking.
"What do you think, mother?" Francois said. "This cousin of mine, whom I had intended to patronize, turns out to be already a better swordsman than I am."
"Not better, madame," Philip said hastily. "We were a fair match, neither having touched the other."
"Philip is too modest, mother," Francois laughed. "Maitre Charles stopped us in time to save me from defeat. Why, he has a wrist like iron, this cousin of mine."
"We have done our best to have him well taught," Madame Vaillant said. "There were some good swordsmen among our Huguenot friends, and he has also had the best English teachers we could get for him. My husband always wished, particularly, that if he ever came over to visit our friends here, he should not be deficient in such matters."
"I feel a little crestfallen," the countess said. "I have been rather proud of Francois' skill as a swordsman, and I own that it is a little mortifying to find that Philip, who is two years younger, is already his match. Still, I am glad that it is so; for if they ride together into battle, I should wish that Philip should do honour to our race.
"Now, Philip, I have been hearing all about your mother's life, as well as that of your uncle and aunt. Now let us hear about your own, which must needs differ widely from that to which Francois has been accustomed. Your aunt says that your English schools differ altogether from ours. With us our sons are generally brought up at home, and are instructed by the chaplain, in Huguenot families; or by the priest in Catholic families; or else they go to religious seminaries, where they are taught what is necessary of books and Latin, being under strict supervision, and learning all other matters such as the use of arms after leaving school, or when at home with their families."
Philip gave an account of his school life, and its rough games and sports.
"But is it possible, Philip," the countess said in tones of horror, "that you used to wrestle and to fight? Fight with your arms and fists against rough boys, the sons of all sorts of common people?"
"Certainly I did, aunt, and it did me a great deal of good, and no harm so far as I know. All these rough sports strengthen the frame and give quickness and vigour, just the same as exercises with the sword do. I should never have been so tall and strong as I am now if, instead of going to an English school, I had been either, as you say, educated at home by a chaplain, or sent to be taught and looked after by priests. My mother did not like it at first, but she came to see that it was good for me. Besides, there is not the same difference between classes in England as there is in France. There is more independence in the lower and middle classes, and less haughtiness and pride in the upper, and I think that it is better so."
"It is the English custom, Emilie," her sister said; "and I can assure you that my husband and I have got very English, in some things. We do not love our country less, but we see that, in many respects, the English ways are better than ours; and we admire the independence of the people, every man respecting himself, though giving honour, but not lavishly, to those higher placed."
The countess shrugged her shoulders.
"We will not argue, Marie. At any rate, whatever the process, it has succeeded well with Philip."
The days passed quietly at the chateau. Before breakfast Philip spent an hour on horseback, learning to manage his horse by the pressure of knee or hand. This was the more easy, as both his horses had been thoroughly trained in the menage, and under the instruction of Captain Montpace, who had been Francois' teacher, he made rapid progress.
"It is much easier to teach the man than the horse," his instructor said, "although a horse learns readily enough, when its rider is a master of the art; but with horse and rider alike ignorant, it is a long business to get them to work together as if they were one, which is what should be. As both your horses know their work, they obey your motions, however slight; and you will soon be able to pass muster on their backs. But it would take months of patient teaching for you so to acquire the art of horsemanship as to be able to train an animal, yourself."
After the lesson was over, Francois and Philip would tilt at rings and go through other exercises in the courtyard. Breakfast over, they went hawking or hunting. Of the former sport Philip was entirely ignorant, and was surprised to learn how highly a knowledge of it was prized in France, and how necessary it was considered as part of the education of a gentleman. Upon the other hand, his shooting with the bow and arrow astonished Francois; for the bow had never been a French weapon, and the crossbow was fast giving way to the arquebus; but few gentlemen troubled themselves to learn the use of either one or the other. The pistol, however, was becoming a recognized portion of the outfit of a cavalier in the field and, following Francois' advice, Philip practised with one steadily, until he became a fair shot.
"They are cowardly weapons," Francois said, "but for all that they are useful in battle. When you are surrounded by three or four pikemen, thrusting at you, it is a good thing to be able to disembarrass yourself of one or two of them. Besides, these German horsemen, of whom the Guises employ so many, all carry firearms; and the contest would be too uneven if we were armed only with the sword; though for my part I wish that all the governments of Europe would agree to do away with firearms of every description. They place the meanest footman upon the level of the bravest knight, and in the end will, it seems to me, reduce armies to the level of machines."
In the afternoons there were generally gatherings of Huguenot gentry, who came to discuss the situation, to exchange news, or to listen to the last rumours from Paris. No good had arisen from the Conference of Bayonne, and one by one the privileges of the Huguenots were being diminished.
The uprising of the Protestants of Holland was watched with the greatest interest by the Huguenots of France. It was known that several of the most influential Huguenot nobles had met, at Valery and at Chatillon, to discuss with the Prince of Conde and Admiral Coligny the question of again taking up arms in defence of their liberties. It was rumoured that the opinion of the majority was that the Huguenot standard should be again unfurled, and that this time there should be no laying down of their arms until freedom of worship was guaranteed to all; but that the admiral had used all his powers to persuade them that the time had not yet come, and that it was better to bear trials and persecutions, for a time, in order that the world might see they had not appealed to arms until driven to it by the failure of all other hope of redress of their grievances.
The elder men among the visitors at the chateau were of the admiral's opinion. The younger chafed at the delay. The position had indeed become intolerable. Protestant worship was absolutely forbidden, except in a few specified buildings near some of the large towns; and all Protestants, save those dwelling in these localities, were forced to meet secretly, and at the risk of their lives, for the purpose of worship. Those caught transgressing the law were thrown into prison, subjected to crushing fines, and even punished with torture and death.
"Better a thousand times to die with swords in our hands, in the open field, than thus tamely to see our brethren ill-treated and persecuted!" was the cry of the young men; and Philip, who from daily hearing tales of persecution and cruelty had become more and more zealous in the Huguenot cause, fully shared their feeling.
In the presence of the elders, however, the more ardent spirits were silent. At all times grave and sober in manner and word, the knowledge that a desperate struggle could not long be deferred, and the ever-increasing encroachments of the Catholics, added to the gravity of their demeanour. Sometimes those present broke up into groups, talking in an undertone. Sometimes the gathering took the form of a general council. Occasionally some fugitive minister, or a noble from some district where the persecution was particularly fierce, would be present; and their narratives would be listened to with stern faces by the elders, and with passionate indignation by the younger men.
In spite of the decrees, the countess still retained her chaplain and, before the meetings broke up, prayers were offered by him for their persecuted brethren, and for a speedy deliverance of those of the reformed religion from the cruel disabilities under which they laboured.
Services were held night and morning in the chateau. These were attended not only by all the residents, but by many of the farmers and their families. The countess had already received several warnings from the Catholic authorities of the province; but to these she paid no attention, and there were no forces available to enforce the decree in her case, as it would require nothing short of an army to overcome the opposition that might be expected, joined as she would be by the other Huguenot gentry of the district.
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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4
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: An Experiment.
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Marie Vaillant, after remaining six weeks at the chateau, returned to England; and Philip, with a party of twelve men, escorted her to La Rochelle. Her visit was cut short somewhat, at the end, by the imminence of the outbreak of hostilities, in which case she might have found a difficulty in traversing the country. Moreover, La Rochelle would probably be besieged, soon after the war began; for being both an important town and port, the Catholics would be anxious to obtain possession of it, and so cut off the Huguenots from escape to England, besides rendering it difficult for Elizabeth to send a force to their assistance.
"It has been a pleasant time," the countess said, on the morning of her departure; "and your presence has taken me back five-and-twenty years, Marie. I hope that when these troubles are past you will again come over, and spend a happier time with me. I was going to say that I will look well after Philip, but that I cannot do. He has cast his lot in with us, and must share our perils. I am greatly pleased with him, and I am glad that Francois will have him as a companion in arms. Francois is somewhat impulsive, and liable to be carried away by his ardour; and Philip, although the younger, is, it seems to me, the more thoughtful of the two. He is one I feel I can have confidence in. He is grave, yet merry; light hearted in a way, and yet, I think, prudent and cautious. It seems strange, but I shall part with Francois with the more comfort, in the thought that he has Philip with him.
"Don't come back more English than you are now, Marie; for truly you seem to me to have fallen in love with the ways of these islanders."
"I will try not to, Emilie; but I should not like the customs, did it not seem to me that they are better than my own. In England Protestants and Catholics live side by side in friendship, and there is no persecution of anyone for his religion; the Catholics who have suffered during the present reign have done so, not because they are Catholics, but because they plotted against the queen. Would that in France men would agree to worship, each in his own way, without rancour or animosity."
"Tell Lucie that I am very sorry she did not come over with you and Philip, and that it is only because you tell me how occupied she is that I am not furiously angry with her.
"Tell her, too," she went on earnestly, "that I feel she is one of us; still a Huguenot, a Frenchwoman, and one of our race, or she would never have allowed her only son to come over, to risk his life in our cause. I consider her a heroine, Marie. It is all very well for me, whose religion is endangered, whose friends are in peril, whose people are persecuted, to throw myself into the strife and to send Francois into the battle; but with her, working there with an invalid husband, and her heart, as it must be, wrapped up in her boy, it is splendid to let him come out here, to fight side by side with us for the faith. Whose idea was it first?"
"My husband's. Gaspard regards Philip almost in the light of a son. He is a rich man now, as I told you, and Philip will become his heir. Though he has no desire that he should settle in France, he wished him to take his place in our family here, to show himself worthy of his race, to become a brave soldier, to win credit and honour, and to take his place perhaps, some day, in the front rank of the gentry of Kent."
"They were worldly motives, Marie, and our ministers would denounce them as sinful; but I cannot do so. I am a Huguenot, but I am a countess of France, a member of one noble family and married into another; and though, I believe, as staunch a Huguenot, and as ready to lay down my life for our religion as any man or woman in France, yet I cannot give up all the traditions of my rank, and hold that fame and honour and reputation and courage are mere snares. But such were not Lucie's feelings in letting him go, I will be bound; nor yours."
"Mine partly," Marie said. "I am the wife now of a trader, though one honoured in his class; but have still a little of your feelings, Emilie, and remember that the blood of the De Moulins runs in Philip's veins, and hope that he will do credit to it. I don't think that Lucie has any such feelings. She is wrapt up in duty--first her duty to God, secondly her duty to her crippled husband, whom she adores; and I think she regarded the desire of Philip to come out to fight in the Huguenot ranks as a call that she ought not to oppose. I know she was heartbroken at parting with him, and yet she never showed it.
"Lucie is a noble character. Everyone who knows her loves her. I believe the very farm labourers would give their lives for her, and a more utterly unselfish creature never lived."
"Well, she must take a holiday and come over with you, next time you come, Marie. I hope that these troubles may soon be over, though that is a thing one cannot foretell."
After seeing his aunt safely on board a ship at La Rochelle, Philip prepared to return to the chateau. He and his aunt had stayed two nights at the house of Maitre Bertram, and on his returning there the latter asked: "Have you yet found a suitable servant, Monsieur Philip?"
"No; my cousin has been inquiring among the tenantry, but the young men are all bent on fighting, and indeed there are none of them who would make the sort of servant one wants in a campaign--a man who can not only groom horses and clean arms, but who knows something of war, can forage for provisions, cook, wait on table, and has intelligence. One wants an old soldier; one who has served in the same capacity, if possible."
"I only asked because I have had a man pestering me to speak to you about him. He happened to see you ride off, when you were here last, and apparently became impressed with the idea that you would be a good master. He is a cousin of one of my men, and heard I suppose from him that you were likely to return. He has been to me three or four times. I have told him again and again that he was not the sort of man I could recommend, but he persisted in begging me to let him see you himself."
"What sort of a fellow is he?"
"Well, to tell you the truth he is a sort of ne'er-do-well," the merchant laughed. "I grant that he has not had much chance. His father died when he was a child, and his mother soon married again. There is no doubt that he was badly treated at home, and when he was twelve he ran away. He was taken back and beaten, time after time; but in a few hours he was always off again, and at last they let him go his own way. There is nothing he hasn't turned his hand to. First he lived in the woods, I fancy; and they say he was the most arrant young poacher in the district, though he was so cunning that he was never caught. At last he had to give that up. Then he fished for a bit, but he couldn't stick to it. He has been always doing odd jobs, turning his hand to whatever turned up. He worked in a shipyard for a bit, then I took him as a sort of errand boy and porter. He didn't stop long, and the next I heard of him he was servant at a priest's. He has been a dozen other things, and for the last three or four months he has been in the stables where your horse was standing. I fancy you saw him there. Some people think he is half a fool, but I don't agree with them; he is as sharp as a needle, to my mind. But, as I say, he has never had a fair chance. A fellow like that, without friends, is sure to get roughly treated."
"Is he a young man of about one or two and twenty?" Philip asked. "I remember a fellow of about that age brought out the horse, and as he seemed to me a shrewd fellow, and had evidently taken great pains in grooming Robin, I gave him a crown. I thought he needed it, for his clothes were old and tattered, and he looked as if he hadn't had a hearty meal for a week.
"Well, Maitre Bertram, can you tell me if, among his other occupations, he has ever been charged with theft?"
"No, I have never heard that brought against him."
"Why did he leave you?"
"It was from no complaint as to his honesty. Indeed, he left of his own accord, after a quarrel with one of the men, who was, as far as I could learn, in the wrong. I did not even hear that he had left until a week after, and it was too late then to go thoroughly into the matter. Boys are always troublesome and, as everyone had warned me that Pierre would turn out badly, I gave the matter but little thought at the time. Of course, you will not think of taking the luckless rascal as your servant."
"I don't know. I will have a talk with him, anyhow. A fellow like that would certainly be handy; but whether he could be relied upon to behave discreetly and soberly, and not to bring me into discredit, is a different matter. Is he here now?"
"He is below. Shall I send him up here to you?"
"No, I will go down and see him in the courtyard. If he comes up here he would be, perhaps, awkward and unnatural, and would not speak so freely as he would in the open air."
The merchant shook his head.
"If you take the vagabond, remember, Monsieur Philip, that it is altogether against my advice. I would never have spoken to you about him, if I had imagined for a moment that you would think of taking him. A fellow who has never kept any employment for two months, how could he be fit for a post of confidence, and be able to mix as your body servant with the households of honourable families?"
"But you said yourself, Maitre Bertram, that he has never had a fair chance. Well, I will see him, anyhow."
[Illustration: Philip gets his first look at Pierre.]
He descended into the courtyard, and could not help smiling as his eye fell upon a figure seated on the horse block. He was looking out through the gateway, and did not at first see Philip. The expression of his face was dull and almost melancholy, but as Philip's eye fell on him his attention was attracted by some passing object in the street. His face lit up with amusement. His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled. A moment later and the transient humour passed, and the dull, listless expression again stole over his face.
"Pierre!" Philip said sharply.
The young fellow started to his feet, as if shot upwards by a spring; and as he turned and saw who had addressed him, took off his cap and, bowing, stood twisting it round in his fingers.
"Monsieur Bertram tells me you want to come with me as a servant, Pierre; but when I asked him about you, he does not give you such a character as one would naturally require in a confidential servant. Is there anyone who will speak for you?"
"Not a soul," the young man said doggedly; "and yet, monsieur, I am not a bad fellow. What can a man do, when he has not a friend in the world? He picks up a living as he can, but everybody looks at him with suspicion. There is no friend to take his part, and so people vent their ill humours upon him, till the time comes when he revolts at the injustice and strikes back; and then he has to begin it all over again, somewhere else.
"And yet, sir, I know that I could be faithful and true to anyone who would not treat me like a dog. You spoke kindly to me in the stable, and gave me a crown. No one had ever given me a crown before. But I cared less for that than for the way you spoke. Then I saw you start, and you spoke pleasantly to your men; and I said to myself, 'that is the master I would serve, if he would let me.'
"Try me, sir, and if you do not find me faithful, honest, and true to you, tell your men to string me up to a bough. I do not drink, and have been in so many services that, ragged as you see me, I can yet behave so as not to do discredit to you."
Philip hesitated. There was no mistaking the earnestness with which the youth spoke.
"Are you a Catholic or a Huguenot?" he asked.
"I know nothing of the difference between them," Pierre replied. "How should I? No one has ever troubled about me, one way or the other. When my mother lived I went to Mass with her; since then I have gone nowhere. I have had no Sunday clothes. I know that the bon Dieu has taken care of me, or I should have died of hunger, long ago. The priest I was with used to tell me that the Huguenots were worse than heathen; but if that were so, why should they let themselves be thrown into prison, and even be put to death, rather than stay away from their churches? As for me, I know nothing about it. They say monsieur is a Huguenot, and if he were good enough to take me into his service, of course I should be a Huguenot."
"That is a poor reason, Pierre," Philip said smiling. "Still, you may find better reasons, in time. However, you are not a Catholic, which is the principal thing, at present.
"Well, I will try you, I think. Perhaps, as you say, you have never had a fair chance yet, and I will give you one. I believe what you say, that you will be faithful."
The young fellow's face lit up with pleasure.
"I will be faithful, sir. If I were otherwise, I should deserve to be cut in pieces."
"As for wages," Philip said, "I will pay you what you deserve. We will settle that when we see how we get on together. Now follow me, and I will get some suitable clothes for you."
There was no difficulty about this. Clothes were not made to fit closely in those days, and Philip soon procured a couple of suits suitable for the serving man of a gentleman of condition. One was a riding suit; with high boots, doublet, and trunks of sober colour and of a strong tough material; a leather sword belt and sword; and a low hat thickly lined and quilted, and capable of resisting a heavy blow. The other suit was for wear in the house. It was of dark green cloth of a much finer texture than the riding suit; with cloth stockings of the same colour, coming up above the knee, and then meeting the trunks or puffed breeches. A small cap with turned up brim, furnished with a few of the tail feathers of a black cock, completed the costume; a dagger being worn in the belt instead of the sword. Four woollen shirts, a pair of shoes, and a cloak were added to the purchases; which were placed in a valise, to be carried behind the saddle.
"Is there any house where you can change your clothes, Pierre? Of course you could do so at Monsieur Bertram's, but some of the men I brought with me will be there, and it would be just as well that they did not see you in your present attire."
"I can change at the stables, sir, if you will trust me with the clothes."
"Certainly, I will trust you. If I trust you sufficiently to take you as my servant, I can surely trust you in a matter like this. Do you know of anyone who has a stout nag for sale?"
Pierre knew of several and, giving Philip an address, the latter was not long in purchasing one, with saddle and bridle complete. He ordered this to be sent, at once, to the stables where Pierre had been employed, with directions that it was to be handed over to his servant.
It was one o'clock in the day when Madame Vaillant embarked, and it was late in the afternoon before Philip returned to Monsieur Bertram's house.
"What have you done about that vagabond Pierre?"
"I have hired him," Philip said.
"You don't say that you have taken him, after what I have told you about him!" the merchant exclaimed.
"I have, indeed. He pleaded hard for a trial, and I am going to give him one. I believe that he will turn out a useful fellow. I am sure that he is shrewd, and he ought to be full of expedients. As to his appearance, good food and decent clothes will make him another man. I think he will turn out a merry fellow, when he is well fed and happy; and I must say, Maitre Bertram, that I am not fond of long faces. Lastly, I believe that he will be faithful."
"Well, well, well, I wash my hands of it altogether, Monsieur Philip. I am sorry I spoke to you about him, but I never for a moment thought you would take him. If harm comes of it, don't blame me."
"I will hold you fully acquitted," Philip laughed. "I own that I have taken quite a fancy to him, and believe that he will turn out well."
An hour later one of the domestics came in, with word that Monsieur Philip's servant was below, and wished to know if he had any commands for him.
"Tell him to come up," Philip said, and a minute later Pierre entered.
He was dressed in his dark green costume. He had had his hair cut, and presented an appearance so changed that Philip would hardly have known him.
"By my faith!" the merchant said, "you have indeed transformed him. He is not a bad-looking varlet, now that he has got rid of that tangled crop of hair."
Pierre bowed low at the compliment.
"Fine feathers make fine birds, Monsieur Bertram," replied Pierre. "It is the first time I have had the opportunity of proving the truth of the proverb. I am greatly indebted to monsieur, for recommending me to my master."
"It is not much recommendation you got from me, Pierre," the merchant said bluntly; "for a more troublesome young scamp I never had in my warehouse. Still, as I told Monsieur Philip, I think everything has been against you; and I do hope, now that this English gentleman has given you a chance, that you will take advantage of it."
"I mean to, sir," the young fellow said earnestly, and without a trace of the mocking smile with which he had first spoken. "If I do not give my master satisfaction, it will not be for want of trying. I shall make mistakes at first--it will all be strange to me, but I feel sure that he will make allowances. I can at least promise that he will find me faithful and devoted."
"Has your horse arrived, Pierre?"
"Yes, sir. I saw him watered and fed before I came out. Is it your wish that I should go round to the stables where your horse and those of your troop are, and take charge of your horse at once?"
"No, Pierre; the men will look after him, as usual. We will start at six in the morning. Be at the door, on horseback, at that hour."
Pierre bowed and withdrew.
"I do not feel so sure as I did that you have made a bad bargain, Monsieur Philip. As far as appearances go, at any rate, he would pass muster. Except that his cheeks want filling out a bit, he is a nimble, active-looking young fellow; and with that little moustache of his, and his hair cut short, he is by no means ill looking. I really should not have known him. I think at present he means what he says, though whether he will stick to it is another matter, altogether."
"I think he will stick to it," Philip said quietly. "Putting aside what he says about being faithful to me, he is shrewd enough to see that it is a better chance than he is ever likely to have, again, of making a start in life. He has been leading a dog's life, ever since he was a child; and to be well fed, and well clothed, and fairly treated will be a wonderful change for him.
"My only fear is that he may get into some scrape at the chateau. I believe that he is naturally full of fun, and fun is a thing that the Huguenots, with all their virtues, hardly appreciate."
"A good thrashing will tame him of that," the merchant said.
Philip laughed.
"I don't think I shall be driven to try that. I don't say that servants are never thrashed in England, but I have not been brought up among the class who beat their servants. I think I shall be able to manage him without that. If I can't, we must part.
"I suppose there is no doubt, Monsieur Bertram, how La Rochelle will go when the troubles begin?"
"I think not. All preparations are made on our part and, as soon as the news comes that Conde and the Admiral have thrown their flags to the wind, we shall seize the gates, turn out all who oppose us, and declare for the cause. I do not think it can be much longer delayed. I sent a trusty servant yesterday to fetch back my daughter; who, as I told you, has been staying with a sister of mine, five or six leagues away. I want to have her here before the troubles break out. It will be no time for damsels to be wandering about the country, when swords are once out of their scabbards."
The next morning the little troop started early from La Rochelle, Pierre riding gravely behind Philip. The latter presently called him up to his side.
"I suppose you know the country round here well?"
"Every foot of it. I don't think that there is a pond in which I have not laid my lines, not a streamlet of which I do not know every pool, not a wood that I have not slept in, nor a hedge where I have not laid snares for rabbits. I could find my way about as well by night as by day; and you know, sir, that may be of use, if you ever want to send a message into the town when the Guises have got their troops lying outside."
Philip looked sharply at him.
"Oh, you think it likely that the Guises will soon be besieging La Rochelle?"
"Anyone who keeps his ears open can learn that," Pierre said quietly. "I haven't troubled myself about these matters. It made no difference to me whether the Huguenots or the Catholics were in the saddle; still, one doesn't keep one's ears closed, and people talk freely enough before me. " 'Pierre does not concern himself with these things. The lad is half a fool; he pays no attention to what is being said.'
"So they would go on talking, and I would go on rubbing down a horse, or eating my black bread with a bit of cheese or an onion, or whatever I might be about, and looking as if I did not even know they were there. But I gathered that the Catholics think that the Guises, and Queen Catherine, and Philip of Spain, and the Pope are going to put an end to the Huguenots altogether. From those on the other side, I learned that the Huguenots will take the first step in La Rochelle, and that one fine morning the Catholics are likely to find themselves bundled out of it. Then it doesn't need much sense to see that, ere long, we shall be having a Catholic army down here to retake the place; that is, if the Huguenot lords are not strong enough to stop them on their way."
"And you think the Catholics are not on their guard at all?"
"Not they," Pierre said contemptuously. "They have been strengthening the walls and building fresh ones, thinking that an attack might come from without from the Huguenots; and all the time the people of that religion in the town have been laughing in their sleeves, and pretending to protest against being obliged to help at the new works, but really paying and working willingly. Why, they even let the magistrates arrest and throw into prison a number of their party, without saying a word, so that the priests and the commissioners should think they have got it entirely their own way. It has been fun watching it all, and I had made up my mind to take to the woods again, directly it began. I had no part in the play, and did not wish to run any risk of getting a ball through my head; whether from a Catholic or a Huguenot arquebus.
"Now, of course, it is all different. Monsieur is a Huguenot, and therefore so am I. It is the Catholic bullets that will be shot at me and, as no one likes to be shot at, I shall soon hate the Catholics cordially, and shall be ready to do them any ill turn that you may desire."
"And you think that if necessary, Pierre, you could carry a message into the town, even though the Catholics were camped round it."
Pierre nodded.
"I have never seen a siege, master, and don't know how close the soldiers might stand round a town; but I think that if a rabbit could get through I could and, if I could not get in by land, I could manage somehow to get in by water."
"But such matters as this do not come within your service, Pierre. Your duties are to wait on me when not in the field, to stand behind my chair at meals, and to see that my horses are well attended to by the stable varlets. When we take the field you will not be wanted to fight, but will look after my things; will buy food and cook it, get dry clothes ready for me to put on if I come back soaked with rain, and keep an eye upon my horses. Two of the men-at-arms will have special charge of them. They will groom and feed them. But if they are away with me, they cannot see after getting forage for them; and it will be for you to get hold of that, either by buying it from the villagers or employing a man to cut it. At any rate, to see that there is food for them, as well as for me, when the day's work is over."
"I understand that, master; but there are times when a lad who can look like a fool, but is not altogether one, can carry messages and make himself very useful, if he does not place over much value on his life. When you want anything done, no matter what it is, you have only to tell me, and it will be done, if it is possible."
In the afternoon of the second day after starting, they approached the chateau. The old sergeant of the band who, with two of his men, was riding a hundred yards ahead, checked his horse and rode back to Philip.
"There is something of importance doing, Monsieur Philip. The flag is flying over the chateau. I have not seen it hoisted before since my lord's death, and I can make out horsemen galloping to and from the gates."
"We will gallop on then," Philip said, and in ten minutes they arrived.
Francois ran down the steps as Philip alighted in the courtyard.
"I am glad you have come, Philip. I had already given orders for a horseman to ride to meet you, and tell you to hurry on. The die is cast, at last. There was a meeting yesterday at the Admiral's. A messenger came to my mother from my cousin, Francois de la Noue. The Admiral and Conde had received news, from a friend at court, that there had been a secret meeting of the Royal Council; and that it had been settled that the Prince should be thrown into prison, and Coligny executed. The Swiss troops were to be divided between Paris, Orleans, and Poitiers. The edict of toleration was to be annulled, and instant steps taken to suppress Huguenot worship by the sternest measures.
"In spite of this news the Admiral still urged patience; but his brother, D'Andelot, took the lead among the party of action; and pointed out that if they waited until they, the leaders, were all dragged away to prison, resistance by the Huguenots would be hopeless. Since the last war over three thousand Huguenots had been put to violent deaths. Was this number to be added to indefinitely? Were they to wait until their wives and children were in the hands of the executioners, before they moved? His party were in the majority, and the Admiral reluctantly yielded.
"Then there was a discussion as to the steps to be taken. Some proposed the seizure of Orleans and other large towns; and that, with these in their hands, they should negotiate with the court for the dismissal of the Swiss troops; as neither toleration nor peace could be hoped for, as long as this force was at the disposal of the Cardinal of Lorraine and his brothers.
"This council, however, was overruled. It was pointed out that, at the beginning of the last war, the Huguenots held fully a hundred towns, but nearly all were wrested from their hands before its termination. It was finally resolved that all shall be prepared for striking a heavy blow, and that the rising shall be arranged to take place, throughout France, on the 29th of September. That an army shall take the field, disperse the Swiss, seize if possible the Cardinal of Lorraine; and at any rate petition the king for a redress of grievances, for a removal of the Cardinal from his councils, and for sending all foreign troops out of the kingdom.
"We have, you see, a fortnight to prepare. We have just sent out messengers to all our Huguenot friends, warning them that the day is fixed, that their preparations are to be made quietly, and that we will notify them when the hour arrives. All are exhorted to maintain an absolute silence upon the subject, while seeing that their tenants and retainers are, in all respects, ready to take the field."
"Why have you hoisted your flag, Francois? That will only excite attention."
"It is my birthday, Philip, and the flag is supposed to be raised in my honour. This will serve as an excuse for the assemblage of our friends, and the gathering of the tenants. It has been arranged, as you know, that I, and of course you, are to ride with De la Noue, who is a most gallant gentleman; and that our contingent is to form part of his command.
"I am heartily glad this long suspense is over, and that at last we are going to meet the treachery of the court by force. Too long have we remained passive, while thousands of our friends have, in defiance of the edicts, been dragged to prison and put to death. Fortunately the court is, as it was before the last war, besotted with the belief that we are absolutely powerless; and we have every hope of taking them by surprise."
"I also am glad that war has been determined upon," Philip said. "Since I have arrived here, I have heard nothing but tales of persecution and cruelty. I quite agree with you that the time has come when the Huguenots must either fight for their rights; abandon the country altogether and go into exile, as so many have already done; or renounce their religion."
"I see you have a new servant, Philip. He is an active, likely-looking lad, but rather young. He can know nothing of campaigning."
"I believe he is a very handy fellow, with plenty of sense and shrewdness; and if he can do the work, I would rather have a man of that age than an older one. It is different with you. You are Francois, Count de Laville; and your servant, whatever his age, would hold you in respect. I am younger and of far less consequence, and an old servant might want to take me under his tuition. Moreover, if there is hard work to be done for me, I would rather have a young fellow like this doing it than an older man."
"You are always making out that you are a boy, Philip. You don't look it, and you are going to play a man's part."
"I mean to play it as far as I can, Francois; but that does not really make me a day older."
"Well, mind, not a word to a soul as to the day fixed on."
For the next fortnight the scene at the chateau was a busy one. Huguenot gentlemen came and went. The fifty men-at-arms who were to accompany Francois were inspected, and their arms and armour served out to them. The tenantry came up in small parties, and were also provided with weapons, offensive and defensive, from the armoury; so that they might be in readiness to assemble for the defence of the chateau, at the shortest notice. All were kept in ignorance as to what was really going on; but it was felt that a crisis was approaching, and there was an expression of grim satisfaction on the stern faces of the men, that showed they rejoiced at the prospect of a termination to the long passive suffering, which they had borne at the hands of the persecutors of their faith. Hitherto they themselves had suffered but little, for the Huguenots were strong in the south of Poitou; while in Niort--the nearest town to the chateau--the Huguenots, if not in an absolute majority, were far too strong to be molested by the opposite party. Nevertheless here, and in all other towns, public worship was suspended; and it was only in the chateaux and castles of the nobles that the Huguenots could gather to worship without fear of interruption or outrage.
There was considerable debate as to whether Francois' troop should march to join the Admiral, at Chatillon-sur-Loing; or should proceed to the southeast, where parties were nearly equally balanced; but the former course was decided upon. The march itself would be more perilous; but as Conde, the Admiral, and his brother D'Andelot would be with the force gathered there, it was the most important point; and moreover Francois de la Noue would be there.
So well was the secret of the intended movement kept that the French court, which was at Meaux, had no idea of the danger that threatened; and when a report of the intentions of the Huguenots came from the Netherlands, it was received with incredulity. A spy was, however, sent to Chatillon to report upon what the Admiral was doing; and he returned with the news that he was at home, and was busily occupied in superintending his vintage.
On the evening of the 26th the troop, fifty strong, mustered in the courtyard of the chateau. All were armed with breast and back pieces, and steel caps, and carried lances as well as swords. In addition to this troop were Philip's four men-at-arms; and four picked men who were to form Francois' bodyguard, one of them carrying his banner. He took as his body servant a man who had served his father in that capacity. He and Pierre wore lighter armour than the others, and carried no lances.
Francois and Philip were both in complete armour; Philip donning, for the first time, that given to him by his uncle. Neither of them carried lances, but were armed with swords, light battle-axes, and pistols.
Before mounting, service was held. The pastor offered up prayers for the blessing of God upon their arms, and for his protection over each and all of them in the field. The countess herself made them a stirring address, exhorting them to remember that they fought for the right to worship God unmolested, and for the lives of those dear to them. Then she tenderly embraced her son and Philip, the trumpets sounded to horse, and the party rode out from the gates of the chateau.
As soon as they were away, the two young leaders took off their helmets and handed them to their attendants, who rode behind them. Next to these came their eight bodyguards, who were followed by the captain and his troop.
"It may be that this armour will be useful, on the day of battle," Philip said; "but at present it seems to me, Francois, that I would much rather be without it."
"I quite agree with you, Philip. If we had only to fight with gentlemen armed with swords, I would gladly go into battle unprotected; but against men with lances, one needs a defence. However, I do not care so much, now that I have got rid of the helmet; which, in truth, is a heavy burden."
"Methinks, Francois, that armour will ere long be abandoned, now that arquebuses and cannon are coming more and more into use. Against them they give no protection; and it were better, methinks, to have lightness and freedom of action, than to have the trouble of wearing all this iron stuff merely as a protection against lances. You have been trained to wear armour, and therefore feel less inconvenience; but I have never had as much as a breast plate on before, and I feel at present as if I had almost lost the use of my arms. I think that, at any rate, I shall speedily get rid of these arm pieces. The body armour I don't so much mind, now that I am fairly in the saddle.
"The leg pieces are not as bad as those on the arms. I was scarcely able to walk in them; still, now that I am mounted, I do not feel them much. But if I am to be of any use in a melee, I must have my arms free, and trust to my sword to protect them."
"I believe that some have already given them up, Philip; and if you have your sleeves well wadded and quilted, I think you might, if you like, give up the armour. The men-at-arms are not so protected, and it is only when you meet a noble, in full armour, that you would be at a disadvantage."
"I don't think it would be a disadvantage; for I could strike twice, with my arms free, to once with them so confined."
"There is one thing, you will soon become accustomed to the armour."
"Not very soon, I fancy, Francois. You know, you have been practising in it almost since you were a child; and yet you admit that you feel a great difference. Still, I daresay as the novelty wears off I shall get accustomed to it, to some extent."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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5
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: Taking The Field.
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A guide thoroughly acquainted with the country rode ahead of the party, carrying a lantern fixed at the back of his saddle. They had, after leaving the chateau, begun to mount the lofty range of hills behind. The road crossing these was a mere track, and they were glad when they began to descend on the other side. They crossed the Clain river some ten miles above Poitiers, a few miles farther forded the Vienne, crossed the Gartempe at a bridge at the village of Montmorillon and, an hour later, halted in a wood, just as daylight was breaking, having ridden nearly fifty miles since leaving the chateau.
So far they had kept to the south of the direct course, in order to cross the rivers near their sources. Every man carried provisions for himself and his horse and, as soon as they had partaken of a hearty meal, the armour was unstrapped, and all threw themselves down for a long sleep; sentries being first placed, with orders to seize any peasants who might enter the wood to gather fuel. With the exception of the sentries, who were changed every hour, the rest slept until late in the afternoon; then the horses were again fed and groomed, and another meal was eaten.
At sunset the armour was buckled on again, and they started. They crossed the Creuse at the bridge of Argenton about midnight and, riding through La Chatre, halted before morning in a wood two miles from Saint Amand. Here the day was passed as the previous one had been.
"Tell me, Francois," Philip said, as they were waiting for the sun to go down, "something about your cousin De la Noue. As we are to ride with him, it is as well to know something about him. How old is he?"
"He is thirty-six, and there is no braver gentleman in France. As you know, he is of a Breton family, one of the most illustrious of the province. He is connected with the great houses of Chateau-Briant and Matignon. As a boy he was famous for the vigour and strength that he showed in warlike exercises; but was in other respects, I have heard, of an indolent disposition, and showed no taste for reading or books of any kind. As usual among the sons of noble families, he went up to the court of Henry the Second as a page; and when there became seized with an ardour for study, especially that of ancient and modern writers who treated on military subjects. As soon as he reached manhood he joined the army in Piedmont, under Marshal de Brissac, that being the best military school of the time.
"On his return he showed the singular and affectionate kindness of his nature. His mother, unfortunately, while he was away, had become infected with the spirit of gambling; and the king, who had noted the talent and kind disposition of the young page, thought to do him a service by preventing his mother squandering the estates in play. He therefore took the management of her affairs entirely out of her hands, appointing a royal officer to look after them. Now most young men would have rejoiced at becoming masters of their estates; but the first thing that Francois did, on his return, was to go to the king and solicit, as a personal favour, that his mother should be reinstated in the management of her estates. This was granted, but a short time afterwards she died. De La Noue retired from court, and settled in Brittany upon his estates, which were extensive.
"Shortly afterwards D'Andelot, Coligny's brother, who was about to espouse Mademoiselle De Rieux, the richest heiress in Brittany, paid a visit there. He had lately embraced our faith, and was bent upon bringing over others to it; and he brought down with him to Brittany a famous preacher named Cormel. His preaching in the chateau attracted large numbers of people, and although Brittany is perhaps the most Catholic province in France, he made many converts. Among these was De La Noue, then twenty-seven years old. Recognizing his talent and influence, D'Andelot had made special efforts to induce him to join the ranks of the Huguenots, and succeeded.
"My cousin, who previous to that had, I believe, no special religious views, became a firm Huguenot. As you might expect with such a man, he is in no way a fanatic, and does not hold the extreme views that we have learned from the preachers of Geneva. He is a staunch Huguenot, but he is gentle, courtly, and polished; and has, I believe, the regard of men of both parties. He is a personal friend of the Guises, and was appointed by them as one of the group of nobles who accompanied Marie Stuart to Scotland.
"When the war broke out in 1562, after the massacre of Vassy, he joined the standard of Conde. He fought at Dreux, and distinguished himself by assisting the Admiral to draw off our beaten army in good order. The assassination of Francois de Guise, as you know, put an end to that war. De la Noue bitterly regretted the death of Guise and, after peace was made, retired to his estates in Brittany, where he has lived quietly for the last four years.
"I have seen him several times, because he has other estates in Poitou, within a day's ride of us. I have never seen a man I admire so much. He is all for peace, though he is a distinguished soldier. While deeply religious, he has yet the manners of a noble of the court party. He has no pride, and he is loved by the poor as well as by the rich. He would have done anything to have avoided war; but you will see that, now the war has begun, he will be one of our foremost leaders. I can tell you, Philip, I consider myself fortunate indeed that I am going to ride in the train of so brave and accomplished a gentleman."
During the day they learned, from a peasant, of a ford crossing the Cher, two or three miles below Saint Amand. Entering a village near the crossing place, they found a peasant who was willing, for a reward, to guide them across the country to Briare, on the Loire--their first guide had returned from their first halting place--and the peasant, being placed on a horse behind a man-at-arms, took the lead. Their pace was much slower than it had been the night before, and it was almost daybreak when they passed the bridge at Briare, having ridden over forty miles. They rode two or three miles into the mountains after crossing the Loire, and then halted.
"We must give the horses twenty-four hours here," Francois said. "I don't think it is above twenty miles on to Chatillon-sur-Loing; but it is all through the hills, and it is of no use arriving there with the horses so knocked up as to be useless for service. We have done three tremendous marches, and anyhow, we shall be there long before the majority of the parties from the west and south can arrive. The Admiral and Conde will no doubt be able to gather sufficient strength, from Champagne and the north of Burgundy, for his purpose of taking the court by surprise.
"I am afraid there is but little chance of their succeeding. It is hardly possible that so many parties of Huguenots can have been crossing the country in all directions to the Admiral's, without an alarm being given. Meaux is some sixty miles from Chatillon, and if the court get the news only three or four hours before Conde arrives there, they will be able to get to Paris before he can cut them off."
In fact, even while they were speaking, the court was in safety. The Huguenots of Champagne had their rendezvous at Rosoy, a little more than twenty miles from Meaux, and they began to arrive there in the afternoon of the 28th. The Prince of Conde, who was awaiting them, feeling sure that the news of the movement must, in a few hours at any rate, be known at Meaux, marched for Lagny on the Mane, established himself there late in the evening, and seized the bridge. The news however had, as he feared, already reached the court; and messages had been despatched in all haste to order up six thousand Swiss troops, who were stationed at Chateau-Thierry, thirty miles higher up the Maine.
During the hours that elapsed before their arrival, the court was in a state of abject alarm, but at one o'clock the Swiss arrived; and two hours later the court set out, under their protection, for Paris. The Prince of Conde, who had with him but some four hundred gentlemen, for the most part armed only with swords, met the force as it passed by Lagny. He engaged in a slight skirmish with it; but being unable, with his lightly-armed followers, to effect anything against the solid body of the Swiss mountaineers, armed with their long pikes, he fell back to await reinforcements; and the court reached Paris in safety.
A messenger had arrived at Chatillon with the news when Francois and Philip rode in. The castle gate stood open. Numbers of Huguenot gentlemen were standing in excited groups, discussing the news.
"There is my cousin De la Noue!" Francois exclaimed, as he alighted from his horse. "This is good fortune. I was wondering what we should do, if we did not find him here;" and he made his way to where a singularly handsome gentleman was talking with several others.
"Ah, Francois, is that you? Well arrived, indeed!
"Gentlemen, this is my cousin and namesake, Francois de Laville. He has ridden across France to join us. Is that your troop, Francois, entering the gate now? Ah, yes, I see your banner.
"By my faith, it is the best accoutred body we have seen yet. They make a brave show with their armour and lances. The countess has indeed shown her goodwill right worthily, and it is no small credit to you that you should have brought them across from the other side of Poitou, and yet have arrived here before many who live within a few leagues of the castle.
"And who is this young gentleman with you?"
"It is my cousin, Philip Fletcher, son of my mother's sister Lucie. I spoke to you of his coming to us, when you were at Laville three months since. He has come over in order that he may venture his life on behalf of our religion and family."
"I am glad to welcome you, young sir. We are, you see, connections; I being Philip's first cousin on his father's side, and you on that of his mother. Your spirit in coming over here shows that you inherit the bravery of your mother's race, and I doubt not that we shall find that the mixture with the sturdy stock of England will have added to its qualities. Would that your queen would but take her proper place, as head of a league of the Protestants of Europe. Our cause would then be well-nigh won, without the need of striking a blow."
"Is it true, cousin, that the court has escaped to Paris?"
"Yes. I would that Conde had had but a few hours longer, before they took the alarm. Another day, and he would have had such a gathering as it would have puzzled the Swiss to have got through. His forces were doubled yesterday, and eight hundred have ridden forth from here this morning to join him.
"I myself, though I made all speed, arrived but two hours since; and shall, with all who come in this evening, ride forward tomorrow. The Admiral and his brother, the Cardinal of Chatillon, will go with us. D'Andelot is already with Conde.
"Now, as your troop is to ride with mine, I will see that they are disposed for the night together, and that their wants are attended to. My men have picketed their horses just outside the castle moat; for, as you see, we are crowded here with gentlemen and their personal followers, and it would be impossible to make room for all. I will take your officer to the seneschal, who will see that your men are provided with bread, meat, and wine.
"Ah, Captain Montpace, you are in command of the troop, I see. I thought the countess would send so experienced a soldier with them, and I am proud to have such a well-appointed troop behind me. None so well armed and orderly have yet arrived. My own at present are forty strong, and have, like you, made their way across France from Poitou.
"I could not bring my Bretons," he said, turning to Francois. "The Huguenots there are but a handful among the Catholics. Happily on my estates they are good friends together, but I could not call away men from their homes, at a time like this.
"Now, Captain Montpace, I will show you where your men are to bivouac, next to my own. Then, if you will come with me to the seneschal, rations shall be served out to them. Are your horses fit for another journey?"
"They will be by tomorrow morning, Count. They have only come from this side of Briare this morning, but though the journey is not long the road is heavy. They had twenty-four hours' rest before that, which they needed sorely, having travelled from Laville in three days."
"Draw a good supply of forage for them from the magazines," De la Noue said. "See that the saddlebags are well filled in the morning. There is another heavy day's work before them, and then they can take a good rest."
Francois and Philip accompanied the troop, and waited until they saw that they were supplied with provisions and forage, and with straw for lying down on; then they re-entered the castle. De la Noue presented them to many of his friends, and then took them in to the Admiral.
He quite fulfilled the anticipations that Philip had formed of him. He was of tall figure, with a grave but kindly face. He was dressed entirely in black, with puffed trunks, doublet to match, and a large turned-down collar. As was usual, he wore over his shoulders a loose jacket with a very high collar, the empty sleeves hanging down on either side. When riding, the arms were thrust into these. He wore a low soft cap with a narrow brim all round.
The expression of his face, with its short pointed beard, moustache, and closely trimmed whiskers, was melancholy. The greatest captain of his age, he was more reluctant than any of his followers to enter upon civil war; and the fact that he felt that it was absolutely necessary, to save Protestantism from being extinguished in blood, in no way reconciled him to it.
He received Francois and his cousin kindly.
"I am glad," he said to the former, "to see the representative of the Lavilles here. Your father was a dear friend of mine, and fell fighting bravely by my side. I should have been glad to have had you riding among my friends; but it is better still for you to be with your cousin, De la Noue, who is far more suitable as a leader and guide for youth than I am. You can follow no better example.
"I am glad also," he said, turning to Philip, "to have another representative of the old family of the De Moulins here; and to find that, though transplanted to England, it still retains its affection for France. I trust that, ere long, I may have many of your countrymen fighting by my side. We have the same interests and, if the Protestant nations would unite, the demand for the right of all men, Catholic and Protestant, to worship according to their consciences could no longer be denied. I regret that your queen does not permit free and open worship to her Catholic subjects, since her not doing so affords some sort of excuse to Catholic kings and princes. Still, I know that this law is not put rigidly into force, and that the Catholics do, in fact, exercise the rights of their religion without hindrance or persecution; and above all, that there is no violent ill will between the people of the two religions. Would it were so here.
"Were it not that you are going to ride with my good friend here, I would have said a few words to you; praying you to remember that you are fighting, not for worldly credit and honour, but for a holy cause, and it behoves you to bear yourselves gravely and seriously. But no such advice is needed to those who come under his influence."
Leaving the Count de la Noue in conversation with the Admiral, Francois and Philip made their way to the hall; where the tables were laid, so that all who came, at whatever hour, could at once obtain food. Their own servants, who were established in the castle, waited upon them.
"I think that lackey of yours will turn out a very useful fellow, Philip," Francois said, as they left the hall. "He is quick and willing, and he turned out our dinner yesterday in good fashion. It was certainly far better cooked than it had been, by Charles, the day before."
"I fancy Pierre has done a good deal of cooking in the open air," Philip said, "and we shall find that he is capable of turning out toothsome dishes from very scanty materials."
"I am glad to hear it for, though I am ready to eat horseflesh, if necessary, I see not why, because we happen to be at war, one should have to spoil one's teeth by gnawing at meat as hard as leather. Soldiers are generally bad cooks. They are in too much haste to get their food, at the end of a long day's work, to waste much time with the cooking.
"Here comes La Noue again."
"Will you order your troop to be again in the saddle at five o'clock in the morning, De Laville?" the Count said. "I start with a party of two hundred at that hour. There will be my own men and yours. The rest will be gentlemen and their personal retainers."
"I would that it had been three hours later," Francois said, as the Count left them and moved away, giving similar orders to the other gentlemen. "I own I hate moving before it is light. There is nothing ruffles the temper so much as getting up in the dark, fumbling with your buckles and straps, and finding everyone else just as surly and cross as you feel yourself. It was considered a necessary part of my training that I should turn out and arm myself at all times of the night. It was the part of my exercises that I hated the most."
Philip laughed.
"It will not make much difference here, Francois. I don't like getting out of a warm bed, myself, on a dark winter's morning; but as there will be certainly no undressing tonight, and we shall merely have to get up and shake the straw off us, it will not matter much. By half-past five it will be beginning to get light. At any rate, we should not mind it tomorrow, as it will be really our first day of military service."
Up to a late hour fresh arrivals continued to pour in, and the cooks and servants of the castle were kept hard at work, administering to the wants of the hungry and tired men. There was no regular set meal, each man feeding as he was disposed. After it became dark, all the gentlemen of family gathered in the upper part of the great hall, and there sat talking by the light of torches until nine. Then the Admiral, with a few of the nobles who had been in consultation with him, joined them and, a quarter of an hour later, a pastor entered and prayers were read. Then a number of retainers came in with trusses of straw, which were shaken down thickly beside the walls; and as soon as this was done, all present prepared to lie down.
"The trumpet will sound, gentleman," Francois de la Noue said in a loud voice, "at half-past four; but this will only concern those who, as it has already been arranged, will ride with me--the rest will set out with the Admiral, at seven. I pray each of you who go with me to bid his servant cut off a goodly portion of bread and meat, to take along with him, and to place a flask or two of wine in his saddlebags; for our ride will be a long one, and we are not likely to be able to obtain refreshment on our way."
"I should have thought," Francois said, as he lay down on the straw by Philip's side, "that we should have passed through plenty of places where we could obtain food. Whether we go direct to Paris, or by the road by Lagny, we pass through Nemours and Melun."
"These places may not open their gates to us, Francois; and in that case probably we should go through Montereau and Rosoy, and it may be considered that those who have already gone through to join Conde may have pretty well stripped both places of provisions."
The trumpet sounded at half-past four. The torches were at once relighted by the servants, and the gentlemen belonging to La Noue's party rose, and their servants assisted them to buckle on their armour. They gave them instructions as to taking some food with them, and prepared for their journey by an attack on some cold joints, that had been placed on a table at the lower end of the hall.
There was a scene of bustle and confusion in the courtyard, as the horses were brought up by the retainers. The Admiral himself was there to see the party off and, as they mounted, each issued out and joined the men drawn up outside. Before starting the minister, according to Huguenot custom, held a short service; and then, with a salute to the Admiral, La Noue took his place at their head and rode away.
With him went some twenty or thirty gentlemen, behind whom rode their body servants. After these followed some fifty men-at-arms, and the troops of La Noue and Laville. As soon as they were off, La Noue reined in his horse so as to ride in the midst of his friends, and chatted gaily with them as they went along.
An hour and a half's brisk riding took them to Montargis. Instead of keeping straight on, as most of those present expected, the two men who were riding a short distance in advance of the column turned sharp off to the left, in the middle of the town.
"I am going to give you a surprise, gentlemen," De la Noue said, with a smile. "I will tell you what it is when we are once outside the place."
"I suppose," one of the gentlemen from the province, who was riding next to Philip, said, "we are going to strike the main road from Orleans north; to ride through Etampes, and take post between Versailles and Paris on the south side of the river; while the Prince and his following beleaguer the place on the north. It is a bold plan thus to divide our forces, but I suppose the Admiral's party will follow us and, by taking post on the south side of the river, we shall straiten Paris for provisions."
"Gentlemen," the Count said, when they had issued from the streets of Montargis, "I can now tell you the mission which the Admiral has done me the honour to confide to me. It was thought best to keep the matter an absolute secret, until we were thus fairly on our way; because, although we hope and believe that there is not a man at Chatillon who is not to be trusted, there may possibly be a spy of the Guises there, and it would have been wrong to run the risk of betrayal.
"Well, my friends, our object is the capture of Orleans."
An exclamation of surprise broke from many of his hearers.
"It seems a bold enterprise to undertake, with but little over two hundred men," La Noue went on with a smile; "but we have friends there. D'Andelot has been, for the last ten days, in communication with one of them. We may, of course, expect to meet with a stout resistance but, with the advantage of a surprise, and with so many gallant gentlemen with me, I have no shadow of fear as to the result. I need not point out to you how important its possession will be to us. It will keep open a road to the south; will afford a rallying place for all our friends, in this part of France; and the news of its capture will give immense encouragement to our co-religionists throughout the country. Besides, it will counterbalance the failure to seize the court, and will serve as an example, to others, to attempt to obtain possession of strong places.
"We shall ride at an easy pace today, for the distance is long and the country hilly. We could not hope to arrive there until too late to finish our work before dark. Moreover, most of our horses have already had very hard work during the past few days. We have started early, in order that we may have a halt of four hours in the middle of the day. We are to be met tonight by our friend, the Master of Grelot, five miles this side of the city. He will tell us what arrangements have been made for facilitating our entrance."
"This is a glorious undertaking, Philip, is it not?" Francois said. "Until now I have been thinking how unfortunate we were, in being too late to ride with Conde. Now I see that what I thought was a loss has turned out a gain."
"You do not think Conde will be able to do anything against Paris?" Philip asked.
"Certainly not at present. What can some fifteen hundred horsemen and as many infantry (and he will have no more force than that, for another three or four days) do against Paris with its walls and its armed population, and the Guises and their friends and retainers, to say nothing of the six thousand Swiss? If our leaders thought they were going to fight at once, they would hardly have sent two hundred good troops off in another direction. I expect we shall have plenty of time to get through this and other expeditions, and then to join the Prince in front of Paris before any serious fighting takes place."
"Do you know how far it is across the hills to Orleans?" Philip asked the gentlemen next to him on the other side.
"It is over fifty miles, but how much more I do not know. I am a native of the province, but I have never travelled along this road, which can be but little used. East of Montargis the traffic goes by the great road through Melun to Paris; while the traffic of Orleans, of course, goes north through Etampes."
They rode on until noon, and then dismounted by a stream, watered and fed the horses, partook of a meal from the contents of their saddlebags, and then rested for four hours to recruit the strength of their horses. The soldiers mostly stretched themselves on the sward and slept. A few of the gentlemen did the same, but most of them sat chatting in groups, discussing the enterprise upon which they were engaged.
Francois and Philip went among their men with Captain Montpace, inspected the horses, examined their shoes, saw that fresh nails were put in where required, chatting with the men as they did so.
"I felt sure we should not be long before we were engaged on some stirring business," the Captain said. "The Count de la Noue is not one to let the grass grow under his feet. I saw much of him in the last campaign; and the count, your father, had a very high opinion of his military abilities. At first he was looked upon somewhat doubtfully in our camp, seeing that he did not keep a long face, but was ready with a jest and a laugh with high and low, and that he did not affect the soberness of costume favoured by our party; but that soon passed off, when it was seen how zealous he was in the cause, how ready to share in any dangerous business; while he set an example to all, by the cheerfulness with which he bore fatigue and hardship. Next to the Admiral himself, and his brother D'Andelot, there was no officer more highly thought of by the troops.
"This is certainly a bold enterprise that he has undertaken now, if it be true what I have heard, since we halted, that we are going to make a dash at Orleans. It is a big city for two hundred men to capture; even though, no doubt, we have numbers of friends within the walls."
"All the more glory and credit to us, Montpace," Francois said gaily. "Why, the news that Orleans is captured will send a thrill through France, and will everywhere encourage our friends to rise against our oppressors. We are sure to take them by surprise, for they will believe that all the Huguenots in this part of France are hastening to join the Prince before Paris."
At four o'clock the party got in motion again and, an hour after dark, entered a little village among the hills, about five miles north of the town. De la Noue at once placed a cordon of sentries, with orders that neither man, woman, nor child was to be allowed to leave it. Orders were issued, to the startled peasants, that all were to keep within their doors, at the peril of their lives. The horses were picketed in the street, and the soldiers stowed in barns; trusses of straw were strewn round a fire for La Noue, and the gentlemen who followed him.
At eight o'clock two videttes, thrown forward some distance along the road, rode in with a horseman. It was the Master of Grelot who, as he rode up to the fire, was heartily greeted by the Count.
"I am glad to find you here, Count," he said. "I knew you to be a man of your word, but in warfare things often occur to upset the best calculations."
"Is everything going on well at Orleans?" De la Noue asked.
"Everything. I have made all my arrangements. A party of five-and-twenty men I can depend on will, tomorrow morning at seven o'clock, gather near the gate this side of the town. They will come up in twos and threes and, just as the guard are occupied in unbarring the gate, they will fall upon them. The guard is fifteen strong and, as they will be taken by surprise, they will be able to offer but a faint resistance.
"Of course, you with your troop will be lying in readiness near. As soon as they have taken possession of the gateway, the party will issue out and wave a white flag, as a signal to you that all is clear; and you will be in before the news that the gateway has been seized can spread. After that you will know what to do. In addition to the men who are to carry out the enterprise, you will shortly be joined by many others. Word has been sent round to our partisans that they may speedily expect deliverance; and bidding them be prepared, whenever they are called upon, to take up their arms and join those who come to free them.
"A large number of the town folk are secretly either wholly with us or well disposed towards us; and, although some will doubtless take up arms on the other side, I think that, with the advantage of the surprise, and with such assistance as our party can give you, there is every chance of bringing the enterprise to a successful issue.
"One of our friends, who has a residence within a bow shot of the gates, has arranged with me that your troop, arriving there before daylight, shall at once enter his grounds, where they will be concealed from the sight of any country people going towards the city. From the upper windows the signal can be seen and, if you are mounted and ready, you can be there in three or four minutes; and it will take longer than that before the alarm can spread, and the Catholics muster strongly enough to recapture the gate."
"Admirably arranged," the Count said warmly. "With a plan so well laid, our scheme can hardly fail of success. If we only do our part as well as you have done yours, Orleans is as good as won.
"Now, gentlemen, I advise you to toss off one more goblet of wine, and then to wrap yourselves up in your cloaks for a few hours' sleep. We must be in the saddle soon after four, so as to be off the road by five."
At that hour the troop, led by the Master of Grelot, turned in at the gate of the chateau. The owner was awaiting them, and gave them a cordial welcome. The men were ordered to dismount and stand by their horses, while the leaders followed their host into the house, where a repast had been laid out for them; while some servitors took out baskets of bread and flagons of wine to the troopers.
At half-past six groups of countrymen were seen, making their way along the road towards the gate and, a quarter of an hour later, the troop mounted and formed up, in readiness to issue out as soon as the signal was given; their host placing himself at an upper window, whence he could obtain a view of the city gate.
It was just seven when he called out "The gate is opening!" and immediately afterwards, "They have begun the work. The country people outside are running away in a panic.
"Ah! there is the white flag."
Two servitors at the gate of the chateau threw it open and, headed by La Noue and the gentlemen of the party, they issued out and galloped down the road at full speed. As they approached the gate some men ran out, waving their caps and swords.
"Well done!" La Noue exclaimed, as he rode up. "Now, scatter and call out all our friends to aid us in the capture."
The troop had been already divided into four parties, each led by gentlemen familiar with the town. Francois and Philip, with the men from Laville, formed the party led by the Count himself. The news of the tumult at the gate had spread and, just as they reached the marketplace, a body of horsemen, equal in strength to their own, rode towards them.
"For God and the religion!" La Noue shouted, as he led the charge.
Ignorant of the strength of their assailants, and having mounted in haste at the first alarm, the opposing band hesitated; and before they could set their horses into a gallop, the Huguenots were upon them. The impetus of the charge was irresistible. Men and horses rolled over, while those in the rear turned and rode away; and the combat was over before scarce a blow had been struck.
A party of infantry, hastening up, were next encountered. These offered a more stubborn resistance, but threw down their arms and surrendered, when another of the Huguenot parties rode into the square.
At the sound of the conflict the upper windows of the houses were opened, and the citizens looked out in alarm at the struggle. But the Catholics, having neither orders nor plan, dared not venture out; while the Huguenots mustered rapidly, with arms in their hands; and rendered valuable assistance to the horsemen, in attacking and putting to flight the parties of Catholic horse and foot, as they came hurriedly up.
In an hour all resistance had ceased and Orleans was taken. The Count at once issued a proclamation to the citizens, assuring all peaceable persons of protection; and guaranteeing to the citizens immunity from all interference with personal property, and the right of full exercise of their religion. The charge of the gates was given over to the Huguenot citizens. Parties of horse were told off to patrol the streets, to see that order was preserved, and to arrest any using threats or violence to the citizens; and in a very few hours the town resumed its usual appearance.
Now that all fear of persecution was at an end, large numbers of the citizens, who had hitherto concealed their leanings towards the new religion, openly avowed them; and La Noue saw with satisfaction that the town could be safely left to the keeping of the Huguenot adherents, with the assistance only of a few men to act as leaders. These he selected from the gentlemen of the province who had come with him and, as soon as these had entered upon their duties, he felt free to turn his attention elsewhere.
Two days were spent in appointing a council of the leading citizens, the Huguenots of course being in the majority. To them was intrusted the management of the affairs of the town, and the maintenance of order. The young nobleman appointed as governor was to have entire charge of military matters. All Huguenots capable of bearing arms were to be formed up in companies, each of which was to appoint its own officers. They were to practise military exercises, to have charge of the gates and walls, and to be prepared to defend them, in case a hostile force should lay siege to the city.
Three of the nobles were appointed to see to the victualling of the town; and all citizens were called upon to contribute a sum, according to their means, for this purpose. A few old soldiers were left to drill the new levies, to see that the walls were placed in a thorough condition of defence, and above all to aid the leaders in suppressing any attempt at the ill-treatment of Catholics, or the desecration of their churches, by the Huguenot portion of the population.
When all arrangements were made for the peace and safety of the town, De la Noue despatched most of the gentlemen with him, and their followers, to join the Prince of Conde before Paris; retaining only his Cousin Francois, Philip, the troop from Laville, and his own band of forty men-at-arms.
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{
"id": "20092"
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6
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: The Battle Of Saint Denis.
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Francois de Laville and Philip had fought by the side of La Noue, in the engagement in the streets of Orleans; but had seen little of the Count afterwards, his time being fully employed in completing the various arrangements to ensure the safety of the town. They had been lodged in the house of one of the Huguenot citizens, and had spent their time walking about the town, or in the society of some of the younger gentlemen of their party.
"Are you both ready for service again?" the Count de la Noue, who had sent for them to come to his lodgings, asked on the evening of the third day after the capture of Orleans.
"Quite ready," Francois replied. "The horses have all recovered from their fatigue, and are in condition for a fresh start. Are we bound for Paris, may I ask?"
"No, Francois, we are going on a recruiting tour: partly because we want men, but more to encourage our people by the sight of an armed party, and to show the Catholics that they had best stay their hands, and leave us alone for the present.
"I take a hundred men with me, including your troop and my own, which I hope largely to increase. Sometimes we shall keep in a body, sometimes break up into two or three parties. Always we shall move rapidly, so as to appear where least expected, and so spread uneasiness as to where we may next appear.
"In the south we are, as I hear, holding our own. I shall therefore go first to Brittany and, if all is quiet, there raise another fifty men. We shall travel through Touraine and Anjou as we go, and then sweep round by Normandy and La Perche, and so up to Paris.
"So you see, we shall put a good many miles of ground under our feet, before we join the Prince. In that way not only shall we swell our numbers and encourage our friends, but we shall deter many of the Catholic gentry from sending their retainers to join the army of the Guises."
"It will be a pleasant ride, cousin," Francois said, "and I hope that we shall have an opportunity of doing some good work, before we reach Paris; and especially that we shall not arrive there too late to join in the coming battle."
"I do not think that there is much fear of that," the Count replied. "The Prince has not sufficient strength to attack Paris. And for my part, I think that it would have been far better, when it was found that his plan of seizing the court had failed, to have drawn off at once. He can do nothing against Paris, and his presence before it will only incite the inhabitants against us, and increase their animosity. It would have been better to have applied the force in reducing several strong towns where, as at Orleans, the bulk of the inhabitants are favourable to us. In this way we should weaken the enemy, strengthen ourselves, and provide places of refuge for our people in case of need. However, it is too late for such regrets. The Prince is there, and we must take him what succour we can.
"I was pleased with you both, in the fights upon the day we entered. You both behaved like brave gentlemen and good swordsmen. I expected no less from you, Francois; but I was surprised to find your English cousin so skilled with his weapon."
"He is a better swordsman than I am," Francois said; "which is a shame to me, since he is two years my junior."
"Is he indeed!" the Count said in surprise. "I had taken him to be at least your equal in years. Let me think, you are but eighteen and some months?"
"But a month over eighteen," Francois said, "and Philip has but just passed sixteen."
"You will make a doughty warrior when you attain your full strength, Philip. I saw you put aside a thrust from an officer in the melee, and strike him from his horse with a backhanded cut with your sword, dealt with a vigour that left nothing to be desired."
"I know that I am too fond of using the edge, sir," Philip said, modestly. "My English masters taught me to do so and, although my French instructors at home were always impressing upon me that the point was more deadly than the edge, I cannot break myself altogether from the habit."
"There is no need to do so," the Count said. "Of late the point has come into fashion among us, and doubtless it has advantages; but often a downright blow will fetch a man from his saddle, when you would in vain try to find, with the point, a joint in his armour. But you must have been well taught, indeed, if you are a better swordsman than my cousin; whose powers I have tried at Laville, and found him to be an excellent swordsman, for his age."
"I have had many masters," Philip said. "Both my French and English teachers were good swordsmen; and it was seldom a Frenchman who had been in the wars passed through Canterbury, that my uncle did not engage him to give me a few lessons. Thus, being myself very anxious to become a good swordsman, and being fond of exercises, I naturally picked up a great many tricks with the sword."
"You could not have spent your time better, if you had an intention of coming over to take part in our troubles here. Your grandfather, De Moulins, was said to be one of the best swordsmen in France; and you may have inherited some of his skill. I own that I felt rather uneasy at the charge of two such young cockerels, though I could not refuse when the countess, my aunt, begged me to let you ride with me; but in future I shall feel easy about you, seeing that you can both take your own parts stoutly.
"Well, order your men to be ready and mounted, in the marketplace, at half-past five. The west gate will be opened for us to ride forth at six."
Philip had every reason to be satisfied with the conduct of his new servant. In the town, as at Laville, Pierre behaved circumspectly and quietly; assuming a grave countenance in accordance with his surroundings, keeping his arms and armour brightly polished, and waiting at table as orderly as if he had been used to nothing else all his life.
"I am glad to hear it, sir," Pierre said, when Philip informed him that they would start on the following morning. "I love not towns; and here, where there is nought to do but to polish your armour, and stand behind your chair at dinner, the time goes mighty heavily."
"You will have no cause to grumble on that account, Pierre, I fancy, for your ride will be a long one. I do not expect we shall often have a roof over our heads."
"All the better, sir, so long as the ride finishes before the cold weather sets in. Fond as I am of sleeping with the stars over me; I own that, when the snow is on the ground, I prefer a roof over my head."
At six o'clock the party started. Only two other gentlemen rode with it, both of whom were, like the Count, from Brittany. The little group chatted gaily as they rode along. Unless they happened to encounter parties of Catholics going north, to join the royal army, there was, so far as they knew, no chance of their meeting any body of the enemy on their westward ride.
The towns of Vendome, Le Mans, and Laval were all strongly Catholic, and devoted to the Guises. These must be skirted. Rennes in Brittany must also be avoided, for all these towns were strongly garrisoned, and could turn out a force far too strong for La Noue to cope with.
Upon the march, Pierre was not only an invaluable servant but the life of the troop; he being full of fun and frolic, and making even the gravest soldier smile at his sallies. When they halted, he was indefatigable in seeing after Philip's comforts. He cut boughs of the trees best suited for the purpose of making a couch, and surprised his master and Francois by his ingenuity in turning out excellent dishes from the scantiest materials. He would steal away in the night to procure fowls and eggs from neighbouring farmhouses and, although Philip's orders were that he was to pay the full price for everything he required, Philip found, when he gave an account a fortnight later of how he had spent the money he had given him, that there was no mention of any payment for these articles. When he rated Pierre for this, the latter replied: "I did not pay for them, sir. Not in order to save you money, but for the sake of the farmers and their families. It would have been worse than cruelty to have aroused them from sleep. The loss of a fowl or two, and of a dozen eggs, were nothing to them. If they missed them at all, they would say that a fox had been there, and they would think no more of it. If, on the other hand, I had waked them up in the middle of the night to pay for these trifles, they would have been scared out of their life; thinking, when I knocked, that some band of robbers was at the door. In their anger at being thus disturbed they would have been capable of shooting me; and it is well nigh certain that, at any rate, they would have refused to sell their chickens and eggs at that time of the night.
"So you see, sir, I acted for the best for all parties. Two chickens out of scores was a loss not worth thinking of, while the women escaped the panic and terror that my waking them up would have caused them. When I can pay I will assuredly do so, since that is your desire; but I am sure you will see that, under such circumstances, it would be a crime to wake people from their sleep for the sake of a few sous."
Philip laughed.
"Besides, sir," Pierre went on, "these people were either Huguenots or Catholics. If they were Huguenots, they would be right glad to minister to those who are fighting on their behalf. If they were Catholics, they would rob and murder us without mercy. Therefore they may think themselves fortunate, indeed, to escape at so trifling a cost from the punishment they deserve."
"That is all very well, Pierre; but the orders are strict against plundering and, if the Admiral were to catch you, you would get a sound thrashing with a stirrup leather."
"I have risked worse than that, sir, many times in my life; and if I am caught, I will give them leave to use the strap. But you will see, Monsieur Philip, that if the war goes on these niceties will soon become out of fashion. At present the Huguenot lords and gentlemen have money in their pockets to pay for what they want, but after a time money will become scarce. They will see that the armies of the king live on plunder, as armies generally do; and when cash runs short, they will have to shut their eyes and let the men provide themselves as best they can."
"I hope the war won't last long enough for that, Pierre. But at any rate, we have money in our pockets at present, and can pay for what we require; though I do not pretend that it is a serious matter to take a hen out of a coop, especially when you can't get it otherwise, without, as you say, alarming a whole family. However, remember my orders are that everything we want is to be paid for."
"I understand, sir, and you will see that the next time we reckon up accounts every item shall be charged for, so that there will be nothing on your conscience."
Philip laughed again.
"I shall be content if that is the case, Pierre; and I hope that your conscience will be as clear as mine will be."
On the third of November, just a month after leaving Orleans, De La Noue, with his troop augmented to three hundred, joined the Prince of Conde before Paris. During the interval, he had traversed the west of France by the route he had marked out for himself, had raised fifty more men among the Huguenots of Brittany, and had been joined on the route by many gentlemen with parties of their retainers.
Several bodies of Catholics had been met and dispersed. Two or three small towns, where the Huguenots had been ill treated and massacred, were entered. The ringleaders in the persecutions had been hung, and the authorities had been compelled to pay a heavy fine, under threat of the whole town being committed to the flames. Everywhere he passed La Noue had caused proclamations to be scattered far and wide, to the effect that any ill treatment of Huguenots would be followed by his return, and by the heaviest punishment being inflicted upon all who molested them.
And so, having given great encouragement to the Huguenots, and scattered terror among their persecutors; having ridden great distances, and astonished the people of the western provinces by his energy and activity; La Noue joined the Prince of Conde, with three hundred men. He was heartily welcomed on his arrival at the Huguenot camp at Saint Denis.
Francois de Laville and Philip Fletcher had thoroughly enjoyed the expedition. They had often been in the saddle from early morning to late at night; and had felt the benefit of having each two horses as, when the party halted for a day or two, they were often sent out with half their troop to visit distant places--to see friends; to bring into the camp magistrates, and others, who had been foremost in stirring up the people to attack the Huguenots; to enter small towns, throw open prisons and carry off the Huguenots confined there; and occasionally to hang the leaders of local massacres. In these cases they were always accompanied by one or other of the older leaders, in command of the party.
Their spare chargers enabled them to be on horseback every day, while half the troop rested in turn. Sometimes their halts were made in small towns and villages, but more often they bivouacked in the open country; being thus, the Count considered, more watchful and less apt to be surprised.
On their return from these expeditions, Pierre always had a meal prepared for them. In addition to the rations of meat and bread, chicken and eggs, he often contrived to serve up other and daintier food. His old poaching habits were not forgotten. As soon as the camp was formed, he would go out and set snares for hares, traps for birds, and lay lines in the nearest stream; while fish and game, of some sort, were generally added to the fare.
"Upon my word," the Count, who sometimes rode with them, said one evening, "this varlet of yours, Master Philip, is an invaluable fellow; and Conde, himself, cannot be better served than you are. I have half a mind to take him away from you, and to appoint him Provider-in-General to our camp. I warrant me he never learned thus to provide a table, honestly; he must have all the tricks of a poacher at his fingers' end."
"I fancy, when he was young, he had to shift a good deal for himself, sir," Philip replied.
"I thought so," La Noue laughed. "I marked him once or twice, behind your chair at Orleans; and methought, then, that he looked too grave to be honest; and there was a twinkle in his eye, that accorded badly with the gravity of his face, and his sober attire.
"Well, there can be no doubt that, in war, a man who has a spice of the rogue in him makes the best of servants; provided he is but faithful to his master, and respects his goods, if he does those of no one else. Your rogue is necessarily a man of resources; and one of that kind will, on a campaign, make his master comfortable, where one with an over-scrupulous varlet will well-nigh starve. I had such a man, when I was with Brissac in Northern Italy; but one day he went out, and never returned. Whether a provost marshal did me the ill service of hanging him, or whether he was shot by the peasants, I never knew; but I missed him sorely, and often went fasting to bed, when I should have had a good supper had he been with me.
"It is lucky for you both that you haven't to depend upon that grim-visaged varlet of Francois'. I have no doubt that the countess thought she was doing well by my cousin, when she appointed him to go with him, and I can believe that he would give his life for him; but for all that, if you had to depend upon him for your meals, you would fare badly, indeed."
De la Noue was much disappointed, on joining the Prince, at finding that the latter's force had not swollen to larger dimensions. He had with him, after the arrival of the force the Count had brought from the west, but two thousand horse. Of these a large proportion were gentlemen, attended only by a few personal retainers. A fifth only were provided with lances, and a large number had no defensive armour. Of foot soldiers he had about the same number as of horse, and of these about half were armed with arquebuses, the rest being pikemen.
The force under the command of the Constable de Montmorency, inside the walls of Paris, was known to be enormously superior in strength; and the Huguenots were unable to understand why he did not come out to give them battle. They knew, however, that Count Aremberg was on his way from the Netherlands, with seventeen hundred horse, sent by the Duke of Alva to the support of the Catholics; and they supposed that Montmorency was waiting for this reinforcement.
On the 9th of November news arrived that Aremberg was approaching, and D'Andelot, with five hundred horse and eight hundred of the best-trained arquebusiers, was despatched to seize Poissy, and so prevent Aremberg entering Paris.
The next morning the Constable, learning that Conde had weakened his army by this detachment, marched out from Paris. Seldom have two European armies met with a greater disparity of numbers; for while Conde had but fifteen hundred horse and twelve hundred foot, the Constable marched out with sixteen thousand infantry, of whom six thousand were Swiss, and three thousand horse. He had eighteen pieces of artillery, while Conde was without a single cannon.
As soon as this force was seen pouring out from the gates of Paris, the Huguenot trumpets blew to arms. All wore over their coats or armour a white scarf, the distinguishing badge of the Huguenots; and the horsemen were divided into three bodies. De la Noue and his following formed part of that under the personal command of Conde.
"We longed to be here in time for this battle, Philip," Francois said; "but I think this is rather more than we bargained for. They must be nearly ten to one against us. There is one thing: although the Swiss are good soldiers, the rest of their infantry are for the most part Parisians, and though these gentry have proved themselves very valiant in the massacre of unarmed Huguenot men, women, and children, I have no belief in their valour, when they have to meet men with swords in their hands. I would, however, that D'Andelot, with his five hundred horse and eight hundred arquebusiers, all picked men, were here with us; even if Aremberg, with his seventeen hundred horse, were ranged under the Constable.
"As it is, I can hardly believe that Conde and the Admiral will really lead us against that huge mass. I should think that they can but be going to manoeuvre so as to fall back in good order, and show a firm face to the enemy. Their footmen would then be of no use to them and, as I do not think their horse are more than twice our strength, we might turn upon them when we get them away from their infantry, and beyond the range of their cannon."
As soon, however, as the troops were fairly beyond the gates of Saint Denis, the leaders placed themselves at the head of the three columns and, with a few inspiring words, led them forward. Coligny was on the right; La Rochefoucauld, Genlis, and other leaders on the left; and the column commanded by Conde, himself, in the centre.
Conde, with a number of nobles and gentlemen, rode in front of the line. Behind them came the men-at-arms with lances, while those armed only with swords and pistols followed.
Coligny, on the right, was most advanced, and commenced the battle by charging furiously down upon the enemy's left.
Facing Conde were the great mass of the Catholic infantry but, without a moment's hesitation, the little band of but five hundred horse charged right down upon them. Fortunately for them it was the Parisians, and not the Swiss, upon whom their assault fell. The force and impetus of their rush was too much for the Parisians, who broke at the onset, threw away their arms, and fled in a disorderly mob towards the gates of Paris.
"Never mind those cowards," the Prince shouted, "there is nobler game!" and, followed by his troop, he rode at the Constable; who, with a thousand horse, had taken his post behind the infantry. Before this body of cavalry could advance to meet the Huguenots, the latter were among them, and a desperate hand-to-hand melee took place. Gradually the Huguenots won their way into the mass; although the old Constable, fighting as stoutly as the youngest soldier, was setting a splendid example to his troops.
Robert Stuart, a Scotch gentleman in Conde's train, fought his way up to him and demanded his surrender. The Constable's reply was a blow with the hilt of the sword which nearly struck Stuart from his horse, knocking out three of his teeth. A moment later the Constable was struck by a pistol ball, but whether it was fired by Stuart himself, or one of the gentlemen by his side, was never known. The Constable fell, but the fight still raged.
The Royalists, recovered from the first shock, were now pressing their adversaries. Conde's horse was shot by a musket ball and, in falling, pinned him to the ground so that he was unable to extricate himself. De la Noue, followed by Francois and Philip, who were fighting by his side, and other gentlemen, saw his peril and, rushing forward, drove back Conde's assailants. Two gentlemen, leaping from their horses, extricated the Prince from his fallen steed and, after hard fighting, placed him on a horse before one of them; and the troops, repulsing every attack made on them, fell slowly back to Saint Denis.
On the right, Coligny had more than held his own against the enemy; but on the left the Huguenots, encountering Marshal de Montmorency, the eldest son of the Constable, and suffering heavily from the arquebus and artillery fire, had been repulsed; and the Catholics here had gained considerable advantages. The flight of a large portion of the infantry, and the disorder caused in the cavalry by the charges of Conde and Coligny, prevented the Marshal from following up his advantage; and as the Huguenots fell back upon Saint Denis the Royalists retired into Paris, where the wounded Constable had already been carried.
Victory was claimed by both sides, but belonged to neither. Each party had lost about four hundred men, a matter of much greater consequence to the Huguenots than to the Catholics, the more so as a large proportion of the slain on their side were gentlemen of rank. Upon the other hand the loss of the Constable, who died next day, paralysed for a time the Catholic forces.
A staunch and even bigoted Catholic, and opposed to any terms of toleration being granted to the Huguenots, he was opposed to the ambition of the Guises; and was the head of the Royalist party, as distinguished from that of Lorraine. Catharine, who was the moving spirit of the court, hesitated to give the power he possessed, as Constable, into hands that might use it against her; and persuaded the king to bestow the supreme command of the army upon his brother, Henri, Duke of Anjou. The divisions in the court, caused by the death of the Constable and the question of his successor, prevented any fresh movements of the army; and enabled the Prince of Conde, after being rejoined by D'Andelot's force, to retire unmolested three days after the battle; the advanced guard of the Royalists having been driven back into Paris by D'Andelot on his return when, in his disappointment at being absent from the battle, he fell fiercely upon the enemy, and pursued them hotly to the gates, burning several windmills close under the walls.
On the evening of the battle De la Noue had presented his cousin and Philip to the Prince, speaking in high terms of the bravery they displayed in the battle, and they had received Conde's thanks for the part they had taken in his rescue from the hands of the Catholics. The Count himself had praised them highly, but had gently chided Francois for the rashness he had shown.
"It is well to be brave, Francois, but that is not enough. A man who is brave without being prudent may, with fortune, escape as you have done from a battle without serious wounds; but he cannot hope for such fortune many times, and his life would be a very short one. Several times today you were some lengths ahead of me in the melee; and once or twice I thought you lost, for I was too closely pressed, myself, to render you assistance. It was the confusion, alone, that saved you.
"Your life is a valuable one. You are the head of an old family, and have no right to throw your life away. Nothing could have been more gallant than your behaviour, Francois; but you must learn to temper bravery by prudence.
"Your cousin showed his English blood and breeding. When we charged he was half a length behind me, and at that distance he remained through the fight; except when I was very hotly pressed, when he at once closed up beside me. More than once I glanced round at him, and he was fighting with the coolness of a veteran. It was he who called my attention to Conde's fall which, in the melee, might have passed unnoticed by me until it was too late to save him. He kept his pistols in his holsters throughout the fray; and it was only when they pressed us so hotly, as we were carrying off the Prince, that he used them; and, as I observed, with effect. I doubt if there was a pistol save his undischarged, at that time. They were a reserve that he maintained for the crisis of the fight.
"Master Philip, I trust that you will have but small opportunity for winning distinction in this wretched struggle; but were it to last, which heaven forbid, I should say that you would make a name for yourself; as assuredly will my cousin Francois, if he were to temper his enthusiasm with coolness."
The evening before the Huguenots retired from Saint Denis, the Count sent for Francois and his cousin.
"As you will have heard," he said, "we retire tomorrow morning. We have done all, and more than all, that could have been expected from such a force. We have kept Paris shut up for ten weeks, and have maintained our position in face of a force, commanded by the Constable of France, of well-nigh tenfold our strength.
"We are now going to march east, to effect a junction with a force under Duke Casimir. He is to bring us over six thousand horse, three thousand foot, and four cannon. The march will be toilsome; but the Admiral's skill will, I doubt not, enable us to elude the force with which the enemy will try to bar our way.
"The Admiral is sending off the Sieur D'Arblay, whom you both know, to the south of France, in order that he may explain to our friends there the reason for our movement to the east; for otherwise the news, that we have broken up from before Paris, may cause great discouragement. I have proposed to him that you should both accompany him. You have frequently ridden under his orders, during our expedition to the west, and he knows your qualities.
"He has gladly consented to receive you as his companions. It will be pleasant for him to have two gentlemen with him. He takes with him his own following, of eight men; six of his band fell in the battle. The Admiral is of opinion that this is somewhat too small a force for safety; but if you each take the four men-at-arms who ride behind you, it will double his force. Two of yours fell in the fight, I believe, Francois."
"I have taken two others from the troop to fill their places."
"Your men all came out of it, Philip, did they not?"
"Yes, sir. They were all wounded, but none of them seriously, and are all fit to ride."
"You will understand, Francois, that in separating you from myself I am doing so for your sakes, alone. It will be the Admiral's policy to avoid fighting. Winter is close upon us, and the work will be hard and toilsome; and doubtless, ere we effect a junction with the Germans, very many will succumb to cold and hardship. You are not as yet inured to this work, and I would rather not run the risk of your careers ending from such causes.
"If I thought there was a prospect of fighting I should keep you with me but, being as it is, I think it better you should accompany the Sieur D'Arblay. The mission is a dangerous one, and will demand activity, energy, and courage, all of which you possess; but in the south you will have neither cold nor famine to contend with, and far greater opportunities, maybe, of gaining credit than you would in an army like this where, as they have proved to the enemy, every man is brave.
"Another reason, I may own, is that in this case I consider your youth to be an advantage. We could hardly have sent one gentleman on such a mission, alone; and with two of equal rank and age, each with eight followers, difficulties and dissensions might have arisen; while you would both be content to accept the orders of the Sieur D'Arblay without discussion, and to look up to him as the leader of your party."
Although they would rather have remained with the army, the lads at once thanked the Count; and stated their willingness to accompany the Sieur D'Arblay, whom they both knew and liked--being, like De la Noue, cheerful and of good spirits; not deeming it necessary to maintain at all times a stern and grave aspect, or a ruggedness of manner, as well as sombre garments.
De la Noue at once took them across to D'Arblay's tent.
"My cousin and his kinsman will gladly ride with you, and place themselves under your orders, D'Arblay. I can warmly commend them to you. Though they are young I can guarantee that you will find them, if it comes to blows, as useful as most men ten years their senior; and on any mission that you may intrust to them, I think that you can rely upon their discretion; but of that you will judge for yourself, when you know somewhat more of them. They will take with them eight men-at-arms, all of whom will be stout fellows; so that, with your own men, you can traverse the country without fear of any party you are likely to fall in with."
"I shall be glad to have your cousin and his kinsman with me," D'Arblay said courteously. "Between you and I, De la Noue, I would infinitely rather have two bright young fellows of spirit than one of our tough old warriors, who deem it sinful to smile, and have got a text handy for every occasion. It is not a very bright world for us, at present; and I see not the use of making it sadder, by always wearing a gloomy countenance."
The next morning the party started, and rode south. Avoiding the places held by the Catholics, they visited many of the chateaux of Huguenot gentlemen, to whom D'Arblay communicated the instructions he had received, from the Admiral, as to the assemblage of troops, and the necessity for raising such a force as would compel the Royalists to keep a considerable army in the south, and so lessen the number who would gather to oppose his march eastward.
After stopping for a short time in Navarre, and communicating with some of the principal leaders in that little kingdom, they turned eastward. They were now passing through a part of the country where party spirit was extremely bitter, and were obliged to use some caution, as they were charged to communicate with men who were secretly well affected to the cause; but who, living within reach of the bigoted parliament of Toulouse, dared not openly avow their faith.
Toulouse had, from the time the troubles first began, distinguished itself for the ferocity with which it had persecuted the Huguenots; yielding obedience to the various royal edicts of toleration most reluctantly, and sometimes openly disobeying them. Thus, for many miles round the city, those of the Reformed faith lived in continual dread; conducting their worship with extreme secrecy, when some pastor in disguise visited the neighbourhood, and outwardly conforming to the rites of the Catholic church. Many, however, only needed the approach of a Huguenot army to throw off the mask and take up arms; and it was with these that D'Arblay was specially charged to communicate. Great caution was needed in doing this, as the visit of a party of Huguenots would, if denounced, have called down upon them the vengeance of the parliament; who were animated not only by hatred of the Huguenots, but by the desire of enriching themselves by the confiscation of the estates and goods of those they persecuted.
The visits, consequently, were generally made after nightfall; the men-at-arms being left a mile or two away. D'Arblay found everywhere a fierce desire to join in the struggle, restrained only by the fear of the consequences to wives and families, during absence.
"Send an army capable of besieging and capturing Toulouse, and there is not one of us who will not rise and give his blood for the cause, putting into the field every man he can raise, and spending his last crown; but unless such a force approaches, we dare not move. We know that we are strictly watched and that, on the smallest pretext, we and our families would be dragged to prison. Tell the Admiral that our hearts and our prayers are with him, and that nothing in the world would please us so much as to be fighting under his banner; but until there is a hope of capturing Toulouse, we dare not move."
Such was the answer at every castle, chateau, and farmhouse where they called. Many of the Huguenots contributed not only the money they had in their houses, but their plate and jewels; for money was, above all things, needed to fulfil the engagements the Admiral had made with the German mercenaries who were on their march to join him.
Sometimes Philip and Francois both accompanied their leader on his visits. Sometimes they went separately, for they were always able to obtain, from the leading men, the names of neighbours who were favourable to the cause. In the way of money they succeeded beyond their expectations for, as the gentlemen in the district had not, like those where the parties were more equally divided, impoverished themselves by placing their retainers in the field, they were able to contribute comparatively large sums to the cause they had at heart.
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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7
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: A Rescue.
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D'Arblay and his two companions had been engaged, for ten days, in visiting the Huguenots within a circuit of four or five leagues round Toulouse, when they learned that their movements had been reported to the authorities there. They had one day halted as usual in a wood, when the soldier on the lookout ran in and reported that a body of horsemen, some forty or fifty strong, were approaching at a gallop by the road from the city.
"They may not be after us," D'Arblay said, "but at any rate, they shall not catch us napping."
Girths were hastily tightened, armour buckled on, and all took their places in their saddles. It was too late to retreat, for the wood was a small one, and the country around open. As the horsemen approached the wood they slackened speed; and presently halted, facing it.
"Some spy has tracked us here," D'Arblay said; "but it is one thing to track the game, another to capture it. Let us see what these gentlemen of Toulouse are going to do. I have no doubt that they know our number accurately enough, and if they divide, as I hope they will, we shall be able to give them a lesson."
This was evidently the intention of the Catholics. After a short pause an officer trotted off with half the troop, making a circuit to come down behind the wood and cut off all retreat. As they moved off, the Huguenots could count that there were twenty-five men in each section.
"The odds are only great enough to be agreeable," D'Arblay laughed. "It is not as it was outside Paris, where they were ten to one against us. Counting our servants we muster twenty-two, while that party in front are only four stronger; for that gentleman with the long robe is probably an official of their parliament, or a city councillor, and need not be counted. We will wait a couple of minutes longer, until the other party is fairly out of sight; and then we will begin the dance."
A minute or two later he gave the word, and the little troop moved through the trees until nearly at the edge of the wood.
"Now, gentlemen, forward," D'Arblay said, "and God aid the right!"
As in a compact body, headed by the three gentlemen, they burst suddenly from the wood, there was a shout of dismay; and then loud orders from the officer of the troop, halted a hundred and fifty yards away. The men were sitting carelessly on their horses. They had confidently anticipated taking the Huguenots alive, and thought of nothing less than that the latter should take the offensive.
Scarcely had they got their horses into motion before the Huguenots were upon them. The conflict lasted but a minute. Half the Catholics were cut down; the rest, turning their horses, rode off at full speed. The Huguenots would have followed them, but D'Arblay shouted to them to halt.
"You have only done half your work yet," he said. "We have the other party to deal with."
Only one of his Huguenots had fallen, shot through the head by a pistol discharged by the officer; who had himself been, a moment later, run through by D'Arblay, at whom the shot had been aimed. Gathering his men together, the Huguenot leader rode back and, when halfway through the wood, they encountered the other party; whose officer had at once ridden to join the party he had left, when he heard the pistol shot that told him they were engaged with the Huguenots. Although not expecting an attack from an enemy they deemed overmatched by their comrades, the troop, encouraged by their officer, met the Huguenots stoutly.
The fight was, for a short time, obstinate. Broken up by the trees, it resolved itself into a series of single combats. The Huguenot men-at-arms, however, were all tried soldiers; while their opponents were, rather, accustomed to the slaughter of defenceless men and women than to a combat with men-at-arms. Coolness and discipline soon asserted themselves.
Francois and Philip both held their ground, abreast of their leader; and Philip, by cutting down the lieutenant, brought the combat to a close. His followers, on seeing their officer fall, at once lost heart; and those who could do so turned their horses, and rode off. They were hotly pursued, and six were overtaken and cut down. Eight had fallen in the conflict in the wood.
"That has been a pretty sharp lesson," D'Arblay said as, leaving the pursuit to his followers, he reined in his horse at the edge of the wood. "You both did right gallantly, young sirs. It is no slight advantage, in a melee of that kind, to be strong in officers. The fellows fought stoutly, for a short time.
"Had it not been for your despatching their officer, Monsieur Fletcher, we should not have finished with them so quickly. It was a right down blow, and heartily given, and fell just at the joint of the gorget."
"I am sorry that I killed him," Philip replied. "He seemed a brave gentleman, and was not very many years older than I am, myself."
"He drew it upon himself," D'Arblay said. "If he had not come out to take us, he would be alive now.
"Well, as soon as our fellows return we will move round to Merlincourt, on the other side of the town. There are several of our friends there, and it is the last place we have to visit. After this skirmish, we shall find the neighbourhood too hot for us. It is sure to make a great noise and, at the first gleam of the sun on helm or breast plate, some Catholic or other will hurry off to Toulouse with the news. In future we had best take some of the men-at-arms with us, when we pay our visits, or we may be caught like rats in a trap."
Making a circuit of twenty miles, they approached Merlincourt that evening and, establishing themselves as usual in a wood, remained quiet there next day. After nightfall D'Arblay rode off, taking with him Francois and five of his own men, and leaving Philip in command of the rest. The gold and jewels they had gathered had been divided into three portions, and the bags placed in the holsters of the saddles of the three lackeys; as these were less likely to be taken than their masters and, if one were captured, a portion only of the contributions would be lost. D'Arblay had arranged that he would not return that night, but would sleep at the chateau of the gentleman he was going to visit.
"I will get him to send around to our other friends, in the morning. The men will return when they see that all is clear. Send them back to meet us at the chateau, tomorrow night."
The five men returned an hour after they set out, and reported that all was quiet at Merlincourt; and that the Sieur D'Arblay had sent a message, to Philip, to move a few miles farther away before morning, and to return to the wood soon after nightfall.
Philip gave the men six hours to rest themselves and their horses. They then mounted and rode eight miles farther from Toulouse, halting before daybreak in a thick copse standing on high ground, commanding a view of a wide tract of country. Two of the troopers were sent off to buy provisions in a village, half a mile away. Two were placed on watch. Some of the others lay down for another sleep, while Pierre redressed the wounds that five of the men had received in the fight.
At twelve o'clock one of the lookouts reported that he could see, away out on the plain, a body of horsemen. Philip at once went to examine them for himself.
"There must be some two hundred of them, I should say, by the size of the clump," he remarked to the soldier.
"About that, I should say, sir."
"I expect they are hunting for us," Philip said. "They must have heard from some villager that we were seen to ride round this way, the day before yesterday, or they would hardly be hunting in this neighbourhood for us. It is well we moved in the night.
"I wish the Sieur D'Arblay and the Count de Laville were with us. No doubt they were hidden away, as soon as the troop was seen, but one is never secure against treachery."
Philip was restless and uncomfortable all day, and walked about the wood, impatiently longing for night to come. As soon as it was dark they mounted, and rode back to the wood near Merlincourt. The five men were at once sent off to the chateau where they had left their leaders.
"That is a pistol shot!" Pierre exclaimed, some twenty minutes after they left.
"I did not hear it. Are you sure, Pierre?"
"Quite sure, sir. At least, I will not swear that it was a pistol--it might have been an arquebus--but I will swear it was a shot."
"To your saddle, men," Philip said. "A pistol shot has been heard, and it may be that your comrades have fallen into an ambush. Advance to the edge of the wood, and be ready to dash out to support them, should they come."
But a quarter of an hour passed, and there was no sound to break the stillness of the evening.
"Shall I go into the village and find out what has taken place, Monsieur Fletcher? I will leave my iron cap and breast and back pieces here. I shall not want to fight but to run, and a hare could not run in these iron pots."
"Do, Pierre. We shall be ready to support you, if you are chased."
"If I am chased by half a dozen men, I may run here, sir; if by a strong force, I shall strike across the country. Trust me to double and throw them off the scent. If I am not back here in an hour, it will be that I am taken, or have had to trust to my heels; and you will find me, in the last case, tomorrow morning at the wood where we halted today. If I do not come soon after daybreak, you will know that I am either captured or killed. Do not delay for me longer, but act as seems best to you."
Pierre took off his armour and sped away in the darkness, going at a trot that would speedily take him to the village.
"Dismount and stand by your horses," Philip ordered. "We may want all their strength."
Half an hour later Pierre returned, panting.
"I have bad news, sir. I have prowled about the village, which is full of soldiers, and listened to their talk through open windows. The Sieur D'Arblay, Monsieur Francois, and the owner of the chateau and his wife were seized, and carried off to Toulouse this morning, soon after daybreak. By what I heard, one of the servants of the chateau was a spy, set by the council of Toulouse to watch the doings of its owner; and as soon as Monsieur D'Arblay arrived there last night, he stole out and sent a messenger to Toulouse. At daybreak the chateau was surrounded, and they were seized before they had time to offer resistance. The troop of horse we saw have all day been searching for us, and went back before nightfall to Merlincourt; thinking that we should be sure to be going there, sometime or other, to inquire after our captain. The five men you sent were taken completely by surprise, and all were killed, though not without a tough fight. A strong party are lying in ambush with arquebuses, making sure that the rest of the troop will follow the five they surprised."
"You were not noticed, Pierre, or pursued?"
"No, sir. There were so many men about in the village that one more stranger attracted no attention."
"Then we can remain here safely for half an hour," Philip said.
The conversation had taken place a few paces from the troop. Philip now joined his men.
"The Sieur D'Arblay and Count Francois have been taken prisoners. Your comrades fell into an ambush, and have, I fear, all lost their lives. Dismount for half an hour, men, while I think over what is best to be done. Keep close to your horses, so as to be in readiness to mount instantly, if necessary. One of you take my horse.
"Do you come with me, Pierre.
"This is a terrible business, lad," he went on, as they walked away from the others. "We know what will be the fate of my cousin and Monsieur D'Arblay. They will be burnt or hung, as heretics. The first thing is, how are we to get them out; and also, if possible, the gentleman and his wife who were taken with them?"
"We have but ten of the men-at-arms left, sir; and four of them are so wounded that they would not count for much, in a fight. There are the two other lackeys and myself, so we are but fourteen, in all. If we had arrived in time we might have done something but, now they are firmly lodged in the prison at Toulouse, I see not that we can accomplish anything."
Philip fell into silence for some minutes, then he said: "Many of the councillors and members of parliament live, I think, in villas outside the walls. If we seize a dozen of them, appear before the city, and threaten to hang or shoot the whole of them, if the four captives are not released, we might succeed in getting our friends into our hands, Pierre."
"That is so, sir. There really seems a hope for us, in that way."
"Then we will lose no time. We will ride at once for Toulouse. When we get near the suburbs we will seize some countryman, and force him to point out to us the houses of the principal councillors and the members of their parliament. These we will pounce upon and carry off, and at daybreak will appear with them before the walls. We will make one of them signify, to their friends, that if any armed party sallies out through the gates, or approaches us from behind, it will be the signal for the instant death of all of our captives.
"Now let us be off, at once."
The party mounted without delay, and rode towards Toulouse. This rich and powerful city was surrounded by handsome villas and chateaux, the abode of wealthy citizens and persons of distinction. At the first house at which they stopped, Philip, with Pierre and two of the men-at-arms, dismounted and entered. It was the abode of a small farmer, who cultivated vegetables for the use of the townsfolk. He had retired to bed with his family, but upon being summoned came downstairs trembling, fearing that his late visitors were bandits.
"No harm will be done to you, if you obey our orders," Philip said; "but if not, we shall make short work of you. I suppose you know the houses of most of the principal persons who live outside the walls?"
"Assuredly I do, my lord. There is the President of the Parliament, and three or four of the principal councillors, and the Judge of the High Court, and many others, all living within a short mile of this spot."
"Well, I require you to guide us to their houses. There will be no occasion for you to show yourself, nor will anyone know that you have had aught to do with the matter. If you attempt to escape, or to give the alarm, you will without scruple be shot. If, on the other hand, we are satisfied with your work, you will have a couple of crowns for your trouble."
The man, seeing that he had no choice, put a good face on it.
"I am ready to do as your lordship commands," he said. "I have no reason for goodwill towards any of these personages, who rule us harshly, and regard us as if we were dirt under their feet. Shall we go first to the nearest of them?"
"No, we will first call on the President of the Parliament, and then the Judge of the High Court, then the councillors in the order of their rank. We will visit ten in all, and see that you choose the most important.
"Pierre, you will take charge of this man, and ride in front of us. Keep your pistol in your hand, and shoot him through the head, if he shows signs of trying to escape. You will remain with him when we enter the houses.
"Have you any rope, my man?"
"Yes, my lord, I have several long ropes, with which I bind the vegetables on my cart when I go to market."
"That will do. Bring them at once."
Pierre accompanied the man when he went to his shed. On his return with the ropes, Philip told the men-at-arms to cut them into lengths of eight feet, and to make a running noose at one end of each. When this was done, they again mounted and moved on.
"When we enter the houses," he said to the two other lackeys, "you will remain without with Pierre, and will take charge of the first four prisoners we bring out. Put the nooses round their necks, and draw them tight enough to let the men feel that they are there. Fasten the other ends to your saddles, and warn them, if they put up their hands to throw off the nooses, you will spur your horses into a gallop. That threat will keep them quiet enough."
In a quarter of an hour they arrived at the gate of a large and handsome villa. Philip ordered his men to dismount, and fasten up their horses.
"You will remain here, in charge of the horses," he said to the lackeys; and then, with the men-at-arms, he went up to the house.
Two of them were posted at the back entrance, two at the front, with orders to let no one issue out. Then with his dagger he opened the shutters of one of the windows and, followed by the other six men, entered. The door was soon found and, opening it, they found themselves in a hall where a hanging light was burning.
Several servants were asleep on the floor. These started up, with exclamations of alarm, at seeing seven men with drawn swords.
"Silence!" Philip said sternly, "or this will be your last moment.
"Roger and Jules, do you take each one of these lackeys by the collar. That is right. Now, put your pistols to their heads.
"Now, my men, lead us at once to your master's chamber.
"Eustace, light one of these torches on the wall at the lamp, and bring it along with you.
"Henri, do you also come with us.
"The rest of you stay here, and guard these lackeys. Make them sit down. If any of them move, run him through without hesitation."
At this moment an angry voice was heard shouting above.
"What is all this disturbance about! If I hear another sound, I will discharge you all in the morning."
Philip gave a loud and derisive laugh, which had the effect he had anticipated for, directly afterwards, a man in a loose dressing gown ran into the hall.
"What does this mean, you rascals?" he shouted angrily, as he entered.
Then he stopped, petrified with astonishment.
[Illustration: If you move a step, you are a dead man.]
"It means this," Philip said, levelling a pistol at him, "that if you move a step, you are a dead man."
"You must be mad," the president gasped. "Do you know who I am?"
"Perfectly, sir. You are president of the infamous parliament of Toulouse. I am a Huguenot officer, and you are my prisoner. You need not look so indignant; better men than you have been dragged from their homes, to prison and death, by your orders. Now it is your turn to be a prisoner.
"I might, if I chose, set fire to this chateau, and cut the throats of all in it; but we do not murder in the name of God. We leave that to you.
"Take this man away with you, Eustace. I give him into your charge. If he struggles, or offers the least resistance, stab him to the heart."
"You will at least give me time to dress, sir?" the president said.
"Not a moment," Philip replied. "The night is warm, and you will do very well, as you are.
"As for you," he went on, turning to the servants, "you will remain quiet until morning; and if any of you dare to leave the house, you will be slain without mercy. You can assure your mistress that she will not be long without the society of your master; for in all probability he will be returned, safe and sound, before midday tomorrow. One of you may fetch your master's cloak, since he seems to fear the night air."
The doors were opened and they issued out, Philip bidding the servants close and bar them behind them. When they reached the horses, the prisoner was handed over to D'Arblay's lackey, who placed the noose round his neck, and gave him warning as Philip had instructed him. Then they set off, Pierre with the guide again leading the way.
Before morning they had ten prisoners in their hands. In one or two cases the servants had attempted opposition, but they were speedily overpowered, and the captures were all effected without loss of life. The party then moved away about a mile, and the prisoners were allowed to sit down. Several of them were elderly men, and Philip picked these out, by the light of two torches they had brought from the last house, and ordered the ropes to be removed from their necks.
"I should regret, gentlemen," he said, "the indignity that I have been forced to place upon you, had you been other than you are. It is well, however, that you should have felt, though in a very slight degree, something of the treatment that you have all been instrumental in inflicting upon blameless men and women, whose only fault was that they chose to worship God in their own way. You may thank your good fortune at having fallen into the hands of one who has had no dear friends murdered in the prisons of Toulouse. There are scores of men who would have strung you up without mercy, thinking it a righteous retribution for the pitiless cruelties of which the parliament of Toulouse has been guilty.
"Happily for you, though I regard you with loathing as pitiless persecutors, I have no personal wrongs to avenge. Your conscience will tell you that, fallen as you have into the hands of Huguenots, you could only expect death; but it is not for the purpose of punishment that you have been captured. You are taken as hostages. My friends, the Count de Laville and the Sieur D'Arblay, were yesterday carried prisoners into Toulouse; and with them Monsieur de Merouville, whose only fault was that he had afforded them a night's shelter. His innocent wife was also dragged away with him.
"You, sir," he said to one of the prisoners, "appear to me to be the oldest of the party. At daybreak you will be released; and will bear, to your colleagues in the city, the news that these nine persons are prisoners in my hands. You will state that, if any body of men approaches this place from any quarter, these nine persons will at once be hung up to the branches above us. You will say that I hold them as hostages for the four prisoners, and that I demand that these shall be sent out here, with their horses and the arms of my two friends, and under the escort of two unarmed troopers.
"These gentlemen here will, before you start, sign a document ordering the said prisoners at once to be released; and will also sign a solemn undertaking, which will be handed over to Monsieur de Merouville, pledging themselves that, should he and his wife choose to return to their chateau, no harm shall ever happen to them; and no accusation, of any sort, in the future be brought against them.
"I may add that, should at any time this guarantee be broken, I shall consider it my duty, the moment I hear of the event, to return to this neighbourhood; and assuredly I will hang the signatories of the guarantee over their own door posts, and will burn their villas to the ground. I know the value of oaths sworn to Huguenots; but in this case, I think they will be kept, for I swear to you--and I am in the habit of keeping my oaths--that if you break your undertaking, I will not break mine."
As soon as it was daylight, Pierre produced from his saddlebag an ink horn, paper, and pens; and the ten prisoners signed their name to an order for the release of the four captives. They then wrote another document, to be handed by their representative to the governor, begging him to see that the order was executed, informing him of the position they were in, and that their lives would certainly be forfeited, unless the prisoners were released without delay. They also earnestly begged him to send out orders, to the armed forces who were searching for the Huguenots, bidding them make no movement, whatever, until after midday.
The councillor was then mounted on a horse and escorted, by two of the men-at-arms, to within a quarter of a mile of the nearest gate of the city. The men were to return with his horse. The councillor was informed that ten o'clock was the limit given for the return of the prisoners; and that, unless they had by that hour arrived, it would be supposed that the order for their release would not be respected, and in that case the nine hostages would be hung forthwith; and that, in the course of a night or two, another batch would be carried off.
Philip had little fear, however, that there would be any hesitation, upon the part of those in the town, in acting upon the order signed by so many important persons; for the death of the president, and several of the leading members of the parliament, would create such an outcry against the governor, by their friends and relatives, that he would not venture to refuse the release of four prisoners, of minor importance, in order to save their lives.
After the messenger had departed, Philip had the guarantee for the safety of Monsieur de Merouville and his wife drawn up and signed, in duplicate.
"One of these documents," he said, "I shall give to Monsieur de Merouville. The other I shall keep myself, so that, if this solemn guarantee is broken, I shall have this as a justification for the execution of the perjured men who signed it."
The time passed slowly. Some of the prisoners walked anxiously and impatiently to and fro, looking continually towards the town. Others sat in gloomy silence, too humiliated at their present position even to talk to one another.
The soldiers, on the contrary, were in high spirits. They rejoiced at the prospect of the return of their two leaders, and they felt proud of having taken part in such an exploit as the capture of the chief men of the dreaded parliament of Toulouse. Four of them kept a vigilant guard over the prisoners. The rest ate their breakfast with great gusto, and laughed and joked at the angry faces of some of their prisoners.
It was just nine o'clock when a small group of horsemen were seen in the distance.
"I think there are six of them, sir," Eustace said.
"That is the right number, Eustace. The lady is doubtless riding behind her husband. Two men are the escort, and the other is, no doubt, the councillor we released, who is now acting as guide to this spot.
"Bring my horse, Pierre," and, mounting, Philip rode off to meet the party.
He was soon able to make out the figures of Francois and D'Arblay and, putting his horse to a gallop, was speedily alongside of them.
"What miracle is this?" Monsieur D'Arblay asked, after the first greeting was over. "At present we are all in a maze. We were in separate dungeons, and the prospect looked as hopeless as it could well do; when the doors opened and an officer, followed by two soldiers bearing our armour and arms, entered and told us to attire ourselves. What was meant we could not imagine. We supposed we were going to be led before some tribunal; but why they should arm us, before taking us there, was more than we could imagine.
"We met in the courtyard of the prison, and were stupefied at seeing our horses saddled and bridled there, and Monsieur De Merouville and his wife already mounted. Two unarmed troopers were also there, and this gentleman, who said sourly: "'Mount, sirs, I am going to lead you to your friends.'
"We looked at each other, to see if we were dreaming, but you may imagine we were not long in leaping into our saddles.
"This gentleman has not been communicative. In fact, by his manner, I should say he is deeply disgusted at the singular mission with which he was charged; and on the ride here Francois, Monsieur de Merouville, and myself have exhausted ourselves in conjectures as to how this miracle has come about."
"Wait two or three minutes longer," Philip said, with a smile. "When you get to yonder trees, you will receive an explanation."
Francois and Monsieur D'Arblay gazed in surprise at the figures of nine men, all in scanty raiments, wrapped up in cloaks, and evidently guarded by the men-at-arms, who set up a joyous shout as they rode in. Monsieur de Merouville uttered an exclamation of astonishment, as he recognized the dreaded personages collected together in such a plight.
"Monsieur de Merouville," Philip said, "I believe you know these gentlemen by sight.
"Monsieur D'Arblay and Francois, you are not so fortunate as to be acquainted with them; and I have pleasure in introducing to you the President of the Parliament of Toulouse, the Judge of the High Court, and other councillors, all gentlemen of consideration. It has been my misfortune to have had to treat these gentlemen with scant courtesy, but the circumstances left me no choice.
"Monsieur de Merouville, here is a document, signed by these nine gentlemen, giving a solemn undertaking that you and Madame shall be, in future, permitted to reside in your chateau without the slightest let or hindrance; and that you shall suffer no molestation, whatever, either on account of this affair, or on the question of religion. I have a duplicate of this document; and have, on my part, given an undertaking that, if its terms are broken I will, at whatever inconvenience to myself, return to this neighbourhood, hang these ten gentlemen if I can catch them, and at any rate burn their chateaux to the ground. Therefore I think, as you have their undertaking and mine, you can without fear return home; but this, of course, I leave to yourself to decide.
"Gentlemen, you are now free to return to your homes; and I trust this lesson--that we, on our part, can strike, if necessary--will have some effect in moderating your zeal for persecution."
Without a word, the president and his companions walked away in a body. The troopers began to jeer and laugh, but Philip held up his hand for silence.
"There need be no extra scorn," he said. "These gentlemen have been sufficiently humiliated."
"And you really fetched all these good gentlemen from their beds," D'Arblay said, bursting into a fit of laughter. "Why, it was worth being taken prisoner, were it only for the sake of seeing them. They looked like a number of old owls, suddenly disturbed by daylight--some of them round eyed with astonishment, some of them hissing menacingly. By my faith, Philip, it will go hard with you, if you ever fall into the hands of those worthies.
"But a truce to jokes. We owe you our lives, Philip; of that there is not a shadow of doubt. Though I have no more fear than another of death in battle, I own that I have a dread of being tortured and burned. It was a bold stroke, thus to carry off the men who have been the leaders of the persecution against us."
"There was nothing in the feat, if it can be called a feat," Philip said. "Of course, directly we heard that you had been seized and carried into Toulouse, I cast about for the best means to save you. To attempt it by force would have been simple madness; and any other plan would have required time, powerful friends, and a knowledge of the city, and even then we should probably have failed to get you out of prison. This being so, it was evident that the best plan was to seize some of the citizens of importance, who might serve as hostages. There was no difficulty in finding out, from a small cultivator, who were the principal men living outside the walls; and their capture was as easy a business. Scarcely a blow was struck, and no lives lost, in capturing the whole of them."
"But some of the men are missing," D'Arblay said.
"Yes; five of your men, I am sorry to say. On getting back to the wood after dark I sent them, as you ordered, to fetch you from Monsieur de Merouville's; but of course you had been captured before that, and they fell into an ambush that was laid for them, and were all killed."
"That is a bad business, Philip.
"Well, Monsieur de Merouville, will you go with us, or will you trust in this safeguard?"
"In the first place, you have not given me a moment's opportunity of thanking this gentleman; not only for having saved the lives of my wife and myself, but for the forethought and consideration with which he has, in the midst of his anxiety for you and Monsieur de Laville, shown for us who were entire strangers to him.
"Be assured, Monsieur Fletcher, that we are deeply grateful. I hope that some time in the future, should peace ever again be restored to France, we may be able to meet you again, and express more warmly the obligations we feel towards you."
Madame de Merouville added a few words of gratitude, and then D'Arblay broke in with: "De Merouville, you must settle at once whether to go with us, or stay on the faith of this safeguard. We have no such protection and, if we linger here, we shall be having half a dozen troops of horse after us. You may be sure they will be sent off, as soon as the president and his friends reach the city; and if we were caught again, we should be in an even worse plight than before. Do you talk it over with Madame and, while you are doing so, Francois and I will drink a flask of wine, and eat anything we can find here; for they forgot to give us breakfast before they sent us off, and it is likely we shall not have another opportunity, for some hours."
"What do you think, Monsieur Fletcher?" Monsieur de Merouville said, after speaking for a few minutes with his wife; "will they respect this pledge? If not we must go, but we are both past the age when we can take up life anew. My property would, of course, be confiscated, and we should be penniless among strangers."
"I think they will respect the pledge," Philip replied. "I assured them, so solemnly, that any breach of their promises would be followed by prompt vengeance upon themselves and their homes, that I feel sure they will not run the risk. Two or three among them might possibly do so, but the others would restrain them. I believe that you can safely return; and that, for a long time, at any rate, you will be unmolested.
"Still, if I might advise, I should say sell your property, as soon as you can find a purchaser at any reasonable price; and then remove, either to La Rochelle or cross the sea to England. You may be sure that there will be a deep and bitter hatred against you, by those whose humiliation you have witnessed."
"Thank you. I will follow your advice, Monsieur Fletcher; and I hope that I may, ere long, have the pleasure of seeing you, and of worthily expressing our deep sense of the debt of gratitude we owe you."
Five minutes later the troop mounted and rode away, while Monsieur de Merouville, with his wife behind him, started for home.
"I hope, Francois," D'Arblay said, as they galloped off from the wood, "that the next time I ride on an expedition your kinsman may again be with me, for he has wit and resources that render him a valuable companion, indeed."
"I had great hopes, even when I was in prison, and things looked almost as bad as they could be," Francois said, "that Philip would do something to help us. I had much faith in his long headedness; and so has the countess, my mother. She said to me, when we started: "'You are older than Philip, Francois; but you will act wisely if, in cases of difficulty, you defer your opinions to his. His training has given him self reliance and judgment, and he has been more in the habit of thinking for himself than you have,' and certainly he has fully justified her opinion.
"Where do you propose to ride next, D'Arblay?"
"For La Rochelle. I shall not feel safe until I am within the walls. Presidents of Parliament, judges of High Court, and dignified functionaries are not to be dragged from their beds with impunity. Happily it will take them an hour and a half to walk back to the town; or longer, perhaps, for they will doubtless go first to their own homes. They will never show themselves, in such sorry plight, in the streets of the city where they are accustomed to lord it; so we may count on at least two hours before they can take any steps. After that, they will move heaven and earth to capture us. They will send out troops of horse after us, and messengers to every city in the province, calling upon the governors to take every means to seize us.
"We have collected a good sum of money, and carried out the greater portion of our mission. We shall only risk its loss, as well as the loss of our own lives, by going forward. The horses are fresh, and we will put as many miles between us and Toulouse as they can carry us, before nightfall."
The return journey was accomplished without misadventure. They made no more halts than were required to rest their horses and, travelling principally at night, they reached La Rochelle without having encountered any body of the enemy.
While they had been absent, the army of Conde and the Admiral had marched into Lorraine and, eluding the forces that barred his march, effected a junction with the German men-at-arms who had been brought to their aid by the Duke Casimir, the second son of the Elector Palatine. However, the Germans refused to march a step farther, unless they received the pay that had been agreed upon before they started.
Conde's treasury was empty, and he had no means, whatever, of satisfying their demand. In vain Duke Casimir, himself, tried to persuade his soldiers to defer their claims, and to trust their French co-religionists to satisfy their demands, later on. They were unanimous in their refusal to march a step, until they obtained their money.
The Admiral then addressed himself to his officers and soldiers. He pointed out to them that, at the present moment, everything depended upon their obtaining the assistance of the Germans--who were, indeed, only demanding their rights, according to the agreement that had been made with them--and he implored them to come to the assistance of the prince and himself at this crisis. So great was his influence among his soldiers that his appeal was promptly and generally acceded to, and officers and men alike stripped themselves of their chains, jewels, money, and valuables of all kinds, and so made up the sum required to satisfy the Germans.
As soon as this important affair had been settled, the united army turned its face again westward; with the intention of giving battle, anew, under the walls of Paris. It was, however, terribly deficient in artillery, powder, and stores of all kinds and, the military chest being empty and the soldiers without pay, it was necessary, on the march, to exact contributions from the small Catholic towns and villages through which the army marched and, in spite of the orders of the Admiral, a certain amount of pillage was carried on by the soldiers.
Having recruited the strength of his troops, by a short stay at Orleans, the Admiral moved towards Paris. Since the commencement of the war, negotiations had been going on fitfully. When the court thought that the Huguenots were formidable, they pushed on the negotiations in earnest. Whenever, upon the contrary, they believed that the royal forces would be able to crush those of the Admiral, the negotiations at once came to a standstill.
During the Admiral's long march to the east, they would grant no terms whatever that could possibly be accepted; but as soon as the junction was effected with Duke Casimir and his Germans, and the Huguenot army again turned its face to Paris, the court became eager to conclude peace. When the Prince of Conde's army arrived before Chartres the negotiators met, and the king professed a readiness to grant so many concessions, that it seemed as if the objects of the Huguenots could be attained without further fighting, and the Cardinal of Chatillon and some Huguenot nobles went forward to have a personal conference with the royal commissioners, at Lonjumeau.
After much discussion, the points most insisted upon by the Huguenots were conceded, and the articles of a treaty drawn up, copies of which were sent to Paris and Chartres. The Admiral and Conde both perceived that, in the absence of any guarantees for the observance of the conditions to which the other side bound themselves, the treaty would be of little avail; as it could be broken, as soon as the army now menacing Paris was scattered. The feeling among the great portion of the nobles and their followers was, however, strongly in favour of the conditions being accepted.
The nobles were becoming beggared by the continuance of the war, the expenses of which had, for the most part, to be paid from their private means. Their followers, indeed, received no pay; but they had to be fed, and their estates were lying untilled for want of hands. Their men were eager to return to their farms and families, and so strong and general was the desire for peace that the Admiral and Conde bowed to it.
They agreed to the terms and, pending their ratification, raised the siege of Chartres. Already their force was dwindling rapidly. Large numbers marched away to their homes, without even asking for leave; and their leaders soon ceased to be in a position to make any demands for guarantees, and the peace of Lonjumeau was therefore signed.
Its provisions gave very little more to the Huguenots than that of the preceding arrangement of the same kind, and the campaign left the parties in much the same position as they had occupied before the Huguenots took up arms.
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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8
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: The Third Huguenot War.
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Before the treaty of Lonjumeau had been signed many weeks, the Huguenots were sensible of the folly they had committed, in throwing away all the advantages they had gained in the war, by laying down their arms upon the terms of a treaty made by a perfidious woman and a weak and unstable king, with advisers bent upon destroying the reformed religion. They had seen former edicts of toleration first modified and then revoked, and they had no reason even to hope that the new treaty, which had been wrung from the court by its fears, would be respected by it.
The Huguenots were not surprised to find, therefore, that as soon as they had sent back their German auxiliaries and returned to their homes--the ink, indeed, was scarcely dry on the paper upon which the treaty was written--its conditions were virtually annulled. From the pulpit of every Catholic church in France, the treaty was denounced in the most violent language; and it was openly declared that there could be no peace with the Huguenots. These, as they returned home, were murdered in great numbers and, in many of the cities, the mobs rose and massacred the defenceless Protestants.
Heavy as had been the persecutions before the outbreak of the war, they were exceeded by those that followed it. Some of the governors of the provinces openly refused to carry out the conditions of the treaty. Charles issued a proclamation that the edict was not intended to include any of the districts that were appanages of his mother, or of any of the royal or Bourbon princes. In the towns the soldiers were quartered upon the Huguenots, whom they robbed and ill treated at their pleasure; and during the six months that this nominal peace lasted, no less than ten thousand Huguenots were slaughtered in various parts of France.
"The Prince of Conde, the Admiral, his brothers, and our other leaders may be skilful generals and brave men," the Countess de Laville said indignantly to Francois when, with the troop, reduced by war, fever, and hardship to one-third of its number, he had returned to the chateau, "but they cannot have had their senses about them, when they permitted themselves to be cozened into laying down their arms, without receiving a single guarantee that the terms of the treaty should be observed.
"Far better never to have taken up arms at all. The king has come to regard us as enemies. The Catholics hate us more than ever, for our successful resistance. Instead of being in a better position than we were before, we shall be in a worse. We have given up all the towns we had captured, thrown away every advantage we had gained and, when we are again driven to take up arms, we shall be in a worse position than before; for they no longer despise us, and will in future be on their guard. There will be no repeating the surprise of last September.
"I am disappointed above all in the Admiral, D'Andelot, La Rochefoucauld, and Genlis. Conde I have never trusted as one to be relied upon, in an extremity. He is a royal prince, has been brought up in courts, and loves gaiety and ease; and although I say not that he is untrue to the Huguenot cause, yet he would gladly accommodate matters; and as we see, even in this treaty, the great bulk of the Huguenots all over the country have been utterly deserted, their liberty of worship denied, and their very lives are at the mercy of the bigots.
"What do you think, Philip? Have you had enough of fighting for a party who wilfully throw away all that they have won by their sacrifices? Are you thinking of returning home, or will you wait for a while, to see how matters go on?"
"I will, with your permission, wait," Philip said. "I lament this peace, which seems to me to leave us in a worse position than before the war; but I agree with you that it cannot last, and that ere long the Huguenots will be driven again to take up arms. Francois and I have become as brothers and, until the cause is either lost or won, I would fain remain."
"That is well, Philip. I will be glad to have you with us, my nephew. La Noue wrote to me, a month since, saying that both my son and you had borne yourselves very gallantly; that he was well pleased to have had you with him; and that he thought that, if these wars of religion continued--which they might well do for a long time, as in Germany and Holland, as well as in France, the reformed religion is battling for freedom--you would both rise to eminence as soldiers.
"However, now that peace is made, we must make the best of it. I should think it will not be broken until after the harvest and vintage; for until then all will be employed, and the Catholics as well as the Huguenots must repair their losses, and gather funds, before they can again take the field with their retainers. Therefore, until then I think that there will be peace."
The summer passed quietly at Laville. The tales of massacre and outrage, that came from all parts of France, filled them with horror and indignation; but in their own neighbourhood, all was quiet. Rochelle had refused to open her gates to the royal troops and, as in all that district the Huguenots were too numerous to be interfered with by their neighbours, the quiet was unbroken.
Nevertheless, it was certain that hostilities would not be long delayed. The Catholics, seeing the advantage that the perfect organization of the Huguenots had given them at the commencement of the war, had established leagues in almost every province. These were organized by the clergy, and the party that looked upon the Guises as their leaders and, by the terms of their constitution, were evidently determined to carry out the extirpation of the reformed religion, with or without the royal authority; and were, indeed, bent upon forming a third party in the state, looking to Philip of Spain rather than to the King of France as their leader.
So frequent and daring were the outrages, in Paris, that Conde soon found that his life was not safe there; and retired to Noyers, a small town in Burgundy. Admiral Coligny, who had been saddened by the loss of his brave wife, who had died from a disease contracted in attending upon the sick and wounded soldiers at Orleans, had abandoned the chateau at Chatillon-sur-Loing, where he had kept up a princely hospitality; and retired to the castle of Tanlay, belonging to his brother D'Andelot, situated within a few miles of Noyers. D'Andelot himself had gone to Brittany, after writing a remonstrance to Catharine de Medici upon the ruin and desolation that the breaches of the treaty, and the persecution of a section of the population, were bringing upon France.
The Chancellor L'Hopital had, in vain, urged toleration. His adversaries in the royal council were too strong for him. The Cardinal of Lorraine had regained his old influence. The king appointed, as his preachers, four of the most violent advocates of persecution. The De Montmorencys, for a time, struggled successfully against the influence of the Cardinal of Lorraine; who sought supreme power, under cover of Henry of Anjou's name. Three of the marshals of France--Montmorency, his brother Danville, and Vielleville--supported by Cardinal Bourbon, demanded of the council that D'Anjou should no longer hold the office of lieutenant general. Catharine at times aided the Guises, at times the Montmorencys; playing off one party against the other, but chiefly inclining to the Guises, who gradually obtained such an ascendency that the Chancellor L'Hopital, in despair, retired from the council; and thus removed the greatest obstacle to the schemes and ambition of the Cardinal of Lorraine.
At the commencement of August the king despatched, to all parts of his dominions, copies of an oath that was to be demanded from every Huguenot. It called upon them to swear never to take up arms, save by the express command of the king; nor to assist with counsel, money, or food any who did so; and to join their fellow citizens in the defence of their towns against those who disobeyed this mandate. The Huguenots unanimously declined to sign the oath.
With the removal of the chancellor from the council, the party of Lorraine became triumphant; and it was determined to seize the whole of the Huguenot leaders, who were quietly residing upon their estates in distant parts of France. Gaspard de Tavannes was charged with the arrest of Conde and the Admiral; and fourteen companies of men-at-arms, and as many of infantry were placed under his orders, and these were quietly and secretly marched to Noyers.
Fortunately Conde received warning, just before the blow was going to be struck. He was joined at Noyers by the Admiral, with his daughter and sons, and the wife and infant son of D'Andelot. Conde himself had with him his wife and children. They were joined by a few Huguenot noblemen from the neighbourhood; and these, with the servants of the prince and Admiral, formed an escort of about a hundred and fifty horse.
Escape seemed well-nigh hopeless. Tavannes' troops guarded most of the avenues of escape. There was no place of refuge save La Rochelle, several hundred miles away, on the other side of France. Every city was in the hands of their foes, and their movements were encumbered with the presence of women and young children.
There was but one thing in their favour--their enemies naturally supposed that, should they attempt to escape, they would do so in the direction of Germany, where they would be warmly welcomed by the Protestant princes. Therefore it was upon that line that the greatest vigilance would be displayed by their enemies.
Before starting, Coligny sent off a very long and eloquent protest to the king; defending himself for the step that he was about to take; giving a history of the continuous breaches of the treaty, and of the sufferings that had been inflicted upon the Huguenots; and denouncing the Cardinal of Lorraine and his associates, as the guilty causes of all the misfortunes that had fallen upon France.
It was on the 23d of August that the party set out from Noyers. Their march was prompt and rapid. Contrary to expectation, they discovered an unguarded ford across the Loire, near the town of Laussonne. This ford was only passable when the river was unusually low, and had therefore escaped the vigilance of their foes. The weather had been for some time dry, and they were enabled, with much difficulty, to effect a crossing; a circumstance which was regarded by the Huguenots as a special act of Providence, the more so as heavy rain fell the moment they had crossed, and the river rose so rapidly that when, a few hours later, the cavalry of Tavannes arrived in pursuit, they were unable to effect a passage. The party had many other dangers and difficulties to encounter but, by extreme caution and rapidity of movement, they succeeded in baffling their foes, and in making their way across France.
On the evening of the 16th of September, a watchman on a tower of the chateau of Laville shouted, to those in the courtyard, that he perceived a considerable body of horsemen in the distance. A vigilant watch had been kept up for some time, for an army had for some weeks been collected, with the ostensible motive of capturing Rochelle and compelling it to receive a royal garrison; and as, on its approach, parties would probably be sent out to capture and plunder the chateaux and castles of the Huguenot nobles, everything had been prepared for a siege.
The alarm bell was at once rung, to warn the neighbourhood of approaching danger. The vacancies, caused in the garrison during the war, had been lately filled up; and the gates were now closed, and the walls manned; the countess herself, accompanied by her son and Philip, taking her place on the tower by the gateway. The party halted, three or four hundred yards from the gate, and then two gentlemen rode forward.
"The party look to me more like Huguenots than Catholics, mother," Francois had said. "I see no banners; but their dresses look sombre and dark, and I think that I can see women among them."
A minute later, Philip exclaimed: "Surely, Francois, those gentlemen who are approaching are Conde and the Admiral!"
"Impossible!" the countess said. "They are in Burgundy, full three hundred miles away."
"Philip is right, mother," Francois said eagerly. "I recognize them now. They are, beyond doubt, the prince and Admiral Coligny.
"Lower the drawbridge, and open the gates," he called down to the warders.
The countess hastened down the stairs to the courtyard, followed by Francois and Philip, and received her two unexpected visitors as they rode across the drawbridge.
"Madame," Conde said, as he doffed his cap courteously, "we are fugitives, who come to ask for a night's shelter. I have my wife and children with me, and the Admiral has also his family. We have ridden across France, from Noyers, by devious roads and with many turnings and windings; have been hunted like rabid beasts, and are sorely in need of rest."
"You are welcome, indeed, prince," the countess said. "I esteem it a high honour to entertain such guests as yourself and Admiral Coligny. Pray enter at once. My son will ride out to welcome the princess, and the rest of your party."
Francois at once leapt on to a horse and galloped off, and in a few minutes the party arrived. Their numbers had been considerably increased since they left Noyers, as they had been joined by many Huguenot gentlemen on the way, and they now numbered nearly four hundred men.
"We have grown like a snowball, since we started," the prince said; "and I am ashamed to invade your chateau with such an army."
"It is a great honour, prince. We had heard a rumour that an attempt had been made to seize you; and that you had disappeared, no one knew whither, and men thought that you were directing your course towards Germany; but little did we dream of seeing you here, in the west."
It was not until evening that the tale of the journey across France, with its many hazards and adventures, was told; for the countess was fully occupied in seeing to the comforts of her guests of higher degree, while Francois saw that the men-at-arms and others were bestowed as comfortably as might be. Then oxen and sheep were killed, casks of wine broached, forage issued for the horses; while messengers were sent off to the nearest farms for chicken and ducks, and with orders for the women to come up, to assist the domestics at the chateau to meet this unexpected strain.
"It is good to sit down in peace and comfort, again," Conde said as, supper over, they strolled in the garden, enjoying the cool air of the evening. "This is the first halt that we have made, at any save small villages, since we left Noyers. In the first place, our object was concealment; and in the second, though many of our friends have invited us to their castles, we would not expose them to the risk of destruction, for having shown us hospitality.
"Here, however, we have entered the stronghold of our faith; for from this place to La Rochelle, the Huguenots can hold their own against their neighbours, and need fear nothing save the approach of a large army; in which case, countess, your plight could scarcely be worse for having sheltered us. The royal commissioners of the province must long have had your name down, as the most stiff necked of the Huguenots of this corner of Poitou, as one who defies the ordinances, and maintains public worship in her chateau. Your son and nephew fought at Saint Denis; and you sent a troop across France, at the first signal, to join me. The cup of your offences is so full that this last drop can make but little difference, one way or the other."
"I should have felt it as a grievous slight, had you passed near Laville without halting here," the countess said. "As for danger, for the last twenty years we have been living in danger; and indeed, during the last year I have felt safer than ever for, now that La Rochelle has declared for us, there is a place of refuge, for all of the reformed religion in the provinces round, such as we have not before possessed. During the last few months, I have sent most of my valuables in there for safety; and if the tide of war comes this way, and I am threatened by a force against which it would be hopeless to contend, I shall make my way thither.
"But against anything short of an army, I shall hold the chateau. It forms a place of refuge to which, at the approach of danger, all of our religion for many miles round would flock in; and as long as there is a hope of successful resistance, I would not abandon them to the tender mercies of Anjou's soldiers."
"I fear, countess," the Admiral said, "that our arrival at La Rochelle will bring trouble upon all the country round it. We had no choice between that and exile. Had we consulted our own peace and safety only, we should have betaken ourselves to Germany; but had we done that, it would have been a desertion of our brethren, who look to us for leading and guidance.
"Here at La Rochelle we shall be in communication with Navarre and Gascony; and doubt not that we shall, ere very long, be again at the head of an army with which we can take the field, even more strongly than before; for after the breaches of the last treaty, and the fresh persecutions and murders throughout the land, the Huguenots everywhere must clearly perceive that there is no option between destruction, and winning our rights at the point of the sword.
"Nevertheless, as the court will see that it is to their interest to strike at once, before we have had time to organize an army, I think it certain that the whole Catholic forces will march, without loss of time, against La Rochelle. Our only hope is that, as on the last occasion, they will deceive themselves as to our strength. The evil advisers of the king, when persuading him to issue fresh ordinances against us, have assured him that with strong garrisons in all the great towns in France, and with his army of Swiss and Germans still on foot, we are altogether powerless; and are no longer to be feared, in the slightest degree.
"We know that even now, while they deem us but a handful of fugitives, our brethren throughout France will be everywhere banding themselves in arms. Before we left Noyers we sent out a summons, calling the Huguenots in all parts of France to take up arms again. Their organization is perfect in every district. Our brethren have appointed places where they are to assemble, in case of need; and by this time I doubt not that, although there is no regular army yet in the field, there are scores of bands ready to march, as soon as they receive orders.
"It is true that the Catholics are far better prepared than before. They have endeavoured, by means of these leagues, to organize themselves in our manner; but there is one vital difference. We know that we are fighting for our lives and our faith, and that those who hang back run the risk of massacre in their own homes. The Catholics have no such impulse. Our persecutions have been the work of the mobs in the towns, excited by the priests; and these ruffians, though ardent when it is a question of slaying defenceless women and children, are contemptible in the field against our men. We saw how the Parisians fled like a flock of sheep, at Saint Denis.
"Thus, outnumbered as we are, methinks we shall take up arms far more quickly than our foes; and that, except from the troops of Anjou, and the levies of the great Catholic nobles, we shall have little to fear. Even in the towns the massacres have ever been during what is called peace; and there was far less persecution, during the last two wars, than in the intervals between them."
The next morning the prince and Admiral, with their escort, rode on towards La Rochelle; which they entered on the 18th September. The countess, with a hundred of her retainers and tenants, accompanied them on the first day's journey; and returned, the next day, to the chateau.
The news of the escape, and the reports that the Huguenots were arming, took the court by surprise; and a declaration was at once published, by the king, guaranteeing his royal protection to all adherents of the reformed faith who stayed at home, and promising a gracious hearing to their grievances. As soon, however, as the Catholic forces began to assemble in large numbers, the mask of conciliation was thrown off, all edicts of toleration were repealed, and the king prohibited his subjects in all parts of his dominions, of whatever rank, from the exercise of all religious rites other than those of the Catholic faith, on pain of confiscation and death.
Nothing could have been more opportune, for the Huguenot leaders, than this decree. It convinced even the most reluctant that their only hope lay in resistance; and enabled Conde's agents, at foreign courts, to show that the King of France was bent upon exterminating the reformed faith, and that its adherents had been forced to take up arms, in self preservation.
The fanatical populations of the towns rejoiced in the new decree. Leagues for the extermination of heresy were formed, in Toulouse and other towns, under the name of Crusades; and high masses were celebrated in the churches, everywhere, in honour of the great victory over heresy.
The countess had offered to send her son, with fifty men-at-arms, to swell the gathering at La Rochelle; but the Admiral declined the offer. Niort was but a day's march from the chateau and, although its population were of mixed religion, the Catholics might, under the influence of the present excitement, march against Laville. He thought it would be better, therefore, that the chateau should be maintained, with all its fighting force, as a centre to which the Huguenots of the neighbourhood might rally.
"I think," he said, "that you might, for some time, sustain a siege against all the forces that could be brought from Niort; and if you are attacked I will, at once, send a force from the city to your assistance. I have no doubt that the Queen of Navarre will join us, and that I shall be able to take the offensive, very shortly."
Encouraged by the presence of the Admiral at La Rochelle, the whole of the Huguenots of the district prepared to take the field, immediately. Laville was the natural centre, and two hundred and fifty men were ready to gather there, directly an alarm was given.
Three days later a man arrived at the chateau from Niort, soon after daybreak. He reported that, on the previous day, the populace had massacred thirty or forty Huguenots; and that all the rest they could lay hands on, amounting in number to nearly two hundred, had been dragged from their homes and thrown into prison. He said that in all the villages round, the priests were preaching the extermination of the Huguenots; and it was feared that, at any moment, those of the religion would be attacked there; especially as it was likely that the populace of the town would flock out, and themselves undertake the work of massacre should the peasants, who had hitherto lived on friendly terms with the Huguenots, hang back from it.
"We must try to assist our brethren," the countess said, when she heard the news. "Francois, take what force you can get together in an hour, and ride over towards Niort. You will get there by midday. If these ruffians come out from the town, do you give them a lesson; and ride round to the villages, and bring off all of our religion there. Assure them that they shall have protection here until the troubles are over, or until matters so change that they can return safely to their homes. We cannot sit quietly, and hear of murder so close at hand. I see no prospect of rescuing the unfortunates from the prison at Niort; and it would be madness, with our small force, to attack a walled city; but I leave you free to do what may seem best to you, warning you only against undertaking any desperate enterprise.
"Philip will, of course, ride with you."
"Shall we ring the alarm bell, mother?"
"No; it is better not to disturb the tenantry, unless on very grave occasion. Take the fifty men-at-arms, your own men, and Philip's. Sixty will be ample for dispersing disorderly mobs; while a hundred would be of no use to you, against the armed forces of the town and the garrison of two hundred men."
In a quarter of an hour, the troop started. All knew the errand on which they were bent, and the journey was performed at the highest speed of which the horses were capable.
"They can have a good, long rest when they get there," Francois said to Philip; "and half an hour, earlier or later, may mean the saving or losing of fifty lives. The mob will have been feasting, and exulting over the slaying of so many Huguenots, until late last night; and will not be astir early, this morning. Probably, too, they will, before they think of sallying out, attend the churches; where the priests will stir them up to fury, before they lead them out on a crusade into the country.
"I would that we knew where they are likely to begin. There are a dozen villages, round the town."
"What do you say to dividing our force, Francois? As we near the town, you with one party could ride round to the left, I with the other to the right and, searching each village as we go, could join forces again on the other side of the town. If Montpace had been with us, of course he would have taken the command of one of the parties. It is unfortunate that he is laid up with that wound he got, at Saint Denis."
"I am afraid he will never be fit for active service again, Philip. But I am not sorry that he is not here. He might have objected to our dividing the troop; and besides, I am glad that you should command, putting aside everything else. We understand each other.
"You will, of course, cut down the ruffians from the towns without mercy, if you find them engaged in massacre. If not, you will warn the Huguenots of the villages, as you pass through, to leave their homes at once and make for Laville; giving a sharp intimation to the village maires that, if the Protestants are interfered with in any way, or hindered from taking their goods and setting out; we will, on our return, burn the village about their ears, and hang up any who have interfered with our people."
"I should say, Francois, that we should take prisoners, and hold as hostages, any citizens of importance, or priests, whom we may find encouraging the townsfolk to massacre. I would take the village priests, and maire too, so as to carry out the same plan that acted so well at Toulouse. We could then summon Niort, and say that, unless the Huguenots in prison are released, and they and all the Huguenots in the town allowed to come out and join us, we will in the first place burn and destroy all the Catholic villages round the town, and the pleasure houses and gardens of the citizens; and that in the second place we will carry off the prisoners in our hands, and hang them at once, if we hear of a single Huguenot being further ill treated."
"That would be a capital plan, Philip, if we could get hold of anyone of real importance. It is likely some of the principal citizens, and perhaps Catholic nobles of the neighbourhood, will be with those who sally out; so that they can claim credit and praise, from the court party, for their zeal in the cause. I wish our parties had been a little stronger for, after we have entered a village or two, we shall have to look after the prisoners."
"I do not think it matters, Francois. A dozen stout men-at-arms, like ours, would drive a mob of these wretches before them. They will come out expecting to murder unresisting people; and the sight of our men-at-arms, in their white scarves, will set them off running like hares."
"Let it be understood," Philip continued, "that if, when one of us gets round to the other side of the town, he should not meet the other party, and can hear no tidings of it, he shall gallop on till he meets it; for it is just possible, although I think it unlikely, that one or other of us may meet with so strong a party of the enemy as to be forced to stand on the defensive, until the other arrives."
"I think there is little chance of that, Philip; still, it as well that we should make that arrangement."
As they neared Niort, they met several fugitives. From them they learned that, so far, the townspeople had not come out; but that the Catholics in the villages were boasting that an end would be made of the Huguenots that day, and that many of them were, in consequence, deserting their homes and making their escape, as secretly as they could, across the country. When within two miles of Niort, a column of smoke was seen to arise on the left of the town.
"They have begun the work!" Francois exclaimed. "That is my side!"
And he placed himself at the head of half the troop, giving them orders that they were to spare none whom they found engaged in massacring Huguenots, save priests and other persons acting as leaders. These were to be taken as hostages, for the safety of their brethren in the town.
"You need not be over careful with them," he said. "Throw a picket rope round their necks, and make them trot beside you. They came out for a little excitement, let them have enough of it."
As Francois rode off one way, Philip led his party the other.
"You have heard these orders," he said. "They will do for you, also."
The first place they rode into, they found the Catholic inhabitants in the streets; while the houses of the Huguenots were closed, and the shutters barred. The men fled as the troop dashed in.
"Pursue them," Philip cried, "and thrash them back with the flat of your swords, but wound no one."
Most of the men were soon brought back. By this time the Huguenots had opened their doors and, with shouts of joy, were welcoming their deliverers.
"Have they threatened you with harm?" Philip asked.
"Yes; there has been mass in the church this morning, and the priest has told them to prepare to join in the good work, as soon as the townspeople arrive."
The priest had already been fetched from his house, guarded by two troopers. The maire was next pointed out, and seized. Two horses were brought out, and the prisoners placed on them.
"Put a rope round each of their necks," Philip ordered. "Fasten it firmly."
Two troopers took the other ends.
"Now you will come along with us," Philip went on, "and if you try to escape, so much the worse for you.
"Now," he said to the villagers, "we shall return here shortly, and then woe betide you if our orders are not executed. Every house in the village shall be burned to the ground, every man we lay hold of shall be hung.
"You will at once place every horse and cart here at the disposal of your Huguenot brethren. You will assist them to put their household goods in them, and will at once start with them for Laville. Those who do so will be allowed to return, unharmed, with their animals and carts.
"Eustace, you will remain here with two men, and see that this order is carried out. Shoot down without hesitation any man who murmurs. If there is any trouble whatever, before our return, the priest and the maire shall dangle from the church tower."
The next two villages they entered, the same scene was enacted. As they approached the fourth village, they heard cries and screams.
"Lower your lances, my friends. Forward!"
And at a gallop, the little band dashed into the village.
It was full of people. Several bodies of men and women lay in the road. Pistol shots rang out here and there, showing that some of the Huguenots were making a stout defence of their homes. Through and through the crowd the horsemen rode, those in front clearing their way with their lances, those behind thrusting and cutting with their swords.
The Catholics were, for the most part, roughly armed. Some had pikes, some had swords, others axes, choppers, or clubs; but none now thought of defence. The arms that had been brought out for the work of murder were thrown away, and there was no thought, save of flight.
The doors of the Huguenot houses were thrown open and the men, issuing out, fell upon those who were, just before, their assailants. Philip saw some horsemen, and others, collected round a cross in the centre of the village and, calling upon the men near him to follow, dashed forward and surrounded the party, before they apprehended the meaning of this sudden tumult. Two or three of the men drew their swords, as if to resist; but seeing that their friends were completely routed, they surrendered.
The party consisted of three men who were, by their dresses, persons of rank; four or five citizens, also on horseback; four priests, and a dozen acolytes, with banners and censers.
"Tie their hands behind them," Philip ordered. "Not the boys; let them go."
"I protest against this indignity," one of the gentlemen said. "I am a nobleman."
"If you were a prince of the blood, sir, and I found you engaged in the massacre of innocent people, I would tie you up, and set you swinging from the nearest tree, without compunction."
Their arms were all tightly bound behind them.
"Would you touch a servant of the Lord?" the leading priest said.
"Your clothing is that of a servant of the Lord," Philip replied; "but as I find you engaged upon the work of the devil, I can only suppose that you have stolen the clothes.
"Four of you take these priests behind you," he said to his men; "tie them tightly, with their backs to yours. That will leave you the use of your arms.
"Pierre, do you ride beside the other prisoners and, if you see any attempt at escape, shoot them at once.
"Quick, my lads; there may be more of this work going on, ahead."
He then gave similar instructions, for the carriage of the Huguenot goods, as he had at the preceding places.
At the next village they were in time to prevent the work of massacre from commencing. A party of horsemen and some priests, followed by a mob, were just entering it as they rode up. The horsemen were overthrown by their onset, the mob sent flying back towards the town, the Huguenots charging almost up to the gates. The horsemen and priests were made prisoners, as before; and when the rest of the band returned from their pursuit, they again rode on. They had now made half a circuit of Niort, and presently saw Francois and his party, galloping towards them.
"I had begun to be afraid that something had happened," Francois said, as he rode up. "I waited a quarter of an hour and then rode on, as we agreed.
"Well, I see you have got a good batch of prisoners."
"We have lost no time," Philip said. "We have been through five villages. At one we were just in time, for they had begun the work of massacre, before we got up. At another, we met them as they arrived. But at the other three, although the villagers were prepared for the work, the townsmen had not arrived."
"There were only three villages on my side," Francois said. "At the first, they had nearly finished their work before we arrived. That was where we saw the smoke rising. But we paid them for it handsomely, for we must have cut down more than a hundred of the scoundrels. At one of the others, the Huguenots were defending themselves well; and there, too, we gave the townspeople a lesson. At the third, all was quiet. We have taken six or eight burghers, as many gentlemen, and ten priests."
Philip told him the orders he had given, for the Catholics to place their horses and carts at the disposal of their Huguenot fellow villagers.
"I wish I had thought of it," Francois said. "But it is not too late. I will ride back with my party, and see all our friends well on their way from the villages. I left four men at each, to keep the Catholics from interfering.
"If you will go back the way you came, we will meet again on the main road, on the other side of the town. I don't think there is any fear of their making a sortie. Our strength is sure to be greatly exaggerated; and the fugitives, pouring in from each side of the town with their tales, will spread a report that Conde himself, with a whole host of horsemen, is around them."
Philip found all going on well, as he returned through the villages, the scare being so great that none thought of disobeying the orders; and in a couple of hours he rejoined Francois, having seen the whole of the Huguenot population of the villages well on their way.
"Now, Philip, we will go and summon the town. First of all, though, let us get a complete list of the names of our prisoners."
These were all written down, and then the two leaders, with their eight men-at-arms, rode towards the gates of Niort, a white flag being raised on one of the lances.
|
{
"id": "20092"
}
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9
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: An Important Mission.
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"We have made an excellent haul," Francois said as, while awaiting the answer to their signal, they looked down the list of names. "Among the gentlemen are several connected with some of the most important Catholic families of Poitou. The more shame to them, for being engaged in so rascally a business; though when the court and the king, Lorraine and the Guises, set the example of persecution, one can scarcely blame the lesser gentry, who wish to ingratiate themselves with the authorities, for doing the same.
"Of the citizens we have got one of the magistrates, and four or five other prominent men; whom I know, by reputation, as having been among the foremost to stir up the people against the Huguenots. These fellows I could hang up with pleasure, and would do so, were it not that we need them to exchange for our friends.
"Then we have got thirty priests. The names of two of them I know as popular preachers who, after the last peace was made, denounced the king and his mother as Ahab and Jezebel, for making terms with us. They, too, were it not for their sacred office, I could string up without having any weight upon my conscience.
"Ah! There is the white flag. Let us ride forward."
The gates remained closed, and they rode up to within a hundred yards of them. In a few minutes several persons made their appearance on the wall over the gateway, and they then advanced to within twenty paces of the gate.
Then one from the wall said: "I am John De Luc, royal commissioner of this town. This is the reverend bishop of the town. This is the maire, and these the magistrates. To whom am I speaking?"
"I am the Count Francois de Laville," Francois replied; "and I now represent the gentlemen who have come hither, with a large body of troops, to protect those of our faith from persecution and massacre. We arrived too late to save all, but not to punish; as the ruffians of your town have learned, to their cost. Some two or three hundred of them came out to slay, and have been slain.
"The following persons are in our hands," and he read the list of the prisoners. "I now give you notice that unless, within one hour of the present time, all those of the reformed faith whom you have thrown into prison, together with all others who wish to leave, are permitted to issue from this gate, free and unharmed, and carrying with them what portion of their worldly goods they may wish to take, I will hang up the whole of the prisoners in my hands--gentlemen, citizens, and priests--to the trees of that wood, a quarter of a mile away. Let it be understood that the terms are to be carried out to the letter. Proclamation must be made through your streets that all of the reformed faith are free to depart, taking with them their wives and families, and such valuables and goods as they may choose. I shall question those who come out, and if I find that any have been detained against their will, or if the news has not been so proclaimed that all can take advantage of it, I shall not release the prisoners.
"If these terms are not accepted, my officers will first hang the prisoners, then they will ravage the country round; and will then proceed to besiege the city and, when they capture it, take vengeance for the innocent blood that has been shed within its walls. You best know what is the strength of your garrison, and whether you can successfully resist an assault by the troops of the Admiral.
"I will give you ten minutes to deliberate. Unless by the end of that time you accept the conditions offered, it will go hard with those in our hands."
"Impious youth," the bishop, who was in full pontificals, said, "you would never dare to hang priests."
"As the gentlemen of your party have thought it no sin to put to death scores of our ministers, and as I found these most holy persons hounding on a mob to massacre, I shall certainly feel no compunction, whatever, in executing the orders of my leader, to hang them with the other malefactors," Francois replied; "and methinks that you will benefit these holy men more, by advising those with you to agree to the conditions which I offer, than by wasting your breath in controversy with me."
There was a hasty conversation between those on the wall, and it was not long before they came to an agreement. De Luc feared that he should incur the enmity of several powerful families, if he left their relatives for execution. The citizens were equally anxious to save their fellows; and were, moreover, scared at the threat of the neighbourhood being laid waste, and the town attacked, by this unknown force that had appeared before it. They had heard vague rumours of the arrival of the prince and Admiral, with a large force, at La Rochelle; but it might well be that he had turned aside on his journey, at the news of the occurrences at Niort. The bishop was equally anxious to rescue the priests, for he felt that he might be blamed for their death by his ecclesiastical superiors.
Their consultation over, de Luc turned to the Count.
"Do you give me your solemn assurance and word, as a noble of France, that upon our performing our part of the condition, the prisoners in your hands shall be restored unharmed?"
"I do," Francois replied. "I pledge my honour that, as soon as I find that the whole of those of our religion have left the town peaceably, the prisoners shall be permitted to return, unharmed in any way."
"Then we accept the terms. All those of the reformed religion in the town, whether at present in prison or in their homes, who may desire to leave, will be permitted to pass. As soon as you retire, the gate shall be opened."
Francois and his party fell back a quarter of a mile. In a short time, people began to issue in twos and threes from the gate. Many bore heavy bundles on their backs, and were accompanied by women and children, all similarly laden. A few had with them carts, piled up with household goods.
From the first who came, Francois learned that the conditions had been carried out; the proclamation being made in every street, at the sound of the trumpet, that all who held the reformed religion were free to depart, and that they might take with them such goods as they could carry, or take in carts. At first it had been thought that this was but a trap, to get the Huguenots to reveal themselves; but the reports of those who had returned, discomfited, to the town, that there was a great Huguenot force outside, and that many people of consideration had been taken prisoners, gave them courage; and some of the leading citizens went round, to every house where persons suspected of being Huguenots were living, to urge them to leave, telling them that a treaty had been made securing them their safety. Before the hour had passed, more than five hundred men, women, and children had left the town.
As all agreed that no impediment had been placed in their way, but that upon the contrary, every person even suspected as having Huguenot leanings had been urged to go, Francois and Philip felt assured that, at any rate, all who wished to leave had had the opportunity of doing so. They waited ten minutes over the hour; and then, seeing that no more came forth, they ordered the prisoners to be unbound, and allowed to depart for the city.
As the fugitives had come along they were told that the Prince of Conde, with a strong force, had entered La Rochelle; and were advised to make for that city, where they would find safety and welcome. Those, however, who preferred to go to Laville, were assured that they would be welcomed and cared for, there, until an opportunity arose for their being sent, under escort, to La Rochelle. The greater portion decided to make, at once, for the Huguenot city.
"I think, Philip, you had better take forty of the men, to act as a rearguard to these poor people, till you are within sight of La Rochelle. The fellows whom we have let free will tell, on their return to the town, that we are but a small party; and it is possible they may send out parties in pursuit."
"I don't think it is likely. The townspeople have been too roughly handled to care about running any risks. They have no very large body of men-at-arms in the town. Still, if they do pursue, it will be by the road to La Rochelle, for that is the one they will think that most of the fugitives will take.
"Had we not better divide the troop equally, Francois?"
"No, I think not. They will imagine we shall all be going by that road; and that, moreover, some of the other gentlemen of our faith may be coming to meet us, with their retainers. Twenty will be ample for me. Do you take the rest."
Two hours later, Philip saw a cloud of dust rising from the road in his rear. He hurried on with the fugitives in front of him until, half an hour later, they came to a bridge over a stream. This was only wide enough for four horsemen to cross abreast, and here he took up his station.
In a few minutes, a number of horsemen approached. They were riding without order or regularity, intent only on overtaking their prey. Seeing the disorder in which they came, Philip advanced from the bridge, formed up his men in two lines, and then charged at full gallop.
The men-at-arms tried to rein in their horses and form in order but, before they could do so, the Huguenots burst down upon them. The horses of the Catholics, exhausted with the speed at which they had been ridden, were unable to withstand the shock; and they and their riders went down before it. A panic seized those in the rear and, turning quickly, they fled in all directions, leaving some thirty of their number dead on the ground. Philip would not permit his followers to pursue.
"They outnumber us four times," he said; "and if we scatter, they may turn and fall upon us. Our horses have done a long day's work, and deserve rest. We will halt here at the bridge. They are not likely to disturb us, but if they do, we can make a stout resistance here.
"Do you ride on, Jacques, and tell the fugitives that they can press forward as far as they like, and then halt for the night. We will take care that they are not molested, and will ride on and overtake them, in the morning."
The night passed quietly and, late the following evening, the party were in sight of La Rochelle. Philip had intended to turn at this point, where all danger to the fugitives was over, and to start on his journey back. But the hour was late, and he would have found it difficult to obtain food and forage, without pressing the horses. He therefore determined to pass the night at La Rochelle, as he could take the last news, thence, back to Laville.
The streets of the town presented a busy aspect. Parties of Huguenot gentlemen and their retainers were constantly arriving, and fugitive villagers had come in from a wide extent of country. Large numbers of men were working at the walls of the town. The harbour was full of small craft. Lines of carts brought in provisions from the surrounding country, and large numbers of oxen, sheep, and goats were being driven in.
"As we shall start for Laville in the morning," Philip said to his men, "it is not worth while to trouble to get quarters; and indeed, I should say, from the appearance of the place, that every house is already crowded from basement to roof. Therefore we will bivouac down by the shore, where I see there are many companies already bestowed."
As soon as they had picketed their horses, a party were sent off, to purchase provisions for the troop and forage for their horses; and when he had seen that the arrangements were complete, Philip told Pierre to follow him, and went up to the castle, where Conde and Coligny, with their families, were lodged. He was greeted warmly by several of the gentlemen who had stopped at the chateau, a few days before.
The story of the fugitives from Niort had already spread through the town, and Philip was eagerly questioned about it. Just as he was about to tell the story, Conde and the Admiral came out, from an inner room, into the large anteroom where they were talking.
"Ah! Here is the young count's cousin, Monsieur Fletcher," the Admiral said. "Now we shall hear about this affair of Niort, of which we have received half a dozen different versions, in the last hour. Is the count himself here?"
"No, sir. He returned to Laville, escorting the fugitives who went thither; while he sent me, with the larger portion of the troop, to protect the passage hither of the main body."
"But it was reported to me that the troop with which you entered was but forty strong. I hear you fought a battle on the way. Did you lose many men there?"
"None, sir. Indeed I am glad to say that, beyond a few trifling wounds, the whole matter has been carried out without any loss to the party that rode from Laville."
"How strong were they altogether, monsieur?"
"Sixty, sir."
"Then where did you join the force that, as we hear, cut up the townspeople of Niort as they were massacring our people in the villages round, and afterwards obtained from the town the freedom of those who had been cast into prison, and permission for all Huguenots to leave the town?"
"There was no other force, sir. We had just the sixty men from Laville, commanded by my cousin Francois. When the news arrived of the doings at Niort, there was no time to send round to gather our friends; so we mounted the men-at-arms at the chateau and rode with all speed, and were but just in time. Had we delayed another half hour, to gather a larger force, we should have been too late."
"Tell us all about it," the prince said.
"This seems to have been a gallant and well-managed affair, Admiral."
Philip related the whole circumstances of the affair; how the townspeople had been heavily punished, and the chief men taken as hostages, and the peasants compelled to assist to convey the property of the Huguenots to Laville; also the subsequent negotiations, and the escape of all the Huguenots from Niort; and how the troop under him had smartly repulsed, with the loss of over thirty men, the men-at-arms from the city.
"A gallant enterprise," the prince said. "What think you, Admiral?"
"I think, indeed, that this young gentleman and his cousin, the young Count of Laville, have shown singular prudence and forethought, as well as courage. The matter could not have been better managed, had it been planned by any of our oldest heads. That they should, at the head of their little bodies of men-at-arms, have dispersed the cowardly mob of Niort, is what we may believe that any brave gentleman would have done; but their device of taking the priests and the other leaders as hostages, their boldness in summoning the authorities of Niort, under the threat of hanging the hostages and capturing the town, is indeed most excellent and commendable. I heard that the number of fugitives from Niort was nearly six hundred, and besides these there were, I suppose, those from the villages."
"About two hundred set out from the villages, sir."
"Eight hundred souls. You hear that, gentlemen? Eight hundred souls have been rescued, from torture and death, by the bravery and prudence of these two young gentlemen, who are in years but youths. Let it be a lesson, to us all, of what can be done by men engaged in a good work, and placing their trust in God. There is not one of us but might have felt proud to have been the means of doing so great and good a work, with so small a force; and to have saved eight hundred lives, without the loss of a single one; to say nothing of the sharp lesson given to the city mobs, that the work of massacre may sometimes recoil upon those who undertake it.
"Our good friend De la Noue has, more than once, spoken very highly to the prince and myself respecting the young count, and this young English gentleman; and they certainly have more than borne out his commendations."
"And more than that," the prince put in, "I myself in no small degree owe my life to them; for when I was pinned down by my horse, at Saint Denis, they were among the foremost of those who rushed to my rescue. Busy as I was, I had time to mark well how stoutly and valiantly they fought.
"Moreover, Monsieur D'Arblay has spoken to me in the highest terms of both of them, but especially of Monsieur Fletcher; who, as he declared, saved his life and that of the Count de Laville, by obtaining their release from the dungeons of Toulouse, by some such device as that he has used at Niort.
"And now, gentlemen, supper is served. Let us go in at once. We must have already tried the patience of our good hosts, who are doing their best to entertain us right royally; and whom I hope to relieve of part of the burden, in a very few days.
"Monsieur Fletcher, you shall sit between the Admiral and myself; for you have told us your story but briefly, and afterwards I would fain question you farther, as to that affair at Toulouse."
The two nobles, indeed, inquired very minutely into all the incidents of the fight. By closely questioning him, they learned that the idea of forcing the peasants to lend their horses and carts, to convey the Huguenot villagers' goods to Laville, was his own, and occurred to him just as he was about to start from the first village he entered.
"The success of military operations," the Admiral said, "depends greatly upon details. It is one thing to lay out a general plan; another to think, amid the bustle and excitement of action, of the details upon which success so largely depends; and your thought of making the men, who were about to join in the slaughter of their fellow villagers, the means of conveying their goods and chattels to a place of safety, is one that shows that your head is cool, and able to think and plan in moments when most men would be carried away by the excitement of the occasion. I am pleased with you, sir; and shall feel that, if I have any matter on hand demanding discretion and prudence, as well as bravery, I can, in spite of your years, confidently intrust you with it.
"Are you thinking of returning tomorrow to Laville?"
"I was intending to do so, sir. It may be that the people of Niort may endeavour to revenge the stroke that we have dealt them, and the forty men with me are necessary for the defence of the chateau."
"I do not think there is any fear of an attack from Niort," the Admiral said. "They will know, well enough, that our people are flocking here from all parts; and will be thinking of defence, rather than of attack, knowing that, while we are almost within striking distance, the royal army is not in a condition, as yet, to march from Paris.
"Where are you resting for the night?"
"My troops are down by the shore, sir. Seeing how full the town was, I thought it was not worth while to look for quarters; and intended to sleep down there among them, in readiness for an early start."
"Then, after supper, I would that you go down to them, and tell them not to be surprised if you do not join them till morning. Then return hither for the night. It may be that we may want to speak to you again."
Late in the evening a page came to Philip and, saying that the prince wished to speak with him, conducted him to a small apartment, where he found Conde and the Admiral.
"We have a mission with which we would intrust you, if you are willing to undertake it," the Admiral said. "It is a dangerous one, and demands prudence and resource, as well as courage. It seems to the prince and myself that you possess these qualities; and your youth may enable you to carry out the mission, perhaps, more easily than another would do.
"It is no less than to carry a letter, from the prince and myself, to the Queen of Navarre. She is at present at Nerac. Agents of Catharine have been trying to persuade her to go with her son to Paris; but fortunately, she discovered that there was a plot to seize her, and the young prince her son, at the same time that we were to be entrapped in Burgundy. De Lossy, who was charged with the mission of seizing her at Tarbes, was fortunately taken ill; and she has made her way safely up to Nerac.
"All Guyenne swarms with her enemies. D'Escars and four thousand Catholics lie scattered along from Perigueux to Bordeaux, and other bands lie between Perigueux and Tulle. If once past those dangers, her course is barred at Angouleme, Cognac, and Saintes.
"I want her to know that I will meet her on the Charente. I do not say that I shall be able to take those three towns, but I will besiege them; and she will find me outside one of them, if I cannot get inside. It is all important that she should know this, so that she may judge whither to direct her course, when once safely across the river Dronne and out of Guyenne.
"I dare not send a written despatch for, were it to fall into the hands of the Catholics, they would at once strengthen the garrisons of the town on the Charente; and would keep so keen a watch, in that direction, that it would be impossible for the queen to pass. I will give you a ring, a gift from the queen herself, in token that you are my messenger, and that she can place every confidence in you.
"I will leave to you the choice of how you will proceed. You can take some of your men-at-arms with you, and try to make your way through with a sudden dash; but as the bridges and fords will be strongly watched, I think that it will be much wiser for you to go in disguise, either with or without a companion. Certainty is of more importance than speed. I found a communication here, sent by the queen before she started to the authorities of the town, saying that she should try to make her way to them; and she knew that the prince and myself would also come here, if we found our personal safety menaced in Burgundy. She foresaw that her difficulties would be great; and requested that, if we arrived here, we would send her word as to our movements, in order that she might accommodate hers to them.
"I have chosen you for several reasons, one being, as I have told you, that I see you are quick at forming a judgment, and cool in danger. The second is that you will not be known to any of the enemy whom you may meet on your way. Most of the Huguenots here come from the neighbouring provinces, and would almost certainly be recognized, by Catholics from the same neighbourhood. Of course you understand that, if suspicion should fall upon you of being a messenger from this place, you will have but a short shrift."
"I am quite ready to do my best, sir, to carry out your mission. Personally I would rather ride fast, with half a dozen men-at-arms; but doubtless, as you say, the other would be the surest way. I will take with me my servant, who is shrewd and full of resources and, being a native of these parts, could pass as a countryman anywhere. My horses and my four men I will leave here, until my return. The troop will, of course, start in the morning for Laville."
"We have another destination for them," the prince said. "A messenger rode yesterday to Laville, to bid the young count start, the day after tomorrow, with every man he can raise, to join me before Niort; for which place I set out, tomorrow at midday. Of course we had no idea that he had already come to blows with that city; but we resolved to make its capture our first enterprise, seeing that it blocks the principal road from Paris hither, and is indeed a natural outpost of La Rochelle. Niort taken, we shall push on and capture Parthenay, which still further blocks the road, and whose possession will keep a door open for our friends from Brittany, Normandy, and the north. When those places are secured and garrisoned, we can then set about clearing out the Catholics from the towns to the south."
"Very well, sir. Then I will give orders to them that they are to accompany your force tomorrow, and join the count before Niort."
"Here is a large map of the country you will have to traverse. You had best take it into the next room, and study it carefully; especially the course and direction of the rivers, and the points of crossing. It would be shorter, perhaps, if you could have gone by boat south to Arcachon and thence made your way to Nerac; but there are wide dunes to be crossed, and pine forests to be traversed, where a stranger might well die of hunger and thirst. The people, too, are wild and savage, and look upon strangers with great suspicion; and would probably have no compunction in cutting your throat. Moreover, the Catholics have a flotilla at the mouth of the Gironde, and there would be difficulty and danger in passing.
"You will, of course, make all speed that you can. I shall presently see some of the council of the town and, if they tell me that a boat can take you down the coast as far as the Seudre, some ten miles north of the mouth of the Gironde, you will avoid the difficulty of crossing the Boutonne at Saint Jean d'Angely, and the Charente at Saintes or Cognac. It would save you a quarter of your journey. I expect them shortly, so that by the time you have studied the map, I shall be able to tell you more."
An hour later, Philip was again summoned. To his surprise, he found Maitre Bertram with the prince.
"Our good friend here tells me that he is already acquainted with you, Monsieur Fletcher. He will house you for tonight, and at daybreak put you on board a small coasting vessel, which will carry you down to the mouth of the Seudre. He will also procure for you whatever disguises you may require, for yourself and your attendant.
"He has relations with traders in many of the towns. Some of these are openly of our faith, others are time servers, or are not yet sufficiently convinced to dare persecution and death for its sake. He will give you the names of some of these; and you may, at a push, be able to find shelter with them, obtain a guide, or receive other assistance.
"Here is the ring. Hide it carefully on the way for, were you searched, a ring of this value would be considered a proof that you were not what you seemed.
"You quite understand my message. I pray the queen to trust to no promises but, using all care to avoid those who would stop her, to come north as speedily as possible, before the toils close round her; and you will assure her that she will find me on the Charente, and that I shall have either taken Cognac, or be occupied in besieging it."
"If I fail, sir, it shall be from no lack of prudence on my part; and I hope to prove myself worthy of the high honour that the prince and yourself have done me, in selecting me for the mission."
"Farewell then," the Admiral said. "I trust that, in ten days' time, I shall meet you at Cognac. I have arranged with Maitre Bertram, who will furnish you with the funds necessary for your expedition."
Philip bowed deeply to the two nobles, and retired with the merchant. He had directed Pierre to remain among the lackeys at the foot of the grand staircase, as he would be required presently; and as he passed through, he beckoned to him to follow.
"You have seen my horses comfortably stabled, Pierre?"
"It was done an hour since, monsieur."
"And my four men understand that they are to remain here, in charge of them, until I return?"
"Yes, sir. Their own horses are also bestowed here, and mine."
"Very well. We sleep tonight at Maitre Bertram's."
"I am right glad to hear it, sir; for truly this castle is full from the top to the bottom, and I love not to sleep in a crowd."
"You still have Pierre with you?" the merchant said.
"Yes, and he has turned out an excellent servant. It was a fortunate day, for me, when I insisted on taking him in spite of your warning. He is a merry varlet, and yet knows when to joke, and when to hold his peace. He is an excellent forager--" "Ah! That I warrant he is," Maitre Bertram put in; "--And can cook a dinner or a supper with any man in the army. I would not part with him on any consideration."
"A fellow of that sort, Master Fletcher, is sure to turn out either a rogue or a handy fellow. I am glad to hear that he has proved the latter.
"Here we are at the house. At ordinary times we should all be abed and asleep at this hour, but the place is turned upside down since the prince and the Admiral arrived; for every citizen has taken in as many men as his house will hold. I have four gentlemen and twenty of their retainers lodging here; but I will take you to my own den, where we can talk undisturbed; for there is much to say and to arrange, as to this expedition of yours, in which there is more peril than I should like to encounter. However, that is your affair. You have undertaken it, and there is nought for me to do, save to try and make it as successful as possible.
"You have already been studying the map, I hear, and know something of the route. I have a good map myself, and we will follow the way together upon it. It would be as well to see whether your rascal knows anything of the country. In some of his wanderings, he may have gone south."
"I will question him," Philip said and, reopening the door of the room, he told Pierre, whom he had bidden follow him upstairs, to enter.
"I am going down into Gascony, Pierre. It matters not, at present, upon what venture. I am going to start tomorrow at daylight, in a craft of Maitre Bertram's, which will land me ten miles this side the mouth of the Gironde; by which, as you will see, I avoid having to cross the Charente, where the bridges are all in the hands of the Catholics. I am going in disguise, and I propose taking you with me."
"It is all one to me, sir. Where you go, I am ready to follow you. I have been at Bordeaux, but no farther south.
"I don't know whether you think that three would be too many. Your men are all Gascons, and one or other of them might know the part of the country you wish to travel."
"I had not thought of it," Philip said; "but the idea is a good one. It would depend greatly upon our disguises."
"Do you travel as a man-at-arms, or as a countryman, or a pedlar, or maybe as a priest, sir?"
"Not as a priest, assuredly," Philip laughed. "I am too young for that."
"Too young to be in full orders, but not too young to be a theological student: one going from a theological seminary, at Bordeaux, to be initiated at Perigueux, or further south to Agen."
Philip shook his head.
"I should be found out by the first priest who questioned me."
"Then, sir, we might go with sacks of ware on our backs, as travelling pedlars; or, on the other hand, we might be on our way to take service under the Catholic leaders. If so, we might carry steel caps and swords, which methinks would suit you better than either a priest's cowl or a pedlar's pack.
"In that case there might well be three of us, or even four. Two of your men-at-arms would go as old soldiers, and you and I as young relations of theirs, anxious to turn our hands to soldiering. Once in Gascony, their dialect would help us rarely, and our story should pass without difficulty; and even on the way it would not be without its use, for the story that they have been living near La Rochelle but, owing to the concourse of Huguenots, could no longer stay there; and were therefore making south to see, in the first place, their friends at home; and then to take service, under some Catholic lord, would sound likely enough."
"I don't know that we can contrive a better scheme than that, Maitre Bertram. What do you think?"
"It promises well," the trader agreed.
"Do you know what part of Gascony these men come from, Pierre?"
"They come from near Dax."
"That matters little," Philip said, "seeing that it is only to the south of Guyenne that we are bound. Still, they will probably have traversed the province often; and in any case there should be no trouble in finding our way, seeing that Agen lies on the Garonne, and we shall only have to keep near the river, all the way from the point where we are landed. Our great difficulty will be in crossing the Dordogne, the Dronne, and the Lot, all of which we are likely to find guarded."
"If you can manage to cross the Garonne here, near Langon," the merchant said, placing his finger on the map, "you would avoid the two last rivers and, by keeping west of Bazas, you would be able to reach Nerac without difficulty. You have to cross somewhere, and it might be as easy there as at Agen."
"That is so," Philip agreed. "At any rate, we will try there first.
"I don't know which of the men I had best take with me. They are all shrewd fellows, as Gascons generally are, so I don't know how to make my choice."
"I don't think there is much difference, sir," Pierre said. "I have seen enough of them to know, at least, that they are all honest fellows."
"I would let them decide the matter for themselves," Philip said. "Some might like to go, and some to stay behind. If I chose two, the others might consider themselves slighted.
"Do you know where they have bestowed themselves, Pierre?"
"Down in the stables with the horses, sir. I could pretty well put my hand on them, in the dark."
"Well, go and fetch them hither, then. Say nothing about the business on which they are required."
In a quarter of an hour Pierre returned, with the four men. Philip explained to them, briefly, that he wanted two of them to journey with him, on a mission of some danger, through Guyenne.
"I have sent for you all," he said, "in order that you might arrange among yourselves which two shall go. Therefore do you settle the matter, and if you cannot agree, then cast lots and leave it to fortune. Only, as you are two sets of brothers, these had best either go or stay together; therefore if you cast lots do it not singly, but two against two."
"We may as well do it at once, Monsieur Philip," Eustace said. "I know, beforehand, that we would all choose to follow you; therefore if you will put two papers into my steel cap, one with my name, and one with Jacques', Pierre shall draw. If he takes out the one with my name, then I and Henri will go with you. If he draws Jacques, then he and Roger shall go."
This was done, and Jacques and Roger won.
"You will have plenty to do, while we are away," Philip said to Eustace. "There will be seven horses to look after, including my chargers."
"How long are you likely to be away, sir?"
"I may return in ten days. I may be away three weeks. Should any evil chance befall us, you will take the horses over to Laville and hand them over to my cousin; who will, I am sure, gladly take you and Henri into his service.
"As we leave here at daybreak, you, Jacques, and your brother Roger had better wrap yourselves up in your cloaks, and lie down in the hall below. I would that we could, in the morning, procure clothes for you, older and more worn than those you have on. You are going as men who have formerly served; but have since been living in a village, tilling the land, just as you were when you first joined me."
"Then we have the very clothes ready to hand," Jacques said. "When we joined you, we left ours with a friend in the town, to hold for us. There is no saying how long military service may last and, as our clothes were serviceable, we laid them by. We can go round and get them, the first thing in the morning; leaving these we wear in his care, until we return."
"That will do well; but you must be up early, for it is important we should make our start as soon as possible."
"I also have my old clothes held in keeping for me, by one who worked in the stable with me," Pierre said. "A man who is going to the war can always find others ready to take charge of whatever he may leave behind, knowing full well that the chances are that he will never return to claim them."
"That simplifies matters," Maitre Bertram said. "There remains only your dress, Monsieur Philip; and I shall have no difficulty in getting, from my own knaves, a doublet, cloak, and other things to suit you. I have plenty of steel caps and swords, in my warehouse."
"You had best leave your breast pieces here," Philip said to the men. "The number of those who carry them is small, and it will be enough to have steel caps and swords. We are going to walk fast and far, and the less weight we carry, the better."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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10
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: The Queen Of Navarre.
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The sun had just risen when Maitre Bertram, accompanied by four men in the attire of peasants, went down to the port. Two of them wore steel caps, and had the appearance of discharged soldiers. The other two looked like fresh countrymen, and wore the low caps in use by the peasantry on their heads, carrying steel caps slung by cords from their shoulder. All four had swords stuck into their leathern belts. Similar groups might have been seen in hundreds, all over France, making their way to join the forces of the contending parties.
[Illustration: Philip and his followers embarking.]
The craft upon which the trader led them was a small one, of four or five tons burden, manned by three men and a boy.
"You understand, Johan, if you meet with no interruption, you will land your passengers at the mouth of the Seudre; but if you should come across any of the craft that have been hovering about the coast, and find that they are too fast for you, put them ashore wherever they may direct. If you are too hotly chased to escape, after landing them, you had best also disembark; and make your way back by land, as best you can, leaving them to do what they will with the boat. As like as not they would cut your throats, did they take you; and if not, would want to know whom you had landed, and other matters.
"I do not want to lose the craft, which has done me good service in her time, and is a handy little coaster; but I would rather lose it, than that you should fall into the hands of the Bordeaux boats and get into trouble. The fact that you made for shore, to land passengers, would be sufficient to show that those passengers were of some importance.
"Now, good luck to you, Master Philip. I trust to see you back here again, before long."
They kept straight out from La Rochelle to the Isle of Oleron, and held along close to its shore, lest boats coming out from the Charente might overhaul them. From the southern end of the island, it was only a run of some eight miles into the mouth of the Seudre. A brisk wind had blown, and they made the forty miles' voyage in seven hours. They could see several white sails far to the south, as they ran in; but had met with nothing to disquiet them, on the way. They were rowed ashore in the little boat the craft carried, and landed among some sand hills; among which they at once struck off, and walked briskly for a mile inland, so as to avoid any questionings, from persons they might meet, as to where they had come from.
Jacques and his brother carried bags slung over their shoulders, and in these was a store of food with which the merchant had provided them, and two or three flasks of good wine; so that they might make a day's journey, at least, without having to stop to purchase food.
It was two o'clock when they landed, and they had therefore some five hours of daylight; and before this had faded they had passed Royan, situated on the Gironde. They did not approach the town but, keeping behind it, came down upon the road running along the shore, three miles beyond it; and walked along it until about ten o'clock, by which time all were thoroughly tired with their unaccustomed exercise. Leaving the road, they found a sheltered spot among the sand hills, ate a hearty meal, and then lay down to sleep.
They were afoot again, at daylight. The country was sparsely populated. They passed through a few small villages, but no place of any importance until, late in the afternoon, they approached Blaye, after a long day's tramp. As they thought that here they might learn something, of the movements of the large body of Catholic troops Philip had heard of as guarding the passages of the Dordogne, they determined to enter the town.
They passed through the gates, half an hour before they were closed, and entered a small cabaret. Here, calling for some bread and common wine, they sat down in a corner, and listened to the talk of the men who were drinking there. It was all about the movements of troops, and the scraps of news that had come in from all quarters.
"I don't know who they can be all arming against," one said. "The Queen of Navarre has no troops and, even if a few hundreds of Huguenots joined her, what could she do? As to Conde and the Admiral, they have been hunted all over France, ever since they left Noyers. They say they hadn't fifty men with them. It seems to me they are making a great fuss about nothing."
"I have just heard a report," a man who had, two or three minutes before, entered the room said, "to the effect that they arrived four days since at La Rochelle, with some five or six hundred men, who joined them on the way."
An exclamation of surprise broke from his hearers.
"Then we shall have trouble," one exclaimed. "La Rochelle is a hard nut to crack, in itself; and if the prince and the Admiral have got in, the Huguenots from all the country round will rally there, and may give a good deal of trouble, after all. What can the Catholic lords have been about, that they managed to let them slip through their hands in that way? They must have seen, for some time, that they were making for the one place where they would be safe; unless indeed they were making down for Navarre. That would account for the way in which all the bridges and fords across the rivers are being watched."
"I expect they are watching both ways," another said. "These Huguenots always seem to know what is going on, and it is likely enough that, while our people all thought that Conde was making for Germany, there was not a Huguenot throughout France who did not know he was coming west to La Rochelle; and if so, they will be moving in all directions to join him there, and that is why D'Escars has got such a force at all the bridges. I heard, from a man who came in yesterday, that the Lot is watched just as sharply, from the Garonne through Cahors right on to Espalion; and he had heard that at Agen, and along the Aveyron, the troops hold the bridges and fords as if they expected an enemy.
"No doubt, as soon as they hear that Conde and his party are in La Rochelle, they will close round them and catch them in a trap. That will be as good as any other way, and save much trouble. It is a long chase to catch a pack of wolves, scattered all over the country; but one can make short work of them all, when you get them penned up in an inclosure."
Philip cast a warning glance at his companions, for he felt so inclined to retort, himself, that he feared they might give way to a similar impulse. Jacques and his brother, however, were munching their bread stolidly; while Pierre was looking at the speaker, with a face so full of admiring assent to his remark, that Philip had to struggle hard to repress a laugh.
"It must be owned," another of the group said, "that these wolves bite hard. I was in Paris last year, with the Count de Caussac. Well, we laughed when we saw the three parties of white wolves ride out from Saint Denis; but I tell you, there was no laughing when they got among us. We were in the Constable's troop; and though, as far as I know, we were all pretty stout men-at-arms, and were four to one against them at least, we had little to boast of when the fight was over.
"At any rate, I got a mark of the wolves' teeth, which has put a stop to my hunting, as you see," and he held out his arm. "I left my right hand on the field of battle. It was in the fight round Conde. A young Huguenot--for he was smooth faced, and but a youth--shred it off with a sweeping backhanded blow, as if it had been a twig. So there is no more wolf hunting for me; but even if I had my right hand back again, I should not care for any more such rough sport as that."
Philip congratulated himself that he was sitting with his back to the speaker, for he remembered the incident well, and it was his arm that had struck the blow. His visor had been up; but as his face was shaded by the helmet and cheek pieces, and the man could have obtained but a passing glance at him, he felt sure, on reflection, that he would not be recognized.
"Ah, well, we shall do better this time," the first speaker said. "We are better prepared than we were then and, except La Rochelle and four or five small towns, every place in France is in our hands. I expect the next news will be that the prince and Coligny, and the others, have taken ship for England. Then, when that pestilent Queen of Navarre and her boy are in our hands, the whole thing will be over; and the last edict will be carried out, and each Huguenot will have the choice between the mass and the gallows.
"Well, I will have one more stoup of wine, and then I will be off, for we march at daybreak."
"How many ride out with you?" the man who had lost his hand asked.
"A hundred. The town has voted the funds, and we march to join D'Escars tomorrow. I believe we are not going to Perigueux, but are to be stationed somewhere on the lower Dordogne, to prevent any of the Huguenots from the south making their way towards La Rochelle."
The frequenters of the cabaret presently dropped off. Jacques, who acted as spokesman, had on entering asked the landlord if they could sleep there; and he said there was plenty of good hay, in the loft over the stable. As his duties were now over, he came across to them.
"Which way are you going, lads?" he asked. "Are you bound, like the others, to join one of the lords on the Dordogne?"
"No," Jacques said, "we are bound for Agen. We come from near there."
"I thought your tongue had a smack of Gascon in it."
"Yes, we come from across the border. We are tired of hard work in the vineyards, and are going to take up with our own trade; for my comrade, here, and I served under De Brissac, in Italy. We would rather enlist under our own lord than under a stranger."
"Yes, that I can understand," the landlord said; "but you will find it no easy work travelling, at present; when every bridge and ford across the rivers is watched by armed men, and all who pass are questioned, sharply, as to their business."
"Well, if they won't let us pass," Jacques said carelessly, "we must join some leader here; though I should like to have had a few days at home, first."
"Your best plan would have been to have gone by boat to Bordeaux. There has been a strong wind from the west, for the last three days, and it would save you many a mile of weary tramping."
"That it would," Jacques said; "but could one get a passage?"
"There will be no difficulty about that. There is not a day passes, now that the wind is fair, that three or four boats do not go off to Bordeaux, with produce from the farms and vineyards. Of course, you wouldn't get up without paying; but I suppose you are not without something in your pockets.
"There is a cousin of mine, a farmer, who is starting in the morning, and has chartered a boat to carry his produce. If I say a word to him, I have no doubt he would give the four of you a passage, for a crown."
"What do you say, comrades?" Jacques said. "It would save us some thirty or forty miles walking, and perhaps some expense for ferrys; to say nought of trouble with the troops, who are apt enough, moreover, to search the pockets of those who pass."
"I think it would be a good plan," his brother replied; and the other two also assented.
"Very well then," the landlord said; "my cousin will be here in the morning, for he is going to leave two or three barrels of last year's vintage with me. By the way, I daresay he will be easy with you as to the passage money, if you agree to help him carry up his barrels to the magazine of the merchant he deals with, and aid him with his other goods. It will save him from having to employ men there, and those porters of Bordeaux know how to charge pretty high for their services.
"I will make you up a basket for your journey. Shall I say a bottle of wine each, and some bread, and a couple of dozen eggs, which I will get boiled hard for you?"
"That will do well, landlord," Jacques said, "and we thank you, for having put us in the way of saving our legs tomorrow. What time do you think your cousin will be in?"
"He will have his carts at the gates by the time they open them. He is not one to waste time; besides, every minute is of importance for, with this wind, he may well hope to arrive at Bordeaux in time to get his cargo discharged by nightfall."
"That was a lucky stroke, indeed," Philip said, when they had gained the loft; and the landlord, having hung up a lantern, had left them alone. "Half our difficulties will be over, when we get to Bordeaux. I had begun to fear, from what we heard of the watch they are keeping at the bridges, that we should have found it a very difficult matter crossing the rivers. Once out of Bordeaux the Ciron is the only stream we shall have to cross, and that is but a small river, and is not likely to be watched; for no one making his way from the south to La Rochelle would keep to the west of the Garonne."
They were downstairs by six, had a meal of bread and spiced wine; and soon after seven there was a rumble of carts outside, and two of them stopped at the cabaret. They were laden principally with barrels of wine; but in one the farmer's wife was sitting, surrounded by baskets of eggs, fowls, and ducks, and several casks of butter.
Three of the casks of wine were taken down, and carried into the house. The landlord had a chat apart with his cousin, who then came forward to where they were sitting at a table.
"My cousin tells me you want to go to Bordeaux, and are willing to help load my boat, and to carry the barrels to the warehouse at Bordeaux, in return for a passage. Well, I agree to the bargain. The warehouse is not very far from the wharf, but the men there charge an extortionate price."
"We will do your work," Jacques said.
"But how am I to know that, when you land, you will not slip away without fulfilling your share of the bargain?" the farmer asked. "You look honest fellows, but soldiers are not gentry to be always depended upon. I mean no offence, but business is business, you know."
Jacques put his hand in his pocket.
"Here is a crown," he said. "I will hand it over to you, as earnest. If we do not do your work, you can keep that to pay the hire of the men to carry your barrels."
"That is fair enough," the farmer said, pocketing the coin. "Now, let us go without delay."
The landlord had already been paid for the supper of the night before, the lodging, and the contents of the basket; and without more words, they set out with the cart to the riverside. Here the boat was in waiting, and they at once set to work, with the drivers of the two carts, to transfer their contents to it. As they were as anxious as the farmer that no time should be lost, they worked hard, and in a quarter of an hour all was on board.
They took their places in the bow; the farmer, his wife, and the two boatmen being separated from them by the pile of barrels. The sail was at once hoisted and, as the west wind was still blowing strongly, Blaye was soon left behind.
"This is better than walking, by a long way," Philip said. "We are out of practice, and my feet are tender from the tramp from the coast. It would have taken us two days to get to Bordeaux, even if we had no trouble in crossing the Dordogne, and every hour is of importance. I hope we may get out of the city before the gates close, then we shall be able to push on all night."
They passed several islands on their way and, after four hours' run, saw the walls and spires of Bourg, where the Dordogne unites with the Garonne to form the great estuary known as the Gironde.
At three o'clock they were alongside the wharves of Bordeaux. They stowed away their steel caps and swords, and at once prepared to carry up the barrels.
"Do you make an excuse to move off, master," Pierre said; "we three will soon get these barrels into the store, and it is no fitting work for you."
"Honest work is fitting work, Pierre, and methinks that my shoulders are stronger than yours. I have had my sail, and I am going to pay for it by my share of the work."
The store was nearer than Philip had expected to find it. A wide road ran along by the river bank, and upon the other side of this was a line of low warehouses, all occupied by the wine merchants; who purchased the produce of their vineyards from the growers and, after keeping it until it matured, supplied France and foreign countries with it.
Several ships lay by the wharves. Some were bound for England, others for Holland. Some were freighted for the northern ports of France, and some, of smaller size, for Paris itself. Several men came up to offer their services, as soon as the boat was alongside; and these, when they saw that the owner of the wines had brought men with them, who would transport the wine to the warehouses, indulged in some rough jeers before moving away.
In the first place Philip and his companions, aided by the boatmen, carried the cargo ashore; while the farmer crossed the road to the merchant with whom he dealt. His store was not more than fifty yards from the place of landing and, as soon as he returned, the work began. In an hour and a half the whole of the barrels were carried over. The farmer's wife had seen to the carriage of her portion of the cargo to the inn her husband frequented on these occasions. It was close to the marketplace, and there she would, as soon as the market opened in the morning, dispose of them; and by nine o'clock they would be on board again. When the last barrel was carried into the store, the farmer handed Jacques the crown he had taken, as pledge for the performance of the bargain.
"You are smart fellows," he said, "and nimble. The same number of these towns fellows would have taken double the time that you have done; and I must have had six, at least, to have got the wine safely stored before nightfall."
"We are well contented with our bargain," Jacques said. "It is better to work hard for two hours, than to walk for two days. So good day to you, master, for we shall get on our way at once, and do not want to spend our money in the wine shops here."
Possessing themselves of their steel caps and swords again, they made their way through the busy town to the south gates; through which a stream of peasants, with carts, horses, and donkeys was passing out, having disposed of the produce they had brought in.
"Where are you bound to, you two with steel caps?" the officer at the gate asked.
Jacques and his brother paused, while Philip and Pierre, who had stowed their caps in the bundles they carried, went on without stopping; as it had previously been agreed that, in case of one or more of his followers being stopped, Philip should continue his way; as it was urgent that he should not suffer anything to delay him in the delivery of his message. He waited, however, a quarter of a mile from the gates, and the two men then rejoined him.
"We had no difficulty, sir," Jacques said. "We said that we once had served, and were going to do so again, having grown sick working in the vineyards; and that we had come up from Blaye with a cargo of wine, and had taken our discharge, and were now bound for Agen to see our families, before joining the force that the Viscount de Rouillac, under whom our father held a farm, would no doubt be putting in the field. That was sufficient, and he let us go on without further question; except that he said that we should have done better by going up to Saintes, or Cognac, and taking service with the force there, instead of making this long journey up to Agen."
They walked steadily on until, when it was nearly midnight, they arrived at a small village on the banks of the Ciron. As the inhabitants would have been in bed, hours before, they made up their minds not to attempt to find a shelter there; but to cross by the bridge, and sleep in the first clump of trees they came to. As they approached the bridge, however, they saw a fire burning in the centre of the road. Two men were sitting beside it, and several others lay round.
"Soldiers!" Philip said. "It would not do to try to cross, at this time of night. We will retire beyond the village, and wait until morning."
They turned off into a vineyard, as soon as they were outside the village; and lay down among the vines that had, some weeks before, been cleared of their grapes.
"How far does this river run before it becomes fordable, Jacques?"
"I do not know, sir. There are hills run along, in a line with the Garonne, some ten or twelve miles back; and I should say that, when we get there, we shall certainly find points at which we might cross this stream."
"That would waste nearly a day, and time is too precious for that. We will go straight on in the morning. Our story has been good enough, thus far. There is no reason why it should not carry us through."
Accordingly, as soon as the sun was up they entered the village, and went into a cabaret and called for wine and bread.
"You are travelling early," the landlord said.
"Yes, we have a long tramp before us, so we thought we had better perform part of it before breakfast."
"These are busy times. Folks are passing through, one way or the other, all day. It is not for us innkeepers to grumble, but peace and quiet are all we want, about here. These constant wars and troubles are our ruin. The growers are all afraid to send their wine to market; for many of these armed bands are no better than brigands, and think much more of robbing, and plundering, than they do of fighting. I suppose, by your looks, you are going to take service with some lord or other?"
Jacques repeated the usual tale.
"Well, well, every man to his liking," the landlord said; "but for my part, I can't think what Frenchmen want to fly at each others' throats for. We have got thirty soldiers quartered in the village now, though what they are doing here is more than I can imagine. We shall be glad when they are gone; for they are a rough lot, and their leader gives himself as many airs as if he had conquered the place. I believe they belong to a force that is lying at Bazas, some five leagues away. One would think that the Queen of Navarre had got a big Huguenot army together, and was marching north."
"I should not think she could raise an army," Philip said carelessly; "and if she is wise, she will stop quietly down in Bearn."
"There is a rumour here," the landlord said, "that she is at Nerac, with only a small party of gentlemen; and that she is on her way to Paris, to assure the king that she has no part in these troubles. I don't know whether that has anything to do with the troops; who, as I hear, are swarming all over the country. They say that there are fifteen hundred men at Agen."
"I am afraid we shall have trouble at this bridge," Philip said, as the landlord left them. "They seem to be a rough lot, and this truculent lieutenant may not be satisfied with a story that his betters would accept, without question. We will ask our host if there is any place where the river can be forded, without going too far up. We can all swim and, as the river is no great width, we can make a shift to get across, even if the ford is a bad one."
The landlord presently returned. Jacques put the question: "By your account of those fellows at the bridge, we might have trouble with them?"
"As like as not," the landlord said. "They worry and vex all who come past, insult quiet people; and have seized several, who have happened to have no papers of domicile about them, and sent them off to Bazas. They killed a man who resented their rough usage, two days ago. There has been a talk, in the village, of sending a complaint of their conduct to the officer at Bazas; but perhaps he might do nothing and, if he didn't, it would only make it the worse for us, here."
"We don't want troubles," Jacques said, "and therefore, if we could pass the river without having to make too wide a detour, we would do so. Do you know of any fords?"
"Yes, there are two or three places where it can be crossed, when the water is low; and as there has been no rain, for some weeks past, you will be able to cross now, easily enough. There is one four miles higher up. You will see a clump of willow trees, on this side of the river; and there is a pile of stones, some five feet high, on the other. You enter the river close by the trees, and then keep straight for the pile of stones, which is some fifty yards higher up, for the ford crosses the river at an angle."
"Well, we will take that way, then," Jacques said. "It is better to lose an hour, than to have trouble here."
An hour later, the party arrived at the ford and crossed it without difficulty, the water being little above their waists. Some miles farther, they saw ahead of them the towers of Bazas; and struck off from the road they were traversing, to pass to the east of it. They presently came upon a wide road.
"This must be the road to Nerac," Philip said. "There are neither rivers nor places of any size to be passed, now. The only danger is from bodies of horse watching the road."
"And if I mistake not, sir, there is one of them approaching now," Pierre said, pointing ahead.
As he spoke, the heads and shoulders of a body of horsemen were seen, as they rode up from a dip the road made into a hollow, half a mile away.
Philip glanced round. The country was flat, and it was too late to think of concealment.
"We will go quietly on," he said. "We must hope they will not interfere with us."
The troop consisted of some twenty men, two gentlemen riding at their head; and as they came up, they checked their horses.
"Whither come you, and where are you bound, my men?"
"We come from Bordeaux, sir, and we are bound for Agen," Jacques replied. "My comrade and I served under De Brissac, when we were mere lads, and we have a fancy to try the old trade again; and our young cousins also want to try their metal."
"You are a Gascon, by your tongue?"
"That is so," Jacques said; "and it is for that reason we are going south. We would rather fight in a company of our own people than with strangers."
"Whom have you been serving at Bordeaux? I am from the city, and know most of those in and round it."
"We have not been working there, sir. We come from near Blaye, and made the journey thence to Bordeaux by a boat with our master, Jacques Blazin, who was bringing to Bordeaux a cargo of his wines."
"Why waste time, Raoul?" the other gentleman said, impatiently. "What matter if they came from Bordeaux or Blaye, these are not of those whom we are here to arrest. Anyhow they are not Huguenot lords, but look what they say they are; but whether men-at-arms, or peasants, they concern us not. Maybe, while we are questioning them, a party of those we are in search of may be traversing some other road. Let us be riding forward."
He roughly pricked his horse with his spur, and the troop rode on.
"I think you are wrong to be so impatient, Louis," the one who had acted as interrogator said. "Anyone could see, with half an eye, that those two fellows were, as they said, old men-at-arms. There is a straightness and a stiffness about men who have been under the hands of the drill sergeant there is no mistaking; and I could swear that fellow is a Gascon, as he said.
"But I am not so sure as to one of the young fellows with them. I was about to question him, when you broke in. He did not look to me like a young peasant, and I should not be at all surprised if he is some Huguenot gentleman, making his way to Nerac with three of his followers."
"Well, if it was so, Raoul, he will not swell the queen's army to any dangerous extent. I am glad that you didn't ask him any questions; for if he declared himself a Huguenot--and to do them justice, the Huguenots will never deny their faith--I suppose it would have been our duty to have fallen upon them and slaughtered them; and though I am willing enough to draw, when numbers are nearly equal and it is a fair fight, I will take no part in the slaughter of men when we are twenty to one against them. Three or four men, more or less, at Nerac will make no difference. The Queen of Navarre has but some fifty men in all and, whenever the orders come to seize her and her son, it may be done easily enough, whether she has fifty or a hundred with her.
"War is all well enough, Raoul, but the slaughtering of solitary men is not an occupation that suits me. I am a good Catholic, I hope, but I abhor these massacres of defenceless people, only because they want to worship in their own way. I look to the pope as the head of my religion on earth, but why should I treat as a mortal enemy a man who does not recognize the pope's authority?"
"That is dangerous doctrine, Louis."
"Yes, but why should it be? You and I were both at the colloquy at Poissy, and we saw that the Cardinal of Lorraine, and all the bishops, failed totally to answer the arguments of the Huguenot minister Beza. The matter was utterly beyond me and, had Beza argued ten times as strongly as he did, it would in no way have shaken my faith; but I contend that if Lorraine himself and the bishops could not show this man to be wrong, there can be nothing in these people's interpretation of Scripture that can be so terrible as to deserve death. If they become dangerous to the state, I am ready to fight against them, as against any other enemies of France; but I can see nothing that can excuse the persecutions and massacres. And if these men be enemies of France, of which as yet no proof has been shown, it is because they have been driven to it, by persecution."
"Louis, my cousin," the other said, "it is dangerous, indeed, in these days to form an opinion. You must remember our greatest statesman, L'Hopital, has fallen into some disgrace, and has been deprived of rank and dignity, because he has been an advocate of toleration."
"I know that, Raoul; but I also know there are numbers of our nobles and gentlemen who, although staunch Catholics, are sickened at seeing the king acting as the tool of Philip of Spain and the pope; and who shudder, as I do, at beholding France stained with blood from end to end, simply because people choose to worship God in their own way. You must remember that these people are not the ignorant scum of our towns, but that among them are a large number of our best and wisest heads. I shall fight no less staunchly, when fighting has to be done, because I am convinced that it is all wrong. If they are in arms against the king, I must be in arms for him; but I hope none the less that, when arms are laid down, there will be a cessation of persecution--at any rate, a cessation of massacre. It is bringing disgrace on us in the eyes of all Europe, and I trust that there may be a league made among us to withstand the Guises; and to insist that there shall be, in France, no repetition of the atrocities by which Philip of Spain, and the Duke of Alva, are trying to stamp out the reformed religion in the Netherlands."
"Well, I hope at any rate, Louis," his cousin said impatiently, "that you will keep these opinions to yourself; for assuredly they will bring you into disgrace, and may even cost you your possessions and your head, if they are uttered in the presence of any friend of the Guises."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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11
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: Jeanne Of Navarre.
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"It is lucky," Philip said to Jacques, as they proceeded on their way after the troop had ridden on, "that he did not think of asking us if we were Huguenots."
"I was expecting it myself, sir," Jacques said; "and I was just turning it over in my conscience, how I could answer."
"There could be but one answer, Jacques; though no doubt it would have cost us our lives."
"I should not deny my faith, even to save my life, sir, if the question were put to me: 'Are you a Huguenot?' But I think that when four lives are at stake, it is lawful to take any opening there may be to get out of it."
"But how would there have been an opening, Jacques?"
"Well, sir, you see, if he had asked, 'Are you Huguenots?' I think I could have said 'No,' with a clear conscience, seeing that you are an Englishman. Your religion may be like ours, but you are not a Huguenot; and although Pierre does not seem to me to have quite made up his mind as to what he is, assuredly I should not call him a Huguenot. So you see, sir, that as only two out of the four are Huguenots, there would have been no lie to my saying 'no' to that question. But if he had said 'Are you Catholics?' I must have answered 'No,' seeing that none of us go to mass."
"It is a nice question," Philip said; "but seeing that the Catholics never keep their oaths and their promises to what they call heretics, I think that one would be justified, not in telling a lie, for nothing can justify that, but in availing one's self of a loophole such as one would scorn to use, to others. I should be sorry to have the question asked me, though seeing I am not myself a Huguenot, although I am fighting with them, I think that I could reply 'no;' especially as it is not a question of my own life only, but one involving the whole cause of the Huguenots.
"If I were in your place, I don't know that I should do so; but as you say that you could do it, without your conscience pricking you, I certainly should not put pressure upon you to say 'yes.' However, I hope you may never be asked the question, and that we shall meet with no more interruptions until we get to Nerac. There can be little doubt that, at present, the Catholics have received no orders to seize the queen and her son at Nerac; although they have orders to prevent her, at all costs, from going forward to Paris except under escort; and are keeping a sharp lookout, to prevent her from being joined by parties of Huguenots who would render her force formidable.
"I should hope that, by this time, we are past the last of their bands. Those we met just now doubtless belonged to the force gathered in Bazas; and it is in the direction of the north, rather than the west, that the Catholics are most vigilant. If she succeeds in making her way through them, it will be well nigh a miracle.
"Now that we are well past Bazas, we will leave the road and make our way across the fields; for it is upon the roads that any watch there may be will be set."
It was a long day's journey, and at eight o'clock in the evening they lay down in a wood, ten miles from Nerac; having walked fully fifty miles since crossing the river Ciron.
"I am very glad, Monsieur Philip, that we were not here four hours earlier."
"Why, Pierre?"
"Because, sir, in that case you would have insisted on pushing on to Nerac, so as to enter it before the gate is closed; and in that case I doubt whether, with the best will, I could have got that far, and I am sure that Jacques and Roger could not have done so."
"No, indeed," Jacques said, "I have done my last inch. For the last four hours I felt as if walking upon hot irons, so sore are my feet; and indeed, I could not have travelled at all, if I had not taken your advice and gone barefoot."
They had bought some wine and bread in a little village through which they had passed and, as soon as they had finished their supper, they lay down to sleep. They were up next morning long before daybreak, and were at the gates of Nerac before they opened. A group of countrymen were gathered there and, as soon as the drawbridge was lowered, they entered the town with them. They observed that there were sentries all round the walls, and that a keen watch was kept. As Philip was aware, the majority of the inhabitants there were Huguenots, and the governor was a nobleman of Bearn; and it was doubtless for this reason that the Queen of Navarre had halted there, as Nerac was a strong town, and not to be taken without a regular siege.
They had no difficulty in ascertaining where the queen was lodged. Early as it was, several Huguenot gentlemen, armed to the teeth, were gathered round the door. Philip, leaving his companions behind him, went up to the group and, addressing one of them, said: "I am the bearer of a message for the queen. It is important. May I pray you, sir, to cause this ring to be conveyed to her. It is a token that she will recognize."
The gentleman glanced at the ring.
"She may well do that," he said, "seeing that it bears her own cognizance. The queen is already up, and I will cause it to be sent in to her, at once."
Two minutes later another gentleman came out.
"Her majesty will at once see the messenger who has brought the ring," he said, and Philip at once followed him into the house.
He was conducted to a room where a lady was sitting whom he recognized, by the descriptions he had read of her, as the Queen of Navarre. Beside her stood a lad of fifteen.
"You come from the Admiral!" she said. "Have you despatches for me?"
"I have a paper sewn up in my boot, your majesty; but it was read over to me several times, in case either water or wear should render it illegible."
"He has reached La Rochelle safely, as I heard three days since," the queen said, "with but a small following?"
"He and the prince had over five hundred with them, when they rode in, your majesty; and parties were arriving, hourly, to swell his force. On the day I left he was going out to attack Niort and, that captured, he was going to move south. That was the message I was charged to deliver. You will find him either in Cognac, or in front of that town."
"That is good news, indeed," the queen said, "for I should have had to make a wide detour to pass round the Charente, all the towns and bridges being held by our enemies. It will be difficult enough to cross the intervening rivers. Indeed, as the news that I had started hence would arrive, long before I did myself, it would be hopeless to elude their vigilance; and I should have had to make a long bend to the east, and might well have been cut off before I could reach him.
"And who are you, sir, that the Admiral should think fit to intrust so important a message to you?"
"I am English born, madam, and my name is Philip Fletcher. My mother was French, being the daughter of the Count de Moulins; and she sent me over to reside with her sister, the Countess of Laville, in order that I might fight for the cause of the religion, by the side of my cousin Francois. I rode with him through the last campaign, in the train of Francois de la Noue and, having had the good fortune to attract the notice of the Prince of Conde and the Admiral, they selected me to bear this message to you; thinking that, being but a lad, I should better escape suspicion and question than a French gentleman would do; especially as he would risk being recognized, while my face would be altogether unknown.
"Now, if your majesty will permit me, I will open the lining of my shoe. You will find, however, that the despatch contains but a few words. At first the Admiral thought only to give me a message; but he afterwards wrote what he had said, in order that, should any evil befall me by the way, one of the three men who accompanied me should take my shoe and bring it to your majesty."
By this time he had slit open the lining of his shoe with his knife, and handed the little piece of paper to the queen. It contained only the words: "All goes well. Am hoping to see you. You will find me in or near Cognac."
There was no signature.
"You have done good service to the cause, Monsieur Fletcher," the queen said. "How did you manage to pass south, for I hear that every bridge and ford is guarded by the Catholics?"
Philip gave a brief account of his journey.
"You have acted prudently and well, young sir; and fully justified the Admiral's confidence in your prudence. What are your orders now?"
"They are simply to accompany your majesty on your way north, if it be your pleasure to permit me to ride in your train."
"I shall do that right willingly, sir; and it will be a pleasure for my son to hear, from your lips, a full account of your journey hither, and something of your native land, in which it may be that he will be, some day, compelled to take refuge."
"You shall ride by my side, Monsieur Philip," the young prince said. "You look as if you could laugh and joke. These Huguenot lords are brave and faithful, but they have ever serious faces."
"Hush, Henri! It is not fitting to speak so. They are brave and good men."
"They may be that, mother, but they weary me dreadfully; and I am sure it would be much more cheerful having this English gentleman as my companion."
The young prince was tall for his age, active and sinewy. His mother had brought him up as if he had been a peasant boy. As a child he had run about barefoot and, as he grew, had spent much of his time among the mountains, sometimes with shepherds, sometimes engaged in the chase. Jeanne herself had a horror of the corruption of the French court, and strove to make her son hardy and robust, with simple tastes and appetites; and preferring exercise, hard work, and hunter's food to the life of the town. He had practised constantly in arms, and his mother regretted nothing so much as the fact that, next to the king and his brothers, he stood in succession to the French throne; and would have been far happier that he should rule, some day, over the simple and hardy people of Navarre.
"The first thing to do, Monsieur Fletcher," the queen said, "is to obtain more suitable garments for yourself and your followers. This my chamberlain shall see about, without delay. I will then present you to the gentlemen who accompany me. They are but a small party, but we have received promises from many others, who will join us on our way.
"I may tell you it is already arranged that I shall set forward this evening. Monsieur D'Escars has, I hear, some four thousand gentlemen under arms; but these are widely scattered, and I hope to have a sufficient force to overcome them at any point we may make for. Some friends have secretly collected two or three boats near Tonneins, where there is but a small part of the Catholics assembled. Once past the Garonne, we shall feel safe for a time."
"Would it please you that I should ride on first to Tonneins, your majesty, and ascertain if the garrison there are not alert, and have no suspicion that you are about to cross so close to them? Being a stranger here I could pass unsuspected; while were any of the gentlemen with you seen near Tonneins, it would create suspicion that you, yourself, were about to cross in the neighbourhood."
"I thank you for that offer," the queen said, "and will speak to you about it, later on."
As Philip had been furnished with money, he did not trouble the queen's chamberlain, but at once purchased clothes for himself and his three followers, together with breast and back piece for Jacques and Roger. On his return to the queen, after an hour's absence, he was informed that Prince Henri had made inquiries for him, and was shown into a room where the young prince was sitting down to his breakfast, the queen being engaged in business with some of her councillors.
"That is right, Monsieur Fletcher. I have been waiting breakfast for you, for half an hour. Come, sit you down with me. I warrant you have been too busy, since you arrived at Nerac, to think of a meal."
"I don't think, Prince," Philip began, "that it would be seemly that I--" "Nonsense," the prince interrupted, "we are not at the court of France, thank goodness, and we have no ceremony at Bearn. Besides, a simple gentleman may dine with the king, any day. So sit down without any more delay, and let me hear all your adventures."
Philip still hesitated, and the prince said: "I told my mother that I was going to have you to breakfast with me; and I believe she was well satisfied that I should, for a time, be out of her way."
This removed any doubt from Philip's mind, and he at once sat down with the prince and ate a hearty meal; after which he chatted with him for an hour, telling him about the journey from La Rochelle, the rescue of the Huguenots near Niort, and some of the adventures in the last war.
"And you were with my cousin Conde, and the Admiral, in the battle of Saint Denis. What luck you have had, Monsieur Fletcher. I hope the day will come when I, too, shall take a part in war, and be a great leader like the Admiral; but I would rather that it was against Spaniards, or others, than against Frenchmen."
The door opened, and the queen entered. Philip rose hastily, but she motioned him to be seated.
"No ceremony, I beg of you, Master Philip. I am glad to find you here, with my son. I have spoken to some of my friends of your offer to go to Tonneins, but they think not well of it. It is a small place, and a stranger would be sure to be questioned; but it was agreed that, if you would ride through Agen, you might do us great service. Five leagues from Tonneins Fontarailles, the seneschal of Armagnac, will be waiting for me, in the morning, with a troop of horse and a regiment of infantry. If the governor of Agen has news of his coming, he may send out a force to attack him or, should he not feel strong enough for that, he may at least think that I am intending to join the seneschal; and in that case he may send out troops, to bar the roads leading thither from the river. As many will be passing through Agen, on their way to join D'Escars, the passage of a gentleman and two men-at-arms will excite no attention; and if you put up for a short time at an inn, you may be able to gather whether there has been any movement of the troops, or whether there is any talk of the departure of any, this evening.
"Should all be quiet, you can join me on the road; or ride direct to the village of Villeneuve d'Agenois, where the seneschal will arrive, some time tonight. If you should hear of any movements of troops, ride down on the other side of the river till within two miles of Tonneins; then, if you place your men at intervals of three or four hundred yards apart, you will be sure to see us cross, and can give us warning of danger, and such indications as you may gather as to the points where the troops are likely to be posted. We shall cross about midnight."
"I will gladly undertake the mission," Philip said. "I will go out and procure some horses, at once."
"That is unnecessary," the queen said. "We have brought several spare horses with us, and I have already ordered four to be saddled for you. You have no armour, I see."
"I would rather ride without it, your majesty, especially on such a mission as the present. Besides, if in full armour I might well be accosted, and asked to whose party I belong; while riding in as I am, unarmed, save for my sword, I should have the air of a gentleman of the neighbourhood, who had merely ridden in on business, or to learn the latest news."
The queen smiled approvingly.
"You see, Henri, this gentleman, although about to undertake a dangerous business, does not proceed rashly or hastily, but thinks coolly as to the most prudent course to pursue.
"You will understand, Monsieur Fletcher, that several of the gentlemen with me have volunteered for this duty, and that we have accepted your offer solely because they could scarcely enter Agen without meeting some who know them; while you, being a stranger, do not run this risk."
"Moreover, madam, I have another advantage. Were any of them questioned, and asked directly, 'Are you a Huguenot?' they could not but answer yes; whereas, were that question put to me I could reply 'no,' seeing that I am an English Protestant, and in no way, save in my sympathies, a Huguenot."
"That is an advantage, certainly; but it may be the question will be put, 'Are you a Catholic?'"
"In that case, your majesty, I could only reply 'no;' but methinks the other question is the most likely one."
"I wish I were going to ride with Monsieur Fletcher, mother."
"That is impossible, Henri; for scarce a Gascon gentleman but has been down, at one time or other, to Bearn. Do not be anxious for adventures. They will come in time, my son, and plenty of them. Would that you could pass your life without one; but in these troubled times, and with France divided against itself, that is too much to hope.
"Should you by any chance, Monsieur Fletcher, fail to rejoin us at Villeneuve d'Agenois, you may overtake us farther on. But run no risk to do so. You know whither we are bound, and I trust that, when we arrive there, we may find you before us. I myself will retain the ring that you brought me, and will return it to the Admiral; but wear this, in remembrance of one in whose service you risked your life," and she handed him a diamond ring, which he knew enough of gems to be aware was of considerable value.
"And take this dagger," the prince said, taking a small and beautifully tempered weapon from his belt. "It is but a bodkin, but it is of famous steel. It was sent me by Philip of Spain, at a time when he was trying to cajole my mother, and is of the best workmanship of Toledo."
Philip expressed his thanks for the gifts in suitable words; and then, taking leave of the queen and prince, went down to the courtyard. Here he found Pierre and the two men-at-arms, standing at the head of three powerful horses; while one of the queen's retainers held a very handsome animal in readiness for himself.
"Her majesty begs you to accept these horses, sir, as a slight token of her goodwill."
In five minutes, the party had issued from Nerac; Pierre, as usual, keeping close behind Philip, and the two men-at-arms riding a few lengths behind.
"This is truly a change for the better, Monsieur Philip," Pierre said. "We entered Nerac as tillers of the soil, we ride out in knightly fashion."
"Yes, Pierre, it is good to be on the back of a fine horse again; and this one I am riding is worthy of a place beside Victor and Robin."
"Yes, he is as good as either of them, sir. I am not sure that he is not better. We, too, are well content with the queen of Navarre's generosity; for her steward gave us, before we started, each a purse of twenty crowns, which has been a wonderful salve to our sore feet. I trust there will be no more occasion to use them, for a time."
"I hope not. It was a long journey, but it was fortunate that we pushed on as we did; for had we been twelve hours later, we should not have found the queen at Nerac."
"And why does not your honour stay to ride with her?" Pierre asked.
"I hope to join her again, tonight. We are going through Agen, where I hope to gather such news, of the movements of the Catholic troops, as may be of use to her."
Agen was about fifteen miles distance from Nerac, and as there was no occasion for haste, and Philip did not wish the horses to have the appearance of being ridden fast, they took three hours in traversing the distance.
When they neared the town, he said to Pierre: "I shall not take you with me. If there should be trouble--though I do not see how this can well come about--four men could do no more than one. Therefore, Pierre, do you follow me no nearer than is sufficient to keep me in sight. The other two will follow you at an equal distance, together or separately.
"Should any accident befall me, you are on no account to ride up, or to meddle in the business. I have told you what my instructions are, and it will be your duty to carry them out, if I am taken. You will put up your horse and, mingling with the soldiers and townspeople, find out if there is any movement in the wind, or whether any troops have already gone forward. Jacques and Roger will do the same, and you will meet and exchange news. If you find that anything has been done, or is going to be done, towards putting more guards on the river, or despatching a force that might interfere with the passage of the queen from Tonneins to Villeneuve d'Agenois, Roger and Jacques will ride to the point where I told you the crossing is to be made, and will warn the queen of the danger. I leave you free to ride with them, or to stay in the town till you learn what has happened to me. If you should find that there is no movement of troops, you and the others will be free either to ride to Pontier, or to make your way back to Cognac; and to join my cousin and give him news of what has happened to me. If I am only held as a prisoner, the Admiral will doubtless exchange a Catholic gentleman for me. He is sure to take many prisoners at the capture of the towns."
He then called the two men-at-arms up, and repeated the instructions relating to them.
"But may we not strike in, should you get into trouble, master? Roger and I would far rather share whatever may befall you."
"No, Jacques, it would be worse in every way. Force could be of no avail, and it would lessen my chance of escape, were you beside me. Single handed I might get through, and trust to the speed of my horse. If taken, I might plan some mode of escape. In either case it would hamper me, were you there. Above all it is important that my mission should be fulfilled, therefore my commands on that head are strict. I do not apprehend trouble in any way; but if it should occur, you will at once turn your horses down the first street you come to, so that you may in no way be connected with me. Pierre will, of course, turn first. You will follow him, see where he stables his horse, then go on to some other cabaret and, having put up your horses, go back to the place where he has stopped, wait till he joins you outside, then arrange for the hour at which you are to meet again, and then go off in different directions to gather the news of which we are in search.
"Take no further thought about me, at all. Give your whole minds to the safety of the queen. Upon that depends greatly the issue of this war. Were she and her son to fall into the hands of the Catholics, it would be a fatal blow to the cause."
So saying, he rode on again at the head of the party. When within a quarter of a mile of the town, he again called Pierre up to him.
"Pierre, do you take this ring and dagger. Should I be taken, I shall assuredly be searched to see whether I am the bearer of despatches. I should grieve to lose these gifts, as much as I should to fall into the hands of the Catholics. Keep them for me, until you learn that there is no chance of my ever returning to claim them; and then give them to my cousin, and beg him in my name to return the ring to the Queen of Navarre, and the dagger to the young prince."
"I like not all these provisions," Pierre said to himself. "Hitherto the master has never, since I first knew him, given any commands to me, as to what was to be done in case he were captured or killed. It seems to me that the danger here is as nothing to that he has often run before, and yet he must have some sort of foreboding of evil. If I were not a Huguenot, I would vow a score of pounds of candles, to be burnt at the shrine of the Holy Virgin, if the master gets safe out of yonder town."
Philip rode on across the bridge, and entered the gates without question. Up to this time, his followers had kept close behind him; but now, in accordance with his instructions, they dropped behind. He continued his way to the principal square, rode up to an inn, entered the courtyard, and gave his horse to the stableman.
"Give it a feed," he said, "and put it in the stable. I shall not require it until the afternoon."
Then he went into the public room, called for food and wine, and sat down. The tables were well nigh full, for there were many strangers in the town. After a first glance at the newcomer, none paid him any attention. Pierre and the two men had, in accordance with his instructions, passed the inn they had seen him enter, and put up at other places.
There was a loud buzz of conversation, and Philip listened attentively to that between four gentlemen who had just sat down at the next table to him. Three of them had come in together, and the fourth joined them, just as Philip's meal was brought to him.
"Well, have you heard any news at the governor's, Maignan?" one of them asked the last comer.
"Bad news. Conde and the Admiral are not letting the grass grow under their feet. They have captured not only Niort, as we heard yesterday, but Parthenay."
"Peste! That is bad news, indeed. What a blunder it was to let them slip through their fingers, when they might have seized them with two or three hundred men, in Burgundy."
"It seems to me that they are making just the same mistake here," another put in. "As Jeanne of Navarre is well nigh as dangerous as the Admiral himself, why don't they seize her and her cub, and carry them to Paris?"
"Because they hope that she will go willingly, of her own accord, Saint Amand. La Motte-Fenelon has been negotiating with her, for the last fortnight, on behalf of the court. It is clearly far better that she should go there of her own will, than that she should be taken there a prisoner. Her doing so would seem a desertion of the Huguenot cause, and would be a tremendous blow to them.
"On the other hand, if she were taken there as a prisoner, it would drive many a Huguenot to take up arms who is now content to rest quiet. And moreover, the Protestant princes of Germany, and Elizabeth of England would protest; for whatever the court may say of the Admiral, they can hardly affirm that Jeanne of Navarre is thinking of making war against Charles for any other reason than the defence of her faith. Besides, she can do no harm at Nerac; and we can always lay hands on her, when we like. At any rate, there is no fear of her getting farther north. The rivers are too well guarded for that."
"I don't know," another said, "after the way in which Conde and the Admiral, though hampered with women and children, made their way across France, I should never be surprised at anything. You see, there is not a place where she has not friends. These pestilent Huguenots are everywhere. She will get warning of danger, and guides across the country--peasants who know every byroad through the fields, and every shallow in the rivers. It would be far better to make sure of her and her son, by seizing them at Nerac."
"Besides," Saint Amand said, "there are reports of movements of Huguenots all over Guyenne; and I heard a rumour, last night, that the Seneschal of Armagnac has got a considerable gathering together. These Huguenots seem to spring out of the ground. Six weeks ago, no one believed that there was a corner of France where they could gather a hundred men together, and now they are everywhere in arms."
"I think," Maignan said, "that you need not be uneasy about the Queen of Navarre. I am not at liberty to say what I have heard; but I fancy that, before many hours, she will be on her way to Paris, willingly or unwillingly. As for the seneschal, he and the others will be hunted down, as soon as this matter is settled. A day or two, sooner or later, will make no difference there and, until the queen is taken, the troops will have to stay in their present stations.
"My only fear is that, seeing she can have no hope of making her way north, she will slip away back to Navarre again. Once there, she could not be taken without a deal of trouble. Whatever is to be done must be done promptly. Without direct orders from the court, no step can be taken in so important a matter. But the orders may arrive any hour, and I think you will see that there will be no loss of time in executing them."
"And Nerac could not stand a long siege, even if it were strongly garrisoned; and the handful of men she has got with her could not defend the walls for an hour. I hope she may not take the alarm too soon; for as you say, once back in Navarre it would be difficult, indeed, to take her. It is no joke hunting a bear among the mountains; and as her people are devoted to her, she could play hide and seek among the valleys and hills for weeks--ay, or months--before she could be laid hold of.
"It is well for our cause, Maignan, that she is not a man. She would be as formidable a foe as the Admiral himself. Huguenot as she is, one can't help respecting her. Her husband was a poor creature, beside her. He was ready to swallow any bait offered him; while, even if it would seat her son on the throne of France, she would not stir a hand's breadth from what she thinks right."
Philip finished his meal, and then went out into the square. The news was satisfactory. No order had yet arrived for the seizure of the queen; and though one was evidently looked for, to arrive in the course of a few hours, it would then be too late to take any steps until nightfall, at the earliest; and by nine o'clock the queen would have left Nerac.
No movement was intended at present against the seneschal, nor did the idea that the queen might attempt to join him seem to be entertained. It was possible, however, that such a suspicion might have occurred to the governor, and that some troops might secretly be sent off, later. He must try to learn something more.
Confident that he could not be suspected of being ought but what he appeared, a Catholic gentleman--for his garments were of much brighter hue than those affected by the Huguenots--he strolled quietly along, pausing and looking into shops when he happened to pass near groups of soldiers or gentlemen talking together. So he spent two or three hours. No word had reached his ear indicating that any of the speakers were anticipating a sudden call to horse.
He saw that Pierre was following him, keeping at some distance away, and pausing whenever he paused. He saw no signs of the other two men, and doubted not that they were, as he had ordered, spending their time in wine shops frequented by the soldiers, and listening to their talk.
Feeling convinced that no orders had been given for the assembly of any body of troops, he sat down for a time at a small table in front of one of the principal wine shops, and called for a bottle of the best wine; thinking that the fact that he was alone would be less noticeable, so, than if he continued to walk the streets. Presently a party of four or five gentlemen sat down at a table a short distance off. He did not particularly notice them at first; but presently, glancing that way, saw one of them looking hard at him, and a thrill of dismay ran through him, as he recognized the gentleman addressed as Raoul, the leader of the party that had stopped him near Bazas. He had, however, presence of mind enough to look indifferently at him, and then to continue sipping his wine.
The possibility that this gentleman, with his troop, should have come to Agen had never entered his mind; and though the encounter was a most unfortunate one, he trusted that the complete change in his appearance would be sufficient to prevent recognition; although it was evident, by the gaze fixed on him, that the gentleman had an idea that his face was familiar. To move now would heighten suspicion, if any existed; and he therefore sat quiet, watching the people who passed in front of him, and revolving in his mind the best course to be taken, should Raoul address him. The latter had just spoken to his cousin, who was sitting next to him.
"Do you know that young gentleman, Louis?" he asked. "I seem to know his face well; and yet he does not know me, for he just now glanced at me, without recognizing me. You know most of the gentry in this neighbourhood. Do you know him?"
"No, I cannot say that I do, Raoul; though I, too, seem to have a recollection of his face. It is a sort of face one remembers, too. I should think his family must belong to the north, for you do not often see men of that complexion about here. He looks very young, not above nineteen or twenty; but there is a look of earnestness and resolution, about his face, that would point to his being some years older."
Dismissing the matter from his mind, Raoul joined in the conversation round him. Presently he grasped his cousin's arm.
"I know where we saw the face now, Louis. He was one of the four fellows we stopped, two days since, near Bazas."
"Impossible, Raoul! Those men were peasants, though two of them had served for a time in the army; the others--" and he stopped.
"You see it yourself, Louis. One of the others was a dark, active man. The other was but a lad--a tall, well-built young fellow, with fair complexion and gray eyes. I thought of it afterwards, and wondered where he got that skin and hair from. I put it down that it was a trace of English blood, of which there is a good deal still left in Guyenne, and some of the other provinces they held, long ago."
"I certainly see the likeness, now you mention it, Raoul; but it can hardly be the same. This is a gentleman. He is certainly that, whoever he may be. How could a gentleman be masquerading about as a peasant?"
"That is what I am going to find out, Louis. He may have been a Huguenot, making his way down to join the Queen of Navarre at Nerac He may be one of her train there, who had gone out, in disguise, to reconnoitre the country and see what forces of ours were in the neighbourhood, and where posted. That may be his mission, here; but this time he has chosen to come in his proper attire."
"That can hardly be his attire, if he is one of Jeanne of Navarre's followers. He may have got a suit for the purpose, but assuredly the colours are too gay for a Huguenot in her train. For my part, I see nothing suspicious about his appearance. There, he is paying his reckoning, and going."
"And I am going after him," Raoul said, rising. "There is something strange about the affair, and there may be some plot. Do you come with me, Louis.
"Monsieur D'Estanges, I have a little matter of business on hand. Will you come with me?"
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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12
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: An Escape From Prison.
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Glancing half round, as he turned away from the wine shop, Philip saw Raoul and two of his companions rising. He walked off in a leisurely manner and, a few paces farther, turned down a side street. He heard steps following him, and then a voice said: "Hold, young sir. I would have a word with you."
Philip turned, with an expression of angry surprise.
"Are you addressing me, sir? I would have you know that am not accustomed to be spoken to, in that fashion; and that I bear an insult from no one."
Raoul laughed.
"Are you equally particular, sir, when you are going about in peasant's clothes?"
"I am not good at riddles, sir," Philip said haughtily, "and can only suppose that your object is to pick a quarrel with me; though I am not conscious of having given you offence. However, that matters little. I suppose you are one of those gallants who air their bravery when they think they can do so, with impunity. On the present occasion you may, perchance, find that you are mistaken. I am a stranger here, and know of no place where this matter can be settled, nor am I provided with a second; but I am quite content to place myself in the hands of one of these gentlemen, if they will act for me."
"I am sure, Raoul, there is some mistake," Louis began, putting his hand on his cousin's shoulder.
But the other shook it off, angrily. He was of a passionate and overbearing temper, and Philip's coolness, and the manner in which he had turned the tables upon him and challenged him to a duel, inflamed him to the utmost.
"Hands off, Louis," he said. "Do you think that I, Raoul de Fontaine, am to be crowed over by this youth? He has challenged me to fight, and fight he shall."
"You provoked him," Louis said firmly. "You gave him provocation such as no gentleman of honour could suffer. It was not for this that I came out with you, but because you said that you wished to unravel what may be a plot."
"I will cut it, which will be easier than unravelling it," Raoul replied. "It is shorter and easier work, to finish the matter with a sword thrust, than to provide for his being swung at the end of a rope."
"We had best waste no time in empty braggadocio," Philip said coldly, "but proceed at once to some quiet spot, where this matter can be settled, undisturbed."
"I think the young gentleman is right," Monsieur D'Estanges, a gentleman of the court, said gravely. "The matter has gone too far for anything else, now; and I am bound to say that your adversary, of whose name I am ignorant, has borne himself in a manner to merit my esteem; and that, as your cousin will of course act for you, I shall be happy to place my services at his disposal."
"Let us get beyond the gates," Raoul said abruptly, turning on his heel, and retracing his steps up the lane to the main street.
"I thank you, sir, for offering to stand by one of whose very name you are ignorant," Philip said as, accompanied by Monsieur D'Estanges, he followed the others. "It is, however, right that you should know it. It is Philip Fletcher. On my father's side I am English, on my mother's I am of noble French blood, being cousin to Francois de Laville, whose mother and mine were daughters of the Count de Moulins."
"Two distinguished families of Poitou," Monsieur D'Estanges said, courteously. "It needed not that, to tell me that you were of good blood. I regret much that this encounter is going to take place. Monsieur Raoul de Fontaine was in the wrong, in so rudely hailing you, and I cannot blame you for taking it up sharply; although, seeing your age and his, and that he is a good swordsman, it might have been more prudent to have overlooked his manner.
"Unless, indeed," and he smiled, "Monsieur Raoul was right, and that you are engaged on some weighty matter here, and preferred to run the risk of getting yourself killed rather than have it inquired into. The Countess of Laville and her son are both staunch Huguenots, and you may well be on business here that you would not care to have investigated.
"You have not asked my name, sir. It is Charles D'Estanges. I am a cousin of the Duc de Guise, and am naturally of the court party; but I can esteem a brave enemy, and regret to see one engaged in an encounter in which he must needs be overmatched."
"I am a fair swordsman, sir," Philip said; "though my arm may lack somewhat of the strength it will have, a few years later. But had it been otherwise, I should have still taken the course I have. I do not say your conjecture is a correct one, but at any rate I would prefer the most unequal fight to being seized and questioned. One can but be killed once, and it were better that it should be by a thrust in the open air than a long imprisonment, ending perhaps with death at the stake."
Monsieur D'Estanges said no more. In spite of his relationship with the Guises he, like many other French Catholic nobles, disapproved of the persecutions of the Huguenots, and especially of the massacres perpetrated by the lower orders in the towns, men for whom he had the profoundest contempt. He felt sorry for his companion, whose youth and fearless demeanour moved him in his favour; and who, he doubted not, had come to Agen to confer with some of the Huguenots, who were to be found in every town.
Issuing from the gates, they went for a quarter of a mile along the road, and then Raoul led the way into a small wood. Here, without a word being spoken, Raoul and Philip threw aside their cloaks and doublets.
"Gentlemen," Monsieur D'Estanges said, "surely this quarrel might be arranged without fighting. Monsieur de Fontaine addressed my principal, doubtless under a misapprehension, with some roughness, which was not unnaturally resented. If Monsieur de Fontaine will express his regret, which he certainly could do without loss of dignity, for the manner in which he spoke; my principal would, I am sure, gladly accept his apology."
"That is my opinion also," Louis de Fontaine said, "and I have already expressed it to my cousin."
"And I have already said that I will do nothing of the sort," Raoul said. "I am fighting not only in my own quarrel, but in that of the king; being well assured in my mind that this young man, whether he be, as he now appears, a gentleman of birth, or whether, as I saw him last, a peasant boy, is engaged in some plot hostile to his majesty."
"Then there is nothing more to be said," Monsieur D'Estanges said gravely; "but before you begin, I may tell you, Monsieur de Fontaine, that this gentleman belongs to a family no less noble than your own. He has confided to me his name and position, which I think it as well not to divulge.
"Now, Louis, we may as well stand aside. We have done our best to stop this quarrel, and to prevent what I cannot but consider a most unequal contest from taking place."
The last words were galling, in the extreme, to Raoul de Fontaine. Monsieur D'Estanges stood high at court, was a gentleman of unblemished reputation, and often appealed to on questions of honour; and this declaration that he considered the combat to be an unequal one was the more irritating, since he was himself conscious of the fact. However, he could not recoil now but, with an angry expression of face, drew his sword and stood on guard.
Philip was no less ready. The easy attitude he assumed, with his weight for the most part on his left leg, differed so widely from the forward attitude then in fashion among French duellists, that Monsieur D'Estanges, convinced that he knew nothing of swordplay, shrugged his shoulders pityingly. The moment, however, that the swords grated against each other; and Philip put aside, with a sharp turn of the wrist, a lunge with which his opponent intended at once to finish the combat, the expression of his face changed.
"The lad did not speak boastfully, when he said he was a fair swordsman," he muttered to himself. "He does not fight in our fashion, but at least he knows what he is about."
For some minutes the fight continued, Raoul's temper rising higher and higher, as he found every attack baffled by a foe he had despised, and who refused to fall back even an inch, however hotly he pressed him. He had at first intended either to wound or disarm him, but he soon fought to kill. At last there was a fierce rally, ending by Philip parrying a home thrust and, returning it with lightning swiftness, running Raoul de Fontaine through the body with such force that the hilt of his sword struck against his chest, and he sank lifeless to the ground.
"By our Lady, young gentleman," Monsieur D'Estanges exclaimed, "but you have done well! You said that you were a fair swordsman. Truly you are of the highest class. Raoul's temper has led him into many a duel, and he has always wounded or killed his man. Who could have thought that he would receive his death blow at the hands of a youth?
"But whom have we here? Peste! This is awkward."
As he spoke, Count Darbois, the governor of Agen, with a body of troopers, rode up. He had ridden to within a mile or two of Nerac and, questioning persons from the town, learned that everything was quiet there, and that no fresh body of Huguenots had arrived. He was on his way back when, hearing the clash of swords, he had ridden into the wood to inquire into its meaning.
"What is this?" he exclaimed.
"Why, what is this, Monsieur De Fontaine? Your cousin, Count Raoul, dead!"
Louis, who was leaning over his cousin, looked up.
"Alas! I fear that it is so, Monsieur le Comte. My poor cousin has fallen in a duel."
"What a misfortune, and at such a moment! Is it not scandalous that, at a time like this, when every gentleman's sword is needed in defence of our king and faith, they should indulge in private quarrels?
"And is it you, Monsieur D'Estanges, who has done his majesty this bad service?"
For by this time Philip had resumed his doublet and cloak.
"No. I only stood as second to his opponent, who has behaved fairly and honourably in the matter, as I am sure Count Louis will testify."
"Your word is quite sufficient, Monsieur D'Estanges. And who is this gentleman, who has thus slain one who had no mean reputation as a swordsman?"
"A young gentleman passing through Agen. The quarrel arose through a rencontre in the street. Count Raoul was, as was his nature, hasty, and put himself in the wrong. The gentleman resented his language, and a meeting was at once arranged. Count Louis and myself were with Raoul, and as his opponent was alone, and it was not desirable to draw others into the matter, I offered to act as his second; and he accepted it, at once. We came here. Count Louis and I made a final effort to persuade Raoul to apologize for his language. He refused to do so, and they fought, and you see the consequence."
"But who is this stranger?" the governor asked again.
"Count Raoul did not feel it necessary to ask, count; and I think, as he waived the point, and the affair is now terminated, it would be well that his opponent should be permitted to withdraw without questions."
"That is all very well for you, Monsieur D'Estanges, as a party in a private quarrel; but as governor of Agen, it is my duty to satisfy myself as to who this stranger, who has killed an officer of the king, may be."
He turned his horse, and for the first time obtained a view of Philip; who, seeing the impossibility of escape, had been standing quietly by.
"Why, it is but a youth!" he exclaimed. "You say he slew Count Raoul in fair fight, Monsieur D'Estanges?"
"In as fair a fight as ever I saw, Monsieur le Comte."
"Who are you, sir?" the governor asked Philip.
"I am a stranger, travelling through Agen on private business," Philip said quietly.
"But what is your name and family, sir?"
"I am English," Philip replied. "My name is Philip Fletcher."
"A Huguenot, I will be bound?" the governor said angrily.
"Not at all, count. I am of the religion of my nation--a Protestant."
"It is the same thing," the governor said. "It is clear that, for whatever purpose you may be in Agen, you are here for no good.
"This is a serious matter, Monsieur D'Estanges."
"As I have said, I know nothing of this gentleman, count. I saw him for the first time a little over half an hour ago, and on every account I wish that I had not seen him. He has killed my friend Raoul, deprived his majesty of a staunch adherent, and has got himself into trouble. But for all that, I am assured, by his conduct and bearing in this business, that he is an honourable gentleman; and I intreat you, as a personal favour, count, that you allow him to go free."
"I would do much to oblige you, Monsieur D'Estanges; but he is an Englishman and a Protestant, by his own confession, and therefore can only be here to aid the men who have risen in rebellion, and to conspire with the king's enemies. He will be placed in close charge and, when the present pressing affairs have been put out of hand, I doubt not we shall find means of learning a good deal more about this mysterious person, who claims to be English, but who yet speaks our language like a Frenchman."
"As to that matter, I can satisfy you at once," Philip said. "My mother was a French lady, a daughter of the Count de Moulins of Poitou."
"A Huguenot family, if I mistake not," the governor said, coldly. "Well, we have other things to think of, now.
"Captain Carton, place two troopers one on each side of this person. I authorize you to cut him down, if he tries to escape. Let four others dismount, and carry the body of the Count de Fontaine into the city.
"You will, of course, take the command of his troop, Count Louis; seeing that, if I mistake not, you are his nearest relative, and the heir to his possessions."
As Philip was led through the streets he caught sight of Pierre, who made no sign of recognition as he passed. He was taken to the castle, and confined in a room in a turret, looking down upon the river. The window was closely barred, but otherwise the room, though small, was not uncomfortable. It contained a chair, a table, and a couch.
[Illustration: Philip in prison.]
When the door was barred and bolted behind him, Philip walked to the window and stood looking out at the river. The prospect seemed dark. The governor was unfavourably disposed towards him now; and when the news came, on the morrow, that the Queen of Navarre had slipped through his fingers, his exasperation would no doubt be vented on him. What was now but a mere suspicion, would then become almost a certainty; and it would, as a matter of course, be assumed that he was there on matters connected with her flight. That he was a Protestant was alone sufficient to condemn him to death, but his connection with the queen's flight would, beyond all question, seal his fate.
Pierre, he felt sure, would do all that he could for him; but that could amount to almost nothing. Even if he had the means of filing through or removing the bars, it would need a long stout rope to enable him to descend to the water's edge, a hundred feet below him; and that he could obtain possession of either file, or rope, seemed to him as absolutely impossible.
"Nevertheless," he said to himself, "I will let Pierre know where I am confined. I do not see that it can do any good. But he is a fellow of resource. I have great faith in him and, though I can see no possible plan of escape, he, being without, may try something.
"I have no doubt that his first endeavour will be to find out where I am confined. I warrant he will know my cap, if he sees it. He has an eye like a hawk and, if he sees anything outside one of the windows, he will suspect at once that it is a signal; and when he once looks closely at it, he will make out its orange tint and these three long cock's feathers."
So saying, he thrust one of his arms through the bars with the cap, which he allowed to hang down against the wall below. There he stood for two hours, closely examining every boat that came along. At last he saw one rowed by two men, with a third sitting in the stern; and had no difficulty in making out, as it came closer, that this was Pierre, who was gazing at the castle.
Presently he saw him suddenly clap his hands, and speak to the rowers. These did not look up, but continued to row on in the same leisurely way as before; nor did Pierre again glance at the castle.
Satisfied that his signal had been observed, Philip withdrew it, but continued to watch the boat. It went half a mile higher up, then turned and floated quietly down the stream again. When he had seen it pass the bridge, he threw himself down on the couch.
"There is nothing more for me to do," he said. "The matter is in Pierre's hands, now."
He listened for a time to the tramp of a sentry, backwards and forwards outside his door; and then fell off to sleep, from which he did not awake until he heard the bars withdrawn, and the key turned in the lock. Then a man accompanied by two soldiers entered, and placed a chicken, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread on the table.
"Monsieur D'Estanges sends this, with his compliments," he said; and then Philip was again left alone.
Two hours after it became dark he thought he heard a confused sound, as of the trampling of a number of horsemen in the courtyard of the castle. He went to the door and, placing his ear against it, was convinced that he was not mistaken.
"That looks as if an expedition were about to start somewhere," he said. "If they are bound for Nerac, they will arrive there too late; for the queen will, by this time, be setting out. They cannot intend to scale the walls tonight, and the gates will have been shut long ago. They are probably going into ambush, somewhere near, so as to ride in in the morning.
"I wish I could be certain they are bound in that direction. There was certainly no idea of an expedition this morning, but it is possible that the messenger with the order for the arrest of the queen and prince may have arrived this afternoon, and the governor is losing no time.
"I trust it is so, and not that news has come, from some spy at Nerac, that she will leave the place tonight. If it is so, this party may be setting out to strengthen the guards on the river; or to occupy the roads by which she would travel, were her purpose to join the seneschal.
"I trust that Pierre and the others are on the alert, and not wasting their time in thinking about me; and that, if this troop make along the river, they will ride to warn the queen in time. Hearing nothing, she will assume that the road is clear, and that she can go on fearlessly.
"It is enough to drive one mad, being cooped up here when the whole success of the cause is at stake."
The character of the sentry's walk had changed. He had been relieved some four hours before, and his walk at times ceased, as if he were leaning against the wall to rest himself, while at times he gave an impatient stamp with his feet.
"I expect they have forgotten to relieve him," Philip said to himself. "If a strong body has gone out, that might very well be."
Another half hour passed, and then he heard steps ascending the stone staircase, and the sentry exclaimed angrily: "Sapristie, comrade, I began to think I was going to be kept all night at my post, and that everyone had ridden out with that party that started, half an hour ago.
"Now, then, the orders are: 'Permit no one to approach. Refuse even to allow officers to visit the prisoner, without a special order of the governor.' That is all.
"Now I am off for a tankard of spiced wine, which I think I have earned well, for it is a good hour after my time of relief."
Then Philip heard his footsteps descending the stairs, while the man who had relieved him walked briskly up and down in front of the door. In a minute or two he stopped, then Philip turned with a start from the window at which he was standing, as he heard through the keyhole a loud whisper: "Monsieur Philip, are you asleep? It is I!"
"Why, Pierre!" he exclaimed, running to the door and putting his mouth to the keyhole; "how did you come here?"
"I will tell you that later, master. The thing is now to get you out. The bolts here are easy enough to draw, but this lock puzzles me. I have brought up two thin saws and an auger, and thought to cut round it; but there is a plate of iron outside."
"And there is one inside too, Pierre. How about the hinges, Pierre?"
"There is no doing anything with them, master. The ironwork goes right across the door. There is nothing for it, but to cut right round the iron plate."
"That won't take very long, if the saws are good, Pierre."
Philip heard a rasping sound and, in a short time, the auger passed through the woodwork. Two other holes adjoining the first were soon made, and then the end of a saw was pushed through.
"If you can make a hole large enough at the bottom of the plate, Pierre, and pass me the other saw through, I can work that way to meet you."
"It would take too long to make, sir. I have plenty of oil, and it won't take me long to saw round the plate. I only brought the second saw in case the first should break. But this oak is pretty nearly as hard as iron."
It took over an hour's work before the cut was complete. When it was nearly finished, Pierre said: "Be ready to seize the piece that is cut out, as soon as I am through with it, master; otherwise it may fall down, as the door opens, and make a clatter that will be heard all over the castle."
As the last piece was sawn through Philip pressed the door and, as it opened, seized the portion cut out, drew it backward, and laid it gently on the stone floor. Then he rose, and grasped Pierre's hand.
"My brave Pierre, you have accomplished what I thought was an impossibility. Now, what is the next thing to be done?"
"The next thing is to unwind this rope from my body. It is lucky I am so lean that it did not make me look bulky. It is not very thick, but it is new and strong, and there are knots every two feet. Roger is waiting for us below, in a boat."
"Where is Jacques?"
"Jacques has ridden off. He learned, before sunset, that orders had been issued for the troops to assemble. He and Roger had taken the four horses beyond the walls, an hour after you were arrested; and had left them at a farmer's, a mile away. So he arranged with me that he should follow the troop on foot; which he could do, as there are footmen as well as horse in the party that has gone out. Then, as soon as he discovered which way they were going, he would slip off and make for the farmhouse and mount. If they were bound for Nerac, he will wait for us at the point on the other side of the river. If they follow the river down, he will ride at full speed, make a circuit, and warn the queen of the danger. He will have plenty of time to do that, as the column will have to move at the pace of the infantry."
"That is a load off my mind, Pierre."
While they were speaking they had unwound the rope, fastened one end to the battlement, and lowered the other down.
"I will go first, master. I am the lightest, and will steady the rope for you, from below."
In two or three minutes Philip felt that the rope was no longer tight, and at once swung himself over and lowered himself down. The water washed the foot of the wall, and he stepped directly into the boat; which Roger was keeping in its place with a pole, while Pierre held the rope. An exclamation of thankfulness broke from the two men, as his feet touched the gunwale of the boat; and then, without a word, Roger began to pole the boat along against the tide, keeping close to the foot of the wall.
Once fairly beyond the castle, the pole was laid in and the two men took the oars, and the boat shot across the river. Then they rowed up under the opposite bank, until a voice from above them said: "Is all well--is Monsieur Philip with you?"
"All is well, Jacques," Philip exclaimed, delighted; for the fact that his follower was there showed that the troops had gone in the direction that did not threaten the safety of the queen.
They leapt ashore and pushed the boat off, to allow it to float down with the stream.
It was a mile to the spot where the horses had been left. On the way, Philip heard how his escape had been effected.
"I saw you go out from the town, monsieur; and could not, for the life of me, make out what was going to happen. I did not know the gentleman you were walking with, but I recognized the two in front of you as the officers of the troop that had questioned us, near Bazas. One of them was talking angrily to the other. As it seemed to me that you were going willingly, and not as a prisoner; and especially as you were going out of the town, I thought that it was my business to wait until you returned.
"I saw, half an hour, later some horsemen coming up the street, and someone said that it was the governor, who had been out with a party. It gave me a bad turn, when I saw you walking as a prisoner in the middle of them. I saw you glance at me, but of course made no sign; and I followed until you entered the castle.
"When I was walking away, I saw a crowd. Pushing forward, I found they were surrounding four soldiers who were carrying a body on their shoulders, and made out at once it was the officer who had been talking so angrily to his companion. Then I understood what had puzzled me before, and what you had gone outside the walls for.
"The rest was easy to guess. The governor had come along, you had been questioned, and had been arrested as a Huguenot. It was evident that no time was to be lost and that, if you were to be got out, it must be done quickly.
"I hurried away to the cabaret where Jacques and Roger were drinking. We talked the matter over, and agreed that the first thing was to get the four horses out of the town. So I went to the inn where you had put up, said I was your servant, paid the reckoning, and took away the horse. Then I got my own and joined the other two, who were mounted and ready. They each took a horse and rode off, settling to leave them at some farmhouse a short distance away, explaining there that the town was so full they could find no room for them.
"Directly they had started, I set off to have a look round the castle. The great thing was to know where they had lodged you. If it was in a cell looking outward, I thought that, knowing I should be searching for you, you would make a signal. If I could see nothing, I determined to accost some servant coming out from the castle; to make acquaintance with him and, over a bottle of wine, to find out in what part of the castle you were lodged.
"On the land side I could see nothing, and then went back and waited till Jacques and Roger returned. Then we took a boat and, as you know, rowed up; and I soon made out your cap outside the wall.
"Then, as we rowed back, we arranged matters. Jacques was to carry out your former orders: find out about the movement of troops, and warn the queen if danger threatened. Roger was to be at the foot of the wall with a boat, as soon as it became dark. I was to undertake to get you out.
"The first thing to do was to get a rope. This I carried to a quiet place on the wall, knotted it, and put it round me under my doublet. Then there was nothing to do but to wait. I went several times to hear if Jacques had any news, and was glad when he told me that most of the troops were ordered to be under arms, at eight o'clock. This would make matters simpler for me for, with numbers of people going in and coming out of the castle, it would be easy to slip in unnoticed.
"As soon as it was dark, Jacques and I went down a lane; and he gave me his steel cap and breast piece, and took my cap in exchange. Then I went up towards the castle. The gates were open, and I was told that they would not be closed until midnight; as so many were coming out and going in, and there was no hostile force anywhere in these parts. Presently, numbers of gentlemen began to arrive with their retainers, and I soon went in with a party of footmen.
"The courtyard was full of men, and I was not long before I found the staircase leading up to the top of the wall, on the river side. I went boldly up and, halfway, found a door partly open. Looking in, I saw that it was evidently used by some gentlemen who had gone down, in haste, to join the party below; so I shut the door and waited. I heard the troops start and guessed, from the quiet that followed, that the greater portion of the garrison had left.
"I felt pretty sure that there would be a sentry at your door, and waited until the time I thought he would be expecting a relief. Then I went up. He was in a mighty hurry to get down, and did not stop to see who I was, or to ask any questions; which was well for him, for I had my knife in my hand, and should have stabbed him before he could utter a cry. Everything went off well, and you know the rest, sir."
"You managed wonderfully, Pierre. I thought over every plan by which you might aid me to escape, but I never thought of anything so simple as this. Nor, indeed, did I see any possible way of your freeing me.
"How are we going to get our horses? The farmer will think that we are a party of thieves."
"They are in an open shed," Jacques said. "I told the farmer that our reason for bringing them out of the town was that you might have to start with orders, any time in the night; and that it would be troublesome getting them out from town stables, and having the gates opened for them to pass out; while, on foot, you could issue from the postern without trouble. I paid him for the corn when I left them."
The horses, indeed, were got out without any stir in the house indicating that its occupants were awakened.
"Give me your sword, Pierre," Philip said, as he mounted. "I trust that we shall meet with no enemies on the road; still we may do so, and I should not like to be unarmed. You have your arquebus."
This had been brought in the boat by Roger, and on landing Pierre had exchanged the steel cap and breast piece for his own cap.
The road to Villeneuve D'Agenois was a cross-country one, and would be impossible to follow in the dark. Consequently, after keeping on the main road for half an hour, they turned off a road to the right, rode until they came to a wood, and there alighted.
"Shall I light a fire, sir?" Pierre asked.
"It is not worth while, Pierre. It must be getting on for midnight now, and we must be in the saddle again, at daybreak. By this time they have, no doubt, found that I have escaped. The first time they send up a man to relieve you, the open door will be noticed. They will certainly make no search tonight, and tomorrow they will have something else to think about; for doubtless some spy at Nerac will, as soon as the gates are open, take the news to the governor's party that the queen has left."
Two hours' brisk ride, in the morning, took them within sight of Villeneuve D'Agenois. Riding across the bridge over the river Lot, he entered the town. The street was full of troops; and three gentlemen, standing at the door of an inn, looked with suspicion on the gay colouring of Philip's costume and, as he alighted, they stepped forward to accost him.
"May I ask who you are, sir?" one said advancing; "and what is your business here?"
"Certainly you may," Philip said, as he dismounted. "My name is Philip Fletcher. I am here at the order of her majesty, the Queen of Navarre; who, I trust, has arrived here safely."
"The queen arrived here three hours since, Monsieur Fletcher; and I may say that she did you the honour to inquire, at once, if a gentleman of your name had arrived."
"I should have met her at the river near Tonneins, but the governor of Agen laid an embargo on me. Yet, thanks to these three faithful fellows, I got safely out of his clutches."
"We shall march in an hour, Monsieur Fletcher and, as soon as the queen is up, I will see that she is acquainted with your coming.
"Allow me to introduce myself, first--Gaston de Rebers. Breakfast is ready in this cottage, and we were about to sit down when we saw you riding up. I shall be glad if you will share it with us. These are my comrades, Messieurs Duvivier, Harcourt, and Parolles."
He then called a sergeant.
"Sergeant, see that Monsieur Fletcher's servant and men-at-arms have a good meal."
"I think they must want it," Philip said. "They have been so busy, in my service, that I doubt if they have eaten since breakfast yesterday. I myself supped well, thanks to the courtesy of Monsieur D'Estanges, who was good enough to send up an excellent capon, and a bottle of wine to my cell."
"You know Monsieur D'Estanges?" Gaston de Rebers asked courteously. "He is a gentleman of high repute and, though connected with the Guises, he is said to be opposed to them in their crusade against us."
"I had only the honour of meeting him yesterday," Philip said, as they sat down to table; "but he behaved like a true gentleman, and did me the honour of being my second, in an unfortunate affair into which I was forced."
"Who was your opponent, may I ask, sir?"
"Count Raoul de Fontaine."
"A doughty swordsman!" Gaston de Rebers exclaimed; "but one of our bitterest opponents in this province. You are fortunate, indeed, to have escaped without a serious wound; for he has been engaged in many duels, and but few of his opponents have escaped with their lives."
"He will neither persecute you, nor fight more duels," Philip said quietly; "for I had the misfortune to kill him."
The others looked at him with astonishment.
"Do I understand rightly, Monsieur Fletcher, that you have slain Raoul de Fontaine in a duel?"
"That is the case," Philip replied. "Monsieur D'Estanges, as I have said, acted as my second. Count Louis de Fontaine acted for his cousin."
"You will pardon my having asked you the question again," De Rebers said; "but really, it seemed well-nigh impossible that a gentleman who, as I take it, can yet be scarcely of age, should have slain Raoul de Fontaine."
"I lack four years, yet, of being of age," Philip said; "for it will be another month before I am seventeen. But I have had good teachers, both English and French; and our games and exercises, at school, naturally bring us forward, in point of strength and stature, in comparison with your countrymen of the same age. Still, doubtless, it was as much due to good fortune as to skill that I gained my success.
"I assuredly had no desire to kill him; the less so because, to a certain extent, the duel was of my making. There was, as it seemed to me, no choice between fighting him, and being denounced by him as a spy. Therefore when he accosted me roughly, I took the matter up hotly, and there was nothing for it but an encounter. As I have said, I meant only to wound him; but his skill and his impetuosity were so great that I was forced, in self defence, to run him through.
"After all, I gained nothing by the duel; for the governor, with a troop of horse, came up just as it concluded, and as I could give no satisfactory account of myself, I was hauled off a prisoner to the castle."
"And how did you escape thence?" Gaston asked.
Philip gave an account of the manner in which his servant had rescued him.
"Parbleu! You are fortunate in your servant! Would that so shrewd a knave-- "But there, the trumpets are sounding. I will take you at once to the queen, who is doubtless ready to mount."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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13
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: At Laville.
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The queen was standing at the door of the house where she had lain down for a few hours' rest, after her arrival. The prince was standing beside her.
"Here is our English friend, mother," he exclaimed, running forward to meet Philip.
"Welcome, Monsieur Fletcher. When we found that you were not here, on our arrival last night, we feared that some evil had befallen you."
"Monsieur Fletcher is well able to take care of himself, prince. He has been having adventures enough," Gaston de Rebers said.
"You must tell me about them as we ride," the prince said. "I love adventures, Monsieur Fletcher."
They had now reached the queen.
"I am glad to see you, Monsieur Fletcher. Of course, it was in one way a relief to us, when we crossed the river and did not find you there; for I was sure you would have been there to give us warning, had there been danger on the way; but I thought you might come in any case, and when we found that you had not arrived here before us, I was afraid that something might have befallen you."
"I have had some slight troubles, your majesty; and to my great regret, I was unable to meet you at the passage of the river. I should have been here long before daylight, but we were unable to find the road in the dark, and had to wait until we could inquire the way."
"Monsieur Fletcher is pleased to say that he has had some slight troubles, madame," Gaston said; "but as the troubles included the slaying in a duel of Raoul de Fontaine, one of the bitterest enemies of our faith, and moreover a noted duellist; and an escape from the castle of Agen, where he was confined as a suspected Huguenot and spy, the term slight does not very aptly describe them."
"What!" A tall soldierly old man, standing next to the queen, exclaimed. "Do you mean to say, De Rebers, that Monsieur Fletcher has killed Raoul de Fontaine in a duel?
"If so, I congratulate your majesty. He was a bitter persecutor of the Huguenots, and one of the hottest headed and most troublesome nobles in the province. Moreover, he can put a hundred and fifty men into the field; and although his cousin Louis, who is his heir, is also Catholic, he is a man of very different kind, and is honoured by Huguenot and Catholic alike. But how this gentleman could have killed so notable a swordsman is more than I can understand. He looks, if you will pardon my saying so, a mere youth."
"He rode beside Francois de la Noue in the battle of Saint Denis, seneschal," the queen said; "and as he was chosen by my cousin Conde, and Admiral Coligny, for the difficult and dangerous enterprise of carrying a communication to me, it is clear that, whatever his years, he is well fitted to act a man's part."
"That is so," the seneschal said heartily. "I shall be glad to talk to you again, sir; but at present, madame, it is time to mount. The troops are mustering, and we have a long ride before us.
"If you will lead the way with the infantry at once, Monsieur de Rebers, we will follow as soon as we are mounted. We must go your pace, but as soon as we start I will send a party to ride a mile ahead of you, and see that the roads are clear."
At starting, the queen rode with the prince and the seneschal at the head of the mounted party, some two hundred and fifty strong; and behind followed the noblemen and gentlemen who had come with her, and those who had accompanied the seneschal. Philip, who knew no one, rode near the rear of this train, behind which followed the armed retainers.
In a short time a gentleman rode back through the party.
"Monsieur Fletcher," he said, when he reached Philip, "the prince has asked me to say that it is his wish that you shall ride forward, and accompany him."
Philip turned into the field, and rode to the head of the party. The prince, who was looking round, at once reined in his horse and took his place beside him.
"Now, Monsieur Philip, you must tell me all about it. I am tired of hearing consultations about roads and Catholic forces. I want to hear a full account of your adventures, just as you told me the tale of your journey to Nerac."
During the course of the day, several parties of gentlemen joined the little force. So well organized were the Huguenots that, during the last two or three days, the news had passed from mouth to mouth throughout the province for all to assemble, if possible, at points indicated to them; and all knew the day on which the seneschal would march north from Villeneuve. Yet so well was the secret kept, that the Catholics remained in total ignorance of the movement. Consequently, at every village there were accessions of force awaiting the seneschal, and parties of from ten to a hundred rode up and joined them on the march.
After marching twenty miles, they halted at the foot of a chain of hills, their numbers having been increased during the day to over twelve hundred men. The queen and her son found rough accommodation in a small village, the rest bivouacked round it.
At midnight three hundred cavalry and two hundred footmen started across the hills, so as to come down upon Bergerac and seize the bridge across the Dordogne; then at daylight the rest of the force marched. On reaching the river they found that the bridge had been seized without resistance. Three hundred gentlemen and their retainers, of the province of Perigord, had assembled within half a mile of the other side of the bridge, and had joined the party as they came down. A Catholic force of two hundred men, in the town, had been taken by surprise and captured, for the most part in their beds.
The queen had issued most stringent orders that there was to be no unnecessary bloodshed; and the Catholic soldiers, having been stripped of their arms and armour, which were divided among those of the Huguenots who were ill provided, were allowed to depart unharmed the next morning, some fifteen gentlemen being retained as prisoners. Three hundred more Huguenots rode into Bergerac in the course of the day.
The footmen marched forward in the afternoon, and were directed to stop at a village, twelve miles on. As the next day's journey would be a long one, the start was again made early; and late in the afternoon the little army, which had been joined by two hundred more in the course of the day, arrived within sight of Perigueux. Five hundred horsemen had ridden forward, two hours before, to secure the bridge.
The seneschal had, after occupying Bergerac, placed horsemen on all the roads leading north, to prevent the news from spreading; and Perigueux, a large and important town, was utterly unprepared for the advent of an enemy. A few of the troops took up arms and made a hasty resistance, but were speedily dispersed. The greater portion fled, at the first alarm, to the castle, where D'Escars himself was staying. He had, only two days before, sent off a despatch to the court declaring that he had taken his measures so well that not a Huguenot in the province would take up arms.
His force was still superior to that of the horsemen, but his troops were disorganized; and many, in their flight, had left their arms behind them, and he was therefore obliged to remain inactive in the citadel; and his mortification and fury were complete, when the seneschal's main body marched through the town and halted, for the night, a league beyond it.
The next day they crossed the Dronne at Brantome, and then turned to the west. The way was now open to them and, with two thousand men, the seneschal felt capable of coping with any force that could be got together to attack them. A halt was made for a day, to rest the men and horses and, four days later, after crossing the Perigord hills, and keeping ten miles south of Angouleme, they came within sight of Cognac. Messages had already been sent on to announce their coming and, five miles from the town, they were met by the Prince of Conde and the Admiral.
"Your first message lifted a load from our minds, madame," the Admiral said. "The last news I received of you was that you were still at Nerac, and as an intercepted despatch informed us that orders had been sent from the court for your immediate arrest, we were in great uneasiness about you."
"We left Nerac just in time," the queen said; "for, as we have learned, the governor of Agen, with a strong force, left that city to effect our capture at the very hour that we started on our flight."
"Did you know where you would find us, madame? We sent off a message by trusty hands, but whether the gentleman reached you we know not."
"Indeed he did, and has since rendered us good service; and Henri here has taken so great a fancy to him that, since we left Villeneuve, he has always ridden by his side."
After Conde had presented the gentlemen who had ridden out with him to the queen, and the seneschal in turn had introduced the most important nobles and gentlemen to the prince and Admiral, they proceeded on their way.
"Have you taken Cognac, cousin?" the queen asked Conde.
"No, madame; the place still holds out. We have captured Saint Jean d'Angely, but Cognac is obstinate, and we have no cannon with which to batter its walls."
As soon, however, as the queen arrived at the camp, a summons was sent in in her name and, influenced by this, and by the sight of the reinforcements she had brought with her, Cognac at once surrendered.
As soon as Philip rode into camp, he was greeted joyously by his cousin Francois.
"We did not think, when we parted outside Niort, that we were going to be separated so long," he said, after they had shaken hands heartily. "I was astonished indeed when, two days later, I met the Admiral outside the walls of the town again, to hear that you had gone off to make your way through to Nerac.
"I want to hear all your adventures. We have not had much fighting. Niort made but a poor resistance, and Parthenay surrendered without striking a blow; then I went with the party that occupied Fontenay. The Catholics fought stoutly there, but we were too strong for them. Those three places have given La Rochelle three bulwarks to the north.
"Then we started again from La Rochelle, and marched to Saint Jean d'Angely, which we carried by storm. Then we came on here, and I believe we shall have a try at Saintes or Angouleme. When we have captured them, we shall have a complete cordon of strong places round La Rochelle.
"We expect La Noue down from Brittany every hour, with a force he has raised there and in Normandy; and we have heard that a large force has gathered in Languedoc, and is advancing to join us; and all is going so well that I fancy, if Monsieur d'Anjou does not come to us before long, we shall set out in search of him.
"So much for our doings; now sit down comfortably in my tent, and tell me all about your journey. I see you have brought Pierre and your two men back with you."
"You would be nearer the truth, if you said that Pierre and the two men had brought me back," Philip laughed; "for if it had not been for them, I should probably have lost my head the day after the queen left Nerac."
"That is a good beginning to the story, Philip; but tell me the whole in proper order, as it happened."
Philip told his story at length, and his cousin was greatly pleased at the manner in which he had got through his various dangers and difficulties.
The queen remained but a few hours with the army, after Cognac had opened its gates. After a long conference with the Prince of Conde, the Admiral, and the other leaders, she left under a strong escort for La Rochelle; leaving the young prince with the army, of which he was given the nominal command, as his near connection with the royal family, and the fact that he was there as the representative of his mother, strengthened the Huguenot cause; which could no longer be described, by the agents of the French court with foreign powers, as a mere rising of slight importance, the work only of Conde, Coligny, and a few other ambitious and turbulent nobles.
"I asked my mother to appoint you as one of the gentlemen who are to ride with me, Monsieur Fletcher," the young prince said to Philip, when he saw him on the day after the queen's departure; "but she and the Admiral both said no. It is not because they do not like you, you know; and the Admiral said that he could very well trust me with you. But when my mother told him that I had ridden with you for the last four days, he said that it would cause jealousy, when there were so many young French nobles and gentlemen in the camp, if I were to choose you in preference to them as my companion; you being only French on your mother's side, and having an English name. I begged them to let me tell you this, for I would rather ride with you than with any of them; and I should not like you to think that I did not care to have you with me, any more.
"I think it hard. They call me the commander of this army, and I can't have my own way even in a little thing like this. Some day, Monsieur Fletcher, I shall be able to do as I please, and then I hope to have you near me."
"I am greatly obliged to your Highness," Philip said; "but I am sure the counsel that has been given you is right, and that it is far better for you to be in the company of French gentlemen. I have come over here solely to do what little I can to aid my mother's relations, and those oppressed for their faith; and though I am flattered by your wish that I should be near you, I would rather be taking an active share in the work that has to be done."
"Yes, the Admiral said that. He said that, while many a youth would be most gratified at being selected to be my companion, he was sure that you would far rather ride with your cousin, Monsieur De Laville; and that it would be a pity to keep one, who bids fair to be a great soldier, acting the part of nurse to me. It was not quite civil of the Admiral; for I don't want a nurse of that kind, and would a thousand times rather ride as an esquire to you, and take share in your adventures. But the Admiral is always plain spoken; still, as I know well that he is good and wise, and the greatest soldier in France, I do not mind what he says."
Angouleme and Saintes were both captured without much difficulty; and then, moving south from Angouleme, the army captured Pons and Blaye, and thus possessed themselves of a complete semicircle of towns round La Rochelle.
A short time afterwards, they were joined by a strong force of Huguenots from Languedoc and Provence. These had marched north, without meeting with any enemy strong enough to give them battle; and when they joined the force under the Admiral, they raised its strength to a total of three thousand cavalry, and twenty thousand infantry.
By this time the royal army of the Prince d'Anjou, having united with that raised by the Guises, had advanced to Poitiers. The season was now far advanced. Indeed, winter had already set in. Both armies were anxious to fight; but the royalist leaders, bearing in mind the desperate valour that the Huguenots had displayed at Saint Denis, were unwilling to give battle, unless in a position that afforded them every advantage for the movements of their cavalry, in which they were greatly superior in strength to the Huguenots.
The Admiral was equally determined not to throw away the advantage he possessed in his large force of infantry; and after being in sight of each other for some time, and several skirmishes having taken place, both armies fell back into winter quarters--the severity of the weather being too great to keep the soldiers, without tents or other shelter, in the field.
During these operations Philip and his cousin had again ridden with Francois de la Noue, who had rejoined the army after a most perilous march, in which he and the small body of troops he had brought from Brittany had succeeded in making their way through the hostile country, and in crossing the fords of the intervening rivers, after hard fighting and considerable loss.
As soon as the intense cold had driven both armies to the shelter of the towns, the count said to Francois: "You and Philip had better march at once, with your troop, to Laville. It will cost far less to maintain them at the chateau, than elsewhere; indeed the men can, for the most part, return to their farms.
"But you must be watchful, Francois, now that a portion of Anjou's army is lying at Poitiers. They may, should the weather break, make raids into our country; and as Laville is the nearest point to Poitiers held for us, they might well make a dash at it."
The countess welcomed them back heartily, but expressed great disappointment that the season should have passed without the armies meeting.
"It was the same last time. It was the delay that ruined us. With the best will in the world, there are few who can afford to keep their retainers in the field for month after month; and the men, themselves, are longing to be back to their farms and families.
"We shall have to keep a keen lookout, through the winter. Fortunately our harvest here is a good one, and the granaries are all full; so that we shall be able to keep the men-at-arms on through the winter, without much expense. I feel more anxious about the tenants than about ourselves."
"Yes, mother, there is no doubt there is considerable risk of the enemy trying to beat us up; and we must arrange for signals, so that our people may have time to fall back here. Philip and I will think it over. We ought to be able to contrive some scheme between us."
"Do so, Francois. I feel safe against surprise here; but I never retire to rest, without wondering whether the night will pass without the tenants' farms and stacks being set ablaze, and they and their families slaughtered on their own hearth stones."
"I suppose, Francois," Philip said to him as they stood at the lookout, next morning, "there is not much doubt which way they would cross the hills, coming from Poitiers. They would be almost sure to come by that road that we travelled by, when we went to Chatillon. It comes down over the hills, two miles to the west.
"There it is, you see. You just catch sight of it, as it crosses that shoulder. Your land does not go as far as that, does it?"
"No, it only extends a mile in that direction, and four miles in the other, and five miles out into the plain."
"Are there many Huguenots on the other side of the hill?"
"Yes, there are some; but as you know, our strength is in the other direction. What are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking that we might make an arrangement with someone, in a village some seven or eight miles beyond the hills, to keep a boy on watch night and day; so that, directly a body of Catholic troops were seen coming along, he should start at full speed to some place a quarter of a mile away, and there set light to a beacon piled in readiness.
"We, on our part, would have a watch set on the top of this hill behind us; at a spot where the hill on which the beacon was placed would be visible. Then at night the fire, and by day the smoke would serve as a warning. Our watchman would, at once, fire an arquebus and light another beacon; which would be the signal for all within reach to come here, as quickly as possible.
"At each farmhouse a lookout must, of course, be kept night and day. I should advise the tenants to send up as much of their corn and hay as possible, at once; and that the cattle should be driven up close to the chateau, at night."
"I think that would be a very good plan, Philip. I am sure that among our men-at-arms must be some who have acquaintances and friends on the other side of the hill. It will be best that they should make the arrangements for the firing of the signal beacon. We might even station one of them in a village there, under the pretence that he had been knocked up with the cold and hardship, and was desirous of staying quietly with his friends. He would watch at night and could sleep by day, as his friends would waken him at once, if any troops passed along."
The same afternoon, one of the men-at-arms prepared to start for a village, eight miles beyond the hill.
"There is no rising ground near it," he said to Francois, "that could well be seen from the top of the hill here; but about half a mile away from the village there is an old tower. It is in ruins, and has been so ever since I can remember. I have often climbed to its top, when I was a boy. At this time of year, there is no chance of anyone visiting the place. I could collect wood and pile it, ready for a fire, without any risk whatever. I can point out the exact direction of the tower from the top of the hill, so that the watchers would know where to keep their attention fixed."
"Well, you had better go up with us at once, then, so that I shall be able to instruct the men who will keep watch. We will build a hut up there for them, and keep three men on guard; so that they will watch four hours apiece, day and night."
The distance was too great to make out the tower; but as the soldier knew its exact position, he drove two stakes into the ground, three feet apart.
"Now," he said, "a man, looking along the line of the tops of these stakes, will be looking as near as may be at the tower."
The tenants were all visited, and were warned to keep a member of their family always on the watch for fire, or smoke, from the little hut at the top of the hill. As soon as the signal was seen, night or day, they were to make their way to the chateau, driving their horses and most valuable stock before them, and taking such goods as they could remove.
"You had better let two horses remain with their harness on, night and day; and have a cart in readiness, close to your house. Then, when the signal is given, the women will only have to bundle their goods and children into the cart; while the men get their arms, and prepare to drive in their cattle.
"The Catholics will show no mercy to any of the faith they may find; while as to the chateau, it can make a stout resistance, and you may be sure that it will not be long before help arrives, from Niort or La Rochelle."
Arrangements were also made, with the Huguenot gentry in the neighbourhood, that they should keep a lookout for the signal; and on observing it light other beacons, so that the news could be spread rapidly over that part of the country. As soon as the fires were seen, the women and children were to take to the hills, the cattle to be driven off by the boys, and the men to arm themselves and mount.
"Of course," the countess said, at a council where all these arrangements were made, "we must be guided by the number sent against us. If, by uniting your bands together, you think you can raise the siege, we will sally out as soon as you attack and join you; but do not attack, unless you think that our united forces can defeat them. If we could defeat them, we should save your chateaux and farms from fire and ruin.
"If you find they are too strong to attack, you might harass parties sent out to plunder, and so save your houses, while you despatch men to ask for help from the Admiral. If, however, they are so strong in cavalry that you could not keep the field against them, I should say it were best that you should ride away, and join any party advancing to our assistance."
A month passed quietly. Every day, a soldier carrying wine and provisions rode to the hut that had been built, on the crest of the hill three miles away.
Eight o'clock one evening, towards the end of January, the alarm bell rang from the lookout tower. Philip and his cousin ran up.
"There is the beacon alight at the hut, count," the lookout said.
"Light this bonfire then, Jules, and keep the alarm bell going.
"To horse, men!" he cried, looking over the parapet. "Bring out our horses with your own."
The men had been previously told off in twos and threes to the various farmhouses, to aid in driving in the cattle and, as soon as they were mounted, each party dashed off to its destination. From the watchtower four or five fires could be seen blazing in the distance, showing that the lookouts had everywhere been vigilant, and that the news had already been carried far and wide.
Francois and Philip rode up to the hut on the hill.
"There is no mistake, I hope," Francois said as, a quarter of a mile before they reached it, they met the three men-at-arms coming down.
"No, count, it was exactly in a line with the two stakes and, I should think, about the distance away that you told us the tower was. It has died down now."
The beacon fire near the hut had been placed fifty yards below the crest of the hill, so that its flame should not be seen from the other side. This had been at Philip's suggestion.
"If it is put where they can see it," he said, "they will feel sure that it is in answer to that fire behind them, and will ride at full speed, so as to get here before the news spreads. If they see no answering fire, they may suppose that the first was but an accident. They may even halt at the village, and send off some men to see what has caused the fire; or if they ride straight through, they will be at some little distance before Simon has got to the fire and lighted it, and may not care to waste time sending back. At any rate, it is better that they should see no flame up here."
They had often talked the matter over, and had agreed that, even if the column was composed only of cavalry, it would be from an hour and a half to two hours before it arrived at the chateau, as it would doubtless have performed a long journey; while if there were infantry with them, they would take double that time.
Directly an alarm had been given, two of the youngest and most active of the men-at-arms had set off, to take post at the point where the road crossed the hill. Their orders were to lie still till all had passed, and then to make their way back along the hill, at full speed, to inform the garrison of the strength and composition of the attacking force.
When they returned to the chateau, people were already pouring in from the neighbouring farms; the women staggering under heavy burdens, and the men driving their cattle before them, or leading strings of horses. The seneschal and the retainers were at work, trying to keep some sort of order; directing the men to drive the cattle into the countess's garden, and the women to put down their belongings in the courtyard, where they would be out of the way; while the countess saw that her maids spread rushes, thickly, along by the walls of the rooms that were to be given up to the use of the women and children.
Cressets had been lighted in the courtyard, but the bonfire was now extinguished so that the enemy, on reaching the top of the hill, should see nothing to lead them to suppose that their coming was known. The alarm bell had ceased sending its loud summons into the air; but there was still a variety of noises that were almost deafening: the lowing of cattle, disturbed and angered at the unaccustomed movement; mingled with the shouts of men, the barking of dogs, and the crying of frightened children.
"I will aid the seneschal in getting things into order down here, Francois," Philip said, "while you see to the defence of the walls, posting the men, and getting everything in readiness to give them a reception. I will look after the postern doors, and see that the planks across the moats are removed, and the bolts and bars in place."
Francois nodded and, bidding the men-at-arms, who had already returned, stable their horses and follow him, he proceeded to the walls.
"This is enough to make one weep," Pierre said, as the oxen poured into the courtyard, and then through the archway that led to the countess's garden.
"What is enough, Pierre? To see all these poor women and children, who are likely to behold their homesteads in flames, before many hours?"
"Well, I did not mean that, master; though I don't say that is not sad enough, in its way; but that is the fortune of war, as it were. I meant the countess's garden being destroyed. The beasts will trample down all the shrubs and, in a week, it will be no better than a farmyard."
Philip laughed.
"That is of very little consequence, Pierre. A week's work, with plenty of hands, will set that right again. Still, no doubt it will vex the countess, who is very fond of her garden."
"A week!" Pierre said. "Why, sir, it will take years and years before those yew hedges grow again."
"Ah well, Pierre, if the countess keeps a roof over her head she may be well content, in these stormy times. You had better go and see if she and her maids have got those chambers ready for the women. If they have, get them all in as quickly as you can. These beasts come into the courtyard with such a rush that some of the people will be trampled upon, if we do not get them out of the way."
"Most of them have gone into the hall, sir. The countess gave orders that all were to go in as they came; but I suppose the servants have been too busy to tell the latecomers. I will get the rest in, at once."
As soon as the farmers and their men had driven the animals into the garden, they went up to the walls, all having brought their arms in with them. The boys were left below, to look after the cattle.
"Nothing can be done tonight," Philip said to some of the men. "The cattle will come to no harm and, as the boys cannot keep them from breaking down the shrubs, they had best leave them alone, or they will run the risk of getting hurt. The boys will do more good by taking charge of the more valuable horses, as they come in, and fastening them up to the rings round the wall here. The cart horses must go in with the cattle."
Several gentlemen, with their wives and families, came in among the fugitives. Their houses were not in a condition to withstand a siege, and it had long been settled that they should come into the chateau, if danger threatened. The ladies were taken to the countess's apartments, while the gentlemen went to aid Francois in the defence.
An hour and a half after the lads returned to the castle, the men-at-arms who had been sent to watch the road came in. They reported that the column approaching consisted of about three hundred mounted men, and fifteen hundred infantry.
Roger had, all this time, been standing by the side of his saddled horse. Philip hurried to him, as soon as the men came in.
"Three hundred horsemen and fifteen hundred foot! Ride at full speed to La Rochelle. Tell the Admiral the numbers, and request him, in the name of the countess, to come to her assistance. Beg him to use all speed, for no doubt they will attack hotly, knowing that aid will soon be forthcoming to us."
Roger leapt to his saddle, and galloped out through the gate. A man had been placed there to mark off the names of all who entered, from the list that had been furnished him. Philip took it, and saw that a cross had been placed against every name. He therefore went up to the top of the wall.
"The tenants are all in, Francois!"
"Very well, then, I will have the drawbridge raised and the gates closed. I am glad, indeed, that we have had time given us for them all to enter. My mother would have been very grieved, if harm had come to any of them.
"I have everything in readiness, here. I have posted men at every window and loophole, where the house rises from the side of the moat. All the rest are on the walls. I will take command here by the gate and along the wall. Do you take charge of the defence of the house, itself. However, you may as well stay here with me, until we have had our first talk with them. Pass the word along the walls for perfect silence."
In another half hour they heard a dull sound. Presently it became louder, and they could distinguish, above the trampling of horses, the clash of steel. It came nearer and nearer, until within two or three hundred yards of the chateau, then it ceased. Presently a figure could be made out, creeping quietly forward until it reached the edge of the moat. It paused a moment, and then retired.
"He has been sent to find out whether the drawbridge is down," Francois whispered to Philip. "We shall see what they will do now."
There was a pause for ten minutes, then a heavy mass of men could be seen approaching.
"Doubtless they will have planks with them, to push across the moat," Philip said.
"We will let them come within twenty yards," Francois replied, "then I think we shall astonish them."
Believing that all in the chateau were asleep, and that even the precaution of keeping a watchman on the walls had been neglected, the assailants advanced eagerly. Suddenly, the silence on the walls was broken by a voice shouting, "Give fire!" And then, from along the whole face of the battlements, deadly fire from arquebuses was poured into them. A moment later half a dozen fireballs were flung into the column, and a rain of crossbow bolts followed.
Shouts of astonishment, rage, and pain broke from the mass and, breaking up, they recoiled in confusion; while the shouts of the officers, urging them forward, could be heard. The heavy fire from the walls was, however, too much for men who had expected no resistance, but had moved forward believing that they had but to sack and plunder; and in two or three minutes from the first shot being fired, all who were able to do so had retired; though a number of dark figures, dotting the ground, showed how deadly had been the fire of the besieged.
"They will do nothing more tonight, I fancy," one of the Huguenot gentlemen standing by the two friends remarked. "They expected to take you entirely by surprise. Now that they have failed in doing so, they will wait until morning to reconnoitre, and decide on the best points of attack. Besides, no doubt they have marched far, and are in need of rest before renewing the assault."
"Well, gentlemen," Francois said, "it would be needless for you all to remain here; and when they once begin in earnest, there will be but slight opportunity of rest until relief reaches us. Therefore, I beg you to go below. You will find a table laid in the hall, and two chambers roughly prepared for you; and you can get a few hours' sleep.
"I myself, with my own men, will keep watch. Should they muster for another attack, my horn will summon you again to the wall.
"Philip, will you go down and see that these gentlemen have all that they require? You can dismiss all save our own men from guard, on the other side of the house. The tenants and their men will all sleep in the hall."
Philip went down, and presided at the long table. The gentlemen were seated near him while, below them, the tenants and other followers took their places. There was enough cold meat, game, and pies for all; and when they had finished, the defenders of the wall came down, half at a time, for a meal.
When the gentlemen had retired to their apartments, and the farmers and their men had thrown themselves down upon the rushes strewn on each side of the hall, Philip went up to join Francois.
"Any sign of them, Francois?"
"None at all. I expect they are thoroughly tired out, and are lying down just as they halted. There is no fear that we shall hear any more of them, tonight."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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14
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: The Assault On The Chateau.
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The night passed quietly. Just as the sun rose a trumpet sounded, calling for a truce; and two knights in armour rode forward, followed by an esquire carrying a white flag. They halted thirty or forty yards from the gate; and the countess herself came up on to the wall, when the knight raised his vizor.
"Countess Amelie de Laville, I summon you, in the name of his majesty the king, to surrender. I have with me an ample force to overcome all resistance; but his gracious majesty, in his clemency, has empowered me to offer to all within the walls their lives; save only that you and your son shall accompany me to Paris, there to be dealt with according to the law, under the accusation of having taken up arms against his most sacred majesty."
"Methinks, sir," the countess said, in a loud clear voice, "that it would have been better had you delayed until this morning, instead of attempting, like a band of midnight thieves, to break into my chateau. I fancy we should have heard but little of his majesty's clemency, had you succeeded in your attempt. I am in arms, not against the king, but against his evil counsellors; the men who persuade him to break his pledged word, and to treat his unoffending subjects as if they were the worst of malefactors. Assuredly their royal highnesses, the Princes of Conde and Navarre, have no thought of opposing his majesty; but desire, above all things, that he should be able to act without pressure from Lorraine or Guise, from pope or King of Spain; and when they lay down their arms, I shall be glad to do so. Did I know that the king himself, of his own mind, had sent you here to summons me, I would willingly accompany you to Paris, to clear myself from any charges brought against me; but as your base attempt, without summons or demand, to break into my chateau last night shows that you can have no authority from his majesty to enter here, I refuse to open my gates; and shall defend this place until the last, against all who may attack it."
The knights rode away. They had, after the rough reception on their arrival, perceived that the countess was determined to defend the chateau, and had only summoned her to surrender as a matter of form.
"I would we had never entered upon this expedition, De Brissac. They told us that the house was but poorly fortified, and we thought we should assuredly carry it last night by surprise; and that by taking this obstinate dame prisoner, burning her chateau, and sweeping all the country round, we should give a much needed lesson to the Huguenots of the district. One could not have expected to find the place crowded with men, and everyone ready with lighted matches and drawn crossbows to receive us. I believe now that that fire we saw, two or three miles in our rear as we came along, was a signal; but even if it were, one would not have given them credit for gathering so promptly to withstand us.
"As for the place itself, it is, as we heard, of no great strength. 'Tis but a modern house, inclosed on three sides with a wall some twenty feet high, and surrounded by a moat of the same width. With our force we should carry it in half an hour. We know that the garrison consists of only fifty men, besides a score or so of grooms and servants."
"So we heard; but I am mistaken if there were not more than double that number engaged on the wall. Still, as you say, there will be no great difficulty in carrying the place. The ladders will be ready in a couple of hours, and De Beauvoir will bring in, from the farmhouses, plenty of planks and beams for throwing bridges across the moat. It is two hours since he set out with the horsemen, so as to catch the Huguenot farmers asleep."
As they returned to the spot where the men were engaged in cooking their breakfast, while some were occupied in constructing ladders from young trees that had been felled for the purpose, a gentleman rode in.
"What is your news, De Villette?"
"The news is bad. De Beauvoir asked me to ride in to tell you that we find the farmhouses completely deserted, and the whole of the cattle and horses have disappeared, as well as the inhabitants. Save for some pigs and poultry, we have not seen a living thing."
"Sapristie! The Huguenot dogs must have slept with one eye open. Either they heard the firing last night, and at once made off; or they must have learned we were coming, and must have gathered in the chateau. Their measures must have been indeed well planned and carried out, for them all to have got the alarm in time to gather here before our arrival.
"I hope that is what they have done, for we reckoned upon carrying off at least a thousand head of cattle, for the use of the army. It was for that, as much as to capture the countess and strike a blow at this hive of Huguenots, that the expedition was arranged. However, if they are all in there, it will save us the trouble of driving them in."
"In that case though, De Brissac, the fifty men will have been reinforced by as many more, at least."
"Ay, maybe by a hundred and fifty, with the farmers and all their hands; but what are a hundred and fifty rustics and fifty men-at-arms, against our force?"
De Brissac had guessed pretty accurately the number of fighting men that could be mustered among the tenants of the countess. The training that they had undergone had, however, made them more formidable opponents than he supposed; and each man was animated by hatred of their persecutors, and a stern determination to fight until the last, in defence of their lives and freedom of worship. They had been mustered at the first dawn of day in the courtyard, their arms inspected, and all deficiencies made up from the armoury.
Fifty men were placed under Philip's orders, for the defence of that portion of the house that rose directly from the edge of the moat. The lower windows were small and strongly barred, and there was little fear of an entrance being forced. The postern gate here had, during the night, been strengthened with stones; and articles of heavy furniture piled against it. A few men were placed at the lower windows; the main body on the first floor, where the casements were large; and the rest distributed at the upper windows, to vex the enemy by their fire, as they approached.
Philip appointed Eustace to take the command of the men at the lower windows; and Roger of those on the upper floor; he, with Jacques, posting himself on the first floor, against which the enemy would attempt to fix their ladders. Great fires were lighted in all the rooms, and cauldrons of water placed over them; and boys with pails stood by these, in readiness to bring boiling water to the windows, when required.
The walls round the courtyard and garden were not of sufficient thickness for fires to be lighted, along the narrow path on which the defenders were posted; but fires were lighted in the courtyard, and boiling water prepared there, in readiness to carry up when the assault began. The Huguenot gentlemen were placed in command, at the various points along the wall most likely to be assailed.
Had the besiegers been provided with cannon, the defence could not have lasted long, for the walls would not have resisted battering by shot; but cannon, in those times, were rare, and were too clumsy and heavy to accompany an expedition requiring to move with speed. For a time, the men-at-arms alone garrisoned the wall; the farmers and their men being occupied in pumping water from the wells and carrying it to the cattle, of which some eight hundred had been driven in. The granaries were opened, and a plentiful supply of food placed in large troughs.
At ten o'clock a trumpet called all the defenders to their posts. The enemy were drawn up in order, and moved towards the house in six columns; two taking their way towards the rear, to attack the house on that side, while the others advanced toward different points on the wall.
Ladders and long planks were carried at the head of each column. As they approached the assailants halted, and the arquebusiers came forward and took their post in line, to cover by their fire the advance of the storming parties.
As soon as these advanced, a heavy fire was opened by the besieged with crossbow and arquebus. The parapet was high and, while they exposed only their heads to fire, and were altogether sheltered while loading, the assailants were completely exposed. Orders were given that the defenders should entirely disregard the fire of the matchlock men, and should direct their aim upon the storming parties. These suffered heavily but, urged forward by their officers, they gained the edge of the moat, pushed the planks across, and placed the ladders; but as fast as these were put into position, they were hurled down again by the defenders who, with long forked sticks, thrust them out from the wall and hurled them backwards; sometimes allowing them to remain until a line of men had climbed up, and then pouring a pail of boiling water over the wall upon them.
The farmers vied with the men-at-arms in the steadiness of the defence, being furious at the sight of columns of smoke which rose in many directions, showing that the cavalry of the besiegers were occupied in destroying their homesteads. Sometimes, when four or five ladders were planted together, the assailants managed to climb up to the level of the parapet; but only to be thrust backward with pikes, and cut down with swords and axes. For two hours the assault continued, and then De Brissac, seeing how heavy was the loss, and how vain the efforts to scale the wall at any point, ordered the trumpeters to sound the retreat; when the besiegers drew off, galled by the fire of the defenders until they were out of range.
The attempts of the two columns which had attacked the house, itself, were attended with no greater success than those of their fellows; their efforts to gain a footing in any of the rooms on the first floor having been defeated, with heavy loss.
The leaders of the assailants held a consultation, after their troops had drawn off.
"It is of no use," De Brissac said, "to repeat the attack on the walls. They are too stoutly defended. It is out of the question for us to think of returning to Poitiers. We undertook to capture the place, to harry the farms, to destroy all the Huguenots, and to return driving in all the cattle for the use of the army. Of all this we have only so far burned the farmhouses, and we have lost something like a couple of hundred men.
"This time, we must try by fire. The men must gather bundles of firewood, and must attack in three columns; the principal against the great gate, the others against the two posterns; the one at the back of the house itself, the other nearest the angle where the wall joins it. If we had time to construct machines for battering the walls, it would be an easy business; but that is out of the question. In a couple of days, at the latest, we shall have them coming out like a swarm of hornets from La Rochelle. It is not likely, when they had all their measures so well prepared, that they omitted to send off word at once to Coligny; and by tomorrow, at noon, we may have Conde and the Admiral upon us. Therefore we must make an end of this, by nightfall.
"Have you any better plans to suggest, gentlemen?"
There was no reply. Several of those present had been wounded, more or less severely; and some terribly bruised, by being hurled back from the ladders as they led the troops to the assault. Five or six of the young nobles, who had joined what they regarded as an expedition likely to meet with but slight resistance, had been killed; and all regretted that they had embarked upon an affair that could bring them but small credit, while they were unprovided with the necessary means for attacking a place so stoutly defended.
De Brissac at once issued orders, and strong parties of soldiers scattered and proceeded to cut down fences and bushes, and to form large faggots. Their movements were observed by the men placed on the summit of the tower, and no doubt was entertained of the intentions of the enemy.
"What do you think we had better do, Philip?" Francois asked, as they stood together at the top of the tower, watching the Catholics at work. "We may shoot a number of them but, if they are determined, they will certainly be able to lay their faggots; and in that case we shall be open to attack at three points, and likely enough they will at the same time renew their attack on the walls."
"That is the most dangerous part of it," Philip said. "We ought to have no difficulty in holding the three entrances. The posterns are narrow, and forty men at each should be able to keep back a host; and this would leave you a hundred and twenty to hold the main gates. But if we have to man the walls, too, the matter would be serious.
"If we had time, we might pull down one of the outbuildings and build a thick wall behind the gates; but in an hour they will be attacking us again."
He stood thinking for a minute or two, and then exclaimed: "I have it, Francois. Let us at once kill a number of the cattle, and pile their carcasses up, two deep, against the gates. They may burn them down if they like, then, but they can do nothing against that pile of flesh; the weight of the carcasses will keep them in a solid mass. At any rate, we might do that at the two posterns. The great gates are, perhaps, too wide and lofty; but if we formed a barricade inside them of, say, three bodies high, a hundred men ought to be able to defend it; and that will leave a hundred for the walls and house."
"That is a capital idea, Philip. We will not lose a moment in carrying it out."
Two of the principal tenants were called up, and told to see to the slaughtering, instantly, of sufficient cattle to pile two deep against the posterns. Calling a number of men together, these at once set about the business.
"We will see to the other barricade ourselves, Philip. That is where the fighting will be."
The entrance behind the gateway was some twenty-five feet in width, and as much in depth, before it entered the courtyard. The bullocks were brought up to the spot, and slaughtered there. The first line were about to be dragged into place, when Philip suggested that they should be skinned.
"What on earth do you want to skin them for, Philip?" Francois asked.
"When they are arranged in a row, I would throw the skins over them again, inside out. The weight of the next row will keep the skins in their places, and it will be impossible for anyone to obtain a footing on that slippery surface, especially if we pour some blood over it."
Francois at once saw the point of the suggestion.
"Excellent, Philip. I wish my brain was as full of ideas as yours is."
The same course was pursued with the other two tiers of carcasses, the hides of the upper row being firmly pegged into the flesh, to prevent their being pulled off. The breastwork was about five feet high, and was absolutely unclimbable.
"It could not be better," Francois said. "A solid work would not be half so difficult to get over. Twenty men here could keep a host at bay."
Another tier of unskinned carcasses was laid down behind the breastwork, for the defenders to stand on; and earth was piled over it, to afford a footing.
They had but just completed their preparations when the trumpet, from above, sounded the signal that the enemy were approaching. All took the posts that they had before occupied. The enemy approached as they had expected, in three bodies; each preceded by a detachment that carried in front of them great faggots, which served as a protection against the missiles of the besieged. Among them were men carrying sacks.
"What can they have there?" Philip asked one of the Huguenot gentlemen.
"I should say it was earth," he replied "Earth?" Philip repeated, puzzled. "What can they want that for?"
"I should think it is to cover the planks thickly, before they lay down the faggots; otherwise the planks would burn, and perhaps fall bodily in the water, before the fire had done its work on the doors."
"No doubt that is it," Philip agreed. "I did not think of that before."
As soon as the heads of the columns approached within a hundred yards, the men with arquebuses opened fire; and those with crossbows speedily followed suit. Four hundred men with arquebuses at once ran forward, until within a short distance of the moat; and opened so heavy a fire, against the defenders of the wall and house, that these were compelled to stoop down under shelter. Some of them would have still gone on firing from the windows, but Philip ordered them to draw back.
"It is of no use throwing away life," he said. "We cannot hope to prevent them planting their faggots, and firing them."
He himself went up into a small turret, partly overhanging the wall and, through a loophole, watched the men at work. The contents of the sacks were emptied out upon the planks, the latter having been first soaked with water, drawn from the moat by a pail one of the men carried. The earth was levelled a foot deep, and then a score of buckets of water emptied over it. Then the faggots were piled against the door. A torch was applied to them and, as soon as this was done, the assailants fell back; the defenders plying them with shot and cross bolts, as soon as they did so.
Philip now paid a hasty visit to the walls. Here the assailants had suffered heavily, before they had planted their faggots; the defenders being better able to return their fire than were those at the windows. In both cases, however, they had succeeded in laying and firing the faggots; although much hindered at the work, by pails of boiling water emptied upon them.
Some ten of the defenders had been shot through the head, as they stood up to fire. Attempts were made, by pouring water down upon the faggots, to extinguish the flames; but the time taken, in conveying the water up from the courtyard, enabled the fire to get such hold that the attempt was abandoned.
"It is just as well," Francois said. "If we could extinguish the fire, we should lose the benefit of the surprise we have prepared for them."
In a quarter of an hour, light flames began to flicker up at the edges of the great gates.
"Do you stay here with me, Philip," Francois said. "Our own band will take post here. They are more accustomed to hand-to-hand fighting. The tenants will guard the wall. Montpace will be in command there.
"Beg De Riblemont to take command at the back of the house. Tell him to send for aid to us, if he is pressed.
"I would put your own three men down in the postern there. I feel sure they can never move that double row of bullocks, but it is as well to make certain; and those three could hold the narrow postern, till help reaches them. Place a boy with them to send off for aid, if necessary.
"Bourdou is stationed behind the other postern, with three men. It will be half an hour before the gates are down, yet."
The two together made a tour of the defences. All was in readiness. The men, after their first success, felt confident that they should beat off their assailants; and even the women, gathered round the great fires in the house and courtyard, with pails in readiness to carry boiling water to the threatened points, showed no signs of anxiety; the younger ones laughing and chatting together, as if engaged in ordinary work.
The countess went round, with her maids carrying flagons and cups, and gave a draught of wine to each of the defenders. The minister accompanied her. As yet there were no wounded needing their care, for all who had been hit had been struck in the head; and death had, in each case, been instantaneous.
At last the great gates fell with a crash, and a shout of exultation arose from the Catholics; answered, by the Huguenots on the wall, by one of defiance. In half an hour the assailants again formed up. The strongest column advanced towards the great gate, others against the posterns; and four separate bodies, with planks and ladders, moved forward to bridge the moat and to attack at other points.
The defenders on the walls and at the windows were soon at work, and the assailants suffered heavily from the fire, as they advanced. The fifty men-at-arms behind the barricade remained quiet and silent, a dozen of them with arquebuses lining the barricade. With loud shouts the Catholics came on, deeming the chateau as good as won. The arquebusiers poured their fire into them as they crossed the moat, and then fell back behind their comrades, who were armed with pike and sword.
As they passed through the still smoking gateway the assailants saw the barricade in front of them, but this did not appear formidable and, led by a number of gentlemen in complete armour, they rushed forward.
For a moment those in front recoiled, as they reached the wall of slippery hides; then, pressed forward from behind, they made desperate attempts to climb it. It would have been as easy to try to mount a wall of ice. Their hands and feet alike failed to obtain a hold, and from above the defenders, with pike and sword, thrust and cut at them; while the arquebusiers, as fast as possible, discharged their pieces into the crowd, loaded each time with three or four balls.
For half an hour the efforts to force the barricade continued. So many had fallen that the wall was now no higher than their waist; but even this could not be surmounted, in face of the double line of pikemen; and at last the assailants fell back, baffled.
At the two posterns, they had failed to make any impression upon the carcasses that blocked their way. In vain they strove, by striking the curved points of their halberts into the carcasses, to drag them from their place; but the pressure of the weight above, and of the interior line of carcasses that were piled on the legs of the outside tiers, prevented the enemy from moving them in the slightest degree. While so engaged, those at work were exposed to the boiling water poured from above; and the soldiers standing behind, in readiness to advance when the entrance was won, were also exposed to the fire of the defenders.
The assaults on the walls, and at the windows, were far less obstinate than those in the previous attack, as they were intended only as diversions to the main assaults on the posterns and gate; and when the assailants at these points fell back, the storming parties also retreated. They had lost, in all, nearly four hundred men in the second attack; of whom more than a hundred and fifty had fallen in the assault upon the barricade.
The instant they retreated, Francois and Philip led out their men, cleared the earth from the planks, and threw these into the water. They were not a moment too soon for, just as they completed their task, the Catholic cavalry thundered down to the edge of the moat; regardless of the fire from the walls, which emptied many saddles. Finding themselves unable to cross, they turned and galloped off after the infantry.
"We were just in time, Philip," Francois said. "If they had crossed the moat it would have gone hard with us; for, with that bank of bodies lying against the breastwork, they might have been able to leap it. At any rate, their long lances would have driven us back, and some would have dismounted and climbed over.
"As it is, I think we have done with them. After two such repulses as they have had, and losing pretty nearly half their infantry, they will never get the men to try another attack."
An hour later, indeed, the whole Catholic force, horse and foot, were seen to march away by the road along which they had come. As soon as they did so, a trumpet summoned the defenders from the walls and house. The women and children also poured out into the courtyard and, the minister taking his place by the side of the countess on the steps of the chateau, a solemn service of thanksgiving to God, for their preservation from the danger that had threatened them, was held.
It was now five o'clock, and the short winter day was nearly over. Many of the tenants would have started off to their farms, but Francois begged them to remain until next morning.
"The smoke told you what to expect," he said. "You will find nothing but the ruins of your houses and, in this weather, it would be madness to take your wives and families out. In the morning you can go and view your homes. If there are still any sheds standing, that you can turn into houses for the time, you can come back for your wives and families. If not, they must remain here till you can get up shelter for them. In this bitter cold weather, you could not think of rebuilding your houses regularly; nor would it be any use to do so, until we get to the end of these troubles. But you can fell and saw wood, and erect cottages that will suffice for present use, and serve as sheds when better times return.
"The first thing to do is to attend to those who have fallen. The dead must be removed and buried; but there must be many wounded, and these must be brought in and attended to. There is an empty granary that we will convert into a hospital."
"Before we do anything else, Francois, we must fish the planks from the moat, to serve until a fresh drawbridge is constructed.
"Eustace, do you get two heavy beams thrust over, and lay the planks across them; then with Roger mount, cross the moat as soon as it is bridged, and follow the road after the Catholics. They may not have gone far, and might halt and return to attack us, when we shall be off our guard.
"Follow them about five miles; then, if they are still marching, you had both better come back to us. If they halt before that, do you remain and watch them; and send Roger back with the news."
A hundred and thirty wounded men were brought in, some wounded by shot or crossbow bolt, some terribly scalded, others with broken limbs from being hurled backwards with the ladders. The countess, with her maids and many of the women, attended to them as they were brought in, and applied salves and bandages to the wounds. Among the mass that had fallen inside the gate, seven gentlemen who still lived were discovered. These were brought into the chateau, and placed in a room together.
The task was carried on by torchlight, and occupied some hours. Towards midnight, the trampling of a large body of horse was heard. Arms were hastily snatched up and steel caps thrust on and, pike in hand, they thronged to defend the entrance. Francois ran to the battlements.
"Who comes there?" he shouted. "Halt and declare yourselves, or we fire."
The horsemen halted, and a voice cried: "Is that you, Francois?"
"Yes, it is I, De la Noue," Francois shouted back joyously.
"Is all well? Where are the enemy?" was asked, in the Admiral's well-known voice.
"All is well, sir. They retreated just before nightfall, leaving seven hundred of their infantry wounded or dead behind them."
A shout of satisfaction rose from the horsemen.
"Take torches across the bridge," Francois ordered. "It is the Admiral, come to our rescue."
A minute later, the head of the column crossed the temporary bridge. Francois had run down and received them in the gateway.
"What is this?" the Admiral asked. "Have they burnt your drawbridge and gate?"
"Yes, sir."
"How was it, then, they did not succeed in capturing the place? Ah, I see, you formed a barricade here."
Two or three of the carcasses had been dragged aside, to permit the men carrying the wounded to enter.
"Why, what is it, Francois--skins of freshly slain oxen?"
"Yes, sir, and the barricade is formed of their bodies. We had neither time nor materials at hand, and my cousin suggested bringing the oxen up, and slaughtering them here. In that way we soon made a barricade. But we should have had hard work in holding it, against such numbers, had he not also suggested our skinning them, and letting the hides hang as you see, with the raw sides outwards. Then we smeared them thickly with blood and, though the Catholics strove their hardest, not one of them managed to get a footing on the top."
"A rare thought, indeed," the Admiral said warmly.
"De la Noue, these cousins of yours are truly apt scholars in war. The oldest soldier could not have thought of a better device.
"And you say you killed seven hundred of them, Laville?"
"That is the number, sir, counting in a hundred and thirty wounded, who are now lying in a granary here."
"They must have fought stoutly. But what was your strength?"
"We had fifty men-at-arms, sir, five or six Huguenot gentlemen with their retainers, and a hundred and fifty men from our own estate; all of whom fought as doughtily as old soldiers could have done.
"The enemy thought to take us by surprise, yesterday evening; but we were ready for them, and our discharge killed over fifty. Then they drew off, and left us until this morning. They made two great attacks: the first by throwing planks across the moat, and placing ladders at three places; the second by trying, again, to storm with ladders, while other bands tried to force their way in at this gateway, and at the two posterns.
"Of course they have burned all the farina to the ground, but the cattle were all safely driven in here, before they arrived.
"Now if you will enter, sir, we will endeavour to provide for your wants. No one is yet in bed. We have been too busy carrying out the dead, and collecting the wounded, to think of sleep."
The countess was at the steps of the chateau, to receive the Admiral as he dismounted.
"Accept my heartiest thanks for the speed with which you have come to our aid, Admiral. We did not expect you before tomorrow morning, at the earliest."
"It has been a long ride, truly," the Admiral said. "Your messenger arrived at daybreak, having walked the last five miles, for his horse had foundered. I flew to horse, the moment I received the news; and with four hundred horsemen, for the most part Huguenot gentlemen, we started at once. We halted for three hours in the middle of the day to rest our horses, and again for an hour just after nightfall. We feared that we should find your chateau in flames for, although your messenger said that your son thought you could hold out against all attacks for two days, it seemed to us that so strong a force as was beleaguering you would carry the place by storm, in a few hours. I have to congratulate you on the gallant defence that you have made."
"I have had nothing to do with it," the countess replied; "but indeed, all have fought well.
"Now, if you will follow me in, I will do my best to entertain you and the brave gentlemen who have ridden so far to my rescue; but I fear the accommodation will be of the roughest."
The horses were ranged in rows, in the courtyard, haltered to ropes stretched across it; and an ample supply of food was given to each. Some of the oxen that had done such good service were cut up, and were soon roasting over great fires; while the women spread straw thickly, in the largest apartments, for the newcomers to sleep on.
"Where are the Catholics?" the Admiral asked.
"They have halted at a village, some seven miles away," Francois said. "We sent two mounted men after them, to make sure that they had gone well away, and did not intend to try to take us by surprise in the night. They returned some hours since with the news."
"What do you say, De la Noue," the Admiral exclaimed; "shall we beat them up tonight? They will not be expecting us and, after their march here and their day's fighting, they will sleep soundly."
"I should like nothing better, Admiral; but in truth, I doubt whether our horses could carry us. They have already made a twenty-league journey."
"We have at least two hundred horses here, Admiral," Francois said. "We have those of my own troop, and fully a hundred and fifty that were driven in by the tenants. My own troop will, of course, be ready to go; and you could shift your saddles on to the other horses. There is not one of our men who would not gladly march with you, for although we have beaten the Catholics well, the tenants do not forget that they are homeless; and will, I am sure, gladly follow up the blow."
"Then so it shall be," the Admiral said. "A hundred and fifty of the gentlemen who came with me shall ride with your troop. The rest of us will march with your tenants.
"I think we are capable of doing that, even after our ride, gentlemen?"
There was a chorus of assent from those standing round, and De la Noue added: "After supper, Admiral?"
"Certainly after supper," Coligny assented, with a smile. "Another hour will make no difference. You may be sure they will not be moving before daylight. If we start from here at three, we shall be in ample time."
Philip at once went out, and ordered the attendants and men-at-arms to lie down for two hours, as the Admiral was going to lead them to attack the Catholics at their halting place--news which was received with grim satisfaction. In the meantime, Francois gave a detailed account of the events of the siege; and the Admiral insisted upon going, at once, to inspect by torchlight the novel manner in which the two posterns had been blocked up.
"Nothing could have been better, De Laville," he said. "Your English cousin is, indeed, full of resources. Better material than this, for blocking up a narrow gateway, could hardly be contrived. Fire, as it was proved, was of no avail against it, for it would be impossible to dislodge the carcasses by main force; and even if they had cannon, the balls would not have penetrated this thickness of flesh, which must have been torn to pieces before it yielded. The idea of covering the carcasses at the gates with their own raw hides was an equally happy one.
"Upon my word, De la Noue, I do not think that, if you or I had been in command here, we could have done better than these two young fellows."
At three o'clock all was ready for a start. De la Noue took the command of the two hundred horsemen. The Admiral declined to ride, and placed himself at the head of the column of infantry, which was three hundred strong; thirty of the original defenders having been either killed or disabled, and twenty being left as a guard at the chateau.
The surprise of the Catholics was complete. Three hundred were killed. Two hundred, including their commander, De Brissac, and thirty other gentlemen, were made prisoners. The remaining six hundred escaped in the darkness; their arms, armour, and the whole of the horses falling into the hands of the victors, who halted at the village until morning.
"Well, De Brissac," the Count de la Noue said, as they started on their return, "the times have changed since you and I fought under your father in Italy; and we little thought, then, that some day we should be fighting on opposite sides."
"Still less that I should be your prisoner, De la Noue," the other laughed. "Well, we have made a nice business of this. We thought to surprise De Laville's chateau, without having to strike a blow; and that we were going to return to Poitiers with at least a thousand head of cattle. We were horribly beaten at the chateau, have now been surprised ourselves, and you are carrying off our horses, to say nothing of ourselves. We marched out with eighteen hundred men, horse and foot; and I don't think more than five or six hundred, at the outside, have got away--and that in the scantiest apparel.
"Anjou will be furious, when he hears the news. When I am exchanged, I expect I shall be ordered to my estates. Had De Laville some older heads to assist him?"
"No, he and that young cousin of his, riding next to him, acted entirely by themselves; and the cousin, who is an English lad, is the one who invented that barricade of bullocks that stopped you."
"That was a rare device," De Brissac said. "I fought my way to it, once, but there was no possibility of climbing it. It is rather mortifying to my pride, to have been so completely beaten by the device of a lad like that. He ought to make a great soldier, some day, De la Noue."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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15
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: The Battle Of Jarnac.
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While the two armies were lying inactive through the winter, the agents of both were endeavouring to interest other European powers in the struggle. The pope and Philip of Spain assisted the Guises; while the Duc de Deux-Ponts was preparing to lead an army to the assistance of the Huguenots, from the Protestant states of Germany. The Cardinal Chatillon was in England, eloquently supporting the letters of the Queen of Navarre to Elizabeth, asking for aid and munitions of war, men, and money--the latter being required, especially, to fulfil the engagements made with the German mercenaries.
Elizabeth listened favourably to these requests while, with her usual duplicity, she gave the most solemn assurances to the court of France that, so far from assisting the Huguenots, she held in horror those who raised the standard of rebellion against their sovereigns. She lent, however, 7000 pounds to the King of Navarre, taking ample security in the way of jewels for the sum; and ordered Admiral Winter to embark six cannons, three hundred barrels of powder, and four thousand balls, and carry them to La Rochelle. The admiral, well aware of the crooked policy of the queen, and her readiness to sacrifice any of her subjects in order to justify herself, absolutely refused to sail until he received an order signed by the queen herself.
His caution was justified for, upon the French ambassador remonstrating with her upon supplying the king's enemies, she declared that the assistance was wholly involuntary; for that Admiral Winter had entered the port of La Rochelle simply to purchase wine, and other merchandise, for some ships that he was convoying. The governor, however, had urged him so strongly to sell to him some guns and ammunition that he, seeing that his ships were commanded by the guns of the forts, felt himself obliged to comply with the request. The court of France professed to be satisfied with this statement, although perfectly aware of its absolute untruth; but they did not wish, while engaged in the struggle with the Huguenots, to be involved in open war with England.
As soon as spring commenced, both armies again prepared to take the field. The position of the Huguenots was by no means so strong as it had been, when winter set in. Considerable numbers had died from disease; while large bodies had returned to their homes, the nobles and citizens being alike unable to continue any longer in the field, owing to the exhaustion of their resources. Upon the other hand, although the army of Anjou had suffered equally from disease, it had not been diminished by desertion, as the troops were paid out of the royal treasury. Two thousand two hundred German horsemen, a portion of the large force sent by the Catholic princes of Germany, had joined him; and the Count de Tende had brought 3000 soldiers from the south of France. Other nobles came in, as the winter broke, with bodies of their retainers.
The southern Huguenot leaders, known as the Viscounts, remained in Guyenne to protect the Protestant districts. The plan of Conde and the Admiral was to effect a junction with them, and then to march and meet the army of the Duc de Deux-Ponts. They therefore left Niort, which had for some time been their headquarters, and marched south towards Cognac; while the Duc d'Anjou moved in the same direction.
Both armies reached the river Charente at the same time, but upon opposite sides. The Royalists seized the town of Chateau Neuf, halfway between Jarnac and Cognac; and set to work to repair the bridge, which had been broken down by the Huguenots. Their main army marched down to Cognac, and made a pretence of attacking the town.
The Huguenots were spread over a long line; and the Admiral, seeing the danger of being attacked while so scattered, sent to Conde, who commanded the most advanced part of the army opposite Chateau Neuf, begging him to retire. Conde, however, with his usual rashness, declined to fall back; exclaiming that a Bourbon never fled from a foe.
The troop of Francois de Laville was with a large body of horse, commanded by the Count de la Noue. Life had passed quietly at the chateau, after the repulse of the attack; for the occupation of Niort by a large force, under the Admiral, secured Laville from any risk of a repetition of the attack.
The garrison and the whole of the tenantry, after they had erected huts for their families, devoted themselves to the work of strengthening the defences. Flanking towers were erected at the angles of the walls. The moat was doubled in width, and a work erected beyond it, to guard the approach across the drawbridge. The windows on the unprotected side were all partially closed with brickwork, leaving only loopholes through which the defenders could fire. The battlements of the wall were raised two feet and pierced with loopholes, so that the defenders would no longer be obliged to raise their heads above its shelter to fire; and the narrow path was widened by the erection of a platform, so as to give more room for the men to use their weapons.
A garrison, composed of fifty of the younger men on the farms, took the place of the troop when it rode away.
Anjou had prepared several bridges, and suddenly crossed the river on the night of the 12th of March; the movement being so well managed that even the Huguenot divisions in the neighbourhood were unaware, until morning, of what was taking place. As soon as the Admiral was informed that the enemy had crossed in great force, messengers were sent off in all directions, to order the scattered divisions to concentrate.
The operation was a slow one. Discipline was lax, and many of the commanders, instead of occupying the positions assigned to them, had taken up others where better accommodation could be obtained; and much time was lost before the orders reached them. Even then their movements were slow, and it was afternoon before those in the neighbourhood were assembled, and the Admiral prepared to fall back towards the main body of the army, which lay near the position occupied by Conde.
But before this could be done, the whole Royalist army were upon him. He had taken part at Bassac, a little village with an abbey, with but De la Noue's cavalry and a small number of infantry with him; and though the latter fought desperately, they could not check the advance of the enemy.
"This is worse than Saint Denis, Francois," De la Noue said, as he prepared to charge a vastly superior body of the enemy's cavalry, advancing against the village. "However, it must be done; for unless Anjou's advance is checked, the battle will be lost before Conde can arrive. You and your cousin had best put yourself at the head of your own troop."
On reaching his men Francois gave the order: "Now, my men, is the time to show that you have profited by your drill. Keep in a solid body. Do not break up and engage in single conflicts for, if you do, we must be overpowered by numbers. Ride boot to boot. Keep your eyes fixed on our plumes and, when we turn, do you turn also, and follow us closely."
When De la Noue's trumpet sounded the charge, the band of horsemen burst down upon the Catholic cavalry, broke their ranks, and pierced far into them. Francois and Philip were but a horse's length ahead of their men, and the pressure of the enemy soon drove them back into their ranks. Keeping in a close and compact body, they fought their way on until Francois perceived that they were separated from the rest of the force. Then he put the horn that he wore slung over his shoulder to his lips, and gave the command to wheel round. It was obeyed, and the line, which was four deep, fought their way round until facing the rear; and then, putting spurs to their horses, they overthrew all opposition and cleft their way out through the enemy, and then galloped back to Bassac.
The village was lost, and the defenders were falling back in disorder upon D'Andelot; who, with his division, was just arriving to their assistance. For a moment, the fugitive horse and foot broke up his ranks. But he rallied his men and, advancing, drove the Catholics out of the village and retook the abbey.
But as a whole army was opposed to him, the success was but brief. After a desperate struggle the village was again lost, and the Huguenots fell back, contesting every foot of the ground, along a raised causeway.
The enemy were, however, fast outflanking them; and they were on the point of destruction when Conde arrived, with three hundred knights with whom he had ridden forward, leaving the infantry to follow, as soon as Coligny's message for help had reached him.
He himself was in no condition for battle. His arm had been broken by a cannon shot and, just as he reached the scene of battle, his hip was fractured by the kick of a horse ridden by his brother-in-law, La Rochefoucault. Nevertheless he did not hesitate but, calling on his little band to follow him, rode full at a body of eight hundred of the Catholic cavalry.
For a time the struggle was a desperate one. The Huguenots performed prodigies of valour; but the Royalists were reinforced, and the devoted band melted away. One Huguenot nobleman, named La Vergne, fought surrounded by twenty-five of his kinsmen whom he brought into the field. He himself, and fifteen of his followers, fell in a circle. Most of the others were taken prisoners.
At last Conde's horse was killed under him and fell, pinning him to the ground. Conde raised his visor, and surrendered to two knights to whom he was known. They raised him from the ground respectfully; but as they did so Montesquieu, captain of Anjou's guards, rode up and, drawing a pistol, shot Conde in the back, killing him almost instantaneously. Several other Huguenot nobles were killed in cold blood, after they had surrendered.
But Conde's magnificent charge had not been without effect, for it enabled the Admiral to draw off from the field, without further loss. The accounts of the number of killed and wounded differ, but numerically it was very small. The Huguenot infantry were not engaged at all, with the exception of a small body of the regiment of Plupiart. But of their cavalry nearly four hundred were killed or taken prisoners, and of these a hundred and forty were nobles and gentlemen, the flower of the Huguenot nobility. Among the prisoners were La Noue, Soubise, La Loue, and many others of distinction.
Coligny's retreat was not interfered with. The satisfaction of the Catholics at the death of Conde was so great that they were contented to rest upon their success. There were great rejoicings throughout France, and the Catholic countries of Europe, over the exaggerated accounts issued by Anjou of his victory; and it was generally considered that the Huguenot cause was lost. However, out of a hundred and twenty-eight troops of cavalry, only fifteen had been engaged; and only six out of two hundred companies of infantry.
The army retired to Cognac, where the brave Queen of Navarre at once hurried, on hearing the intelligence, and herself addressed the army; reminding them that though the Prince of Conde was dead, the good cause was still alive, and that God would provide fresh instruments for carrying on His work. She then hurried away to La Rochelle, to make provision for the needs of the army.
The young Prince Henry was, at Conde's death, nominally placed in command of the army as general-in-chief; and he was joined by his cousin, the young Prince of Conde, a lad of about his own age.
D'Anjou, one of the most despicable of the princes of France, was so intoxicated by the success that he had gained that, for a time, he made no effort to follow up his advantage. He disgraced himself by having the body of Conde stripped and carried on a donkey to Jarnac, and there exposed for four days by the house where he lodged; while he occupied himself in writing vainglorious despatches to all the Catholic kings and princes.
At last he moved forward to the siege of Cognac. Seven thousand infantry, for the most part new levies, had been placed here by Coligny; and these received the royal army with great determination. Not only were the assaults upon the walls repulsed, with heavy loss; but the garrison made many sallies and, after wasting a month before the town, Anjou, despairing of its capture, drew off the army, which had suffered heavier losses here than it had done in the battle of Jarnac.
He then besieged Saint Jean d'Angely, where the garrison, commanded by Count Montgomery, also repulsed all attacks. Angouleme was attacked with an equal want of success; but Mucidan, a town to the southwest of Perigueux, was captured. The attack upon it, however, cost the life of De Brissac, one of his best officers--a loss which Anjou avenged by the murder, in cold blood, of the garrison; which surrendered on condition that life and property should be spared.
As a set off to the success of the Huguenots, they suffered a heavy blow in the death of the gallant D'Andelot, the Admiral's brother--an officer of the highest ability, who had, before the outbreak of the troubles, occupied the rank of colonel general of the French infantry. His death was attributed by both parties to poison, believed to have been administered by an emissary of Catherine de Medici. The fact, however, was not clearly established; and possibly he fell a victim to arduous and unceasing toil and exertion.
Both Francois de Laville and Philip Fletcher had been severely wounded in the battle of Jarnac, and some twenty of their troop had fallen in the fight. They were able, however, to sit their horses until they reached Cognac. The Admiral visited them, as soon as he arrived there. He had noticed the little band, as it emerged unbroken from the charge and, at once, ranged itself up to aid him in retreating from the village of Bassac, until Conde's charge enabled him to draw off. He praised the cousins highly for their conduct and, as soon as they were able to be about again, he bestowed on both the honour of knighthood; and then sent them to La Rochelle, to remain there until perfectly cured.
The vacancies in the troop were filled up by young men from the estate, who responded to the summons, of the countess, for men to take the place of those who had fallen in her son's command.
The young Prince of Navarre had, while at Cognac, paid frequent visits to Philip, for whom he had taken a great liking; and he again begged Coligny to appoint him as one of the knights told off as his special bodyguard. The Admiral, however, repeated the arguments he had before used.
"He is very young, prince, though he has borne himself so well; and it would create much jealousy among our young nobles, were I to choose a foreigner for so honourable a post."
"But my councillors are all staid men, Admiral; and I want someone I can talk to, without ceremony."
"There are plenty of young Frenchmen, prince. If you must choose one, why not take the Count de Laville? You were saying, but yesterday, that you liked him."
"Yes, he is something like his cousin. I think being together has given him Philip's manner. If I cannot have Philip, I should like to have him."
"He would doubtless feel it a great honour, prince; while I doubt, were I to offer the post to the young Englishman, if he would accept it. He has not come here to seek honour, but to fight for our faith. I had a conversation with him, one day, and found that it was with that simple purpose he came here; and however honourable the post, I am sure he would prefer one that gave him full opportunity for taking an active part.
"With De Laville it is different. He is a French noble; and maybe, someday, you will be king of France. He is of a brave and adventurous spirit; but methinks that the young Englishman has a greater genius for war. His cousin, although older, I observe generally appeals to him for his opinion; and has frankly and nobly given him the chief credit, in the affairs in which he has been engaged."
The Admiral was not mistaken. Francois, when asked if he would like to be appointed as one of the gentlemen about the prince's person, at once embraced the offer; which, as he saw, afforded him great openings for advancement in the future. His only regret was that it would separate him from Philip.
When he said as much to his cousin, on informing him of the unexpected honour that had befallen him, Philip replied at once: "Do not think of that, Francois. I shall of course be sorry; but I shall see you often, and you would be wrong to refuse such an offer. The King of France has no children. His two brothers are unmarried. Anjou is, from all accounts, reckless and dissolute; and Alencon is sickly. They alone stand between Henry of Navarre and the throne of France and, should he succeed to it, his intimates will gain honours, rank, and possessions. There is not a young noble but would feel honoured by being selected for the post.
"As for fighting, no one can say how long these troubles may last; and I am greatly mistaken if those round Henry of Navarre, when he reaches manhood, will not have their full share of it."
Therefore, when the two newly-made young knights went to La Rochelle, for quiet and sea air, it was with the understanding that, as soon as their strength was thoroughly recovered, Francois should resign the command of the troop to Philip, and would himself ride with the Prince of Navarre and his cousin Conde. Francois had at once written to his mother, with the news of his appointment and, a few days after they reached La Rochelle, received an answer expressing her gratification.
"I rejoice," she said, "not only because it is a post of high honour, but because it will take you somewhat out of the heat of the fray. I have not hesitated to let you risk your life in the cause; but you are my only son and, were you slain, I should be alone in the world; and the title would go to one of your cousins, for whom I care nothing; and it will be a comfort for me to know, in the future, you will not be running such fearful risks."
At La Rochelle they took up their abode at Maitre Bertram's, and were most kindly received by him and his daughter.
"It is but two years since you landed here with madame, your mother, Monsieur Fletcher. You were but a stripling then, though you gave wonderful promise of size and strength. Now you are a man, and have won the honour of knighthood; and methinks that, in thew and sinew, there are not many in our army who would overmatch you."
"Oh, yes, there are, Maitre Bertram," Philip laughed. "I have a big frame like my father's, I will admit; and to look at, it may be as you say; but I shall want many another year over my head, before my strength matches my size. I am but just eighteen, and men do not come to their full strength till they are five-and-twenty."
"You are strong enough for anything, now," the merchant said; "and I should not like to stand a downright blow from you, in the best suit of armour ever forged.
"I was glad to see that rascal Pierre come back with you. He is a merry fellow, though I fear that he causes idleness among my servants, for all the grave looks he puts on as he waits on you at dinner. Is he valiant?"
"He has had no great opportunity of showing valour," Philip replied; "but he is cool, and not easily ruffled, and he fought stoutly in the defence of the Count de Laville's chateau; but of course, it is not his business to ride behind me in battle."
Philip had corresponded regularly with his parents, and had received letters in reply from them, and also from his uncle and aunt; though these of course came irregularly, as ships happened to be sailing for La Rochelle. His father wrote but briefly, but his letters expressed satisfaction.
"I am right glad," he said, "to think that a Fletcher is again cracking the skulls of Frenchmen--I mean, of course, of Catholic Frenchmen--for I regard the Huguenots, being of our religion, as half English. I don't say take care of yourself, my lad--it is not the way of Englishmen to do that, on the battlefield--but it would be a grievous day for us all, here, if we heard that aught had befallen you."
The letters of his mother and aunt were of a different character, and dwelt strongly upon the sacred cause upon which he was engaged; and both rejoiced greatly over the number of Huguenots he and Francois had rescued, round Niort.
His uncle's letters were more worldly.
"Your aunt's letters to my wife," he said, "speak very warmly in praise of you. She said you have distinguished yourself highly, that you have attracted the attention of the Prince of Conde and the Admiral, have rendered service to the Queen of Navarre and her son, and have received tokens of their esteem; also that you stand high in the regard of the Count de la Noue, who is in all respects a most accomplished gentleman; and that he has told her that he hopes, before long, you will receive the honour of knighthood. Worldly honours, Philip, are not to be despised, especially when they are won by worthy service; although I know that my wife and your mother think but lightly of them, and that it is the fashion of those of our faith to treat them with contempt. Such is not my opinion. I am gratified to think that the money I have made in trade will descend to one of whom I can be proud; and who, in this country, may occupy the position that his ancestors on his mother's side did in my own; and to me it will be a matter of extreme gratification if I hear that you have won your spurs, especially at the hand of so great a leader, and so worthy a one, as Admiral Coligny. I promise you that there shall be feasting among the poor of Canterbury, on the day when the news comes.
"Of late you have drawn but slightly upon me for, as you say, you have few expenses save the pay of your five men, when staying at Laville; but do not stint money, should there be an occasion."
Upon rejoining the camp, Philip found the time hang somewhat heavily upon his hands. Francois was necessarily much with the prince. Captain Montpace looked after the troop, and the Count de la Noue was in captivity. A few days after he rejoined, however, one of the Admiral's pages came to his tent, and requested him to call upon Coligny.
"The camp will break up tomorrow, Chevalier Fletcher," the latter said. "We are going down to join the Viscounts, and then march to effect a junction with the Duc de Deux-Ponts, who we hear has now fairly set out on his forward march. I wish to send a despatch to him, and I know no one to whom I could better intrust it than yourself. It is a mission of honour, but of danger. However, you have already exhibited such tact and discretion, as well as bravery, that I believe if anyone can reach the duke, through the two royal armies that are trying to intercept him, you can do so. Will you undertake the mission?"
"I am greatly honoured by your intrusting me with it, sir, and will assuredly do my best."
"I do not propose that you should travel in disguise," the Admiral said, "for disguise means slow motion, and there is need for despatch. Therefore, I should say, take a small body of well-mounted men with you, and ride as speedily as you can. How many to take, I leave to your discretion. The despatches will be ready for you, by ten o'clock tonight."
"I shall be ready to start at that hour, sir," and Philip returned to his tent.
After sitting thinking for a few minutes he called to Pierre, who was sitting outside.
"Pierre, I want your advice. I am about to start on a journey to the east of France. I do not go this time in disguise, but ride straight through. What think you? How many men shall I take with me--one, or fifty?"
"Not fifty, certainly," Pierre said promptly. "There is mighty trouble in feeding fifty men. Besides, you may have to pass as a Royalist, and who can answer for the discretion of so many? Besides, if we have to turn and double, there is no hiding fifty men. If you ride through the smallest village at midnight, the noise would wake the inhabitants; and when the enemy came up, they would get news of your passage.
"I do not see that you can do better than take Eustace and Roger and myself. Henri will not be fit to ride for weeks, yet; and although Jacques is recovering from the loss of his bridle arm, you settled that he was to go to Laville, where the countess would take him into her service. Jarnac lessened your force by half; but I think that two will be as good as four, on a journey like this. Such a party can pass unnoticed. It is but a gentleman, with two retainers behind him, from a neighbouring chateau."
"That is what I concluded myself, Pierre; but I thought I would ask your opinion about it, for you have shown yourself a shrewd fellow.
"All your horses are in good condition, and it is well that I exchanged those you rode before, for some of the best of the three hundred we captured from the assailants of the chateau. Of course, you will ride one of my horses; changing the saddle every day, as your weight is so much less than mine.
"I shall not take armour with me. The extra weight tells heavily, on a long journey; and besides, a knight in full armour would attract more attention than one riding, as it would seem, for pleasure.
"Let Eustace and Roger pick the two best horses."
"When do we start, sir?"
"We must be saddled, and ready to start, by ten tonight. See that a bottle of wine, a cold fowl, and a portion of bread for each are brought along with us. We shall have a long night's ride.
"We will carry no valises. They add to the weight, and look like travelling. Let each man make a small canvas bag, and place in it a change of linen. It can be rolled up in the cloak, and strapped behind the saddle. A dozen charges, for each pistol, will be more than we shall be likely to require. Tell them to take no more. They must take their breast pieces and steel caps, of course. They can leave the back pieces behind them.
"I will go round to the hospital, and say goodbye to Henri and Jacques. They will feel being left behind, sorely."
After visiting his wounded followers, he went to the house occupied by the Prince of Navarre, where Francois also was lodged.
"So I hear you are off again, Philip," the latter said; as his cousin entered the salon where two or three of the prince's companions were sitting. "I should feel envious of you, were it not that we also are on the point of starting."
"How did you know I was going off, Francois?"
"The prince told me, half an hour since. He heard it from the Admiral. He told me he wished he was going with you, instead of with the army. He is always thirsting after adventure. He bade me bring you in to him, if you came. I said you would be sure to do so. It was useless my going out to look for you, as I could not tell what you might have to do before starting."
The young prince threw aside the book he was reading, when they entered.
"Ah, monsieur the Englishman," he said; "so you are off again, like a veritable knight-errant of romance, in search of fresh adventure."
"No, sir, my search will be to avoid adventure."
"Ah, well, you are sure to find some, whether or not. Sapristie, but it is annoying to be born a prince."
"It has its advantages also, sir," Philip said, smiling.
The prince laughed merrily.
"So I suppose; but for my part, I have not discovered them, as yet. I must hope for the future; but it appears to me, now, that it can never be pleasant. One is obliged to do this, that, and the other because one is a prince. One always has to have one's head full of politics, to listen gravely to stupidities, to put up with tiresome people, and never to have one's own way in anything. However, I suppose my turn will come; but at present, I would rather be hunting the wild goats in Navarre than pretending to be general-in-chief of an army, when everyone knows that I am not even as free to go my own way as a common soldier.
"I shall look to see you again, Chevalier Philip; and shall expect you to have some more good stories to tell me."
Having handed him his despatches, the Admiral pointed out to him the position, as far as he knew by recent report, of the forces under the Dukes of Aumale and Nemours.
"Possibly there will be other enemies," the Admiral said; "for our friends in Paris have sent me word that the Spanish ambassador has, at the king's request, written to beg the Duke of Alva, and Mansfeld, governor of Luxembourg, to send troops to aid in barring the way to the Duc de Deux-Ponts. I hope Alva has his hands full with his own troubles, in the Netherlands; and although Spain is always lavish of promises, it gives but little real aid to the king.
"Then again, on the road you may meet with bands of German mercenaries, sent by the Catholic princes to join the royal forces. As you see, the despatches are written small and, at your first halt, it will be well if you sew them in the lining of your boot. They will escape observation there, however closely you may be searched; for they are but of little bulk, and I have written them on the softest paper I could obtain, so that it will not crackle to the touch.
"I leave it to yourself to choose the route; but I think that you could not do better than take that one you before followed, when you and Laville joined me at Chatillon. Thence keep well south through Lorraine. The royal forces are at Metz. I can give you no farther instructions; for I cannot say how rapidly Deux-Ponts may move, or what route he may be obliged to take, to avoid the royal forces.
"And now farewell, lad. Remember that it is an important service you are rendering to our cause, and that much depends on your reaching Deux-Ponts; for the despatches tell him the route by which I intend to move, indicate that which he had best follow in order that he may effect a junction, and give him many details as to roads, fords, and bridges, that may be of vital importance to him."
Philip rode forty miles that night; and put up, just as daylight was breaking, at the village of Auverge. There they rested for six hours, and then rode on to Laville; where he was received with great joy by his aunt, for whom he bore a letter from Francois. After halting here for a few hours, they continued their journey.
So far they had been riding through a friendly country, but had now to travel with due precautions; journeying fast, and yet taking care that the horses should not be overworked, as sudden occasion might arise for speed or endurance; and as the journey was some eight hundred miles long, it behoved him to carefully husband the strength of the animals.
After riding another fifteen miles, they stopped for the night at a village, as Philip intended to journey by day; for his arrival at inns, early in the morning, would excite comment. The three men had been carefully instructed in the story they were to tell, at the inns where they halted. Their master was Monsieur de Vibourg, whose estate lay near the place at which they halted on the preceding night; and who was going for a short visit, to friends, at the next town at which they would arrive. If questioned as to his politics, they were to say that he held aloof from the matter, for he considered that undue violence was exercised towards the Huguenots; who, he believed, if permitted to worship in their own way, would be good and harmless citizens.
So day by day they journeyed along, avoiding all large towns, and riding quietly through small ones, where their appearance attracted no attention whatever. On the fourth day when, as usual, they had halted to dine and give their horses a couple of hours' rest, Philip heard the trampling of horses outside the inn. Going to the window he saw two gentlemen, with eight armed retainers, dismounting at the door. The gentlemen wore the Royalist colours. At the same moment, Pierre came into the room.
"I have told Eustace and Roger to finish their meal quickly, and then to get the horses saddled; to mount, and take ours quietly to the end of the village, and wait for us there, sir; so that if there should be trouble, we have but to leap through the casement, and make a short run of it."
"That is very well done, Pierre," Philip said; reseating himself at the table, while Pierre took his place behind his chair, as if waiting upon him.
The door opened, and the two gentlemen entered. They did not, as usual, remove their hats; but seated themselves at a table, and began talking noisily. Presently one made a remark in a low tone to the other, who turned round in his chair, and stared offensively at Philip. The latter continued his meal, without paying any attention to him.
"And who may you be, young sir?" the man said, rising and walking across the room.
"I am not in the habit of answering questions addressed to me by strangers," Philip said quietly.
"Parbleu, custom or no custom, you have to answer them, now. This is not a time when men can go about unquestioned. You do not wear the Royalist colours, and I demand to know who you are."
"I would wear the Royalist colours, if I were on the way to join the Royalist army," Philip replied calmly; "as at present I am not doing so, but am simply travelling as a private gentleman, I see no occasion for putting on badges."
"You have not answered my question. Who are you?"
"I do not intend to answer the question. My name is a matter which concerns myself only."
"You insolent young knave," the man said angrily, "I will crop your ears for you."
Philip rose from the table; and the other was, for a moment, surprised at the height and proportions of one whom he had taken for a mere lad.
"I desire to have no words with you," Philip said. "Eat your dinner in peace, and let me eat mine; for if it comes to cutting off ears, you may find that you had better have left the matter alone."
[Illustration: Philip struck him full in the face.]
The gentleman put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and was in the act of drawing it when Philip, making a step forward, struck him full in the face with all his strength, knocking him backwards to the ground. His companion leapt from his seat, drawing a pistol from his belt as he did so; when Pierre sent a plate skimming across the room with great force. It struck the man in the mouth, cutting his lips and knocking out some of his front teeth. The pistol exploded harmlessly in the air, while the sudden shock and pain staggered and silenced him; and before he could recover sufficiently to draw his sword or to shout, Philip and Pierre leaped through the open casement, and ran down the street.
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16
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: A Huguenot Prayer Meeting.
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"That was a good shot, Pierre," Philip said, as they ran; "and has probably saved my life."
"I am accustomed to throw straight, sir. My dinner has frequently depended on my knocking down a bird with a stone, and it was not often that I had to go without it.
"They are making a rare hubbub, back at the inn."
Loud shouts were heard behind them.
"We have plenty of time," Philip said, as he moderated the pace at which they had started. "The men will be confused at first, knowing nothing of what it all means. Then they will have to get the horses out of the stables."
"And then they will have trouble," Pierre added.
"What trouble, Pierre?"
"I gave a hint to Eustace," Pierre said with a laugh, "that it would be just as well, before he mounted, to cut off all the bridles at the rings. A nice way they will be in, when they go to mount!"
"Did you cut their bridles for them, Eustace?" he asked, as they came up to the others.
"Ay, and their stirrup leathers, too, Pierre."
"Good, indeed!" Philip exclaimed. "Without bridles or stirrup leathers, they can scarce make a start; and it will take them some minutes to patch them up. We will ride hard for a bit. That will put us far enough ahead to be able to take any byroad, and throw them off our traces. I have no fear of their catching us by straight riding. The masters' horses may be as good as ours, but those of the men can hardly be so. Still, they might come up to us wherever we halted for the night."
They looked back, when they were some two miles from the village, and along the long straight road could make out some figures that they doubted not were horsemen, just starting in pursuit.
"They waited to mend their leathers," Pierre remarked.
"They were right, there," Philip said; "for a man can fight but poorly, without bridle or stirrups. The horses will not have been fed, so we have an advantage there. I do not think we need trouble ourselves much more about them."
"There is one thing, sir. They won't mind foundering their horses, and we have to be careful of ours."
"That is so, Pierre; and besides, at the first place they come to, they may send others on in pursuit with fresh horses. No, we must throw them off our track as soon as we can. There is a wood, a mile or so ahead; we will leave the road there."
They were riding on the margin of turf, bordering the road on either side, so as to avoid the dust that lay thick and white upon it; and they held on at an easy canter, till they reached the trees. Then, at Philip's order, they scattered and went at a walk; so as to avoid leaving marks that could be seen, at once, by anyone following them. A couple of hundred yards farther, they came upon a stream running through a wood. It was but a few inches deep.
"This will do for us," Philip said. "Now, follow me in single file, and see that your horses step always in the water."
He led them across the road, and on for half a mile. Then they left the stream and, soon afterwards, emerged from the wood and struck across the country.
"I should think they will have had pretty well enough of it, by the time they get to the wood," Philip said; "and at any rate, will lose a lot of time there. They will trace our tracks to the edge of the stream, and will naturally suppose that we will follow it up, as we struck it on the other side of the road. It is like enough they will be half an hour searching, before they find where we left the stream; and will know well enough, then, it will be hopeless trying to catch us."
"They saw we had good horses," Eustace said; "for as we led them out, one of them made the remark that they were as good looking a lot of horses as you would often see together. No doubt, at first, their leaders were so furious that they thought of nothing but mending the leathers and getting off; but when they get a check, in the wood, it is probable that someone will venture to tell them how well we are mounted, and that pursuit will be hopeless."
"Nevertheless, I think they will pursue, Monsieur Philip," Pierre said. "They did not look like men who would swallow an injury, and think no more of it. As long as there remains a single chance of discovering you, they will not give up pursuit. Of course, they have no reason for suspicion that you are anything but what you seem to be, a gentleman of the neighbourhood; and will consider that, at one or other of the towns or villages ahead of us, they are sure to hear of our passing through, and perhaps to learn who you are and where you reside. Doubtless they asked at the inn, before starting, whether you were known; and as soon as they find they are not likely to catch us by hard riding, they will make straight forward, dividing into several parties at the next place they come to, and scattering in order to obtain news of us."
"Which they will not get," Philip said, "as we will take good care to avoid passing through villages. For tonight we will sleep in the woods, as the weather is warm and pleasant."
After riding another fifteen miles, they halted in a wood. They always carried some food and wine with them, as circumstances might at any time arise that would render it imprudent for them to put up at an inn; and each also carried a feed of corn for his horse.
Leaving Pierre to unsaddle and rub down his horse, Philip walked to the farther edge of the wood, to view the country beyond. They were, he knew, not far from La Chatre; and he was not surprised to see the town, lying in a valley, to which the ground sloped down from the wood. It was about a mile and a half distant. Nearer the wood, but half a mile to the west, the towers of a fortified chateau rose from a clump of trees. The country was rich and well cultivated, and everything had an aspect of peace and comfort.
"What a hideous thing it is," Philip said to himself, "that in so fair a country people cannot live in peace together; and should fly at each other's throats, simply because they cannot agree that each shall worship God after his own fashion! It might be Canterbury, with the hills rising round it and the little river, save that it lacks the cathedral rising over it; and yet, I doubt not there are many there who live in daily peril of their lives, for there is not a town in France that has not its share of Huguenots, and they can never tell when the storm of popular fury may burst upon them."
The shades of evening were beginning to fall, when he rejoined his companions. They had already rubbed down their horses and replaced the saddles, and the animals were contentedly eating their corn.
"They look well," Philip said, as he walked from one to the other.
"Yes, sir, they are none the worse for their travel so far, and could carry us on a hard race for our lives. Shall we light a fire?"
"I do not think it is worth while, Eustace. The evening is warm, and we shall be off at daybreak. Someone passing through the wood might see the flames, and carry the news down to La Chatre, which is but a mile and a half away; and it is quite possible that those fellows we had to do with today may be there, if they are travelling the same way that we are, and may consider it likely we shall halt there for the night. At any rate, as we do not need the fire, we will run no risks."
They ate their supper and, an hour later, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down. Philip was just dropping off to sleep, when Pierre touched him. He sat up with a start.
"There are some people in the wood," Pierre said.
Philip was wide awake now, and the sound of singing, at no great distance, came to his ears.
"It is a Huguenot hymn," he exclaimed. "There must be a meeting in the wood. No doubt it is some of the people from the town, who have come out to hold a secret meeting here. I will go and see it.
"Come with me, Pierre. We will go very quietly, for it would scare them terribly, did they hear anyone approaching."
Making their way noiselessly through the wood they came, after walking about three hundred yards, to the edge of an open space among the trees, where they halted. In the centre they could see, in the moonlight, a body of some seventy or eighty people gathered. Standing upon the trunk of a fallen tree was a minister who was addressing them.
"My brethren," he was saying, when they could catch his words, "this is the last time we shall meet here. We know that suspicions have already arisen that we are holding meetings, and that we do so at the peril of our lives. The search for me has been hot, for some days; and though I am willing enough to give my life in the cause of our Lord, I would not bring destruction upon you, at the present moment. Were the prospects hopeless, I should say, 'let us continue together here, till the last;' but the sky is clearing, and it may be that, ere long, freedom of worship may be proclaimed throughout France. Therefore it is better that, for a time, we should abstain from gathering ourselves together. Even now, the persecutors may be on our track."
"Pierre," Philip whispered, "do you go over in that direction, until you come to the edge of the wood. If you see any signs of men moving about, run quickly to the others, and bring the horses up here."
"I had better go back there first, had I not, Monsieur Philip, and bring the men and horses along with me to the edge of the wood? For I might lose a quarter of an hour in searching for them."
"That would be the best plan, Pierre. Should you hear a sudden noise here, hurry in this direction, and I will come to meet you. It may well be that, guessing the Huguenots would place someone on watch towards the town, the Catholics may, if they come, approach from the other side. Should you see anyone coming, give a loud shout, at once. It will act as a warning to these people, and enable them to scatter and fly, before their foes arrive."
For an hour the preacher continued to address his hearers, exhorting them to stand firm in the faith, and to await with patience the coming of better days. They were not more than twenty paces away from the spot where Philip was standing, and in the moonlight he could clearly see the faces of the assembly, for the preacher was standing with his back to him. From their dress, he judged that most of them belonged to the poorer classes; though three or four were evidently bourgeois of the well-to-do class.
Seated on the trunk on which the preacher was standing, and looking up at him so that her profile was clearly visible to Philip, sat a young girl, whose face struck Philip as of singular beauty. The hood of the cloak in which she was wrapped had fallen back from her head, and her hair looked golden in the moonlight. She was listening with rapt attention. The moonlight glistened on a brooch, which held the cloak together at her throat. A young woman stood by her; and a man, in steel cap and with a sword at his side, stood a pace behind her. Philip judged that she belonged to a rank considerably above that of the rest of the gathering.
When the address had concluded, the preacher began a hymn in which all joined. Just as they began, Philip heard the crack of a stick among the trees. It was not on the side from which Pierre would be coming. He listened attentively, but the singing was so loud that he could hear nothing; except that once a clash, such as would be made by a scabbard or piece of armour striking against a bough, came to his ears.
Suddenly he heard a shout.
"That is Pierre!" he exclaimed to himself, and ran forward into the circle.
There was a cry of alarm, and the singing suddenly stopped.
"I am a friend," he exclaimed. "I have come to warn you of danger. There are men coming in this direction from the town."
"My brethren, we will separate," the minister said calmly. "But first, I will pronounce the benediction."
This he did solemnly, and then said: "Now, let all make through the wood and, issuing from the other side, return by a circuit to the town.
"Mademoiselle Claire, I will accompany you to the chateau."
At this moment Philip heard horses approaching.
"This way, Pierre," he shouted, and ran to meet them.
Fifty yards away he came upon them, and leapt into his saddle.
"See to your weapons, lads," he said. "I believe there are others in the wood already."
He was within twenty yards of the clearing when he heard a sudden shout of: "Down with the Huguenot dogs! Kill! Kill!"
He dashed forward, followed by his men. A mob of armed men, headed by two or three horsemen, had burst from the opposite side of the glade and were rushing upon the Huguenots, who had just broken up into small groups.
They stood, as if paralysed, at this sudden attack. No cry or scream broke from the women. Most of these threw themselves upon their knees. A few of the men followed their example, and prepared to die unresistingly. Some sprang away among the trees, and above the din the preacher's voice was heard commencing a Huguenot hymn beginning, "The gates of heaven are opened;" in which, without a moment's hesitation, those who remained around him joined.
In a moment, with savage shouts and yells, their assailants were upon them, smiting and thrusting. With a shout, Philip spurred forward from the other side. He saw at once that, against such numbers, he and his three followers could do nothing; but his rage at this massacre of innocent people--a scene common enough in France, but which he now for the first time witnessed--half maddened him.
One of the horsemen, whom he recognized at once as the man Pierre had knocked down with the plate, rode at the girl Philip had been watching; and who was standing, with upturned face, joining in the hymn. The man attending her drew his sword, and placed himself in the way of the horseman; but the latter cut him down, and raised the sword to strike full at the girl, when Philip shot him through the head.
Instantly another horseman, with a shout of recognition, rode at him. Philip thrust his still smoking pistol in his holster, and drew his sword.
"This is more than I hoped for," his assailant said, as he dealt a sweeping blow at him.
"Do not congratulate yourself too soon," Philip replied, as he guarded the blow and, lunging in return, the point glided off his adversary's armour.
He parried again; and then, with a back-handed sweep, he struck his opponent on the neck with his whole force. Coming out to take part in a Huguenot hunt, in which he expected no opposition, the knight had left his helmet behind him; and fell from his horse, with his head half severed from his body.
In the meantime the two men-at-arms and Pierre had driven back the mob of townsmen; who, however, having massacred most of the unresisting Huguenots, were surging up round them.
"Give me your hand, mademoiselle, and put your foot on mine," Philip exclaimed to the girl, who was still standing close to him.
"Pierre," he shouted as, bewildered by the uproar, the girl instinctively obeyed the order, "take this woman up behind you."
Pierre made his horse plunge, and so freed himself from those attacking him. Then, reining round, he rode to Philip's side, and helped the companion of the young lady to the croup of his saddle; Philip dashing forward, to free his two followers from their numerous assailants.
"To the left, Eustace;" and, cutting their way through the crowd, the three horsemen freed themselves and, as they dashed off, were joined by Pierre.
"We must work back by the way we came, Monsieur Philip," Pierre said. "There is another body coming up in front, to cut off fugitives; and that was why I shouted to you."
In a minute or two they were out of the wood. Men were seen running across the fields, but these they easily avoided.
"Now turn again, and make straight for La Chatre," Philip said. "We can cross the bridge, and ride through the place without danger. Those who would have interfered with us are all behind us."
As he had expected, the place was perfectly quiet. The better class of the bourgeois were all asleep, either ignorant or disapproving of the action of the mob. As soon as they were through the town, Philip checked the speed of his horse.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "I am as yet in ignorance of your name. I am the Chevalier Philip Fletcher, an English gentleman fighting for the cause of the reformed religion, under Admiral Coligny. I am on my way east, with important despatches; and I was bivouacking with my three followers in the wood, when I was attracted by the singing.
"Judging, from the words of the minister, that there was danger of an attack, I put one of my men on the watch; while I myself remained in the wood by your meeting place. Unfortunately, the sound of the last hymn you sang drowned the noise made by the party that assailed you. However, happily we were in time to save you and your servant; and our sudden appearance doubtless enabled many to escape, who would otherwise have been massacred."
The girl had burst into a fit of sobbing, as soon as the danger was over; but she had now recovered.
"My name is Claire de Valecourt, monsieur," she said. "My father is with the Admiral. He will be deeply grateful to you for saving my life."
"I have the honour of knowing the Count de Valecourt, mademoiselle; and am glad, indeed, that I have been able to be of service to his daughter. The count is one of the gentlemen who act as guardians to the Prince of Navarre, whom I have also the honour of knowing.
"And now, what are your wishes? It is not too late even now, should you desire it, for me to take you back to the chateau."
"I should be defenceless there, sir," she said. "There are but a score of men-at-arms and, though formerly a place of some strength, it could not be defended now. See, sir, it is too late already."
Philip looked round, and saw a bright light suddenly rising from the clump of trees on which the chateau stood. He gave an exclamation of anger.
"It cannot be helped," she said quietly. "It is but a small place. It was part of my mother's dower. Our estates, you know, are in Provence. My father thought I should be safer, here, than remaining there alone while he was away. We have always been on good terms with the townspeople here, and they did not interfere with those of our religion during the last war; so we thought that it would be the same now. But of late some people have been here, stirring up the townsmen; and some travelling friars preached in the marketplace, not long since, upbraiding the people with their slackness in not rooting us out altogether.
"A month ago, one of the persecuted ministers came to the chateau at night, and has been concealed there since. Seeing that there will be no minister here for some time, word was sent round secretly, to those of our religion in the town, and twice a week we have had meetings in the wood. Many of the servants of the chateau are Catholics, and of the men-at-arms, the majority are not of our faith. Therefore I used to steal out quietly with my attendant. We heard, two days ago, that a rumour of the meetings had got about; and tonight's was to have been the last of them."
"And now, mademoiselle, what are your wishes? Have you any friends with whom I could place you, until you could rejoin your father?"
"None near here, monsieur. I have always lived in the south."
"I should not have taken you for a lady of Provence," Philip said. "Your hair is fair, and you have rather the appearance of one of my own countrywomen, than of one born in the south of France."
"I am partly of northern blood," she said. "My mother was the daughter of Sir Allan Ramsay, a Scottish gentleman who took service in France, being driven from home by the feuds that prevailed there. I knew but little about her, for she died when I was a child; and my father, who loved her greatly, seldom speaks to me of her."
Philip rode for some time in silence.
"I feel that I am a terrible burden on your hands, monsieur," she said quietly, at last; "but I will do anything that you think best. If you set us down, we will try and find refuge in some peasant's hut; or we can dress ourselves as countrywomen, and try to make our way westward to La Rochelle."
"That is not to be thought of," he replied gravely. "Were it not that my despatches may not be delayed, without great danger to our cause, the matter would be of no inconvenience; but we must ride fast and far. As to leaving you to shift for yourselves, it is impossible; but if we could find a Huguenot family with whom I could place you, it would be different. But unfortunately, we are all strangers to the country."
"I can ride well," the girl said, "and if horses could be procured would, with my maid, try to reach La Rochelle; travelling by night, and hiding in the woods by day. We could carry food with us, so as not to have to enter any place to purchase it."
Philip shook his head.
"We will halt at yonder clump of trees," he said. "It is not yet midnight, and then we can talk the matter over further."
As soon as they halted, he unrolled his cloak.
"Do you, mademoiselle, and your attendant lie down here. We shall be but a short distance away, and two of us will keep watch; therefore you can sleep without fear of surprise."
"This is an unfortunate business, Pierre," he said, after the latter had fastened the horses to the trees.
"I can understand that, monsieur. I have been talking to the maid, and it seems that they have no friends in these parts."
"That is just it, Pierre. One thing is certain--they cannot ride on with us. We must journey as fast as possible, and delicate women could not support the fatigue; even were it seemly that a young lady, of good family, should be galloping all over France with a young man like myself."
"I should not trouble about that, monsieur. At ordinary times, doubtless, it would cause a scandal; but in days like these, when in all parts of France there are women and children hiding from the persecution, or fleeing for their lives, one cannot stand upon niceties. But doubtless, as you say, they would hinder our speed and add to our dangers."
"I see but two plans, Pierre. The one is that they should journey to La Rochelle, in charge of yourself and Eustace. We have now twice crossed the country without difficulty and, as there would be no need of especial speed, you could journey quietly; choosing quiet and lonely places for your halts, such as farmhouses, or groups of two or three cottages where there is a tiny inn."
"What is your other plan, sir?"
"The other plan is that you should start forward at once, so as to enter Saint Amboise early. Stable your horse at an inn; and order rooms, saying that you are expecting your master and a party, who are on their way to join the army. You might also order a meal to be cooked. Then you could enter into conversation with stablemen and others, and find out whether there are any castles in the neighbourhood held for us by Huguenot lords, or by their wives in their absence. If not, if there are any Huguenot villages. In fact, try and discover some place where we may leave the young lady in safety. You can have three hours to make your inquiry.
"At the end of that time, whether successful or not, say that you are going out to meet your master and lead him to the inn. Give the host a crown, as an earnest of your return and on account of the meal you have ordered, and then ride to meet us.
"We shall start from here at daybreak. If you succeed in hearing of some place where, as it seems, she can be bestowed in safety, we will take her there at once. If not, you and Eustace must start back with them, travelling slowly. The horses will carry double, easily enough.
"Do not forget to get a cold capon or two, some good wine, and a supply of white bread, while you are waiting in the town."
"Which horse shall I take, sir?"
"You had best take Robin. He is the faster of the two, though not quite so strong as Victor."
"I understand, monsieur, and will carry out your orders. If there be a place within twenty miles--or within forty, if lying on the right road--where the young lady can be left in safety, rely upon it I will hear of it; for there is nought I would not do, rather than turn back at the outset of our journey, while you have to journey on with only Roger, who is a stout man-at-arms enough, but would be of little use if you should find yourself in difficulties; for his head is somewhat thick, and his wits slow."
Robin had already finished his scanty ration of food and, when Pierre tightened the girths before mounting, looked round in mild surprise at finding himself called upon to start, for the second time, after he had thought that his work was done.
"You shall have a good feed at Saint Amboise," Pierre said, patting its neck; "and beyond that, there will be no occasion, I hope, for such another day's work."
After seeing Pierre start, Philip threw himself down for two hours' sleep; and then went to relieve Eustace, who was keeping watch at the edge of a clump of trees. As soon as it was broad daylight, he went across to where Claire de Valecourt was lying down by the side of her maid, with a cloak thrown over them. She sat up at once, as his step approached.
"I am afraid you have not had much sleep, mademoiselle."
"No, indeed," she said. "I have scarce closed my eyes. It will be long before I shall sleep quietly. That terrible scene of last night will be before my eyes for a long time. Do you think that the minister escaped, Monsieur Fletcher?"
"I fear that he did not. I saw him cut down, by the fellow I shot, just before he turned to ride at you."
"How many do you think escaped?"
"A score perhaps, or it may be more. Some fled at once. Others I noticed make off, as we rode forward."
"Did not one of your men ride off, last night, soon after we lay down?"
"Yes, I sent off my servant."
And he told her the mission upon which Pierre had been despatched.
"That is a good plan," she said. "I would much rather hide anywhere, than that you should go forward on your long journey with but half your little force. Does it not seem strange, monsieur, that while, but a few hours ago, I had never so much as heard your name, now I owe my life to you, and feel that I have to trust to you in everything? I am quite surprised, now I look at you--I scarce saw your face, last night; and only noticed, as I sat in front of you, that you seemed very big and strong. And as you talked of what I must do, just as if you had been my father, I have been thinking of you as a grave man, like him. Now I see you are quite young, and that you don't look grave at all."
Philip laughed.
"I am young, and not very grave, mademoiselle. I am not at all fit to be the protector of a young lady like yourself."
"There I am sure you are wronging yourself, Monsieur Fletcher. The Admiral would never have sent you so far, with important despatches, had he not full confidence that you were wise as well as brave. And you said you were a chevalier, too. My cousin Antoine looks ever so much older than you do, and he has not been knighted yet. I know young gentlemen are not made knights, unless they have done something particularly brave."
Philip smiled.
"I did not do anything particularly brave, mademoiselle; but what I did do happened to attract the Admiral's attention.
"Now, here are the remains of a cold capon, some bread, and wine. You and your attendant had better eat something, while we are saddling the horses and preparing for a start."
Four hours later they halted, three miles from Saint Amboise; taking refuge in a wood near the road, where they could see Pierre as he returned. Half an hour later he rode up. Philip went down the road to meet him.
"Well, Pierre, what success?"
"I have heard of a place where I think Mademoiselle de Valecourt would be safe, for the present. It is the chateau of Monsieur de Landres. It lies some five-and-twenty miles away, and is in the forest, at a distance from any town or large village. It is a small place, but is strong. Monsieur de Landres is with the army in the west, but he has only taken a few of his men with him; and forty, they say, have been left to guard the tower. As most of the Catholics round here have obeyed the king's summons, and are either with the royal army in the west, or with the two dukes at Metz, there seems no chance of any attack being made upon Landres."
"That will do excellently, Pierre. No doubt the lady will be happy to receive Mademoiselle de Valecourt, whose father is a well-known nobleman and, at present, in the same army as the lady's husband. At any rate, we will try that to begin with."
They started without delay and, riding briskly, reached Landres in four hours; having had a good deal of difficulty in finding the way. As soon as they issued from the forests into a cleared space, half a mile across, in the centre of which stood the fortalice, a horn was heard to sound, and the drawbridge was at once raised. Philip saw, with satisfaction, that Pierre had not been misinformed. The castle was an old one and had not been modernized and, with its solid-looking walls and flanking towers, was capable of standing a siege.
Halting the others, when halfway across to the tower, he rode on alone. As he approached, a lady appeared on the battlements over the gate; while the parapet was occupied with armed men, with spears and crossbows. Philip removed his cap.
"Madame," he said, "I am a soldier belonging to the army of the Prince of Navarre, and am riding on the business of Admiral Coligny. On my way hither, I had the good fortune to save a Huguenot congregation, and the daughter of the Count de Valecourt, from massacre by the people of La Chatre. My business is urgent, and I am unable to turn back to conduct her to her father, who is with the army of the prince. Hearing that you are of the reformed religion, I have ventured to crave your protection for the young lady; until I can return to fetch her, or can notify to her father where he may send for her."
"The lady is welcome," Madame de Landres said. "In such times as these, it is the duty of all of our religion to assist each other; and the daughter of the Count de Valecourt, whom I know by reputation, will be specially welcomed."
Bowing to the lady, Philip rode back to his party.
"The matter is settled, mademoiselle. The chatelaine will be glad to receive you."
By the time they reached the castle the drawbridge had been lowered; and Madame de Landres stood at the gate, ready to receive her guest. As Philip, leaping off, lifted the girl to the ground, the lady embraced her kindly.
"I am truly glad to be able to offer you a shelter, for a time. You are young, indeed, to be abroad without a natural protector; for as I gather this gentleman, whose name I have not yet learned, rescued you by chance from an attack by the Catholics."
"God sent him to my succour, as by a miracle," Claire said simply. "The Chevalier Fletcher is known to my father. Had he arrived but one minute later, I should be one among seventy or eighty who are now lying dead in a wood, near La Chatre. My father had a chateau close by, but it was fired after the massacre."
"And now, mademoiselle, with your permission, and that of Madame de Landres, we will ride on at once. We must do another thirty miles before sunset."
Madame de Landres, however, insisted on Philip and his men stopping to partake of a meal before they rode on; and although they had breakfasted heartily, four hours before, upon the provisions Pierre had brought back with him from Amboise, their ride had given them an appetite; and Philip did not refuse the invitation. Madame de Landres expressed much satisfaction on hearing that the Huguenot army was likely to pass somewhere near the neighbourhood of the chateau, on its way to effect a junction with the Duc de Deux-Ponts; and promised to send one of her retainers with a message, to the count, that his daughter was in her keeping. The meal was a short one; and Philip, after a halt of half an hour, mounted and rode on again.
"My father will thank you, when you meet him, Monsieur Fletcher. As for me, I cannot tell you what I feel, but I shall pray for you always; and that God, who sent you to my aid, will watch over you in all dangers," Claire de Valecourt had said, as she bade him goodbye.
They halted that night at a small village and, as Philip was eating his supper, Pierre came in.
"I think, monsieur, that it would be well for us to move on for a few miles farther."
"Why, Pierre? We have done a long day's journey, and the horses had but a short rest last night."
"I should like to rest just as well as the horses," Pierre said; "but I doubt if we should rest well, here. I thought, when we drew bridle, that the landlord eyed us curiously; and that the men who sauntered up regarded us with more attention than they would ordinary travellers. So I told Eustace and Roger, as they led the horses to the stable, to keep the saddles on for the present; and I slipped away round to the back of the house, and got my ear close to the open window of the kitchen. I got there just as the landlord came in, saying: [Illustration: Pierre listens at the open window of the inn.] " 'These are the people, wife, that we were told of three hours ago. There are the same number of men, though they have no women with them, as I was told might be the case. Their leader is a fine-looking young fellow, and I am sorry for him, but that I can't help. I was told that, if they came here, I was to send off a messenger at once to Nevers; and that, if I failed to do so, my house should be burnt over my head, and I should be hung from the tree opposite, as a traitor to the king. Who he is I don't know, but there can be no doubt he is a Huguenot, and that he has killed two nobles. I daresay they deserved it if they were, as the men said, engaged in what they call the good work of slaying Huguenots; which is a kind of work with which I do not hold. But that is no business of mine--I am not going to risk my life in the matter. " 'Besides, if I don't send off it will make no difference; for they told half-a-dozen men, before they started, that they would give a gold crown to the first who brought them news of the party; and it is like enough someone has slipped off, already, to earn the money. So I must make myself safe by sending off Jacques, at once. The men said that their lords had powerful friends at Nevers, and I am not going to embroil myself with them, for the sake of a stranger.' " 'We have nothing to do with the Huguenots, one way or other,' the woman said. 'There are no Huguenots in this village, and it is nothing to us what they do in other parts. Send off Jacques if you like, and perhaps it will be best; but I don't want any fighting or bloodshed here.'
"I slipped away then," continued Pierre, "as I thought the landlord would be coming out to look for this Jacques. If it had not been for what he said about the reward offered, and the likelihood that others would already have started with the news, I should have watched for the man and followed him when he started. I don't think he would have carried his message far. As it was, I thought it best to let you know at once; so that we could slip out of this trap, in time."
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{
"id": "20092"
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17
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: The Battle Of Moncontor.
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When Pierre left him in order to look after the horses, Philip continued his meal. There could be no hurry, for Nevers was twelve miles away; and it would be four hours, at least, before a party could arrive.
The landlady herself brought in the next course. After placing the dish upon the table, she stood looking earnestly at him for a minute, and then said: "You spoke of stopping here tonight, sir. The accommodation is very poor and, if you will take my advice, you will ride farther. There have been some men along here this afternoon, inquiring for a party like yours; and offering a reward to any who would carry the news to them, should you pass through. Methinks their intentions were not friendly."
"I thank you very much for your counsel," Philip said, "and will take it. I know that there are some who would gladly hinder me, in my journey; and if there is, as you say, a risk of their coming here for me, it were as well that I rode farther, although I would gladly have given my horses a night's rest. I thank you warmly for having warned me."
"Do not let my husband know that I have spoken to you," she said. "He is an honest man, but timid; and in these days 'tis safest not to meddle with what does not concern one."
Philip waited for two hours, and then told Pierre to saddle the horses, and tell the landlord that he wished to speak to him.
"I have changed my mind, landlord," he said, "and shall ride forward. The horses will have rested now, and can very well do another fifteen miles; so let me have your reckoning. You can charge for my bedroom as, doubtless, it has been put in order for me."
Philip saw that the landlord looked pleased, though he said nothing; and in a few minutes the horses were brought round, the bill paid, and they started. They struck off from the road, three or four miles farther; and halted in a wood which they reached, after half an hour's riding. The grain bags had been filled up again, at the inn; but as the horses had eaten their fill, these were not opened and, after loosening the girths and arranging the order in which they should keep watch, the party threw themselves on the ground.
Two hours after their arrival Eustace, who was on watch, heard the distant sounds of a body of horsemen, galloping along the main road in the direction of the village they had left.
In the morning at daybreak they started again, directing their way to the southwest, and following the course of the Loire; which they crossed at Estree, and so entered Burgundy. Crossing the great line of hills, they came down on the Saone; which they crossed at a ferry, fifteen miles below Dijon. They here obtained news of the position of the Duc de Deux-Ponts, and finally rode into his camp, near Vesoul. They had been fortunate in avoiding all questioning; it being generally assumed, from their travelling without baggage, that they belonged to the neighbourhood.
Riding into the camp, they were not long in discovering an officer who spoke French and, upon Philip saying that he was the bearer of despatches for the Duc from Admiral Coligny, he was at once conducted to his pavilion. He had, when the camp was in sight and all dangers at an end, taken his despatches from his boots; and these he at once presented to the duke, who came to the door of his tent, on hearing that a gentleman had arrived with letters from Coligny, himself.
"I am glad to get some news direct, at last," the Duc said; "for I have heard so many rumours, since I crossed the frontier, that I know not whether the Admiral is a fugitive or at the head of a great army. Which is nearest the truth?"
"The latter, assuredly, sir. The Admiral is at the head of as large a body of men as that with which he offered battle to the Duc d'Anjou, when winter first set in."
"Come in, monsieur, and sit down, while I read the despatches. How many days have you taken in traversing France?"
"It is the tenth day since I left La Rochelle, sir."
"And have you ridden the same horses the whole way?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then they must be good beasts, for you must have done over forty miles a day."
"We carried no baggage, sir and, as you see, no armour; and we have husbanded our horses' strength, to the best of our power."
The duke sat down, and read the papers of which Philip was the bearer.
"The Admiral speaks very highly of you, sir, both as regards discretion and bravery; and mentions that he knighted you, himself, for your conduct in the battle of Jarnac. He need not have said so much, for the fact that he chose you to carry these despatches is the highest proof of his confidence.
"And now, tell me all particulars of your journey; and what news you have gathered, on your way, as to the movement and positions of the forces of the royal dukes. This will supplement the Admiral's despatches."
Philip gave a full report of his route, of the state of the roads, the number of cattle in the country through which he had passed, the accounts he had heard of the forces assembled in the cities, and the preparations that had been made to guard the passages across the rivers of Burgundy.
"I will travel by the route that the Admiral indicates, so far as I can do so undisturbed by the armies of the two French dukes. I have with me some good guides, as many French gentleman joined me, not long since, with the Prince of Orange. I had already decided, by their advice, upon following nearly the route commended by the Admiral. I trust that you, sir, will ride among my friends; to whom I will introduce you this evening, at supper."
The Duc's army amounted to some fifteen thousand men, of whom seven thousand five hundred were horsemen from the states of Lower Germany, and six thousand infantry from Upper Germany; the remaining fifteen hundred being French and Flemish gentlemen, who had joined him with the Prince of Orange. The armies under the French dukes were, together, considerably superior in force to that of Deux-Ponts; but singly they were not strong enough to attack him, and the mutual jealousies of their commanders prevented their acting in concert. Consequently, the German force moved across Comte and on to Autun, in the west of Burgundy, without meeting with any opposition. Then they marched rapidly down. The bridges upon the Loire were all held; but one of the French officers, who knew the country, discovered a ford by which a portion of the army crossed. The main body laid siege to the town of La Chants, and compelled it to surrender, thus gaining a bridge by which they crossed the Loire.
As the enemy were now in great force, in front of them; they turned to the southwest, several messengers being sent off to appoint a fresh meeting place with Coligny; and skirting the hills of Bourbonais, Auvergne, and Limousin, they at last arrived within a day's march of Limoges; the journey of five hundred miles, through a hostile country, being one of the most remarkable in military history.
That evening Admiral Coligny and his staff rode into camp, having arrived with his army at Limoges. The Duc had been for some time suffering from fever; and had, for the last week, been carried in a litter, being unable to sit his horse. He was, when the Admiral arrived, unconscious; and died the next morning, being succeeded in his command by the Count of Mansfeldt. Next day the two armies joined, with great demonstrations of joy.
The Duc d'Anjou had been closely watching the army of Coligny, his army being somewhat superior in force to that of the allies, who now numbered some twenty-five thousand; for the duke had been recently reinforced by five thousand papal troops, and twelve hundred Florentines. A part of his force, under General Strozzi, was at La Roche Abeille. They were attacked by the Huguenots. Four hundred Royalists were killed, and many taken prisoners, among them their general.
There was, for a time, a pause. The court entered into fresh negotiations with the Admiral, being anxious to delay his operations; as many of the nobles who were with the Duc D'Anjou, wearied by the burdens imposed upon them, insisted upon returning for a time to their homes. The Huguenots were, above all things, anxious for peace; and allowed themselves to be detained, for nearly a month, by these negotiations.
On the march down after the capture of La Charite, the German force had passed within a few miles of the Chateau de Landres; and Philip rode over to see whether Claire was still there. She received him with the frank pleasure of a girl.
"We have heard very little of what is going on outside, Monsieur Fletcher," Madame de Landres said, after the first greetings were over; "though the air has been full of rumours. Again and again, reports were brought in that the duke's army had been entirely destroyed by the Royalist forces. Then, after a day or two, we heard of it as still advancing; but in danger, hourly, of being destroyed. Then came the news that every town commanding a bridge across the Loire was being put in a state of defence, and strong bodies of troops thrown into them; and we heard that, as soon as the Germans reached the river, and farther advance was impossible, they would be attacked by the armies of Nemours and Aumale. But by this time we had become so accustomed to these tales that we were not much alarmed.
"We were, however, surprised when we heard that a strong body of the Germans had forded the river; and had blockaded La Charite on this side, while it had been besieged on the other. I hear that a strong garrison has been left there."
"Yes, madam. The place is of great importance, as it gives us a means of crossing the Loire at any time. We find, too, that a large part of the population are Huguenot; and the place will certainly be held against any attack the Royalists may make against us."
"The news will be received with joy, indeed, by all of our religion in this part of France. Hitherto we have had no place of refuge, whatever. There was but the choice of dying in our own houses or villages, or taking refuge in the woods until hunted down. It will be, to us, what La Rochelle is to the Huguenots of the west. Besides, the garrison there will make the Catholics very chary of attacking us. Moreover, having now this passage across the Loire it is likely that our party will largely use it on their marches, and would be able to punish heavily any places at which there had been massacres. It is by this way, too, the Germans are sure to return. Therefore I feel that, for a time, my young charge will be perfectly safe here.
"I sent off a messenger to our army, on the day you left us; but have had no reply, and know not whether he reached it in safety. At any rate, you cannot be very long before your force joins the Admiral; and as we felt quite sure that you would come to see us, as you passed, we have our letters ready to my husband and the Count de Valecourt. You will, I am sure, deliver them as soon as you join the Admiral."
"That I will assuredly do, madam. I expect that we shall meet him near Limoges. That is the direction in which we are now marching."
The Count de Valecourt was one of the gentlemen who rode into the Duc do Deux-Ponts' camp with the Admiral and, as soon as they dismounted, and Coligny entered the tent of the dying general, Philip made his way to his side.
"Ah! Monsieur Fletcher, I am glad to see you again. You accomplished, then, your journey in safety. The Prince of Navarre often spoke of you, and wondered how you were faring."
"I did very well, sir; but I have not thrust myself upon you, at the moment of your arrival, to speak of my own journey; but to deliver you a letter, which I have the honour of being the bearer, from your daughter."
The count stepped backwards a pace, with a cry of astonishment and pleasure.
"From my daughter! Is it possible, sir? How long is it since you saw her?"
"It is nigh three weeks back, sir."
"The Lord be praised!" the count said solemnly, taking off his cap and looking upwards. "He has shown me many mercies, but this is the greatest. For the last two months I have mourned her as dead. News was brought to me, by one of my retainers, that she was with a congregation who were attacked by the people of La Chatre, and that all had been massacred. My chateau near there was attacked and burnt, and those of the men who were Huguenots slain, save the one who brought me the news."
"You will see, sir, that your daughter escaped," Philip said, handing him the letter. "She is now in the safe custody of Madame de Landres."
The count tore open the letter, and he had read but a few lines when he uttered an exclamation of surprise and, turning towards Philip, who had moved a few paces away, ran to him and threw his arms round his neck.
"It is you who have, with God's blessing, rescued my daughter from death," he exclaimed. "She is my only child. Oh, monsieur, what joy have you brought to me, what thankfulness do I feel, how deeply am I indebted to you! I had thought that there remained to me but to do my duty to God, and His cause; and then, if I lived to see the end of the war, to live out my days a childless old man. Now I seem to live again. Claire is alive; I have still something to love and care for.
"I will first run through the rest of the letter; and then you shall tell me, in full, all the story. But which is your tent? Pray take me there. I would be alone, a little while, to thank God for this great mercy."
Half an hour later, the count reappeared at the entrance of the tent. Pierre had wine and refreshments ready and, placing them on a box that served as a table, retired; leaving his master and the count together.
"Now, tell me all about it," the count said. "Claire's description is a very vague one, and she bids me get all the details from you. She only knows that a man on horseback rode at her, with uplifted sword. She commended her soul to God, and stood expecting the blow; when there was a pistol shot, close to her, and the man fell from his horse. Then another dashed forward; while you, on horseback, threw yourself between her and him. There was a terrible clashing of swords; and then he, too, fell. Then you lifted her on to your horse, and for a short time there was a whirl of conflict. Then you rode off with three men, behind one of whom her maid Annette was sitting. That is all she knows of it, except what you told her, yourself."
"That is nearly all there is to know, count. The fray lasted but two minutes, in all; and my being upon the spot was due to no forethought of mine, but was of the nature of a pure accident."
"Nay, sir, you should not say that; you were led there by the hand of God. But tell me how you came to be in the wood, and pray omit nothing."
Philip related the whole story, from the time of the incident at the inn, to the time when he handed over Claire to the care of Madame de Landres.
"It was well done, sir," the count said, laying his hand affectionately on his shoulder, when he concluded. "The young prince said you would have a story to tell him, when you came back; but I little dreamt that it would be one in which I had such interest.
"Well, Claire cannot do better than remain where she is, for the present; until, at any rate, I can remove her to La Rochelle, which is the only place where she can be said to be absolutely safe; but so long as we hold La Charite there is, as you say, but slight fear of any fresh trouble there. From all other parts of France, we hear the same tales of cruel massacre and executions, by fire and sword."
Francois de Laville was not with Coligny's army, as he was with the Prince of Navarre, who had remained near La Rochelle; but he was very pleased to find the Count de la Noue, who had just rejoined the army; having been exchanged for a Royalist officer of rank, who had fallen into the hands of the Huguenots.
"You have been doing great things, while I have been lying in prison, Philip," the count said warmly. "I hear that the Admiral has made you and my cousin knights; and more than that, I heard half an hour since from De Valecourt that, while carrying despatches to the Germans, you had time to do a little knight-errant's work, and had the good fortune to save his daughter from being massacred by the Catholics. By my faith, chevalier, there is no saying what you will come to, if you go on thus."
"I don't want to come to anything, count," Philip said, laughing. "I came over here to fight for the Huguenot cause, and with no thought of gaining anything for myself. I am, of course, greatly pleased to receive the honour of knighthood, and that at the hands of so great and noble a general as Admiral Coligny. I have been singularly fortunate, but I owe my good fortune in no small degree to you; for I could have had no better introduction than to ride in your train."
"You deserve all the credit you have obtained, Philip. You have grasped every opportunity that was presented to you, and have always acquitted yourself well. A young man does not gain the esteem and approval of a Coligny, the gratitude of a Valecourt, and the liking of all who know him--including the Queen of Navarre and her son--unless by unusual merit. I am proud of you as a connection, though distant, of my own; and I sincerely trust you will, at the end of this sad business, return home to your friends none the worse for the perils you have gone through."
At the end of a month the negotiations were broken off, for the court had no real intention of granting any concessions. The Huguenots again commenced hostilities. Two or three strong fortresses were captured; and a force despatched south, under Count Montgomery, who joined the army of the Viscounts, expelled the Royalists from Bearn, and restored it to the Queen of Navarre.
There was a considerable division, among the Huguenot leaders, as to the best course to be taken. The Admiral was in favour of marching north and besieging Saumur, which would give them a free passage across the lower Loire to the north of France, as the possession of La Charite kept open for them a road to the west; but the majority of the leaders were in favour of besieging Poitiers, one of the richest and most important cities in France. Unfortunately their opinion prevailed, and they marched against Poitiers, of which the Count de Lude was the governor. Before they arrived there Henry, Duke of Guise, with his brother the Duke of Mayenne, and other officers, threw themselves into the town. A desperate defence was made, and every assault by the Huguenots was repulsed, with great loss. A dam was thrown across a small river by the besieged, and its swollen waters inundated the Huguenot camp; and their losses at the breaches were greatly augmented by the ravages of disease.
After the siege had lasted for seven weeks, the Duc d'Anjou laid siege to Chatelherault, which the Huguenots had lately captured; and Coligny raised the siege, which had cost him two thousand men, and marched to its assistance.
The disaster at Poitiers was balanced, to a certain extent, by a similar repulse which a force of seven thousand Catholics had sustained, at La Charite; which for four weeks successfully repelled every assault, the assailants being obliged, at last, to draw off from the place. In Paris, and other places, the murders of Huguenots were of constant occurrence; and at Orleans two hundred and eighty, who had been thrown into prison, were massacred in a single day. The Parliament of Paris rendered itself infamous by trying the Admiral, in his absence, for treason; hanging him in effigy; and offering a reward, of fifty thousand gold crowns, to anyone who should murder him.
But a serious battle was now on the eve of being fought. The Duc d'Anjou had been largely reinforced, and his army amounted to nine thousand cavalry and eighteen thousand infantry; while Coligny's army had been weakened by his losses at Poitiers, and by the retirement of many of the nobles, whose resources could no longer bear the expense of keeping their retainers in the field. He had now only some eleven thousand foot, and six thousand horse. He was therefore anxious to avoid a battle until joined by Montgomery, with the six thousand troops he had with him at Bearn.
His troops from the south, however, were impatient at the long inaction, and anxious to return home; while the Germans threatened to desert, unless they were either paid or led against the enemy.
La Noue, who commanded the advance guard, had captured the town of Moncontour; and the Admiral, advancing in that direction, and ignorant that the enemy were in the neighbourhood, moved towards the town. When on the march, the rear was attacked by a heavy body of the enemy. De Mouy, who commanded there, held them at bay until the rest of the Huguenot army gained the other side of a marsh, through which they were passing, and entered the town in safety.
The Admiral would now have retreated, seeing that the whole force of the enemy were in front of him; but the Germans again mutinied, and the delay before they could be pacified enabled the French army to make a detour, and overtake the Huguenots soon after they left Moncontour. The Admiral, who commanded the left wing of the army--Count Louis of Nassau commanding the right--first met them, and his cavalry charged that of the Catholics, which was commanded by the German Rhinegrave. The latter rode well in advance of his men, while Coligny was equally in front of the Protestants.
The two leaders therefore met. The conflict was a short one. Coligny was severely wounded in the face, and the Rhinegrave was killed.
While the cavalry on both sides fought desperately for victory, the infantry was speedily engaged. The combat between the Huguenot foot, and the Swiss infantry in the Royalist ranks, was long and doubtful. The Duc d'Anjou displayed great courage in the fight; while on the other side the Princes of Navarre and Conde, who had that morning joined the army from Parthenay, fought bravely in the front of the Huguenots. The Catholic line began to give way, in spite of their superiority in numbers; when Marshal Cosse advanced with fresh troops into the battle, and the Huguenots in turn were driven back.
The German cavalry of the Huguenots, in spite of the valour of their leader, Louis of Nassau, were seized with a panic and fled from the field; shattering on their way the ranks of the German infantry. Before the latter could recover their order, the Swiss infantry poured in among them. Many threw down their arms and shouted for quarter, while others defended themselves until the last; but neither submission nor defence availed and, out of the four thousand German infantry, but two hundred escaped.
Three thousand of the Huguenot infantry were cut off by Anjou's cavalry. A thousand were killed, and the rest spared, at the Duc's command. In all, two thousand Huguenot infantry and three hundred knights perished on the field, besides the German infantry; while on the Catholic side the loss was but a little over five hundred men.
La Noue was again among those taken prisoner. Before the battle began, he had requested Philip to join his cousin, who had come up with the princes; and to attach himself to their bodyguard, during the battle. They kept close to the princes during the fight, riding far enough back for them to be seen by the Huguenots, and closing round when the enemy poured down upon them. When the German horsemen fled, and the infantry were enveloped by the Catholics, they led Henri and Conde from the field; charging right through a body of Catholic horse who had swept round to the rear, and carrying them off to Parthenay.
Here they found the Admiral, who had been borne off the field, grievously wounded. For a moment the lion-hearted general had felt despondency at the crushing defeat, being sorely wounded and weakened by loss of blood; but as he was carried off the field, his litter came alongside one in which L'Estrange, a Huguenot gentleman, also sorely wounded, was being borne. Doubtless the Admiral's face expressed the deep depression of his spirit; and L'Estrange, holding out his hand to him, said: "Yet is God very gentle."
The words were an echo of those which formed the mainspring of the Admiral's life. His face lit up, and he exclaimed: "Thanks, comrade. Truly God is merciful, and we will trust him always."
He was much pleased when the two young princes, both unhurt, rejoined him. He issued orders to his officers to rally their troops as they came in, to evacuate Parthenay, and march at once to Niort.
The gallant De Mouy was appointed to command the city, and three or four days were spent there in rallying the remains of the army. Scarce had they reached Niort when the Queen of Navarre arrived from La Rochelle, whence she had hastened, as soon as she had heard the news of the defeat. The presence of this heroic woman speedily dispelled the despondency among the Huguenots. Going about among them, and addressing the groups of officers and soldiers, she communicated to them her own fire and enthusiasm. Nothing was lost yet, she said; the Germans had failed them, but their own valour had been conspicuous, and with the blessing of God matters would soon be restored. Already the delay of the Catholics in following up their victory had given them time to rally, and they were now in a position to give battle again.
Leaving a strong garrison at Niort, Coligny moved with a portion of his army to Saintes; while the southern troops, from Dauphine and Provence, marched to Angouleme. These troops were always difficult to retain long in the field, as they were anxious for the safety of their friends at home. They now clamoured for permission to depart, urging that the news of the defeat of Moncontour would be the signal for fresh persecutions and massacres, in the south. Finally they marched away without Coligny's permission and, after some fighting, reached Dauphine in safety.
In the meantime Niort had been attacked. De Mouy defended the place stoutly, and sallied out and repulsed the enemy. His bravery, however, was fatal to him. A Catholic named Maurevel, tempted by the fifty thousand crowns that had been offered for the assassination of Coligny, had entered the Protestant camp, pretending that he had been badly treated by the Guises. No opportunity for carrying out his design against the Admiral presented itself, and he remained at Niort with De Mouy; who, believing his protestations of attachment for the cause, had treated him with great friendship. As the Huguenots were returning after their successful sortie, he was riding in the rear with De Mouy and, seizing his opportunity, he drew a pistol and shot the Huguenot leader, mortally wounding him. He then galloped off and rejoined the Catholics; and was rewarded, for the treacherous murder, by receiving from the king the order of Saint Michael, and a money reward from the city of Paris.
The garrison of Niort, disheartened at the death of their leader, surrendered shortly after. Several other strong places fell, and all the conquests the Protestants had made were wrested from their hands. The battle of Moncontour was fought on October 3rd. On the 14th the southern troops marched away, and four days later Coligny, with the remains of the army, started from Saintes. He had with him but six thousand men, of whom three thousand were cavalry.
His plan was an extremely bold one. In the first place, he wished to obtain money to pay the German horsemen, by the capture of some of the rich Catholic cities in Guyenne; to form a junction with the army of Montgomery; then to march across to the Rhone, and there to meet the forces of the south, which would by that time be ready to take the field again; then to march north to Lorraine, there to gather in the Germans whom William of Orange would have collected to meet him; and then to march upon Paris, and to end the war by giving battle under its walls.
The Queen of Navarre was to remain in La Rochelle, which city was placed under the command of La Rochefoucault; and the two young princes were to accompany the army, where they were to have small commands. They would thus become inured to the hardships of war, and would win the affection of the soldiers.
Francois de Laville had, with his own troop, ridden off to his chateau from Parthenay on the morning after the battle; Coligny advising him to take his mother, at once, to La Rochelle, as the chateau would speedily be attacked, in revenge for the sharp repulse that the Catholics had suffered there. On his arrival the countess at once summoned all the tenants, and invited those who chose to accompany her; pointing out that the Catholics would speedily ravage the land. Accordingly, the next day all the valuables in the chateau were packed up in carts, and the place entirely abandoned. The whole of the tenants accompanied her, driving their herds before them, as they would find a market for these in the city. As they moved along they were joined by large numbers of other fugitives, as throughout the whole country the Protestants were making for refuge to the city.
When the Admiral marched away, Philip rode with a young French officer, for whom he had a warm friendship, named De Piles. The latter had been appointed governor of Saint Jean d'Angely, which was now the sole bulwark of La Rochelle; and he had specially requested the Admiral to appoint Philip to accompany him. The place was scarcely capable of defence, and the Admiral had only decided to hold it in the hope that the Duc d'Anjou, instead of following him with his whole army, would wait to besiege it.
This decision was, in fact, adopted by the Royalists, after much discussion among the leaders. Several of them wished to press on at once after Coligny, urging that the destruction of the remnant of his army would be a fatal blow to the Huguenot cause. The majority, however, were of opinion that it was of more importance to reduce La Rochelle, the Huguenots' stronghold in the west, and in order to do this Saint Jean d'Angely must first be captured. Their counsel prevailed and, just as the siege of Poitiers had proved fatal to the plans of Coligny, so that of Saint Jean d'Angely went far to neutralize all the advantages gained by the Catholic victory at Moncontour.
Scarcely had De Piles taken the command than the army of the Duc d'Anjou appeared before the walls, and at once opened fire. The garrison was a very small one, but it was aided by the whole of the inhabitants; who were, like those of La Rochelle, zealous Huguenots. Every assault upon the walls was repulsed, and at night the breaches made by the cannon during the day were repaired; the inhabitants, even the women and children, bringing stones to the spot, and the soldiers doing the work of building.
On the 26th of October, after the siege had continued for a fortnight, the king himself joined the Catholic army, and summoned the place to surrender. De Piles replied that, although he recognized the authority of the king, he was unable to obey his orders; as he had been appointed to hold the city by the Prince of Navarre, the royal governor of Guyenne, his feudal superior, and could only surrender it on receiving his orders to do so. The siege, therefore, recommenced.
The walls were so shaken that De Piles himself, after repulsing a furious attack upon them, came to the conclusion that the next assault would probably be successful; and he therefore caused a breach to be made in the wall on the other side of the town, to afford a means of retreat for his troops. His supply of ammunition, too, was almost exhausted.
"What do you think, Fletcher?" he said gloomily. "If we could but hold out for another ten days or so, the Admiral would have got so fair a start that they would never overtake him. But I feel sure that another twenty-four hours will see the end of it."
"We might gain some time," Philip replied, "by asking for an armistice. They probably do not know the straits to which we are reduced, and may grant us a few days."
"They might do so. At any rate, it is worth trying," De Piles agreed; and an hour later Philip went, with a flag of truce, to the royal camp. He was taken before the Duc d'Anjou.
"I am come with proposals from the governor," he said. "He will not surrender the town without orders from the Prince of Navarre. But if you will grant a fortnight's armistice, he will send a messenger to the prince; and if no answer arrives, or if no succour reaches him at the end of that time, he will surrender; on condition that the garrison shall be permitted to retire, with their horses and arms, and that religious liberty shall be granted to all the inhabitants."
The Duc consulted with his generals. The losses in the attacks had been extremely heavy, and disease was raging in the army and, to Philip's inward surprise and delight, an answer was made that the conditions would be granted, but that only ten days would be given. He returned with the answer to De Piles, and the armistice was at once agreed upon, six hostages for its proper observance being given on both sides.
On the ninth day Saint Surin, with forty horsemen, dashed through the enemy's lines and rode into the town; thus relieving De Piles from the necessity of surrendering. The hostages were returned on both sides, and the siege recommenced.
Attack after attack was repulsed, with heavy loss; several of the bravest royalist officers, among them the governor of Brittany, being killed. The town was valiantly defended until the 2nd of December, when De Piles, satisfied with having detained the royal army seven weeks before the walls, and seeing no hope of relief, surrendered on the same conditions that had before been agreed on. Its capture had cost the Duc d'Anjou 6000 men, about half of whom had fallen by disease, the rest in the assaults; and the delay had entirely defeated the object of the campaign.
The gates were opened, and the little body of defenders marched out, with colours flying. One of the conditions of surrender had been that they should not serve again during the war.
The Duc d'Aumale, and other officers, endeavoured to ensure the observance of the condition of their safe conduct through the Catholic lines; but the soldiers, furious at seeing the handful of men who had inflicted such loss upon them going off in safety, attacked them, and nearly a hundred were killed--a number equal to the loss they had suffered throughout the whole siege. De Piles with the rest were, by their own exertions and those of some of the Catholic leaders, enabled to make their way through, and rode to Angouleme.
There De Piles sent a letter demanding the severe punishment of those who had broken the terms of the surrender; but, no attention having been paid to his demand, he sent a herald to the king to declare that, in consequence of the breach of the conditions, he and those with him considered themselves absolved from their undertaking not to carry arms during the war; and he then rode away, with his followers, to join the Admiral.
The French army rapidly fell to pieces. With winter at hand, it was in vain to attempt the siege of La Rochelle. Philip of Spain and the pope ordered the troops they had supplied to return home, alleging that the victory of Moncontour, of which they had received the most exaggerated reports, had virtually terminated the war. The German and Swiss troops were allowed to leave the service, and the nobles and their retainers were granted permission to do the same, until the spring. Thus the whole fruits of the victory of Moncontour were annihilated by the heroic defence of Saint Jean d'Angely.
In the meantime, the Admiral had been moving south. In order to cross the rivers he had marched westward, and so made a circuit to Montauban, the stronghold of the Huguenots in the south. Moving westward he joined the Count of Montgomery at Aiguillon, and returned with him to Montauban, where he received many reinforcements; until his army amounted to some twenty-one thousand men, of whom six thousand were cavalry.
At the end of January they marched to Toulouse, a city with an evil fame, as the centre of persecuting bigotry in the south of France. It was too strong to be attacked; but the country round it was ravaged, and all the country residences of the members of its parliament destroyed. Then they marched westward to Nismes, sending marauding expeditions into the Catholic districts, and even into Spain, in revenge for the assistance the king had given the Catholics. De Piles and his party had joined the Admiral at Montauban, and the former commanded the force that penetrated into Spain.
Coligny turned north, marched up the Rhone, surmounting every obstacle of mountain and river; until he reached Burgundy, arriving at Saint Etienne-sur-Loire on the 26th of May. Here they were met by messengers from the court, which was in a state of consternation at the steady approach of an enemy they had regarded as crushed; and were ready, in their alarm, to promise anything. The Admiral fell dangerously ill and, at the news, the king at once broke off the negotiations. He recovered, however, and, advancing, met the royal army, under Marshal Cosse, in the neighbourhood of the town of Arnay de Duc.
Coligny's army had dwindled away during its terrible march, and it consisted now of only two thousand horsemen and two thousand five hundred arquebusiers, the cannon being all left behind. Cosse had ten thousand infantry, of whom four thousand were Swiss; three thousand cavalry, and twelve cannon. The armies took post on the hills on opposite sides of a valley, through which ran a stream fed by some small ponds. The Royalists commenced the attack but, after fighting obstinately for seven hours, were compelled to fall back with heavy loss.
A fresh body was then directed against an intrenchment the Huguenots had thrown up, near the ponds. Here again the fighting was long and obstinate, but at last the Catholics were repulsed.
The next morning both armies drew up in order of battle; but neither would advance to the attack, as the ground offered such advantages to those who stood on the defensive; and they accordingly returned to their camps.
The Admiral, being unwilling to fight till he received reinforcements, marched away to La Charite; where he was reorganizing his force, when a truce of ten days was made. At the end of that time he again marched north and, distributing his soldiers in the neighbourhood of Montargis, took up his quarters at his castle of Chatillon-sur-Loing, where he remained while negotiations were going on.
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: A Visit Home.
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While Coligny had been accomplishing his wonderful march round France, La Noue, who had been exchanged for Strozzi, had betaken himself to La Rochelle. He forced the Catholics, who were still languidly blockading that place, to fall back; defeated them near Lucon, and recaptured Fontenay, Niort, the Isle of Oleron, Brouage, and Saintes. At Fontenay, however, the brave Huguenot leader had his left arm broken, and was obliged to have it amputated.
Negotiations were now being carried on in earnest. Charles the Ninth was weary of a war that impoverished the state, diminished his revenues, and forced him to rely upon the Guises, whom he feared and disliked. Over and over again, he had been assured that the war was practically at an end, and the Huguenots crushed; but as often, fresh armies rose. The cities that had been taken with so much difficulty had again fallen into their hands, and Paris itself was menaced.
The princes of Germany wrote, begging him to make peace; and although the terms fell far short of what the Huguenots hoped and desired, the concessions were large and, could they have depended upon the good faith of the court, their lives would have at least been tolerable. A complete amnesty was granted, and a royal command issued that the Protestants were to be exposed to neither insults nor recriminations, and were to be at liberty to profess their faith openly.
Freedom of worship was, however, restricted within very small proportions. The nobles of high rank were permitted to name a place, belonging to them, where religious services could be performed. As long as they or their families were present, these services could be attended by all persons in their jurisdiction. Other nobles were allowed to have services, but only for their families and friends, not exceeding twelve in number. Twenty-four towns were named, two in each of the principal provinces, in which Protestant services were allowed; the privilege being extended to all the towns of which the Huguenots had possession, at the signature of the truce.
All property, honours, and offices were restored, and judicial decisions against their holders annulled. The four towns, La Rochelle, Montauban, Cognac, and La Charite were, for two years, to remain in the hands of the Huguenots, to serve as places of refuge. The edict, in which the king promulgated the terms of peace, stated the conditions to be perpetual and irrevocable.
The Huguenots had the more hope that the peace would be preserved, since Montmorency, who was an opponent of the Guises, and had done his best to bring about peace, was high in favour with the king; and indeed, held the chief power in France.
There can be little doubt that, at the time, the king was in earnest. He ordered the parliament of Paris to annul a declaration they had made, declaring the Cardinal Chatillon, the Admiral's brother, deprived of his bishopric; and as it hesitated, he ordered its president to bring the records to him, and with his own hand tore out the pages upon which the proceedings were entered.
The priests, throughout France, threw every obstacle in the way of the recognition of the edict; and in several places there were popular disturbances, and wholesale massacres. Paris, as usual, set the example of turbulence and bigotry.
As soon as the peace was concluded, Philip prepared to return for a while to England. In the three years which had elapsed since he left home, he had greatly changed. He had been a lad of sixteen when he landed in France. He was now a tall, powerful young fellow. Although still scarcely beyond the age of boyhood, he had acquired the bearing and manners of a man. He stood high in the confidence of Coligny, and the other Huguenot leaders; was a special favourite with the young Prince of Navarre, and his cousin Conde; and had received the honour of knighthood, at the hands of one of the greatest captains of his age.
"You had better stay, Philip," his cousin urged. "You may be sure that this peace will be as hollow as those which preceded it. There will never be a lasting one until we have taken Paris, and taught the bloodthirsty mob there that it is not only women and children who profess the reformed religion, but men who have swords in their hands and can use them."
"If the troubles break out again, I shall hasten back, Francois; indeed, I think that in any case I shall return for a while, ere long. I do not see what I could do at home. My good uncle Gaspard has been purchasing land for me, but I am too young to play the country gentleman."
"Nonsense, Philip. There have been plenty of young nobles in our ranks who, if your seniors in years, look no older than you do, and are greatly your inferiors in strength. They are feudal lords on their estates, and none deem them too young."
"Because they have always been feudal nobles, Francois. I go back to a place where I was, but three years ago, a boy at school. My comrades there are scarcely grown out of boyhood. It will seem to them ridiculous that I should return Sir Philip Fletcher; and were I to set up as a country squire, they would laugh in my face. Until I am at least of age, I should not dream of this; and five-and-twenty would indeed be quite time for me to settle down there.
"Here it is altogether different. I was introduced as your cousin, and as a son of one of noble French family; and to our friends here it is no more remarkable that I should ride behind Coligny, and talk with the princes of Navarre and Conde, than that you should do so. But at home it would be different; and I am sure that my father and mother, my uncle and aunt will agree with me that it is best I should not settle down, yet. Therefore I propose, in any case, to return soon.
"I agree with you there will be troubles again here, before long. If not, there is likely enough to be war with Spain, for they say Philip is furious at toleration having been granted to the Huguenots; and in that case there will be opportunities for us, and it will be much pleasanter fighting against Spaniards than against Frenchmen.
"If there are neither fresh troubles here, nor war with Spain, I shall go and join the Dutch in their struggle against the Spaniards. Prince Louis of Nassau told me that he would willingly have me to ride behind him; and the Prince of Orange, to whom the Admiral presented me, also spoke very kindly. They, like you, are fighting for the reformed faith and freedom of worship and, cruel as are the persecutions you have suffered in France, they are as nothing to the wholesale massacres by Alva."
"In that case, Philip, I will not try to detain you; but at any rate, wait a few months before you take service in Holland, and pay us another visit before you decide upon doing so."
Philip journeyed quietly across the north of France, and took passage to Dover for himself and his horses. Pierre accompanied him, taking it so greatly to heart, when he spoke of leaving him, behind that Philip consented to keep him; feeling, indeed, greatly loath to part from one who had, for three years, served him so well. The two men-at-arms were transferred to Francois' troop, both being promised that, if Philip rode to the wars again in France, they and their comrades now at Laville should accompany him.
From Dover Philip rode to Canterbury. He saw in the streets he passed through many faces he knew, among them some of his former schoolfellows; and he wondered to himself that these were so little changed, while he was so altered that none recognized, in the handsomely dressed young cavalier, the lad they had known; although several stopped to look at, and remark on, the splendid horses ridden by the gentleman and his attendant.
He drew rein in front of Gaspard Vaillant's large establishment and, dismounting, gave his reins to Pierre and entered. He passed straight through the shop into the merchant's counting house.
[Illustration: Gaspard Vaillant gets a surprise.]
Gaspard looked up in surprise, at the entry of a gentleman unannounced; looked hard at his visitor, and then uttered his name and, rushing forward, embraced him warmly.
"I can hardly believe it is you," he exclaimed, holding Philip at arm's length and gazing up in his face. "Why, you have grown a veritable giant; and as fine a man as your father was, when I first knew him; and you have returned Sir Philip, too. I don't know that I was ever so pleased as when you sent me the news. I gave a holiday to all the workmen, and we had a great fete.
"But of course, you cannot stop now. You will be wanting to go up to your father and mother. Run upstairs and embrace Marie. We will not keep you at present, but in an hour we will be up with you."
In a minute or two Philip ran down again.
"Pardieu, but you are well mounted, Philip," the merchant said, as he sprang into the saddle. "These are the two horses, I suppose, you told us about in your letters.
"And is this Pierre, who saved your life when you were captured at Agen?"
"And a good many other times, uncle, by always managing to get hold of a fat pullet when we were pretty near starving. I was always afraid that, sooner or later, I should lose him; and that I should find him, some morning or other, dangling from a tree to which the provost marshal had strung him up."
"Then I shall see you in an hour."
And Philip galloped off to the farm.
The delight of Philip's parents, as he rode up to the house, was great indeed. Philip saw, before he had been at home an hour, that they were animated by somewhat different feelings. His mother was full of gratitude, at his preservation through many dangers; and was glad that he had been able to do some service to her persecuted co-religionists--the fact that he had won great personal credit, and had received the honour of knighthood at the hands of Coligny himself, weighed as nothing in her eyes. It was otherwise with his father. He was very proud that his boy had turned out a worthy descendant of the fighting Kentish stock; and that he had shown, in half-a-dozen fights against heavy odds, a courage as staunch as that which his forefathers had exhibited at Cressy, Poitiers, and Agincourt.
"Good blood tells, my boy," he said; "and you must have shown them a rare sample of what an Englishman can do, before they knighted you. I would rather you had won it in an English battle, but all admit that there is no more capable chief in Europe than the Huguenot Admiral. Certainly there are no English commanders of fame or repute to compare with him; though if we ever get to blows with the Spanish, we shall soon find men, I warrant me, who will match the best of them.
"There was a deal of talk in Canterbury, I can tell you, when the news came home; and many refugees who came through the town declared that they had heard your name among those of the nobles who rode with the Admiral, and the brave La Noue. Indeed, there are two families settled here who fled from Niort, and these have told how you and your cousin saved them from the Catholics.
"I warrant you they have told the tale often enough since they have come here; and it has made quite a stir in Canterbury, and there is not a week passes without some of your old school friends, who used to come up here with you, running up to ask the last news of you, and to hear your letters read; and it has been a pleasure to me to read them, lad, and to see how they opened their eyes when they heard that the Queen of Navarre and her son had given you presents, and that you often rode with the young prince, and his cousin Conde.
"You have changed, Philip, mightily; not in your face, for I see but little alteration there, but in your manner and air. The boys did not seem to understand how you, whom they looked on as one of themselves, could be riding to battle with nobles and talking with princes; but I think they will understand better, when they see you. You look almost too fine for such simple people as we are, Philip; though I do not say your clothes are not of sombre hues, as might be expected from one fighting in the Huguenot ranks."
"I am sure, father," Philip laughed, "there is nothing fine about me. I have gained knighthood, it is true; but a poorer knight never sat in saddle, seeing that I have neither a square yard of land nor a penny piece of my own, owing everything to the kindness of my good uncle, and yourself."
"I must go out tomorrow morning, Philip, and look at those horses of yours. They must be rare beasts, from what you say of them."
"That are they, father. Methinks I like the one I bought at Rochelle even better than that which the Queen of Navarre bestowed upon me; but I grieved sorely over the death of Victor, the horse Francois gave me. I was riding him at the fight of Moncontour, and he was shot through the head with a ball from a German arquebus."
Pierre had, as soon as they arrived, been welcomed and made much of by Philip's mother; and was speedily seated in the post of honour in the kitchen, where he astonished the French servants with tales of his master's adventures, with many surprising additions which had but slight basis of fact.
Gaspard Vaillant and his wife thought that Philip's parents would like to have him, for a time, to themselves; and did not come up for two or three hours after he had arrived.
"You will admit, John, that my plan has acted rarely," the merchant said, when he was seated; "and that, as I prophesied, it has made a man of him. What would he have been, if he had stayed here?"
"He would, I hope, brother Gaspard," Lucie said gravely, "have been what he is now--a gentleman."
"No doubt, Lucie. He promised as much as that, before he went; but he is more than that now. He has been the companion of nobles, and has held his own with them; and if he should go to court, now, he would do honour to your family and his, though he rubbed shoulders with the best of them.
"And now, what are you thinking of doing next, Philip? You will hardly care to settle down among us here, after such a life as you have led for the last three years."
Philip repeated the views he had expressed to Francois de Laville, and his plans were warmly approved by his uncle and father; though his mother folded her hands, and shook her head sadly.
"The lad is right, Lucie," the merchant said.
"He is lord now of the Holford estates--for the deeds are completed and signed, Philip, making them over to you. But I agree heartily with your feeling that you are too young, yet, to assume their mastership. I have a good steward there looking after things, seeing that all goes well, and that the house is kept in order. But it is best, as you say, that a few years should pass before you go to reside there. We need not settle, for a time, whether you shall return to France, or go to see service with those sturdy Dutchmen against the Spaniards. But I should say that it is best you should go where you have already made a name, and gained many friends.
"There is no saying, yet, how matters will go there. Charles is but a puppet in the hands of Catherine de Medici; and with the pope, and Philip of Spain, and the Guises always pushing her on, she will in time persuade the king, who at present earnestly wishes for peace, to take fresh measures against the Huguenots. She is never happy unless she is scheming, and you will see she will not be long before she begins to make trouble, again."
The news spread quickly through Canterbury that Philip Fletcher had returned, and the next day many of his old friends came up to see him. At first they were a little awed by the change that had come over him, and one or two of them even addressed him as Sir Philip. But the shout of laughter, with which he received this well-meant respect, showed them that he was their old schoolfellow still; and soon set them at their ease with him.
"We didn't think, Philip," one of them said, "when you used to take the lead in our fights with the boys of the town, that you would be so soon fighting in earnest, in France; and that in three years you would have gained knighthood."
"I did not think so myself, Archer. You used to call me Frenchie, you know; but I did not think, at the time, that I was likely ever to see France. I should like to have had my old band behind me, in some of the fights we had there. I warrant you would have given as hard knocks as you got, and would have held your own there, as well as you did many a time in the fights in the Cloisters.
"Let us go and lie down under the shade of that tree, there. It used to be our favourite bank, you know, in hot weather; and you shall ask as many questions as you like, and I will answer as best I can."
"And be sure, Philip, to bring all your friends in to supper," John Fletcher said. "I warrant your mother will find plenty for them to eat. She never used to have any difficulty about that, in the old times; and I don't suppose their appetites are sharper, now, than they were then."
Philip spent six months at home. A few days after his return many of the country gentry, who had not known John Fletcher, called on Philip, as one who had achieved a reputation that did honour to the county--for every detail of the Huguenot struggle had been closely followed, in England; and more than one report had been brought over, by emigres, of the bravery of a young Englishman who was held in marked consideration by Admiral Coligny, and had won a name for himself, even among the nobles and gentlemen who rode with that dashing officer De La Noue, whose fame was second only to that of the Admiral. Walsingham, the English ambassador at Paris, had heard of him from La Noue himself, when he was a prisoner there; and mentioned him in one of his despatches, saying that it was this gentleman who had been chosen, by Coligny, to carry important despatches both to the Queen of Navarre and the Duc de Deux-Ponts, and had succeeded admirably in both these perilous missions; and that he had received knighthood, at the hands of the Admiral, for the valour with which he had covered the retreat at the battle of Jarnac.
Philip was, at first, disposed to meet these advances coldly.
"They have not recognized you or my mother, father, as being of their own rank."
"Nor have we been, Philip. I am but a petty landowner, while it is already known that you are the owner of a considerable estate; and have gained consideration and credit, and as a knight have right to precedence over many of them. If you had intended to settle in France, you could do as you like as to accepting their courtesies; but as it is, it is as well that you should make the acquaintance of those with whom you will naturally associate, when you take up your residence on the estate your uncle has bought for you.
"Had your mother and I a grievance against them, it might be different; but we have none. We Fletchers have been yeomen here for many generations. In our own rank, we esteem ourselves as good as the best; but we never thought of pushing ourselves out of our own station, and in the ordinary course of things you would have lived and died as your fathers have done. The change has come about, first through my marrying a French wife of noble blood, though with but a small share of this world's goods; secondly through her sister's husband making a large fortune in trade, and adopting you as his heir; and thirdly, through your going out to your mother's relations, and distinguishing yourself in the war. Thus you stand in an altogether different position to that which I held.
"You are a man with an estate. You are noble, on your mother's side. You are a knight, and have gained the approval of great captains and princes. Therefore it is only meet and right that you should take your place among the gentry; and it would be not only churlish to refuse to accept their civilities now, but altogether in opposition to the course which your uncle planned for you."
Philip therefore accepted the civilities offered to him, and was invited to entertainments at many of the great houses in that part of the county; where, indeed, he was made a good deal of--his fine figure, the ease and courtesy of his bearing, and the reputation he had gained for bravery, rendering him a general favourite.
At the end of six months he received a letter from his cousin, urging him to return.
"Spring has now begun, Philip. At present things are going on quietly, and the king seems determined that the peace shall be kept. The Constable Montmorency is still very high in favour, and the Guises are sulking on their estates. The Huguenot nobles are all well received at court, where they go in numbers, to pay their respect to the king and to assure him of their devotion. I have been there with my mother, and the king was mightily civil, and congratulated me on having been knighted by Coligny. We were present at his majesty's marriage with the daughter of the Emperor of Germany. The show was a very fine one, and everything pleasant.
"There is a report that, in order to put an end to all further troubles, and to bind both parties in friendship, the king has proposed a marriage between his sister Marguerite and Henry of Navarre. We all trust that it will take place, for it will indeed be a grand thing for us of the reformed faith.
"It is rumoured that Queen Jeanne is by no means eager for the match, fearing that Henry, once at Paris, will abandon the simple customs in which he has been brought up; and may even be led away, by the influence of Marguerite and the court, to abandon his faith. Her first fear, I think, is likely enough to be realized; for it seems to me that he has been brought up somewhat too strictly, and being, I am sure, naturally fond of pleasure, he is likely enough to share in the gaieties of the court of Paris. As to her other fear, I cannot think there is foundation for it. Henry is certainly ambitious and very politic, and he has talked often and freely with me, when we have been alone together. He has spoken, once or twice, of his chances of succeeding to the throne of France. They are not great, seeing that three lives stand between it and him and, now that the king has married, they are more remote than before. Still there is the chance; and he once said to me: "'One thing seems to me to be certain, Francois: supposing Charles of Valois and his two brothers died without leaving heirs, France would not accept a Huguenot king. There would be the Guises, and the priests, and the papacy, and Spain all thrown in the scale against him.' " 'That is likely enough, prince,' I said; 'and methinks your lot would be preferable, as King of Navarre, to that of King of France. However, happily there is no reason for supposing that the king and his two brothers will die without heirs.'
"He did not speak for some time, but sat there thinking. You know the way he has. Methinks, Philip, that when he comes to man's estate, and is King of Navarre, the Guises will find in him a very different opponent to deal with than the leaders of the Huguenots have been so far.
"The Admiral is so honest and loyal and truthful, himself, that he is ill fitted to match the subtlety of the queen mother, or the deceit and falsehood of the Guises. The Queen of Navarre is a heroine and a saint but, although a wise woman, she is no match for intriguers. Conde was a gallant soldier, but he hated politics.
"Henry of Navarre will be an opponent of another sort. When I first knew him, I thought him the frankest and simplest of young princes; and that is what most think him, still. But I am sure he is much more than that. Having been about his person for months, and being the youngest of his companions--most of whom were stern, earnest Huguenot nobles--he was a great deal with me, and talked with me as he did not with the others. It seems to me that he has two characters: the one what he seems to be--light hearted, merry, straightforward, and outspoken; the other thoughtful, astute, ambitious, and politic, studying men closely, and adapting himself to their moods.
"I don't pretend to understand him at all--he is altogether beyond me; but I am sure he will be a great leader, some day. I think you would understand him better than I should, and I know he thinks so, too. Of course, you had your own duties all through the campaign, and saw but little of him; but more than once he said: "'I wish I had your English cousin with me. I like you much, Laville; but your cousin is more like myself, and I should learn much of him. You are brave and merry and good-tempered, and so is he; but he has a longer head than you have,'--which I know is quite true--'you would be quite content to spend your life at court, Francois; where you would make a good figure, and would take things as they come. He would not. If he did not like things he would intrigue, he would look below the surface, he would join a party, he would be capable of waiting, biding his time. I am only seventeen, Francois; but it is of all things the most important for a prince to learn to read men, and to study their characters, and I am getting on. " 'Your cousin is not ambitious. He would never conspire for his own advantage, but he would be an invaluable minister and adviser, to a prince in difficulties. The Admiral meant well, but he was wrong in refusing to let me have Philip Fletcher. When I am my own master I will have him, if I can catch him; but I do not suppose that I shall, because of that very fault of not being ambitious. He has made his own plans, and is bent, as he told me, on returning to England; and nothing that I can offer him will, I am sure, alter his determination. But it is a pity, a great pity.'
"By all this you see, Philip, that those who think the Prince of Navarre merely a merry, careless young fellow, who is likely to rule his little kingdom in patriarchal fashion; and to trouble himself with nothing outside, so long as his subjects are contented and allowed to worship in their own way, are likely to find themselves sorely mistaken. However, if you come over soon, you will be able to judge for yourself.
"The Queen of Navarre saw a great deal of the countess, my mother, when they were at La Rochelle together; and has invited her to pay her a visit at Bearn, and the prince has requested me to accompany her. Of course if you come over you will go with us, and will be sure of a hearty welcome from Henry. We shall have some good hunting, and there is no court grandeur, and certainly no more state than we have at our chateau. In fact, my good mother is a much more important personage, there, than is Jeanne of Navarre at Bearn."
This letter hastened Philip's departure. The prospect of hunting in the mountains of Navarre was a pleasant one. He liked the young prince; and had, in the short time he had been his companion, perceived that there was much more in him than appeared on the surface; and that, beside his frank bonhomie manner, there was a fund of shrewdness and common sense. Moreover, without being ambitious, it is pleasant for a young man to know that one, who may some day be a great prince, has conceived a good opinion of him.
He took Francois' letter down to his uncle Gaspard, and read portions of it to him. Gaspard sat thoughtful, for some time, after he had finished.
"It is new to me," he said at last. "I believed the general report that Henry of Navarre was a frank, careless young fellow, fond of the chase, and, like his mother, averse to all court ceremony; likely enough to make a good soldier, but without ambition, and without marked talent. If what Francois says is true--and it seems that you are inclined to agree with him--it may make a great difference in the future of France. The misfortune of the Huguenots, hitherto, has been that they have been ready to fall into any trap that the court of France might set for them and, on the strength of a few hollow promises, to throw away all the advantages they had gained by their efforts and courage, in spite of their experience that those promises were always broken, as soon as they laid down their arms.
"In such an unequal contest they must always be worsted and, honest and straightforward themselves, they are no match for men who have neither truth nor conscience. If they had but a leader as politic and astute as the queen mother and the Guises, they might possibly gain their ends. If Henry of Navarre turns out a wise and politic prince, ready to match his foes with their own weapons, he may win for the Huguenots what they will never gain with their own swords.
"But mind you, they will hardly thank him for it. My wife and your mother would be horrified were I to say that, as a Catholic, Henry of Navarre would be able to do vastly more, to heal the long open sore and to secure freedom of worship for the Huguenots, than he ever could do as a Huguenot. Indeed, I quite agree with what he says, that as a Huguenot he can never hold the throne of France."
Philip uttered an exclamation of indignation.
"You cannot think, uncle, that he will ever change his religion?"
"I know nothing about him, beyond what you and your cousin say, Philip. There are Huguenots, and Huguenots. There are men who would die at the stake, rather than give up one iota of their faith. There are men who think that the Reformed faith is better and purer than the Catholic, but who nevertheless would be willing to make considerable concessions, in the interest of peace. You must remember that, when princes and princesses marry, they generally embrace the faith of their husbands; and when, lately, Queen Elizabeth was talking of marrying the Prince of Anjou, she made it one of the conditions that he should turn Protestant, and the demand was not considered to be insurmountable. It may be that the time will come when Henry of Navarre may consider the throne of France, freedom of worship, and a general peace, cheaply purchased at the cost of attending mass. If he does so, doubtless the Huguenots would be grieved and indignant; but so far as they are concerned, it would be the best thing. But of course, we are only talking now of what he might do, should nought but his religion stand between him and the throne of France. As King of Navarre, simply, his interest would be all the other way, and he would doubtless remain a staunch Huguenot.
"Of course, Philip, I am speaking without knowing this young prince. I am simply arguing as to what an astute and politic man, in his position, not over earnest as to matters of faith, would be likely to do."
Three days later, Philip rode to London with Pierre and embarked for La Rochelle. His uncle had amply supplied him with funds, but his father insisted upon his taking a handsome sum from him.
"Although you did not require much money before, Philip--and Gaspard told me that you did not draw, from his agent at La Rochelle, a third of the sum he had placed for you in his hands--it will be different now. You had no expenses before, save the pay of your men, and the cost of their food and your own; but in time of peace there are many expenses, and I would not that you should be, in any way, short of money. You can place the greater portion of it in the hands of Maitre Bertram, and draw it as you require. At any rate, it is better in your hands than lying in that chest in the corner. Your mother and I have no need for it, and it would take away half her pleasure in her work, were the earnings not used partly for your advantage."
The ship made a quick run to La Rochelle, and the next morning Philip rode for Laville. He had not been there since the battle of Moncontour; and although he knew that it had been burnt by the Royalists, shortly afterwards, it gave him a shock to see, as he rode through the gate, how great a change had taken place. The central portion had been repaired, but the walls were still blackened with smoke. The wings stood empty and roofless, and the ample stables, storehouses, and buildings for the retainers had disappeared.
His aunt received him with great kindness, and Francois was delighted to see him again.
"Yes, it is a change, Philip," the countess said, as she saw his eyes glancing round the apartment. "However, I have grown accustomed to it, and scarce notice it now. Fortunately I have ample means for rebuilding the chateau, for I have led a quiet life for some years; and as the count my husband, being a Huguenot, was not near the court from the time the troubles began, our revenues have for a long time been accumulating; and much of it has been sent to my sister's husband, and has been invested by him in England. There Francois agrees with me that it should remain.
"There is at present peace here, but who can say how long it will last? One thing is certain, that should war break out again, it will centre round La Rochelle; and I might be once more forced to leave the chateau at the mercy of the Royalists. It would, then, be folly to spend a crown upon doing more than is sufficient for our necessities. We only keep such retainers as are absolutely necessary for our service. There are but eight horses in the stables, the rest are all out on the farms and, should the troubles recommence, we shall soon find riders for them."
"You have just arrived in time, Philip," Francois said presently, "for we start at the end of this week for Bearn and, although you could have followed us, I am right glad that you have arrived in time to ride with us. All your men are still here."
"I saw Eustace and Henri, as I rode in," Philip said.
"The other two work in the garden. Of course, their days for fighting are over. They could doubtless strike a blow in defence of the chateau, but they have not recovered sufficiently from their wounds ever to ride as men-at-arms again. However, two will suffice for your needs, at present.
"I shall take four of my own men, for the country is still far from safe for travelling. Many of the disbanded soldiers have turned robbers and, although the royal governors hunt down and string up many, they are still so numerous that travellers from one town to another always journey in strong parties, for protection.
"How did Pierre get on, in England?"
"He was glad to return here again, Francois; although he got on well enough, as our house servants are French, as are also many of those on the farm, and he became quite a favourite with every one. But he is of a restless nature, and grew tired of idleness."
Three days later, the party set out from Laville. The countess rode on horseback, and her female attendant en croupe behind one of the troopers. They journeyed by easy stages, stopping sometimes at hostelries in the towns, but more often at chateaux belonging to gentlemen known to the countess or her son. They several times came upon groups of rough-looking men; but the two gentlemen, their servants, and the six fully-armed retainers were a force too formidable to be meddled with, and they arrived safely at Bearn.
The royal abode was a modest building, far less stately than was Laville, before its ruin. It stood a short distance out of the town, where they had left the men-at-arms, with instructions to find lodgings for themselves and their horses. As they arrived at the entrance, Prince Henri himself ran down the steps, in a dress as plain as that which would be worn by an ordinary citizen.
"Welcome to Bearn," he said. "It is a modest palace, countess; and I am a much less important person, here, than when I was supposed to be commanding our army."
He assisted her to alight, and then rang a bell. A man came round from the back of the house, and took the horse from Pierre, who was holding it; while Henri entered the house with the countess. A minute later, he ran out from the house again.
"Now that I have handed over the countess to my mother, I can speak to you both," he said heartily. "I am pleased to see you, Francois, and you too, Monsieur Philip."
"My cousin insisted on my coming with him, prince, and assured me that you would not be displeased at the liberty. But of course, I intend to quarter myself in the town."
"You will do no such thing," the prince said. "We are poor in Bearn, as poor as church mice; but not so poor that we cannot entertain a friend. Your bedroom is prepared for you."
Philip looked surprised.
"You don't suppose," the prince said, laughing, "that people can come and go, in this kingdom of ours, without being noticed. We are weak, and for that very reason we must be on our guard. Half the people who come here come for a purpose. They come from the king, or from Philip of Spain, or from the Guises, and most of them mean mischief of some sort. So you see, we like to know beforehand and, unless they ride very fast, we are sure to get twenty-four hours' notice before they arrive.
"Then, you see, if we want a little more time, a horse may cast its shoe, or some of the baggage may be missing, or perhaps an important paper somehow gets mislaid. It is curious how often these things happen. Then, when they arrive here they find that I have, as usual, gone off for a fortnight's hunting among the mountains; and that, perhaps, my mother has started for Nerac.
"We heard yesterday morning that you had crossed the frontier, and that the countess had with her her son, and a big young Englishman, whose identity I had no difficulty in guessing."
"And we met with no misfortunes by the way, prince," Francois said, smiling.
"No," the prince laughed, "these things do not happen always."
They had so far stood on the steps, chatting. The two servants had followed the lackey, with their own and their masters' horses. The prince led the way indoors, and they were heartily welcomed by the queen, who kept no more state at Bearn than would be observed by any petty nobleman in France.
On the following day, the two friends started with the prince for the mountains; and were away for three weeks, during which time they hunted the wild boar, killed several wolves, and shot five or six wild goats. They were attended only by two or three huntsmen, and their three personal servants. They slept sometimes in the huts of shepherds, or charcoal burners; sometimes in the forest, in spite of the cold, which was often severe.
"What do you say about this marriage which is being arranged for me?" the prince asked suddenly, one night, as they were sitting by a huge fire in the forest.
"It ought to be a great thing for the Reformed religion, if it is agreeable to your highness," Francois said cautiously.
"A politic answer, Monsieur de Laville.
"What say you, Philip?"
"It is a matter too deep for me to venture an opinion," Philip said. "There is doubtless much to be said, on both sides. For example--you are a fisherman, prince?"
"Only moderately so, Philip; but what has that to do with it?"
"I would say, sir, that when a fisherman hooks an exceedingly large fish, it is just possible that, instead of landing it, the fish may pull him into the water."
The prince laughed.
"You have hit it exactly, Monsieur Philip. That is just the way I look at it. Marguerite of Valois is, indeed, a very big fish compared with the Prince of Bearn; and it is not only she who would pull, but there are others, and even bigger fish, who would pull with her. My good mother has fears that, if I once tasted the gaieties of the court of France, I should be ruined, body and soul.
"Now I have rather an inclination for the said gaieties, and that prospect does not terrify me as it does her. But there are things which alarm me, more than gaieties. There is the king who, except when he occasionally gets into a rage, and takes his own course, is but a tool in the hands of Catharine de Medici. There is Anjou, who made a jest of the dead body of my uncle Conde. There are Lorraine and the Guises, there are the priests, and there is the turbulent mob of Paris. It seems to me that, instead of being the fisherman, I should be like a very small fish, enclosed in a very strong net."
And he looked thoughtfully into the fire.
"The king is, at present, with us; but his plighted word is worth nothing."
"But once married," Francois said, "you would have the princess on your side, and being then brother-in-law to the king, you would be safe from attack."
"The king has no great love for his own brothers," Henri said; "but I am not supposing that even Charles would lay hands on me, after inviting me to his court to marry his sister. He would not venture upon that, before the eyes of all Europe. It is the strain and the pressure that I fear. A girl who is sent to a nunnery, however much she may hate becoming a nun, can no more escape than a fly from the meshes of a spider. I doubt not that it seems, to all the Huguenots of France, that for me to marry Marguerite of Valois would be more than a great victory won for their cause; but I have my doubts. However, in a matter like this I am not a free agent.
"The Huguenot lords are all delighted at the prospect. My mother is still undecided. You see, I am practically as much in a net, here, as I shall be at Paris, if this marriage is made. I am rather glad the decision does not rest with me. I shall simply go with the stream; some day, perhaps, I shall be strong enough to swim against it. I hope that, at any rate, if I ride to Paris to marry Marguerite of Valois, you will both accompany me."
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{
"id": "20092"
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19
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: In A Net.
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After their return from hunting, they remained for another fortnight at Bearn; and then started, the countess and Francois to return home, and Philip to pay a visit to the Count de Valecourt, at his chateau in Dauphiny, in accordance with the promise he had given him to visit him on his return to France. Here he remained for a month. The count treated him with the warmest hospitality, and introduced him to all his friends as the saviour of his daughter.
Claire had grown much since he had seen her, when he had ridden over with her father to Landres, a year before. She was now nearly sixteen, and was fast growing into womanhood.
Philip was already acquainted with many of the nobles and gentry of Dauphiny who had joined the Admiral's army and, after leaving Valecourt, he stayed for a short time at several of their chateaux; and it was autumn before he joined Francois at Laville. The inhabited portion of the chateau had been enlarged and made more comfortable, for the king was still firm in his decision that peace should be preserved, and showed marked favour to the section of the court that opposed any persecution of the Huguenots. He had further shown his desire for the friendship of the Protestant powers by the negotiations that had been carried on for the marriage of the Duke of Anjou to Queen Elizabeth.
"I have news for you," Francois said. "The king has invited the Admiral to visit him. It has, of course, been a matter of great debate whether Coligny should trust himself at court, many of his friends strongly dissuading him; but he deems it best, in the interests of our religion, that he should accept the invitation; and he is going to set out next week for Blois, where the king now is with the court. He will take only a few of his friends with him. He is perfectly aware of the risk he runs but, to those who entreat him not to trust himself at court, he says his going there may be a benefit to the cause, and that his life is as nothing in the scale. However, he has declined the offers that have been made by many gentlemen to accompany him, and only three or four of his personal friends ride with him."
"No doubt he acts wisely, there," Philip said. "It would be well-nigh destruction to our cause, should anything befall him now; and the fewer of our leaders in Charles's hands, the less temptation to the court to seize them.
"But I do think it possible that good may come of Coligny, himself, going there. He exercises wonderful influence over all who come in contact with him, and he may be able to counterbalance the intrigues of the Catholic party, and confirm the king in his present good intentions towards us."
"I saw him two days ago, and offered to ride in his train," Francois said; "but he refused, decidedly, to let me. " 'The friends who will accompany me,' he said, 'have, like myself, well-nigh done their work. The future is for you and those who are young. I cannot dream that the king would do wrong to invited guests; but should aught happen, the blow shall fall upon none of those who should be the leaders of the next generation.'"
The news of the reception of the Admiral, at Blois, was anxiously awaited by the Huguenots of the west; and there was great joy when they heard that he had been received most graciously by the king, who had embraced him, and protested that he regarded it as one of the happiest days in his life; as he saw, in his return to his side, the end of trouble and an assurance of future tranquillity. Even Catharine de Medici received the Admiral with warmth. The king presented him, from his private purse, with the large sum of a hundred thousand livres; to make good some of the great losses he had suffered in the war. He also ordered that he should receive, for a year, the revenues of his brother the cardinal, who had lately died; and appointed him guardian of one of the great estates, during the minority of its heir--a post which brought with it considerable profits.
At Coligny's suggestion, Charles wrote to the Duke of Savoy interceding for the Waldenses, who were being persecuted cruelly for having assisted the Huguenots of France.
So angered were the Guises, by the favour with which the king treated the Admiral, that they retired from court; and the king was thus left entirely to the influence of Montmorency and Coligny. The ambassador of Spain, who was further angered by Charles granting interviews to Louis of Nassau, and by his holding out hopes to the Dutch of assistance in their struggle against Alva, also left France in deep dudgeon, and with threats of war.
The result was, naturally, to cause a better state of feeling throughout France. Persecutions everywhere ceased; and the Huguenots, for the first time for many years, were able to live in peace, and without fear of their neighbours.
The negotiations for the marriage between the Prince of Navarre and Marguerite de Valois continued. The prince was now eighteen and a half, and the princess twenty. The idea of a marriage between them was of old standing, for it had been proposed by Henry the Second, fifteen years before; but at the outbreak of the Huguenot troubles it had been dropped. Marshal Biron was sent by the king with the royal proposals to the Queen of Navarre, who was now at La Rochelle. The queen expressed her gratitude for the honour offered to her son, but prayed for time before giving a decided answer, in order that she might consult the ministers of her religion as to whether such a marriage might be entered into, by one of the Reformed religion.
The news of the proposed marriage, and also of the negotiations that had been opened for a marriage between Elizabeth of England and the Duc d'Alencon, created the greatest alarm throughout the Catholic world. A legate was sent to Charles by the pope, to protest against it. Sebastian, King of Portugal, who had refused the hand of Marguerite when it had before been offered to him, reopened negotiations for it; while Philip of Spain did all in his power to throw obstacles in the way of the match.
The ministers of the Reformed religion, consulted by the queen, considered that the marriage of Henry to Marguerite would be of vast benefit to the Huguenot cause; and declared that a mixed marriage was lawful. The English ambassador gave his strongest support to it, and the Queen of Navarre now entered upon the negotiations in earnest, and went to Blois for the purpose.
The differences were entirely religious ones, the court insisting that Henri, while living at Paris with his wife, should consent to be deprived of all means of worshipping according to his own religion; while Marguerite, while in Bearn, should be guaranteed permission to have mass celebrated there. The king would have been ready to waive both conditions; but Catherine who, after at first favouring the match, now threw every obstacle in its way, was opposed to any conclusion. She refused to permit the Queen of Navarre to have any interview with either Charles or Marguerite, unless she was also present; and hesitated at no falsehoods, however outrageous, in order to thwart the efforts of Jeanne and her friends.
The pious queen, however, was more troubled by the extreme and open profligacy of the court than by the political difficulties she encountered and, in her letters, implored her son to insist upon residing at Bearn with his wife, and on no account to take up his abode at Paris.
However, at last the difficulties were removed. The court abandoned its demand that Marguerite should be allowed to attend mass at Bearn; and the Queen of Navarre, on her part, consented that the marriage should take place at Paris, instead of at Bearn as she had before desired.
She then went to Paris to make preparations for the wedding. The great anxiety she had gone through told heavily upon her, and a few days after her arrival at the capital she was seized with a fever which, in a very short time, terminated her life; not without considerable suspicions being entertained that her illness and death had been caused by poison, administered by an agent of Catherine. She was, undoubtedly, one of the noblest women of her own or any other time. She was deeply religious, ready to incur all dangers for the sake of her faith, simple in her habits, pure in her life, unconquerable in spirit, calm and confident in defeat and danger, never doubting for a moment that God would give victory to his cause, and capable of communicating her enthusiasm to all around her--a Christian heroine, indeed. Her death was a terrible blow to the Reformed religion. She died on the 9th of June, and the marriage was, in consequence, deferred until August.
The Admiral had not been present at Blois during the negotiations for the marriage, for after remaining there for three weeks he had retired to his estate at Chatillon, where he occupied himself with the work of restoring his ruined chateau.
The Countess Amelie had accompanied the Queen of Navarre to Blois, and also to Paris, and had been with her at the time she died. She had sent a message to Francois and Philip to join her there, when she left Blois; accompanying her letter with a safe conduct signed by the king. On the road they were met by the news of the death of the Queen of Navarre. It was a severe blow to both of them, not only from the effect it would have upon the Huguenot cause, but from the affection they personally felt for her.
The king, being grievously harassed by the opposite counsels he received, and his doubts as to which of his advisers were honest, wrote to Coligny; begging him to come and aid him, with his counsel and support.
The Admiral received many letters imploring him not to go to Paris; where, even if the friendship of the king continued, he would be exposed to the danger of poison, to which, it was generally believed, his brothers and the Queen of Navarre had succumbed; but although fully aware of the danger of the step, he did not hesitate. To one of his advisers he wrote fearlessly: "As a royal officer, I cannot in honour refuse to comply with the summons of the king; but will commit myself to the providence of Him who holds in His hands the hearts of kings and princes, and has numbered my years, nay, the very hairs of my head."
One reason of the king's desire for the counsels of the Admiral was that he had determined to carry out his advice, and that of Louis of Nassau, to assist the Protestants of Holland, and to embark in a struggle against the dangerous predominance of Spain. As a first step, he had already permitted Louis of Nassau to recruit secretly, in France, five hundred horse and a thousand infantry from among his Huguenot friends, and to advance with them into the Netherlands; and with these Louis had, on the 24th of May, captured Mons, the capital of Hainault.
The Huguenot leaders did their best to persuade Charles to follow up this stroke by declaring war against Spain; and the king would have done so, had it not been that Elizabeth of England, who had before urged him to this course, promising him her aid, now drew back with her usual vacillation; wishing nothing better than to see France and Spain engaged in hostilities from which she would, without trouble or expense, gain advantage. Meanwhile Catharine, Anjou and the Guise faction all did their best to counteract the influence of the Huguenots.
Elizabeth's crafty and hesitating policy was largely responsible for the terrible events that followed. Charles saw that she had been fooling him, both in reference to his course towards Spain and in her negotiations for a marriage with one or other of his brothers. These matters were taken advantage of by his Catholic advisers, and disposed him to doubt the wisdom of his having placed himself in the hands of the Huguenots.
While Elizabeth was hesitating, a blow came that confirmed the king in his doubts as to the prudence of the course he had taken. Alva laid siege to Mons. A Huguenot force of some three thousand men, led by the Sieur de Genlis, marched to its relief; but was surprised, and utterly routed, within a short distance of the town--1200 were killed on the field of battle, some 1900 fugitives were slain by the peasantry, barely a hundred reached Mons.
Coligny, who was preparing a much larger force for the assistance of Louis of Nassau, still strove to induce the king to throw himself heart and soul into the struggle against Spain; and even warned him that he would never be a true king, until he could free himself from his mother's control and the influence of his brother Anjou.
The queen mother, who had spies everywhere, was not long in learning that Coligny had given this advice, and her hatred against him was proportionately increased. She at once went in tears to Charles, and pointed out to him that it was to her counsel and aid, alone, that he had owed his success against the Huguenots; that they were now obtaining all the advantages for which they had fought, in vain; and that he was endangering the safety of his throne by angering Spain, relying only on the empty promises of the faithless Queen of England.
Charles, always weak and irresolute, succumbed at once to her tears and entreaties, and gave himself up altogether to her pernicious counsels.
After the death of the Queen of Navarre the countess travelled back to Laville, escorted by her son and Philip. The young men made no stay there, but returned at once to Paris where, now that Coligny was in the king's counsels, there was no ground for fear, and the approaching nuptials of the young King of Navarre would be attended by large numbers of his adherents. They took a lodging near that occupied by the Admiral.
De la Noue was not at court, he being shut up in Mons, having accompanied Louis of Nassau in his expedition. The court was in deep mourning for the Queen of Navarre, and there would be no public gaieties until the wedding. Among the Huguenot lords who had come to Paris were the Count de Valecourt and his daughter, who was now seventeen, and had several suitors for her hand among the young Huguenot nobles.
Francois and Philip were both presented to the king by the Admiral. Charles received them graciously and, learning that they had been stopping at Bearn with the Prince of Navarre, presented them to his sister Margaret.
"These gentlemen, Margot, are friends of the King of Navarre, and will be able to tell you more about him than these grave politicians can do."
The princess, who was one of the most beautiful women of her time, asked them many questions about her future husband, of whom she had seen so little since his childhood, and about the place where she was to live; and after that time, when they went to court with the Admiral, who on such occasions was always accompanied by a number of Huguenot gentlemen, the young princess always showed them marked friendliness.
As the time for the marriage approached, the king became more and more estranged from the Admiral. Queen Elizabeth, while professing her friendship for the Netherlands, had forbidden English volunteers to sail to the assistance of the Dutch; and had written to Alva offering, in token of her friendship, to hand over Flushing to the Spaniards. This proof of her duplicity, and of the impossibility of trusting her as an ally, was made the most of by Catherine; and she easily persuaded the weak-minded king that hostilities with the Spaniards would be fatal to him, and that, should he yield to the Admiral's entreaties, he would fall wholly into the power of the Huguenots. The change in the king's deportment was so visible that the Catholics did not conceal their exultation, while a feeling of uneasiness spread among some of the Huguenot gentlemen at Paris.
"What are you doing, Pierre!" Philip said one day, when he found his servant occupied in cleaning up the two pairs of heavy pistols they carried in their holsters.
"I am getting them ready for action, master. I always thought that the Huguenots were fools to put their heads into this cage; and the more I see of it, the less I like it."
"There can be no reason for uneasiness, Pierre. The king himself has, over and over, declared his determination to maintain the truce and, even did he harbour ill designs against us, he would not mar his sister's marriage by fresh steps against the Huguenots. What may follow, after we have all left Paris, I cannot say."
"Well, sir, I hope it may be all right, but since I got a sight of the king's face the other day, I have no faith in him; he looks like one worried until well nigh out of his senses--and no wonder. These weak men, when they become desperate, are capable of the most terrible actions. A month since he would have hung up his mother and Anjou, had they ventured to oppose him; and there is no saying, now, upon whom his wrath may fall.
"At any rate, sir, with your permission I mean to be prepared for the worst; and the first work is to clean these pistols."
"There can be no harm in that anyhow, Pierre, but I have no shadow of fear of any trouble occurring. The one thing I am afraid of is that the king will keep Coligny near him, so that if war should break out again, we shall not have him for our general. With the Queen of Navarre dead, the Admiral a prisoner here, and De la Noue a captive in the hands of Alva, we should fight under terrible disadvantages; especially as La Rochelle, La Charite, and Montauban have received royal governors, in accordance with the conditions of the peace."
"Well, we shall see, master. I shall feel more comfortable if I have got ready for the worst."
Although Philip laughed at the fears of Pierre, he was yet impressed by what he had said; for he had come to rely very much upon the shrewdness of observation of his follower. When, however, he went that evening to the Count de Valecourt's, he saw that there was no tinge of such feeling in the minds of the Huguenots present. The only face that had an unusual look was that of Claire. Apparently she was gayer than usual, and laughed and talked more than was her wont; but Philip saw that this mood was not a natural one, and felt sure that something had happened. Presently, when he passed near her, she made room for him on the settee beside her.
[Illustration: You have not heard the news, Monsieur Philip?]
"You have not heard the news, Monsieur Philip?"
"No, mademoiselle, I have heard no particular news."
"I am glad of it. I would rather tell you myself. My father has, today, laid his commands on me to marry the Sieur de Pascal."
Philip could not trust himself to speak. He had never acknowledged to himself that he loved Claire de Valecourt; and had, over and over again, endeavoured to impress upon his mind the fact that it would be ridiculous for him even to think of her; for that her father would never dream of giving her, a rich heiress, and the last of one of the proudest families of Dauphiny, to a simple English gentleman.
As he did not speak, the girl went on after a pause.
"It is not my wish, Monsieur Philip; but French girls do not choose for themselves. My father stated his wishes to me three months ago, in Dauphiny. I then asked for a little time, and now he has told me that it is to be. He is wise and good, and I have nothing to say against the Sieur de Pascal; who, as you know, is our near neighbour, a brave gentleman, and one whom I have known since my childhood. It is only that I do not love him. I have told my father so, but he says that it is not to be expected that a young maid should love, until after marriage."
"And you have promised?" Philip asked.
"Yes, I have promised," she said simply. "It is the duty of a daughter to obey her father, especially when that father is as good and kind as mine has always been to me.
"There, he is beckoning to me;" and, rising, she crossed the room.
Philip, a few minutes later, took his departure quietly. Francois de Laville came in, an hour afterwards, to their lodgings.
"Well, Philip, I did not see you leave the count's. Did you hear the news before you left? The count announced it shortly after you had gone."
"His daughter told me herself," Philip said.
"I am sorry, Philip. I had thought, perhaps--but it is of no use talking of that, now."
"Not the least in the world, Francois. It is natural that her father should wish her to marry a noble of his own province. She has consented, and there is no more to be said.
"When is Henri to arrive? We are all to ride out to meet him, and to follow him into Paris. I hope that it will all pass off well."
"Why, of course it will. What is to prevent it? The wedding will be the grandest ever known in Paris. I hear that Henri brings with him seven hundred Huguenot gentlemen; and a hundred of us here will join him, under the Admiral. It will be a brave sight."
"I wish it was all over."
"Why, it is not often you are in low spirits, Philip. Is it the news that has upset you, or have you heard anything else?"
"No; but Pierre has been croaking and prophesying evil, and although I in no way agree with him, it has still made me uneasy."
"Why, what is there to fear?" Francois said, laughing. "Not the mob of Paris, surely. They would never venture to brave the king's anger by marring the nuptials by disorder; and if they did, methinks that eight hundred of us, with Coligny at our head, could cut our way through the mob of Paris from one end of the city to the other."
The entrance of the King of Navarre into Paris was, indeed, an imposing sight. Coligny with his train had joined him outside the town, and the Admiral rode on one side of the young king, and the Prince of Conde on the other. With them rode the Dukes of Anjou and Alencon, who had ridden out with a gay train of nobles to welcome Henri in the king's name, and escort him into the city. The Huguenots were still in mourning for the late queen; but the sumptuous materials of their dress, set off by their gold chains and ornaments, made a brave show even by the side of the gay costumes of the prince's party.
The betrothal took place at the Louvre on the 17th of August, and was followed by a supper and a ball. After the conclusion of the festivities Marguerite was, in accordance with the custom of the princesses of the blood, escorted by her brothers and a large retinue to the Bishops' Palace adjoining the Cathedral, to pass the night before her wedding there.
The ceremony upon the following day was a most gorgeous one. The king, his two brothers, Henri of Navarre, and Conde were all dressed alike in light yellow satin, embroidered with silver, and enriched with precious stones. Marguerite was in a violet velvet dress, embroidered with fleurs de lis, and she wore on her head a crown glittering with gems. The queen and the queen mother were dressed in cloth of gold.
Upon a lofty platform, in front of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Henri of Navarre with his train of Protestant lords awaited the coming of the bride; who was escorted by the king, and all the members of his court. The ceremony was performed, in sight of an enormous concourse of people, by the Cardinal Bourbon, who used a form that had been previously agreed upon by both parties. Henri then led his bride into the cathedral; and afterwards, with his Protestant companions, retired to the Episcopal Palace while mass was being said. When this was over, the whole party sat down to dinner in the Episcopal Palace.
In the evening an entertainment was given, in the Louvre, to the notabilities of Paris; and after supper there was a masque of the most lavish magnificence. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday there was a continuation of pageants and entertainments. During these festivities the king had shown marked courtesy to the Admiral and the Huguenot lords, and it seemed as if he had again emancipated himself from his mother's influence; and the hopes of the Protestants, that he would shortly declare war with Spain, were raised to the highest point.
Although the question was greatly debated at the time, and the belief that the massacre of the Protestants was deliberately planned long beforehand by the king and queen-mother is still generally entertained, the balance of evidence is strongly the other way. What dark thoughts may have passed through the scheming brain of Catharine de Medici none can say, but it would certainly appear that it was not until after the marriage of Henri and Marguerite that they took form. She was driven to bay. She saw that, in the event of a war with Spain, the Huguenots would become all powerful in France. Already the influence of the Admiral was greater than her own, and it had become a battle of life and death with her; for Coligny, in his fearless desire to do what was right, and for the service of France, was imprudent enough over and over again to warn the king against the evil influence of the queen mother and the Duke d'Anjou; and Charles, in his fits of temper, did not hesitate to divulge these counsels. The Duke d'Anjou and his mother, therefore, came to the conclusion that Coligny must be put out of the way.
The duke, afterwards, did not scruple to avow his share in the preparations for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. The Duchess of Nemours, her son Henri of Guise, and her brother-in-law the Duc d'Aumale were taken into their counsels, and the plan was speedily settled.
Few as were the conspirators taken into the confidence of the queen mother, mysterious rumours of danger reached the ears of the Huguenots. Some of these, taking the alarm, left Paris and made for their estates; but by far the greater portion refused to believe that there could be danger to those whom the king had invited to be present upon such an occasion. In another week, Coligny would be leaving, having, as he hoped, brought the king entirely round to his views; and the vast majority of the Huguenot gentlemen resolved to stay until he left.
Pierre grew more and more serious. Francois had left the lodgings, being one of the Huguenot gentlemen whom Henri of Navarre had chosen to lodge with him at the Louvre.
"You are getting quite unbearable, Pierre, with your long face and your grim looks," Philip said to him on the Friday morning, half in joke and half in earnest. "Why, man, in another week we shall be out of Paris, and on our way south."
"I hope so, Monsieur Philip, with all my heart I hope so; but I feel just as I used to do when I was a boy living in the woods, and I saw a thundercloud working up overhead. I cannot tell you why I feel so. It is something in the air. I wish sir, oh, so much! that you would leave at once."
"That I cannot do, Pierre. I have no estates that demand my attention, no excuse whatever for going. I came here with my cousin, and shall leave with him."
"Well, sir, if it must be, it must."
"But what is that you fear, Pierre?"
"When one is in a town, sir, with Catharine de Medici, and her son Anjou, and the Guises, there is always something to fear. Guise is the idol of the mob of Paris, who have always shown themselves ready to attack the Huguenots. He has but to hold up his finger, and they would be swarming on us like bees."
"But there are troops in the town, Pierre, and the king would punish Paris heavily, were it to insult his guests."
"The king is a weathercock, and goes whichever way the wind blows, monsieur--today he is with the Admiral, tomorrow he may be with the Guises.
"At any rate, I have taken my precautions. I quite understand that, if the danger is foreseen, you will all rally round the Admiral and try to fight your way out of Paris. But if it comes suddenly there will be no time for this. At any hour the mob may come surging up the streets, shouting, as they have often shouted before, 'Death to the Huguenots!' Then, monsieur, fighting would not avail you. You would be unable to join your friends, and you would have to think first of your own life.
"I have been examining the house, and I find that from an upper window one can gain the roof. I got out yesterday evening, after it was dark, and found that I could easily make my way along. The tenth house from here is the one where the Count de Valecourt lodges, and it is easy to gain access to it by a window in the roof. There will be some of your friends there, at any rate. Or we can pass down through any of the intervening houses. In the three before we reach that of the count Huguenots are lodged. The others belong to Catholics, but it might be possible to pass down through them and to go into the street unobserved.
"I have bought for myself some rags, such as are worn by the lowest of the mob; and for you a monk's gown and hood. These I have placed securely against a chimney on our roof.
"I have also, monsieur," and Pierre's eyes twinkled, "bought the dress of a woman of the lower class, thinking that there might be some lady you might be desirous of saving."
"You frighten me, Pierre, with your roofs and your disguises," Philip said, looking with wonder at his follower. "Why, man, this is a nightmare of your own imagination."
"It may be so, master. If it is, no harm is done. I have laid out a few crowns uselessly, and there is an end of it. But if it should not be a nightmare, but a real positive danger, you would at least be prepared for it; and those few crowns may be the saving of our lives."
Philip walked up and down the room for some time.
"At any rate, Pierre, you have acted wisely. As you say, the cost is as nothing; and though my reason revolts against a belief in this nightmare of yours, I am not such a fool as to refuse to pay any attention to it. I know that you are no coward, and certainly not one to indulge in wild fancies.
"Let us go a step farther. Suppose that all this should turn out true, and that you, I, and--and some lady--are in disguise in the midst of a howling mob shouting, 'Death to the Huguenots!' What should we do next? Where should we go?
"It seems to me that your disguise for me is a badly chosen one. As a monk, how could I keep with you as a beggar, still less with a woman?"
"When I bought the monk's robe I had not thought of a woman, monsieur. That was an afterthought. But what you say is just. I must get you another disguise. You shall be dressed as a butcher, or a smith."
"Let it be a smith, by all means, Pierre. Besides, it would be safer. I would smear my face with dirt. I should get plenty on my hands from climbing over the roofs.
"Let us suppose ourselves, then, in the mob. What should we do next?"
"That would all depend, sir, whether the soldiers follow the Guises and take part with the mob in their rising. If so, Paris would be in a turmoil from end to end, and the gates closed. I have thought it all over, again and again; and while your worship has been attending the entertainments, I have been walking about Paris.
"If it is at night I should say we had best make for the river, take a boat and drift down; or else make for the walls, and lower ourselves by a rope from them. If it is in the day we could not do that; and I have found a hovel, at present untenanted, close to the walls, and we could wait there until night."
"You will end by making me believe this, Pierre," Philip said angrily, as he again walked up and down the room, with impatient steps. "If you had a shadow of foundation for what you say, even a rumour that you had picked up in the street, I would go straight to the Admiral. But how could I go and say: "'My servant, who is a faithful fellow, has taken it into his head that there is danger from an attack on us by the mob.'
"What think you the Admiral would say to that? He would say that it was next door to treason to imagine such things, and that if men were to act upon such fancies as these, they would be fit only for hospitals for the insane. Moreover he would say that, even if you had evidence, even if you had something to show that treachery was meant, he would still, in the interest of France, stay at his post of duty."
At this moment the door opened, and Francois de Laville entered hurriedly.
"What is the matter, Francois?" Philip exclaimed, seeing that his cousin looked pale and agitated.
"Have you not heard the news?"
"I have heard nothing. I have not been out this morning."
"The Admiral has been shot."
Philip uttered an exclamation of horror.
"Not killed, Francois; not killed, I trust?"
"No; two balls were fired, one took off a finger of his right hand, and another has lodged in his left arm. He had just left the king, who was playing at tennis, and was walking homewards with two or three gentlemen, when an arquebus was fired from a house not far from his own. Two of the gentlemen with him assisted him home, while some of the others burst in the door of the house.
"They were too late. Only a woman and a manservant were found there. The assassin had fled by the back of the house, where a horse was standing in waiting. It is said that the house belongs to the old Duchess of Guise.
"It is half an hour since the news reached the palace, and you may imagine the consternation it excited. The king has shut himself up in his room. Navarre and Conde are in deep grief, for they both regard the Admiral almost as a father. As for the rest of us, we are furious.
"There is a report that the man who was seen galloping away from the house from which the shot was fired was that villain Maurevel, who so treacherously shot De Mouy, and was rewarded by the king for the deed. It is also said that a groom, in the livery of Guise, was holding the horse when the assassin issued out.
"Navarre and Conde have gone to Coligny. The king's surgeon is dressing his wounds."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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: The Tocsin.
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As soon as Francois had finished his account of the attempted assassination of the Admiral, he and Philip sallied out, the latter having hastily armed himself.
"I must go back to the Louvre," Francois said, "and take my place by the King of Navarre. He is going to see the king, and to demand permission to leave Paris at once. Conde and La Rochefoucault are going to see the king, as soon as they return from the Admiral's, for the same purpose; as it is evident their lives are not safe here."
Philip made his way to the Admiral's house in the Rue de Bethisy. Numbers of Huguenot gentlemen were hurrying in that direction; all, like himself, armed, and deeply moved with grief and indignation; for Coligny was regarded with a deep affection, as well as reverence, by his followers. Each, as he overtook others, eagerly inquired the news; for as yet most of them had learned nothing beyond vague rumours of the affair.
Philip's account of it increased their indignation. So it was no act of a mere fanatic, but the work of the Guises, and probably of Catharine and Anjou.
In a short time between two and three hundred gentlemen were gathered in the courtyard and antechamber of Coligny's house. Some walked up and down, silent and stern. Others gathered in groups, and passionately discussed the matter. This was an attack not only upon the Admiral but upon the Huguenots in general. It was the work of the Guises, ever the deadliest foes of the Reformed faith--the authors of every measure taken against them, the cause of all the blood that had been shed in the civil wars.
One thing was certain: all must leave Paris, and prepare for a renewal of the war. But it was equally certain they could not leave until the Admiral was fit to be moved.
"Truly he is a saint," said one of the gentlemen, who had come down from the room where Coligny was lying. "He suffered atrociously in the hands of the surgeon, for he had come without his instruments, and amputated Coligny's fingers with a dagger so blunt that it was only on the third attempt that he succeeded. Merlin, his minister, was by his side, with several of his most intimate friends. We were in tears at the sight of our noble chief thus traitorously struck down. He turned to us and said calmly: "'My friends, why do you weep? As for me, I deem myself happy at having thus received wounds for the sake of God.'
"Then he said that, most sincerely, he forgave the man who wounded him, and those who had instigated him to make the attack; knowing for certain that it was beyond their power to hurt him for, even should they kill him, death would be a certain passage to life."
An hour later Francois arrived.
"The prince has seen the king, Philip. He is furious, and has sworn that he will inflict the most signal punishment upon the authors and instigators of the crime: Coligny had received the wound, but he himself most felt the smart. The King of Navarre told me he was sure that Charles was deeply in earnest. He feels it in a threefold sense: first, because it is the renewal of the troubles that he had hoped had been put an end to; in the second place, because Coligny is his guest; and lastly, because he has the greatest respect and confidence in him, not only believing in his wisdom, but knowing that his counsel is always sincere and disinterested.
"He is coming to visit the Admiral himself, this afternoon, Philip. It is no use our staying here. There is nothing to be done, and no prospect of seeing the Admiral."
As they moved towards the entrance to the courtyard, the Count de Valecourt joined them.
"I have just left the Admiral," he said. "He is easier, and the king's surgeon is of opinion that he will recover from his wounds, and possibly may be fit to travel in a litter, in another week."
"That is good news, indeed," Francois said; "for the sooner we are all out of Paris, the better."
"There is no doubt of that," the count agreed; "but as all say that the king is furious at this attack upon the Admiral, I do not think the Guises dare strike another blow for some time. Still, I shall be glad, indeed, when we can set forth.
"It is certain we cannot leave the Admiral here. The villains who are responsible for the attempt will be furious at its failure, and next time they may use the weapon to which they are most accustomed--poison. Even if the king himself begged him to stay at the Louvre, until cured, Catharine de Medici is there; and I would not trust him under the same roof with her, for all my estates.
"We have been talking it over, and all agree that we must wait until he can be moved. Inconstant as Charles is, there can be no fear of a change in his friendly intentions now. He has already closed all the gates of Paris save two, and everyone who goes in or out is closely questioned, and has to show his papers."
By this time, they had arrived at the door of the count's dwelling.
"Come in, monsieur," he said. "My daughter is terribly upset at this attack upon the Admiral, for whom she has a profound reverence and, were she a Catholic, would, I doubt not, make him her patron saint."
"How is he, father?" Claire asked eagerly, as they entered the room.
"He is better, Claire. The king's physician thinks he has every chance of recovering."
"God be praised!" she said earnestly. "It would indeed have been a terrible day for us all, had the assassin taken his life; and it would have seemed a mark of Heaven's anger at this marriage of the Protestant king with a Catholic princess. What says King Charles?"
"He is as angry as any of us; and declares that the assassin, and those who abetted him, shall be punished in the severest manner. He has visited the Admiral, and expressed his grief and indignation to him."
"I shall be glad to be back in Dauphiny, father. This city, with its wickedness and its violence, is hateful to me."
"We shall go soon, dear. The doctor hopes that, in a week, the Admiral will be well enough to be moved in a litter; and we shall all accompany him."
"A week is a long time, father. So much may happen in a week."
"There is no fear of anything happening, Claire. You must not let this sad business affect your nerves. The anger of the king is so great that you may be sure none will attempt to repeat this stroke.
"What think you, Monsieur de Laville?"
"I agree with you altogether, count."
"And you, Monsieur Philip?"
"I see no cause for fear, count; and yet, I feel sure that it would be well to take every precaution. I acknowledge that I have no grounds whatever for my fear. I have been infected by my lackey, who is generally the lightest hearted and most reckless fellow; but who has now turned croaker, and fears a sudden rising of the mob of Paris, instigated thereto by the Guises."
"Has he heard anything to favour such an idea, or is it merely born of today's outrage?"
"No, I think he has heard nothing specific, though he may have caught up vague threats in wandering through the streets."
"Why, that is not like you," the count said, smiling, "who have been through so many fights and dangerous adventures, to be alarmed at a shadow."
"No, count, I do not think that I am given, any more than is my lackey, to sombre thoughts; but I own that he has infected me, and I would that some precautions could be taken."
"Precautions of what kind, Monsieur Philip?"
"I have not thought them out," Philip said; "but, were I the next in rank to the Admiral, I would enjoin that a third of our number should be under arms, night and day, and should at night patrol our quarters; secondly, that a rallying place should be appointed, say at the Admiral's, to which all should mount and ride, directly an alarm is given."
"The first part could hardly be managed, here," the count said gravely. "It would seem that we doubted the royal assurances of good faith, and his promises of protection. We have enemies enough about the king's ear, and such a proceeding would be surely misrepresented to him. You know how wayward are his moods, and that it would need but a slight thing to excite his irritation, and undo all the good that the Admiral has effected."
Two or three other Huguenot gentlemen now entered, and a general conversation on the state of affairs took place. Philip was standing a little apart from the others, when Claire came up to him.
"You really believe in danger, Monsieur Philip?"
"Frankly I do, mademoiselle. The population hate us. There have been Huguenot massacres over and over again in Paris. The Guises are doubtless the instigators of this attack on the Admiral. They are the idols of the Paris mob and, if they gave the word, it would at once rise against us. As I told your father, I have no real reason for uneasiness, but nevertheless I am uneasy."
"Then the danger must be real," the girl said simply. "Have you any advice to give me?"
"Only this. You have but a week to stay here in Paris. During that time, make excuses so as not to stir abroad in the streets more than you can help; and in the second place I would say, lie down in your clothes at night, so as to be in readiness to rise, instantly."
"I will do that," she said. "There is nothing else?"
"Nothing that I can think of. I hope and trust that the emergency will not come; but at any rate, until it does come, we can do no more."
A few minutes later, Philip and his cousin took their leave. The former went back to his lodgings, the latter to the Louvre. Philip was surprised at not finding Pierre, and sat up later than usual, expecting his return; but it was not till he was rising next morning that the man made his appearance.
"Why, where have you been all night?" Philip asked angrily. "This is not the time for pleasure."
"I have been outside the walls, master," Pierre said.
"What in the world did you go there for, Pierre?"
"Well, sir, I was here when Monsieur de Laville brought in the news of the shooting of the Admiral. This seemed, to me, to bear out all that I have said to you. You hurried away without my having time to speak to you, so I took it upon myself to act."
"In what way, Pierre?"
"I went straight to the stables, sir, and took one of your honour's chargers and my horse and, riding one and leading the other, passed out through the gate before the orders came about closing. I rode them to a village, six miles away; and put them up at a small inn there, and left them in the landlord's charge. I did not forget to tell the stable boy that he should have a crown for himself if, on my return, I found the horses in as good condition as I left them.
"Then I walked back to Paris, and found a crowd of people unable to enter, and learned that the gates had been closed by the king's order. I went off to Saint Denis, and there bought a long rope and an iron hook; and at two in the morning, when I thought that any sentries there might be on the walls would be drowsy, came back again to Paris, threw up my hook, and climbed into one of the bastions near the hut we had marked. There I slept until the morning, and now you see me.
"I have taken out the horses so that, should you be obliged to fly, there would be means of escape. One charger will suffice for your wants here, and to ride away upon if you go out with the Huguenot company, whether peacefully or by force of arms. As for me, I would make my way there on foot, get the horses, and rejoin you."
"It was a good idea, Pierre, and promptly carried out. But no one here has much thought of danger, and I feel ashamed of myself at being the only one to feel uneasy."
"The wise man is uneasy while the fool sleeps," Pierre said. "If the Prince of Conde had been uneasy, the night before Jarnac, he would not have lost his life, and we should not have lost a battle. No harm has been done. If danger does come, we at least are prepared for it."
"You are quite right, Pierre. However surely he may count upon victory, a good general always lays his plans in case of defeat. At any rate, we have prepared for everything."
Pierre muttered something to himself.
"What do you say, Pierre?"
"I was only saying, master, that I should feel pretty confident of our getting away, were there only our two selves to think of. What with our disguises, and what with your honour's strong arm--and what I can do to back you--and what with our being on our guard, it would be hard if we did not make our way safe off. But I foresee that, should there be trouble, it is not of your own safety you will be thinking."
"Mademoiselle de Valecourt is engaged to the Sieur de Pascal," Philip said gravely.
"So I heard, from one of the count's lackeys; but there is many a slip between the cup and the lip, and in such days as these there is many an engagement that never becomes a marriage. I guessed how it would be, that night after you had saved Mademoiselle Claire's life; and I thought so, still more, when we were staying at Valecourt."
"Then your thoughts ran too fast, Pierre. Mademoiselle de Valecourt is a great heiress; and the count should, of course, give her in marriage to one of his own rank."
Pierre shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
"Your honour is doubtless right," he said humbly; "and therefore, seeing that she has her father and Monsieur de Pascal to protect her, we need not trouble more about those articles of attire stowed away on the roof above; but shall be able to concern ourselves solely with our own safety, which puts a much better complexion on the affair."
"The whole matter is ridiculous, Pierre," Philip said angrily, "and I am a fool to have listened to you. There, go and see about breakfast, or I shall lose my patience with you, altogether."
There were several consultations, during the day, between the leading Huguenots. There was no apparent ground for suspicion that the attack upon the Admiral had been a part of any general plot, and it was believed that it was but the outcome of the animosity of the Guises, and the queen mother, against a man who had long withstood them, who was now higher than themselves in the king's confidence, and who had persuaded him to undertake an enterprise that would range France on the side of the Protestant powers. The balance of evidence is all in favour of the truth of this supposition, and to the effect that it was only upon the failure of their scheme, against the Admiral, that the conspirators determined upon a general massacre of the Huguenots.
They worked upon the weak king's mind, until they persuaded him that Coligny was at the head of a plot against himself; and that nothing short of his death, and those of his followers, could procure peace and quiet for France. At last, in a sudden access of fury, Charles not only ranged himself on their side, but astonished Catharine, Anjou, and their companions by going even farther than they had done, and declaring that every Huguenot should be killed. This sudden change, and his subsequent conduct during the few months that remained to him of life, seem to point to the fact that this fresh access of trouble shattered his weak brain, and that he was not fairly responsible for the events that followed--the guilt of which rests wholly upon Catharine de Medici, Henry of Anjou, and the leaders of the party of the Guises.
Philip spent a considerable portion of the day at the Louvre with Henry of Navarre, Francois de Laville, and a few of the young king's closest followers. There was no shadow of disquiet in the minds of any of them. The doctors reported that the Admiral's state was favourable; and although all would have been glad to be on their way south, they regarded the detention of a few days as a matter of little importance. Listening to their talk about the court entertainments and pleasures, Philip quite shook off his uneasiness, and was angry with himself for having listened to Pierre's prognostications of evil.
"All these Huguenot lords know France and the Parisians better than I do," he said to himself. "No thought of danger occurs to them. It is not even thought necessary that a few of them should take up their abode at the Admiral's. They have every faith in the king's protestations and pledges for their safety."
Philip dined at the Louvre, and it was ten o'clock before he returned to his lodging. He was in excellent spirits, and saluted Pierre with the laughing inquiry: "Well, bird of ill omen, what fresh plottings have you discovered?"
"You do not believe me, master, when I tell you," Pierre said gravely.
"Oh, then, there is something new?" Philip said, seating himself on a couch. "Let me hear all about it, Pierre, and I will try not to laugh."
"Will you descend with me to the door, Monsieur Philip?"
"Assuredly I will, if it will please you; though what you are going to show me there, I cannot imagine."
Pierre led the way downstairs and out through the door.
"Do you see that, sir?"
"Yes, I see that, Pierre."
"What do you take it to be, sir?"
"Well, it is not too dark to see what it is, Pierre. It is a small white cross that some urchin has chalked on the door."
"Will you please to walk a little farther, sir? There is a cross on this door. There is none here, neither on the next. Here you see another, and then a door without one. Now, sir, does not that strike you as curious?"
"Well, I don't know, Pierre. A boy might very well chalk some doors, as he went along, and leave others untouched."
"Yes, sir. But there is one very remarkable thing. I have gone on through several streets, and it has always been the same--so far as I can discover by questioning the concierges--at every house in which Huguenots are lodging, there is a white cross on the door. In the houses that are not so marked, there are no Huguenots."
"That is strange, certainly, Pierre," Philip said, struck alike by the fact and by the earnestness with which Pierre expressed it. "Are you quite sure of what you say?"
"I am quite sure, sir. I returned here at nine o'clock, and saw this mark on our door. I did not pay much heed to it, but went upstairs. Then, as I thought it over, I said to myself, 'Is this a freak of some passerby, or is it some sort of signal?' Then I thought I would see whether our house alone was marked, or whether there were crosses on other doors. I went to the houses of several gentlemen of our party, and on each of their doors was a white cross. Then I looked farther, and found that other houses were unmarked. At some of these I knocked and asked for one or other of your friends. In each case I heard that I was mistaken, for that no Huguenots were lodging there."
[Illustration: That cross is placed there by design.]
"It is evident, sir, that this is not a thing of chance, but that these crosses are placed there by design."
Philip went down the street, and satisfied himself that Pierre had spoken correctly; and then returned to his lodgings, pausing, however, before the house of the Count de Valecourt, and erasing the cross upon it. He entered his own door without touching the mark; but Pierre, who followed him in, rubbed the sleeve of his doublet across it, unnoticed by his master, and then followed him upstairs.
Philip seated himself thoughtfully.
"I like not these marks, Pierre. There may be nothing of importance in them. Some fanatic may have taken the trouble to place these crosses upon our doors, cursing us as he did so. But at the same time, I cannot deny that they may have been placed there for some set purpose, of which I am ignorant. Hitherto there has been nothing, whatever, to give any foundation to your fancies; but here is at least something tangible, whatever it may mean. What is your own idea?"
"My own idea is, sir, that they intend to arrest all the Admiral's followers; and that the king, while speaking us fair, is really guided by Catharine, and has consented to her plans for the capture of all the Huguenot lords who have come into this trap."
"I cannot believe that such an act of black treachery can be contemplated, Pierre. All Europe would cry out against the king who, inviting numbers of his nobles to the marriage of his sister, seized that occasion for imprisoning them."
"It may not be done by him, sir. It may be the work of the Guises' agents among the mob of Paris; and that they intend to massacre us, as they did at Rouen and a score of other places, and as they have done here in Paris more than once."
"That is as hard to believe as the other, Pierre. My own supposition is by far the most probable, that it is the work of some fanatic; but at any rate, we will be on the watch tonight. It is too late to do anything else and, were I to go round to our friends, they would mock at me for paying any attention to such a trifle as a chalk mark on a door.
"I own that I think it serious, because I have come, in spite of my reason, to believe somewhat in your forebodings; but no one else seems to entertain any such fears."
Opening the casement, Philip seated himself there.
"Do you lie down, Pierre. At two o'clock I will call you, and you shall take my place."
Pierre went out, but before lying down he again went quietly downstairs and, with a wet cloth, entirely erased the mark from the door; and then, placing his sword and his pistols ready at hand, lay down on his pallet. At one o'clock Philip aroused him.
"There is something unusual going on, Pierre. I can see a light in the sky, as of many torches; and can hear a confused sound, as of the murmur of men. I will sally out and see what it is."
Placing his pistols in his belt and taking his sword, he wrapped himself in his cloak and, followed by Pierre, also armed, went down into the street. As he went along he overtook two men. As he passed under a lamp, one of them exclaimed: "Is that you, Monsieur Fletcher?"
He turned. It was the Sieur de Pascal.
"It is I, Monsieur de Pascal. I was going out to learn the meaning of those lights over there."
"That is just what I am doing, myself. As the night is hot, I could not sleep; so I threw open my window, and saw those lights, which were, as it appeared to me, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Admiral's house; and I thought it was as well to see what they meant."
As they went along, they came upon men with lighted torches; and saw that, in several of the streets, groups of men with torches were silently standing.
"What is taking place?" the Sieur de Pascal asked one of the men.
"There is going to be a night masque, and a mock combat at the Louvre," the man said.
"It is strange. I heard nothing about it at the Louvre," Philip said, as they proceeded on their way. "I was with the King of Navarre up to ten o'clock and, had anything been known of it by him or the gentlemen with him, I should have been sure to have heard of it."
They were joined by two or three other Huguenot gentlemen, roused by the unusual light and talking in the street; and they proceeded together to the Louvre. Large numbers of torches were burning in front of the palace, and a body of soldiers was drawn up there.
"The man was right," the Sieur de Pascal said. "There is evidently some diversion going on here."
As they approached they saw a movement in front, and then three or four men ran towards them.
"Why, De Vignes," De Pascal exclaimed, as the first ran up, "what is the matter?"
"That I do not know," De Vignes said. "I was roused half an hour ago by the lights and noise, and came down with De la Riviere, Maurepas, Castellon, and De Vigors, who lodges with me, to see what it was about. As we approached the soldiers, they began to jeer at us in a most insolent manner. Naturally we replied, and threatened to report them to their officers; when the insolent varlets drew and ran at us. Maurepas has, as you see, been wounded by a halbert; and as we five could not give battle to that crowd of soldiers, we ran for it. I shall lay the matter before La Rochefoucauld, and request him to make a complaint to the king. What can we do now, gentlemen?"
"I see not that we can do anything," De Pascal said. "We have heard that these torchlight gatherings are part of a plan for a sham attack on a castle, or something of that sort, for the amusement of the king. Doubtless the soldiers are gathered for that purpose. We cannot arouse La Rochefoucauld, at this hour of the night, that is certain; so I see nothing to do but to go home, and wait till morning."
"You do not think," Philip said, "that there is any possibility of a general attack upon us being intended?"
"What! An attack got up at the Louvre, under the very eyes of the king, who is our firm friend? You are dreaming, Monsieur Fletcher."
"I have one suspicious fact to go upon," Philip said quietly, and then related the discovery of the crosses upon the doors.
The others, however, were absolutely incredulous that any treachery could be intended and, after talking for a short time, longer, they returned to their lodgings.
"What is to be done now, Pierre?"
"I should say we had better search farther, sir. If there is any harm intended, the mob of Paris will be stirring. Let us go down towards the Hotel de Ville; that is always the centre of mischief. If all is quiet there, it may be that this story is correct, and that it is really only a court diversion. But that does not explain why the streets should be lighted up near the Admiral's."
"It does not, Pierre."
After they had passed another group of men with torches, Pierre said: "Did you notice, sir, that each of those men had a piece of white stuff bound round his arm, and that it was the same with those we passed before? If there is any mischief intended, we should be more likely to learn what it is if we were to put on the same badge."
"The idea is a good one, Pierre;" and Philip took out his handkerchief, tore it in two and, handing half of it to Pierre, fastened the other round his arm.
As they went along, they met men with torches or lanterns, moving in the same direction as themselves. All wore white handkerchiefs or scarves round their arms.
Philip became more and more anxious as they went on, and regretted that he had not returned to his lodgings and renewed his watch there. However, a few minutes' walking took them to the Hotel de Ville. The square in front of the building was faintly illuminated by a few torches, here and there, and by large cressets that blazed in front of the Hotel. The light, however, was sufficient to show a dense body of men drawn up in the square, and the ruddy light of the flames flashed from helmet, lance point, and axe.
"What think you now, Monsieur Philip? There must be eight or ten thousand men here. I should say all the city bands, under their captains."
As they paused, a citizen officer came up to them.
"All is ready, your excellency. I do not think that a man is absent from his post. The orders remain unchanged, I suppose?"
"Quite unchanged," Philip said briefly, seeing that in the faint light he was mistaken for someone else.
"And the bell is to be the signal for beginning?"
"I believe there has been a change in that respect," Philip said; "but you will hear that later on. I am only here to see that all is in readiness."
"Everything has been done as ordered, your excellency. The gates are closed, and will not be opened except to one bearing special orders, under the king's own seal. The boats have all been removed from the wharves. There will be no escape."
Philip repressed a strong impulse to run the man through the body, and only said: "Good. Your zeal will not be forgotten."
Then he turned and walked away. They had gone but a few paces when, in the distance, the report of a pistol was heard.
"Too late!" he exclaimed, in passionate regret.
"Come, Pierre," and he broke into a rapid run.
Several times groups of men came out from bye-streets at the sound of the rapid footsteps, but Philip exclaimed: "Away there! I am on urgent business for Anjou and Guise."
The men fell back at once, in each case, not doubting from the badges on the arms, which they could make out in the darkness, that Philip was bearing some important order.
"To the Admiral's, first," he said to Pierre. "It is there they will surely begin."
But as they entered the Rue de Bethisy, he saw a number of men pouring out from the Admiral's house, with drawn swords and waving their torches over their heads. By the light, Philip could make out Henri of Guise and Henry of Valois, with their attendants and soldiers.
"We are too late here, Pierre. The Admiral has doubtless been murdered. His confidence in the king's word has undone him."
Coligny, indeed, had refused the offer of many Protestant gentlemen to spend the night in the house; and even Teligny, his son-in-law, had gone to his own lodgings a short distance away. He had with him only his chaplain Merlin, the king's surgeon, three gentlemen and four or five servants; while in the court below were five of the King of Navarre's Swiss guards.
The Admiral had been awakened by the increasing noise without, but entertained no alarm whatever. Suddenly a loud knocking was heard at the outer gate, and a demand for entrance, in the king's name.
The Admiral directed one of the gentlemen, named Le Bonne, to go down and unbar the gate. As he did so, Cosseins, an officer of Anjou's household rushed in, followed by fifty soldiers, and stabbed Le Bonne to the heart. The soldiers had been despatched by the king, himself, under pretence of guarding the Huguenots; and twelve hundred arquebusiers had also been posted, under the same pretext, in the neighbourhood.
The faithful Swiss defended the inner door and, when driven back, defended for a time a barricade hastily thrown up on the stairs. One of the Huguenot gentlemen rushed into the Admiral's room, with the news that the gate had been forced. The Admiral calmly replied: "I have kept myself for a long time in readiness for death. Save yourselves, if you can. It would be hopeless for you to attempt to save my life."
In obedience to his orders, all who were with him, save a German interpreter, fled to the roof and made their escape in the darkness. The barricade was carried, and a German named Besme, a follower of the Duke of Guise, was the first to rush into the Admiral's room. Coligny was calmly seated in a chair, and Besme struck him two blows with his sword, while those following despatched him.
Guise was waiting in the courtyard below. When he heard that the Admiral was killed, he ordered the body to be thrown out of the window. When he recognized that it was indeed the body of the Admiral, he gave it a brutal kick, while one of his followers cut off the head; and then Guise called upon the soldiers to follow him, saying: "We have begun well. Let us now see to the others, for so the king commands."
As Philip turned from the spot, the bell of the church of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois peeled forth, and shouts instantly rose from all quarters. As he reached the street in which he lodged, Philip saw that it was already half full of armed men, who were shouting "Death to the Huguenots!" and were hammering at many of the doors.
He fell at once into a walk, and made his way through them unmolested, the white badge on his arm seeming to guarantee that he was a friend. He passed his own door, and made for that of the Count de Valecourt. A combat was going on in front of it and, by the light of the torches, Philip saw De Pascal defending himself bravely against a host of enemies. Sword in hand, Philip sprang forward. But before he could make his way through the soldiers, a musket shot rang out, and De Pascal fell dead.
Philip drew back.
"To our own house, Pierre," he exclaimed to his lackey, who was keeping close behind him; "we can do nothing here, and the door may resist for a few minutes."
There was no one in front of the entrance, though at all the doors marked with a white cross the soldiers were hammering with the butts of their arquebuses. They slipped in, pushed the bars across, ran upstairs and made their way on to the roof, and climbed along it until they reached the window of the house in which De Valecourt lodged; felt their way across the room till they discovered the door, issued out and, as soon as they found the staircase, ran down.
Already there was a turmoil below. A light streamed out from a door of the count's apartments on the first floor. Philip ran in. Claire de Valecourt was standing with one hand resting on the table, deadly pale, but quiet. She was fully dressed.
"Where is your father?" Philip exclaimed.
"He has gone down with the servants to hold the stairs."
"I will join him," Philip said. "Pierre will take care of you. He knows what to do. We will follow you. Quick, for your own sake and your father's."
"I cannot go and leave him."
"You will do him no good by staying, and delay may cost us all our lives. You must go at once. If you do not, at the risk of your displeasure, I must carry you."
"I will go," she said. "You saved me before, and I trust you."
"Trust Pierre as you would trust me," he said.
"Now, Pierre, take her hand and hurry her upstairs."
The clash of swords, mingled with shouts and oaths, were heard below; and Philip, as he saw Pierre turn with Claire de Valecourt, ran down. On the next landing the count, with four serving men, was defending himself against the assault of a crowd of armed men, who were pushing up the staircase. Others behind them held torches, while some of those engaged in the fray held a torch in one hand, and a sword in the other.
"Ah, is it you, Monsieur Fletcher?" the count said, as Philip placed himself beside him, felling one of the foremost of the assailants, as he did so, with a sweeping blow.
"It is I, count. My house is not attacked, and I have sent off your daughter, in charge of my man, to gain it along the roofs. We will follow them, as soon as we can beat back these villains."
"The king's troops must arrive shortly," the count said.
"The king's troops are here," Philip said. "This is done by his orders, and all Paris is in arms. The Admiral has already been murdered."
The count gave a cry of fury, and threw himself upon his assailants. His companions did the same and, step by step, drove them backward down the stairs.
There was a cry below of "Shoot them down!" and, a moment later, three or four arquebuses flashed out from the hall. The count, without a word, pitched forward among the soldiers; and two of the retainers also fell. Then the crowd surged up again.
Philip fought desperately for a time. Another shot rang out, and he felt a sudden smart across his cheek. He turned and bounded up the stairs, paused a moment at the top, and discharged his two pistols at the leaders of the assailants; pulled to the door of the count's chamber, leaving the corridor in darkness, and then sprang up the stairs. When he reached the door of the unused room by which they had entered, he fastened it behind him, got through the window and closed it after him, and then rapidly made his way along the roofs, until he reached his own. Closing and fastening the casement, he ran down to his room.
Claire was standing there, with Pierre by her side. She gave a low cry as he entered, alone.
"My father!" she exclaimed.
"God has taken him," Philip said, "as He has taken many others tonight. He died painlessly, mademoiselle, by a shot from below."
Claire sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.
"His will be done," she said, in a low but firm voice, as she looked up a minute later. "We are all in His hands, and can die but once. Will they soon come?"
"I trust not," Philip said. "They may follow along the roof, when they cannot find us in any of the rooms; but they will have no clue as to which house we have entered."
"I will remain here and wait for them," she said.
"Then, mademoiselle, you will sacrifice our lives, as well as your own; for assuredly we shall not leave you. Thus far we have escaped and, if you will follow my directions, we may all escape together. Still, if you wish it, we can die here together."
"What is to be done?" she asked, standing up.
Pierre handed Philip a bundle.
"I brought them down as I passed," he said.
"This is a disguise," Philip said, handing it to the girl. "I pray you to put it on, at once. We also have disguises, and will return in them, in a few minutes."
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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21
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: Escape.
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"This is awful, Pierre," Philip said, as he hurriedly assumed the disguise the latter had prepared.
The clamour outside was indeed terrible. The bell of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois was still sounding its signal, but mingled with it were a thousand sounds of combat and massacre, the battering of hammers and axes upon doors, the discharges of arquebuses and pistols, the shouts of men and the loud screams of women.
Pierre glanced out of the window. With the soldiers were mingled a crowd from the slums of Paris; who, scenting carnage from the movements of the citizen troops, had waited in readiness to gather the spoil; and had arrived on the spot, as if by magic, as soon as the first signal of alarm told them that the work of slaughter had begun.
"Can we get out behind, think you, Pierre?" Philip asked, as he joined him.
"I will see, sir. One could scarce sally out, here, without being at once seized and questioned. Doubtless a watch was placed in the rear, at first; but the soldiers would be likely to make off, to join in the massacre and get their share of plunder, as soon as the affair began.
"You will do, sir, as far as the dress goes; but you must smear your face and arms. They are far too white, at present, and would be instantly noticed."
Philip rubbed his hands, blackened by his passage across the roofs, over his face and arms; and then joined Claire, who started, as he entered.
"I did not know you," she said. "Come; are we ready? It were surely better to die at once, than to listen to these dreadful sounds."
"One moment. Pierre will return directly. He has gone to see whether the lane behind the houses is clear. Once fairly away, and our course will be easier."
Pierre returned almost immediately.
"The way is clear."
"Let us go, then, mademoiselle."
"One moment, monsieur. Let us pray before we start. We may have no time, there."
And, standing with upturned face, she prayed earnestly for protection.
"Lead us, O God," she concluded, "through the strife and turmoil; as Thou didst the holy men of old, through the dangers of the lions and the furnace. But if it be Thy will that we should die, then do we commend our souls to Thee; in the sure faith that we are but passing through death into life.
"Now I am ready," she said, turning to Philip.
"You cannot go like this, Mademoiselle Claire," Pierre said reverently. "Of what good would that disguise be to you, when your face would betray you in the darkest street? You must ruffle your hair, and pull that hood over your face, so as to hide it as much as possible."
The girl walked across to a mirror.
[Illustration: Philip, Claire and Pierre disguise themselves.]
"I would I could take my sword, Pierre," said Philip.
"Take it, sir. Strap it boldly round your waist. If anyone remarks on it, laugh, and say it was a Huguenot's half an hour ago. I will carry mine stuck under my arm.
"Use as few words as may be, if you have to speak; and speak them gruffly, or they will discover at once that you are no smith. I fear not for ourselves. We can play our parts--fight or run for it. It is that angel I fear for."
"God will protect her, Pierre. Ah! They are knocking at the door, and the women of the house may be coming down to open it."
"Not they, sir. You may be sure they are half mad with terror. Not one has shown herself, since the tumult began. The landlord and his two sons are, doubtless, with the city bands. Like enough they have led some of their fellows here, or why should they attack the door, as it is unmarked?"
Claire joined them again. They hurried downstairs, and then out by the back entrance into a narrow lane. Philip carried a heavy hammer on his shoulder. Pierre had a large butcher's knife stuck conspicuously in his girdle. He was bare headed and had dipped his head in water, so that his hair fell matted across his face, which was grimy and black.
Day was now breaking, but the light was as yet faint.
"Keep close to me, Claire," Philip said as they reached the street, which was ablaze with torches. "Above all things do not shrink, or seem as if you were afraid."
"I am not afraid," she said. "God saved me before from as great a peril, and will save me again, if it seems good to Him."
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Pay no attention to what is going on around you."
"I will pray," she said simply.
Just as they entered the street the crowd separated, and the Duke of Guise, followed by several nobles of his party, rode along, shouting: "Death to all Huguenots! It is the king's command."
"It is the command you and others have put into his mouth, villain!" Philip muttered to himself.
A roar of ferocious assent rose from the crowd, which was composed of citizen soldiers and the scum of Paris. They danced and yelled, and uttered ferocious jests at the dead bodies lying in the road.
Here the work of slaughter was nearly complete. Few of the Huguenots had offered any resistance, although some had fought desperately to the last. Most of them, however, taken by surprise, and seeing resistance useless, had thrown down their arms; and either cried for quarter, or had submitted themselves calmly to slaughter. Neither age nor sex had availed to save them. Women and children, and even infants, had been slain without mercy.
The soldiers, provided with lists of the houses inhabited by Huguenots, were going round to see that none had escaped attack. Many in the crowd were attired in articles of dress that they had gained in the plunder. Ragged beggars wore cloaks of velvet, or plumed hats. Many had already been drinking heavily. Women mingled in the crowd, as ferocious and merciless as the men.
"Break me in this door, friend," an officer, with a list in his hand and several soldiers standing beside him, said to Philip.
The latter did not hesitate. To do so would have brought destruction on himself and those with him; without averting, for more than a minute or two, the fate of those within. Placing himself in front of the door, he swung his heavy hammer and brought it down upon the woodwork. A dozen blows, and the door began to splinter.
The crack of a pistol sounded above, and the officer standing close to him fell dead. Four or five shots were fired, by the soldiers, at the window above. Another two or three blows, and the door gave way.
Philip went aside as the soldiers, followed by a crowd, rushed in; and returned to Claire, who was standing by the side of Pierre, a few paces away.
"Let us go on," he said.
A few yards further they were at the entrance of a lane running north. As Philip turned into it, a man caught him by the arm.
"Where are you going, comrade?" he said. "There is plenty of work for your hammer, yet."
"I have a job elsewhere," Philip said.
"It is rare work, comrade. I have killed five of them with my own hand, and I have got their purses, too," he chuckled.
"Hallo! Who is this girl you have with you?"
And he roughly caught hold of Claire.
Philip's pent-up rage found a vent. He sprang upon the man, seized him by the throat, and hurled him with tremendous force against the wall; whence he fell, a senseless mass, on to the ground.
"What is it?" cried half a dozen men, rushing up.
"A Huguenot in disguise," Philip said. "You will find his pockets are full of gold."
They threw themselves upon the fallen man, fighting and cursing to be the first to ransack his pockets; while Philip, with his two companions, moved up the lane unnoticed.
Fifty yards farther Claire stumbled, and would have fallen had not Philip caught her. Her head had fallen forward, and he felt at once that she was insensible. He placed her on a doorstep, and supported her in a sitting position, Pierre standing by. A minute later a group of men came hurrying down the street.
"What is it?" one of the group asked, as he stopped for a moment.
"It is only a woman, squeamish," Pierre said in a rough voice. "She would come with us, thinking she could pick up a trinket or two; but, ma foi, it is hot down there, and she turned sick. So we are taking her home."
Satisfied with the explanation, the men hurried on.
"Shall I carry her, Pierre? Her weight would be nothing."
"Better wait a few minutes, Monsieur Philip, and see if she comes round. Our story is right enough, as long as we stop here; but people might want to know more, if they were to meet you carrying a woman."
Some minutes passed, and then, finding that Claire remained unconscious, Philip lifted her on to his shoulder.
"We will risk it, Pierre. As long as we only meet them coming along in twos or threes, we can go on safely; for if they are inquisitive, I can set her down and speedily silence their questioning. If we see a large body coming, we can either turn down a side street or, if there is no turning at hand, can set her down again and answer as before. Every step we get, farther away from the quarter we have left, the better."
He had carried Claire but a few hundred yards, when he felt her move. He at once set her down again, on a doorstep. In a few minutes she was able to stand and, assisted by Philip, she presently continued her course, at a slow pace. Gradually the movement restored her strength, and she said, speaking for the first time: "I can walk alone."
An hour later they reached the hut that they had marked out as their place of refuge. Pierre went to a corner and drew out, from under a heap of rubbish, a large bundle.
"Here is your cloak and mine," he said, "and a change of clothes for each of us. We could not wander about the country, in this guise."
Philip laid the cloaks down to form a sort of couch; and placed the bundle, with the rest of the things in, as a pillow.
"Now, mademoiselle," he said, "you will be safe here until nightfall. First you must drink a glass of wine, and try and eat something. Pierre brought some up here, two days ago. Then I hope you will lie down. I will watch outside the door. Pierre will go down into the town, to gather news."
"I will take something presently," she said. "I could eat nothing, now."
But Pierre had already uncorked a bottle, and Philip advised her to drink a little wine.
"You will need all your strength," he said, "for we have a long journey before us."
She drank a few drops.
"Do not go yet," she said. "I must speak to you."
Philip nodded to Pierre, who left the hut. Claire sat on the cloaks for some minutes, in silence.
"I have been thinking, Monsieur Philip," she said at last, "and it seems to me that it would not be right for me to go with you. I am the promised wife of the Sieur de Pascal, and that promise is all the more sacred, since he to whom I gave it,"--and she paused--"is gone. It would not be right for me to go with you. You shall take me to the Louvre, where I will crave the protection of the King and Queen of Navarre.
"Do not think me ungrateful for what you have done for me. Twice now you have saved my life, and, and--you understand me, Philip?"
"I do," he said, "and honour your scruples. One of my objects, in sending Pierre down into the town again, is to learn what has taken place at the Louvre. It may be that this fiendish massacre has extended there, and that even the King of Navarre, and the Huguenot gentlemen with him, have shared the fate of the others. Should it not be so, it would be best in every way that what you suggest should be carried out.
"As for the Sieur de Pascal, it may be that the blow, that has bereft you of your good father, may well have fallen upon him, also."
"But many will surely escape, as we have done. It cannot be that all our friends--all those who rode in with the princes--can have been murdered."
"Some have doubtless escaped; but I fear that the massacre will be almost universal, for it has evidently been carefully planned and, once begun, will extend not only to the followers of Navarre, but to all the Protestants within the walls of Paris."
"Do you know aught concerning the Sieur de Pascal?" Claire asked, looking up.
Something in the tone of his voice struck her.
"I saw him fall, mademoiselle. He had made for the door of your house, doubtless with the intention of joining your father in defending it to the last; but the murderers were already there. He was attacked on the doorstep, and was surrounded, and well-nigh spent, when I saw him. I tried to reach him through the crowd but, before I could do so, he fell.
"Then, seeing that it would be but throwing away my life, and destroying all chance of saving yours, I hurried away to carry out the plan I had before formed of making my way along the roofs, and so entering your house.
"Monsieur de Pascal fell, mademoiselle, as a brave soldier, fighting against a host of foes, and in defence of yourself and your father. It was an unfortunate, though noble impulse, that led him there; for I had rubbed out the mark upon your door that served as a guide for the soldiers, and you and the count might have escaped over the roof, before any attack was made, had not his presence aroused their suspicions."
Claire had hidden her face in her hands, as he began to speak; and he had kept on talking, in order to give her time to collect her feelings; but as she was now crying unrestrainedly, he went quietly out of the hut and left her to herself; glad that tears had come to her relief, for the first time.
An hour later the door opened behind him, and Claire called him in.
"I am better now," she said, "I have been able to cry. It seemed that my heart was frozen, and I was like one in a terrible nightmare. Now I know that it is all true, and that my dear father is dead.
"As for Monsieur de Pascal, I am sorry that a brave soldier has been killed; but that is all. You know that I received him, as my affianced husband, simply in obedience to my father's commands; and that my heart had no part in it. God has broken the tie, and for that, even in this time of sorrow, I cannot but feel relief."
At this moment there was a knock at the door. Then the latch was lifted, and Pierre entered.
"What is the news, Pierre?"
"It is bad, sir. The king has, in truth, put himself at the head of the massacre; and even in the Louvre, itself, several Huguenot gentlemen have been slain, though I could not learn their names. It is said that some of them were slain in the presence of the young Queen of Navarre, in spite of her entreaties and cries. The young king and his cousin Conde are close prisoners; and it is said that they, too, will be slain, unless they embrace the Catholic faith.
"The massacre has spread to all parts of the town, and the Huguenots are everywhere being dragged from their homes and killed, together with their wives and children. It is said that the bodies of Coligny, and other Huguenot leaders, have been taken to the Louvre; and that the king and the queen mother and the ladies, as well as the gentlemen of the court, have been down to view them and make a jest of them.
"Truly, sir, Paris seems to have gone mad. It is said that orders have been sent, to all parts of France, to exterminate the Huguenots."
Philip made a sign to Pierre to leave the hut.
"This is terrible news," he said to Claire, "and it is now clear that the Louvre will afford you no protection. In these days, no more mercy is shown to women than to men; and at best, or at worst, you could but save your life by renouncing your faith."
"I had already decided," she said quietly, "that I would not go to the Louvre. The death of Monsieur de Pascal has altered everything. As his affianced wife, with the consent of my father, the king would hardly have interfered to have forced me into another marriage; but, being now free, he would treat me as a ward of the crown, and would hand me and my estates to one of his favourites. Anything would be better than that.
"Now, of course, it is out of the question. Estates I have none; for, with the extermination of our people, their estates will be granted to others."
"As to that, mademoiselle, they have been trying to massacre the Huguenots for years; and though, doubtless, in the towns many may fall, they will not be taken so readily in the country; and may, even yet, rally and make head again.
"Still, that does not alter the present circumstances; and I see no other plan but that I had first formed, for you to accompany me and my servant, in disguise."
The girl stood hesitating, twining her fingers over each other, restlessly.
"It is so strange, so unmaidenly," she murmured.
"Then, Claire," Philip said, taking her hands in his, "you must give me the right to protect you. It is strange to speak of love, at such a time as this; but you know that I love you. As a rich heiress, and altogether above my station, even had you been free I might never have spoken; but now, standing as we do surrounded by dangers, such distinctions are levelled. I love you with all my heart, and it seems to me that God, himself, has brought us together."
"It is surely so, Philip," she said, looking up into his face. "Has not God sent you twice to save me? Some day I will tell you of my heart, but not now, dear--not now. I am alone in the world, save you. I am sure that my father, if he now sees us, must approve. Therefore, Philip, henceforth I am your affianced wife, and am ready to follow you to the end of the world."
Philip stooped down, and kissed her gently. Then he dropped her hands, and she stood back a little apart from him.
"It were best that I called Pierre in," he said. "Even in this lonely quarter some one might pass and, seeing him standing at the door, wonder who he might be."
So saying, he opened the door and called Pierre in.
"Pierre," he said gravely, "Mademoiselle de Valecourt is now my affianced wife."
"That is as it should be, master," Pierre said; and then, stepping up to Claire, who held out her hand to him, he reverently pressed it with his lips.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "my life will henceforth be at your disposal, as at that of my master. We may have dangers to face, but if anyone can get you through them, he can."
"Thank you, Pierre," the girl said. "It is well, indeed, that we should have with us one so faithful and attached as yourself."
In the hours that passed before nightfall, Philip related to Claire how Pierre's warnings had excited his uneasiness; and how the discovery of the chalk marks, on the doors, had confirmed him in his conviction that some evil was intended; and explained the steps they had taken for providing for an escape from the city.
"I have been wondering vaguely, Philip," she said, when he had told the story, "how it was that you should have appeared so suddenly, and should have a disguise in readiness for me. But how could you have guessed that I should be ready to go with you?"
And for the first time, a slight tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
"It was scarcely a guess, Claire. It was rather a despairing hope. It seemed to me that, amid all this terror and confusion, I might in some way be able to rescue you; and I made the only preparation that seemed possible.
"I knew that you were aware that I loved you. When you told me of your engagement, I felt that you were saying farewell to me. When I thought of saving you, it was for him and not for myself; for I knew that you would never oppose your father's wishes. I did not dream of such a general calamity as it has been. I thought only of a rising of the mob of Paris, and that perhaps an hour or two in disguise might be sufficient, until the king's troops restored order."
"It is very wonderful," Claire said earnestly. "It seems, beyond all doubt, that it is God Himself who has thus given me to you; and I will not doubt that, great as the dangers may seem to be before us, He will lead us safely through them.
"You will make for La Rochelle?"
"Yes. Once there we shall be safe. You may be sure that there, at least, the cruel orders of the king will be wholly disregarded; as we may hope they will be, in many other towns in which the Huguenots are numerous; but at La Rochelle, certainly, were all the rest of France in flames, the people would remain steadfast.
"But I do not believe that the power of the Huguenots will be broken. It may be that, in the northern towns, the orders of the king will be carried out; but from thence we have obtained no aid in our former struggles. Our strength in the south will still remain and, though the loss of so many leaders and nobles, here in Paris, will be a heavy blow, I hope that the cause of the faith will speedily rally from it and make head again; just as it did when all seemed lost, after the battle of Moncontour."
So they talked until night fell, with Pierre sitting discreetly in the corner, as far away as possible, apparently sleeping most of the time. As soon as it became perfectly dark, the bundle of clothes was taken from the hiding place and, going outside the hut, Philip and Pierre put on their ordinary attire. Claire had simply slipped on the dress prepared for her over her own, and had but to lay it aside.
After partaking of a meal, they made their way to the nearest steps leading to the top of the wall. One end of the rope was fastened to the parapet, the other was tied round Claire, and she was carefully lowered to the ground. Philip and Pierre slid down the rope after her, and they at once started across the country.
After three hours' walking, they reached the farm where Pierre had left the horses. They left Claire a short distance away. As Pierre had seen the horses put into the stables, he knew exactly where they were. He had, on leaving them there, paid for a week's keep; saying that he might come for them in haste, and perhaps at night, and if so he would saddle and take them off without waking the farmer.
The horses whinnied with pleasure, when Philip spoke to them. The saddles and bridles were found, hanging on a beam where Pierre had placed them; and in two or three minutes the horses were led out, ready to start. Philip had arranged his cloak behind his saddle, for Claire to sit upon; and led the horse to the place where she was awaiting them.
"All has passed off well," he said. "No one in the farmhouse seems to have heard a sound."
He leapt into the saddle. Claire placed her foot on his, and he swung her up behind him; and they then started at a brisk trot.
Avoiding all large towns, and stopping only at village inns, they made their way south; making long journeys each day. In the villages there was little of the religious rancour that animated the people in the towns and, after the first two days, Philip found that the news of what had occurred at Paris had not, as yet, spread. Eager questions were asked Pierre as to the grand wedding festivities at Paris; and there was, everywhere, a feeling of satisfaction at a union that seemed to promise to give peace to France.
Claire was generally supposed to be Philip's sister; and the hostesses always did their best to make the girl, with her pale sad face, as comfortable as possible.
Fearing that a watch might have been set at the bridges, they avoided these, crossing either by ferry boats or at fords. The Loire was passed above Orleans, and as that city, Blois, and Tours all lay on the northern bank, they met with no large towns on their way, until they approached Chatellerault. They bore to the south to avoid that city and Poitiers and, on the eighth day after leaving Paris, they reached the chateau of Laville, having travelled upwards of two hundred miles.
As they crossed the drawbridge, Philip's four retainers met them at the gate, and greeted him most warmly.
"Is the countess in?" he asked, as he alighted.
"She is, Monsieur Philip. She has been for some days at La Rochelle, and returned yesterday. There are rumours, sir, that at Poitiers and Niort the Catholics have again, in spite of the edicts, fallen upon the Huguenots; and though the countess believes not the tale, we had a guard posted at the gate last night."
"I am afraid it is true, Eustace," Philip said. "Take the horses round to the stables, and see to them well. They have travelled fast."
Taking Claire's hand, he led her up the steps; and just as he entered the hall the countess, to whom the news of his approach had been carried, met him.
"Aunt," he said, "I confide this lady to your loving care. It is Mademoiselle de Valecourt, now my affianced wife. I have bad news to tell you; but I pray you lead her first to a chamber, for she is sore wearied and in much grief."
"Francois is not dead?" the countess exclaimed in a low voice, paling to the lips.
"I trust not, aunt. I have no reason for believing that he is."
"I will wait here, Philip, with the countess's permission," Claire said. "It is better that you should not keep her in suspense, even for a moment, on my account."
"I thank you, mademoiselle," the countess said, as she led the girl to a couch. "This is but a poor welcome that I am giving you; but I will make amends for it, when I have heard what Philip has to tell me.
"Now, Philip, tell me the worst, and let there be no concealment."
Philip related the whole story of the massacre, his tale being interrupted by frequent exclamations of horror, by the countess.
"It seems incredible," she cried, "that a king of France should thus dishonour himself, alike by breaking his vows, disregarding his own safe conduct, and massacring those who had accepted his hospitality.
"And Francois, you say, was at the Louvre with the King of Navarre and Conde; and even there, within the walls of the royal palace, some of the king's guests were murdered; but more than this you know not?"
"That is the report that Pierre gathered in the street, aunt. It may have been exaggerated. Everyone eagerly seized and retailed the reports that were current. But even if true, it may well be that Francois is not among those who fell. To a certain extent he was warned, for I told him the suspicions and fears that I entertained; and when he heard the tumult outside, he may have effected his escape."
"I do not think so," the countess said, drawing herself up to her full height. "My son was one of the prince's gentlemen of the chamber, and he would have been unworthy of his name, had he thought first of his personal safety and not of that of the young king."
Philip knew that this was so; and the knowledge had, from the first, prevented his entertaining any great hopes of his cousin's safety. However, he said: "As long as there was a hope of his being of service to the prince, I am sure that Francois would not have left him. But from the first, aunt, resistance was in vain, and would only have excited the assailants. Pierre heard that in few cases was there any resistance, whatever, to the murderers. The horror of the thing was so great that even the bravest, awakened thus from their sleep, either fell without drawing sword, or fled."
"What a day for France!" the countess exclaimed. "The Admiral, our bravest soldier, our greatest leader, a Christian hero, slaughtered as he lay wounded! And how many others of our noblest and best! And you say orders have been sent, over all France, to repeat this horrible massacre?
"But enough, for the present. I am forgetting my duties as hostess. Mademoiselle de Valecourt, we are alike mourners--you for your noble father, I for my son, both of us for France and for our religion. Yet I welcome you to Laville. For you, brighter days may be in store. My nephew is a gallant gentleman, and with him you may find a home far away from this unhappy country. To me, if Francois has gone, Philip will stand almost in the light of a son. Francois loved him as a brother, and he has grown very dear to me, and gladly shall I welcome you as his wife.
"Now, come with me.
"Philip, I leave it to you to send round the news to the tenants, and to see that all preparations are made to leave the chateau, once again, to the mercy of our foes; and to retire to La Rochelle, where alone we can talk with safety. See that the bell is rung at once. The tenants know the summons and, though little expecting danger, will quickly rally here."
Philip at once went out into the courtyard, and in a minute the sharp clanging of the bell told the country round that danger threatened. The retainers of the chateau ran hastily out, arming themselves as they went; and exclamations of horror and fury broke from them, as Philip told them that the order for the massacre of the Huguenots, throughout France, had gone forth; and that already, most of those who rode to Paris with the King of Navarre had fallen.
Then he repeated the countess's order that, upon the following morning, the chateau should be abandoned and all should ride to La Rochelle; and he despatched half a dozen mounted men, to warn all the Huguenot gentry in the district.
In a few minutes the tenants began to flock in. Although the tale that they heard involved the destruction of their newly-built houses, and the loss of most of their property, this affected them but slightly in comparison with the news of the murder of Coligny, and of so many Huguenot leaders; and of the terrible fate that would befall the Huguenots, in every town in France. Some wept, others clenched their weapons in impotent rage. Some called down the curses of Heaven upon the faithless king, while some stood as if completely dazed at the terrible news.
Philip spoke a few cheering words to them.
"All is not lost yet, my friends. Heaven will raise up fresh leaders for us. Many may fall, but the indignation and rage that you feel will likewise animate all who, dwelling in the country, may escape; so that, ere long, we shall have fresh armies in the field. Doubtless the first blow will be struck at La Rochelle, and there we will meet these murderers face to face; and will have the opportunity of proving, to them, that the men of the Reformed religion are yet a force capable of resisting oppression, and revenging treachery. There is one thing: never again shall we make the mistake of laying down our arms, confiding in the promises and vows of this perjured king; never again shall we be cozened into throwing away the results of our victories.
"Gather your horses and cattle, as you did before. Take your household goods in carts and, at daybreak, send in here the waggons that you have to provide, in case of necessity."
At noon the next day, the whole of the occupants of the chateau started for La Rochelle. The tenants, with their cattle and horses and all their portable property, had left at daybreak; and at nightfall the countess and her party came up with them. The encampment was a large one. The women and children slept under the waggons. The men lay down by fires they had kindled, while a portion were told off to keep watch over the animals.
The train had swollen considerably since they had started. Most of the inhabitants of the villages were Huguenots and, as soon as these heard of the massacres in Paris and elsewhere, they collected their animals, loaded up their carts, and took the road to the city of refuge.
After four days' travelling, they entered La Rochelle. The news had arrived before them, being brought by some of those who had escaped the massacre, by being lodged without the walls of Paris. The countess and Claire were received at the house of Monsieur Bertram. Philip found lodgings near them, and the whole of the inhabitants vied with each other, in their hospitable reception of the mass of fugitives.
Claire was completely prostrated by the events through which she had passed, and Monsieur Bertram's daughter devoted herself to her, tending her with unwearied care until, after a week in bed, she began again to gather strength.
The time of the countess was entirely occupied in filling the part that had, before, been played by Jeanne of Navarre: holding consultations with the town councillors, going down to the walls and encouraging the men who were labouring there, and urging on the people to make every sacrifice in defence of their religion and homes. She herself set the example, by pawning her jewels and selling her horses, and devoting the proceeds to the funds raised for the defence.
She worked with feverish activity, as if to give herself no time for thought. She was still without news of Francois. Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Conde had, as was soon known, been compelled to abjure their religion as the price of their lives. She was convinced that her son would have refused to buy his life, upon such conditions. Philip, who had come to regard Francois as a brother, was equally anxious and, two days after his arrival at the city, he took Pierre aside.
"Pierre," he said, "I cannot rest here in ignorance of the fate of my cousin."
"That I can see, master. You have eaten no food the last two days. You walk about at night, instead of sleeping; and I have been expecting, every hour, that you would say to me, 'Pierre, we must go to Paris.'"
"Will you go with me, Pierre?"
"How can you ask such a question?" Pierre said, indignantly. "Of course, if you go I go, too. There is not much danger in the affair; and if there were, what then? We have gone through plenty of it, together. It will not be, now, as when we made our escape. Then they were hunting down the Huguenots like mad dogs. Now they think they have exterminated them in Paris, and will no longer be on the lookout for them. It will be easy enough to come and go, without being observed; and if we find Monsieur Francois, we will bring him out with us.
"The young count is not like you, monsieur. He is brave, and a gallant gentleman, but he is not one to invent plans of escape; and he will not get away, unless we go for him."
"That is what I think, Pierre. We will start at once, but we must not let the countess know what we are going for. I will get the chief of the council, openly, to charge me with a mission to the south; while telling them, privately, where I am really going, and with what object. I am known to most of them, and I doubt not they will fall in with my plans.
"We will ride my two best horses, and lead a spare one. We will leave them a few miles outside Paris, and then go in disguised as countrymen. At any rate, we shall soon be able to learn if my cousin is among those who fell. If not, he must be in hiding somewhere. It will not be easy to discover him, but I trust to you to find him."
Accordingly, the next day, the countess heard that Philip had been requested by the council to proceed on a mission to the south, where the Huguenots were everywhere in arms.
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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22
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: Reunited.
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Philip took clothes with him, in his saddlebags, of gayer colours than those worn by the Huguenots; and as soon as they were beyond the district where the Protestants were in the ascendant, he put these on instead of those in which he had started. They rode fast and, on the fifth day after leaving La Rochelle, they entered Versailles. No questions had been asked them by the way, and they rode into the courtyard of the principal inn, and there stabled their horses.
"Your animals look as if they needed rest, sir," the landlord said, as they dismounted.
"Yes, we have come from the south, and have pressed them too much. I have business in Paris which will occupy me for a few days; therefore I will leave them here, for a rest. I suppose you can furnish me with two horses, to take me as far as Saint Cloud, and a man to bring them back again."
"Certainly I can, sir, and your horses shall be well looked after, here."
"Then we will go on, the first thing in the morning. Have the horses ready by that time."
The next morning they rode to Saint Cloud, dismounted there, and handed over the horses to the man who had ridden behind them. Then they crossed by the bridge over the river and, entering the wood that bordered the Seine, put on the disguises they had brought with them--concealing their clothes among some thick bushes--and then walked on into Paris.
They put up at a small inn and, as they partook of a meal, listened to the talk of those around them. But it was not here that they could expect to gather the news they required. They heard the names of many of those who had been killed, but these were all leaders of distinction; and as soon as they had finished their food, they started for the Louvre.
"I don't see how we are to find out what we want, now we are here, Pierre," Philip said, after they had stood for some time, looking at the gate through which numbers of gentlemen entered or left the palace.
"It will take some little time, sir," Pierre said. "I think the best plan will be for me to purchase some clothes, suitable for the lackey of a gentleman of rank. I can get them easily enough, for the shops will be full of garments, bought of those who took part in the massacre. Then I shall make acquaintance with one of the lackeys of the court and, with plenty of good wine, I shall no doubt be able to learn all that he knows as to what took place at the Louvre."
At that moment a gentleman passed them.
"That is Count Louis de Fontaine, the cousin of the man I killed in that duel. I am sure it is he. By what I saw of him, he is a gentleman and a man of honour, and by no means ill disposed towards us.
"I will speak to him. Do you stay here, till I return."
Pierre was about to protest, but Philip had already left him, and was following the count. He waited until they were in a comparatively quiet place, and then walked on and overtook him.
"Count Louis de Fontaine," he said.
The nobleman turned, in surprise, at being addressed by this big countryman.
Philip went on: "Our acquaintance was a short one, count. It was some four years ago, at Agen, that I met you, and had the misfortune to have trouble with your cousin, Count Raoul; but short as it was, it was sufficient to show me that you were a gentleman of heart, and to encourage me, now, to throw myself on your generosity."
"Are you the gentleman who fought my cousin, and afterwards escaped from the castle?" the count asked, in surprise.
"I am, count. I am here upon no plot or conspiracy, but simply to endeavour to ascertain the fate of my cousin, Francois de Laville, who was with the King of Navarre on that fearful night, a fortnight since. His mother is distracted at hearing no news of him, while to me he is as a brother.
"I effected my own escape, and have, as you see, returned in disguise to ascertain his fate. I am unable to obtain a list of those who were murdered and, seeing you, I felt that it would be safe to rely upon your honour, and to ask you to give me the news I require. I will fall back now, for it might be thought strange that a noble should be talking to a peasant; but I pray you to lead the way to some quiet spot, where I can speak with you unnoticed."
"My lodging is in the next street. Follow me, and I will take you up to my room."
As soon as they had entered the lodging, the count said: "You are not deceived. I am incapable of betraying a trust imposed upon me. I bear you no malice for the slaying of my cousin; for indeed, the quarrel was not of your seeking. Still less do I feel hostility towards you on the ground of your religion; for I doubt not, from what you say, that you are of the Reformed faith. I lament, most deeply and bitterly, the events that have taken place--events which dishonour our nation in the eyes of all Europe. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name."
"I am the Chevalier Philip Fletcher, an Englishman by birth, though related on my mother's side to the family of the Count de Laville."
"I have heard your name, sir, as that of one of the bravest gentlemen in the following of Admiral Coligny.
"Now, as to your cousin; his fate is uncertain. He was certainly cut down by the hired wretches of the Guises. They passed on in search of other victims, believing him to be dead; but his body was not afterwards found, and the general opinion is that he either recovered and crawled away, and is still in some hiding place, or that he is concealed somewhere in the palace itself. Search was made next day, but without success. Some think he may have reached the streets, and been there killed; and his body, like so many others, thrown into the Seine. I trust that this is not the case, but I have no grounds for bidding you hope."
"At any rate, you have given me cause to hope, sir, and I thank you heartily. It is something to know that he is not certainly dead.
"Can you tell me on which side of the palace was his chamber? I saw him there frequently, but did not, on any occasion, go with him to his room."
"It was on the side facing the river. It was near that of the King of Navarre."
"Thank you, count. It is but a small clue with which to commence my search, but it is at least something. You say that the palace itself has been searched?"
"Yes. On the following morning it was thoroughly searched for fugitives in hiding; but for all that he may be concealed there, by some servant whose goodwill he had gained.
"Is there anything else that I can tell you? I may say that I have, personally, no influence whatever at court. I have never failed to express myself strongly, in reference to the policy of persecution; and I am only here, now, in obedience to the royal orders to present myself at court."
"There is nothing else, count. I thank you most sincerely, for having thus respected my disguise, and for the news you have given me."
Philip returned to the Louvre and joined Pierre, who was impatiently waiting.
"I followed you for some distance, sir; but when I saw you address the count, and then follow quietly behind him, I saw you were right, and that he was to be trusted; and so returned to await your coming. Have you obtained any sure news from him?"
Philip repeated his conversation with the count.
"I will wager he is hidden somewhere in the palace," Pierre said. "Badly wounded as he must have been, he could not have hoped to make his escape through the streets, knowing no one who would have dared to give him refuge. It is far more likely that some of the palace servants came upon him, just as he was recovering, and hid him away. He was always bright and pleasant, fond of a jest, and it may well be that some woman or other took pity on him. The question is, how are we to find out who she is?"
"It is as likely to be a man as a woman, Pierre."
"No," Pierre said positively. "Women are wonderfully tender hearted, and are not so afraid of consequences as men are. A man might feel some pity, at seeing a gentleman so sorely wounded, but he would not risk his own life to shelter him; while any woman would do it, without hesitation. It may be a lady of noble family, or a poor kitchen wench, but that it is a woman I would wager my life."
"It seems hopeless to try to find out who it is," Philip said despondently.
"Not hopeless, sir, though doubtless difficult. With your permission, I will undertake this part of the task. I will get myself up as a workman out of employment--and there are many such--and will hang about near that little gate. It is the servants' entrance, and I shall be able to watch every woman that comes out."
"But what good will watching do?"
"It may do no good, sir, but yet it may help. A woman, with such a secret as that on her mind, will surely show some signs of it upon her face. She will either have a scared look, or an anxious look. She will not walk with an easy step."
"Well, there is something in what you say, Pierre. At any rate, I can think of nothing better."
The next morning Pierre took up his position opposite the gate, but had no news that night to report to his master; nor had he on the second or third; but on the fourth, he returned radiant.
"Good news, master. The count is alive, and I have found him."
Philip sprung from his settle, and grasped his faithful follower by the hand.
"Thank God for the news, Pierre. I had almost given up hope. How did you discover him?"
"Just as I expected, sir. I have seen, in the last three days, scores of women come out; but none of them needed a second look. Some were intent on their own finery, others were clearly bent on shopping. Some looked up and down the street, for a lover who ought to have been waiting for them. Not one of these had a secret of life and death on her mind.
"But this afternoon there came out a young woman with a pale face, and an anxious look. She glanced nervously up and down the street, not as one expecting to meet a friend, but as if she feared an enemy. After a moment's hesitation, she crossed the road and walked along with an indecisive air; more than once glancing behind her, as if afraid of being followed. " 'This is my lady,' I said to myself and, keeping some distance behind and on the opposite side of the road, I followed her.
"She soon turned off into a side street. Once or twice she paused, looked into a shop, hesitated, and then went on again. You may be sure I marked the spots, and was not surprised to find that, in each case, it was an apothecary's before which she had hesitated.
"At last, after looking round again timidly, she entered one; and when I came up, I also went in. She gave a nervous start. I asked to be supplied with a pot of salve for a wound, and the man helped me from one he had just placed on the counter before him. I paid for it, and left.
"Two or three minutes later, I saw her come out. Whatever she had bought, she had hidden it under her cloak. Up to this time she had walked fast, but she now loitered, and looked at the wares displayed on the stalls. " 'You are in no hurry to go back,' I said to myself. 'You have got what you wanted, and you do not wish to attract attention, by returning to the palace after so short an absence.'
"At last, when she was in a quiet spot, I walked quickly up to her. " 'Mademoiselle,' I said, taking off my hat, 'I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have bought that salve, and other matters.'
"She became very white, but she said stoutly: "'I don't know what you are talking about, sir; and if you molest a modest young woman in the streets, I shall appeal to the town constables for protection.' " 'I repeat,' I said, 'that I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have just bought the materials for dressing his wounds. I am the servant of his cousin, the Chevalier Fletcher; and the name of your patient is Count Francois de Laville.'
"She looked at me, stupefied with astonishment, and stammered: "'How do you know that?' " 'It is enough, mademoiselle, that I know it,' I said. 'My master and I have come to Paris, expressly to find Monsieur de Laville; and when we have found him, to aid him to make his escape. Do not hesitate to confide in me, for only so shall we succeed in the object of our journey.' " 'What is your master's Christian name?' she asked, still doubtful. " 'It is Philip,' I said.
"She clasped her hands together. " 'The good God be praised!' she exclaimed. 'It was of Philip he spoke, when he was so ill. He was unconscious. Surely it is He that has sent you to me. It has been terrible for me to bear my secret, alone.' " 'Let us walk farther,' I said, 'before you tell me more. There are too many people passing here; and if they notice the tears on your cheeks, they may suspect me of ill treating you, and may ask troublesome questions.'
"After a few minutes' walk, we came to a quiet square. " 'Let us sit down on this stone seat,' I said. 'We can talk freely here. Now, tell me all about it.' " 'I am one of the bedmakers of the palace, and it fell to me to sweep the room occupied by the Count de Laville. Once or twice he came in, while I was there, and spoke pleasantly; and I thought what a handsome fellow he was, and said to myself what a pity it was that he was a heretic. When that terrible night came, we were all aroused from our sleep, and many of us ran down in a fright to see what was the matter. We heard shouts, and cries, and the clashing of swords. " 'As I passed Monsieur de Laville's room, the door was open. I looked in. Three soldiers lay dead on the floor, and near them the count, whom I thought was also dead. I ran to him, and lifted his head, and sprinkled water on his face from a flagon on the table. He opened his eyes, and made an effort to get to his feet. I was frightened out of my life at it all, and I said to him: "'"What does it all mean, monsieur?" "' "It is a massacre," he said, faintly. "Do you not hear the firing in the streets, and the din in the palace? They will return and finish me. I thank you for what you have done, but it is useless." " 'Then I thought for a moment. "' "Can you walk, monsieur?" "' "Barely," he replied. "' "Lean on my shoulder, monsieur," I said. "I will help you up the stairs. I know of a place where you may lie concealed." " 'With great difficulty I helped him up a staircase that was but little used, and got him to the top. Several times he said: "It is of no use; I am wounded to death!" but he still held on. " 'I slept in a little garret in the roof, with two other servants, and at the end of the passage was a large lumber store. It was into this that I took him. Nobody ever went there, and it was safe, except in case of special search. I laid him down, and then moved some of the heavy cabinets and chests, at the farther end, a short distance from the wall, so that there would be space enough for him to lie behind them. Here I made a bed, with some old cushions from the couches; got him into the place, first bandaging his wounds, as well as I could in the faint light that came in through a dormer window. I fetched a jug of water from my room, and placed it beside him; and then moved the furniture, so as to close up the spot at which he had entered. Against it I piled up tables and chairs; so that, to anyone who did not examine it very closely, it would seem that the heavy furniture was against the wall. " 'There he has been, ever since. Two or three times a day I have managed to steal away from my work, to carry him water and food that I brought from the kitchen, when we went down to our meals. For a time, I thought he would die; for four days he did not know me. He talked much to himself and, several times, he mentioned the name of Philip, and called upon him to aid him against the murderers. Fortunately he was so weak that he could not speak much above a whisper, and there was no fear of his voice being heard. " 'The day after I hid him, the whole palace was searched to see if any Huguenots were concealed. But up in the attics they searched but carelessly, seeing that we slept three or four in each room, and no one could well be hidden there without all knowing it. They did enter the lumber room. But I had carefully washed the floor where he had lain and, as I could not get out the stains of blood, I pushed some heavy chests over them. " 'I was in my room when they searched the lumber room, and my heart stood still until I heard them come out, and knew that they had found nothing. " 'For the last ten days, the count has gained strength. His wounds are still very sore and painful, but they are beginning to heal. I have bought wine for him, and can always manage to conceal enough food, from the table, to suffice for his wants. He can walk now, though feebly; and spoke to me but today about making his escape. " 'It would be easy enough to get him out of the palace, if I had a lackey's attire for him. I could lead him down private staircases till near the door from which we come out of the palace. But I had little money, for I had sent off most of my wages to my mother, only a day or two before the royal wedding. Still, we might have managed that; I could have borrowed some, on some pretence or other. " 'He is, however, too weak to travel, and the effort to do so might cause his wounds to burst out afresh; but now that his cousin has come, all will be well.' " 'Where is he wounded?' I asked. " 'He has four wounds. One is on the head; another on the neck; one is a stab in the body, that must have narrowly missed his heart; and the other is a sword thrust, through his arm. " 'But how, monsieur, did you know,' she asked, 'that it is I who have hidden the count?'
"I told her that I had been watching for four days, feeling sure that the count was hidden in the palace; but hers was the first face that showed anxiety, and that, when I saw her buying salve at the apothecary's, I felt sure that it was she who was sheltering the count."
"And have you arranged anything, Pierre?" Philip asked anxiously.
"Only this much, sir, that tomorrow evening, as soon as it is dark, she will leave the palace with Monsieur Francois. That will give us plenty of time to make our plans, which will be easy enough. We have but to take an apartment, and bring him up into it. No one need know that there are more than ourselves there, and we can nurse him for a few days, until he is fit to ride.
"Then we have only to get him a disguise like that in which we entered. We can hide him in the wood, go on to where we hid our clothes, put them on instead of our disguises, enter Saint Cloud, go on to Versailles, fetch the three horses, and return to him--with, of course, a suit of clothes for himself."
There was no difficulty in hiring two rooms in a quiet street. Suits of clothes suitable for a court lackey were purchased, and these were given by Pierre to the girl, when she came out in the afternoon. Philip had accompanied Pierre to meet her.
"My good girl," he said, "I cannot tell you how deeply I feel the kindness that you have shown my cousin. You have risked your life to save him; and that, I am sure, without the smallest thought of reward. Still, so good an action must not pass without acknowledgment, though no money can express the amount of our gratitude to you."
"I do not want to be paid, sir," she said. "I had no thought of money."
"I know that," Philip replied; "but you must allow us to show our gratitude, in the only way we can. In the first place, what is your name?"
"Annette Riolt, sir."
"Well, Annette, here are fifty crowns in this purse. It is all that I can spare, at present; but be assured the Countess de Laville will send you, at the first opportunity, a sum that will be a good dot for you, when you find a husband. If the messenger by whom it is sent asks for you by your name, at the door of the palace by which you usually leave it, will he obtain access to you?"
"Yes, sir. The porter at the door knows me; and if he should be changed, whoever is there will inquire of the maids, if he asks for Annette Riolt, one of the chamber women in the north wing of the palace."
"Very well, Annette. You may rely that a messenger will come. I cannot say how soon; that must depend on other circumstances. Where do you come from?"
"From Poitiers, sir. My parents live on a little farm called La Machoir, two miles north of the city."
"Then, Annette, the best thing for you to do is to leave your present employment, and to journey down home. It will be easy to send from La Rochelle to Poitiers, and unless the place is besieged, as it is likely to be before long, you will soon hear from us. Probably the messenger will have visited the farm before you reach it."
"I will do that, sir," the girl said gratefully. "I never liked this life, and since that terrible night I have scarcely had any sleep. I seem to hear noises and cries, just as they say the king does, and shall be indeed glad to be away.
"But I cannot come out with the count, this evening. We only get out once in five days, and it was only as a special favour I have been let out, now. I will come with him to the door, talking with him as if he were a lackey of my acquaintance."
At the hour agreed upon Philip and Pierre, stationed a few yards from the door, saw a man and woman appear. The girl made some laughing remark, and then went back into the palace. The man came out. He made two quick steps and then stumbled, and Philip ran forward, and grasped him firmly under the arm.
"You were just in time, Philip," Francois said, with a feeble laugh, "another step and I should have been down. I am weaker than I thought I was, and the fresh air is well-nigh too much for me.
"I have had a close shave of it, Philip; and have been nearer death, in that attic up there, than I ever was on a field of battle. What a good little woman that was! I owe my life to her.
"It is good of you coming here to find me, old fellow. You are always getting me out of scrapes. You remember that affair at Toulouse.
"Thank you, Pierre, but mind, that arm you have got hold of is the weak one.
"Now, how far have we got to go, Philip? For I warn you, I am nearly at the end of my strength."
"We will get into a quiet street first, Francois, and there you shall have a drink, from a flask of excellent wine I have here. Then we will help you along. You can lean as heavily as you like upon us. You are no great weight, now; and anyone who notices us helping you will suppose that we are conveying a drunken comrade to his home."
But in spite of all the assistance they could give him, Francois was terribly exhausted when he reached the lodging. Here Philip and Pierre bandaged his wounds, far more securely and firmly than his nurse had been able to do; and the next morning, when he awoke, he declared himself ready to start at once.
It was a week, however, before Philip would hear of his making such an effort; but by that time, good eating and drinking had done so much for him that he thought he would be able to stand the fatigue of the journey, and the next morning they started. Disguised as peasants, they passed out through the gates unquestioned. Francois was left in the wood, with the clothes they had purchased for him. The others then went on and found their bundles undisturbed, obtained their three horses at Versailles and, riding back, soon had Francois mounted.
The wound on his head was so far healed that it was no longer necessary to bandage it, and although he looked pale and weak, there was nothing about him to attract special notice. They journeyed by easy stages south, lengthening the distances gradually as Francois gained strength; and riding fast, towards the end, so as to reach La Rochelle before an army, under Marshal Biron, sat down before it.
It was evening when they arrived, and after putting up their horses they made their way to Monsieur Bertram's. Philip mounted the stairs, leaving Francois to follow him, slowly.
"I shall not take more than two or three minutes to break the news, but I must prepare your mother a little, Francois. She has not said much, but I know she had but little hope, though she bore up so bravely."
The countess was sitting, with Claire and the merchant's daughter. It was the first time Philip had seen Mademoiselle de Valecourt, since they first arrived at La Rochelle. She was dressed now in deep mourning. A flush of bright colour spread over her face, as Philip entered.
As in duty bound, he turned first to the countess and saluted her affectionately; and then turned to Claire, and would have kissed her hand, but the countess said: "Tut, tut, Philip, that is not the way to salute your betrothed."
And Philip, drawing her to him, kissed her for the first time since they had betrothed themselves to each other in the hut in Paris; and then saluted Mademoiselle Bertram.
"We have been under no uneasiness respecting you, Philip," the countess said; "for Claire and myself both look upon you as having a charmed life. Has your mission been successful?"
"It has, aunt, beyond my hopes. And first, I must ask your pardon for having deceived you."
"Deceived me, Philip! In what way?"
"My mission was an assumed one," Philip said; "and in reality, Pierre and I journeyed to Paris."
A cry broke from the countess's lips.
"To Paris, Philip! And your mission has been successful? You have heard something?"
"I have done more, aunt, I have found him."
"The Lord be praised for all His mercies!" burst from the lips of the countess, and she threw herself on Philip's neck, and burst into a passion of tears, the first she had shed since he brought the news from Paris.
"Courage, aunt," Philip whispered.
He glanced towards the door. Claire understood him, and ran to open it. Francois came quietly in.
"Mother," he said, and the countess, with a cry of joy, ran into his arms.
The French army appeared before the town on the following day, and the siege was at once commenced. With Marshal Biron were the dukes of Anjou and Alencon, the King of Navarre, and the Prince of Conde, who had been compelled to accompany him.
The siege made little progress. The defences were strong, and the Huguenots were not content only to repel assaults, but made fierce sallies, causing a considerable loss to the besiegers.
To the surprise of the defenders, they heard that the Count de la Noue had arrived in camp, with a mission from the king. He had remained a captive, in the camp of the Duke of Alva, after the surrender of Mons; and so had happily escaped the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. He had then been released, and had gone to France to arrange his ransom.
The king, who was now tormented with remorse, sent for him; and entreated him, as a personal favour, to go as his Commissioner to La Rochelle, and to endeavour to bring about a cessation of hostilities, authorizing him to grant almost any terms. De la Noue undertook the task unwillingly, and only upon condition that he would be no party to inducing them to surrender, unless perfectly satisfied with the guarantees for the observance of any treaty that might be made.
When a flag of truce came forward, and announced that Monsieur de la Noue had arrived on the part of the king, the news was at first received with incredulity. Then there was a burst of indignation, at what was considered the treachery of the count. He was refused permission to enter the town but, after some parleying, a party went out to have an interview with him outside the gate.
The meeting was unsatisfactory. Some of the citizens pretended that they did not recognize De la Noue, saying that the person they knew was a brave gentleman, faithful to his religion, and one who certainly would not be found in a Catholic camp.
A few days later, however, the negotiations were renewed. The count pointed out that they could not hope, finally, to resist the whole force of France; and that it would be far better for them to make terms, now, than when in an extremity. But he was able to give no guarantees that were considered acceptable by the citizens.
De la Noue's position was exceedingly difficult. But at last the citizens perceived that he was still loyal to the cause; and as he had, beforehand, received the king's authority to accept the governorship of the town, the people of La Rochelle agreed to receive him in that position, provided that no troops entered with him.
The negotiations fell through, and the siege was renewed with vigour, De la Noue now taking the lead in the defence, his military experience being of immense assistance. Very many of the nobles and gentlemen in the Catholic army were present, as a matter of duty. They fought with the usual gallantry of their race, but for the most part abhorred the massacre of Saint Bartholomew; and were as strongly of opinion as were the Huguenots of France, and the Protestants throughout Europe, that it was an indelible disgrace upon France.
Their feeling was shown in many ways. Among others, Maurevel, the murderer of De Mouy, and the man who had attempted the assassination of the Admiral, having accompanied the Duke of Anjou to the camp, no one would associate with him or suffer him to encamp near, or even go on guard with him into the trenches; and the duke was, in consequence, obliged to appoint him to the command of a small fort which was erected on the seashore.
Incessant fighting went on, but the position was a singular one. The Duke of Alencon had been an unwilling spectator of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. He was jealous of Anjou, and restless and discontented, and he contemplated going over to the Huguenots. The King of Navarre and his cousin Conde, and the Huguenot gentlemen with him, were equally anxious to leave the camp, where they were closely watched; and De la Noue, while conducting the defence, occasionally visited the royal camp and endeavoured to bring about a reconciliation.
He was much rejoiced, on his first arrival at the city, to find both Francois and Philip there; for he had believed that both had fallen in the massacre. He took great interest in Philip's love affair, and made inquiries in the royal camp; where he learned that Mademoiselle de Valecourt was supposed to have perished with her father, in the massacre; and that the estates had already been bestowed, by the king, on one of his favourites.
"I should say that, if our cause should finally triumph, a portion at least of her estates will be restored to her; but in that case the king would certainly claim to dispose of her hand."
"I care nothing for the estates, nor does she," Philip said. "She will go with me to England, as soon as the fighting here is over; and if things look hopeless, we shall embark, and endeavour to break through the blockade by the king's ships. Even had she the estates, she would not remain in France, which has become hateful to her. She is now fully restored to health, and we shall shortly be married."
When De la Noue next went out to the French camp, he sent a despatch to the king, saying that Mademoiselle de Valecourt had escaped the massacre and was in La Rochelle. He pointed out that, as long as she lived, the Huguenots would, if at any time they became strong enough to make terms, insist upon the restoration of her estates, as well as those of others that had been confiscated. He said that he had had an interview with her, and had learned that she intended, if a proper provision should be secured for her, to retire to England. He therefore prayed his majesty, as a favour to him and as an act of justice, to require the nobleman to whom he had granted the estates to pay her a handsome sum, when she would make a formal renunciation of the estates in his favour.
A month later he received the royal answer, saying that the king had graciously taken the case of Mademoiselle de Valecourt into his consideration, that he had spoken to the nobleman to whom he had granted her estate, and to the Duke of Guise, whose near relative he was; and that these noblemen had placed in his hands the sum of ten thousand livres, for which was enclosed an order, payable by the treasury of the army upon the signatures of Monsieur de la Noue and Mademoiselle de Valecourt, and upon the handing over of the document of renunciation signed by her.
Monsieur de la Noue had told Philip nothing of these negotiations but, having obtained from Claire the necessary signature he, one evening, on his return from the royal camp, came into the room where they were sitting, followed by two servants carrying small, but heavy bags.
"Mademoiselle," he said, when the servants had placed these on the table and retired, "I have pleasure in handing you these.
"Philip, Mademoiselle de Valecourt will not come to you as a dowerless bride, which indeed would be a shame for a daughter of so old and noble a family. Mademoiselle has signed a formal renunciation of her rights to the estates of her late father and, by some slight good offices on my part, his majesty has obtained for her, from the man to whom he has granted the estates of Valecourt, the sum of ten thousand livres--a poor fraction, indeed, of the estates she should have inherited; and yet a considerable sum, in itself."
A week later, Sir Philip Fletcher and Claire de Valecourt were married in the principal church of La Rochelle. The Count de la Noue, as a friend and companion-in-arms of her father, gave her away; and all the Huguenot noblemen and gentlemen in the town were present. Three weeks later, a great assault upon the bastion of L'Evangile having been repulsed, the siege languished; the besieging army having suffered greatly, both from death in the trenches and assaults, and by the attacks of fever.
The Count of Montgomery arrived from England, with some reinforcements. De la Noue resigned to him the governorship, and left the city. The Prince of Anjou, shortly afterwards, received the crown of Poland; and left the camp, with a number of nobles, to proceed to his new kingdom; and the army became so weakened that the siege was practically discontinued and, the blockading fleet being withdrawn, Philip and his wife took passage in a ship for England, Pierre accompanying them.
"I may come some day with Francois, Philip," the countess said, "but not till I see that the cause is altogether lost. Still I have faith that we shall win tolerance. They say that the king is mad. Anjou has gone to Poland. Alencon is still unmarried. I believe that it is God's will that Henry of Navarre should come to the throne of France, and if so, there will be peace and toleration in France. So long as a Huguenot sword is unsheathed, I shall remain here."
Philip had written to acquaint his father and mother of his marriage, and his intention to return with his wife as soon as the siege was over. There was therefore but little surprise, although great joy, when he arrived. He had sent off Pierre on horseback, as soon as the ship dropped anchor at Gravesend, and followed more leisurely himself.
They were met, a few miles out of Canterbury, by a messenger from his uncle; telling them to ride straight to his new estate, where he would be met by his mother and father--the latter of whom had started, the day before, in a litter for the house--and that his uncle and aunt would also be there.
Upon Philip and Claire's arrival, they were received with much rejoicing. Monsieur Vaillant had sent round messengers to all the tenantry to assemble, and had taken over a number of his workmen, who had decorated the avenue leading to the house with flags, and thrown several arches across it.
"It is a small place in comparison to Valecourt, Claire," Philip said, as they drove up to the house.
"It is a fine chateau, Philip; but now that I have you, it would not matter to me were it but a hut.
"And oh, what happiness to think that we have done with persecution and terror and war, and that I may worship God freely and openly! He has been good to me, indeed; and if I were not perfectly happy, I should be the most ungrateful of women."
Claire's dowry was spent in enlarging the estate, and Philip became one of the largest landowners in the county. He went no more to the wars, save that, when the Spanish armada threatened the religion and freedom of England, he embarked as a volunteer in one of Drake's ships, and took part in the fierce fighting that freed England for ever from the yoke of Rome, and in no small degree aided both in securing the independence of Protestant Holland, and of seating Henry of Navarre firmly upon the throne of France.
Save to pay two or three visits to Philip and her sisters, the Countess de Laville and her son did not come to England. Francois fought at Ivry and the many other battles that took place, before Henry of Navarre became undisputed King of France; and then became one of the leading nobles of his court.
Philip settled a small pension on the four men-at-arms who had followed his fortunes and shared his perils, and they returned to their native Gascony; where they settled down, two being no longer fit for service, and the others having had enough fighting for a lifetime.
The countess had, soon after Francois returned to La Rochelle, sent a sum of money, to the girl who had saved his life, that sufficed to make her the wealthiest heiress in her native village in Poitou; and she married a well-to-do farmer, the countess herself standing as godmother to their first child, to their immeasurable pride and gratification.
Pierre remained to the end of his life in Philip's service, taking to himself an English wife, and being a great favourite with the children of Philip and Claire, who were never tired of listening to the adventures he had gone through, with their father and mother, in the religious wars in France.
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{
"id": "20092"
}
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1
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: A Detached Force.
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"Be jabers, Terence, we shall all die of weariness with doing nothing, if we don't move soon," said Captain O'Grady; who, with Dick Ryan, had ridden over to spend the afternoon with Terence O'Connor, whose regiment of Portuguese was encamped some six miles out of Abrantes, where the division to which the Mayo Fusiliers belonged was stationed.
"Here we are in June, and the sun getting hotter and hotter, and the whisky just come to an end, though we have been mighty sparing over it, and nothing to eat but ration beef. Begorrah, if it wasn't for the bastely drill, I should forget that I was a soldier at all. I should take meself for a convict, condemned to stop all me life in one place. At first there was something to do, for one could forage for food dacent to eat; but now I don't believe there is as much as an old hen left within fifteen miles, and as for ducks and geese, I have almost forgotten the taste of them."
"It is not lively work, O'Grady, but it is worse for me here. You have got Dicky Ryan to stir you up and keep you alive, and O'Flaherty to look after your health and see that you don't exceed your allowance; while practically I have no one but Herrara to speak to, for though Bull and Macwitty are excellent fellows in their way, they are not much as companions.
"However, I think we must be nearly at the end of it. We have got pretty well all the troops up here, except those who are to remain at Lisbon."
"I see the men," O'Grady said, "but I don't see the victuals. We can't march until we get transport and food, and where they are to come from no one seems to know."
"I am afraid we shall do badly for a time in that respect, O'Grady. Sir Arthur has not had time, yet, to find out what humbugs the Spaniards are, and what wholesale lies they tell. Of course, he had some slight experience of it when we first landed, at the Mondego; but it takes longer than that to get at the bottom of their want of faith. Craddock learnt it after a bitter experience, and so did Moore. I have no doubt that the Spaniards have represented to Sir Arthur that they have large disciplined armies, that the French have been reduced to a mere handful, and that they are only waiting for his advance to drive them across the frontier. Also, no doubt, they have promised to find any amount of transport and provisions, as soon as he enters Spain. As to relying upon Cuesta, you might as well rely upon the assistance of an army of hares, commanded by a pig-headed owl."
"I can't make out, meself," O'Grady said, "what we want to have anything to do with the Spaniards for, at all. If I were in Sir Arthur's place, I would just march straight against the French and thrash them."
"That sounds well, O'Grady, but we know very little about where the French are, what they are doing, or what is their strength; and I think that you will allow that, though we have beaten them each time we have met them, they fought well. At Rolica we were three to one against them, and at Vimiera we had the advantage of a strong position. At Corunna things were pretty well even, but we had our backs to the wall.
"I am afraid, O'Grady, that just at present you are scarcely qualified to take command of the army; except only on the one point, that you thoroughly distrust the Spaniards.
"Well, Dick, have you been having any fun lately?"
"It is not to be done, Terence. Everyone is too disgusted and out of temper to make it safe. Even the chief is dangerous. I would as soon think of playing a joke on a wandering tiger, as on him. The major is not a man to trifle with, at the best of times and, except O'Flaherty, there is not a man among them who has a good word to throw at a dog. Faith, when one thinks of the good time one used to have at Athlone, it is heartbreaking."
"Well, come in and refresh yourselves. I have a bottle or two still left."
"That is good news!" O'Grady said fervently. "It has been on the tip of me tongue to ask you, for me mouth is like an oven; but I was so afraid you would say it was gone that I dare n't open me lips about it."
"To tell you the truth, O'Grady, except when some of you fellows come over, there is not any whisky touched in this camp. I have kept it strictly for your sergeants, who have been helping to teach my men drill, and coaching the non-commissioned officers. It has been hard work for them, but they have stuck to it well, and the thought of an allowance at the end of the day's work has done wonders with them.
"We made a very fair show when we came in, but now I think the two battalions could work with the best here, without doing themselves discredit. The non-commissioned officers have always been our weak point, but now my fellows know their work very fairly, and they go at it with a will. You see, they are all very proud of the corps, and have spared no pains to make themselves worthy of it.
"Of course, what you may call purely parade movements are not done as they are by our infantry; but in all useful work, I would back them against any here. They are very fair shots, too. I have paid for a lot of extra ammunition; which, I confess, we bought from some of the native levies. No doubt I should get into a row over it, if it were known; but as these fellows are not likely ever to fire a shot against the French, and it is of importance that mine should be able to shoot well, I didn't hesitate to do it. Fortunately the regimental chest is not empty, and all the officers have given a third of their pay, to help. But it has certainly done a lot of good, and the shooting has greatly improved since we came here."
"I have been working steadily at Portuguese, Terence, ever since you spoke to me about it. One has no end of time on one's hands and, really, I am getting on very fairly."
"That is right, Dicky. If we win this campaign I will certainly ask for you as adjutant. I shall be awfully glad to have you with me, and I really do want an adjutant for each battalion.
"And you, O'Grady?"
"Well, I can't report favourably of meself at all, at all. I tried hard for a week, and it is the fault of me tongue, and not of meself. I can't get it to twist itself to the outlandish words. I am willing enough, but me tongue isn't; and I am afraid that, were it a necessity that every officer in your corps should speak the bastely language, I should have to stay at home."
"I am afraid that it is quite necessary, O'Grady," Terence laughed. "An adjutant who could not make himself understood would be of no shadow of use. You know how I should like to have you with me; but, upon the other hand, there would be inconveniences. You are, as you have said many a time, my superior officer in our army, and I really should not like to have to give you orders. Then again, Bull and Macwitty are still more your juniors, having only received their commissions a few months back; and they would feel just as uncomfortable as I should, at having you under them. I don't think that it would do at all. Besides, you know, you are not fond of work by any means, and there would be more to do in a regiment like this than in one of our own."
"I suppose that it must be so, Terence," O'Grady said resignedly, as he emptied his tumbler; "and besides, there is a sort of superstition in the service that an adjutant should be always able to walk straight to his tent, even after a warm night at mess. Now, although it seems to me that I have every other qualification, in that respect I should be a failure; and I imagine that, in a Portuguese regiment, the thing would be looked at more seriously than it is in an Irish one; where such a matter occurs, occasionally, among men as well as officers."
"That is quite true, O'Grady. The Portuguese are a sober people and would not, as you say, be able to make the same allowance for our weaknesses that Irish soldiers do; seeing that it is too common for our men to be either one way or the other.
"However, Ryan, I do hope I shall be able to get you. I never had much hopes of O'Grady; and this failure of his tongue to aid him, in his vigorous efforts to learn the language, seems to quite settle the matter as far as he is concerned."
At this moment an orderly rode up to the tent. Terence went out.
"A despatch from headquarters, sir," the trooper said, saluting.
"All right, my man! You had better wait for five minutes, and see if any answer is required."
Going into the tent, he opened the despatch.
"Hooray!" he said, as he glanced at the contents, "here is a movement, at last."
The letter was as follows: "Colonel O'Connor will at once march with his force to Plasencia; and will reconnoitre the country between that town and the Tagus to the south, and Bejar to the north. He will ascertain, as far as possible, the position and movements of the French army under Victor. He will send a daily report of his observations to headquarters. Twenty Portuguese cavalry, under a subaltern, will be attached to his command, and will furnish orderlies to carry his reports.
"It is desirable that Colonel O'Connor's troops should not come in contact with the enemy, except to check any reconnoitring parties moving towards Castello Branco and Villa Velha. It is most necessary to prevent the news of an advance of the army in that direction reaching the enemy, and to give the earliest possible information of any hostile gathering that might menace the flank of the army, while on its march.
"The passes of Banos and Periles will be held by the troops of Marshal Beresford and General Del Parque, and it is to the country between the mountains and Marshal Cuesta's force, at Almaraz, that Colonel O'Connor is directed to concentrate his attention. In case of being attacked by superior forces, Colonel O'Connor will, if possible, retreat into the mountains on his left flank, maintain himself there, and open communications with Lord Beresford's forces at Banos or Bejar.
"Colonel O'Connor is authorized to requisition six carts from the quartermaster's department, and to hand over his tents to them; to draw 50,000 rounds of ball cartridge, and such rations as he may be able to carry with him. The paymaster has received authority to hand over to him 500 pounds, for the payment of supplies for his men. When this sum is exhausted, Colonel O'Connor is authorized to issue orders for supplies payable by the paymaster to the forces, exercising the strictest economy, and sending notification to the Paymaster General of the issue of such orders.
"This despatch is confidential, and the direction of the route is, on no account, to be divulged."
"You hear that, O'Grady; and you too, Dicky. I ought not to have read the despatch out loud. However, I know you will keep the matter secret."
"You may trust us for that, Terence, for it is a secret worth knowing. It is evident that Sir Arthur is going to join Cuesta, and make a dash on Madrid. Well, he has been long enough in making up his mind; but it is a satisfaction that we are likely to have hot work, at last, though I wish we could have done it without those Spaniards. We have seen enough of them to know that nothing, beyond kind words, are to be expected of them and, when the time for fighting comes, I would rather that we depended upon ourselves than have to act with fellows on whom there is no reliance, whatever, to be placed."
"I agree with you there, heartily, O'Grady. However, thank goodness we are going to set out at last; and I am very glad that it falls to us to act as the vanguard of the army, instead of being attached to Beresford's command and kept stationary in the passes.
"Now I must be at work. I daresay we shall meet again, before long."
Terence wrote an acknowledgment of the receipt of the general's order, and handed it to the orderly who had brought it. A bugler at once sounded the field-officers' call.
"We are to march at once," he said, when Herrara, Bull, and Macwitty arrived. "Let the tents be struck, and handed over to the quartermaster's department. See that the men have four days' biscuit in their haversacks.
"Each battalion is to take three carts with it. I will go to the quartermaster's department, to draw them. Tell off six men from each battalion to accompany me, and take charge of the carts. Each battalion will carry 25,000 rounds of spare ammunition, and a chest of 250 pounds. I will requisition from the commissariat as much biscuit as we can carry, and twenty bullocks for each battalion, to be driven with the carts.
"As soon as the carts are obtained, the men will drive them to the ordnance stores for the ammunition, and to the commissariat stores to load up the food. You had better send an officer in charge of the men of each battalion.
"I will myself draw the money from the paymaster. I will go there at once. Send a couple of men with me, for of course it will be paid in silver. Then I will go to the quartermaster's stores, and get the carts ready by the time that the men arrive. I want to march in an hour's time, at latest."
In a few minutes the camp was a scene of bustle and activity. The tents were struck and packed away in their bags, and piled in order to be handed over to the quartermaster; and in a few minutes over an hour from the receipt of the order, the two battalions were in motion.
After a twenty-mile march, they halted for the night near the frontier. An hour later they were joined by twenty troopers of a Portuguese regiment, under the command of a subaltern.
The next day they marched through Plasencia, and halted for the night on the slopes of the Sierra. An orderly was despatched, next morning, to the officer in command of any force that there might be at Banos, informing him of the position that they had taken up.
Terence ordered two companies to remain at this spot, which was at the head of a little stream running down into an affluent of the Tagus; their position being now nearly due north of Almaraz, from which they were distant some twenty miles. The rest of the force descended into the plain, and took post at various villages between the Sierra and Oropesa, the most advanced party halting four miles from that town.
The French forces under Victor had, in accordance with orders from Madrid, fallen back from Plasencia a week before, and taken up his quarters at Talavera.
At the time when the regiment received its uniforms, Terence had ordered that twenty suits of the men's peasant clothes should be retained in store and, specially intelligent men being chosen, twenty of these were sent forward towards the river Alberche, to discover Victor's position. They brought in news that he had placed his troops behind the river, and that Cuesta, who had at one time an advanced guard at Oropesa, had recalled it to Almaraz. Parties of Victor's cavalry were patrolling the country between Talavera and Oropesa.
Terence had sent Bull, with five hundred men, to occupy all the passes across the Sierras, with orders to capture any orderlies or messengers who might come along; and a day later four men brought in a French officer, who had been captured on the road leading south. He was the bearer of a letter from Soult to the king, and was at once sent, under the escort of four troopers, to headquarters.
The men who had brought in the officer reported that they had learned that Wilson, with his command of four thousand men, was in the mountains north of the Escurial; and that spies from that officer had ascertained that there was great alarm in Madrid, where the news of the British advance towards Plasencia was already known; and that it was feared that this force, with Cuesta's army at Almaraz and Venegas' army in La Mancha, were about to combine in an attack upon the capital. This, indeed, was Sir Arthur's plan, and had been arranged with the Supreme Junta. The Junta, however, being jealous of Cuesta, had given secret instructions to Venegas to keep aloof.
On his arrival at Plasencia, the English general had learned at once the hollowness of the Spanish promises. He had been assured of an ample supply of food, mules, and carts for transport; and had, on the strength of these statements, advanced with but small supplies, for little food and but few animals could be obtained in Portugal. He found, on arriving, that no preparations whatever had been made; and the army, thus early in the campaign, was put on half rations. Day after day passed without any of the promised supplies arriving, and Sir Arthur wrote to the Supreme Junta; saying that although, in accordance with his agreement, he would march to the Alberche, he would not cross that river unless the promises that had been made were kept, to the letter.
He had, by this time, learned that the French forces north of the mountains were much more formidable than the Spanish reports had led him to believe; but he still greatly underrated Soult's army, and was altogether ignorant that Ney had evacuated Galicia, and was marching south with all speed, with his command. Del Parque had failed in his promise to garrison Bejar and Banos, and these passes were now only held by a few hundreds of Cuesta's Spaniards.
A week after taking up his position north of Oropesa, Terence received orders to move with his two battalions, and to take post to guard these passes; with his left resting on Bejar, and his right in communication with Wilson's force. The detachments were at once recalled. A thousand men were posted near Bejar, and the rest divided among the other passes by which a French army from the north could cross the Sierra.
As soon as this arrangement was made, Terence rode to Wilson's headquarters. He was received very cordially by that officer.
"I am heartily glad to see you, Colonel O'Connor," the latter said. "Of course, I have heard of the doings of your battalions; and am glad, indeed, to have your support. I sent a messenger off, only this morning, to Sir Arthur; telling him that, from the information brought in by my spies, I am convinced that Soult is much stronger than has been supposed; and that, if he moves south, I shall scarce be able to hold the passes of Arenas and San Pedro Barnardo; and that I can certainly spare no men for the defence of the more westerly ones, by which Soult is likely to march from Salamanca. However, now you are there, I shall feel safe."
"No doubt I could hinder an advance, Sir Robert," Terence said, "but I certainly could not hope to bar the passes to a French army. I have no artillery and, though my men are steady enough against infantry, I doubt whether they would be able to withstand an attack heralded by a heavy cannonade. With a couple of batteries of artillery to sweep the passes, one might make a fair stand for a time against a greatly superior force; but with only infantry, one could not hope to maintain one's position."
"Quite so, and Sir Arthur could not expect it. My own opinion is that we shall have fifty thousand men coming down from the north. I have told the chief as much; but naturally he will believe the assurances of the Spanish juntas, rather than reports gathered by our spies; and no doubt hopes to crush Victor altogether, before Soult makes any movement; and he trusts to Venegas' advance, from the south towards the upper Tagus, to cause Don Joseph to evacuate Madrid, as soon as he hears of Victor's defeat.
"But I have, certainly, no faith whatever in either Venegas or Cuesta. Cuesta is loyal enough, but he is obstinate and pig headed and, at present, he is furious because the Supreme Junta has been sending all the best troops to Venegas, instead of to him; and he knows, well enough, that that perpetual intriguer Frere is working underhand to get Albuquerque appointed to the supreme command. As to Venegas, he is a mere tool of the Supreme Junta and, as likely as not, they will order him to do nothing but keep his army intact.
"Then again, the delay at Plasencia has upset all Sir Arthur's arrangements. Had he pressed straight forward on the 28th of last month, when he crossed the frontier, disregarding Cuesta altogether, he could have been at Madrid long before this; for I know that at that time Victor's force had been so weakened that he had but between fourteen and fifteen thousand men, and must have fallen back without fighting. Now he has again got the troops that had been taken from him, and will be further reinforced before Sir Arthur arrives on the Alberche; and of course Soult has had plenty of time to get everything in readiness to cross the mountains, and fall upon the British rear, as soon as he hears that they are fairly on their way towards Madrid. Here we are at the 20th, and our forces will only reach Oropesa today.
"Victor is evidently afraid that Sir Arthur will move from Oropesa towards the hills, pass the upper Alberche, and so place himself between him and Madrid; for a strong force of cavalry reconnoitred in this direction, this morning."
"Would it not be as well, sir," said Terence, "if we were to arrange some signals by which we could aid each other? That hill top can be seen from the hill beyond which is the little village where I have established myself. I noticed it this morning, before I started. If you would keep a lookout on your hill, I would have one on mine. We might each get three bonfires, a hundred yards apart, ready for lighting. If I hear of any great force approaching the defiles I am watching, I could summon your aid either by day or night by these fires; and in the same way, if Soult should advance by the line that you are guarding, you could summon me. My men are really well trained in this sort of work, and you could trust them to make an obstinate defence."
"I think that your idea is a very good one, and will certainly carry it out. You see, we are really both of us protecting the left flank of our army, and can certainly do so more effectually if we work together.
"We might, too, arrange another signal. One fire might mean that, for some reason or other, we are marching away. I may have orders to move some distance towards Madrid, so as to compel Victor to weaken himself by detaching a force to check me; you may be ordered, as the army advances, to leave your defiles in charge of the Spaniards, and to accompany the army. Two fires might mean, spies have reported a general advance of the French coming by several routes. Thus, you see, we should be in readiness for any emergency.
"I should be extremely glad of your help, if Soult comes this way. My own corps of 1200 men are fairly good soldiers, and I can rely upon them to do their best; but the other 3000 have been but recently raised, and I don't think that any dependence can be placed upon them, in case of hard fighting; but with your two battalions, we ought to be able to hold any of these defiles for a considerable time."
Two days later, Terence received orders to march instantly with his force down into the valley, to follow the foot of the hills until he reached the Alberche, when he was to report his arrival, wait until he received orders, and check the advance of any French force endeavouring to move round the left flank of the British. The evening before, one signal fire had announced that Wilson was on the move and, thinking that he, too, might be summoned, Terence had called in all his outposts, and was able to march a quarter of an hour after he received the order.
He had learned, on the evening he returned from his visit to Sir Robert, from men sent down into the plain for the purpose, that Cuesta's army and that of Sir Arthur had advanced together from Oropesa. He was glad at the order to join the army, as he had felt that, should Soult advance, his force, unprovided as it was with guns, would be able to offer but a very temporary resistance; especially if the French Marshal was at the head of a force anything like as strong as was reported by the peasantry. As to this, however, he had very strong doubts, having come to distrust thoroughly every report given by the Spaniards. He knew that they were as ready, under the influence of fear, to exaggerate the force of an enemy as they were, at other times, to magnify their own numbers. Sir Arthur must, he thought, be far better informed than he himself could be; for his men, being Portuguese, were viewed with doubt and suspicion by the Spanish peasantry, who would probably take a pleasure in misleading them altogether.
The short stay in the mountains had braced up the men and, with only a short halt, they made a forty-mile march to the Alberche by midnight. Scarcely had they lit their fires, when an Hussar officer and some troopers rode up. They halted a hundred yards away, and the officer shouted in English: "What corps is this?"
Terence at once left the fire, and advanced towards them.
"Two Portuguese battalions," he answered, "under myself, Colonel O'Connor."
The officer at once rode forward.
"I was not quite sure," he said, as he came close, "that my question would not be answered by a volley. By the direction from which I saw you coming, I thought that you must be friends. Still, you might have been an advanced party of a force that had come down through the defiles. However, as soon as I saw you light your fires, I made sure it was all right; for the Frenchmen would not likely have ventured to do so unless, indeed, they were altogether ignorant of our advance."
"At ten o'clock this morning I received orders from headquarters to move to this point at once and, as we have marched from Banos, you see we have lost very little time on the way."
"Indeed, you have not. I suppose it is about forty miles; and that distance, in fourteen hours, is certainly first-rate marching. I will send off one of my men to report who you are. Two squadrons of my regiment are a quarter of a mile away, awaiting my return."
"Have you any reason to believe that the enemy are near?"
"No particular reason that I know of, but their cavalry have been in great force along the upper part of the river, for the last two days. Victor has retired from Talavera, for I fancy that he was afraid we might move round this way, and cut him off from Madrid. The Spaniards might have harassed him as he fell back, but they dared not even make a charge on his rear guard, though they had 3000 cavalry.
"We are not quite sure where the French are and, of course, we get no information from the people here; either their stupidity is something astounding, or their sympathies are entirely with the French."
"My experience is," Terence said, "that the best way is to get as much information as you can from them, and then to act with the certainty that the real facts are just the reverse of the statements made to you."
As soon as the forces halted a picket had been sent out; and Terence, when the men finished their supper, established a cordon of advanced pickets, with strong supports, at a distance of a mile from his front and flanks; so as to ensure himself against surprise, and to detect any movement upon the part of the enemy's cavalry, who might be pressing round to obtain information of the British position. At daybreak he mounted and rode to Talavera, and reported the arrival of his command, and the position where he had halted for the night.
"You have wasted no time over it, Colonel O'Connor. You can only have received the order yesterday morning, and I scarcely expected that you could be here till this evening."
"My men are excellent marchers, sir. They did the forty miles in fourteen hours, and might have done it an hour quicker, had they been pressed. Not a man fell out."
"Your duty will now be to cover our left flank. I don't know whether you are aware that Wilson has moved forward, and will take post on the slopes near the Escurial. He has been directed to spread his force as much as possible, so as to give an appearance of greater strength than he has."
"I knew that he had left his former position," Terence said. "We had arranged a code of smoke signals, by which we could ask each other for assistance should the defiles be attacked; and I learned yesterday morning, in this way, that he was marching away."
"Have you any news of what is taking place on the other side of the hills, since you sent off word two days ago?"
"No, sir; at least, all we hear is of the same character as before. We don't hear that Soult is moving, but his force is certainly put down as being considerably larger than was supposed. I have deemed it my duty to state this in my reports, but the Spaniards are so inclined to exaggerate everything that I always receive statements of this kind with great doubt."
"All our news--from the juntas, from Mr. Frere, and from other quarters--is quite the other way," the officer said. "We are assured that Soult has not fifteen thousand men in condition to take the field, and that he could not venture to move these, as he knows that the whole country would rise, did he do so.
"I have no specific orders to give you. You will keep in touch with General Hill's brigade, which forms our left and, as we move forward, you will advance along the lower slopes of the Sierra and prevent any attempt, on the part of the French, to turn our flank.
"I dare say you do not know exactly what is going on, Colonel O'Connor. It may be of assistance to you, in taking up your position, to know that the fighting is likely to take place on the line between Talavera and the mountains. Cuesta has fallen back, in great haste, to Talavera. We shall advance today and take up our line with him.
"The Spaniards will hold the low marshy ground near the town. Our right will rest on an eminence on his left flank, and will extend to a group of hills, separated by a valley from the Sierra. Our cavalry will probably check any attempt by the French to turn our flank there, and you and the Spaniards will do your best to hold the slope of the Sierra, should the French move a force along there.
"I may say that Victor has been largely reinforced by Sebastiani, and is likely to take the offensive. Indeed, we hear that he is already moving in this direction. We are not aware of his exact strength, but we believe that it must approach, if not equal, that of ourselves and Cuesta united.
"Cuesta has, indeed, been already roughly handled by the French. Disregarding Sir Arthur's entreaties, and believing Victor to be in full retreat, he marched on alone, impelled by the desire to be the first to enter Madrid; but at two o'clock on the morning of the 26th of July, the French suddenly fell upon him, drove the Spanish cavalry back from their advanced position, and chased them hotly. They fled in great disorder, and the panic would have spread to the whole army, had not Albuquerque brought up 3000 fresh cavalry and held the French in check, while Cuesta retreated in great disorder and, had the French pressed forward, would have fled in utter rout. Sherbrooke's division, which was in advance of the British army, moved forward and took up its position in front of the panic-stricken Spaniards, and then the French drew off.
"Cuesta then yielded to Sir Arthur's entreaties, recrossed the Alberche, and took up his position near Talavera. Here, even the worst troops should be able to make a stand against the best. The ground is marshy and traversed by a rivulet. On its left is a strong redoubt, which is armed with Spanish artillery; on the right is another very strong battery, on a rise close to Talavera; while other batteries sweep the road to Madrid. Sir Arthur has strengthened the front by felling trees and forming abattis, so that he has good reason to hope that, poor as the Spanish troops may be, they should be able to hold their part of the line.
"Campbell's division forms the British right, Sherbrooke comes next, the German legion are in the centre, Donkin is to take his place on the hill that rises two-thirds of the way across the valley, while General Hill's division is to hold the face looking north, and separated from the Sierra only by the comparatively narrow valley in which you have bivouacked. At present, however, his troops and those of Donkin have not taken up their position."
The country between the positions on which the allied armies had now fallen back was covered with olive and cork trees. The whole line from Talavera to the hill, which was to be held by Hill's division, was two miles in length; and the valley between that and the Sierra was half a mile in width, but extremely broken and rugged, and was intersected by a ravine, through which ran the rivulet that fell into the Tagus at Talavera.
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{
"id": "20207"
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: Talavera.
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On leaving the Adjutant General, Terence--knowing that Mackenzie's brigade was some two miles in advance on the Alberche river, and that the enemy was not in sight--sent off one of the orderlies who accompanied him, with a message to Herrara to fall back and take up his station on the lower slopes of the Sierra, facing the rounded hill; and then went to a restaurant and had breakfast. It was crowded with Spanish officers, with a few British scattered among them.
As he ate his food, he was greatly amused at the boasting of the Spaniards as to what they would accomplish, if the French ventured to attack them; knowing as he did how shamefully they had behaved, two days before, when the whole of Cuesta's army had been thrown into utter disorder by two or three thousand French cavalry, and had only been saved from utter rout by the interposition of a British brigade. When he had finished breakfast, he mounted his horse and rode to the camp of his old regiment.
"Hooroo, Terence!" Captain O'Grady shouted, as he rode up, "I thought you would be turning up, when there was going to be something to do. It's yourself that has the knack of always getting into the thick of it.
"Orderly, take Colonel O'Connor's horse, and lead him up and down.
"Come on, Terence, most of the boys are in that tent over there. We have just been dismissed from parade."
A shout of welcome rose as they entered the tent, where a dozen officers were sitting on the ground, or on empty boxes.
"Sit down if you can find room, Terence," Colonel Corcoran said. "Wouldn't you like to be back with us again, for the shindy that we are likely to have, tomorrow?"
"That I should, but I hope to have my share in it, in my own way."
"Where are your men, O'Connor?"
"They will be, in another hour, at the foot of the mountains over there to the left. Our business will be to prevent any of the French moving along there, and coming down on your rear."
"I am pleased to hear it. I believe that there is a Spanish division there, but I am glad to know that the business is not to be left entirely to them. Now, what have you been doing since you left us, a month ago?"
"I have been doing nothing, Colonel, but watching the defiles and, as no one has come up them, we have not fired a shot."
"No doubt they got news that you were there, Terence," O'Grady said, "and not likely would they be to come up to be destroyed by you."
"Perhaps that was it," Terence said, when the laughter had subsided; "at any rate they didn't show up, and I was very pleased when orders came, at ten o'clock yesterday, for us to leave Banos and march to join the army. We did the forty miles in fourteen hours."
"Good marching," Colonel Corcoran said. "Then where did you halt?"
"About three miles farther off, at the foot of the hills. We saw a lot of campfires to our right, and thought that we were in a line with the army, but of course they were only those of Mackenzie's division; but I sent off an orderly, an hour ago, to tell them to fall back to the slopes facing those hills, where our left is to be posted."
"You are a lucky fellow to have been away from us, Terence, for it is downright starving we have been. The soldiers have only had a mouthful of meat served out to them as rations, most days; and they have got so thin that their clothes are hanging loose about them. If it hadn't been for my man Doolan and two or three others, who always manage, by hook or by crook, to get hold of anything there is within two or three miles round, we should have been as badly off as they are. Be jabers, I have had to take in my sword belt a good two inches; and to think that, while our fellows are well-nigh starving, these Spaniards we came to help, and who will do no fighting themselves, had more food than they could eat, is enough to enrage a saint.
"I wonder Sir Arthur puts up with it. I would have seized that stuck-up old fool Cuesta, and popped him into the guard tent, and kept him there until provisions were handed over for us."
"His whole army might come to rescue him, O'Grady."
"What if they had? I would have turned out a corporal's guard, and sent the whole of them trotting off in no time. Did you hear what took place two days ago?"
"Yes, I heard that they behaved shamefully, O'Grady; still, I think a corporal's guard would hardly be sufficient to turn them, but I do believe that a regiment might answer the purpose."
"I can tell you that there is nothing would please the troops more than to attack the Spaniards. If this goes on many more days, our men will be too weak to march; but I believe that, before they lie down and give it up altogether, they will pitch into the Spaniards, in spite of what we may try to do to prevent them," the Colonel said. "Here we are in a country abounding with food, and we are starving, while the Spaniards are feasting in plenty; and by Saint Patrick's beard, Terence, it is mighty little we should do to prevent our men from pitching into them. There is one thing, you may be sure. We shall never cooperate with them in the future and, as to relying upon their promises, faith, they are not worth the breath it takes to make them."
As everything was profoundly quiet, Terence had no hesitation in stopping to lunch with his old friends and, as there was no difficulty in buying whatever was required in Talavera, the table was well supplied, and the officers made up for their enforced privation during the past three weeks.
At three o'clock Terence left them and rode across to his command, which he found posted exactly where he had directed it.
"It is lucky that we filled up with flour at Banos, before starting, Colonel," Bull said, "for from what we hear, the soldiers are getting next to nothing to eat; and those cattle you bought at the village halfway, yesterday, will come in very handy. At any rate, with them and the flour we can hold out for a week, if need be."
"Still, you had better begin at once to be economical, Bull. There is no saying what may happen after this battle has been fought."
While they were talking, a sudden burst of firing, at a distance, was heard.
"Mackenzie's brigade is engaged!" Terence exclaimed. "You had better get the men under arms, at once. If the whole of Victor's command is upon them, they will have to fall back.
"When the men are ready, you may as well come a few hundred feet higher up the hill, with me. Then you will see all over the country, and be in readiness to do anything that is wanted. But it is not likely the French will attempt anything serious, today. They will probably content themselves with driving Mackenzie in."
Terence went at once up the hill, to a point whence he could look well over the round hills on the other side of the valley, and make out the British and Spanish lines, stretching to Talavera. The troops were already formed up, in readiness for action. Away to his left came the roll of heavy firing from the cork woods near the Alberche and, just as his three officers joined him, the British troops issued pell mell from the woods. They had, in fact, been taken entirely by surprise; and had been attacked so suddenly and vigorously that, for a time, the young soldiers of some of the regiments fell into confusion; and Sir Arthur himself, who was at a large house named the Casa, narrowly escaped capture. The 45th, however, a regiment that had seen much service, and some companies of the 60th Rifles presented a stout front to the enemy.
Sir Arthur speedily restored order among the rest of the troops, and the enemy's advance was checked. The division then fell back in good order, each of its flanks being covered by a brigade of cavalry. From the height at which Terence and his officers stood, they could plainly make out the retiring division, and could see heavy masses of French troops descending from the high ground beyond the Alberche.
"The whole French army is on us!" Macwitty said. "If their advance guard had not been in such a hurry to attack, and had waited until the others came up, not many of Mackenzie's division would have got back to our lines."
It was not long before the French debouched from the woods and, as soon as they did so, a division rapidly crossed the plain towards the allies' left, seized an isolated hill facing the spur on to which Donkin had just hurried up his brigade, and at once opened a heavy cannonade. At the same time another division moved towards the right, and some squadrons of light cavalry could be seen, riding along the road from Madrid towards the Spanish division.
"They won't do much good there," Terence said, "for the country is so swampy that they cannot leave the road. Still, I suppose they want to reconnoitre our position, and draw the fire of the Spaniards to ascertain their whereabouts. They are getting very close to them and, when the Spaniards begin, they ought to wipe them out completely."
At this moment a heavy rattle of distant musketry was heard, and a light wreath of smoke rose from the Spanish lines. The French cavalry had, in fact, ridden up so close to the Spaniards that they discharged their pistols in bravado at them. To this the Spaniards had replied by a general wild discharge of their muskets. A moment later the party on the hill saw the right of the Spanish line break up as if by magic and, to their astonishment and rage, they made out that the whole plain behind was thickly dotted by fugitives.
"Why, the whole lot have bolted, sir!" Bull exclaimed. "Horse and foot are making off. Did anyone ever hear of such a thing!"
That portion of the Spanish line nearest to Talavera had indeed broken and fled in the wildest panic, 10,000 infantry having taken to their heels the instant they discharged their muskets; while the artillery cut their traces and, leaving their guns behind them, followed their example. The French cavalry charged along the road, but Sir Arthur opposed them with some British squadrons. The Spanish who still held their ground opened fire, and the French drew back. The fugitives continued their flight to Oropesa, spreading panic and alarm everywhere with the news that the allies were totally defeated, Sir Arthur Wellesley killed, and all lost.
Cuesta himself had for some time accompanied them, but he soon recovered from his panic, and sent several cavalry regiments to bring back the fugitives. Part of the artillery and some thousands of the infantry were collected before morning, but 6000 men were still absent at the battle, and the great redoubt on their left was silent, from want of guns.
In point of numbers there had been but little difference between the two armies. Prior to the loss of these 6000 men, Cuesta's army had been 34,000 strong, with seventy guns. The British, with the German Legion, numbered 19,000, with thirty guns. The French were 50,000 strong, with eighty guns. These were all veteran troops, while on the side of the allies there were but 19,000 who could be called fighting men.
"That is what comes of putting faith in the Spaniards!" Bull said savagely. "If I had been Sir Arthur, I would have turned my guns on them and given them something to run for. We should do a thousand times better, by ourselves; then we should know what we had to expect."
"It is evident that there won't be any fighting until tomorrow, Macwitty. You will place half your battalion on the hillside, from this point to the bottom of the slope. I don't think that they will come so high up the hill as this; but you will, of course, throw some pickets out above. The other wing of your battalion you will hold in reserve, a couple of hundred yards behind the centre of the line; but choose a sheltered spot for them, for those guns Victor is placing on his heights will sweep the face of this hill.
"This little watercourse will give capital cover to your advanced line, and they cannot do better than occupy it. Lying down, they would be completely sheltered from the French artillery and, if attacked, they could line the bank and fire without showing more than their heads. Of course, you will throw out pickets along the face of the slope in front of you.
"Do you, Bull, march your battalion down to the foot of the hill and take up your post there. The ground is very uneven and broken, and you should be able to find some spot where the men would be in shelter; move a couple of hundred yards back, then Macwitty would flank any force advancing against you. The sun will set in a few minutes, so you had better lose no time in taking up your ground.
"As soon as you have chosen a place go on, with the captains of your companies, across the valley. Make yourselves thoroughly acquainted with the ground, and mark the best spots at which to post the men to resist any force that may come along the valley. It is quite possible that Victor may make an attempt to turn the general's flank tonight. I will reconnoitre all the ground in front of you, and will then, with the colonel, join you."
The position Terence had chosen was a quarter of a mile west of the spur held by Donkin's brigade. He had selected it in order that, if attacked in force, he might have the assistance of the guns there; which would thus be able to play on the advancing French, without risk of his own men being injured by their fire.
Bull marched his battalion down the hill and, as Terence and Herrara were about to mount, a sudden burst of musketry fire, from the crest of the opposite hill, showed that the French were attempting to carry that position. Victor, indeed, seeing the force stationed there to be a small one; and that, from the confusion among the Spaniards on the British right, the moment was very favourable; had ordered one division to attack, another to move to its support, while a third was to engage the German division posted on the plain to the right of the hill, and thus prevent succour being sent to Donkin.
From the position where Terence was standing, the front of the steep slope that the French were climbing could not be seen but, almost at the same moment, a dense mass of men began to swarm up the hill on Donkin's flank; having, unperceived, made their way in at the mouth of the valley.
"Form up your battalion, Macwitty," he shouted, "and double down the hill."
Then he rode after Bull, whose battalion had now reached the valley and halted there.
"We must go to the assistance of the brigade on the hill, Bull, or they will be overpowered before reinforcements can reach them.
"Herrara, bring on Macwitty after us, as soon as he gets down.
"Take the battalion forward at the double, Bull."
The order was given and, with a cheer, the battalion set out across the valley and, on reaching the other side, began to climb the steep ascent; bearing towards their left, so as to reach the summit near the spot where the French were ascending. Twilight was already closing in, and the approach of the Portuguese was unobserved by the French, whose leading battalions had reached the top of the hill, and were pressing heavily on Donkin's weak brigade; which had, however, checked the advance of the French on their front. Macwitty's battalion was but a short distance behind when, marching straight along on the face of the hill, Bull arrived within a hundred yards of the French. Here Terence halted them for a minute, while they hastily formed up in line, and Macwitty came up.
The din on the top of the hill, just above Bull's right company, was prodigious, the rattle of musketry incessant, the exulting shouts of the French could be plainly heard; and their comrades behind were pressing hotly up the hill to join in the strife. There was plainly not a moment to be lost and, advancing to within fifty yards of the French battalions, struggling up the hill in confused masses, a tremendous volley was poured in.
The French, astonished at this sudden attack upon their flank, paused and endeavoured to form up, and wheel round to oppose a front to it; but the heavy fire of the Portuguese, and the broken nature of the ground, prevented their doing this and, ignorant of the strength of the force that had thus suddenly attacked them, they recoiled, keeping up an irregular fire; while the Portuguese, pouring in steady volleys, pressed upon them. In five minutes they gave way, and retired rapidly down the hill.
The leading battalions had gained the crest where, joining those who had ascended by the other face of the hill, they fell upon the already outnumbered defenders. Donkin's men, though fighting fiercely, were pressed back, and would have been driven from their position had not General Hill brought up the 29th and 48th, with a battalion of detachments composed of Sir John Moore's stragglers. These charged the French so furiously that they were unable to withstand the assault, although aided by fresh battalions ascending the front of the hill.
In their retreat the French, instead of going straight down the hill, bore away to their right and, although some fell to the fire of the Portuguese, the greater portion passed unseen in the darkness.
The firing now ceased, and Terence ordered Bull and Macwitty to take their troops back to the ground originally selected, while he himself ascended to the crest. With some difficulty he discovered the whereabouts of General Hill, to whom he was well known. He found him in the act of having a wound temporarily dressed, by the light of a fire which had just been replenished; he having ridden, in the dark, into the midst of a French battalion, believing it to be one of his own regiments. Colonel Donkin was in conversation with him.
"It has been a very close affair, sir," he said; "and I certainly thought that we should be rolled down the hill. I believe that we owe our safety, in no small degree, to a couple of battalions of Spaniards, I fancy, who took up their post on the opposite hill this morning. Just before you brought up your reinforcement, and while things were at their worst, I heard heavy volley firing somewhere just over the crest. I don't know who it could have been, if it was not them; for there were certainly no other troops on my left."
"They were Portuguese battalions, sir," Terence said quietly.
"Oh, is it you, O'Connor?" General Hill exclaimed. "If they were those two battalions of yours, I can quite understand it.
"This is Colonel O'Connor, Donkin, who checked Soult's passage at the mouth of the Minho, and has performed other admirable services."
[Illustration: 'You may as well make your report to me, O'Connor.']
"You may as well make your report to me, O'Connor, and I will include it in my own to Sir Arthur."
Terence related how, just as he was taking up his position for the night along the slopes of the Sierra, he heard the outbreak of firing on the front of the hill and, seeing a large force mounting its northern slope, and knowing that only one brigade was posted there, he thought it his duty to move to its assistance. Crossing the valley at the double, he had taken them in flank and, being unperceived in the gathering darkness, had checked their advance, and compelled them to retire down the hill.
"At what strength do you estimate the force which so retired, Colonel?"
"I fancy there were eight battalions of them, but three had gained the crest before we arrived. The others were necessarily broken up, and followed so close upon each other that it was difficult to separate them; but I fancy there were eight of them. Being in such confusion and, of course, unaware of my strength, they were unable to form or to offer any effectual resistance; and our volleys, from a distance of fifty yards, must have done heavy execution upon them."
"Then there is no doubt, Donkin, Colonel O'Connor's force did save you; for if those five battalions had gained the crest, you would have been driven off it before the brigade I brought up arrived and, indeed, even with that aid we should have been so outnumbered that we could scarcely have held our ground. It was hot work as it was, but certainly five more battalions would have turned the scale against us.
"Of course, O'Connor, you will send in a written report of your reasons for quitting your position to headquarters; and I shall, myself, do full justice to the service that you have rendered so promptly and efficaciously. Where is your command now?"
"They will by this time have taken up their former position on the opposite slope. One battalion is extended there. The other is at the foot of the hill, prepared to check any force that may attempt to make its way up the valley. Our line is about a quarter of a mile in rear of this spur. I selected the position in order that, should the French make an attempt in any force, the guns here might take them in flank, while I held them in check in front."
The general nodded. "Well thought of," he said.
"And now, Donkin, you had better muster your brigade and ascertain what are your losses. I am afraid they are very heavy."
Terence now returned across the valley and, on joining his command, told Herrara and the two majors how warmly General Hill had commended their action.
"What has been our loss?" he asked.
"Fifteen killed, and five-and-forty wounded, but of these a great proportion are not serious."
Brushwood was now collected and in a short time a number of fires were blazing. The men were in high spirits. They were proud of having overthrown a far superior force of the enemy, and were gratified at the expression of great satisfaction, conveyed to them by their captains by Terence's order, at the steadiness with which they had fought.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Talavera.]
At daybreak next morning the enemy was seen to be again in motion, Victor having obtained the king's consent to again try to carry the hills occupied by the British. This time Terence did not leave his position, being able to see that the whole of Hill's division now occupied the heights and, moreover, being himself threatened by two regiments of light troops, which crossed the mouth of the valley, ascended the slopes on his side, and proceeded to work their way along them. The whole of Macwitty's battalion was now placed in line, while Bull's was held in reserve, behind its centre.
It was not long before Macwitty was hotly engaged; and the French, who were coming along in skirmishing order, among the rocks and broken ground, were soon brought to a standstill. For some time a heavy fire was exchanged. Three times the French gathered for a rush; but each time the steady volleys, from their almost invisible foes, drove them back again, with loss, to the shelter they had left.
In the intervals Terence could see how the fight was going on across the valley. The whole hillside was dotted with fire, as the French worked their way up, and the British troops on the crest fired down upon them. Several times parties of the French gained the brow, but only to be hurled back again by the troops held in reserve, in readiness to move to any point where the enemy might gain a footing. For forty minutes the battle continued; and then, having lost 1500 men, the French retreated down the hill again, covered by the fire of their batteries, which opened with fury on the crest, as soon as they were seen to be descending the slope.
At the same time the light troops opposed to Terence also drew off. Seeing the pertinacity with which the French had tried to turn his left, Sir Arthur Wellesley moved his cavalry round to the head of the valley and, obtaining Bassecour's division of Spanish from Cuesta, sent them to take post on the hillside a short distance in rear of Terence's Portuguese.
The previous evening's fighting had cost Victor 1000 men, while 800 British had been killed or wounded; and the want of success then, and the attack on the following morning, tended to depress the spirits of the French and to raise those of the British. It was thought that after these two repulses Victor would not again give battle, and indeed the French generals Jourdan and Sebastiani were opposed to a renewal of hostilities; but Victor was in favour of a general attack. So his opinion was finally adopted by the king, in spite of the fact that he knew that Soult was in full march towards the British rear, and had implored him not to fight a battle till he had cut the British line of retreat; when, in any case, they would be forced to retire at once.
The king was influenced more by his fear for the safety of Madrid than by Victor's arguments. Wilson's force had been greatly exaggerated by rumour. Venegas was known to be at last approaching Toledo, and the king feared that one or both of these forces might fall upon Madrid in his absence, and that all his military stores would fall into their hands. He therefore earnestly desired to force the British to retreat, in order that he might hurry back to protect Madrid.
Doubtless the gross cowardice exhibited by the Spaniards, on the previous day, had shown Victor that he had really only the 19,000 British troops to contend against; and as his force exceeded theirs by two to one, he might well regard victory as certain, and believe he could not fail to beat them.
Up to midday, a perfect quiet reigned along both lines. The British and French soldiers went down alike to the rivulet that separated the two armies, and exchanged jokes as they drank and filled their canteens. Albuquerque, being altogether dissatisfied with Cuesta's arrangements, moved across the plain with his own cavalry and took his post behind the British and German horse; so that no less than 6000 cavalry were now ready to pour down upon any French force attempting to turn the British position by the valley. The day was intensely hot and the soldiers, after eating their scanty rations, for the most part stretched themselves down to sleep; for the night had been a broken one, owing to the fact that the Spaniards, whenever they heard, or thought they heard, anyone moving in their front, poured in a tremendous fire that roused the whole camp; and was so wild and ill directed that several British officers and men, on their left, were killed by it.
Soon after midday the drums were heard to beat along the whole length of the French line, and the troops were seen to be falling in. Then the British were also called to arms, and the soldiers cheerfully took their places in the ranks; glad that the matter was to be brought to an issue at once, as they thought that a victory would, at least, put an end to the state of starvation in which they had for some time been kept. The French had, by this time, learned how impossible it was to surmount the obstacles in front of that portion of the allies' line occupied by the Spaniards. They therefore neglected these altogether, and Sebastiani advanced against the British division in the plains; while Victor, as before, prepared to assail the British left, supported this time by a great mass of cavalry.
The French were soon in readiness for the attack. Ruffin's division were to cross the valley, move along the foot of the mountain, and turn the British left. Villatte was to guard the mouth of the valley with one brigade, to threaten Hill with the other, and to make another attempt to carry it. He was to be aided by half the division of Lapisse, while the other half assisted Sebastiani in his attack on the British centre. Milhaud's dragoons were placed on the main road to Talavera, so as to keep the Spaniards from moving to the assistance of the British.
The battle began with a furious attack on the British right, but the French were withstood by Campbell's division and Mackenzie's brigade, aided by two Spanish columns; and was finally pushed back with great loss, and ten of their guns captured; but as Campbell wisely refused to break his line and pursue, the French rallied on their reserve, and prepared to renew the attack.
In the meantime Lapisse crossed the rivulet and attacked Sherbrooke's division, composed of the Germans and Guards. This brigade was, however, driven back in disorder. The Guards followed hotly in pursuit; but the French reserves came up, and their batteries opened with fury and drove the Guards back, while the Germans were so hotly pressed, by Lapisse, that they fell into confusion. The 48th, however, fell upon the flank of the advancing French; the Guards and the Germans rallied, the British artillery swept the French columns, and they again fell back. Thus the British centre and right had succeeded in finally repelling the attacks made upon them.
On the left, as the French advanced, the 23rd Light Dragoons and the 1st German Hussars charged the head of Ruffin's column. Before they reached them, however, they encountered the ravine through which the rivulet here ran. The Germans checked their horses when they came upon this almost impassable obstacle. The 23rd, however, kept on. Men and horses rolled over each other, but many crossed the chasm and, forming again, dashed in between the squares into which the French infantry had thrown themselves, and charged a brigade of light infantry in their rear. Victor hurled two regiments of cavalry upon them and the 23rd, hopelessly over matched, were driven back with a loss of 207 men and officers, being fully half the number that had ridden forward. The rest galloped back to the shelter of Bassecour's division.
Yet their effort had not been in vain. The French, astonished at their furious charge, and seeing four distinct lines of cavalry still drawn up facing them, made no further movement. Hill easily repulsed the attack upon his position, and the battle ceased as suddenly as it had begun, the French having failed at every point they had attacked.
Terence had, on seeing Ruffin's division marching towards him, advanced along the slope until they reached the entrance to the valley; and then, scattering on the hillside, had opened a heavy and continuous fire upon the French, doing much execution among their columns, and still more when they threw themselves into square to resist the cavalry. He had given orders that, should Ruffin send some of his battalions up the hill against them, they were to retire up the slopes, taking advantage of every shelter, and not to attempt to meet the enemy in close contact. No such attack was, however, made. The French battalion most exposed threw out a large number of skirmishers, and endeavoured to keep down the galling fire maintained from the hillside; but as the Portuguese took advantage of every stone and bush, and scarcely a man was visible to the French, there were but few casualties among them.
The loss of the British was in all, during the two days' fighting, 6200, including 600 taken prisoners. That of the French was 7400. Ten guns were captured by Campbell's division, and seven left in the woods by the French as they drew off, the next morning at daybreak, to take up their position behind the Alberche.
During the day Crauford's brigade came up, after a tremendous march. The three regiments had, after a tramp of twenty miles, encamped near Plasencia, when the alarm spread by the Spanish fugitives reached that place. Crauford allowed his men two hours' rest and then started to join the army, and did not halt until he reached the camp; having in twenty-six hours, during the hottest season of the year, marched sixty-two miles, carrying kit, arms, and ammunition--a weight of from fifty to sixty pounds. Only twenty-five men out of the three regiments fell out and, immediately the brigade arrived, it took up the outpost duty in front of the army.
Terence was much gratified by the appearance, in general orders that day, of the following notice: "The general commander-in-chief expresses his warm approbation of the conduct of the two battalions of the Minho regiment of Portuguese, commanded by Colonel O'Connor. This officer, on his own discretion, moved from the position assigned to him, on seeing the serious attack made on Colonel Donkin's brigade on the evening of the 27th and, scaling the hill, opened so heavy a fire on the French ascending it that five battalions fell back, without taking part in the attack. This took place at the crisis of the engagement, and had a decisive effect on its result."
At eight o'clock a staff officer rode up, with orders for the Minho regiment to return at once to the pass of Banos, as the news had come in that the enemy beyond the hills were in movement. Terence was to act in concert with the Spanish force there, and hold the pass as long as possible. If the enemy were in too great strength to be withstood, he was given discretion as to his movements; being guided only by the fact that the British army would, probably, march down the valley of the Tagus.
If Soult crossed, "his force," the order added, "was estimated as not exceeding 15,000 men."
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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3
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: Prisoners.
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On the 31st of July Terence reached the neighbourhood of Banos and learned, from the peasantry, that a French army had passed through the town early on the preceding day. No resistance, whatever, had been offered to its passage through the pass of Bejar; and the Spanish at Banos had retreated hastily, after exchanging a few shots with the French advanced guard. The peasantry had all deserted their villages, but had had some skirmishes with small foraging parties of cavalry. Several French stragglers had been killed in the pass.
Hoping to find some of these still alive, and to obtain information from them, Terence continued his march for Banos; sending on two of the best mounted of the Portuguese horsemen, to ascertain if there was any considerable French force left there. He was within half a mile of the town when he saw them returning, at full speed, chased by a party of French dragoons; who, however, fell back when they saw the advancing infantry.
"What is your news?" Terence asked, as the troopers rode up.
"Banos is full of French troops," one of them replied, "and columns are marching down the pass. From what I can see, I should think that there must be 16,000 or 20,000 of them."
In fact, this was Soult's second army corps--the first, which had preceded it, having that morning reached Plasencia, where they captured 400 sick in the hospitals, and a large quantity of stores that had been left there, from want of carriage, when the British army advanced. Terence lost no time in retreating from so dangerous a neighbourhood, and at once made for the mountains he had just left.
Two regiments of French cavalry set out in pursuit, as soon as the party that had chased the Portuguese troopers entered Banos with the news that a body of infantry, some 2000 strong, was close at hand. They came up before the Portuguese had marched more than a mile. The two battalions were halted, and thrown into square. The French rode fearlessly down upon them, but were received with so hot and steady a fire that they speedily drew off, with considerable loss. Then the regiment ascended the hills and, half an hour later, halted.
"The question is, what is to be done?" Terence said to Herrara and his two majors. "It is evident that, for once, the information we obtained from the Spaniards is correct, and that Soult must have at least 30,000 men with him. Possibly his full strength is not up yet. By this time the force that passed yesterday must be at Plasencia, and by tomorrow may be on the Tagus, and Sir Arthur's position must be one of great danger. Putting Cuesta and the Spaniards altogether aside as worthless, he has, even with that brigade we saw marching in soon after we started, only 22,000 or 23,000 men; and on one side of him is Victor, with some 40,000; on the other is Soult, with perhaps as many more. With starving and exhausted troops his chances are small, indeed, unless he can cross the Tagus. He might beat one marshal or the other, but he can hardly beat the two of them.
"The first thing to do is to send two troopers off, with duplicate despatches, telling Sir Arthur of Soult's passage. He might not otherwise hear of it for some time, and then it might be too late. The peasantry and the village authorities will be too busy carrying off their effects, and driving their animals to the hills, to think for a moment of sending information. That is evidently the first thing to be done.
"Until we see what is going to happen, I don't think we can do better than cross the Sierra, and encamp at some spot where we can make out the movements of the French on the plain. At the same time we can keep an eye on the road to Plasencia, and be able to send information to Sir Arthur, if any further bodies of French troops come down into the valley. Our position is evidently a dangerous one. If the news has reached Sir Arthur, he will have fallen back from Talavera at once. Victor will no doubt follow on his heels, and his cavalry and those of Soult will speedily meet each other. Therefore it will be, in all ways, best to see how matters develop themselves before moving down into the plain."
Accordingly two of the troopers were sent off with information that 15,000 French were already in the valley, and that as many more would be there on the following day. Then the regiment marched across the Sierra and took post high up on the slope, with Plasencia ten miles away on the right, and the spires of Oropesa visible across the valley.
On the following day another army corps was seen descending from Banos to Plasencia, while a large body of troops marched from that town to Navalmoral, thus cutting off the retreat of the British by the bridge of boats at Almaraz. Clouds of dust on the distant plain showed that a portion, at least, of the Allied Army had arrived at Oropesa; and bodies of French cavalry were made out, traversing the plain and scattering among the villages. Two more troopers were sent off with reports, and warned, like the others, to take different routes, and make a wide circuit so as to avoid the French, and then to come down upon Oropesa. If the troops there were British, they were to deliver their reports to the general in command. If it was occupied by Spaniards, they were to proceed to Talavera and hand them in at headquarters.
On the following day, still another army corps marched down to Plasencia, raising Soult's force to 54,000. On that day Cuesta, who had undertaken to hold Talavera, retreated suddenly; alarmed by Victor's army making an advance, and leaving to their fate the 1500 British wounded in the hospital. These, however, were benefited by the change. They had been dying of hunger for, although there was an abundance of provisions in Talavera, the inhabitants refused to sell any to the British, and jealously concealed their stores in their houses. Nor would Cuesta do anything to aid them; and thus the men who had fought and suffered for the Spanish cause were left to perish, while there was abundance around them. The conduct of the Spaniards, from the moment the British crossed the frontier to the time of their leaving Spain, was never forgotten or forgiven by the British troops, who had henceforth an absolute hatred for the Spanish, which contributed in no small degree to the excesses perpetrated by them upon the inhabitants of Badajos, and other places, taken subsequently by storm.
The French, on entering Talavera, treated the British wounded with the greatest kindness, and henceforth they were well fed and cared for.
The first report sent by Terence reached Sir Arthur safely, ten hours after it was sent out, and apprised him for the first time of the serious storm that was gathering in his rear; and he had, without an hour's delay, given orders for the army to march to Oropesa, intending to give battle to Soult before Victor could come up to join his fellow marshal. The second report informed him of the real strength of the army towards which he was marching, and showed him the real extent of his danger. So he at once seized the only plan of escape offered to him, marching with all speed to Arzobispo, and crossing the Tagus by the bridge there, Cuesta's army following him. As soon as the Tagus was passed, Crauford's brigade was hurried on to seize the bridge of boats at Almaraz, and prevent the French from crossing there.
Fortunately, Soult was as ignorant of the position of the Allies as Sir Arthur was of his and, believing that the British were following Victor and pressing forward towards Madrid, he had conducted his operations in a comparatively leisurely manner. Therefore, it was not until the British were safely across the Tagus that he ascertained the real state of affairs, and put himself in communication with Victor.
On the morning following the crossing Terence was apprised, by a note sent back by one of the troopers, of the movement that had taken place. It was written upon a small piece of paper, so that it could be destroyed at once, by the bearer, if he should be threatened with capture, and contained only the following words: "Your report invaluable. The Allied Army moves to Arzobispo, and will cross the Tagus there. You must act according to your judgment. I can give no advice."
"Thank God the British army has escaped!" Terence said, after reading the despatch to his officers; "now we have only to think of ourselves. As to rejoining Sir Arthur, it is out of the question; the valley is full of French troops. Ney has joined Soult, and there are 100,000 Frenchmen between us and our army. If I had any idea where Wilson is, we might endeavour to join him, for he must be in the same plight as ourselves. Our only chance, so far as I can see, is to cross their line of communications and to endeavour to join Beresford, who is reported as marching down the frontier from Almeida."
"Would you propose to pass through Banos, Colonel?" Herrara asked. "The mountains there are almost, if not quite, impassable; but we might get a peasant to guide us."
"I don't like going near Banos, Herrara. The French are almost sure to have left a strong body there, and the chances are against our finding a peasant; for the inhabitants of all the villages, for ten miles round, have almost certainly fled and taken to the hills.
"I think it would be safer to follow along this side of the Sierra, cross the road a few miles above Plasencia, then make for the mountains, and come down on the head of the river Coa. Beresford is probably in the valley of that river. We are more likely to find a guide, that way, than we are by going through Banos. We shall have tough work of it whichever way we go, even if we are lucky enough to get past without running against a single Frenchman."
"Would it not be better to wait till nightfall, Colonel?" Bull asked.
Terence shook his head.
"There is no moon," he said; "and as to climbing about among these mountains in the dark, it would be worse than running the risk of a fight with the French. Besides, we should have no chance whatever of coming across a peasant. No, I think we must try it as soon as it gets light, tomorrow morning. We had better dress up a score of men in peasant clothes; and send them off, in couples, to search among the hills. Whoever comes across a man must bring him in, whether he likes it or not. The Spaniards are so desperately afraid of the French that they will give us no information, whatever, unless forced to do so; and we shall have even more difficulty than the British. There must have been thousands of peasants, and others, who knew that Soult had come down upon Plasencia; and yet Sir Arthur obtained no news.
"There is one comfort: there can be little doubt that Soult is just as much in the dark as to the position of the British army."
By nightfall three peasants had been brought in. All shook their heads stolidly, when questioned in Portuguese; but upon Terence having them placed against a rock, and twelve men brought up and ordered to load their muskets, one of them said, in Spanish: "I know where a path across the mountains leaves the road, but I have never been over the hills, and know nothing of how it runs."
"Ah! I thought you could make out my question," Terence said. "Well, you have saved the lives of yourself and your comrades. Take us to the path, tomorrow, and set us fairly on it; and you shall be allowed to go free, and be paid five dollars for your trouble."
Then he turned to Bull.
"Put four men to guard them," he said, "and let the guard be changed once every two hours. Their orders will be to shoot the fellows down, if they endeavour to make their escape. They are quite capable of going down into Plasencia and bringing the French upon us."
At daybreak they were on the march and, two hours later, came down into the valley through which the road from Banos ran down to Plasencia. They had just crossed it when the head of a column of cavalry appeared, coming down the valley. It at once broke into a gallop.
"How far is it to where the path begins to ascend the mountains?" Terence asked, holding a pistol to the peasant's head.
"Four miles," the man replied sullenly, looking with apprehension at the French.
Terence shouted orders to Bull and Macwitty to throw their men into square, and as they had been marching, since they reached level ground, in column of companies, the movement was carried out before the enemy arrived.
The French cavalry, believing that the battalions were Spanish, and would break at once, charged furiously down upon them. They were, however, received with so heavy a fire that they drew off discomfited, leaving many men and horses on the ground.
"They are a strong body," Terence said quietly to Bull, in the centre of whose square he had taken up his position. "I should say there are 3000 of them, and I am afraid they are the head of another division."
"Yes, there are the infantry coming down the valley. We must press on, or we shall be caught before we get into the hills."
The battalions were soon in motion but, immediately they started, the cavalry prepared to charge again.
"This will never do, Bull. If we form square every time, we shall be delayed so much that the infantry will soon be up. You must do it now, and quickly; but we will start next time in column, eight abreast; and face the men round in lines, four deep either way, if they charge again."
The French, this time, drew off without pressing their charge home; and then, trotting on, took their place between the Portuguese and the mountains.
"Form your leading company in line, four deep, Bull. The column shall follow you."
The formation was quickly altered and, preceded by the line, to cover them from the charge in front, the column advanced at a rapid pace. The cavalry moved forward to meet them, but as the two parties approached each other the line opened so heavy a fire that the French drew off from their front, both to the right and left. Bull at once threw back a wing of each company, to prevent an attack in flank; and so, in the form of a capital T, the column kept on its way. Several times the French cavalry charged down, compelling them to halt; but each time, after repulsing the attack, the column went on.
"It would be all right if we had only these fellows to deal with," Terence said to Bull, "but their infantry are coming on fast."
The plain behind was, indeed, covered with a swarm of skirmishers, coming along at the double.
"We must go at the double, too, Bull," Terence said, "or they will be up long before we get to the hills. We are not halfway yet. Keep the men well in hand, and don't let them fall into confusion. If they do, the cavalry will be down upon us in a minute."
The cavalry, however, were equally conscious of the importance of checking the Portuguese, and again and again dashed down upon them, with reckless bravery; suffering heavily whenever they did so, but causing some delay each time they charged.
"I shall go back to the rear, Bull. Mind, my orders are precise that, whatever happens behind to us, you are to push forward until you begin to climb the hills."
Then, without waiting for an answer, he galloped back.
Although the column pressed on steadily at the double, the delay caused by the cavalry, and the fact that the French infantry were broken up--and able, therefore, to run more quickly--was bringing the enemy up fast. Herrara was riding at the head of the second battalion, and to him Terence repeated the instructions he had given Bull.
"What are you going to do, Colonel?" the latter asked.
"There is some very broken ground, a quarter of a mile ahead," he replied. "I intend to hold that spot with the rear company. It will be some little time before the French infantry will be able to form and attack us; and the ground looks, to me, too broken for their cavalry to act. As soon as I can see that you are far enough ahead to gain the hill, before they can overtake you again, I shall follow you with the company; but mind, should I not do so, you must take the command of the two battalions, cross the mountains, and join Beresford."
He galloped on to Macwitty, who was riding in the rear, and repeated the order to him.
"Well, Colonel, let me stop behind with the company, instead of yourself."
"No, no, Macwitty. It is the post of danger and, as commanding officer, I must take it. It is a question of saving the two battalions at the cost of the company, and there is no doubt as to the course to be taken. Do you ride on at once, and take your post at the rear of the company ahead of this, and keep them steady. Here come their cavalry down again on the flank."
There was another charge, three or four heavy volleys, and then the French drew off again. The bullets of their infantry were now whistling overhead.
"A hundred yards farther," Terence shouted, "and then we will face them."
In front lay an upheaval of rock, stretching almost like a wall across the line they were following. It was a sort of natural outwork, pushed out by nature in front of the hill, and rose some fifty feet above the level of the plain. There were many places at which it could be climbed, and up one of these the track ran obliquely. Hitherto it had been but an ill-defined path, but here some efforts had been made to render it practicable, by cutting away the ground on the upper side, to enable laden mules to pass up.
Terence reined up at the bottom of the ascent, and directed the men to take up their post on the crest; the leading half of the company to the right, and the other half to the left of the path. Before all were up the French light troops were clustering round, but a rush was prevented by the heavy fire that opened from the brow above, and the company were soon scattered along the crest, a yard apart.
In five minutes some two thousand French infantry were assembled. A mounted officer rode some distance to the right and left, to examine the ground. It was evident that he considered that the position, held by 200 determined men, was a formidable one. Lying down, as they were, only the heads of the Portuguese could be seen; while a force attacking them would have to march across level ground, affording no shelter whatever from the defenders' fire, and then to climb a very steep ascent. Moreover, the whole force they had been pursuing might be gathered, just behind.
After another five minutes' delay, half a battalion broke up into skirmishers; while the rest divided into two parties, and marched parallel to the rocks, left and right. Terence saw that these movements must be successful for, with 200 men, he could not defend a line of indefinite length. However, his object had now been achieved. The descent behind was even and regular, and he could see the column winding up the hill, somewhat over half a mile away. Of the French cavalry he could see nothing. They had, after their last charge, ridden off, as if leaving the matter in the hands of their infantry.
He ordered the bugler to sound the retreat, in open order; and the Portuguese, rising to their feet, went down the gentle slope at a trot. They were halfway to the hills when the long lines of the French cavalry were seen, sweeping down upon them from the right; having evidently ridden along the foot of the steep declivity, until they came to a spot where they were able to ascend it.
At the sound of the bugle the rear company instantly ran together and formed a square and, as the French cavalry came up, opened a continuous fire upon them. Unable to break the line of bayonets, the horsemen rode round and round the square, discharging their pistols into it, and occasionally making desperate efforts to break in. Suddenly the cavalry drew apart, and a battalion of infantry marched forward, and poured their fire into the Portuguese.
Terence felt that no more could be done. His main body was safe from pursuit, and it would be but throwing away the lives of his brave fellows, did he continue the hopeless fight. He therefore waved a white handkerchief, in token of surrender; shouted to his men to cease fire and, riding through them with sheathed sword, made his way to the officer who appeared to be in command of the cavalry.
[Illustration: 'We surrender, sir, as prisoners of war.']
"We surrender, sir," he said, "as prisoners of war. We have done all that we could do."
He could speak but a few words of French, but the officer understood him.
"You have done more than enough, sir," he said. "Order your men to lay down their arms, and I will guarantee their safety."
He ordered his cavalry to draw back and, riding up to the infantry, halted them. Terence at once ordered his men to lay down their arms.
"You have done all that men could do," he said. "You have saved your comrades, and it is no dishonour to yield to twenty times your own force. Form up in column, ready to march."
The commander of the cavalry again rode up, this time accompanied by another officer.
"The general wishes to know, sir," the latter said in English, "who you are, and what force this is?"
"I am Colonel O'Connor, holding that rank in Lord Beresford's army; and have the honour to be on the staff of Sir Arthur Wellesley, though at present detached on special service. The two battalions that have marched up the hill are the Minho regiment of Portuguese, under my command. We were posted on the Sierra and, being cut off from rejoining the British by the advance of Marshal Soult's army, were endeavouring to retire across the mountains into Portugal, when you cut us off."
The officer translated the words to the general.
"Tell him," the latter said, "that if all the Portuguese fought as well as those troops, there would have been no occasion for the British to come here to aid them. I have never seen troops better handled, or more steady. This cannot be the first time they have been under fire."
Terence bowed, when the compliment was translated to him.
"They fought, General, in the campaign last year," he said, "and the regiment takes its name from the fact that they prevented Marshal Soult from crossing at the mouth of the Minho; but their first encounter with your cavalry was near Orense."
"I remember it well," the general said, "for I was in command of the cavalry that attacked you. Your men were not in uniform, then, or I should have known them again. How did you come to be there? For at that time, the British had not advanced beyond Cintra."
"I had been sent with a message to Romana and, happening to come across this newly-raised levy, without officers or commander, I took the command and, aided by two British troopers and a Portuguese lieutenant, succeeded in getting them into shape; and did my best to hold the pass to Braga."
"Peste!" the general exclaimed. "That was you again, was it? It was the one piece of dash and determination shown by the Portuguese, during our advance to Oporto, and cost us as many men as all the rest of the fighting put together.
"And now, Colonel, we must be marching. Major Portalis, here, will take charge of you."
In a few minutes the French cavalry and infantry were on their march towards Plasencia, the Portuguese prisoners guarded on both sides by cavalry marching with them; their captain being, like Terence, placed in charge of an officer. The Portuguese marched with head erect. They were prisoners, but they felt that they had done well, and had sacrificed themselves to cover the retreat of their comrades; and that, had it not been for the French infantry coming up, they might have beaten off the attacks of their great body of cavalry.
On their arrival at Plasencia, the troops were placed in a large building that had been converted into a prison. Here were some hundreds of other prisoners, for the most part Spaniards, who had been captured when Soult had suddenly arrived.
Terence was taken to the quarters of General Foy, who was in command there. Here he was again questioned, through the officer who spoke English. After he translated his answers to the general, the latter told him to ask Terence if he knew where Wilson was.
"I do not, sir," he replied; "we were together on the Sierra, a fortnight ago, but he marched suddenly away without communicating with me, and I remained at Banos until ordered to march to the Alberche. We took part in the battle there, and were then ordered back, again to support the Spaniards at Banos; but Marshal Soult had marched through the pass, and the Spaniards had disappeared before we got there. We remained among the mountains until yesterday when, hearing that the British had crossed the Tagus, and seeing no way to rejoin them, I started to cross the mountains to join Lord Beresford's force, wherever I might find it."
"General Heron reports that the two battalions under your command fought with extraordinary steadiness, and repulsed all the attempts of his cavalry to break them; and finally succeeded in drawing off to the mountains, with the exception of the two companies that formed the rear guard. How is it that there is only one officer?"
"They were, in fact, one company," Terence said. "My companies are each about 200 strong, and the officer captured with me was its captain."
"General Heron also reports to me that your retreat was admirably carried out," General Foy said, "and that no body of French veterans could have done better.
"Well, sir, if you are ready to give your parole not to escape, you will be at liberty to move about the town freely, until there is an opportunity of sending a batch of prisoners to France."
"Thank you, general. I am ready to give my parole not to make any attempt to escape, and am obliged to you for your courtesy."
Terence had already thought over what course he had best take, should he be offered freedom on parole, and had resolved to accept it. The probabilities of making his escape were extremely small. There would be no chance whatever of rejoining the army; and a passage, alone, across the all-but-impassable mountains, was not to be thought of. Therefore he decided that, at any rate for the present, he would give his promise not to attempt to escape.
Quarters were assigned to him in the town, in a house where several French officers were staying. These all showed him great courtesy and kindness. Between the English and French the war was, throughout, conducted on honourable terms. Prisoners were well treated, and there was no national animosity between either officers or men.
When he went out into the town one of the French officers generally accompanied him, and he was introduced to a number of others. He set to work, in earnest, to improve the small knowledge of French that he possessed and, borrowing some French newspapers, and buying a dictionary in the town, he spent a considerable portion of his time in studying them.
He remained three weeks at Plasencia. During that time he heard that the army of Venegas had been completely routed by Victor, that Cuesta had been badly beaten soon after crossing the Tagus, and Albuquerque's cavalry very roughly treated. Five guns and 400 prisoners had been taken. Ney had marched through Plasencia, on his way back to Valladolid to repress an insurrection that had broken out in that district; and on his way met Wilson, who was trying to retreat by Banos, and who was decisively beaten and his command scattered.
Terence was now told to prepare to leave, with a convoy of prisoners, for Talavera. He was the only British officer and, being on parole, the officer commanding the detachment marching with the prisoners invited him to ride with him, and the two days' journey was made very pleasantly.
At Talavera he remained for a week. The Portuguese prisoners remained there, but the British who had been captured in Plasencia, and the convalescents from the hospital at Talavera--in all 200 strong, among whom were six British officers--were to march to the frontier, there to be interned in one of the French fortresses.
The officer who had commanded the escort, on the march from Plasencia, spoke in high terms of Terence to the officer in charge of the two hundred men who were to go on with them. The party had been directed not to pass through Madrid, as the sight of over two hundred British prisoners might give rise to a popular demonstration by the excitable Spaniards, which would possibly lead to disorder. He was therefore directed to march by the road to the Escurial, and then over the Sierra to Segovia, then up through Valladolid and Burgos. The escort was entirely composed of infantry and, as Terence could not therefore take his horse with him, he joined the other officers on foot.
To his great surprise and joy he found that one of these was his chum, Dick Ryan.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Dicky!" he exclaimed.
"Well, yes, I am as pleased as you are at our meeting, Terence; but I must own that the conditions might have been more pleasant."
"Oh, never mind the conditions!" Terence said. "It is quite enough, for the present, that we both are here; and that we have got before us a journey that is likely to be a jolly one. I suppose that you have given your parole, as I have; but when we are once in prison there will be an end of that, and it is hard if, when we put our heads together, we don't hit on some plan of escape.
"Do you know the other officers? If so, please introduce me to them."
As soon as the introductions were completed, Terence asked Ryan where he had been wounded.
"I was hit by a piece of a French shell," the latter replied. "Fortunately it did not come straight at me, but scraped along my ribs, laying them pretty well bare. As it was a month ago, it is quite healed up; but I am very stiff still, and am obliged to be very careful in my movements. If I forget all about it, and give a turn suddenly, I regularly yell; for it feels as if a red-hot iron had been stuck against me. However, I have learned to be careful and, as long as I simply walk straight on, I am pretty well all right.
"It was a near case, at first; and I believe I should have died of starvation if the French had not come in. Those brutes of Spaniards would do nothing whatever for me, and I give you my word of honour that nothing passed my lips, but water, for three days."
"Perhaps it was a good thing for you, Dicky, and kept down fever."
"I would have run the chance of a dozen fevers, to have got a good meal," Ryan said indignantly. "I don't know but that I would have chanced it, even for a crust of bread. I tell you, if the French had not come in when they did, there would not have been a man alive in hospital at the end of another forty-eight hours. The men were so furious that, if they could have got at arms, I believe everyone who could have managed to crawl out would have joined in a sally, and have shot down every Spaniard they met in the streets, till they were overpowered and killed.
"Now, let us hear your adventures. Of course, I saw in orders what good work you did, that day when you were in our camp, against the French when they attacked Donkin. Some of our fellows went across to see you, the morning after the big battle; but they could not find you, and heard afterwards, from some men of Hill's division, that you had been seen marching away in a body, along the hills."
Terence then gave an account of the attack by the French upon his regiment, and how he had fallen into their hands.
"That was well done, Terence. There is some pleasure in being taken prisoner, in that sort of way. What will become of your regiment, do you suppose?"
"I have no idea. Herrara may be appointed to the command. I should think that most likely he would be, but of course Sir Arthur may put another English officer at its head. However, I should say that there is no likelihood of any more fighting, this year. Ney's corps has gone north, which is a sign that there will be no invasion of Portugal at present; and certainly Sir Arthur is not likely to take the offensive again, now that his eyes have been thoroughly opened to the rascality and cowardice of the Spaniards; and by next spring we two may be back again. We have got into so many scrapes together, and have always pulled through them, that I don't think the French will keep us long.
"Have you stuck to your Portuguese, Dicky?"
"I have, and am beginning to get on very fairly with it."
"That is right. When we get back I will apply for you as my adjutant, if I get the command of the regiment again."
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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4
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: Guerillas.
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The marches were short, as many of the prisoners were still weak and, indeed, among their guard were many convalescents who had recently been discharged from the hospital at Toledo, and who were going back to France. The little column was accompanied by four waggons, two of which were intended for the conveyance of any who should prove unable to march; and the others were filled with provisions for consumption by the way, together with a few tents, as many of the villages that would be their halting places were too small to afford accommodation for the 400 men, even if every house was taken up for the purpose. Although the first day's march was only twelve miles, the two empty waggons were quite full before they reached their halting place; and many of the guard had placed their guns and cartridge boxes on the other carts.
It was now the middle of August, and the heat in the valley of the Tagus was overpowering. The convoy, however, had marched at six in the morning; and halted at eight, in the shade of a large olive wood; and did not continue its march until five in the afternoon. The night was so warm that the English prisoners, and many of their guards, preferred lying down in the open and throwing the blanket (with which each had been furnished) over him to keep off the dew, to going into the stuffy cottages, where the fleas would give them little chance of rest.
On the third day they arrived at the village of Escurial. The next morning they began to mount the pass over the Sierra, and slept that night in an empty barracks, at Segovia. Here they left the main road leading through Valladolid and took one more to the east, stopping at small villages until they arrived at Aranda, on the Douro. Thence they marched due north, to Gamonal.
They were now on the main road to the frontier, passed through Miranda and Zadorra, and began to ascend the slopes of the Pyrenees. The marches had, for some days, been considerably longer than when they first started. The invalids had gained strength and, having no muskets to carry, were for the most part able to march eighteen or twenty miles without difficulty. Four had been left behind in hospital at Segovia, but with these exceptions all had greatly benefited by steady exercise, and an ample supply of food.
"I could do a good deal of travelling, in this way," one of the officers said, as they marched out from Miranda. "Just enough exercise to be pleasant; no trouble about baggage or route, or where one is to stop for the night; nothing to pay, and everything managed for you. What could one want for, more?"
"We could do with a little less dust," Dick Ryan said, with a laugh; "but we cannot expect everything."
"Unfortunately, there will be an end to our marching, and not a very pleasant one," Terence said. "At present, one scarcely recognizes that one is a prisoner. The French officers certainly do all in their power to make us forget it; and their soldiers, and ours, try their best to hold some sort of conversation together. I feel that I am making great progress in French, and it is especially jolly when we halt for the night, and get the bivouac fires burning, and chat and laugh with the French officers as though we were the best friends in the world."
The march was, indeed, conducted in a comfortable and easy fashion. At starting, the prisoners marched four abreast, and the French two abreast at each side; but before a mile had been passed the order was no longer strictly observed, and the men trudged along, smoking their pipes, laughing and talking, the French and English alternately breaking into a marching song. There was no fear of the prisoners trying to escape. They could, at night, have got away from their guards easily enough; but there was nowhere for them to go, if they had done so. The English, smarting from the cruelty and ill faith of the inhabitants of Talavera and the Spanish authorities, felt a burning hatred of the Spanish; while the Spaniards, on their side, deceived by the lying representations of their Juntas, had no love whatever for the English, though ready enough to receive money and arms from them.
On leaving Zadorra, the French officer in command said to Terence: "Now, colonel, we shall have to be more careful during our marches, keeping a sharp lookout at night. The country here is infested by guerillas, whom all our efforts cannot eradicate. The mountains of Navarre and Biscay are full of them. Sometimes they are in bands of fifteen or twenty strong, sometimes they are in hundreds. Some of them are at ordinary times goatherds, shepherds, muleteers, and peasants; but a number of them are disbanded soldiers--the remains of armies we have defeated and broken up, and who prefer this wild life in the mountains to returning to their homes. Our convoys are constantly attacked, and have always to be accompanied by a strong guard."
"As we have no waggons with us, I should think that they would hardly care to molest us," Terence said.
"That renders it less likely, certainly, colonel; but they fight from hatred as much as for booty, and no French soldier who falls into their hands is ever spared. Generally they are put to death with atrocious tortures. At first there was no such feeling here and, when my regiment was quartered at Vittoria, some three years ago, things were quiet enough. You see, the feeling gradually grew. No doubt some of our men plundered. Many of the regiments were composed of young conscripts, with very slight notions of discipline. Those from the country districts were, as a rule, quiet lads enough; but among those from the towns, especially such places as Toulouse, Lyons, and Marseilles, were young scoundrels ready for any wickedness, and it is to these that the troubles we now have are largely due.
"Of course the peasants, when they were able to do so, retaliated upon these marauders. The feeling of hatred grew, on both sides. Straggling parties of our men were surrounded, captured, and then hung, shot, or burnt alive.
"Then, on our side, villages were destroyed and the peasants shot down. Lately, that is, after the defeats of their armies, numbers of fugitives took to the hills, threw away their uniforms, obtained peasants' dresses, and set up as what they called guerillas, which is only another term for bandits; for although their efforts are chiefly directed against us, they do not hesitate to plunder their own people, when they need provisions, and are a perfect scourge to all the villages among the hills between the Bay of Biscay and the Mediterranean. Of course, they are strongest along the line of communication with France; but it may be said that, roughly, where there are mountains there are guerillas, though there are but few of them along the hills we crossed between the valley of the Tagus and that of the Douro.
"This is for two reasons: in the first place, there are very few villages, and they would have difficulty in maintaining themselves; and in the second place, because hitherto Leon and Old Castile, on the north of the Sierra, have always been under different commands to that in the Tagus valley, and therefore there has been but small communication between them, except by messengers with despatches from Madrid. The passes have scarcely been used and, indeed, in winter they are practically altogether impassable; except that along the valley of the Ebro. We found that to our cost, when we marched with Napoleon to cut off your British General Moore. We lost nearly two days getting through them, and the delay saved your army."
"Yes, it was a very close thing," Terence said. "As I have told you, I was with Moore; and if the troops from the south had come up but six hours earlier, it would have gone very hard with us."
"It was an awful time," the officer said, "and I think our army must have suffered quite as much as yours did. Soult's force was reduced fully to half its strength, when he first arrived on that hill near Corunna. Of course the stragglers came in rapidly, but a great number never returned to their colours again--some died of cold and hardship, others were cut off and murdered by the peasantry. Altogether, we had an awful time of it. Your men were, in one respect, better off than ours; for your stragglers were not regarded with hostility by the peasants, whereas no mercy was shown to ours."
"Yes, major, one of the battalions that fought at Talavera was entirely composed of men who had straggled in the retreat, and who afterwards succeeded in gaining the Portuguese frontier."
That evening they halted, for the night, at a small village high up in the passes. The French officer took every precaution against surprise. Twenty sentries were placed at various points round the village; and as many more were posted, in pairs, three or four hundred yards farther out.
At three in the morning, several shots were fired. The troops all got under arms, and parties were sent out to the outposts. At two of these posts both the sentries were found stabbed to the heart. At others men had been seen crawling up towards them, and the shots that had aroused the troops had been fired. The outposts were recalled to the village, and the soldiers remained under arms until morning.
As soon as it was daybreak a scattered fire opened from the hills on either side of the valley, and it was evident that these were occupied by strong parties. The villagers, on being questioned, denied all knowledge of these bands; but under threats said that they had heard that Minas, with a very strong force, was in the neighbourhood, and that the Impecinado had been reported to be among the hills between the pass and that of Roncesvalles.
"What strength do you put them down at, colonel?" the major asked Terence.
"I should say, from what we can see of them, that there must be four or five hundred on each hill."
"They must have had information from their spies at Zadorra, colonel, and half a dozen bands must have united to crush us.
"Diable, that was a good shot!" he exclaimed, as his shako was struck from his head by a bullet. "That is the worst of these fellows. They are uncommonly good shots. You see, almost all these mountain men are accustomed to carry guns, and the charcoal burners and shepherds eke out a living by shooting game and sending it down to the towns."
"What are you thinking of doing, major?"
"I shall hold the village," the latter replied. "We might get through the pass, but I doubt whether we should do so; and if we did, my men and yours would suffer terribly. Can I rely upon your fellows keeping quiet?"
"I think so. At any rate, we will all go round and order them to do so."
There was, however, no necessity to impress this on the men. Two of them had already been wounded by the guerillas' fire.
"Why, sir," one of them said, "if we had but muskets here, we would turn out and help the French to drive those fellows off. The French have behaved very well to us, while the Spaniards did their best to starve us to death; and there ain't one of us who wouldn't jump at the chance of paying them out."
"All right, men!" said Terence. "I agree with you, as to the treatment you have received; however, we are not here to fight. We are prisoners, and have nothing to do with the fray, one way or the other; though I don't mean to say that I should not, myself, be glad to see the French beat the guerillas off."
The other officers found the same spirit among the soldiers they questioned.
"I quite agree with them," one of the officers said, "and if there were muskets handy I would not mind leading them, myself, if it were not for the uniform. Sir Arthur would scarcely be pleased if, among all his other worries, he got a despatch from the central Junta, complaining that a large number of innocent peasants had been killed by English troops, fighting by the side of the French."
Gradually the guerillas drew in towards the village, taking advantage of every stone and bush, and rarely giving a chance to the French infantry. Their aim was exceedingly accurate and, whenever a French soldier showed himself from behind a hut to fire, he was fortunate if he got back again without receiving a bullet.
"This is getting serious," the French major said, coming into the cottage where the English officers were gathered. "I have lost thirty-eight killed and wounded, already. I have had the wounded carried into the church, and some of your men are unloading the provision waggons, and taking the contents inside. They have requisitioned every utensil that will hold water in the village. No doubt we shall be able to hold out there till some other detachment comes along the road."
"I think that it is a very good plan, major," Terence said. "They would hardly be able to carry it by assault, unless they burnt down the door; and you ought to be able to prevent them from doing that."
Half an hour later, the whole French force was collected in the church. As soon as the Spaniards found what had happened, they speedily entered the village; and opened fire from every window giving a view of the church, and from loopholes that they quickly made in the walls.
Terence noticed that, when the British soldiers entered the church, most of them carried heavy staves. A sergeant came up, and saluted.
"We have had four men killed and eight wounded, sir. The men declare that they are not going to stand still and see the French murdered by these fellows, and I doubt if any orders will keep them back."
"Very well, sergeant. I will speak to them, presently.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, to the other officers, "three of you are senior to me in our own army and, though I own that I don't know how matters should stand, holding as I do Lord Beresford's commission as colonel, I am perfectly willing to place myself under the orders of whoever may be senior of you."
"I believe I am the senior," one of the captains said; "but I should imagine that Lord Beresford's commission would, for the time, rank just as if it had been signed by our own authorities. Moreover, you are on Wellesley's staff. You have seen more service out here than any of us, and I think that you are certainly entitled to the command; though really, I don't see what we can do, in our uniforms."
"I quite agree with you, Captain Travers, and therefore my proposal is that we shall all take them off, and fight in our shirt sleeves. The guerillas will then not be able to affirm that there were any men in English uniforms assisting the French."
"I think the idea is an excellent one," Captain Travers said.
"Then in that case I will act upon it;" and Terence went up to the English soldiers, who were standing in a group in the middle of the church.
"I am sure you quite understand, my men," he said, "that it would never do for you to be fighting, in British uniforms, against the Spaniards; otherwise, I leave the matter in your hands. But I may mention that it is the intention of myself, and the other officers, to defend this church without our coats and caps. If any of you like to do the same, of course you can join us. I give no orders whatever on the subject, but you see that it would get rid of the inconvenience of soldiers, in British uniforms, fighting against the Spaniards."
The men answered with a shout of satisfaction, mingled with laughter and, in less than a minute, the scarlet uniforms had disappeared. The muskets of the French killed and wounded were appropriated, and the rest of the English prisoners seized their clubs.
For some hours the fight continued and, from the roof of the church belfry and windows, a hot fire answered the incessant fusillade of the Spaniards. The French and English officers were obliged, constantly, to impress upon the men that they must husband their ammunition; as there was no saying how long they might be besieged before a detachment, strong enough to turn the scale, arrived.
"Maintain a fire heavy enough to make them keep at it. Their ammunition is likely to run short as soon as ours, and there is not much chance of their being able to replenish it. But don't fire at random. Let every bullet tell. Take a steady aim at the windows through which they are firing."
Late in the afternoon the fire of the guerillas slackened a good deal, and it was evident that their leaders were enjoining them not to waste their ammunition. As it became dark, the officers gathered again in the body of the church. The total loss had risen to thirty-two killed and fifty wounded, the English casualties being about a third of the whole.
"It is a heavy loss," the major said, "and I have noticed that, as the fire slackened, the proportion of men hit has been larger. I suppose that they are only keeping their best shots at work."
"I should fancy," Terence said, "that if we were to make a sortie, we could scatter them altogether. As soon as it is dark we might get out by that sacristy door at the rear. They gave up the attack on that side some time ago, as they could not get any shelter; and when they found that was so, they betook themselves to houses where they were better covered. If we were to go out noiselessly and sweep round the village; so as to fall upon it in two bodies, one at each end; they will take us for a body of troops just arrived. Even if they do hear us, as we go out, we can go straight at them; and should, I have no doubt, be able to clear the place with a rush.
"The only thing is, major, I should be glad if your soldiers would take off their coatees, too, so that there would be nothing to distinguish our men from yours. What do you think?"
"I think that it will be much the best plan," Captain Travers said. "In the first place, it is probable that they will try to burn us out, tonight; and we could not hope to prevent their piling faggots against the doors, in the dark. For that reason, alone, I think that it will be much better to attack them than wait for them to attack us.
"We need only leave some twenty of the less seriously wounded men to guard the place. When we sally out, the guerillas will have plenty to do without making an attack on the church. I certainly think that we are not likely to lose so many lives in a sortie as we should do in the defence, here, against a night attack."
"I certainly am of your opinion, colonel," the French major said; "and if you and your men will join us, I have no doubt that we shall be able to clear the village."
As soon as it became quite dark, the men on the roof were all called down; with the exception of one or two, who were ordered to continue to fire from various spots there and in the belfry, so that the Spaniards should not discover that the garrison had been withdrawn. Then the French were drawn up, and divided into two parties. The English who had muskets were told off, in equal numbers, to each of these parties; as were those who had nothing but their clubs. The major then ordered his soldiers to take off their coats, and to leave their shakos behind them.
The French major took the command of one party, and asked Terence to take command of the other. This he declined.
"No, sir, it is better that one of your own officers should be in command. We will divide ourselves between the two parties."
The major now impressed upon his men the necessity for absolute quiet, and for marching as lightly and silently as possible. The English officers gave similar instructions to their men. It was arranged that, when the door was opened, the two parties should issue out simultaneously, two abreast; so that if the alarm was given before all were out, they would be able to turn right and left, and attack in both directions at once. A French lieutenant was appointed to remain in the church, and command the little garrison of wounded men.
Those who sallied out were to stoop low as they went, and were to keep a few paces apart. Some hangings in the church were pulled down and torn up into strips, with which the men were directed to muffle their boots.
There was no mistaking the ardour with which the soldiers prepared for the sortie. Both English and French were indignant at being pent up by a foe they thoroughly despised, and were eager to be at the enemy. The casualties added to their wrath; one of the French officers had been killed, and another hurt seriously; while three of the English had also been wounded, though in each case but slightly.
The bolts of the door were noiselessly drawn, and that of the lock forced back; then the two little parties stole out, in the order in which they had been directed. The guerillas had just begun to fire heavily, as a prelude, Terence had no doubt, to a serious attack upon the church. Fortunately there were no houses at the back of the church, and no shout indicated that the party were seen. They therefore kept together, until fifty or sixty yards from the door; then they separated, and continued their way to the ends of the village to which they had been, respectively, assigned.
Then at one end of the village a French trumpeter sounded the charge, and two drummers at the other beat the same order, vigorously, and with loud cheers they rushed down the street, the French and English alike shouting. It had been arranged that, while the French held their way straight on, shooting down the Spaniards as they poured out into the street, the British should break up into small detachments, burst their way into the houses, and overpower the enemy there. They found the first houses they entered deserted, and the soldiers uttered exclamations of impatience as they heard the heavy roll of firing in the main street. As they approached the centre of the village, however, they came upon a number of the Spaniards rushing from their houses.
The men who had arms opened fire at once upon them, while those with clubs dashed forward, levelling the panic-stricken guerillas to the ground with their heavy blows, and arming themselves with their muskets and bandoleers. Thus the firing soon became general, and the Spaniards, struck with utter dismay, and believing that they had been attacked by a heavy column that had just arrived, speedily took to headlong flight, most of them throwing away their arms as they fled. In some of the houses there were short but desperate conflicts but, in a quarter of an hour after the first shot was fired, there was not a guerilla remaining alive in the village, upwards of a hundred and fifty having been killed; while on the side of their assailants only some fifteen had been killed, and twenty-eight wounded.
They soon formed up in the street, and were told off, in parties of twelve, to the houses in the outskirts of the village. Three in each party were to keep watch, by turns, while the rest slept. An English officer was to remain in charge on one side of the street, and a French officer on the other. The rest went back to the church, whose doors were now thrown open.
"I thank you most heartily, gentlemen," the French officer said, to Terence and to the other British officers, "for the immense service that you have rendered us. Had it not been for your aid, our position would have been a very precarious one, before morning. As it is, I think we need fear no further interruption. We are now all armed; and as, with the wounded fit for work, we are still three hundred strong, we should beat off any force likely to attack us; though indeed, I have no belief that they will rally again. At any rate, their losses have been extremely heavy; and the streets were completely strewn with guns, so that I doubt whether half of those who got away have carried their weapons with them."
The next morning, indeed, it was found that in all about 400 muskets had been left behind. All that remained over, after arming the British soldiers, were broken up and thrown down the wells. Enough provisions were collected, among the houses, to furnish the whole with three or four days' rations. The dead were buried in a field near the village, those wounded too severely to march were placed in the waggons; and the rest, who had now resumed their uniforms, set out in high spirits. They were in the same order as before, but the prisoners were told to carry their muskets at the trail, while the French shouldered theirs; so that, viewed from a distance, the British should appear unarmed.
"That has been a grand bit of excitement, Terence," Dick Ryan said gleefully to his friend, as they marched along together. "Those fellows certainly fight a good deal more pluckily than the regular troops do. It was a capital idea to make all the men take off their uniforms, for I don't suppose the Spaniards, even for a moment, dreamt that we were among their assailants; at any rate, they have no proof that we were.
"You really must get me as your adjutant, Terence. I see there is very much more fun to be got out of your sort of fighting than there is with the regiment. I am very pleased, now, that I stuck to Portuguese as you advised me; though it was a great bore, at first."
"I hope, Dicky, we sha'n't find, when we get back in the spring, that the corps has been turned over to Beresford as part of his regular command; for I must say that I quite appreciate the advantage of independence.
"Well, this business ought to do us some good. No doubt the major will report, in warm terms, the assistance we have rendered him; and we shall get good treatment. Of course, some of their prisons must be better than others and, if they will confine us in some place near the frontier, instead of marching us half through France, it will make it all the easier for us to get away. It is not the getting out of prison that is the difficulty, but the travelling through the country. I am getting on well with my French, but there is no hope of being able to speak well enough to pass as a native. As for you, you will have to keep your mouth shut altogether, which will be mightily difficult."
"You will manage it somehow, Terence. I have no fear of you getting me through the country. It is getting out of the country that seems, to me, the difficulty."
"There is one thing, Dicky. We need be in no hurry about it. There is little chance of fighting beginning for another six or seven months and, directly we come to the end of our march, wherever it may be, we must begin to pick up as much French as we can, from our guards. In three or four months I ought, at least, to be able to answer questions; not perhaps in good French, but in French as good as, say, a Savoyard workman or musician might be able to muster."
"Oh, Lor'!" Dick Ryan said, with a deep sigh, "you don't mean to say that I must begin to work on another language, just after I have been slaving, for the last six months, at Portuguese?"
"Not unless you like, Dicky. I can either start alone, or with someone else who has some knowledge of French; but I am not going to run the risk of being recaptured by taking anyone with me who cares so little for liberty that he grudges three or four hours' work, a day, to get up the means of making his escape."
"Oh, of course I shall learn," Ryan said pettishly. "You always get your own way, Terence. It was so at Athlone: you first of all began by asking my opinion, and then carried out things exactly as you proposed, yourself. Learning the language is a horrid nuisance, but I see that it has to be done."
"I expect, Dicky, you will have to make up as a woman. You see, you are not much taller than a tallish woman."
"Well, that would be rather a lark," Ryan said; "only don't you think I should be almost too good-looking for a French woman?"
"You might be that, Dicky. It is certainly a drawback. If I could get hold of a good-sized monkey's skin, I might sew you up in it."
"A bear skin would be better, I should say," Dick laughed; "but I don't think anyone would think that it was a real bear. I saw a chap with one once, at Athlone: no man could open his mouth as wide as that beast did; and as to its tongue, it would be four times as long as mine. No, I think the woman idea would be best; but I should have to shave very close."
"Shave!" Terence repeated, scornfully. "Why, I could not see any hair on your face with a magnifying glass. If that were the only drawback, the matter could be arranged without difficulty."
Without farther adventure, they crossed the mountains and came down to Bayonne. At each halting place where French troops were stationed, the British prisoners were received with warm hospitality by them, when they learned from their comrades that the British had fought side by side with the French against the guerillas, and had saved them from what might have been a very serious disaster. The French shook hands with them warmly, patted them on the shoulders, with many exclamations of "Braves garcons!" and they were led away to cafes, and treated as the heroes of the day, while the officers were entertained by those of the garrison.
At Bayonne they and their escort parted on the most cordial terms, the French exclaiming that it was a shame such brave fellows should be held as prisoners; and that they ought to be released at once, and sent back in a ship, with a flag of truce, to Portugal.
The major, after handing over the soldiers to the prison authorities, took Terence and the other British officers to the headquarters of the governor of the town; and introduced them to him, giving him a lively account of the fight with the guerillas, and the manner in which the prisoners, armed only with clubs and the muskets of the soldiers no longer able to use them, had made common cause with the French and, joining them in the sortie, defeated the Spanish with heavy loss. The governor expressed, courteously, his thanks to the officers for the part they had taken.
"I shall forward Major Marcy's report to headquarters, gentlemen, and shall be happy to give you the liberty of the town on parole. I have no doubt that, if no other good comes of your adventure, you will be placed among an early list of officers to be exchanged."
"I am very much obliged to you, general," Terence said, "but I and Lieutenant Ryan would prefer not to give our parole. I don't say we are likely to make our escape but, at any rate, we should like to be able to take any opportunity, if we saw one."
The general smiled.
"Of course, it must be as you like, sir; but I think that you are wrong. However, at any time, if you like to change your minds, I will give instructions to the officer in command of the prison to release you, immediately you give your parole not to leave the town."
The matter had been talked over on the march, and the others now expressed their willingness to give their parole. They had told Terence they thought he was wrong, and that it would be impossible to make an escape, as it would be necessary to traverse either the whole of Spain or the whole of France before he could find any means of rejoining the army; and that, before long, they might be exchanged.
"I don't think there is a prospect of an early exchange," Terence said. "There cannot have been many prisoners taken, during this short campaign; and I don't suppose there will be any talk of exchanges, for some time to come. I am particularly anxious to get back again, if I possibly can, as I am afraid that my regiment will be broken up; and that, unless I get back before the campaign begins in spring, I shall not get the command again. So I mean to get away, if I can. Anyhow, I would just as soon be in prison as walking about the streets of Bayonne. So I have quite made up my mind not to give my parole."
The officers all returned to the prison quarters assigned to them; the difference being that those on parole could go in and out as they chose, and could, at will, take their meals in the town; while Terence and Ryan were placed together in a room, with a sentry at the door, whose instructions were to accompany them whenever they wished to go beyond the door and to walk in the prison yard, or on the walls surrounding it.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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5
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: An Escape.
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"Well, here we are, Terence," Ryan said cheerfully, as the door of their cell closed behind them; "and now, what next?"
"The next thing is to look round, Dick. Other matters can wait. One cannot form the remotest idea as to the possibilities of an escape, until one has found out everything about the place. I should say that it will be quite soon enough to discuss it, in another couple of months.
"Now, as to the room; there is nothing to grumble at here. Two truckle beds, not altogether luxurious in appearance but, at any rate, a good deal softer than the ground on which we have been sleeping, for months past. A couple of chairs, designed for use rather than comfort; but which will do to sit on, while we take our meals, and at other times we can use the beds as sofas. A good-sized piece of carpet, a table, and what looks like a pudding dish to wash in.
"Things might have been better, and they might have been a great deal worse. As to our food, we must reserve comment until they bring us some.
"Now, as to funds, I had only twenty-five crowns on me when I was captured. You were rather better off, as you had ten pounds in gold and eight crowns in silver. You see, had we given our parole like the others, and gone in for luxurious feeding outside, our stock would soon have given out; and money is an essential for carrying out an escape, when that escape involves perhaps weeks of travelling, and certainly disguises of different kinds. We have not a penny too much for that, and must resolve to eschew all luxuries except tobacco, and perhaps a bottle of wine on Sundays."
"Our windows, as you observe, are very strongly barred. They look westward, but that range of buildings opposite prevents our getting a view of the sea. One thing is evident, at once: that it is no manner of use for us to think of cutting through those bars, or dislodging them; for we should only, on lowering ourselves, be in the courtyard, and no nearer escape than we were before we began the job. It is a good thing to get at least one point off our mind.
"Now, Dick, before we go further, let us make an agreement that we will always talk in French. I know enough of it to be able to assist you, and it will be an amusement, as well as a help, to accustom ourselves to talk in it."
"All right," Ryan said, resignedly; "but I bargain that, for an hour a day, we drop it altogether. It will be an awful nuisance; and one must give one's tongue a rest, occasionally, by letting it straighten itself out a bit."
The door now opened, and one of the warders entered with two large bowls of broth, a fair-sized piece of the meat from which it was made, a dish of vegetables, a large piece of bread, and a bottle of wine.
"This is your supper, messieurs. In the morning you have coffee and a piece of bread; at twelve o'clock a meal like this, with a bottle of wine between you."
"Thank you," Terence said cheerfully, "that will do extremely well. Are there any other British officers here?"
"None, except your comrades. There were some naval officers here last week, but they have been sent into the interior. We do not have many prisoners here. Those captured at sea, by warships or privateers, are generally taken to Brest and, so far, we have not had many of your nation sent from Spain. There are Spaniards, sometimes, but they do not count. Those that are taken are generally drafted into the Spanish corps of our army."
"Can we buy tobacco?" Terence asked.
"Certainly, monsieur. There is a canteen in the courtyard. It is open from eight till nine o'clock in the morning, and from five to six in the evening. But you are not allowed to get things in from the town; but nevertheless--" and he smiled, "--as your comrades are on parole, doubtless, should you need anything beyond what is sold in the canteen, it may chance that they may bring you just the things you want."
"Thank you. You had better get something from the canteen for yourself," Terence said, handing him a crown.
"Thank you, monsieur. I have heard, from the soldiers who came in with you, that you fought bravely with them against the Spanish brigands; and they think that it is very hard that you and your companion should be shut up here, after having proved such good comrades. I have a cousin among them. He, like myself, is a native of Bayonne and, should it be in his power, I am sure that he and his comrades would do anything they could for Monsieur--as far, of course, as their duty as French soldiers will allow them."
"Thanks. By the way, what is your name?"
"Jean Monier, monsieur."
"Well, Jean, will you please tell your cousin that I am obliged to him for his goodwill? It was a pleasure to fight side by side with such brave soldiers and, should an occasion offer, I will gladly avail myself of his services. The detachment is not going farther, is it?"
"No, monsieur. They will remain here for perhaps two or three months, till the good French air has invigorated them; then they will join some column marching south again. There is nothing more that you will want tonight, monsieur?"
"No, thank you, Jean. Good evening!"
"Good evening, good sleep!" and the warder retired.
"What is all that jabber about, Terence?"
"Very satisfactory jabber, and jabber that is likely to lead to a very good result. A cousin of his is one of the guard that came down with us. He has told this warder about our fight, and asked him to say that he and his comrades were very angry at our being shut up here; and as much as said that they would aid us to escape, if it was in their power, so we may consider that our first difficulty is as good as arranged. No doubt in a short time they will be put on regular garrison duty, and will take their turn in furnishing prison guards. This warder is evidently ready to do anything he can, so that we may look upon our escape from prison as a matter of certainty. I don't suppose that, in any case, the guard is a very vigilant one; for they would not expect that prisoners of war here would try to escape. At Verdun, and other prisons within a few days' journey of the frontier, it would be different."
"Well, that is good news, Terence, though I see myself that our difficulties will really begin only when we get out. There is no doubt that the fight with the guerillas was a lucky thing for us. I would not have missed it for anything, for I must say there was much more excitement in it than in a battle, at least as far as my experience of a battle goes. At Talavera we had nothing to do but stick up on the top of a hill, watch the French columns climbing up, and then give them a volley or two and roll them down the hill again; and between times stand to be shelled by Victor's batteries on the opposite hill. I cannot see that there is any fun about that. This fight, too, has turned out a very good thing for us. I expect we should not have been so well treated if it had not been for it, and the fact that some of these French soldiers are ready to give us a helping hand is first rate.
"You see, it is all your luck, Terence. There never was such a fellow for luck as you are."
"There is no doubt about that," Terence agreed. "Now, Dick, you must really break into French."
"Tomorrow morning will be time enough for that," Ryan said, in a tone of determination. "I want to talk now, really talk; and I can't do that in French, especially after what you have just told me. By the way, I don't see, myself, why we should make this journey through France. Why not try to get a boat, and land somewhere on the coast of Spain?"
"I have been thinking of that, Dick; but it seemed to me, before, altogether too difficult. Still, if we can get help from outside, I don't know why we should not be able to manage it. We should have to go some distance along the Spanish coast, for there are sure to be French garrisons at Bilbao and Santander; but beyond that I should think we might land at any little village. Galicia must certainly have been evacuated by the French, for we know that Ney's corps were down in the Tagus valley; and I should think that they cannot have any great force in the Asturias. The worst of it is, we have not got enough money to buy a boat; and if we had, the soldiers could hardly bargain with a fisherman for one. Of course, if we were free we might arrange with a man to go with us in his boat, and pay him so much for its hire, for three or four days."
"We might make our way down the river, and steal one, Terence."
"Yes, we might do that, but it would be a heavy loss to some poor fellow. Well, I shall look forward to the morning, when we can go out and see all about the prison arrangements."
"Then you have given up the idea of waiting for two months before you do anything, Terence?" Ryan remarked.
"Certainly. You see, these French convalescents may be marched back again, in another month's time and, at present, our plans must be formed upon the supposition that they are ready to help us. It would never do to throw away such an opportunity as that. It would be little short of madness to try and get out, unless we had disguises of some sort. My staff officer's uniform, or your scarlet, would lead to our arrest at the first village we came to.
"Besides, before this news one was willing to wait contentedly, for a time, till some good opportunity presented itself. Now that we have such an unexpected offer of assistance, the sooner we get out of the place the better."
The next morning they went out into the courtyard of the prison. The soldiers who had been captured with them were walking about in groups; but the sentry who accompanied the two British officers led them through these, and took them up to the top of the wall surrounding the prison.
"Messieurs," he said, "when the others are shut up you can go where you please, but my orders are that you are not to communicate with your soldiers."
He then fell back some distance, and left them free to wander about on the wall.
From this point they had a view over the city. Bayonne was a strongly fortified place, standing on the junction of the Nive and Adour, and on the south side of the latter river, two miles from its mouth. The Nive ran through the town, and its waters supplied the ditches of the encircling wall and bastions. The prison was situated on the Nive, at some three or four hundred yards from the spot where it entered the Adour.
"I should say this quite decides it," Terence said, when they had made the circuit of the walls, upon which sentries were placed at short intervals. "Once out of the town the river would be open to us, but it would be next to impossible to pass those semicircles of fortifications on both sides of the town. You can see the masts of the craft lying at the quays and, though I should not like to rob a fisherman of his boat; I should not feel the smallest scruple in taking a ship's boat, which would be, comparatively, a small loss to the owner. The worst of it would be that, directly we were found to be missing, and the owner of the boat reported its loss, they might send out some of their gunboats in search of us, and we should very soon be overtaken."
Discipline was not very strict in the French army, except when in an enemy's country; and the sentries, knowing well that there was really no occasion for watchfulness, answered willingly the questions that Terence asked them as to the names of places within sight.
"It must be rather tedious work for you, on the wall here," Terence said to one whose post was shielded by a building close by, from observation from below.
"Very dull," the soldier said, "and we shall be glad enough when we are relieved and marched into Spain. Here we are doing no good. There is no chance whatever of the prisoners attempting an escape, for if they did get out of here they could get no further; but they say that we shall not stop here long, and we shall be heartily glad when the order comes. They say the convalescents who came in yesterday will take over the prison duties next week."
Terence's motive for speaking to the men was to discover whether they were forbidden to talk, and it was satisfactory to find that, if there was such a rule, it was by no means strictly observed. Leaning on the parapet, he and Ryan stood for some time looking at the sea. There were many fishing boats dotting its surface, and the tapering masts of two schooners could be seen near the mouth of the river.
"I have no doubt that they are privateers," Terence said. "They have just the appearance of that fellow we captured on the way out. One would not have much chance of getting far in a boat, with those fellows after us.
"It seems to me that, if it could possibly be managed, our safest plan would be to lie quiet in the town for a week or so, after we got out; then it would be comparatively safe to get hold of a boat and make off in it."
"Yes, if that could be managed, it certainly would be the safest plan. If we changed our minds about making off by sea, we might then be able to pass out through the fortifications, without question. Of course, they would be vigilant for a short time after we were missing; but I suppose that, at ordinary times, the country people would go in and out unquestioned, just as in any other town for, with no enemy nearer than Portugal, there could be no occasion whatever for watchfulness."
Terence and his companion had seen nothing of their friends on parole, as these, they found, although lodged in prison for their own convenience, were not permitted to have any communication with the other prisoners. Ten days after they arrived at Bayonne, the warder, who had, since he first spoke to them, said nothing beyond the usual salutations, remarked carelessly: "The soldiers who came down with you took up the prison duties last night. My cousin told me to say that you will know him, and four or five of his comrades of the 72nd of the line, all of whom are thoroughly in agreement with him, by their saying as you pass them: "'The morning is fair, Colonel.'
"To any of them you can speak, when you find an opportunity of doing so, unobserved."
"Thank you; but will it not be safer for them were you to carry my messages?"
"No; I cannot do that," the warder said. "I think that it is quite right that my cousin, and his comrades, should do anything in their power to aid those who stood by them when attacked; but I wish to know nothing about it. It must be between you and them, for I must be able to swear that I had no hand in the matter, and that I locked you up safely, at night."
"You are quite right, Jean. It is much the best plan that it should be so. I certainly should not, myself, like to know that in making my escape I might endanger the life of one who had acted simply from kindness of heart; and trust that no suspicion, whatever, will fall upon you. I thank you most heartily for having brought me the message from your cousin, and for the goodwill that you have shown us."
When Terence and Ryan went out as usual, after breakfast, all the sentries they passed saluted, as if to one of their own officers. They of course returned the salute, and made a cheery remark to each, such as "Rather a change, this, from our work up in the hills, lad," to which each gave some short and respectful answer, three of them prefacing it with the words: "The morning is fair, mon Colonel ".
Two of these had the number of their regiment on their shako. The other, who had a deep and scarcely-healed scar over the ear, only wore a forage cap, having evidently lost his shako when wounded.
"What do you mean by saluting a prisoner," a French staff officer, when he was passing, angrily asked an old soldier. "You have been long enough in the service, surely, to know that prisoners are not saluted."
The soldier stood at attention.
"Monsieur le Capitaine," he said, "I am not saluting a prisoner. I am saluting a brave officer, whose orders I have obeyed in a hard fight, and to whom I and my comrades probably owed our lives. A mark of respect is due to a brave man, whether a prisoner of war or not."
The officer passed on without answering and, arriving at headquarters, reported the circumstances to the general.
"I am not surprised, Captain Espel," the latter replied, with a slight smile. "A French soldier knows how to respect bravery, and in this case there is little doubt that, but for the assistance of their prisoners, it would have gone very hard with that detachment. That young officer who, strangely enough, is a colonel, was a prisoner when he fought side by side with these men; and it is but natural that they scarcely regard him as one, now. He has refused to give his parole, and I am afraid he means to try to make his escape. I am sorry for, should he do so, he is sure to be captured again."
The third one of the 72nd men, the one with a forage cap, chanced to be posted at the point of the wall that was not overlooked and, after he had repeated the formula agreed upon, Terence said to him: "You are one of those lads who sent me a message that you would assist me, if you could."
"That is so, mon Colonel. You assisted us when we were somewhat hotly pressed, and tis but good comradeship to repay such a service, if one can. We have been thinking it over and, although it would not be difficult for you to escape from here, we do not see how you are to be got out of the town."
"That is the difficulty I see myself," Terence replied. "We could not hope to pass through the circle of fortifications and, were we to take a boat and make off, we should be pursued and recaptured, to a certainty; for of course, as soon as our escape was known, there would be a hot search made for us.
"There are two things needed. The first is disguises. The second is a shelter, until the search for us slackens, after which it would be comparatively easy for us to make off."
"What sort of disguises would you want, monsieur?"
"If we go by land, peasant dresses; if by water, those of fishermen. We have money, which I can give you to purchase these."
"That we could do for you, monsieur, but the hiding place is more difficult. However, that we will see about. I am a native here, and have of course many friends and acquaintances in the town. When we have made our plans I will let you know. I will manage that, when it is my turn for duty, I will always be posted here; and then I can tell you what is arranged, and give you whatever is necessary to aid you to make your escape. My cousin, Jean Monier, will shut his eyes; but he will not do anything himself, and I think that he is right, for of course he will be the first to be suspected.
"As for us, it will be no matter. Everyone knows how you stood by us, and they will guess that some of us have had a hand in it; but they will never find out which of us was chiefly concerned. I expect that soon we shall all be taken off this prison duty, for which we shall not be sorry, and sent back to Spain with the first detachment that comes along; but after all, one is not so badly off in Spain, and certainly Madrid is a good deal more lively than Bayonne."
"I suppose," Terence said, nodding towards their guard, who was standing a few paces away gazing over the country, "he knows nothing about this."
"No, monsieur, we have kept it to just the men of our own regiment; but all feel the same about your being kept a prisoner, and there is no fear of his telling anyone that you spoke to one man more than another, when it is found out that you have escaped. Still, it might be as well that you should not speak to me again, until I tell you that it is a fine morning; for although all our own men can be trusted, if any of the regular prison warders was to notice anything he would not be slow in mentioning it, in hope of getting promotion."
Accordingly Terence made a point of only passing along that part of the wall once a day, and merely saying a word to the soldier, as he did to others, on the occasions when he was on duty.
Ten days later the man replied to his salutation by remarking that it was a "fair day." It happened that the man told off to guard them on this occasion was another of the 72nd; there was therefore nothing to be feared from him.
"I have arranged the matter, monsieur," the soldier said. "My sister's husband, Jules Varlin, will shelter you. He is a fisherman, and you can be safely hidden in the loft where he keeps his nets and gear. He is an honest fellow, and my sister has talked him over into lending his aid so far and, although he has not promised it yet, I think we shall get him to go down the river with you, so as to reply if you are challenged. You can put him ashore a mile or two along the coast.
"Now as to the escape, monsieur. Here is a sharp saw. With it you can cut round the lock of your door. There are two outside bolts, whose position I dare say you have noticed; by cutting a hole close to each of them, you can get your hand through and draw them. Here is a short-handled augur, to make a hole for the saw to go through.
"There are four sentries at night, in the courtyard. We shall manage to get all our men on duty, tomorrow evening. Our sergeant is a good fellow and, if he guesses anything, will hold his tongue; for I have heard him say, more than once, that it is monstrous that you should be kept a prisoner.
"Therefore you need not be afraid of them. They will take care to keep their eyes shut. I shall be on sentry duty here, and will get the disguises up, and a rope. When you have got down I shall let the rope drop, and you will carry it off and take it away with you; thus there will be no evidence where you descended.
"Here are two sharp files, with which you can cut through the bars of your window, and remove some of them; then it will not be known whether you escaped that way, or down the stairs; and the men on sentry in the courtyard at the bottom cannot be blamed because, for aught the governor will know, you may have gone out through this window into the other courtyard, and got over the wall on that side; so they would have no proof as to which set of men were negligent.
"No doubt we shall all be talked to, and perhaps kept in the guardroom a few days, but that won't hurt us; and soldiers are scarce enough, so they will hardly keep ten or twelve men long from duty. There are not enough in the town, now, to furnish all the guards properly; so you need not worry about us.
"I will give you instructions how to find my sister's house, tomorrow night. You must not escape until you hear the bell strike midnight. Our party will relieve guard at that hour. You see, we have four hours on duty and, as you may have gone either on the first watch, the second, or the third, they will not be able to pitch on us more than on the others; so that, in fact, the blame will be divided between forty of us. You will, of course, put on your disguises over your uniforms, and destroy your clothes, when you get to Jules' house."
"I thank you very warmly, my good fellow, for running all this risk for me. Here are two hundred francs to pay for the disguises."
"That will be more than enough," the soldier said. "Jules put it down at a hundred and fifty."
"Things may cost more than he expects. At any rate, please hand these to him. I can arrange matters with him when I see him.
"Then at about a quarter past twelve we will sally out. We will walk on now, lest any of the warders should happen to notice that we have been a long time on this part of the wall."
Ryan had understood but little of what was happening and, when Terence told him what had been arranged, he exclaimed: "Well, after this, Terence, I will never say a word against a Frenchman. Here are these soldiers going to run a lot of risk, and a certainty of getting into a row for us, merely because we did the best we could against those wretched Spaniards; and without getting any reward whatever, for they must know that prisoners are not likely to have any money to spare about them."
"Quite so, Ryan; and what is more, if I had a hundred pounds in my pocket, I would not offer them a penny; for certainly they would take it as an insult if I did so. They would feel that it would be a sort of bribe and, though they are ready to help us as comrades, I am sure they would not do it for money. I sincerely hope they won't get into any serious row. As he said, authorities won't be able to tell which party was on guard at the time we went, and they could hardly put the whole of them under arrest--at least, not keep them under arrest. No doubt there will be a close search in the town for us, but there is little fear of our being discovered.
"Our dangers won't begin until we are fairly afloat. I know nothing about sailing. I have rowed a boat many a time, at Athlone; but as for sailing, I have never once tried it."
"Nor have I," Ryan said. "But I suppose there is no difficulty about it. You put up the sail, and you take hold of the rope at the corner, and off you go."
"It sounds all right, Dicky, and I dare say we shall manage to get along, somehow; but these things are not half as easy as they look. Now we had better have four or five hours' sleep this afternoon, for I expect it will take us the best part of the night to file through the bars. You must not cut quite through them, but just leave them so that we can finish them off in a short time, tomorrow night."
"But the warder might notice them?"
"He is not likely to look very sharply, Dicky; but at the same time, it is just as well not to put too great a strain on his loyalty. We will keep a piece of bread over from our supper, work it up into a sort of paste, fill up any cuts we make, and rub it over with dirt till it well matches the bars. Certainly they have planned the affair capitally, so as to throw doubt as to which way we descended, and so divide the blame between as many of the sentries as possible."
It took four hours' work, that night, to get through the bars. They were most careful not to let any of the filings fall outside for, had any of them dropped into the courtyard below, they might well catch the eye of a warder; and in that case an examination of all the windows of the rooms above would certainly be made, at once. Before the warder's visit the next morning, the holes had been filled up with bread worked into a putty and smeared over with dust; which so nearly matched the bars that it could not be observed, except by a careful examination.
The next day they abstained from saying more than a passing word to any of the French soldiers. They waited, after being locked up for the night, for two or three hours; and then began their work at the door. The saw was a very narrow one and, when they had made a hole with the augur, they found no difficulty in cutting the wood; therefore they thought it was well to leave that for the last thing, and so betook themselves to their files, and soon removed enough of the bars to enable a man to crawl through. Then they returned to the door, and had cut round the lock, and made holes through which they could pass their hands to draw back the bolts, a short time before the clock struck twelve.
Then they went to the window, and listened. They heard the bells strike midnight, and then a stir below, as the sentries were relieved. Waiting for a few minutes, until all had become quiet again, they drew back the bolts, took off their shoes, and went noiselessly down the stairs.
The night was very dark and, although they could hear the tread of the sentries in the courtyard, they could not make out their figures. They crossed the yard, keeping as far as possible from the sentries. They had no doubt that all would happen as arranged; but there was, of course, the possibility that at the last moment some change might have been made; and it was, in any case, as well that the men there should be able to declare, honestly, that they had seen no one.
[Illustration: Stooping so that their figures should not show against the sky.]
They were glad when they reached the archway leading to the stairs that led to the top of the wall. Mounting, they kept along by the parapet, stooping so that their figures should not show against the sky for, dark as it was below, they might have been noticed had they not done so. Presently they saw the sentry.
"Diable, messieurs!" he said in a low tone, as they came up to him, "you gave me a start. I was expecting you, but I did not hear your footsteps nor see you and, had you been enemies, you might very well have seized and disarmed me before I could give the alarm.
"Well, here are your clothes."
They soon pulled the blue canvas leggings over their breeches, and over these the high boots, in which their feet felt lost. A rough blouse and a fisherman's oilskin cap completed the disguise. They put their boots into the capacious pockets in the blouses, and were then ready to descend. They had left their shakos in their cell when they started.
While they had been putting on their clothes, the sentry had fastened the rope and lowered it down.
"We are ready now, Jacques," Terence said. "Goodbye, my good friend. We shall never forget the kindness that you have shown us, and shall remember with gratitude, all our lives, how a party of French soldiers were ready to show themselves good comrades to men who had fought by their sides, even though the two nations were at war with each other. We shall always feel a kindness towards the French uniform, in future; and if you or any of your comrades of the 72nd should chance to fall into British hands, and you can send word to me or to Mr. Ryan, I can promise you that we will do all we can to have you released at once and sent back, or to aid you in any other way."
"We have done but our duty to brave comrades," the soldier said.
"Now, as to where to find my cousin. You will go down that street below, and take the third turning on the right. That will lead you down to the wharves. Keep along by the houses facing them until you come to the fourth turning. It is a narrow lane, and there is a cabaret at each corner of it. My cousin's house is the twelfth on the left-hand side. He will be standing at the door. You will say to him as you pass, 'It is a dark night,' and he will then let you in.
"Don't walk as if you were in a hurry: fishermen never do that. It is not likely that you will meet anyone, but if you do, and he sees two fishermen hurrying, it will strike him as singular; and when there came news of two prisoners having escaped, he might mention the matter, which might lead to a search in the right quarter."
"Will you go first, Ryan, or shall I?" Terence said.
"Just as you like."
"Well, then, you may as well go, as then I can talk with this good fellow till it is my turn."
Ryan shook the soldier's hand heartily, took hold of the rope, slung himself over the parapet, and began the descent. Terence and the soldier leaned over, and watched him until they could no longer make out the figure with certainty. As soon as the tension on the rope slackened, Terence grasped Jacques' hand, said a few more words of thanks, and then followed his companion. As soon as he reached the ground he shook the rope and, a minute later, it fell on the ground beside him.
He coiled it up, and then they started down the street. Following the instructions that they had received, in ten minutes they reached the end of the lane.
"We were to throw away the rope, were we not?" Ryan said.
"Yes, but now we are here, there can be no use in our doing so. If a length of rope were found lying in the road, people would wonder who had thrown it away; besides, it is a good stout piece of new rope, and may be of use to the fisherman."
Counting the doors carefully as they went along, they came to the twelfth where, before they reached it, the red glow from a pipe showed that a man was standing outside.
"It is a dark night, mate," Terence said in a low tone, as he came up to him.
"That is right," the man replied; "come in."
He stood aside as they entered, closed the door behind them, and then lifted a piece of old canvas thrown over a lighted lantern.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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6
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: Afloat.
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Jules Varlin held the lantern above his head, and took a good look at his visitors.
"You will pass very well for young fishermen, messieurs," he said, "when you have dirtied your faces and hands a bit, and rubbed your hair the wrong way, all over your head. Well, come in here. My wife is waiting up to welcome you. It is her doing that you are here. I should not have agreed, but what can one do when a woman once sets her mind upon a thing?"
He opened a door. A woman rose from her seat. She was some years younger than her husband.
"Welcome, messieurs," she said. "We are pleased, indeed, to be able to return the kindness you showed to my brother."
The fisherman grunted.
"No, Jules," she said, "I won't have you say that you haven't gone willingly into this. You pretended not to, but I know very well that it was only because you like to be coaxed, and that you would have done it for Jacques' sake."
"Jacques is a good fellow," her husband replied, "and I say nothing against him; but I don't know that I should have consented, if it had not been for you and your bothering me."
"Don't you believe him, monsieur. Jules has a good heart, though he likes pretending that he is a bear.
"Now, monsieur, I have some coffee ready for you."
"I need not say, madam," Terence said, "how truly thankful we both are for your and your husband's kindness, shown to us strangers; and I sincerely hope that you will have no cause to regret it. You may be sure of one thing: that if we are recaptured, we shall never say how our escape was effected, nor where we were sheltered afterwards; and if, after the war is over, we can find an opportunity of showing how grateful we are for your kindness, we shall not miss the chance."
"We are but paying the service you rendered to Jacques, monsieur. He tells me that, if it had not been for the aid the British prisoners gave them, that probably those Spanish bandits would have captured the church during the night; and we know that they never show mercy to prisoners."
The coffee was placed on the table and, after drinking it, the fisherman led them to a low shed in the yard.
"We could have done better for you," he said apologetically, "but it is likely that they may begin a search for you, early in the morning. This yard can be seen from many houses round about, so that, were you to sleep upstairs, you might be noticed entering here in the morning; and it is better to run no risks. We have piled the nets on the top of other things. You will find two blankets for covering yourselves there. In the morning I will come in and shift things, so as to hide you up snugly."
"We shall do just as well on the nets as if we were in bed," Terence laughed. "We are pretty well accustomed to sleep on the hard ground."
"I think we are going to have some bad weather," the man remarked, as they settled themselves on the nets. "I hope it will be so, for then none of the boats will put out; and there will be no comments on my staying at home, instead of going out as usual.
"And now, good night, and good sleep to you!"
"He is an honest-looking fellow," Terence said, when he had gone out, "and I have no doubt what his wife says of him is true; but it is not surprising that he held back at first. It is not everyone that is prepared to run the risk of heavy punishment for the sake of his wife's relations.
"This is not by any means bad; these nets make a very comfortable bed."
The next morning, at daybreak, the fisherman came in with a can containing hot coffee, two great slices of bread, and tin cups.
"Now, messieurs, when you have drank that I will stow you away. We shifted most of the things yesterday, so as to make as comfortable a bed for you as may be."
The nets were pulled off; and a mass of sails, ropes, and other gear appeared underneath. One of the sails in the corner was pulled away, and showed a vacant space, some six feet long and four feet wide, extending down to the ground, which was covered by old nets.
"Now, messieurs, if you will get down there, I shall pile a couple of sacks over and throw the nets on the top, and there is no fear of your being disturbed. I will bring your meals in to you, and let you know what is doing in the town; but I shall not come in oftener than I can help. I shall leave the doors open, as usual."
They took their places in the hole, and the fisherman piled sails and nets over the opening. There was no occasion to leave any apertures for air, for the shed was roughly built, and there were plenty of openings between the planks of which it was constructed. They had, before he came in, divested themselves of their uniforms; and these the fisherman put into a kit bag and carried indoors; where his wife at once proceeded to cut them up, and thrust the pieces into the fire.
"It is a pity," she said regretfully, "but it would never do to leave them about. Think what a waistcoat I could have made for you, Jules, out of this scarlet cloth. With the gold buttons it would have been superb, and it would have been the envy of the quarter; but it would never do."
"I should think not, Marie. Burn the clothes up, and give me the buttons and gold lace. I will put them in a bag with some stones, and drop them into the river. The sooner we get rid of them, the better."
As soon as the things were put into a bag, he went out with with them. The wind was blowing strongly and, as he had predicted the night before, the clouds were flying fast, and there were many signs of dirty weather. He returned a couple of hours later.
"There is quite an excitement in the town, Marie," he said. "Everyone is talking about it. Two rascally English prisoners have escaped, and the soldiers say that they must be somewhere in the town, for that they could never have passed through the lines. Some gendarmes have been along the quays, inquiring if a boat has been missed during the night; but they all seem to be safe. Written notices have been stuck up warning everyone, on pain of the severest punishment, not to give shelter to two young men, in whatever guise they may present themselves. The gendarmes say that the military authorities are convinced that they must have received assistance from without."
For the next three days, indeed, an active search was kept up. Every house was visited by the gendarmes but, as there was no reason for suspecting one person more than another, there was no absolute search made of the houses; which indeed, in so large a town as Bayonne, would have been almost impossible to carry out effectually.
The fisherman reported each day what was going on.
"The soldiers are giving it up," he said, at the end of the third day. "I saw Jacques today for the first time. He tells me there was a tremendous row when your escape was discovered. The warder, and every soldier who had been on duty that night, were arrested and questioned. The warder was the one first suspected, on the ground that you must have had assistance from without. He said that if you had, he knew nothing about it; and that, as you knew all the soldiers of the prison guard, and as he had heard many of them say it was very hard, after fighting as you did on their behalf, that you should be kept prisoner, any of them might have furnished you with tools for cutting the door and filing the bars. This was so clear that he was released at once. The soldiers were kept for two days under arrest. This morning the governor himself came down to the prison, and the men under arrest were drawn up. He spoke to them very sharply, to begin with. " 'One or more of you is assuredly concerned in this matter. A breach of trust of this kind is punishable with death.'
"Then he stopped, and looked fiercely up and down the line, and went on in a different tone: "'At the same time, I admit that some allowance is to be made for the crime, and I can understand that as soldiers you felt sympathy with soldiers who, although prisoners at the time, did not hesitate to cast in their lot with you, and to fight side by side with you. Still, a soldier should never allow private sentiments to interfere with his duty. I myself should have been glad, when you arrived here and I heard of what had happened, to have been able to place these British officers and soldiers in a ship, and to have sent them back to their own country; but that would have been a breach of my duty, and I was forced to detain them here as prisoners. Of course, if I could find out which among you have been concerned in this affair, it would be my duty to punish them--for there must have been more than one--severely. However, although I have done my best to discover this, I am not sorry, men, that I have been unable to do so; for although these men may have failed in their duties as soldiers, they have shown themselves true-hearted fellows to run that risk--not, I am sure, from any thought of reward, but to help those who had helped them. " 'You can all return to your duty, and I hope that you will, in future, remember that duty is the first thing with a soldier, and that he should allow no other feeling to interfere with it.'
"Jacques and his comrades are all satisfied that, although the general felt it was his duty to reprimand them, he was at heart by no means sorry that you had got off.
"The gendarmes are still making inquiries, but of course they have learned nothing. Nobody was about on the wharves at that time of night, and I don't think that they will trouble themselves much longer about it. They will come to believe that you must, somehow, have managed to get through the line of fortifications, and that you will be caught trying to make your way across the country.
"In another three or four days it will be quite safe for you to go down the river. For the first two days every boat that went down was stopped and examined, and some of the vessels were searched by a gunboat, and the hatches taken off; but I hear that no boats have been stopped today, so I fancy you will soon be able to go down without fear."
Although at night Terence and Ryan were able to emerge from their place of concealment, and walk up and down the little yard for two or three hours, they were heartily glad when, a week after their confinement, Jules told them that he thought they might start at daybreak, the next morning.
"Now, messieurs, if you will tell me what you want, I will buy the things for you."
They had already made out a list. It consisted of a nine-gallon breaker for water, a dozen bottles of cheap wine, thirty pounds of biscuits, and fifteen pounds of salt meat, which Jules's wife was to cook. They calculated that this would be sufficient to last them, easily, until they had passed along the Spanish coast to a point well beyond the towns garrisoned by the French, if not to Corunna itself.
"But how about the boat?" Terence asked, after all the other arrangements had been decided upon. "As I told you, we don't wish to take a boat belonging to anyone who would feel its loss; and therefore it must be a ship's boat, and not one of the fishermen's. If we had money to pay for it, it would be another matter; but we have scarcely enough now to maintain us on our way through Spain, and there are no means of sending money here when we rejoin our army."
"I understand that, monsieur; and I have been along the quay this morning taking a look at the boats. There are at least a dozen we could choose from; I mean ships' boats. Of course, many of the craft keep their boats hauled up at the davits or on deck, but most of them keep one in the water, so that they can row off to another ship or to the stairs. Some simply leave them in the water, because they are too lazy to hoist them up. That is the case, I think, with one boat that belongs to a vessel that came in, four days since, from the West Indies. It's a good-sized ship's dinghy, such as is used for running out warps, or putting a sailor ashore to bring off anything required. The other boats are better suited for a voyage, but they are for the most part too large and heavy to be rowed by two oars and, moreover, they have not a mast and sail on board, as this has. Therefore that is the one that I fixed my eye on.
"The ship is lying alongside, and there is not another craft outside her. The boat is fastened to her bowsprit, and I can take off my boots and get on board and drop into her, without difficulty; and push her along to the foot of some stairs which are but ten yards away. Of course, we will have the water and food and that bundle of old nets ready, at the top of the stairs, and we can be out into the stream five minutes after I have cut her loose. We must start just before daylight is breaking, so as to be off before the fishermen put out for, if any of these were about, they would at once notice that I have not got my own boat. At the same time I don't want to be far ahead of them, or to pass the gunboats at the mouth of the river in the dark, for that would look suspicious."
"And now, Jules, about yourself. Of course, I know well that no money could repay you for the kindness you have shown us, and your risking so much for strangers; and you know that we have not with us the means of making any return, whatever, for your services."
"I don't want any return, monsieur," the fisherman said. "I went into the matter a good deal against my will, because my wife had set her mind upon it; but since you came here I have got to have just as much interest in the matter as she has. I would not take a sou from you, now; but if, some day, when these wars are over, you will send a letter to Marie with some little present to her, just to show her that you have not forgotten us, it would be a great pleasure to us."
"That I will certainly do, Jules. It may be some time before there will be an opportunity of doing it, but you may be sure that we shall not forget you and your wife, or cease to be grateful for your kindnesses; and that, directly peace is made, or there is a chance in any other way of sending a letter to you, we will do so."
That evening Jacques paid a visit to his sister. He had abstained from doing so before, because he thought that the soldiers who were suspected of being concerned in the escape might all be watched; and that if any of them were seen to enter a house, a visit might be paid to it by the gendarmes. He did not come until it was quite dark, and made a long detour in the town before venturing to approach it. Before he entered the lane he took good care that no one was in sight.
When, after chatting for an hour, he rose to leave, Terence told him that when he wrote to his sister he should inclose a letter to him; as it would be impossible to write to him direct, for there would be no saying where he might be stationed. He begged him to convey the heartiest thanks of himself and Ryan to his comrades for the share they had taken in the matter.
On saying good night, Terence insisted on Marie accepting, as a parting gift, his watch and chain. These were handsome ones, and of French manufacture, Terence having bought them from a soldier who had taken them from the body of a French officer, killed during Soult's retreat from Portugal. They could, therefore, be shown by her to her friends without exciting any suspicion that they had been obtained from an English source. Marie accepted them very unwillingly, and only after Terence declaring that he should feel very grieved if she would not take the one present he was capable of making.
"Besides," he added, "no one can tell what fortune may bring about. Your husband might lose his boat, or have a long illness; and it is well to have something that you can part with, without discomfort, in such a time of need."
Jules, although desiring no pay for his services and risks, was very much gratified at the present.
"I for my part do not say no, monsieur," he said. "What you say is right. We are careful people, and I have laid by a little money; but as you say, one cannot tell what may happen. And if the weather were bad and there was a risk of never getting back home again, it would be a consolation to me to know that, in addition to the few hundred francs we have laid by since we were married, two years ago, there is something that would bring Marie, I should say, seven or eight hundred francs more, at least. That would enable her to set up a shop or laundry, and to earn her own living. I thank you from my heart, monsieur, for her and for myself."
Terence and Ryan slept as soundly as usual until aroused by Jules. Then they put on their sea boots again, loaded themselves with the nets and the bags with the provisions and wine, while Jules took the water barrel and after saying goodbye to Marie, started. There was not a soul on the wharf and, putting the stores down at the top of the steps, they watched Jules who, after taking off his boots, went across a plank to the ship, made his way noiselessly out on to the bow, swinging himself down into the boat, loosening the head rope before he did so. A push with the oar against the ship's bow sent the boat alongside the quay, and he then worked her along, with his hands against the wall, until he reached the steps.
The stores were at once transferred to the boat, and they pushed it out into the stream. The tide had but just turned to run out and, for half a mile, they allowed her to drift down the river. By this time the light was broadening out in the sky. Jules stepped the mast and hoisted the sail, and then seated himself in the stern and put an oar out in the hole cut for it to steer with. Terence watched the operation carefully. The wind was nearly due aft, and the boat ran rapidly through the water.
"We are just right as to time," Jules said, as he looked back where the river made a bend. "There are two others coming down half a mile behind us, so that we shall only seem to be rather earlier birds than the rest."
Near the mouth of the river two gunboats were anchored. They passed within a short distance of one of these, and a solitary sailor, keeping anchor watch on deck, remarked: "You are going to have a fine day for your fishing, comrade."
"Yes, I think so, but maybe there will be more wind presently."
Some time before reaching the gunboat, Ryan had lain down and the nets were thrown loosely over him, as it would be better that there should not seem to be more than the two hands that were generally carried in the small fishing boats. Once out of the river they steered south, laying a course parallel to the shore and about a mile out. After an hour's sail Jules directed her head into a little bay, took out an empty basket that he had brought with him, and stepped ashore, after a cordial shake of the hand. He had already advised them to bear very gradually to the southwest, and had left a small compass on board for their guidance.
"They are things we don't often carry," he said, "in boats of this size; but it will be well for you to take it. If you were blown out of sight of land you would find it useful. Keep well out from the Spanish coast, at any rate until you are well past Bilbao; after that you can keep close in, if you like, for you will be taken for a fishing boat from one of the small villages.
"I shall walk straight back now to the town. No questions are asked at the gates and, if anyone did happen to take notice of me, they would suppose I had been round peddling fish at the farmhouses."
Coming along, he had given instructions to Terence as to sailing the boat. When running before the wind the sheet was to be loose, while it was to be tightened as much as might be necessary to make the sail stand just full, when the wind was on the beam or forward of it.
"You will understand," he said, "that when the wind is right ahead you cannot sail against it. You must then get the sail in as flat as you can, and sail as near as you can to the wind. Then when you have gone some distance you must bring her head round, till the sail goes over on the other side; and sail on that tack, and so make a zigzag course: but if the wind should come dead ahead, I think your best course would be to lower the sail and row against it. However, at present, with the wind from the east, you will be able to sail free on your proper course."
Then he pushed the boat off.
"You had better put an oar out and get her head round," he said, "before hoisting the sail again. Goodbye; bon voyage!"
Since leaving the river, Terence had been sailing under his instructions and, as soon as the boat was under way again he said to his companion: "Here we are, free men again, Dicky."
"I call it splendid, Terence. She goes along well. I only hope she will keep on like this till we get to Corunna or, better still, to the mouth of the Douro."
"We must not count our chickens before they are hatched, Dicky. There are storms and French privateers to be reckoned with. We are not out of the wood yet, by a long way. However, we need not bother about them, at present. It is quite enough that we have got a stout boat and a favouring wind."
"And plenty to eat and drink, Terence; don't forget that."
"No, that is a very important item, especially as we dare not land to buy anything, for some days."
"What rate are we going through the water, do you think?"
"Jules said we were sailing about four knots an hour when we were going down the river, and about three when we had turned south and pulled the sail in. I suppose we are about halfway between the two now, so we can count it as three knots and a half."
"That would make," Ryan said, after making the calculation, "eighty-four miles in twenty-four hours."
"Bravo, Dicky! I doubted whether your mental powers were equal to so difficult a calculation. Well, Jules said that it was about four hundred miles to Corunna, and about a hundred and fifty to Santander, beyond which he thought we could land safely at any village."
"Oh, let us stick to the boat as long as we can!" Ryan exclaimed.
"Certainly. I have no more desire to be tramping among those mountains and taking our chance with the peasants than you have, and if the wind keeps as it is now we should be at Corunna in something like five days. But that would be almost too much to hope for. So that it does but keep in its present direction till we are past Santander, I shall be very well satisfied."
The mountains of Navarre and Biscay were within sight from the time they had left the river, and it did not need the compass to show them which way they should steer. There were many fishing boats from Nivelle, Urumia, and Saint Sebastian to be seen, dotted over the sea on their left. They kept farther out than the majority of these, and did not pass any of them nearer than half a mile.
After steering for a couple of hours, Terence relinquished the oar to his companion.
"You must get accustomed to it, as well as I," he said, "for we must take it in turns, at night."
By twelve o'clock they were abreast of a town; which was, they had no doubt, San Sebastian. They were now some four miles from the Spanish coast. They were travelling at about the same rate as that at which they had started, but the wind came off the high land, and sometimes in such strong puffs that they had to loosen the sheet. The fisherman had shown them how to shorten sail by tying down the reef points and shifting the tack and, in the afternoon, the squalls came so heavily that they thought it best to lower the sail and reef it. Towards nightfall the wind had risen so much that they made for the land, and when darkness came on threw out the little grapnel the boat carried, a hundred yards or so from the shore, at a point where no village was visible. Here they were sheltered from the wind and, spreading out the nets to form a bed, they laid themselves down in the bottom of the boat, pulling the sail partly over them.
"This is jolly enough," Ryan said. "It is certainly pleasanter to lie here and look at the stars than to be shut up in that hiding place of Jules's."
"It is a great nuisance having to stop, though," Terence replied. "It is a loss of some forty miles."
"I don't mind how long this lasts," Ryan said cheerfully. "I could go on for a month at this work, providing the provisions would hold out."
"I don't much like the look of the weather, Dicky. There were clouds on the top of some of the hills and, though we can manage the boat well enough in such weather as we have had today, it will be a different thing altogether if bad weather sets in. I should not mind if I could talk Spanish as well as I can Portuguese. Then we could land fearlessly, if the weather was too bad to hold on. But you see, the Spanish hate the Portuguese as much as they do the French; and would, as likely as not, hand us over at once at the nearest French post."
They slept fairly and, at daybreak, got up the grapnel and hoisted the sail again. Inshore they scarcely felt the wind but, as soon as they made out a couple of miles from the land, they felt that it was blowing hard.
"We won't go any farther out. Dick, lay the boat's head to the west again. I will hold the sheet while you steer, and then I can let the sail fly, if a stronger gust than usual strikes us. Sit well over this side."
[Illustration: 'She is walking along now.']
"She is walking along now," Ryan said joyously. "I had no idea that sailing was as jolly as it is."
They sped along all day and, before noon, had passed Bilbao. As the afternoon wore on the wind increased in force, and the clouds began to pass rapidly overhead, from the southeast.
"We had better get her in to the shore," Terence said. "Even with this scrap of sail, we keep on taking the water in on that lower side. I expect Santander lies beyond that point that runs out ahead of us, and we will land somewhere this side of it."
But as soon as they turned the boat's head towards the shore, and hauled in the sheet as tightly as they could, they found that, try as they would, they could not get her to lie her course.
"We sha'n't make the point at all," Terence said, half an hour after they had changed the course. "Besides, we have been nearly over, two or three times. I dare say fellows who understood a boat well could manage it but, if we hold on like this, we shall end by drowning ourselves. I think the best plan will be to lower the sail and mast, and row straight to shore."
"I quite agree with you," Ryan said. "Sailing is pleasant enough in a fair wind, but I cannot say I care for it, as it is now."
With some difficulty, for the sea was getting up, they lowered the sail and mast and, getting out the oars, turned her head straight for the shore. Both were accustomed to rowing in still water, but they found that this was very different work. After struggling at the oars for a couple of hours, they both agreed that they were a good deal farther away from the land than when they began.
"It is of no use, Dick," Terence said. "If we cannot make against the wind while we are fresh, we certainly cannot do so when we are tired; and my arms feel as if they would come out of their sockets."
"So do mine," Ryan said, with a groan. "I am aching all over, and both my hands are raw with this rough handle. What are we to do, then, Terence?"
"There is nothing to do that I can see, but to get her head round and run before the wind. It is a nuisance, but perhaps the gale won't last long and, when it is over, we can get up sail and make for the northwestern point of Spain. We have got provisions enough to last for a week.
"That is more comfortable," he added, as they got the boat in the required direction. "Now, you take the steering oar, Dick, and see that you keep her as straight as you can before the wind; while I set to and bale. She is nearly half full of water."
It took half an hour's work, with the little bowl they found in the boat, before she was completely cleared of water. The relief given to her was very apparent, for she rose much more lightly on the waves.
"We will sit down at the bottom of the boat, and take it by turns to hold the steering oar."
They had brought with them a lantern in which a lighted candle was kept burning, in order to be able to light their pipes. This was stowed away in a locker in the stern, with their store of biscuit and, after eating some of these, dividing a bottle of wine, and lighting their pipes, they felt comparatively comfortable. They were, of course, drenched to the skin and, as the wind was cold, they pulled the sail partly over them.
"She does not ship any water now, Terence. If she goes on like this, it will be all right."
"I expect it will be all right, Dick, though it is sure to be very much rougher than this when we get farther out. Still, I fancy an open boat will live through almost anything, providing she is light in the water. I don't suppose she would have much chance if she had a dozen men on board, but with only us two I think there is every hope that she will get through it.
"It would be a different thing if the wind was from the west, and we had the great waves coming in from the Atlantic, as we had in that heavy gale when we came out from Ireland. As it is, nothing but a big wave breaking right over her stern could damage us very seriously. There is not the least fear of her capsizing, with us lying in the bottom."
They did not attempt to keep alternate watches that night, only changing occasionally at the steering oar, the one not occupied dozing off occasionally. The boat required but little steering for, as both were lying in the stern, the tendency was to run straight before the wind. As the waves, however, became higher, she needed keeping straight when she was in a hollow between two seas. It seemed sometimes that the waves following behind the boat must break on to her, and swamp her but, as time after time she rose over them, their anxiety on this score lessened, and they grew more and more confident that she would go safely through it.
Occasionally the baler was used, to keep her clear of the water which came in in the shape of spray. At times they chatted cheerfully, for both were blessed with good spirits and the faculty of looking on the best side of things. They smoked their pipes in turns, getting fire from each other, so as to avoid the necessity of resorting to the lantern, which might very well blow out, in spite of the care they had at first exercised by getting under the sail with it when they wanted a light.
They were heartily glad when morning broke. The scene was a wild one. They seemed to be in the centre of a circle of mist, which closed in at a distance of half a mile or so, all round them. At times the rain fell, sweeping along with stinging force but, wet as they were, this mattered little to them.
"I would give something for a big glass of hot punch," Ryan said, as he munched a piece of biscuit.
"Yes, it would not be bad," Terence agreed; "but I would rather have a big bowl of hot coffee."
"I have changed my opinion of a seafaring life," Ryan said, after a pause. "It seemed delightful the morning we started, but it has its drawbacks; and to be at sea in an open boat, during a strong gale in the Bay of Biscay, is distinctly an unpleasant position."
"I fancy it is our own fault, Dicky. If we had known how to manage the boat, I have no doubt that we should have been able to get to shore. When the wind first began to freshen, we ought not to have waited so long as we did, before we made for shelter."
"Well, we shall know better next time, Terence. I think that, now that it is light, we had better get some sleep, by turns. Do you lie down for four hours, and then I will take a turn."
"All right! But be sure you wake me up, and mind you don't go to sleep; for if you did we might get broadside on to these waves, and I have no doubt they would roll us over and over. So mind, if before the four hours are up you feel you cannot keep your eyes open, wake me at once. Half an hour will do wonders for me, and I shall be perfectly ready to take the oar again."
|
{
"id": "20207"
}
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7
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: A French Privateer.
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Terence went off into a deep sleep as soon as he had pulled the sail over his head, but it seemed to him as if but a minute had elapsed when his companion began to stir him up with his foot.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I am awfully sorry to wake you," Ryan shouted, "but you have had two hours of it, and I really cannot keep my eyes open any longer. I have felt myself going off, two or three times."
"You don't mean to say that I have been asleep for two hours?"
"You have, and a few minutes over. I looked at my watch as you lay down."
"All right! Give me the oar. I say, it is blowing hard!"
"I should think it is. It seems to me it is getting up, rather than going down."
"Well, we are all right so far," Terence said cheerfully, for he was now wide awake again. "Besides, we are getting quite skilful mariners. You had better spend a few minutes at baling before you lie down, for the water is a good three inches over the boards."
All day the storm continued and, when darkness began to close in, it seemed to them that it was blowing harder than ever. Each had had two spells of sleep, and they agreed that they could now keep awake throughout the night. It was bad enough having no one to speak to all day, but at night they felt that companionship was absolutely needed. During the day they had lashed together the spars, sail, and the barrel of water--which was now nearly half empty--so that if the boat should be swamped, they could cling to this support.
It was a terrible night but, towards morning, both were of opinion that the gale was somewhat abating. About eight o'clock there were breaks in the clouds and, by noon, the sun was shining brightly. The wind was still blowing strong, but nothing to what it had been the evening before and, by nightfall, the sea was beginning to go down. The waves were as high as before, but were no longer broken and crested with heads of foam and, at ten o'clock, they felt that they could both safely lie down till morning.
The steering oar was lashed in its position, the sail spread over the whole of the stern of the boat, every drop of water was baled out and, lying down side by side, they were soon fast asleep. When they woke the sun was high, the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze, and the boat was rising and falling gently on the smooth rollers.
"Hurrah!" Ryan shouted, as he stood up and looked round. "It is all over. I vote, Terence, that we both strip and take a swim, then spread out our clothes to dry, after which we will breakfast comfortably and then get up sail."
"That is a very good programme, Dicky; we will carry it out, at once."
While they were eating their meal, Ryan asked: "Where do you suppose we are, Terence?"
"Beyond the fact that we are right out in the Bay of Biscay, I have not the most remote idea. By the way the water went past us, I should say that we had been going at pretty nearly the same rate as we did when we were sailing; say, four miles an hour. We have been running for forty-eight hours, so that we must have got nearly two hundred miles from Santander. The question is: would it be best to make for England, now, or for Portugal? We have been going nearly northwest, so I should think that we are pretty nearly north of Finisterre, which may lie a hundred and twenty miles from us; and I suppose we are two or three times as much as that from England. The wind is pretty nearly due east again now, so we can point her head either way. We must be nearly in the ship course, and are likely to be picked up, long before we make land. Which do you vote for?"
"I vote for the nearest. We may get another storm, and one of them is quite enough. At any rate, Spain will be the shortest, by a great deal and, if we are picked up, it is just as likely to be by a French privateer as by an English vessel."
"I am quite of your opinion, and am anxious to be back again, as soon as I can. If we got to England and reported ourselves, we might be sent to the depot and not get out again, for months; so here goes for the south."
The sail was hoisted, and the boat sped merrily along. In a couple of hours their clothes were dry.
"I think we had better put ourselves on short rations," Terence said. "We may be farther off than we calculate upon and, at any rate, we had better hold on to the mouth of the Tagus, if we can; there are sure to be some British officials there, and we shall be able to get money, and rejoin our regiment without loss of time; while we might have all sort of trouble with the Spaniards, were we to land at Corunna or Vigo."
No sail appeared in sight during the day.
"I should think we cannot have come as far west as we calculated," Terence said, "or we ought to have seen vessels in the distance; however, we will keep due south. It will be better to strike the coast of Spain, and have to run along the shore round Cape Finisterre, than to risk missing land altogether."
That night they kept regular watches. The wind was very light now, and they were not going more than two knots an hour through the water. Ryan was steering when morning broke.
"Wake up, Terence!" he exclaimed suddenly, "here is a ship within a mile or so of us. As she is a lugger, I am afraid she is a French privateer."
Terence sprang to his feet. The light was still faint, but he felt sure that his companion was right, and that the vessel was a French privateer.
"We have put our foot in it now, and no mistake," Ryan said. "It is another French prison and, this time, without a friendly soldier to help us to get out."
"It looks like it, Dicky. In another hour it will be broad daylight, and they cannot help seeing us. Still, there is a hope for us. We must give out that we are Spanish fishermen, who have been blown off the coast. It is not likely they have anyone on board that speaks Spanish, and our Portuguese will sound all right in their ears; so very likely, after overhauling us, they will let us go on our way. At any rate, it is of no use trying to escape; we will hold on our course for another few minutes, and then head suddenly towards her, as if we had only just seen her. I will hail her in Portuguese, and they are sure to tell us to come on board; and then I will try to make them understand by signs, and by using a few French words, that we have been blown out to sea by the gale, and want to know the course for Santander. As the French have been there for some time, it would be natural enough for us to have picked up a little of their language."
In a few minutes they altered their course and sailed towards the lugger, which also soon turned towards them. When they approached within the vessel's length, Terence stood up, and shouted in Portuguese: "What is the bearing of Santander?"
The reply was in French, "Come alongside!" given with a gesture of the arm explaining the words. They let the sail run down as they came alongside. Terence climbed up, by the channels, to the deck.
"Espagnol," he said to the captain, who was standing close to him as he jumped down on to the deck; "Espagnoles, Capitaine; Poisson, Santander; grand tempete," and he motioned with his arms to signify that they had been blown offshore at Santander. Then he pointed in several directions towards the south, and looked interrogatively.
"They are Spanish fishermen who have been blown off the coast," the captain said to another officer. "They have been lucky in living it out. Well, we are short of hands, having so many away in prizes; and the boat will be useful, in place of the one we had smashed up in the gale. Let a couple of men throw the nets and things overboard, and then run her up to the davits."
Then he said to Terence: "Prisoners! Go forward and make yourself useful;" and he pointed towards the forecastle.
Terence gave a yell of despair, threw his hat down on the deck and, in a volley of Portuguese, begged the captain to let them go. The latter, however, only waved his hand angrily; and two sailors, coming up, seized Terence by the arms and dragged him forward. Ryan was called upon deck, and also ordered forward. He too remonstrated, but was cut short by a threatening gesture from the captain.
For a time they preserved an appearance of deep dejection, Terence tugging his hair as if in utter despair, till Ryan whispered: "For heaven's sake, Terence, don't go on like that, or I shall break out in a shout of laughter."
"It is monstrous, it is inhuman!" Terence exclaimed, in Portuguese. "Thus to seize harmless fishermen, who have so narrowly escaped drowning; the sea is less cruel than these men. They have taken our boat, too, our dear good boat. What will our mothers think, when we do not return? That we have been swallowed up by the sea. How they will watch for us, but in vain!"
Fortunately for the success of their story, the lugger hailed from a northern French port and, as not one on board understood either Spanish or Portuguese, they had no idea that the latter was the language in which the prisoners were speaking. After an hour of pretended despair, both rose from the deck on which they had been sitting and, on an order being given to trim the sails, went to the ropes and aided the privateersmen to haul at them and, before the end of the day, were doing duty as regular members of the crew.
"They are active young fellows," the captain said to his first mate, as he watched the supposed Spaniards making themselves useful. "It was lucky for them that they had a fair store of provisions and water in their boat. We are very short handed, and they will be useful. I would have let them go if it had not been for the boat but, as we have only one left that can swim, it was too lucky a find to give up."
The craft had been heading north when Ryan had first seen her, and she held that course all day. Terence gathered from the talk of the sailors that they were bound for Brest, to which port she belonged. The Frenchmen were congratulating themselves that their cruise was so nearly over, and that it had been so successful a one. From time to time a sailor was sent up into the cross trees, and scanned the horizon to the north and west. In the afternoon he reported that he could make out the upper sails of a large ship going south. The captain went up to look at her.
"I think she is an English ship of war," he said, when he descended to the deck, "but she is a long way off. With this light wind we could run away from her. She will not trouble herself about us. She would know well enough that she could not get within ten miles of us, before it got dark."
This turned out to be the case, for the lookout from time to time reported that the distant sail was keeping on her course, and the slight feeling of hope that had been felt by Terence and Ryan faded away. They were placed in the same watch, and were below when, as daylight broke, they heard sudden exclamations, tramping of feet overhead, and a moment later the watch was summoned on deck.
"I hope that they have had the same luck that we had, and have run into the arms of one of our cruisers," Terence whispered in Portuguese to Ryan, as they ran up on deck together.
As he reached the deck the boom of a cannon was heard, and at the same instant a ball passed through the mainsail. Half a mile away was a British sloop of war. She had evidently made out the lugger before the watch on board the latter had seen her. The captain was foaming with rage, and shouting orders which the crew hurried to execute. On the deck near the foremast lay the man who had been on the lookout, and who had been felled with a handspike by the captain when he ran out on deck, at the first alarm. Although at first flurried and alarmed, the crew speedily recovered themselves, and executed with promptitude the orders which were given.
There was a haze on the water, but a light wind was stirring, and the vessel was moving through the water at some three knots an hour. As soon as her course had been changed, so as to bring the wind forward of the beam, which was her best point of sailing, the men were sent to the guns; the first mate placing himself at a long eighteen pounder, which was mounted as a pivot gun aft, a similar weapon being in her bows. All this took but four or five minutes, and shot after shot from the sloop hummed overhead.
The firing now ceased, as the change of course of the lugger had placed the sloop dead astern of her; and the latter was unable, therefore, to fire even her bow chasers without yawing. It was now the turn of the lugger. The gun in the stern was carefully trained and, as it was fired, a patch of white splinters appeared in the sloop's bulwarks. A cheer broke from the French. The effect of the shot, which must have raked her from stem to stern, was at once evident. The sloop bore off the wind, until her whole broadside could be seen.
"Flat on your faces!" the captain shouted.
There was a roar of ten guns, and a storm of shot screamed overhead. Four of them passed through the sails. One ploughed up the deck, killing two sailors and injuring three others with the splinters. Two or three ropes of minor importance were cut, but no serious damage inflicted.
The crew, as they leapt to their feet, gave a cheer. They knew that, with this light wind, their lugger could run away from the heavier craft; and that the latter could only hope for success by crippling her.
"Steady with the helm!" the captain went on, as the pivot gun was again ready to deliver its fire. "Wait till her three masts show like one.
"Jacques, aim a little bit higher. See if you cannot knock away a spar."
The sloop was coming up again to the wind and, as she was nearly stem on, the gun cracked out again. A cheer broke from the lugger as her opponent's foretop mast fell over her side, with all its hamper. Round the sloop came, and delivered the other broadside. Two shots crashed through the bulwarks, one of them dismounting a gun which, in its fall, crushed a man who had thrown himself down beside it. Another shot struck the yard of the foresail, cutting it asunder; and the lugger at once ran up into the wind.
"Lower the foresail!" the captain shouted. "Quick, men! and lash a spare spar to the yard. They are busy cutting away their topmast, but we shall be off again before they are ready to move. They have lost nearly half a mile; we shall soon be out of range. Be sharp with that gun again!"
The sloop had indeed fallen greatly astern while delivering her broadsides; but her commander had evidently seen that, unless the wind sprang up, the lugger would get away from him unless he could cripple her; and that she might seriously damage him, and perhaps knock one of the masts out of him by her stern chaser. His only chance, therefore, of capturing her was to take a spar out of her. He did not attempt to come about again, after firing the second broadside; but kept up his fire as fast as his guns could be loaded.
The lugger, however, was stealing rapidly away from him and, in ten minutes, had increased her lead by another half mile, without having suffered any serious damage; and the sloop soon ceased fire, as she was now almost out of range. Seven or eight of the crew had been more or less injured by splinters but, with the exception of the three killed, none were badly hurt. The lugger was now put on her former course, the guns lashed into their places again, and the three men killed sewn up in hammocks and laid between two of the guns, in order to be handed to their friends on arrival in port.
"That is another slip between the cup and the lip," Terence remarked to his companion, as the sloop ceased firing. "I certainly thought, when we came on deck, that our troubles were over. I must say for our friend, the French captain, he showed himself a good sailor, and got out of the scrape uncommonly well."
"A good deal too well," Ryan grumbled; "it was very unpleasant while it lasted. It is all very well to be shot at by an enemy, but to be shot at by one's friends is more than one bargained for."
The coolness under fire displayed by the two Spaniards he had carried off pleased the captain, who patted them on the shoulder as he came along, his good temper being now completely restored by his escape.
"You are brave fellows," he said, "and will make good privateersmen. You cannot do better than stay with us. You will make as much money, in a month, as you would in a year's fishing."
Terence smiled vaguely, as if he understood that the captain was pleased with them, but did not otherwise catch his meaning. They arrived at Brest without further adventure. As they neared the port, the captain asked Terence if he and his companion would enter upon the books of the privateer and after much difficulty made, as he believed, Terence understand his question. The latter affected to consult Ryan, and then answered that they would be both willing to do so. The captain then put the names they gave him down on the ship's roll, and handed each of them a paper, certifying that Juan Montes and Sebastian Peral belonged to the crew of the Belle Jeanne, naming the rate of wages that they were to receive, and their share in the value of the prizes taken. He then gave them eighty francs each, as an advance on their pay from the date of their coming on board, and signified to them that they must buy clothes similar to those worn by the crew, instead of the heavy fishermen's garments they had on.
"They will soon learn our language," he said to the mate, "and I am sure they will make good sailors. I have put down their wages and share of prize money at half that of our own men, and I am sure they will be well worth it, when they get to speak the language and learn their duties."
As soon as they were alongside, the greater portion of the men went ashore and, in the evening, the boatswain landed with Terence and Ryan, and proceeded with them to a slop shop, where he bought them clothes similar to those worn by the crew. Beyond the fact that these were of nautical appearance, there was no distinctive dress. They then returned to the lugger and changed their clothes at once, the boatswain telling them to stow away their boots and other things, as these would be useful to them in bad weather.
The next day the privateer commenced to unload, for the most valuable portions of the cargoes of the captured ships had been taken on board when the vessels themselves, with the greater portion of the goods they carried, had been sent into port under the charge of prize crews. They remained on board for ten days, going freely into the town, sometimes with the sailors and sometimes alone. Terence pretended to make considerable progress in French, and was able, though with some difficulty, to make himself understood by the crew. The first mate had gone with them to the mairie, where the official stamp had been affixed to their ship papers.
They found that no questions were asked of persons entering or leaving the town, on the land side; and twice strolled out and went some distance into the country. They had agreed that it would be better to defer any attempt to escape until the day before the lugger sailed, as there would then be but little time for the captain to make inquiries after them, or to institute a search. They bought a pocket map of the north of France, and carefully studied the roads.
"It is plain enough what our best course is, Dick. We must go along this projecting point of Brittany through Dinan to Avranches, and then follow the coast up till we get to Coutances. You see it is nearly opposite Jersey, and that island does not look to be more than fifteen miles away so that, if we can get hold of a boat there, we should be able to run across in three hours or so, with favourable wind."
"That looks easy enough," Ryan agreed. "It seems to be about one hundred and twenty miles from here to Avranches, and another thirty or forty up to Coutances, so we should do it in a week, easily. What stories shall we make up, if we are questioned?"
"I don't suppose the peasants we may meet on the road are likely to question us at all, for most of the Bretons speak only their own language. We had better always sleep out in the open. If we do run across an official, we can show our papers and give out that we have been ill treated on board the lugger, and are going to Saint Malo, where we mean to ship on another privateer. I know that is a port from which lots of them sail. I don't think we shall have any difficulty in buying provisions at small villages. My French will pass muster very well in such places, and I can easily remark that we are on our way to Saint Malo to join a ship there and, if any village functionary questions us, these papers will be good enough for him.
"Or we can say that we got left ashore by accident, when our craft sailed from Brest, and are going to rejoin her at Saint Malo, where she was going to put in. I think, perhaps, that that would be a better story than that we had run away. I don't know that the authorities interest themselves in runaway seamen from privateers but, at any rate, it is a likely tale. Drunken seamen, no doubt, often do get left ashore."
"Yes, that would be a very good story, Terence, and I think that there would be no great fear, even if we were to go boldly into a town."
"I don't think there would; still, it is better to be on the safe side, and avoid all risks."
Accordingly, the afternoon before the Belle Jeanne was to sail they went ashore, bought enough bread and cold meat to last them for a couple of days; and two thick blankets, as it was now November and the nights were bitterly cold; and then left the town and followed the road for Dinan. On approaching the village of Landerneau they left the road, and lay down until it was quite dark. Then they made a detour through the fields, round the village, came down on the road again, walked all night--passing through Huelgoat--and then, as morning was breaking they left the road again and, after going a quarter of a mile through the fields, lay down in a dry ditch by the side of a thick hedge, ate a meal, and went to sleep.
They did not start again until it was getting dusk, when they returned to the road, which they followed all night. In the morning they went boldly into a little village, and Terence went into a shop and bought a couple of loaves. His French was quite good enough for so simple an operation.
"I suppose you are going to Saint Malo," the woman said.
"Yes. We have had a holiday to see some friends at Brest, and are going to rejoin."
This was the only question asked and, after walking another two miles, they lay up for the day as before. They had met several peasants on the road, and had exchanged salutations with them. They found by their map that they were now within twenty miles of Dinan, having made over thirty miles each night and, as both were somewhat footsore from their unaccustomed exercise, they travelled only some sixteen or seventeen miles the following night.
The next evening, at about ten o'clock, they walked boldly through Dinan. Most of the inhabitants were already asleep, and the few who were still in the streets paid no heed to two sailors; going, they had no doubt, to Saint Malo. Crossing the river Rance by the bridge, they took the road in the direction of the port but, after following it for a mile or two, struck off to the east and, before morning, arrived on the river running up from the bay of Mount Saint Michaels. They lay down until late in the afternoon, and then crossed the river at a ferry, and kept along by the coast until they reached the Sebine river.
"We are getting on first rate," Ryan said, as they lay down for a few hours' sleep. "We have only got Avranches to pass, now."
"I hope we sha'n't be questioned at all, Dick, for we have now no good story to tell them; for we are going away from Saint Malo, instead of to it. Of course, as long as they don't question us we are all right. We are simply two sailors on our way home for a time; but if we have to show our papers, with those Spanish names on them, we should be in a fix. Of course, we might have run away from our ship at Saint Malo, but that would not explain our coming up this way. However, I hope my French is good enough to answer any casual questions without exciting attention. We will cross by the ferry boat, as soon as it begins to ply and, as Avranches stands some little distance up the river, we can avoid it altogether by keeping along the coastline."
A score of peasants had assembled by the time the ferry boat man made his appearance from his cottage, and Terence and his companion, who had been lying down 200 yards away, joined them just as they were going down to the boat.
"You are from Saint Malo, I suppose?" an old peasant said to Terence.
The latter nodded.
"We have got a month's leave from our ship," he said. "She has been knocked about by an English cruiser, and will be in the shipwright's hands for five or six weeks, before she is ready for sea again."
"You are not from this part of the country," the peasant, who was speaking in the patois of Normandy, remarked.
"No, we come from the south; but one of our comrades comes from Cherbourg and, as he cannot get away, we are going to see his friends and tell them that he is well. It is a holiday for us, and we may as well go there as anywhere else."
The explanation was simple enough for the peasant, and Terence continued chatting with him until they landed.
"You do not need to go through Avranches," the latter said. "Take the road by the coast through Granville to Coutances."
"How far is it to Coutances?"
"About twenty miles. At least, so I have heard, for I have never been there."
After walking a few miles, they went down on to the seashore and lay down among some rocks until evening. At eight o'clock they started again and walked boldly through Granville, where their sailor's dress would, they felt sure, attract no attention. It was about nine o'clock when they entered the place. Their reason for doing so at this hour was that they wished to lay in a stock of provisions, as they did not intend to enter Coutances until late at night; when they hoped to be able to get hold of a boat, at once. They had just made their purchases when they met a fat little man, with a red sash--which showed him to be the Maire of the place, or some other public functionary.
"Where are you going, and what ship do you belong to?" he asked pompously.
"We are sailors on our way from Saint Malo to Cherbourg," Terence replied.
"You have papers, of course?"
"Of course, Monsieur le Maire."
"I must see them," the Maire said. "Come with me to my house, close by."
There were several persons near, and a man in civil uniform was with the Maire. Therefore Terence gave an apparently willing assent and, followed by the functionary, they went into a house close by. A lamp was burning on the table in the hall.
"Light these candles in my office," the Maire said. "The women have gone up to bed."
The man turned a key, went in and, bringing out two candles, lighted them at the lamp; and they then went into the room. The Maire seated himself in an armchair at the table. The minor functionary placed the two suspected persons on the side facing him, and took his place standing by their side.
As they were going in, Terence whispered: "If there is trouble, I will take this fellow, and you manage the Maire."
"Now," that functionary said, "let me see your papers.
"Why," he exclaimed, looking at the names, "you are not Frenchmen!"
"No," Terence said quietly. "We do not pretend to be but, as you see, we are sailors who have done service on board a French privateer."
"But where is this privateer?"
"I don't know, Monsieur le Maire. We were not satisfied with our treatment, so we left her at Brest."
"This is very serious," the Maire said. "You are Spaniards. You have deserted your ship at Brest. You have travelled a hundred and fifty miles through France, and now what are you doing here?"
"We are, as you say, monsieur, travelling through France. We desire to see France. We have heard that it is the greatest country in the world. Frenchmen visit Spain in large numbers. Why should not Spaniards visit France?"
The tone of sarcasm in which Terence spoke was not lost upon the Maire, who rose from his seat, purple with anger.
"You will take these men into custody," he said to his assistant. "This is a very grave business."
"Now, Dick!" Terence exclaimed and, turning to the man who stood next to him, he grasped him suddenly by the throat.
At the same moment Ryan caught up a heavy inkstand and threw it across the table at the Maire, striking that functionary in the stomach, and doubling him completely up. Then he ran round the table and bound the man--who had not yet recovered his breath--tightly in his chair, and thrust his handkerchief into his mouth.
The man whom Terence was holding had scarcely struggled. Terence, as he gripped him, had said, "Keep quiet or I will choke you!" and the prisoner felt that his assailant could do so in a moment, if he chose.
His hands were fastened tightly behind him, with his own belt, by Ryan. A short ruler was thrust between his teeth, and fastened there by a handkerchief going round the back of his head.
"So far so good, Dick. Now look round for something with which we can bind them more firmly."
Several hanks of red tape lay upon the table. With a portion of one of these, the back of the chair in which the Maire sat was lashed to the handle of a heavy bureau. Then his feet were fastened to the two legs of the chair, so that he could neither kick nor upset himself. The other man was then fastened as securely. This done they blew out the candles, left the room, locked the door behind them--taking the key--and then sallied out into the street.
"That was a good shot of yours with the inkstand," Terence said.
"I had my eye on it, all the time he was speaking," Ryan replied. "I saw that, if I were to move to get round the table at him, the little man would have time to shout; but that if I could hit him in the wind, it would be all right."
"Well, there must be no more stopping, now. I don't know whether there is a Mrs. Maire; if not, there will certainly be no alarm until morning. If there is, it depends upon what sort of woman she is as to how long a start we shall get. If she is a sleepy woman she is probably dreaming by this time, and may not discover until morning that her lord and master is not by her side. If she is a bad-tempered woman, she will probably lie for an hour or two, thinking over what she shall say to him when he comes in. If she is a nervous woman, she will get up and go downstairs.
"I left the lamp burning in the hall on purpose. Seeing it there, she will naturally think that he has not come in, and will go upstairs again for an hour or two; then she will probably call up the servants, and may send them out to look for him; finally, she may go to the police office and wake up a constable. It is not probable there are any of them on night duty, in a quiet place like this. Altogether, I calculate that it will be at least four hours before they think of breaking open the door of the office, to see if he is there; so at the worst we have got four hours' start; at the best, ten hours.
"It is only half-past nine now. We shall be at the mouth of the Sienne in three hours, or less. It does not look above nine or ten miles on the map and, directly we get fairly out of the town, we will go as quickly as we can, for every minute is of importance.
"If we can get hold of a boat at once, we ought to be at Jersey soon after daybreak; although I am not very sure of that, for I believe there are all sorts of strong currents along this coast. I remember one of the officers saying so, as we came down the Channel on the voyage out. Of course, it will make a difference whether we can get a boat with a sail, or not. If we cannot find a boat, we shall have to hide up; but you may be sure that there will be a hot search for us in the morning, and we must get off tonight, if we can. Most likely there is a fishing village somewhere near the mouth of the river."
As soon as they were out of the town they broke into a trot; which they continued, with scarcely any intermission, until they approached a small village.
"I expect this stands on the bank of the river," Terence said. "There is no chance of anyone being up, so we can go through fearlessly."
A couple of hundred yards farther they reached the river. A large ferry boat was moored here. Keeping along the bank to the left, they were not long before they came upon several boats hauled up on the shore; while three or four others lay at their moorings, a short distance out.
"Thank goodness," Terence exclaimed. "We shall have no difficulty, now!"
They selected the boat lying nearest the water's edge. The moon was half full, but was now sinking towards the west. Its light, however, was of some assistance to them. There was a mast and sail in the boat, as well as a pair of oars.
At first they were unable to move her down to the water but, getting some oars out of the other boats, they laid them down as rollers and, with these, managed after great exertions to get her afloat.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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8
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: A Smart Engagement.
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After pushing the boat out into the stream, Terence and his companion allowed it to drift quietly for some distance; and then, getting out the oars, rowed hard until they were beyond the mouth of the river. The tide was, they thought, by the level of the water where they had embarked, within an hour or two of flood. They therefore determined to shape their course to the north of the point where they believed Jersey to lie, so that when tide turned, it would sweep them down upon it. The wind was too light to be of any assistance, but the stars were bright, and the position of the north star served as a guide to the direction they should take.
It had taken them some considerable time to launch the boat, and they calculated that it was nearly midnight when they left the mouth of the river. There was no occasion to row hard for, until it became daylight and they could see the island of Jersey, they could not shape their course with any certainty; and could only hope that by keeping to the north of it they would not find, in the morning, that the tide had taken them too far to the south.
"We are very lucky in our weather," Terence said as, after labouring at the heavy oars for a couple of hours, they paused for a few minutes' rest. "If it had been a strong wind, it would never have done for us to have started. I believe in bad weather there are tremendous currents about the islands, and desperately rough water. A fog would have been even worse for us. As it is, it seems to me we cannot go very far wrong. I suppose the tide is about turning now; but if by daylight we find that we have been carried a long way past the island, we shall soon have the tide turning again, which will take us back to it.
"I am more afraid of falling in with a French privateer than I am of missing the island. There are sure to be some of them at Granville, to say nothing of Saint Malo. I don't suppose any of those at Granville will put out in search of us, merely to please the Maire; but if any were going to sea, they would be sure to keep a lookout for us."
"If they did see us, we should have no chance of getting away, Terence. This boat is not so big as the one we stole at Bayonne, but it rows much heavier."
"There is one thing--even a privateer could not sail very fast in this light wind and, if it freshens in the morning, we can get up the sail."
"Then I hope it will get up a bit," Ryan said, "for after another five or six hours' rowing, with these beastly oars, my hands will be raw; and I am sure my back and arms will be nearly broken."
"We must risk that, Dick. We calculated fifteen miles in a straight line across to Jersey, so that we must jog along at the rate of a couple of miles an hour to get far enough to the west. Now then, let us be moving again."
The night seemed interminable to them; and they felt relieved, indeed, when morning began to break. In another half hour it would be light enough for them to see for a considerable distance. Unshipping their oars, they stood up and looked round.
"That must be Jersey," Terence exclaimed, pointing to the north. "The current must have taken us past it, as I was afraid it would. What time is it, Dick?"
"Nearly eight."
"Then tide must be turning already. The island must be six miles away now. If we row hard we shall know, in half an hour, whether we are being carried north or south."
"But we must be going north if tide has turned, Terence?"
"I don't know--I remember that the mate of the Sea Horse said that, in the Channel, the course of the current did not change at high and low water; so there is no saying what way we are going, at present. Well, there is a little more wind, and I suppose we had better get up our sail. There is Jersey, and whether we get there a little sooner or a little later cannot make much difference. I am sure we are both too tired to row her much faster than we can sail."
Terence agreed, and they accordingly stepped the mast and hoisted the sail. At first the boat moved but slowly through the water, but the wind was freshening and, in half an hour, she was foaming along.
"Tide is against us, still," Terence said presently. "I don't think we are any nearer Jersey that when we first saw it."
"Look there!" Ryan exclaimed, a few minutes later, "there is a lugger coming out from the direction of Granville."
"So there is, Dick, and with the wind behind her, she won't be very long before she is here. I should say that she is about six or seven miles off, and an hour will bring her up to us."
"I will get out an oar, Terence. That will help us a bit. We can change about, occasionally."
Terence was steering with the other oar, while he held the sheet. The boat was travelling at a good rate, but the lugger was fast running down towards them.
"There is a schooner coming out from Jersey!" Terence exclaimed, joyously. "If she is a British privateer we may be saved yet. I had just made up my mind that we were in for another French prison."
Ryan looked over his shoulder.
"She is farther off than the lugger," he said.
"Yes, but the current that is keeping us back is helping her on towards us. It will be a close thing; but I agree with you, I am afraid that the lugger will be here first.
"Change seats with me. I will have a spell at the oar."
He was a good deal stronger than Ryan, and he felt comparatively fresh after his hour's rest, so there was a perceptible increase in the boat's speed after the change had been effected. When the lugger was within a mile of them, and the schooner about double that distance, the former changed her course a little, and bore up as if to meet the schooner.
"Hurrah!" Ryan shouted. "The Frenchman is making for the schooner and, if the Jersey boat don't turn and run, there will be a fight."
"The lugger looks to me the bigger boat," Terence said, as he stopped rowing for a moment. "However, we are likely to be able to slip off while they are at it."
Rapidly the two vessels approached each other and, when within a mile, a puff of smoke broke out from the lugger's bow; and was answered almost instantly by one from the schooner. Running fast through the water, the vessels were soon within a short distance of each other. Terence had ceased rowing, for there was no fear that the lugger, which was now abeam of them, would give another thought to the small boat.
The fight was going on in earnest, and the two vessels poured broadsides into each other as they passed; the lugger wearing round at once, and engaging the schooner broadside to broadside.
"The Frenchman has the heavier metal," Terence said. "I am afraid the schooner will get the worst of it. The lugger is crowded with men, too. What do you say, Dick? Shall we do our best to help the schooner?"
"I think we ought to," Ryan agreed, at once. "She has certainly saved us, and I think we ought to do what we can."
Accordingly he brought the boat nearer to the wind. The two vessels were now close-hauled, and were moving but slowly through the water. The boat passed two or three hundred yards astern of the lugger, sailed a little farther; and then, when able to lay her course for the schooner, went about and bore down towards her. Just as they did so, the halliards of the schooner's mainsail were shot asunder, and the sail ran down the mast. There was a shout of triumph from the lugger, and she at once closed in towards her crippled adversary.
"They are going to try and carry the schooner by boarding," Terence exclaimed. "Keep her as close as she will go, Dick," and, seizing his oar again, he began to row with all his might.
By the time they came up, the two vessels were side by side. The guns had ceased their fire, but there was a rattle of pistol shots, mingled with the clash of arms and the shouts of the combatants. Running up to the schooner's side, Terence and Ryan clambered on the channel and sprung on to the deck of the schooner.
A desperate fight was going on forward, where the two vessels touched each other. There was no one aft. Here some fifteen or twenty feet of water separated the ships, and even the helmsmen had left the wheel to join in the fight. About half of the lugger's crew had made their way on to the deck of the schooner, but the Jersey men were still fighting stoutly. The rest of the lugger's crew were gathered in the bow of their own vessel, waiting until there should be a clear enough space left for them to join their comrades.
"Things look bad," Terence exclaimed. "The French crew are a great deal stronger. Lend me a hand to turn two of these eight-pounders round. There are plenty of cartridges handy."
They drew the cannon back from their places, turned them round, loaded them with a charge of powder, and then rammed in two of the bags of bullets that were lying beside them. The schooner stood higher out of the water than the lugger, and they were able to train the two cannon so that they bore upon the mass of Frenchmen in the latter's bow.
"Take steady aim," Terence said. "We are only just in time; our fellows are being beaten back."
A moment later the two pieces were fired. Their discharge took terrible effect among the French, sweeping away more than half of those gathered in the lugger's bow.
"Load again!" Terence exclaimed. "They are too strong for the Jersey men, still."
For a moment the French boarders had paused; but now, with a shout of fury, they fell upon the crew of the schooner, driving them back foot by foot towards the stern. The cannon were now trained directly forward and, when the crowd of fighting men approached them, Terence shouted in French to the Jersey men to fall back on either side.
The captain, turning round and seeing the guns pointing forward, repeated the order in a stentorian shout. The Jersey men leapt to one side or the other, and the moment they were clear the two cannon poured their contents into the midst of the French; who had paused for a moment, surprised at the sudden cessation of resistance.
Two clear lanes were swept through the crowd; and then, with a shout, the captain of the schooner and his crew fell upon the Frenchmen. Ryan was about to rush forward, when Terence said: "No, no, Ryan, load again; better make sure."
The heavy loss they had suffered, however, so discouraged the French that many at once turned and, running back, jumped on to the deck of the lugger; while the others, though still resisting, were driven after them.
As soon as the guns were reloaded they were trained, as before, to bear on the lugger's bow and, as the French were driven back, they were again fired. This completed the discomfiture of the enemy and, with loud shouts, the Jersey men followed them on to the deck of their own ship.
Terence and Ryan now ran forward, snatched up a couple of cutlasses, and joined their friends; and were soon fighting in the front line. But the French resistance was now almost over. Their captain had fallen and, in five minutes, the last of them threw down their arms and surrendered; while a great shout went up from the crew of the schooner. The French flag was hauled down and, as soon as the prisoners had been sent below, an ensign was brought from the schooner, fixed to the flag halliards above the tricolor, and the two hoisted together.
The captain had already turned to the two men who had come so opportunely to his assistance.
"I do not know who you are, or where you come from, men, but you have certainly saved us from capture. I did not know it was the Annette until it was too late to draw off, or I should not have engaged her; for she is the strongest lugger that sails out of Granville, and carries double our weight of metal, with twice as strong a crew; but whoever you are, I thank you most heartily. I am half owner of the schooner, and should have lost all I was worth, to say nothing of perhaps having to pass the next five years in a French prison."
"We are two British officers," Terence said. "We have escaped from a French prison, and were making our way to Jersey when we saw that lugger coming after us, and should certainly have been captured had you not come up; so we thought the least we could do was to lend you a hand."
"Well, gentlemen, you have certainly saved us. Jacques Bontemps, the captain of the Annette, was an old acquaintance of mine. He commanded a smaller craft before he got the Annette, and we have had two or three fights together.
"So it was you whom I saw in that little boat! Of course, we made out that the lugger was chasing you, though why they should be doing so we could not tell; but we thought no more about you after the fight once began, and were as astonished as the Frenchmen when you swept their bow. I just glanced round and saw what looked like two French fishermen, and thought that you must be two of the lugger's crew who, for some reason or other, had turned the guns against their own ship.
"It will be a triumph, indeed, for us when we enter Saint Helier. The Annette has been the terror of our privateers. Fortunately she was generally away cruising, and many a prize has she taken into Granville. I have had the luck to recapture two of them, myself; but when she is known to be at home we most of us keep in port, for she is a good deal more than a match for any craft that sails out from Saint Helier.
"She only went into Granville yesterday, and I thought that there was no fear of her being out again, for a week or so. When I saw her, I took her for a smaller lugger that sails from that port, and which is no more than a match for us. The fact is, we were looking at her chasing you, and wondering if we should be in time, instead of noticing her size. It was not until she fired that first broadside that we found we had caught a tartar. We should have run, if there had been a chance of getting away; but she is a wonderfully fast boat, and we knew that our only chance was to knock away one of her masts.
"And now, we will be making sail again. You must excuse me for a few minutes."
In half an hour the main halliards had been repaired, and the sail hoisted. When other damages were made good the captain, with half his crew, went on board the lugger; and the two vessels sailed together for Jersey. Terence and his companion had accompanied the captain.
"Now, gentlemen, you may as well come down with me into the cabin. It is likely enough that you will be able to find some clothes, in Bontemps' chest, that will fit you. He was a dandy, in his way. At any rate, his clothes will suit you better than those you have on."
They found, indeed, that the lugger's captain had so large a store of clothing that they had no difficulty, whatever, in rigging themselves out. While they were changing, the captain had left them. He returned, presently, with a beaming face.
"She is a more valuable prize than I hoped for," he said. "She is full almost to the hatches with the plunder she had taken in her last cruise. I cannot make out what led her to come out of Granville, unless it was in pursuit of you."
"I expect it was that," Terence said. "We were arrested by the Maire of Granville, and had to tie him and one of his officials up. He was a pompous little man; and no doubt, when he got free, went down to the port and persuaded the captain of the lugger to put out, at once, to endeavour to find us. I expect he told him that we were prisoners of importance, either English spies or French emigres.
"Well, Captain, I am glad that the capture has turned out well for you."
"You certainly ought to share it," the captain said; "for if it had not been for you, matters would have gone all the other way, and we should have undoubtedly been captured."
"Oh, we don't want to share it! We have helped you to avoid a French prison, but you have certainly saved us from the same thing, so we are fairly quits."
"Well, we shall have time to talk about that when we get into port. In the meantime we will search Jacques' lockers. Like enough there may be something worth having there. Of course, he may have taken it ashore, directly he landed; but it is hardly likely and, as he has evidently captured several British merchantmen while he has been out, he is sure to have some gold and valuables in the lockers."
The search, indeed, brought to light four bags of money, each marked with the name of an English ship. They contained, in all, over 800 pounds; with several gold watches, rings, and other valuables.
"Now, gentlemen," the captain said, "at least you will divide this money with me. The Annette and the cargo below hatches are certainly worth ten times as much, and I must insist upon your going shares with me. I shall feel very hurt if you will not do so."
"I thank you, Captain," Terence said, "and will not refuse your offer. We shall have to provide ourselves with new uniforms, and take a passage out to Portugal, which is where our regiments are, at present; so the money will be very useful."
"And I see you have not a watch, monsieur. You had better take one of these."
"Thanks! I parted with mine to a good woman, who helped me to escape from Bayonne; so I will accept that offer, also."
In two hours the schooner entered the port of Saint Helier; the lugger, under easy sail, following in her wake. They were greeted with enthusiastic cheers by the crowd that gathered on the quays, as soon as it was seen that the prize was the dreaded Annette--which had, for some months past, been a terror to the privateers and fishermen of the place--and that she should have been captured by the Cerf seemed marvellous, indeed.
A British officer was on the quay when they got alongside. He came on board at once.
"The governor has sent me to congratulate you, in his name, Captain Teniers," he said, "on having captured a vessel double your own size, which has for some time been the terror of these waters. He will be glad if you will give me some particulars of the action; and you will, when you can spare time afterwards, go up and give him a full report of it."
"I owe the capture entirely to these two gentlemen, who are officers in your army. They had escaped from a French prison, and were making for this port when I first saw them this morning, with the Annette in hot chase after them. It did not strike me that it was her, for it was only last night that the news came in that she had been seen, yesterday, sailing towards Granville; and I thought that she was the Lionne, which is a boat our own size. I came up before she had overhauled the boat and, directly the fight began, I could see the mistake I had made. But as she was a good deal faster than we were, it was of no use running. There was just a chance that I might cripple her, and get away."
He then related the incidents of the fight.
"Well, I congratulate you, gentlemen," the officer said, heartily. "You have indeed done a good turn to Captain Teniers. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"
"My name is O'Connor," replied Terence. "I have the honour to be on Sir Arthur Wellesley's staff; and have the rank of captain in our army, but am a colonel in the Portuguese service. This is Lieutenant Ryan, of His Majesty's Mayo Fusiliers."
The officer looked a little doubtful, while Terence was speaking. It was difficult to believe that the young fellow, of one or two and twenty, at the outside, could be a captain on Lord Wellington's staff--for Sir Arthur had been raised to the peerage, after the battle of Talavera--still less that he should be a colonel in the Portuguese service. However, he bowed gravely, and said: "My name is Major Chalmers, of the 35th. I am adjutant to the governor. If it will not be inconvenient, I shall be glad if you will return with me, and report yourselves to him."
"We are quite ready," Terence said. "We have nothing to do in the way of packing up, for we have only the clothes we stand in; which were, indeed, the property of the captain of the lugger, who was killed in the action."
Telling Captain Teniers that they would be coming down again, when they had seen the governor, the two friends accompanied the officer. Very few words were said on the way, for the major entertained strong doubts whether Terence had not been hoaxing him, and whether the account he had given of himself was not altogether fictitious. On arriving at the governor's he left them for a few minutes in the anteroom; while he went in and gave the account he had received, from the captain, of the manner in which the lugger had been captured; and said that the two gentlemen who had played so important a part in the matter were, as they said, one of them an officer on the staff of Lord Wellington and a colonel in the Portuguese army, and the other a subaltern in the Mayo Fusiliers.
"Why do you say, as they said, major? Have you any doubt about it?"
"My only reason for doubting is that they are both young fellows of about twenty, which would accord well enough with the claim of one of them to be a lieutenant; but that the other should be a captain on Lord Wellington's staff, and a colonel in the Portuguese service, is quite incredible."
"It would seem so, certainly, major. However, it is evident that they have both behaved extraordinarily well in this fight with the Annette, and I cannot imagine that, whatever story a young fellow might tell to civilians, he would venture to assume a military title to which he had no claim, on arrival at a military station. Will you please ask them to come in? At any rate, their story will be worth hearing."
"Good day, gentlemen," he went on, as Terence and Ryan entered. "I have to congratulate you, very heartily, upon the very efficient manner in which you assisted in the capture of the French privateer that has, for some time, been doing great damage among the islands. She has been much more than a match for any of our privateers here and, although she has been chased several times by the cruisers, she has always managed to get away.
"And now, may I ask how you happened to be approaching the island, in a small boat, at the time that the encounter took place?"
"Certainly, sir. We were both prisoners at Bayonne. I myself had been captured by the French, when endeavouring to cross the frontier into Portugal with my regiment; while Lieutenant Ryan was wounded at Talavera, and was in the hospital there when the Spaniards left the town, and the French marched in."
"What is your regiment, Colonel O'Connor?"
"It is called the Minho regiment, sir, and consists of two battalions. We have had the honour of being mentioned in general orders more than once; and were so on the day after the first attack of Victor upon Donkin's brigade, stationed on the hill forming the left of the British position at Talavera."
The governor looked at his adjutant who, rising, went to a table on which were a pile of official gazettes. Picking out one, he handed it to the governor, who glanced through it.
"Here is the general order of the day," he said, "and assuredly Lord Wellington speaks, in the very highest terms, of the service that Colonel O'Connor and the Minho regiment, under his command, rendered. Certainly very high praise, indeed.
"You will understand, sir, that we are obliged to be cautious here; and it seemed so strange that so young an officer should have attained the rank of colonel, that I was curious to know how it could have occurred."
"I am by no means surprised that it should seem strange, to you, that I should hold the rank I claim. I was, like my friend Lieutenant Ryan, in the Mayo Fusiliers; when I had the good fortune to be mentioned, in despatches, in connection with an affair in which the transport that took us out to Portugal was engaged with two French privateers. In consequence of the mention, General Fane appointed me one of his aides-de-camp; and I acted in that capacity during the campaign that ended at Corunna. I was left on the field, insensible, on the night after that battle.
"When I came to myself, the army was embarking; so I made my way through Galicia into Portugal and, on reaching Lisbon, was appointed by Sir John Craddock to his staff; and was sent by him on a mission to the northern frontier of Portugal.
"On the way I took the command of a body of freshly-raised Portuguese levies, who were without an officer or leader of any kind. With the aid of a small escort with me, I formed them into a reliable regiment, and had the good fortune to do some service with them. I was therefore confirmed in my command, and was given Portuguese rank. Sir Arthur Wellesley, on succeeding Sir John Craddock in the supreme command, still kept my name on the headquarter staff, thereby adding greatly to my authority; and continued me in the independent command of my regiment.
"After Talavera we were despatched to aid the Spaniards in holding the pass of Banos but, before we arrived there, Soult had crossed the pass and, being cut off by his force from rejoining the army, I determined to cross the mountains into Portugal. In so doing we came upon a French division, on its march to Plasencia, and the company of my regiment with which I was were cut off, and taken prisoners."
"Forgive me for having doubted you, Colonel O'Connor. I should, of course, have remembered your name. In his report of his operations, before and subsequent to the battle of Talavera, Lord Wellington mentions, more than once, that his left during his advance was covered by the partisan corps of Wilson and O'Connor; and mentions, too, that it was by messengers from Colonel O'Connor that he first learned how formidable a force was in his rear, and was therefore able to cross the Tagus and escape from his perilous position. Of course, it never entered my mind that the officer who had rendered such valuable service was so young a man.
"There is only one mystery left. How was it, when you and Mr. Ryan escaped from Bayonne, that you are found in a boat in the Bay of Saint Malo?"
"It does seem rather a roundabout way of rejoining," Terence said, with a smile. "We escaped in a boat and made along the north coast of Spain but, when off Santander, were blown out to sea in a gale, and were picked up by a French privateer. We were supposed to be two Spanish fishermen and, as the privateer was short of boats, they took ours and enrolled us among their crew. They were on their way to Brest, and we took an opportunity to desert, and made our way on foot until we reached the mouth of the river Sienne; and made off in a boat, last night. This morning we saw the privateer in chase of us, and should certainly have been recaptured had not the Cerf come up and engaged her. While the fight was going on we had gone on board the schooner, unperceived by either party, and took what seemed to us the best way of aiding our friends; who were getting somewhat the worst of it, the crew of the lugger being very much stronger than the crew of the schooner."
"Well, I hope that you will both, at once, take up your quarters with me as long as you stay here; and I shall then have an opportunity of hearing of your adventures more in detail."
"Thank you very much, sir. We shall be very happy to accept your kind invitation; but I hope we shall not trespass upon your hospitality long, for we are anxious to be off, as soon as possible, so as to rejoin without loss of time. I am particularly so for, although it will be two or three months before there is any movement of the troops, I am afraid of finding someone else appointed to the command of my regiment; and I have been so long with it, now, that I should be sorry indeed to be put to any other work."
"That I can quite understand. Well, there is no regular communication from here, but there is not a week passes without some craft or other sailing from here to Weymouth."
"We would rather, if possible, be put on board some ship on her way to Portugal," Terence said. "If we landed in England, we should have to report ourselves, and might be sent to a depot, and be months before we got out there again. I spoke to the captain of the Cerf about it, this morning; and he was good enough to promise that, as soon as he had repaired damages, he would run out into the Bay, and put us on board the first ship he overhauled bound for the Peninsula."
"That would be an excellent plan, from your point of view," the governor said. "Teniers is one of the best sailors on the island, and has several times carried despatches for me to Weymouth. You could not be in better hands."
Four days later the schooner was ready to sail again.
"This will be my last voyage in her," the captain said. "I have had an offer for her, and shall sell her as soon as I come back again, as I shall take the command of the Annette. I ought to do well in her, for her rig and build are so evidently French that I shall be able to creep up close to any French vessel making along the coast, or returning from abroad, without being suspected of being an enemy. Of course, I shall have to carry a much stronger crew than at present; and I hope to clip the wings of some of these French privateers, before long."
They had, on the day of their landing, ordered new uniforms, and had purchased a stock of underclothing. They were fortunate in being able to pick up swords and belts, and all were now ready for them and, on the fifth day after landing, they said goodbye to the governor, and sailed on board the Cerf.
When twenty-four hours out the vessel lay to, being now on the track of ships bound south. On the following day they overhauled six vessels and, as the last of these was bound with military stores for Lisbon, Terence and Ryan were transferred to her. With a hearty adieu to the skipper, they took their places in the boat and were rowed to the vessel; being greeted, on their departure, by a loud and hearty cheer from the crew of the privateer. There were no passengers on board the store ship, and they had an uneventful voyage, until she dropped anchor in the Tagus.
After paying the captain the small sum he charged for their passage, they landed. They first went to a hotel and put up. On sallying out, Ryan had no difficulty in learning that the Mayo Fusiliers were at Portalegre.
Terence took his way to headquarters. The first person he met, on entering, was his old acquaintance Captain Nelson, now wearing the equipments of a major. The latter looked at him inquiringly, and then exclaimed: "Why, it is O'Connor! Why, I thought you were a prisoner! I am delighted to see you. Where have you sprung from?"
"I escaped from Bayonne and, after sundry adventures, landed an hour ago. In the first place, what has been done with my regiment?"
"It is with Hill's division, which is at Abrantes and Portalegre."
"Who is in command?"
"Your friend Herrara. No British officer has been appointed in your place. There was some talk of handing it over to Trant in the spring but, as nothing can be done before that, no one has yet been nominated."
"I am glad, indeed, to hear it. I have been fidgeting about it, ever since I went away."
"Well, I will take you in to the adjutant general, at once. I heard him speak, more than once, of the services you rendered by sending news that Soult and Ney were both in the valley, and so enabling Lord Wellington to get safely across the Tagus. He said it was an invaluable service. Of course Herrara reported your capture, and that you had sacrificed yourself, and one of the companies, to secure the safety of the rest. Now, come in."
[Illustration: 'This is Colonel O'Connor, sir.']
"This is Colonel O'Connor, sir," Major Nelson said, as he entered the adjutant general's room. "I could not resist the pleasure of bringing him in to you. He has just escaped from Bayonne, and landed an hour ago."
"I am glad to see you, indeed," the adjutant general said, rising and shaking Terence warmly by the hand. "The last time we met was on the day when Victor attacked us, in the afternoon, after sending the Spaniards flying. You rendered us good service that evening, and still greater by acquainting the commander-in-chief of the large force that had gathered in his rear--a force at least three times as strong as we had reckoned on. A day later, and we should have been overwhelmed. As it was, we had just time to cross the Tagus before they were ready to fall upon us.
"I am sure Lord Wellington will be gratified, indeed, to hear that you are back again. I suppose you will like to return to your command of the Minho regiment?"
"I should prefer that to anything else," Terence said, "though, of course, I am ready to undertake any other duty that you might intrust to me."
"No, I think it would be for the good of the service that you should remain as you are. The difficulty of obtaining anything like accurate information, of the strength and position of the enemy, is one of the greatest we have to contend with; and indeed, were it not for Trant's command and yours, we should be almost in the dark.
"Please sit down for a minute. I will inform Lord Wellington of your return."
|
{
"id": "20207"
}
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9
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: Rejoining.
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The adjutant general returned in two or three minutes.
"Will you please come this way, Colonel O'Connor," he said, as he re-entered the room; "the commander-in-chief wishes to speak to you."
"I am glad to see you back, Colonel O'Connor," Lord Wellington said cordially, but in his usual quick, short manner; "the last time I saw you was at Salamende. You did well at Talavera; and better still afterwards, when the information I received from you was the only trustworthy news obtained during the campaign, and was simply invaluable. Sir John Craddock did me no better service than by recognizing your merits, and speaking so strongly to me in your favour that I retained you in command of the corps that you had raised. I shall be glad to know that you are again at their head, when the campaign reopens; for I know that I can rely implicitly upon you for information. Of course, your name has been removed from the list of my staff, since you were taken prisoner; but it shall appear in orders tomorrow again. I shall be glad if you will dine with me, this evening."
"I wish I had a few more young officers like that," he said to the adjutant general, when Terence had bowed and retired. "He is full of energy, and ready to undertake any wild adventure, and yet he is as prudent and thoughtful as most men double his age. I like his face. He has a right to be proud of the position he has won, but there is not the least nonsense about him, and he evidently has no idea that he has done anything out of the ordinary course. At first sight he looks a mere good-tempered lad, but the lower part of his face is marked by such resolution and firmness that it goes far to explain why he has succeeded."
There were but four other officers dining with the commander-in-chief that evening. Lord Wellington asked Terence several questions as to the route the convoy of prisoners had followed, the treatment they had received, and the nature of the roads, and whether the Spanish guerillas were in force. Terence gave a brief account of the attack that had been made on the French convoy, and the share that he and his fellow prisoners had taken in the affair; at which Lord Wellington's usually impassive face lighted up with a smile.
"That was a somewhat irregular proceeding, Colonel O'Connor."
"I am afraid so, sir; but after their treatment by the Spaniards when in the hospital at Talavera, our men were so furious against them that I believe they would have fought them, even had I endeavoured to hold them back; which, indeed, being a prisoner, I do not know that I should have had any authority to do."
"And how did you escape from Bayonne?" the general asked.
"Through the good offices of some of the soldiers who had been our escort, sir. They were on duty as a prison guard and, being grateful for the help that we had given them in the affair with the guerillas, they aided me to escape."
"And how did you manage afterwards?"
Terence related very briefly the adventures that he and his companion had had, before at last reaching Jersey.
On leaving, the adjutant general requested him to call in the morning before starting to rejoin his regiment, as he expressed his intention of doing. The talk was a long and friendly one, the adjutant general asking many questions as to the constitution of his corps.
"There is one thing I should like very much, sir," Terence said, after he had finished, "it would be a great assistance to me if I had an English officer, as adjutant."
"Do you mean one for each battalion, or one for the two?"
"I think that one for both battalions would answer the purpose, sir. It would certainly be of great assistance to me, and take a great many details off my hands."
"I certainly think that you do need assistance. Is there any one you would specially wish to be appointed?"
"I should be very glad to have Lieutenant Ryan, who has been with me on my late journey. We are old friends, as I was in the Mayo regiment with him. He speaks Portuguese very fairly. Of course, it would be useless for me to have an officer who did not do so. I should certainly prefer him to anyone else."
"That is easily managed," the officer replied. "I will put him in orders, today, as appointed adjutant to the Minho Portuguese regiment, with the acting rank of captain. I will send a note to Lord Beresford, stating the reason for the appointment for, as you and your officers owe your local rank to him, he may feel that he ought to have been specially informed of Ryan's appointment; although your corps is in no way under his orders, but acting with the British army."
"I am very much obliged to you, indeed, sir. It will be a great comfort to me to have an adjutant, and it will naturally be much more pleasant to have one upon whom I know I can depend absolutely. Indeed, I have been rather in an isolated position, so far. The majors of the two battalions naturally associate with their own officers, consequently Colonel Herrara has been my only intimate friend and, although he is a very good fellow, one longs sometimes for the companionship of a brother Englishman."
Terence had not told Dick Ryan of his intention to ask for him as his adjutant. When he joined him at the hotel, he saluted him with: "Well, Captain Ryan, have you everything ready for the start?"
"I have, General," Dick replied with a grin, "or perhaps I ought to say Field Marshal."
"Not yet, Dicky, not yet; and indeed, possibly I am premature myself, in addressing you as Captain."
"Rather; I should say I have a good many steps to make, before I get my company."
"Well, Dick, I can tell you that, when the orders come out today, you will see your name among them as appointed adjutant to the Minho Portuguese regiment, with acting rank as captain."
"Hurrah!" Ryan shouted. "You don't say that you have managed it, old fellow? I am delighted. This is glorious. I am awfully obliged to you."
"I think, Dick, we will make up our minds not to start until this evening. You know we had arranged to hire a vehicle, and that I should get a horse when I joined; but I think now we may as well buy the horses at once, for of course you will be mounted, too. We might pay a little more for them, but we should save the expense of the carriage."
"That would be much better," Dick said. "Let us go and get them, at once. There must be plenty of horses for sale in a place like this and, as we are both flush of money, I should think that a couple of hours would do it."
"I hope it will. As I told them at headquarters that I was going to start today, I should not like any of them to run across me here this evening. No doubt the landlord of the hotel can tell us of some man who keeps the sort of animals we want. The saddlery we shall have no difficulty about."
Two hours later a couple of serviceable horses had been bought; with saddles, bridles, holsters, and valises. In the last named were packed necessaries for the journey, and each provided himself with a brace of double-barrelled pistols. The rest of their effects were packed in the trunks they had bought at Jersey, and were handed over to a Portuguese firm of carriers, to be sent up to the regiment.
At two o'clock they mounted and rode to Sobral. The next day they rode to Santarem, and on the following evening to Abrantes. They here learned that their corps was in camp, with two other Portuguese regiments, four miles higher up the river. As it was dark when they arrived at Abrantes, they agreed to sleep there and go on the next morning; as Terence wished to report himself to General Hill, to whose division the regiment was attached, until operations should commence in the spring.
They put up at an inn and, having eaten a meal, walked out into the town, which was full of British soldiers. They were not long before they found the cafe that was set apart for the use of officers and, on entering, Terence at once joined a party of three, belonging to a regiment with all of whose officers he was acquainted, as they had been encamped next to the Mayo Fusiliers during the long months preceding the advance up the valley of the Tagus. Ryan was, of course, equally known to them; and the three officers rose, with an exclamation of surprise, as the newcomers walked up to the table.
"Why, O'Connor! How in the world did you get here? How are you, Ryan? I thought that you were both prisoners."
"So we were," Terence said, "but as you see, we gave them the slip, and here we are."
They drew up chairs to the little table.
"You may consider yourself lucky in your regiment being on the river, O'Connor. You will be much better off than Ryan will be, at Portalegre."
"I am seconded," Ryan said, "and have been appointed O'Connor's adjutant, with the temporary rank of captain."
"I congratulate you. The chances are you will have a much better time of it than if you were with your own regiment. I don't mean now, but when the campaign begins in the spring. O'Connor always seems to be in the thick of it, while our division may remain here, while the fighting is going on somewhere else. Besides, he always manages to dine a good deal better than we do. His fellows, being Portuguese, are able to get supplies, when the peasants are all ready to take their oath that they have not so much as a loaf of bread or a fowl in their village.
"How will you manage to get on with them, Ryan, without speaking their language? Oh! I remember, you were grinding up Portuguese all the spring, so I suppose you can get on pretty well, now."
"Yes; O'Connor promised that he would ask for me, as soon as I could speak the language, so I stuck at it hard; and now, you see, I have got my reward."
"I can tell you that the troops, here, are a good deal better off than they are elsewhere. There is a fearful want of land carriage, but we get our supplies up by boats. That is why the Portuguese regiments are encamped on the river.
"Well, how did you get away from the French? It is curious that when I saw O'Grady last--which was a fortnight ago, when he came in to get a conveyance to take over sundry cases of whisky that had come up the river, for the use of his mess--he said: "'I expect that O'Connor and Dick Ryan will turn up here, before the spring. I am sure they will, if they have got together.'"
"It is too long a story to tell, here," Ryan said. "It is full of hairbreadth escapes, dangers by sea and land, and ends up with a naval battle."
The officers laughed.
"Well, will you come to our quarters?" one of them said. "We have got some decent wine, and some really good cigars which came up from Lisbon last week, and there are lots of our fellows who will be glad to see you."
They accordingly adjourned to a large building where the officers of the regiment were quartered and, in the apartment that had been turned into a mess room, they found a dozen officers, all of whom were known both to Terence and Ryan. After many questions were asked and answered on both sides, Ryan was requested to tell the story of their adventures after being taken prisoners. He told it in an exaggerated style that elicited roars of laughter, making the most of what he called The Battle of the Shirt Sleeves with the guerillas; exaggerating the dangers of his escape, and the horrors of their imprisonment, for a week, among the sails and nets.
"O'Connor," he said, "has hardly got back his sense of smell yet. The stink of tar, mixed with fishy odours, will be vivid in my remembrance for the rest of my life."
When he had at last finished, one of them said: "And now, how much of all this is true, Ryan?"
"Every fact is just as I have told it," he replied gravely. "You may think that I have exaggerated, for did an Irishman ever tell a story, without exaggeration? But I give you my honour that never did one keep nearer to the truth than I have done. I don't say that the fisherman's wife took quite such a strong fancy to me as I have stated, although she can hardly have been insensible to my personal advantages; but really, otherwise, I don't know that I have diverged far from the narrow path of truth. I tell you, those two days that we were running before that gale was a thing I never wish to go through again."
"And you really tied up the Maire of Granville, Ryan?"
"We did so," Dicky said, "and a miserable object the poor little fat man looked, as he sat in his chair trussed up like a fowl."
"And now, about the sea fight, Ryan?"
"Every word was as it happened. O'Connor and I turned gunners, and very decent shots we made, too; and a proof of it was that, if we would have taken it, I believe the captain of the schooner would have given us half the booty found in the lugger's hold; but we were modest and self denying, and contented ourselves with a third, each, of the cash found in the captain's cabin; which we could not have refused if we wanted to, the captain made such a point of it. It came to nearly three hundred pounds apiece; and mighty useful it was, for we had, of course, to get new uniforms and rigs out, and horses and saddlery at Lisbon. I don't know what I should have done without it, for my family's finances would not have stood my drawing upon them; and another mortgage would have ruined them, entirely."
"Well, certainly, that is a substantial proof of the truth of that incident in your story; but I think that, rather than have passed forty-eight hours in that storm, I would have stopped at Bayonne and taken my chance of exchange."
"Then I am afraid, Forester, that you are deficient in martial ardour," Terence said gravely. "Our desire to be back fighting the French was so great that no dangers would have appalled us."
There was a general laugh.
"Well, at any rate, you managed uncommonly well, Ryan, whether it was martial ardour that animated you or not; and O'Grady was not far wrong when he said that you and O'Connor would creep out through a mouse's hole, if there was no other way of doing it."
"Now, what has been doing since we have been away?" Terence asked.
"Well, to begin with, all Andalusia has been captured by Soult. Suchet has occupied Valencia. Lerida was captured by him, after a scandalously weak resistance; for there were over nine thousand troops there, and the place surrendered after only 1000 had fallen. Gerona, on the other hand, was only captured by Augereau after a resistance as gallant as that of Saragossa.
"That is the extraordinary thing about these Spaniards. Sometimes they show themselves cowardly beyond expression, at others they fight like heroes. Just at present, even the Juntas do not pretend that they have an army capable of driving the French out of the Pyrenees; which is a comfort, for we shall have to rely upon ourselves and not be humbugged by the Spaniards, the worthlessness of whose promises, Lord Wellington has ascertained, by bitter experience. The Portuguese government is as troublesome and as truthless as that of Spain, but Wellington is able to hold his own with them; and there is little doubt that the regular regiments will fight, and be really of valuable assistance to us; but these have been raised in spite of the constant opposition of the Junta at Lisbon.
"There is no doubt that the next campaign will be a hot one for, now that Spain has been as completely subdued as such vainglorious, excitable people can be subdued, the French marshals are free to join against us; and it is hard to see how, with but 30,000 men, we are going to defend Portugal against ten times that number of French. Still, I suppose we shall do it, somehow. The French have a large army on the other side of the Aqueda, and there is no doubt they will besiege Ciudad Rodrigo, as soon as winter is over. I doubt whether we shall be strong enough to march to its relief, and I fancy that in that direction the Coa will be about our limit. At any rate, it is likely to be a stirring campaign.
"The absurdity of the thing is, that we have an army in Sicily which might as well be at Jericho, for any use it is. If it joined us here, it would make all the difference in the world; though certainly till the campaign opens it would have to be quartered at Lisbon, for it is as much as the wretched transport can do to feed us. Now the truth is, Portugal is a miserably poor country at the best of times, and does not produce enough for the wants of the people. Of course, it has been terribly impoverished by the war. The fields in most places have been untilled and, in fact, the greater portion of the population, as well as our army, has to be fed from England.
"Altogether, Wellington must have enough worry to drive an ordinary man out of his mind. I never heard of such difficulties as those he has to meet. We come to help a people who won't help themselves, to fight for people who not only won't fight for themselves, but want to dictate how we shall fight. Instead of being fed by the country, we have to feed it; and the whole object of the Juntas, both in Spain and Portugal, seems to be to throw every difficulty in our way, and to thwart us at every turn. The first step towards success would be to hang every member, of every Junta, in every place we occupy."
A general chorus of "Hear, hear!" showed how deeply was the feeling excited by the conduct of the Portuguese and Spanish authorities.
After chatting until a late hour, Terence and his companion returned to their inn. The next morning, Terence reported himself to General Hill.
"I am glad to see you again, Colonel O'Connor," the general said. "The last time we met was when the surgeons were dressing my wounds, on the heights near Talavera. That was a hot business, for a time."
"Yes, sir; and I have to thank you, very much, for the very kind report you sent in as to the conduct of my regiment."
"They deserved it," the general said. "If they had not come up at the time they did, we should have had hard work to retake that hill.
"Your regiment has been behaving very well, since they have been here. They, like the other Portuguese regiments, have often been on short rations, and their pay is very much in arrear, but there has been no grumbling. I know Herrara will be extremely glad to have you back again in command. He has said as much, several times, when he has been in here. He is a good man, but not strong enough for his position; and I can see that he feels that, himself, and is conscious that he is not equal to the responsibility. I intended to recommend that a British officer should be placed in command of the regiment, before the campaign opens in the spring. Your two majors do their best, but they have scarcely sufficient weight; for their men know that they were but troopers when the regiment was first raised."
"I shall be glad to be back again, sir; and I am pleased to say that I have been given an adjutant--Lieutenant Ryan, of the Mayo Fusiliers. He has the acting rank of captain. He is an old friend of mine, and is a good officer. He has just effected an escape from Bayonne with me."
"Yes, that will be of great assistance to you," the general said. "With two battalions to command, you must want a right-hand man very much. I shall be glad if your regiment remains in my division, when the campaign reopens; but I suppose that, as before, you will be sent ahead. At present, it is only attached to my command for convenience of rationing and pay. I have inspected it twice, and it is by far the finest of the Portuguese regiments here. But I can see a certain deterioration, and I am sure that they want you back badly. Still, it is not your loss only that is telling on them. No soldiers like to go without their pay. Lord Wellington himself is always kept short of funds. The Portuguese Ministry declare that they have none. Of course that is all a lie but, true or false, it is certain that all the Portuguese regiments are greatly in arrears of pay, ill-provided with clothes, and indeed would be starved, were it not that they are fed by our commissariat."
After his interview with the general, Terence went back to the inn and, five minutes later, started with Ryan to join the regiment. The two battalions were engaged in drill when they rode up, but as the men recognized Terence there was a sudden movement, then a tremendous cheer and, breaking their ranks, they ran towards him, waving their shakos and shouting loudly; while Herrara, Bull, and Macwitty galloped up to shake him by the hand.
"This is not a very military proceeding," Terence laughed, "but I cannot help being gratified."
He held up his hands for silence.
"Form the men into a hollow square," he said to the majors.
In a very short time the order was carried out, and then Terence addressed them.
"My men," he said, "I am deeply gratified by your hearty reception, and I can assure you that I am quite as glad to be back in the regiment as the regiment can be to have me with it again. While I was a prisoner, one of the things that troubled me most was that, when I returned, I might find that someone else had been appointed your commander; and I was glad indeed when, upon landing at Lisbon, I heard that this had not been the case, and that I could resume my command of a body of men of whom I am proud; and at no time more proud than when you beat off the attacks of a whole brigade of French cavalry, and made good your escape to the mountains. I regret that some of your comrades failed to do this, but the manner in which they did their duty, and sacrificed themselves to cover your retreat, was worthy of all praise, and reflects the highest credit upon the regiment.
"I have been fortunate enough to make my escape from a French prison, in company with my friend here, Captain Ryan; who has, at my request, been appointed by the commander-in-chief to be your adjutant. I am sorry to hear that there have been difficulties in the way of rations, and that your pay is in arrears. However, I know well that you are not serving for the sake of pay, but to defend your country from invasion by the French; and that whether you get your pay day by day, or receive it in a lump sum later on, will make no difference to you; and indeed, in some respects, you will be better off for the delay for, getting it daily, it is spent as soon as obtained; whereas, if it comes in a lump sum, it will be useful to you when you return to your homes, after your work is done. I am confident that, in this regiment at least, which has borne itself so well from the day that it was raised, there will be neither grumbling nor discontent; but that you will suffer any hardship or privation that may come in your way as trifling incidents in the great work that you have undertaken: to defend, at the cost of your lives if need be, your country from the invader. The regiment is dismissed drill for the day."
Loud cheers at once broke from the men and, falling out, they proceeded to their tents.
"Well, Terence, there is no doubt about the enthusiasm of your fellows," Ryan remarked. "As you said, it was hardly military, but it was better. It was real affection, and I am sure the men would follow you anywhere."
Ryan shook hands with Herrara, Bull, and Macwitty; all of whom he knew well, from his frequent visits to Terence in the spring.
"I am very glad that you have come to us, Captain Ryan," Bull said. "A regiment don't seem like a regiment without an adjutant, and it will take a lot of work off the colonel's hands. I wish there could have been one for each battalion."
"How has the regiment been going on, Bull?"
"Nothing much to grumble about, sir; but I must say that it has been more slack than it was. We have all done our best, but we have missed you terribly; and the men don't seem to take quite as much pains with their drill as they used to do, when you were in command. However, that will be all right now that you have come back again. I have always found that when the battalion was not working well, the men have pulled themselves together at once when I said: "'This won't do, lads. The colonel will be grievously disappointed, when he comes back again, if he finds that you have lost your smartness.'
"It was as much as we could do to hold them in hand, when they saw you surrounded by the French. They would have rushed back again, to a man, if we would have let them. I own I felt it hard, myself, to be marching away and leaving you behind."
In a few minutes, a couple of tents were erected by the side of that of Herrara and, while these were being got ready for occupation, Terence and Ryan, with the two majors, entered that of Herrara; and the latter produced two or three bottles of wine from his private store, and a box of cigars. So for some time they sat chatting, Terence giving an outline of the events that had happened since he had been away from the regiment. He and Ryan had ordered half a dozen small casks of wine, and two cases of whisky, to be sent up with their trunks by water; and now asked regarding the rations of the men.
"They get their bread regularly," Herrara said. "They have put up some large bakeries at Abrantes and, as the flour is brought up in boats, there is no difficulty that way. They get their meat pretty regularly, and their wine always. There is no ground of complaint, whatever, as to rations here; though, from what I hear, it is very different at the stations where everything has to be taken up by waggons or mules.
"The difficulty is with the uniforms. Not one has been served out, and it is really difficult to get the men to look smart, when many of them are dressed almost in rags. It is still worse in the matter of boots. A great many of them were badly cut, when we were in the mountains; and especially in the rough march we had over the hills, after you left us. The men themselves would greatly prefer sandals to boots, being more accustomed to them; and could certainly march farther in them than in stiff English boots. But of course, it would be of no use sending in any requisition for them."
"I don't see why they should not wear sandals," Terence said; "at any rate, until there is an issue of boots. I suppose the men can make them, themselves."
"In most cases, no doubt, they could. At any rate, those who could, would make them for the others. Of course they will all have to wear them of one colour; but as most of the cattle are black, there would be no difficulty about that. I have no doubt that we could get any number of hides, at a nominal price, from the commissariat. At any rate, I will see about it. I suppose they are made a good deal like Indian moccasins. I noticed that many of the Spanish troops wore them, but I did not examine them particularly."
"They are very easily made," Herrara said. "You put your foot on a piece of hide of the right size. It is drawn right up over the foot, and laced. Another thickness of hide is sewn at the bottom, to form the sole, and there it is. Of course, for work in the hills it might be well to use a double thickness of hide for the sole. The upper part is made of the thinnest portion of the hide and, if grease is rubbed well inside, so as to soften the leather as much as possible, it makes the most comfortable footgear possible."
"Well, we will try it, anyhow," Terence said. "It mayn't look so soldierly but, at any rate, it would look as well as boots with the toes out; and if any general inspects us, and objects to them, we can say that we shall be perfectly ready to give them up, as soon as boots are issued to us. But by using all black hides, I really do not think that it will look bad; and there would certainly be the advantage that, for a night attack, the tread would be much more noiseless than that of a heavy boot.
"I really like the idea, very much. The best plan will be to pick out two or three score of men who are shoemakers by trade, and pay them a trifle for the making of each pair. In that way we could get much greater uniformity than were each man to make his own.
"As to the clothes, I don't see that anything can be done about it, beyond getting a supply of needles and thread, and seeing that every hole is mended as well as possible. I daresay new uniforms will be served out, before the spring. It does not matter much in camp, and I suppose we are no worse than the other Portuguese regiments."
The next week was spent in steady drill and, by the end of that time, the exercises were all done as smartly as before. Terence had already tried the experiment of sandals. The commissariat at Abrantes were glad enough to supply hides, at a nominal price. He began by taking a dozen. These were first handed to a number of men relieved from other duties who, after scraping the under side, rubbed them with fat, and kneaded them until they were perfectly soft and pliable. The shoemakers then took them in hand and, after a few samples of various shapes were tried, one was fixed upon, in which the sandal was bound to the foot by straps of the same material, with a double thickness of sole. Terence tried these himself, and found them extremely comfortable for walking; and gave orders that one company should be entirely provided with them. As to appearance, they were vastly superior to the cracked and bulged boots the men were wearing.
After a week of sharp drill Terence was satisfied, and proposed to Ryan that they should now ride over to Portalegre, and pay a visit to their friends of the Fusiliers and, accordingly, the next day they went over. They were most heartily received.
"Sure, Terence, I knew well enough that you and Dicky Ryan would be back here, before long. And so you have taken him from us! Well, it is a relief to the regiment; and I only hope that now he is an adjutant he will learn manners, and behave with a little more discretion than he has ever shown before. How you could have saddled yourself with such a hare-brained lad is more than I can imagine."
"That is all very well, O'Grady," Ryan laughed, "but it is a question of the pot calling the kettle black; only in this case the pot is a good deal blacker than the kettle. There may be some excuse for a subaltern like me, but none for a war-scarred veteran like yourself."
"Dick will do very well, O'Grady," Terence said. "I can tell you he sits in his tent, and does his office work, as steadily as if he had been at it all his life; and if you had seen him drilling a battalion, you would be delighted. It is just jealousy that makes you run him down, O'Grady--you were too lazy to learn Portuguese, yourself."
"Is it lazy you say that I am, Terence? There is no more active officer in the regiment, and you know it. As for the heathen language, it is not fit for an honest tongue. They ought to have sent over a supply of grammars and dictionaries, and taught the whole nation to speak English.
"When did you get back?"
"A week ago; but we have been too busy drilling the regiment to come over, before.
"How are you getting on here, Colonel?"
"We are not getting on at all, O'Connor. It is worse than stationary we are. They ought to put on double the number of carts they allow us. Half the time we are on short rations; except wine which, thank Heaven, the commissariat can buy in the country. It is evil times that we have fallen upon, and how we shall do, when the snow begins to fall heavily, is more than I can tell you."
"At any rate, Colonel, from what I hear you are a good deal better off than the division at Guarda, for you are but a day's march from the river."
"The carts take two days over it," the colonel said, "and then bring next to nothing; for the poor bastes that draw them are half starved, and it is as much as they can do to crawl along. They might just as well keep the whole division at Abrantes, instead of sticking half of them out here, just as if the French were going to attack us now.
"There is the luncheon bugle. After we have done, you may tell us how you and Ryan got out of the hands of the French, for I suppose you were not exchanged."
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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10
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: Almeida.
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The winter was long and tedious but, whenever the weather permitted, Terence set his men at work; taking them twice a week for long marches, so as to keep their powers in that direction unabated. The sandals turned out a great success. The men had no greatcoats, but they supplied the want by cutting a slit in the centre of their black blankets and passing the head through it. This answered all the purposes, and hid the shabby condition of their uniforms.
General Hill occasionally rode over to inspect this and the other Portuguese regiments encamped near them.
"That is a very good plan of yours, Colonel O'Connor," he said, the first time the whole regiment turned out in their sandals. "It is a much more sensible footgear than the boots."
"I should not have adopted them, General, if the men had had any boots to put on; but those they had became absolutely unwearable. Some of the soles were completely off, the upper leathers were so cut and worn that they were literally of no use and, in many cases. they were falling to pieces. The men like the sandals much better, and certainly march with greater ease. Yesterday they did thirty miles, and came in comparatively fresh."
"I wish the whole army were shod so," the general said. "It would improve their marching powers, and we should not have so many men laid up, footsore. I should say that the boots supplied to the army are the very worst that soldiers were ever cursed with. They are heavy, they are nearly as hard as iron when the weather is dry, and are as rotten as blotting paper when it is wet. It is quite an accident if a man gets a pair to fit him properly. I believe it would be better if they were trained to march barefooted. Their feet would soon get hardened and, at any rate, it would be an improvement on the boots now served out to them.
"I wish the other Portuguese regiments were as well drilled and as well set up as your fellows. Of course, your men don't look smart, at present, and would not make a good show on a parade ground; but I hear that there are a large quantity of uniforms coming out, shortly; and I hope, long before the campaign opens, they will all be served out. The British regiments are almost as badly off as the native ones. However, I suppose matters will right themselves before the spring; but they are almost as badly off, now, as they were when they marched into Corunna. The absurdity of the whole thing is that all the newly-raised Portuguese levies, who will certainly not be called upon to cross the frontier until next year, have got uniforms; while the men who have to do the work are almost in rags."
Two or three of the officers of the Fusiliers rode over frequently, to stop for a night or so with Terence; and the latter found time pass much more pleasantly than he had done before Ryan had joined him. During the day both their hands were full; but the evenings were very pleasant, now that he had Dick as well as Herrara to talk to. The feeling of the responsibility on his shoulders steadied Ryan a good deal, and he was turning out a far more useful assistant than Terence had expected; but when work was over, his spirits were as high as ever, and the conversation in Terence's tent seldom languished.
Spring came, but there was no movement on the part of the troops. Ney, with 50,000 men, began the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo in earnest. The Agueda had now become fordable; and Crawford, with his light brigade, 2500 strong, was exposed to a sudden attack at any time. On the 1st of June Terence received orders to march with his regiment to Guarda, where Wellington was concentrating the greater portion of his army; leaving Hill, with 12,000 men, to guard the southern portion of the frontier.
Both the Spanish and Portuguese urged the general to relieve Ciudad Rodrigo; but Wellington refused, steadily, to hazard the whole fortune of the campaign on an enterprise which was unlikely to succeed. His total force was but 56,000 men, of whom 20,000 were untried Portuguese. Garrisons had to be placed at several points, and 8000 Portuguese were posted at Thomar, a day's march from Abrantes, as a reserve for Hill.
It was not only the 50,000 infantry and 8000 cavalry of Massena, who now commanded in front of Ciudad Rodrigo, that he had to reckon with. Regnier's division was at Coria; and could, in three easy marches, reach Guarda; or in four fall on Hill at Abrantes; and with but 26,000 men in line, it would have been a desperate enterprise, indeed, to attack 60,000 veteran French soldiers merely for the sake of carrying off the 5000 undisciplined Portuguese besieged at Ciudad.
The Minho regiment had only received their new uniforms a month before the order came, and made a good show as they marched into Guarda, where Wellington's headquarters were now established. When Terence reported himself to the adjutant general, the latter said: "At present, Colonel O'Connor, you cannot be employed in your former work of scouting. The French are altogether too powerful for a couple of battalions to approach them and, with 8000 cavalry, they would make short work of you. Crawford must soon fall back behind the Coa. His position already is a very hazardous one. It has therefore been decided to place 1500 of your men along on this side of the Coa and, with half a battalion, you will march at once to Almeida to strengthen the garrison of that place which, as soon as Crawford retires, is certain to be besieged. It should be able to offer a long and stout resistance.
"You will, of course, be under the general orders of the commandant; but you will receive an authorization to take independent action, should you think fit: that is to say, if you find the place can be no longer defended, and the commandant is intending to surrender, you are at liberty to withdraw your command, if you find it possible to do so."
On the following morning the corps left Guarda and, leaving a battalion and a half on the Coa, under Herrara; Terence, with 500 men, after a long march, entered Almeida that night. The town, which was fortified, was occupied only by Portuguese troops. It was capable of repulsing a sudden attack, but was in no condition to withstand a regular siege. It was deficient in magazines and bomb proofs; and the powder, of which there was a large supply, was stored in an old castle in the middle of the town. On entering the place, Terence at once called upon Colonel Cox, who was in command.
"I am glad that you have come, Colonel O'Connor," the latter said. "I know that Lord Wellington expects me to make a long defence, and to keep Massena here for at least a month but, although I mean to do my best, I cannot conceal from myself that the defences are terribly defective. Then, too, more than half my force are newly-levied militia, in whom very little dependence can be placed. Your men will be invaluable, in case of assault; but it is not assault I fear, so much as having the place tumbling about our ears by their artillery, which can be so placed as to command it from several points. We are very short of artillery, and the guns are well nigh as old as the fortifications."
"We will do our best, Colonel, in any direction you may point out; and I think that we could defend a breach against any reasonable force brought against it. I may say that I have been ordered, if the worst comes to the worst, to endeavour to make my way out of the town before it surrenders."
For a fortnight the place was left unmolested. Crawford's division still kept beyond the Coa, and his cavalry had had several engagements with French reconnoitring parties. On the 2nd of July, however, the news came that, after a most gallant resistance, Ciudad Rodrigo had surrendered; and it was now certain that the storm would roll westward, in a very short time. Massena, however, delayed strangely; and it was not until daylight on the 24th that a sudden roll of musketry, followed almost immediately by a heavy artillery fire, told the garrison of Almeida that the light division was suddenly attacked by the enemy.
Crawford had received the strictest orders not to fight beyond the Coa; but he was an obstinate man, and had so long maintained his position across the river that he believed that, if attacked, he should be able to withdraw over the bridge before any very strong force could be brought up to attack him. In this he was mistaken. The country was wooded, and the French march was unsuspected until they were close upon Crawford's force. The light division had, however, been well trained; indeed, it was composed of veteran regiments, and had been practised to get under arms with the least possible delay. They were, therefore, already drawn up when the French fell upon them and, fighting hard and sternly, repelled all the efforts of the enemy's cavalry to cut them off from the bridge. Driving back the French light infantry, the Light Division crossed in safety, although with considerable loss; and repulsed, with great slaughter, every attempt of the French to cross the bridge.
Almeida was now left to its fate. Again Massena delayed, and it was not until the 18th of August that the siege was begun. On the 26th sixty-five heavy guns, that had been used in the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, opened fire upon the town. The more Terence saw of the place, the more convinced was he that it could not long be held, after the French siege guns had been placed in position. Moreover, there was great lukewarmness on the part of several of the Portuguese officers, while the rank and file were dispirited by the fate of Ciudad Rodrigo, and by the fact that they had, as it seemed to them, been deserted by the British army.
"I don't like the look of things, at all," he had said to Bull and Ryan, the evening before the siege guns began their work. "In the first place the defences will crumble, in no time, under the French fire. In the second place, I don't think that the Portuguese, with the exception of our own men, have any fight in them. Da Costa, the lieutenant governor, openly declares that the place is indefensible, and that it is simply throwing away the lives of the men to resist. He is very intimate, I observe, with Bareiros, the chief of the artillery. Altogether, things look very bad. Of course, we shall stay here as long as the place resists; but I am afraid that won't be for very long.
"I was speaking to Colonel Cox this afternoon. He is a brave man, and with trustworthy troops would, I am sure, hold the town until the last; but, unsupported as he is, he is in the hands of these rascally Portuguese officers. I told him that, if he ordered me to do so, I would undertake with my men to arrest the whole of them; but he said that that would bring on a mutiny of all their troops; and this, bad as the situation already was, would only make matters much worse. I then suggested that, as the French are driving their trenches towards those two old redoubts outside the wall, I would, if he liked, place our force in them; and would undertake to hold them, pointing out that if they fell into the hands of the enemy they would soon mount their cannon there, and bring down the whole wall facing in that direction.
"He quite agreed with that view of the case, but said that it would be a very exposed position; still, as our fellows were certainly the only trustworthy troops he had, he should be very glad if I would undertake the defence at once, as the French were pushing their approaches very fast towards them. I said that I was sure we could hold them for some little time; and that, indeed, it seemed to me that the French intended to bombard the town rather than to breach the walls, knowing the composition of the garrison and, perhaps, having intelligence that their courage would be so shaken, by a heavy fire, that the place would surrender in a much shorter time than it would take to breach the walls. Accordingly, he has given me leave to march our men up there, at daybreak tomorrow; taking with us ten days' provisions.
"I said that if he had trouble with the other Portuguese regiments I would, on his hoisting a red flag on the church steeple, march in at once to seize and shoot the leaders of the mutiny, if he wished it. Of course, one of my reasons for wanting to take charge of the redoubts was that we should have more chance of withdrawing, from them, than we should of getting out of the town, itself, in the confusion and panic of an approaching surrender."
Bull and Ryan both agreed with Terence and, at daybreak the next morning, the half battalion marched out, relieved the Portuguese troops holding the two redoubts, and established themselves there. They had brought with them a number of intrenching tools, and were accompanied by an engineer officer. So, as soon as they reached the redoubts, several parties of men were set to work, to begin to sink pits for driving galleries in the direction of the approaches that the French were pushing forward; while others assisted a party of artillerymen to work the guns. Some of the best shots in the corps took their places on the rampart, and were directed to maintain a steady fire on the French working parties.
The roar of cannon, when the French batteries opened fire on the town, was prodigious; and it was not long before it was evident that there was no present design, on the part of the French, to effect a breach.
"I expect they have lots of friends in the town," Terence said to Dick Ryan, as they watched the result of the fire; "and they make sure that the garrison will very soon lose heart. Do you see how many shots are striking the old castle? That looks as if the French knew that it was the magazine. They are dropping shell there, too; and that alone is enough to cause a scare in the town, for if one of them dropped into the magazine, the consequences would be terrific. They are not pushing on the trenches against us with anything like the energy with which they have been working for the past week; and it is certainly curious that they should not keep up a heavier fire from their batteries upon us, for it is evident that they cannot make an assault, on this side of the town, at any rate, until they have captured our redoubts."
"I wish we were well out of it," Ryan exclaimed. "It is quite certain that the place must fall, sooner or later; and though we might beat the French back several times, it must come to the same, in the end. The thing I am most concerned about, at present, is how we are to get away."
"I quite agree with you, Dick; and you know, we have had several looks at the French lines, from the roof of the church. Their batteries are chiefly on this side of the town; but most of their troops are encamped on the other side, so as to be in readiness to meet any attempt of Wellington to succour the place; and also to show the garrison that there is no chance, whatever, of their being able to draw off. We agreed that the chances would be much better of getting out on this side than on the other."
"Yes; but we also agreed, Terence, that there would be a good deal more difficulty in getting safely back; for practically the whole of their army would be between us and Wellington."
"It will be a difficult business, Dicky, whichever way we go; and I suppose that, at last, we shall have to be guided by circumstances."
In a very short time, fires broke out at several points in the town. The guns on the walls made but a very feeble reply to the French batteries; and one or two bastions, where alone a brisk fire was at first maintained, drew upon themselves such a storm of missiles from the French guns that they were soon silenced.
"It is quite evident that the Portuguese gunners have not much fight in them," Bull said.
"I am afraid it is the disaffection among their officers that is paralysing them," Terence said. "But I quite admit that it may be good policy to keep the men under cover. They really could do no good against the French batteries; which have all the advantage of position, as well as numbers and weight of metal; and it would certainly be well to reserve the troops till the French drive their trenches close up. If I thought that the silence of the guns on the walls were due to that, I should be well content; but I am afraid it is nothing of the sort. If the French keep up their fire, as at present, for another forty-eight hours, the place will throw open its gates. The inhabitants must be suffering frightfully. Of course, if Colonel Cox had men he could thoroughly rely upon, he would be obliged to harden his heart and disregard the clamour of the townspeople for surrender; but as the garrison is pretty certain to make common cause with them, it seems to me that the place is lost, if the bombardment continues."
In a short time, seeing that the working parties in the enemy's trenches made no attempt to push them farther forward, Terence withdrew the men from their exposed position on the ramparts--leaving only a few there on the lookout--and told the rest to lie down on the inner slopes, so as to be in shelter from the French fire. Bull was in command of the force in the other redoubt, which was a quarter of a mile away. The redoubts were, however, connected by a deep ditch, so that communication could be kept up between them, or reinforcements sent from one to the other, unobserved by the enemy, except by those on one or two elevated spots.
All day the roar of the cannon continued. From a dozen points, smoke and flame rose from the city, and towards these the French batteries chiefly directed their fire, in order to hinder the efforts of the garrison to check the progress of the conflagration.
Just after dark, as Ryan and Terence were sitting down in an angle of the bastion to eat their supper, there was a tremendous roar; accompanied by so terrible a shock that both were thrown prostrate upon the ground with a force that, for the moment, half stunned them. A broad glare of light illuminated the sky. There was the rumble and roar of falling buildings and walls; and then came dull, crashing sounds as masses of brickwork, hurled high up into the air, fell over the town and the surrounding country. Then came a dead silence, which was speedily broken by the sound of loud screams and shouts from the town.
"It is just as we feared," Terence said as, bruised and bewildered, he struggled to his feet. "The magazine in the castle has exploded."
He ordered the bugler to sound the assembly and, as the men gathered, it was found that although many of them had been hurt severely, by the violence with which they had been thrown down, none had been killed either by the shock or the falling fragments. An officer was at once sent to the other redoubt, to inquire how they had fared; and to give orders to Bull to keep his men under arms, lest the French should take advantage of the catastrophe, and make a sudden attack.
"Ryan, do you take the command of the men, here, until I come back. I will go into the town and see Colonel Cox. I fear that the damage will be so great that the town will be really no longer defensible and, even if it were, the Portuguese troops will be so cowed that there will be no more fight left in them."
It was but five hundred yards to the wall. Terence was unchallenged as he ran up. The gate was open and, on entering, he saw that the disaster greatly exceeded his expectations. The castle had been shattered into fragments, the church levelled to the ground and, of the whole town, only six houses remained standing. Five hundred people had been killed.
The wildest confusion prevailed. The soldiers were running about without object or purpose, apparently scared out of their senses. Women were shrieking and wringing their hands, by the ruins of their houses. Men were frantically tugging at beams, and masses of brickwork, to endeavour to rescue their friends buried under the ruins. Presently he came upon Colonel Cox, who had just been joined by Captain Hewitt, the only British officer with him; who had instantly gone off to see the amount of damage done to the defences, and had brought back news that the walls had been levelled in several places, and the guns thrown into the ditch.
Da Costa, Bareiros, and several other Portuguese officers were loudly clamouring for instant surrender and, the French shells again beginning to fall into the town, added to the prevailing terror. In vain the commandant endeavoured to still the tumult, and to assure those around him that the defence might yet be continued, for a short time; and better terms be obtained than if they were, at once, to surrender.
"Can I do anything, Colonel?" Terence said. "My men are still available."
The officer shook his head.
"Massena will see, in the morning," he said, "that he has but to march in. If these men would fight, we could still, perhaps, defend the breaches for a day or two. But it would only be useless slaughter. However, as they won't fight, I must send a flag of truce out, and endeavour to make terms. At any rate, Colonel O'Connor, if you can manage to get off with your command, by all means do so. Of course, I shall endeavour to obtain terms for the garrison to march out; but I fear that Massena will hear of nothing but unconditional surrender."
"Thank you, Colonel. Then I shall at once return to my corps, and endeavour to make my way through."
On returning to the redoubt, Terence sent a message to Bull to come to him at once and, when he arrived, told him and Ryan the state of things in the town, and the certainty that it would surrender, at once.
"The Portuguese are so clamorous," he said, "that a flag of truce may be despatched to Massena, in half an hour's time. The Portuguese are right so far that, if the place must be surrendered, there is no reason for any longer exposing the troops and the townsfolk to the French bombardment. Therefore it is imperative that, if we are to make our way out, we must do so before the place surrenders.
"We agreed, yesterday, as to the best line to take. The French force here is by no means considerable, their main body being between this and the Coa. Massena, knowing the composition of the garrison here, did not deem it requisite to send a larger force than was necessary to protect the batteries; and the major portion of these are on the heights behind the city. Between the road leading to Escalon and that through Fort Conception there is no French camp, and it is by that line we must make our escape.
"We know that there are considerable forces, somewhere near Villa Puerca; but when we reach the river Turones we can follow its banks down, with very little fear. It is probable that they have a force at the bridge near San Felices; but I believe the river is fordable in many places, now. At any rate, they are not likely to be keeping a sharp watch anywhere, tonight. They must all know that that tremendous explosion will have rendered the place untenable and, except at the batteries which are still firing, there will be no great vigilance; especially on this side, for it would hardly be supposed that, even if the garrison did attempt to escape, they would take the road to the east, and so cut themselves off from their allies and enter a country wholly French.
"Of course, with us the case is different. We can march farther and faster than any French infantry. The woods afford abundant places of concealment, and we are perfectly capable of driving off any small bodies of cavalry that we may meet. Fortunately we have eight days' provision of biscuit. Of course, it was with a view to this that I proposed that we should bring out so large a supply with us.
"Now, I think we had better start at once."
"I quite agree with you, Colonel," Bull said. "I will return to the other redoubt, and form the men up at once. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour."
"Very well, Bull. I will move out from here, in a quarter of an hour from the present time, and march across and join you as you come out. We must move round between your redoubt and the town. In that way we shall avoid the enemy's trenches altogether."
The men were at once ordered to fall in. Fortunately, none were so seriously disabled as to be unfit to take their places in the ranks. The necessity for absolute silence was impressed upon them, and they were told to march very carefully; as a fall over a stone, and the crash of a musket on the rocks, might at once call the attention of a French sentinel. As the troops filed out through the entrance to the redoubt, Terence congratulated himself upon their all having sandals, for the sound of their tread was faint, indeed, to what it would have been had they been marching in heavy boots.
At the other redoubt they were joined by Bull, with his party. There was a momentary halt while six men, picked for their intelligence, went on ahead, under the command of Ryan. They were to move twenty paces apart. If they came upon any solitary sentinel, one man was to be sent back instantly to stop the column; while two others crawled forward and surprised and silenced the sentry. Should their way be arrested by a strong picket, they were to reconnoitre the ground on either side; and then one was to be sent back, to guide the column so as to avoid the picket.
When he calculated that Ryan must be nearly a quarter of a mile in advance, Terence gave orders for the column to move forward. When a short distance had been traversed, one of the scouts came in, with the news that there was a cordon of sentries across their path. They were some fifty paces apart, and some must be silenced before the march could be continued.
Ten minutes later, another scout brought in news that four of the French sentries had been surprised and killed, without any alarm being given; and the column resumed its way, the necessity for silence being again impressed upon the men. As they went forward, they received news that two more of the sentries had been killed; and that there was, in consequence, a gap of 350 yards between them. A scout led the way through the opening thus formed. It was an anxious ten minutes, but the passage was effected without any alarm being given; the booming of the guns engaged in bombarding the town helping to cover the sound of their footsteps.
It had been settled that Ryan and the column were both to march straight for a star, low down on the horizon, so that there was no fear of either taking the wrong direction. In another half hour they were sure that they were well beyond the French lines; whose position, indeed, could be made out by the light of their bivouac fires.
For three hours they continued their march, at a rapid pace, without a check. Then they halted for half an hour, and then held on their way till daybreak, when they entered a large village. They had left the redoubts at about nine o'clock, and it was now five; so that they had marched at least twenty-five miles, and were within some ten miles of the Aqueda.
Sentries were posted at the edge of the wood, and the troops then lay down to sleep. Several times during the day parties of French cavalry were seen moving about; but they were going at a leisurely pace, and there was no appearance of their being engaged in any search. At nightfall the troops got under arms again, and made their way to the Aqueda.
A peasant, whom they fell in with soon after they started, had undertaken to show them a ford. It was breast deep, but the stream was not strong, and they crossed without difficulty, holding their arms and ammunition well above the water. They learned that there was, indeed, a French brigade at the bridge of San Felices. Marching north now, they came before daybreak upon the Douro. Here they again lay up during the day and, that evening, obtained two boats at a village near the mouth of the Tormes, and crossed into the Portuguese province of Tras os Nontes.
The 500 men joined in a hearty cheer, on finding themselves safe in their own country. After halting for a couple of days, Terence marched to Castel Rodrigo and then, learning that the main body of the regiment was at Pinhel, marched there and joined them; his arrival causing great rejoicing among his men, for it had been supposed that he and the half battalion had been captured, at the fall of Almeida. The Portuguese regular troops at that place had, at the surrender at daybreak after the explosion, all taken service with the French; while the militia regiments had been disbanded by Massena, and allowed to return to their homes.
From here Terence sent off his report to headquarters, and asked for orders. The adjutant general wrote back, congratulating him on having successfully brought off his command, and ordering the corps to take post at Linares. He found that another disaster, similar to that at Almeida, had taken place--the magazine at Albuquerque having been blown up by lightning, causing the loss of four hundred men.
The French army were still behind the Coa, occupied in restoring the fortifications of Almeida and Ciudad Rodrigo, and it was not until the 17th of September that Massena crossed the Coa, and began the invasion of Portugal in earnest; his march being directed towards Coimbra, by taking which line he hoped to prevent Hill, in the south, from effecting a junction with Wellington.
The latter, however, had made every preparation for retreat and, as soon as he found that Massena was in earnest, he sent word to Hill to join him on the Alva, and fell back in that direction himself.
Terence received orders to co-operate with 10,000 of the Portuguese militia, under the command of Trant. Wilson and Miller were to harass Massena's right flank and rear. Had Wellington's orders been carried out, Massena would have found the country deserted by its inhabitants and entirely destitute of provisions; but as usual his orders had been thwarted by the Portuguese government, who sent secret instructions to the local authorities to take no steps to carry them out; and the result was that Massena, as he advanced, found ample stores for provisioning his army.
The speed with which Wellington fell back baffled his calculations and, by the time he approached Viseu, the whole British army was united, near Coimbra. His march had been delayed two days, by an attack made by Trant and Terence upon the advanced guard, as it was making its way through a defile. A hundred prisoners were taken, with some baggage; and a serious blow would have been struck at the French, had not the new Portuguese levies been seized with panic and fled in confusion. Trant was, consequently, obliged to draw off. The attack, however, had been so resolute and well-directed that Massena, not knowing the strength of the force opposing him, halted for two days until the whole army came up; and thus afforded time for the British to concentrate, and make their arrangements.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Busaco.]
The ground chosen by Wellington to oppose Massena's advance was on the edge of the Sierra Busaco; which was separated, by a deep and narrow valley, from the series of hills across which the French were marching. There were four roads by which the French could advance. The one from Mortagao, which was narrow and little used, passed through Royalva. The other three led to the position occupied by the British force between the village of Busaco and Pena Cova. Trant's command was posted at Royalva. Terence with his regiment took post, with a Portuguese brigade of cavalry, on the heights above Santa Marcella, where the road leading south to Espinel forked; a branch leading from it across the Mondego, in the rear of the British position, to Coimbra. Here he could be aided, if necessary, by the guns at Pena Cova, on the opposite side of the river.
While the British were taking up their ground between Busaco and Pena Cova, Ney and Regnier arrived on the crest of the opposite hill. Had they attacked at once, as Ney wished, they might have succeeded; for the divisions of Spenser, Leith, and Hill had not yet arrived. But Massena was ten miles in the rear, and did not come up until next day, with Junot's corps; by which time the whole of the British army was ranged along the opposite heights.
Their force could be plainly made out from the French position, and so formidable were the heights that had to be scaled by an attacking force that Ney, impetuous and brave as he was, no longer advocated an attack. Massena, however, was bent upon fighting. He had every confidence in the valour of his troops, and was averse to retiring from Portugal, baffled, by the long and rugged road he had travelled; therefore dispositions were at once made for the attack. Ney and Regnier were to storm the British position, while Junot's corps was to be held in reserve.
At daybreak on the 29th the French descended the hill; Ney's troops, in three columns of attack, moving against a large convent towards the British left centre; while Regnier, in two columns, advanced against the centre. Regnier's men were the first engaged and, mounting the hill with great gallantry and resolution, pushed the skirmishers of Picton's division before them and, in spite of the grape fire of a battery of six guns, almost gained the summit of the hill--the leading battalions establishing themselves among the rocks there, while those behind wheeled to the right. Wellington, who was on the spot, swept the flank of this force with grape; and the 88th and a wing of the 45th charged down upon them furiously.
The French, exhausted by their efforts in climbing the hill, were unable to resist the onslaught; and the English and French, mixed up together, went down the hill; the French still resisting, but unable to check their opponents who, favoured by the steep descent, swept all before them.
In the meantime, the battalions that had gained the crest held their own against the rest of the third division and, had they been followed by the troops who had wheeled off towards their right, the British position would have been cut in two. General Leith, seeing the critical state of affairs had, as soon as he saw the third division pressed back, despatched a brigade to its assistance. It had to make a considerable detour round a ravine; but it now arrived and, attacking with fury, drove the French grenadiers from the rocks; and pursued them, with a continuous fire of musketry, until they were out of range. The rest of Leith's division soon arrived, and General Hill moved his division to the position before occupied by Leith. Thus, so formidable a force was concentrated at the point where Regnier made his effort that, having no reserves, he did not venture to renew the attack.
On their right the French had met with no better success. In front of the convent, but on lower ground, was a plateau; and on this Crawford posted the 43rd and 52nd Regiments of the line, in a slight dip, which concealed them from observation by the French. A quarter of a mile behind them, on the high ground close to the convent, was a regiment of German infantry. These were in full sight of the enemy. The other regiment of the light division was placed lower down the hill, and supported by the guns of a battery.
Two of Ney's columns advanced up the hill with great speed and gallantry; never pausing for a moment, although their ranks were swept by grape from the artillery, and a heavy musketry fire by the light troops. The latter were forced to fall back before the advance. The guns were withdrawn, and the French were within a few yards of the edge of the plateau, when Crawford launched the 43rd and 52nd Regiments against them.
Wholly unprepared for such an attack, the French were hurled down the hill. Only one of their columns attempted to retrieve the disaster, and advanced against the right of the light division. Here, however, they met Pack's brigade; while Crawford's artillery swept the wood through which they were ascending. Finally, they were forced to retire down the hill, and the action came to an end. Never did the French fight more bravely; but the position, held by determined troops, was practically impregnable. The French loss in killed and wounded was 4500, that of the allies only 1300; the difference being caused by the fact that the French ranks, throughout the action, were swept with grape by the British batteries; while the French artillery could do nothing to aid their infantry.
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{
"id": "20207"
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11
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: The French Advance.
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As there were no signs of any French force approaching the position held by the Portuguese, Terence moved his regiment a short distance forward, to a point which enabled them to obtain a view right down the valley in which the conflict was taking place. He then allowed them to fall out of their ranks; knowing that in less than a minute from the call being sounded they would be under arms again, and in readiness to move in any direction required. Then, with Herrara and his three English officers, he moved a short distance away and watched the scene.
As soon as Regnier's columns had crossed the bottom of the ravine, their guns along the crest opened fire on the British position facing them.
"They are too far off for grape," Terence said. "You remember, Ryan, at Corunna, how those French batteries pounded us from the crest, and how little real damage they did us. A round shot does not do much more harm than a bullet, unless it strikes a column in motion, or troops massed in solid formation.
"Those fellows are mounting the hill very fast."
"They are, indeed," Ryan agreed. "You can see how the line of smoke of our skirmishers on the hillside gets higher and higher."
"I wish our regiment was there, Colonel," Bull said. "We might do some good; while here we are of no more use than if we were a hundred miles away."
"No, no, Bull, that is not the case. If the French had not seen that this position was strongly held, they might have moved a division by this road and, if they had done so, they would have turned the main position altogether, and forced Wellington to fall back, at once. So you see, we are doing good here; though I do not say that I should not like to be over there."
"The French will soon be at the top of the hill," Herrara exclaimed. "See how they are pushing upwards."
"They certainly are gaining ground fast," Macwitty said. "They are within a hundred yards of the top. Our men don't seem to be able to make any stand against them at all.
"Colonel, the lower column is turning off more towards their left."
"They had better have kept together, Macwitty. It is evident that Picton's division is hard pressed, as it is and, if those two columns had united and thrown themselves upon him, they would have broken right through our line. As it is, the second party will have Leith's division to deal with. Do you see one of his brigades marching swiftly to meet them, and some guns sweeping the French flank? I wish we were nearer."
The scene had become too exciting for further conversation, and they watched almost breathlessly. The line of smoke on the top of the crest showed that the head of the column had made good its footing there; while the quick puffs of smoke, and the rattle of musketry, denoted that the other column was also within a short distance of the summit. But Leith's regiments were approaching the spot at the double. Presently there was the crash of a tremendous volley, and then the leading regiment disappeared over the brow of the hill, and into brushwood. The roar of musketry was heavy and continuous, and then Ryan gave a joyous shout, as it could be seen that the two long smoke wreaths were becoming mixed together, and that the movement was downwards and, ere long, the dark masses of troops could be seen descending the hill even more rapidly than they had climbed it. Leith's second brigade was now approaching the scene of the struggle, and was near at hand; Hill's division was seen in motion towards the same spot.
"That is all right now," Terence said; "but there is another big fight going on, further up the valley."
It was too far off to make out the movements of the troops but, even at that distance, the smoke rolling up from the hillside gave some idea of the course of the fight. Here, too, after mounting more than halfway up the slope, it could be seen that the tide of war was rolling down again; though more slowly, and with harder fighting than it had done in the struggle nearer to them. And when at last the firing gradually ceased, they knew that the French had been repulsed, all along the line.
"The men had better open their haversacks and eat a meal," Terence said. "We may get an order to move, at any moment."
No orders came, however, and the troops remained in the positions that they occupied until the following morning. Then a heavy skirmishing fire broke out and, for some time, it seemed as if the battle was to be renewed. No heavy masses of the French, however, came down from the hill on their side to support the light troops in the valley and, in the afternoon, the firing died away. Towards evening a staff officer rode up, at full speed, and handed a note to Terence.
"The French have turned our left by the Royalva Pass. Trant has failed to check them, and the whole army must fall back. These are your instructions."
The mishap had not been Trant's fault. He had been sent by the Portuguese general on a tremendous detour and, when he arrived at the position assigned to him, his troops were utterly exhausted by their long and fatiguing march. A large proportion had deserted or fallen out and, with but 1500 wearied and dispirited men, he could offer but little resistance to the French advance and, being attacked by their cavalry, had been driven away with loss. Terence opened the note.
"You will march at once. Keep along on this side of the Mondego, breaking up your command into small parties, who will visit every village within reach. All of their inhabitants who have not obeyed the proclamations, and retired, are to leave at once. Destroy all provisions that you can find. Set fire to the mills and, where this is not practicable, smash the machinery and, bearing south as you go, spread out over the country between the Zezere and the sea, and continue to carry on the duty assigned to you, compelling the peasants to drive their animals before them, along the roads to Lisbon."
"I understand, sir," Terence said, after reading the note, "and will carry out the orders to the best of my ability."
Five minutes later the regiment was under arms. Terence called the whole of the officers together, and explained the instructions that he had received. The two battalions were broken up into half companies which, as they marched along the Mondego, were to be left behind, one by one; each party, when left, turning south, and proceeding to carry out the orders received. In a few cases, only, were companies to keep intact as, although a hundred men would be ample for the duty at the large villages, two hundred would not be too much in a town like Leiria.
On reaching Foz d'Aronce, half a battalion moved to the east, to work down by the river Zezere. The rest turned to the right, to follow the course of the Mondego down to the sea. For convenience, and in order to keep the troops in hand, Bull, Macwitty, Ryan, and Herrara each took the command of half a battalion; with orders to supervise the work of the companies belonging to it, and to keep in touch with the nearest company of the next battalion, so that the two thousand men could advance, to a certain extent, abreast of each other.
Foz d'Aronce had already been evacuated by its inhabitants, but in all other villages the orders were carried out. By daybreak the last company in the two battalions reached the sea coast and, after two hours' rest, began its march south. The others had long been at work.
It was a painful duty. The frightened villagers had to be roused in the darkness, and told that the French were approaching, and that they must fly at once, taking their animals and what they could carry off in carts away with them. While the terrified people were harnessing horses to their carts, piling their few valuables into them, and packing their children on the top, the troops went from house to house, searching for and destroying provisions, setting fire to barns stored with corn, and burning or disabling any flour mills they met with.
Then, as soon as work was done, they forced the villagers to take the southern road. There was no difficulty in doing this for, although they had stolidly opposed all the measures ordered by Wellington, trusting that the French would not come; now that they had heard they were near, a wild panic seized them. Had an orderly retreat been made before, almost all their belongings might have been saved. Now but little could be taken, even by the most fortunate. The children, the sick, the aged had to be carried in carts and, in their haste and terror, they left behind many things that might well have been saved.
The peasantry in the villages suffered less than the townspeople, as their horses and carts afforded means of transport: but even here the scenes were most painful. In the towns, however, they were vastly more so. The means for carriage for such a large number of people being wanting, the greater number of the inhabitants were forced to make their way on foot, along roads so crowded with vehicles of every kind that the British divisions were frequently brought to a standstill, for hours, where the nature of the country prevented their quitting the road and making their way across the fields.
On the 29th, the greater portion of the British troops passed the Mondego. Hill retired upon Thomar, and the rest of the troops were concentrated at Milheada. The commissariat stores followed the coast road down to Peniche, and were embarked there. The light division and the cavalry remained, after the main body had been drawn across the Mondego, north of that river.
Soon after starting on his work, Terence learned that the British troops had passed through Pombal, Leiria, and Thomar. It was consequently unnecessary for him to endeavour to clear those towns.
The delays caused at every village rendered the work slow, as well as arduous. The French drove the light division through Coimbra and, following, pressed so hotly that a number of minor combats took place between their cavalry and the British rear guards. Before Leiria the rear guards had to fight strongly, to enable the guns to quit the town before the French entered it.
Terence presently received orders to collect his regiment again and, crossing the Zezere, to endeavour to join Trant and the other leaders of irregular bands, and to harass Massena's rear. He had already, knowing that great bodies of French cavalry had crossed the Mondego, called in the companies that were working Leiria and the coast; as they might otherwise have been cut up, in detail, by the French cavalry. With these he marched east, picking up the other companies as he went and, on the same evening, the regiment was collected on the Zezere.
Having followed the river up, he reached Foz d'Aronce and then, finding that several bodies of French troops had already passed through that village, he turned to the left and camped close to the Mondego; sending ten of his men over the river, in peasants' clothes, to ascertain the movements of the enemy. One of them returned with news that he had come upon a party of Trant's men, who told him that their main body were but two miles away, and that there were no French north of Coimbra.
The regiment had made a march of upwards of forty miles that day. Therefore, leaving them to rest, Terence forded the Mondego and rode, with Ryan, to Trant's village.
"I am glad, indeed, to see you, O'Connor," the partisan leader said, as Terence entered the cottage where he had established himself. "Is your regiment with you?"
"Yes, it is three miles away, on the other side of the river. We have marched something like eighty miles, in two days. We have been busy burning mills and destroying provisions, but the French cavalry are all over the country, so I was ordered to join you, and aid you to harass the French line of communication, and to do them what damage we could."
"There is not much to be done in the way of cutting their communications; at least, there is nothing to be done to the north and east of this place, for Massena brought all his baggage and everything else with him; and cut himself loose, altogether, from his base at Ciudad. If the people had but carried out Wellington's orders, Massena would have suffered a fearful disaster. We have learned, from stragglers we have taken, that the fourteen days' provisions with which they marched were altogether exhausted; and that they had been unable to obtain any here. They would have had to retreat, instantly; but I hear that, in Coimbra alone, there is enough food for their whole army, for at least two months."
"But could we not have destroyed it, as we retreated?"
"Of course, we ought to have done so," Trant said; "but from what I hear, the affair was very badly managed. Instead of the first division that went through burning all the magazines and stores, it was left to Crawford to do so; and he, as usual, stopped so long facing the enemy that, at last, he was regularly chased through Coimbra and, the roads being blocked with carts, his brigade would have been destroyed had the French infantry pushed strongly after him.
"Things are just as bad, in the way of provisions, on the other side of the river. We have done a great deal in the way of destroying mills and magazines. I am afraid Massena will find enough provisions to last his army all the winter."
"That is bad."
"Had it only been Coimbra, no very great harm would have been done; for the French troops got altogether out of hand when they entered, plundered the place and, as I hear, destroyed enough provisions to have lasted them a month."
"Of course, they hold the town?"
"Oh yes! It is full of their sick and wounded."
"What force have you?" Terence asked.
"I have 1500 men of my own. Miller and Wilson, with some of the Northern militias, will be here shortly; and I expect, in a few days, we shall have eight thousand men."
"The great thing would be to act before the French know that there is so strong a force in the neighbourhood," Terence said, "because as soon as they hear that, they are sure to send a strong force back to Coimbra."
"How do you mean, to act?" Trant asked in some surprise.
"I propose that we should capture Coimbra, at once. I have 2000 men and you have 1500. I don't suppose they have left above a couple of thousand in the town, perhaps even less and, if we take them by surprise, I should think we ought to be able to manage that number, without difficulty. I certainly consider my own men to be a match for an equal number of French."
"It is a grand idea," Trant said, "and I don't see why we should not carry it out. As you say, the sooner the better. They may know that I am here, but they will never dream of my making such attempt with a force which, I must own, is not always to be relied upon. They are always shifting and changing. After a long march, half of them will desert; then in a few days the ranks swell again. Consequently, the men have little discipline and no confidence in each other, and are little better than raw levies; but for rough street fighting I have no doubt they would be all right, especially when backed by good troops like yours.
"How would you proceed? As yours is the real fighting body, you should have the command."
"Not at all," Terence said warmly. "You are my senior officer, not only in rank but in age and experience. My orders were to assist you as far as I could and, while we are together, I am ready to carry out your orders in any way."
"Will your men be able to attack in the morning?"
"Certainly. They will have a good night's rest, and will be quite ready for work, say, at four o'clock in the morning. It is not more than two hours' march to Coimbra, so that we shall be there by daybreak. Have they any troops between us and the town?"
"They have a post at a village, a mile this side, O'Connor. Do you know how far their army is, on the other side of the river?"
"I know that they had a division close to Leiria, the day before yesterday; but whether they have any large body just across the Mondego, I cannot say."
"Then we will first surprise their post. I will undertake that. Will you march your force down the river, close to the town? I have a hundred cavalry and, as soon as I have captured the post, I will send them on at a gallop; with orders to ride straight through to the bridge, and prevent any mounted messengers passing across it. As soon as you hear them come along the road, do you at once enter the town. I will bring my men on at the double, and we shall not be many minutes after you.
"It would be as well for you to enter it by several streets, as that will cause greater confusion than if you were in a solid body. The principal point is the great convent of Santa Clara, which has been converted into a hospital. No doubt a portion of the garrison are there; the rest will be scattered about in the public buildings, and can be overpowered in detail.
"I think we are certain of success. I hope you will stop for a time and take supper with me and, in the meantime, I will send down orders for my men to be under arms, here, at half-past three."
[Illustration: 'Good news. We are going to take Coimbra.']
Terence and Ryan remained for an hour, and then rode back to the regiment. The men were all sound asleep, but Herrara and the two majors were sitting round a campfire.
"What news, Colonel?" the former asked, as Terence rode up.
"Good news. We are going to take Coimbra, tomorrow morning. All Massena's sick and wounded, and his heavy baggage are there. They have no suspicion that any force is yet assembled in the neighbourhood and, I expect, we shall have easy work of it. They have a post a mile out of the town. Trant will surprise and capture that, at five in the morning. Just before daybreak we shall enter the town. We must march from here at half-past three."
"That is something like news, Colonel," Macwitty exclaimed. "It will cut the French off from this line of retreat, altogether, and they must either fall back by the line of the Tagus, or through Badajoz and Merida."
Terence laughed.
"You are counting your chickens before they are hatched, Macwitty. At the present moment, it seems more likely that Wellington will have to embark his troops than that Massena will have to retreat. He must have nearly a hundred thousand men, counting those who fought with him at Busaco and the two divisions that marched down through Foz d'Aronce; while Wellington, all told, cannot have above 40,000. Certainly some of the peasants told me they had heard that a great many men were employed in fortifying the heights of Torres Vedras, and Wellington may be able to make a stand there; but as we have never heard anything about them before, I am afraid that they cannot be anything very formidable.
"However, just at present we have nothing to do with that. If we can take Coimbra it will certainly hamper Massena and, if the worst comes to the worst, we can fall back across the Douro.
"Don't let the bugles sound in the morning. It is not likely, but it is possible that the French may send out cavalry patrols at night. If a bugle were heard they might ride back and report that a force was in the neighbourhood, and we should find the garrison prepared for us. Now we had better do no more talking. It is past eleven, and we have but four and a half hours to sleep."
At half-past three the troops were roused. They were surprised at the early call, for they had expected two or three days' rest, after the heavy work of the last eight days; but the company officers soon learned the news from their majors and, as it quickly spread through the ranks, the men were at once alert and ready. Fording the river, they marched at a rapid pace by the road to Coimbra and, soon after five o'clock, arrived within a few hundred yards of the town. Then they were halted and broken up into four columns, which were to enter the town at different points. The signal for moving was to be the sound of a body of cavalry, galloping along the road. Terence listened attentively for the rattle of musketry in the distance, but all was quiet; and he had little doubt that the French had been surprised, and captured, without a shot being fired.
Soon after half-past five he heard a dull sound which, before long, grew louder and, in five minutes, a body of horsemen swept past at a gallop. The troops at once got into motion, and entered the town. There was no longer any motive for concealment. The bugles sounded and, with loud shouts, the Portuguese ran forward. French officers ran out of private houses, and were at once seized and captured. Several bodies of troops were taken, in public buildings, before they were fairly awake. Some of the inhabitants--of whom many, unable to make their escape, had remained behind; or who had returned from the villages to which they had at first fled--came out and acted as guides to the various buildings where the French troops were quartered and, in little over a quarter of an hour, the whole town, with the exception of the convent of Santa Clara, was in their hands.
By this time Trant had come up, with his command. The troops rapidly formed up again and, issuing from several streets, advanced against the convent. The astonished enemy fired a few shots; then, on being formally summoned to surrender, laid down their arms. Thus, on the third day after Massena quitted the Mondego his hospitals, depots, and nearly 6000 prisoners, wounded and unwounded, among them a company of the Imperial Guard, fell into the hands of the Portuguese.
The next day Miller and Wilson came up; and their men, crossing the bridge and spreading over the country, gathered in 300 more prisoners; while Trant marched, with those he had captured, to Oporto.
[Illustration: Plan of the Lines of Torres Vedras.]
On the 10th of October the whole of Wellington's army was safely posted on the tremendously strong position that he had, unknown to the army, carefully prepared and fortified for the protection of Lisbon. It consisted of three lines of batteries and intrenchments. The second was the most formidable; but the first was so strong, also, that Wellington determined to defend this, instead of falling back to the stronger line. At the foot of the line of mountains on which the army was posted, stretching from the Tagus to the sea, ran two streams; the Zandre, a deep river, which extended nearly halfway along the twenty-nine miles of lines, covered the left of the position; while a stream running into the Tagus protected the right. The centre, therefore, was almost the only part at which the line could be attacked with any chance of success; and this was defended by such tremendous fortifications as to be almost impregnable.
Massena, who had only heard vague rumours of the existence of these fortifications, four days before, was astounded at the unexpected obstacle which barred his way. The British troops, as soon as they arrived, were set to work to strengthen the intrenchments. Trees were felled, and every accessible point was covered by formidable abattis. The faces of the rocks were scarped, so that an enemy who won his way partly up the hill would find his farther progress arrested by a perpendicular wall of rock. Soon the eminences on the crest bristled with guns; and Massena, after carefully reconnoitring the whole position, came to the conclusion that it could not be attacked; and disposed his troops in permanent positions, facing the British centre and right, from Sobral to Villafranca on the Tagus; and sent his cavalry out over the country, to bring in provisions.
To lessen the district available for this operation, Wellington sent orders for the northern militia to advance and, crossing the Mondego, to drive in the foraging parties. Trant, Wilson and the other partisan corps were also employed in the work. A strong force took up its position between Castello Branco and Abrantes, while the militia and partisans occupied the whole country north of Leiria; and the French were thus completely surrounded. Nevertheless, the store of provisions left behind in the towns and villages was so large that the French cavalry were able to bring in sufficient supplies for the army.
During the week that followed, the Minho regiment was engaged in watching the defiles by which Massena might communicate with Ciudad Rodrigo, or through which reinforcements might reach him. Wilson and Trant were both engaged on similar service, the one farther to the north; while the other, who was on the south bank of the Tagus with a number of Portuguese militia and irregulars, endeavoured to prevent the French from crossing the river and carrying off the flocks, herds, and corn which, in spite of Wellington's entreaties and orders, the Portuguese government had permitted to remain, as if in handiness for the French foraging parties.
Owing to the exhausted state of both the British and Portuguese treasuries, it was impossible to supply the corps acting in rear of the French with money for the purchase of food. But Terence had received authority to take what provisions were absolutely necessary for the troops, and to give orders that would, at some time or other, be honoured by the military chest. A comparatively small proportion of his men were needed to guard the defiles, against such bodies of troops as would be likely to traverse them, in order to keep up Massena's communications. Leaving, therefore, a hundred men in each of the principal defiles; and ordering them to entrench themselves in places where they commanded the road, and could only be attacked with the greatest difficulty; while the road was barred by trees felled across it, so as to form an impassable abattis, behind which twenty men were stationed; Terence marched, with 1500 men, towards the frontier.
Five hundred of these were placed along the Coa, guarding the roads and, with the remainder, he forded the river and placed himself in the woods, in the plain between Almeida and Ciudad Rodrigo. Here he captured several convoys of waggons, proceeding with provisions for the garrison of the former place. A portion of these he despatched, under guard, for the use of the troops on the Coa, and for those in the passes; thus rendering it unnecessary to harass the people, who had returned to their villages after Massena had advanced against Lisbon.
Growing bolder with success, he crossed the Aqueda and, marching round to the rear of Ciudad Rodrigo, cut off and destroyed convoys intended for that town, causing great alarm to the garrison. These were absolutely ignorant of the operations of Massena, for so active were the partisans, in the French rear, that no single messenger succeeded in getting through and, even when accompanied by strong escorts, the opposition encountered was so determined that the French were obliged to fall back, without having accomplished their purpose. Thus, then, the garrison at Ciudad Rodrigo were ignorant both of Massena's whereabouts, and of the nature of the force that had thrown itself in his rear. Several times, strong parties of troops were sent out. When these were composed of cavalry only, they were boldly met and driven in. When it was a mixed force of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, they searched in vain for the foe.
So seriously alarmed and annoyed was the governor that 3000 troops were withdrawn, from Salamanca, to strengthen the garrison. In December Massena, having exhausted the country round, fell back to a very strong position at Santarem; and Terence withdrew his whole force, save those guarding the defiles, to the neighbourhood of Abrantes; so that he could either assist the force stationed there, should Massena retire up the Tagus; and prevent his messengers passing through the country between the river and the range of mountains, south of the Alva, by Castello Branco or Velha; posting strong parties to guard the fords of the Zezere.
So thoroughly was the service of watching the frontier line carried out, that it was not until General Foy, himself, was sent off by Massena, that Napoleon was informed of the state of things. He was accompanied by a strong cavalry force and 4000 French infantry across the Zezere, and ravaged the country for a considerable distance.
Before such strength, Terence was obliged to fall back. Foy was accompanied by his cavalry, until he had passed through Castello Branco; and was then able to ride, without further opposition, to Ciudad Rodrigo.
Beresford was guarding the line of the Tagus, between the mouth of the Zezere and the point occupied on the opposite bank by Wellington, sending a portion of his force up the Zezere; and these harassed the French marauding parties, extending their devastations along the line of the Mondego.
Although the Minho regiment had suffered some loss, during these operations, their ranks were kept up to the full strength without difficulty. Great numbers of the Portuguese army deserted during the winter, owing to the hardships they endured, from want of food and the irregularity of their pay. Many of these made for the Minho regiment, which they had learned was well fed, and received their pay with some degree of regularity, the latter circumstance being due to the fact that Terence had the good luck to capture, with one of the convoys behind Ciudad Rodrigo, a considerable sum of money intended for the pay of the garrison. From this he had, without hesitation, paid his men the arrears due to them; and had still 30,000 dollars, with which he was able to continue to feed and pay them, after moving to the line of the Zezere.
He only enrolled sufficient recruits to fill the gaps made by war and disease; refusing to raise the number above 2000, as this was as many as could be readily handled; for he had found that the larger number had but increased the difficulties of rationing and paying them.
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{
"id": "20207"
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12
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: Fuentes D'Onoro.
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In the early spring Soult, who was besieging Cadiz, received orders from Napoleon to cooperate with Massena and, although ignorant of the latter's plans, and even of his position, prepared to do so at once. He crushed the Spanish force on the Gebora; captured Badajoz, owing to the treachery and cowardice of its commander; and was moving north, when the news reached him that Massena was falling back. The latter's position had, indeed, become untenable. His army was wasted by sickness; and famine threatened it, for the supplies obtainable from the country round had now been exhausted. Wellington was, as he knew from his agents in the Portuguese government, receiving reinforcements; and would shortly be in a position to assume the offensive.
The discipline in the French army under Massena had been greatly injured by its long inactivity. The only news he received as to Soult's movements was that he was near Badajoz; therefore, the first week in March he began his retreat, by sending off 10,000 sick and all his stores to Thomar. Then he began to fall back. Thick weather favoured him, and Ney assembled a large force near Leiria, as if to advance against the British position. Two other corps left Santarem, on the night of the fifth, and retired to Thomar. The rest of the army moved by other routes.
For four days Wellington, although discovering that a retreat was in progress, was unable to ascertain by which line Massena was really retiring. As soon as this point was cleared up, he ordered Beresford to concentrate near Abrantes; while he himself followed the line the main body of the French army seemed to be taking. It was soon found that they were concentrating at Pombal, with the apparent intention of crossing the Mondego at Coimbra; whereby they would have obtained a fresh and formidable position behind the Mondego, with the rich and untouched country between that river and the Douro, upon which they could have subsisted for a long time.
Therefore, calling back the troops that were already on the march to relieve Badajos, which had not yet surrendered, he advanced with all speed upon Pombal, his object being to force the French to take the line of retreat through Miranda for the frontier, and so to prevent him from crossing the Mondego.
Ney commanded the rear guard, and carried out the operation with the same mixture of vigour, valour, and prudence with which he, afterwards, performed the same duty to the French army on its retreat from Moscow. He fought at Pombal and at Redinha, and that so strenuously that, had it not been for Trant, Wilson, and other partisans who defended all the fords and bridges, Massena would have been able to have crossed the Mondego. Wellington however turned, one by one, the positions occupied by Ney; and Massena, believing that the force at Coimbra was far stronger than it really was, changed his plans and took up a position at Cazal Nova.
Here he left Ney and marched for Miranda but, although Ney covered the movement with admirable skill, disputing every ridge and post of vantage, the British pressed forward so hotly that Massena was obliged to destroy all his baggage and ammunition. Ney rashly remained on the east side of the river Cerra, in front of the village of Foz d'Aronce and, being attacked suddenly, was driven across the river with a loss of 500 men; many being drowned by missing the fords, and others crushed to death in the passage. However, Ney held the line of the river, blew up the bridge, and his division withdrew in good order.
Massena tarnished the reputation, gained by the manner in which he had drawn off his army from its dangerous position, by the ruthless spirit with which the operation was conducted; covering his retreat by burning every village through which he passed, and even ordering the town of Leiria to be destroyed, although altogether out of the line he was following.
After this fight the British pursuit slackened somewhat, for Wellington received the news of the surrender of Badajoz and, seeing that Portugal was thus open to invasion by Soult, on the south, despatched Cole's division to join that of Beresford; although this left him inferior in force to the army he was pursuing. The advance was retarded by the necessity of making bridges across the Cerra, which was now in flood, and the delay enabled Massena to fall back unmolested to Guarda; where he intended to halt, and then to move to Coria, whence he could have marched to the Tagus, effected a junction with Soult, and be in a position to advance again upon Lisbon, with a larger force than ever. He had, however, throughout been thwarted by the factious disobedience of his lieutenants Ney, Regnier, Brouet, Montbrun, and Junot; and this feeling now broke into open disobedience and, while Ney absolutely defied his authority, the others were so disobedient that fierce and angry personal altercations took place.
Massena removed Ney from his command. His own movements were, however, altogether disarranged by two British divisions, marching over the mountains by paths deemed altogether impassable for troops; which compelled him to abandon his intention of marching south, and to retire to Sabuga on the Coa. Here he was attacked. Regnier's corps, which covered the position, was beaten with heavy loss but, owing to the combinations--which would have cut Massena off from Ciudad Rodrigo--failing, from some of the columns going altogether astray in a thick fog, Massena gained that town with his army. He had lost in battle, from disease, or taken prisoners, 30,000 men since the day when, confident that he was going to drive Wellington to take refuge on board his ships, he had advanced from that town.
Even now he did not feel safe, though rejoined by a large number of convalescents; and, drawing rations for his troops from the stores of the citadel, he retired with the army to Salamanca. Having reorganized his force, procured fresh horses for his guns, and rested the troops for a few days; Massena advanced to cover Ciudad Rodrigo, and to raise the siege of Almeida--which Wellington had begun without loss of time--and, with upwards of 50,000 men, Massena attacked the British at Fuentes d'Onoro.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Fuentes d'Onoro.]
The fight was long and obstinate, and the French succeeded in driving back the British right; but failed in a series of desperate attempts to carry the village of Fuentes. Both sides claimed the battle as a victory, but the British with the greater ground; for Massena fell back across the Aqueda, having failed to relieve Almeida; whose garrison, by a well-planned night march, succeeded in passing through the besieging force, and effected their retreat with but small loss, the town falling into the possession of the British.
Terence had come up, after a series of long marches, on the day before the battle. His arrival was very opportune, for the Portuguese troops with Wellington were completely demoralized, and exhausted, by the failure of their government to supply them with food, pay, or clothes. So deplorable was their state that Wellington had been obliged to disband the militia regiments, and great numbers of desertions had taken place from the regular troops.
The regiment had been stationed on the British right. Here the fighting had been very severe. The French cavalry force was enormously superior to the British, who had but a thousand troopers in the field. These were driven back by the French, and Ramsay's battery of horse artillery was cut off. But Ramsay placed himself at the head of his battery and, at full gallop, dashed through the French infantry and cavalry, and succeeded in regaining his friends.
The two battalions of the Minho regiment, who were posted in a wood, defended themselves with the greatest resolution against an attack by vastly superior numbers; until the French, advancing on each side of the wood, had cut them off from the rest of the division. Then a bugle call summoned the men to assemble at the rear of the wood and, forming squares, the two battalions marched out.
Twelve French guns played upon them and, time after time, masses of cavalry swept down on them but, filling up the gaps in their ranks, they pressed on; charged two French regiments, at the double, that endeavoured to block their way; burst a path through them, and succeeded in rejoining the retiring division, which received them with a burst of hearty cheering. Two hundred had fallen, in the short time that had elapsed since they left the wood.
Terence had been in the centre of one of the squares but, just as they were breaking through the French ranks, he had ridden to the rear face; and called upon the men to turn and repulse a body of French cavalry, that was charging down upon them. At this moment a bullet struck his horse in the flank. Maddened with the sudden pain, the animal sprang forward, broke through the ranks of the Portuguese in front of it and, before Terence could recover its command, dashed at full speed among the French cavalry. Before he could strike a blow in defence, Terence was cut down. As he fell the cavalry passed over him but, fortunately, the impetus of his charge had carried him nearly through their ranks before he fell; and the horses of the rear rank leapt over his body, without touching him. It was the force of the blow that had felled him for, in the hurry of striking, the trooper's sword had partly turned, and it was with the flat rather than the edge that he was struck.
Although half stunned with the blow and the heavy fall, he did not altogether lose consciousness. He heard, as he lay, a crashing volley; which would, he felt sure, repulse the horsemen and, fearing that in their retreat they might ride over him, trampling him to death, he struggled to his feet. The French, however, though repulsed, did not retire far, but followed upon the retreating regiment until it joined the British; when a battery opened upon them, and their commander called upon them to fall back. This was done in good order, and at a steady trot.
On seeing Terence standing in their path, an officer rode up to him.
"I surrender," Terence said.
A trooper was called out, and ordered to conduct him to the rear; where many other prisoners, who had been taken during the French advance, were gathered. Here an English soldier bound up Terence's wound, from which the blood was streaming freely, a portion of the scalp having been shorn clean off.
"That was a narrow escape, sir," the man said.
"Yes; I don't know how it was that it did not sever my skull; but I suppose that it was a hasty blow, and the sword must have turned. It might have been worse, by a good deal. I am afraid things are going badly with us."
"Badly enough, here," the soldier said; "but I think we are holding our own, in the centre. There is a tremendous roar of fire going on, round that village there. I was captured half an hour ago, and it has been growing louder and louder, ever since."
For another two hours the battle continued and, as it still centred round the village, the spirits of the prisoners rose; for it was evident that, although the right had been driven back, the centre was at least holding its position, against all the efforts of the French. In the afternoon the fire slackened, and only a few shots were fired.
The next morning at daybreak the prisoners, 300 in number, were marched away under a strong escort. Both armies still occupied the same positions they had held the day before, and there seemed every probability of the battle being renewed. When, however, they had marched several miles, and no sound of heavy firing was heard, the prisoners concluded that either Wellington had retired; or that Massena, seeing his inability to drive the British from their position, intended himself to fall back upon Ciudad.
The convoy marched twenty miles, and then halted for the night. Two hours after they did so a great train of waggons containing wounded came up, and halted at the same place. The wounded were lifted out and laid on the ground, where the surgeons attended to the more serious cases.
"Pardon, monsieur," Terence said in French, to one of the doctors who was near him, "are there any of our countrymen among the wounded?"
"No, sir, they are all French," the doctor replied.
"That is a good sign," Terence said, to an English officer who was standing by him when he asked the question.
"Why so, Colonel?"
"Because, if Massena intended to attack again tomorrow, he would have sent the British wounded back, as well as his own men. The French, like ourselves, make no distinction between friends and foes; and that he has not sent them seems, to me, to show that he intends himself to fall back, and to leave the British wounded to the care of their own surgeons, rather than embarrass himself with them."
"Yes, I have no doubt that is the case," the officer said. "It seems, then, that we must have won the day, after all. That is some comfort, anyhow, and I shall sleep more soundly than I expected. If we had been beaten, there would have been nothing for it but for the army to fall back again to the lines of Torres Vedras; and Wellington would have had to fight very hard to regain them. If Massena does fall back, Almeida will have to surrender."
"I was inside last time it surrendered," Terence said, "but I managed to make my way out with my regiment, after the explosion."
"I wonder whether Massena means to leave us at Ciudad, or to send us on to Salamanca?"
"I should think that he would send us on," Terence replied; "he will not want to have 300 men eating up the stores at Ciudad, besides requiring a certain portion of the garrison to look after them."
Terence's ideas proved correct and, without stopping at Ciudad, the convoy of prisoners and wounded continued their march until they arrived at Salamanca. Terence could not help smiling, as he was marched through the street, and thought of the wild panic that he and Dicky Ryan had caused, when he was last in that town. The convent which the Mayo Fusiliers had occupied was now turned into a prison, and here the prisoners taken at Fuentes d'Onoro were marched, and joined those who had fallen into the hands of the French during Massena's retreat. Among these were several officers of his acquaintance and, as discipline was not very strict, they were able to make themselves fairly comfortable together.
The French, indeed, along the whole of the Portuguese frontier, had their hands full; and the force at Salamanca was so small that but few men could be spared for prison duties and, so long as their captives showed no signs of giving trouble, their guards were satisfied to leave them a good deal to their own devices; watching the gate carefully, but leaving much of the interior work of the prison to be done by Spanish warders for, violent as the natives were in their expressions of hatred for the French, they were always ready to serve under them, in any capacity in which money could be earned.
"There can be no difficulty, whatever, in making one's escape from here," Terence said, to a party of four or five officers who were lodged with him in a room, from whose window a view over the city was obtainable. "It is not the getting out of this convent that is difficult, but the making one's way across this country to rejoin. I have no doubt that one could bribe one of those Spaniards to bring in a rope and, even if that could not be obtained, we might manage to make one from our blankets; but the question is, what to do when we have got out? Massena lies between us and Ciudad and, from what I hear the French soldiers say, the whole line is guarded down to Badajoz, where Soult's army is lying. Victor is somewhere farther to the south, and their convoys and cavalry will be traversing the whole country. I speak Portuguese well, and know enough of Spanish to pass as a Spaniard, among Frenchmen, but to anyone who does not speak either language it would be next to impossible to get along."
"I quite see that," one of the officers said, "and for my part I would rather stay where I am, than run the risk of such an attempt. I don't know a word of Spanish, and should be recaptured before I had been out an hour. If I got away from the town I should be no better off, for I could not obtain a disguise. As to making one's way from here to Almeida, it would be altogether hopeless."
The others agreed, and one of them said: "But don't let us be any hindrance to you, O'Connor. If you are disposed to try, by all means do so and, if we can help you in any way, we will."
"I shall certainly try," Terence said; "but I shall wait a little to see how things go. It may be by this time Wellington has fallen back again and, in that case, no doubt Massena will advance. We heard as we came along that Marmont, with six divisions, is approaching the frontier and, even if Wellington could maintain himself on the Aqueda, Soult is likely to crush Beresford, and may advance from Badajoz towards Lisbon, when the British will be obliged to retire at once.
"To make one's way across the open country between this and Ciudad would be easy enough; while it would be dangerous in the extreme to enter the passes, while the French troops are pressing through them on Wellington's rear. My Portuguese would, of course, be a hindrance rather than a benefit to me on this side of the frontier; for the Spaniards hate the Portuguese very much more heartily than they do the French. You know that, when they were supplying our army with grain, the Spanish muleteers would not bring any for the use of the Portuguese brigades; and it was only by taking it as if for the British divisions, and distributing it afterwards to the Portuguese, that the latter could be kept alive. As a British officer I should feel quite safe, if I fell into the hands of Spanish guerillas; but as a Portuguese officer my life would not be worth an hour's purchase."
Two days later came the news that a desperate battle had been fought by Beresford at Albuera, near Badajoz. He had been attacked by Soult but, after tremendous fighting, in which the French first obtained great advantages, they had been at last beaten off by the British troops; and it ended a drawn battle, the losses on both sides being extraordinarily heavy. It was not until some time afterwards that Terence learned the particulars of this desperate engagement. Beresford had 30,000 infantry, 2000 cavalry, and 38 guns; but the British infantry did not exceed 7000. Soult had 4000 veteran cavalry, 19,000 infantry, and 40 guns.
The battle began badly. Blake with his Spaniards were soon disposed of by the French and, in half an hour, the battle was all but lost; a brigade of the British infantry being involved in the confusion caused by the Spanish retreat, and two-thirds of its number being destroyed. The whole brunt of the battle now fell upon the small British force remaining. French columns pushed up the hill held by them. The cannon on both sides swept the ground with grape. The heavy French columns suffered terribly from the fire from the English lines; but they pressed forward, gained the crest of the rise and, confident of victory, were still advancing; when Cole and Houghton's brigades came up and restored the battle, and the British line, charging through a storm of grape and musketry, fell upon the French columns and drove them down the hill again, in confusion.
The Portuguese battalions had fought well, as had the German regiment; but it was upon the British that the whole brunt of the fight had fallen. In the four hours that the combat lasted, 7000 of the allies and over 8000 of the French had been killed or wounded. Of the 6000 British infantry, only 1800 remained standing when the battle was over, 4200 being killed or wounded; 600 Germans and Portuguese were placed hors de combat; while of the Spaniards, who formed the great mass of the army, 2000 were killed or wounded by the French artillery and musketry, or cut down while in disorder by the French cavalry.
Never was the indomitable valour of British infantry more markedly shown than at the battle of Albuera. The battle had been brought on, in no small degree, by their anxiety for action. The regiments had been disappointed that, while their comrades were sharing in Wellington's pursuit of Massena, they were far away from the scene of conflict; and when Beresford would have fallen back, as it would have been prudent to do, they became so insubordinate that he gave way to their desire to meet the French; and so fought a battle where defeat would have upset all Wellington's plans for the campaign, and victory would have brought no advantages with it. Like Inkerman, it was a soldiers' battle. Beresford's dispositions were faulty in the extreme and, tactically, the day was lost before the fighting began.
The Spanish portion of the army did no real fighting and, in their confusion, involved the loss of nearly the whole of a British brigade; and it was only by the unconquerable valour of the remainder of the British force that victory was gained, against enormous odds, and that against some of the best troops of France.
Terence was in the habit of often going down and chatting with the French guard at the gate. Their duties were tedious, and they were glad of a talk with this young British officer, who was the only prisoner in their keeping who spoke their language fluently; and from them he obtained what news they had of what was going on. A fortnight later, he gathered that the British force on the Aqueda had been greatly weakened, that there was no intention of laying siege to Ciudad, and it was believed that Wellington's main body had marched south to join Beresford.
This was, indeed, the only operation left open to the British general. Regnier's division of Marmont's army had joined Massena, and it would be impossible to besiege Ciudad while a force, greatly superior to his own, was within easy striking distance. On the other hand, Beresford was in no position to fight another battle and, as long as Badajoz remained in the hands of the French, they could at any time advance into Portugal; and its possession was therefore of paramount importance.
Marmont had succeeded Massena in command, the latter marshal having been recalled to France; and the great bulk of the French army was now concentrated round Salamanca, from which it could either march against the British force at Ciudad; or unite with Soult and, in overwhelming strength, either move against Cadiz or advance into Portugal. Wellington therefore left Spencer to guard the line of the Coa, and make demonstrations against Ciudad; while with the main body of his army he marched south.
The news decided Terence to attempt to make his escape in that direction. He did not know whether his own regiment would be with Spencer, or Wellington; but it was clear that more important events would be likely to take place near Badajoz than on the Coa. The French would be unlikely to choose the latter route for an advance into Portugal. The country had been stripped bare by the two armies that had marched across it. The roads were extremely bad, and it would be next to impossible for an army to carry with it sustenance for the march; still less for maintaining itself after it had traversed the passes. Moreover Spencer, falling back before them, would retire to the lines of Torres Vedras; and the invaders would find themselves, as Massena had done, baffled by that tremendous line of fortifications, where they might find also Wellington and his army, who would have shorter roads to follow, established before they arrived.
Some of the townspeople were allowed to pass in and out of the convent, to sell fruit and other articles to the British prisoners; and Terence thought it better to open negotiations with one of these, rather than one of the warders in French pay. He was not long in fixing upon one of them as an ally. She was a good-looking peasant girl, who came regularly with grapes and other fruit. From the first, Terence had made his purchases from her, and had stood chatting with her for some time.
"I want to get away from here, Nita," he said, on the day he received the news of Wellington's march to the south.
"I dare say, senor," she laughed. "I suppose all the other prisoners want the same."
"No doubt; but you see, they would not have much chance of getting away, because none of them understand Spanish. I talk it a little, as you see. So if I got out and had a disguise, I might very well make my way across the country."
"There are many brigands about," she said, "and it is not safe for a single man to travel anywhere. What do you want me to do?"
"I want a rope fifty feet long; not a very thick one, but strong enough to bear my weight. That is the first thing. Then I want a disguise; but that I could get, if a friend would be in readiness to give it to me, after I had slid down the rope into the street."
"How could I give you a rope, senor, with all these people about?"
"You could put it into the bottom of your basket, and cover it over with fruit. You could take your stand near the door, at the foot of the stairs leading up to my room. Then I could, in the hearing of the rest, say that it was my fete day; and that I was going to give the others a treat, so that I would buy all your grapes. After we had bargained for them, I could hand you the money and say: "'Give me your basket. I will run upstairs, empty it, and bring it down to you.'
"As this would save my making five or six journeys upstairs, there would be nothing suspicious about that."
"I will think it over," the girl said, gravely. "I do not see that there would be much danger. I will give you an answer tomorrow."
The next day she said, when Terence went up to her, "I will do it, senor. I have a lover who is a muleteer. I spoke to him last night, and he will help you. Tomorrow I will give you the rope. In the afternoon you are to hang something out of your window; not far, but so that it can be just seen from the street. That red sash of yours will do very well. Do not let it go more than an inch or two beyond the window sill, so that it will not attract any attention.
"When the clock strikes ten, Garcia and I will be in the street below that window. This is a quiet neighbourhood, and no one is likely to be about. Garcia will have a suit of muleteer's clothes for you, and you can change at once. I will carry those you have on to our house, and destroy them. Garcia will take you to his lodging. He starts at daybreak with his mules, and you can travel with them."
"Thank you most heartily, Nita. Here are five gold pieces, for the purchase of the ropes and clothes."
"Oh, they will not cost anything like as much as that!" the girl said.
"If they don't, you must buy yourself a little keepsake, Nita, in remembrance of me; but I will send you something better worth having, by Garcia, when I reach our army, and am able to get money with which I can pay him for his labour and loss of time."
"I don't want money," the girl said, drawing herself up proudly. "I am helping you because I like you, and because you have come here to drive the French away."
"I should not think of offering you money, Nita. I know that it is out of pure kindness that you are doing it; but you could not refuse some little trinket to wear, on your wedding day."
"I may never get married," the girl said, with a pout.
"Oh, I know better than that, Nita! A girl with as pretty a face as yours would never remain single, and I should not be surprised if you were to tell me that the day is fixed already."
"It is not fixed, and is not likely to be, senor. I have told Garcia that I will never marry, as long as the French are here. He may go out with one of the partisan forces. He often talks about doing so, and might get shot any day by these brigands. When I am married, I am not going to stay at home by myself, while he is away among the mountains."
"Ah! Well, the war cannot last for ever. You may have Wellington here before the year is out. Give me your address, so that when we come, I may find you out."
"Callao San Salvador, Number 10. It is one of my uncles I am living with there. My home is in Burda, six miles away. It is a little village, and there are so many French bands ranging over the country that, a month ago, my father sent me in here to stay with my uncle; thinking that I should be safer in the city than in a little village. He brings fruit in for me to sell, twice a week."
"Very well. If we come here, I shall go to your uncle's and inquire for you and, if you have left him, I will go out to your village and find you."
All passed off as arranged, without the slightest hitch. Terence took the girl's basket and ran upstairs with it, emptied the fruit out on the table, thrust the rope under his bed, and ran down again and gave Nita the basket. At ten o'clock at night he slung himself from the window and after a hearty goodbye to his fellow prisoners--several of whom, now that it was too late, would gladly have shared in his adventure.
"I should be very glad if you were going with me, but at the same time I own that I do not think we should get through. I question, indeed, if the muleteer would take anyone who did not understand enough Spanish to pass, if he were questioned by French soldiers; and if he would do so, it would greatly increase the risk. At the same time, if one of you would like to take my place, I will relinquish it to you; and will, after you have gone off with the muleteer, go in another direction, and take my chance of getting hold of a disguise, somehow, and of making my way out."
None of the others would hear of this and, after extinguishing the light, so as to obviate the risk of anyone noticing him getting out of the window, Terence slipped down to the ground just as the clock struck ten.
"Good evening, senor!" a voice said, as his feet touched the ground. "Here is your disguise. Nita is watching a short distance away, and will give us notice if anyone approaches. You had best change, at once."
Terence took off his uniform and, with the assistance of the muleteer, donned the garments that he had brought for him. Then he rolled the others into a bundle, and the muleteer gave a low whistle, whereupon Nita came running up.
"Thanks be to the saints that no one has come along!" she said, as the rope, which Terence had forgotten, fell at their feet; his companions having, as agreed, untied the upper end.
"That will come in useful," Garcia said, coiling it up on his arm. "Now, senor, do not let us stand talking. Nita will take the uniform and burn it."
"I will hide it, if you like," the girl said. "There can be no reason for their searching our house."
"Thank you, Nita, but it would be better to destroy it, at once. It may be a long time before I come this way again; besides, the things have seen their best days, and I have another suit I can put on, when I join my regiment. Thanks very much for your kindness, which I shall always remember."
"Goodbye, senor! May the saints protect you!" and without giving him time to say more, she took the bundle from Garcia's hand and sped away down the street.
"Now, senor, follow me," he said, and turned to go in the other direction.
"You had best call me Juan, and begin at once," Terence said. "If by accident you were to say senor, in the hearing of anyone, there would be trouble at once."
"I shall be careful, never fear," the man said. "However, there would only be harm done if there happened to be a Frenchman--or one of their Spaniards, who are worse--present. As to my own comrades, it would not matter at all. We muleteers are all heart and soul against the French, and will do anything to injure them. We are all obliged to work for them; for all trade is at an end, and we must live. Many have joined the partisans, but those who have good mules cannot go away and give up their only means of earning a living; for although the French pay for carriage by mules or carts, if they come upon animals that are not being used, they take them without a single scruple.
"Besides, there are not many partisans in this part of Spain. The French have been too long in the valley here, and are too strong in the Castiles for their operations. It is different in Navarre, Aragon, and Catalonia; and in Valencia and Mercia. There the French have never had a firm footing, and most of the strong places are still in Spanish hands. In all the mountainous parts, in fact, there are guerillas; but here it is too dangerous. There are bands all over the country, but these are really but robbers, and no honest man would join them.
"This is the house."
He turned in at a small doorway and unlocked the door, closing it after them.
"Put your hand on my shoulder, Juan," he said. "I have a light upstairs."
He led the way in darkness up a stone staircase, then unlocked another door and entered a small room, where a candle was burning.
"This is my home, when I am here," he said. "Most of us sleep at the stables where our mules are put up; but I like having a place to myself, and my mate looks after the mules."
Nothing could have been simpler than the furniture of the room. It consisted of a low pallet, a small table, and a single chair. In a corner were a pair of saddlebags and two or three coloured blankets. A thick coat, lined with sheepskin, hung against the wall. In a corner was a brightly-coloured picture of a saint, with two sconces for candles by the side of it. The muleteer had crossed himself and bowed to it as he came in, and Terence doubted not that it was the picture of a saint who was supposed to take a special interest in muleteers.
From a small cupboard, the man brought out a flask of wine and two drinking cups.
"It is good," he said, as he placed them on the table. "I go down to Xeres sometimes, and always bring up a half octave of something special for my friends, here."
After pouring out the two cups, he handed the chair politely to Terence, and sat himself down on the edge of the pallet. Then, taking out a tobacco bag and a roll of paper, he made a cigarette and handed it to Terence, and then rolled one for himself.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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13
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: From Salamanca To Cadiz.
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"Now, let us talk about our journey," the muleteer said, when he had taken two or three whiffs at his cigarette. "Nita tells me that you wish, if possible, to join your army near Badajoz. That suits me well, for I have orders from a merchant here to fetch him twelve mule loads of sherry from Xeres; and Badajoz is, therefore, on my way. The merchant has a permit, signed by Marmont, for me to pass unmolested by any French troops; saying that the wine is intended for his use, and that of his staff. If it were not for that, there would be small chance, indeed, of his ever getting it. There is so little trade, now, that it is scarce possible to buy a flask of the white wine of the south, here. Of course, the pass will be equally useful going down to fetch it for, without it, my mules would be certain to be impressed for service, by the French.
"So you see, nothing could have happened more fortunately for, anywhere between the Tagus and Badajoz, we can turn off from Estremadura into Portugal. It would not be safe to try near Badajoz, for Soult's army is scattered all over there and, though the pass would be doubtless respected by superior officers, if we fell in with foraging parties they would have no hesitation in shooting me, tearing up the pass, and carrying off my mules. For your sake as well as my own, therefore, I would turn off and cross the mountains--say, to Portalegre--and go down to Elvas. There you would be with your friends; and I could cross again, further south, and make my way down to Xeres."
"They say that two of Marmont's divisions started south, yesterday."
"That is unfortunate, for they will leave little behind them in the way of food and drink; and we shall find it better to travel by by-roads. I should not mind being impressed, if it were only for the march down to Badajoz; but once with an army, there is no saying how long one may be kept."
"If we find any difficulty in crossing into Portugal this side of Badajoz, I shall not mind going down to Cadiz. I should have no difficulty, there, in getting a ship to Lisbon."
"Well, we shall see," the muleteer said. "We will go the short way, if we can. I hate the Portuguese, and they are no fonder of us; but with you with me, of course, I should not be afraid of interference from them."
"But the Portuguese are fighting on our side, and aiding us to help you."
"Yes, because they think it is better that the war should be carried on here than in their own country. Besides, from what I hear, it is with no goodwill that they fight under your British general; but only because he tells them that, unless they furnish so many troops, he will have nothing more to do with them, but will sail away with his army to England."
"That may be true, Garcia; but you know that when we were here--for I was with the British army that marched through Salamanca--the Spanish authorities were no more willing to assist than were the Portuguese; and not a single soldier--with the exception of two or three thousand half-armed men under Romana--joined, from the day we crossed the frontier to that on which we embarked to Corunna."
"The authorities are all bad," Garcia said scornfully. "They only think of feathering their own nests, and of quarrelling among themselves. The people are patriots, but what can they do when the Juntas keep the arms the English have sent us in their magazines, and divide the money among themselves? Then our generals know nothing of their business, and have their own ambitions and rivalries. We are all ready to fight; and when the drum is beaten and we are called out, we go willingly enough. But what do we do when we go out? We are marched backwards and forwards without motive; the officers are no good; and when at last we do see the French we are always beaten, and the generals and the officers are the first to run away.
"We ought in the first place to rise, not against the French, but against the Juntas, and the councillors, and the hidalgos. Then, when we have done with them, we ought to choose officers from among ourselves, men that have done good service as leaders of partisans. Then we could meet the French. We are brave enough, when we are well led. See how the people fought at Saragossa, and since then at Gerona, and many other places. We are not afraid of being killed, but we have no confidence in our chiefs."
"I have no doubt that is so, Garcia; and that, if the regiments were trained by British officers, as some of the Portuguese now are, you would fight well. Unfortunately, as you say, your generals and officers are chosen, not for their merits, but from their influence with the Juntas, whose object is to have the army filled with men who will be subservient to their orders.
"Then there is another thing against you: that is, the jealousy of the various provinces. There is no common effort. When Valencia is invaded, for example, the Valencians fight; but they have no idea of going out from their homes to assist Castile or Catalonia and so, one after another, the provinces are conquered by the French."
"That is so," Garcia said thoughtfully. "If they were to rise here I would fight, and take my chance of being killed; but I should not care to risk my life in defence of Valencia, with which I have nothing whatever to do. I don't see how you are to get over that, so long as we are divided into provinces."
"Nor do I, Garcia. In times of peace these various governments may work well enough; but nothing could be worse than the system, when a country is invaded.
"What time do you start, tomorrow?"
"As soon as the gates are open. That will be at five o'clock. It is eleven now, so we had better get some sleep. In the morning I must see that your dress is all right. Nita has given me a bottle of walnut juice, to stain your face and hands.
"Do you lie down on the bed, senor. I will wrap myself up in this cloak. I am more accustomed to sleep on that than on the bed."
Terence removed his outer garments and, in a few minutes, was sound asleep. At four o'clock Garcia roused him. The morning was breaking and, with the assistance of the muleteer, he made his toilet and stained his face, neck, and hands, and darkened his hair. Then they each ate a piece of bread with a bunch of grapes, took a drink of red wine, and then sallied out; Garcia carrying his sheepskin cloak, and Terence the three coloured blankets. A quarter of a mile farther, they came to an inn frequented by muleteers.
"I have told my mate about you," Garcia said, "so you need not be afraid of him; nor indeed of any of us. There is not a muleteer who would not do what he could to aid the escape of a British officer."
Most of the mules were already saddled, and Garcia went up with Terence to a man who was buckling a strap.
"Sanchez," he said, "this is our new comrade, Juan, who I told you would accompany us this journey."
The man nodded.
"It will be all the better," he said. "Twelve mules are rather too much for two men to manage, when we get among the mountains."
Garcia and Terence at once set to work to assist, and in ten minutes the cavalcade started. Garcia rode the leading mule, three others being tied in single file behind it. Terence came next, and Sanchez brought up the rear. The animals were fine ones, and Garcia was evidently proud of them; showing their good points to Terence, and telling him their names. The mules were all very fond of their master, turning their heads at once when addressed by name; and flapping their long ears in enjoyment, as he rubbed their heads or patted their necks.
The town was already astir and, as they reached the gates, country carts were pouring in, laden with fruits and vegetables for the market. Garcia stopped for a moment, as an old man came along with a cart.
"How are you, father?"
"How are you, Garcia? Off again?"
"Yes; I am going to Xeres for wine, for the French general."
"I see that you have got a new comrade."
"Yes; the journey is a long one, and I thought that it was as well to have another mate."
"Yes, it is dangerous travelling," the old man said. "Well, goodbye, and good fortune to you!"
Garcia put his mules in motion again, and they passed through the gate and soon left Salamanca behind. There was little conversation on the way. The two Spaniards made and smoked cigarettes continually; and Terence endeavoured to imitate them, by addressing the endearing words they used to their animals, having learned the names of the four of which he was in charge. At first they did not respond to this strange voice but, as they became accustomed to it, each answered, when its name was called, by quickening its pace and by a sharp whisk of the tail, that showed it understood that it was addressed.
Terence knew that his escape would not be discovered until eight o'clock, when the doors were opened and the prisoners assembled in the yard for the roll call. Should any pursuit be organized, which was unlikely, it would be in the direction of Ciudad; as it might be supposed that an escaped prisoner would naturally make for the nearest spot where he could join his friends. One prisoner more or less would, however, make but little difference; and the authorities would probably content themselves with sending a message by a trooper, to all the towns and villages on that road, to arrest any suspicious persons travelling without proper papers.
On the line they were pursuing, the risk of interference was very small. The marshal's pass would be certainly respected by the officers of the corps under his command; and it was not until they fell in with parties of Soult's troops that any unpleasantness was to be apprehended; though even here the worst that could be looked for, if they met any large body of troops, would be that the mules might be taken, for a time, for service in the army.
After a long day's journey they halted, for the night, at a village. Here they found that the troops marching south had encamped close at hand for the night, and the resources of the place had been completely exhausted. This mattered but little, as they carried a week's store of bread, black sausage, cheese, onions, garlic, and capsicums. The landlord of the little inn furnished them with a cooking pot; and a sort of stew, which Terence found by no means unpalatable, was concocted. The mules were hobbled and turned out on to the plain to graze; for the whole of the forage of the village had been requisitioned, for the use of the cavalry and baggage animals of the French column.
On the following morning they struck off from the road they had been following and, travelling for sixteen hours, came down on it again at the foot of the pass of Bejar; and learned from some peasants that they had got ahead of the French column, which was encamped two or three miles down the road. Before daybreak they were on their way again, and reached Banos in the afternoon. There were but few inhabitants remaining here; for the requisitions for food and forage, made by the troops that had so frequently passed through the defiles, were such that the position of the inhabitants had become intolerable and, when they learned from Garcia that two divisions of French troops would most probably arrive that evening, and that Marmont's whole army would follow, most of the inhabitants who remained hastily packed their most valuable belongings in carts, and drove away into the hills.
The landlord of the largest inn, however, stood his ground. He was doing well; and the principal officers of troops passing through always took up their quarters with him, paid him fairly for their meals and saw that, whatever exactions were placed upon the town, he was exempted from them. Therefore the muleteers were able to obtain a comfortable meal and, after resting their animals for three hours, and giving them a good feed of corn, went on a few miles farther; and then, turning off, encamped among the hills. They were about to wrap themselves in their cloaks and blankets, and to lie down for the night, when a number of armed men suddenly appeared.
"Who are you, and whither are you going?" one, who appeared to be their leader, asked.
"We are bound for Xeres," Garcia replied, rising to his feet. "We are commissioned by Senor Moldeno, the well-known wine merchant of Salamanca, to procure for him--as much good Xeres wine as our mules will carry."
"It is a pity that we did not meet you on the way back, instead of on your journey there. We should appreciate the wine quite as thoroughly as his customers would do. But how do you propose to bring your wine back, when the whole country south swarms with Soult's cavalry?"
"Don Moldeno obtained a pass for us from Marmont; who, I suppose, is one of his customers."
"We could not think of allowing wine to pass for the use of a French marshal," the man said.
"It is not likely that he will drink it for some time," Garcia said, carelessly; "for he is marching in this direction himself. Two of his divisions have probably, by this time, reached Banos; and we heard at Salamanca that he himself, with the rest of them, will follow in a day or two."
"That is bad news," the man said. "There will be no travellers along here, while the army is on its march. Are your mules carrying nothing now?"
"Nothing at all. The mules would have been requisitioned two days ago, as were most of the others in Salamanca; but Marmont's pass saved us."
"Are you carrying the money to buy the wine with?"
"No, Don Moldeno knew better than that. I have only a letter from him to the house of Simon Peron, at Xeres. He told me that that would be sufficient, and they would furnish me with the wine, at once, on my handing the letter to them."
"Well, comrades," the man said, to the others gathered round, "it is evident that we shall get no booty tonight; and may as well be off to our own fires, where supper is waiting for us; and move away from here at daybreak. The French may have parties of horse all over the hills, tomorrow, searching for provisions, cattle, and sheep."
"That was a narrow escape," Garcia said, as the brigands moved off. "I wonder they did not take our mules; but I suppose they had as many as they want--three or four would be sufficient to carry their food, and anything they may have stolen--more than that would only be a hindrance to them in moving about, especially now they know that the French may be in the neighbourhood in a few hours, if they have not arrived already.
"Well, senor, what is the next thing to be done?"
Terence did not answer for some little time.
"It is not easy to say," he replied at length. "Seeing that Marmont and Soult are practically united, there can be no doubt that our troops will have to fall back again to Portugal. The whole country is covered with French cavalry and, in addition, we have to run risks from these brigands; who may not always prove so easy to deal with as the men who have just left us. What do you think yourself? You know the country, and can judge far better than I can as to our chance of getting through."
"I don't think it will be possible, senor, to carry out the plan of trying to cross into Portugal, in this direction. It seems to me, now that Soult is engaged, and there can be no large bodies of French near Seville, our best plan would be to make for that town; whence, so far as we know, the country is clear of the enemy down to Cadiz; and when we reach that port, you can take ship to Lisbon."
"But in that case I shall not be able to get the money to pay you, for I shall not be known; and although I could doubtless get a passage, I do not think that I could obtain any funds."
"Do not speak of it, senor. The British will be in Salamanca one of these days, and then you will be able to pay me; or, if I should not be there at the time, you can leave the money for me with Nita, or her father. It was for her sake that I undertook the business; and I have no doubt, whatever, that you will discharge the debt when you enter Salamanca."
"That I certainly will, and to make it more certain I will ask one of the officers of my old regiment to undertake to find her out, and to pay the money; in case I may be with my own men, in some other part of the country."
"That will be quite enough, senor. Do not trouble yourself further on the matter. We will start for Seville at daybreak."
Travelling rapidly, the little party kept along the range of the sierras; and then proceeded by the valley of the Tagus and crossed the river at Talavera; and then, keeping nearly due south, struck the Guadiana at Ciudad Real and, crossing La Mancha, gained the Sierra Morena; held west for some distance along the southern slopes; and then turned south and struck the Guadalquivir between Cordova and Seville, and arrived safely at the latter town. They had been obliged to make a great number of detours, to avoid bodies of the enemy; but the muleteer had no difficulty in obtaining information, from the peasants, as to the whereabouts of the French and, after reaching the plains, always travelled at night. They fell in twice with large parties of guerillas; but these were not brigands for, as the country was still unconquered, and the French only held the ground they occupied, the bands had not degenerated into brigandage; but were in communication with the local authorities, and acted in conformity with their instructions, in concert with the Spanish troops.
It was, however, nearly a month from the date of their leaving Salamanca before they arrived at Cadiz. Terence had, during the journey, greatly improved his knowledge of Spanish by his conversation with the muleteers and, as the language was so similar to the Portuguese, he soon acquired facility in speaking it. They put up at a small fonda, or inn, frequented by muleteers; and Terence at once made his way to the house where he heard that the British agent resided. The latter, on hearing his story, was surprised, indeed, that he should have made his way through Spain from a point so far away as Salamanca; and occupied, for the greater portion of the distance, by the French.
"A sloop-of-war is sailing tomorrow for the Tagus," he said, "and I will give you a letter to her captain; who will, of course, give you a passage."
Terence informed him of the great services the muleteer had rendered him, and asked him if he could advance him sufficient money to repay the man.
"I certainly have no funds at my disposal for such a purpose, Captain O'Connor,"--for Terence had said nothing about his Portuguese rank, finding that its announcement always caused a certain amount of doubt--"but I will strain a point, and grant you thirty pounds, on your bill upon your agent at Lisbon. I have no doubt that it will be met on presentation. But should, for example, your vessel be wrecked or captured, which I am by no means contemplating as likely, the amount must go down among subsidies to Spaniards who have rendered good service."
"Thank you, sir. That will be sufficient, not to reward the man for the risk he has run and the fidelity that he has shown, but it will at least pay him for the service of his mules. I do not suppose that he would earn more, and it will be a satisfaction, to me, to know that he is at least not out of pocket."
The agent at once handed him a bag of silver, together with a letter to the officer in command of the Daphne. He hired a boat and was rowed off to the ship; which was lying, with several other small British warships, in the port. When he ascended the side the officer on duty asked him somewhat roughly, in bad Spanish, what he wanted.
"I have a letter for Captain Fry," he replied in English, to the surprise of the lieutenant. "I am a British officer, who was taken prisoner at the battle of Fuentes d'Onoro."
"You must not blame me for having taken you for a Spaniard," the lieutenant said in surprise, as he handed the letter Terence held out to the midshipman, with a request to deliver it to the captain. "Your disguise is certainly excellent and, if you speak Spanish as well as you look the part, I can quite understand your getting safely through the country."
"Unfortunately, I do not. I speak it quite well enough for ordinary purposes, but not well enough to pass as a native. I travelled with a muleteer, who did all the talking that was necessary. I have been a month on the journey, which has greatly improved my Spanish. I knew little of it when I started, but I should not have got on so quickly had I not been thoroughly up in Portuguese; which, of course, helped me immensely."
The midshipman now came up and requested Terence to follow him to the captain's cabin. The captain smiled as he entered.
"It is well that Mr. Bromhead vouched for you, Captain O'Connor; for I certainly should have had difficulty in bringing myself to believe that you were a British officer. I shall, of course, be very glad to give you a passage; and to hear the story of your adventures, which ought to be very interesting."
"I have had very few adventures," Terence replied. "The muleteer knew the country perfectly; and had no difficulty in obtaining, from the peasants, news of the movements of the French. When I started I had no idea of making such a long journey; but had intended to join Lord Beresford in front of Badajos, if I could not manage to cross the frontier higher up; but Marmont's march south rendered that impossible, and I thought that the safer plan would be to keep well away from the frontier; as of course things are much more settled in the interior, and two or three muleteers with their animals would excite little attention, even if we passed through a town with a large French garrison; except that the mules might have been impressed and, as I had no means of recompensing my guide in that case, I was anxious to avoid all risk.
"When do you sail, sir?"
"At eight o'clock tomorrow. You cannot very well go in that attire," the captain said, smiling. "I shall be glad to advance any sum that you may require to procure clothes. You can, no doubt, pay me on your arrival at Lisbon."
Terence gladly accepted a loan of ten pounds and, with it, returned to shore. On reaching the little inn, he at once handed thirty pounds to Garcia. The man, however, absolutely refused to accept it.
"No, senor; since you have got money, I will take fifty dollars to pay for food and forage on my way back; although really you have cost me nothing, for I had to make the journey on business. But even did you owe me the money, I would not take it now. I may not be so lucky on my way back as we have been in coming, and might be seized by brigands; therefore I would, in any case, rather that you left the matter until you come to Salamanca."
"But that may not be for a long time. It is quite as likely that we may be obliged to quit Portugal, and embark for England, as that we shall ever get to Salamanca."
"Who knows, senor! Luck may turn. However, I would rather that it were so. I have had the pleasure of your having made the journey with me, and I shall have pleased Nita. If you come, well and good. If not, it cannot be helped, and I shall not grieve over it. If I had money with me I might lose it, and it might cost me my life."
Terence had again gone out, and purchased a suit of clothes befitting a Spanish gentleman. He took the muleteer with him. They had no longer any reason for concealing their identity and, should he find it necessary to announce himself to be a British officer, it might be useful to have corroboration of his story. He also laid in a fresh stock of linen, of which he was greatly in need and, next morning, after a hearty farewell to Garcia, he went down to the port in his new attire and, carrying a small valise containing his purchases, took a boat to the ship.
The evening before he had called in at the agent's, to thank him again, when the latter told him that he had some urgent despatches from the junta of Cadiz to that of Seville; and some despatches of his own to persons at Cordova, and others in Madrid, who were in communication with the British government; and he offered a sum, for their safe delivery, that would recompense the muleteer for the whole of his journey. This Garcia had gladly acceded to, on condition that he might stop for a day, to get the wine at Xeres.
The voyage to Lisbon lasted three days, and was a very pleasant one to Terence. On his arrival there he at once repaid the captain the loan he had received from him, having over thirty pounds still in hand. He next saw the agent, and requested him to pay the bill when presented and, after waiting three days to obtain a fresh uniform, started up the country and rejoined Wellington, who had been compelled to fall back again behind the Coa. He reported himself to the adjutant general.
"You have just arrived in time, Captain O'Connor," the latter said, "for your regiment is under orders to start, tomorrow, to join the force of the guerilla Moras who, with two thousand men, is in the mountains on our frontier near Miranda; and intends to threaten Zamora, and so compel Marmont to draw off some of his troops facing us here. Your regiment is at present on the Douro, fifteen miles away. How have you come here?"
"I travelled by a country conveyance, sir. I am at present without a horse, but no doubt I can pick one up, when I have obtained funds from the paymaster."
"I will give you an order on him for fifty pounds," the adjutant said. "Of course, there is a great deal more owing to you; but it will save trouble to give you an order for that sum, on account. I don't suppose you will want more. I will have inquiries made about a horse. If you return here in an hour, I daresay I shall hear of one for sale.
"Your regiment has not done much fighting since you left it, but they behaved well at Banos, where we had a very sharp fight. They came up just at the critical moment, and they materially assisted us in beating off the attack of the French; who were in greatly superior force, and nearly succeeded in capturing, or exterminating, the light division."
On his return, Terence found that one of the officers on the adjutant general's staff knew of a horse that had been captured, by a trooper, in a skirmish with French dragoons three days before. It was a serviceable animal and, as the soldier was glad to take ten pounds for it, Terence at once purchased it. The adjutant told him that, on mentioning his return, Lord Wellington had requested him to dine with him; and to come half an hour before the usual time, as he wished to question him with reference to the state of the country he had passed through, and of the strength and probable movements of the French troops in those districts.
"I am glad to see you back again, Colonel O'Connor," the general said, when he entered. "Of course, I heard how you had been captured, and have regretted your absence. Colonel Herrara is a good officer in many ways, and the regiment has maintained its state of efficiency; but he does not possess your energy and enterprise, nor the readiness to assume responsibilities and to act solely upon his own initiative--a most valuable quality," he said, with one of his rare smiles, "when combined with sound judgment, for an officer commanding a partisan corps like your own; but which, if general, would in a very short time put an end to all military combinations, and render the office of a commander-in-chief a sinecure.
"Now, sir, will you be good enough to point out, on this map, exactly the line you followed in travelling from Salamanca to Cadiz: and give me any information you gained concerning the roads, the disposition of the people, and the position and movements of the French troops."
Terence had anticipated that such information would be required of him; and had, every evening when they halted, jotted down every fact that he thought could be useful and, on the voyage to Lisbon, had written from them a full report, both of the matters which the general now inquired about, and of the amount of supplies which could probably be obtained in each locality, the number of houses and accommodation available for troops, the state and strength of the passes, and the information that Garcia had obtained for him of mountain tracks by which these passes could be turned, by infantry and cavalry in single file.
"I have brought my report, sir," he said, producing it. "I endeavoured to make the most of my opportunities, to gain all the information possible that might be useful to myself, or the commander of any column moving across the same country. I fear that it is far from being perfect but, as I wrote it from my notes, made at the end of each day, I think it will answer its purpose, as far as it goes."
Attached to each day's journey was a rough sketch map showing the crossroads, rivers, bridges, and other particulars. The general took the bulky report, sat down and read a page here and there, and glanced at the maps. He looked up approvingly.
"Very good, indeed, Colonel O'Connor. If all officers would take advantage of their opportunities, as you have done, the drudgery my staff have to do would be very much lightened, and they would not be constantly working in the dark."
He handed the report to the adjutant general.
"This may be of great utility when an advance begins," he said. "You had better have two or three copies of it made. It will be useful to the quartermaster's department, as well as to yourself; and of great assistance to the officers in command of any detached parties that may be despatched to gather in supplies, or to keep in check an enemy advancing on our flank. Some day, when I can find time, I will read the whole report myself.
"It will be well to have a dozen copies made of the first five or six pages, and the maps, for the perusal of any officer sent out with a detachment on scouting duty, as a model of the sort of report that an officer should send in of his work, when on such duty."
The party at dinner was a small one, consisting only of some five or six officers of the headquarter staff, and two generals of divisions. After dinner, Lord Wellington asked Terence how he escaped from Salamanca, and the latter briefly related the particulars of his evasion.
"This is the second time you have escaped from a French prison," Lord Wellington said, when he had finished. "The last time, if I remember rightly, you escaped from Bayonne in a boat."
"But you did not get to England in that boat, surely, Colonel O'Connor?" one of the generals laughed.
"No, sir; we were driven off shore by a gale, and picked up by a French privateer. We escaped from her as she was lying in port at Brest, made our way to the mouth of the river Sienne, about nine miles north of Granville; and then, stealing another boat, started for Jersey. We were chased by a French privateer but, before she came up to us, a Jersey privateer arrived and engaged her. While the fight was going on we got on board the Jersey boat, which finally captured the Frenchman, and took her into port."
"And from there, I suppose, you found your way to England, and enjoyed a short rest from your labours?"
"No, sir. The captain of the privateer, who thought that we had rendered him valuable assistance in the fight, sailed out with us on to the ship track, and put us on board a transport bound for Lisbon."
"Well, you are more heart and soul in it than I am," the general laughed. "I should not have been able to deny myself a short run in England."
"I was anxious to get back to my regiment, sir, as I was afraid that, if I did not return before the next campaign opened, some other officer might be appointed to its command."
"You need not trouble yourself on that score, in future, Colonel O'Connor," Lord Wellington said. "If you have the bad luck to be captured again, I shall know that your absence will be temporary and, if it became necessary to appoint anyone else to your command, it would only be until your return."
On leaving the commander-in-chief's quarters, the adjutant general asked Terence when he thought of rejoining his regiment.
"I am going to start at once, sir. I ordered my horse to be saddled and in readiness, at ten o'clock."
"You must not think of doing so," the adjutant said. "The road is very bad, and not at all fit to be traversed on a dark night like this. Besides, you would really gain nothing by it. If you leave at daybreak, you will overtake your regiment before it has marched many miles."
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{
"id": "20207"
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14
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: Effecting A Diversion.
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At twelve o'clock the next day Terence rode up to his regiment, just as it had halted for two hours' rest. As soon as he was recognized the men leapt to their feet, cheering vociferously, and gathered round him; while, a minute or two later, Herrara, Ryan and the two majors ran up to greet him.
[Illustration: The men leapt to their feet, cheering vociferously.]
"I have been expecting you for the last month," Ryan exclaimed, "though how you were to get through the French lines was more than I could imagine. Still, I made sure you would do it, somehow."
"You gave me credit for more sharpness than I possess, Dick. I felt sure it could not be done, and so I had to go right down to Cadiz, and back to Lisbon by ship. It was a very much easier affair than ours was, and I met with no adventures and no difficulties on the way.
"Well, Herrara, I heard at headquarters that the regiment is going on well, and they fought stoutly at Banos. Your loss was not heavy, I hope?"
"We had fifty-three killed, and a hundred more or less seriously wounded. More than half of them have rejoined. The vacancies have been filled up, and the two battalions are both at their full strength.
"Two of the captains, Fernandez and Panza, were killed. I have appointed two of the sergeants temporarily, pending your confirmation, on your return."
"It is well that it is no worse. They were both good men, and will be a loss to us. Whom have you appointed in their places?"
"Gomes and Mendoza, the two sergeant majors. They are both men of good family, and thoroughly know their duty. Of course I filled their places, for the time, with two of the colour sergeants."
"I suppose you have ridden from headquarters, Terence," Ryan put in, "and must be as hungry as a hunter. We were just going to sit down to a couple of chickens and a ham, so come along."
While they were taking their meal, Terence gave them an account of the manner in which he had escaped from Salamanca.
"So you were in our old quarters, Terence! Well, you certainly have a marvellous knack of getting out of scrapes. When we saw your horse carrying you into the middle of the French cavalry, I thought for a moment that the Minho regiment had lost its colonel; but it was not for long, and soon I was sure that, somehow or other, you would give them the slip again. Of course I have been thinking of you as a prisoner at Ciudad, and I was afraid that they would keep a sharper watch over you, there, than they did at Bayonne. Still, I felt sure that you would manage it somehow, even without the help we had.
"What are your orders?"
"I have none, save that we are to march to Miranda, where we shall find a guerilla force under Moras; and we are to operate with him, and do all we can to attract the attention of the French. That is all I know, for I have not had time to look at the written instructions I received from the adjutant general when I said goodbye to him, last night; but I don't think there are any precise orders.
"What were yours, Herrara?"
"They are that I was to consult with Moras; to operate carefully, and not to be drawn into any combat with superior or nearly equal French forces; which I took to mean equal to the strength of the regiment, for the guerillas are not to be depended upon, to the smallest extent, in anything like a pitched combat."
"There is no doubt about that," Terence agreed. "For cutting off small parties, harassing convoys, or anything of that sort, they are excellent; but for down-right hard fighting, the guerillas are not worth their salt. The great advantage of them is that they render it necessary for the French to send very strong guards with their baggage and convoys; and occasionally, when they are particularly bold and numerous, to despatch columns in pursuit of them. If it were not for these bands, they would be able to concentrate all their troops, and would soon capture Andalusia and Valencia, and then turn their attention to other work. As it is, they have to keep the roads clear, to leave strong garrisons everywhere, and to keep a sufficient force in each province to make head against the guerillas; for if they did not do so, all their friends would be speedily killed, and the peasantry be constantly incited to rise."
"Do you know anything of this Moras?"
"He is said to be a good leader," Herrara replied, "and to have gathered under him a number of other bands. He has the reputation of being less savage and cruel than the greater part of these partisan leaders; and though, no doubt, he kills prisoners--for in that he could hardly restrain his men--he does not permit the barbarous cruelties that are a disgrace to the Spanish people. In fact, I believe his orders are that no prisoners are to be taken."
"I will look at my instructions," Terence said, drawing out the paper he had received the night before.
"Yes," he said, when he had read them; "my instructions are a good deal like yours, but they leave my hands somewhat more free. I am to consult with Moras, to operate with him when I think it advisable, and in all respects to act entirely upon my own judgment and discretion; the main object being to compel the French to detach as many men as possible from this neighbourhood, in order to oppose me; and I am to take every advantage the nature of the country may afford to inflict heavy blows upon them."
"That is all right," Ryan said cheerfully. "I had quite made up my mind that we should always be dependent upon Moras; and be kept inactive, owing to his refusal to carry out anything Herrara might propose; but as you can act independently of him, we are sure to have plenty of fun."
"We will make it as hot for them as we can, Dick; and if we cannot do more, we can certainly oblige the French to keep something like a division idle, to hold us in check. With the two battalions, and Moras's irregulars, we ought to be able to harass them amazingly; and to hold any of these mountain passes against a considerable force."
After two hours' halt the march was renewed and, two days later, the regiment arrived at Miranda. The frontier ran close to this town, the Douro separating the two countries. They learned that Moras was lying four miles farther to the north, and across the frontier line; doubtless preferring to remain in Spain, in order to prevent a quarrel between his followers and the Portuguese.
The next morning Terence, accompanied by Ryan and four mounted orderlies, rode into the glen where he and his followers were lying. They had erected a great number of small arbours of boughs and bushes and, as Terence rode up to one of these, which was larger and better finished than the rest, Moras himself came to the entrance to meet them.
He did not at all correspond with Terence's ideas of a guerilla chief. He was a young man, of three or four and twenty; of slim figure and with a handsome, thoughtful face. He had been a student of divinity at Salamanca, but had killed a French officer in a duel, brought on by the insolence of the latter; and had been compelled to fly. A few men had gathered round him, and he had at once raised his standard as a guerilla chief.
At first his operations had been on a very small scale; but the success that had attended these enterprises, and the reports of his reckless bravery, had speedily swelled the number of his followers; and although as a rule he kept only a hundred with him, he could at any time, by sending round a summons, collect five times that number, in a few hours.
When Terence introduced himself as the colonel of the two battalions that had arrived, at Miranda, to operate in conjunction with him, Moras held out his hand frankly.
"I am very glad indeed to meet you, Colonel O'Connor," he said. "I received a despatch four days ago from your general, saying that the Minho regiment would shortly arrive at Miranda, to act in concert with me. I was glad indeed when I heard of this, for the name of the regiment is well known, on this side of the frontier as well as on the other, having been engaged in many gallant actions; and your name is equally well known, in connection with it; but I hardly expected to meet you, for the despatch said the Minho regiment under Lieutenant Colonel Herrara."
"Yes. I only rejoined it two days ago, having been taken prisoner at Fuentes d'Onoro, and having made my escape from Salamanca."
"Your aid will be invaluable, senor. My own men are brave enough, but they are irregulars in the full sense of the word;" and he smiled. "And although they can be relied upon for a sudden attack, or for the defence of a pass, they could not stand against a French force of a quarter of their strength, in the plain. We want a backbone, and no better one could be found than your regiment.
"I am the more glad that you are in command, because you know, unhappily, we and the Portuguese do not get on well together and, while my men would hesitate to obey a Portuguese commander, and would have no confidence in him, they would gladly accept your leadership."
"I hope that there will be no difficulties on the ground of race," Terence said. "We are fighting in a common cause, against a common enemy; and dissensions between ourselves are as absurd as they are dangerous.
"Let me introduce Captain Ryan, adjutant of the regiment."
Moras shook hands with Ryan; who had been looking on, with some surprise, at the colloquy between him and Terence. Moras then asked them into his arbour.
"I have little to offer you," he said, with a smile, "save black bread and wine. The latter, however, is good. I obtained a large supply of it from a convoy we captured, a few days since."
The wine was indeed excellent and, accustomed as they were to the coarse bread of the country, Terence and Ryan were able to eat it with satisfaction.
"Now, Colonel," Moras said, "beyond the fact that we are to act in concert, I know nothing of the plans. Please to remember that, while it is said that we are to discuss our plans of operations together, I place myself unreservedly under your orders. Of irregular warfare I have learned something; but of military science, and anything like extensive operations, I am as ignorant as a child; while you have shown your capacity for command. I may be of advantage to you, from my knowledge of the country; and indeed, there is not a village track that someone or other of my followers is not well acquainted with."
"That, of course, will be of great advantage to us," Terence replied courteously, "and I thank you much for what you have said; but I am sure, from what I have heard, you underrate your abilities. Beyond regimental drill, I knew very little of warfare until I, quite by an accident, came to assume the command of my regiment; and it was only because I drilled and disciplined it thoroughly that I had the good fortune to obtain some successes with it. Your acquaintance with the country will be fully a set off to any superior knowledge that I may have of military matters, and I have no doubt that we shall get on well together.
"The instructions that I have received are to the effect that we are to make incursions and attacks in various directions; concealing, as far as possible, our strength; and so to oblige the French to detach a considerable number of troops to hold us in check. This would relieve the pressure upon Lord Wellington's army, and would deter the enemy from making any offensive movement into Portugal; until our general has received the reinforcements expected shortly, and is in a position to take the offensive."
"It will be just the work to suit us," the guerilla chief said. "And as I received a subsidy from your political agent at Lisbon, a few days since, I am in a position to keep the whole force I have together; which is more than I can do generally for, even if successful in an attack on a convoy, the greater portion of the men scatter and return to their homes and, as long as their share of the booty lasts, they do not care to come out again."
Terence now produced a map with which he had been supplied, and a considerable time was spent in obtaining full particulars of the country through which the troops might have to march; ascertaining the best spots for resistance when retreating, or for attacking columns who might be despatched in pursuit of them; and in discussing the manner and direction in which their operations would most alarm and annoy the enemy.
It was finally agreed that Terence should break up his battalions into three parties. Two of these consisted each of half a battalion, 500 strong, and would be under the command of Bull and Macwitty. Each of them would be accompanied by 300 guerillas, who would act as scouts and, in case opportunity should offer, join in any fighting that might take place.
The other two half battalions formed the third body, under the command of Terence, himself; and would, with the main force of the guerillas, occupy the roads between Zamora, Salamanca, and Valladolid. In this way the French would be harassed at several points, and would find it so difficult to obtain information as to the real strength of the foe that was threatening them, that they would be obliged to send up a considerable force to oppose them; and would hesitate to undertake any serious advance into Portugal until the question was cleared up, and their lines of communication assured again.
It was agreed, in the first place, that the forces should unite in the mountains west of Braganza, between the river Esla on the east and Tera on the north; affording a strong position from which, in case of any very large force mustering against them, they could retire across the frontier into Portugal. Terence had been supplied with money, and an authority to give orders on the paymaster's department for such purchases as were absolutely necessary. Moras was also well supplied, having not only the money that had been sent him, but the proceeds of a successful attack upon a convoy proceeding to Salamanca; in which he had captured a commissariat chest, with a considerable sum of money, besides a large number of cattle and several waggon loads of flour. All these provisions, with some that Terence had authority to draw from the stores at Miranda, were to be taken to the spot they had chosen as their headquarters in the hills.
"You beat me altogether, Terence," Ryan said as, after all these matters had been arranged, they rode out from the guerilla's camp. "It is only about three months since I saw you. Then you could only just get along in Spanish. Now you are chattering away in it as if you had never spoken anything else, all your life."
"Well, you see, Dick, I knew just enough, when I was taken prisoner, to be able to, as you say, get along in it; and that made all the difference to me. If I had known nothing at all of it, I should not have been able to benefit by my trip with the muleteers in Spain. As it was, I was able to talk with them and, as we rode side by side all day; and sat together by a fire for hours, after we had halted when the day's journey was over, we did a tremendous lot of talking; and as you see, I came out, at the end of the month, able to get along really fluently. I, no doubt, make a good many mistakes, and mix a good many Portuguese words with my Spanish; but that does not matter in the least, so long as one is with friends; although it would matter a good deal if I were trying to pass as a Spaniard, among people who might betray me if they found out that I was English.
"I see that you have improved in Portuguese almost as much as I have in Spanish. It is really only the first drudgery that is difficult, in learning a language. When once one makes a start one gets on very fast; especially if one is not afraid of making mistakes. I never care a rap whether I make blunders or not, so that I can but make myself understood."
Three days later the two bodies were assembled in a valley, about equally distant from Miranda and Braganza. It had the advantage of being entered, from the east, only through a narrow gorge, which could be defended against a very superior force; while there were two mountain tracks leading from it, by which the force there could be withdrawn, should the entrance be forced. A day was spent by the leaders in making their final arrangements; while the men worked at the erection of a great wall of rocks, twelve feet high and as many thick, across the mouth of the gorge; collecting quantities of stones and rocks, on the heights on either side, to roll down upon any enemy who might endeavour to scale them; while another very strong party built a wall, six feet high, in a great semicircle round the upper mouth of the gorge, so that a column forcing its way through, thus far, would be met by so heavy a fire that they could only debouch into the valley with immense loss.
Two hundred men of the Minho regiment, drawn from Terence's party, were to occupy the valley; with three hundred of the guerillas, who would be able to do good service by occupying the heights, while the regular infantry held the newly-erected walls. One of Moras' most trusted lieutenants was to command them while, after some discussion, it was arranged that Herrara should be in general command of the garrison.
The brave fellow was reluctant to remain inactive; but he had been, for some time, seriously unwell, having been laid up for a time with a severe attack of dysentery; and was really unfit for any continued exertion, although he had made light of his illness, and refused to go on the sick list. Terence pointed out to him that the command was a very important one. Here all the plunder that they might obtain from the enemy would be carried; and if, by means of spies or traitors, the French obtained news of the situation of the post, he might be attacked in great force before the other detachments could arrive to his assistance.
As there were four thousand French troops at Zamora, it was agreed that no direct attack could be made upon the town. Bull with his force was to watch the garrison, attack any detachments that might be sent out--leaving them severely alone when they sallied out in force, and to content himself with outmarching their infantry, and beating off any cavalry attacks. He was, if necessary, to retreat in the direction of their stronghold.
Macwitty was to occupy the road between Zamora and Valladolid, while the main body held the roads between both the latter town, and Zamora, to Salamanca. Frequent communication was to be kept up between them, so that either column might speedily be reinforced, if necessary.
In the course of a week, the whole country was in a state of alarm. Bridges were broken down, roads blocked by deep cuttings across them, convoys attacked, small French posts at Tordesillas, Fuentelapena, and Valparaiso captured--the French soldiers being disarmed, and then taken under an escort to within ten miles of Salamanca. Toro was entered suddenly, and a garrison of three hundred men taken by surprise, and forced to lay down their arms. The powder, bullocks, and waggons with their stores were sent, by circuitous routes, to the bridge across the Douro at Miranda, and then up to their stronghold.
So vigilant a watch was kept on the roads that no single courier was able to make his way from Valladolid to Salamanca or Zamora and, beyond the fact that the whole country seemed swarming with enemies, the French commanders were in absolute ignorance of the strength of the force that had so suddenly invaded Leon.
One day a messenger rode in from Macwitty to Fuentelapena, where Terence had his headquarters; saying that a body of 4000 French infantry, with 1000 cavalry, were on the march from Valladolid towards Zamora. Strong positions had already been selected for the defence, and a bridge broken down at a point where the road crossed a tributary of the Douro.
Terence at once sent Ryan with 200 men to reinforce Macwitty, and despatched several mounted messengers to find Bull, and to tell him to join him on the road, four miles to the east of the point where Macwitty was defending the passage of the river. He himself marched directly on that point, crossing the river at Tordesillas. He arrived there early in the morning, and found that the French column had passed, late the evening before.
At this point the road ran between two hills, several times crossing a stream that wound along the valley. A large number of men were at once set to work, breaking down the bridges and throwing up a breastwork along the bank, where the river made a sharp bend, crossing the valley from the foot of the hills on one side to that of those on the other. While this work was being done cannon shots were heard, then a distant rattle of musketry.
Terence knew that by this time Ryan would have joined Macwitty; and Moras at once started, with his men and 400 of the Portuguese, to threaten the French rear, and make a dash upon their baggage. Terence's orders to the officers in command of these two companies were that they were to keep their men well together, and to cover the retreat of the guerillas from cavalry attacks. The firing continued for the next hour and a half, then it suddenly swelled in volume, and amid the rattle could be heard the sound of heavy volleys of musketry.
Terence had, half an hour before, ridden forward at full speed with four mounted orderlies. When he arrived at a spot where he could survey the scene of combat, he saw that it was more serious than he had anticipated. The guerillas were falling back rapidly, but as soon as they gained the high ground they halted and opened fire upon the cavalry who, scattered over the plain, were pursuing them. His own men were retreating steadily and in good order, facing round and pouring heavy volleys into the French cavalry, as they charged them.
The French attack on Macwitty had ceased, and Terence saw bodies of infantry moving towards the right where, on rising ground, a body of troops about a thousand strong were showing themselves menacingly. He had no doubt for a moment that this was Bull's command who, hearing the firing, and supposing that Terence was engaged there, had led his command straight to the scene of action.
He at once sent an orderly back, at full gallop, to order the men in the valley to come on at the top of their speed; and then rode along the hillside and joined Bull, who was now closely engaged with the advancing columns of French. So hot was the fire, from Bull's own men and the guerillas, that the two French battalions wavered and came to a halt; and then, breaking into skirmishing order, advanced up the hill.
"Don't wait too long, Bull," Terence said. "There is a steeper slope behind you. However, I don't think they will come up very far--not, at least, until they are reinforced. There is another body just starting, and I think we can hold on here until they join the skirmishing line. As soon as they do so, sound the order for the men to fall back."
"Where are your men, sir?"
"They are four miles away, at the spot where I told you to join me. However, the mistake is of no importance. I have sent off for them and, as soon as they arrive and show themselves, I fancy the French will retreat."
He tore out a leaf from his pocketbook, and wrote out an order to Macwitty: "Leave Captain Ryan with his command to hold the river; and march at once, with the rest of your men, to the ford which we heard of, a mile down the river. Cross there, and ascend the hills on the French right; scattering your men so as to make as much show as possible, and menacing the French with attack. Tell Captain Ryan to redouble his fire, so as to prevent the French noticing the withdrawal of your force."
This he gave to one of his orderlies, and told him to swim the river and deliver it to Major Macwitty.
When Terence had done this, he was able to give his attention to what was passing. Across the valley his men had now ascended the hill, and joined the guerillas. The French cavalry, unable to charge up the heights, had fallen back. A column of French, some fifteen hundred strong, were marching in that direction.
As he had expected, the skirmishers in front of him were making but little way; evidently halting for the arrival of the reinforcement, which was still more than half a mile distant. The French gunners had been withdrawn from the bank of the river, and were taking up positions to cover the advance of their infantry; and their shot presently came singing overhead--doing no harm, however, to the Portuguese, who were lying down on the crest of the swell, and keeping up a steady fire on the French skirmishers.
Ten minutes later the column was within a short distance of the line of defenders. Terence gave the word, and his men retired up another and steeper slope behind; while the guerillas were ordered to remain to keep up a brisk fire, until the French were within thirty yards of the crest, and were then to run back at full speed, and join him above.
The Portuguese had scarcely taken up their position when a tremendous fire broke out below. A minute later the guerillas were seen rushing up the hill, and close behind them came the French line, cheering loudly. As they appeared the Portuguese opened fire, and with such steadiness and precision that the leading files of the French were almost annihilated. But the wave swept upwards and, encouraged by the shouts of their officers, they advanced against the second position.
For half an hour an obstinate fight was maintained, the strength of the position neutralizing the effect of the superior numbers of the French. The Spaniards fought well, imitating the steadiness of the Portuguese and, being for the most part good marksmen, their fire was very deadly; and several determined attacks of the French were beaten off with heavy loss.
Then, from the valley below, was heard the sound of a bugle. The call was repeated by the bugles of the assailants and, slowly and reluctantly, the French began to fall back.
Terence looked round. He had from time to time glanced across to the hills opposite, and had seen his men there retiring steadily, and in good order, before the assault of the French; and now he saw that his force from the valley was marching rapidly along the hilltop to their assistance; while away on the French right, Macwitty's command, spread out to appear of much greater strength than it really possessed, was moving down the slope, as if to the assault.
Below, in the valley, a battalion of French infantry with their cavalry and artillery were drawn up, and were evidently only waiting for the return of the two assaulting columns, to join in their retreat. The French commander doubtless supposed that he was caught in a trap. Unable to effect the passage of the river, and seeing the stubborn resistance his troops were meeting with on the hills, the arrival of two fresh bodies of the enemy on the scene induced him to believe that the foe were in great force; and that, ere long, he might be completely surrounded. He moved forward slowly, by the road he had come, and was presently joined by the two detached parties.
As soon as they moved on, Terence sent an orderly at a gallop across the valley, to order Macwitty and Moras to follow the French along on the hills on their side of the valley, and to harass them as much as possible; while he, with Bull's command, kept parallel with them on his side.
The French cavalry kept ahead of their column. The leading battalion was thrown out as skirmishers, on the lower slopes of the hills; while the artillery, in the rear, kept up a heavy fire upon the Portuguese and Spanish, as soon as they were made out on the hills above them. Terence kept his men on the crest, and signalled to Macwitty to do the same; but the guerillas swarmed down the hillside, and maintained a galling fire on the French column. Terence took his men along at the double and, heading the column, descended into the valley at the point they had fortified.
Here there was a sharp fight. The French cavalry fell back, after suffering heavily. Their infantry advanced gallantly and, after a fierce fight, drove the Portuguese from their wall and up the hillside. Here they maintained a heavy fire, until the column opened out and the French artillery came to the front; when Terence at once ordered the men to scatter, and climb the hill at full speed.
Without attempting to repair the broken bridges, the French infantry crossed the stream breast high, and the cavalry and artillery followed; and Terence, seeing that their retreat could not be seriously molested, and that if he attempted to do so, he should suffer very heavily from their artillery, sounded a halt; and the French continued their retreat to Valladolid, leaving behind them all their baggage, which they had been unable to get across the stream.
Terence's force came down from the hills and assembled in the valley. Congratulations were exchanged on the success that had attended their efforts. Then the roll was at once called, and it was found that a hundred and three men of the Minho regiment were missing. There was no roll among the guerillas; but Moras's estimate, after counting the number assembled, was, that upwards of two hundred were absent from the ranks, fully half of these having been overtaken and killed by the French cavalry.
Terence at once sent off two parties of his own men, to the points where the fight had been fiercest. They were to collect the wounded, including those of the French, and to carry them down into the valley; while parties of guerillas searched the hillsides, down to the scene of action, for their comrades who had fallen from the fire of the French artillery and musketry.
When the wounded were collected, it was found there were upwards of two hundred French infantry, fifty-nine guerillas, and twenty-four Portuguese. The smaller proportion of wounded of the latter being accounted for by the fact that so many had been shot through the head, while lying down to fire at the French as they climbed the hill. Two hundred and thirty French soldiers had been killed. Terence at once set his men to dig wide trenches, in which the soldiers of the three nationalities were laid side by side.
A considerable amount of reserve ammunition being captured in the waggons, the men's cartridge boxes were filled up again, and the rest was packed in a waggon. Some of the drivers had cut their traces, but others had neglected to do this, and there were sufficient waggons to carry all the wounded, both friends and enemies, together with a considerable amount of flour.
The French wounded were taken to the ford by which Macwitty had crossed; and then some of them who had been wounded in the leg and, although unable to walk, were fit to drive, were given the reins and told to take the waggons to Zamora, a distance of twelve miles. Fifty men were told off to march with them, until within sight of the town; as otherwise they would have assuredly been attacked, and the whole of the wounded massacred by the Spanish peasants.
The force then broke up again, each column taking as much flour and meat as the men could carry. The remaining waggons and stores were heaped together, and set on fire.
Long before this was done, they had been rejoined by Ryan and his command. He had remained guarding the river until the French had disappeared up the valley, and had then crossed at the ford but, though using all haste, he did not rejoin the force until the whole of the fighting was over.
"This has been a good day's work, Terence," he said when, that evening, the force had entered Tordesillas and quartered themselves there for the night. "You may be sure that the general at Valladolid will send messengers to Salamanca, giving a greatly exaggerated account of our force; and begging them to send down to Marmont, at once, for a large reinforcement. If the couriers make a detour, in the first place, we shall not be able to cut them off."
"No, Dick, and we wouldn't, if we could. I have no doubt that he will report the force with which his column was engaged as being nearly double what it really is. Besides, sharp as we have been, I expect some messengers will, by this time, have got through from Zamora. The commandant there will report that a large force is in the neighbourhood of that town; and that, without leaving the place entirely undefended, he has not strength enough to sally out against them. They cannot know that this force and ours have joined hands in the attack on the Valladolid column, nor that this represented anything like the whole of the force that have been harrying the country and cutting off detached posts. The fact, too, that this gathering was not a mere collection of guerillas, or of the revolted peasantry; but that there were regular troops among them, in considerable numbers, will have a great effect; and Marmont will feel himself obliged, when he gets the news, to send some fifteen or twenty thousand troops up here to clear the country.
"Now, the first thing to do is to draw up a report of the engagement, and to send it off to Wellington. I think that it will be a good thing, Dick, for you to carry it yourself. I don't think that there is any fear of your being interrupted on your way to Miranda, and as an officer you will be able to get fresh horses, and take the news quicker than an orderly could do; and it is of great importance that the chief should know, as soon as possible, what has taken place here. I shall speak very strongly of your services during the past week, and it is always a good thing for an officer selected to carry the news of a success; and lastly, you can give a much better account of our operations, since we crossed the frontier, than an orderly could do, and Wellington may want to send orders back for our future work."
"I am game," Ryan said, "and thank you for the offer. How long will you be?"
"Well, it is eight o'clock now, and if you start at midnight it will be soon enough; so if you have finished your supper, you had better lie down on that bed in the next room and get a sleep; for you were marching all last night, and will want some rest before starting on such a journey."
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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15
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: Dick Ryan's Capture.
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Terence wrote two despatches, one giving a full account of the engagement, the other a detail of the work that had been performed since they crossed the frontier. He wrote them in duplicate, so that he might send off another messenger, three hours later; in case, by any chance, Ryan failed to reach Miranda. He carefully abstained from giving any real account of the strength of the various columns, in each case putting the number at five times their actual strength so that, if the despatches should miscarry, not only would no information be conveyed to the French, but they would be led to believe that the invading force was vastly stronger than they had hitherto supposed. Ryan was, of course, to explain, when he delivered the despatches, that the figures must in all cases be divided by five, and the reason why false numbers had been inserted.
Terence let him sleep until one o'clock, and then roused him. Several French horses had been found, straying riderless along the valley; and the best of these was picked out for him. A few minutes later, Dick was on his way to Miranda. The road by which he was to travel would take him some six miles south of Zamora, and the distance to be ridden was between fifty and sixty miles. He knew that he could not do this at a gallop, and went along at a steady pace, sometimes trotting and sometimes cantering. It was now late in September and, at half-past five, it was still dark when Ryan approached the spot where the road he was following crossed the main road between Zamora and Salamanca.
He was riding at a canter, when suddenly, to his surprise and consternation, he rode into the midst of a body of cavalry, halted on the main road. The sound of his horse's feet had been heard and, before he could even draw his sword, he was seized and taken prisoner. A French officer rode down the line.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"We have taken a prisoner, sir," the sergeant answered. "We heard him coming by this crossroad, and seized him as he rode in among us. He is a soldier--an officer, I should think, from what I can see of him."
"Who are you, sir?" the French officer said to Ryan.
The latter saw that concealment was useless. It would soon be light enough for his scarlet uniform to be seen. He therefore replied, in broken French: "My name is Ryan. I hold the rank of captain. I was riding to Miranda when, unfortunately, I fell in with your troopers as they were halted. I did not hear and, of course, could not see them until I was among them."
[Illustration: 'Search him at once.']
"Riding with despatches, no doubt," the officer said. "Search him at once, men. He might destroy them."
"Here they are, sir," Ryan said, taking the despatches from inside his jacket. "You need not have me searched. I give you my word of honour, as a British officer, that I have no others on me."
"Put him in the middle of the troop, sergeant," the officer said. "Put a trooper in special charge of him, on each side. Unbuckle his reins, and buckle them on to those of the troopers. Do you ride behind him, and keep a sharp lookout upon him. It is an important capture."
Five minutes later, the squadron again started on their way south. Ryan, after silently cursing his bad luck at having arrived at the spot just as this body of cavalry were crossing, wondered what evil fortune had sent them there, at that precise moment. He was not long in arriving at a conclusion. The convoy of the French wounded had arrived at Zamora, late in the evening; and the commandant, thinking it likely that the enemy, who had hitherto blocked the roads, might have concentrated for the attack on the column, had decided upon sending off a squadron of cavalry to carry the important news he had learned, from the wounded, of the defeat of the column, five thousand strong, coming to his relief from Valladolid.
The party proceeded at a brisk trot, and, meeting with no resistance, arrived at Salamanca by ten o'clock in the morning. The officer in command at once rode with Ryan, the latter guarded by four troopers, to the residence of the general. Leaving Dick with his escort outside, he entered the house, and sent in his name, and the duty with which he was charged, to the general. He was at once shown into his room.
"I congratulate you on having got through, Captain D'Estrelles," the general said, as he entered. "It is ten days since we heard from Zamora. We have sent off six messengers, I don't know whether any of them have arrived."
"No, sir, none of them. The commandant sent off one or two, every day; and I suppose they, like those you sent, were all stopped."
"The whole country seems on fire," the general said. "We have had five or six parties come in here disarmed, who had been captured by the enemy; and it would seem that all our posts on the road to Zamora, and on that to Valladolid, have been captured. The men could only report that they were suddenly attacked by such overwhelming forces that resistance was impossible. They say that the whole country seems to swarm with guerillas, but there are certainly a considerable number of regular troops among them. What has happened at Zamora?"
"These despatches will inform you, sir; but I may tell you that we are virtually beleaguered. The country round swarms with the enemy. Two or three reconnaissances in force met with the most determined opposition."
"Are you in communication with Valladolid?"
"No, sir. Our communications were stopped at the same time as those to this town; but I am sorry to say that you will see, by the general's despatch, that a severe disaster has happened to the column coming from Valladolid to our relief."
The general took the despatch and rapidly perused its contents.
"A column five thousand strong, with cavalry and guns, repulsed! The enemy must be in force, indeed. From the estimates we have received from prisoners they released, I thought they must be fully ten thousand strong. I see that the wounded who were sent by Moras estimate those engaged with him at twelve thousand; and it is hardly probable that they could, at such short notice, have assembled in anything like their full strength."
"I have also to report, general, that we, this morning before daybreak, captured a British officer on his way to Miranda, with despatches. We were fortunately halted for the moment, so that he was unaware of our presence until he rode into the midst of us. These are his despatches. I have not opened them."
"It is an important capture, indeed," the general said; "that is, if the report contains details of the fighting. Its contents may enable us to form a clearer idea than we can, at present, of their numbers."
He broke the seal and read the account of the battle.
"It is signed T. O'Connor, colonel," he said. "The name is well-known to us as that of a very active partisan leader. Three of the columns appear to have been commanded by British officers. Here we have them: Major Bull, Major Macwitty, and Captain Ryan."
"It is Captain Ryan whom we have made prisoner, sir."
"Their dispositions appear to have been good, and ably worked out. The bridge across the river had been destroyed, and our crossing was opposed by one column. While we were attempting to force the passage, three more columns attacked us, one on each flank and rear; while a fourth, composed of a portion of the force defending the passage who, as soon as we were fairly engaged with the other columns, crossed the ford lower down, leaving a thousand men to face us on the river bank, advanced against our left. Finding themselves thus greatly outnumbered, the column fell back, leaving behind them some five hundred dead and wounded. Their passage was closed by the enemy, who had broken down some bridges and thrown a breastwork across the valley; but after sharp fighting they made their way through."
He then turned to the other despatch.
"This is still more useful," he said. "It is a general report of their proceedings since they crossed the frontier, and gives the number of each column. They total up to twenty-five thousand men; of which some ten thousand seem to be regular troops, the rest guerillas."
"Do you wish to see the prisoner, sir? He is waiting with the guard, outside."
"Yes, I might as well see him though, as a point of fact, he can give us no more information than that contained in these reports, which are very full and detailed."
"So, sir," he said when Ryan was brought in, "you are a British officer."
"I am, sir," Dick replied quietly. "At present on detached duty, serving on the staff of Colonel O'Connor."
"Who is with the guerilla chief, Moras," the general said.
"Yes, sir. The troops under Colonel O'Connor have been acting in concert with Moras, and other forces; much to the advantage of such of your soldiers as fell into our hands, not one of whom has suffered insult or injury; and all have been permitted to go free, after being deprived of their arms. Colonel O'Connor also sent away all the French wounded who fell into our hands after the battle, in waggons, escorted by a strong body of his troops to within a mile of Zamora; in order to protect them from massacre by the peasants."
"He behaved, sir, as a British officer would be expected to behave," the general said warmly. "Were the war always conducted on the same principle, it would be better for both armies and for the people of this country. I will place you on parole, if you choose."
"I thank you, General, but I would rather have my hands free, should I see any opportunity of escaping."
"That you are not likely to do," the general said, "for if you refuse to be bound by your parole, I must take measures against your having any of these opportunities that you speak of, until the country is cleared and you can be sent with a convoy to France. I am sorry that you refuse but, as I should do so myself, under similar circumstances, I cannot blame you."
Accordingly, Ryan was taken to a strong prison in the heart of the city; where, however, he was assigned comfortable quarters, a sentry being placed at his door and, as the window that looked into the courtyard was strongly barred, his chances of escape seemed slight, indeed; and he was almost inclined to regret that he had not accepted the general's offer, and given his parole not to attempt to escape.
Two days later one of Moras's men, who belonged to Salamanca, went into the town to see some friends, and brought back the news that a British officer had been captured by a party of French dragoons, coming from Zamora. He had been seen by many of the townspeople as he sat on his horse, with four troopers round him, at the door of the governor's house. He had been lodged in the city prison. A comparison of dates showed that there could be no doubt that the prisoner was Dick Ryan, and Terence was greatly vexed at his loss.
"So far as the despatches go," he said to Herrara--who had, on the day before, arrived from their stronghold, which was now safe from attack, "there can be no doubt that it is fortunate rather than otherwise that they have fallen into the hands of the French; for they will give them an altogether exaggerated impression of our strength, and I have no doubt that the orderly who left, two hours later, has got through in safety. Still, I am greatly annoyed that Ryan has been made prisoner. I miss his services and companionship very much and, if I can possibly get him out, I will do so. I will see Moras, and ask him to send the man who brought the news back again, to gather further particulars. I would take the matter in hand myself but, being in command here, I must consider the duty with which I am intrusted before a question of private friendship."
Moras presently came in to see Terence and, when the latter told him what he wanted, he undertook at once to obtain every detail possible as to the place of Ryan's confinement.
"A number of my men come from the town," he said, "and I will cause inquiries to be made among them, at once; and choose half a dozen, with connections who may be able to assist, and send them into Salamanca; with instructions to act in concert, to ascertain whether it is possible to do anything by bribery, to endeavour to communicate with the prisoner, and to devise some plan for his escape from the gaol.
"It was a strong place before the French came. It was the city prison; but they took it over, and have used it not only for prisoners of war, but for persons suspected of being in communication with your people, and even for officers of their own army who have been convicted of insubordination or disobedience of orders, or other offences. One of the men I will send, and to whom I shall intrust the general arrangement of the matter, is one of my lieutenants, Leon Gonzales. He has been a friend of mine since boyhood, and entered as a law student when I went into the college for divinity. He is daring and fearless. He has an excellent head, and a large acquaintance among the young men at the university and, indeed, in all classes of society. He belongs to one of our best families."
"Yes, of course I know him," Terence said. "He has several times come with you, when you have ridden over; and was in command of the detachment that was with me, when we captured the French garrison at Tordesillas. I was much pleased with him and, although too occupied to see much of him, I conceived a great liking for him. I should say that he is just the man to manage this business successfully, if it is possible to do so."
"At all events, I will despatch him with six other men, whom he may choose himself, this afternoon," Moras said. "I had intended him to remain in command of the party we leave here when we march, tonight; but I will hand that over to another."
That night the force, with the exception of 500 guerillas and as many of the Minho regiment, marched away from the station they occupied to take up a new position, between Valladolid and Valencia. Herrara was to remain behind, in command of the 500 Portuguese. These, in conjunction with the guerillas, were to occupy their old positions; stopping all lines of communication, showing themselves in villages and towns hitherto unvisited and, divided into parties of two or three hundred, march rapidly about the country, so that the fact that the main body had moved elsewhere should be unknown to the French authorities, who would therefore believe that the force that was to cut the road north of Valladolid was a newly-arrived one.
Thirty-six hours later Terence, with a battalion and a half of his regiment and 1500 of Moras's guerillas, took up their position in the mountains lying to the east of Valencia, between the rivers Esqueva and Arlanza. From this position they could, with equal facility, come down on the road between Valladolid and Valencia, or between the latter town and Burgos. Here for some weeks they maintained themselves, in the first place falling upon convoys from Valladolid south and, when these only moved forward under escorts too strong to be attacked, carrying on their operations on the road to Burgos. In these raids they obtained an abundance of provisions, a considerable number of arms and much ammunition and, in two or three instances, a large amount of treasure that was being taken forward for the payment of the troops.
The provisions and wine were amply sufficient for the support of the force. Half the money was set aside for future needs, being divided between the regimental chest of Moras and that of the Minho regiment. The other half was similarly divided as prize money among the men, a proportion being sent down to Herrara, for his command.
The operations of the band caused immense annoyance and difficulty to the French. It was no longer possible to travel by the main road from France between Burgos and Valladolid, and thence down to Salamanca or Zamora, without the convoys being accompanied by strong bodies of troops. Several incursions into the mountains were organized from Burgos, which was always a great military centre, aided by detachments from Valencia; but these met with no success whatever. On entering the passes they were assailed by a heavy fire from invisible foes. Great rocks were rolled down upon them; and when, after much loss, they succeeded in forcing their way up to the hills, no traces of their foe could be discovered.
As among Moras's guerillas were natives of both Burgos and Valencia, and these had put themselves in communication with their friends, the band was kept well informed of every movement of the French, and received early intelligence when a convoy, or an expedition into the hills, was on the point of setting out, and of the exact strength of the military force employed. They were, therefore, always prepared either to sally out for an attack on the convoy, or to oppose an expedition as soon as it entered the mountains. Their stores were hidden away among rocks, being divided into several portions so that, should the French by fortune or treachery discover one of these, the loss would not cripple them.
Their greatest enemy was cold. It was now the end of October, and several times snow had fallen, and it was necessary to keep up large fires. This was a double inconvenience. In the first place, the smoke by day and the flames by night might betray the position of their camp; and in the second place, their tracks in the snow, which would speedily cover the hills, would enable the enemy to follow them wherever they moved. It was therefore determined that they could no longer maintain their position there, but must return to the plains.
Frequent communication had been kept up with Herrara, who reported that Salamanca was now occupied by so large a force that he was no longer able to maintain his position; and that he had fallen back across the Douro, and had established himself in the stronghold, from which he made frequent excursions towards Zamora and Benavente.
To Dick Ryan, in his prison, the first fortnight had passed slowly. That Terence would, as soon as he learned of his capture, make every effort to free him he knew well; but he could not see how he could give him any material aid. The French force at Salamanca was far too strong to admit of a possibility of any attempt to rescue him by force, and the barred windows and the sentry seemed to close every chance of communication from without. On the tenth day of his imprisonment, he noticed that the sergeant who brought his food had been changed.
"What has become of Sergeant Pipon?" he asked the non-commissioned officer who filled his place.
"He was killed yesterday evening, in the streets," the man replied. "It was not an ordinary broil, for he had half-a-dozen dagger stabs. It is some time since those dogs of Spaniards have killed a French soldier in the town, and there is a great fuss over it. The municipality will have to pay 10,000 dollars, if they cannot produce his murderer. It is curious, too, for Pipon was not a man to get drunk. He did not speak a word of the language, and therefore could not have had a dispute with a Spaniard.
"We have been ordered to be more vigilant than before. I suppose the authorities think that perhaps there was some attempt to bribe him and, on his seizing the man who made it, some of the fellow's comrades rushed upon him, and killed him."
Ryan wondered whether the supposition was a correct one, and whether the men concerned had been set at work by Terence, in order to effect his release. Two days later, on cutting the loaf that formed his day's ration of bread, he found a small piece of paper in its centre. It had evidently been put there before the bread was baked for, although he examined it very closely, he could find no sign in the crust of an incision by which the note might have been inserted. It contained only the words: "Keep your eyes open, and be in readiness. Friends are working for your release."
So Terence was at work. Evidently the baker had been gained over, but how it had been contrived that this special loaf should have been handed to him he could not imagine; unless one of the men in charge of the distribution of the prison rations had been bribed. That something of the sort must have taken place he was certain and, although he was still unable to imagine how he could be got out of the prison, he felt that, in some way or another, Terence would manage it. He thought over the means by which the latter had escaped from the convent, but the laxity that had there prevailed, in allowing people to come in to sell their goods to the prisoners, was not permitted in the prison where he was confined. The prisoners were, indeed, allowed to take exercise for an hour in the courtyard, but no civilian ever entered it, and twelve French soldiers watched every movement of those in the yard, and did not permit a single word to be exchanged.
Another week passed, and Ryan began to fear that his friends outside had abandoned the scheme as impossible, when one day he received another message: "Do not undress tonight. On reaching the courtyard, take the first passage to the right. Follow it to the end. The bars of the window there have been nearly sawn through. Inclosed with this is a saw. Finish the work on the middle bars. You will find a cord hanging down outside. Friends will be awaiting you."
With the note was a very fine steel saw, coiled round and round, and a tiny phial of oil. Ryan gave a cry of delight as he read it; and then hid the saw and the oil bottle in his bed, made up the tiny note into a pellet, and swallowed it. As he ate his dinner, he pondered over how so much could have been managed. The courtyard of the prison was, he knew, some ten feet higher than the ground outside. Some one must, after nightfall, have climbed up to the passage window and sawn the bars almost asunder, with a saw as fine as the one he had received. The cuts could hardly have been perceptible, and had probably been filled in with dust or black lead, each night, after the work was done. The difficulty must have been great, for he had learned that sentries patrolled the street outside the prison, and the work could only have been carried on for two or three minutes at a time. How he was to get down to the courtyard he knew not, but probably a sentry had been found more amenable to a bribe than the old sergeant had been.
To his bitter disappointment the night passed without anything unusual taking place, and the scheme had evidently failed. He broke up his loaf eagerly the next morning; and found, as he expected, another message: "Authorities suspicions. Sentries changed. Must wait till vigilance subsides. Keep yourself in readiness."
A fortnight passed; and then, in the middle of the night, he leapt suddenly from the bed on which he had thrown himself, without undressing, as he heard the key grating in the door. For a minute or two the sound continued, and his heart sank again.
"They have got a key, but it won't fit," he muttered.
Suddenly he heard the bolt shoot back, and the door quietly opened.
"Are you ready?" a voice asked in a whisper.
"Quite ready."
"Then follow me."
Ryan had caught up his boots as he leapt from the bed. The man outside had evidently taken the precaution to remove his, for his step was perfectly noiseless. Dick followed him downstairs and out into the courtyard. He could then see that the man was not, as he had expected, in uniform; but wore a long cloak and a sombrero, like those in general use among the peasantry. He turned in at the passage that had been indicated to Ryan, and stopped at the grated opening at the end.
Ryan at once took out the saw, poured some oil on it, and passed his nail down the bar until he found a fine nick. Clearing this out with the saw, he began to cut. The task was far easier than he had expected, for the bar had been already almost sawn through and, in five minutes, the cut was completed. A couple of feet higher up he found the other incision, and completed it as quietly as before. Then he removed the piece cut out, and handed it to the man, who laid it quietly down on the pavement of the passage.
In ten minutes the other bar was removed.
"I have the cord," the man said, and unwound some ten feet of stout rope from his waist.
Ryan put his head out through the hole, and looked down. In the darkness he could see nothing, but he heard the heavy tread of two sentries. As the sound of their footsteps faded away in the distance, he heard a sudden exclamation and a slight movement and, a few seconds later, a voice below asked in a whisper: "Are you there?"
"Yes," Ryan replied joyfully.
Putting a noose which was at one end of the rope over the stump of one of the bars, he at once slid down. A moment later, the other man descended after him.
"This way, senor," the voice said and, taking his hand, led him across the street; and then, after a quarter of a mile's walk, stopped at the door of a large house. He opened this with a key, and led the way up the stairs to the second floor; opened another door, and said: "Enter, senor, you are at home."
Ryan had noticed that the man who had released him had not followed them, but had turned away as soon as they left the prison.
"You are most welcome, senor," his guide said as, opening another door, he led the way into a handsome apartment, where a lamp was burning on the table.
"First let me introduce myself," he said. "My name is Alonzo Santobel, by profession an advocate. I am a friend of Don Leon Gonzales, one of Moras's officers, whom I believe you know. He will be here in a minute or two. He has followed us at a distance, to be sure that we were not watched. He enlisted me in this enterprise, and I have gladly given my assistance, which indeed was confined to bringing you here. All the rest he has managed himself, with the aid of six of his men who accompanied him here. He has been longer over it than he had expected, but we had difficulties that we did not anticipate."
He spoke in French, but added: "I understand sufficient Portuguese to follow anything that you say, senor."
"I am indeed grateful to you all," Ryan said warmly. "It is good of you, indeed, to run so great a risk for a stranger."
"Not exactly a stranger, senor, since you are a friend of my friend, Leon Gonzales."
At this moment the door of the room opened, and the officer named entered and warmly shook hands with Ryan, and congratulated him cordially on his release.
"Thanks to you, senor," Dick said gratefully.
"It has been a matter of duty, as well as pleasure," the other replied courteously; "for Moras committed the task of freeing you to my hands."
"I have just been telling Senor Ryan," the other said, "that you found it somewhat more difficult than you expected."
"Yes, indeed. In the first place, my face is known to so many here and, unhappily, so many Spaniards are friends of the French, that I dared not show myself in the streets, in the daytime. And before I tell my story, Alonzo, please open a bottle of wine, and produce a box of cigars. Our friend has not had a chance of a decent smoke since he has been shut up.
"Now, senor, I will tell you all about it," he went on, as soon as the glasses were filled and the cigars lighted. "In the first place, one of the men with me has a cousin who works for the baker who contracts for the supply of bread to the prison and, fortunately, it was one of his duties to go with the bread, to hand it over and see it weighed. That simplified affairs amazingly. In the next place, it was necessary to get hold of the soldier who usually handed the bread to the non-commissioned officers, who each took the rations for the prisoners under their special charge. I had been well provided with money and, when the soldier came out one evening, I got into conversation with him. He assented willingly enough to my offer to have a bottle of good wine together. Then I opened the subject. " 'I believe you distribute the bread rations to the prisoners?" I said.
"He nodded. " 'I want one special loaf which is rather better bread than the rest, though it looks the same, to reach a prisoner who is a friend of mine. It may be that I shall want two or three such loaves to reach him, and I will not mind paying a hundred francs for each loaf.' " 'A hundred francs is a good sum,' he said, 'especially as our pay is generally some months in arrear; and there can be no harm in a prisoner getting one loaf, more than another. But how am I to know which is the loaf?' " 'It will be the last the baker's man will deliver to you, my friend. He will give you a wink as he hands it to you, and you will only have to put it on the tray intended for the English prisoner, Ryan, when the sergeant comes down to the kitchen for it. But mind, don't make any mistake and put it on the wrong tray.' " 'I will be careful,' the soldier said, 'and I don't mind how many loaves you send in, at the same price.' " 'Very well,' I said. 'Here are the hundred francs for the first loaf, which will come not tomorrow morning, but the day after.'
"So that part of the business was arranged easily enough; but another attempt, which I had set on foot at the same time, had already failed. My men had discovered who was the sergeant under whose charge you were. He was an old soldier, and I had my doubts whether he could be bribed. One of the men who spoke a little French undertook it, but took the precaution of having three of the others near him, when he attempted it. It was two or three evenings before he could get speech with him in a quiet place, but he managed at last to do so. " 'Sergeant,' he said, 'do you want to earn as much money, in a day, as your pay would amount to in a year?' " 'It depends how it would have to be earned,' the sergeant said cautiously. " 'We want to get a friend of ours out of that prison,' the man said, 'and would pay a thousand francs for your assistance.'
"The sergeant at once grasped him by the throat. " 'You attempt to bribe me!' he exclaimed. 'Parbleu! we will hear what the governor says about it;' and he began to drag him along.
"There was nothing to be done, and the three other men, who had been standing hidden in a doorway, ran out and poniarded the Frenchman before he had time to give the alarm. It was unfortunate, but it was unavoidable.
"However, two days later the loaf got safely to you; at least we were assured that it had done so, by the soldier in the kitchen. In the meantime I learned from a man who had been a warder in the prison, before the French took possession of it, that the passage close to the bottom of your staircase terminated at the barred window in the street behind. Two of my men undertook to cut the bars. It was no easy matter, for there were sentries outside, and one came along the back every two or three minutes. The men had a light ladder and, directly he had passed, ran across the street, placed it in position, and fell to work. But the constant interferences by the passing of the sentinel annoyed them, and greatly hindered the work.
"You see, the sentry had to patrol the lane down one side of the prison, then along behind, and back; so they had only the time taken by him from the corner to the end of the lane, and back, to work. They were so annoyed at this that one night, when the sentry came to be relieved, he was found stabbed to the heart and, as this misfortune happened just after he went on duty, the men managed to file one of the bars that night. Curiously enough, the same accident happened two nights later; just as I had arranged, with a Spaniard who had enlisted in the French army, that he would aid you to escape. He was a sharp fellow, and had managed to get the key of your room from the peg where it hung, and to take an impression of it in wax, from which we had a key made.
"Everything was now ready. The other bar was sawn on, the night the accident happened to the second sentry. The next night the Spaniard was to be on guard on your staircase, and I sent you a loaf with a message to be in readiness. Unfortunately, the second accident aroused the suspicion of the authorities that these affairs had something to do with the escape of a prisoner. Accordingly, the sentries outside were doubled, two men patrolling together and, that evening, the guards were suddenly changed.
"It was evident that, for a time, nothing could be done. For nearly a fortnight this dodging about of the guard continued; then, as all was quiet, things went back to their old course. Four sentries were taken off, the others going about two together, each pair taking two sides of the prison. This morning my Spaniard who, as he was on duty at night, was able to come out into the town early, told the man who had arranged the affair with him that he would be on night duty; and would manage to take his place among the guards so that, when they arrived at your door, he should be the one to be left there. As the bread had been already sent in, I had no opportunity to warn you."
"I suppose the Spanish soldier you bribed has deserted?"
"Certainly. There was nothing else for him to do. He had that long cloak under his military greatcoat, and the sombrero flattened inside it so that, before opening your door, he had only to stand his musket in the corner, laying his greatcoat and shako by it, and he was in a position to go through the streets, anywhere, as a civilian. He has been well paid and, as he was already heartily tired of the French service, he jumped at the offer we made him."
After chatting for some time longer, and obtaining some more details of the proceedings of the rescue party, Ryan and Gonzales lay down for a few hours' sleep on the couches in the room; while their host turned into his bed, which he had vainly attempted to persuade one or other to accept.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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16
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: Back With The Army.
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Ryan remained four days in the flat occupied by Don Alonzo Santobel. Leon Gonzales had left, before daybreak, to regain the house where he was staying, with one of his friends, before the discovery of the escape of a prisoner was made. The affair was certain to cause great excitement, and there was no doubt that everyone leaving the town would be strictly examined at the gates and, not improbably, every house would be searched, and an order issued that no one would be allowed to be out at night, after ten o'clock, without a military pass. Three soldiers had been in turn assassinated, and one had deserted, a prisoner had been released; and there were evidently several persons concerned in the matter, and it would not improbably be guessed, by the authorities, that the actors in the plot were agents of the British officer in command of the troops that had given them such trouble over the whole province between Burgos and Salamanca.
Don Alonzo gave his manservant, on whose fidelity he could rely, permission to go into the country for ten days to visit his relations; and Ryan was installed in his place, and dressed in a suit of his clothes; but was not to open the door to visitors, the Spaniard himself doing so, and mentioning to those who called that his servant had gone on his holiday. The French, indeed, instituted a strict search among the poorer quarters. But the men who had accompanied Don Leon were all dressed as villagers, who had come into the town from fear of being attacked by the guerillas and their allies and, as the people with whom they stayed all vouched for their story, and declared with truth that they were relatives, none of them were molested. For four days all persons passing out of the gates were examined but, at the end of that time, matters resumed their ordinary course; and Don Leon and his followers all quitted the town soon after the market closed, carrying with them empty baskets, as if they were countrymen who had disposed of the produce they had brought in.
Clothes of the same kind were procured for Ryan and, the day after his friends had left he, too, went through the gate, going out with several peasants who were returning home. One of Leon's followers had taken out his uniform in his basket; with a cloth thrown over it, on which were placed some articles of crockery which he had apparently bought for his use at home. Ryan had been carefully instructed as to the road he should follow and, four miles out from the city, he turned down a by-path. He kept on for a mile and a half, and then came to a farmhouse, standing alone. As he approached, Leon came out to meet him, and shook him warmly by the hand.
"I have been feeling very anxious about you," he said. "We got through yesterday unquestioned, but the officer at the gate today might have been a more particular sort of fellow, and might have taken it into his head to question any of those who came out. The others all went on at once, but we will keep quiet until nightfall. I left my horse here when I came in; which I could do safely, for the farm belongs to me, and the farmer has been our tenant for the last thirty years. There is a horse for you here, also.
"I have got the latest intelligence as to where the French are lying. They have a strong force at Tordesillas; but this won't matter to us, for I got a message from Moras, yesterday, saying that the hills are now all covered with snow, and that the whole force would march, today, for their old quarters in the valley near Miranda. So we sha'n't have to cross the river to the north, but will keep on this side and cross it at Miranda, or at some ford near. The column that was operating round Zamora fell back behind the Esla, a fortnight since; for four thousand of the French reinforcements from the south had reached Zamora, and strong parties of their cavalry were scouting over the whole of the country round."
Ryan had already heard how the road between Valladolid and Burgos had been interrupted, and several convoys cut off and captured. He was glad to find, however, that no serious fighting had taken place while he had been a prisoner.
After nightfall they started on their journey. They travelled sixty miles that night. The farmer's son, a young fellow of twenty, who knew the country thoroughly, accompanied them on horseback for the first twenty miles, to set them on their way. The road they followed ran almost parallel to the Tormes, all the bridges over that river being, as they learned, held by strong parties of French troops; posted there to prevent any bodies of the Spaniards crossing it, and placing themselves between Salamanca and Ciudad Rodrigo.
When morning broke they were within five miles of the Douro, and entered the wood where they intended to pass the day, as they were unaware whether any French troops were stationed along the river. Both were still dressed as countrymen, and Leon went in the afternoon to a little hamlet, half a mile from the wood. There he learned that 2000 French were encamped at a village, a mile from the bridge at Miranda. But one of the peasants, on Leon's telling him that he was a lieutenant of Moras, offered to guide them to a ford, of whose existence he did not think the French were aware.
It was seldom used, as it could only be forded in very dry seasons; but as the water now was, it would only be necessary to swim their horses a distance of a few yards. The two friends slept a great part of the day and, as the sun set, finished the provisions they had brought with them, and were ready to start when, two hours later, their guide arrived from the village. His information proved correct. He led them straight to the ford, which they found unguarded and, rewarding him handsomely for his trouble, swam across and, an hour later, entered Miranda and put up at a small inn.
They mounted early the next morning and, in the afternoon, after a three hours' ride across the mountains, came down into the valley; where their arrival excited much enthusiasm among the troops, the garrison having been joined by Macwitty's column.
"I cannot say that I was not expecting to see you, Captain Ryan," Macwitty said, as he shook hands heartily; "for I heard, from the colonel, that Don Leon had started with a party to try and get you out of prison, and that he was sure he would accomplish it, if it were at all possible. I am expecting him here in a day or two, with the rest of the regiment; for I had a message two days ago from him, saying that it was too cold to remain on the hills any longer, and that he should start on the day after the messenger left. Of course the messenger was mounted; but our men can march as far, in a day, as a man can ride, and are sure to lose no time. They would take the Leon road for some distance, then strike off and cross the upper Esla at Maylorga, follow the road down, avoiding Benavente, cross the Tera at Vega, take the track across the mountains, and come down into the valley from above. He said that he should only bring such stores as they would be able to carry on the march, and that he hoped to get here before the French were aware that he had left the mountains."
Late in the afternoon Leon's followers arrived. They had travelled at night, so as to avoid being questioned by the French cavalry, who were scattered all over the country. Ryan was glad to see the men who had risked so much for him, and very pleased to be able to exchange his peasant's clothes for his uniform. The next morning, he and Leon mounted and rode by the track by which Terence would arrive, and met him halfway between Vega and the camp. The greeting was a hearty one, indeed and, as Ryan shook hands with Moras, he said: "I cannot tell you, senor, how much I am indebted to Don Leon for the splendid way in which he managed my rescue. Nothing could have been more admirably contrived, or better carried out. It certainly seemed to me, after I had been there a day or two, that a rescue was simply impossible; though I knew that Colonel O'Connor would do his best to get me out, as soon as he learned that I was captured."
"I gave you credit for better sense, Dick, than to ride right into the hands of the French," Terence said, as he and Ryan rode on together at the head of the column.
"I think you would have done it yourself, Terence. The night was dark, and I could not see ten yards ahead of me. If they had been on the march, of course, I should have heard them; but by bad luck they had halted just across the road I was following. It was very fortunate that you put all the numbers wrong in your despatches, and I can tell you it was a mighty comfort to me to know that you had done so; for I should have been half mad at the thought that they had got at your real strength, which would have entirely defeated the object of our expedition. As it was, I had the satisfaction of knowing that the capture of the despatches would do more good than harm.
"Did the man who followed me get through?"
"Yes, he kept his eyes open, Dicky," Terence said. "He returned ten days later, with a letter from the adjutant general, saying that the commander-in-chief was highly satisfied with my reports; and that the forward movement of the French had ceased and, at several points, their advanced troops had been called in. Spies had brought news that ten thousand men, under General Drouet, had marched for Salamanca; and that reports were current in the French camp that a very large force had crossed the frontier, at the northeastern corner of Portugal, with the evident design of recovering the north of Leon, and of cutting the main line of communication with France.
"He added that he trusted that I should be able to still further harass the enemy, and cause him to send more reinforcements. He said that, doubtless, I should be very shortly driven back into Portugal again; but that he left the matter entirely to my judgment, but pointed out that, if I could but maintain myself for another fortnight, the winter would be at hand; when the passes would be blocked with snow, and Marmont could no longer think of invading Portugal in force. As it is now more than a month since that letter was written, and certainly further reinforcements have arrived, I think the chief will be well satisfied with what we have done. I have sent off two letters since then, fully reporting on the work we have been at between Burgos and Valladolid; but whether they have reached him, I cannot tell."
"Macwitty has one despatch for you. He tells me it came nearly a fortnight ago; but that he had, at that time, been compelled to fall back behind the Esla; and that, as the country beyond swarmed with parties of the French cavalry, he thought that no messenger could get through, and that great harm might result were the despatches to fall into the hands of the enemy."
"Well, I daresay it will keep, Dick, and that no harm will have been done by my not receiving it sooner.
"Now, tell me all about your escape. Were you lodged in our old convent?"
"I had no such luck, Terence. I was in the city prison, in the centre of the town; and my window, instead of looking out into the street, was on the side of the courtyard. The window was strongly barred, no civilians were allowed to enter the prison, and I think that even you, who have a sort of genius for escapes, would have found it, as I did, simply impossible to get away."
"No, the lookout was certainly bad; and you had none of the advantages we had, at Bayonne, of being guarded by friendly soldiers. If I had, at Salamanca, not been able to make friends with a Spanish girl-- "Well, tell me all about it."
Ryan gave full details of the manner in which Don Gonzales had contrived his escape.
"That was well managed, indeed," Terence said. "Splendidly done. Leon is a trump. He ought to have been born an Irishman, and to have been in our regiment. I don't know that I can give him higher praise than that."
On their arrival in the valley, they found that another courier had returned, half an hour before. Both despatches expressed the commander-in-chief's extreme satisfaction with the manner in which Terence had carried out his instructions.
"The employment of your force in cutting the main road between Valladolid and Valencia, and between the latter place and Burgos; while at the same time you maintained a hold on the country south of the Douro, thus blocking the roads from Salamanca both to Zamora and Valladolid, was in the highest degree deserving of commendation. The garrisons of all the towns named were kept in a state of constant watchfulness, and so great was the alarm produced that another division followed that of Drouet. This has paralyzed Marmont. As snow has already begun to fall among the mountains, it is probable that he will soon go into winter quarters. Your work, therefore, may be considered as done and, as your position in the mountains must soon become untenable, it would be well if you, at once, withdraw all your forces into Portugal."
Moras also received a despatch signed by Lord Wellington himself, thanking him warmly for the services he had rendered.
"I may say, sir, that yours is the first case, since I have had the honour to command the British force in the Peninsula, that I have received really valuable assistance from a body of irregular troops; and that I am highly sensible of the zeal and ability which you have shown in cooperating with Colonel O'Connor, a service which has been of extreme value to my army. I must also express my high gratification, not only with the conduct of the men under your command when in action, but at the clemency shown to French prisoners; a clemency, unfortunately, very rare during the present war. I shall not fail to express, to the central Spanish authorities, my high appreciation of your services. I have given orders to the officer commanding the detachment of British troops at Miranda that, should you keep your force together near the frontier, he will, as far as possible, comply with any request you may make for supplies for their use."
Moras was highly gratified with this despatch.
"I shall," he said, "stay in this valley for the winter; but I shall not keep more than a hundred, or a hundred and fifty men with me. The peasants will disperse to their homes. Those remaining with me will be the inhabitants of the towns; who could not safely return, as they might be denounced by the Spanish spies, in French pay, as having been out with me. We have plenty of supplies stored up here to last us through the winter."
Terence at once sent off a report of his return, and an acknowledgment of the receipt of the despatches from headquarters and, the next day, in obedience to his orders, marched with his regiment across the frontier, and established himself in Miranda.
The answer came in five days. It was brief.
"On receipt of this Colonel O'Connor will march, with the regiment under his command, to Pinhel; and there report himself to General Crawford."
Terence had ridden over, the afternoon before, to the valley; where he found that but two hundred of the guerillas remained. Fifty of these were on the point of leaving, the rest would remain with Moras through the winter.
On arrival at Pinhel after three days' marching, he reported himself to General Crawford. The general himself was absent but, from the head of his staff, he received an order on the quartermaster's department. Tents for his men were at once given him, and a spot pointed out for their encampment. Six regiments were, he heard, in the immediate neighbourhood; and among them he found, to his great joy, were the Mayo Fusiliers. As soon as the tents were erected, rations drawn, and a party despatched to obtain straw for bedding from the quartermaster's department, Terence left Herrara and the two majors to see that the troops were made comfortable, and then rode over with Ryan to the camp of the Fusiliers.
They were received with the heartiest welcome by the colonel and officers; in whose ranks, however, there were several gaps, for the regiment had suffered heavily at Fuentes d'Onoro.
"So you have been taken prisoner again, Terence!" Captain O'Grady exclaimed; "sure, it must be on purpose you did it. Anyone may get taken prisoner once; but when it happens twice, it begins to look as if he was fonder of French rations than of French guns."
"I didn't think of it in that light, O'Grady; but now you put it so, I will try and not get caught for the third time."
"We heard of your return, of course, and that you had gone straight with your regiment to Miranda. We had a line from Dicky, the day before he started; and mighty unkind we have thought it that neither of you have sent us a word since then, and you with nothing to do at all, at all; while we have been marching and countermarching, now here and now there, now backwards and now forwards, ever since Fuentes d'Onoro, till one's legs were ready to drop off one."
"Give someone else a chance to put in a word, O'Grady," the colonel said. "Here we are, all dying to know how O'Connor slipped through the hands of the French again; and sorra a word can anyone get in, when your tongue is once loosened. If you are not quiet, I will take him away with me to my own quarters; and just ask two or three men, who know how to hold their tongue, to come up and listen to his story."
"I will be as silent as a mouse, colonel dear," O'Grady said, humbly; "though I would point out that O'Connor, being a colonel like yourself, and in no way under your orders, might take it into his head to prefer to stop with us here, instead of going with you.
"Now, Terence, we are all waiting for your story. Why don't you go on?"
"Because, as you see, I am hard at work eating, just at present. We have marched twenty miles this morning, with nothing but a crust of bread at starting; and the story will keep much better than luncheon."
Terence did not hurry himself over his meal but, when he had finished, he gave them particulars of his escape from Salamanca, his journey down to Cadiz, and then round by Lisbon.
"I thought there would be a woman in it, Terence," O'Grady exclaimed. "With a soft tongue, and a presentable sort of face, and impudence enough for a whole regiment, it was aisy for you to put the comhether on a poor Spanish girl, who had never had the good luck to meet an officer of the Mayo Fusiliers before. Sure, I have always said to meself that, if I was ever taken prisoner, it would not be long before some good-looking girl would take a fancy to me, and get me out of the French clutches. Sure, if a young fellow like yourself, without any special recommendations except a bigger share of impudence than usual, could manage it; it would be aisy, indeed, for a man like meself, with all the advantages of having lost an arm in battle, to get round them."
There was a shout of laughter round the table, for O'Grady had, as usual, spoken with an air of earnest simplicity, as if the propositions he was laying down were beyond question.
"You must have had a weary time at Miranda, since you came back, O'Connor," the colonel said, "with no one there but a wing of the 65th."
"I don't suppose they were to be pitied, colonel," Doctor O'Flaherty laughed. "You may be sure that they kept Miranda lively, in some way or other. Trust them for getting into mischief of some sort."
"There is no saying what we might have done if we had, as you suppose, been staying for the last two months at Miranda; but in point of fact that has not been the case. We have been across the frontier, and have been having a pretty lively time of it--at least I have, for Dick has spent a month of it inside a French prison."
"What!" the major exclaimed, "were you with that force that has been puzzling us all, and has been keeping the French in such hot water that, as we hear, Marmont was obliged to give up his idea of invading Portugal, and had to hurry off twenty thousand men, to save Salamanca and Valladolid from being captured? Nobody has been able to understand where the army sprung from, or how it was composed. The general idea was that a division from England must have landed, at either Oporto or Vigo, or that it must have been brought round from Sicily; for none of our letters or papers said a word about any large force having sailed from England. Not a soul seemed to know anything about it. I know a man on Crawford's staff, and he assured me that none of them were in the secret.
"A French officer, who was brought in a prisoner a few days since, put their numbers down at twenty-five thousand, at least; including, he said, a large guerilla force. He said that Zamora had been cut off for a long time, that the country had been ravaged, and posts captured almost at the gates of Salamanca; and that communications had been interrupted, and large convoys captured between Burgos and Valladolid; and that one column, five thousand strong, had been very severely mauled, and forced to fall back. This confirmed the statements that we had before heard, from the peasantry and the French deserters. Now there is a chance of penetrating the mystery, which has been a profound puzzle to us here, and indeed to the whole army.
"The officer taken seemed to consider that the regular soldiers were Portuguese; but of course that was nonsense. Beresford's troops were all with him down south and, as to any other Portuguese army, unless Wellington has got one together as secretly as he got up the lines of Torres Vedras, the thing is absurd. Besides, who had ever heard of Portuguese carrying on such operations as these, without having a lot of our men to stiffen them, and to set them a good example?"
Terence did not, at once, answer. Looking round the table he saw that, in place of the expressions of amusement with which the previous conversation had been listened to, there was now, on every face, a deep and serious interest. He glanced at Ryan, who was apparently absorbed in the occupation of watching the smoke curling up from his cigar. At last he said: "I fear, major, that I cannot answer your question. I may say that I have had no specific orders to keep silence but, as it seems that the whole matter has been kept a profound secret, I do not think that, unless it comes out in some other way, I should be justified in saying anything about it.
"I think that you will agree with me, Ryan."
Dick nodded.
"Yes, I agree with you that it would be best to say nothing about it, till we hear that the facts are known. What has been done once, may be done again."
"Quite so, Dick. I am glad that you agree with me.
"However, there can be no objection to your giving an account of your gallant charge into the middle of the French cavalry, and the story of your imprisonment and escape.
"I am sure, colonel, that it will be a source of gratification to you, to know that one of your officers dashed, single handed, right into the midst of a French squadron."
Ryan laughed.
"I am afraid the interest in the matter will be diminished, colonel, when I mention that the charge was executed at night, and that I was ignorant of the vicinity of the French until I rode into the middle of them."
There was again a general laugh.
"I was on my way with despatches for Lord Wellington," he went on, "when this unfortunate business happened."
"That was unfortunate, indeed, Ryan," the colonel said. "They did not capture your despatches, I hope?"
"Indeed and they did, colonel. They had fast hold of me before I could as much as draw my sword. They, however, gained very little by them for, knowing that it was possible I might be captured, the despatches had been so worded that they would deceive, rather than inform, anyone into whose hands they might fall; though of course, I had instructions to explain the matter, when I delivered them safely."
Then he proceeded to give a full account of his rescue from the prison of Salamanca. This was listened to with great interest.
"It was splendidly managed," the colonel said, when he had brought his story to an end. "It was splendidly managed. Terence himself could not have done it better. Well, you are certainly wonderfully handy at getting into scrapes. Why, you have both been captured twice, and both times got away safely.
"When I gave you your commission, Terence, I thought that you and Ryan would keep things alive; but I certainly did not anticipate that you would be so successful, that way, as you have been."
"I have had very little to do with it, colonel," Ryan said.
"No, I know that at Athlone Terence was the ringleader of all the mischief that went on. Still, you were a good second, Ryan; that is, if that position does not really belong to O'Grady."
"Is it me, colonel?" O'Grady said, in extreme surprise, and looking round the table with an air of earnest protest, "when I was always lecturing the boys?"
"I think, O'Grady, your manner of lecturing was akin to the well-known cry: "'Don't throw him into the pond, boys.'"
At this moment there was a sound of horses drawing up in front of the house.
"It is the general and his staff," one of the ensigns said, as he glanced through the window.
The table had been cleared, but there was a sudden and instant rush to carry away bottles and glasses to hiding places. Newspapers were scattered along the table and, when the door opened half a minute later and the general entered, followed by his staff, the officers of the Mayo Fusiliers presented an orderly and even studious appearance. They all rose and saluted, as the general entered.
"I hope I am not disturbing you, gentlemen," General Crawford said gravely, but with a sly look of amusement stealing across his rugged face; "I am glad to see you all so well employed. There is no doubt that the Irish regiments are greatly maligned. On two or three occasions, when I have happened to call upon their officers, I have uniformly found them studying the contents of the newspapers. Your cigars, too, must be of unusually good quality, for their odour seems mingled with a faint scent of--what shall I say? It certainly reminds me of whisky though, as I see, that must be but fancy on my part. However, gentlemen, I have not come in to inspect your mess room, but to speak to Colonel O'Connor," and he looked inquiringly round.
Terence at once stepped forward, and again saluted. The general, whom Terence had not before met, looked him up and down, and then held out his hand.
"I have heard of you many times, Colonel O'Connor. General Hill has talked to me frequently of you and, not long since, when I was at headquarters, Lord Wellington himself spoke to me for some time about you, and from his staff I learned other particulars. That you were young, I knew; but I was not prepared to find one who might well pass as a junior lieutenant, or even as an ensign. This was the regiment that you formerly belonged to; and as, on sending across to your corps, I learned that you were here, I thought it as well to come myself to tell you, before your comrades and friends, that I have received from headquarters this morning a request from the adjutant general to tell you personally, when you arrived, the extreme satisfaction that the commander-in-chief feels at the services that you have rendered.
"When I was at headquarters the other day, I was shown the reports that you have, during the last six weeks, sent in; and am therefore in a position to appreciate the work you have done. It is not too much to say that you have saved Portugal from invasion, have paralyzed the movements of the French, and have given to the commander-in-chief some months in which to make his preparations for taking the field in earnest, in the spring.
"Has Colonel O'Connor told you what he has been doing?" he said suddenly, turning to Colonel Corcoran.
"No, general. In answer to our questions he said that, as it seemed the matter had been kept a secret, he did not feel justified in saying anything on the subject, until he received a distinct intimation that there was no further occasion for remaining silent."
"You did well, sir," the general said, again turning to Terence, "and acted with the prudence and discretion that has, with much dash and bravery, distinguished your conduct. As, however, the armies have now gone into winter quarters; and as a general order will appear, today, speaking of your services, and I have been commissioned purposely to convey to you Lord Wellington's approval, there is no occasion for further mystery on the subject.
"The force whose doings have paralyzed the French, broken up their communications, and compelled Marmont to detach twenty thousand men to assist at least an equal force in Salamanca, Zamora, Valladolid, and Valencia, has consisted solely of the men of Colonel O'Connor's regiment; and about an equal number of guerillas, commanded by the partisan Moras. I need not tell you that a supreme amount of activity, energy, and prudence, united, must have been employed thus to disarrange the plans of a French general, commanding an army of one hundred thousand men, by a band of two battalions of Portuguese, and a couple of thousand undisciplined guerillas. It is a feat that I, myself, or any other general in the British army, might well be proud to have performed; and too much praise cannot be bestowed upon Colonel O'Connor, and the three British officers acting under his command; of all whose services, together with those of his Portuguese officers, he has most warmly spoken in his reports.
"And now, colonel, I see that there are on your mess table some dark rings that may, possibly, have been caused by glasses. These, doubtless, are not very far away, and I have no doubt that, when I have left, you will very heartily drink the health of your former comrade--I should say comrades, for I hear that Captain Ryan is among you.
"Which is he?"
Ryan stepped forward.
"I congratulate you also, sir," he said. "Colonel O'Connor has reported that you have rendered great services, since you were attached to him as adjutant; and have introduced many changes which have added to the efficiency and discipline of the regiment. My staff, as well as myself, will be very pleased to make the personal acquaintance of Colonel O'Connor and yourself, and I shall be glad if you will both dine with me today-- "And if you, Colonel Corcoran, will accompany them.
"Tomorrow I will inspect the Minho regiment, at eleven o'clock; and you will then introduce to me your lieutenant colonel and your two majors, who have all so well carried out your instructions."
So saying, he shook hands with the colonel, Terence, and Ryan and, with an acknowledgment of the salutes of the other officers, left the room with his staff.
"If a bullet does not cut short his career in some of his adventures," he said to Colonel Corcoran, who had accompanied him, "O'Connor has an extraordinary future before him. His face is a singular mixture of good temper, energy, and resolute determination. There are many gallant young officers in the army, but it is seldom that reckless bravery and enterprise are joined, as in his case, with prudence and a head to plan. He cannot be more than one-and-twenty, so there is no saying what he may be, when he reaches forty. Trant is an excellent leader, but he has never accomplished a tithe of what has been done by that lad."
The general having left the room, the officers crowded round Terence. But few words were said, for they were still so surprised, at what they had heard, as to be incapable of doing more than shake him warmly by the hand, and pat him on the shoulder. Ryan came in for a share in this demonstration.
The colonel returned at once, after having seen the general ride off.
"Faith, Terence," he said, "if justice were done, they would make me a general for putting you into the army. I have half a mind to write to Lord Wellington, and put in a claim for promotion on that ground.
"What are you doing, O'Grady?" he broke off, as that officer walked round and round Terence, scrutinizing him attentively, as if he had been some unknown animal.
"I am trying to make sure, colonel, that this is really Terence O'Connor, whom I have cuffed many a time when he was a bit of a spalpeen, with no respect for rank; as you yourself discovered, colonel, in the matter of that bird he fastened in the plume of your shako. He looks like him, and yet I have me doubts.
"Is it yerself, Terence O'Connor? Will you swear to it on the testiments?"
"I think I can do that, O'Grady," Terence laughed. "You see, I have done credit to your instructions."
"You have that. I always told you that I would make a man of you, and it is my instruction that has done it.
"How I wish, lad," he went on, with a sudden change of voice, "that your dear father had been here this day! Faith, he would have been a proud man. Ah! It was a cruel bullet that hit him, at Vimiera."
"Ay, you may well say that, O'Grady," the colonel agreed.
"Have you heard from him lately, Terence?"
"No, colonel. It's more than four months since I have had a letter from him. Of course, he always writes to me to headquarters but, as I only stopped there a few hours, on my way from Lisbon to join the regiment, I stupidly forgot to ask if there were any letters for me; and of course there has been no opportunity for them to be forwarded to me, since. However, they will know in a day or two that I have arrived here, and will be sure to send them on, at once."
"Now, let's hear all about it, O'Connor, for at present we have heard nothing but vague rumours about the doings of this northern army of yours, beyond what the general has just said."
"But first, colonel, if you will permit me to say so," O'Grady put in, "I would propose that General Crawford's suggestion, as to the first thing to be done, should be carried out; and that the whisky keg should be produced again.
"We have a good stock, Terence, enough to carry us nearly through the winter."
"Then it must be a good stock, indeed, O'Grady," Terence laughed. "You see, the general was too sharp for us."
"That he was but, as a Scotchman, he has naturally a good nose for whisky. He is a capital fellow. Hot tempered and obstinate as he undoubtedly is, he is as popular with his division as any general out here. They know that, if there is any fighting to be done, they are sure to have their share and more and, except when roused, he is cheery and pleasant. He takes a great interest in his men's welfare, and does all that he can to make them as comfortable as possible; though, as they generally form the advanced guard of the army, they necessarily suffer more than the rest of us."
By this time the tumblers were brought out, from the cupboards into which they had been so hastily placed on the general's arrival. Half a dozen black bottles were produced, and some jugs of water, and Terence's health was drunk with all the honours. Three cheers were added for Dicky Ryan, and then all sat down to listen to Terence's story.
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{
"id": "20207"
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17
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: Ciudad Rodrigo.
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"Before O'Connor begins," the colonel said, "you had better lay, on the table in front of you, the pocket maps I got from Lisbon for you last year, after O'Connor had lectured us on the advantages of knowing the country.
"I can tell you, Terence, they have been of no small use to us since we left Torres Vedras; and I think that even O'Grady could pass an examination, as to the roads and positions along the frontier, with credit to himself.
"I think, gentlemen, that you who have not got your maps with you would do well to fetch them. You will then be able to follow Colonel O'Connor's story, and get to know a good deal more about the country where, I hope, we shall be fighting next spring, than we should in any other way."
Several of the officers left the room, and soon returned with their maps.
"I feel almost like a schoolmaster," Terence laughed. "But indeed, as our work consisted almost entirely of rapid marching, which you would scarcely be able to follow without maps, it may really be useful, if we campaign across there, to know something of the roads, and the position of the towns and villages."
Then he proceeded to relate all that had taken place, first describing the incidents of the battle, and their work among the mountains.
"You understand," he said, "that my orders were not so much to do injury to the enemy, as to deceive him as to the amount of our force, and to lead them to believe it to be very much stronger than it really was. This could only be done by rapid marches and, as you will see, the main object was to cut all his lines of communication, and at the same time to show ourselves, in force, at points a considerable distance apart. To effect this we, on several occasions, marched upwards of sixty miles in a day; and upwards of forty, several days in succession; a feat that could hardly be accomplished except by men at once robust, and well accustomed to mountain work, and trained to long marches; as those of my regiment have been, since they were first raised."
Then taking out a copy of his report, he gave in much fuller detail than in the report, itself, an account of the movements of the various columns and flying parties, during the first ten days; and then, more briefly, their operations between Burgos and Valladolid, ending up by saying: "You see, colonel, there was really nothing out of the way in all this. We had the advantage of having a great number of men who knew the country intimately; and the cutting of all their communications, the exaggerated reports brought to them by the peasants, and the maintenance of our posts round Salamanca and Zamora while we were operating near Burgos and Valladolid, impressed the commanders of these towns with such an idea of our strength, and such uneasiness as to their communications that, after the reverse to their column, none of them ever ventured to attack us in earnest."
"That is no doubt true," the colonel said, "but to have done all this when--with the reinforcements sent up, and the very strong garrison at four of the towns, to say nothing of the division of Burgos--they had forty thousand men disposable, is a task that wanted a head well screwed on. I can see how you did it; but that would be a very different thing to doing it, oneself.
"However, you have taught us a great deal of the geography of the country between the frontier and Burgos, and it ought to be useful. If I had received an order, this afternoon, to march with the regiment to Tordesillas, for example, I should have known no more where the place stood, or by what road I was to go to it, than if they had ordered me to march to Jericho. Now I should be able to go straight for it, by the shortest line. I should cross the roads at points at which we were not likely to be attacked, and throw out strong parties to protect our flanks till we had passed; and should feel that I was not stumbling along in the dark, and just trusting to luck."
"Now, colonel, we must be off to our own quarters," Terence said. "We have been too long away now and, if I had not known that Herrara and the majors were to be trusted to do their work--and in fact they did it well, without my assistance, all the time I was away prisoner--I could not have left them, as I did, half an hour after they had encamped."
The next morning Terence received a copy of the orders of the day of the division, at present, under General Crawford's command; together with the general orders of the whole army, from headquarters. In the latter, to which Terence first turned, was a paragraph: "Lord Wellington expresses his great satisfaction at the exceptional services rendered by the Minho Portuguese regiment, under its commander Captain T. O'Connor, of the headquarter staff, bearing the rank of colonel in the Portuguese army. He has had great pleasure in recommending him to the commander-in-chief for promotion in the British army. He has also to report very favourably the conduct of Lieutenant Ryan, of the Mayo Fusiliers, and Ensigns Bull and Macwitty, all attached for service to the Minho regiment; and shall bring before General Lord Beresford that of Lieutenant Colonel Herrara, of the same regiment."
In the divisional orders of the day appeared the words: "In noticing the arrival of the Minho Portuguese regiment, under the command of Colonel Terence O'Connor, to join the division temporarily under his command, General Crawford takes this opportunity of congratulating Colonel O'Connor on the most brilliant services that his regiment has performed, in a series of operations upon the Spanish side of the frontier."
Four days later, Terence received two letters from home. These were written after the receipt of that sent off by him on his arrival at Cadiz, narrating his escape. His father wrote: "My dear Terence, "Your letter, received this morning, has taken a heavy load off our minds. Of course, we saw the despatches giving particulars of the battle of Fuentes d'Onoro--which, by the way, seems to have been rather a confused sort of affair, and the enemy must have blundered into it just as we did; only as they were all there, and we only came up piecemeal, they should have thrashed us handsomely, if they had known their business. Well, luck is everything and, as you have had a good deal more than your share of it since you joined, one must not grumble if the jade has done you a bad turn this time.
"However, as you have got safely out of their hands, you have no reason for complaint. Still, you had best not try the thing too often. Next time you may not find a good-looking girl to help you out. By the way, you don't tell us whether she was good looking. Mention it in your next; Mary is very curious about it.
"We are getting on capitally here and, I can tell you, the old place looks quite imposing, and I was never so comfortable in my life. We have as much company as I care for, and scarce a day passes but some young fellow or other rides over, on the pretence of talking over the war news with me. But I am too old a soldier to be taken in, and know well enough that Mary is the real attraction.
"My leg has now so far recovered that I can sit a horse; but though I ride with your cousin, when the hounds meet anywhere near, I cannot venture to follow; for if I got a spill, it might bring on the old trouble again, and lay me up for a couple of years. I used to hope that I should get well enough to be able to apply to be put on full pay again. But I feel myself too comfortable, here, to think of it; and indeed, until I have handed Mary to someone else's keeping, it would of course be impossible, and I have quite made up my mind to be moored here for the rest of my life. But to return.
"Of course, as soon as I saw you were missing, I wrote to an old friend on the general staff at Dublin, and asked him to write to the Horse Guards. The answer came back that it was known that you had been taken prisoner, and that you were wounded, but not severely. You were commanding the rear face of the square into which your regiment had been thrown, when your horse, which was probably hit by a bullet, ran away with you into the ranks of the enemy's cavalry. After that we were, of course, more comfortable about you, and Mary maintained that you would very soon be turning up again, like a bad penny.
"I need not say that we are constantly talking about you. Now, take care of yourself, Terence. Bear in mind that, if you get yourself killed, there will be no more adventures for you--at least, none over which you will have any control. Your cousin has just expressed the opinion that she does not think you were born to be shot; she thinks that a rope is more likely than a bullet to cut short your career. She is writing to you herself; and as her tongue runs a good deal faster than mine, I have no doubt that her pen will do so, also. As you say, with your Portuguese pay and your own, you are doing well; but if you should get pinched at any time, be sure to draw on me, up to any reasonable amount.
"It seems to me that things are not going on very well, on the frontier; and I should not be surprised to hear that Wellington is in full retreat again, for Torres Vedras. Remember me to the colonel, O'Driscoll, and all the others. I see, by the Gazette, that Stokes, who was junior ensign when the regiment went into action at Vimiera, has just got his step. That shows the changes that have taken place, and how many good fellows have fallen out of the ranks. Again I say, take care of yourself.
"Your affectionate Father."
His cousin's letter was, as usual, long and chatty; telling him about his father, their pursuits and amusements, and their neighbours.
"You don't deserve so long a letter," she said, when she was approaching the conclusion, "for although I admit your letters are long, you never seem to tell one just the things one wants to know. For example, you tell us exactly the road you travelled down to Cadiz, with the names of the villages and so on, just as if you were writing an official report. Your father says it is very interesting, and has been working it all out on the map. It is very interesting to me to know that you have got safely to Cadiz but, as there were no adventures by the way, I don't care a snap about the names of the villages you passed through, or the exact road you traversed.
"Now, on the other hand, I should like to know all about this young woman who helped you to get out of prison. You don't say a word about what she is like, whether she is pretty or plain. You don't even mention her name, or say whether she fell in love with you, or you with her; though I admit that you do say that she was engaged to the muleteer Garcia. I think, if I had been in his place, I should have managed to let you fall into the hands of the French again. I should say a man was a great fool to help to rescue anyone his girl had taken all sorts of pains to get out of prison.
"At any rate, sir, I expect you to give me a fair and honest description of her the next time you write, for I consider your silence about her to be, in the highest degree, suspicious. However, I have the satisfaction of knowing that you are not likely to be in Salamanca again, for a very long time. Your father says he does not think anything will be done, until the present Ministry are kicked out here; and Wellington hangs the principal members of all the Juntas in Portugal, and all that he can get at, in Spain.
"He is the most bloodthirsty man that I have ever come across, according to his own account, but in reality he would not hurt a fly. He is always doing kind actions among the peasantry, and the 'Major' is quite the most popular man in this part of the country.
"I have not yet forgiven you for having gone straight back to Spain, instead of running home for a short time when you were so close to us, at Jersey. I told you when I wrote that I should never forgive you, and I am still of the same opinion. It was too bad.
"Your father has just called to ask if I am going on writing all night; and it is quite time to close, that it may go with his own letter, which a boy is waiting to carry on horseback to the post office, four miles away; so goodbye.
"Your very affectionate cousin, Mary."
The next two months passed quietly at Pinhel. Operations continued to be carried on at various points but, although several encounters of minor importance took place, the combatants were engaged rather in endeavouring to feel each other's positions, and to divine each other's intentions, than to bring about a serious battle. Marmont believed Wellington to be stronger than he was, while the latter rather underestimated the French strength. Thus there were, on both sides, movements of advance and retirement.
During the time that had elapsed since the battles of Fuentes d'Onoro and Albuera, Badajos had been again besieged by the British, but ineffectually; and in August Wellington, taking advantage of Marmont's absence in the south, advanced and established a blockade of Ciudad Rodrigo. This had led to some fighting. The activity of General Hill, and the serious menace to the communications effected by Terence's Portuguese and the guerillas, had prevented the French from gathering in sufficient strength, either to drive the blockading force across the frontier again, or from carrying out Napoleon's plans for the invasion of Portugal. Wellington, on his part, was still unable to move; owing to the absence of transport, and the manner in which the Portuguese government thwarted him at every point: leaving all his demands that the roads should be kept in good order, unattended to; starving their own troops to such an extent that they were altogether unfit for action; placing every obstacle to the calling out of new levies; and in every way hindering his plans.
He obtained but little assistance or encouragement at home. His military chest was empty. The muleteers, who kept up the supply of food for the army, were six months in arrears of pay. The British troops were also unpaid, badly supplied with clothes and shoes; while money and stores were still being sent in unlimited quantities to the Spanish Juntas, where they did no good whatever, and might as well have been thrown into the sea. But in spite of all these difficulties, the army was daily improving in efficiency. The men were now inured to hardships of all kinds. They had, in three pitched battles, proved themselves superior to the French; and they had an absolute confidence in their commander.
Much was due to the efforts of Lord Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington's military secretary who, by entering into communication with the commanders of brigades and regiments, most of whom were quite young men--for the greater part of the army was but of recent creation--was enabled not only to learn something of the state of discipline in each regiment, but greatly to encourage and stimulate the efforts of its officers; who felt that the doings of their regiment were observed at headquarters, that merit would be recognized without favouritism, and that any failure in the discipline or morale of those under their orders would be noted against them. Twice, during the two months, Terence had been sent for to headquarters, in order that he might give Lord Fitzroy minute information concerning the various roads and localities, point out natural obstacles where an obstinate defence might be made by an enemy, or which could be turned to advantage by an advancing army. The route maps that he had sent were frequently turned to, and fully explained.
The second visit took place in the last week in November and, on his arrival, the military secretary began the conversation by handing a Gazette to him.
"This arrived yesterday, Colonel O'Connor; and I congratulate you that, upon the very strong recommendation of Lord Wellington, you are gazetted to a majority. Now that your position is so well assured, there will be no longer occasion for you to remain nominally attached to the headquarter staff. Of course, it was before I came out that this was done; and I learned that the intention was that you would not act upon the staff, but it was to be merely an honorary position, without pay, in order to add to your authority and independence, when you happen to come in contact with Portuguese officers of a higher rank."
"That was so, sir. I was very grateful for the kindness that Lord Wellington showed, in thus enabling me to wear the uniform of his staff, which was of great assistance to me at the time; and indeed, I am deeply conscious of the kindness with which he has, on every occasion, treated me; and for his recommending me for promotion."
"I should have been personally glad," Lord Fitzroy went on, "to have had you permanently attached to our staff; as your knowledge of the country might, at times, be of great value, and of your zeal and energy you have given more than ample proofs. I spoke of the matter to the general, this morning. He agreed with me that you would be a great addition to the staff but, upon the other hand, such a step would very seriously diminish the efficiency of the regiment that you raised, and have since commanded. The regiment has lately rendered quite exceptional services and, under your command, we reckon it to be as valuable in the fighting line as if it were one of our own; which is more than can be said for any other Portuguese battalion, although some of them have, of late, fought remarkably well.
"I do not say that Colonel Herrara, aided by his three English officers--who, by the way, are all promoted in this Gazette, the two ensigns to the rank of lieutenants, and Mr. Ryan to that of captain--would not keep the regiment in a state of efficiency, so far as fighting is concerned; but without your leading, it could not be relied upon to act for detached service such as it has performed under you."
"Thank you, sir. Of course, it would be a great honour to me to be on the general's staff, but I should be very sorry to leave the regiment and, frankly, I do not think that it would get on well without me. Colonel Herrara is ready to bestow infinite pains on his work, but I do not think that he would do things on his own responsibility. Bull and Macwitty have both proved themselves zealous and active, and I can always rely upon them to carry out my orders to the letter; but I doubt if they would get on as well, with Herrara, as they do with me. I am very glad to hear that they and Mr. Ryan have got their steps. The latter makes an admirable adjutant, and if I had to choose one of the four for the command I should select him; but he has not been very long with the regiment, is not known personally, and would not, I think, have the same influence with the Portuguese officers and men. Moreover I am afraid that, having been in command so long, I should miss my independence, if I had only to carry out the orders of others."
"I can quite understand that," the military secretary said, with a smile. "I can quite realize the fascination of the life of a partisan leader; especially when he has, which Trant and the others have not, a body of men whom he has trained himself, and upon whom he can absolutely rely. You can still, of course, wear the uniform of a field officer on the general's staff, and so will have very little alteration to make, save by adding the proper insignia of your rank. I will write you a line, authorizing you to do so.
"Now, let us have a turn at your maps. I may tell you in confidence that, if an opportunity offers, we shall at once convert the blockade of Ciudad into a siege; and hope to carry it before the enemy can march, with sufficient force, to its relief.
"To do so he would naturally collect all his available forces from Salamanca, Zamora, and Valladolid, and would probably obtain reinforcements from Madrid and Estremadura; and I want to ascertain, as far as possible, the best means of checking the advance of some of these troops, by the blowing up of bridges, or the throwing forward of such a force as your regiment to seize any defile, or other point, that could be held for a day or two, and an enemy's column thus delayed. Even twenty-four hours might be of importance."
"I understand, sir. Of course, the passes between Madrid and Avila might be retained for some little time, especially if the defenders had a few guns; but they would be liable to be taken in the rear by a force at Avila, where there were, when I went down south, over five thousand men. As to the troops coming from the north, they would doubtless march on Salamanca. From that town they would cross the Huebra and Yeltes so near their sources that no difficulty would be caused by the blowing up of bridges, if any exist; but the pass over the Sierra de Gatta, on the south of Ciudad, might be defended by a small force, without difficulty."
The maps were now got out, and the matter gone into minutely. After an hour's conversation, Lord Fitzroy said: "Thank you, Colonel O'Connor. Some of the information that you have given me will assuredly be very useful, if we besiege Ciudad. From what we hear, there are a good many changes being made in the French command. Napoleon seems about to engage in a campaign with Russia, and is likely to draw off a certain portion of the forces here and, while these changes are being made, it would seem to offer a good opportunity for us to strike a blow."
On the last day of December, Terence received the following order: "Colonel O'Connor will draw six days' rations from the commissariat and, at daybreak tomorrow, march to the river Aqueda and, on the following day, will ford that river and will post himself along the line of the Yeltes, from its junction with the Huebra to the mountains; and will prevent any person or parties crossing from this side. It is of the highest importance that no intelligence of the movements of the army should be sent, either by the garrison of Ciudad or by the peasantry, to Salamanca. When his provisions are exhausted, he is authorized to hire carts and send in to the army round Ciudad but, if possible, he should obtain supplies from the country near him, and is authorized to purchase provisions, and to send in accounts and vouchers, for such purchases, to the paymaster's department."
"Hurrah, Ryan," he exclaimed on reading the order, "things are going to move, at last! This means, of course, that the army is going to besiege Ciudad at once; and that we are to prevent the French from getting any news of it, until it is too late for them to relieve it. For the last month, guns and ammunition have been arriving at Almeida; and I thought that this weary time of waiting was drawing to an end."
"I am glad, indeed, Terence. I must say that I was afraid that we should not be moving until the spring. Shall we go in and say goodbye to our fellows?"
"Yes, we may as well; but mind, don't say where we are going to, only that we are ordered away. I don't suppose that the regiments will know anything about it, till within an hour of the time they march. There can be no doubt that it is a serious business. Ciudad held out for weeks against Massena; and with Marmont within a few days' march, with an army at least as strong as ours, it will be a tough business, indeed, to take it before he can come up to its relief; and I can well understand that it is all important that he shall know nothing about the siege, till it is too late for him to arrive in time."
"We have come in to say goodbye, colonel," Terence said, as he and Ryan entered the mess room of the Mayo Fusiliers that evening.
"And where are you off to, O'Connor?"
"Well, sir, I don't mind mentioning it in here, but it must go no further. The chief, knowing what we are capable of, proposes that I shall make a rapid march to Madrid, seize the city, and bring King Joseph back a prisoner."
There was a roar of laughter.
"Terence, my boy," Captain O'Grady said, "that is hardly a mission worthy of a fighting man like yourself. I expect that you are hiding something from us, and that the real idea is that you should traverse Spain and France, enter Germany, and seize Boney, and carry him off with you to England."
"I dare not tell you whether you are right or not, O'Grady. Things of this sort must not even be whispered about. It is a wonderfully good guess that you have made and, when it is all over, you will be able to take credit for having divined what was up; but for mercy's sake don't talk about it. Keep as silent as the grave and, if anyone should ask you what has become of us, pretend that you know nothing about it."
"But you are going, O'Connor?" the colonel said, when the laughter had subsided.
"Yes, colonel. We march tomorrow morning. I daresay you will hear of us before many days are over; and may, perhaps, be able to make even a closer guess than O'Grady as to what we are doing. I am heartily glad that we are off. We are now at our full strength again. Most of the wounded have rejoined, and I could have filled up the vacancies a dozen times over. The Portuguese know that I always manage to get food for my men, somehow; which is more than can be said for the other Portuguese regiments, though those of Trant and Pack are better off than Beresford's regulars. Then, too, I think they like fighting, now that they feel that they are a match for the French, man for man. They get a fair share of it, at any rate. The three months that we have been idle have been useful, as the new recruits know their work as well as the others."
"Then you don't know how much longer we are going to stop in this bastely hole?" O'Grady asked.
"Well, I will tell you this much, O'Grady: I fancy that, before this day week, you will all have work to do; and that it is likely to be hot."
"That is a comfort, Terence. But, my dear boy, have a little pity on us and don't finish off the business by yourselves. Remember that we have come a long way, and that it will be mighty hard for us if you were to clear the French out of Spain, and leave nothing for us to do but to bury their dead and escort their army, as prisoners, to the port."
"I will bear it in mind, O'Grady; but don't you forget the past. You know how desperately you grumbled at Rolica, because the regiment was not in it; and how you got your wish at Vimiera, and lost an arm in consequence. So even if I do, as you say, push the French out of Spain, you will have the consolation of knowing that you will be able to go back to Ireland, without leaving any more pieces of you behind."
"There is something in that, Terence," O'Grady said gravely. "I think that when this is over I shall go on half pay, and there may as well be as much of me left, as possible, to enjoy it. It's an ungrateful country I am serving. In spite of all that I have done for it, and the loss of my arm into the bargain; here am I, still a captain, though maybe I am near the top of the list. Still, it is but a captain I am, and here are two gossoons, like yourself and Dick Ryan, the one of you marching about a field officer, and the other a captain. It is heart-breaking entirely, and me one of the most zealous officers in the service. But it is never any luck I have had, from the day I was born."
"It will come some day, never fear, O'Grady; and perhaps it may not be so far off as you fear.
"Well, colonel, we will just take a glass with you for luck, and then say good night; for I have a good many things to see after, and must be up very early, so as to get our tents packed and handed over, to draw our rations, eat our breakfast, and be off by seven."
It was close upon that hour when the regiment marched. It was known that there were no French troops west of the Huebra but, after fording the Aqueda, the force halted until nightfall; and then moved forward and reached the Huebra at midnight, lay down to sleep until daybreak, and then extended along the bank of the Yeltes, as far as its source among the mountains; thus cutting the roads from Ciudad to Salamanca and the North. The distance to be watched was some twenty miles but, as the river was in many places unfordable, it was necessary only to place patrols here; while strong parties were posted, not only on the main roads, but at all points where by-roads or peasants' tracks led down to the bank.
On that day a bridge was thrown across the Aqueda, six miles below Ciudad, for the passage of artillery but, owing to the difficulties of carriage, it was five days later before the artillery and ammunition could be brought over; and this was only done by the aid of 800 carts, which Wellington had caused to be quietly constructed during the preceding three months.
On the 8th, the light division and Pack's Portuguese contingent forded the Aqueda three miles above Ciudad and, making a long detour, took up their position behind a hill called the Great Teson. They remained quiet during the day and, the garrison believing that they had only arrived to enable the force that had long blockaded the town to render the investment more complete, no measures of defence were taken; but at night the light division fell suddenly on the redoubt of San Francisco, on the Great Teson.
The assault was completely successful. The garrison was a small one, and had not been reinforced. A few of them were killed, and the remainder taken; with a loss, to the assailants, of only twenty-four men and officers. A Portuguese regiment, commanded by Colonel Elder, then set to work; and these--in spite of a heavy fire, kept up all night by the French forts--completed a parallel, 600 yards in length, before day broke.
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{
"id": "20207"
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18
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: The Sack Of A City.
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For the next four days the troops worked night and day, the operations being carried on under a tremendous fire from the French batteries. The trenches being carried along the whole line of the Small Teson, on the night of the 13th the convent of Santa Cruz was captured and, on the 14th, the batteries opened fire against the town and, before morning, the 40th regiment carried the convent of San Francisco; and thus established itself within the suburb, which was inclosed by an entrenchment that the Spanish had thrown up there, during the last siege. The French artillery was very powerful and, at times, overpowered that of the besiegers. Some gallant sorties were also made but, by the 19th, two breaches were effected in the ramparts, and preparations were made for an assault.
That evening Terence received an order to march at once to the place, and to join Pack's Portuguese. The assault was to be made by the 3rd and light divisions, aided by Pack's command and Colonel O'Toole's Portuguese riflemen. The main British army lay along the Coa, in readiness to advance at once and give battle, should Marmont come up to the assistance of the besieged town.
On the 19th both the breaches were pronounced practicable and, during the day, the guns of the besiegers were directed against the artillery on the ramparts, while the storming parties prepared for their work. The third division was to attack the great breach. The light division was to make for the small breach and, upon entering the inclosure known as the fausse braye, a portion were to turn and enter the town by the Salamanca gate; while the others were to penetrate by the breach.
Colonel O'Toole, with his Portuguese, was to cross the river and to aid the right attack; while Pack's Portuguese were to make a false attack on the San Jago gate, on the other side of the town, and to convert this into a real assault if the defence should prove feeble.
The French scarcely appeared conscious that the critical moment was at hand, but they had raised breastworks along the tops of both breaches, and were perfectly prepared for the assault. When the signal was given, the attack was begun on the right. The 5th, 77th, and 94th Regiments rushed from the convent of Santa Cruz, leapt down into the fausse braye, and made their way to the foot of the great breach; which they reached at the same moment as the rest of the third division, who had run down from the Small Teson. A terrible fire was opened upon them but, undismayed by shell, grape, and musketry from the ramparts and houses, they drove the French behind their new work.
Here, however, the enemy stood so stoutly that no progress could be made. Unable to cross the obstacle, the troops nevertheless maintained their position, although suffering terrible losses from the French fire.
Equally furious was the attack on the small breach, by the light division. After a few minutes' fighting, they succeeded in bursting through the ranks of the defenders; and then, turning to the right, fought their way along the ramparts until they reached the top of the great breach. The French there wavered, on finding that their flank was turned; and the third division, seizing the opportunity, hurled themselves upon them, and this breach was also won.
O'Toole's attack was successful and, on the other side of the town, Pack's Portuguese, meeting with no resistance, had blown open the gate of San Jago, and had also entered the town. Here a terrible scene took place, and the British troops sullied their victory by the wildest and most horrible excesses. They had neither forgotten nor forgiven the treatment they had experienced at the hands of the Spanish, both before and after the battle of Talavera; when they were almost starved, while the Spaniards had abundant supplies, and yet left the British wounded unattended, to die of starvation in the hospitals, when they evacuated the city. From that time their animosity against the Spaniards had been vastly greater than their feeling against the French, who had always behaved as gallant enemies, and had treated their wounded and prisoners with the greatest kindness.
Now this long-pent-up feeling burst out, and murder, rapine, and violence of all sorts raged for some hours, wholly without check. Officers who endeavoured to protect the hapless inhabitants were shot down, all commands were unheeded, and abominable atrocities were perpetrated.
Some share of the blame rests with Wellington and his staff, who had taken no measures whatever for maintaining order in the town, when possession should be gained of it--a provision which should never be omitted, in the case of an assault. The Portuguese, whose animosity against the Spaniards was equally bitter, imitated the example of their British comrades. Fires broke out in several places, which added to the horror of the scene. The castle was still held by the French, the troops having retreated there as soon as the breach had been carried. There was not, therefore, even the excuse of the excitement of street fighting to be made for the conduct of the victors.
In vain, Terence and his officers endeavoured to keep their men together. By threes and fours these scattered down the side streets, to join the searchers for plunder; until at last, he remained alone with his British and Portuguese officers.
"This is horrible," he said to Ryan, as the shouts, shrieks, and screams told that the work of murder, as well as plunder, was being carried on. "It is evident that, single handed, nothing can be done. I propose that we divide into two parties, and take these two houses standing together under our protection. We will have two English officers with each, as there is no chance of the soldiers listening to a Portuguese officer. How many are there of us?"
There were the twelve captains, and twenty subalterns.
"Bull and Macwitty, do you take half of them; Colonel Herrara, Ryan, and I will take the other half. When you have once obtained admission, barricade the door and lower windows with furniture. When the rioters arrive, show yourselves at the windows, and say that you have orders to protect the houses from insult and, if any attack is made, you will carry out your orders at whatever cost. When they see four British officers at the windows, they will suppose that special instructions have been given us with respect to these two houses.
"If they attack we must each defend ourselves to the last, holding the stairs if they break in. If only our house is attacked, come with half your force to our assistance; and we will do the same to you. We can get along by those balconies, without coming down into the street."
The force was at once divided. Terence knocked at the door of one house, and his majors at that of the other. No answer was received but, as they continued to knock with such violence that it seemed as if they were about to break down the doors, these were presently opened. Terence entered. A Spanish gentleman, behind whom stood a number of trembling servants, advanced.
"What would you have, senor?" he asked. "I see that you are an officer. Surely you cannot menace with violence those who are your allies?"
"You are right, senor; but unfortunately our troops have shaken off all discipline, and are pillaging and, I am afraid, murdering. The men of my own regiment have joined the rest, and I with my officers, finding ourselves powerless, have resolved at least to protect your mansion, and the next, from our maddened troops. I can give you my word of honour that I and these gentlemen, who are all my officers, have come as friends, and are determined to defend until the last your mansion, which happened to be the first we came to. A similar party is taking charge of the next house and, if necessary, we can join forces."
"I thank you indeed, sir. I am the Count de Montego. I have my wife and daughters here and, in their name as well as my own, I thank you most cordially. I have some twenty men, sir. Alone we could do nothing, but they will aid you in every way, if you will but give orders."
"In the first place, count, we will move as many articles of heavy furniture as possible against the doors. I see that your lower windows are all barred. We had better place mattresses behind them, to prevent shot from penetrating. I hope, however, that it will not come to that; and that I shall be able to persuade any that may come along that these houses are under special protection."
The count at once ordered his servants to carry out the British officer's instructions, and the whole party were soon engaged in piling heavy furniture against the door. The count had gone up to allay the fears of his wife and daughters who, with the female servants, were gathered in terrible anxiety in the drawing room above. As soon as the preparations were completed, Terence, Ryan, and Herrara went upstairs and, after being introduced to the ladies, who were now to some extent reassured, Terence went out on to the balcony with Ryan; leaving Herrara in the drawing room, as he thought it was best that only British officers should show themselves.
Terrible as the scene had been before, it was even worse now. The soldiers had everywhere broken into the cellars, and numbers of them were already drunk. Many discharged their muskets recklessly, some quarrelled among themselves as to the spoil they had taken, and fierce fights occurred.
In two or three minutes Bull and Macwitty appeared on the balcony of the next house.
"I see it is too far to get across," Terence said. "If you cannot find a plank, set half a dozen men to prise up a couple from the floor."
Presently a number of soldiers came running along down the street.
"Here are two big houses," one shouted. "There ought to be plenty of plunder here."
"Halt!" Terence shouted. "These houses are under special protection and, as you see, I myself and three other British officers are placed here, to see that no one enters. I have a strong force under my orders, and anyone attempting to break down the doors will be shot instantly, and all who aid him will be subsequently tried and hung."
The men, on seeing the four British officers--three of them in the dress of field officers, and one, the speaker, in the uniform of the staff--at once drew back.
"Come on, mates," one said, as they stood indecisive; "we shall only lose time here, while others are getting as much plunder as they can carry. Let us go on."
But as the wine took effect, others who came along were less disposed to listen to orders. Gradually gathering, until they were in considerable numbers, several shots were fired at the officers; and one man, advancing up the steps, began to hammer at the door with the butt end of his musket. Terence leaned over the balcony and, drawing his pistol and taking a steady aim, fired, and the man fell with a sharp cry. A number of shots were fired from below, but the men were too unsteady to take aim, and Terence was uninjured.
[Illustration: The man fell, with a sharp cry.]
Again he stood up.
"Men," he shouted, "you have shown yourselves to be brave soldiers today. Are you now going to disgrace yourselves, by mutiny against officers who are doing their duty, thereby running the risk of being tried and hung? I tell you again that these houses are both defended by a strong force, and that we shall protect them at all hazard. Go elsewhere, where booty is to be more easily obtained."
His words, however, were unheeded. Some more shots were fired, and then there was a general rush at the doors; while another party attacked that of the next house. The officers were all provided with pistols, and Terence hurried below with Ryan.
"Do not fire," he said to the others, "until they break down the door. It will take them some time and, at any moment, fresh troops may be marched in to restore order."
The door was a strong one and, backed as it was, it resisted for a considerable time. Those who first attacked it speedily broke the stocks of their guns, and had to make way for others. Presently the attack ceased suddenly.
"Run upstairs, Dicky, and see what they are doing, and how things are going on next door."
Ryan soon returned.
"They are bringing furniture and a lot of straw from houses opposite. They have broken down the next door, but they have not got in yet."
"Let the servants at once set to work, to draw pails of water from the well in the courtyard, and carry them upstairs.
"Ryan, you had better go into the next house and see if they are pressed. Tell them that they must hold out without my help for a short time. I am going to send six officers out by the back of the house, to collect some of our men together. Another will be in readiness to open the back door, as soon as they return.
"I shall keep them from firing the pile as long as I can. The count has two double-barrelled guns. I don't want to use them, if I can help it; but they shall not get in here. Do you stop, and help next door. There can be no fighting here yet for, if they do burn the door, it will be a long time before they can get in."
The native officers started at once. They were of opinion that they would soon be able to bring in a good many of their men; for the Portuguese are a sober race, and few would have got intoxicated. Most of the men would soon find that there was not much booty to be obtained, and that even what they got would probably be snatched from them by the English soldiers; and would consequently be glad to return to their duty again.
An officer took his place at the back door, in readiness to remove the bars; another went up with Terence to the first floor; and the remainder stopped in the hall, with six of the menservants.
Terence went upstairs and looked down into the street. There was a lot of furniture, with bundles of faggots and straw, piled there.
"Now," he said to the officer, "empty these pails at once; the servants will soon bring some more up. I will stand here with these guns, and fire at any one who interferes with you. Just come out into the balcony, empty your pails over, and go back at once. You need scarcely show yourself, and there is not much chance of your being hit by those drunken rascals."
Yells and shouts of rage were heard below, as the water was thrown over. As fast as the pails were emptied, the servants carried them off and refilled them. At last, two soldiers appeared from a house opposite, with blazing torches.
The guns had been loaded by the count with small shot, as Terence was anxious not to take life. As soon as the two men appeared, he raised the fowling piece to his shoulder and fired both barrels, in quick succession. With a yell of pain, the soldiers dropped their torches. One fell to the ground, the other clapped his hands to his face and ran down the street in an agony, as if half mad. Half a dozen muskets were discharged, but Terence had stepped back the moment he had fired, and handed the gun to the count, who was standing behind him, to recharge.
Two other soldiers picked up the torches, but dropped them as Terence again fired. Another man snatched up one of them, and flung it across the street. It fell upon some straw that had been thoroughly soaked by the water, and burned out there harmlessly.
It was not long before the servants began to arrive with the full buckets and, when these also had been emptied, Terence, glancing over, had little fear that the pile could now be lighted. The pails were sent down again, and he waited for the next move.
The fighting had ceased at the other door. The soldiers having drawn back from the barricade, to see the effect of the fire. Ryan ran across the plank and rejoined Terence.
"Things are quiet there, for the present," he said. "There has not been much harm done. When they had partly broken down the door, they began firing through it. Bull and Macwitty kept the others back from the line of fire, and not a pistol has been discharged yet. Bull cut down one fellow who tried to climb over the barricade, but otherwise no blood has been shed on either side."
Help was coming now. One of the Portuguese officers was admitted, with twenty-four men that he had picked up. The others came in rapidly and, within a quarter of an hour, three hundred men were assembled. All were sober, and looked thoroughly ashamed of themselves as they were formed up in the courtyard.
Terence went down to them. He said no word of blame.
"Now, men," he said, "you have to retrieve your characters. Half of you will post yourselves at the windows, from the ground floor to the top of the house. You are not to show yourselves, till you receive orders to do so. You are not to load your guns but, as you appear at the windows, point them down into the street. The officers will post you, five at each window.
"The rest of you are at once to clear away the furniture in the hall; and, when you receive the order, throw open the door and pour out, forming across the street as you do so. Captain Ryan will be in command of you. You are not to load, but to clear the street with your bayonets. If any of the soldiers are too drunk to get out of your way, knock them down with the butt end of your muskets; but if they rush at you, use your bayonets."
He went round the house, and saw that five men were in readiness at each window looking into the street. He ordered them to leave the doors open.
"A pistol will be fired from the first landing," he said; "that will be the signal, then show yourselves at once."
He waited until Ryan's party had cleared away the furniture. He then went out on to the balcony, and addressed the crowd of soldiers who were standing, uncertain what step to take next, many of them having already gone off in search of plunder elsewhere.
"Listen to me, men," he shouted. "Hitherto I have refrained from employing force against men who, after behaving as heroes, are now acting like madmen; but I shall do so no longer. I will give you two minutes to clear off, and anyone who remains at the end of that time will have to take his chance."
Derisive shouts and threats arose in reply. He turned round and nodded to the count, who was standing at the door of the room with a pistol in his hand. He raised it and fired and, in a moment, soldiers appeared at every window, menacing the crowd below with their rifles. At the same moment the door opened, and the Portuguese poured out, with Ryan at their head, trampling over the pile raised in front of it.
There was a moment of stupefied dismay amongst the soldiers. Hitherto none had believed that there were any in the houses, with the exception of a few officers; and the sudden appearance of a hundred men at the windows, and a number pouring out through the door, took them so completely by surprise that there was not even a thought of resistance.
Men who had faced the terrors of the deadly breaches turned and fled and, save a few leaning stupidly against the opposite wall, none remained by the time Ryan had formed up the two lines across the street. Each of these advanced a short distance, and were at once joined by the defenders of the other house, and by those at the windows.
"Do you take command of one line, Bull; and you of the other, Macwitty. I don't think that we shall be meddled with but, should any of them return and attack you, you will first try and persuade them to go away quietly. If they still attack, you will at once fire upon them.
"Herrara, will you send out all your officers, and bring the men in at the back doors, as before. We shall soon have the greater part of the regiment here, and with them we can hold the street, if necessary, against any force that is likely to attack it."
In half an hour, indeed, more than fifteen hundred men had been rallied and, while two lines, each a hundred strong, were formed across the street, some eighty yards apart, the rest were drawn up in a solid body in the centre; Terence's order being that, if attacked in force, half of them were to at once enter the houses on both sides of the street, and to man the windows. He felt sure, however, that the sight of so strong a force would be sufficient to prevent the rioters interfering with them; the soldiers being, for the most part, too drunk to act together, or with a common object.
This, indeed, proved to be the case. Parties at times came down the street but, on seeing the dark lines of troops drawn up, they retired immediately, on being hailed by the English officers, and slunk off under the belief that a large body of fresh troops had entered the town. An hour later a mounted officer, followed by some five or six others and some orderlies, rode up.
"What troops are these?" the officer asked.
"The Minho Portuguese Regiment, general," Bull answered, "commanded by Colonel O'Connor."
The general rode on, the line opened, and he and his staff passed through. Terence, who had posted himself in the balcony so as to have a view of the whole street, at once ran down. Two of the men with torches followed him.
On approaching, he at once recognized the officer as General Barnard, who commanded one of the brigades of the light division.
"So your regiment has remained firm, Colonel O'Connor?" the general said.
"I am sorry to say, sir, that it did not, at first, but scattered like the rest of the troops. My officers and myself, for some time, defended these two large houses from the attack of the soldiery. Matters became very serious, and I then sent out some of my officers, who soon collected three hundred men, which sufficed to disperse the rioters without our being obliged to fire a shot. The officers then again went out, and now between fifteen and sixteen hundred men are here.
"I am glad that you have come, sir, for I felt in a great difficulty. It was hard to stay here inactive, when I was aware that the town was being sacked, and atrocities of every kind perpetrated but, upon the other hand, I dared not undertake the responsibility of attempting to clear the streets. Such an attempt would probably end in desperate fighting. It might have resulted in heavy loss on both sides, and have caused such ill feeling between the British and Portuguese troops as to seriously interfere with the general dispositions for the campaign."
"No doubt you have taken the best course that could be pursued, Colonel O'Connor; but I must take on myself the responsibility of doing something. My appearance, at the head of your regiment, will have some effect upon the men of the light division; and those who are sober will, no doubt, rally round me, though hitherto my efforts have been altogether powerless. All the officers will, of course, join us at once. I fear that many have been killed in trying to protect the inhabitants but, now that we have at least got a nucleus of good troops, I have no doubt that we shall be successful.
"Have you any torches?"
"There is a supply of them in the house, sir."
"Get them all lighted, and divide them among the men. As soon as you have done this, form the regiment into column."
"Are they to load, sir?"
"Yes," the general said shortly; "but instruct your officers that no one is to fire without orders, and that the sound of firing at the head of the column is not to be considered as a signal for the rest to open fire; though it may be necessary to shoot some of these insubordinate scoundrels. By the way, I think it will be best that only the leading company should load. The rest have their bayonets, and can use them if attacked."
Some forty torches were handed over, by the count. These were lighted and distributed along the line, ten being carried by the leading company.
"You have bugles, colonel?"
"Yes, sir. There is one to each company."
"Let them all come to the front and play the Assembly, as they march on.
"Now, will you ride at their head by my side, sir? Dismount one of my orderlies, and take his horse."
By the time all the preparations were completed, they had been joined by nearly two hundred more men. Just before they started, Terence said: "Would it not be well, general, if I were to tell off a dozen parties of twenty men, each under the command of a steady non-commissioned officer, to enter the houses on each side of the road as we go along, and to clear out any soldiers they may find there?"
"Certainly. But I think that when they see the regiment marching along, and hear the bugles, they will clear out fast enough of their own accord."
With bugles blowing, the regiment started. Twenty men, with an officer, had been left behind at each of the houses they had defended; in case parties of marauders should arrive, and endeavour to obtain an entrance.
As they marched by, men appeared at the windows. Most of these were soldiers who, with an exclamation of alarm when they saw the general, followed by two battalions in perfect order, hastily ran down and made their escape by the backs of the houses; or came quietly out and, forming in some sort of order, accompanied the regiment. Several shots were heard behind, as the search parties cleared out those who had remained in the houses and, presently, the force entered the main square of the town and halted in its centre, the bugles still blowing the Assembly. Numbers of officers at once ran up, and many of the more sober soldiers.
"Form them up as they arrive," the general said to the officers.
In a few minutes, some five hundred men had gathered.
"Do you break your regiment up into four columns, Colonel O'Connor. A fourth of these men shall go with each, with a strong party of officers. The soldiers will be the less inclined to resist, if they see their own comrades and officers with your troops, than if the latter were alone. I will take the command of one column myself, do you take that of another.
"Colonel Strong, will you join one of the majors of Colonel O'Connor's regiment; and will you, Major Hughes, join the other?
"All soldiers who do not, at once, obey your summons to fall in will be taken prisoners; and those who use violence you will shoot, without hesitation. All drunken men are to be picked up and sent back here. Place a strong guard over them, and see that they do not make off again."
Five minutes later, the four columns started in different directions. A few soldiers who, inflamed by drink, fired at those who summoned them to surrender, were instantly shot and, in half an hour, the terrible din that had filled the air had quietened down.
Morning was breaking now. In the great square, officers were busy drawing up the men who had been brought in, in order of their regiments. The inhabitants issued from their houses, collected the bodies of those who had been killed in the streets, and carried them into their homes; and sounds of wailing and lamentation rose from every house.
Lord Wellington now rode in, with his staff. The regiments that had disgraced themselves were at once marched out of the town, and their places taken by those of other divisions. But nothing could repair the damage that had been done; and the doings of that night excited, throughout Spain, a feeling of hostility to the British that has scarcely subsided to this day; and was heightened by the equally bad conduct of the troops at the storming of Badajoz.
Long before the arrival of Lord Wellington, the whole of the Minho regiment had rejoined. Terence ordered that the late comers should not be permitted to fall in with their companies, but should remain as a separate body. He marched the regiment to a quiet spot in the suburbs, and ordered them to form in a hollow square, with the men who had last joined in the centre. These he addressed sternly.
"For the first time," he said, "since this regiment was formed, I am ashamed of my men. I had thought that I could rely upon you under all circumstances. I find that this is not so, and that the greed for plunder has, at once, broken down the bonds of discipline. Those who, the moment they were called upon, returned to their colours, I can forgive, seeing that the British regiments set them so bad an example; but you men, who to the last remained insubordinate, I cannot forgive. You have disgraced not only yourselves, but your regiment, and I shall request Lord Wellington to attach you to some other force. I only want to command men I can rely upon."
A loud chorus of lament and entreaty rose from the men.
"It is as painful to me as it is to you," Terence went on, raising his hands for silence. "How proud I should have been if, this morning, I could have met the general and said that the regiment he had been good enough to praise so highly, several times, had proved trustworthy; instead of having to report that every man deserted his officers, and that many continued the evil work of pillage, and worse, to the end."
Many of the men wept loudly, others dropped upon their knees and implored Terence to forgive them. He had already instructed his two majors what was to be done, and they and the twelve captains now stepped forward.
"Colonel," Bull said, in a loud voice that could be heard all over the square, "we, the officers of the Minho regiment, thoroughly agree with you in all that you have said, and feel deeply the disgrace the conduct of these men has brought upon it; but we trust that you will have mercy on them, and we are ready to promise, in their name, that never again will they so offend, and that their future conduct will show how deeply they repent of their error."
There was a general cry from the men of: "Indeed we do. Punish us as you like, colonel, but don't send us away from the regiment!"
Terence stood as if hesitating, for some time; then he said: "I cannot resist the prayer of your officers, men; and I am willing to believe that you deeply regret the disgrace you have brought upon us all. Of one thing I am determined upon; not one man in the regiment shall be any the better for his share in this night's work, and that this accursed plunder shall not be retained. A blanket will be spread out here in front of me, and the regiment will pass along before me by twos. Each man, as he files by, will empty out the contents of his pockets, and swear solemnly that he has retained no object of spoil, whatever. After that is over, I shall have an inspection of kits and, if any article of value is found concealed, I will hand over its owner to the provost marshal, to be shot forthwith."
The operation took upwards of two hours. At Herrara's suggestion a table was brought out, a crucifix placed upon it, and each man as he came up, after emptying out his pockets, swore solemnly, laying his hand upon the table, that he had given up all the spoil he had collected.
Terence could not help smiling at the scene the regiment presented, before the men began to file past. No small proportion of the men stripped off their coats, and unwound from their bodies rolls of silk, costly veils, and other stuffs of which they had taken possession. All these were laid down by the side of the blanket, on which a pile of gold and silver coins, a great number of rings, brooches, and bracelets, had accumulated by the time the whole had passed by.
"The money cannot be restored," Terence said to Herrara, "therefore set four non-commissioned officers to count it out. Have the jewels all placed in a bag. Let all the stuffs and garments be made into bundles. I shall be obliged if you will take a sufficient number of men to carry them, and go down yourself, with a guard of twenty men, to the syndic, or whatever they call their head man, and hand them over to him. Say that the Minho regiment returns the spoil it had captured, and deeply regrets its conduct.
"Will you say that I beg him to divide the money among the sufferers most in need of it, and to dispose the jewels and other things where they can be seen, and to issue a notice to the inhabitants that all can come and inspect them, and those who can bring proof that any of the articles belong to them can take them away."
The regiment was by this time formed up again, and Terence, addressing them, told them of the orders that he had given; saying that, as the regiment had made all the compensation in their power, and had rid itself of the spoils of a people whom they had professedly come to aid, it could now look the Spaniards in the face again. Just as he had concluded, a staff officer rode up.
"Lord Wellington wishes to speak to you, colonel," he said. "We have been looking about for you everywhere, but your regiment seemed to have vanished."
"Then I must leave the work of inspecting the kits to you, Herrara. You will see that every article is unfolded and closely examined, and place every man in whose kit anything is discovered under arrest, at once. I trust that you will not find anything but, if you do, place a strong guard over the prisoners, with loaded muskets, and orders to shoot any one of them who tries to escape."
Walking by the side of the staff officer--for he had returned the horse lent him by General Barnard--he accompanied him to a house in the great square, where Lord Wellington had taken up his quarters.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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19
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: Gratitude.
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"Your regiment has been distinguishing itself again, Colonel O'Connor, I have heard from three sources. First, General Barnard reported to me that he, and the other officers, were wholly unable to restrain the troops from their villainous work last night; until he found you and your regiment drawn up in perfect order, and was able, with it, to put an end to the disorder everywhere reigning. In the second place, the Count de Montego and the Marquis de Valoroso, two of the wealthiest nobles in the province, have called upon me to return thanks for the inestimable service, as they expressed it, rendered by Colonel O'Connor and his officers, in defending their houses, and protecting the lives and honour of their families, from the assaults of the soldiers. They said that the defenders consisted entirely of officers. How was that?"
"I am sorry to say that my men were, at first, infected by the general spirit of disorder. Left alone by ourselves, I thought that we could not do anything better than save, from spoliation, two fine mansions that happened to be at the spot where we had been left. We had to stand a sharp siege for two or three hours; but we abstained, as far as possible, from using our arms, and I think that only two or three of the soldiers were wounded. However, we should have had to use our pistols in earnest, in a short time, had I not sent out several of my officers by the back entrance of the house; and these were not long in finding, and persuading to return to their duties, a couple of hundred men.
"As soon as we sallied out the affair was at an end, and the soldiers fled. The officers were sent out again and when, an hour later, General Barnard came up, we had some seventeen hundred in readiness for action; and his arrival relieved me of the heavy responsibility of deciding what course had better be adopted."
"Yes, he told me so, and I think that you acted very wisely in holding your men back till he arrived; for nothing could have been more unfortunate than a conflict in the streets between British and Portuguese troops. There is no doubt that, had it not been for your regiment, the disgraceful scenes of last night would have been very much worse than they were. I should be glad if you will convey my thanks to them."
"Thank you, sir; but I shall be obliged if you will allow me to say that you regret to hear that a regiment, in which you placed confidence, should have at first behaved so badly; but that they had retrieved their conduct by their subsequent behaviour, and had acted as you would have expected of them. I have been speaking very severely to them, this morning; and I am afraid that the effect of my words would be altogether lost, were I to report your commendation of their conduct, without any expression of blame."
Lord Wellington smiled.
"Do it as you like, Colonel O'Connor. However, your regiment will be placed in orders, today, as an exception to the severe censure passed upon the troops who entered the town last night. And do you really think that they will behave better, another time?"
"I am sure they will, sir. I threatened to have the three hundred, who had not joined when General Barnard arrived, transferred to another regiment; and it was only upon their solemn promise, and by the whole of the officers guaranteeing their conduct in the future, that I forgave them. Moreover, every article taken in money, jewels, or dress has been given up; and I have sent them to the syndic, the money for distribution among the sufferers, the jewellery and other things to be reclaimed by those from whom they were taken. Their kits were being examined thoroughly, when I came away; but I think that I can say, with certainty, that no single stolen article will be found in them."
"You have done very well, sir, very well, and your influence with your men is surprising.
"Your regiment will be quartered in the convent of San Jose. Other divisions will move in this afternoon, and take the place of the 1st and 3rd brigades. Your regiment, therefore, may consider it a high honour that they will be retained here.
"I daresay that it will not be long before I find work for you to do again. Lord Somerset will give you an order, at once, to take possession of the convent."
Terence returned to the regiment in high spirits. The work of inspection was still going on. At its conclusion, Colonel Herrara reported that no single article of plunder had been found.
"I am gratified that it is so, Herrara," he said; "now let the regiment form up in hollow square, again.
"Men," he went on, "I have a message for you from Lord Wellington;" and he repeated that which he had suggested. "Thus you see, men, that the conduct of those who at once obeyed orders, and returned to their ranks, has caused the misconduct of the others to be forgiven; and Lord Wellington has still confidence that the regiment will behave well, in future. The fact that all plunder has been given up to be restored to its owners had, of course, some effect in inducing him to believe this. I hope that every man will take the lesson to heart, that the misdeeds of a few may bring disgrace on a whole regiment; and that you will, in future, do nothing to forfeit the name that the Minho regiment has gained, for good conduct as well as for bravery."
A loud cheer broke from the regiment, who then marched to the convent of San Jose, and took up its quarters there. Two hours later, the two Spanish nobles called upon Terence. The Count de Montego introduced his companion.
"We have only just heard where you were quartered," he went on. "We have both been trying in vain, all the morning, to find you; not a soldier of your regiment was to be seen in the streets and, although we questioned many officers, none could say where you were.
"You went off so suddenly, last night, that I had no opportunity of expressing our gratitude to you and your officers."
"You said enough, and more than enough, last night, count," Terence replied; "and we are all glad, indeed, that we were able to protect both your houses. Lord Wellington informed me that you had called upon him, and spoken highly of the service we had been able to render you. Pray say no more about it. I can quite understand what you feel, and I can assure you that no thanks are due to me, for having done my duty as a British officer and a gentleman on so lamentable and, I admit, disgraceful an occasion."
"My wife and daughters, and those of the Marquis of Valoroso, are all most anxious to see you, and thank you and your officers. They were too frightened and agitated, last night, to say aught and, indeed, as they say, they scarcely noticed your features. Can you bring your officers round now?"
"I am sorry to say I cannot do that, senor. They have to see after the arrangements and comfort of the men, the getting of the rations, the cooking, and so on. Tomorrow they will, I am sure, be glad to pay you a visit."
"But you can come, can you not, colonel?"
"Yes, I am at liberty now, count, and shall be happy to pay my respects to the senoras."
"The more I hear," the marquis said, as they walked along together, "of the events of last night, the more deeply I feel the service that you have rendered us. I am unable to understand how it is that your soldiers should behave with such outrageous violence to allies."
"It is very disgraceful, and greatly to be regretted, senor; but I am bound to say that, as I have now gone through four campaigns, and remember the conduct of the Spanish authorities to our troops during our march to Talavera, our stay there, and on our retreat, I am by no means surprised that among the soldiers, who are unable to draw a distinction between the people and the authorities, there should be a deep and lasting hatred. There is no such hatred for the French.
"Our men fought the battle of Talavera when weak with hunger; while the Spaniards, who engaged to supply them with provisions, were feasting. Our men were neglected and starved in the hospitals, and would have died to a man had not, happily for them, the French arrived, and treated them with the greatest humanity and kindness. Soldiers do not forget this sort of thing. They know that, for the last three years, the promises of the Spanish authorities have never once been kept, and that they have had to suffer greatly from the want of transport and stores promised. We can, of course, discriminate between the people at large and their authorities; but the soldiers can make no such distinction and, deeply as I deplore what has happened here, I must own that the soldiers have at least some excuse for their conduct."
The two Spaniards were silent.
"I cannot gainsay your statement," the Count de Montego said. "Indeed, no words can be too strong for the conduct of both the central, and all the provincial juntas."
"Then, senor, how is it that the people do not rise and sweep them away, and choose honest and resolute men in their place?"
"That is a difficult question to answer, colonel. It may be said, why do not all people, when ill governed, destroy their tyrants?"
"Possibly because, as a rule, the tyrants have armies at their backs; but here such armies as there are, although nominally under the orders of the juntas, are practically led by their own generals, and would obey them rather than the juntas.
"However, that is a matter for the Spanish people alone. Although we have suffered cruelly by the effects of your system, please remember that I am not in the smallest degree defending the conduct of our troops; but only trying to show that they had, at least, some excuse for regarding the Spaniards as foes rather than as allies; and that they had, as they considered, a long list of wrongs to avenge."
"There is truth in all you say, colonel. Unfortunately, men like ourselves, who are the natural leaders of the people, hold aloof from these petty provincial struggles; and leave all the public offices to be filled with greedy adventurers, and have been accustomed to consider work of any kind beneath us. The country is paying dearly for it, now. I trust, when the war is over, seeing how the country has suffered by our abstention from politics, and from the affairs of our provinces, we shall put ourselves forward to aid in the regeneration of Spain."
By this time they had arrived at the door of the count's house. The street had been to some extent cleared; but shattered doors, broken windows, portions of costly furniture, and household articles of all sorts still showed how terrible had been the destruction of the previous night. Large numbers of the poorer class were at work clearing the roads, as the city authorities had been ordered, by Lord Wellington, to restore order in all the thoroughfares.
The count led the way up to the drawing room. The countess and her three daughters rose.
"I introduced our brave defender to you last night," the count said, "but in the half-darkened room, and in the confusion and alarm that prevailed, you could have had but so slight a view of him that I doubt whether you would know him again."
"I should not, indeed," the countess said. "We have been speaking of him ever since, but could not agree as to his appearance.
"Oh, senor, no word can tell you how grateful we feel to you for your defence of us, last night. What horrors we should have suffered, had it not been for your interposition!"
"I am delighted to have been of service to you, senora. It was my duty, and it was a very pleasurable one, I can assure you; and I pray you to say no more about it."
"How is it that you speak Spanish so well, senor?" the countess asked, after her daughters had shyly expressed their gratitude to Terence.
"I owe it chiefly to a muleteer of Salamanca. I was a prisoner there last year, and he accompanied me for a month, after I had made my escape from the prison. Also, I owe much to the guerilla chief Moras, with whom I acted for six weeks, last autumn. I had learned a little of your language before and, speaking Portuguese fluently, I naturally picked it up without any great difficulty."
"Your name is not unknown to us, colonel," the count said. "Living so close to the frontier as we do, we naturally know much of what passes in Portugal; and heard you spoken of as a famous leader of a strong Portuguese regiment, that seems to have been in the thick of all the fighting. But we heard that you had been taken prisoner by the French, at the battle of Fuentes d'Onoro."
"Yes, I had the misfortune to be captured by them, and was sent to Salamanca; but I escaped by the aid of a girl who sold fruit in the prison. A muleteer took me with him on a journey to Cadiz, and thence I came round to Lisbon by ship."
"You seem very young to have seen so much service, if you will excuse my saying so, colonel."
Terence smiled.
"I have had great luck, senor; extraordinary luck."
"Ah, colonel! We know how well you have deserved that luck, as you call it; and you would never have been in command of such a regiment if you had not done something very much out of the way to attract the attention of your commanders."
"I was not appointed to the regiment. I raised it myself; that is to say, I came upon a number of Portuguese who had been called out for service, but who had neither leader nor arms. Being anxious to fight for their country, they asked me to be their leader, and I accepted the offer. I found them docile and obedient and, with the aid of two British troopers with me, a Spanish officer, and twelve of his troopers, I established something like order and discipline and, as we were fortunate in our first affair with the enemy, they had faith in me, and I was able to raise them to a point of discipline which is, I think, now quite equal to that of our own regiments. Seeing that I had made myself useful with my corps, I was confirmed in my command, and obtained the rank of colonel in the Portuguese service; and am now a major in our own."
"I hope, senor, that later on you will tell us the story of some of your adventures. Be assured that the house and all in it are yours, and that it is not for mere curiosity that we would hear your story; but that, as we shall ever retain a grateful memory of what you have done for us, everything relating to you is of deep interest to us."
After chatting for another quarter of an hour, Terence went with the Count de Montego to the house next door. Here he received an equally warm welcome from the wife and son and daughter of the marquis.
At both houses, he was warmly urged to take up his quarters there during his stay at Ciudad; but explained that his place was with his regiment. He promised that he would call frequently, when his duties permitted him to do so.
The next day the two Spanish noblemen came to him and, after parade was over, carried off the greater portion of the officers to be also introduced to their families. From that time, three or four of the officers were always invited to dinner at each house. Terence and Ryan frequently spent their evenings there, and their hosts introduced them to many of the leading people in the town.
The Spanish general, Carlos d'Espagna, was appointed governor of Ciudad. Papers having been discovered, showing that many of the inhabitants had acted as French emissaries, these he executed without mercy. So rigorous, however, were his measures that it was felt that more than sufficient blood had been shed and, accordingly, several British deserters found in the town were pardoned. Many others of these men had fallen, fighting desperately in the breach; believing that there was no hope of mercy being extended to them, if taken prisoners.
In the siege the allies lost 1200 men and 90 officers; among whom were Generals Crawford and MacKinnon, both killed, and General Vandeleur, badly wounded. Lord Wellington was created Duke of Ciudad Rodrigo by the Spaniards, and Earl of Wellington by the English. The French loss was 300 killed and wounded, 1500 prisoners, an immense store of ammunition, and 150 guns.
Thanks to the vigilance with which the Minho regiment had guarded the line of the fords of the Yeltes, no news of the siege was received by Marmont in time for him to interfere with it. The bridge over the Aqueda had been thrown across on the 1st of January, and the siege began on the 8th but, even on the 12th, nothing was known at Salamanca of the advance of the British army; and it was not until the 15th, three days after the town had fallen, that news that the siege had begun reached Marmont at Valladolid. He had ordered his army to concentrate on Salamanca, but it was not until the 25th that 35,000 men were collected there and, on the following day, the news arrived of the fall of Ciudad.
In the meantime large numbers of labourers were being employed in repairing and strengthening the fortifications of that town, while Wellington laboured in making preparations for the siege of Badajoz. These, however, progressed but slowly, owing to the refusal of the Portuguese government to supply transport for the guns; or to furnish any facilities, whatever, for the supply of food for the army. Wellington maintained his headquarters on the Coa until the first week in March, and then moved south with the greater part of the army; Ciudad being left entirely in the hands of the Spaniards, the general supplying the governor with provisions and stores, and explaining to him the object and intention of the new works.
A very strong force was left to guard the frontier of Portugal from an invasion by Marmont; 50,000 men, of whom 20,000 were Portuguese, being scattered along the line and guarding all the passes--the Minho regiment being ordered to take post, again, at Pinhel.
Terence left Ciudad with reluctance. He had all along been treated as a dear friend, in the houses of the two Spanish noblemen, and spent most of his evenings at one or other of them. He had been obliged to tell, in full detail, all his adventures since he joined the army. The rescue of his cousin from the convent at Oporto had particularly excited the interest of the ladies, who asked innumerable questions about her.
Ryan frequently accompanied him, but his very slight knowledge of Spanish prevented him from feeling the same pleasure at the familiar intercourse. Bull and Macwitty were absolutely ignorant of the language and, although Herrara now and then accepted invitations to dinner, Terence and Ryan were the only two officers of the regiment who felt at home among the Spaniards.
Before the regiment marched off, each of the Portuguese officers was presented with a handsome gold watch bearing an inscription expressing the gratitude of the two Spanish noblemen, and their families. Bull, Macwitty, and Herrara received, in addition, heavy gold chains. Ryan received a splendid horse, with saddle, holsters, and a brace of finely-finished pistols; and a similar present was made to Terence.
On the day when he went to say goodbye, he found the ladies of both families assembled at the Count de Montego's. His host said: "You must consider the horses and equipment as a special present from myself and the marquis, Colonel O'Connor; but the ladies of our two families wish to give you a little memorial of their gratitude."
"They are memorials only," his wife said, "and are feeble testimonies, indeed, of what we feel. These are the joint presents of the marquise and her daughter, and of myself and my girls," and she gave him a small case containing a superb diamond ring, of great value; and then a large case containing a magnificent parure of diamonds and emeralds.
"This, senor, is for your future wife. She will value it, I am sure, not so much for what it may be worth; but as a testimony of the gratitude, of six Spanish ladies, for the inestimable services that you rendered them. Perhaps they will have a special value in her eyes, inasmuch as the stones all formed a small part of the jewels of the two families that you saved from plunder. We have, of course, had them reset; and there was no difficulty in getting this done, for at present ours are, I believe, the only jewels in Ciudad."
"My dear countess," Terence said, much moved, "I do not like taking so valuable a present."
"What is it, in comparison to what you have done for us, senor? And please do not suppose that we have seriously diminished our store. Nowhere, I believe, have ladies such jewels as they have in Spain; and few families can boast of finer ones than those of the marquise and myself. And I can assure you that we shall value our jewels all the more, when we think that some of their companions will be worn by the wife of the gentleman who has preserved more than our lives."
"That is a royal gift, indeed," Herrara said, when Terence showed him the jewels. "I should be afraid to say what they are worth. Many of the old Spanish families possess marvellous jewels, relics of the day when the Spaniards owned the wealth of the Indies and the spoils of half Europe; and I should imagine that these must have been among the finest stones in the possession of both families. If I were you, colonel, I should take the very first opportunity that occurs of sending them to England."
"You may be sure that I shall do so, Herrara. They are not the sort of things to be carried about in a cavalry wallet, and I have no other place to stow them. As soon as we arrive at Pinhel, I will get a strong box made to hold the two cases, and hand them over to the paymaster there, to be sent down to Lisbon by the next convoy. He sent home all the money that I did not want to keep by me, when we were at Pinhel last."
Two other Portuguese regiments, and a brigade of British infantry, were stationed at Pinhel in readiness, at any moment, to march to Almeida or Guarda, should Marmont make a forward movement; which was probable enough, for it was evident, by the concentration of his troops at Salamanca and Valladolid, that he had no intention of marching south; but intended to leave it to Soult, with the armies of Estremadura, Castile, and Andalusia, to relieve Badajoz.
From time to time, news came from that town. The siege had begun on the 17th of March, the attack being made on a fortified hill called the Picurina; but at first the progress was slow. Incessant rain fell, the ground became a swamp, and all operations had, several times, to be suspended; while Phillipon, the brave officer who commanded the garrison, made numerous sorties from the town, with more or less success.
On the night of the 25th, an assault was made on the strong fort on the Picurina; which was captured after desperate fighting, and the loss of 19 officers and 300 men, killed and wounded. On the following day the trenches were opened for the attack upon the town itself. The assailants laboured night and day and, on the 6th, a breach had been effected in the work called the Trinidad; and this was to be attacked by the 4th and light divisions. The castle was at the same time to be assailed by Picton's division, while General Power's Portuguese were to make a feint on the other side of the Guadiana, and San Roque was to be stormed by the forces employed in the trenches.
The enterprise was well-nigh desperate. The breaches had not been sufficiently cleared, and it was known that the enemy had thrown up strong intrenchments behind them. Most of the guns were still in position to sweep the breaches, and another week, at least, should have been occupied in preparing the way for an assault. But Wellington was forced here, as at Ciudad, to fight against time. Soult was close at hand, and the British had not sufficient force to give him battle, and at the same time to continue the siege of the town; and it was therefore necessary either to carry the place at once, at whatever cost of life, or to abandon the fruits of all the efforts that had been made.
Had Wellington's instructions been carried out, there would have been no occasion, whatever, for the assault to have been delivered until the breaches were greatly extended, the intrenchments destroyed, and the guns silenced. The Portuguese ministry, however, had thwarted him at every turn; and the siege could not be commenced until a fortnight after the date fixed by Wellington. This fortnight's delay cost the lives of 4000 British soldiers.
Four of the assaults on the breaches failed. On the crest of these Phillipon had erected a massive stockade, thickly bristling with sabre blades. On the upper part of the breach, planks, similarly studded, had been laid; while on either side a vast number of shells, barrels of powder, faggots soaked in oil, and other missiles and combustibles were piled, in readiness for hurling down on the assailants; while the soldiers behind the defences had been supplied with four muskets each.
Never did British soldiers fight with such dogged bravery as was here evinced. Again and again they dashed up the breach, the centre of a volcano of fire; shells burst among them, cannon poured volleys of grape through their ranks, the French plied them with musketry, fireballs lit up the scene as if by day, mines exploded under their feet; yet again and again, they reached the terrible breastwork. But all efforts to climb it were fruitless. Numbers of those in front were pressed to death against the sabres, by the eager efforts of those behind to get up and, for hours, the assault continued. At last, seeing the impossibility of success, and scorning to retreat, the men gathered at the foot of the breach, and there endured, sternly and silently, the murderous fire that was maintained by the enemy.
Picton, however, had gained possession of the castle. Walker, with his command, had captured the bastion of San Vincenti; and part of his command fought their way along the battlement towards the breaches, while another marched through the town. Finding that the town had been entered at several points, the defenders of the breach gave way, and the soldiers poured into the town.
Here even more hideous scenes of murder and rapine were perpetrated than at Ciudad Rodrigo, and went on for two days and nights, absolutely unchecked. It has never been satisfactorily explained why, after the events in the former town, no precautions were taken, by the general commanding, to prevent the recurrence of scenes that brought disgrace on the British army, and for which he cannot be held blameless. Five thousand men and officers were killed or wounded in the siege; of these, three thousand five hundred fell in the assault.
The next three months passed without any action of importance. The discipline of the army had, as might have been expected, deteriorated greatly as a consequence of the unbridled license permitted to the soldiers after the capture of the two fortresses, and the absence of any punishment, whatever, for the excesses there committed. Lord Wellington complained bitterly, in his letters home, of the insubordination of the troops; of the outrages committed upon the peasantry, especially by detached parties; and of the general disobedience of orders. But he who had permitted the license and excesses to be carried on, unchecked and unpunished, cannot but be considered largely responsible for the natural consequences of such laxity.
In May, heavy rains prevented any movement on either side; except that the town of Almaraz, a most important position at the bridge across the Tagus, permitting Soult and Marmont to join hands, was captured by surprise by General Hill; the works, which had been considered almost impregnable, being carried by assault in the course of an hour. This was one of the most brilliant exploits of the war.
Wellington had moved north, and was again on the Aqueda and, on the 13th of June, rain having ceased, he crossed the river and, on the 16th, arrived within six miles of Salamanca, and drove a French division across the Tormes. On the 17th the river was crossed, both above and below the town, and the forts defending it were at once invested. Marmont had, that day, retired with two divisions of infantry and some cavalry; and was followed immediately by a strong British division.
The Minho regiment had been one of the first to take post on the Aqueda, after Wellington's arrival on the Coa; and moved forward in advance of the army, which was composed of 24,000 British troops, with a Spanish division and several Portuguese regiments.
As soon as Marmont had retired, Salamanca went wild with joy; although the circle of forts still prevented the British from entering. The chief of these was San Vincenti, which stood on a perpendicular cliff, overhanging the Tormes. It was flanked by two other strong forts; from which, however, it was divided by a ravine. The battering train brought with the army was altogether inadequate--only four eighteen-pounders and three twenty-four-pound howitzers were available--and the forts were far stronger than Wellington had been led to expect.
A few guns had been sent forward by General Hill and, on the 18th, seven pieces opened fire on San Vincenti. The next day some more howitzers arrived, and a breach was made in the wall of the convent; but the ammunition was exhausted, and the fire ceased until more could be brought up.
That day, however, Marmont, with a force of 20,000 men, was seen advancing to the relief of the forts. The British army at once withdrew from the neighbourhood of the convent, and took up its position, in order of battle, on the heights of San Christoval.
On the 21st, three divisions of infantry and a brigade of cavalry joined Marmont, raising his force to 40,000 men. The French, the next night, sent a portion of their force across the Tormes and, when daylight broke, the German cavalry, which had been placed to guard the ford, was seen retiring before 12,000 French infantry, with twenty guns. Graham was also sent across the Tormes with his division, which was of about the same strength as the French force and, as the light division was also following, the French retired, recrossed the ford, and rejoined the main body of their army.
The next night the batteries again opened fire on San Vincenti and, on the 27th, the fort and convent were in a blaze. One of the other forts was breached, and both surrendered, just as the storming parties were advancing to the assault; and Marmont retreated the same night across the Douro, by the roads to Tordesillas and Toro.
As soon as it was possible to enter Salamanca, Terence rode down into the town, accompanied by Ryan. The forts had not yet surrendered, but their hands were so full that they had no time to devote to annoying small parties of British officers passing into the town. Terence had noted down the address that Nita had given him, and at once rode there; after having, with some difficulty, discovered the lane in which the house was situated. An old man came to the door. Terence dismounted.
"What can I do for you, senor?"
"I wanted to ask you if your niece, Nita, is still staying with you?"
The man looked greatly surprised at the question.
"She has done no harm, I hope?" he asked.
"Not at all, but I wish to speak to her. Is she married yet to Garcia, the muleteer?"
The old man looked still more surprised.
"No, senor. Garcia is away, he is no longer a muleteer."
"Well, you have not answered me if your niece is here."
"She is here, senor, but she is not in the house at this moment. She returned here from her father's, last autumn. The country was so disturbed that it was not right that young women should remain in the villages."
"Will you tell her that a British officer will call to see her, in half an hour, and beg her to remain in until I come?"
"I will tell her, senor."
Terence went at once to a silversmith's, and bought the handsomest set of silver jewelry, such as the peasants wore, that he had in his shop; including bracelets, necklaces, large filigree hairpin and earrings, and various other ornaments.
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{
"id": "20207"
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: Salamanca.
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"She is a lucky girl, Terence," Ryan said, as they quitted the shop. "She will be the envy of all the peasant girls in the neighbourhood, when she goes to church in all that finery, to be married to her muleteer."
"It has only cost about twenty pounds, and I value my freedom at a very much higher price than that, Dick. If I had not escaped, I should not have been in that affair with Moras that got me my promotion and, at the present time, should be in some prison in France."
"You would not have got your majority, I grant, Terence; but wherever they shut you up, it is morally certain that you would have been out of it, long before this. I don't think anything less than being chained hand and foot, and kept in an underground dungeon, would suffice to hold you."
"I hope that I shall never have to try that experiment, Dicky," Terence laughed; "and now, I think you had better go into this hotel, and order lunch for us both. It is just as well not to attract attention, by two of us riding to that lane. We have not done with Marmont, yet, and it may be that the French will be masters of Salamanca again, before long, and it is just as well not to get the old man or the girl talked about. I will leave my horse here, too. See that both of them get a good feed; they have not had overmuch since we crossed the Aqueda."
As there were a good many British officers in the town, no special attention was given to Terence as he walked along through the street, which was gay with flags. When he reached the house in the lane, the old man was standing at the door.
"Nita is in now, senor. She has not told me why you wanted to see her. She said it was better that she should not do so, but she thought she knew who it was."
The girl clapped her hands, as he entered the room to which the old man pointed.
"Then it is you, Senor Colonello. I wondered, when we heard the English were coming, if you would be with them. Of course, I heard from Garcia that you had gone safely on board a ship at Cadiz. Then I wondered whether, if you did come here, you would remember me."
"Then that was very bad of you, Nita. You ought to have been quite sure that I should remember you. If I had not done so, I should have been an ungrateful rascal, and should have deserved to die in the next French prison I got into."
"How well you speak Spanish now, senor!"
"Yes; that was principally due to Garcia, but partly from having been in Spain for six weeks, last autumn. I was with Moras, and we gave the French a regular scare."
"Then it was you, senor! We heard that an English officer was in command of the troops who cut all the roads, and took numbers of French prisoners, and defeated 5000 of their troops and, as they said, nearly captured Valladolid and Burgos."
"That was an exaggeration, Nita. Still, we managed to do them a good deal of damage, and kept the French in this part of the country pretty busy.
"And now, Nita, I have come to fulfil my promise," and he handed her the box in which the jeweller had packed up his purchases.
"These are for your wedding, Nita, and if it comes off while we are in this part of the country, I shall come and dance at it."
The girl uttered cries of delight, as she opened parcel after parcel.
"Oh, senor, it is too much, too much altogether!" she cried, as she laid them all out on the table before her.
"Not a bit of it," Terence said. "But for you, I should be in prison now. If they had been ten times as many, and ten times as costly, I should still have felt your debtor, all my life.
"And where is Garcia now?"
"He has gone to join Morillo," she said. "He always said that, as soon as the English came to our help, he should go out; so, six weeks ago, he sold all his mules and bought a gun, and went off."
"I am sorry not to have seen him," Terence said. "And now, Nita, when he returns you are to give him this little box. It contains a present to help you both to start housekeeping, in good style. You see that I have put your name and his both on it. No one can say what may happen in war. Remember that this is your joint property; and if, by ill fortune, he should not come back again, then it becomes yours."
"Oh, senor, you are altogether too good! Oh, I am a lucky girl! I am sure that no maid ever went to church before with such splendid ornaments. How envious all the girls will be of me!"
"And I expect the men will be equally envious of Garcia, Nita. Now, if you will take my advice, you will not show these things to anyone at present; but will hide them in the box, in some very safe place, until you are quite sure that the French will never come back again. If your neighbours saw them, some ill-natured person might tell the French that you had received them from an English officer, and then it might be supposed that you had been acting as a spy for us; so it is better that you should tell no one, not even your uncle--that is, if you have not already mentioned it to him."
"I have never told him," the girl said. "He is a good man and very kind; but he is very timid, and afraid of getting into trouble. If he asks me who you are and what you wanted, I shall tell him that you are an English officer who was in prison, in the convent; that you always bought your fruit of me, and said, if you ever came to Salamanca again, you would find me out."
"That will do very well. Now I will say goodbye, Nita. If we remain here after the French have retreated, I will come and see you again; for there will be so many English officers here that I would not be noticed. But there may be a battle any day; or Marmont may fall back, and we should follow him; so that I may not get an opportunity again."
"I hope you will come, I do hope you will come! I will bury all these things, this evening, in the ground in the kitchen, after my uncle has gone to bed."
"Well, goodbye, Nita. I must be off now, as I have a friend with me. When you see Garcia, you can tell him that you have given me a kiss. I am sure he won't mind."
"I should not care if he did," the girl said saucily, as she held up her face. "Goodbye, senor. I shall always think of you, and pray the Virgin to watch over you."
After Marmont fell back across the Douro there was a pause in the operations and, as the British army was quartered in and around Salamanca, the city soon swarmed with British soldiers; and presented a scene exactly similar to that which it had worn when occupied by Moore's army, nearly four years before.
"What fun it was, Terence," Ryan said, "when we frightened the place out of its very senses, by the report that the French were entering the town!"
"That is all very well, Dick; but I think that you and I were just as much frightened as the Spaniards were, when we saw how the thing had succeeded, and that all our troops were called out. There is no saying what they would have done to us, had they found out who started the report. The very least thing that would have happened would have been to be tried by court martial, and dismissed from the service; and I am by no means sure that worse than that would not have befallen us."
"Yes, it would have been an awful business, if we had been found out. Still, it was a game, wasn't it? What an awful funk they were in! It was the funniest thing I ever saw. Things have changed since then, Terence, and I am afraid we have quite done with jokes of that sort."
"I should hope so, Dick. I think that I can answer for myself, but I am by no means sure as to you."
"I like that," Ryan said indignantly. "You were always the leader in mischief. I believe you would be, now, if you had the chance."
"I don't know," Terence replied, a little more seriously than he had before spoken. "I have been through a wonderful number of adventures, since then; and I don't pretend that I have not enjoyed them in something of the same spirit in which we enjoyed the fun we used to have together; but you see, I have had an immense deal of responsibility. I have two thousand men under me and, though Bull and Macwitty are good men, so far as the carrying out of an order goes, they are still too much troopers, seldom make a suggestion, and never really discuss any plan I suggest; so that the responsibility of the lives of all these men really rests entirely upon my shoulders. It has been only when I have been separated from them, as when I was a prisoner, that I have been able to enjoy an adventure in the same sort of way that we used to do, together."
"I little thought then, Terence, that in three years and a half, for that is about what it is, I should be a captain and you a major--for I don't count your Portuguese rank one, way or the other."
"Of course, you have had two more years' regimental work than I have had. It would have been much better for me if I had had a longer spell of it, too. Of course, I have been extraordinarily fortunate, and it has been very jolly; but I am sure it would have been better for me to have had more experience as a subaltern, before all this began."
"Well, I cannot say I see it, Terence. At any rate, you have had a lot more regimental work than most officers; for you had to form your regiment, teach them discipline, and everything else; and I don't think that you would have done it so well, if you had been ground down into the regular regimental pattern, and had come to think that powder and pipe clay were actual indispensables in turning out soldiers."
The quiet time at Salamanca lasted a little over a fortnight for, in the beginning of July, Lord Wellington heard that, in obedience to King Joseph's reiterated orders, Marmont, having received reinforcements, was preparing to recross the Douro; that Soult was on the point of advancing into Portugal; and that the king himself, with a large army, was on the way to join Marmont.
The latter, indeed, was not to have moved till the king joined him but, believing that his own army was ample for the purpose; and eager to gain a victory, unhampered by the king's presence, he suddenly crossed at Tordesillas, and it was only by his masterly movements, and a sharp fight at Castile, that Wellington succeeded in concentrating his army on the Aqueda. The British general drew up his army in order of battle, on the heights of Vallesa; but the position was a strong one, Marmont knew the country perfectly and, instead of advancing to the attack, he started at daybreak on the 20th, marched rapidly up the river, and crossed it before any opposition could be offered, and then marched for the Tormes. By this movement he had turned Wellington's right flank, was as near Salamanca as were the British, and had it in his power, unless checked, to place himself on the road between Salamanca and Ciudad, and so to cut their line of retreat.
Seeing his position thus turned, Wellington made a corresponding movement, and the two armies marched along lines of hills parallel with each other, the guns on both sides occasionally firing. All day long they were but a short distance apart and, at any moment, the battle might have been brought on. But Wellington had no opportunity for fighting, except at a disadvantage; and Marmont, having gained the object for which he had manoeuvred, was well content to maintain his advantage. At nightfall the British were on the heights of Cabeca and Aldea Rubia, and so secured their former position at San Christoval.
Marmont, however, had reached a point that gave him the command of the ford at Huerta; and had it in his power to cross the Tormes when he pleased, and either to recross at Salamanca, or to cut the road to Ciudad. He had proved, too, that his army could outmarch the British for, although they had already made a march of some distance, when the race began, he had gained ground throughout the day, in spite of the efforts of the British to keep abreast of him. Moreover, Marmont now had his junction with the king's army, approaching from Madrid, securely established; and could either wait for his arrival, or give battle if he saw a favourable opportunity.
Wellington's position was grave. He had not only to consider his adversary's force, but the whole course of the war, which a disaster would imperil. He had the safety of the whole Peninsula to consider, and a defeat would not only entail the loss of the advantage he had gained in Spain, but would probably decide the fate of Portugal, also. He determined, however, to cover Salamanca till the last moment, in hopes that Marmont might make some error that would afford him an opportunity of dealing a heavy blow.
The next morning the allies occupied their old position at San Christoval, while the French took possession of Alba; whence the Spaniards had been withdrawn, without notice, to Wellington. The evening before, the British general had sent a despatch to the Spanish commander, saying that he feared that he should be unable to hold his position. The messenger was captured by the French cavalry; and Marmont, believing that Wellington was about to retreat, and fearing that he might escape him, determined to fight rather than wait for the arrival of the king.
The French crossed the Tormes by the fords of Huerta and Alba, the British by other fords above Salamanca. This movement was performed while a terrible storm raged. Many men and horses of the 5th Dragoon Guards were killed by the lightning; while hundreds of the picketed horses broke their ropes, and galloped wildly about.
[Illustration: Plan of the Forts and Operations round Salamanca.]
The position of the British army in the morning was very similar to that occupied by a portion of it, when besieging the forts of Salamanca; extending from the ford of Santa Marta to the heights near the village of Arapiles. This line covered Salamanca; but it was open to Marmont to march round Wellington's right, and so cut his communications with Ciudad. During the night, Wellington heard that the French would be joined, in the course of two days, by twenty guns and 2000 cavalry; and resolved to retire before these came up, unless Marmont afforded him some opportunity of fighting to advantage.
The latter, however, was too confident of victory to wait for the arrival of this reinforcement, still less for that of the king and, at daybreak, he took possession of a village close to the British, thereby showing that he was resolved to force on a battle.
Near this were two detached hills, called the Arapiles or Hermanitos. They were steep and rugged. As the French were seen approaching, a Portuguese regiment was sent to seize them; and these gained the one nearest to them, while the French took possession of the second. The 7th division assailed the height first, and gained and captured half of it.
Had Wellington now wished to retire, it would have been at once difficult and dangerous to attempt the movement. His line was a long one, and it would have been impossible to withdraw, without running the risk of being attacked while in movement, and driven back upon the Tormes. Ignorant of Marmont's precise intentions--for the main body of the French army was almost hidden in the woods--Wellington could only wait until their plans were developed. He therefore contented himself with placing the 4th division on a slope behind the village of Arapiles, which was held by the light companies of the Guards. The 5th and 6th divisions were massed behind the hill, where a deep depression hid them from the sight of the enemy.
For some time things remained quiet, except that the French and British batteries, on the top of the two Hermanitos, kept up a duel with each other. During the pause, the French cavalry had again crossed the Tormes, by one of the fords used in the night by the British; and had taken post at Aldea Tejarda, thus placing themselves between the British army and the road to Ciudad. This movement, however, had been covered by the woods.
About twelve o'clock, fearing that Wellington would assail the Hermanito held by him, Marmont brought up two divisions to that point; and stood ready to oppose an attack which Wellington, indeed, had been preparing--but had abandoned the idea, fearing that such a movement would draw the whole army into a battle, on a disadvantageous line. The French marshal, however, fearing that Wellington would retreat by the Ciudad road, before he could place a sufficient force on that line to oppose the movement, sent General Maucune with two divisions, covered by fifty guns and supported by cavalry, to move along the southern ridge of the basin and menace that road; holding in hand six divisions, in readiness to fall upon the village of Arapiles, should the British interfere with Maucune's movement.
The British line had now pivoted round, until its position extended from the Hermanito to near Aldea Tejarda.
In order to occupy the attention of the British, and prevent them from moving, the French force attacked the village of Arapiles, and a fierce struggle took place. Had Marmont waited until Clausel's division, still behind, came up and occupied the ridge, so as to connect the French main army with Maucune's division, their position would have been unassailable; but the fear that Wellington might escape had overcome his prudence and, as Maucune advanced, a great gap was left between his division and that of Marmont.
As soon as Wellington perceived the mistake, he saw that his opportunity had come. Orders were despatched in all directions and, suddenly, the two divisions, hidden from the sight of the French behind the Hermanito, dashed down into the valley; where two other divisions joined them. The 4th and 5th were in front, with Bradford's Portuguese; and the 6th and 7th formed the second line; while the Spanish troops marched between them and the 3rd division, forming the extreme right at Aldea Tejarda. The light divisions of Pack's Portuguese and the heavy cavalry remained in reserve, on high ground behind them. In spite of a storm of bullets from Maucune's guns, the leading divisions marched steadily forward and, while the third division dashed across the valley and, climbing the ridge, barred his progress, the main line advanced to attack his flank.
Marmont, seeing the terrible danger in which Maucune was involved, sent officer after officer to hasten up the troops from the forest and, with his centre, prepared to attack the English Hermanito, and to drive them from that portion of the village they still held; but as he was hurrying to join Maucune a shell exploded near him, hurling him to the ground with a broken arm, and two deep wounds in his side. This misfortune was fatal to the French chances. Confusion ensued, and the movements of the troops were paralyzed.
It was about five o'clock when the 3rd division, under Pakenham, fell upon Maucune's leading division; and two batteries of artillery suddenly opened fire, on their flank, from the opposite height. Having no expectation of such a stroke; and believing that the British were, ere this, in full retreat along the Ciudad road, the French were hurrying forward, lengthening out into a long, straggling line.
The onslaught of Pakenham's division was irresistible, supported as it was by guns and cavalry. Nevertheless, the French bore themselves gallantly, forming line as they marched forward, while their guns poured showers of grape into the approaching infantry. Nothing, however, could stop them. Pressing forward, they broke the half-formed lines into fragments, and drove them back in confusion upon the columns behind. The French cavalry endeavoured to check the British advance, by a charge on their flank; but were repulsed by the infantry, and the British light horsemen charged, and drove them off the field.
Pushing forward, Pakenham came upon the second half of the division they had defeated, formed up on the wooded heights; one face being opposed to him, and the other to the 5th division, Bradford's Portuguese, and a mass of cavalry moving across the basin. The French had been already driven out of Arapiles, and were engaged in action with the 4th division; but the battle was to some extent retrieved, for Clausel's division had arrived from the forest and reinforced Maucune; and spread across the basin, joining hands with the divisions massed near the French Hermanito.
Marmont had been carried off the field. Bonnet, who had succeeded him, was disabled; and the chief command devolved on Clausel, a general of talent, possessing great coolness and presence of mind. His dispositions were excellent, but his troops were broken up into lines, columns, and squares. A strong wind raised the sandy soil in clouds of dust, the sinking sun shone full in the faces of his troops and, at once, concealed the movements of their enemies from them, and prevented them from acting with any unity.
Suddenly, two heavy bodies of light and heavy cavalry broke from the cloud of dust and fell upon them. Twelve hundred Frenchmen were trampled down and, as the cavalry rode on, the third division ran forward, at the double, through the gap that they had formed. Line after line of the French infantry was broken and scattered, and five of their guns captured by one of the squadrons. Two thousand prisoners were taken, and the three divisions that Maucune had commanded were a mass of fugitives.
In the meantime, a terrible battle was raging in the centre. Here Clausel had gathered three fresh divisions and, behind these, the fugitives from the left rallied. He placed three others, supported by the whole of the cavalry, to cover the retreat; while yet another remained behind the French Hermanito. Pack's Portuguese were advancing against it, and arrived nearly at the summit, when the French reserves leapt from the rocks and opened a tremendous fire on their front and left flank; and the Portuguese were driven down the hill, with much loss. Almost at the same moment, one of the regiments of the 4th division were suddenly charged by 1200 French soldiers, hidden behind a declivity, and driven back with heavy loss.
For a moment, it seemed that the fate of the battle might yet be changed; but Wellington had the strongest reserve, the sixth division was brought up and, though the French fought obstinately, Clausel was obliged to abandon the Hermanito; and the army began to fall back, the movement being covered by their guns and the gallant charges of their cavalry.
The whole of the British reserves were now brought into action, and hotly pressed them; but, for the most part maintaining their order, the French fell back into the woods and, favoured by the darkness, and nobly covered by Maucune, who had been strongly reinforced, they drew off with comparatively little loss, thanks to the Spaniards' abandonment of the fort guarding the ford at Alba.
Believing that the French must make for the ford of Huerta, Wellington had greatly strengthened his force on that side and, after a long march to the ford, was bitterly disappointed, on arriving there at midnight, to find that there was no sign of the enemy; although it was not until morning that he learned that they had passed unmolested over the ford of Alba. Had it not been for the Spanish disobedience and folly, Marmont's whole army would have had no resource but to surrender.
Marmont's strength when the fight began was 42,000 infantry and cavalry, and 74 guns. Wellington had 46,000 infantry and cavalry, and 60 pieces; but this included a considerable Spanish force and one of their batteries, and 10,000 Portuguese who, however, could not be reckoned as good troops. The pursuit of the French was taken up hotly next morning, and they were chased for forty miles that day but, the next morning, they eluded their pursuers, marched to Valladolid, drew off the garrison there, and left it to be occupied by the British the following day.
The Minho regiment had been, two days before the battle, attached to the 6th division. For a time, being in the second line, they looked on, impatient spectators of the fight; but, at the crisis of the battle, they were brought up to check Clausel's impetuous counter attack, and nowhere was the struggle fiercer. Hulse's brigade, to which they were attached, bore more than its share of the fighting; and the 11th and the 61st, together, had but 160 men and officers left when the battle was over. The Portuguese fought valiantly, and the fact that their countrymen had been defeated, in their attempt to capture the French Hermanito, inspired them with a fierce determination to show that Portuguese troops could fight as well as their allies. They pushed forward well abreast of the other regiments of the brigade, and suffered equally.
In vain the French attempted to check their advance. Showers of grape swept their ranks; volleys of musketry, at a distance of but a few yards, withered up their front lines and, for a time, a hand-to-hand fight with bayonets raged. In the terrible roar of artillery and musketry, words of command were unheard; but the men mechanically filled up the gaps in their ranks, and the one thought of all was to press forward until, at length, the French yielded and fell sullenly back, disputing every yard of the ground, and a fresh division took up the pursuit.
The order to halt was given. The men looked round, confused and dazed, as if waking from a dream. Grimed with powder, soaked with perspiration, breathless and haggard, many seemed scarcely able to keep their feet; and every limb trembled at the sudden cessation of the terrible strain. Then, as they looked round their ranks and to the ground they had passed over, now so thickly dotted with the dark uniforms, hoarse sobs broke from them; and men who had gone unflinchingly through the terrible struggle burst into tears. The regiment had gone into action over 2000 strong. Scarce 1200 remained unwounded. Of the officers, Bull had fallen, desperately wounded; Macwitty had been shot through the head.
[Illustration: A shell had struck Terence's horse.]
A shell had struck Terence's horse and, bursting, had carried off the rider's leg above the knee. The men near him uttered a simultaneous cry as he fell and, regardless of the fight, oblivious to the storm of shot and shell, had knelt beside him. Terence was perfectly sensible.
"Do one of you give me my flask out of my holster," he said, "and another cut off the leg of my trousers, as high as you can above the wound. That is right. Now for the bandages."
As every soldier in the regiment carried one in his hat, half a dozen of these were at once produced.
"Is it bleeding much?" he asked.
"Not much, colonel."
"That is fortunate. Now find a smooth round stone. Lay it on the inside of the leg, just below where you have cut the trousers.
"Now put a bandage round and round, as tightly as you can do it. That is right.
"Now take the ramrod of one of my pistols, put it through the bandage, and then twist it. You need not be afraid of hurting me; my leg is quite numbed, at present. That is right.
"Put another bandage on, so as to hold the ramrod in its place. Now fetch a flannel shirt from my valise, fold it up so as to make a pad that will go over the wound, and bandage it there firmly.
"Give me another drink, for I feel faint."
When all was done, he said: "Put my valise under my head, and throw my cloak over me. Thank you, I shall do very well now. Go forward and join the regiment.
"I am done for, this time," he thought to himself, when the men left him. "Still, I may pull through. There are many who have had a leg shot off and recovered, and there is no reason why I should not do so. There has not been any great loss of blood. I suppose that something has been smashed up, so that it cannot bleed.
"Ah, here comes the doctor!"
The doctor was one of several medical students who had enlisted in the regiment, fighting and drilling with the rest but, when occasion offered, acting as surgeons.
"I have just heard the news, Colonel. The regiment is heartbroken but, in their fury, they went at the French facing them and scattered them like sheep. Canovas, who told me, said that you were not bleeding much, and that he and the others had bandaged you up according to your instructions.
"Let me see. It could not have been better," he said.
He felt Terence's pulse.
"Wonderfully good, considering what a smash you have had. Your vitality must be marvellous and, unless your wound breaks out bleeding badly, I have every hope that you will get over it. Robas and Salinas will be here in a minute, with a stretcher for you; and we will get you to some quiet spot, out of the line of fire."
Almost immediately, four men came up with the stretcher and, by the surgeon's orders, carried Terence to a quiet spot, sheltered by a spur of the hill from the fire.
"There is nothing more you can do for me now, doctor?"
"Nothing. It would be madness to take the bandages off, at present."
"Then please go back to the others. There must be numbers there who want your aid far more than I do.
"You can stay with me, Leon; but first go back to where my horse is lying, and bring here the saddle and the two blankets strapped behind it. I don't feel any pain to speak of, but it seems to me bitterly cold."
The man presently returned with the saddle and blankets. Two others accompanied him. Both had been hit too seriously to continue with the regiment. Their wounds had been already bandaged.
"We thought that we should like to be near you, colonel, if you do not mind."
"Not at all. First, do each of you take a sip at my flask.
"Leon, I wish you would find a few sticks, and try to make a fire. It would be cheerful, although it might not give much warmth."
It was dark now. It was five o'clock when the 3rd division threw itself across Maucune's line of march, and the battle had begun. It was dark long before it ended but, during the three hours it had lasted, the French had lost a marshal, seven generals, and 12,500 men and officers, killed, wounded, or prisoners; while on the British side a field marshal, four generals, and nearly 6000 officers and soldiers were killed or wounded. Indeed, the battle itself was concentrated into an hour's hard fighting; and a French officer, describing it, said that 40,000 men were defeated in forty minutes.
Presently the din of battle died out and, as soon as it did so, Herrara and Ryan both hurried to the side of Terence.
"My dear Terence," Ryan said, dropping on his knees beside him, "this is terrible. When I heard the news I was almost beside myself. As to the men, terrible as their loss is, they talk of no one but you."
"I think I shall pull through all right, Ryan. At any rate, the doctor says he thinks I shall, and I think so myself. I am heartily glad that you and Herrara have gone through it all right. What are our losses?"
"I don't know, yet. We have not had time to count, but not far from half our number. Macwitty is killed, Bull desperately wounded. Fully half the company officers are killed."
"That is terrible indeed, Ryan. Poor fellows! Poor fellows!
"Well, I should say, Herrara, that if you get no orders to join in the pursuit, you had best get all the wounded collected and brought here, and let the regiment light fires and bivouac. There is no chance of getting medical assistance, outside the regiment, tonight. Of course, all the British surgeons will have their hands full with their own men. Still, I only suggest this, for of course you are now in command."
The wounded had all fallen within a comparatively short distance, and many were able to walk in. The rest were carried, each in a blanket, with four men at the corners. Under Ryan's directions, the unwounded scattered over the hillside and soon brought back a large supply of bushes and faggots. A number of fires were lighted, and the four surviving medical students, and one older surgeon, at once began the work of attending the wounded; taking the more serious cases first, leaving the less important ones to be bandaged by their comrades. Many wounded men from other regiments, attracted by the light of the fires, came up; and these, too, received what aid the Portuguese could give them.
The next morning Terence was carried down, at daybreak, on a stretcher to Salamanca; where the town was in a state of the wildest excitement over the victory. As they entered the gates, an officer asked the bearers: "Who is it?"
"Colonel O'Connor, of the Minho regiment."
The officer knew Terence personally.
"I am sorry, indeed, to see you here, O'Connor. Not very serious, I hope?"
"A leg cut clean off above the knee, with the fragment of a shell, Percival; but I fancy that I am going to get over it."
"Carry him to the convent of Saint Bernard," the officer said, to the Portuguese captain who was in command of the party, which consisted of 400 men carrying 100 wounded. "All officers are to be taken there, the others to the San Martin convent.
"I will look in and see you as soon as I can, O'Connor; and hope to find you going on well."
But few wounded officers had as yet been brought in and, as soon as Terence was carried into a ward, two of the staff surgeons examined his wound.
"You are doing wonderfully well, colonel," the senior officer said. "You must have received good surgical attention, immediately on being wounded. Judging by your pulse, you can have lost but little blood."
"It hardly bled at all, Doctor, and I had it bandaged up by two of my own men. I have seen a good many serious wounds, in the course of the last four years; and know pretty well what ought to be done."
"It has been uncommonly well done, anyhow. I think we had better not disturb the bandages, for a few days. If no bleeding sets in by that time, clots of blood will have formed, and you will be comparatively safe.
"Your pulse is very quiet. Your men must have carried you down very carefully."
"If I had been a basket of eggs, they could not have taken more care of me. I was scarcely conscious of any movement."
"Well, you have youth and good health and good spirits in your favour. If all our patients took things as cheerfully as you do, there would not be so many of them slip through our hands."
Bull, who had been brought in immediately after Terence, was next attended to. He was unconscious. He had been struck by a round shot in the shoulder, which had not only smashed the bone, but almost carried away the upper part of the arm.
"An ugly wound," the surgeon said to his colleague. "At any rate, we may as well take off the arm while he is unconscious. It will save him a second shock, and we can better bandage the wound when it is removed."
A low moan was the only sign that the wounded man had any consciousness that the operation was being performed.
"Will he get over it, Doctor?" Terence asked, when the surgeon had finished.
"There is just a chance, but it is a faint one. Has he been a sober man?"
"Very; I can answer for the last four years, at any rate. All the Portuguese officers were abstemious men; and I think that Bull felt that it would not do for him, commanding a battalion, to be less sober than they were."
"That increases his chance. Men who drink have everything against them when they get a severe wound; but he has lost a great deal of blood, and the shock has, of course, been a terrible one."
An orderly was told to administer a few spoonfuls of brandy and water, and the surgeon then moved on to the next bed.
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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21
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: Home Again.
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The next morning, one of the surgeons brought a basketful of fruit to Terence.
"There is a young woman outside, colonel," he said, with a slight smile, "who was crying so bitterly that I was really obliged to bring this fruit up to you. She said you would know who she was, and was heartbroken that she could not be allowed to come up to nurse you. She said that she had heard, from one of your men, of your wound. I told her that it was quite impossible that any civilian should enter the hospital, but said that I would take her fruit up and, if she would come every day at five o'clock in the afternoon, when we went off duty for an hour, I would tell her how you were going on."
"She used to sell fruit to the prisoners here," Terence said, "and it was entirely by her aid that I effected my escape, last year; and she got a muleteer, to whom she is engaged, to take me down from here to Cadiz. I bought her a present when we entered the town and, the other day, told her I hoped to dance at her wedding before long. However, that engagement will not come off. My dancing days are over."
The surgeon felt his pulse.
"There is very little fever," he said. "So far you are going on marvellously; but you must not be disappointed if you get a sharp turn, presently. You can hardly expect to get through a wound like this without having a touch, and perhaps a severe one, of fever."
"Is there any harm in my eating fruit?"
"I would not eat any, but you can drink some of the juice, mixed with water. I hope we shall have everything comfortable by tonight; of course, we are all in the rough, at present. Although many of the doctors of the town have been helping us, I don't think there is one medical officer in the army who has taken off his coat since the wounded began to come in, yesterday morning."
That night Terence's wound became very painful. Inflammation, accompanied of course with fever, set in and, for a fortnight, he was very ill. At the end of that time matters began to mend, and the wound soon assumed a healthy appearance. An operation had been performed, and the projecting bone cut off.
There were dire sufferings in Salamanca. Six thousand wounded had to be cared for, the French prisoners and their guards fed; and the army had no organization to meet so great a strain. Numbers of lives that might have been saved, by care and proper attention, were lost; and the spirit of discontent and insubordination, which had its origin in the excesses committed in the sack of the fortresses, rapidly increased.
The news from the front, after a time, seemed more satisfactory. Clausel had been hotly pursued. Had the king with his army joined him, as he might have done, he would have been in a position to again attack the enemy with greatly superior numbers; but Joseph hesitated, and delayed until it was no longer possible. The British army crossed the mountains, and the king was obliged to retire from Madrid and evacuate the capital; which was entered by Wellington on the 25th of August.
Early in September, the chief surgeon said to Terence: "There is a convoy of sick going down, at the end of the week. I think that it would be best for you to go with them. In the first place, the air of this town is not favourable for recoveries. In some of the hospitals a large number of men have been carried off by the fever, which so often breaks out when the conditions are bad. In the next place, I am privately informed, by the governor, that he has received orders from the general to send all who are capable of bearing the journey across the frontier, as soon as possible. Another battle may be fought, at any moment. The reinforcements that have come from England are nothing like sufficient to replace the gaps in the army.
"The French generals are collecting their forces, and it is certain that Wellington will not be able to withstand their combination and, if he should be compelled to retreat, it is all important that he should not be hampered by the necessity of carrying off huge convoys of wounded. The difficulties of transport are already enormous; and it is, therefore, for many reasons desirable that all who are sufficiently convalescent to march, and all for whom transport can be provided, should start without delay."
"I should be very glad, Doctor. I have not seemed to gain strength, for the last week or ten days; but I believe that, if I were in the open air, I should gain ground rapidly."
Nita had been allowed to come up several times to see Terence, since his convalescence began; and the last time she had called had told him that Garcia had returned, being altogether dissatisfied with the feeble proceedings of the guerilla chief. She came up that afternoon, soon after the doctor left, and he told her the news that he had received. The next day she told Terence that Garcia had arranged with her father for his waggon and two bullocks, and that he himself would drive it to Lisbon, if necessary.
"They are fine bullocks, sir," she said, "and there is no fear of their breaking down. Last night I was talking to one of your sergeants, who comes to me every day for news of you. He says that he and about forty of your men are going down with the convoy. All are able to walk. It is so difficult to get carts that only officers who cannot walk are to be taken, this time."
"It is very good of Garcia and your father, Nita, but I should manage just as well as the others."
"That may be, senor, but it is better to have a friend with you who knows the country. There may be difficulty in getting provisions, and they say that there is a good deal of plundering along the roads; for troops that have lately come up have behaved so badly that the peasants declare they will have revenge, and treat them as enemies if they have the opportunity. Altogether, it is as well to have a friend with you."
Terence told the surgeon next morning what had been arranged, and said: "So we shall have room for one more, Doctor. Is Major Bull well enough to go with me? He could travel in my waggon, which is sure to be large enough for two to lie in, comfortably."
"Certainly he can. He is making a slow recovery, and I should be glad to send him away, only I have no room for him. If he goes with you, I can send another officer down, also, in the place you would have had."
Accordingly, on the Saturday morning the convoy started. Bull and Terence met for the first time, since the day of the battle; as the former had been removed to another room, after the operation. He was extremely weak, still, and had to be carried down and placed in the waggon by the side of Terence. Garcia had been greatly affected at the latter's appearance.
"I should scarce have known you again, senor."
"I am pulled down a bit, Garcia, but by the time we get to our journey's end, you will see that I shall be a very different man. How comfortable you have made the waggon!"
"I have done what I could, senor. At the bottom are six sacks of corn, for it may be that forage will run short. Then I have filled it with hay, and there are enough rugs to lie on, and to cover you well over at night; and down among the sacks is a good-sized box with some good wine, two hams of Nita's father's curing, and a stock of sausages, and other things for the journey."
Nita came to say goodbye, and wept unrestrainedly at the parting. She and Garcia had opened the little box, and found in it fifty sovereigns; and had agreed to be married, as soon as Garcia returned from his journey. As the train of thirty waggons--of which ten contained provisions for use on the road--issued from the gates, they were joined by the convalescents, four hundred in number. All able to do so carried their arms, the muskets of the remainder being placed on the provision waggons.
"Have you heard from the regiment, Bull?" Terence asked, after they had talked over their time in hospital, and their comrades who had fallen.
"No, sir. There is no one I should expect to write to me."
"I had a letter from Ryan, yesterday," Terence said. "He tells me that they have had no fighting since we left. They form only one battalion now, and he says the state of things in Madrid is dreadful. The people are dying of hunger, and the British officers have subscribed and started soup kitchens; and that he, with the other Portuguese regiments, were to march the next day, with three British divisions and the cavalry, to join General Clinton, who was falling back before Clausel." " 'We all miss you horribly, Terence. Herrara does his best, but he has not the influence over the men that you had. If we have to fall back into Portugal again, which seems to me quite possible, for little more than 20,000 men are fit to carry arms, I fancy that there won't be a great many left round the colours by the spring. " 'Upon my word, I can hardly blame them, Terence. More than half of those who originally joined have fallen and, no doubt, the poor fellows think that they have done more than their share towards defending their country.'"
By very short marches, the convoy made its way to the frontier. The British convalescents remained at Guarda, the Portuguese marched for Pinhel, and the carts with the wounded officers continued their journey to Lisbon. The distance travelled had been over two hundred and fifty miles and, including halts, they had taken five weeks to perform it. Terence gained strength greatly during the journey, and Bull had so far recovered that he was able to get out and walk, sometimes, by the side of the waggon.
Garcia had been indefatigable in his efforts for their comfort. Every day he formed an arbour over their waggon, with freshly-cut boughs brought in by the soldiers of the regiment; and this kept off the rays of the sun, and the flies. At the villages at which they stopped, most of the wounded were accommodated in the houses; but Terence and Bull preferred to sleep in the waggon, the hay being always freshly shaken out for them, in the evening. The supplies they carried were most useful in eking out the rations, and Garcia proved himself an excellent cook. Altogether, the journey had been a pleasant one.
On arriving at Lisbon, they were taken to the principal hospital. Here the few who would be fit for service again were admitted, while the rest were ordered to be taken down, at once, to a hospital transport lying in the river. At the landing place they said goodbye to Garcia, who refused firmly any remuneration for his services, or for the hire of the waggon; and then Terence was lifted into a boat and, with several other wounded, was taken on board the transport.
The surgeon came at once to examine him.
"Do you wish to be taken below, colonel?" he asked Terence.
"Certainly not," Terence said. "I can sit up here, and can enjoy myself as much as ever I could; and the air from the sea will do more for me than any tonics you can give me, Doctor."
He was placed in a comfortable deck chair, and Bull had another beside him. There were many officers already on board, and Terence presently perceived, in one who was stumping about on a wooden leg, a figure he recognized. He was passing on without recognition, when Terence exclaimed: "Why, O'Grady, is it yourself?"
"Terence O'Connor, by the powers!" O'Grady shouted. "Sure, I didn't know you at first. It is meself, true enough, or what there is left of me. It is glad I am to see you, though in a poor plight. The news came to me that you had lost a leg. There was, at first, no one in the hospital knew where you were, and I was not able to move about, meself, to make inquiries; and when I found out, before I came away, they said you were very bad, and that even if I could get to you--which I could not, for I had not been fitted with a new leg, then--I should not be able to see you.
"It is just like my luck. I was hit by one of the first shots fired, and lost all the fun of the fight."
"Where were you hit, O'Grady?"
"Right in the shin. Faith, I went down so sudden that I thought I had trod in a hole; and I was making a scramble to get up again, when young Dawson said: "'Lie still, O'Grady, they have shot the foot off ye.'
"And so they had, and divil a bit could I find where it had gone to. As I was about the first man hit, they carried me off the field at once, and put me in a waggon and, as soon as it was full, I was taken down to Salamanca. I only stopped there three weeks, and I have been here now more than two months, and my leg is all right again. But I am a lop-sided creature, though it is lucky that it is my left arm and leg that have gone. I was always a good hopper, when I was a boy; so that, if this wooden thing breaks, I think I should be able to get about pretty well."
"This is Major Bull, O'Grady. Don't you know him?"
"Faith, I did not know him; but now you tell me who it is, I recognize him. How are you, major?"
"I am getting on, Captain O'Grady."
"Major," O'Grady corrected. "I got my step at Salamanca; both our majors were killed. So I shall get a dacent pension: a major's pension, and so much for a leg and arm. That is not so bad, you know."
"Well, I have no reason to grumble," Bull said. "If I had been with my old regiment and got this hurt, a shilling a day would have been the outside. Now I shall get lieutenant's pension, and so much for my arm and shoulder."
"I have no doubt you will get another step, Bull. After the way the regiment suffered, and with poor Macwitty killed, and you and I both badly wounded, they are sure to give you your step," and indeed when, on their arrival, they saw the Gazette, they found that both had been promoted.
"I suppose it is all for the best," O'Grady said. "At any rate, I shall be able to drink dacent whisky for the rest of me life, and not have to be fretting meself with Spanish spirit; though I don't say there was no virtue in it, when you couldn't get anything better."
Three days later, the vessel sailed for England. At Plymouth Terence, O'Grady, and several other of the Irish officers left her; Bull promising Terence that, when he was quite restored to health, he would come and pay him a visit.
Terence and his companion sailed the next day for Dublin. O'Grady had no relations whom he was particularly anxious to see and therefore, at Terence's earnest invitation, he took a place with him in a coach--to leave in three days, as both had to buy civilian clothes, and to report themselves at headquarters.
"What are you going to do about a leg, Terence?"
"I can do nothing, at present. My stump is a great deal too tender, still, for me to bear anything of that sort. But I will buy a pair of crutches."
This was, indeed, the first thing done on landing, Terence finding it inconvenient in the extreme to have to be carried whenever he wanted to move, even a few yards. He had written home two or three times from the hospital, telling them how he was getting on; for he knew that when his name appeared among the list of dangerously wounded, his father and cousin would be in a state of great anxiety until they received news of him; and as soon as they had taken their places in the coach he dropped them a line, saying when they might expect him.
They had met with contrary winds on their voyage home, but the three weeks at sea had done great things for Terence and, except for the pinned-up trousers leg, he looked almost himself again.
"Be jabers, Terence," O'Grady said, as the coach drove into Athlone, "one might think that it was only yesterday that we went away. There are the old shops, and the same people standing at their doors to see the coach come in; and I think I could swear even to that cock, standing at the gate leading into the stables. What games we had here. Who would have thought that, when we came back, you would be my senior officer!"
When fifteen miles beyond Athlone there was a hail, and the coach suddenly stopped. O'Grady looked out of the window.
"It's your father, Terence, and the prettiest girl I have seen since we left the ould country."
He opened the door and got out.
"Hooroo, major! Here we are, safe and sound. We didn't expect to meet you for another eight miles."
Major O'Connor was hurrying to the door, but the girl was there before him.
"Welcome home, Terence! Welcome home!" she exclaimed, smiling through her tears, as she leaned into the coach and held out both her hands to him, and then drew aside to make room for his father.
"Welcome home, Terence!" the latter said, as he wrung his hand. "I did not think it would have been like this, but it might have been worse."
"A great deal worse, father. Now, will you and the guard help me out? This is the most difficult business I have to do."
It was with some difficulty he was got out of the coach. As soon as he had steadied himself on his crutches, Mary came up again, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
"We are cousins, you know, Terence," she said, "and as your arms are occupied, I have to take the initiative."
She was half laughing and half crying.
The guard hurried to get the portmanteaus out of the boot. As soon as he had placed them in the road he shouted to the coachman, and climbed up on to his post as the vehicle drove on; the passengers on the roof giving hearty cheers for the two disabled officers. By this time, the major was heartily shaking hands with O'Grady.
"I saw in the Gazette that you were hit again, O'Grady."
"Yes. I left one little memento of meself in Portugal, and it was only right that I should lave another in Spain. It has been worrying me a good deal, because I should have liked to have brought them home to be buried in the same grave with me, so as to have everything handy together. How they are ever to be collected when the time comes bothers me entirely, when I can't even point out where they are to be found."
"You have not lost your good spirits anyhow, O'Grady."
"I never shall, I hope, O'Connor; and even if I had been inclined to, Terence would have brought them back again."
As they stood chatting, a manservant had placed the portmanteaus on the box of a pretty open carriage, drawn by two horses.
"This is our state carriage, Terence, though we don't use it very often for, when I go about by myself, I ride. Mary has a pony carriage, and drives herself about.
"You remember Pat Cassidy, don't you?"
"Of course I do, now I look at him," Terence said. "It's your old soldier servant," and he shook hands with the man. "He did not come home with you, did he, father?"
"No, he was badly wounded at Talavera, and invalided home. They thought that he would not be fit for service again, and so discharged him; and he found his way here, and glad enough I was to have him."
Aided by his father and O'Grady, Terence took his place in the carriage. His father seated himself by his side, while Mary and O'Grady had the opposite seat.
"There is one advantage in losing legs," O'Grady said. "We can stow away much more comfortably in a carriage. Is this the nearest point to your place?"
"Yes. It is four miles nearer than Ballyhovey, so we thought that we might as well meet you here, and more comfortably than meeting you in the town. It was Mary's suggestion. I think she would not have liked to have kissed Terence in the public street."
"Nonsense, uncle!" Mary said indignantly. "Of course I should have kissed him, anywhere. Are we not cousins? And didn't he save me from being shut up in a nunnery, all my life?"
"All right, Mary, it is quite right that you should kiss him; still, I should say that it was pleasanter to do so when you had not a couple of score of loafers looking on, who would not know that he was your cousin, and had saved you from a convent."
"You are looking well, father," Terence said, to turn the conversation.
"Never was better in my life, lad, except that I am obliged to be careful with my leg; but after all, it may be that, though it seemed hard to me at the time, it is as well that I left the regiment when I did. Quite half the officers have been killed, since then. Vimiera accounted for some of them. Major Harrison went there, and gave me my step. Talavera made several more vacancies, and Salamanca cost us ten officers, including poor O'Driscoll. I am lucky to have come off as well as I did. It did not seem a very cheerful lookout, at first; but since this young woman arrived, and took possession of me, I am as happy and contented as a man can be."
"I deny altogether having taken possession of you, uncle. I let you have your way very much, and only interfere for your own good."
"You will have another patient to look after now, dear, and to fuss over."
"I will do my best," she said softly, leaning forward and putting her hand on that of Terence. "I know that it will be terribly dull for you, at first--after being constantly on the move for the last five years, and always full of excitement and adventure--to have to keep quiet and do nothing."
"I shall get on very well," he said. "Just as first, of course, I shall not be able to get about very much, but I shall soon learn to use my crutches; and I hope, before very long, to get a leg of some sort; and I don't see why I should not be able to ride again, after a bit. If I cannot do it any other way, I must take to a side saddle. I can have a leg made specially for riding, with a crook at the knee."
Mary laughed, while the tears came in her eyes.
"Why, bless me, Mary," he went on, "the loss of a leg is nothing, when you are accustomed to it. I shall be able, as I have said, to ride, drive, shoot, fish, and all sorts of things. The only thing that I shall be cut off from, as far as I can see, is dancing; but as I have never had a chance of dancing, since the last ball the regiment gave at Athlone, the loss will not be a very grievous one.
"Look at O'Grady. There he is, much worse off than I am, as he has no one to make any particular fuss about him. He is getting on capitally and, indeed, stumped about the deck so much, coming home, that the captain begged him to have a pad of leather put on to the bottom of his leg, to save the decks. O'Grady is a philosopher, and I shall try to follow his example."
"Why should one bother oneself, Miss O'Connor, when bothering won't help? When the war is over, I shall buy Tim Doolan, my soldier servant, out. He is a vile, drunken villain; but I understand him, and he understands me, and he blubbered so, when he carried me off the field, that I had to promise him that, if a French bullet did not carry him off, I would send for him when the war was over. " 'You know you can't do without me, yer honour,' the scoundrel said. " 'I can do better without you than with you, Tim,' says I. 'Ye are always getting me into trouble, with your drunken ways. Ye would have been flogged a dozen times, if I hadn't screened you. Take up your musket and join your regiment. You rascal, you are smelling of drink now, and divil a drop, except water, is there in me flask.' " 'I did it for your own good,' says he. 'Ye know that spirits always heats your blood, and water would be the best for you, when the fighting began; so I just sacrificed meself. " 'For,' says I to meself, 'if ye get fighting a little wild, Tim, it don't matter a bit; but the captain will have to keep cool, so it is best that you should drink up the spirits, and fill the flask up with water to quench his thirst.'" " 'Be off, ye black villain,' I said, 'or I will strike you.'" " 'You will never be able to do without me, Captain,' says he, picking up his musket; and with that he trudged away and, for aught I know, he never came out of the battle alive."
The others laughed.
"They were always quarrelling, Mary," Terence said. "But I agree with Tim that his master will find it very hard to do without him, especially about one o'clock in the morning."
"I am ashamed of you, Terence," O'Grady said, earnestly; "taking away me character, when I have come down here as your guest."
"It is too bad, O'Grady," Major O'Connor said, "but you know Terence was always conspicuous for his want of respect towards his elders."
"He was that same, O'Connor. I did me best for the boy, but there are some on whom education and example are clean thrown away."
"You are looking pale, cousin Terence," Mary said.
"Am I? My leg is hurting me a bit. Ireland is a great country, but its by-roads are not the best in the world, and this jolting shakes me up a bit."
"How stupid I was not to think of it!" she said and, rising in her seat, told Cassidy to drive at a walk.
They were now only half a mile from the house.
"You will hardly know the old place again, Terence," his father said.
"And a very good thing too, father, for a more tumble-down old shanty I never was in."
"It was the abode of our race, Terence."
"Well, then, it says mighty little for our race, father."
"Ah! But it did not fall into the state you saw it in till my father died, a year after I got my commission."
"I won't blame them, then; but, at any rate, I am glad I am coming home to a house and not to a ruin.
"Ah, that is more like a home!" he said, as a turn of the road brought them in sight of the building. "You have done wonders, Mary. That is a house fit for any Irish gentleman to live in."
"It has been altered so that it can be added to, Terence; but, at any rate, it is comfortable. As it was before, it made one feel rheumatic to look at it."
On arriving at the house, Terence refused all assistance.
"I am going to be independent, as far as I can," he said and, slipping down from the seat into the bottom of the chaise, he was able to put his foot on to the ground and, by the aid of his crutches, to get out and enter the house unaided.
"That is the old parlour, I think," he said, glancing into one of the rooms.
"Yes. It is your father's snuggery, now. There is scarcely any alteration there, and he can mess about as he likes with his guns and fishing tackle and swords.
"This is the dining room, now."
And she led the way along a wide passage to the new part of the house, where a bright fire was blazing in a handsome and well-furnished room. An invalid's chair had been placed by the fire, and opposite it was a large, cosy armchair.
"That is for your use, Major O'Grady," she said. "Now, Terence, you are to lay yourself up in that chair. I will bring a small table to your side, and put your dinner there."
"I will lie down until the dinner is ready, Mary. But I am perfectly capable of sitting at the table. I did so the last week before leaving the ship."
"You shall do that tomorrow. You may say what you like, but I can see that you are very tired and, for today, you will take it easy. I am going to be your nurse, and I can assure you that you will have to obey orders. You have been in independent command quite long enough."
"It is of no use, Terence; you must do as you are told," his father said. "The only way to get on with this young woman is to let her have her own way. I have given up opposing her, long ago; and you will have to do the same."
Terence did not find it unpleasant to be nursed and looked after, and even to obey peremptory orders.
A month later, Mary came into the room quietly, one afternoon, when he was sitting and looking into the fire; as his father and O'Grady had driven over to Killnally. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not hear her enter.
Thinking that he was asleep, she paused at the door. A moment later she heard a deep sigh. She came forward at once.
"What are you sighing about, Terence? Your leg is not hurting you, is it?"
"No, dear, it has pretty well given up hurting me."
"What were you sighing about, then?"
He was silent for a minute, and then said: "Well you see, one cannot help sighing a little at the thought that one is laid up, a useless man, when one is scarce twenty-one."
"You have done your work, Terence. You have made a name for yourself, when others are just leaving college and thinking of choosing a profession. You have done more, in five years, than most men achieve in all their lifetime.
"This is the first time I have heard you grumble. I know it is hard, but what has specially upset you, today?"
"I suppose I am a little out of sorts," he said. "I was thinking, perhaps, how different it might have been, if it hadn't been for that unlucky shell."
"You mean that you might have gone on to Burgos, and fallen in the assault there; or shared in that dreadful retreat to the frontier again."
"No. I was not thinking of Spain, nor even of the army. I was thinking of here."
"But you said, over and over again, Terence, that you will be able to ride, and drive, and get about like other people, in time."
"Yes, dear. In many respects it will be the same, but not in one respect."
Then he broke off.
"I am an ungrateful brute. I have everything to make me happy--a comfortable home, a good father, and a dear little sister to nurse me."
"What did I tell you, sir," she said, after a pause, "when I said goodbye to you at Coimbra? That I would rather be your cousin. You were quite hurt, and I said that you were a silly boy, and would understand better, some day."
"I have understood, since," he said, "and was glad that you were not my sister; but now, you see, things have altogether changed, and I must be content with sistership."
The girl looked in the fire, and then said, in a low voice: "Why, Terence?"
"You know why," he said. "I have had no one to think of but you, for the last four years. Your letters were the great pleasures of my life. I thought over and over again of those last words of yours, and I had some hope that, when I came back, I might say to you: "'Dear Mary, I am grateful, indeed, that you are my cousin, and not my sister. A sister is a very dear relation, but there is one dearer still.'
"Don't be afraid, dear; I am not going to say so now. Of course, that is over, and I hope that I shall come, in time, to be content to think of you as a sister."
"You are very foolish, Terence," she said, almost with a laugh, "as foolish as you were at Coimbra. Do you think that I should have said what I did, then, if I had not meant it? Did you not save me, at the risk of your life, from what would have been worse than death? Have you not been my hero, ever since? Have you not been the centre of our thoughts here, the great topic of our conversation? Have not your father and I been as proud as peacocks, when we read of your rapid promotion, and the notices of your gallant conduct? And do you think that it would make any difference to me, if you had come back with both your legs and arms shot off?
"No, dear. I am just as dissatisfied with the relationship you propose as I was three years ago, and it must be either cousin or--" and she stopped.
She was standing up beside him, now.
"Or wife," he said, taking up her hand. "Is it possible you mean wife?"
Her face was a sufficient answer, and he drew her down to him.
"You silly boy!" she said, five minutes afterwards. "Of course, I thought of it all along. I never made any secret of it to your father. I told him that our escape was like a fairy tale, and that it must have the same ending: 'and they married, and lived happy ever after.' He would never have let me have my way with the house, had I not confided in him. He said that I could spend my money as I pleased, on myself, but that not one penny should be laid out on his house; and I was obliged to tell him.
"I am afraid I blushed furiously, as I did so, but I had to say: "'Don't you see, Uncle?' --of course, I always called him uncle, from the first, though he is only a cousin--'I have quite made up my mind that it will be my house, some day; and the money may just as well be laid out on it now, to make it comfortable; instead of waiting till that time comes.'"
"What did my father say?"
"Oh, he said all sorts of nonsense, just the sort of thing that you Irishmen always do say! That he had hoped, perhaps, it might be so, from the moment he got your letter; and that the moment he saw me he felt sure that it would be so, for it must be, if you had any eyes in your head."
When Major O'Connor came home he was greatly pleased, but he took the news as a matter of course.
"Faith," he said, "I would have disinherited the boy, if he had been such a fool as not to appreciate you, Mary."
O'Grady was loud in his congratulations.
"It is just like your luck, Terence," he said. "Luck is everything. Here am I, a battered hero, who has lost an arm and a foot in the service of me country, and divil a girl has thrown herself upon me neck. Here are you, a mere gossoon, fifteen years my junior in the service, mentioned a score of times in despatches, promoted over my head; and now you have won one of the prettiest creatures in Ireland and, what is a good deal more to the point, though you may not think of it at present, with a handsome fortune of her own. In faith, there is no understanding the ways of Providence."
A week afterwards the whole party went up to Dublin, as Terence and O'Grady had to go before a medical board. A fortnight later a notice appeared, in the Gazette, that Lieutenant Colonel Terence O'Connor had retired from the service, on half pay, with the rank of colonel.
The marriage did not take place for another six months, by which time Terence had thrown away his crutches and had taken to an artificial leg--so well constructed that, were it not for a certain stiffness in his walk, his loss would not have been suspected by a casual observer. For three months previous to the event, a number of men had been employed in building a small but pretty house, some quarter of a mile from the mansion, intended for the occupation of Majors O'Connor and O'Grady.
"It will be better, in every way, Terence," his father insisted, when his son and Mary remonstrated against their thus proposing to leave them. "O'Grady and I have been comrades for twenty years, and we shall feel more at home, in bachelor quarters, than here. I can run in three or four times a day, if I like, and I expect I shall be as much here as over there; whereas if I lived here, I should often be feeling myself in the way, though I know that you would never say so. It is better for young people to be together and, maybe some day, the house will be none too large for you."
The house was finished by the time the wedding took place, and the two officers moved into it. The wedding was attended by all the tenants, and half the country round; and it was agreed that the bride's jewels were the most magnificent that had ever been seen in that part of Ireland, though some objected that diamonds, alone, would have been more suitable for the occasion than the emeralds.
Terence, on his return, had heard from his father that his Uncle, Tim M'Manus, had called very soon after the major had returned to his old home. He had been very friendly, and had been evidently mollified by Terence's name appearing in general orders; but his opinion that he would end his career by a rope had been in no way shaken. He had, however, continued to pay occasional visits; and the rapid rise of the scapegrace, and his frequent mention in despatches, were evidently a source of much gratification to him; and it was not long after his return that his uncle again came over.
"We will let bygones be bygones, Terence," he said, as he shook hands with him. "You have turned out a credit to your mother's name, and I am proud of you; and I hold my head high when I say Colonel Terence O'Connor, who was always playing mischief with the French, is my great nephew, and the good M'Manus blood shines out clearly in him."
There was no one who played a more conspicuous part at the wedding than Uncle Tim. At his own request, he proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom.
"I take no small credit to myself," he said, "that Colonel Terence O'Connor is the hero of this occasion. Never was there a boy whose destiny was so marked as his, and it is many a time I predicted that it was not either by flood, or fire, or quietly in his bed that he would die. If, when the regiment was ordered abroad, I had offered him a home, I firmly believe that my prediction would be verified before now; but I closed my doors to him, and the consequence was that he expended his devilment upon the French; and it is a deal better for him that it is only a leg that he has lost, which is a much less serious matter than having his neck unduly stretched. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I can say with pride that I have had no small share in this matter, and it is glad I am that, when I go, I can leave my money behind me, feeling that it won't all go to the dogs before I have been twelve months in my grave."
Another old friend was present at the wedding. Bull had made a slow recovery, and had been some time before he regained his strength. When he was gazetted out of the service, he secured a step in rank, and retired as a major. In after years he made frequent visits to Terence; to whom, as he always declared, he owed it that, instead of being turned adrift on a nominal pension, he was now able to live in comfort and ease.
When, four months later, Tim M'Manus was thrown out of his trap when driving home late at night, and broke his neck, it was found that he had left the whole of his property to Terence and, as the rents of his estate amounted to 600 pounds a year, no inconsiderable proportion of which had, for many years past, been accumulating, the legacy placed Terence in a leading position among the gentry of Mayo.
For very many years the house was one of the most popular in the county. It had been found necessary to make additions to it, and it had now attained the dignity of a mansion. The three officers followed, with the most intense interest, the bulletins and despatches from the war and, on the day when the allies entered Paris, the services of Tim Doolan, who had been invalided home a year after the return of his master, and had been discharged as unfit for further service, were called into requisition, for the first time since his return, to assist his master back to the house.
O'Grady, however, explained most earnestly to Mary O'Connor, the next day, that it was not the whisky at all, at all, but his wooden leg that had got out of order, and would not carry him straight.
Dick Ryan went through the war unscathed and, after Waterloo, retired from the service with the rank of lieutenant colonel; married, and settled at Athlone; and the closest intimacy, and very frequent intercourse, were maintained between him and his comrades of the Mayo Fusiliers.
Terence, in time, quite ceased to feel the loss of his leg; and was able to join in all field sports, becoming in time master of the hounds, and one of the most popular sportsmen in the county. His wife always declared that his wound was the most fortunate thing that ever happened to him for, had it not been for that, he would most likely have fallen in some of the later battles in the Peninsula.
"It is a good thing to have luck," she said, "and Terence had plenty of it. But it does not do to tempt fortune too far. The pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken, in the end."
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{
"id": "20207"
}
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1
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TODBOROUGH GRANGE.
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Todborough Grange, the seat of Cedric Bloxam, Justice of the Peace, and whilom High Sheriff for East Fernshire, lies low. The original Bloxam, like the majority of our ancestors, had apparently a great dislike to an exposed situation; and either a supreme contempt for the science of sanitation, or a confused idea that water could be induced to run uphill, and so, not bothering his head on the subject of drainage, as indeed no one did in those days, he built his house in a hole, holding, I presume, that the hills were as good to look up at as the valleys to look down upon. It was an irregular pile of gabled red brick, of what could be only described as the composite order, having been added to by successive Bloxams at their own convenience, and without any regard to architectural design. It was surrounded by thick shrubberies, in which the laurels were broken by dense masses of rhododendrons. Beyond these again were several plantations, and up the hill on the east side of the house stretched a wood of some eighty acres or so in extent.
As a race, the Bloxams possessed some of the leading Anglo-Saxon characteristics; to wit, courage, obstinacy, and density--or perhaps I should rather say slowness--of understanding. The present proprietor had been married--I use the term advisedly--to Lady Mary Ditchin, a daughter of the Earl of Turfington, a family whose hereditary devotion to sport in all its branches had somewhat impoverished their estates. The ladies could all ride; and some twenty odd years ago, when Cedric Bloxam was hunting in the Vale of White Horse country, Lord Turfington and his family chanced to be doing the same. Lady Mary rode; Cedric Bloxam saw; and Lady Mary conquered. She had made him a very good wife, although as she grew older she unfortunately, as some of us do, grew considerably heavier; and when no longer able to expend her superfluous energies in the hunting-field, she developed into a somewhat ambitious and pushing woman. In this latter _rôle_ I do not think she pleased Cedric Bloxam quite so well. She insisted upon his standing for the county. Bloxam demurred at first, and, as usual, in the end Lady Mary had her own way. He threw himself into the fight with all the pugnacity of his disposition, and, while his blood was up, revelled in the fray. He could speak to the farmers in a blunt homely way, which suited them; and they brought him in as one of the Conservative Members for East Fernshire. But on penetrating the perfidy of the wife of his bosom, Cedric Bloxam mused sadly over the honours that he had won. When Lady Mary had alternately coaxed and goaded him into contesting the eastern division of his county, she was seeking only the means to an end. They had previously contented themselves with about six weeks of London in May and June; but his wife now pointed out to him that, as a Member of Parliament, it was essential that he should have a house for the season. It was the thin end of the wedge, and though Cedric Bloxam lost his seat at the next general election, that "house for the season" remained as a memento of his entrance into public life.
"You see," said Lady Mary to her intimates, while talking the thing over, "it was absolutely necessary that something should be done. After he has done the Derby, Ascot, and the University Match, Cedric is always bored with London. The girls are growing up, and how are they ever to get properly married if they don't get their season in town, poor things! I began by suggesting masters; but that had no effect on Cedric--he only retorted, 'Send them to school;' so it was absolutely necessary to approach him in another manner, and I flatter myself I was equal to the occasion."
All this took place some six or seven years before the commencement of our story; and the result had fully warranted Lady Mary's machinations, as she had successfully married off her two elder daughters, and, as she had occasionally told her intimates, her chief object in life now was to see Blanche, the younger, suitably provided for. Lady Mary was in her way a stanch and devoted mother. Her duty towards her daughters, she considered, terminated when she had once seen them properly married. She had two sons--one in a dragoon regiment, and the younger in the Foreign Office--and she never neglected to cajole or flatter any one who, she thought, might in any way be capable of advancing their interests.
The Bloxams had come down from town to entertain a few friends during the Easter holidays at Todborough, and Lady Mary was now sitting in the oriel window of the morning-room engaged in an animated _tête-à-tête_ with one of her most intimate friends, Mr. Pansey Cottrell. Mr. Pansey Cottrell had been a man about town for the last thirty years, mixing freely everywhere in the very best society. It must have been a pure matter of whim if Pansey Cottrell ever paid for his own dinner during a London season--or, for the matter of that, even out of it--as he had only to name the week that suited him to be a welcome guest at scores of country houses. Nothing would have been more difficult than to explain why it was that Pansey Cottrell should be as essential to a fashionable dinner party as the epergne. Nothing more puzzling to account for than why his volunteering his presence in a country house should be always deemed a source of gratulation to the hostess. He was a man of no particular birth and no particular conversational powers; and unless due to his being thoroughly _au courant_ with all the very latest gossip of the London world, his success can only be put down as past understanding. Neophytes who did not know Pansey Cottrell, when they met him in a country house, would gaze with awe-struck curiosity at the sheaf of correspondence awaiting him on the side-table, and wondered what news he would unfold to them that morning. But the more experienced knew better. Pansey Cottrell always came down late, and never talked at breakfast. He kept his budget of scandal invariably for the dinner-table and smoking-room. Such was Pansey Cottrell, as he appeared to the general public, though he possessed an unsuspected attribute, known only to some few of the initiated, and of which as yet Lady Mary had only an inkling.
A portly well-preserved gentleman, with iron-grey hair, and nothing particularly striking about him but a pair of keen dark eyes, he sits in the window, listening with a half-incredulous smile to the voluble speech of his buxom hostess.
"Well," exclaimed Lady Mary, in reply to some observation of her companion's, "I tell you, Pansey" (she had known him from her childhood, and always called him Pansey, as indeed did many other middle-aged matrons)--"I tell you, Pansey," she repeated, "it is all a mistake; the majority of young men in our world do _not_ marry whom they please: they may think so, but in the majority of cases they marry whom _we_ please. The bell responds to the clapper; but who is it that makes the clapper to speak? The ringer. Do you see the force of my illustration?"
"If I fail to see its force," he replied, "I, of course, perfectly understand your illustration; and in this case Miss Blanche is of course the belle, you the ringer, and Mr. Beauchamp the clapper."
"Just so," replied Lady Mary, laughing. "Look at Diana, my eldest. She thinks she married Mannington; he thinks he married her; and _I know I married them_. People are always talking of Shakespeare's 'knowledge of human nature,' more especially those who never read him. Why don't they take a leaf out of his book? Do you suppose Beatrice nowadays, when she is told Benedick is dying for love of her, don't believe it, and that Benedick cannot be fooled in like manner? Go to--as they said in those times."
"And you would fain play Leonato to this Benedick," replied Pansey Cottrell. "Is this Beauchamp of whom you speak one of the Suffolk Beauchamps?"
"Yes; his father has a large property in the south of the county; and this Lionel Beauchamp is the eldest son, a good-looking young fellow, with a healthy taste for country life; just the man to suit dear Blanche admirably."
"And when do you expect him?"
"Oh, he ought to be here this evening in time for dinner," replied Lady Mary. "He seemed rather struck with Blanche in London, so I asked him down here for the Easter holidays, thinking it a nice opportunity of throwing them more together."
"I see," replied Mr. Cottrell, laughing; "you think in these cases it is just as well to assist nature by a little judicious forcing."
"Exactly. You see, a good-looking girl has such a pull in a country house, and when she is the only good-looking one, has it all her own way; and I need scarcely say I have taken care of that."
"Ahem! Todborough lies dangerously near to that most popular of watering-places, Commonstone," observed Cottrell; "and there is always attractive mettle to be found there."
"But I don't intend we shall ever go near it," replied her ladyship quickly. "We'll make up riding parties, plan excursions to Trotbury, and so on. Just the people in the house, you know, and the rector's daughters, nice pleasant unaffected girls, who, though not plain----" "Cannot be counted dangerous," interposed Cottrell. "I understand. I congratulate you on your diplomacy, Lady Mary. By the way, who is your rector?"
"The Rev. Austin Chipchase. A good orthodox old-fashioned parson, thank goodness, with no High Church fads or Low Church proclivities."
"Chipchase? Ahem! I met an uncommon pretty girl of that name down in Suffolk last autumn, when I was staying at Hogden's place."
At this juncture the door opened, and the object of all this maternal solicitude entered the room. Her mother did Blanche Bloxam scant justice when she called her a good-looking girl. She was more than that; she might most certainly have been called a very good-looking girl of the thoroughly Saxon type--tall and well made, with a profusion of fair sunny hair, and deep blue eyes. Blanche was a girl no man would ever overlook, wherever he might come across her.
"What state secrets are you two talking," she exclaimed, "that you pay no attention to the bell? Come to lunch, mamma, please; for we have been playing lawn tennis all the morning, and are well-nigh distraught with hunger."
Lady Mary rose and followed her daughter to the dining-room, where the whole of the house party were assembled round the luncheon-table. It consisted, besides the family and Mr. Cottrell, of a Mr. and Mrs. Evesham and their two daughters--"such amiable girls, you know," as Lady Mary always said of them; a Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris, a young married couple; Jim Bloxam, the dragoon; and a Captain Braybrooke, a brother officer of his.
"Come along, mother," exclaimed Jim. "Mrs. Sartoris has given me such a dusting at lawn tennis this morning that no amount of brown sherry and pigeon-pie will support me under the ignominy of my defeat."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sartoris," said Lady Mary, laughing. "I am very glad indeed, Jim, that somebody has been good enough to take the conceit out of you. But what do all you good people propose doing with yourselves this afternoon? There are a certain number of riding-horses; and of course there's the carriage, Mrs. Evesham."
"Don't you trouble, mother," exclaimed Jim Bloxam; "we are going upon an expedition of discovery. Mrs. Sartoris has got a brother in the army. She don't quite recollect his regiment; and beyond that it is in England, she does not know precisely where he is quartered. But he is in the something-somethieth, and we are going to see if we can find him in Rockcliffe Camp."
"Don't be so absurd, Captain Bloxam," rejoined Mrs. Sartoris. "But I am told, Lady Mary, it is a pretty walk to the camp, and that there is a grand view over the Channel on the south side of it."
"It is the very thing, mamma," observed Blanche. "It is our duty to absorb as much ozone as possible while we are down here, in order to fit us for the fatigues of the season which, I trust, are in store for us."
"Getting perilously near Commonstone," whispered Pansey Cottrell, who happened to be sitting next to his hostess.
Although the arrangement did not exactly meet with her approbation, yet Lady Mary could make no objection, any more than she could avoid smiling at Cottrell's remark; but it would seem as if some malignant genie had devoted his whole attention to thwarting her schemes, the malignant genie in this case taking the form of her eldest son. Upon an adjournment, Jim Bloxam strongly urged that those of the party who were not for a tramp to Rockcliffe should drive into Commonstone, and ascertain if there was anything going on that was likely to be worth their attention. In the middle of this discussion came a ring at the front door bell, immediately followed by the announcement of the Misses Chipchase; and the rector's two daughters entered the room, accompanied, to Lady Mary's horror, by one of the most piquant and brilliant brunettes she had ever set eyes on.
"So glad to see you down again, dear Lady Mary," said Miss Chipchase, "and with a house full too! that's so nice of you; just in time to assist at all our Easter revelries. Let me introduce you to my cousin, Sylla Chipchase, just come down to spend a month with us." And then the rector's daughters proceeded to shake hands with Blanche and Captain Bloxam, and be by them presented to the remainder of the party.
Pansey Cottrell could scarce refrain from laughing outright as he advanced to shake hands with Sylla Chipchase, the identical young lady whom he had met last autumn in Suffolk, and who had now turned up at Todborough, looking more provokingly pretty than ever. He had caught one glance of his hostess's face; and, behind the scenes as he was, that had been so nearly too much for his risible faculties that he dared not hazard another. As he advanced to shake hands with Miss Sylla, he felt that the Fates had been even more unkind to Lady Mary than she could as yet be possibly aware of; for he remembered at Hogden's that Miss Sylla had not only been voted the belle of a party containing two or three very pretty women, but had also enchanted the men by her fun, vivacity, and singing. Poor Lady Mary! it was hard, in spite of all her efforts to secure a clear field, to find her daughter suddenly confronted by such a formidable rival.
"We meet again, you see, Miss Sylla," said Cottrell, as they shook hands. "I told you in Suffolk, if you remember, that in my ubiquity I was a person very difficult to see the last of."
"And who that had ever met Mr. Cottrell would wish to have seen the last of him?" replied the young lady gaily. "We had great fun together in Suffolk, and I hope we are going to have great fun together in Fernshire. My cousins tell me there are no end of balls and dances to come off in the course of the next ten days."
"Dear me!" replied Mr. Cottrell, his eyes twinkling with the fun of the situation. "This is all very well for you country people, Miss Sylla; but we poor Londoners have come down for rest after a spell of hot rooms and late hours, preparatory to encountering fresh dissipations. Is it not so, Lady Mary? Did you not promise me quiet and country air, with a dash of the salt water in it?"
"Of course," was the reply; "we have come down here to recruit."
"Oh, but, Lady Mary, you will never shut yourself up and turn recluse," returned the elder Miss Chipchase. "You must come to the Commonstone ball on Easter Monday; you will all come, of course. I quite count upon you, Captain Bloxam."
"Perfectly right, Miss Chipchase," replied the dragoon, with a glance of unmistakable admiration at the new importation. "Did you ever know me fail you in valsing? and are not the soldiers of to-day every bit as much 'all there' as the sailors of yore, whenever England generally, or Commonstone in particular, expects that every man this night will do his duty?"
"Ah, yes," replied Miss Chipchase, "I recollect our trying to valse to 'God save the Queen;' but we could make nothing out of it. And you, Mr. Bloxam,--you are bound to be there. Remember you engaged me for 'Sir Roger de Coverley,' for the next dance we met at, last Christmas Eve."
"I don't forget, Laura," laughed the Squire; "only you really must moderate the pace down the middle this time."
"And then," continued the voluble young lady, "they have got a big lunch at the camp, with athletic sports afterwards, on Tuesday, for which you will, of course, receive cards."
"There is nothing like rural retirement for rest and quietness," observed Pansey Cottrell, dryly.
"My dear Laura," interposed Lady Mary, "your tongue is running away with you. I have told you we have come down here for a little quiet. I am very glad, for your sake, that you have so much gaiety going on; but I am afraid you will have to excuse us taking part in it."
"Now, really that is too bad of you, Lady Mary," returned Miss Chipchase. "You are always so kind," she continued, dropping her voice; "and you know what a difference it makes to us to be able to join the Todborough party. With my cousin Sylla staying with us and all, I really did hope----" "Impossible, my dear," interrupted Lady Mary. "If we don't get a little quiet now, I shall be having dear Blanche thoroughly knocked up before the season is over."
Miss Chipchase said nothing, but marvelled much what all this anxiety about dear Blanche's health might portend. The two girls were sworn friends, and Laura Chipchase had more than once envied Blanche's physique when she had met her, looking as fresh as a rose, at the covertside in the morning, after they had been both dancing until four.
"I am so sorry we shall not see you at the Commonstone ball, Captain Bloxam," said Miss Sylla, with whom Jim had entered into conversation.
"Why so? What makes you think I shall not be there?"
"Because your mamma has brought you down here for the repairing of your shattered constitutions," replied the young lady, demurely. "Do you all go to bed at half-past ten?"
"Well, yes," returned Jim, with mock gravity. "I shall have to comply with the maternal's programme as far as that goes; but to do honour to the _début_ of so fair a stranger in the land, I think Miss Sylla, I can contrive to get out of the window after they are all asleep, and make my way over to Commonstone."
"Dear me, how I should envy you! What fun it would be, the really going to a ball in such surreptitious fashion!"
"Yes," said Jim; "but think about all the fears and anxieties of getting back again. It's always so much easier to get out of a window than to get into one."
"But what are you all proposing to do this afternoon, Blanche?" inquired Laura Chipchase.
"Well, we thought of walking up to the camp and having a look at the sea."
"And to search for Mrs. Sartoris's brother," interposed Jim Bloxam.
"You have a brother quartered at Rockcliffe, Mrs. Sartoris? I wonder whether we know him? What is he in?" exclaimed Laura Chipchase.
"No; it is only some of Captain Bloxam's nonsense. I have a brother in the army, and he pretends that I don't know where he is, or what is his regiment."
"A walk to the camp--ah, that would be amusing!" said Miss Sylla. "I never saw one. Are they under canvas?"
"No; boards," returned Jim. "But come along; if we are going to walk to Rockcliffe, it is time we were off. The sooner you ladies get your hats on, the better. We'll find Mrs. Sartoris's brother, launch Miss Sylla here in military circles, and return with raging appetites to dinner." And so saying, the dragoon, followed by most of the party, made his way to the front door.
"Very nice of you, Pansey," said Lady Mary, "to put in that plea for peace and quietness. I can't think what has come to the place. Who ever heard of Commonstone breaking out with an Easter ball before? Todborough generally is as dull as ditch-water at this time of year. Something, it is true, may be going on at the camp; but as we know nobody there just now, it usually does not affect us. However, I have no intention of submitting to such a _bouleversement_ of my schemes as this; and go to that ball _I don't_."
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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2
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THE CONSPIRATORS TRIUMPH.
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The dressing-bell was pealing as the gay party returned in high spirits from their walk. It had been a very successful excursion, and the newcomer, Miss Sylla, was unanimously voted an acquisition.
"Laura tells me," said Miss Bloxam, "that her cousin sings charmingly, and is simply immense at charades, private theatricals, and all that sort of thing."
"Ah, we might do something in that way one evening next week," said her brother, as they passed through the hall. "Mr. Beauchamp here, James?"
"Yes, sir; came about a quarter of an hour ago; he has just gone up to dress."
Blanche was sitting in front of her dressing-table, with her maid putting the finishing-touches to her toilette, when a slight tap at the door was followed by the entrance of her mother.
"That will do, Gimp," said Lady Mary. "I will arrange those flowers in Miss Blanche's hair myself;" and, obedient to the intimation, the lady's-maid left the room. "I have just looked in to speak to you, Blanche, about this ball. If the subject is revived at dinner this evening, you won't want to go to it: you understand?"
"Of course, mamma, I will say so if you wish it; but I should like to go, all the same."
"Oh, nonsense! An Easter ball at Commonstone would be a shocking, vulgar, not to say rowdy, affair. Besides, surely you have had plenty of dancing in London, to say nothing of heaps more in perspective."
"Dancing!" replied the girl, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I don't call a London ball dancing. One jigs round and round in a place about ten feet square, but one never gets a really good spin. We have been at Commonstone balls before. What makes you think this one would be more uproarious than usual?"
"We have never been to an Easter ball, my dear," replied Lady Mary, adjusting a piece of fern in her daughter's tresses. "We came down here for quiet, and if you don't require a rest, I do. You must think of your poor chaperon a little, Blanche."
"Don't say another word, mamma. You are a dear amiable chaperon, and have been awfully good about staying a little late at times. I don't want to drag you over to Commonstone, when your wish is to be left peacefully at home. We won't do the Easter ball, though it is sad to think what a capital room they have for it. But come along, there goes the bell, and I am sure now I look most bewitching."
It was not Lady's Mary's custom to take her daughters into her confidence, in the first instance, with regard to the matrimonial designs she had formed for their benefit. All the preliminary manoeuvres she conducted herself. The idea of young people gravitating together naturally was a theory she would have received with profound derision. She looked upon it that all what she would have termed successful marriages were as much owing to the clever diplomacy of mothers or chaperons as the victory of a horse in a big race is due to the skilful handling of his jockey. During the afternoon she had been meditating over the plan of her Easter campaign, and resolved to adhere to her original determination. Most decidedly she would have nothing to do with Commonstone and its gaieties, nor would she afford greater favour to any revelries at the Rockcliffe camp; and most devoutly did she wish that it was in her power to keep the rector's daughters altogether at arm's length, now that she had seen this new cousinly importation. At arm's length as much as possible the Misses Chipchase should be held, she determined.
"That Miss Sylla," she muttered, "is just the sort of girl men always lose their heads about; clever, too, if I mistake not. Well, I don't mean to see more of her at the Grange than I am positively obliged to; but keep her out altogether I can't. The Chipchase girls have grown up with my own, and been always accustomed to come and go pretty much as they liked. However," thought her ladyship, "the first thing to settle undoubtedly is this ball;" and, as she and her daughter descended to dinner, Lady Mary did fancy that, at all events, she had settled that.
"Ah, here you are at last," said the Squire, as they entered the drawing-room; "dinner is already announced, my lady. Come along, Mrs. Evesham, it's no use letting the soup get cold."
"How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?" said Lady Mary, as a dark, good-looking young fellow came forward to shake hands with her. "It seems I am dreadfully late, and have only time now to say I am delighted that you have found your way to Todborough. Perhaps you will take care of Blanche." And then the hostess turned away to pair off her other guests.
"I congratulate you, Lady Mary, on so favourable an augury," said Pansey Cottrell, as he leisurely consumed his fish.
"Favourable augury! What can you mean?"
"Do you not see," returned Cottrell, in mock-tragical tones, "that we are thirteen to dinner? Do you not know that Lionel Beauchamp is the thirteenth? and do you not know what Fate has invariably in store for the thirteenth at a dinner party?"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Lady Mary; "why, they say it's hanging, do they not?"
"Well, of late years they have rather qualified the sentence. Popular opinion, I think, now inclines to the belief that the thirteenth, when a man, will be either hung--or married."
"I suppose we are advancing in the science of augury as in all other sciences," replied her ladyship, laughing, "and find that the omens, like the readings of the barometer, are capable of two interpretations."
"You must not speak lightly of the science of augury, Lady Mary. Allow me to give you the complete interpretation of the omen. The Fates have not only decreed that Lionel Beauchamp shall either be hung or married within the twelvemonth, but reserved the latter lot for him; and they indicate further who his future wife shall be. When there is no lady next him, it's a hanging matter, saith the oracle; where there is, that lady will be his wife before the year is out. Now, it can hardly point to Mrs. Evesham, who is on the right, and therefore I conclude it must indicate Miss Blanche, who is on his left."
"Very ingenious, indeed, Mr. Cottrell; but, dear me! they have begun to talk about that horrid ball again at the bottom of the table, have they not?"
"I say, mother," exclaimed Jim Bloxam, "of course we are all going to this Commonstone ball on Monday?"
"Nonsense! I am surprised at your thinking of such a thing. The idea of our going to a Commonstone ball on Easter Monday! Just fancy, my dear Jim, what it would be,--townspeople and excursionists from round about. No; I don't go in for being exclusive, goodness knows; but the Commonstone Easter ball is a rather more boisterous business than I can stand."
"What nonsense!" rejoined the dragoon, a little staggered, all the same, by his mother's argument. "It will be great fun, and I don't suppose a bit worse than any other of the Commonstone balls; and we have always gone to them, you know."
"Yes, but that's a very different thing from an Easter Monday ball. Of course you and any of the gentlemen of the party can go. You will have great fun, no doubt."
"But," urged Jim, "we are a large party, and can keep to ourselves, you know. It is a good room; and here is Blanche, I know, dying for a galop. Are you not, my sister?"
"No, indeed," said Blanche, responding bravely to her before-dinner tutoring; "I assure you I don't care about it in the least. I have no doubt mamma is right, and that the ball will be crowded with all sorts of disagreeable people."
"You little traitress," said Jim, with a comical grin upon his countenance, "I did think I could count upon you; but you are as perfidious as a county elector in these days of the ballot-box."
Poor Blanche coloured and bit her lip. She was conscious of gross tergiversation, of having ratted shamefully; for that merry party in the afternoon, as they stood in the camp of Rockcliffe overlooking Commonstone, had, one and all, vowed to foot it merrily in the town-hall on Easter Monday, and agreed that for real lovers of dancing a country ball beat a London one all to pieces.
"Well, mother," rejoined Jim, with one of his queer smiles, "on your head be it if any harm comes to us; if you will allow your young braves to go out on the war-path without their natural protectors, you must not be surprised if some of them lose their scalps. Beauchamp, you are a devotee of the goddess, I know. You will of course form one of 'the lost children' who brave all the horde of excursionists for the honour of Todborough."
"Thanks, no," replied Lionel. "I don't think I care about facing the barbarians at play."
He was a good deal smitten with Blanche, and knew better than to run counter to his enslaver's pronounced opinion.
"Then," exclaimed Jim, "like Curtius, I must leap into the gulf single-handed. Stop! hang it, I will exercise my military prerogative; yes, Braybrooke, I shall order you to accompany me, if it is only to witness the sacrifice."
"Stay, Captain Bloxam," said Mrs. Sartoris, laughing. "Such devoted gallantry deserves encouragement; I won't see you fall into the hands of the Philistines without an effort at your preservation. You'll go, Tom, won't you?" she continued, appealing to her husband, "if Lady Mary can only find us transport."
"Yes, I am good to go, if you wish it," replied Sartoris.
"How I should like to shake the life out of that woman!" thought Lady Mary, as she smilingly murmured that "if Mrs. Sartoris had the courage to face the horrors of an Easter ball, there was, of course, the carriage at her disposal."
"Bravo, Mrs. Sartoris!" cried Jim; "and now that you have given them a lead, I have no doubt I shall pick up some more recruits, at all events, young ladies," he continued, appealing to the Misses Evesham, "it's a consolation to think that we have secured a chaperon, even if our mothers remain obdurate on the point."
But Lady Mary was not going to suffer any further discussion concerning the Commonstone ball, if she could possibly prevent it. What she mentally termed the pig-headedness of her son already threatened to upset the seclusion that she had marked out as most conducive to Lionel Beauchamp's subjection. Taking advantage of the decanters having made their appearance on the table, she bent her head to Mrs. Evesham, and the rising of the ladies put an end to the subject, at all events for the present. "If," thought Lady Mary, as she followed her guests to the drawing-room, "I can only stop their talking any more about this wretched ball, there will be no harm done. Jim, Captain Braybrooke, and the Sartorises are welcome to go, so long as the rest stay at home."
Though silent, Pansey Cottrell had been an amused auditor of the previous conversation. Living, as he habitually had done from his boyhood, always in society, he derived no little amusement from watching the foibles and manoeuvres of those around him, and occasionally indulged himself by gently pulling the strings for his own diversion. It was a secret that had been penetrated by only a few of his intimates, but there was lurking in Pansey Cottrell a spirit of mischief that sometimes urged him to contravene the schemes of his associates. It was never from any feeling of malice, but from a sheer sense of fun. The present state of affairs, for instance, tickled him immensely. He knew that poor Lady Mary had resolutely made up her mind that the Grange party should have none of this ball, and equally did he foresee that there was every probability of both herself and all her guests being present at it. Secondly, she had brought Lionel Beauchamp down here, far away from rival beauties, so that Miss Blanche might capture him at her leisure; and such was Lady Mary's malignant star, that an exceedingly pretty and fascinating stranger immediately appeared upon the scene. Now this was just one of the little dramas that it so amused Pansey Cottrell occasionally to exercise his influence in. I do not mean to say that he would interfere to such an extent as to either make or mar the wedding; but to take part with the conspirators and coerce Lady Mary into going to this Commonstone ball was a bit of mischief quite in his way. He could not resist the temptation of teasing his fellow-creatures, and what gave such particular zest to such tormenting was that his victims were always perfectly unconscious that he was at the bottom of their annoyance.
In the drawing-room Lady Mary expressed her disapproval of the ball so strongly that Mrs. Sartoris felt quite guilty, and rather repented her of having volunteered to join Captain Bloxam's party; but when the gentlemen made their appearance, Lady Mary was doomed to be made once more uncomfortable by the proceedings of her first-born.
She listened in somewhat _distrait_ fashion to a flood of anecdote and small-talk that Mr. Cottrell was pouring into her ears; for she felt intuitively that Jim was canvassing the whole party on the subject of this abominable ball with an ardour worthy of a better cause. She had seen him talking and laughing with Mrs. Sartoris, and knew that he had confirmed that lady in her iniquity. Now he was talking with the Misses Evesham, and she felt convinced that those flabby-minded damsels had admitted that they should like to be present, although not half an hour ago they had assured her that they detested all such "omnium gatherums." If she could but have got hold of Jim and told him that there were particular reasons why the Grange party should not attend upon this occasion! but no, Pansey Cottrell was entertaining her with a scandalous and apparently interminable narrative of the doings of one of her friends, and she felt she had been as effectually buttonholed as if she were the victim of the Ancient Mariner.
Suddenly a "Confound it, Jim, do hold your tongue!" from the whist-table caught her ear. "You deuced near made me revoke. What on earth makes you so red hot about this ball?" And the Squire mechanically looked round to his wife for telegraphic guidance as to what line he was to take.
By a sudden shifting of Mr. Pansey Cottrell's chair that gentleman's form intercepted the slight bending of the brows and shake of the head that replied to her husband's look of inquiry.
"The proper thing to do, sir," resumed Jim; "residents in the vicinity of Commonstone must support Commonstone festivities. The Todborough contingent must show up on such an occasion, and the Todborough contingent must show with its chief at its head. Who knows but you may want to contest the county again some of these days? and if you don't, why, perhaps I shall. I assure you I have a very pretty talent for public speaking--at least, so our fellows all say. Isn't it so, Braybrooke?"
"Oh, I don't quite know about that," was the reply. "We give you credit for unlimited 'cheek' when on your legs after supper, and that's about as far as we can give you a character."
"Well, I don't know; we always do go. I suppose we ought to go this time; but there's no necessity for all this hurry. The ball is not until the day after to-morrow." And the Squire again looked anxiously round for instructions from his wife; but Pansey Cottrell was now standing between Lady Mary and the card-table, and such inspiration as might be derived from his back was sole response to the inquiry.
"Excuse me," said Jim, "we can't have people making up their mind about ball-going on Sundays. Ball-dresses, however perfect, nearly always want a little something doing to them at the last, don't they, Mrs. Sartoris? Besides, vacillation spoils slumber. I am only anxious that you shall lay your head tranquilly on your pillow, like myself, with your mind made up to do a good and virtuous action."
"Come, I say," cried the Squire, chuckling, "that's rather tall talk, you know. I never heard going to a ball called a 'good and virtuous action' before."
"Well, perhaps not," replied Jim; "but it is, comparatively, you know, when you think of the many worse things you might do;--Stay at home here, for instance, trump your partner's thirteenth, revoke, lose your money and your temper."
"You make out a good case, Jim," said the Squire, laughing. "I suppose we must go, lest, as you say, worse should come to us."
As these two latter speeches reached her ears, Lady Mary felt that she could have boxed those of her son with exceeding satisfaction, and so wandered in her attention to Pansey Cottrell's narrative as to occasion that gentleman, who was perfectly aware of the disturbing influence, infinite amusement. As a _causeur_ of some repute in his own estimation, he considered himself in duty bound to take vengeance for such negligence, and spun out his story to its extreme attenuation before suffering his hostess to escape. At length released, Lady Mary crosses to the whist-table; but the conversation has dropped. Jim has moved to another part of the room; and that the Todborough Grange party shall go to the ball is an accepted fact. To revive the subject now Lady Mary felt would be useless, but she made up her mind somewhat spitefully that her lord should hear a little more about it before he slept.
"Rather a sudden change in the wind," said Lionel Beauchamp, as he lit Miss Bloxam's candle in the hall: "instead of being dead against, it seems to be blowing quite a gale in the direction of the Commonstone ball. I suppose you will go too, if the rest do?"
"Yes," she replied mendaciously. "I don't care in the least about it, but suppose, like all minorities, I shall have to recant my opinion, or, what is the same thing, do as the others do; and I shall expect you to do the same, Mr. Beauchamp, and not, after the manner of some shameless London men whom we have had here, plead a bad cold, and then spend the evening tranquilly in the smoking-room, over much tobacco and a French novel."
"Not I, Miss Bloxam," replied Lionel, laughing. "I can assure you I am very fond of a country ball. My objection is to a country ball with all the attraction left out."
"Thank you," said Blanche, making him a little mock curtsey, "that is a very pretty speech to send me to sleep upon; and now good night. O Jim, Jim!" she whispered, as she passed her brother, "how could you? Had you been yet in your childhood, bread and water and dungeons dark would be punishment quite inadequate to your offending."
"Why, good Heavens! what have I done?"
"Couldn't you see that mamma is dead against any of us going to this ball, and have you not been canvassing us all as if you had been a steward?"
"Go to bed, you arrant little humbug," replied Jim, with a perceptible quiver of his right eye. "What the _madre's_ reasons may be for setting her face against this bit of jollity I don't know; but you and she needn't go, you know. Mrs. Sartoris has kindly undertaken the charge of all us young people."
Blanche merely smiled, nodded, and then tripped up the staircase. I think there was an unspoken understanding between these two on the subject of the Commonstone ball. Jim Bloxam had before known his sisters take part with the authorities against their private likings and convictions.
Lady Mary, when she had gained the privacy of her own chamber, felt, to speak figuratively, that the horses had got a little out of her hand; that her party, or at all events the larger portion of them, would attend this ball whether she liked it or not. Of course she herself could stay at home and keep Blanche with her; but it would be a little too marked to attempt to retain Mr. Beauchamp when all the rest of the party were bound for Commonstone. She was far too skilful a manoeuvrer to give lookers-on such transparent grounds for designating her a match-making mother. But Lady Mary was a woman both clever and fertile in resource, one who thoroughly understood the philosophy that, when things are not going to your liking, there only remains to make the best of things as they are. Her instinct warned her that it would have been better for her designs if she could have carried out her original programme, and contrived that the Grange party should keep to themselves; but as things were it was obvious that Lionel Beauchamp would go to the Commonstone ball, and under those circumstances she promptly decided that it would be advisable for Blanche and herself to go too. Her mind misgave her that Sylla Chipchase was a formidable rival to Blanche in the matter of beauty and attraction; still, the encountering of no opposition could but make Miss Sylla more formidable. Just as she had resolved upon a change of front, the Squire entered the room.
"My dear Cedric," she exclaimed, "how could you be so foolish? What made you encourage all these people in the absurdity of wishing to attend that Easter ball? --a mob of tag, rag, and bobtail, tradespeople and people from Heaven knows where: very good fun, no doubt, for the officers from Rockcliffe, Jim, or any other young men, but no place for ladies and their daughters to go to."
"What nonsense, Mary! Why, you know we always did go to the Commonstone balls; besides, Mrs. Sartoris expressed----" "Don't talk to me about what Mrs. Sartoris expressed," interrupted Lady Mary sharply; "that woman is evidently one of the fast school, and I am very sorry for Blanche's sake that I asked her down here at all."
This was a most unjustified accusation against poor little Mrs. Sartoris, who was simply a young married woman fond of dancing and gaiety.
"Besides," she continued, "you might have remembered that I wanted Blanche to have a quiet fortnight. Girls at her age are so easily knocked up by the dissipations of London, and it is very desirable that she should take the opportunity of a rest now she can get it."
"Pooh! that's all nonsense, Mary, and you know it. Blanche is as strong as a horse, and no girl enjoys dancing more. Why, she has never been sick nor sorry since she was a little thing! I'll go bail that she's none the worse for her first season."
"Oh, very well; of course if you know better than I do, well and good. A mother is usually supposed to be the best judge of such matters. If she is regularly knocked up by July, don't forget I raised my voice against the Commonstone ball."
"No, my dear," replied the Squire, as he composed himself for slumber; "there is not the slightest probability of my forgetting it, insomuch as, if such a misfortune should befall the girl, I feel confident that fact would be pretty constantly recalled to my memory."
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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3
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THE COMMONSTONE BALL.
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The same evening that all this discussion--one might almost say plotting and counter-plotting--concerning the Commonstone ball was going on at the Grange, there was a conversation going on at Todborough Rectory, which, could she but have heard it, would have somewhat opened Lady Mary's eyes to the conspiracy of which she had been the victim.
"I wonder," exclaimed Laura Chipchase, "whether Jim has carried his point? He vowed to-day the Grange party should go to the ball, and I hope they may."
"Yes," said Miss Sylla, "it is always nicer, I think, to be one of a large party in an affair of this sort. You are quite independent then,--a ball within a ball, as it were."
"Just so," said the younger sister. "And though we know plenty of people, and are not likely to want for partners, yet it's not the fun of going a big party. As for you, Sylla, I can't imagine your wanting partners anywhere." And the girl gazed with undisguised admiration at her pretty cousin.
"The young men are mostly good to me," replied Miss Sylla demurely. "But what made Lady Mary set her face so dead against this ball? You told me she was full of fun, and either assisted at or promoted all the gaiety in the neighbourhood."
"Ah, I cannot understand that," rejoined Laura. "The excuse about Blanche requiring rest is all nonsense. Why, she told me to-day, she was never better, and, as you yourself heard, said she should like to go to this ball immensely."
"Ah, well," said Sylla, with a shrug of her shoulders and a slight elevation of her expressive eyebrows, "I don't think I care much about your Lady Mary; your word-painting has been a little too flattering."
"You mustn't condemn her just because she has got this whim in her head. We know her well, and like her very much. We have been brought up so much with her own children, you know. But you never told us you knew Mr. Cottrell."
"Why should I?" rejoined Sylla. "I hadn't the slightest idea he was in these parts until I saw him. He is a dear clever old gentleman" (if Pansey could but have heard that!) , "and one of my most devoted admirers. I met him at the Hogdens' last autumn. It amused me so much to see how he always got his own way about everything, that I struck up a desperate flirtation with him, and then, you see, I got mine. Oh, you needn't look shocked. It's great fun when they have arrived at years of discretion, like Mr. Cottrell; they always get you everything you want, and are no more in earnest than you are. Then they are always at hand to save you 'an infliction.' I always said I was engaged to Mr. Cottrell whenever I didn't want to dance with any one who claimed me, and if I made him a pretty speech, he would always forgive my throwing him over. My dear Laura," continued the young lady gravely, "an admirer of that sort is worth a good half-dozen younger ones. But tell me a little more about the Bloxams."
"There is nothing much to tell," rejoined Laura. "The Squire is just what you saw him--a fresh, genial, and hospitable country gentleman. Blanche is a dear unaffected girl, a good horsewoman, and good at lawn tennis, billiards, and all that sort of thing. Jim Bloxam is what you see--as gay, light-hearted, and rattlepated a dragoon as any in the service; and as for Lady Mary, she is very much better than you give her credit for."
"Whether the big house goes or not makes a difference in our staff of partners," observed the younger Miss Chipchase sententiously. "Let's see: there's Captain Bloxam, Captain Braybrooke, and Mr. Sartoris--all most eligible, don't you think so, Laura? I wonder what this other man is like whom Blanche talked about--Lionel Beauchamp? he comes to-night."
"What, Lionel Beauchamp!" exclaimed Sylla: "do you mean to say Lionel Beauchamp is coming to the Grange?"
"So Blanche told me this afternoon; why, do you know him?"
"Know him? yes, pretty much in the same way you know Jim Bloxam. By the way, do you call him 'Jim'?" (The two girls nodded assent.) "Ah, I like to ask about these things: proprieties differ in different counties; it strikes me Fernshire is of the rigidly decorous order."
"Well," laughed Miss Chipchase, "it is past twelve; and if Todborough Rectory is to keep its character, we must be off to bed and listen no more to your Suffolk gabbling. It's well mamma is laid up with a cold, or we should have been broomed off long ago."
"Very well, Laura; in revenge for that last aspersion I will tell you nothing whatever more about Lionel Beauchamp. Only promise me one thing: don't let out that he and I have known each other from childhood, please don't. I do so want to see Lady Mary's face when she hears me call him Lionel. I suspect she is inclined to think me a very fast young woman. She shall!" and with this ominous menace Miss Sylla danced upstairs to bed. Lady Mary, when she found that she must yield in the matter of the ball, was far too clever a diplomatist not to give a most gracious assent. She laughed, and vowed that she really thought a set of Londoners like they all were would have looked forward to quiet during the Easter holidays; but as they preferred racket, well, racket be it to their hearts' content. Her duty towards her guests as hostess was simply to promote the happiness of the greater number. They would all go to Commonstone, and it only remained now to settle the matter of transport. The break would hold eight comfortably. If Mr. and Mrs. Evesham with their daughters, Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris, Mr. Cottrell, and the Squire would go in that, then she, Blanche, and either Captain Braybrooke or Mr. Beauchamp could go in the carriage, and Jim could drive one gentleman over in the dog-cart.
Jim Bloxam knew that he had carried his point sorely against his mother's inclination; but he had got his cue now, and resolved to second all her arrangements loyally.
"All right, mother," he said, "that will do very well, you take Beauchamp in the carriage, and Braybrooke can come in the cart with me."
Although the party generally cared little about the manner of their going to the ball, there was one exception, and this was Mr. Pansey Cottrell. That gentleman was extremely fond of his own ease and comfort, and when a hostess presumed to take him out to a country ball, he did consider that she was at least bound to find him a front seat in a most comfortable carriage. "Breaks are all very well," quoth Mr. Cottrell, "for tough country gentlemen; but I don't expect to be carted about as if I was a stag on Easter Monday." In short, although Pansey Cottrell could hardly have been said to be seriously annoyed, yet he held Lady Mary guilty of a want of consideration for a man of his status in the fashionable world. To the mischief inherent in his disposition, and which so often led him to thwart the schemes of those about him, was now added a mild feeling of resentment, not amounting to anger, but a feeling that he owed it to himself to mete out some slight punishment to his hostess. "Yes," he muttered, as he arranged his white tie in the glass just before dinner, "I think, Lady Mary, the chances are that I shall contrive to make you a little uncomfortable this evening. That Sylla Chipchase is as full of devilry as she can be, and with a very pretty taste for privateering besides. If I give her a hint of your designs, I should think there is nothing she would like better than to do a little bit of cutting-out business, and temporarily capture Lionel Beauchamp under the very guns of the fair Blanche; however, I shall be guided by events. But there is one thing, my lady, you may be sure--I shall not forget I was relegated to a break."
When the ringers are not in accord the result is wont to be "Sweet bells jangled, out of tune."
Upon arrival at Commonstone it became at once evident that Lady Mary had shamefully libelled the Easter ball. It was a mixed ball, certainly; but by no means the tag, rag, and bobtail affair that Lady Mary had stigmatized it. If there was a sprinkling of the tradespeople and also of strangers, there was also a large muster of all the best people in Commonstone and its neighbourhood. The Rockcliffe camp, too, had sent a strong contingent; and altogether, with a good room and good music, there was every prospect, as Jim Bloxam said, of a real good dance. That the Misses Chipchase should meet the Grange party and attach themselves to it was but natural. They had always been encouraged to do so, and how were they to know that the _avatar_ of such an incarnation of fun, spirits, and beauty as Sylla should have made Lady Mary repent of former good-nature? However, Jim showed the way with Mrs. Sartoris, and the whole party were soon whirling away to the strains of the "Zingari" valses.
"At last, Mrs. Sartoris," said Jim, "I taste the sweets of successful diplomacy, and in the Commonstone terpsichorean temple publicly acknowledge the valuable assistance you lent me in the late great crisis."
"I am very glad, Captain Bloxam," replied Mrs. Sartoris, laughing, "that my poor exertions have been so fully recognized. I am terribly afraid that Lady Mary has registered a black mark against my name as a giddy and contumacious guest, not to be lightly entertained for the future."
"No," replied Jim, "I must stand up for my mother; she may fume a good deal at the time, but she never bears malice. But here comes one of my greatest allies, Dick Conyers; I hope you will allow me to present him to you."
Mrs. Sartoris bowed assent; the introduction made, his name duly inscribed on the lady's tablets, and Captain Conyers exclaimed, "Of course you are coming to 'our athletics' to-morrow? I know cards have been duly sent to the Grange--for the matter of that, round the country generally. There will be lunch all over the camp; but mind, I expect you to patronize our mess in particular. Mile races, half-mile races, quarter-mile races, sack races, barrow races,--in short, humanity contending on its feet in every possible shape."
"The very thing," said Jim, "after a ball; don't you think so, Mrs. Sartoris? Fresh air, amusement, gentle exercise, and a little stimulant close at hand if we feel low."
"Ah, Mrs. Sartoris," replied Conyers, "and I really am a little low about to-morrow. The best race of the day is a quarter-mile race for the 'All Army Cup.' There is a horribly conceited young Engineer of the name of Montague who already regards it as his own property; and saddest of all remains the fact that, notwithstanding his crowing, he can run above a bit; we have nobody in the camp with a chance of defeating him."
"Why don't you make Captain Bloxam, here, run?" said Mrs. Sartoris. "Why, you know," she said, turning to Jim, "that you beat all the men at the Orleans Club a fortnight ago across the cricket-ground in that impromptu handicap."
"Of course," replied Conyers; "I never thought of that. I remember now you won the quarter mile at Aldershot last year. Capital! this race is open to the whole army, and the entries don't close till to-morrow. I'll stick your name down; and if ever you wish to do me a turn, mind you cut Montague's comb for him to-morrow."
"Well, I can only say," replied Jim, "I am good to have a shy, and will do my best."
Enthroned amongst the chaperons, and keeping a watchful eye upon her flock, Lady Mary so far views their proceedings with much complacency. After two successive dances with Blanche, Lionel Beauchamp has disappeared with that young lady, and though her daughter is no longer under her eye, still Lady Mary feels that events are marching in the right direction. However, it seemed as if Miss Bloxam had retired into the purlieus of the ball-room for the evening, and though, under the circumstances of her disappearance, Lady Mary felt no whit disturbed, about it, yet she thought she should like a cup of tea, and asked Mr. Sartoris to be her escort. But upon arrival at the tea-room, her equanimity was destined to be somewhat upset, for the first sight that met her eyes was Lionel Beauchamp and Sylla Chipchase seated in one of the corners, and apparently engaged in a tolerably pronounced flirtation. Now, in the confusion of the greeting between the Grange party and the rectory people, it had quite escaped Lady Mary that Lionel Beauchamp shook hands like an old acquaintance with Sylla. She had, therefore, no idea that they had met before this evening, and her dismay at finding Mr. Beauchamp improving his opportunities with Miss Sylla, when she had pictured him similarly engaged with Blanche, may be easily imagined. However, crossing over to the culprit, she observed, with a pleasant smile, "Not half a bad ball, Mr. Beauchamp, I think. I can only hope you find it so. I really am quite glad I was persuaded into coming. By the way, what have you done with Blanche? She was dancing with you when I last saw her some half-hour ago."
"Oh, the room was so warm,", replied Lionel, "we came down here to get cool; and then Mr. Cottrell and Miss Sylla joined us; and then Cottrell told Miss Bloxam that it was his dance--or you wanted her--or something, and----" "Left me as a substitute," interrupted Sylla Chipchase.
"Ah, well," said Lady Mary, "if Mr. Cottrell is taking care of her, Blanche is in good hands; I need not trouble myself much about her."
"You make a terrible mistake there, Lady Mary," said Sylla, in accents of mock anguish. "Mr. Cottrell is one of the most dangerous and inconstant of his sex. He made most desperate love last year to me in Suffolk, whispers pretty speeches into my ear the whole of this evening, and then turns me over--consigns me, I believe, is the proper term--to Mr. Beauchamp as if I were a bale of calico!" And the young lady assumed the prettiest attitude of most pitiable resignation.
"I was quite right," thought Lady Mary, as she resumed her cavalier's arm: "it is as I thought; that girl is as practised and brazen a flirt as ever crossed a poor woman's schemes. It was an ill wind that blew her into Fernshire this Easter."
"Come along, Lionel," said Sylla; "remember that here we must not call each other by our Christian names. Fernshire don't understand that we have been brought up together. In Suffolk it's different; but Fernshire will be putting it down as my habit to call all gentlemen by their Christian names, and I certainly don't want that."
"As you like, Syl--I mean, Miss Chipchase," replied Lionel; and with that they made their way to the ball-room, where Jim Bloxam immediately claimed the young lady's hand.
In the course of their dance Jim told his partner all about the programme for the morrow; how it was arranged that they should all drive up to the camp to lunch, look at the games, and either walk or drive back as seemed good to then. Then he confided to her how he was going to enter for the "All Army Cup." "Principally," continued Jim, "to oblige Dick Conyers, who is so extremely anxious to see the conceit taken out of a fellow in the Engineers called Montague."
"And you," said Sylla, who manifested great interest in the affair, "are you really a good runner?"
"Well, no, I can hardly say that--remember that is rather a big thing to say; but I am a bit above the average, and have beaten good fields upon three or four occasions."
"I understand; and what chance do you think you have with this Mr. Montague? Recollect, I mean plunging in gloves unless you assure me it is hopeless."
"Well, if I thought it that," replied Jim, "I shouldn't run, and that's about as much as I can say. I have never seen Montague run, and I don't think either of us can possibly draw an estimate of the other's form; still, the best man in a camp like Rockcliffe must be a pretty good amateur. I can only take for my comfort that Aldershot is bigger, and I proved myself the best man there over a similar distance last year."
"That's good enough for me. You must pardon my getting a little slangy," replied Sylla, laughing; "but, dear me! when we come down to pedestrianism we can't help it. I like your friend Captain Conyers. He is very anxious, you tell me, to see Mr. Montague's colours lowered."
"Yes, I assure you he was quite pathetic in his adjuration to me to do my utmost," rejoined Jim.
"Ah, well, we must hope he will be gratified, and in spite of _Punch's_ wicked comparison of the dismounted dragoon to the goose on the turnpike-road, I shall hope to see the camp champion go down before Todborough to-morrow. But now tell me, how long have you known Lionel Beauchamp?"
"I met him this year in London for the first time."
"What do you think of him?"
"He is a very good fellow as far as I can judge," replied Jim; "very quiet; but you know I have had no opportunity of seeing much of him."
"You never saw him ride, I suppose?"
"No, except in the Row. Does he hunt?"
"Oh, yes, he hunts in his own county," replied Sylla. "You never saw him shoot, I suppose?"
"No, he doesn't attend Hurlingham; that is to say, I mean he doesn't go in for pigeons. But why all these questions, Miss Sylla?"
"Never mind; that's my secret. You may be sure it is intended for your good," laughed his interrogator. "In short, you never saw him ride, shoot, nor do any of those things."
"No," rejoined Jim, much amused; "I never saw him commit himself to rackets, skating, billiards, or any of those things."
"Ah," rejoined Sylla, "I was curious to see how much you knew about him. And now I think I must go and join the rest of them."
Upon arriving at the part of the ball-room in which Lady Mary had taken up her abode, they found most of the elders of the party assembled, and the expediency of a move homewards prominently under discussion.
"Ah, make room for me, please," exclaimed the vivacious young lady, "in that corner next to you, Mr. Cottrell. You have neglected me shamefully the whole of the evening, you know. The sole admirer I can reckon on in all Fernshire, an adorer privileged to say sweet things to me, and whose bounden duty it is never to neglect an opportunity of administering such sugarplums--how dare you treat me so? You abandon me in the tea-room, leaving me to be picked up like any other derelict by the passing stranger. Now, Mr. Cottrell, I should just like to hear what you have got to say in your defence."
"Well, Miss Sylla," rejoined the accused, "I left you under very tolerable protection, and Lady Mary had given me a hint to find Miss Bloxam for her if I could."
"I don't believe a word of it," replied the young lady. "You got rid of me, you know you did, because you felt lazy and unequal to the exigencies of the situation."
Of course Pansey Cottrell knew that this was all fooling; but then, like many other middle-aged gentlemen, he rather liked such fooling with a pretty girl; in fact, was somewhat given to what may be designated as fatherly flirtation.
"I don't think I left you quite so desolate as you make out. I should imagine Beauchamp an eligible cavalier. He comes from your county, so no doubt you know him."
"Yes, Mr. Beauchamp and I have foregathered before to-day."
"Ah, it was provoking," continued Cottrell, "after all the pains I took on your behalf, that Lady Mary, looking upon you as one of her charges, should be so sternly determined to do her duty by you as to penetrate the tea-room and nip such a promising flirtation in the bud."
"Yes," said the girl musingly, "I don't think she was altogether pleased at finding me there. Still, I can't see that Lady Mary's duty extends to us just because we have joined her party."
"Can't you really, Miss Sylla?" replied Cottrell, with a twinkle in his eye and a preternatural solemnity of manner that immediately aroused the young lady's attention. "Don't you know that one of the most important duties of the governors of all communities is to see that the right men are in the right place?"
"I don't understand you," said Sylla.
"To speak more plainly, then, it is the duty of chaperons to see that the right men don't sit out with the wrong ladies."
"Ah," replied Sylla, her eyes dancing with fun, "I think I begin to understand you now. I was the wrong young lady."
"Well," said Cottrell, "I am very much afraid you were. Do you see now why I so basely deserted you and changed partners with Beauchamp? You used to be quick enough in abetting me in such pranks last winter."
"I declare," rejoined Sylla, laughing, "you are the wickedest and most amusing man I ever came across. You dare to tell me that these Bloxam people have the audacity to come poaching on our Suffolk preserves?"
"Oh, I don't say that; still, people are so unscrupulous now-a-days. But I want your help in another little bit of mischief."
"What is it?" rejoined the young lady, with an animation which promised ready assent.
"Do you know Beauchamp well enough to ask him to dance?"
"Yes, certainly; only don't you let them know it at the Grange."
"Not I. The carriages have just been sent for; make him dance with you, and take him out of the way when I signal to you. He came here with Lady Mary and Miss Bloxam in the carriage. When he is not to be found, I shall volunteer to take his place, leaving him to follow and take mine in the break; and shall take care that the fact of his being left dancing with you does not escape Lady Mary's attention."
"Go across and tell Mr. Beauchamp I want him," said Sylla. "I'll take care he is out of the way when wanted."
This little conspiracy was crowned with success; and when the carriage was announced, Lionel Beauchamp was nowhere to be seen.
"It's nonsense waiting for him, Lady Mary," said Mr. Cottrell. "As Miss Bloxam is not dancing, you had better be off at once; I will come with you, and Beauchamp can take my place in the break. What has become of him and Sylla Chipchase, goodness only knows!"
There was nothing for it but to submit to circumstances; and, with a feeling of no little asperity towards that "flirting Suffolk girl," Lady Mary drove home to Todborough.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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4
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THE ROCKCLIFFE GAMES.
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When Lady Mary came to think over the events of the night she found considerable cause for dissatisfaction, but it was as nothing to the further discomfiture awaiting her at the breakfast-table the next morning. Her scheme of seclusion--of a quiet party which, contenting themselves with their own society, should seek for no other amusement than was comprised within the resources of the Grange--had been already rudely broken in upon. And now she was confronted by an arrangement which her son had entered into without consulting her. On entering the breakfast-room she found Jim explaining the programme of the day,--how they were all to lunch at the mess of the --th regiment and witness the athletic sports of Rockcliffe camp.
"Cold collation all over the camp, five o'clock tea, fresh air, fun and flirtation, society and sunshine; if all that does not realize 'a dream of fair women,' well, then, I know nothing about them," were the first words that greeted Lady Mary's ear. Lady Mary Bloxam was no weak vacillating woman--a woman, on the contrary, wont to carry her point, and who contrived to have her own way, perhaps, rather more than most people; but she saw at once that it would be hopeless to stem the tide upon this occasion. With all her guests on a lovely spring day anxious to attend an entertainment not three miles off, what was there to be said? No possible pretext could be devised for preventing them. Why, oh, why had she persuaded that graceless dragoon to leave Aldershot and share the peace and tranquillity of home? She might have remembered how foreign peace and tranquillity were to Jim's mercurial disposition; and then, Lady Mary reflected ruefully, that flirting Suffolk girl was certain to be present at the sports. In her dismay, she for a second thought of taking counsel with Pansey Cottrell as to what it were best to do under the circumstances; but after such festivities as that of the previous night Mr. Cottrell was always invisible to every one save his valet till past midday.
The hierarchy of Olympus had apparently taken the Rockcliffe games under their special protection. A more glorious April day never dawned than the Tuesday appointed for its athletic sports. Here and there a few fleecy clouds flecked the sky, as here and there a snowy patch of canvas dotted the sea. The sun shone forth in all his majesty, and the soft south-west wind just rippled the waters of the treacherous Channel and fluttered the flags with which the huts were decorated. Over every mess-room flew the regimental burgee as a signal that therein was lunch for all comers; while in front of those near the course, flanked on either side by rows of chairs and benches, were pitched marquees for the convenience of those who might desire lighter refreshment. As the Todborough carriages drove up, Captain Conyers and one or two of his brother officers stepped forward to welcome the party, and, as Lady Mary had anticipated, almost the next people to greet them were the Reverend Austin Chipchase, his daughters, and niece.
"Good morning, Mr. Cottrell," said Sylla, with an arch glance at her fellow-conspirator of last night. "May I hope that the sweet sleep that waits on virtuous actions was vouchsafed to you?"
"Thanks, yes," replied that gentleman. "I slept as a good man should. I am afraid some of us were a little over-tired. I regret to say there was a little irritability manifest in my carriage on the way home;" and the twinkle in Cottrell's eyes told Sylla Chipchase that Lady Mary had made due note of her offending.
"You have heard of course that Captain Bloxam means trying for the 'All Army Cup.' Great excitement it will be for us, will it not? We are all bound to bet recklessly upon the Todborough champion. I should like to see this Mr. Montague. I must get Captain Conyers to point him out to me. But, ah, look! here they come!" and as she spoke the girl pointed to some half-score figures who, clad in gaily-coloured jerseys, came racing down over six flights of hurdles. The leading three or four were well together till they cleared the last hurdle save one; but immediately they were over that, a pink jersey shot to the front, left his antagonists apparently without an effort, and, clearing the last hurdle in excellent style, ran in an easy winner by some half-score yards, amid tumultous cheering.
"Oh, do find out what this is all about; who won that? what was it? Ah, Captain Braybrooke, please come here and explain all this to me. Why are they cheering?"
"That was the two hundred yard race over hurdles, Miss Chipchase. They are cheering the winner, Mr. Montague, our opponent, you know. It seems ever since Jim's name appeared in the 'All Army Cup' this morning, excitement has run high; you see, of course they know that Jim won the quarter of a mile race at Aldershot last year. It becomes a case of Rockcliffe _versus_ Aldershot, and of course all the sympathies of Rockcliffe are with their own champion. I don't think, Miss Chipchase, they will throw things at us; but you mustn't expect Jim's victory to be received with enthusiasm. It's great fun to see the excitement his appearance in the lists has occasioned. It was looked upon as a foregone conclusion for Montague before; and though he is still favourite, they know now that he has not got it all his own way."
"Thank you so much," said Sylla, in her most dulcet tones. "And now, Captain Braybrooke, I want you to do me a great favour. It's of no use denying it, but I am an arrant gambler at heart; I must and will have a gamble on this. Will you please put five pounds for me on Captain Bloxam?" and as she spoke Sylla saw with infinite satisfaction that she had Lady Mary for an auditor.
"Certainly, Miss Chipchase," replied Braybrooke. "There can be no manner of difficulty about that. I have backed Jim myself, and you can stand in that much with my bets."
"Once more, thank you," replied Sylla; "and pray let Captain Bloxam know that the fortunes of all Todborough depend upon his exertions."
But Sylla made a great mistake if she thought that her making a bet on the result of this race would shock Lady Mary. The Ladies Ditchin had known what it was as girls to lose their quarter's allowance over one of their father's unlucky favourites for a big race; and Lady Mary all her life had been far too accustomed to regard backing an opinion as the strongest proof of sincere belief in it to feel in the least shocked at anybody holding similar views. She had indeed told her husband, as soon as the fact of her son being entered for this race came to her knowledge, that she must have her usual wager of ten pounds on the result. All the sporting instinct of her nature had been aroused, and Jim's entering the lists against the Rockcliffe champion had gone far to reconcile her to such an infringement of her programme as was involved in their attending the Rockcliffe games.
"Your brother is a good runner, I presume, Miss Bloxam?" inquired Lionel Beauchamp, who was sitting with Blanche on the other side of the marquee.
"Yes, Jim is fast and has won several 'gentlemen's' races. I don't want to brag, Mr. Beauchamp, but we Bloxams are all pretty good at those sort of things, and of course that's all as it should be with my brothers; but with us girls I don't know that it works quite so well. We can all dance, but we can none of us draw. We all play lawn tennis pretty well, but we can't play the piano; can all ride an awkward horse, but can neither sing a note in Italian nor any other language. And you--are you fond of any of these things? It is so difficult to tell what a man likes in London."
"Yes," rejoined Beauchamp, "in the London world we are wont to rave about matters we really don't care a rush about, to affect aesthetic tastes which we have not got, and the pretension to which entraps us into much foolish speaking. We go to all sorts of entertainments we don't care about, simply because other people go. You must not betray me, Miss Bloxam, but I declare I think one passes no pleasanter afternoon in London than when witnessing a good match at Lord's with a pleasant party on a warm day."
"Ah, we are all cricketers down here in Fernshire, boys and girls, men and women; we believe we invented the game, and in the old days stood pre-eminent in it. However, we now number so many disciples, and they have profited so much by our teaching that we are like the old man who, "'To teach his grandson draughts then his leisure did employ, Until at last the old man was beaten by the boy.'"
"Well, we must hope the old county is not going to be beaten this afternoon; for I take it your brother represents Fernshire, and Montague England, and the race by all accounts is reduced pretty well to a match between them. But see, there go the competitors!" and Beauchamp pointed to five men who, with overcoats thrown loosely over their flannels, were making their way down to the quarter-mile starting-post.
In spite of their reputation of being swift-footed, Montague and Bloxam found three other competitors bent on testing whether they really were as fast over a quarter of a mile as rumour credited them: men of the stamp always to be found in the army, who do not believe they are to be beaten till they have had actual experience of it, and who are wont to be a little incredulous even then about their conqueror's ability to repeat his victory. As one of these philosophers remarked, "Montague means running in the hurdle race; there is always a possibility of his breaking or straining something in that, and so being _hors de combat_ for the Cup." However, Mr. Montague had won that race without damage to himself, and was evidently perfectly fit to take part in the fray. There is some slight delay at the start, owing to the praiseworthy but mistaken attempts of a gentleman in a dark blue jersey to get off somewhat in advance of his companions--an undue eagerness which, having resulted in his twice jumping off before the word, terminates in his getting two or three yards the worst of the start when the word "go" is finally given. A green and white jersey dashes to the front, and assuming a longish lead, brings them along at a great pace. Next come the all white of Jim Bloxam and the pink of Montague running side by side and eyeing each other closely. They take but little heed of their leader, as they know very well that he can never last the quarter of a mile at the pace that he is going. As they anticipated, the green and white champion is in difficulties before they have travelled half-way, and the two favourites come on side by side. They are as nearly level as possible, but, if anything, the pink jersey has a slight advantage. The conviction is gradually stealing over Jim that his opponent has a little the speed of him; his only chance, he thinks, is that his adversary may not quite "stay" home. The marquee of the --th regiment, of which the Todborough party are the guests, is close to the winning-post, and as the competitors near it the excitement becomes intense. Just opposite it, and not thirty yards from the winning-post, Montague makes his effort, and for a second shows a good yard in advance; but Jim instantly replies to the challenge and partially closes the gap. But it is all of no use:--though he struggles with unflinching pluck he can never quite get up, and the judge's fiat is in favour of the pink jersey by half a yard.
"A terrible result that, Mrs. Sartoris," said Conyers, when the judge's decision was made known: "not only have we lost our money, but there will be no holding Montague at all now he has lowered the colours of the Aldershot champion."
"Well," replied the lady, "I don't think Mr. Montague can crow much over his victory."
"No, indeed!" chimed in Sylla Chipchase; "Captain Bloxam struggled splendidly, and Mr. Montague had nothing in hand if I know anything about it."
"Ah, you don't know the man," replied Conyers. "The closeness of the contest will not prevent his talking very big about his victory."
"Now that reminds me of a serious omission on your part, Captain Conyers; remember we have not yet been introduced to the hero of the hour, and you know what hero-worshippers our sex are."
"That's an omission easily rectified, Miss Chipchase, for here come the two antagonists. And as he spoke Jim and his conqueror came up to the marquee.
"Ah, Miss Sylla," exclaimed the dragoon gaily, "I am afraid I have disappointed all Todborough; I did my level best, but it was of no use. Montague here is just a little too good for me. Allow me to introduce him to you."
"You must not expect very warm congratulations from us Todborough people, Mr. Montague. As you may easily suppose, both our money and our sympathies were with Captain Bloxam."
"That would naturally be the case," replied the young officer; "and I am myself indebted to Bloxam's putting in an appearance for a victory worth winning. I should have beaten my other opponents without much difficulty."
"Yes, indeed," replied Sylla, "we fell into what you military men call the weakness of underrating our opponent. We did not half believe in your prowess, Mr. Montague."
"I can only hope that I have convinced you now," he rejoined, smiling; "and that another time you will range yourself amongst my supporters."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the young lady, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "We are obstinate in our convictions at Todborough, are we not, Lady Mary? We still think we can beat Rockcliffe Camp over a quarter of a mile."
Those around her were listening with no little interest to Sylla Chipchase's _badinage_. Pansey Cottrell, who knew the girl better than the others, felt pretty sure, from the mischief dancing in her eyes, that this was not mere idle talk, and awaited the disclosure of her design with considerable curiosity; while Lady Mary, although putting Sylla down as the most audacious little piece of sauciness she had ever come across, showed no little admiration for the stanchness with which the girl stood to her guns in thus upholding their defeated champion.
"No doubt, Miss Chipchase," replied Montague, "a race is sometimes reversed when run over again, but you must excuse my clinging to the conviction that what I have once done I can also do again."
"Ah, well," replied the young lady, with an air of mock resignation; "I told you Todborough fell into the error of underrating the enemy, and Todborough has paid the penalty of defeat. Had we deemed you so swift of foot, Mr. Montague, we should certainly have entered the best runner we had against you."
Sylla's auditors were now thoroughly nonplussed. What could the girl be driving at? Mr. Cottrell's curiosity was raised to the highest pitch, whilst Jim Bloxam stared at the fair speaker with undisguised astonishment. He most certainly deemed that he was fleeter of foot than any one in Todborough, and, having lived there all his life, Jim was not likely to fall into any mistake on that point.
"With the greatest deference for your opinion," rejoined Montague, "I think, perhaps, we men are better judges on that point than you can be, Miss Chipchase. I think, if you ask Bloxam, he will tell you that he not only can beat everybody at Todborough, but, with the exception of professionals, can dispose of most men that he comes across."
"That is so like you lords of the creation," replied Sylla, with a wicked little laugh; "you never will allow that we know anything about sporting affairs; and yet I have heard my father say that the best judge of racing he ever knew was a woman, and I am sure some of us take the best of you to keep with us in the hunting-field. I have no doubt that Captain Bloxam thinks, as you do, that there is nobody that can beat him at Todborough."
"I most undoubtedly don't know it if there is," interposed Jim.
"And yet, Mr. Montague," continued Sylla, "if you had not run such a severe race to-day, I would challenge you to beat my champion over the same course."
"Oh, pray don't let that be any consideration," replied Montague, now somewhat nettled. He had felt no little elated at defeating Bloxam, and did not relish any disparagement of his victory. "Running a quarter-mile race," he continued, "does not place one _hors de combat_ for the afternoon."
"Ah, well," cried Sylla gaily, "I told you Todborough was stubborn to believe itself beaten. If you dare, I'll wager my bracelet"--and she touched a very handsome bangle on her wrist--"against the cup you have just won that my champion beats you this afternoon."
"It shall be a match if you wish it. I can merely say I have beaten the only man I considered dangerous, and am afraid of none other. Don't blame me if I rob you of your bracelet; but remember, Miss Chipchase, this match was none of my seeking. However, your champion is on the ground, I presume; perhaps, now, you don't mind naming him."
"Not at all," she replied. "Will somebody please tell Lionel Beauchamp I want him?"
"Lionel Beauchamp!" ejaculated Jim, and then he shook his head; for he regarded Sylla's proceedings now as mere temper.
To the bystanders, of course, the name of Lionel Beauchamp told nothing. He was a stranger to all except the Todborough party. His name had never been heard of in connection with athletic sports in any way. Lionel Beauchamp, in fact, was a young man who, what between taking a degree at Oxford and foreign travel, had scarcely is yet been either seen or heard of in the London world. He was known only in his own country as one of those quiet reserved dispositions little given to vaunt their accomplishments. Both Braybrooke and Jim Bloxam, having been appealed to by Captain Conyers, said they could form no idea whatever of his capabilities. They had never heard him say a word about running; and if he ever had done anything in that way, it was odd that he had never mentioned it in the smoking-room last night, when, in consequence of Jim's entry for the "All Army Cup," discussion had run high concerning such things. Lady Mary, on her part, was lost in conjecture--not so much as to whether Mr. Beauchamp could run, but as to where Sylla Chipchase could have attained such intimate knowledge of his accomplishments; while Mr. Cottrell alone showed faith in this unknown champion, observing cynically to Mrs. Sartoris, that when women went the length of wagering their bracelets, he thought it most advisable to be upon their side.
"They really must know they have an immense deal the best of it when they do that, depend upon it." Further speculation on the match was here interrupted by the appearance of Lionel Beauchamp, whom Mr. Sartoris had duly fetched from the other side of the marquee, where he had discovered him--what Lady Mary would have called--profitably employing himself by the side of Miss Bloxam.
"Oh, Lionel!" exclaimed Sylla, and to Mr. Cottrell's intense amusement she stole a glance at Lady Mary to see how she liked this familiar address, "I have sent for you to preserve me from the fruits of my rashness. If you don't beat Mr. Montague for me over a quarter of a mile, I shall have to go home without my bracelet."
"But I am sure," interrupted Beauchamp, "that Mr. Montague has no wish to hold you to so foolish a wager."
"Certainly not," interposed Montague; "I have no wish whatever to press it. The match, I assure you, is of Miss Chipchase's making, not mine."
"Ah, well, then," exclaimed Sylla, "perhaps it is my obstinacy, not my rashness. I can be obstinate, you know, Lionel; but you will run for me all the same, won't you?"
"I think it a very foolish wager," he replied, "and that you will probably lose your bracelet; but I cannot say no if you insist upon it, and must only do my best."
"You must run," she replied, quickly. "I could not be so cowardly as to 'cry off' now. You _must_ run, and you _will_ win, I feel. Nobody here believes it but me; but I know it." Then, leaning towards him, she said, with a light laugh, and in tones so low that the others could not overhear her words, "Lose if you dare, sir!"
Blanche Bloxam, who had come up with Mr. Sartoris and Beauchamp, was no better pleased than her mother at hearing her late cavalier so familiarly addressed by such an extremely pretty girl as Sylla Chipchase. As for Lionel, he turned away in a quiet matter-of-fact manner, and said, "I suppose somebody here can lend me a pair of shoes; and as soon as I have fitted myself out with those, I am at your disposal, Mr. Montague, whenever you like."
Any amount of cricket and racket-shoes were speedily placed at Beauchamp's disposal; and Montague having said that he should be prepared to try conclusions with the new-comer in half an hour, the match at once became the subject of animated discussion. But if the Engineer had been favourite before, he was still more so now. With all the _prestige_ of having beaten the Aldershot champion, it was but natural that the camp should proffer liberal odds on their "crack" against an unknown man, and the stanchest adherents of Todborough stood aloof, with the exception of Mr. Cottrel, and his faith, to speak correctly, was the result of his belief in Sylla Chipchase.
"Won't you wish me luck, Miss Bloxam?" said Lionel, quietly, as the bugle summoned the competitors in the match to the starting-post.
"Certainly, with all my heart," rejoined Blanche. "All our sympathies are of course with you. But do you think you can win?"
"I really don't know. If it was only a mile, Montague would find me troublesome to get rid of; but this is hardly far enough for me."
The "novice," as the camp with much promptitude christened him, was keenly scanned when, having divested himself of his coat, he appeared at the post. A slight, dark, wiry young fellow, with a terrible wear-and-tear look about him that should make an antagonist judge him difficult to dispose of in a struggle of any duration. There was no delay this time about the start; for the two jumped off at the first attempt, Montague having decidedly somewhat the best of it. By the time they had gone a hundred yards the Engineer felt sure that he had the speed of his opponent, and then, sad to say for his supporters, he fell into the very error which Sylla Chipchase had so deprecated, viz., holding his antagonist too cheap. Mr. Montague's vanity had been considerably wounded by that young lady's disbelief in his prowess. She had contrived, as she had most assuredly intended, to irritate him by her persistent scepticism as to his being the swift-footed Achilles he so loved to pose as. He determined to show her and all other unbelievers what he could really do. He would make a veritable exhibition of his antagonist. He would cut him down and run clean away from him. Fired with this idea, he shot well to the front, and came along the next hundred yards at a great pace, and a shout went up from the marquees near the winning-post of "Montague wins anyhow!" But we all know what comes of the attempt to astonish the gallery. Although the Engineer had undoubtedly established a strong lead, yet his wiry foe, running well within himself, hung persistently on his track, and was a long way from beaten off. During the next hundred yards it was palpable that Beauchamp was slowly but steadily diminishing the gap between them, and thence up to the marquees he closed rapidly on his leader. Thirty yards from the winning-post Lionel made his effort, fairly collared his antagonist about ten yards from home, and, leaving him without an effort, won a good race by a couple of yards. Whether the result would have been different had Mr. Montague held his opponent in higher esteem, as in all such cases, it is impossible to determine; but there can be no doubt that the ostentatious victory he aspired to made Lionel Beauchamp's task considerably more easy.
Gratulations and condolences welcomed the victor and vanquished as they walked slowly back to the marquees; but it was with somewhat of a crestfallen air that Montague advanced to present Sylla with the cup that she had won. He feared that she would be merciless in this her hour of triumph, and dreaded the banter to which he might be subjected. But Sylla knew well the virtue of moderation, and was, besides, far too pleased with her success to be hard upon any one.
"No, no, Mr. Montague!" she exclaimed, with the sunniest of smiles; "I cannot take it; I cannot, indeed. I am not entitled to it, for my champion is not even a soldier. I know without Lionel telling me that I have been very lucky to save my bracelet. I am well content to leave my cup in your hands, for I feel quite sure that you will keep it for me against all comers."
But if Sylla Chipchase was content, Lady Mary Bloxam was very much the reverse. Mr. Beauchamp's victory had gratified her, it was true; but then how came this sparkling brunette not only to call him "Lionel," but apparently to know all his habits and capabilities? She felt, too, exceedingly wroth at the manner in which Sylla had unexpectedly usurped the position of queen of the revels, and again determined that she would see as little as possible of the Chipchase girls as long as their cousin was with them.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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5
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AN EXCURSION TO TROTBURY.
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That there is nothing succeeds like success, is an axiom most profoundly believed in by women. The sex have a natural tendency to hero-worship, and can you but snatch the laurel-leaf, you will ever count plenty of admirers among them. In the drawing-room at Todborough that evening the victor of the afternoon was quite the hero of the occasion; but we may be sure that in the course of the conversation the race provoked, Lady Mary did not neglect to ascertain how it was that Lionel had become on such a familiar footing with Sylla Chipchase. That young lady having dropped the mask, of course Beauchamp made no mystery of the fact that they lived close to each other and had been friends from childhood. Lady Mary was by no means gratified by this discovery. She foresaw that Lionel must necessarily be thrown much into the society of one whom, with all her prejudice, she could not but admit was a most attractive girl; and she reflected that young men at times discover that the little-thought-of playmates of their childhood have grown up wondrous fair to look upon. Blanche's curiosity, too, was also much exercised on this subject, and young ladies, in their own artless fashion, can cross-examine in such cases as adroitly as a Queen's Counsel. On one point there was much unanimity, namely, that it was a great triumph for the Grange, and most satisfactory that Jim Bloxam's defeat should have been so speedily avenged.
In the tobacco parliament, held as usual after the ladies had retired, the race was again discussed, but from its more professional aspect.
"In these hard times," exclaimed Jim, "we cannot allow such a formidable amateur to be idle. We shall have to christen you the 'Suffolk Stag,' Beauchamp, enter you at Lillie Bridge, and keep on matching you at the Orleans Club, Hurlingham, and in the vicinity of the metropolis generally. There is only one thing puzzles me: while we were all talking pedestrianism the other evening, you never gave us a hint of your powers. You and Miss Sylla could not surely have already arranged the successful coup of this afternoon?"
Pansey Cottrell listened somewhat curiously for Lionel's reply. He did not think exactly that the pair were confederates, but he most assuredly suspected that the little comedy had been most deliberately planned by the young lady, though not perhaps intended to have been played had Jim Bloxam proved successful; but he called to mind the dexterity with which she had led up to the wager, and thought of the many rash bets which he had seen the esquires of fair women goaded into by their charges at Sandown, Ascot, and the like.
"Certainly not," replied Beauchamp, "I knew nothing about it till I was called upon to run. If I had, I should have protested strongly; but it was too late when I was consulted--there was nothing for it but to save her bracelet if I could."
"Well, all I can say," returned Jim, "is that the lady is a much better judge of your capabilities than you are yourself; though how she got her knowledge I own I am at a loss to determine."
"Well," said Lionel, as he ejected a thin cloud of smoke from his lips, "I can explain that to you. I was the quickest in my time at Harrow, and Sylla Chipchase knows that, as well as that when I was out in North America after the big game I could hold my own with any of the Indian hunters of our party; but I never contended against any amateur runners at home here. I should think, Bloxam, your opinion is the same as my own about this afternoon. Montague would, I fancy, have beaten me if he hadn't tried to cut me down; over double the distance I have no doubt I should always beat him."
"It might have made a difference," returned Jim; "but I should back you all the same if it were to be run over again."
"By the way, Bloxam," observed Mr. Sartoris, as he busied himself in opening a bottle of seltzer-water, "now I am down here I must see Trotbury Cathedral. I suppose it's easy enough to slip over by rail from Commonstone."
"Oh dear, yes," replied Jim; "but hang it, that's an idea! We'll do ever so much better than that, we'll organize a big ride-and-drive party there; as many of us as can will ride, and the remainder must travel on wheels. We will have every available horse out of the stables to-morrow, go over to Trotbury, lunch at "The Sweet Waters," do the cathedral and place generally in the afternoon, and get back in time for dinner. It'll make a capital day,--suit everybody down to the ground."
"That would be very charming, and it is extremely good of you to suggest it; but, my dear Bloxam, I didn't quite mean that. Lady Mary has very likely made other arrangements, and of course I don't want to interfere with those. I can slip over by myself----" "Oh, fiddle-de-dee!" interposed Jim. "My mother will be only too glad to hear that we have hit off our day's diversion."
"Yes," observed Mr. Cottrell, in a meditative manner; "I have known Lady Mary for many years, and that is her great charm as a hostess. She is always anxious that her guests should amuse themselves after their own fashion. Too many of our entertainers, alas! will insist upon it we shall amuse ourselves in theirs."
Jim Bloxam looked sharply at the speaker as he lit his bed-room candle. Jim had a shrewd idea that Mr. Cottrell at times laughed a little at his friends as well as with them.
"Cottrell is right, however," he said. "It's time to go to bed. After dancing all last night and running races this afternoon, Beauchamp, like myself, feels no doubt fit for it."
When Mr. Cottrell reached his bed-room, he took two or three turns up and down the floor in a somewhat preoccupied manner. At length a faint smile played about his mouth, and muttering to himself, "I will!" he seated himself at the writing-table, rapidly penned a short note, addressed it, and then sought his pillow in the tranquil frame of mind that befits a man who has planned a pleasant surprise for his fellow-creatures. When his valet brought him his cup of tea the next morning at nine, Mr. Cottrell briefly informed him that there was a note on the table for the rectory.
"If you don't know where it is, Smithson," he continued, "inquire quietly. Take it at once; there is no answer; and no tattling about where you have been, mind."
Smithson vanished silently, though aggrieved. He did feel that the latter injunction to such a model of discretion as himself amounted almost to an insult. A very paragon of valets was Smithson--could be relied on to be mute as a fish concerning his master's doings, unless paid to be otherwise, when he of course held to the accepted traditions of his class.
After a previous conference with the stable authorities, Jim Bloxam at breakfast proposed the Trotbury expedition. Lady Mary listened to the proposed excursion at first with some misgivings. She expected to hear it announced that the Chipchase girls had been already asked to join the party. They had been thus invited so often before, that they would have been quite justified in themselves proposing to do so on hearing such an expedition was in contemplation; but no, neither from Blanche nor Jim came a hint of such being the case; and then Lady Mary expressed most unqualified approval of the idea. It was settled that they should start punctually at twelve; and as Mr. Cottrell had not as yet made his appearance, Lady Mary very thoughtfully sent a message up to his room to inform him of what was in contemplation. The breakfast party had nearly all dispersed, even the late comers had thrown their napkins on the table, and yet the hostess, usually one of the first to bustle off upon her own private affairs, still lingered over the _Morning Post_.
"Come, mother," said Jim, suddenly putting his head into the room, "if you have finished. I want you to help me to tell people off. The governor is not coming; so that leaves his hack at our disposal. I thought if we gave that to Sartoris, Beauchamp and myself can take the hunters, Blanche has her own horse, and the rest of you can go quite comfortably in the break. I told them to take the hood off. And as for Braybrooke, he is going over to Rockcliffe to see some chum of his who is quartered there."
"I have no doubt, my dear Jim, that will all do very well," replied Lady Mary. "I don't think I shall go myself; and Mrs. Evesham is also, I fancy, of my way of thinking."
"All right, then; I shall consider that as settled;" and with that observation Jim left his mother once more in the undisturbed enjoyment of her paper.
But whether the proceedings of her Majesty's Government, or whether the denunciation of her Majesty's Opposition, were not to her liking; or whether the perusal of the Court news had disturbed her serenity; whether it was that the latest discovery in tenors was reported stricken with sore throat that grieved her; or whether it was the last atrocity in crime that made her flesh creep and so disquieted her, it was impossible to say; but that Lady Mary fidgeted considerably over her journal was a fact past dispute. A looker-on, had there been one, would have noticed that her eye frequently wandered from the page to the door; and as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven, she rose from her chair with a petulant gesture and walked towards the window. A few minutes more, and her patience was rewarded: Pansey Cottrell strolled into the room, and rang lazily for some fresh tea.
"You're shamefully late, Pansey; you always are, I know," she said, as she advanced with outstretched hand to greet him. "But it was too bad of you to be so when I am so particularly anxious to talk to you."
"My dear Lady Mary, why did you not send me word upstairs? You know my usual habits; but you know also that I break them without hesitation whenever I can be of service to a lady, or even gratify her caprice."
Lady Mary laughed, as she said, "I know better than to exact such a tremendous sacrifice." She was perfectly well aware that Cottrell, blandly as he might talk, never submitted to the faintest interference with what he termed his natural hours. "You are in my confidence," she continued, "and have seen how circumstances combined against me. Who could have dreamt those Chipchase girls had such a provokingly pretty cousin? They had never even mentioned her very existence."
"Yes, it is awkward," replied Cottrell slowly, "a Miss Chipchase turning up who is dangerous--decidedly dangerous."
"Yes; and the rector's daughters have always been so intimate with us all that it is difficult to keep them at a distance--in fact, since they amalgamated with our party at that dreadful ball, impossible. Tell me, what do you think of this Sylla Chipchase? You met her down in Suffolk. She is just the saucy chit men go wild about, I suppose?"
"Well," replied Cottrell, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes, "there is no real harm in the girl; but she'd flirt with a bishop if she sat next to him at dinner. And as for men going wild about her, we had two or three very pretty women at Hogden's last year; and the manner in which some of those fellows wavered in their allegiance was positively shameful."
"Men always _do_ make such fools of themselves about girls of that sort," said Lady Mary, with no little asperity. "Tell me, did you notice anything between them?"
"Between whom?" replied Cottrell languidly, and with an expression of such utter ignorance of her meaning in his face as did infinite credit to his histrionic powers.
"Between her and Mr. Beauchamp, of course," said Lady Mary sharply.
"Beauchamp wasn't there," replied Cottrell. "I never saw him till I met him in this house."
"And what do you think about it now?"
"Two things," replied Cottrell, smiling, "both of which are calculated to give you comfort. First, people brought up together don't often fall in love; seeing too much of each other is probably an excellent antidote to that complaint. Secondly, that he seems very much devoted to Miss Bloxam at present."
"Well, I hope you are right," said Lady Mary. "It would really be a very nice thing for Blanche. At all events, we are out of the Chipchase girls for to-day." And, so saying, she rose somewhat comforted, little aware, poor woman, that another ringer was meddling with the ropes.
But now the party began to muster in the front hall. Lady Mary observed with maternal complacency that Blanche was looking her best and brightest in one of Creed's masterpieces. Jim was fidgeting about, all impatience, and, throwing open the dining-room door, called out, "You really have time for no more breakfast, Cottrell, if you are coming with us. You must put off further satisfying of your hunger until we arrive at 'The Sweet Waters' at Trotbury. The horses will be round directly. Ah, here they are!"
And as he spoke, the sound of hoofs was heard on the gravel outside, speedily followed by a peal on the bell; and Mr. Cottrell emerged from the dining-room just in time to see Jim open the hall door to Laura Chipchase, attired in hat and habit, with Miss Sylla mounted and holding her cousin's horse in the background.
Mr. Cottrell contemplated the tableau with all the exultation of a successful artist; and as for Lady Mary, her heart sank within her as the conviction crossed her mind she was destined never to be quit of that "Suffolk girl."
"Admirable, Laura!" exclaimed Jim, as he shook hands. "What happy chance inspired you to turn up all ready for riding? We are just off to lunch at Trotbury, and of course you and Miss Sylla will join us."
"That will be charming," replied Miss Chipchase. "Sylla was wild for a ride this morning; so she and I came over to see if any of you are in the same mood;" and then the young lady passed on to greet the rest of the party.
Lady Mary, sad to say, received this statement with the utmost incredulity, and mentally arraigned her own offspring of duplicity; but whether Jim or Blanche was the traitor she could not determine. Could she but have peeped over Sylla Chipchase's shoulder as that laughter-loving damsel read Pansey Cottrell's note, she would have been both enlightened and astonished.
"DEAR MISS SYLLA," it ran, "I cannot recollect the name of the French song that you told me would just suit Mrs. Wriothesley. Please send it me. We are all going over to-morrow to lunch at Trotbury; some on horseback, and some upon wheels. You should join the riding party if you can, as it will be doubtless pleasant; and though I am not empowered to say so, Lady Mary will of course be delighted to see you."
"Song!" muttered Miss Sylla, as she read this note, "I never said anything to him about a French song; but, ah--stop--I think I see it now!" and she ran through the note again, and as she finished it, broke into a merry laugh. "What a dear, clever, mischievous old man he is!" she muttered. "Of course he means that I am to join that riding party and make Lady Mary a little uncomfortable. Well, she really does deserve it. How dare she pretend that I am setting my cap at Lionel? Such a designing matron deserves some slight punishment, and she little knows what Mr. Cottrell and I can do when we combine together to avenge ourselves."
When she descended to the breakfast-room, Sylla found no difficulty in persuading her cousin Laura to go for a ride. It was of course easy to suggest Trotbury. Then it was agreed they might as well look in at the Grange on the way, to see if they could persuade any of the party there to join them in such an expedition; and thus Sylla Chipchase successfully carried out Mr. Cottrell's design, without making mention to any one of the note that she had received from him.
The merry party were soon started. The Misses Evesham, Mrs. Sartoris, and Pansey Cottrell in the carriage--the reduced number of those electing to travel on wheels sparing the latter the indignity of the "break"--the remainder were of course upon horseback; and as Lady Mary looked after them, admiring the firm seat of her daughter sitting squarely and well back in her saddle, she wondered whether the "Suffolk chit," as she persistently termed her, could ride.
"That's a very good-looking one you are riding, Miss Bloxam, and up to a stone or two more than your weight, as a lady's horse always should be."
"I don't know about that," replied Blanche, laughing. "I am tall, and by no means of the thread-paper order. King Cole," she continued. leaning forward to pat the glossy neck of her black favourite, "would probably tell you he found me quite enough on his back, could he be consulted. He is as good, too, as he is handsome, as I shall perhaps have an opportunity of showing you to-day."
"How so?" inquired Beauchamp.
"Well, we very often on these excursions to Trotbury ride there quietly, and then lark home. There is a lovely piece of galloping ground over Tapton Downs, and a charming cut across country this side of it, by which we can save nearly a mile."
"That'll be great fun," replied Beauchamp, "and I advocate strongly such a saving of distance on our homeward journey. This is one of your father's hunters I am riding, is it not?"
"Yes, and a grand jumper he is too: accustomed to papa's weight, carrying you will be quite play to him."
Arrived at Trotbury, the first thing, as Jim remarked, was obviously to order lunch at "The Sweet Waters;" fortified with which they could then proceed to do the cathedral, and spend as much time as seemed good to them over that noble pile.
"There are all sorts of tombs and chapels to see," continued Jim, "with more than an average crop of historical legends concerning them; and the vergers have all the characteristics of that class: once upset them in their parrot-like description, and they flounder about in most comical manner. The last time I was here they showed me the tomb of St. Gengulphus, with an effigy of that eminent clergyman--considerably damaged about the nose--in stone, on the top. I appealed to the verger gravely to know if it was considered a good likeness. He was staggered for a moment, and then replied hurriedly that it was. But, thank goodness, here comes the lunch. I feel as hungry as an unsuccessful hawk."
"Too bad of you, too bad, Mr. Cottrell," exclaimed Sylla Chipchase; "you were not one of the riding party, and so I have had no opportunity as yet of rebuking you for your forgetfulness: you had no business to forget the name of that French song I told you to recommend to my aunt."
"Allow me to observe, Miss Sylla, that I don't consider I deserve much rebuke on the subject. I quite remembered your message to Mrs. Wriothesley; it was only the name of the song that escaped my memory."
"Is Mrs. Wriothesley an aunt of yours?" inquired Blanche, with no little curiosity; "we know her, and often meet her in town."
"Yes; isn't she charming? I am going up to stay with her as soon as the Easter holidays are over; we shall no doubt meet often."
Blanche said no more, but pondered for a minute or two over this little bit of intelligence. She did not understand why, but she was quite certain that her mother disliked Sylla Chipchase, and was conscious of being not quite in accord with that young lady herself. She knew, moreover, that if there was one person that Lady Mary detested in all her London circle, it was this very Mrs. Wriothesley.
But luncheon is finished, and the whole party proceed to view the cathedral. Pansey Cottrell, however, was not to be got beyond the threshold: he protested that he had too small a mind for so great a subject, and declared his intention of solacing himself with a cigar outside for the temporary absence of the ladies, which was, as Miss Sylla informed him, a mere pandering to the coarser instincts of his nature, whatever he might choose to call it. With the exception of Mr. Sartoris, it may be doubted whether any of the party paid much attention to what they were shown. The principal effect on Blanche's mind was a hazy conviction that Sylla Chipchase was a somewhat disagreeable girl. She considered that the familiar way in which that young lady addressed Lionel Beauchamp, to say the least of it, was in very bad taste.
But these irreverent pilgrims at last brought their inspection of the famous shrine to a conclusion, having displayed on the whole, perhaps, no more want of veneration than is usually shown by such sightseers, and, picking up the philosophic Cottrell in the close, wended their way once more back to "The Sweet Waters."
"Don't you think Lady Mary was enraptured to see me this morning, Mr. Cottrell?" inquired Sylla Chipchase, as they lingered for a minute or two behind the rest.
"Quite sure of it," was the reply, and the speaker's keen dark eyes twinkled with fun as he spoke; "and what is more, if my ears do not deceive me, we shall carry back to the Grange a little bit of intelligence that I am quite sure will gladden the heart of our hostess."
"What is that?" inquired Sylla.
"Don't you know? No; how could you possibly, considering that you are only now about to make your _début_ in the London world? You must know, then, that your aunt Mrs. Wriothesley is the object of Lady Mary's particular detestation."
"But how came that about? What was the cause of their quarrel? I am sure my aunt is a very charming woman."
"An assertion that I most cordially endorse, and so would all the men of her acquaintance, and most of the women; but when you come to ladies in society, there are wheels within wheels, you see. Your aunt and Lady Mary have been rivals."
"Nonsense, Mr. Cottrell!" exclaimed Sylla; "why, my aunt is at least fifteen years younger than Lady Mary. She was not only married, but all her children born, before my aunt Mrs. Wriothesley came out."
"True, Miss Sylla; but there are rivalries of many kinds, as you will find as you grow older. I can only repeat what I have said before--Mrs. Wriothesley and Lady Mary have been rivals."
"Please explain," said Sylla in her most coaxing tones.
"No, no," rejoined Cottrell, laughing; "you are quick enough, and can afford to trust to your own ears and your own observation when you reach town."
On again arriving at "The Sweet Waters" Jim ordered tea at once, and the horses in half an hour. The conversation became general around the tea-table, and Jim Bloxam was suddenly moved by one of those strokes of inspiration of which his mother had such wholesome dread.
"Miss Sylla," he explained, "I hear you are a theatrical 'star' of magnitude in your own country; there is Mrs. Sartoris too, well known on the amateur London boards; and there are others amongst us who have figured with more or less success. It would be sinful to waste so much dramatic talent; don't you think so, Blanche? We have not time to get up regular theatricals, but there is no reason we should not do some charades to-morrow evening; don't you all think it would be great fun?"
There was a general chorus of assent from all but Blanche, though Miss Bloxam did not venture upon any protest.
"Then I consider that settled," exclaimed Jim. "You will do the proper thing, Laura; my mother's compliments to your father, and she hopes you will all come up in the evening for charades and an impromptu valse or two in the hall. And now, ladies and gentlemen, to horse, to horse! or else we shall never save the dressing-bell."
"And, Jim," exclaimed Miss Bloxam, as she gathered up her habit, "let's go the cross-country way home."
"Certainly; well thought of, sister mine. It's a lovely evening for a gallop."
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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6
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A SHORT CUT HOME.
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Through the streets of Todborough and on through the environs of the city the gay cavalcade rode decorously and discreetly; but nearing Tapton Downs, the spirits of the party seemed to rise as they encountered the fresh sea-breeze.
"I am sure you must be dying for a good gallop," said Blanche, turning to Sylla Chipchase. "We turn off the main road a little farther on, and then, if you remember, we have lovely turf upon each side of the way. We generally have what Jim calls a 'real scurry' over that."
"I understand--an impromptu race; that will be great fun. But tell me, Miss Bloxam--you know all these horses--have I any chance of beating Lionel?"
"I can hardly say," returned Blanche, laughing. "We have really never tried them in that way I should think old Selim, the horse he is riding, is rather faster than yours."
"Ah; but then, you see, I am much lighter than he is. Lionel, I challenge you to a race as soon as we turn off across the downs. You shall bet me two dozen pair of gloves to one. I always make him do that, you know," she remarked confidentially to Blanche, "in all our battles, whatever they may be at."
"Very well," replied Beauchamp. "Only remember, I shall expect those gloves if I win them; and as I did my best for you yesterday at Rockcliffe, so I intend to do the best for myself now."
"A very sporting match," exclaimed Bloxam. "There's about a mile of capital going over the downs without trespassing. I'll ride forward, and be judge and winning-post, while Sartoris will start you." And so saying, Jim trotted forward.
"Now," exclaimed Blanche, as, quitting the main highway, they turned into the cross-country road that led over the downs towards the sea, "this is where you ought to start from. If one of you will take the turf on the right-hand side, and the other that on the left, and do your best till you come to Jim, we shall all have a splendid gallop, whichever of you wins. You start them, Mr. Sartoris. Let them get a hundred yards in front of us, and then we'll follow as fast as we can."
The antagonists took their places as directed; Mr. Sartoris gave the word "Go!" and away they dashed. Miss Bloxam, sailing away on King Cole in the wake of Sylla Chipchase, scans that young lady's performance with a critical eye. A first-rate horsewoman herself, she was by no means favourably impressed with it. Sylla rides well enough, but her seat is not such as would have been held in high repute in the shires. She also displays a most ladylike tendency on the present occasion to what is technically called ride her horse's head off.
"Two to one!" murmured Blanche; "why, it should be ten to one upon old Selim!" and with that she turned her eyes to ascertain after what fashion old Selim's jockey is conducting himself. But a single glance at Lionel bending slightly forward in his stirrups, with hands low and his horse held firmly by the head, pretty well convinces her that he is a first-flight man to hounds, and probably has appeared in silk on a racecourse. The match terminates as might be anticipated: Sylla, under the laudable impression that she is making her advantage in the weights tell, gallops her luckless mare pretty nearly to a standstill, and Lionel, though winning as he likes, good-naturedly reduces it to a half length, whereby his defeated antagonist lays the flattering unction to her soul that, had he carried a few more pounds, the result would have been the other way.
They jogged soberly along some couple of miles, when Blanche exclaimed gaily, "Who is for the short cut home? 'Let all who love me follow me.'" And, putting King Cole at the small fence that bordered the road, she jumped into the big grass-field on the other side. Lionel Beauchamp and Laura Chipchase followed promptly; but Jim, who was a little in advance, said quietly, "We had better, I think, keep the road, Sartoris. The governor's hack, though admirable in his place, is not quite calculated for the inspection of the agriculture of the neighbourhood."
He said this good-naturedly, solely upon Sylla's account. He had marked the finish of her race with Lionel, and had come to the conclusion that the young lady was not much of a horsewoman. Now this short cut, although over an easy country, did involve the negotiation of two or three good-sized fences, and he thought it just possible that the girl would prefer not being called upon to ride over anything of that sort. Sylla was possessed of a good many accomplishments, but riding across country was not one of them. She had, however, that curious but common desire to excel in that for which she had no aptitude; still, if she possessed no other attribute of a horsewoman, she was undoubtedly gifted with nerve amounting almost to recklessness.
"Oh, no, Captain Bloxam," she exclaimed; "I am sure we can go anywhere that the rest of them do. Don't you think so, Mr. Sartoris?"
Without waiting for a reply, the young lady jumped her horse into the field, and cantered smartly after Blanche and her cousin.
"Well, wilful woman must have her way," Jim said drily. "Come along, Sartoris; the governor's hack can jump well enough if you don't hurry him." And the two men promptly followed their fair leader across the grass.
King Cole enjoyed the scurry across country to the full as much as his mistress, and expressed his pleasure by shaking his head and reaching hard at his bit. Laura Chipchase's horse was also roused by the smart canter at which they were going, and began to pull unpleasantly.
"Let him go, Laura," cried Miss Bloxam; "the King, too, is fidgeting most uncomfortably. A good gallop will take the nonsense out of them."
And with that the two girls quickened their pace, and, going on side by side, led the way at a fair hunting gallop. The first few fences were small, and as she sailed triumphantly over them, Sylla's pulses tingled, and she was fired with the spirit of emulation. Although she was some little distance behind, she resolved to catch and pass the leaders, and with that intent commenced bucketing her mare along in rather merciless fashion. In vain did Jim shout words of warning. She turned a deaf ear to them. Had he not recommended that she should keep the road? Did he think the art of crossing a country was known only to the maidens of Fernshire? She was determined to catch Blanche and her cousin, whatever her escort might urge to the contrary, and saw with infinite satisfaction that she was rapidly closing the gap between them. Jim Bloxam, galloping a little to her left, and watching her closely, has already come to the conclusion that wilful woman will have her fall, and only trusts it may not be serious.
The mare Sylla was riding was a fairly good hunter, and if she would but have left her alone would have carried the girl safely over such obstacles as they had to encounter. But Jim noticed with dismay that Sylla had some indistinct idea of assisting her at her fences, the result of which could only be inevitable grief. The exhilaration of the trio in front, as attested by the wild shout sent back by Lionel Beauchamp as they cleared the first of those bigger fences previously mentioned, put Sylla's blood thoroughly up. Heedless of Jim's "For God's sake, take a pull!" she struck her mare sharply with the whip, and sent her at it as fast as she could lay legs to the ground. The consequence was the mare took off too soon, and the pair landed in the next field somewhat in a heap. Jim was over and off his horse in a minute, and at once came to the discomfited fair's assistance. It is seldom that a lady shows to advantage after a regular "crumpler," the story of Arabella Churchill notwithstanding; nor, for the matter of that, do men either look the better for the process. No real harm having been done, the ludicrous side of the situation generally presents itself; but Sylla was certainly an exception. Although her hat was broken, her habit woefully torn and mud-stained, nobody could have looked at her somewhat flushed face and flashing dark eyes without admitting that she was a very pretty girl even "in ruins."
"No, thanks; I am not in the least hurt, Captain Bloxam," she replied, as Jim helped her to her feet; "but I could cry with vexation. I had set my heart upon catching those two; but now," she continued, with a comical little grimace, "I have got to first catch my mare."
With the assistance of Mr. Sartoris, who, taking Jim's advice, had followed at a more sedate pace, this was soon done; and Sylla, having rectified her toilette as far as circumstances permitted, was once more in the saddle. That she presented a rather dilapidated and woebegone appearance, nobody could be more conscious than herself; but, as a woman always does under such affliction, she put the best face she could upon it.
"I am looking a dreadful guy," she said; "and it is very good of you two not to laugh at me. I dare not even think of my hat, for nobody ever did, nor ever will, succeed in straightening that article into any semblance of its former shape when it has been once stove in. I have only one thing to be thankful for. Do you know what that is?"
"That you are not hurt in any way," replied Jim.
"Hurt!" she rejoined, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders; "I never thought of that. Can you guess, Mr. Sartoris?"
"I think so," he returned, laughing. "You are well pleased that your cousin and Miss Bloxam were well in front."
"Just so," said Sylla. "It is easy to see that you are married, Mr. Sartoris, and can to some extent follow the windings of our feminine minds. _They_ would have laughed, and, under pretence of assistance, called attention," and here the girl looked ruefully down at her rent habit, "to all the weak joints in my armour; and, lastly, they would have done what you won't,--tease me to death about it for the next week."
"Matrimony has inculcated that blindness is wisdom as far as I am concerned," said Sartoris.
"You see, Captain Bloxam, how that ceremony quickens the understanding. But you are very good. I know you think that my fall was my own fault; that if I had listened to your warning it wouldn't have happened; and you remain mute. Laura is a dear good girl; but, in your place, she couldn't have resisted saying, 'Didn't I tell you so?' to save her life."
Jim muttered a courteous and most mendacious disclaimer of Miss Sylla's "grief" being due to disregard of his warning.
The leading trio, in the meanwhile, lost in all the exultation of a good gallop, and in utter ignorance of Sylla Chipchase's fall, kept on without slacking rein till they once more found themselves near the high-road, sweeping round from the point they had left it to this, in an arc, by traversing the chord of which they had saved about a mile; and now, looking round for the remainder of the party, discovered, to their surprise, that they were nowhere in sight.
"They must have gone round by the road!" exclaimed Blanche. "Perhaps your cousin, Laura, is not used to crossing a country."
"That I can't say," replied Miss Chipchase. "Till this Easter I haven't seen her since she was quite a small child; but I must say, from what I know of her, that I am rather surprised she didn't try."
"I think it most probable she has tried," observed Lionel quietly. "Shall I ride back and see what has become of them?"
"No," said Miss Chipchase, "I don't think that is necessary. Jim and Mr. Sartoris will no doubt take every care of her. We had better jump into the road, Blanche, and see if they are coming that way."
But of course there were no signs of the rearguard along the highway; and after a delay of a few minutes the party agreed that Sylla was well taken care of, and they might as well proceed leisurely homewards. The victim of her ambition to "witch the world with noble horsemanship" saw the leaders vanish from her view with much satisfaction. Under Jim Bloxam's guidance, and proceeding quietly over more moderate fences, which, though not the straightest, was perhaps the safest, path to the high-road, they regained it without further accident. It must not be supposed that Sylla's nerves were shaken by her fall. She rode as boldly as at first at everything her Mentor allowed; but she was in a strange country, and compelled, whether she liked it or not, to trust herself to Jim Bloxam's guidance.
"Now," she exclaimed, "you have come very nearly to the end of your responsibilities, Captain Bloxam. You have only, if possible, to smuggle me into the rectory; and remember--I swear you both to secresy."
"I can take you," replied Jim, "by a bridle-path through the wood, which will in all probability insure your reaching the rectory grounds unnoticed; but your getting into the house I must leave to your own ingenuity."
When, in the course of the evening, Jim, in his own impetuous fashion, told that he had asked the Chipchase girls to come up to the Grange the next evening, with a view to charades and an impromptu valse or two, Lady Mary received the intelligence with the calm resignation of a follower of Mahomet. She saw it was hopeless attempting any further to control the march of events.
"No," she murmured confidentially to Mr. Cottrell in the drawing-room, "the Fates are against me. I have done all that woman could, but I cannot contend with destiny. It is sad; but whatever with due forethought I propose, destiny, embodied in the shape of that wretch Jim, persistently thwarts. There is no such thing as instilling the slightest tact into him."
"But, my dear Lady Mary," rejoined Cottrell, whose sense of the humorous was again highly gratified by the outcome of the trip to Trotbury, "I really cannot see that you have any cause for complaint. Things look to me progressing very favourably in the direction you wish."
"My dear Pansey," replied her ladyship, solemnly, "you do not understand these things _quite so well_ as I thought you did. A variety of belles disturbs concentration, and prevents that earnestness of purpose which is so highly desirable."
"I see," rejoined Pansey, laughing. "To revert to the metaphor you used in our conversation some days since, you object to a peal of belles. Your doctrine may be embodied in the formula, I presume, of one belle and one ringer."
"Yes," rejoined her ladyship, smiling, "that about describes it. And now I think it is about bed-time. Jim, my dear," she continued, as she took her bed-room candle, "as you have thought fit to improvise a ball, you had better take care that the young ladies have partners by asking three or four of the officers from Rockcliffe, if they will waive ceremony and come."
"All right," he replied, "I will send over the first thing to-morrow morning;" and from the inflexion of his mother's voice, Jim gathered that his programme for the morrow had, at all events, not met altogether with her approval.
But there were still a few more bitter drops to be squeezed into the cup of Lady Mary's discontent before she laid her head upon her pillow. She had not been ten minutes in her room when there was a tap at the door, and Blanche entered.
"I just looked in, mamma dear, to ask you if you knew that the Chipchases were related to Mrs. Wriothesley?"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Lady Mary; "what can you be dreaming of? Why, I have known Laura and her sister all their lives; and had they been related to that detestable woman, I must have heard of it."
"Well, I can only say that Sylla Chipchase told me to-day at Trotbury that Mrs. Wriothesley was her aunt, and that she was going up to stay with her as soon as the holidays were over."
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Lady Mary, "I might have guessed it; I might have known there was some reason for my instinctive dislike to that girl. That a niece of that horrid woman should turn out as objectionable as herself is only what one might expect."
"But really, mamma dear," expostulated Blanche, "although I don't quite like Sylla Chipchase myself, you cannot say that of her. I know you don't like Mrs. Wriothesley; but she is a very pretty woman, and Jim declares a very pleasant one."
"Don't talk to me of Jim!" cried Lady Mary petulantly. "He is too provoking, and thinks every woman not positively ugly that smiles upon him delightful; but I lose all patience when I speak of Mrs. Wriothesley. Of course it's quite possible for Mrs. Wriothesley to be Sylla's aunt, although no relation to her cousins; and you say this girl is going to stay with her?"
"Yes, for the remainder of the season," rejoined Blanche.
"Upon my word," exclaimed Lady Mary, "I really cannot think what sins I have committed, that such a trial should be laid upon me. Mrs. Wriothesley is bad enough as it is, and hard enough to keep at arms' length; but Mrs. Wriothesley with a pretty girl to chaperon--and I am sorry to own that Sylla is that--a girl, moreover, who has forced her way upon us in the country, will be simply unendurable."
Pansey Cottrell, had he been present at this scene, would most thoroughly have enjoyed it, and even Blanche could not help laughing at her mother's dismay. Lady Mary's was no simulation of despair. She pictured, as Cottrell would have divined, herself and her former foe once more pitted against each other as rivals, and recalled rather bitterly that campaign of four or five years back, when another niece of that lady's successfully carried off an eligible _parti_ that she, Lady Mary, had at that time selected as suitable for her eldest daughter. She had congratulated her antagonist in most orthodox fashion when the engagement was announced; and, though nothing but the most honied words were exchanged between them, Mrs. Wriothesley had contrived to let her see, as a woman always can, that she was quite aware of her disappointment, and thoroughly cognizant that her soft speeches were as dust and ashes in her mouth.
"Well, good night, mamma," said Blanche, breaking in upon her mother's reverie. "Although you don't like Mrs. Wriothesley, I really don't think that need interfere with your slumbers."
"My dear, you don't know her," rejoined Lady Mary, with a vindictive emphasis that sent Blanche laughing out of the room.
Jim Bloxam might have his faults, but no one could charge him with lack of energy. Whatever he busied himself about, Jim did it with all his might. He had--as in these days who has not? --dabbled a little in amateur theatricals; and, whatever his audience might think of his performance, the stage-manager would emphatically testify that he threw himself into the business heart and soul. That he should take counsel with Mrs. Sartoris next morning concerning the proposed charades was only what might have been expected; and then, an unusual thing in a country-house party, a dearth of talent was discovered. Neither Blanche nor the Misses Evesham had ever taken part in anything of the kind, and declared in favour of being lookers-on. Mr. Sartoris promised to assist to the extent of his ability; but neither he nor his wife would accept the responsibility of deciding what they should do, or in fact undertaking the management. The trio seemed rather nonplussed, when Pansey Cottrell, who had taken no part in the discussion, said quietly, "Why don't you go down to the rectory, and talk things over with the young ladies there? Miss Sylla is very clever in that way, I can vouch, having seen her."
"Of course," exclaimed Jim. "How stupid of me not to think of it before! Get your hat, Mrs. Sartoris. We have just nice time to slip across before lunch."
Upon arriving at the rectory, Jim plunged at once _in medias res_.
"We are come across to consult you about what we are to do to-night. Rumour, in the shape of Pansey Cottrell, declares, Miss Sylla, that you are 'immense' in all this sort of thing."
"Mr. Cottrell, as you will soon discover, has been imposing upon you to a great extent," replied Sylla; "but still I shall be glad to be of any use I can."
"Our difficulty is this," interposed Mrs. Sartoris: "when I have acted, it has always been in a regular play. My words have been set down for me, so that of course I knew exactly what I had to say and when to say it; but in charades, Captain Bloxam tells me, I shall have to improvise my words. I have never seen one acted; but that strikes me as dreadfully difficult."
"You are perfectly right, Mrs. Sartoris; it is. And yet people who have serious misgivings about their ability to act a play have no hesitation about taking part in charades. It is wont to result in all the characters wanting to talk together, or else in nobody apparently having anything to say, or in one character being so enamoured with the ease he or she improvises, that the affair resolves itself into a mere monologue. I would venture to suggest that our charades should be merely pantomimic."
"Glorious!" exclaimed Jim. "I vote we place ourselves in Miss Sylla's hands, and elect her manageress. Will you agree, Mrs. Sartoris?"
"Most certainly. The idea sounds excellent, and to leave the originator to carry it out is undoubtedly the best thing we can do."
"Very well, then; if you will give me an hour or two to think out my words, I will explain how they ought to be done."
"If you wouldn't mind coming up to the Grange, we might have a rehearsal this afternoon, rummage up the properties, and all the rest of it," exclaimed Jim, energetically.
"That will do admirably," said Laura Chipchase. "And now, Sylla, the sooner you set that great mind of yours to work, the better."
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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7
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"THE PLAY'S THE THING."
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Todborough Grange rejoiced in what should be the adjunct of every country house--a large unfurnished room. It had been thrown out expressly as a playroom for the children by Cedric Bloxam's father, and as they grew up proved even more useful. Should the house be full and the weather prove wet, what games of battledore and shuttlecock, "bean-bags," &c., were played in it in the daytime, and what a ball-room it made at night! There was no trouble moving out the furniture or taking up the carpet, there being nothing but a few benches and a piano in the room. At one end was a slightly-raised stage, and off that was a tiny chamber, originally known as the toy-room, and pretty well dedicated to the same use now, being stored with properties for cotillons, the aforesaid games, theatrical representations, &c. There was a regular drop-curtain to the stage, but that was all. Scenery there was none. That was fitted in when required, but would have been considered in the way as a permanency, the stage being used at times as an orchestra, at others as a tea-room. It was raised not quite a foot above the floor, and could therefore be easily stepped on to; in fact, upon the few occasions that the Theatre Royal Todborough opened, the entertainment had been confined invariably to one-act farces. At such times it was spoken of with considerable ostentation as a theatre; but as a rule the old appellation was adhered to, and it was generally known as the play-room. It was in this room that the Misses Chipchase found Blanche, Jim, Mr. Cottrell, Lionel Beauchamp, and the Sartorises awaiting their arrival in the afternoon.
"Now, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Jim, "we are all ready for you. We have installed you in command, and hereby promise attention and obedience."
"Honour and obey, Jim," interrupted Blanche, laughing; "but it is the lady who should say it."
"It does sound a little as if he had strayed into the marriage service," observed Cottrell.
"Ladies and gentlemen not intending to assist in this representation are requested to withdraw," retorted Jim, "by order of the stage-manager, James Bloxam."
"Come along, Mr. Cottrell: he has right on his side; the audience have certainly no business at the rehearsals."
And, followed by the younger Miss Chipchase, Cottrell, and Beauchamp, Blanche crossed towards the door. At the threshold they were arrested by Sylla, who exclaimed, "You cannot all go; I must have another gentleman. If Mr. Cottrell won't act, you must, Lionel."
"I had no idea you acted," said Blanche Bloxam, with some little surprise; "you said nothing about it this morning when we were talking this over."
It may have been some slight inflexion of the voice that prompted the deduction; but certain it was that as Pansey Cottrell heard that commonplace little speech, he muttered to himself, "The lady is beginning to take things in earnest, whatever Beauchamp may be."
"I have no idea that I can act," rejoined Lionel, laughing; "but I can stand still in whatever attitude I am placed, and that, I fancy, is all Sylla requires of me. You do not feel any disposition to volunteer, I suppose, Mr. Cottrell?"
"Heaven forbid!" rejoined Mr. Cottrell fervently, "Miss Sylla might want me to stand upon one leg. She will put some of you in most uncomfortable attitudes, just for the fun of the thing, I know."
"Now," said the manageress-elect, as Mr. Cottrell closed the door behind him, "what we have got to do is very simple. I have thought of two words which will each represent in three tableaux. Now, I propose that we arrange these tableaux--six in all--and then, if we run through them a second time, just to be sure we have not forgotten our places, we shall have nothing to do but to talk over any details that may occur to us. First, Mrs. Sartoris, which will you represent, the Lady or the Chambermaid of my charades?"
"Well, if you will allow me, I think I will do the Lady," said Mrs. Sartoris, laughing. "I ought, at all events, to be best in that; but there are three of us. What is Miss Chipchase going to do?"
"Oh, she is the Band," rejoined Sylla. "You see, we must have soft music all the way through these charades; and we want somebody to play for us who knows what we are about, and so can follow us."
"And so," interposed Miss Chipchase, "we have settled that I shall play the piano."
"Very well, Mrs. Sartoris," said Sylla; "then we will consider that settled; you do the Ladies and I do the Chambermaids. Now, gentlemen, you must select your own lines. What will you be, Mr. Sartoris--Walking Gentleman, Low Comedian, or Melodramatic Villain?"
"Oh, Melodramatic Villain," cried Mrs. Sartoris,--"he will be delighted. Tom's theatrical proclivities, shocking to relate, are murderous in the extreme. He is always complaining that he is never entrusted with a real good assassination."
"Then that's settled," exclaimed Sylla. "Captain Bloxam will take the Walking Gentleman, and Lionel can do the Low Comedy part."
Under the young manageress's energetic directions the tableaux were rapidly run through. The little troupe worked with a will, and in something under two hours they pronounced themselves perfect, and predicted, as people always do under these circumstances, that the performance would be a great success.
"Now comes a question," said Jim, "as to scenery, properties, and dresses. There is some little scenery in the granary that has been used before at different times, and of course we have a certain amount of properties. What shall you want, Miss Sylla?" and Jim, taking a sheet of paper and pencil in a very business-like manner, prepared to make notes on the top of the piano.
"For the first charade," said Sylla, "the scenery should be a wood scene, and then we want a lady's bed-chamber. The second charade is simply a drawing-room scene all through. For properties a brace of pistols, a pair of handcuffs, a jewel-box with plenty of bracelets, rings, &c.--we ladies can easily find those amongst us. In the second, nothing but a letter in bold handwriting. As for dresses, Mrs. Sartoris and I can easily manage; and as for you gentlemen, you want nothing but a policeman's dress, a livery, and a low comedy wig."
"No trouble about any of those things, Miss Sylla, unless it's the low comedy wig, and about that I have my doubts. However, Beauchamp must manage the best he can with his own hair if I can't find one. There is only one thing more you forgot to tell us,--what the second word is."
"No forgetfulness at all, Captain Bloxam," replied the young lady, laughing. "I am very curious to see if any of you, or any of the audience, make that word out."
"It's high time we were on our way home," observed Miss Chipchase; "as soon as you have given us a cup of tea, Jim, Sylla, and I will be off."
When the evening came there was really a good sprinkling of visitors to look on or join in whatever entertainment might be provided for them. Jim the energetic, in pursuance of his mother's hints overnight, had not only sent over to the Rockcliffe Camp, but had dispatched missives in all directions by a groom on horseback, with the pithy intimation, "Charades and an impromptu dance this evening at nine. If you have nothing better to do, please come." Jim Bloxam was a popular man in his neighbourhood, and the Grange had a reputation for improvising pleasant entertainments in such fashion. Lady Mary contemplated the forthcoming proceedings with resignation, if not with satisfaction. She had a presentiment that the evening would end unpleasantly for her. She felt certain that Sylla would contrive to pose as its heroine; and that the niece of the woman she most detested in the world should have the opportunity of for once assuming such a position in the house of which she, Lady Mary, was mistress, was exasperating. Pansey Cottrell, too, had contributed not a little to her irritation by dwelling somewhat persistently at dinner on Miss Sylla's dramatic talent. He had done this, dear pleasant creature! simply for his own diversion. He was acting as prompter to a little comedy of real life; and it is ideas, not words, that the prompters on such occasions instil into our minds. As a rule, Pansey Cottrell would have judiciously shirked such an entertainment as the one which he was now with genuine curiosity taking his seat to witness. Neither host nor hostess ever succeeded in persuading him to do what he did not fancy. He would be ill, retire to his own bed-room at the shortest possible notice, would no more make up a fourth at whist, or conduce to the entertainment of his fellows, than volunteer for a turn on the treadmill. If his entertainers troubled him much, he did not come their way again. Of course, they need not ask him unless they liked. But Mr. Cottrell knew society well. Once assure such recognition as he had done, and how obtained matters not an iota: the more unmeasured your insolence to society, the more does society bow down and worship.
"Where's Brummell dished?"
Yes, but it was a mere matter of _L.s.d._ that dished him. That he ever did tell the Prince to ring the bell is unlikely; but society thought him capable of doing so, and reverenced him accordingly.
The bell rings, and the fingers of Laura Chipchase, who has already seated herself at the piano, begin to move dreamily over the keys. She plays well, and a soft weird-like melody attunes the minds of the spectators to what is to follow. Again the bell rings, and as the curtain slowly rises comes the sharp report of a pistol. "Good Heavens! there is some accident," escapes from three or four lips. But the wild ghostly music still falls, without ceasing, from the piano. Slowly the curtain continues to rise, and discovers two men confronting each other after the approved custom of duelling. On the proper stage right stands Mr. Sartoris, with brows bent and sullen scowl upon his lip; the nerveless hand by his side grasps the still-smoking pistol. Opposite, and as far from him as the space will admit, is Bloxam, his right arm upraised, and his hand holding a pistol pointed upwards. In the background stands Beauchamp, in an attitude expressive of intense anxiety. Having reached the ceiling, the curtain slowly commences to descend. As it does so, Bloxam's pistol is discharged in the air, and the performers remain unmovable till once more masked from the view of the spectators.
"A duel!" exclaims Miss Evesham; "what are we to make of that?"
"No, no, that won't do," ejaculates the Squire: "he has missed--missed, don't you see? Can't be quite right; but that's the idea."
"I have it," rejoins Miss Evesham; "you are right, Mr. Bloxam, that is it. It's not missed, but a miss. There are lots of words, you know, begin with 'miss.'"
Some slight delay, during which the soft dreamy music still falters unceasingly from Laura Chipchase's fingers, and then the curtain once more begins to ascend. There is no such sensational effect as a pistol-report to startle the audience this time. The scene represents a lady's dressing-room. In an arm-chair, placed on the stage right opposite the toilette-table on the stage left, attired as a smart lady's-maid, reclines Sylla sound asleep; on the table are scattered bracelets, &c., and also stands an open jewel-case. Mr. Sartoris, got up to represent a dog-stealer, a burglar, or other member of the predatory classes, is in the act of getting in a practicable window at the back of the stage. A dark lantern is in his hand, and his feet are artistically enshrined in india-rubbers. Stealthily, with many melodramatic starts and gestures, and anxious glances at the sleeping girl, he makes his way to the toilette-table, fills his pockets with the glittering gewgaws, then turns to depart, with his plunder, silently as he had come. As he passes the sleeping soubrette, she moves uneasily in her chair. With a ferocious gesture the robber draws from his breast an ominous-looking knife, pauses for a moment, and then, reassured by her tranquillity, makes his way to the window. As he disappears, Mrs. Sartoris, an opera-cloak thrown over her ball-room dress, and carrying a bed-room candle in her hand, enters and crosses to the toilette-table. Placing her candle on the table, she seizes the jewel-box, and, it is evident, becomes cognizant that robbery has been committed. As she turns, Sylla starts from the chair in great confusion; Mrs. Sartoris points to the table, and then with a start notices the open window. The curtain descends upon Mrs. Sartoris pointing in an accusing manner to the window, and Sylla with clasped hands mutely protesting her innocence and ignorance of the robbery.
With the clue afforded by the solution of the first syllable, the audience very soon make out the second; and that the word was either "mistake" or "mistaken" they entertained little doubt. Curiosity now centred on what version they would give of the whole, for that each word was to be rendered in three tableaux had been stated before the performance commenced.
The curtain rises again upon the last scene; and upon this occasion the representation is motionless. In the centre of the stage, Lionel Beauchamp, in the guise of a policeman, is snapping-to the hand-cuffs on the weeping Sylla. On the left, with averted head, stands Mrs. Sartoris, indicating sorrow for the offender, but entire belief in her guilt. On the opposite side, Jim Bloxam, attired in evening costume, is unmistakably directing the officer to remove his prisoner. Slowly the curtain descends amid much acclamation and cries of "Mistake!" In his capacity of stage-manager, Jim Bloxam glides for a moment in front, and, in a few off-hand words to the audience, acknowledges the correctness of their apprehension.
"I give Jim credit for his exertions. That really was most successful," said Lady Mary, as her son disappeared.
"I fancy the success is due more to Miss Sylla than him," rejoined Pansey Cottrell, suavely. "Jim, as we all know, though one of the best of fellows, is the most execrable of actors; and I don't think those tableaux look like his inspiration."
"I am sure he is quite as good as the generality of amateurs," retorted Lady Mary, with no little asperity.
She was no more exempt from the true womanly instinct that prompts the regarding of her own chicks as swans than any of her sex. Mr. Cottrell was much too quick-witted not to see that his criticism was distasteful, but he never could resist the temptation of teasing his fellow-creatures.
"Admitting, for the sake of argument, Lady Mary," he replied, "that Jim is an average actor, when one knows that there is rather exceptional talent in the troupe, one is apt to regard that as the guiding spirit. Sylla Chipchase is very clever at all this sort of thing, I know, because I have seen her on previous occasions."
"You seem to be losing your head about that girl, Pansey, like the rest of them. You all seem to think that she is wonderfully clever because she happened to know that Mr. Beauchamp could run."
"I fancy she knows a good deal more about him than that," replied Mr. Cottrell demurely.
"What do you mean? What have you heard about her?" inquired Lady Mary, somewhat eagerly.
"Nothing, further than she seemed to be equally well aware that he could act. But stop, they are commencing again."
Slowly, as before, the curtain ascends to a dreamy melody of the piano, and discovers Sylla, attired as the smartest of soubrettes, in close juxtaposition to Lionel Beauchamp in a groom's livery. Taking a letter from him, she places it in her bosom, and then looks up at him with all the devilry of coquetry in her eyes. She toys with the corner of her apron, twiddling it backwards and forwards between her fingers. She glances demurely down at her feet, then looks shyly up at him again; then once more studying her apron, she, as if unconsciously, proffers her cheek in a manner too provocative for any man to resist, and as the curtain descends Lionel Beauchamp is apparently about to make the most of his opportunity.
"By Jove!" laughed the Squire, "in Beauchamp's place I think I would have been thoroughly realistic--the proper thing in these days!"
"Well," whispered Lady Mary to Pansey Cottrell, "of all the audacious minxes! Mr. Beauchamp deserves great credit for his discretion in waiting until the curtain fell before he kissed her."
That Lady Mary assumed the ceremony was concluded may be easily imagined, while the audience generally differed considerably about the scene, some of the ladies contending that there was no necessity for carrying dramatic representation quite so far; while the men, on the other hand, thought that Beauchamp did not carry it far enough.
The second scene discovers Mrs. Sartoris in the centre of the stage, with Jim Bloxam on one knee, kissing the hand she extends towards him. On her other side, Mr. Sartoris, made up as an elderly gentleman, with coat thrown very much back, thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat, contemplates the pair with a look of bland satisfaction. Again the curtain descends, leaving the audience more at sea than ever as to what the word can be. Nor is the third scene calculated to throw much enlightenment on the subject. In it Lionel Beauchamp, in his groom's dress, appears to be pantomimically explaining something to the remainder of the company, who are artistically grouped in the centre of the stage, and which shrugs of the shoulders, upraised eyebrows, and other gestures, indicate they either fail to understand, or, it may be, to agree with. But the whole word, like more ambitious dramatic representations, is somehow involved in fog. You cannot help thinking that it must be a good charade if you could only make out what it was about; but when the curtain descends, the audience, instead of at once proclaiming the word, can hardly even make a guess at it. There are cries for the stage-manager; and when Jim Bloxam appears in reply to a laughing call, "The word? the word?" he bows low to the audience, and regrets his inability to comply with their request.
"The distinguished authoress," continued Jim, "has taken none of us into her confidence. She has, I presume, strong opinions on the subject of copyright, and is determined to give no opportunity of its infringement."
Jim's speech created both merriment and curiosity, and was followed by a prompt call of "Author, author!" A few seconds, and then the stage-manager responds by leading Sylla forward in her soubrette dress. Dropping the sauciest of curtsies in acknowledgment of the applause with which she is greeted, she replies in clear distinct tones, "Ladies and gentlemen, you find our word unintelligible. Paradoxical as it may seem, that is precisely the result we have aimed at; and now that I have told you the word, I am sure you will admit our efforts have been successful;" and once more bowing to her audience, Sylla disappeared behind the curtain Jim held back for her.
What can she mean? What do they mean? What is it? What was the word? were questions responded to by the jolly laugh of Cedric Bloxam.
"Can't you see?" he said, "it's all a sell: we found it unintelligible, and that is precisely what we were meant to do--that's the word."
And once more the Squire indulged in a hearty guffaw.
But now the company flock into the drawing-room for tea or other refreshment, while the servants rapidly clear the play-room for dancing. The curtain is pulled up, the stage occupied by a select section of the Commonstone band, and, in something like a quarter of an hour Jim's impromptu dance is in full swing.
"My dear Sylla," exclaimed Lady Mary, as that young lady, leaning upon Bloxam's arm, stopped near her in one of the pauses of the valse, "I have not had an opportunity of congratulating you upon your very spirited pantomime--carried, my dear, a _little_ too far in that last charade."
"Oh, I hope you don't really think so, Lady Mary," cried Sylla; "but you cannot half act a thing. When the exigencies of the stage require one to be embraced, one must admit of that ceremony. Surely if a girl has scruples about going through such a mere form, she had much better decline to act at once."
"That's a question that we will not argue," said Lady Mary. "I hear you are going to stay with Mrs. Wriothesley for the remainder of the London season."
"Yes, she is an aunt of mine; you know her, I believe."
"Very well; we are old friends, although I don't see so much of her as I once did. The London world has got so very big, you see, and Mrs. Wriothesley and I have drifted into different sets."
"Yes," chimed in Pansey Cottrell, who was standing by, "it has got perfectly unendurable. One could calculate at one time upon seeing a good deal of one's friends during the season; now half of them we only come across some once or twice. But surely you and Mrs. Wriothesley see a good deal of each other."
"No, not in these days," rejoined Lady Mary, tartly, much to Mr. Cottrell's amusement.
He knew perfectly well that the two ladies met continually, although there was little cordiality between them. But Lady Mary's last speech showed him she intended to keep Mrs. Wriothesley at arms' length, if possible, for the future; and Pansey Cottrell smiled as he thought that his hostess's schemes would, in all likelihood, be as persistently thwarted in town as they had been in the country.
"Well, I trust that Blanche and I will contrive to see a good bit of each other all the same," replied Sylla courteously. "You know my aunt, Captain Bloxam," she continued, as she moved away. "I should have thought her an easy person to get on with; but I am afraid Lady Mary does not like her."
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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8
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MRS. WRIOTHESLEY.
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When Ralph Wriothesley of the Household Cavalry, better known among his intimates as the "Rip," married pretty Miss Lewson, niece of that worldly and bitter-tongued old Lady Fanshawe, everybody said what a fool he had made of himself. What did he, a man who had already developed a capacity for expenditure much in excess of his income, want with a wife who brought little or no grist to the mill? The world was wrong--as the world very frequently is on such points. It was about the first sensible thing that the "Rip," in the course of his good-humoured, blundering, plunging career, had done. It saved him. Without the check that his clever little wife almost imperceptibly imposed upon him, "Rip" Wriothesley would probably, ere this, have joined the "broken brigade," and vanished from society's ken. As it was, the pretty little house in Hans Place throve merrily; and though people constantly wondered how the Wriothesleys got on, yet the unmistakable fact remained, that season after season they were to be seen everywhere and ruffling it with the best.
The Wriothesleys had advantages for which those who marvelled as to how they managed failed to make due allowance. They were both of good family--in fact, their escutcheons were better to investigate than their banker's account. Both popular in their own way, they were always in request to make up a party for Hurlingham dinners, the Ascot week, or other similar diversion. They did not affect to entertain; but the half-dozen little dinners--strictly limited to eight persons--that they gave in that tiny dining-room in the course of the season were spoken of with enthusiasm by the privileged few who had been bidden. An invitation to Mrs. Wriothesley's occasional little suppers after the play was by no means to be neglected; the two or three _plats_ were always of the best, and the "Rip" took care that Giessler's "Brut" should be unimpeachable. They had both a weakness for race-meetings; but Wriothesley's plunging days were over, and his modest ventures were staked with considerably more discretion than in the times when he bet heavily. The lady was a little bit of a coquette, no doubt; but the most unscrupulous of scandalmongers had never ventured to breathe a word of reproach against Mrs. Wriothesley. A flirting, husband-hunting little minx, she had fallen honestly in love with this big, _blond_, good-humoured Life Guardsman; and, incredible as it might seem to the world she lived in, remained so still. They understood each other marvellously well, those two. The "Rip" regarded his wife as the cleverest woman alive; and, though she most undoubtedly looked upon him in a very different light, nobody more thoroughly appreciated the honest worth of his character than she did. As she once said, to one of her female intimates, of her husband, "He has one great virtue: he is always 'straight,' my dear. The 'Rip' couldn't tell me a lie if he tried."
Mrs. Wriothesley is sitting in her pretty little drawing-room listening to Sylla Chipchase's spirited account of her visit to Todborough Rectory.
"It was great fun," continued the girl. "Lady Mary Bloxam was thoroughly convinced, and no doubt is still, that I was setting my cap at Lionel Beauchamp. She had no idea that we had known each other from childhood; and her face, when I first called him Lionel, would have sent you into fits of laughter."
"But Lady Mary was right about one thing, Sylla. Lionel Beauchamp would be a very nice match for you."
"Don't talk nonsense, mine aunt, or speculate upon the impossible. I couldn't care for Lionel in that way any more than he would care for me. I am only eighteen, and I am sure I need not think about marriage as a speculation for some years yet."
"Well," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, laughing, "I am certainly not entitled to preach worldly wisdom. I was as mercenary, speculative a little animal at your age as you could wish to see; and what came of it? I forgot all my prudent resolutions, fell over head and ears in love, married the 'Rip,' and have been the genteel pauper you see me ever since."
"Consigned to such a poor-house as this," exclaimed Sylla melodramatically, and glancing round at the china and other knicknacks scattered about the room, "methinks that the stings of poverty are not so hard to bear."
"Ah, yes," replied Mrs. Wriothesley; "but then, you see, I meant to have had my country seat, my box at the opera, my two or three carriages, and that _my_ balls should be _the_ balls of the season."
"Now, aunt, I want to ask you one question. Mr. Cottrell told me that you and Lady Mary were once rivals. What did he mean by that?"
"No! Did Pansey tell you that?" laughed Mrs. Wriothesley. "He has a good memory. It's now some six or seven years ago that your cousin, Lady Rosington, then unmarried, was staying with me for the season, Mary Bloxam at that time was trailing that grenadier eldest girl of hers about" (a little bit of feminine exaggeration this, the lady referred to being only half an inch taller than Blanche), "and thought Sir Charles would suit very well for her husband. Unluckily for Mary Bloxam, I thought Sir Charles equally suitable for Jessie, and--well, in short, we won."
"Ah, now I understand; and I suppose you have never been friends since. Lady Mary told me that she saw very little of you in London now."
"That is not quite the case. I think we meet as often as formerly. Friends we never were, but acquaintances we have been for some years. Jim Bloxam, though, is one of my intimates. He is a great friend of both mine and the 'Rip's,' and we see a good deal of him when he is in London; and, indeed," she continued, laughing, "for the matter of that, when he is not; for he has a way of turning up at all places generally when there is anything going on. Indeed, we have half promised to lunch at their regimental tent at Ascot. And you, what do you think of Captain Bloxam?"
"I like him very much indeed," replied Sylla. And she looked her inquisitor so steadily in the face, that Mrs. Wriothesley came promptly to the conclusion that no love passages had taken place between the pair as yet. But it had suddenly shot through the energetic little woman's mind that her favourite, Jim Bloxam, would make a most suitable husband for her niece. Jim was an eldest son, and Todborough, from all accounts, a very respectable property. Yes, it would do very well if it could be brought about, to say nothing of the satisfaction there would be in stealing from her old enemy's flock the only lamb that was worth the taking. All this ran through Mrs. Wriothesley's mind as quick as lightning; and though she said nothing to Sylla on the subject, she had pretty well resolved to do her best to marry those two.
When Mrs. Wriothesley took charge of nieces for the season, she conceived it her clear and bounden duty to provide for them satisfactorily if possible. If Sylla could not be brought to think of Lionel Beauchamp, it might be possible for her to take a more favourable view of Captain Bloxam. True, he was not quite so good a _parti_ as the other; but it was comforting to think that there was every probability that it would occasion her old antagonist equal annoyance. It further struck her that, engrossed in her plans for her daughter, Lady Mary would probably totally overlook any flirtation of her son's. There is a species of fascination in countermining difficult to resist; and, though of course she would have in some measure to be guided by events, Mrs. Wriothesley had pretty well determined upon the course she would pursue.
"What are you thinking about?" inquired Sylla, breaking in upon her aunt's reverie. "They should be pleasant thoughts, judging from the smile on your lips."
"Thinking, my dear, that if we don't get our bonnets on, the world will all have gone home to luncheon before we get to the Row, and it is good for us to get the fresh air of the morning."
A little later, and the two ladies passed into the Park by the Albert Gate, and made their way to the High Change of gossip of fashionable London. A bright fresh spring morning filled the Row to overflowing. It was thronged, as it always is on a fine day after Easter. Fashionable London comes to see who of its acquaintances may be in town; and numberless parties and plans for the future are sketched out on these occasions. As for Mrs. Wriothesley's acquaintance, their name was legion. Everybody seemed to know her; and that she was popular was evident from the numbers who stopped to speak to her. They had not been long installed in their chairs before Sylla perceived Mr. Cottrell lounging towards them, and pointed him out to her aunt.
"Ah," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, "I must signal him as soon as he gets within range. I want to speak to him. I should like to hear his account of your Todborough party."
"Do," replied Sylla, laughing. "He is my fellow-conspirator, remember, though I don't suppose he will confess anything. It's delicious to see the utterly unconscious way in which he will upset people's schemes. I used really at first to think he did it innocently, but I soon discovered it was _malice prepense_."
"Yes, I know Pansey Cottrell very well. He is very mischievous; though not malicious, unless you interfere with his personal comfort; rather given to playing tricks upon his fellow-creatures; but he is more of a Puck than a Mephistopheles. --Good morning, Mr. Cottrell. Pray come and give an account of yourself. Sylla tells me you have been passing Easter with the Bloxams."
"Quite so," replied that gentleman, as he raised his hat. "Miss Sylla and I have been dedicating our poor talents to the amusement of Lady Mary's guests, and to the furtherance of Lady Mary's plans. I am sure she was much delighted at all the dancing and theatricals we inveigled her into. I presume," he continued, turning to Sylla, "that you have seen her since your arrival in town."
"Not yet," returned the girl. "She told me, you know, at Todborough, that she and my aunt moved in somewhat different sets."
"Which is hardly the case, as you know," interrupted Mrs. Wriothesley. "What do you suppose she meant by that?"
"I?" replied Cottrell. "My dear Mrs. Wriothesley, I never pretend to understand what a woman means by doubtful speech of any kind. Our masculine understandings are a great deal too dense to penetrate the subtleties of feminine language. She might mean that she intends your grooves to lie far apart for the future; and then again she might mean something--something--else," continued Mr. Cottrell, rather vaguely.
"So you think Mary Bloxam intends to see as little of me in future as possible?" rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, taking no manner of notice of her companion's last words.
"No; don't say I think so," interrupted Mr. Cottrell. "I told you particularly I could form no conclusion as to what she meant. However, this place is neutral ground, and all the world meets here, or rather would, if it was not so crowded that it is almost impossible to find anybody. But--ah, here comes Lady Mary and _la belle_ Blanche! Shall I stop her, and ask her what she does mean?" And Mr. Cottrell looked so utterly unconscious, that any one who did not know him might have deemed him actually about to put this awkward interrogatory. But the two ladies to whom he was speaking knew him better than that, and only laughed.
Whether Lady Mary intended to pass Mrs. Wriothesley with merely a bow it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that Mr. Cottrell supposed that to be her intention. Prompted by his insatiable passion for teasing his fellow-creatures, he took advantage of his situation, and, turning from Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, placed himself in Lady Mary's way, and stopped her to shake hands. It was only natural that Sylla should jump up to say "How do you do?" to Blanche; and then suddenly occurred to Mrs. Wriothesley the audacious idea of capturing her enemy and bearing her off in triumph to luncheon. She rose, greeted Lady Mary and Blanche warmly, and then strongly urged that they should come home with her to Hans Place when the Park should begin to thin.
"You know, I am close to Prince's, and the Canadians are going to play a match at La Crosse, which is well worth looking on at; such a pretty game. We can go across and have our afternoon tea at the little tables overlooking the cricket-ground. Everybody will be there."
"Mrs. Wriothesley is quite right," interposed Cottrell gravely. "Not to have seen La Crosse played is as grave an omission this season as not to have done the Opera, the Royal Academy, or other of the stereotyped exhibitions. If you can't rave about the 'dexterity of the dear Indians,' you are really not doing your duty to society. They are the last new craze; and admitting that you have not seen them being out of the question, as a lover of veracity I counsel you to do so at once."
We lunch and dine at a good many places that we would rather not; entertain, and are entertained by, a good many people for whom we feel a by no means dormant aversion. It is only the Pansey Cottrells of this world who successfully evade all such obligations, and persistently decline to do aught that does not pleasure them.
Lady Mary was too much a woman of the world to be entrapped by a _tour de force_ such as this. She hesitated; thought it was impossible. It was very kind of Mrs. Wriothesley; but they had so many visits to pay, so much to do, &c. But here, somewhat to her mother's astonishment, Blanche interposed, and suggested that their other engagements could be postponed. The young lady was great at lawn tennis, having a natural aptitude for all games of that description. She had heard a great deal about this La Crosse, and was extremely curious to see it; therefore it was not surprising that she should advocate the acceptance of Mrs. Wriothesley's invitation.
"It's a thing you will have to do some time or other, Lady Mary," observed Mr. Cottrell, "unless you are setting up as an 'eccentric.' By-the-bye, Miss Sylla, of course you will see Beauchamp at Prince's. Tell him I have heard of a park hack worth his looking at. He was wanting one the other day."
That settled the question. Lady Mary felt now it was essential that she should be at Prince's and see how Sylla progressed in her insidious designs. For that Miss Chipchase, under her aunt's guidance, was not doing her best to entangle Lionel Beauchamp in her toils, no power could have persuaded Lady Mary. Mrs. Wriothesley was one of the few people who thoroughly understood the whimsical perversity of Mr. Cottrell's character, and she shrewdly suspected, as was indeed the case, that he had no more heard of that hack than that he had that Beauchamp wanted one.
It was seldom that Ralph Wriothesley honoured his wife's luncheon-table, so the four ladies had that meal all to themselves. Mrs. Wriothesley exerted herself to be agreeable; and if Lady Mary had still doubts about her hostess's sincerity, she was not insensible to the charm of her manner; so that in spite of her mother's misgivings and Blanche's own nascent jealousy of Sylla, the afternoon glided pleasantly by, until it was time to stroll across to Prince's. They found quite a fashionable mob already there assembled, for, as Mr. Cottrell had told them, to see the Canadians play La Crosse was one of the novelties of the season. That gentleman's idle words proved true also in more senses than one, for they had not long taken chairs overlooking the cricket-field, before Lionel Beauchamp joined them, and, as he greeted Sylla, thanked her for her very pretty present.
"I am very glad you like it," replied Sylla, smiling; "but I can't take much credit for my generosity. I am afraid, strictly speaking, it only amounts to the payment of a debt. You deserved a testimony of your prowess, and I to pay a penalty for my rashness."
"What is this testimony?" inquired Blanche. "What has Sylla given you? and what have you done to deserve it?"
"A mere trifle," interposed Miss Chipchase; "I daresay he will show it you some day. He got me out of my scrape that day at Rockcliffe, you know, as indeed he has been called upon to do before, though not quite in that fashion. He saved my bracelet, you remember; it's rather a pet bangle, and I should have been very sorry to have lost it. Have you done my other commission for me?"
"Not as yet," replied Lionel. "I haven't had time; but I will see about it in a day or two."
All this fell very unpleasantly upon Blanche's cars. She was utterly unconscious of her mother's schemes and hopes. She had not as yet recognized that she was drifting into love with Lionel Beauchamp, but she did know that his confidential intimacy with Sylla Chipchase was very distasteful to her. What was this present she had made him? and what was this commission she had given him? She did not like to ask further questions just then, but she made up her mind that she would know all about these things the first time she got Lionel to herself. People who make mysteries of trifles at times exercise their friends a good deal,--the imagination so often converts molehills into mountains; and then there is always a power in the unknown.
"Have you seen this game of La Crosse before, Miss Bloxam?" inquired Lionel. "It looks incomprehensible and never-ending, to start with; but when you have seen a goal or two taken you will understand it, and admire the dexterity of the players."
"Mrs. Wriothesley explained it to me at luncheon. As I told you at Todborough, I am good at games, and can follow it very fairly. But, Sylla, you have a message for Mr. Beauchamp, which you have forgotten to give him."
Sylla had not forgotten Mr. Cottrell's message at all, but she thought it more than doubtful whether that message was intended to be delivered. She had her own opinion as to the motive of that message, but, thus challenged, immediately replied, "Oh, yes, something about a hack from Mr. Cottrell; he told me to tell you he had heard of one to suit you."
"There he is wrong," rejoined Beauchamp: "a thing can't suit you when you don't want it; and that's my case with regard to a hack."
"Curious that he should be so misinformed," said Lady Mary. "He certainly said you had asked him if he knew of one."
"Mixed up with somebody else," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley. "Mr. Cottrell is a very idle man with a very numerous acquaintance. Somebody wanted a hack, and he has forgotten who."
If Lady Mary's suspicions had been lulled to sleep during luncheon, they had been now most thoroughly reawakened. She, like her daughter, had overheard the conversation between Sylla and Lionel upon the latter's first arrival. She had always had misgivings that the relations between the two would change into something much warmer, to the downfall of her own hopes. She was annoyed with herself for having accepted the hand of amity extended by her ancient antagonist. She felt sure that the battle that she pictured to herself on that night at the Grange, when she had first heard of the relationship between Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley, was already begun. She had a horrible conviction that she was once more destined to undergo the bitterness of offering her congratulations to her successful opponent. What cruel fatality had ordained that whenever she had a daughter to settle, Mrs. Wriothesley should invariably appear upon the scene with a niece? And in the anguish of her spirit she gave way to very harsh thoughts concerning poor Sylla's conduct. If she could but have divested herself of all prejudice, and looked on matters with dispassionate eyes, she would have seen, as Pansey Cottrell had told her at Todborough, that things were travelling much in the way she wished them. At this very moment, when she is inwardly raging against Mrs. Wriothesley, Lionel Beauchamp is undoubtedly paying at least as much, if not more, attention to Blanche than he is to Miss Chipchase; but the spectacles of prejudice are never neutral-tinted.
However, it is time to leave; and Lady Mary, rising, signals her daughter, and makes her adieu.
"I really have no patience with that girl," said Lady Mary, when she found herself outside. "I think her making a present to a young man like Mr. Beauchamp is going a great deal more than half-way."
"Oh, I don't know, mamma," replied Blanche; "she has known him all her life; and you know he did save her bracelet."
"Very indelicate of her ever to have made such a wager," retorted Lady Mary, quite trumpeting in her wrath.
"I have known you bet yourself, mamma," rejoined Blanche; "and I think she was perhaps carried away by the excitement of the occasion. I wonder what it is that she has given him?"
It was curious, that although Miss Bloxam was as uncomfortable concerning that gift as her mother, she still took Sylla's part regarding it. She was a proud girl, and it was probable that she shrank from owning even to her mother that it could possibly matter to her what presents any lady might choose to bestow on Mr. Beauchamp.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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9
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SATURDAY AT HURLINGHAM.
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Hurlingham in the merry month of June, just when the east winds have ceased to trouble; when the roses and strawberries are at their best; when the lamb is verging towards muttony, and the whitebait are growing up; when the leaves are yet young, and Epsom and Ascot either pleasant or grim memories of the past. Can anything be more delightful than Hurlingham on a fine Saturday afternoon? that one week-day when the daughters of Venus throng the pleasant grounds, and the birds sacred to the goddess are held sacred for fear that the shooters should scatter the coaches--it would be too grievous that the destruction of pigeons, through frightening the horses, should result in the upsetting of a drag bearing a bevy of London's fairest daughters. What matches have been made here both for life and for centuries--as, in the "shibboleth" of our day, a hundred pounds is sometimes termed! Much damage at times has no doubt accrued both to the hearts of humanity and the legs of the polo ponies. The coaches gather thick about their allotted end of the grassy paddock; drag after drag drops quietly into its position; the teams are unharnessed and led slowly away; and their passengers either elect to view the forthcoming match from their seats of vantage, or, alighting, stroll up and mix with the fashionable crowd that throngs the far side of the lawn-like paddock. All London has flocked to Hurlingham to-day to enjoy the bright afternoon, indulge in tea, gossip, or claret-cup, and look lazily on at the polo match between the --th Hussars and Monmouthshire. Both teams are reported very strong, and opinion is pretty equally divided as to which way the match will go.
Mrs. Wriothesley is, of course, there. That lady is a pretty constant _habituée_, and with Sylla to chaperon is not likely to miss it on this occasion. She has joined forces already with Lady Mary: as she said, they have all a common interest in the event of the day, for was not Captain Bloxam the life and soul of the Hussar side, and were they not all there ready to sympathize or applaud? Applause at Hurlingham, by the way, being in as little accord with the traditions of the place as it is in the stalls of a fashionable theatre. The match has not yet begun. Two or three wiry ponies, with carefully-bandaged forelegs, are being led up and down on the opposite side of the paddock. The centre is still unoccupied, save for a few late-comers walking quietly across, none of the competitors having so far put in an appearance.
"Just the sort of thing to interest you, this, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Pansey Cottrell, after lifting his hat in a comprehensive manner to the whole party. "I know you are passionately fond of horses and have a taste for riding."
"Now, what does he mean by that?" thought Sylla. There was nothing much in the remark, but she was getting a little afraid of this mischievous elderly gentleman. She was beginning to look for a hidden meaning in his speeches. Could this be a covert allusion to her mishap at Todborough? Had the story of her fall come to his ears, and was he about to indulge his love of teasing people at her expense? "I don't know," she replied, guardedly, "that I am so very passionately fond of horses; but I have no doubt I shall enjoy this very much. Knowing one of the players will of course make it interesting."
"Quite so," replied Cottrell. "It is a pity Mr. Beauchamp is not playing. If he were, I should consult you as to which side to back. You judge his capabilities in all ways so accurately."
Neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Wriothesley could help noticing this speech. It was just one of those wicked little remarks to which Pansey Cottrell treated his friends when they were wanting in deference to his comments on things generally.
"Sylla has known him all her life," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley; "but because she happened to know that Lionel could run, it does not follow that she knows whether he can play polo. However, as he is not playing, it is a matter of very little account whether he can or no."
"Quite right. Nothing is much in this world, except the weather and the cooks. The sun shines to-day; and whatever the rest of us are called upon to endure, Mrs. Wriothesley, I know, can always rely upon her soup and _entrées_. I always look upon it as rather good of you to dine out."
It was probable that such judicious remarks had done Mr. Cottrell good service in the early part of his career; but now he was the fashion, and realised his position most thoroughly.
"Very pretty of you to recognize the fact that my poor little kitchenmaid is not a barbarian," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley.
She also had her foible, and always spoke in disparaging tones of her establishment. She would ask her friends to take a cutlet with her, or to come and eat cold chicken with her after the play, but took good care that the menu should be of very different calibre. She, like Pansey Cottrell, was the fashion, and he knew it. Besides, not only was the lady a favourite of his, but he never would have permitted himself to commit the folly of quarrelling with any one who so thoroughly understood the mysteries of gastronomy.
But now, clad in white flannels, butcher-boots, and scarlet caps, a couple of players make their appearance, and walk their sturdy little steeds up the ground; another and another quickly follow, and soon the contending sides group themselves together at opposite ends of the enclosure. The Monmouthshire quintet in their all white and scarlet caps are faced by the Hussars in their blue and scarlet hoops. The umpire walks to the centre, glances round to the captains of either side to see that they are all in readiness, and then drops the ball. Quick as thought the contending teams are in motion, the "players up" of each party scudding as fast as their wiry little ponies can carry them for the first stroke. It is a close thing; but the white and scarlet obtains the first chance, and by some fatality misses the ball. Another second, and Jim Bloxam has sent it flying towards the Monmouthshire goal, and is pelting along in hot pursuit, only to see the ball come whizzing back past him from a steady drive by one of the adversary's back-players. Backwards and forwards flies the ball, and the clever little ponies, at the guidance of their riders, bustle now this way, now that, in chase of it. Over and over again it is driven close to the fatal posts at either end--the being driven between which scores the first goal of the game--only to be sent again in the reverse direction by the back-player. Then comes a regular scrimmage in the centre of the ground, and the ball is dribbled amongst the ponies' legs, first a little this way, and then that, but never more than a few yards in any direction. Suddenly it flies far away from the _mêlée_, and Jim Bloxam races after it, hotly pursued by one of the white and scarlet men. Jim fails to hit the ball fair, and it spins off at a tangent. His antagonist swerves, quick as thought, to the ball, and by a clever back-stroke sends it once more into the centre of the field; another short _mêlée_, and then the Monmouthshire men carry the ball rapidly down on the Hussar goal. The back-player of the Hussars rides forward to meet it; but a dexterous touch from the leader of the white and scarlet men sends it a little to the right, and before any of the Hussars can intervene, a good stroke from one of the Monmouthshire men galloping on that side sends it between the posts, and the first goal is credited to the white and scarlet.
Dr. Johnson, when asked by Boswell what a shining light of those days meant by a somewhat vague remark, surmised that the speaker must have "meant to annoy somebody." The Doctor was probably right, being a pretty good judge of that sort of thing. There are many unmeaning remarks made, the why of which it is difficult to explain, unless we put that interpretation upon them. It must have been some such malicious feeling that prompted Mr. Cottrell to observe, "Poor Jim! He seems destined always to play second fiddle. As at Rockcliffe, he is just beaten again."
"Defeats such as Captain Bloxam's," exclaimed Sylla, "are as much to one's credit as easily-obtained victories. He was just defeated at Rockcliffe after a gallant struggle. I have seen some polo-playing before at Brighton, and don't think I ever saw a harder-fought goal played."
It was with somewhat amused surprise that Mr. Cottrell found his dictum disputed by a young lady in her first season, and he shot a sharp glance at Mrs. Wriothesley, to see what that lady thought of the spirited manner in which her niece stood up for the vanquished Hussar; but she and Lady Mary were just then engaged in welcoming Lionel Beauchamp, and the observation consequently escaped their ears.
"I beg your pardon," rejoined Cottrell; "I did not know your sympathies were so strong. I am, of course," he continued, in mocking tones, "prepared to condole with his family over Jim's defeat; but I must comfort you in your affliction by reminding you that the loss of one point does not mean the loss of the rubber."
"Thank you," replied Sylla. "I have ranged myself to-day on the side of the Hussars; and my champions are not always defeated, as you may remember."
"I trust," replied Mr. Cottrell, laughing, "you will have a good afternoon. I reverence you as a young lady who wagers with infinite discretion." And so saying, he moved off to talk to other acquaintance.
Lionel Beauchamp had seated himself next Blanche, and, assisted by a slight movement of the young lady's chair in his favour, found that he had successfully obtained the _tête-à-tête_ for which he had manoeuvred.
"I want you to do me a favour, Miss Bloxam," he observed.
"Certainly, Mr. Beauchamp, if I can; what is it?"
"I want you to promise to join a water party that four of us are organizing for this day fortnight; but we mean to go down the river instead of up. We intend chartering a steamer, and so be quite independent, as we shall carry our own commissariat with us."
"I have no doubt mamma will say yes if we have no other engagement. But favour for favour--I have one to ask of you; will you grant it?"
"I answer as you did--most certainly if I can."
"Ah, but you must answer differently; you must say 'certainly' without any conditions."
"That is impossible; one cannot quite pledge oneself to that. It is not very likely that I shall refuse you."
"But you are refusing me now. I want you to say 'certainly' without any reservation whatever."
"And I can only reply as I did before, Miss Bloxam, that it is impossible. No sensible person could ever do that. It is very improbable that you should ask me, but it is possible that you might wish me, to do something that I was bound to say 'no' to. I repeat, improbable but possible. Won't you tell me what it is? You may be quite sure it is already granted if within my power."
"But it is quite within your power," replied Blanche; "you can do it if you choose. Why won't you say 'yes'?"
"Tell me what it is," he answered, more determined than ever not to yield to her unreasonable demand. He was not obstinate, but Lionel Beauchamp had a will of his own, and could make up his mind quickly and decidedly, a virtue sadly wanting in many of us. His reservation had been put in mechanically in the first instance, but Blanche's persistence made him now resolute not to commit himself to an unlimited promise. Except unthinkingly, people do not make promises of this nature, any more than they give blank cheques, the filling-in of which in unwarrantable fashion might occasion much grief and tribulation to the reckless donor.
Miss Bloxam felt a little indignant at not being able to carry her point, but she knew just as well as Lionel did that she was insisting on the exorbitant. "Still," she argued, "if he were really in love with me he would not mind promising to grant me whatever I asked.
"I want to know," she said at length, "what was the present Miss Chipchase made you?"
"Good Heavens!" replied Lionel, laughing, "is that all you require? She sent me these solitaires for saving her bracelet at Rockcliffe; are they not pretty ones?" And, pulling back his coat-sleeve, Beauchamp exhibited the studs at his wrists.
"Very," returned Blanche. "But that is not quite all: what is the commission she has given you?"
Beauchamp looked a little grave at this question. This commission was in reality the mildest of mysteries; but he saw that Blanche believed it to be of far greater importance.
"I cannot tell you," he replied.
"May I ask why?"
"Certainly. I cannot tell you because I have promised not to mention it. You, of course, would not wish me to break my word?"
"Decidedly not," rejoined Miss Bloxam. "My curiosity has led me into a great indiscretion. But the game is getting interesting. Surely Jim's side are having the best of it now?" And Miss Bloxam, turning half-round in her seat, devoted her attention to the polo-players with laudable persistency. If Blanche Bloxam was showing herself somewhat childish and unreasonable--for there could be no doubt that the young lady had turned away from Lionel more or less in a huff--it must be remembered that she was very much in earnest in her love affair, that she was jealous of Sylla Chipchase, and that though she believed Lionel Beauchamp loved her, he had not as yet declared himself. She had foolishly, and perhaps whimsically, regarded this as a test question, and she had been answered in the negative. I do not know that she was out-of-the-way foolish. Maidens like Marguerite have played "He loves me, he loves me not," many a time with a flower; and Blanche's appeal was as wise as theirs, except in the one thing--you cannot quarrel with a flower, but it is very possible to do so with a lover. It is all very well for the gods to laugh at such quarrels, but those interested seldom see the humour of the situation, and in nineteen cases out of twenty the cause of their occurrence is trifling.
The band of the Guards is ringing out the most seductive of valses. Silken robes sweep the grass, and soft laughter floats upon the summer air. The polo-players are once more in the full tide of battle. The gaily-coloured jerseys are now here, now there, in pursuit of the ever-flying sphere, for the temporary possession of which each player seems as covetous as Atalanta was of the golden apple. Ever and anon comes a short, sharp, furious _mêlée_, and then from its midst flies the ball, with three or four horsemen riding their hardest in pursuit; while the back-player of the threatened goal warily prepares for the attack that is impending unless some one of his comrades should succeed in arresting it. One of the fiercest of these _mêlées_ is now taking place in front of the promenade. From the confused surging knot suddenly shoots the ball, and skims along at an ominous pace in the direction of the goal of the scarlet and white. Jim Bloxam, slipping all the other players by a couple of lengths, leads the pursuit, with two of his antagonists riding their hardest to catch him. Jim makes the most of his opportunity, and it looks like a goal for the Hussars. He is riding a smartish pony, and feels that his followers will never catch him. He is bound to get first to the ball, and, if only he does not miss his stroke, should drive it clean through the goal-posts. But though he is so far right that he keeps his lead of his antagonists, there is another player to be taken into calculation, whom so far Jim has quite overlooked, and this is the crafty back-player of the scarlet and white men who is in charge of the goal. He is quite as alive as Jim to the gravity of the occasion. He knows that Bloxam's stroke must be prevented, if possible; and coming from the opposite direction, although lying somewhat to Jim's left, is striving his utmost to interfere. The ball has all but stopped, and it is palpable that the new-comer will cut Jim's course obliquely at the ball. It is a fine point. Each man's wiry little steed is doing its very best. But, ah, Jim has it! The Hussar's polo-mallet whirls high in the air, and, as he passes the ball, a well-aimed stroke sends it flying through the enemy's goal-posts; another second, and, unable to rein up their ponies, Jim and the back-player of the scarlet and white meet in full career and roll over in a heap on the ground, while Jim's two attendant antagonists are both brought to similar grief from tumbling over their leader.
"Good Heavens! there are four of them down!" exclaimed Lionel Beauchamp. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Bloxam: falls are not often serious at polo; see, there are two of them getting up already."
The last _mêlée_ had taken place so close to the spectators that it had been quite easy to identify the players, and Miss Bloxam was therefore quite aware that her brother was one of the four men down; but she and Lady Mary were too habituated to the accidents of the hunting-field to feel that nervous terror at witnessing a fall that people not so accustomed are apt to experience. But there were other lookers-on with whom it was very different. It was a bad accident to look upon; and Mrs. Wriothesley suddenly felt her wrist gripped with a force that could hardly be supposed existent in the delicately-gloved fingers. She glanced round at her niece's face. The girl was white to her very lips. She had been educated abroad, and though, as we know, she had displayed plenty of courage when she had fallen into similar difficulties herself, accidents both in flood and field were a novel sight to her.
"He does not get up," she faltered at last, in low tones.
"For goodness' sake don't make a fool of yourself," replied Mrs. Wriothesley sharply. She honestly thought the girl was about to faint, and was filled with dismay at the prospect of finding her niece the centre of a scene. "Men don't get hurt at polo any more than they do at cricket. They will all be galloping past here again before five minutes are over."
But in this conjecture Mrs. Wriothesley was wrong; for although two of the fallen horsemen struggled promptly to their feet, Jim and the antagonist with whom he had come in collision had neither of them as yet done so. By this time all the players were collected round the spot where the accident had taken place, and an impression that some one was seriously hurt was rapidly gaining ground.
"Lionel," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, the moment she dared take her eyes off her niece, "I am sure Lady Mary would be extremely obliged to you if you would run down and see what is the matter. For Heaven's sake, Sylla," she whispered into her niece's ear, "don't make an exhibition of yourself by fainting or any nonsense of that sort. Ridiculous! as if any one was ever hurt by falling off a pony!"
Lady Mary reiterated Mrs. Wriothesley's request, and Beauchamp at once slipped through the rails and ran down to the group. He found Jim resting his head upon his hand, lying on the grass and looking ghastly pale, but his brother-sufferer was still insensible.
"I don't think I can go on," gasped Jim, in answer to inquiries as to how he was--"that is, not to be of any use, you know; that confounded cannon has not only knocked all the wind out of me, but knocked me half foolish besides. I feel so faint and sick, you must get on as you best can without me for half an hour."
The other sufferer now gave signs of returning animation; and as, after looking at him, the doctor pronounced him only stunned by the fall and a good deal shaken, it was decided to draw a man from each side and so continue the game. Lionel Beauchamp made the best of his way back with his report.
"No sort of cause, Lady Mary, for being in the least alarmed. Bloxam is sensible; says there is nothing the matter, further than that they have knocked all the wind out of his body, and that he is too shaken to go on with the game at present; he will be all right again in a couple of hours. See, there he is, walking away to the dressing-rooms at the other side, along with his antagonist, who is in a similar case. It was an awkward collision, and it is well the results were no worse." And, as he finished his speech, Beauchamp rather ruefully contrasted the cool reception that Blanche gave to his intelligence with the bright smile with which Sylla rewarded him.
Under no circumstances, perhaps, would it have been otherwise. Blanche was of a calmer disposition, very different from the vivacious emotional temperament of Sylla Chipchase; and then she had never felt the nervous apprehension as to its results that had so terrified Sylla. Miss Bloxam loved her brother very dearly, but it would never occur to her to feel any great anxiety at seeing Jim fall. She would have told you quietly that "Jim knew how to fall." But she was filled with exceeding bitterness about one thing,--that her secret love-test had resulted in failure, and that her heart was, to a considerable extent, out of her possession before it had been asked for. No, her difference with Lionel Beauchamp was not to be passed over so lightly as all that. If he could refuse the slight request that she had made him, he could care very little about her. "As if any man, honestly in love, would hesitate to break a mere promise made to another woman!" And to the best of my belief, the majority of her sex would be quite of Blanche's opinion.
"He does not get up," thought Mrs. Wriothesley, as she drove home from Hurlingham. "Yes, Sylla, my dear, you have told me something to-day that I honestly don't believe you knew yourself before. When accidents happen in the plural, and young ladies remark upon them only in the singular number, it is a sign of absorbing interest in somebody concerned. People generally, I think, would have observed, 'They don't get up.'" But Mrs. Wriothesley wisely kept all these reflections to herself.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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10
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MRS. WRIOTHESLEY'S LITTLE DINNER.
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The accident at Hurlingham had opened Sylla's eyes. She became conscious of what her feeling for Jim Bloxam was fast ripening into. It made her thoughtful. She was suddenly aware that she cared considerably more about him than it was wise that a maiden should for any man not her avowed lover. She was a good deal startled by the discovery; for had she asked herself the question previous to seeing him stretched, as she thought, badly hurt, or perhaps even killed, on the grass at that polo match, she would have answered, as she believed truthfully, that she liked Captain Bloxam very much: he was a very pleasant acquaintance; but as to his being anything more to her, she would have scouted the idea. She knew now that he was more to her than that, and Sylla pondered gravely upon what was her best course to pursue. One thing was quite clear, and that was, a previous intention of hers must be abandoned. She accordingly dispatched a note to Lionel Beauchamp, telling him that he need take no further trouble about her commission, which elicited a speedy reply to the effect that it was already executed.
One result of Sylla's discovery of the state of her feelings towards Captain Bloxam was a strong desire to cultivate her acquaintance with his mother and sister. She got on fairly with Blanche down at Todborough, but was quite aware that she was no favourite with Lady Mary. It most certainly was not because she fancied this would give her greater opportunities of meeting Jim. Far from it. She knew very well that she was more likely to meet Captain Bloxam in Hans Place than at his mother's house; for when he came up from Aldershot, as he did pretty constantly, it was rarely that Jim failed to appear in Mrs. Wriothesley's drawing-room; but the truth is the girl was rather shy of meeting Captain Bloxam just now. That Sylla's overtures should be coldly received was only what might be expected. Both Blanche and her mother regarded her as a dangerous rival. Indeed, Lady Mary's dislike to her from the first had proceeded from no other cause, so that Sylla's attempts to improve the acquaintance met with little success. Had Mrs. Wriothesley not obtained the keynote at Hurlingham, she would have been puzzled to understand what had come to her niece. The wand of the enchanter had transformed the girl. Her vivacity was wonderfully toned down; her whole manner softened; and Sylla, most self-possessed of young ladies, was unmistakably shy in the presence of Jim Bloxam. Diffidence is rarely an attribute of Hussars, and Jim was not without experience of women. The more retiring Miss Chipchase became, the more ardent became the attentions of her admirer.
Mrs. Wriothesley of course comprehended how matters were, and viewed the progress of events with entire satisfaction. She saw that projected scheme of hers rapidly approaching completion, and requiring but little help from her fostering hand; still it would be just as well, to use her own expression, "to assist nature;" and, with that view, she wrote a note to Jim Bloxam, suggesting that an early dinner and a night at the play were the proper restoratives for an invalid's nerves. She has seen Jim several times since his fall at Hurlingham, and knows very well that he got over the effects of that shaking in two or three days; but she has affected to regard him as a convalescent ever since, and insists upon it that quiet society is what he requires, meaning that, whenever he comes to town, the little house in Hans Place is the haven of rest best suited to him.
"I wish, Rip," said Mrs. Wriothesley, putting her head into her husband's _sanctum_ one morning, "you would look in at Bubb's this afternoon, and tell them to send me a box for the Prince of Wales's next Wednesday. You will of course do as you like, but I am going to ask Jim Bloxam to dine and go with us to the play."
"What a clever designing little woman it is!" replied her husband lazily. "I'll order the box; but you must pick up somebody else to do 'gooseberry' with you, as I can't come that night. It's hardly fair upon Jim; but as I have found matrimony pleasant myself, I don't for once mind being in the conspiracy. Besides, Sylla is a good sort if she will only take a fancy to him: she seems rather inclined to avoid him, it strikes me."
"Oh, you goose!" replied his wife. "Get me the box, and pray that you may have decent luck at whist for the next few weeks; we shall want all the sovereigns you can scrape together to buy wedding presents before the season is out."
Lady Mary Bloxam was really very much to be pitied. Here was the season slipping by, and the design with which she had opened the campaign seemed further from accomplishment than ever. Worse than all, her own daughter was playing into the hands of the enemy. There was no disguising the fact. It was too palpably evident. There was something wrong between Blanche and Lionel Beauchamp. The young lady treated him with marked coldness, which he on his side resented. In vain did Lady Mary cross-examine her daughter in the most insidious manner. Blanche would own to no quarrel, nor assign any reason for their gradual estrangement; but Lady Mary saw with dismay that the two were drifting wider apart as the weeks wore on. That she should attribute all this to Sylla and her designing aunt may be easily supposed. It was true that in society Lionel Beauchamp could most certainly not be accused of paying pronounced devotion to Miss Chipchase. But Lady Mary had ever a picture before her mind of Beauchamp in a low chair, in the drawing-room at Hans Place, making passionate love to Sylla; and her dislike of that young lady was intensified accordingly. She was at variance with her daughter just now on the subject of the invitation they had received from Lionel Beauchamp for a water party down the river, and about which she and Blanche were by no means of one mind. Lady Mary was all for its acceptance, while Miss Bloxam persistently advocated its refusal.
"You are too provoking, Blanche," exclaimed Lady Mary; "sometimes you are dissatisfied because we have not cards for this, that, and the other; and now we have an invitation for what promises to be a very pleasant party, you not only declare you won't go, but won't give any reason for declining."
"I say 'no' because I don't wish to go," replied Miss Bloxam.
"Fiddle-de-dee!" replied her mother, sharply. "All girls like to go to what promises to be a pleasant party. It is only right and proper they should, unless they are unwell. Is there anything the matter with you?"
"No, unless it be that I am getting rather tired of London gaiety. I shall be very glad, indeed, to get back to Todborough."
"That's a most unnatural remark for a girl to make in her second season. None of your sisters, thank goodness, ever required it; but I am afraid I shall have to see what a doctor thinks of you. I must get hold of Pansey Cottrell and hear what he says about this picnic. I declare, if he reports favourably, I shall insist upon your going, Blanche."
"I cannot see, mamma, what Mr. Cottrell has got to do with it. There can be no possible use in consulting him."
"Every use," rejoined Lady Mary quickly. "Pansey knows everything that is going on in society. I declare I think sometimes that he must employ a staff of detectives to collect all such knowledge and gossip for him. He will know who are going to this party."
"If he knows everything," said Blanche, "he should be able to tell me what I want to know."
"And what is that?" inquired Lady Mary, with no little curiosity.
"He will know that also if omniscient, as you suppose, mamma."
"You are talking downright nonsense! How can any one answer a question which you won't ask them? But Pansey's knowledge of what goes on in his own world is marvellous. He sees more than the most lynx-eyed matron amongst us. I have been to a good many places this year for your amusement, and unless you are really ill, Blanche, it is only fair you should go this once for mine."
Miss Bloxam made no reply, but inwardly determined to be extremely unwell upon the day of that picnic. She was by no means a selfish girl, and would sacrifice herself to give her mother pleasure at any time; but she felt that she had valid reasons for declining any invitation from Lionel Beauchamp as things stood between them. No accusation of husband-hunting should ever be brought against her. Her mother was, of course, ignorant of how matters stood, and could therefore be no guide for her in this affair.
Captain Bloxam, arriving at his quarters to dress for mess after a hard afternoon's racquets, finds Mrs. Wriothesley's note lying on his table.
"Will I dine on Wednesday, go to the play, and come back to supper afterwards? Will I not?" ejaculates Jim. "I am on duty on Wednesday, but somebody else will have to do that; and there is a big field-day on the Thursday. Never mind: get back by the early train in time for it, and I can do as much sleep as one wants coming down: so that is satisfactorily settled."
Jim, by this, was very hard hit indeed; and had he been asked to stay a month in the little house in Hans Place, would have sold out rather than have foregone the invitation; and the night in question saw him duly seated in Mrs. Wriothesley's dining-room in the highest possible spirits.
"By the way," said Pansey Cottrell, who completed the quartet, addressing his hostess, "what is our destined place of amusement this evening? Are we bound for the French plays?"
"No, we are going to the Prince of Wales's Theatre," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley. "Are you very much given to the French plays, Mr. Cottrell?"
"I am not very much given to any theatrical entertainment; but whenever I feel low about the scarcity of money in the country, I like to go the French plays. To see so many people who can afford to pay a guinea for an arm-chair to read in for three hours is a refreshing proof that there is still money in the country. People go there a great deal more because it is the fashion than because they enjoy it. It is like the opera, which, though exquisite enjoyment to many, always commands a strong contingent who attend solely because it is the fashion. You are going of course to this water party of Beauchamp & Co.?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Wriothesley, "I rather like the idea. It is quite a novelty. They have chartered a large steamer, and I hear the arrangements are very perfect. You are going, Captain Bloxam?"
"Certainly," replied Jim. "I look forward to having pretty well the pleasantest day of the season. We are to lunch on board, dine on board, and, I believe, dance on board. As I told Beauchamp, the only improvement I could suggest was a stage for charades. We might have as great a success, Miss Chipchase, as we had that night at Todborough."
"Yes," replied Sylla, slightly colouring at the recollection, and wondering, in her mischievous resolve to a little shock Lady Mary, whether she might not really have gone too far.
"I declare, if well done, if they have got a big enough steamer, the right people, and it is a fine day, it ought to be a great success," observed Cottrell.
"Well," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, "from what Lionel told me, they have secured everything but the last; and I do think their arrangements to meet that are as perfect as possible."
Mr. Cottrell shook his head dubiously.
"In the event of a very unpromising day," continued Mrs. Wriothesley, "people will find a most excellent lunch spread in the cabins; and they have made up their minds not to leave their moorings at Westminster Bridge, so that people can have just as much as they please of the entertainment."
"That idea positively trenches on genius," exclaimed Mr. Cottrell approvingly, "and reduces it merely to lunching at any house in London. Cabs innumerable round there; one, as you say, can get away at any time."
"And now, Captain Bloxam," said Mrs. Wriothesley, "if you will ring the bell for coffee, Sylla and I will get our cloaks on while it cools; and then I think we must be going. Oh, about transport?" she adds, pausing at the door. "I think, Mr. Cottrell, if you will take me in your brougham, we will send the young couple in mine. Thanks," she continued, in reply to Mr. Cottrell's bow of assent. "Come, Sylla."
Mr. Cottrell's thoughts were naturally unspoken, but he could not refrain from mentally ejaculating, "Poor Lady Mary! what chance can she have against such an artist as this?"
A few weeks ago, and no girl would, perhaps, have laughed more at the idea of being nervous about driving alone to the theatre with Captain Bloxam than Sylla Chipchase; but she unmistakably was this evening, and, only that she was afraid of being ridiculed by her aunt, would have asked to change escorts. She could not help showing it in her manner a little when they were fairly started; and the Hussar was far from discouraged thereby.
His mind was fully made up, and he pleaded his best, not one bit abashed by her faint responses to his passionate protestations.
"I cannot tell you when I began to love you," he continued; "it was from the first time I saw you, I believe; and, Sylla, I do hope you care a little about me. I can hardly expect an answer tonight" (he did, and meant having it, all the same). It would be hardly fair; but if you can promise to be my wife before we part, I shall be the lightest-hearted Hussar that rides up the Long Valley tomorrow."
"I don't know. I didn't think you cared about me. I must have time," she murmured.
Oh, these lovers! She did know; she did think he cared about her, and she wanted no time.
"Sylla, dearest," continued Jim, "you must have known that I loved you; no woman is ever blind to that. That you should reflect before you give me an answer, I can understand; but please let me know my fate as soon as possible. It is cruel to keep me in suspense." And here the flood of Jim's eloquence was arrested by the brougham pulling up at the door of the theatre.
Mrs. Wriothesley and her cavalier glanced keenly at the pair as they entered the box. Mr. Cottrell, indeed, had complimented his hostess on her little bit of _finesse_ on the road, and she had made no scruple of admitting that she hoped to bring about a marriage between the two. As to the Hussar, he was quite equal to the occasion, and from all that could be gathered from his imperturbable manner, might have been entertaining his companion with his meteorological views for the last half-hour. But with poor Sylla it was different. However good an actress the girl might be theatrically, she was a lamentable failure in the affairs of real life now that she found herself the leading lady; and both her quick-eyed aunt and the lynx-eyed Mr. Cottrell felt just as certain that an _éclaircissement_ had taken place as if they had assisted at it. More discreet chaperons were impossible, and after the first glance they took no further notice of the lovers, confining their conversation to each other, and their attention to the stage. After a little Mr. Cottrell discovered a friend in the stalls, with whom it was an absolute necessity he should exchange a few words; and then the interest Mrs. Wriothesley took in the play proved what an enthusiast she was about dramatic art.
But the green curtain fell at last--though, with the exception of Mrs. Wriothesley, it would be almost open to question whether any of them knew even the name of the piece they had witnessed--and the party proceeded homewards. Jim made good use of his opportunities on the drive back to Hans Place; and upon arrival, took advantage of Sylla's temporary escape upstairs to whisper to Mrs. Wriothesley that he had told his tale, and been favourably listened to. He felt assured of her congratulations. He knew he was a favourite of hers, and that she was much too clever a woman to have allowed him to see so much of Sylla unless she had approved of his suit. They were a very pleasant but rather quiet party at supper. Lovers in the spring-tide of their delirium have rarely conversation except for each other; but then that suffices amply for their enjoyment. Mrs. Wriothesley, triumphant in her schemes, chatted gaily with Mr. Cottrell, who was Sybarite enough to know that the discussion of the fish salad that he was then engaged upon, accompanied by the prattle of a pretty woman and irreproachable champagne, was about as near Elysium as a man of his years and prosaic temperament could expect to arrive at. He had had some conversation with his hostess on the way home. They had both arrived at the conclusion, from what they had seen in the theatre, that, even if everything was not yet settled, it would be before the evening was out. When she bade him good night, Mrs. Wriothesley added in low tones, "Of course it is as we guessed; but don't say anything about it for the next few days."
It was with feelings of great complacency that Mr. Cottrell, having lit his cigar, stepped into his brougham. He had dined and supped satisfactorily. He had passed a pleasant evening, and he was in the early possession of a little piece of intelligence connected with that comedy which he had seen commenced at Todborough which made its finish perfectly plain to him. He could not help laughing as he thought of the complication of feeling that this would produce in the mind of Lady Mary Bloxam when it reached her, which of course it speedily would. Would indignation at having to welcome as a daughter-in-law a girl she disliked so much as she did Sylla Chipchase overcome the gratification she would feel at finding that she need no longer dread her as an obstacle to her plans for the settlement of Blanche? Upon the whole, Mr. Cottrell thought not.
"They don't know it," he argued; "but Sylla Chipchase's father is a wealthy man, and the young lady, in consequence of her mother's settlement, a very long way off a penniless maiden. I don't think Lady Mary has ever yet thought about Jim's marrying at all; but if Beauchamp and Blanche only make a match of it, I fancy it would reconcile her ladyship to a good deal. She wouldn't then, at all events, be beaten at all points of the game by her pet aversion--Mrs. Wriothesley." And once more Mr. Cottrell chuckled over the situation. "Piccadilly, eh?" he muttered, looking out of the window. "I don't feel a bit like bed. Egad, I'll turn in here and have another cigar;" and so saying Mr. Cottrell stopped his brougham at the door of a well-known club, got out, and leisurely ascended the steps.
Several men were seated smoking in the hall, and a little knot, of which Lionel Beauchamp was the principal figure, attracted Mr. Cottrell's attention.
"Ah, my lords of Greenwich and Gravesend!" he exclaimed gaily, "all the world is much exercised about you and your doings. Wondrous are the stories afloat as to the fitting out of your ship, and all the fun that you have prepared for us. People don't know what to expect. Some say you are about to revive the old Folly and Ranelagh. Others that you have rolled the Italian Opera and Willis's Rooms all into one, and put it on board ship."
"I can't say what they expect in the way of entertainment," exclaimed Beauchamp, "but they seem to think that we have at all events chartered the Great Eastern. We are perfectly inundated with applications for tickets."
"No doubt," replied Cottrell, as he took a chair beside them; "and from people of whose existence you were in happy ignorance. To extend your acquaintance, only give a big show of some sort, and let it be known that a card of invitation is well-nigh an impossibility. But what a very dandy cigar-case!" and as he spoke Cottrell lifted from the table by Beauchamp's side a very smart specimen of the article in question, made of maroon velvet, with a monogram embroidered on one side, and the motto, "_Loquaces si sapiat vitet_," on the other. "Very pretty indeed," he continued, looking at the monogram; "but surely you don't spell Lionel with a T?"
"No," replied Beauchamp, laughing; "I spell it with an 'L,' like other people; but that cigar-case was neither embroidered nor made for me."
"I see," rejoined Cottrell: "you have been annexing a friend's property. I regret to see the notorious laxity of principle on the subject of umbrellas is extending to cigar-cases."
"Wrong again," replied Beauchamp. "I am in perfectly legitimate possession of the case, although it was not made for me."
Insatiable thirst for gossip is naturally allied with insatiable curiosity, and Mr. Cottrell was no exception.
"J. B., J. B.?" he said, still fingering the case.
"I have it! I am right, for a dollar! You borrowed it from Jim Bloxam when we were down at Todborough."
"No," returned Lionel, much amused; "you are wrong again. I had a commission to get that case made----" "For Jim Bloxam," interposed Cottrell quickly.
"I didn't say that," returned Lionel; "anyhow, it was not wanted; and at the risk of being accused of not being able to spell my own name, I kept it for myself. I was further commanded to adhere strictly to the motto."
"And 'avoid talkative people.' Curious, very," observed Mr. Cottrell, as he put down the cigar-case, wondering not a little who gave the commission, and for whom the case was originally intended; but he of course refrained from further inquiry.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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11
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THE RINGING OF THE BELLES.
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The more Lady Mary heard of this water party, the more determined she was to attend it. True, her pet design, the establishment of her daughter, seemed to be running awry, but there was no occasion as yet for abandoning it. There was evidently something wrong between Blanche and Lionel Beauchamp, but that could never be put right by persistently avoiding him. Whatever the cloud between them, it was little likely to be dispelled if they never met. Then again, why should she facilitate matters for that odious Mrs. Wriothesley and her saucy chit of a niece? No; all the sporting blood of the Ditchins boiled in Lady Mary's veins as she muttered, "Margaret Wriothesley may stand in my way again, as indeed she has all her life; but she sha'n't, at all events, be treated to the luxury of a 'walk over.'"
Not encountering Mr. Cottrell in the course of the next two or three days, she dropped him a line of inquiry as to the composition of this coming water party, and concluded her note with-- "Blanche is most provoking. She has evidently had some tiff with Lionel Beauchamp. She is very resolute about not going to this affair--hints mysteriously she wants to know something, and declines to say what. I have no patience with such nonsense; and if I hear from you that the right people will be there, shall insist upon her going. Her thirst for knowledge applies, I suspect, to some proceedings of Mr. Beauchamp's. If she would only confide what it is to me, I have little doubt I could put her mind at rest in eight and forty hours.
"Yours sincerely, "MARY BLOXAM."
Mr. Cottrell received this note the morning after he had dined and supped in Hans Place. Putting one thing and the other together, he began to have a tolerable inkling of how matters stood. He was looking forward to spending rather a pleasant day at this party of Beauchamp's, and he now saw the possibility of adding still greater zest to his enjoyment by pulling the strings of one of those small social dramas so constantly occurring in our midst, which was a thing Pansey Cottrell dearly loved. He felt that he should be the good fairy on board that steamer,--that two or three of the human puppets thereon would dance in accordance with his fingering of the wires; and mischievously as he would interfere at times in such matters, felt upon this occasion that the puppets would jig as much to their own gratification as to his.
"Dear Lady Mary," he replied, "it is to be quite one of the pleasantest things of the season. All your own set will be there--pre-eminently the right people all round. I saw Beauchamp and his _confrères_ last night. They say they are overwhelmed with applications for tickets, but have adhered rigidly to the number originally determined on. They may naturally expect to find themselves quite out of society next season. Those that were asked will have forgotten all about it, while those that were not won't. Kind regards to Miss Blanche. Tell her that there is a great deal of information to be picked up at water parties, and that I will guarantee her making one or two discoveries which I think will surprise and please her.
"Yours sincerely, "PANSEY COTTRELL."
On receipt of that note Miss Bloxam's determination not to attend the Beauchamp party vanished. It would be hard to say now whether mother or daughter were more impatient for that afternoon, or more curious as to what it might bring forth. Lady Mary's speculations were vague in the extreme. Mr. Cottrell's shadowy announcement she regarded as liable to mean as much or as little as "hear of something to one's advantage" might in an advertisement in the second column of the _Times_. But with Blanche the case was different. Miss Bloxam's ideas took definite shape, and, with very slight grounds to go upon, she jumped instinctively to the conclusion--as women will in such cases--that whether Lionel Beauchamp was to be all to her or nothing would be effectually settled that afternoon. The promoters of the picnic themselves could not have prayed more fervently for fine weather than did Lady Mary and her daughter.
"Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," saith the proverb; but if it is vouchsafed one to command a fine day at will in the course of existence, it would be better to reserve that privilege not for one's wedding, but for our first important picnic. Lionel Beauchamp and his _confrères_ were especially favoured. The day for their picnic was like unto that described by De Quincey, when "midsummer with all its banners was marching through the sky." A more gorgeous afternoon to loiter away upon the water it was hard to imagine. Moored along the side of the Westminster Pier was, if not the _Great Eastern_, at all events as large a steamer as it was practicable to bring there. Awnings were stretched both fore and aft above decks, the snowy whiteness of which would have done no discredit to a man-of-war. In the bows of the boat a band was pouring forth all sorts of popular melody, inciting the fashionable crowd to "Haste to the Wedding," "Down among the Coals," "When Johnny comes marching Home," &c. At the head of the gangway the hosts received their guests, and the numbers in which they trooped on board gave some warrant to Lionel Beauchamp's laughing assertion that giving a party in London is something like the making of a snowball: it increases with undreamt-of rapidity.
"Twenty-five guests apiece, Mrs. Wriothesley, was, I give you my word, the first faint-hearted conception of myself and three companions," said Beauchamp, laughing, as he welcomed that lady and Miss Chipchase; "but you see people have been kind to us, and that we are more popular in society than we dared venture to hope."
"Ah, Lionel, yes," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, as she shook hands, "and with so nice a ship, such glorious weather, and so many pleasant _compagnons de voyage_ as I see around me, you will find us all willing to dance to your pipe, even if it led us all the way to New York."
"We are too discreet to attempt the impossible," replied Lionel. "If we can only please and amuse our guests to Gravesend and back, we shall sleep contented." And then he turned away to welcome fresh arrivals, leaving Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley to greet their friends and inspect the arrangements made for their entertainment.
And that these had been the result of much thought and preparation was transparent even to the unreflecting. Like an elaborate piece of clockwork, the whole affair was not as yet in motion. But a glance on the foredeck of the steamer showed, mingling amongst the fashionable crowd, Spanish singers with their guitars, Tyrolese jödelers, and some two or three popular comedians, who at times consent to dispel the dreariness of an evening party. Mr. Cottrell even whispered to Mrs. Wriothesley that he should not be at all surprised if the thing was a real success.
"They are young, very young," he continued, "to undertake the responsibilities of the commissariat; but let us be charitable, and trust that they have had the wisdom to seek sound advice relative to the cookery and champagne."
Fair though the day might be, yet its opening to the eyes of Lady Mary Bloxam seemed unpropitious in the extreme. Lionel Beauchamp received her and Blanche with grave courtesy, but no more; indeed, his manner to Miss Bloxam touched upon the ceremonious. It was true that as a host he could hardly be expected to devote much time to any individual guest; but still it is very possible to convey a good deal, even in the few words of welcome; and under the circumstances Lady Mary decided that Lionel Beauchamp had greeted them more as acquaintance, whose hospitality it was incumbent on him to return, than as intimate friends whom he was only too delighted to see. He had not lingered to exchange a few words with them as he had with Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, and Lady Mary felt filled with dread that her rival had already triumphed, and was receiving, conjointly with Miss Chipchase, the homage of the conquered. Blanche, too, who had already made up her mind that this day was either to set things straight with her and Lionel, or to estrange them for good, felt that there was little likelihood of its ending in the manner she desired. She would scarcely see anything of him in a large party such as this, unless he specially sought her, and she thought now it was improbable he would do that. She bitterly regretted that she had not adhered to her original determination. Nothing can be more dreary than a gay party from which there is no escape when one's mind is out of tune for society of any description. The idea that for so many hours the conventional smile must be upon our brow, and the conventional nothings upon our lips, is depressing in the extreme. It may be injudicious, but it is certainly allowable, to look sad when the bank that holds our all suddenly falls; but for a woman to acknowledge in her face that the bank of her affections is broke is most indecorous, and shows a want of proper spirit and proper pride pitiful to witness. She may scream if she is pinched; but neither sign nor cry must show that her heart-strings are wrung.
It is well to set your guests eating and drinking betimes on these occasions. The fasting man takes an acrid view of your arrangements compared with that taken by the man who has well fed; and the deferred opening of the supper-room has sealed the fate of many a dance which but for that had been voted pleasant enough. Lionel Beauchamp and his _confrères_ determined to fall into no such mistake. No sooner are their friends on board and the steamer cast off from her moorings than the signal is given for lunch. The day is so fine that it has been decided to go down nearly to the Nore. With scarce a ripple on the water, even those who have no confidence whatever in their sea-going capabilities can feel no terror of _mal de mer_. The whole affair is an undoubted success. Mr. Cottrell himself pronounces the luncheon not only satisfactory, but indicative of much promise as regards dinner later on. The gay crowd breaks into knots and parties all over the decks. Now listening to the ballad some swarth Spaniard trills forth to his guitar, anon laughing at some buffo song humorously rendered by a well-known comedian, while ever and again Beauchamp and his brethren clear a space on the deck, and a valse or two becomes the order of the day.
"A very charming party, Miss Blanche, don't you think so?" remarked Mr. Cottrell, as he sauntered up to that young lady's side. "Have you been forward to look at what they call the 'Fair'? You can shoot for nuts, look at peep-shows, play _roulette_ for gingerbread; in fact, indulge in all the amusements of childhood."
"No; the whole thing is no doubt very well done, but I don't feel myself to-day. I am not quite up to the sort of thing. Stupid of me to come. People should keep themselves to themselves when not in the vein for society."
"Ah," rejoined Mr. Cottrell, laughing, "not in the vein for society is a charming phrase. It embraces so much, and defines it so vaguely. Not in the vein for society may mean that we want our lunch; that some one we wanted to meet has not come; that we have fallen to the charge of the wrong person. I always feel that my being in the vein for society depends a good deal upon what the society consists of. Every now and then I get somebody to take down to dinner that makes me sigh for the Desert of Sahara. Now, I wonder what's wrong with you to-day?"
"Had too much of London, I fancy," replied Blanche, smiling. "I want to get back to Todborough. These headaches never trouble me there."
"Who was the shocking old infidel who declared young ladies' headaches were simply heartaches? What mistakes we make by seeing things as we imagine them, instead of as they actually are! I would lay a small wager, for instance, that your low spirits are the result simply of looking through the wrong end of the telescope."
"Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Cottrell! I feel a little hipped to-day, but every one does at times. I cannot plead any excuse for it."
"I am very glad to hear you say that," replied Cottrell gravely. "I thought perhaps you might be put out by this affair of your brother's."
"Affair of my brother's!" exclaimed Blanche quickly. "Jim surely is in no trouble! Why, he is here!"
"Exactly. No need to assure you he is a very long way off from being in trouble; having, on the contrary, a particularly good time, I should say judging from what I last saw of him. But surely, Miss Blanche, you must have observed that a man's relations are often moved to tears at the mode in which he takes his pleasure, and, as a rule, always consider they are far more capable of choosing a wife for him than he is."
"Choosing a wife! Do you mean to tell me Jim is going to be married?"
"I presume so. I can only say he and Miss Chipchase are engaged in a very high-pressure flirtation, if it only means that."
"Jim going to marry Sylla! Why, I thought----" And here Blanche paused abruptly, and a rather compromising blush suffused her face.
"Ah, you thought," observed Cottrell, "that it was a mere flirtation. Well, there is no doubt that sisters don't often make a mistake about a brother's love affair when it comes within their knowledge; but in this instance I venture to think I am right."
Miss Bloxam's unnatural blindness to her brother's growing passion for Sylla Chipchase can be easily accounted for. Neither she nor her mother knew anything about his visits to Hans Place. Jim by no manner of means thought it necessary to call upon his own people every time he came up from Aldershot, and they were consequently unaware even of his being in town five times out of six.
"You must pardon my indiscretion," resumed Mr. Cottrell; "but I really supposed that Jim must have formally announced it. Ah, Beauchamp, the very man! Spare one moment from your hospitable cares, and receive the congratulations of Miss Bloxam and myself upon the perfection of your arrangements. Everything is admirable; and if ever people deserved the favour of a gorgeous day, you and your companions have done so."
"To have won the approbation of such an expert as Mr. Cottrell is ample recompense," replied Lionel, laughing, and making a mock salaam of great humility.
"We thoroughly mean what we say; and in the meantime extend your amiability so far as to give me a cigarette. Miss Blanche, I am sure, will permit it?"
Miss Bloxam bent her head in assent as Lionel Beauchamp produced the identical cigar-case that had so attracted Mr. Cottrell's attention some two or three nights ago.
"A very pretty case this, is it not?" said Cottrell, as he leisurely selected a cigarette. "In excellent taste; it does the greatest possible credit to the designer. But it is a very curious whim of Beauchamp's to spell Lionel with a 'J.' 'J.B.,' you see, would stand for John Bradshaw, Joshua Burton, or even Jim Bloxam; but you can't possibly make 'Lionel Beauchamp' out of it."
"That will do," replied Lionel, laughing; "you chaffed me enough about this the other night. Take heed, and remember the motto."
"A motto, Miss Bloxam," said Cottrell, "the meaning of which he doth not comprehend."
"Well, I flatter myself I do," replied Beauchamp; "but no matter;" and he extended his hand for the case.
"One minute. For fear you should give some spurious version, I will translate it first for Miss Bloxam's benefit; a lady cannot be supposed to know the meaning of '_Loquaces si sapiat vitet_.' Listen," continued Cottrell: "the Latin is a comprehensive language, remember,--'_Si_,' if; '_sapiat_,' you are not a fool; '_vitet_,' have nothing to say to; '_loquaces_,' ladies' commissions. A wickedly cynical saying to have broidered on one's case, even if you _have_ found ladies' commissions troublesome and productive of much inconvenience. But, dear me! Lady Mary is signalling me. I must go and see what it is she wants. Try if you can make him disclose the story of that case, and who it was that commanded him to spell Lionel with a 'J,' and not chatter about it afterwards. I plead guilty to a most horrible curiosity on that point." And so saying, Mr. Cottrell dropped the cigar-case into Blanche's lap, and crossed the deck in obedience to Lady Mary's apocryphal signal.
Blanche knew now that her presentiment was fulfilled--that the crisis had arrived; and that the next two or three minutes would decide whether she and Lionel Beauchamp were to be all in all to each other, or go their respective ways. Be that as it might, on one point she must absolve herself in his eyes. With somewhat tremulous tones, she hurriedly exclaimed, as she handed the cigar-case back to Lionel, "I have unwittingly discovered, Mr. Beauchamp, what you refused to tell me some little time ago at Hurlingham; and I hope you believe me when I say that I have never taken any steps to do so; nor, indeed, has any allusion to it passed my lips since."
"How Mr. Cottrell comes by his knowledge, I cannot say. I think he must possess a 'familiar' of some sort; but one thing, Miss Bloxam, I own, puzzles me. Why should you make such a point of my telling you what Sylla's commission was? I cannot understand it."
"And I cannot tell you. Surely the caprice of my sex is quite enough to account for it."
Apparently Lionel Beauchamp did not think so; and seating himself by Miss Bloxam's side, he proceeded to inquire into this instance of a woman's whimsies with great earnestness of purpose.
It was, of course, quite evident to Mr. Cottrell that Jim Bloxam had not as yet disclosed to his own people his engagement to Sylla Chipchase; and so delighted was Mr. Cottrell with the theatrical effect that he had just produced, that he felt the sooner he diverted himself by the production of another "situation" the better. He had crossed over to Lady Mary with no other object than the benevolent design of giving Blanche and Lionel an opportunity of clearing up their difference. He accordingly suggested to Lady Mary that they should take a turn forward and see what was going on in that part of the boat.
"It is not only that I wanted you to see what is going on in the fore part of the ship, but I want you not to see what is going on aft. I want to open your eyes to Mrs. Wriothesley's machinations, and to steel your heart against Lionel Beauchamp's perfidy."
"Lionel Beauchamp's perfidy! Good gracious, Pansey, what do you mean?"
"That I will lay you a small wager Lionel Beauchamp has stolen your daughter from you before we get back--no, don't interrupt me. Those foolish young people, finding their courtship was running too smooth, indulged themselves in the luxury of a mock quarrel--about what, shall we say? --well, a packet of lemon-drops would about represent the state of the case. However, as you know, quarrels about nothing sometimes assume portentous proportions; but I am happy to think that I have just put things right between those two."
"I only hope what you tell me is true. You know how much I have Blanche's settlement at heart."
"Yes, there is something about water parties that predisposes to flirtation. Atlantic voyages and trips to India are notorious for fostering such sweet frivolity. I really feel quite afraid of walking about to-day for dread of unknowingly interfering. It wouldn't be discreet, for instance, to intrude upon that couple so snugly ensconced under the shelter of the paddle-box. I don't know, but he is telling her secrets, I presume."
"Why, it is Sylla Chipchase!" exclaimed Lady Mary. "I cannot see who is her victim; but of course she would never neglect such a golden opportunity as to-day's."
"Hush!" replied Cottrell, drily; "the companion of her delinquency, remember, is Jim."
"Why, you surely don't mean to tell me----" exclaimed Lady Mary.
"Very much so," rejoined Cottrell; "and the sooner you make up your mind to take it _au serieux_ the better."
Poor Lady Mary! Mr. Cottrell's dramatic disclosures were getting a little too much for her.
Before they had reached Westminster Bridge Blanche and Sylla knew that they were to be sisters, and there had been much quiet laughter amongst the four whom it chiefly concerned about the story of the cigar-case.
"I still don't understand," said Beauchamp, "why you should have so resented my keeping Sylla's commission secret?"
"And never will, Lionel, until you comprehend of what a jealous woman's imagination is capable."
"I can't see," whispered Jim, "why I was kept so long out of my cigar-case?"
It was in his possession at last.
"O you stupid Jim!" said Sylla softly, "don't you see it was so easy to give it you before I knew I loved you, and----" "Well, and what?" inquired Bloxam.
"It was so difficult afterwards, until I knew you loved me."
The bells of Todborough rang bravely out one morning early in the autumn for a double marriage, and, as Mr. Cottrell wickedly whispered to one of his intimates, for the Millennium besides. The lion was lying down with the lamb. Mrs. Wriothesley was an honoured guest at the Grange.
THE END.
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{
"id": "20529"
}
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1
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None
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It was the mansion of a millionaire. On the furniture and the walls of drawing-rooms, colors and gleams played as on the surface of a pearl shell. Mirrors reflected pictures, and inlaid floors shone like mirrors. Here and there dark tapestry and massive curtains seemed to decrease the effect, but only at first sight, for, in fact, they lent the whole interior a dignity which was almost churchlike. At some points everything glistened, gleamed, changed into azure, scarlet, gold, bronze, and the various tints of white peculiar to plaster-of-Paris, marble, silk, porcelain. In that house were products of Chinese and Japanese skill; the styles of remote ages were there, and the most exquisite and elegant among modern styles, lamps, chandeliers, candlesticks, vases, ornamental art in its highest development. Withal much taste and skill was evident, a certain tact in placing things, and a keenness in disposing them, which indicated infallibly the hand and the mind of a woman who was far above mediocrity.
The furnishing of this mansion must have cost sums which to the poor would seem colossal, and very considerable even to the wealthy.
Aloysius Darvid, the owner of this mansion, had not inherited his millions; he had won them with his own iron labor, and he toiled continually to increase them. His industry, inventiveness, and energy were inexhaustible. To him business seemed to be what water is to a fish: the element which gives delight and freedom. What was his business? Great and complicated enterprises: the erection of public edifices, the purchase, sale, and exchange of values of various descriptions, exchanges in many markets and corporations. To finish all this business it was necessary to possess qualities of the most opposite character: the courage of the lion and the caution of the fox, the talons of the falcon and the elasticity of the cat. His life was passed at a gaming-table, composed of the whole surface of a gigantic State; that life was a species of continuous punting at a bank kept by blind chance rather frequently; for calculation and skill, which meant very much in his career, could not eliminate chance altogether, that power which appears independently. Hence, he must not let chance overthrow him; he might drop to the earth before its thrusts and contract a muscle, but only to parry, make an elastic spring, and seize new booty. His career was success rising and falling like a river, it was also a fever, ceaselessly bathed in cool calculation and reckoning.
As to the rest, post-wagons, railways, bells at railway stations, urging to haste, glittering snows of the distant North, mountains towering on the boundary between two parts of the world, rivers cutting through uninhabited regions, horizons marked with the gloomy lines of Siberian forests, solitary since the beginning of ages. Then, as a change: noise, glitter, throngs, the brilliancy of capitals, and in those capitals a multitude of doors, some of which open with freedom, while others are closed hermetically; before doors of the second sort the pliancy of the cat's paw is needed; this finds a hole where the broad way is impossible.
He was forced to be absent from his family for long months, sometimes for whole years, and even when living under the same roof with the members of it he was a rare guest, never a real confiding companion. For permanence, intimacy, tender feeling in relations, with even those who were nearest him, Darvid had not the time, just as he had not the time to concentrate his thoughts on any subject whatever unless it was connected with his lines, dates, and figures, or with the meshes of that net in which he enclosed his thoughts and his iron labor.
As to amusements and delights of life, they were at intervals love-affairs, flashing up on a sudden, transient, fleeting, vanishing with the smoke of the locomotive which rushed forward, at times luxuries of the table peculiar to various climates, or majestic scenery which forced itself on the eye by its grandeur and disappeared quickly, or some hours of animated card-playing; but, above all, relations with social magnates, who were on the one hand of use, and on the other an immensely great honor to his vanity. Money and significance, these were the two poles around which all Darvid's thoughts, desires, and feelings circled; or, at least, it might seem all, for who can be certain that nothing exists in a man save that which is manifest in his actions? Surely no one, not the man himself even.
After three years' absence, Darvid had returned only a few months before to his native city, and to his own house, where he was as ever a rare and inattentive guest. Pie was laboring again. In the first week, on the first day almost, he discovered a new field; he was very anxious to seize this field, and begin his Herculean efforts on it. But the seizure depended on a certain very highly placed personage to whom, up to that time, he had not been able to gain admittance.
The cat's paw had played about a number of times to open a crevice in the closed door, but in vain! He desired a confidential talk of two hours, but could not obtain it.
He turned then to a method which had given him real service frequently.
He found an individual who had the art of squeezing into all places, of winning everyone, of digging from under the earth circumstances, relations, influences. Individuals of this kind are generally dubious in character, but this concerned Darvid in no way. He considered that at the bottom of life dregs are found as surely as slime is in rivers which have golden sand. He thought of life's dregs and smiled contemptuously, but did not hesitate to handle those dregs, and see if there were golden grains in them. He called his dubious assistants hounds, for they tracked game in thickets inaccessible to the hunter. Small, almost invisible, they were still better able than he to contract muscles, creep up or spring over. He had let out such a hound a few days before to gain the desired audience, and had received no news from him thus far. This disturbed and annoyed Darvid greatly. He would rush into the new work like a lion into an arena, and spring at fresh prey.
The evening twilight came down into the series of great and small chambers. Darvid, in his study, furnished with such dignified wealth that it was almost severe in the rich lamp-light, received men who came on affairs of various descriptions: with reports, accounts, requests, proposals.
In that study everything was dark-colored, massive, grand in its proportions, of great price, but not flashy. Not the least object was showy or fantastic; nothing was visible save dignity and comfort. There were books behind the glass of a splendid bookcase, two great pictures on the wall, a desk with piles of papers, in the middle of the room a round table covered with maps, pamphlets, thick volumes; around the table, heavy, deep and low armchairs. The room was spacious with a lofty ceiling, from which hung over the round table a splendid lamp, burning brightly.
Darvid's remote prototype, the Argonaut Jason, must have had quite a different exterior when he sailed on toward Colchis to find the golden fleece. Time, which changes the methods of contest, changes the forms of its knights correspondingly. Jason trusted in the strength of his arm and his sword-blade. Darvid trusted in his brain and his nerves only. Hence, in him, brain and nerves were developed to the prejudice of muscles, creating a special power, which one had to know in order to recognize it in that slender and not lofty figure, in that face with shrunken cheeks, covered with skin which was dry, pale, and as mobile as if quivering from every breeze which carried his bark toward the shores which he longed for. On his cheeks shone narrow strips of whiskers, almost bronze-hued; the silky ends of these fell on his stiff, low collar; ruddy mustaches, short and firm, darkened his pale, thin lips, which had a smile in the changeableness of which was great expression; this smile encouraged, discouraged, attracted, repelled, believed, doubted, courted or jeered-jeered frequently. But the main seat of power in Darvid seemed to be his eyes, which rested long and attentively on that which he examined. These eyes had pupils of steel color, cold, very deep, and with a fullness of penetrating light which was often sharp, under brows which were prominent, whose ruddy lines were drawn under a high forehead, increased further by incipient baldness-a forehead which was smooth and had the polish of ivory; between the brows were numerous wrinkles, like a cloud of anxiety and care. His was a cold, reasoning face, energetic, with the stamp of thought fixed between the brows, and lines of irony which had made the mouth drawn.
A jurist, one of the most renowned in that great city, held in his hand an open volume of the Code, and was reading aloud a series of extracts from it. Darvid was standing and listening attentively, but irony increased in his smile, and, when the jurist stopped reading, he began in a low voice. This voice with its tones suppressed, as it were, through caution, was one of Darvid's peculiarities.
"Pardon me, but what you have read has no relation to the point which concerns us." Taking the book he turned over its pages for a while and began then to read from it. In reading he used glasses with horn-rims; from these the yellowish pallor of his lean face became deeper. The renowned jurist was confused and astonished.
"You are right," said he. "I was mistaken. You know law famously." How was he to avoid knowing it, since it was his weapon and safety-valve! The jurist sat down on one of the broad and low armchairs in silence, and now the architect unrolled on the table the plan of a public edifice to which the last finish was to be given during winter and before work began in spring.
Darvid listened again in silent thought, looking at the plan with his steel-colored eyes, in which at times there flashed sparks of ideas coming from the brain-ideas which, after a while, he presented to the trained architect. He spoke in a voice low and fluent; he spoke connectedly and very clearly. The architect answered with respect, and, like, the jurist who had preceded, not without a certain astonishment. Great God! this man knows everything; he moves as freely in the fields of architecture, mathematics, and law as in his own chamber! Darvid noticed the astonishment of those around him, and irony settled on his thin lips. Did those men imagine that he could begin such undertakings and be like a blind man among colors? Some begin thus but are ruined! He understood that in our time immense knowledge is the only foundation for pyramidal fortunes, and his memory alone knew the long series of nights which had passed above his head while it was sleepless in winning knowledge.
Next appeared before the table a young man, lean and slender; his dark eyes expressed genius, his clothing was threadbare, his gestures almost vulgar. This was a sculptor, young but already famous. The man had incipient consumption, which brought excessive ruddiness to his face, a glitter to his eyes, and a short, rasping cough from his breast.
He spoke of the sculptures which he was to finish for the edifices reared by the great contractor; he showed the drawings of them, and explained his ideas; he rose to enthusiasm; he spoke more loudly, and coughed at more frequent intervals. Darvid raised his head; the sensitive skin on his cheeks quivered with a delicate movement; he touched the shoulder of the artist with the tips of two white, slender fingers.
"Best," said he; "it hurts you to speak too long."
"My younger daughter coughs in just this way," remarked he to the other men present, "and it troubles me somewhat."
"Perhaps a visit to Italy," said the architect.
"Yes, I have thought of that, but the doctors note nothing dangerous so far." Then he turned to the sculptor: "You ought to visit Italy, for its collections of art and--its climate." The artist, not pleased with this interruption, did not answer directly, but went on showing his projects and explaining them; though his short breath and the cough, which was repeated oftener, made his conversation more difficult. Thereupon Darvid straightened himself.
"I know very little of art," said he. "Not because I despise it; on the contrary, I think art a power, since the world does it homage, but because I lack time. Trouble yourself no further to exhibit plans and ideas here. I confirm them beforehand, knowing well what I do. Prince Zeno, whose good taste and intellect I admire, advised me to turn to you. At his house, moreover, I have seen works of your chisel which charmed me. Some declare that we men of finance and business represent only matter, and have no concern with Psyche (the soul). But I say that your Psyche, now in Prince Zeno's palace, produced on me the impression that I am not matter only."
Irony covered his lips, but with increased amiability he added: "Let us fix the amount of your honorarium, permit me to take the initiative," said he, hurriedly.
In a tone of inquiry he mentioned a sum which was very considerable. The sculptor bowed, unwilling, or unable to conceal his delight and astonishment. Darvid touched him lightly on the arm, and conducted him to a great desk, one drawer of which he opened. The jurist and the architect at the round table exchanged glances.
"A protege of the prince!" whispered one.
"Cleverness! advertising!" whispered the other.
"I know from report," said Darvid, to the young artist, "that sculptors must spend considerable sums before they begin a given work. Here is an advance. Do not hesitate. Money should be at the service of talent."
The sculptor was astonished. He had imagined the millionaire as entirely different.
"Money should be at the service of talent!" repeated he.
"I hear this for the first time from a man having money! Do you really think so?" Darvid smiled, but his face clouded immediately.
"My dear sir," said he, "I would give, I think, much money if a cough like yours were not in the world."
"Because of your daughter--" began the sculptor, but Darvid had grown cold now, ceremonious, and he turned toward the round table.
At the same moment a servant announced from the door a new guest.
"Pan Arthur Kranitski."
The guest entered immediately after the servant, and passed the outgoing sculptor in the door.
This guest was a man who carried his fifth decade of years with youthful elasticity of movement, and with a pleasant, winning expression on his still handsome face. In general he seemed to be clothed with remnants of great manly beauty, from behind which, like soiled lining through rents in a once splendid robe, appeared, carefully concealed, old age, which was premature, perhaps.
A tall man with a shapely oval face, he had dark whiskers, and the black curls of his hair did not cover successfully the bald spot appearing on the back of his head; his mustache was curled upward, in the fashion of young men, above ruddy lips; he passed through the study with a youthful step, and had the express intention of greeting the master of the house in a cordial and intimate manner. But in the cold eyes of Darvid appeared flashes well-nigh threatening; he barely touched with his finger-tips the hand extended by the guest-a hand really aristocratic, white, slender, and greatly cared for.
"Pardon, pardon, dear Pan Aloysius, that I come at this hour, just the hour of thy important, immense, colossal occupations! But on receiving thy invitation I hastened."
"Yes," said Darvid, "I need to talk with you a little--will you wait a while?"
He turned toward the two men standing by the table, who when he greeted Kranitski looked at him with a curiosity impossible to conceal.
Every meeting of Darvid with that eternal guest, that offshoot of aristocratic families, roused the curiosity of people. For a good while Darvid did not know this, but at last he discovered it, and now his quick glance caught on the lips of the famous jurist a barely discernible smile, to meet which a similar smile appeared on the lips of the architect. He discoursed a few minutes more with the two men. When they turned to go he conducted them to the door; when that was closed he turned to Kranitski and said: "Now I am at your service."
No one had ever seen service so icy cold, and having in it the shade of a restrained threat. Kranitski in view of this spent more time than was needed in placing his hat on one of the pieces of furniture, besides an expression of alarm covered his face, now bent forward, and, in the twinkle of an eye, the wrinkling of his forehead and the dropping of his cheeks, made him look ten years older. Still with grace which was unconscious, since it had passed long before into habit, he turned to Darvid.
"Thou hast written to me, dear Pan Aloysius--" "I have called you," interrupted Darvid, "for the purpose of proposing a certain condition, and a change."
From a thick, long book he cut out a page, on which, previously, he had written a few words in haste, and giving it to Kranitski, he said: "Here is a bank check for a considerable sum. Your affairs, as I hear, are in a very disagreeable condition."
Kranitski's face grew radiant from delight, and became ten years younger. Taking the check presented to him he began, with a certain hesitation: "Dear Pan Aloysius, this service, really friendly, which thou art rendering me, even without request on my part, is truly magnanimous, but be assured that the moment income from my property increases--" Darvid interrupted him a second time.
"We know each other so long that I cannot be ignorant of what your property is, and what income you receive from it. You have no property. You own a little village, the income from which has never sufficed to satisfy even one half of your needs. In that little village you would have passed your life unknown to the great world if your mother had not been a relative of Prince Zeno, and some other coronets of nine quarterings. But since you had relationship so brilliant through your mother, high society did not suffer from the loss of your presence. I know all that relates to you, you need not try to lead me into error--I know everything."
On the last words he put an emphasis which seemed to bring Kranitski into a profound confusion, which he could not master.
"Parole d'honneur," began he, "I do not understand such a real friendly service with such a tone."
"You will understand at once. This sum offered you is not a friendly service, but a simple commercial transaction. To begin with, I insist that for the future you cut short all relations with my son Maryan."
Kranitski stepped back a number of paces.
"With Maryan!" exclaimed he, as if not wishing to believe his own ears. "I break all relations with him! Is it possible? Why? How can that be? But you yourself--" "That is true, I myself began this. I wished that my family, which, during my frequent absences, resided here permanently, should move in that social sphere which I considered most desirable, and I asked you to be the link between my family and that sphere--" "I did what you desired," interrupted Kranitski in turn, and raising his head.
Darvid, looking firmly into his face, said in a low voice, slowly, but the ice of his tones seemed at moments to break from the boiling of passion confined beneath them.
"Yes, but you, sir, have demoralized my son. Of himself he would never have gone to such a degree of corruption and idleness. You drew him from study, you led him into all kinds of sport, you took him to all places of amusement, from the highest to the lowest. On returning, after three years' absence, I found Maryan withered morally. Luckily he is a child yet, twenty-three years of age, it is possible to save him. The process of salvation I begin by forbidding you to have any further relations whatever with my son."
Darvid grew terrible during his remaining words. His fingers were sinking into the table, on which he rested his hand. The cluster of wrinkles between his brows became deeper, his eyes had the flash of steel in them; he was all hatred, anger, contempt. But Kranitski, who at first listened to him as if unable to move from astonishment, boiled up also with anger.
"What do you say?" cried he. "Does not my hearing deceive me? You reproach me! Me, who during your ceaseless occupations and absences have been for many years, one may say, the only guardian of your family, and director of your son. Well! Then do you not remember our former intimacy, and this, that it was I who made you acquainted with the highest families of this city, and all this country? Do you not remember your confidential statements to me that you wished to give your daughters in marriage within those circles to which my connections might be a convenient bridge for you? Do you not remember your requests that I should introduce Maryan into the best society, and teach him the manners prevailing there? Very well! You were making your millions in peace, going after them to the ends of the earth, while I did everything that you wished, and now I meet with reproaches, which, at the very least, are expressed without delicacy--des reproches, des grossieretes--Mais ca n'a pas de nom! c'est inoui! This demands the satisfaction of honor."
His indignation was genuine and heartfelt; it brought out a deep flush on his still shapely face. A stony amazement fell on Darvid. True, true, that man spoke the truth.
He, Darvid, had used him for his purposes; he had liked the man, almost loved him; he had given him great confidence. He had not looked into his character; he had not tried to know him, though he had found time to analyze and know men who took no part in his business. But the fact in this case was, that whatever had happened, had happened with his own will. From the depth of his bosom, from out their mysterious den, came a coil of snakes, and a repulsive coldness and slime rose toward his throat, still he reared his head.
"There is much truth in what you say; still my decisive and repeated wish is that you cease to appear in my house."
Kranitski's forehead was flushed with blood, and the words were hissing on his lips when he cried: "In view of such feelings of yours toward me, how am I to explain the service rendered just now?"
"As pay for service which you have rendered me, or my family. I pay, we are at quits, and part forever." "You are not the only power in this world!" cried Kranitski; "not your will alone can open or close the doors of this house to me."
Darvid, so pale that even his thin lips did not seem to possess a drop of blood, took from a letter-case and showed Kranitski, between two fingers, a letter in a small elegant envelope, bearing the address of Pani Malvina Darvid.
The dark flush vanished from Kranitski without a trace; he became very pale and rested his hand on the arm of the chair; his eyes opened widely. Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men with faces as pale as linen hung the terror of a discovered secret. Darvid, with a voice so stifled that it was barely audible, was the first to speak.
"How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply by chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them only this good, that at times they put an end to deceit and--villainy!"
Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out on his forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some steps and stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between them. With stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes boldly on Darvid's face, he said: "Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know that in early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?"
Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said: "You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to this capital in search of the golden fleece."
"And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered Kranitski, "you thought proper to place me to guard the woman whom I loved formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even when separated by hundreds or thousands of miles from her--" "Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid.
"As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it by offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await your seconds."
Darvid laughed loudly and sharply.
"A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of it? Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I should care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but I have daughters, and I have business--" He was silent a while, then he finished: "A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would injure the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither challenge you to a duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash you!"
A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the effects of a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and crushing in his hand the bank check which he had received, hurled that paper bullet into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him at the top of his bronze colored whiskers and fell to his feet. Then with elastic movement, and with a grace which was unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward the door and strode out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty chamber, richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How many vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of years! There was something greater still than even these vexations and troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast and crawled up to his very throat.
That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or say: torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers and poets. He, a man of iron industry, knew only the words vexation, trouble. What is he to do now with that woman? Throw her out like a beast which, bathed in milk and honey by its owner, has bitten him to the blood? Impossible. His children, especially his daughters, his business, his position, his house--scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live on under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her eyes--those eyes which on a time were for him--yes, it cannot be otherwise.
He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily, so as not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or explanation. Naturally, no scenes, disputes, or explanations. For, first of all, what can they profit? Nothing save a useless expense of energy, and he needs energy so much.
Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken silence, which will raise between her and him an impenetrable wall. From words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges, some sound may be got, some slight hope of salvation; but silence, concealing hidden knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in which, from the first hour of each day to the end of it, that woman's pride will be placed with all that in her may still be human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of his millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in his millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond doubt he hates her with passion, and only at times does her name move marvellously through his brain with such sounds as if they were the echo of things very dear, things lost forever and irreplaceable. Can it be? Is it possible that she did that? Malvina, once an ideal maiden, and ten years later a woman so loving that when he was going on a journey she threw herself on her knees and wept, and then besought him not to go from her! He remembers the scene perfectly.
Her hair of pale gold, dropping then in disorder to her shoulders and bosom--her magnificent hair, surrounded by which the tears flowing down her face glistened like diamonds! He raised his head, straightened himself. What stupidity! On what sentiment and exaltation is he losing time and energy! He needs them for something else. He needs to concentrate all his forces to bring his new designs to the desired culmination. Why does "that hound" not show himself and bring the answer needed? Ah, if he could only get one hour of that conversation, he would convince; he would capture; he would overcome rivals, and seize into his own sole possession new fields of industry and speculation! There are hindrances, intrigues, dangerous rivalries, he knows of them, and these oppositions it is precisely which attract him most of all. Now especially, with those vexations and troubles, victory and the new work would be as a spoonful of hashish to him, or a glass of strong, invigorating wine. He must go to the club. A game of cards, to which he devotes some night hours frequently, is not specially pleasant, but he plays with persons of high position in society, or with those who are needed in his business. He will find perhaps, also, that man for whom he has been waiting, vainly, some days.
He was extending his hand to the button of the electric bell when from behind the portieres which half hid the door opening to the interior of the mansion a thin and timid voice came; one could hardly tell whether it was the voice of a child or a young lady: "Is it permitted to enter?"
Darvid went to the door hurriedly, saying, also hurriedly: "It is! It is!"
At that moment, from the darkness which filled the adjoining room, into the abundant light of the study, came a maiden of fifteen years, in a bright dress; she was tall and very slender, with a small waist and narrow breast. An immense wealth of pale, golden hair seemed to bend back with its weight her small, shapely head somewhat; her oval face, with its delicate features, had the blush of spring on it; her lips were like cherries, and under the arches of her dark brows were large dark eyes. Right behind the bright dress of the girl came a small shaggy creature, a ball of ash colored silk, a little dog.
"Cara!" cried Darvid, "well, you are here, little one! How often have I asked you to come always boldly. How do you feel to-day? You have not coughed much, I think? Have you taken your daily walk? With whom did you go? With Miss Mary, or Irene? Come, come, sit here in this armchair."
He held her small hand in his and led her toward the table, which was surrounded with armchairs. In his movements there was something polished and exquisite, as it were delicacy toward a person who was very dear and not much known, pushed to the degree where it might be called gallantry. Joined with this was a feeling of delight. She was pleased and smiling, but she was blushing and embarrassed. Advancing with short steps at his side, she bent to his hand every moment and kissed it. Her act was full of a timid charm, half capricious. They both looked like persons who were greatly pleased at meeting, but who remained on a footing of ceremony with each other. He received her in his study as a queen; he seated her in an armchair, then, sitting very near, he held her hands in his. Between them, on the edge of his mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was not accustomed to visit that room. Cara also, with an expression of timid happiness on her lips which were open, cast her glance with a smile on the vases and the walls, uncertain whether she was to speak, not knowing if she might say something; she bore herself very simply; her small hands rested without motion between her father's palms. At last she said, in a very low voice: "I was so anxious to see you, father, dear; I wished so much to speak with you that I have come."
"You have done excellently, my little one. Why not come oftener? Your coming gives me great pleasure."
While speaking he looked all the time into her face, which was almost that of a little child. She was so like her mother, that Malvina's youth was simply renewed in Cara.
But Malvina, when he made her acquaintance, was considerably older; the hair was just the same, very bright, and the eyes with dark brows and pupils, the same shape of forehead. With a deepening of the wrinkles between his brows he repeated: "Why not come offener?"
"You are always so occupied, father," whispered she.
"What of that?" answered he hurriedly and abruptly.
"There is reproach in your voice. Are my occupations a crime? But labor is service, it is the value of a man. My children should esteem my labor more than others, since I toil for them as much, or even more, than for myself."
He did not even think of speaking to that child with a voice so abrupt, and with such a cloud on his forehead; but that cloud came to him from some place within, from a distant feeling of something which he had never looked at directly before. But he hardly knew the girl! When he went away the last time she was a child; now she was almost full grown. But she, in the twinkle of an eye, slipped from the low armchair to the carpet, and kneeling with clasped hands began to speak passionately and quickly: "Your child is on her knees before you, father. When you were far away she revered you, did you homage, longed for you; when you are here she loves you greatly, above everything--" Here she turned and removed from her dress the ball of ash-colored silk, which was climbing to her shoulder.
"Go away, Puffie, go away! I have no time for thee now."
She pushed away the little dog, which sat on the carpet some steps distant. Darvid felt a stream of pleasant warmth flooding into his breast from the words of his daughter; but on principle he did not like enthusiasm. In feelings and the expression of them he esteemed moderation beyond everything. He raised with both hands the girl's head, which was bending toward his knees.
"Be not excited, be not carried away. Repose is beautiful, it is indispensable; without repose no calculation can be accurate, no work complete. Your attachment makes me happy; but compose yourself, rise from your knees, sit comfortably."
She put her hands together as in prayer.
"Let me stay as I am, father, at your knee. I imagined that on your return I should be able to talk often and long with you; to ask about everything, learn everything from you."
She coughed. Darvid took her in his arms, and, without raising her from her knees, he drew her to his breast.
"See! your cough lasts! Do you cough much? Well, do not speak, do not speak! let it pass. Does this cough pass quickly?"
It had passed. She stopped coughing, laughed. Her teeth glittered like pearls between her red lips. A gleam of delight shot through Darvid's eyes.
"It has gone already! I do not cough often, only rarely. I am perfectly well. I was very sick when I got chilled at an open window while you were away, father."
"I know, I know. Your enthusiastic little head thought of opening the window on a winter night, so as to peep out and see how the garden looked covered with snow in the moonlight."
"The trees, father, the trees!" began she, smiling and with vivacity; "not the whole garden, just the trees, which, covered with snow and frost in the moonlight, were like pillars of marble, alabaster, crystal, set with diamonds, hung with laces; and whenever the slightest breeze moved, a rain of pearls was scattered on the ground." "Great God!" exclaimed Darvid, "marbles, alabasters, laces, diamonds, pearls! But there was nothing of all this in fact! There was nothing but dry trunks, branches, snow, and hoar-frost. That is exaltation! And you see how destructive it may be! It brought you acute inflammation of the lungs, the traces of which are not gone yet."
"They are!" answered she, in passing, and then she spoke seriously. "My father, is it exaltation to worship something which is very beautiful, or to love some one greatly with all our strength? If it is--then I am given to exaltation, but without exaltation what could we live for?"
An expression of wonder, meditation, thoughtfulness filled her eyes and covered her finely cut face with a freshness like that of a wild rose. With a movement of wonder she opened her arms, and repeated: "What do we live for?"
Darvid laughed.
"I see that your head is turned a little, but you are a child yet, and your trouble will pass."
Stroking her pale, golden hair, he continued: "Homage, love, and like things of the sensational sort, are very nice, very beautiful, but should not occupy the first place."
Cara listened so eagerly that her mouth was open somewhat, and she became motionless as a statue.
"But what should stand in the first place, father?"
Darvid did not answer at once. What? What should stand in the first place?
"Duty," said he.
"What duty, father?"
Again he was silent a while. What duty? Yes, what kind of duty?
"Naturally the duty of labor, hard labor."
The flush on Cara's face increased; she was all curiosity, all eagerness to hear her father's words.
"Labor, for what, father, dear?"
"How? for what?"
"For what purpose? For what purpose? because no one labors for the labor itself. For what purpose?"
For what purpose? How that child pushed him to the wall with her questions! With hesitation in his voice, he answered: "There are various purposes--" "But you, father, for what are you working?" continued she, with eager curiosity.
He knew very well for what purpose he wished now to undertake the gigantic labor of erecting a multitude of buildings for the residence of an army, but could he explain that to this child? Meanwhile the dark eyes of the child were fastened on his face, urging him to an answer.
"What is it?" said he. "I--labor gives me considerable, sometimes immense profits."
"In money?" asked she.
"In money."
She made a motion with her head, signifying that she knew that this long time.
"But I," began she, "if I wanted to work, should not know what to work for, I should not know for what object I could work."
He laughed.
"You will not need to work; I will work for you, and instead of you." "Well, father!" exclaimed she, with a resonant laugh, "what can I do? To worship, to love, is exaltation--duty is labor, but if I may not labor, what am I to do?"
Again she opened her small hands with astonishment and inquiry; her eyes were flashing, her lips trembling.
Darvid, with marks of disagreeable feeling on his face, reached for his watch.
"I have no time," said he; "I must go to the club."
At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber, through the open door: "Prince Zeno Skirgello."
Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her knees, and looking around, called: "Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy."
"Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or in the carriage?"
"In the carriage," answered the servant.
"Beg him to come in, beg him to come in!"
In the delight which the unexpected arrival of the prince caused him at that time, he did not notice the expression of regret on Cara's face. Raising the little dog from the floor and holding him in her arms, she whispered: "This is the third time, or the fourth--it is unknown which time it is!" Darvid sprang toward her.
"You may remain! You know the prince--" "Oh, no, father, I flee--I am not dressed!"
Her white robe with blue dots had the shape of a wrapper, and her hair was somewhat dishevelled. With the dog on her arm she ran to the door beyond which was darkness.
"Wait!" cried Darvid, and he took one of the candles which were burning on the desk in tall candlesticks. The prince was coming up the stairs slowly. "I will light you through the dark chambers."
Saying this he walked with her to the second chamber, and when passing through that, she, while going at his side with the dog on her arm, and with her short step, which gave her tall form the charm of childhood, repeated: "This is the fourth time, perhaps--it is unknown how many times it will be in this way!"
"What will be in this way?"
"Just when I begin to talk with you. Paf! something hinders!"
"What is to be done?" answered he, with a smile; "since your father is not a hermit, nor a small person on this world's chessboard."
They went hurriedly, and passed through the second chamber. The flame of the candle which Darvid carried cast passing flashes on the gold and polish of the walls, and the furniture. These were like tricky gnomes, appearing and vanishing in the silence, darkness, and emptiness.
Darvid thought: "How dark it is here, and deserted!" Cara divined this thought, as it were, and said: "Mamma and Ira are invited to dine to-day at--" She gave the name of one of the financial potentates, and added: "After dinner they will come to dress for the theatre."
"And thou?" inquired Darvid.
"I? I do not go into society yet, and so far the doctor forbids me to go to the theatre. I will read or talk with Miss Mary, and amuse myself with Puff."
She stroked with her palm the silky head of the little dog. Darvid halted at the door of the third chamber, and gave Cara the light, from the weight of which her slight arm bent somewhat.
"Go on alone; I must hurry to the prince."
She bent down to his hands, covered them with hurried, ardent kisses. With the flame of the candle before her rosy face, with the dog at her breast, and the pale, golden hair pushed back on her shoulders, she advanced in the darkness. Darvid returned through that darkness in the opposite direction, and when he had passed the two spacious chambers hastily, he felt in the twinkle of an eye as if from behind, from that interior, some weight had been placed on his shoulders. He looked around. There was nothing but vacancy, obscurity, and silence.
"Stupid! I must have the house lighted!" thought Darvid, and he hurried into the study, where, with movements a little too vivacious, with a fondling smile, and with repeated declarations that he felt happy, he greeted the prince, a man of middle age, of agreeable exterior, affable and pleasant in speech. When they had sat down in armchairs, the prince declared the object of his visit, which was to invite Darvid to a hunt which was to take place soon on one of his estates. Darvid accepted the invitation with expressions of pleasure, a little too prompt and hearty. But he was never so well able to measure his words and movements in presence of those high-born people as in presence of others. He felt this himself, still he had not the power to refrain. In presence of them he found himself under the influence of one of his passions, and it carried him too far. The prince spoke of the sculptor, whose gifts he esteemed highly; the young man had gone directly from Darvid to him and told of all that he had heard, and what he had experienced.
"I was really affected by your kindness toward this youthful genius, and am delighted that he found in you a patron so magnanimous."
Darvid thought that in every case his arrows always struck the mark. To that act of his he was surely indebted for this unusual visit of the prince, and the invitation. With a smile, in which honey was overflowing, he said: "That young man seems very ill. A visit to more favorable climates might save him. I must try that he does not reject the means which I shall offer him for that purpose. I foresee resistance, but I shall do what I can to overcome it, out of regard for art, and through good-will for a young man who, besides many sympathetic traits, has this on his side, that he rejoices in the exceptional favor of Prince Zeno."
Had he been able, Darvid would have kissed himself for that phrase, he felt so well satisfied with it; especially when the prince answered with animation: "This, in the full sense of the words, means speaking and acting beautifully! You use the gifts of fortune in a manner truly noble."
"Not fortune, prince, not fortune!" exclaimed Darvid, "but iron labor."
"Such toilers as you are the knights of the contemporary world," answered the prince, with vivacity; "the Du Guesclins and Cids of the present century."
He rose and, while pressing the hand of that Cid, fixed again in his memory the date of the hunt, which was not distant. Prince Zeno was an aristocrat of the purest blood, possessing a wide popularity which was fairly well deserved.
Darvid was radiant. While accompanying the prince to the door of the antechamber he looked as if no coil of serpents had ever crawled up in his bosom, which was now beating with delight and with pride. The prince halted still a moment at the door, as if to recall something.
"Pardon me an indiscreet question, but this interests me immensely. Is there truth in the reports which are circulating in the city, that Baron Blauendorf is to have the honor in the near future of receiving the hand of your elder daughter?"
The expression of Darvid's face changed quickly, it became sharp and severe.
"Were there any truth in the report," answered he, "I should try to destroy it together with the report."
"And you would be right, perfectly right!" exclaimed the prince. Then he bent his lips almost to Darvid's ear and whispered: "There is no Pactolus which such a young buck as Baron Emil would not drink up. He is a genuine devourer of fortunes. He has swallowed one already and the half of another."
He laughed and added at once, with immense affability: "I see your son frequently--that worthy Kranitski presented him a year ago to us; I and my wife are very, very thankful. He is sympathetic, handsome, and a highly intellectual young man, who does you honor."
He went out. Darvid stood at the round table sunk in thought, with pins of irony in his smile and his eyes, with a cloud of wrinkles between his brows. That young sculptor, the favorite of Prince Zeno, with clothing almost in tatters, brought consumption on himself unhindered, till a parvenu appeared with his money-bag and rescued the pocket of the aristocrat, receiving in return a visit and an invitation to hunt. "Behold the significance of money! Almost infinite power--ha! ha! ha!"
Internal laughter bore him away, and in his brain sounded the word: "Wretchedness! Wretchedness!"
What was it specially that he called wretchedness? He was not clearly conscious himself of this, but the feeling of it penetrated him. Again he heard the prince saying "that honest Kranitski," and a wave of blood rushed to his forehead. Everything that he had forgotten a moment earlier returned to his mind; the prince's voice roared in his ears: "That honest Kranitski." He repeated a number of times to himself, in a hissing whisper, "honest! honest!" And then he said: "Wretchedness!"
That Baron Emil, the young buck capable of gulping down many a Pactolus! And he was to possess the hand of his daughter, with a considerable part of that fortune won by iron labor. Is Irene in love with him? But the baron is a vibrio and a monkey all in one. There is need to think over this family matter, lest a misfortune might happen. He cast a glance at the door behind which was darkness, thick, silent, immovable. It resembled a window opened into a great and impenetrable secret.
"I must have the house lighted up," thought he. At this moment he heard the dull rumble of a carriage in the gateway as it entered. He pressed the button of the electric bell.
"Is that the lady who has come?"
"Yes, serene lord."
"Tell the coachman to wait. He will take me to the club."
When the servant opened the door the rustle of silk came in like the sound of wind. Two long silken robes passed over the floor of the anteroom and farther on in the darkness of the chambers, which was dispelled by the light of the lamp, borne by the servant advancing in front of them.
The glittering gnomes called forth by that light sprang along the gildings, polished walls, and furniture; ran out of the darkness, ran into it again; were lighted up and quenched on the inclined heads, drooping lids, and silent lips of the two women in rich array and gloomy.
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"id": "20537"
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Malvina Darvid was one of those women to whom old age is very tardy in coming, and whose beauty, modified in each season of life, never leaves them. For this last she was indebted less to the features of her face than to the immense charm of her movements, her smile, her expression, her speech. She retained yet the same pale, golden hair which she had years earlier, which she arranged high above her low forehead, calling to mind the statues of Grecian women. In contrast with that hair, and her slightly faded but delicate complexion, shone, from under dark brows, large eyes, also dark, with a very mild, warm expression, now bright, now tempered by a deep inevitable cloud of pensiveness. In a robe covered with lace, in the glitter of a star of diamonds in the bright aureole of her hair, she greeted the numerous acquaintances who entered her box at the theatre, with the affability and freedom of a perfect society lady. She was even celebrated in that great city for the qualities which constitute so-called society personages, and which, in those who knew her past, roused a certain wonder. It was known to all that that past was very modest. Darvid in his youth, which was far less brilliant than his present, married a poor orphan, a teacher. But Malvina Darvid was of those women who need only a golden setting to sparkle like diamonds. She shone in the great world with a charm, an elegance, a power of speech which were the same as if she had been its own daughter. She was radiant with satisfaction, with serenity, often even with joyous animation, and only now and then did a slight wrinkle, with a barely discernible line furrowing her Grecian forehead, sink itself and cast on her face an expression of weariness, or the corners of her lips, still red and shapely, drop downward and make that oval, white, delicate face ten years older than it seemed to be usually. But those were only short and rare moments, after which Malvina Darvid was again entirely flooded with the brilliancy of her beautiful eyes, her splendid toilet, the sounds of her metallic voice, warm and full of sweetness. She seemed barely a few years older than her elder daughter. Sometimes guests left her box with the words: "She is more beautiful than her daughter."
And offener still: "She is more charming and sympathetic than her daughter."
Still nature had been no stepmother to Irene Darvid; but life, though so short thus far, had stamped on her exterior a mark which, while it astonished and discouraged, repelled.
If the younger sister seemed a living portrait of her mother, the elder recalled her father, with her high forehead, thin lips, and--a thing wonderful at such a tender age--the mark of irony drawn over them. Her hair, too, like her father's, changed with fiery gleams of gold and bronze, while the pale complexion of her face, which was too long, was lighted by the frequent sharp glitter of her eyes, which, as those of her father, were not large, and had gray pupils with a cold glance, penetrating and reasoning. Her shapely form was somewhat too slender; her posture and movements too stiff and ceremonious. She passed in society for a haughty, cold, unapproachable, original, and even eccentric young lady. On the stage was presented a play which had been preceded by immense praise; in the theatre had collected all that bore the name of high and fashionable society in the city. The boxes were filled, except one, which only just before the beginning of the second act was opened with a rattle and filled with loud, free, and bold conversation. It was occupied by a number of young men of elegant dress and manners; they, as it seemed, were connected by similarity in position, habits, and pleasures. Prom the higher to the lower rows of the theatre all eyes and glasses were turned toward that box, with its princes, young nabobs, sons of ancient families, or heirs to immense fortunes. Through boxes, armchairs, galleries, passed names notorious through deeds of originality, witty sayings, astonishing excesses; names interwoven with anecdotes about money and love-passages; the substance of the love-passages could be repeated only in whispers, while the amounts of money were mentioned with eyes widely opened in amazement. Two among these young men occupied public attention beyond others that winter: Baron Emil Blauendorf, and Maryan Darvid, both of families recently, but greatly, enriched. The Blauendorf house was older by some generations, and had become widely connected; on the other hand, their fortune in possession of the present descendant was vanishing quickly; in comparison with the entirely new edifice of the Darvids, it seemed a ruin. On these two general attention was concentrated with the greatest curiosity; for during that winter and the preceding one the most numerous anecdotes touching them were in circulation among those who frequented that theatre. They were so young, and still so noted! But Baron Emil was considerably older than Maryan; he was thirty and little favored in looks. Small, weakly, with red, closely-cut hair, with features which were too small, and injured by a faded complexion, with small eyes, which, because of nearsightedness, were either covered with eyeglasses, or blinked at the light from behind yellow lids, which gave them an expression of pride and weariness. An unshapely exterior, unimposing, slight, bent, sickly. But through those small, yellowish, thin hands had passed already the fortune of the old baron, who was dead some years, and now a second fortune was passing through them--a fortune left scarcely a year before to her son by the baroness, who was famous for her idolatrous love of him. People looked, and wondered how such a great river of gold could flow through a creature so small and insignificant. With Maryan it was different. He astonished also, but he roused general sympathy. Such a child! And such a perfectly beautiful fellow at the same time! He was not twenty three years of age yet; of fine stature; his manners were elegant and pleasing; he had the head of a cherub, with bright curling locks; a noble fresh face from which gazed eyes as blue as turquoise; and wise, too wise, perhaps, in so youthful a countenance, for these eyes seemed not to confide but to jeer, or to be wearied and seeking something through the world without finding it. Women whispered into one another's ears that that lad, when in England, had joined the Salvation Army; but after he had remained a short time in its ranks, he became, in Paris, a member of the Hashish Club, and brought away the habit of using narcotics to rouse dreams in himself and unusual conditions. If the city at that moment had temporary possession of Bianca Bianetti it was thanks to that lad, who, in a remote land, had won the heart of the singer. Some insisted that he had spent fabulous sums on her; others contradicted, declaring that not Bianca, the singer, had consumed them, but Aurora, that noted Amazon of the circus, for whose favor princes of blood royal had striven in various capitals. That shapely little nabob had come, seen, and conquered; and when he had got his prize at an incredible outlay, he threw it aside and brought home Bianca. But is that all that may be told of him? He and Baron Emil are fountains of histories of this sort. The baron is considerably older, but this lad has a father. That father himself is a source of unbounded credit. Young Darvid has as many debts as there are golden curls on that cherub head of his. What will his papa say? What? Not long since that papa returned from the ends of the earth, after a long absence; will he put an end to the tricks of the boy? will he be able to do so? The white forehead of the youth has an expression of maturity, and at times of something else--namely, weariness--and in his blue eyes gleams of firmness, resolve, and contempt. He looks as if he despised the whole world then. He and the baron occupy themselves much with art and literature. They expend almost as much on art as on women and joyous suppers. They are highly cultured. The baron plays like an artist; Maryan translates poetry into various languages. In the box were a number of others resembling these two, but the others had places elsewhere in the theatre: they had come for a brief time and left the box afterward, then there remained only the baron and young Darvid. Behind their chairs sat some third man, very quietly, as if to attract the least attention possible. This was Pan Arthur Kranitski. People were accustomed to see him here and elsewhere with these two young men, and with others also, but with these two most frequently; his hair curled, freshened; his black mustache, pointed at the ends above his red lips, in the fashion of young men. But to-day he looks considerably more retiring and older than usual. With much bold conversation, with laughter which cast his head back, with movements full of grace and animation, he generally strove to equal, and did equal, those two young nabobs, whose Mentor he seemed to be, and at the same time their comrade and continual guest, as well as their gracious protector. This time he was weighed down and gloomy, with spots on his aged forehead. He was sitting in a corner of the box, turning his attention neither to the play nor the audience; and, what was more, not striving to attract the attention of anyone. But from behind the shoulders of the young men in the front of the box, his hand, as if directed by an irresistible impulse, turned the opera-glass, from moment to moment, toward Malvina Darvid. He felt that he ought not to look so persistently at that woman with the gleaming star above her forehead, so he dropped his hand to raise it again and turn it in the same direction. As if imitating Kranitski, though really he did not even think of his existence, Baron Emil was acting in the same way with reference to Irene, gazing through his opera-glass at her face, which showed indifference and even weariness. He did this with a perfect disregard for the rest of the audience, and beginning at the second act, with an insolence which might have confused or angered another woman. But Irene, indifferent for some time, raised her glass also, and turned it on the baron. With these glasses the two people brought their faces near each other; they looked each other straight in the eyes, separated themselves from the audience, and gazed from the height of their two boxes in full disregard of everything happening around them. These two opera-glasses, planted in permanent opposition, attract the attention of all; but Irene and the baron do not heed that, do not care to know anything what ever about the audience, or the love scenes and tragedy represented in that theatre. They gaze long at each other with such indifference that one might ask. Why do they do that? Perhaps because it is original, perhaps to rouse the curiosity or the censure of the audience. But, after a long time, there appeared on their faces a jeering, self-willed smile, with a tinge of friendly comradeship, mixed in the baron's case with a passing gleam of the eyes; and in Irene's a pale flush, which covered her lofty forehead for a moment and then vanished. Dropping his hand with the opera-glass the baron turned to Maryan: "Tres garconniere ta soeur!" said he. "She is bold and looks down on every thing; she is disenchanted. Une desabusee! Very interesting, and grows more and more so."
"Does she rouse a new shiver in you?" laughed Maryan.
"Yes, an entirely new shiver. That is a type of woman which is barely beginning. Twenty years old, and a perfectly distinct individuality! Twenty years old, and knows painted pots thoroughly!"
"That is a family trait with us," retorted Maryan.
"Your mother," continued the baron, "has undying beauty. Such splendid hair and eyes! But hers is another type entirely."
"A past one," put in Maryan.
"Yes, that is true, a past type, a simple one. But Panna Irene is new and intricate; yes, that is the word, intricate! We are all intricate now, full of contrasts, dissonances, and vexations."
In the theatre a thunder of applause was heard. The two young men looked at each other and laughed almost loudly.
"What are they playing?" asked the baron, indicating the stage with his head. "Ma foi! I have not heard one word."
"Well old man," said Maryan, turning to Kranitski, "what are they doing on the stage?" Kranitski dropped his hand with the opera-glass quickly and blurted out: "What is the question, Maryan?" His eyes, which were fine yet in their prolonged lids, were glazed with a tear.
"Ho, ho! romantic, there is a tear in your eye. The subject must be affecting! Let us listen!" They began to listen, but quite differently from others. When passions exhibited on the stage quickened the beating of all hearts, or poetry, pulsating in lofty words, brightened faces with enthusiasm, Maryan and the baron laughed inattentively and with contempt; when stupidity, selfishness, or wit called out laughter, or ridicule, they were immovable in cold importance, puffed up and insolent; when the curtain came down at the end, and a deafening, prolonged thunder of applause was heard, their hands rested ostentatiously on the edge of the box. This opposition to the impressions and opinions of the audience might seem a childish wish for distinction; but one could feel besides in it, a bold throwing down of the gauntlet to common taste, and an estimate of the various elements and values in life directly in conflict with that of others.
Toward the end of the last act Kranitski entered Malvina Darvid's box, and saluting each woman silently he stood motionless. Malvina bowed toward him slightly, then a shadow came out on her face; this shadow seemed to have torn itself from an internal cloud. She frowned--a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead, the corners of her mouth drooped somewhat, and her face, with that brilliant star in the aureole of bright hair above, had an expression of pain when seen on the drapery of the box as a background.
But that did not last long. The box was filled with an assembly of brilliant and agreeable men, one of whom, with his gray hair and bearing of an official, made a low obeisance before the wife of Darvid, and seemed to lay at her feet smiles full of homage. Hence she grew affable, pleasant, vivacious, elegant in gestures, and in the modulation of her beautiful voice, she answered politeness with politeness, requests with promises, and gave opinions in return for questions touching the piece just played.
Baron Emil meanwhile approached Irene and, indicating the excited audience with his eyes, inquired: "How do those shouting Arcadians please you?"
Taking on her shoulders the wrap which he held for her, she answered: "They are happy!"
"Why?"
"Because they are naive!"
"You have described the position famously!" cried he, with enthusiasm. "Only Arcadians could be so happy--" "As to believe in those painted pots--" "As their great-grandfathers did," added he.
"Who knows," said she, as it were, with deep thought, "whether the great-grandfathers really believed in them, or only--" "Pretended belief! Ha! ha! ha! Beyond price! excellent! How you and I converse, do we not? This is harmony!"
"Not without dissonance."
"Yes, yes, not without vexation. But that is nothing. That even rouses-" During this interchange of opinions, which was like the glitter of cold and sharp steel, Kranitski, in the crowd which surrounded Malvina, was able to whisper to her: "To-morrow at eleven." Without looking at him, and with a quiver of her brows, which drooped a little, she answered: "It is too early."
"Absolutely necessary. A catastrophe! A misfortune!" whispered he in addition.
She raised to him a glance which showed that she was tortured to her inmost soul by fear, but at the same moment Maryan gave her his arm, and said: "To be original, to edify the Arcadians, and to give myself pleasure, I shall be to-day a virtuous son, conducting his own beautiful mamma downstairs!"
Adroit, with almost childish delight in his blue eyes, but with a sarcastic smile which seemed to have grown to his lips, which were shaded by a minute mustache, this youth led through the theatre corridor that woman not young, but whose beautiful and original head, and whose rich toilet drew all eyes to her.
"I am proud of you, dear mamma. To-day I have heard whole odes sung in your honor; even Emil declares that you are eclipsing Irene with your beauty."
She was smiling and also angry. Her dark gleaming eyes rose with love to the shapely face of her son, but, striving to be dignified, she said: "Maryan, you know that I am displeased at hearing you talk to me in such a tone."
He laughed loudly.
"Then, my dear mamma, you should grow old as quickly as possible, put on a cap, and sit in a jacket at the fireplace. I should be filled then with timid respect, and would hurry away with all speed from such an annoying mamma!"
"But since I am not annoying you will be good and come home with us. We shall drink tea together."
"Au desespoir, chere maman! But that cannot be. The rest of this day, or night, I have promised to friends."
"Is to-day the only time promised?" asked she, with a shade of sadness.
"For the true sage to-morrow and yesterday have no existence," answered Maryan.
They were at the open door of the carriage; Maryan bent and kissed his mother's hand.
"Be not angry, mamma dear! But you are never angry. If there is anything on earth that I worship yet it is your marvellous sweetness of temper."
"It is excessive," answered Malvina. "If I only knew how to dominate--" He interrupted her, with a laugh: "I should avoid you in that ease; but now, all relations between us are excellent, though they are constitutional or even republican."
"I go for anarchy!" put in Baron Emil, helping Irene to a seat in the carriage.
He spoke somewhat through his nose and teeth, it was difficult to say whether by nature or habit, but that gave to his speech a character of contemptuousness and indolence.
"But of dissonances to-morrow n'est ce pas?" asked he.
"And of vexations!" concluded Irene with a smile, wherewith her hand remained on the baron's palm a few seconds longer than was necessary.
Soon after, Malvina Darvid was sitting at a small table covered with a tea service, in a study which was like the lined and gilded interior of a costly confectionery box. Massive silver artistically finished, expensive porcelain, exquisite tid-bits, enticing the eye by their ornamentation, and the taste by the odor from them, tempered, however, by the strong fragrance of hyacinths, syringa, and violets which were blooming at the window and the walls, and on largo and small tables everywhere.
The dress worn at the theatre was replaced now by a wrapper, composed of lace and material soft as down. Her posture in the low and deep armchair, the very manner even in which she arranged the folds of her robe seemed to exhale the luxury of rest; but her mind was at work, and filled her eyes with an expression of disquiet. " 'Catastrophe! Misfortune!' What could that be?" Marks of pain had begun to wind around her mouth; her hands were firmly clasped on her knees. "It may be that lost letter? A man must have a head filled with exaltation, and a character as weak as Kranitski's to write such a letter. It may be--it is even sure to be so, for during a number of days she has felt in the air a catastrophe. But if? --Well! Is that a misfortune? Oh, rather the opposite?" The supposition that the dark, grievous truth of her life might be discovered by him who would seek vengeance because of it roused no fear in her; it caused her to hope for a thing disagreeable and yet desired. Let that horrid knot in which her life was involved be untied or torn apart sometime, in any way whatever. Alone she would never have strength to untie or to cut it, she is such an eternally weak, weak, weak creature! And still anything would be better than the present condition.
Two glittering tears rolled slowly down her cheeks; above the drooping eyelids a deep wrinkle cut a dark line across her forehead. The diamond star flashing rainbow gleams from her hair, and the flowers, which dotted the room thickly with their pale colors, gave a background of wealth to that woman's life tragedy.
With a teacup in her hand Irene stood in the opposite door and looked at her mother uneasily, keenly, with such attention that her eyelids blinked repeatedly. Far from her now were those dry and sneering smiles in conversation with the baron. But she passed through the room calmly and sat in front of her mother.
"It seems that the play of to-night did not amuse you much, mamma." She looked into the teacup so steadily that she could not see her mother's tears or expression of face. But that face grew bright on a sudden and was covered with an unrestrained smile.
"Is Cara sleeping?" inquired she.
"Of course; her room is quite silent, and so is Miss Mary's. Why do you not drink tea, mamma?"
Malvina raised the spoon slowly to her lips, and Irene began to speak calmly: "I heard very unexpected news to-day. It seems that father has told Prince Zeno, who inquired about the matter, that he will not consent to my marriage with Baron Blauendorf."
"Why call that news unexpected?" asked Malvina, looking at her daughter.
Irene shrugged her shoulders slowly.
"I did not suppose that father would devote his precious time to things so trivial. This is unexpected and may bring trouble."
"What trouble?" inquired Malvina, with alarm.
"Father's opinions and mine may be in opposition."
"In that case your opinion will yield."
"I doubt that. I have my plans, my needs, my tastes; of these father can know nothing."
They were silent rather long; during this time Malvina raised her eyes to her daughter repeatedly, with the intent to say something, but she was unable, or at least she hesitated. At last she inquired in irresolute, almost timid, tones: "Irene, do you love him?"
"Do I love the baron?"
These words coming from the lips of the young girl expressed immense astonishment.
"If Baron Emil should hear that question he would be the first to call it Arcadian or great-grandfatherly." And she laughed. "That is one of those things which do not exist, or which, at least, are changeable, temporary, dependent on the state of the nerves and the imagination. I have a cool imagination and calm nerves. I can do without painted pots."
As these words came slowly and coldly from the lips of her daughter, Malvina straightened herself, and her face was covered with a faint blush. She had preserved the rare, and at her age even wonderful, faculty of blushing.
"Ira!" cried she, "I hear these opinions not for the first time, and they give me such pain!"
She clasped her hands.
"Love, sympathy, when a choice is made--" The voice broke in her throat all at once. Her eyelids drooped; her shoulders fell back on the chair; she was silent.
Irene laughed and made a gesture of despair with her hands.
"What can I do with the situation?" began she in a jesting tone. "It was not I who made this world, and cannot reconstruct it. I might like to do so, perhaps, but I cannot." Then she grew serious, and continued: "Love and sympathy may be very charming. I admit even that most assuredly they are when they exist; but usually if they exist it is for a short period, they flash up and quench--a few years, a few days, most frequently only days, and they pass--they are as if they had never been. Why illusions, when after them disenchantment must conic? They merely cause useless exertion in life, disappointment, and suffering."
Irene's words and sententious, hard tones were in marvellous contrast with the maiden-roundness of her arms, which were bare in the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown, with the fresh red of her delicate lips, and the gleam of her blue eyes.
"Besides," added she, "I feel a sympathy for the baron; a certain kind of sympathy." Malvina, after a moment's silence, asked in a low voice: "What kind of sympathy is it?"
After a little hesitation Irene answered with a harsh, abrupt laugh: "What kind of sympathy? A kind very common, it seems known universally. Sometimes his way of looking at me, or his pressure of the hand, moves me. But he pleases me most by his sincerity; he makes no pretence. He has never told me, like those three or four other suitors of mine, that he loves me. He has for me, as I have for him, a certain kind of sympathy; he considers me financially an excellent match, and for these two reasons he wishes to share with me his title of baron, and his relationship with certain families of counts and princes. And as I, on my part, need independence at the earliest, and my own house, so one thing for another, the exchange of services and interests is accomplished. We do not hide from each other these motives of ours, and this creates between us sincere and comrade-like relations, quite agreeable, and leading to no tirades or elegies in which there is not one bit of truth, or to any exaltation or despair which has no title to the future. This is all."
"Ira!" whispered Malvina after a long silence.
"What, mamma?"
"If I could--if I had the right--" Both were silent.
"What, mamma?"
"If I could believe in spite of--" The gilded and artistic clock ticked among the pinks and lilies: tick-tack, tick-tack.
"What is it, mamma?"
"A cake, Ira!"
As Irene took a cake from the silver basket with her trembling hand, she cried, with glad laughter: "At last you will eat even a cake! You have changed immensely, mamma. I cannot call you now as I once did, a little glutton, since for some time past you eat so little that it is nearly nothing."
Malvina smiled fondly at the name which on a time her daughter had given her jestingly, and Irene continued in the same tone: "Remember, mamma, how you and I, with one small assistant in Cara, ate whole baskets of cakes, or big, big boxes of confectionery. Now that is past. I notice this long time that you eat almost nothing, and that you dress richly only because you must do so. At times, were it possible, you would put on haircloth instead of rich silks, would you not? Have I guessed rightly?"
While a faint blush covered her forehead and cheeks again, Malvina answered: "Rightly."
Irene grew thoughtful; without raising her eyes to her mother she inquired in a low voice: "What is the cause of this?"
"Returning currents of life are the cause," answered Malvina after a rather long silence, and she continued, thoughtfully: "You see, my child, currents of a river when once they have passed never come back again, but currents of life come hack. My early youth was poor, as you know, calm, laborious, brightened by ideals, from which I have deviated much! That was long ago, but it happened. In life so many years pass sometimes, that events which precede those years seem a dream, but they are real and come back to us."
Irene listened to this hesitating, low conversation with drooping eyelids and forehead resting on her hand. She made no answer. Malvina, sunk in thought, was silent also.
A few minutes later the tea things vanished from the table, removed without a sound almost, and borne out by the young waiting-maid.
With eyelids still drooping, as if she were finishing an idea circling stubbornly in her head, Irene said with pensive lips: "A haircloth!" She rose then, and, suppressing a yawn, said: "I am sleepy. Good-night, mamma, dear!" She placed a brief kiss on her mother's hand: "Shall I call Kosalia?"
"No, no! Tell her to go to sleep. I will undress myself and go to bed unattended."
"Good-night!"
Stepping quietly along the carpet Irene passed out. Malvina followed the young lady to the door with her eyes, and the moment she was alone she threw her arm over her head, turned her face upward, and repeated a number of times, audibly: "God! God!" Then she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, covered her face with both palms, the broad sleeves of her dress fell from her arms like broken wings. Thus, altogether motionless, she dropped into an abyss of regrets, reminiscences, and fears. The night flowed on. The clock among the flowers in that study struck the first hour after midnight, then the second hour, and each time in the darkness of the drawing-rooms another clock answered in tones which were deeper and more resonant. The syringa and hyacinths gave out a still stronger odor, though the cold increased in that chamber. The frosty winter night was creeping in, even to dwellings which were carefully heated, and was filling them with darkness penetrated with cold; along Malvina's shoulders, which were bent over the arm of the chair, shivers began to pass.
In the darkness and cold a slight rustle was heard, and on the background of this darkness, in the doorway, appeared Irene. She wore a short, embroidered dress of cambric, and her fiery tresses were on her shoulders. She stood in the doorway with neck extended toward her mother, then walking in soft slippers silently she passed through the room like a shadow, and vanished beyond the opposite door. There was something ghostlike in those two women; one passed, without the slightest rustle, by the other, who was sleeping in a low chair, without making the least movement. Outside that mansion the streets of the city were entering into a deeper and longer silence.
The clock in the study struck three, in the darkness three strokes, remote and deep, answered. In the air the volatile and languid odor of syringas was overcome by the narcotic and stronger odor of hyacinths. The increasing cold flowed around them with painful contrast. In the door, beyond which she had vanished, Irene appeared again, just as silently as before. She passed through the room and placed a shawl upon her mother's shoulders. Malvina, feeling the soft stuff, woke as if from a dream.
"What is this?" exclaimed she, raising her face, the cheeks of which were gleaming in the light of the lamp; but when she saw her daughter she smiled with relief immediately.
"That is you, Ira? Why are you not asleep?"
"I cannot sleep, and I came for the book which we began to read together. It is growing cold, so I brought a shawl. Good-night."
She went aside but did not leave the room. She had no book in her hand; perhaps she was looking for it in the beautifully carved ease filled with books, for she opened the case and stood before it with arms raised toward the upper shelves, her hair lying motionless on the white cambric covering her shoulders.
Malvina was looking at her daughter, in her eyes was impatience; she was waiting for her to go.
"Is it late?" asked she.
"Very late," answered Irene, without turning her head.
"Does Cara cough to-night?"
"I have not heard her cough to-day." Malvina rose, but tottered so much that she was forced to rest her hand on the edge of the table. She seemed greatly wearied.
"Go to sleep. Good-night!" said she, passing her daughter.
Irene looked at her tottering step and followed her quickly a number of paces.
"Mamma!" cried she.
"What, Ira?"
Irene stood before her mother a moment, her lips were quivering with words which she withheld, till she bent, kissed her mother's hand gently, and said in her usual manner: "Good-night!"
Then she stood a while longer before the open case, listening to the rustle made by her mother while going to bed, and when that had ceased she closed the case and moved quietly into the darkness behind the outer door.
At that same time a carriage thundered in the silence and passed through the gateway. Restrained movement rose in the antechamber from which one servant ran out into the dimly lighted stairway, and another rushed to the study and bedroom of the master of the mansion to increase quickly the light of the lamps there. Darvid went up the stairs quickly and with sprightliness; he threw into the hands of the servant his fur, which was costly and original, since it was brought from the distant North, and began at once to read at the round table, through an eyeglass, that which he had jotted down recently in his pocket notebook. The book was in ivory binding with a gold monogram, and a pencil with a gold case. While reading Darvid put a brief question to the servant: "Has Pan Maryan returned?"
The answer was negative. Large and heavy wrinkles appeared between Darvid's brows, but he continued to read his notes. Almost a quarter of an hour later he wrote something more while bending over the desk, and standing. Soon in the bedchamber, furnished by the most skillful decorator of the capital, a night-lamp on the mantel of a chimney illuminated a bed adorned with rich carving; a white and lean hand stretched out on a silk coverlet, and a face also, which was like ivory, and shining with two blue sleepless eyes, keenly glittering. Darvid cast an inattentive glance through the room, over which, in the pale lamplight, two beautiful female heads seemed to hover, reflected and multiplied in mirrors standing opposite each other. This was a most beautiful work--a genuine Greuze. To win this masterpiece Darvid outbid a number of men of high standing; he triumphed and was delighted. But now his sleepless glance passed over that pearl of art inattentively. His night at the club instead of diverting and calming had bored and irritated. His honorable partner was annoying, and rude in addition. Never would he have forced himself to play with the man, had not that relation been an honor, and--what was more--had it not been needful. Women say: one must suffer to be beautiful; men need to change only the last word and say: one must suffer to be powerful. But that was beginning to be repulsive, and, above all, to be wearisome. Only when in bed did he feel that he was weary. He could not sleep. He had slept badly for some weeks--since the time of that wretched letter. At thought of that letter the serpents stirred in Darvid's breast, but he shut them down in their den by hissing: "Stupidity!" And he fell into long and uneasy thought about that man whom he had sent on weighty business, but who had not returned yet.
Perhaps chance will not favor him this time, and another hand will seize the field of action and the great profits. He knows that he has enemies and rivals who envy, who undermine him. Well, he will win also in this case, only he would like something afterward--what? He himself does not know what--perhaps rest. To go for a time to Switzerland or Italy. For what purpose? He is not over curious about art and nature, he has no time to fall in love with them. Without occupation he would be bored in all places, and besides he must finish these family questions. He must tame Maryan, and hinder Irene's marriage to the baron. He is fighting a battle with his own son and daughter. Cara is the only one with whom he has no trouble. She is mild and beautiful. Her head is turned also, but in another, a more agreeable direction. She is greatly attached to him, the dear child! She is frail. He must speak to the doctor about her. Perhaps send her to Italy. With whom? With her mother? He would never permit that. The child is his. He will go himself with Cara. But in that case what will become of his enterprise?
In the interior of the mansion were heard deep, metallic sounds. The clock struck five.
In that same mansion, at the distant end of it, in a chamber lighted by a blue night-lamp, was heard a low, dry cough, and a frail, tall maiden, in night-clothing covered with lace, sat up in a blue and white bed.
"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" cried she, with fear in her voice.
From the adjoining chamber came a voice of agreeable tone and somewhat drowsy: "You are not asleep, Cara?"
"I have slept. The cough woke me, but that is well, for I had a dreadful dream. I dreamed that papa and mamma--" She stopped suddenly, and, though no one was looking at her, she hid her delicate face in the blue coverlet. So only in a whisper did she tell the end of her dream: "They were angry at each other--so awfully angry--Ira put her arms around mamma--Maryan went away hissing. I hung to papa, and cried so, and cried."
In fact her eyes were then filled with tears from the dream. But she stretched in the bed, and, with her head on the pillows, thought, till she called again: "Miss Mary! Are you sleeping?"
"No, dear; do you wish anything?"
Cara began in a loud voice: "I wish immensely, immensely, Miss Mary, to go with you to England, to your father and mother. Oh, how I should like to be in that parsonage a while, where your sisters teach poor children and nurse the sick, and your mother makes tea at the grate for your father when he comes home after services. Oh, Mary, if you and I could go to that place! It is so pleasant there." In the blue light and in the silence her thin voice recalled the twittering of a lark.
"We will go there sometime, dear. Your parents will permit, and we will go. But sleep now."
"Very well, I will sleep. Good-night, Miss Mary--my dear, good Miss Mary."
She lay some minutes quietly thinking, till she sat up again in bed coughing. When the cough had passed, she called in a low voice: "Miss Mary! Miss Mary!"
There was no answer.
"She is sleeping," whispered Cara, and after a while she looked around, and, in a lower voice, called: "Puffie! Puffie!"
At this call the little dog sprang from a neighboring chair, and in the twinkle of an eye was on the bed.
Cara stroked the silken coat of the dog, and bending toward him whispered: "Puffie! Puffie! dear, little dog! lie here, sleep for thyself!"
She put him on her breast almost at her chin; with her hand on his coat, and with the whisper: "Puffie! good Puffie!" she fell asleep.
Then was heard the sound of a drozhky, coming quickly, with uproar in front of the house, and again there was an end to voices and movement. Two men ascended the stairway, one much older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low voice: "Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house."
"A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed the other.
Suddenly he stopped part way on the stairs, and asked with a half jeering, half pitying look at his companion: "If he should find out?"
Kranitski turned his face away.
"My Maryan--with you--of that--" "Painted pots!" laughed Maryan. "Do you take me for my great-grandfather? Well, has he found it out?"
With red spots on his cheeks and forehead Kranitski blinked affirmatively.
"Sapristi!" imprecated Maryan, and immediately he laughed again. "And why? for what reason? Did he also believe in painted pots? I thought him modern."
"Alas!" sighed Kranitski.
They advanced in silence, passed the first story of the house. Maryan's bachelor chambers were on the second story.
"My dear old man, I am sorry for you, enormously sorry," began young Darvid again. "I have grown so accustomed to you. You will have to suffer, and poor mamma, too. Where did he get all this? A man of such sense! I thought that his head was better ventilated--" He could not finish, for Kranitski threw himself on his neck at the very door of his apartments. He wept. Drying his eyes with his perfumed cambric handkerchief, he said: "My Maryan, I shall not survive this blow! I love you all so much--you are--for me--as a younger brother--" He tried to kiss him, but Maryan broke away from his embrace, and his tears, the moisture of which he felt on his face, with discomfort.
"But it is absurd!" exclaimed he. "Are we to break our relations because they displease someone? Are we slaves? Laugh at that, my dear. Come to me as before, but pass the night now with me, for it would be difficult for you to go home at this hour."
He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the door opened at once, he said to his companion on the threshold: "Bianca sings that aria from the 'Cavalier' gloriously, does she not? La, la, la----" He tried to give the music, but his voice failed. So he disappeared behind the closing door, humming the aria of the splendid singer which he had just heard at supper.
Below, two clocks, one after the other, sounded out six. Through the great windows light began to enter from the snow-covered streets. That seemed the gradual and slow drawing aside of a dark curtain, from behind which came out with increasing distinctness, furniture, pictures, mirrors, candlesticks, vases, rugs, plushes, velvets, polish, gilt, mosaics, ivory, porcelain. Until all standing forth in the full light of that winter morning began like a pearl shell to interchange various colors and lustres, and to drop from the walls and ceilings reflections of gold on the shining floor.
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{
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Kranitski ascended a carpeted stairway, which was adorned with lamps and statues. His fur coat with a costly collar was over worn somewhat; his hat was shining; his step free, and there was a cheerful smile under his mustaches, which were turned up at the ends carefully. The stairway was almost a street. People were passing up and down on it, and whenever you met them and caught their eyes you noted freedom, self-confidence, elegance; you saw the eleventh commandment of God, which Moses, only through some inconceivable forgetfulness, neglected to add to the Decalogue.
Entering the antechamber he threw the servant his fur, from which issued the odor of excellent perfumes. From the pocket of his coat peeped the edge of a handkerchief. He arranged before a mirror his hair, thick yet above his forehead, but showing from behind a small, circular, bald spot. Hat in hand, and with a springy, self-confident tread, he entered the drawing-room. Only two red spots above his brow interrupted the whiteness of his forehead, which was slightly wrinkled; his eyes, usually gleaming or affable, were mist-covered.
In a door, opposite that by which Kranitski entered, stood Irene, under a crimson drapery of curtains, with an open book in her hand. Kranitski, with that light-swaying of the body, with which elegants are accustomed to approach ladies, approached Irene and, bending easily before her, kissed her hand.
"May one enter?" inquired he, indicating with his eyes the door of an adjoining; chamber.
"I beg you to enter, mamma is in her study."
The inclination of head, and sound of Irene's voice, contained only that measure of cordiality which was absolutely demanded by politeness, but that was her way always and with every one. Cold radiated from her, and such indifference that it was sometimes a contemptuous disregard for people and things. But when Kranitski, hat in hand, passed two drawing-rooms she followed him with her glance, in which, besides disquiet, there was a kindly feeling, and more, perhaps, a feeling of pity. She was accustomed from childhood to see him; he was gentle, as ready as a slave to render service, as ready as a friend to oblige; he noted the wants not only of the lady of the house, but of each of her children. He had the subdued manner and pliancy of people who do not feel that they merit what they have, and are ever trembling lest they lose it. He had, besides, the gift of reading beautifully in various languages. For a number of years Irene could not remember pleasanter evenings than those which, free from society demands, she had passed in her mother's study when Kranitski was present. Sometimes Cara and her governess took part in these domestic gatherings; sometimes, also, though more and more rarely, they were enlivened by the presence of Maryan, who, in the intervals of reading, chaffed with his sister and mother, and argued with Kranitski about various tendencies in taste and literature. Most frequently, however, Cara was occupied with lessons, and Maryan by society, and only she and Malvina, with artistic work in hand, listened in silence and thoughtfully to that resonant, manly voice, which rendered masterpieces of thought and poetry with perfect appreciation and feeling. During such evenings Irene was seized at moments by a dream of certain grand solitudes, pure, surrounded by cordial warmth, remote from the uproar of streets, the rustle of silks, the noise of vain words, whose emptiness and falsehood she had measured; but straightway she said to herself: "Painted pots, ideals! these have no existence!" and she made a gesture, as if driving from above her head a beautiful butterfly, feeling convinced that that butterfly was merely a phantom. To-day, from minute observation, the conjecture rose in her that something uncommon had happened, and that something more must happen, also; she was colder and more formal than ever, with a burning spark of fear in the depth of her blue, clear eyes. Her dress was of cloth, closely fitting, somewhat masculine in the cut of the waist, and on the top of her head was a Japanese knot of fiery hair, pierced by a pin with steel lustres. In her hand was an open book, and she walked along slowly through the two spacious drawing-rooms. She did not raise her eyes from the book, though she did not turn a page in it. At one door she turned immediately, at the other, which was closed, she stopped for a few seconds when she caught the sound of conversation, carried on beyond the door, in low voices, by two people. She did not wish to hear that conversation. Oh, she did not! How long ago was it since she had striven to be deaf as well as blind, and frequently so deal that no glance of the eye, no movement of the face might betray that she had sight or hearing. But now, as often as a louder sound struck her ears from beyond the closed door she stood immovable, and her eyelids quivered like leaves stirred by wind. For a long time it had seemed to her that something terrible might happen in that house some day, something to which she would not be able to remain deaf and blind. Might it not happen just that day? With slow, even step along the gleaming floor, between purple, azure, and various shades of white, which filled the drawing-rooms, she walked, in her closely-fitting dress, from one door to the other, her eyes fixed on the book, her manner colder, more formal than ever, her delicate motionless face, above which the long pin threw out metallic gleams. Suddenly an outburst of silver laughter was heard at another door. Till that moment two female voices had been heard, speaking English, beyond this door, now thrown open with a rattle. Golden strips of light, cast in by the winter sun, were lying on the purple and white of the drawing-room. Into this drawing-room rushed a strange pair; a maiden of fifteen, in a bright dress, golden-haired, rosy, and tall, bent low; she held by the forepaws a little ash-colored dog, and with him went waltzing around the furniture of the room, humming as she moved the fashionable: La, la, la! La, la, la! A pair of small feet, in elegant slippers, and a pair of shaggy, beast paws, whirled over the gleaming inlaid floor, around long chairs, tables, columns holding vases; swiftly, swiftly did she go till she met Irene at the door of the next drawing room. Cara raised the little dog from the floor, straightened herself, her eyes met the strange glance of her sister. Irene blinked repeatedly, as if some disagreeable light had struck her eyes.
"Always so gladsome, Cara!"
"I?" cried the girl. "Oh, so! Puffie made me laugh--and--the sun shines so nicely. The day is beautiful, isn't it, Ira? Have you noticed how diamond sparks glitter on the snow? The trees are all covered with frost. Let us go with Miss Mary for a walk. I will take Puffie, but I will cover him with that blanket which I finished embroidering yesterday. Is mamma well?"
"Why do you ask about mamma?"
"Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was ill, she was so pale--pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me--" "Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily. "The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of the time. Where are you going?"
"To father."
She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.
"Is that--that man there?"
It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired: "What man?"
"Pan Kranitski."
Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister, she said, almost in a whisper: "Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that man--Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had never laughed.
"Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not like him? He is our old and good acquaintance." And returning to her usual formality, she added: "Besides, you know that I do not like anyone very much."
"Not me?" asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale cheeks of her sister.
"You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading."
"I will go. Come Puffie--come!" And with the dog on her arm she went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: "But I do not like him--I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for some time I cannot endure him--I do not know myself why."
At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on.
"She does not know! does not know!" whispered Irene over her book. "That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in Arcadian life!"
The little one, going on, began to hum again, but near the door of her father's study she grew silent and stopped. The sound of a number of men's voices in conversation reached her. She dropped her hand, and whispered: "Father has visitors! What shall we do now, Puffie? How shall we go in there?"
After a moment's thought and hesitation she stepped in very quietly under the drapery of the portiere, and in the twinkle of an eye was sitting on a small, low stool which stood behind a tall case of shelves filled with books, which, placed near the door, formed with two walls a narrow, triangular space. That was an excellent corner, a real asylum which she could reach unobserved, and which she had selected for herself earlier. The books on the shelves hid her perfectly, but left small cracks through which she could see everyone. Whenever there were guests with her father she entered directly from the door, with one silent little step she pushed in, waited longer than the guests, and when they were gone she could talk with her father.
At the round table, which was covered with books, maps, and pamphlets, in broad armchairs were sitting, hat in hand, men of various statures and ages. They had not come on business, but to make calls of longer or shorter duration. Some were giving place to others, who came unceasingly, or rather flowed in as wave follows wave. Some went, others came. The pressing of hands, bows more or less profound, polite and choice phrases, conversation, interrupted and begun again, conversation touching important and serious questions of European politics, local questions of the higher order, and problems of society, especially financial and economic.
Darvid's voice, low but metallic, filled the study, it was heard by all with an attention almost religious; in general, Darvid seemed to ride over that ever-changing throng of men, by his word, by his gestures, by his eyes, with their cold and penetrating gleam, from behind the glasses of his binocle. He was radiant with a certain kind of power, which made him what he was, and the world yielded to the charm of this power, for it created wealth, that object of most universal and passionate desire. He himself felt all its might at that moment. When at the door of the study were heard, announced by the servant, names famous because they were ancient, others known for high office, or for the reputation which science and mental gifts confer, he experienced a feeling like that which a cat must feel when stroked along the back. He felt the hand of fate stroking him, and the delight caused by this became very pleasing. He was eloquent, he was gleaming with self-confidence, judgment, and ease of utterance. Not the least pride was to be observed in him, only the gleam of glory issuing from his smooth forehead, and the mysterious sensation of apotheosis, which pushed an invisible pedestal under the man, and made him seem loftier than he was in reality.
At a certain moment a number of men entered, they seemed almost sunk in humility, and at the same time filled with solemnity. That was a delegation from a well-known philanthropic society in the city; they had come to Darvid with a request to take part in their work by a money contribution and by personal assistance. He began by the gift of a considerable sum, but refused personal assistance. He had not the time, he said, but even had he time, he was opposed in principle to all philanthropic activity. "Philanthropy gives a beautiful witness touching those who engage in it, but it cannot prevent the misfortunes which torture the race; nay, it strengthens them needlessly, and offers premiums to sloth and incompetence. Only exertion of all forces in untiring and iron labor can save mankind from the cancer of poverty which tortures it. Were there no help behind any man's shoulders, no hands would drop down unoccupied; each man would exercise his own strength, and misery would vanish from this earth of ours."
Among those present, a guarded and immensely polite opposition rose, however.
"The weak, the cripples, lonely old men and children?"
"Philanthropy," answered Darvid, "cannot stop the existence of these social castaways, it merely continues and establishes them."
"But they have hungry stomachs, sad souls and hearts--like our own."
"What is to be done," inquired Darvid, with outspread palms which indicated regret. "There must be victors and vanquished in the world, and the sooner the latter are swept from existence the better for them and for mankind."
A look of displeasure was evident on the faces of some, but they were silent, the oldest man rose, and smiling most agreeably, ended the argument: "But if philanthropy had many patrons like you its activity would correct the injustice of fate very frequently."
"Let us not call fate unjust," retorted Darvid with a smile, "because it favors strength and crushes incompetence. On the contrary its action is beneficent, for it strengthens all that is worthy of life, and destroys that which is useless."
"It has been just to you, and in this case we all owe it gratitude," concluded the oldest man in the delegation, ending the dispute hurriedly. Holding, meanwhile, Darvid's hand in his two palms he shook it with a cordial pressure, and his gray head, and face, furrowed with wrinkles, were bent in a profound obeisance. For those whom his honest heart pitied he carried a gift so considerable that, in spite of words which were not to his mind, the homage and gratitude which he gave came from perfect sincerity.
At last Darvid's study was deserted, and on his lips was fixed a smile which resembled a pricking pin. Why had he poured out such a great handful of money for an object which to him was indifferent, the need of which he did not recognize? Why? Habit, relations, public opinion, expressed orally, and by the printed word. A comedy! Misery! He frowned, the wrinkles between his brows were growing, when he heard a slight rustle behind. He looked around, and exclaimed: "Cara! How did you come in? Ah! you were sitting in the corner behind the books! Only a reed such as you are could squeeze in through that cranny! What is your wish, my little daughter?"
He smiled at his daughter, though his glance turned to the clock standing in the corner of the room. But Cara, with seriousness on her rosy face, stretched out to him the little dog, which had just wakened and was still sleepy.
"First of all, I beg father to stroke Puffie--Puffie is pretty, and he is good, stroke him just once, father."
Darvid drew his palm a number of times, absent-mindedly, over the back of the dog.
"I have stroked him. But now if you have nothing else to say--" "I have no time!" added she, finishing her father's sentence. She laughed, and dropping Puff on the armchair, she caught her father in both her arms: "I will not let you go!" cried she; "father must give me a quarter of an hour, ten minutes, eight minutes, five minutes, I will speak quickly, quickly. 'If I have nothing more to say.' I have piles of things to say! I was sitting in the corner looking and listening, and I don't understand, father, why so many men come to you. When one looks at it all from a corner, it is so funny! They come in and bow--" Here she ran to the door and began with motions and gestures to enact that of which she was talking. Puff sprang after his mistress, and, stopping in the middle of the room, did not take his eyes from her.
"They come in, they bow, they press your hand, father, they sit down, they listen."
She sat on the chair in the posture of a man, and gave her delicate features an expression of profound attention. Puff fixed his eyes on her and began to bark.
"Or in this way." She changed her expression from attention to gaping. Next she sprang up from the chair. Puff sprang up, too, and caught the end of her skirt in his little teeth. "They rise, they bow again, they all say the same things: I have the honor! I shall have the honor! I wish to have the honor!"
She bowed man-fashion, knocking her heels together, and then pushing apart her little, slippered feet, and Puff tugged at the edge of her dress, sprang away, barked repeatedly, and seized her dress in his teeth again.
"Puffie, don't hinder me! Puffie, go away! Some go out, others come. Again: 'I have the honor! I wish to have the honor!' Puffie, go away! They press your hand, father. Oh, I have tired myself!"
Her breath had become hurried from quick motions and rapid speaking, a bright flush covered her face, she coughed and coughed again, she seized her father's arms.
"Do not run away, father! I have much to tell you. I will talk quickly."
Darvid had been standing in the middle of the room, and following her quick movements with his eyes, at first with an indulgent, and then with a more gladsome smile. That child was beaming with exuberant life, with wit also, which had the power to penetrate things and people; a most delicate sensitiveness, which made her an instrument of many strings, and these never ceased quivering. She reminded him marvellously of Malvina in her youth. When she began to cough he caught her, and said: "Do not hurry so; do not speak so much; talk less; sit down here."
"I have no time, father, to talk slowly--I cannot sit down--for you will run away that moment. I must hold you and hurry. I want you to tell me why so many men come to you, and why you go to their houses. Do you love them? Do they love you? Is it agreeable and pleasant for you in their company? What do they want? What comes of these visits, pleasantness or profit? And whose profit, theirs or yours? or the profit of someone else, perhaps? What is all this for? Do not these visits remind you of the theatre? Though I have never been in the theatre. Here, as in the theatre, every man plays some part, pretends, puts on a face, does he not? Why does he do so? Do you like this, father? I beg you to tell, but only tell me everything, everything; for father, I want you to be my master, my light--you are so wise, so respected, so great!"
"Enthusiasm put sparks into her dark eyeballs which were turned up to her father's face. Darvid stroked her pale, golden hair.
"My dear child," said he, "my little one!" After a while he added: "Are you a wild girl from Australia or Africa to ask me such questions? You have seen visits from childhood. Have you not seen your mother receiving many visitors, also?"
"Yes, yes, father; but mamma amuses herself with them, and is taking Ira into society. But what are visits to you? Are you amusing yourself, also?"
"How amuse?" laughed Darvid, "they annoy me oftenest of all, though an odd time they give me pleasure."
"What pleasure?"
"You do not understand this yet. Relations, position in the world, significance."
"What do you want of significance, father; why do you wish for a high position in society? What profit does significance give? Does it give happiness? See, father, I know one little history--Miss Mary's father, an English clergyman, has a parish in a poor, far-away corner, where there are no people of significance, and no rich men, but there are many poor and ignorant people there; and he has significance only among those poor people--that is, he has no significance whatever, still he is so happy, and all those people are so happy. They love one another, and live together. It is so warm and bright in that pastor's house, there, among the old trees. Miss Mary came away from there to get a little money for her youngest sister, whom she loves dearly. She lives pleasantly here, but she yearns for her family, and has told me so much of them; and some time, father, I will beg you to let me go with Miss Mary to England, to that poor country parish, and see that great, warm, bright happiness which exists in it."
Tears glittered like diamonds in her gleaming eyes, and Darvid, with his arm around her slender waist, stood silent, in deep meditation. That child, by her questions, had let his thoughts down, as if by a string, to the bottom of things, at which he had never looked before--he had had no time. He might tell her that high significance in the world tickles vanity, flatters pride, helps, frequently, to carry business to a profitable conclusion--that is to pecuniary profit. He might confess to himself, also, that that English clergyman, in his quiet parsonage, under his ancient trees, seemed to him a very happy man all at once in that moment. After a while, he said: "It must be so. Happiness and unhappiness are one thing for poor people, and another for the rich."
He looked at the clock.
"But now--" "Now, I have no time!" laughed Cara. "No, no, father, two minutes more, a minute more--I will ask about something else."
"You will ask more!" exclaimed he, with such a laugh as he had hardly ever given.
"Yes, yes--something even more important than the last. I am troubled about it--it pains me so--" She changed from foot to foot, and embraced her father with all her strength, as if fearing that he might run away.
"Did father mean really to say that one should not uphold the poor, the hungry, the sorrowful, the sad, nor comfort them; that it is only necessary to leave them so that they may die as soon as possible? When father said that I felt sick in some way. Mamma and Ira this long time support two old men, so gray and nice, whom Miss Mary and I visit often. Do mamma and Ira do badly? Should we let them die as soon as possible from hunger? Brrr! it is terrible! Does father think so really, or did he only say what he did to get rid of those gentlemen the more quickly? Father you are good, the best, a dear, golden father. Do you really believe what you said, or was it to get rid of those men? I beg you to answer me, I beg you!"
This time her eyes were fixed on his face, with a gleam which was almost feverish, and again he stood in silence, filled with astonishment. Why could his mouth not open to tell that girl his profoundest conviction?
With all the wrinkles between his brows, he said, without a smile: "I said that to get rid of them; I wished to be rid of those gentlemen as quickly as possible." The soles of Cara's feet struck the floor time after time with delight.
"Yes, yes! I was sure of that! My best, dearest father--" Stroking her hair, he added: "We must be kind. Be kind always. Keep the life in gray-haired, nice old men. You will never lack money for that."
She kissed his hands; suddenly her glance fell on her father's desk, and she cried: "Puffie! Puffie! where have you climbed to? There you are, you have crawled on to the desk and done so much mischief!" The ash-colored little dog was on the great desk of the celebrated financier, on the top of a huge pile of papers; he was sitting with his nose against a window pane, growling at crows that were flying past and cawing. In that study, which was so dignified as to be almost solemn, Cara's laughter was heard in silver tones: "Look, father, how angry he is! He is angry at the crows! Oh, how he sticks his little nose up when one of them flies past. Do you see, father?"
"I see, I see! Never has such a dignified assistant been in charge of my desk. Oh, you little one!"
He put his arm around her and pressed her to his bosom, briefly, but heartily. Through his head passed at that moment the recollection of something unimportant which he had seen on a time: a golden sun-ray, which, flashing from behind clouds, had torn them apart, and disclosed a strip of clear azure beyond. He saw this through a window of a railroad car, mechanically, as we see things to which we are indifferent. Now he remembered it.
"The carriage is ready!" called the servant from the anteroom.
"You are a little giddy-head," said Darvid, looking at the clock. "I should have left the house a quarter of an hour ago."
She ran to bring his hat, and gave it with a low bow. Stooping quickly she raised a glove which he had dropped.
"Don't forget to leave Puffie here to keep my papers in order!"
With this jest on his lips he went to the antechamber, but, while putting on his fur and descending the stairway, he thought of the auction, where he was to buy a house sold for debt--an excellent investment.
"Is Pan Maryan at home?" asked Darvid of the Swiss at the street door.
The Swiss learned from servants that the young master was sleeping yet.
"What a miserable method of life! I must put a curb on this wild buck immediately. Well, lack of time, a chronic lack of time!"
"Quickly! as quickly as possible!" called he to the driver, while entering the carriage.
He had left the house too late, his daughter had broken in on him with her twittering and fondling--but she is a ray of sunlight!
Cara removed Puff from her father's papers, and, putting him on her breast, almost under her chin, as usual, passed through the drawing-rooms hurriedly. She was late for her lessons with Miss Mary. In one of the drawing-rooms she passed Irene. The slow promenade of the tall and formal young lady, with an open book in her hand, continued yet. Cara, while passing, and without stopping, said, with evident gladsomeness: "But I talked long with father to-day, long."
"You have done that trick!" answered Irene, indifferently.
Cara stopped as if fixed to the floor. In the careless voice of her sister she heard irony; she seemed ready for conflict; her brows contracted suddenly; her eyes were full of sparks. But Irene, absorbed in reading, was already a good number of steps away. After a few seconds, Cara vanished behind the door of her own room and Miss Mary's.
Irene's features, rather meagre and elongated, continued motionless; her paleness increased their formality. But as time passed, weariness settled the more deeply on her drooping eyelids. Whenever she passed a window of the drawing-rooms, the pin in her hair east quick, sharp gleams in the sunlight.
At last the door of Malvina's room opened and out came Kranitski, quite different from what he had been at his arrival. His shoulders were bent; his head drooping; on his cheeks were red spots; his forehead was greatly wrinkled. He looked as though he had been weeping a moment before. Even his mustaches were hanging in woefulness over his carefully shaven chin. Irene stopped, and with the book in her two hands, which she had dropped, gazed at the man approaching her. He hastened his step, took her hand, and said in a low voice and hurriedly: "I am the most wretched of beings! I was not worthy of such great happiness as--as--your mother's friendship, so I lose it. Je suis fini, completement et cruellement fini. I take farewell of you, Panna Irene--so many years! so many years! I loved you all so greatly, so heartily. Some people call me a romantic old dreamer. I am. I suffer. Je souffre horriblement. I wish you every happiness. Perhaps, we may never meet again. Perhaps, I shall go to the country. I take farewell of you. So many, so many years! O Dieu!" His eyelids were red; he was bent more than ever as he passed out. On Irene's face great alarm appeared.
"It is true, then. It is true!" whispered she. Springing forward like a bird she passed through the drawing-room, quickly and silently. Invisible wings bore her toward the closed door of her mother's room; when entering, her manner was calm and distinguished, as usual, but her eyes, in which there was anxious concern, beheld the form of a woman lying in a deep armchair, her face covered with her hands. Malvina was weeping in silence; her sobs gave out no sound, they merely shook her shoulders at regular intervals. These shoulders were drooping forward, and it seemed as though an unseen weight were crushing them to the earth and would crush them down through it.
Irene hurried, silently; brought a vial from the adjoining bedchamber, poured some liquid on her palm, and touched her mother's forehead and temples with it, delicately. Malvina raised her face, which was deeply agitated by an expression of dread. At that instant one might have thought the woman feared her daughter. But Irene, in her usual calm voice, said: "Insomnia always harms you, mamma. Again you have that horrible neuralgia!"
"Yes, I feel a little ill," answered Malvina in a weak voice.
She rose, and tried to smile at Irene, but her pale lips merely quivered, and her eyelids drooped; they were swollen from weeping. With a step which she strove to make firm and steady she went toward her bedroom.
Irene followed some steps behind.
"Mamma?"
"What, my child?"
Irene's lips opened and closed repeatedly; it seemed as though some cry would come from them, but she only said in low tones: "A little wine or bouillon might be brought?"
Malvina shook her head, advanced some steps, looked around: "Ira!"
The daughter stood before her mother, but now Malvina in her turn was speechless. She inclined her forehead, which covered slowly with a blush; at last she inquired in a low voice: "Is your father at home?"
"I heard him drive away some moments ago."
"On his return, should he wish to see me, say that I am waiting for him."
"Very well, mamma."
In the door she turned again: "Should someone else come--I cannot--" Irene halted a number of steps from her mother in the formal posture of a society young lady, and said: "Be at rest, mamma; I shall not go a step away, and I shall not let anyone interrupt you. Not even father if you wish--perhaps to-morrow would be better?"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Malvina, with sudden animation. "On the contrary, as soon as possible--beg your father to come, and let me know at the earliest."
"Very well, mamma."
Malvina closed the bedroom door, advanced a few steps, and fell on her knees at her richly covered bed. Amid furniture, finished in yellow damask, on a downy bed, covered with cambric and lace, she raised her clasped hands, and said, in whispers broken with sobs: "O God! O God! O God!"
She was of those weak beings who to live need heartfelt love as much as air, and who are infected by this love without power of resisting it. To such a love had she yielded once in the chill and emptiness of rich drawing rooms. That was a happening of long ago; she was the weaker at that time because she was caught by a breeze from the spring of her life, passed in the company of that man who was casting himself at her feet then. In that moment of yielding a pebble had dropped on her, the weight of which increased with the course of years and the growth of her children. She had not thought for an instant that she was the heroine of a drama. On the contrary, she repeated, with a face always blushing from shame: "Weak! weak! weak!" and, from a time rather remote, it was joined with another word, "Guilty." She was weak, still to-day she had found strength at last to cut one of those knots in which her life had been involved so repulsively. Oh, that the other might be torn apart quickly; then she could go far from the world into lone obscurity, an abyss occupied only by her endless penitence. In her head a plan had matured. She wished to speak with Darvid as soon as possible, and she doubted not that in the near future he would agree with her. Her daughters? Well, was it not better that such a mother should leave them, vanish from their eyes?
Irene pushed to the window a small table, on which were painting materials; she took her place at the table, and with fixed attention in her eyes began to outline a cluster of beautiful flowers. They were chrysanthemums, and seemed to be opening their snowy and fiery petals to mystic kisses. Deep silence reigned in the mansion, and only after a certain time had passed did the sound of glasses and porcelain come from a remote apartment, and at the door of the study a servant appeared, announcing that lunch was served. Irene raised her head from her work: "Tell Panna Caroline and Miss Mary that mamma and I will not come to the table."
She added a command to bring two cups of bouillon and some rusks. A while later she stood with a cup in her hand at her mother's door.
"May I come in?"
She held her ear to the door; there was no answer. Her lids blinked anxiously; she repeated the question, adding: "Mamma, I beg--" "Come in, Ira!"
Covered with silken materials Malvina was like a glittering wave on the bed. Irene entered with the bouillon and the rusks, then slipped through the room quietly and let down the shades. A mild half-gloom filled the chamber.
"This is better. Light when one has the headache is hurtful." She went to the bed. "You cannot sleep in these tight boots, try as you like, and without some hours of sleep the neuralgia will not leave you."
Before these words were finished, her slender hands had changed the tight boots for roomy and soft ones. She bent down, and with a touch of her fingers unfastened a number of hooks at her mother's breast.
"Now, it will be well!" Irene dropped her arms on her dress and smiled a little. Despite her fashionable robe and fantastic hairdressing there was in her at that moment something of the sister of charity, she seemed painstaking and cautious.
"And now, mamma, be a little glutton," added she with a smile; "you will drink the bouillon and eat the rusk; I will go to paint my chrysanthemums."
She was at the door when she heard the call: "Ira!"
"What, mamma?"
Two arms stretched toward her, and surrounded her neck; and lips, so feverish that they burnt, covered her forehead and face with kisses. Irene in return pressed her lips to her mother's forehead and hand, but for a few seconds only, then she withdrew from the embrace with a gentle movement, moved away somewhat, and said: "Be not excited, for that may increase the neuralgia."
At the door she turned again: "Should anything be needed, just whisper; you know what delicate hearing I have; I shall hear. I shall be painting in your study. Those chrysanthemums are beautiful, and I have a new idea about them which interests me greatly."
In the tempered winter light from the window, in that study full of gilding, artistic trifles, syringas, and hyacinths, Irene sat at the table with painting utensils, sunk in thought and idle. From beneath her brows, which had each the outline of a delicate little flame, her fixed eyes turned toward the past. She had in mind a time when she was ten years old, and was fitting a new dress on her doll with immense interest. At first she did not turn attention to her parents' conversation in the next chamber, but afterward, when the dress was fitted to the doll as if melted around it, she raised her head, and through the open door began to look and listen. Her father, with a jesting smile, was sitting in an armchair; her mother, in a white gown, was standing before him, with such an expression in her eyes as if she were praying for salvation.
"Aloysius!" said she, "have we not enough? Is there nothing in the world except property and profits--this golden idol?"
"I beg you to consider that there is something else," interrupted he, with a slight hiss of irony; "this luxury which surrounds you and becomes you so well."
Then she seated herself opposite him, and, bending forward, spoke somewhat quickly, disconnectedly: "Do we live with each other? We do not by any means. We only see each other. There is nothing in common between us. You are swallowed up by business, I by society. I have taken a fancy, it is true, for amusement, but in the depth of my heart I am often very gloomy. I feel lonely. My early life, as you know, was modest, poor, toilsome, and often it calls to me reproachfully. You do not know of this, for we have no time to exchange ideas. I am of those women who need to feel guardianship, to have near them an ear which might listen to their hearts, and a mind which would direct their conscience. I am weak. I am full of dread. I fear that in view of your frequent, almost continual absence, I shall not be able to rear the children properly. I only know how to love them, I would give my life for them, but I am weak. I beg you not to leave me and them so frequently; that is, almost continuously--rather let this luxury decrease--I shall be glad, even, for the decrease will bring us nearer together. I beg you!"
She seized his hands, and it seemed as though she kissed them; but it was certain that the pale, golden wave of her dishevelled hair fell on them. Irene, though she was only ten years old then, felt pity for her mother, and waited with intense curiosity for her father's answer.
"What do you wish in particular?" asked he. "I listen, I listen, still I do not know exactly what the question is. Is it this, that I should stop work, which I love and which succeeds with me? You must be in a waking dream. Those are ideas from another society, mere childish fancies."
Here Irene's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Cara.
"Ira, is mamma sick, since she did not come to luncheon?"
"Mamma has neuralgia often; you know that well." Cara turned to the door of her mother's bedroom, but Irene stopped her.
"Do not go; she may be sleeping." The girl approached her sister: "It seems to me--" she whispered and stopped.
"What seems to you a second time?"
"That there is something going on in this house--" Irene frowned.
"What an imagination you have! You are ever imagining something uncommon. Now all these uncommon things are painted pots, or illusions. Life rolls on always in a common, prosaic movement. Stop making painted pots, and go out to walk with Puff and Miss Mary."
Cara listened attentively, but with an incredulous expression of eyes, which were fixed on her sister's face.
"Very well, I will go to walk, but what you have said is not true, Ira. It is not painted pots that mamma is suffering and sick, that father goes out to dine for a whole week, and does not come to her at all; even that--man, going out to-day, began to cry in the antechamber--I saw him by chance--he wanted to say something to me, but I ran away--" Irene shrugged her shoulders.
"You will be a poetess, perhaps, you exaggerate everything so terribly. Mamma is not troubled, she only has neuralgia. Father does not dine with us because he has so many invitations, and Pan Kranitski struck his nose against something which you, in poetic imagination, took for crying. Men never cry, and sensible girls, instead of filling their heads with painted pots, go to walk while good weather lasts and the sun shines. The doctor tells you to walk every day, not in the evening, but about this hour."
"I am going, I am going! You drive me away!"
She went on a number of steps, and turned again toward her aster: "Father is angry at Maryan--I see that very clearly. Everything in this house is, somehow, so strange."
She went out, but Irene clasped her hands, and for some seconds squeezed them with all her might, and thought: "That child will soon look at life just as I have been looking at it for some time past. It is necessary to foresee, absolutely necessary!" She returned to her reminiscences. Her mother said to her father: "Our fortune is now considerable."
"In that direction," answered her father, "it never can be too great, nor even sufficient."
Then, playing with her beautiful hair, he asked: "But do you believe that I love you?"
After some hesitation she answered: "No. I have lost that faith, I lost it some time ago."
Later there were many other words, some of which Irene remembered: "The very best guardianship in this world," said her father, "is wealth. Whoso has that will never lack mind, even; since, in ease of need, he can buy mind from other men.
"In the training of our children you will expend all that is requisite. You will rear for me our daughters to be grand ladies; will you not? Educate them so that when mature they may feel as much at home in the highest social circles as in their own father's household. As to you, amuse yourself, make connections, dress, be brilliant. The more you elevate the name which you bear, by beauty, wit, knowledge of life, the more service will you render me in return for the services which I render you. Besides, if you have any difficulty with the house, with teachers, with social relations, you have that honest Kranitski, who will serve you with great good will. I am very much pleased with that acquaintance. Just such a man did I need. He has extensive and very good connections; he is perfectly well-bred, obliging, polite. Foreseeing that he might be very useful to us, I became familiar with him. It is true that he has borrowed money a number of times of me, but he has rendered a number of services. Pay in return for value, that is the best method."
He walked up and down through the room repeatedly; on his forehead, in his look, in his movements, he had an expression of perfect confidence in himself, his rights, and his reason. Suddenly, turning toward the door of remoter rooms, he cried with delight: "Speak of the wolf, and he is before you! I greet you, dear sir."
With these words he extended his hand to the guest who was entering. This was Kranitski, at that time in his highest manly beauty; petted, and a favorite in the best social circles because of it, and for other reasons also.
He gave a hearty greeting of Darvid, who met him with delight, and then he stood before Malvina in such a posture, and with such an expression on his face, as if he desired only one thing on earth, to be able to drop on his knees before her.
That conversation and scene remained fixed in Irene's memory. She drew from it formerly, extensive conclusions, then she ceased altogether to recall it; now she thought again of it, forgetting her painted chrysanthemums, which, on the blue satin, seemed to gaze at her, having as subtle and enigmatical a look as she herself had.
A servant at the door announced: "Baron Emil Blauendorf!"
"Not at ho--" began she at once; but, halting, instructed the servant to ask him to wait. At her mother's desk she wrote on a narrow card of Bristol-board, in English: "Mamma is ill with neuralgia; I am nursing her, and cannot see you to-day. I regret this, for the talk about dissonances began to be interesting. Bring me the continuation of it to-morrow!"
She gave this card, in an envelope addressed to the baron, to a servant, and sat down again to her chrysanthemums, this time with a smile both malicious and gladsome. With his appearance in that house, though unseen by her, Baron Emil had lent form in her head to a certain whimsical idea. She knew that it was whimsical, but just for that reason it pleased her, and must also please the baron. She began quickly, almost with enthusiasm, to paint dark outlines of imps among the flowers. She disposed them so that they seemed to separate the flowers and keep them apart from one another. Some imps were climbing up, others were slipping down; they peeped out from behind petals, climbed along stems, but all were malicious, distorted, capricious, and pushed the tops of the flowers apart in such fashion that they did not let the half-bending petals meet in kisses. Painting quickly, Irene laughed. She imagined Baron Emil saying at sight of this work: "C'est du nouveau! It is not a painted pot! it is an individual thought. There is a new quiver there. It bites."
The expressions "painted pots," "Arcadians," "it bites," "new quivers," "rheumatism of thought," and many more she had from him. And she was not the only one who borrowed. These expressions had spread in a rather largo circle of people who despised everything existing, and were seeking everything which was new and astonishing. Baron Emil was cultured, had read much. He read frequently Nietsche's "Zarathustra," and spoke of the coming "race," the super-humans. He spoke somewhat through his nose and through his teeth.
The superhuman is he who is able to will absolutely and unconditionally.
When Irene thought that perhaps she would soon become the baron's wife, and leave that house, her brows contracted and her jeering smile vanished. Oh, she would not let him escape her! She had an absolute condition to put before the baron; he would accept it most assuredly, through deference to the amount of her dower. Energy glittered in her blue eyes. She turned her face toward the door of her mother's room with so quick a movement that the metallic pin in her hair cast a gleam of sharp steel above her head.
"One must know how to will," whispered she.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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4
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None
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When Kranitski entered his own lodgings, after passing the night with Maryan, and after the long conversation with Malvina, old widow Clemens looked at him from behind her great spectacles, and dropped her hands: "Are you sick, or what? Arabian adventure! Ah, what a look you have! What has happened? Maybe those pains have come; you have had them a number of times already. Why not take off your fur? Wait! I will help you this minute. Oh, you will be sick in addition to everything else."
She was a squatty woman, heavy, with a striped kerchief on her shoulders, and wearing a short skirt, from under which appeared flat feet in tattered overshoes. She was seventy years old, at least; her large, sallow face was much withered. Bordered by gray hair and a white cap that face was bright with the gleam of dark eyes, still fiery, and quickly glancing from under a wrinkled, high forehead. Her whole figure had in it something of the fields, something primitive, which seemed not to have the least relation to that little drawing-room and its owner. That room contained everything which is found usually in such apartments, therefore: a sofa, armchairs, a table, a mirror with a console, a low and broad ottoman with cushions in Oriental fashion, porcelain figures on the console, old-fashioned shelves with books in nice bindings, a few oil paintings, small but neat, on the walls, a number of photographs, tastefully grouped above the ottoman, a large album on the table before the sofa. But all this was a collection brought together at various seasons, and injured by time. The covering of the cushions had faded, the gilding on the mirror frame was worn here and there, the leather covering on the furniture was worn and showed through cracks the stuffing within, the album was torn, the porcelain base of the lamp was broken. At the first cast of the eye the little drawing-room seemed elegant, but after a while, through spots and rents mended carefully, want was observed creeping forth. This want was hidden chiefly by perfect and minute cleanliness, in which one could recognize active, careful hands, industrious, untiring sweeping out, rubbing out, sewing, mending--those were the lean, aged hands, with broad palms and short fingers, which were now helping Kranitski to remove his fur coat. Meanwhile, a scolding, harsh voice, with tenderness at the base of it, continued: "Again a night passed away from home. Surely off there with cards, or with madams of some sort! Oi, an offense against God! And this time you come home sick. I see that you are sick, your whole face is covered with red spots, you are hardly able to stand on your feet. Arabian adventure!"
"Give me rest!" answered Kranitski in a complaining voice. "I am sick, the most wretched of men. Everything is past for me--I beg you to look to the door, so that no one may enter; I am suffering too much to let in impertinent people."
There were tears in his eyes, and his appearance was wretched. No one was looking at him then, except his old servant, who was as faithful as a dog, so he let the fetters of artificial youth and elegance drop from him. His shoulders were bent, his cheeks pendant, above his brows were red spots and thick wrinkles. He vanished then beyond the half-closed door of his bedroom, and widow Clemens went back to the work interrupted by his coming. In the middle of the drawing-room, on an open card-table, lay, spread out, a dressing gown of Turkish stuff. That gown, beautiful on a time, was then faded; moreover, its lining was torn. Widow Clemens while repairing that lining and patching it had been interrupted by Kranitski's return; and now, wearing great steel-rimmed glasses, and with a brass thimble on her middle finger, she sat down again. She examined a rent through which wadding peeped out on the world, cautiously. But in spite of her attention fixed on the work she whispered, or rather talked on in a low and monotonous mutter: "'Look to the door, let no one in!' As if anyone ever comes here. Long ago, comrades and various protectors used to come; they came often at first, afterward very seldom; but now it is perhaps two years since even a dog has looked in here. He could not bear impertinent people. Oh, yes! they come here, many of them, princes, counts, various rich persons. Oh, yes! while he was a novelty and brilliant they amused themselves with him as they would with a shining button, but when the button was rubbed and dull they threw it into a corner. The relations, the friends, the companions! Arabian adventure! Oh, this society!"
She was silent a while, put a piece of carefully fitted material on the rent, raised her hand a number of times with the long thread, and again muttered: "But is that society? It is sin, not society! Roll in sin, like the devil in pitch, and then scream that it burns! Oi, Oi!"
Silence reigned in the room; only the clock, that unavoidable dweller in all houses, that comrade of all people, ticked monotonously on the shelf, beneath the mirror, among the porcelain figures. Widow Clemens, while sewing, industriously, muttered on. Her unbroken loneliness, the store of thoughts put away in her old head, and the care in her heart had given her the habit of soliloquy.
"And it will be worse yet. He has debts beyond calculation. He will die on a litter of straw, or in a hospital. Oh, if his dead mother could see this! Arabian adventure! Unless Stefanek and I drag him out of this pit!"
She stopped sewing and raised her spectacles to her forehead, their glass eyes gleamed above her gray brows, and she fell into deep thought. She moved her lips from time to time, but did not mutter. By this movement of the lips, and by her wrinkles, it could be seen that she was forming some plan, that she was imagining. Just then Kranitski's voice was heard from the bedroom.
She sprang up with the liveliness of twenty years, and, with a loud clattering of old overshoes, ran to the door.
"Give me the dressing-gown, mother; I am not well; I will not go anywhere to-day."
"Here is the dressing-gown; but if the lining is torn?"
"Torn or not, give it here, and my slippers, too; for I am not well."
"Here they are! Not well? I have said not well! O beloved God, what will come of this?"
But, while helping him to put on the dressing-gown, she inquired, with incredulity: "Is it true, or a joke, that you will not leave the house to-day?"
"A joke!" answered he in bitterness. "If you knew what a joke this is! I will not leave the house to-day, or to-morrow, or perhaps ever. I will lie here and grieve till I grieve to death. Oh, that it might be very soon!"
"Arabian adventure! Never has it been like this! It is easy to see that the pitch has burnt!" whispered widow Clemens to herself. But aloud she said: "Before you grieve to death we must get you some dinner. I will run to the town for meat. I will lock the door outside, so that impertinent counts, and various barons should not burst in," added she, ironically.
Kranitski, left alone, locked up in his lodgings, robed in his dressing-gown, once costly, now faded, its sleeves tattered at the wrists, lay on the long-chair in front of his collection of pipes, arranged on the wall cunningly. In the society in which he moved collecting was universal. They collected pictures, miniatures, engravings, autographs, porcelain, old books, old spoons, old stuffs. Kranitski collected pipes. Some he had bought, but the greater number, by far, he had received on anniversaries of his name's-day, in proof of friendly recollection, and as keepsakes after a journey. During years many were collected, about a hundred; among them some were valuable, some poor but original, some even ridiculous, some immense in size, some small, some bright colored, some almost black; they were arranged on shelves at the wall with taste, and effectively.
Besides these pipes there were in the bed-room other objects of value: a writing-desk of peculiar wood, a porcelain frame, with Cupids at the top, surrounding an oval mirror, at which were bottles, vials, toilet boxes, and a rather long cigarette-case of pure gold, which Kranitski kept with him at all times, and which, as he lay now in the long-chair, he turned in his fingers, mechanically. This cigarette-case was a precious memento. He had received it soon after his arrival in the city, twenty and some years before, from Countess Eugenia, his mother's aunt. Prom their first meeting the countess was simply wild about him. Society even insisted, notwithstanding her more than ripe years, that she was madly in love with that uncommonly beautiful and blooming young man, who had been reared by his mother with immense care, and trained to appear successfully in that society to which she had been born. Kranitski's mother, through various causes, had become the victim of a mesalliance; she grieved out, and wept away secretly; her life, in a village corner, after marrying a noble who was perfectly honorable, but neither a man of the world, nor the owner of much property. She desired for her only son a better fate than she herself had had, and prepared him for it long beforehand. He spoke French with a Parisian accent, and English quite well; he was versed in the literatures of Western Europe; he was a famous dancer; he was obliging; he had an inborn instinct of kindness toward people; he was popular, sought after, petted; when the money with which his mother furnished him proved insufficient he obtained a small office, through the influence of wealthy relatives, which, besides increasing his revenue, gave him a certain independent aspect. He passed whole days in great and wealthy houses, where he read books, aloud, to old princesses and countesses, and for young princesses and countesses; he held skeins of silk on his opened hands. He carried out commissions and various small affairs; at balls he led dances; he amused himself; fell in love, was loved in return; he passed evenings and nights in clubs, and in private rooms at restaurants, at theatres, and behind the scenes in theatres, where he paid homage to famous actresses of various degrees and qualities. Those were times truly joyous and golden. At that period he was served not by widow Clemens, but by a man; he dined--if not with friends or relatives--at the best restaurants. At that time, too, he did something magnanimous, which brought reward in the form of great mental profit: He passed a whole year in Italy with Count Alfred, his relative, who was suffering from consumption; Kranitski nursed, amused, and comforted his cousin with patience, attachment, and tenderness which were perfectly sincere, and which came from a heart inclined to warm, almost submissive feelings. In return that year gave him skill in the use of Italian, and a wide acquaintance with the achievements and the schools of art, of which he was an enthusiastic worshipper. Soon after he went with Prince Zeno to Paris, learned France and its capital well, and on his return remained for some time as a reader with the prince, whose eyes were affected. His power of beautiful reading in many languages brought him a wide reputation; he was distinguished in drawing-rooms by the ease of his speech and manners; to some he became a valued assistant in entertaining guests, and a pleasant companion in hours of loneliness; to others he was a master in the domain of amusements, and elegance in the arts of politeness and pleasure. At this period also he made the acquaintance of Darvid, and met his wife, whom he had known from childhood, and who had been his earliest ideal of womanhood. Thenceforth, his relations with other houses were relaxed considerably, for he gave himself to the Darvid house soul and body. Though Malvina's children had many tutors, he taught one of her daughters Italian, and the other English; he did this with devotion, with delight; and, therefore, that house became, as it were, his own, and was ever open to him. Moreover, during the last ten years great changes had happened in that society of which he was the adopted child, and so long the favorite.
Countess Eugenia had given her daughter in marriage to a French count, and resided in Paris; Count Alfred was dead; dead, also, was that dear, kindly Baroness Blauendorf from whom he had received as a gift that mirror with porcelain frame and Cupids. Others, too, were dead, or were living elsewhere. Only Prince Zeno remained, but he had cooled toward his former reader, notably because of the princess, who could not forgive Kranitski; since, as was too well known by all, he was occupied with the wife of that millionaire--the eternally absent.
There were still many acquaintances, and more recent relations, but these had neither the charm nor the certainty of those which time had in various ways broken, brought to an end, or relaxed.
His mother, the foundress of his destiny, had ceased to live some time before that.
"Pauvre maman! pauvre maman!"
How tenderly and unboundedly he had loved her. How long he had hesitated and fought with himself before he left at her persuasion, the house in which she had given birth to him. He regretted immensely the village, the freedom, and that bright-haired maiden in the neighborhood. But the wide world and the great city took on, in his mother's narrative, the outlines of paradise, and his worthy relatives, the forms of demi-gods.
When at last, after long hesitation and struggles, he resolved to go away, how many were the kisses and embraces of his mother! how many were her maxims and advices; how many her predictions of happiness. He began to look at his own form in the mirrors, and to feel in his own person the movement of desires, hopes, ambitions. Once he caught himself bowing and making gestures, almost involuntarily, before the mirrors. He laughed aloud, his mother laughed also, for she had caught him in the act red-handed.
"Pauvre maman! pauvre, chere maman!"
And on the background of that domestic gladness, of those wonderful hopes, only one person by her conduct had raised a cloud on that heaven, beaming serenely. That was widow Clemens, an old servant of the house, and once his nurse, not young even at that time, and a childless widow.
She was morose, grumbling, peevish, but for a long time she said nothing; she did not hinder the thin, gray-haired mother, nor the youth, beautiful as a dream, from rejoicing and imagining; till at last she spoke when alone with the petted stripling. It was the end of an autumn day, twilight had begun to come down on the yard in Lipovka, and the linden grove, in a black line, cut through the evening ruddiness glowing in the western heavens. Widow Clemens, with her eyes fixed on the grove and the red of evening, said: "Oi! Tulek, Tulek! how will this be? You will go away; you will take up and go away; but the sun will rise and set; the grove will rustle; the wheat will ripen; and the snow will fall when you are gone."
He sat on the bench of the piazza, and said nothing. But in the distant fields, in the growing darkness, a shepherd's whistle gave out clear tones, simple, monotonous, they flew along the field like the weeping of space.
"Why go; do you know why--God alone knows. What are you throwing away? The beauties of God. What will you bring back? Perhaps the mud people cast at you."
A cow bellowed in the stable; a belated working-woman muttered a song somewhere behind in the garden. The evening red was quenched; and above the roof the crescent of the moon came out, thin and like silver.
Widow Clemens whispered: "Ill-fated! ill-fated boy!"
He was immensely far from considering himself ill fated, but something in his heart felt pain at leaving that village where he was born, at leaving Malvina, and it seemed to him that he ought to stay.
But he went. The Argonaut, of twenty and some years of age, went out into the world, slender, adroit, with eyes dark and fiery as youth, with cheeks shapely and fresh as peaches, with a forehead as white and pure as the petal of a lily; he went for a wife with a fortune, for the pleasures of the world--for the golden fleece.
Now he wrapped himself closely in the skirt of his faded dressing-gown, and let his head droop so low that the bald spot seemed white on the top of it; his lower lip dropped; the red spots came out over his dark brows on his wrinkled forehead. In his hand he held the cigarette-case presented by Countess Eugenia, now living in Paris, and at times he turned it in his fingers, with an unconscious movement, and that glittering object cast on the tattered sleeve of his dressing-gown, on his suffering face, on his long, thin fingers, its bright, golden reflection.
Meanwhile widow Clemens had returned to the kitchen, and there, not without a loud clattering of overshoes, had begun to cook the dinner. But Kranitski neither heard nor saw anything. From time to time the head, with its great cap, looked in through the kitchen door, gazed on him unquietly and pushed back to look in again soon.
"Will you have dinner now?" inquired she at last. "It is ready."
In a low voice he asked for dinner, but he ate almost nothing; the woman had never yet seen him so broken, still she made no inquiry. When the moment came he would tell all himself. He was not of those who bear secrets to the grave with them. She waited on the man, gave him food, brought tea, cleared the table in silence. Once she fell into trouble: Passing hurriedly through the room she lost one of the overshoes which she had on her feet: "Ah! may thou be! --they fall off every moment!" grumbled she, and for some minutes she struggled with that overshoe, which, dropping from her foot, slipped along the floor noisily. Kranitski raised his head: "What is that?" inquired he.
She made no answer, but when she was near the kitchen door, he cried: "What have you on your feet that clatter so? It is irritating!"
She stopped at the door: "What have I on my feet? Well, your old overshoes! Am I to wear out shoes every day, and then buy new ones? 'Irritating!' Arabian adventure! God grant that you never have worse irritation than overshoes clattering on the floor!"
And she grumbled on in the kitchen while going with an empty glass to the samovar: "You wouldn't have a pinch of tea in the house if I went around in new shoes all my time!"
Darkness came down. Kranitski smoked cigarettes one after another, and was so sunk in thought that he trembled throughout his body. When widow Clemens brought in a lamp, with a milk-colored globe, which filled the room with a white, mild light, Kranitski looked at the head of the old woman in the white lamp-light, and, for the first time in a number of hours, he spoke: "Come, mother, come nearer!" said he.
When she came he seized her rude fist in both his hands and shook it vigorously.
"What could I do; what would happen to me now, if you were not with me? No living soul of my own here! Alone, alone, as in a desert."
The onrush of tenderness burst through all obstructions. Confidences flowed on. He had loved for the last time in life, le dernier amour, and all had ended. She had forbidden him to see her. That decision of hers had been ripening for a long time. Reproaches of conscience, shame, despair as to her children. One daughter knew everything; the other might know it any day. She had let out of her hands the rudder of those hearts and consciences, for when she was talking with them her own fault closed her lips, like a red-hot seal. She thought herself the most pitiful of creatures. She did not wish to make further use of her husband's wealth, or the position which it give her in society. She wished to go away, to settle down in some silent corner, vanish from the eyes of people.
Kranitski was so excited that he almost sobbed; here his speech was interrupted by a rough, sarcastic voice: "It is well that she came to her senses at last--" "What senses? What are you weaving, mother? You know nothing. Love is never an offense. Ils ont peche, mais le ceil est un don."
"You are mad, Tulek! Am I some madam that you must speak French to me?" Still he finished: "Ils ont souffert, c'est le sceau du pardon. I will translate this for thee: They have sinned, but heaven is a gift-----They have suffered; suffering is the seal of pardon."
"Tulek, let heaven alone! To mix up such things with heaven--Arabian adventure!"
"Are you a priest, mother? I tell you of my own suffering and the suffering of that noble, sweet being--" In the antechamber, the door of which widow Clemens, in returning from the city, had not locked, was heard stamping, and the youthful voice of a man called: "Is your master at home?"
"Arabian adventure!" muttered widow Clemens.
"Maryan!" exclaimed Kranitski with delight, and he answered aloud: "I am at home, at home!"
"An event worthy of record in universal history," answered the voice of a man speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth.
"And the baron!" cried Kranitski; then he whispered: "Close the drawing-room door, mother; I must freshen up a little," and from behind the closed door he spoke to those who were in the drawing-room: "In a moment, my dears, in a moment I shall be at your service."
In the light of the lamp, placed by widow Clemens in the drawing-room, he appeared, indeed, after a few minutes, dressed, his hair arranged, perfumed, elegant with springy movements and an unconstrained smile on his lips. Only his lids were reddened, and on his forehead were many wrinkles which would not be smoothed away.
"A comedian! There is a comedian!" grumbled widow Clemens, returning to the kitchen, with a terrible clatter of overshoes.
The two young men pressed his hand in friendship. It was clear that they liked him.
"Why did you avoid us all day?" inquired Baron Emil. "We waited for you at Borel's--he gave us an excellent dinner. But maybe you are fasting?"
"Let him alone, he has his suffering," put in Maryan. "I am so sorry, mon bon vieux (my good old man), that I have persuaded the baron to join me in taking you out. I cannot, of course, leave you a victim to melancholy."
Kranitski was moved; gratitude and tenderness were gazing out of his eyes.
"Thanks, thanks! You touch me."
He pressed the hands of both in turn, holding Maryan's hand longer than the baron's, with the words: "My dear-dear--dear."
The young man smiled.
"Do not grow so tender," said he, "for that injures the interior. You are, however, a son of that generation which possesses an antidote for melancholy."
"What is it?"
"Well, faith, hope, charity, with resignation and--other painted pots. We haven't them, so we go to Tron-tron's, where Lili Kerth sings. We are to give her a supper tonight at Borel's. Borel has promised me everything which the five parts of the world can give."
"As to the problematic nature of that Lili," remarked the baron, "there are moments in which she takes on the superhuman ideal."
"What an idea, dear baron!" burst out Kranitski. "Lili and superhumanity, the ideal! Why, she is a little beast that sings abject things marvellously."
"That is it, that is it!" said the baron, defending his position, "a little beast in the guise of an angel--the singing of chansonettes with such a devil in the body--and at the same time a complexion, a look, a smile, which scatters a kind of mystic, lily perfume. This is precisely that dissonance, that snap, that mystery with which she has conquered Europe. This rouses curiosity; it excites; it is opposed to rules, to harmony--do you understand?"
"Stop, Emil!" cried Maryan, laughing. "You are speaking to the guardian of tombs. He worships harmony yet."
Kranitski seemed humiliated somewhat. He passed his palm over his hair, and began timidly: "But that is true, my dears; I see myself that I am becoming old-fashioned. Men of my time, and I, called a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue. If a Lili like yours put on the airs of an angel we said: 'Oh, she is a rogue!' And we knew what to think of the matter. But this confounding of profane with sacred, of the rudest carnalism with a mystic tendency--" The baron and Maryan laughed.
"For you this is all Greek, and will remain Greek. You wore born in the age of harmony, you will remain on the side of harmony. But a truce to talk. Let us go. Come, you will hear Lili Kerth; we shall sup together."
"Come, we have a place in the carriage for you," said the baron, supporting young Darvid's invitation.
Kranitski grew as radiant as if a sun-ray had fallen on his face.
"Very well, my dears, very well, I will go with you; it will distract me, freshen me. A little while only; will you permit?"
"Of course. Willingly. We will wait." He hurried to his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. In his head whirled pictures and expressions: the theatre, songs, amusement, supper, conversation, the bright light--everything, in a word, to which he had grown accustomed, and with which he had lived for many years. The foretaste of delight penetrated through his grievous sorrows. After the bitter mixture he felt the taste of caramels in his mouth. He ran toward his dressing-table, but in the middle of the room he stood as if fixed to the floor. His eye met a beautiful heliotype, standing on the bureau in the light of the lamp; from the middle of the room, in a motionless posture, Kranitski gazed at the face of the woman, which was enclosed in an ornamented frame.
"Poor, dear soul! Noble creature!" whispered he, and his lips quivered, and on his forehead appeared the red spots. Maryan called from beyond the door: "Hurry, old man! We shall be late!"
A few minutes afterward Kranitski entered the drawing-room. His shoulders were bent; his lids redder than before.
"I cannot--as I love you, I cannot go with you! I feel ill."
"Indeed, he must be ill!" cried Maryan. "See, Emil, how our old man looks! He is changed, is he not?"
"But a moment ago you looked well!" blurted out Emil, and added: "Do not become wearisome, do not get sick. Sick people are fertilizers on the field of death--and sickness is annoying!"
"Splendidly said!" exclaimed Maryan.
"No, no," answered Kranitski, "this is not important, it is an old trouble of the liver. Returned only to-day--you must go without me."
He straightened himself, smiled, tried to move without constraint, but unconquerable suffering was evident on his features and in the expression of his eyes.
"May we send the doctor?" asked Maryan.
"No, no," protested Kranitski, and the baron took him by the arm and turned him toward the bedroom. Though Kranitski's shoulders were bent at that moment, his form was shapely and imposing; the baron, holding his arm, seemed small and frail; he made one think of a fly. In the bedroom he said, with a low voice: "It is reported in the city that papa Darvid is opposed to my plans concerning Panna Irene. Do you know of this?"
For some months the baron had spoken frequently with Kranitski about his plans, taking counsel with him even at times, and begging for indications. Was he not the most intimate friend of that house, and surely an adviser of the family? Kranitski did not think, or even speak, of Baron Emil otherwise than: "Ce brave garcon has the best heart in the world; he is very highly developed and intelligent; yes, very intelligent; and his mother, that dear, angelic baroness, was one of the most beautiful stars among those which have lighted my life."
So through the man's innate inclination to an optimistic view of mankind, and his grateful memory of "one of the most beautiful stars," he was always very friendly to the baron and favorable to his plan touching Irene; all the more since he noted in her an inclination toward the baron. So, usually, he gave the young man counsel and answers willingly and exhaustively. This time, however, an expression of constraint and of suffering fell on his face.
"I know not, dear baron; indeed, I can do nothing, for to tell--for I--" A number of drops of perspiration came out on his forehead, and he added, with difficulty: "It seems that Panna Irene--" "Panna Irene," interrupted the baron, without noticing Kranitski's emotion, "is a sonnet from Baudelaire's Les fleurs du mal (The flowers of evil). There is in her something undefined, something contradictory--" Kranitski made a quick movement.
"My baron--" "But do you not understand me, dear Pan Arthur? I have no intention of speaking ill of Panna Irene. In my mouth the epithets which I have used are the highest praise. Panna Irene is interesting precisely for this reason, that she is indefinite and complicated. She is a disenchanted woman. She possesses that universal irony which is the stamp of higher natures. Oh, Panna Irene is not a violet unless from the hot-house of Baudelaire! But, just for that reason she rouses curiosity, irritates, une desabusee--une vierge desabusee. Do you understand? There is in this the odor of mystery--a new quiver. But with natures of this sort nothing can ever be certain--" "Hers is a noble nature!" cried Kranitski, with enthusiasm.
"You divide natures into noble and not noble," said the baron, with a smile; "but I, into annoying and interesting."
Beyond the door the loud voice of Maryan was heard: "Emil, I will leave you and go to Tron-tron's. I will tell Lili Kerth that you remained for the night to nurse a sick friend."
These words seemed to them so amusing that they laughed, from both sides of the closed door, simultaneously.
"Good!" cried the baron. "You will create for me the fame of a good Christian. As the Brandenburger fears only God, I fear only the ridiculous, and go."
A few minutes later the two friends were no longer in the dwelling of Kranitski, who was sitting on his long chair again, with drooping head, turning in his fingers the golden cigarette-case. The street outside the window was lonely enough, so the rumble of the departing carriage was audible. Kranitski followed it with his ear, and when it was silent he regretted passionately for a moment that he had not gone to where people were singing and jesting, and eating, and drinking in bright light, in waves of laughter. But, straightway, he felt an invincible distaste for all that. He was so sad, crushed, sick. Why had not those two young friends of his remained longer? He had rendered them the most varied services frequently, he had simply been at their service always, and had loved them; especially Maryan, the dear child--and many others. How many times had he nursed them, also, in sickness, consoled them, rescued them, amused them. Now, when he cannot run after them, as a dog after its mistress, his only comrades are darkness and silence.
Darkness reigned in the little drawing-room, silence of the grave in the whole dwelling. A clatter of overshoes broke this silence; widow Clemens stood in the kitchen door. On her high forehead, above her gray eyebrows, shone the glass eyes of her spectacles; her left hand was covered with a man's sock which she was darning. She stood in the door and looked at Kranitski, bent, grown old, buried in gloomy silence, and shook her head. Then, as quietly as ever was possible for her, she approached the long-chair, sat on a stool which was near it, and asked: "Well, why are you silent, and chewing sorrow alone? Talk with me, you will feel easier."
As he gazed at her silently, she asked in a still lower tone: "Well, the woman? Did she love you greatly? Was her love real? How did you and she come to your senses?"
After a few minutes' hesitation, or thought, Kranitski, with his elbows on the edge of the chair, and his forehead on his palms, said: "I can tell all, mother, for you are not of our society, and you are noble, faithful; the only one on earth who remains with me."
Throughout the silent chamber was heard, as it were, the sound of a trumpet: that sound was made by widow Clemens, who had drawn from her pocket a coarse handkerchief and held it to her nose. Her eyes were moist. Kranitski quivered and squirmed, but continued: "When we met the first time after parting, the spring season was around us. You know that we parted only because I had too little fortune to marry a portionless maiden, and my mother would not hear of my marrying a governess. Soon after, that rich man married her. Fiu! fiu! what became of that governess, that girl more timid than a violet? She became a society lady, full of life, elegance, style--but springtime breathed around us, memories of the village, of the flowers, of the fields, of our earliest, heartfelt emotions. Did she love her husband? Poor, dear, soul! It seems that at first she was attached to him, but he left her, neglected her, grasped after millions throughout the whole world. He was strong, unbending--she was ever alone. Alone in society! Alone in the house--for the children were small yet, and she so sensitive and weak, needing friendship and the fondling of a devoted heart. I fell on my knees in spirit before her--she felt that. He, when going away, left me near her as an adviser, a guardian for the time, even a protector, yes, a pro-tec-tor--the parvenu! the idiot! So wise, yet so stupid--ha! ha! ha!"
Sneering, vengeful laughter contorted Kranitski's face, the red spots spread over his brows and covered half of his forehead, which was drawn now into thick wrinkles.
"Do not vex yourself, Tulek, do not vex yourself, you will be ill," urged widow Clemens; but once his confessions were begun he went on with them.
"For a year or more there was nothing between us. We were friends, but she held me at a distance; she struggled. You, mother, know if I had success with women--" "You had, to your eternal ruin, you had!" blurted out widow Clemens.
"From youth I had the gift of reading; I owe much to it."
"Ei! you owe much to it! What do you owe to it? Your sin against God, and the waste of your life!" said the widow, ready for a dispute, but he went on without noting that.
"Once she was weak after a violent attack of neuralgia; it was late in the evening, the great house was empty and dark, the children were sleeping--I gave her the attention that a brother or a mother would give; I was careful; I hid what was happening within me; I acted as though I were watching over a sick child which was dear to me. I entertained her with conversation; I spoke in a low voice; I gave her medicine and confectionery. Afterward I began to read. More than once she had said that my reading was music. I was reading Musset. You do not know, mother, who Musset is. He is the poet of love--of that love exactly which the world calls forbidden. She wanted something from the neighboring chamber; I went for it. When I returned our eyes met, and--well, I read no more that evening."
He was barely able to utter the last words; he covered his face with his handkerchief, rested his head on the arm of the long-chair, was motionless; wept, perhaps. Widow Clemens bent down, the corner of her coarse handkerchief came from her pocket, and through the chamber that sound of a trumpet was heard for the second time. Then she drew her bench up still nearer, and, with her hand in the stocking-foot, touched Kranitski's arm, and whispered: "Say no more, Tulek; despair not! Let God up there judge her and you. He is a strict judge, but merciful! I am sorry for you, but also for her, poor thing! What is to be done? The heart is not stone, man is not an angel! Only drive off despair! Everything passes-, and your sorrow also will pass. You may be better off in the world than you now are. You may yet enjoy pleasant quiet in Lipovka, in your own cottage. Stefanek and I may think out something, so that you will escape from the mud of this city."
Kranitski made no answer; the woman spoke on: "I have had another letter from Stefanek."
"What does that honest man write?" asked Kranitski.
The widow flushed up in anger: "It is true that he is honest, and there is no need to call him that--as if through favor, or sneering. Arabian adventure! He is only my godson, but better than men of high birth. He writes that management in Lipovka goes well; that again he has set out a hundred fruit-trees in the garden; that in four weeks he will come and bring a little money."
"Money!" whispered Kranitski; "but that is well!"
"It is surely well, for that Jew would have taken your furniture if I had not pushed him down the steps, and a second time begged him to wait." She laughed. "To push him down was easier than to beg, for I am strong, and he is as small as a fly. Well I almost kissed his hands, and he promised to wait. 'For widow Clemens I will do this,' said he, 'because she is a servant who is like a mother.' Indeed, I am like a mother! I have no children, I have no one of my own in the world--I have only you."
Kranitski looked at her and began to shake his head with a slow movement. She, too, fixing her fiery and gloomy eyes on his eyes, shook slowly her head, which was covered with a great cap.
The lamp burning on the bureau threw its white light on those two heads, which, discoursing sadly, continued their melancholy converse without words; it shone also on the varied collection of pipes at the wall, and cast passing gleams on the golden cigarette-case which Kranitski turned in his hand.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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5
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Darvid was in splendid humor--he had bought at auction a house and broad grounds very reasonably. He cared little for the house--it was a rubbishy old pile which he would remove very soon--but the grounds, covered then with an extensive garden, represented an uncommonly profitable transaction. Situated near one of the railroad stations, he would, of course, receive a high price for it, because of the need to put there a great public edifice.
Darvid would sell the ground to those who needed it, and then make proposals to build the edifice. This was the third undertaking which had fallen to him since his return, a few months before. What of that, when the most important, for which he would have given the other three willingly, had not fallen yet to him, and he did not know well what had been done concerning it? This affair did not let him sleep sometimes, still it did not disincline him from working at that which he had begun already.
The day was clear, slightly frosty, myriads of brilliants were glittering in the white rime which covered the trees, and in the snow which lay on the extensive garden. Darvid, in company with a surveyor, an engineer, and an architect, walked through the garden, but the object of his walk was in no way the contemplation of nature bound up under marbles, and alabasters sprinkled with brilliants. The engineer brought him a plan for the purchase of the place, and supported the interests of his employers energetically; the surveyor and the architect spoke of their part, pointed out with gestures the proportions and various points of the open area. Darvid, in a closely fitting fur coat, finished with an original and very costly collar, with a shining hat on his head, walked over the ground with even tread; he listened rather than spoke, there was a silent satisfaction in his smile, when suddenly an immense brightness reflected from a tree, directly in front, dazzled his eyesight. The tree, which resembled a lofty pillar, had on each of its branches a plume, cut as it were delicately from alabaster, every feather of this plume flamed like a torch lighted in a rainbow. Sheafs of rainbow gleams shot out of that wonderful carving, and from that fountain of many-colored light. Darvid put his glasses on his nose suddenly, and said with a painful twist of the mouth: "What unendurable light!"
The architect looked at the tree and said, with a smile: "No man, not even a Greek master, has ever finished a pillar like that."
"The only pity is that it cannot be used," replied Darvid, smiling also.
"You are not a lover of nature, that is true; while I--" began the engineer.
"On the contrary, on the contrary. During intervals I have looked at nature here and there," said Darvid, playfully. "But to become her lover, as you say, I have not had leisure. To love nature is a luxury which iron toil does not know--a luxury which must have leisure."
With these words he turned from the beautiful work of nature and intended to go on, but again he halted. He found himself at the picket fence, which divided the garden from the street, and in the movement of the street he saw something which occupied him greatly.
It was the hour of departure for one of the railroad trains. The street was wide, and the ground on both sides of it was not entirely occupied yet with houses, many carriages on wheels, and a multitude of sleighs were hastening toward the near railway station. The sleighs shot forward with clinking harness, the snow under wheels squeaked complainingly, the drivers uttered brief shouts. The hats of men and women, various kinds of furs, the liveries of coachmen, the horses puffing steam, covered here and there with colored nets, formed a motley, changing line, moving forward with a rattle and an outcry along the white snow, in an atmosphere glittering from frost and sunlight.
One of the carriages looked like a flower garden. Roses, camelias, pinks, and violets were creeping out--simply pouring out--through its windows. The carriage was filled with bouquets, garlands, baskets. Among these, as in a flood of various colors, appeared in the heart of it the broad-rimmed hat of a woman. Immediately behind the carriage rushed a sleigh drawn by a pair of grand horses, the driver wearing an enormous fur collar, and in the sleigh were two young men, at whose feet again was a basket of flowers, but the finest and costliest, very rare and expensive orchids. The carriage and sleigh shot forward through the many-colored crowd of the street, as if some enchanted vision of spring had risen through the snow and then vanished.
"Who is that lady in the carriage filled with flowers?" asked Darvid, turning to his companions.
"Bianca Biannetti."
That was a name which needed no commentary. Darvid smiled, with satisfaction. It was not wonderful that Maryan and the little baron were escorting to the station that woman of European fame, and were taking flowers to her. Of course, of course. He himself a number of times in his life--and if it was not offener, it was because time had failed him.
"There will be an amusing history to-day at the station," said the engineer. "A special train for Bianca; it is to leave five minutes after the regular one."
"For what purpose?" asked the architect.
"It is easy to divine: to have five minutes longer to enjoy the society of the great singer."
"An extra train! That is madness!" said Darvid. "Who did this?"
The engineer and architect exchanged significant glances, and the former answered: "Your son."
The skin on Darvid's face quivered, but he answered with perfect composure: "Ah, true! I remember Maryan told me something of this. I persuaded him a little, but he insisted. What is to be done? Il faut que la jeunesse se passe (youth must have its day)."
Then he gave his hand to the three men in farewell: "I am sorry that we cannot finish our discussions to-day, but I remember an important affair. I beg you, gentlemen, to come to-morrow at the usual hour of my receptions."
He raised his hat and left them.
"To the station! Hurry!" said he to the driver while entering the carriage.
At the station stood a row of cars with a locomotive sending up steam. A throng of people were moving toward the snow-covered platform, and hurrying to the train. Darvid came out also, searching with his eyes for a youthful face which filled his sleepless nights with care. At first he could not find it, but when many people had entered the train, those assembled for the passive role of spectators formed a group and turned their glances toward one point upon the platform. There in the hands of a number of people bloomed a garden of beautiful flowers, and near them two persons were conversing with great animation. The opera singer was an Italian, a beautiful brunette, with eyes blazing like dark stars. Conversing with her in her own language was a young man, younger than she, very youthful, light haired, shapely, elegantly dressed. At some steps from this pair, in a careless posture, with an unoccupied air, stood Baron Emil, fragile and red-haired.
The bell, summoning passengers, was heard in the frosty air for the second time. The lady, with a charming smile, bowed in sign of farewell, and made a step toward the train, but the young man barred the way with a movement made adroitly, talking meanwhile, and holding her under the determined glance of his blue eyes. Without showing alarm she delayed, smiled, and listened.
Darvid stood on the platform, lost in that crowd of the curious, and snatches of conversation struck his ear.
"She will not go!" said one man.
"She will! There is time enough yet!" said another.
"He detains her purposely, so that she may not go."
"He does, for she is beautiful. Her smile is as charming as her song."
"He is a daring boy," said some third man near Darvid's other ear. "Look, look, how he talks her down purposely--poor woman, she will go back to the city beaten."
"But no! That would be an impoliteness on his part."
"Who is this handsome young man with golden hair?" asked some woman.
"Young Darvid. The son of the great financier. How young! He is a child."
"A man with millions ripens quickly, like a peach in sunlight."
"What language are they speaking? I cannot hear, but it is not French."
"Italian; she is Italian."
"But he chatters in that language as if he were her compatriot."
"Millions are like the tongues at Pentecost," said the man who had mentioned peaches, "whoever is touched by them speaks every language on earth right away."
All the passengers had vanished in the cars, the doors of which were fastened now with loud clinking. This time the opera singer stepped forward quickly, but young Darvid spoke a few words which brought to her face astonishment and the most beautiful smile in the world; she nodded, agreed to something, gave thanks for something in the same way that kindly queens consent to receive marks of the highest honor from their subjects.
In the crowd surrounding Darvid someone laughed: "Ah, he is a stunning fellow! he will not let her go!"
"How handsome he is, that young Darvid!" said a woman.
"He looks like a young prince," added another.
"But what will come of this? She will not go."
"She will go!"
"She will not go!"
"I will bet!"
"I will bet!"
In a moment a number of bets were made behind Darvid as to whether the woman, who was talking to his son, would go from the city that day or not. On his thin lips a smile of satisfaction appeared, the eyes from behind his glasses looked at his son with an expression which was almost mild. A young prince! Yes, that is true. What freedom of manner, what grace! What fine disregard for the common throng gazing at him! Triumphant even with women! That woman, famous throughout Europe, is simply devouring him with those black eyes of hers.
The bell was heard on the platform for the third time, and at the same moment a prolonged whistle pierced the air. The wheels of the train began to turn with a slow, measured movement.
"It is over!" cried someone in the crowd. "She has not gone!"
"I have lost the bet!" said a number of voices.
"How splendid that that handsome youth has carried his point," said a woman.
Meanwhile, from the remotest end of the platform, new whistling of a locomotive came up, and the measured beat of wheels on the rails was heard; at some distance a certain black mass appeared, it pushed forward faster and faster, until under the smoke came out clearly the cylinder of a locomotive, drawing behind it a short row of wagons. This was the train, and small, fresh, elegant. This train glittered in the sunlight with its yellow brass fittings, gleamed in its sapphire-colored varnish. Its rich interior, with cushions of purple velvet, was visible through the windows. A conductor opened the door of a car and stood near it in an expectant position. Maryan, with a motion of request, indicated it to the celebrated singer.
Now the people standing on the platform understood everything, and fell into enthusiasm. The spirit, which rose to that plan and threw out a large sum of money for the sake of it, struck the imagination and roused the sympathy of people inclined to gold and strange acts, without reference to their object or value. On the platform was heard the sharp clapping of some tens of hands, and soon after the locomotive whistled once more, and that small, special train pushed forward into space, only five minutes later than the regular train which preceded it.
Darvid stood near the door of the station whence he could see his son, who passed with slow step along a part of the platform. And he looked at him with unquiet curiosity, for something unexpected in Maryan astonished him. In contradiction to what one might expect, and which seemed natural, there was not in the expression of face and the movements of. Maryan either the pleasure of youth at something accomplished, or sorrow at the departure of the woman, for whom he had accomplished it. When a moment before applause was heard on the platform, he looked around and cast on the hand-clapping crowd a passing glance, as indifferent as if they were an object not worthy of contempt, even. Now, too, his whole person expressed perfect indifference, nay, even annoyance, which contracted his lips, and yellowed the rosiness of his round cheeks somewhat. In his blue eyes, fixed glassily on the distance, was depicted something like dissatisfaction, or a feeling of disappointment, a dreaming, or a pondering in vain over deceitful visions which pass over space, but which no one can seize upon. He did not see his father, for his glassy eyes were looking far away at some point. Even the baron did not see Darvid; he was searching for something in his pocketbook carefully, till he took out a ten-rouble note and threw it at the porters who had borne in the baggage and flowers of the primadonna. At the same time he cast these words through his teeth at them: "I have no small money!"
Maryan, without rousing himself from thought, said, as if mechanically: "It is wonderful!"
"What?" asked the baron.
"That everything in the world is so little, so little."
"Except my appetite, which is immense at this moment," cried the baron.
"But those fabulous sums which Maryan must expend!" thought Darvid going to his carriage; before he reached it he heard other snatches of conversation: "To throw away so much money for a few moments' talk with a beautiful woman--that is a character!"
"It promises trouble, does it not?"
"Especially for papa."
"He has as many debts, no doubt, as curly hairs on his head."
"He borrows, of course, on the security of papa's pocket."
"Or his death."
Others said: "In such hands ill-gotten gains will go to the devil quickly."
"Why ill-gotten gains?"
"Well, can you imagine Saint Francis of Assisi making millions?"
While his carriage was rolling along the streets of the city, Darvid's head was full of conflicting ideas. True, true; that green youth had a special capacity for devouring the golden sands of Pactolus! But in what a charming and princely fashion he did that! Darvid was proud of his son, and at the same time greatly dismayed and troubled; for this could not last. That lad was making debts in view of--his father's death. And this absolute idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a certain dreaming without object--a handsome fellow! He looked as if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss: "When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to me."
Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers, writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters; but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver, and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened and Maryan appeared, hat in hand.
"Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time."
He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son quickly.
"Are you in love with that singer?" asked he.
Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly.
"What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that beautiful Bianca--" "Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on special trains," finished Darvid.
"Have you heard of that, father?"
"I have seen it."
"Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you."
He made a gesture of contempt with his hand.
"I was disappointed. I planned that surprise for Bianca, and felt sure of a lively pleasure. When the time came I convinced myself that the affair was a trifle, not new, and, like everything, stupid. So it is always: what imagination builds up in a long time, criticism overturns in a twinkle. It is impossible to invent anything important. The world is so aged that it has come to us a worn-out old rag."
He took a seat on one of the armchairs surrounding the table, and put his hat on the carpet. Darvid replied without changing his posture: "Nothing wonderful; when imagination builds up stupidities criticism overturns the building in a twinkle--" "Who can be sure that he is building up wisdom?" interrupted Maryan.
Then, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, he asked: "Do you permit, father?" Then, handing the cigarette-case, with great politeness, to Darvid, he added: "But, perhaps, you will smoke also?"
Darvid, with thick wrinkles between his brows, shook his head and sat down.
"Why did you leave the university soon after I went away?" asked he. "I inquired of you touching this several times by letter, but you have never given me a definite answer."
"I beg pardon for that, father, but I am wonderfully slow in writing letters. I will explain all to you willingly in words--" Darvid interrupted: "I have no time for long talk, so tell me at once. Have you no love for science?"
Maryan let out a streak of smoke from his lips, and spoke with deliberation: "I feel no repugnance whatever toward science. I read much, and mental curiosity is just one of the most emphatic traits of my individuality. In childhood I swallowed books in monumental numbers, but I have never learned school lessons. All were astonished at this, and still the thing is simple, it lies quite on the surface. Common individualities yield to rules, but energetic and higher ones will not endure them. Rules and duty are stables in which humanity confines its beasts, to prevent them from injuring fields under culture. Cattle and sheep stand patiently in the enclosures, higher organisms break them down and go out into freedom. I need absolute freedom in all things; and,-therefore, I stopped going to inns of science, which give out this science at stated hours, in certain sorts and doses. Though, even in this regard, I showed many good intentions, owing to the entreaties and persuasions of mamma. From legal studies I betook myself to the study of nature, and turned from that to philosophy, thinking that something would occupy me, and that I should be able to still that real storm of desperation which seized poor mamma. But I was not able. The professors were contemptible, my fellow-students a rabble. Society relations amused me in those days, and occupied me: imagination swept me farther and higher. So I stopped a labor which was annoying and irritating, and which, moreover, had no object."
He quenched his cigarette stump in the ash-pan, and, sinking again into the deep armchair, continued: "So far as I have been able to observe, people study science regularly for one of two purposes: either they intend to devote themselves to what is called the salvation of mankind, or they need to win a morsel of bread for their stomachs. Neither of these objects could be mine; for, as to the first, I hold the principle of individuality carried quite to anarchy. The so-called salvation of society is, for our decadent epoch, a fable, quite impossible; and the naked truth is, that each man lives for himself, and in his own fashion. The man whom fate serves well passes his life in a manner more or less agreeable; if it serves him ill--he perishes. Luck, and the chance meeting of causes, arranges everything. It is impossible to turn the earth into a general paradise, just as it is to change a small planet into an immense one. The salvation of society is one of the narcotics invented to lull the sufferings of people. Altruists possess a whole drug-shop of these narcotics; whoever wishes has the right to use them; but, as for me, I prefer not to be lulled to sleep. I am an individualist, and do not understand why Pavel must suffer for the purpose of decreasing the pains of Gavel. Let Gavel, as well as Pavel, think of himself; and, if they are clever, they will both help themselves somehow without turning to labelled bottles. This is my conviction about one of the objects for which people make regular studies in science. As to the other--" He took out his cigarette-ease again, and, lighting a cigarette, finished: "As to the other object, that is a simple thing; since being your son, my father, I shall not need to bake my own bread. Such is my confession of faith which I have laid down before you; all the more readily since I have long cherished a genuine reverence for your strength of mind and independence. I am certain, too, that by no one could I be understood better than by you, my father."
He was mistaken. The man to whom he was talking so fluently and politely did not understand him in any sense.
For the first time in his life, perhaps, Darvid did not understand the person with whom he was talking. The millionnaire was astounded. He had expected to find a frivolous youth, whom passions had pushed into extravagance and idleness; meanwhile, a reasoning, disenchanted sage sat before him, with bitterness on his lips and irony in his speech and eyes. That sour wisdom, the measureless belief in himself and his opinions, with the independence which accompanied it, were found in a slender, delicate, and rosy-faced youth, with eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and came from lips slightly faded, but marked by a tiny, youthful moustache. Besides, the perfect elegance of manner, the aestheticism and irreproachable grace in movements, in voice, in compliments, the utterance of which he rounded very beautifully.
Darvid was astounded. He had found no time in his life to observe the new directions which thought and character were taking in the world; nor for observing the changed forms in which time moulds the various generations of mankind. He was dumbfounded, speechless, and only after a while did an ironical smile appear on his lips--that lad with his theories was absurd!
"All that you have said is simply ridiculous. You are making a principle out of a thorough absence of principles. At your age such opinions and such coolness are incredible. At your age, which is almost that of a child, and with your scant training, they are, out and out, ridiculous."
Maryan, with a quick movement, raised his head and looked with astonishment at his father. He, too, had expected something entirely different.
"Ridiculous!" cried he; "what does this mean, father? This is not argument. I felt sure that we should agree perfectly. With the profoundest astonishment I see that this is not the case. How is it, my father, then, you do not take up the motto: each for himself, and in his own way? Still, it is impossible for any man to carry contempt for all painted pots farther than you do; than you have carried it all your life. But, perhaps, this difference in our opinions is only apparent? I beg you to give me argument. The charge of ridiculousness is not argument. I may be ridiculous, and be right. A lack of principles? Very well; principles form one of the most brightly painted of all pots, and, therefore, it is most difficult to see the clay. But, never mind; I ask for a closer description. What principles do you value, father?"
Darvid, with a strong quiver in his face, answered: "What? Oh, moral. Naturally, moral principles--" "Yes, yes, but I ask for an accurate definition. What are they called; what are the names of those principles?"
Darvid was silent. What are they called? Was he a priest, or a governess, to break his head over such questions? If it were a question of law, mathematics, architecture, guilds, banks--but he had never occupied himself with morals; he had not had the time. A deep anger began to possess him, and his words hissed somewhat through his lips; when, after some silence, he added: "My dear, you have made a mistake in the address. It is not the office of a father to instil moral principles into children. That is the province of mothers. Fathers have no time for that work. Go back in memory to your childhood; recall the principles which your mother implanted in you, and you will find an answer to your question."
Maryan laughed.
"What you say, father, reminds me of one of my friends who writes books. A poor devil, but we receive him into our set, for he has talent--that legitimizes. Well, on a time, someone asked him: 'What do you do when, in writing, you meet a difficulty?' 'I try to overcome it,' answered he. 'But if you can't overcome it?' 'Then I dodge; or, I run to one side like a rabbit, and avoid saying that which I know not how to say.' Well, you have acted, dear father, like this author. You have dodged! Ha! ha! ha!"
He laughed, but Darvid grew gloomier and stiffer. It was strange, but true, that in presence of that professor he felt himself more and more a pupil.
"Let us leave poor, dear mamma in peace," continued Maryan. "She is the impersonation of charm and sweetness. If there is still anything of this sort which for me is not a painted pot yet, it is the tenderness which I feel for mamma. She has spoken to me often, indeed; and she speaks, even now, of principles, but the best and dearest of women is only a woman. Sentiment, routine, and, besides, want of logic: theory without end and practice nowhere, is not that the case with women? You know them better than I, father; for you have had more time to explore this part of the universe."
His azure eyes glittered with sparks; his golden curls fell low on his white forehead; and from his lips, shaded by a tiny mustache, the words came out with increasing boldness and fluency, and more thickly intermingled with a sarcastic smile: "As for me, were I an old maid, I should become a Sister of Charity; for that office has always a certain position in the world, and the stiff bonnet casts a saving shadow on wrinkles. Since I am who I am, I think thus of principles: they depend on the place; the time; the geographical position; and the evolution which society is accomplishing. If the heavens had created me an ancient Greek, my principle would have been to battle for freedom against Asiatics, and to be enamoured of a beautiful boy. If in the Middle Ages, I should have fought for the honor of my lady and burnt men alive on blazing piles. In the Orient, I should possess, openly, a number of wives, accommodated only to my wish; in the West, principle commands a man to pretend that he has only one wife. In Europe, it is my duty to honor my father and mother; in the Fiji Islands it would be criminal for me not to put them to death at the proper moment. Wretched makeup--hash, with which our age does not wish now to feed itself. Our age is too old, and its palate is too practised, not to distinguish figs from pomegranates. We children of an advanced age, decadents, know well that man may win much, but will never gain absolute truth. It does not exist. All things are relative. My only principle is, that I exist, and use my will, my only interest is to know how to will. Many other things might be said, but what use? Still, I will add to what is already said. You, my father, are an uncommonly wise man. You must think, therefore, just as I do; you speak differently only because people have the habit of talking in that way--to children!"
Darvid seemed to hear this speech out, only mechanically; and when Maryan, with a short and somewhat sharp laugh, pronounced the last words and was silent, the following words broke from him more quickly than words had ever left his mouth before: "Not true. You are greatly mistaken. I think and act differently from what you say. I have not had time to meditate over the theory of principles; but all my life has rested on one of them--on labor. Skilled and iron labor was my principle, and it has made me what I am--" "Pardon me for interrupting," exclaimed Maryan. "I beg you earnestly, but permit one question: What was the object of your labor? What was the object? That will settle everything; for a principle can be found only in the object, not in the labor, which is only the means of obtaining an end. What was your object, my father? Of course, it was not the salvation of the world, but the satisfaction of your own desires--your own--not any put on you beforehand, and accepted obediently; but your own individual desires. The object of them was great wealth--a high position. Through labor you strive to acquire these, and I do not see here any principle except that which I myself possess--namely: it is necessary to know how to will. In the very essence of things we agree; only I, with the sincerest homage, have recognized in you a master. Frequently have I thought with what perfect logic, with what unbending will, you have freed yourself from the labels which other men, even wise ones for the period, have never ceased from pasting on their persons. If in your career you had knocked against painted pots, labelled: birthplace, fatherland, humanity, charity, etc., you would have gone at considerably less speed, and not gone so far. But you were astonishingly logical. With amazing strength and unsparingness you have known how to will. It is from this point precisely that I looked, and I was filled with real admiration. During your absence, of more than three years, I called you frequently, in thought, a superhuman. Friederich Nietsche imagined such men as you when--" He stopped here, raising a glance full of astonishment at his father's face. Darvid, very pale, with quivering temples, stood up, leaned firmly on the table, and said: "Enough!"
Unable to conceal the violent emotion which he felt, under an ironical tone and laugh, he continued: "Enough of this mockery of reasoning and argument, and of all this empty twaddle. If it was your intention to pass an examination before me, I give you five with plus. You have fluent speech, and quite a rich vocabulary of words. But I have no time for those things and proceed to facts and figures. The life which you are leading is impossible, and you must change. You must begin another life."
He put emphasis on the word must. Maryan looked at his father with an amazement which seemed to take away his speech.
"You have not ended your twenty-third year yet, and the history of your romances has acquired broad notoriety in the world a number of times--" Maryan recovered from his amazement slowly.
"Affairs so completely personal--" began he with a hesitating voice.
Darvid, paying no attention to the interruption, continued: "The sum which you lost in betting at the last races was, even for my fortune, considerable--thirty thousand."
Maryan had now almost recovered his balance.
"If this shrift is indispensable I will correct the figures--thirty-six thousand."
"The suppers which you give to friends, male and female, have the fame of Lucullus feasts."
Maryan, with sparks of hidden irritation in his eyes, laughed.
"An exaggeration! Our poor Borel has no idea of Lucullus, but that he plunders us, unmercifully, is true."
"He knows how to will!" threw in Darvid.
Maryan raised his eyes to him, and said: "He is making a fortune."
This time, in his turn, astonishment was depicted on the face of Darvid, indignant to that degree that a slight flush appeared on cheeks generally pale.
"Folly!" hissed he, and immediately restrained himself.
"You are incurring enormous debts; on what security?"
Maryan, at least apparently, had regained perfect confidence in himself. With eyes slightly blinking he seemed to look at a picture on the wall.
"That is the affair of my creditors," said he. "They must have this in view, that I am your son."
"But if I should wish not to pay your debts?"
Maryan smiled with incredulity.
"I doubt that. Such a smash-up, as refusal to pay my debts, would injure you also, my father. Besides, the sums are not fabulous."
"How much?"
"I cannot tell the exact figure, but approximately they are--" He mentioned figures. Darvid repeated them indifferently.
"About a quarter of a million. Very good. I shall be far from ruin this time, but in future--I make no reproaches; for to do so would be to lose time. What has dropped into the past is lost. But the future must be different."
On the word must he laid emphasis again. With a quick movement he put his glasses on his nose, and taking a cigarette from a beautiful box, he put the end of it at the flame of one of the candles burning on the desk. He seemed perfectly calm; but behind his eyeglasses steel sparks flew, and the cigarette did not ignite, held by fingers which trembled somewhat. Turning from the desk to the table, he said: "I will pay your debts at once; and the pension which, three years ago, I appointed to you--that is six thousand yearly--I leave at your disposal. But you will leave the city two weeks from now, and go to--" He named a place very remote, situated in the heart of the Empire.
"In that place is an iron mill, and also glass-works; in these two establishments I am one of the chief shareholders. You will take the office designated by the director, who is a shareholder, and a friend of mine; under his guidance and indications you will begin a life of labor."
In Maryan's eyes again appeared amazement without limit; but on his lips quivered a smile somewhat incredulous, somewhat jeering.
"What is this to be?" asked he. "Penance for sins? Punishment?"
"No," answered Darvid; "only a school. Not a school for reasoning, for you have too much of that already; but for character. You must learn three things: economy, modesty, and labor."
Quenching in the ash-pan the fifth or sixth cigarette, Maryan inquired: "But if--perchance--I should not agree to enter that school?"
Darvid answered immediately: "In that case you will remain here, but without means of independent existence. You will be free to live under my roof, and appear at the parental table; but you will not receive a personal income of any kind. At the same time, I will publish in the newspapers that I shall not pay your debts hereafter. What I have said, I will do. Take your choice."
That he would do what he had said any man who saw him then might feel certain.
The bloom on Maryan's cheeks took on a brick color; his eyes filled with steel sparks.
"The system of taking fortresses through famine," said he, in an undertone; and, then with head inclined somewhat, and eyes fixed on the carpet, he said: "I am astonished. I thought, father, that in spite of my seeing you rarely, I knew you well; now I find that I did not know you at all. I admired in you that power of thought which was able to strike from you the bonds of every prejudice; now, I have convinced myself that your ideas are not only patriarchal, but despotic. This is a deception which pains. I wonder myself, even, that this affects me so powerfully; but in falling from heights one must always hurt, even the point of the nose. This is one lesson more not to climb heights. I have in me a cursed imagination which leads me astray. One more mirage has vanished; one more painted pot has lost its colors. What is to be done?"
He said this in a low voice, biting his lower lip at times; he was pained in reality, and deeply. After a while he continued: "What is to be done? I must be resigned to the disappointment which has met me; but as to disposing of my person so absolutely, I protest. Had it been your intention, my father, to make a mill-hand of me, you should have begun that work earlier. My individuality is now developed, and cannot be pounded in through the gate of a given cemetery. To rear me as a great lord and permit--even demand--during a rather long period that I should use all the good things of society, and be distinguished most brilliantly for your sake, and then thrust into a school of economy, modesty, and labor is--pardon me if I call the thing by its name--illogical and devoid of sequence. I might even add, that it lacks justice; but I do not wish to defend myself with arguments taken from painted pots. One thing is certain--namely this: that I shall not be the victim of patriarchal despotism."
He rose, took his hat from the carpet, and calmly, elegantly, but with a brick-colored flush on his cheeks, and a blue, swollen vein on his forehead, he added: "I know not what I shall do. It may happen me to be the creator of my own destiny. I know how to be this; and I shall decide more readily to be a workman at my own will than at the will of another. I shall surely leave this place. Expatriation has come to my mind more than once, but not in the direction in which you have seen fit to indicate. Besides, I do not know yet, for this has fallen suddenly. I shall look into myself; I shall look around me. Meanwhile, I must go; for I have promised one of my friends to be at a certain collector's place at a given hour, to examine a very curious picture. It is an original; an authentic Overbeck. A rare thing; a real find--I take farewell of you, my father."
He made a low bow and went out. Exquisite elegance did not desert him for an instant; still, in the expression of his face, and especially his excited complexion, and his voice, too, indignation and distress were evident in a degree which bordered on suffering.
The door of the antechamber opened and closed. Darvid was as if petrified. What was this? What had happened? Was it possible that this should be the end of the conversation, and that such a conversation should end in Overbeck, and a perfectly elegant bow? Wonderful man! Yes, for that was no petulant child, with childish requests, evasions, outbursts; but a premature man, almost an old man. A reasoner; a pessimist; a sceptic. A genial head! What elegance! What command of self. A princely exterior. Marvellous man! What could he do with him? If he had asked for forgiveness; had promised, in part, even to accommodate himself to his father's wishes; even to change his life a little. But this iron persistence and unshaken confidence in himself, joined with perfect politeness, and with reason which would not yield a step! What was to be done with him? Fortresses are taken sometimes through famine; but, suppose it is resolved on everything except yielding. Well, he would try; he would keep his word; he would see.
A servant at the door announced: "The horses are ready."
He was invited to dine at the house of one of the greatest dignitaries in the city. He would have given much to remain that day in quiet. But he had to go. In his position--with his business--to offend such a personage might involve results that would be very disagreeable. Besides, he would meet someone there whose good will also was necessary. He did not wish to go; but he would do violence to himself and go. Is not that the firm and strict observance of principle? What had that milksop said? That he did not recognize principles, and would not observe them? Who could treat himself more sternly and mercilessly than he? How many of the most beautiful flowers of life had he east aside; how many sleepless nights had he passed, and borne even physical toil for the principle of untiring labor--merciless iron labor!
In a dress-coat, his bosom covered with the finest of linen, and with glittering diamond buttons, with ruddy side-whiskers, a pale and lean face, unbending, irreproachable in dress, and correct in posture, he stood in the middle of his study, and was drawing on his light gloves very slowly. Taking his hat he thought that he felt a decided sourness and a bitterness in his person, which would make the most famous dishes, on the table of the dignitary, ill-tasting. What was to be done? He had to go. Principle beyond all things else!
When he was descending the stairway, in his fur-coat and hat, he heard the rustle of silk garments on the first landing, and a rather loud conversation in English. He recognized the voices of his elder daughter and Baron Emil; but he saw Malvina first; she was in front of the young couple. With elegant politeness he pushed up to the wall so that his wife might have more room, and raising his hat, with the most agreeable smile which his lips could give, he asked: "The ladies are coming from visits, of course?"
There were witnesses of the meeting. Malvina, wrapped in a fur, the white edges of which appeared from under deep black velvet, answered, also with a smile: "Yes, we have made some visits."
But Irene, who was standing some steps lower, caught up the conversation with a vivacity unusual for her.
"We are coming just now from the shops, where we met the baron."
"What are your plans for the evening?" inquired Darvid again.
"We shall remain at home,'" answered Malvina.
"How is that? --but the party at Prince and Princess Zeno's!"
"We had no intention--" said Malvina, in an attempt at self-defence; but she saw the look of her husband, and the voice broke in her throat.
"You and your daughter will go to that party," said he, with a low whisper, which hissed from his lips. And immediately he added aloud, with a smile: "Ladies, I advise you to be at that party."
Malvina became almost as white as the fur which encircled her neck, and at that moment Irene asked: "Will you be there, father?"
"I will run in for a while. As usual, I have no time."
"What a pity," said Baron Emil, "that I cannot offer you a part of mine as a gift. In this regard I am a regular Dives."
"And I a beggar! For this reason I must take farewell of you."
He raised his hat and had begun to descend when he heard Irene's voice behind him, calling: "My father!"
She told her mother and the baron that she wished to exchange a few words with her father, and ran down the steps. The splendid entrance was empty and brightly lighted with lamps; but the liveried Swiss, at sight of the master of the house, stood with his hand on the latch of the glass door. At the foot of the stairs a tall young lady, in a black cloak lined with fur, very formal and very pale, began to speak French: "Pardon me, that in a place so unfitting, I must tell you that the ball, of which you have spoken to Cara, cannot take place this winter."
Darvid, greatly astonished, inquired: "Why?"
Irene's blue eyes glittered under the fantastic rim of her hat, as she answered: "Because the very thought of that ball has disturbed mamma greatly."
After a moment of silence Darvid asked, slowly: "Has your mother conceived a distaste for amusements?"
"Yes, father, and I need not enlighten you as to the cause of this feeling. There are people who cannot amuse themselves in certain positions."
"In certain positions? In what position is your mother?"
He made this inquiry in a voice betraying a fear which he could not conceal. This thought was sounding in his head: "Can she know it?" But Irene said, in a voice almost husky: "You and I both know her position well, father--but as to this ball--" "This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks."
"Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place! Mamma and I are greatly opposed to it; therefore, I have permitted myself to detain you for a moment, and say--" The smile disappeared entirely from her lips when she finished; "and say to you that this ball will not take place."
"What does this mean?" began Darvid; but suddenly he restrained himself.
The Swiss stood at the door; at the top of the stairs was another servant. So, raising his hat to his daughter, he finished the conversation in a language understandable to the servants: "Pardon me; I have no time. I shall be late. We will finish this conversation another time."
When the carriage, whining on the snow, rolled along the crowded streets of the city, in the light of the streetlamps which fell on it, appeared Darvid's face, with an expression of terror. That pallid, thin face, with ruddy whiskers, and a collar of silvery fur, was visible for a moment with eyes widely open, with raised brows, with the words hanging on his lips: "She knows everything! --ghastly!" and after a while it sank again into the darkness which filled the carriage.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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6
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For the first time surely in that city, separated from England by lands and seas, a certain number of people, very limited, it is true, might admire small, bachelor's apartments, fitted up with tapestry, sculpture, and stained-glass, from the London factory of Morris, Faulkner, Marshall & Co. The drawing-room was not large, but there was in it absolutely nothing which had its origin elsewhere than in that factory founded by a famous poet and member of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The famous poet and artist, William Morris, had become a manufacturer for the purpose of correcting aesthetic taste in the multitude, and filling people's dwellings with works of pure beauty. The objects in this apartment were really beautiful. The tapestry on the walls represented a series of pictures taken from romances of knighthood, and from marvellous legends: Tristan and Isolde, on the deck of a ship; Flor and Blancheflor, in a garden of roses; the monk Alberich, in a Dominican habit, descending into hell. The tapestry on the furniture was full of winged heads and fantastic flowers; on all sides were seen great art in weaving and masterly borders, which recalled the margins of old prayer-books. Dulled and dingy colors, producing the impression of things which had emerged from the mist of ages, and only glass window-screens, framed in columns and pointed arches, were brilliant with the colors of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The window-panes were stained with roses and with the figures of saints having pale profiles and wearing bright robes. On one of the tables was a bronze pulpit in the form of a Gothic chapel; in another place was a lamp-support, which represented the Triumph of Death; Death was a woman with the wings of a bat; she was in a flowing robe; she had curved talons on her feet, and a scythe in her hand. This was a sculptured copy of Orcagna, from the Campo Santo of Pisa. In the middle of the dining-room, which was seen beyond an open door, stood a table, in the style of the eighteenth century. Altogether simple was this table, and like those under which, instead of carpets, men (of that century) used to put a layer of hay. The side table (fourteenth century), with painted carvings; a box (fourteenth century, a copy from the Museum of Cluny), with fantastic beasts carved on its cover, and with small figures on the front side, on very narrow niches, figures representing the twelve peers of France; another box, which was in the bedroom, was like this one, but the carving which covered it represented the anointing of Louis XI at Rheims (Museum of Orleans). It stood at the feet of Brother Alberich, who, in his white habit, was entering the black jaws of hell; it took the place of a sofa, there being no sofa in the room. Both these boxes of wood and iron, immensely artistic, though merely copies of authentic relics, served as places in which to keep objects of art, and served as seats also. Besides these, there were only a few stools, with arms carved in trefoil shape (fourteenth and fifteenth century), and still fewer armchairs, immensely deep and wide--so-called cathedras--covered with most wonderful stuffs; but everything was there which was needed, if the dwelling was to preserve a purely Middle Age character as to style. In the air, slightly colored by the brightly stained-glass, hovered something archaic and exotic--hoary antiquity reigned--and a critical spirit with the odor of mysticism might be felt floating around there. But all this seemed quite comprehensible and natural to anyone who knew Baron Emil, the owner of that dwelling--a trained and exacting aesthete--moreover, the baron was of that school called Mediaeval; and as a Mediaevalist he professed homage for Middle Ages romances and legends; for subtle works of art and for inspirations touching a world beyond the present which resulted from them.
Three years before Maryan Darvid, in company with, or more strictly under the protection of Kranitski, entered for the first time this dwelling, which had been recently furnished. The baron had brought home, from one of the Mediterranean islands, the mortal remains of his mother, who had died just before; he had received from her a great inheritance, and to put his interests in order he had settled in his native city for a period. Kranitski, long a friend in the house of his father and mother, had known him from childhood, and exhibited on greeting him an outburst of tenderness. This amused the baron, but pleased him also a little. "He is a trifle odd, good, poor devil--on the whole: gentle, perfectly presentable, and active." Kranitski was very active. He went to the boundary to take out of the custom-house everything which had come to the baron's address from England; and then helped him in the arrangement of the dwelling, which was attended with considerable labor. Upholsterers and other assistants lost their heads at sight of those knights, ladies, monks, peers of France, and the Triumph of Death, which came out of the boxes. Kranitski was astonished at nothing, for he had read much, and knew many things also, but he could not be very enthusiastic in this case. When the installation was accomplished, with his active and skilful assistance, he thought: "The place is funereal, and there is little comfort here." He looked askance somewhat at the boxes with the peers of France and Louis XI. on them. The covers of these boxes, rough with carving, did not seem to him the most agreeable places to sit on. He said nothing, however, for he was ashamed to confess that he did not understand or did not favor that which was the flower of the newest exotic fashion. He visited the baron and spent many hours in his dwelling, and soon he took there a second man--a young friend of his. When Maryan Darvid found himself for the first time in the company and at the house of a Mediaevalist, he was confused, like a man who is standing in the presence of something immensely above him. Almost ten years older, the baron surpassed Maryan immeasurably in all branches of knowledge, both of books and life; and his little dwelling was a marvel of originality and outlay. Maryan felt poor both in body and spirit. Though a yearly allowance of six thousand received from his father had not been enough up to that time, it seemed to him then a chip, only fit to be kicked away. As to the mental side, he was simply ashamed that he could still find any pleasant thing in that world which surrounded him, and in the life which he was leading. Commonness, cheapness, vulgarity! The meaning of these words he understood clearly after he had been in the baron's society. Even earlier he had begun to feel the need of something loftier; something beyond those pleasures of the senses--of fancy and of vanity--which he had experienced, though these were considerable. The substance and nature of these pleasures lay on the surface--they were accessible to a considerable number of people. The baron, in the manner usual with him, speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth, said: "We, the experienced and disenchanted, seek for new shivers, just as alchemists of the Middle Ages sought for gold. We are in search of the rare and of the novel."
In search of the rare and the novel in shivers, or universal impressions: sensuous, mental, and aesthetic, Maryan went once with the baron, and a second time alone, on a journey through Europe. He visited many countries and capitals. To investigate the Salvation Army, he joined its ranks for a period in England. In Germany he was connected with the almost legendary, politico-religious sect which bears the name Fahrende Leute; and, again, for some time, in an immense wagon drawn by gigantic Mechlenburgers, he wandered through the mountainous Hartz forest and along the banks of the picturesque Saal; he spent most time in Paris, where, with the theosophists he summoned up spirits, and with the decadents, otherwise known as incoherents, and still otherwise as the accursed poets; in the club of hashish-eaters he had dreams and visions brought on by using narcotics. Besides, he saw many other rare and peculiar things; but he was ever hampered by slender financial means and the need of incurring great debts; and was irritated by the impossibility of finding anything which could satisfy him permanently, or, at least, for a long period. He felt satisfactions, but brief ones. Everything of which he had dreamed seemed less after he had attained it--more common, weaker than in his imagining. The brightness was dimmed; on the glitter there were defects; the warm inspirations which came from afar, grew stiff when they were touched, stiffened, as oil does when floating on water. In the taste of things, sweetness and tartness became insipid and nauseous, the moment they reached his palate.
This was by no means a surfeit devoid of appetites; but, on the contrary, such an immense flood of appetites that the insurgent wave of them struck the region of the impossible with fury, because it could not rush over that barrier. This was also an inflammation of the fancy, which had risen from an active mind, and which early and numerous experiences had turned into a festering wound. Finally, it was also the placing of self on some imagined summit, standing apart and aloft, beyond and above all. I--and the rabble. What is not I, and a handful like me--is the rabble. What is to be mine cannot be of the rabble; what is of the rabble must be not of mine. This pride was not of birth or money; it might be called nervous mental arrogance. Mental summits other than those of the rabble, and other requirements of the nerves; the highest bloom of human civilization--sickly, but the highest; the crash, but also the coronation of mankind. In all this there was a principle--one, but indestructible: the respect of individuality; the preservation of it from all limitations and changes which might come from outside; a respect reaching the height of worship. Everything might be, according to time and place, a painted pot; but individuality (that is, the way in which a man's wishes, tastes, way of thinking were fashioned) was sacred--the only sacred thing. It was not permitted to give this into captivity to anyone or anything, or to submit it to criticisms, or corrections. I am what I am; and I will remain myself. I will and I am obliged to know how to will--something like the superhuman preached by Friedrich Nietsche. The baron's dwelling was not only original and fabulously expensive, but it had in itself besides, that which the Germans define by the word Stimmung. A number of young polyglots examined for a long time various languages of Europe to find a word which would answer best to the German Stimmung, till Maryan first, possessing the greatest linguistic capacity, came on the Polish expression nastroj (tone of mind). Yes, they agreed, universally, that the baron's dwelling produced a tone of mind; an impression not of what was in it, but of something of which it was the mysterious expression or symbol. It produced an impression which had its cause beyond this world. To believe in something beyond this world does not mean to profess a religion--as that of Buddha, Zoroaster, or Chrystos. No, of course not; that would be well for early ages and infantile people; . . old ones, too, run wild after fables, for the principle of the beautiful is in these fables; but they do not let fables lead them off by the nose. An impression from beyond the world is something entirely different; it is a shiver of delights which are unknown here, and only anticipated, coming from a world inaccessible to the senses. That such a world exists is shown by the enormous poverty of this one, and the mad monotony of those sources of pleasure which are contained in the world accessible to human senses. A poet is so far a poet, an aesthete so far an aesthete, as he is able, by intuition and unheard-of delicacy of nerves, to burst into the world above the senses and to experience the taste, or rather the odor, which goes before it. For it is an absolute condition that the feeling should be hazy, something in the nature of an odor; or, better still, the echo of an odor. No key of a musical instrument is to be touched; no definite features are to be drawn; the tone of mind alone is to be produced. The baron's dwelling gave the tone of mind for another world. He and his associates believed in another world, beyond the earth and the grave; on the basis of the poverty and commonness of the world before the grave--that is, in despair of the case. For them it was not subject to doubt--that world, the slight odors of which flew to them in moments when they were in the tone of mind, was filled with perfect beauty, nothing but beauty; a beauty which, in this world, even by itself alone, raises men above the level of the rabble. If this beauty did not exist, we should be justified in accepting Hartmann's theory of the collective suicide of mankind, and in throwing a "bloody spittle of contempt" at life. A "bloody spittle," as is known from Arthur Rimbaud's sonnets on consonants, stands before the eyes of everyone who pronounces the vowel i, just as the vowel a brings up the picture of "black, shaggy flies, which buzz around terribly fetid objects."
"Ah, no, my friend! No, no! That passes my power! In heaven's name I beg you not to say another word!"
With this exclamation Arthur Kranitski, like a pike out of water, struggled in the immensely deep cathedra; and, with his arms in the air kept calling out: "Terribly fetid objects! Bloody spittle! that is not poetry--it is not even decent! And those shaggy flies whirling around--that--No! I feel a nausea, which mounts to my throat. No, my friends, I will never agree that that is poetry!"
His voice broke, so wounded was he in his aesthetic conceptions. The young men laughed. That dear, honest Pan Kranitski is an innocent. In spite of his forty and some years clearly sounded, and his romantic experiences, his love for good eating and other nice things, the highest point of extravagance of all sorts for him were Boccaccio, Paul de Kock, Alfred Musset--simpletons, or babies.
Kranitski, after his first impression, had a feeling of shame.
"Pardon, my dears! An innocent! Not so much of an innocent as may seem to you. I am far from being an innocent; I understand everything and am able to experience everything. But, do you see, there is a difference in tastes. Clearness, simplicity, harmony, these are what I like, but yours--yours--" Again he was carried away by aesthetic indignation, so, throwing himself back in the chair, with outspread arms, he finished: "Your making poetry of spittle and foul odor is--do you know what? it is sprinkling a cloaca with holy water! That is what it is."
In the little drawing-room between the screens of stained glass and that part of the wall on which a knight of the Pound Table was bowing to Isolde stood a small organ, and before the organ, at the midday hour, sat Baron Emil playing one of the grandest fugues of Sebastian Bach. Small and fragile, in his morning dress of yellowish flannel, in stockings with colored stripes, and shoes of yellow leather with very sharp tips, he was resting his shoulder against the arm of the chair carved in a trefoil (fourteenth century); he stretched his arms stiffly and rested his long bony fingers on various keys of the piano. His delicate, sallow features had an expression of great solemnity; his small, blue eyes looked dreamily into space, and from the glass shade, brightened by the sunlight falling in through the window, purple and blue rays fell on his faded forehead and ruddy, closely cut hair.
Besides the baron, who was playing, was present Kranitski, who had come an hour before and heard from the servant that the baron was sleeping yet. But that was not true, for a few minutes after Kranitski heard farther back in the building an outburst of female laughter, to which the nasal voice of the baron, who spoke rather long about something, gave answer. The guest smiled and whispered to the "Triumph of Death," at which he was looking, "Lili Kerth."
Then he sank into the cathedra so that in spite of his lofty stature he almost disappeared in it. Soon the baron appeared at the door, and, accustomed to seeing Kranitski at various times, he nodded to him with a brief "Bon jour!" and turned to the organ. Sitting at the organ he threw these words over his arm: "We expect Maryan at lunch."
"But she?" inquired Kranitski from the depth of the long and high arms of the cathedra.
"She will finish her toilet and go."
Then he played the Bach fugue. He played, and Kranitski, sank in the chair, listened and grew sadder and sadder. During recent days he had grown evidently old; he had become thin; wrinkles had appeared on his forehead. His person had lost elasticity and self-confidence, lie looked like a man who had received a heavy blow, but he was, as always, dressed carefully, the odor of perfumes was around him, and a colored handkerchief appeared in his coat pocket. In presence of the baron's music he grew sad and then sadder. That music made the place more and more church-like. The figures of saints on the shade under the golden haloes seemed to melt in profound adoration. The "Triumph of Death" spread its wings on the background of subdued colors in the chamber; in that atmosphere the organ and silence sang a majestic duet. Kranitski began to feel the tone of mind mightily. His shoulders bent forward mechanically; he took out of his pocket the gold cigarette case, and thought, while turning it in his fingers: "Everything passes! Everything is behind me--love and the rest! The grave swallows all things. The days fly, like dust, fly into the past--into eternity! Eternity! the enigma."
All at once into the duet, sung by the organ and silence, broke the loud rattle of a door, then the rustle of silk skirts, till there had shot through the dining-room, and halted in the door of the drawing-room, a creature who was pretty, not large, excessively noisy, and active of body. She had a short skirt, small feet, a fur-lined cape of the latest style, and a gigantic hat which shaded a small, dark, thin, wilted face, with eyes burning like candles and hair gleaming like Venetian gold. The silk, the sable, the incredibly long ostrich feathers, the diamonds in her ears, and the loud burst of laughter cut through the music of Bach like a silver saw.
"Eh bien, ne veus-tu pas me dire bon jour, toi, grand beta? Tiens, voila!" (Well, wilt thou not say good-day to me, thou great beast? Here it is!) With the expression voila! was heard a loud kiss, impressed on the check of the baron, then Lili Kerth, the gleaming of silk, diamonds, eyes, and hair turned toward the door of the antechamber and saw Kranitski.
"Oh, te voila aussi, vieux beau!" (Oh, here thou art too, old beau!) She sprang toward the cathedra, and, wringing her hands, exclaimed: "What a funereal face!" And she spoke on, or rather babbled on in French: "Hast disappointments? That is bad! But one must not think of them. Do as I do. I have disappointments, but I mock at them. This is how I treat disappointments."
She made a stop so elastic that her little foot flew into the air, and she touched Kranitski's chin with the point of her shoe. That was a model indication of the method with which one should treat disappointments.
"Now adieu to the company!" cried she, and rattling her bracelets she vanished.
In the chamber there was silence again, in the midst of which Tristan gave a knightly bow to Isolde, and the monk Alberich let himself down into the jaws of hell; "Triumph of Death" spread her bat-wings, and the saints with their golden haloes crossed their pale hands on their bright robes.
The baron was sitting before the organ with his head dropped to his breast. Kranitski, buried in the cathedra, panted aloud for some seconds till he said, with a complaining voice: "It is abominable! I do not wish a cocotte to throw her foot on my neck when I am thinking of eternity. What confounded tastes you have! Immediately after leaving Lili Kerth to play that divine Bach. Nonsense! mixture! I am not a monk, far from it--but such shaking up in one bottle of the profane and the sacred, no, that is vileness swaddled in art. Yes, yes, I beg forgiveness once more, but in the Holy Scriptures something is said about a gold ring in a pig's nose. Voila!"
The baron smiled under his ruddy mustache and said, after a while: "That is subtle and not to be understood by everyone. Bach after Lili Kerth--that is the bite, that is the irony of things. Do you know Baudelaire's quatrain?"
He stood up, and, without declamation, even carelessly, through his nose and teeth, gave the quatrain: "Quand chez le debauche l'aube blanche et vermeil, Entre en societe de l'Ideal rongeur, Par l'operation d'un mystere vengeur, Dans la brute assoupie un Ange se reveille."
With his hands in the pockets of his flannel sack he paced through the room.
Maryan had translated that quatrain quite beautifully. Without interrupting his pacing he repeated the translation.
The bell rang in the antechamber; Maryan entered the drawing-room. He was paler than usual and had dark lines under his eyes, which were very bright. Kranitski rushed from the cathedra, and, seizing the young man by both hands, looked into his face with tenderness: "At last, at last! I have not seen you for almost a fortnight. I have not left the house. I had a little hope that you would visit me."
"All right, all right!" answered Maryan, and touching the hand of the baron, he sat down on the box on which was the anointing of Louis XI, he rested his shoulders on the bare foot of Alberich and became motionless.
Maryan continued to be so motionless that not only the limbs of his body, but the features of his face seemed benumbed. Had it not been for his eyes, which were gleaming brightly, he might have been mistaken at a distance for a stuffed and elegantly dressed manikin. Baron Emil and Kranitski knew what this meant. According to Maryan that was a chill into which he fell always after disappointment or disenchantment. He was possessed at such times by a lack of will, which made all movements, even those which were physical, unendurable and difficult. At the same time he had such a contempt for all things on earth that it did not seem worth the while to him to move hand or lips for any cause. Some French writer has called such a condition of desiccation of the heart's interior. Maryan found that definition quite appropriate. When he sat motionless, deaf and dumb, or walked like an automaton moved by springs, he felt exactly as if the interior of his heart were drying up.
The baron, too, passed through similar states with some differences, however, for feeling contempt instead of lack of will, he felt a "red anger," or what the French call colere rouge. He was carried away then by the wish to shut his fist, heat and break, in fact he did beat the servants sometimes, and break costly articles. He considered the desiccation of his friend's heart in its interior portions with respect, even with sympathy. He, with hands thrust into his yellowish flannel pockets, walked up and down in the chamber and hissed through his teeth: "We are all stunted. We are breaking down! bah! it is time. The world is old. Children of an aged father born with internal cancer."
Kranitski, hearing this, thought: "Why should a man break down and get a cancer when he is young and rich?" But he did not oppose. He pitied Maryan. He looked at him with an expression of eyes similar to that with which loving nurses look on sick or capricious children.
At lunch Maryan's handsome face was sallow and motionless as a wax mask; as a wax mask it stood out on the background of the high arms of the chair. He was as silent as a stone. He had no appetite. He ate only a little caviar, and then fell to swallowing an endless number of small cups of black coffee, which the baron himself prepared, according to some special recipe, and poured out. The baron himself drank goblet after goblet of wine, and as to the rest he yawned a great deal more than he ate. But Kranitski's appetite was a success. After some weeks of Widow Clemens' meagre kitchen he ate eggs, cutlets, cheese, till his eyes were gleaming. According to his old acquaintances gastronomy had always been his weak point--and women. But he drank little and did not play cards. In spite of hearty eating he did not forget the duties of a welcome guest. He kept up conversation with the master of the house, who told him carelessly of a rare and beautiful picture found at some collector's.
"A real, a genuine Overbeck. We were to examine it with Maryan, but since Maryan did not come--" He turned to young Darvid: "Why did you not come?"
There was no answer. The waxen mask, supported on the arm of the chair, remained motionless and gazed with gloomy eyes into space.
"Overbeck!" began Kranitski, and added, "a pre-Raphaelite."
Over Maryan's fixed features ran a quiver caused by better thoughts. Without the least movement of features or posture he grumbled: "Nazarene."
Kranitski corrected himself hurriedly and with a shamed face.
"Yes, pardon! A Nazarene."
"But, naturally, a Nazarene pure blood," said the baron, growing animated, "the uninitiated confound Nazarenes with pre-Raphaelites quite erroneously. They form a separate school. This Overbeck is a find. I will say more, it is a discovery. If it were dragged out of that den and taken abroad one might do a splendid business with it."
Warmed by a considerable quantity of wine, his complexion made somewhat rosy, the baron fell to giving Kranitski an idea which had circled long in his brain: "There is in Poland a number of ancient families who are failing financially, and who possess many remnants of former wealth. There are frequently things of high value not only objects of pure art, but the most various products of former wealth and taste; as, for instance, hangings, tapestry belts, china, tapestry, furniture, and jewellery. The owners, pushed to the wall by evil circumstances, would sell willingly, and for a trifle, articles which have great value now in both hemispheres. One must search for them, it is true, almost as the humanists once sought for Greek and Latin manuscripts, but whoever could find, purchase, and sell these would open a real mine of great profits. In Europe, England is the country most favorable for commercial operations of this kind, but the richest field is America. To buy here for a trifle and sell in the United States for gold weighed out to you. But, before beginning business, one should go to America, examine the field, form connections, take initial steps. Above all approach the undertaking with considerable capital and great knowledge."
While explaining his idea and the plan of operations which had come to his head long before, and drawing from the glass excellent liquid, the baron became animated, grew young, his little eyes under their ruddy brows gleamed sharply. And even Maryan said all at once in grumbling tones: "It is an idea!"
"Is it not?" laughed the baron.
Kranitski listened in silence, with curiosity. Then, halting a little, he said, with some indecision: "If your project becomes a fact then you will take me as your agent. I know a little of those things; I know where to look for them, and I offer you my earnest services--very earnest."
In spite of the jesting tone one could note in his imploring look, and in his smile full of timid, uncertain quivers, that he felt keenly the need of fixing himself to someone or something and escaping from the great void yawning under him.
All three lighted cigars and went to the drawing-room where Maryan sat again on the Louis XI box, Kranitski sank into a cathedra, and the baron opened at the window one sheet of an English paper, which shielded him before the light from his knees to the crown of his head. He was silent rather long, then from behind the paper curtain was heard his nasal voice: "Crushing!"
"What?" inquired Kranitski.
"The fair at Chicago."
And he read aloud an account of the preparations for the colossal exhibition which was to be in that American city.
He accompanied the reading with judgments which contained comparisons: The old part of the world--the old civilizations, the old common methods and proceedings.
Besides narrow spaces, familiar horizons--too familiar. But America was something not worn to rags yet. By a wonderful chance the baron had not been there, but when he thought of America Rimbaud's verses occurred to him. He rose, and, walking through the chamber, gave the following: "Divine vibration of green seas, The peace of fields spotted with animals; Silences traversed by worlds, by angels."
"And by millions!" called Maryan from the foot of the white monk Alberich.
He took his shoulders from the monk's robe, and added: "Nowhere are there such colossal fortunes, and such powerful means of getting them, as on those fields spotted with animals."
And all at once, as it were, the desiccating interior of his heart became animated, he rose and began to walk quickly through the chamber, passed the slowly walking baron, and said: "It is an idea! One must dwell on it. I must go there, or somewhere else--do something with myself. I am driven from this place by one of the greatest disappointments which I have ever known. I reached the bottom of disenchantments yesterday. That is why I did not come to look at the Overbeck. I was buried. My last painted pot burst. I was disappointed in a man for whom I had felt something like honor."
He spoke English. The baron asked him in English also: "What has happened?"
And Kranitski, with a little worse accent in the same language, repeated the question a number of times.
Maryan, continuing to walk through the chamber, narrated the conversation with his father and the ultimatum given him. The baron laughed noiselessly, and inquired; Kranitski gave out cries of indignation. Maryan, with a fiery face and feverish movement, added: "I had thought that man worthy of my admiration. Logical, consequent, unconquerable, formed of one piece. A magnificent monolith. No sentiments, no prejudices. Permitting no one to disturb the development of his individuality. I understood that his method of rearing me, and then pushing me to the highest spheres of life, pointed to this, that I was to live for his honor. I was to be one of the columns of that temple which he had raised to his own glory. But just that absoluteness with which he used everything for his own purposes roused in me homage. The power of producing was in him equal to his power of egotism. So must it be with every individuality fashioned by nature not on a model, but originally. I did not know him much, and desired a nearer acquaintance. I was certain that we should understand each other perfectly; that I should behold from nearby a magnificent monolith. Meanwhile it was stuck over with labels of various kinds of trash, and covered with half a hundred stains of the past--" "He remembered the school of training and labor in time," laughed Kranitski.
"Peste!" hissed the baron. "What a rheumatism of thought!"
"Moral principles!" added Kranitski, "he himself practises them beautifully. Let him give even half of his millions to that poverty which is ashamed to beg. Oh, he will not! He will not do that! By the help of moral principles it is easy to put sacred burdens on other men's shoulders."
"That is it," added Maryan, "on other men's shoulders you have hit the point, my old man. Yes! So many years he cared for nothing; he considered nothing; now on a sudden he has thrown down the edifice which he himself built. I know not as to others; but, as for me, I shall stick to my rights. I cannot permit myself to fall a victim to this sad accident, that my father is a mental rheumatic."
He stopped, meditated a moment, then added: "That is even more than rheumatism of thought; it is the exudation of a decaying past, filling the brain with the corruption--of a corpse."
"Corruption of a corpse! very apt this expression!" exclaimed the baron.
Kranitski made a wry face in the cathedra, and muttered: "No, no. What horror! I will never agree to that phrase."
But no one heard this quiet protest. Now the baron in his turn, walking more and more quickly through the room, spoke on.
Maryan remained sitting on the Louis XI box while the baron walked and complained of the narrowness of relations and the low level of civilization in the city: "This is the real fatherland of darned socks. Everything here has the mustiness of locked up store-houses. There is a lack of room and ventilation. In England William Morris, a great poet, establishes a factory for objects pertaining to art, and makes millions. I beg you to show anything similar in this place. Darvid has made a colossal fortune only because he was not blind, and did not hold on to his father's fence. Nationality and fa-ther-land, each is a darned sock--one of those labels which men with parti-colored clothes paste on a gate before which diggers are standing. One must escape from this position. One must know how to will."
The baron said, that as soon as he could bring certain plans of his to completion and regulate certain property interests, and even before regulating them, he would occupy himself with completing his new plan. He turned to Maryan: "Will you be my partner? It would be difficult for me to get on without you. You have an excellent feeling for art--you are subtle--" "Why not," answered Maryan. "But one should go first of all and examine the field; one should go to America before the exhibition."
"Naturally, before the exhibition, so as to begin action before it is over. In the question of capital--" "I will sell my personal property, which has some value, and incur another debt," said Maryan, carelessly.
The baron halted; he thought awhile; his faded face took on that expression of roguery which the French call polissonnerie; joyousness seized him.
"We will shoot off!" cried he; and he made a movement with his foot like that which a street-sweeper makes to catch a bark shoe thrown up in the air.
Maryan rose, shook himself out of his lethargy, and said, almost with delight: "It is an idea. To America!"
Then from the abyss of the immensely deep and broad cathedra Kranitski's voice was heard, orphan-like, timid: "But will you take me with you, my dears? When you shoot off you will take me with you, will you not?"
There was no answer. The baron was sitting already before the organ and had begun to play some grand church composition; in the dignified sound of that music Tristan made a knightly bow to Isolde, and the "Triumph of Death," with its dark outline, was reflected on the background of Alberich's white habit, while the saints painted with golden haloes on the windows clasped their pale hands above their bright robes.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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Baron Emil said at times to Irene: "You have the aristocracy of intellect. Your mind is original. There is in you much delicate irony. You are not deceived with painted pots."
These words caused her pleasure of the same sort as that which the praise of a mountaineer causes an inexperienced traveller when he tells him that he knows how to climb neck-breaking summits. Much irony had flowed into her mind from certain mysterious sides of her life. But she had become conscious of this now for the first time, under the guidance and influence of the baron. He awed her by the originality of his language and ideas, by the absolute sincerity of his disbelief, and his egotism. During childhood she had seen a mask which astounded her, and struck her in the very heart. Thenceforth everything seemed better to her and more agreeable than masks. Moreover, the baron was to her thinking a finished aesthete, an excellent judge in the whole realm of art, and in this regard she did not deceive herself greatly. The opinions on art and philosophy, which he proclaimed, interested her through their novelty, and the expressions which he used purposely, though sometimes brutal and verging on the gutter, roused her curiosity by their singularity and insolence. She imitated him in speech; in his presence she guarded her lips lest they might let something escape through which she would earn the title of "shepherdess."
"You are very far from the Arcadian condition, in which I meet people here at every step. You are intricate; you are like an orchid, one stem of which has a flower in the form of a butterfly, while the next seems like a death's head."
She interrupted him with a brief laugh: "A butterfly is flat."
Her laugh had a sharp sound, for the cold gleam of the baron's eyes fell on her boldly and persistently.
"No," contradicted he, "no; the combination of a death's head with a butterfly makes a dissonance. That bites and sticks a new pin in the soul."
"But the Greek harmony?" she inquired.
With a flattering smile, which conquered her, the baron answered: "Never mention harmony. That is the milk with which babes were nourished. We subsist on something else. You like game, do you not? but only when it begins to decay. There is no good game, except that which is rank. Very well, we subsist on a world in decay. This is true, but you speak of that darned sock; namely, harmony--ha! ha! ha! You think sometimes one way and sometimes another. Your soul is full of bites! You are idyllic and also satirical. You jeer at idyls, and still, at odd times, you yearn for one somewhat. Have I touched the point accurately? Are my words true?"
"True," answered Irene, dropping her eyelids.
She dropped her lids because she was ashamed of the discovery which the baron had made in her, and for this cause as well, that she felt his breath on her face, and caught the odor of certain strange perfumes which came from him. His eyes sought hers and strove to pour into them their cold gleam, which was also a burning one. He strove to take her hand, but she withdrew it, and he, with lowered, drawling, and somewhat nasal tones, said: "You wish, and again you do not wish; you feel the cry of life in you and try to turn it into a lyric song."
The cry of life! Over this phrase Irene halted later on, but briefly, touched as she had been by premature knowledge, its meaning became clear to her straightway. The baron, small, fragile, with a faded face and irregular, was a master in calling forth the "cry of life" in women. His manner with them was exquisite, but also insolent. In his gray eyes, with the reddened edges of their lids, he had a look which was hypnotising in its persistence and cold fire. It resembled the glitter of steel--pale and penetrating. In the manner in which he held the hand of a woman and placed a kiss on it, in the glances with which he seemed to tear her away from her shelter, in the intonation given to certain words, was attained the primitiveness of desire and conquest under cover of polished refinement. Amid the tedium and dissatisfaction of ordinary and exercised lovemakers this method seemed cynical, but bold and honest. It might have been compared to the shaggy head of a beast sticking out of a basket of heliotropes, which have ever the character of sameness as has their odor. The head is ugly, but smells of a cave and of troglodytes, which among common flowers of dull odor lend it the charm of power and originality.
Irene thought at once of "great grandfatherliness;" when in presence of the baron her nerves quivered like chords when touched in a manner unknown up to that time. She asked herself: "Am I in love?" But when he had gone this question called from her a brief, ironical smile. She analyzed and criticised the physical and moral personality of the baron with perfect coolness, and at moments with a shade of contempt even.
A vibrio! This expression contained the conception of physical and moral withering, almost the palpable picture of an existence which merely quivers in space, and is barely capable of living. In comparison with this picture she had a presentiment of some wholesome, noble, splendid strength. Disgust for the baron began to flow around her heart and rise to her lips with a taste that was repulsive, and to her brain with a thought that was bitter: Why is this world as it is? Why is it not different? But perhaps it was different somewhere else, but not for her? She had ceased to believe in an idyl. She had looked too long, and from too near a point, at the tragedy and irony of things to preserve faith in idyls. Maybe there were idyls somewhere, but not in the sphere where she lived--they were not for her! To yearn for that which perhaps did not exist at all, which most assuredly did not exist for her! What a "rheumatism of thought" that would be! Her head, with a Japanese knot of fiery hair on the top of it, bent down low, for the stream of lead from her heart was rising. With a movement usual to her she clasped her long hands, and, squeezing them violently, thought: "Well, what of it? I must in every case create some future, and why should any other be better than this one? Here at least is sincerity on both sides, and a just view of things."
As time passed she said to herself that what she felt for the baron was love of a certain kind, and that at the foundation of things there is no other love, and if there is any other kind it does not signify much, for each kind passes quickly. She began in general to attach less and less weight to that side of life, and also life itself had for her a charm which was continually decreasing. In the gloom of weariness, and the apathy into which she was falling, that which connected her with the baron was like a red electric lantern shining on a throng in the street and in the darkness. It was not the bright sun, nor the silvery moon; it was just that red lantern which, shining on a throng in the street, enabled one to see many curious or brilliant objects.
She knew of Lili Kerth, and the role which she played as to the world in general and the baron in particular. The baron in that case, as in others, wore no mask; sometimes he accompanied Lili Kerth to public promenades, and sometimes even showed himself with her in a box at the theatre. That was in contradiction with morals, especially in view of his relation with Irene; but subjection to morals, would not that be standing guard over graves, or the "darned sock?"
In this case Maryan, without knowing why, did not applaud his friend.
"C'est crane, mais trop cochon," judged he, and he pouted a little at the baron, but looked with curiosity at his sister, also present in the theatre. Irene sat in her box as usual, calm and full of distinction, a little formal, never charmed with anything, or laughing at anything. As usual she conversed with the baron between acts, till Maryan, looking at her, sneered, and asked: "How did your vis-a-vis please you?"
"Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold."
No feeling of offence, or modesty.
"Bravo!" said Maryan. And with comical solemnity in his voice he added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true sister."
Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for mysteries--Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries. Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her in any way.
One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight, which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls, and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk. The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool. On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her--to meet her. He simply pursued her--found her frequently in shops which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his usual sincerity: "I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!"
This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation, began to tell her of his great project of going to America and settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene.
"One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action, otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a famous poet and artist, but he became a manufacturer. He understood that contempt for industry is like many other things, a painted pot. Men made this pot and poets painted it in beautiful colors, then the poets died of hunger. America holds in reserve new horizons."
He spoke long, and was astonished himself at his own enthusiasm.
"I thought," said he, "that I should never know enthusiasm, and I supposed even that it was a rheumatism of thought. Meanwhile I feel enthusiasm, yes, enthusiasm! And it pervades me with a delightful shiver. Do you not share it? Are you not attracted, as well as I, by distant perspectives, new horizons, 'the divine vibrations of blue seas, the silences traversed by worlds, by angels '--And plagiarizing he repeated the addition made by Maryan: 'And by millions'?"
Yes, she was attracted. Not by the millions; she was too familiar with them, but the distant perspectives, the new horizons, the shoreless expanses of oceans, and the endless quiet of spaces which in the twinkle of an eye were unfolded before her imagination. The dull pain, and the gloomy disgust which tortured her not long before, cried out: "Yes! yes! go, fly far, as far as possible under new skies, among people of another nationality! Go, fly, seek."
With a slight flush on her cheeks, which were delicate to the highest degree, she told all this to the baron, whose crumpled, faded face was gleaming with delight.
"You make me happy, really happy!" whispered he, and added: "Command me to bow down before you; I will obey and bow down."
Meanwhile a door-bell was heard every moment in the great shop, and a wave of people passing by reminded Irene of the reason why she was there. She turned to an elegant apartment, in which a flood of materials disposed on the furniture was waiting for her. The baron had a knowledge of the wearing apparel of ladies; he liked to speak of it; and more than once, with the accuracy of a tailor, and the pleasure of an artist, he told of the original and peculiar toilets seen in capitals. On this occasion, in the tailor's apartment between great mirrors, in the flood of unfolded materials, he said: "I beg you not to dress according to pattern; I beg you not to spoil my delight by forcing me to see on you any of the ridiculous styles of this city. I meet no ladies here of subtle taste. There is wealth, frequently there is even taste, but common, according to pattern. For you it is necessary to think out something new--something symbolic, or rather something which symbolizes. A woman's dress should be a symbol of her individuality. For you it is necessary to think out a dress which would symbolize aristocracy of soul and body."
And he fell to thinking out; and they both fell to thinking out. They selected among colors and kinds of materials; they examined specimens, drawings, the baron corrected them, completed them with details taken from his own fancy. After a certain time they agreed to one thing: her dress should be flame color. With Irene's delicate complexion and her fiery hair this would, as the baron thought, form a whole which would be irritating.
"In this robe you will be novel and irritating."
The proprietor of the shop, elegant and important, came in and went out, inquired, advised, and again left them to their own thoughts and decisions. They, on their part, amused themselves better and better, surrounded by a light cloud of perfumes which rose from their clothing, and by the rustle of silks which fell to their feet, like cascades of many colors. The flame-colored material was selected, still they went on selecting. The baron, with a flush appearing on his cheeks, exclaimed: "We are passing the time most delightfully, are we not? And who could have expected it? At a tailor's! But you and I know how to experience sensations which no one else can experience. For that it is necessary to have a sixth sense. You and I have the sixth sense."
Irene began to lose her usual formality and air of distinction; she spoke quickly and much; she laughed aloud, and, a number of times, the movement of her bosom and arms became irregular, too lively at moments, but they were full of a half dreamy gracefulness. The baron grew silent and looked at her for a while, then, with rapturous eyes, he began: "How you are changed at this moment. How charmingly you are changed! Such surprises interest one--they irritate. You have the rare gift of causing surprises."
With gleaming eyes he begged her insistently to tell him whether the change which had taken place, the humor into which she had fallen, was spontaneous or artificial, the result of feeling, or of coquetry.
"You are without doubt the product of high training, so it is difficult to know in you that which is nature and that which is art. And such a person in that changed form is problematical--I beg you, I beg you to tell me whether in you this is nature, or art?"
Listening to these words, in which a very insolent idea was contained, she laughed and turned her eyes away. But bending toward her with a smile which might remind one of a satyr, and with a request in his voice, he asked: "Is this nature? is it art?"
With a sudden resolve she answered: "It is nature!"
And she wished to equal the boldness of her answer with the boldness of her look, but a flaming blush shot over her face, and the lids covered her eyes, into which shame had gushed forth. Though maiden modesty was a painted pot, this new change, to which Irene had yielded, exercised on the baron a new irritating influence. In the midst of the rustling materials he seized both her hands, his eyes flashed magnetic rays into her flushed face; he drew her delicate form toward him. She tried to twist her hands away, and with a violent effort strove to throw her bust backward, but the fragile baron was very strong at that instant; he pressed her hands in his as in a vice, and whispered into her very face: "Do not fight against that cry of life which is heard within you--I am a despot--I know how to will--" With the last word he pressed his lips to hers. But that moment she, too, gained unexpected strength, and in a flash she was some steps away from him, very pale now and trembling throughout her whole body.
"This is too much of nature!" cried she.
Her head was erect, and from her eyes came flashing sparks, which soon melted, however, into cold irony. Shrugging her shoulders, with a smile she exclaimed: "Dieu! que c'etait vulgaire!"
Then holding her skirt with both hands, as if she wished not to take one atom of dust from that room with her, she went out into the shop; the baron saw her talk to the tailor for a moment with her usual coolness, and then turn to go with the ordinary words of brief leave-taking.
But now Irene sitting there on that tall stool at the window, surrounded by the fading gleam of the blue watered-silk, and against the background of the pane which was covered with a whitish gloom, seemed a statue with a delicate bust, and a somewhat prolonged profile settled in stony fixedness. The "cry of life" possessed as words the charm of novelty and daring, but when changed into an act it roused in her every feeling of offence and maiden modesty. The shaggy beast had ventured out too far from behind the heliotropes, and had given forth too rank a smell of the den and the troglodytes. "It is vulgar!" cried she to the baron, but she understood immediately that what had taken place was neither new, nor a rare thing, but as old as the human race and as vulgar as the street is. The tailor's shop full of people, the ceaseless ringing at the door-bell, the noise of selling and buying, the passage beyond the window--is the street. A kiss received on the street. Street adventure! A quiver shot downward through her shoulders. Before her imagination passed the wretched forms of women trailing in the dusk of evening along the sidewalks. On her inclined face a blush came out; that painted pot called maiden, modesty, under the form of inherited instinct and woman's pride, was laboring in her untiringly and painfully. After a while its place was taken by disgust beyond expression.
The baron, whose single charm was in his subtlety, appeared now as a vulgar figure. That kind of mutual love, which she had thought they felt for each other, when closely analyzed, reminded her of pictures in which Fauns with goats' beards were chasing through the forest after Nymphs. On Irene's lips a jeering, almost angry smile, now fixed itself. What did he say: "a sixth sense." Why a sixth sense in this case? Empty words! The baron jeers at painted pots, but he makes them himself, and paints them in the ancient colors. An idyl is an old thing, and a den is old also, but the idyl would be better than the den if only it existed. But where is it? Her eyes had never seen an idyl, but they had seen, ah, they had seen what happens and takes place with loves of men and women, 'and with bonds which bear the name of sacred! Well, what is to be done with the baron--and America? Such contempt for everything, such disbelief in all things, such a contemptuous despising of everything, and of her own self as well, embraced her and possessed her, that at the end of the meditation she said to herself: "It is all one!" She crossed her hands and pressed them firmly across her breast, bent her head somewhat, and thought: "It is all, all, all one!"
A few tears, one after another, fell on her tightly clasped fingers. "All one! If only the sooner!"
What sooner? Why sooner? With a slow movement she turned her face toward her mother's apartments; her lips which quivered, and the glistening tear which had fallen on them had the same kind of expression that a child has when crying in silence. With brows raised somewhat, she whispered: "Mamma!"
After a while, under those brows which were like delicate little flames, her eyes began to grow mild, to lose their tears and their irony, until they took on an expression of such delight, as if they were looking at an idyl.
Meanwhile the air, modified by the gray twilight, was cut by a bright moving line. This was Cara going from her father's study with Puff tugging at her skirt. She hummed a song as she went forward. When she saw her sister she ceased humming, and called out from the end of the drawing-room: "Do you know, Ira, father will dine with us to-day?"
In her voice a note of triumph was heard. After many weeks her father would sit for the first time with them at the family table, and then everything would go on as it should go. What it was that went ill, and why it went so, she knew not. But she had been observing, was astonished, and had fears. With that real sixth sense, which persons of keen sensitiveness possess, she felt something. She felt in the air a certain oppression, a certain trouble, and, not knowing what these signified, nor whence they were coming, she suffered. In the very same way, organisms with supersensitive nerves feel the approach of atmospheric storms. Now she advanced with a short step, erect and slender, with Puff at her skirt, while she hummed joyously.
When Irene entered her mother's study soon after, she saw, by the lamplight, a group composed of three persons. Sitting on the sofa, with glitters of black jet in her light hair, was Malvina Darvid; nearby, in a low armchair, inclining toward her, was Maryan, elegant as usual, and before him, with elbows resting on her mother's knees, knelt Cara, a bright, blue strip lying across the black silk robe of her mother.
"A picture deserving the eyes of Sarah and Rebecca!" suggested Irene, going straight to the mirror before which she began, with raised arms, to arrange and modify the knot of hair on her head. Maryan, in good humor, was imploring his mother to let him have her portrait painted by one of the most noted artists in the city.
"His brush is famous! I cannot understand how, amid the effeteness of this city, a talent can rise which is so fresh and individual. In his landscapes there is a magnificent pleinair, and as a portrait painter he knows how to seize the soul. My mother, let me have your soul enchanted into a portrait--have you noticed that the eyes of some portraits look on us from beyond this world? There is an enchanted soul in them. Let me have your portrait painted by an artist from whose canvas comes a breath from beyond this world."
He inclined his cherub head and kissed his mother's hand, which was resting on Cara's shoulder.
"And kiss me, too!" cried Cara.
"Sentiment!" said Maryan, straightening himself, "beware of sentiment, little one. I, thy great-grandfather, say this to thee."
"Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's soul is so primitive, yours--" "So decadent," put in Maryan.
"That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather."
"I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene.
"I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will come some time--surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How about the portrait?"
Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait.
"Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!"
"Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property."
"What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will feel the need of seeing me oftener."
"No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there--" With a gesture he indicated the door leading to the interior of the house.
Cara raised her head from her mother's knees, and her eyes glittered.
"But on this side let there be only sweetness, only charm, only that precious, beautiful weakness, before which I am on my knees always. As to this, that I can see the original of the portrait when I wish, that is a question! We are grains of sand scattered over the world by the wind of interesting voyages."
"Have you some plan of a journey again?" inquired Malvina, alarmed.
"Yes. It is in indistinct lines yet, but is becoming more definite every day. This will be the step of a giant--fleeing before that rod with which the all-mighty father is pleased to beat his children."
Again, with a gesture he pointed to the door leading to the more distant apartments, and in the short laugh which accompanied his last words there was sarcasm--almost hatred. At the same moment he met Cara's eyes, and asked: "Why look at me, little one, in that way? There are eyes! curious, anxious, and as frightened as those of a hunted deer. Why so curious? What do you fear?"
Cara hid her face in her mother's dress, quickly.
"But how would it please you, mamma, to make a trip with me to America?" called Irene from before the mirror.
She put up the last of her hair, fastened it with a fantastic pin, and said, turning toward her mother: "I have such Tom Thumb boots that when I put them on I shall be beyond the sea with three great steps. How does that plan please you?"
"You give a shower of plans to-day," jested Malvina.
"A portrait, flight from the rod, America."
"A ball!" exclaimed Cara, raising her head. "Do you know of it, Maryan? In a few weeks we shall have a real ball--a grand one."
"Your tale is curious, little one, tell on," answered Maryan. "When talk is the question, there is never need to beg Cara twice."
She sprang up from her knees and told of the hour which she had spent in her father's study a few days before. She had told her mother and sister of the plan of the ball, but how it rose she had not told. Something had prevented. Now she would tell them all. Three gentlemen had visited her father: Prince Zeno, Count Charski, and a third person whose name she did not remember, but he was a large man, tall and broad; his breast glittered with stars and crosses. She, Cara, wished to hide from the guests behind the bookshelves--there were shelves behind which she sat often, invisible herself, she saw and heard everything. It was a wonderfully comfortable hiding-place, in which her only trouble was Puff; for, when anyone came to the study he wanted to bark, but she squeezed his nose with her hand tightly, and he was silent. That day she did not go behind the book-shelves, for her father commanded her to sit in the armchair. So she sat there with dignity.
Now she sat on the stool, and showed them in what a posture she had sat in presence of her father's guests, her hands on her knees, bolt upright, with dignity on her rosy face. Puffie alone interrupted this dignity, she said; he crawled up behind her, put his paws on her shoulder, and touched her with his moist nose. One of the gentlemen turned then to her, and said: "You have a beautiful dog, young lady."
"He is very nice," answered she.
"And what is his name?" asked the man.
"Puffie," explained she.
She did not laugh, for there was no cause. Puffie was really very nice, and he had a good name, but those gentlemen, while looking at her, smiled very agreeably, and one of them said to her father: "How time passes! Not long ago I saw your younger daughter a little child, and now--" The other interrupted: "She is almost grown. And as tall it seems as her elder sister."
"We have only very rarely the pleasure of seeing your family in society this winter," said the other.
"Your wife and daughter pass a very secluded life this year," said the second visitor.
"My wife complains of frequent neuralgia," answered father, and then the unknown, large man talked.
Hitherto Cara, while giving the conversation of the two gentlemen, changed her voice, imitating the tones, and posture of each; now she repeated the words of the large man in the rudest voice that she could command: "I have not yet had the honor of being presented to your wife and elder daughter, but I have heard so much, etc." Then they talked longer with her father about something else, and when going away gave her some nice compliments. She courtesied. She might say with confidence that she had played the role of a mature young lady brilliantly. Her father said, after the departure of the guests, that he was glad to receive the large man's visit. The large man might aid him greatly. Then he thought a while, and said: "Do you know what, little one, you must show yourself in society."
Here Maryan muttered in an undertone: "He needs a new column in his temple."
Irene smiled. Malvina feigned not to hear; Cara, given up to her twittering, twittered on: "Then father said that mamma and Ira were leading almost the life of a cloister, that they received few persons, and went out little. That had the appearance of domestic misfortune, or of bankruptcy. Such an appearance was ugly in general, and harmful to business. To avoid this there was need to arrange a reception, but grand, and as splendid as possible. The carnival would be over soon, and at the end of the carnival we would give a ball in which the 'little one 'would appear in society for the first time. Today, an hour ago, father said he would come to us at dinner, and would talk at length about this ball with mamma."
Here Cara finished the narrative which was somewhat of a dramatic representation. Maryan rose suddenly from his seat.
"I must go," said he, standing rigidly, and with a serious face.
"Stay, Maryan," said Malvina, in a low voice.
On her face was a look of pain; a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead; her voice was imploring. Maryan looked at her, hesitated a while, then dropping into an armchair with the movement of an automaton, muttered: "Let thy will be done! Let a pot be painted with the color of a son's love--for you, mother."
From the thought that he must meet his father soon, the interior of his heart began to desiccate.
A servant announced the dinner. Cara sprang up from the stool: "I will go to conduct father!"
She went to the door, but turned back from it, and, dropping on her knees before her mother, put a number of long, passionate kisses on her knees and her hand. Then hanging on her neck, she whispered in a low voice: "Golden, only, dearest mamma." And springing from her knees she flew out of the room like a bird.
What did that violent outburst of tenderness for her mother mean? No one knew, neither did she herself, perhaps. Was it a prayer for someone, or the assurance that she loved greatly not only that one, but her mother too? or was it delight that at last she would see them both together? She flew like a bird through the drawing-rooms, lighted by lamps burning here and there, till she pushed quietly into her father's study, and put her hand under his arm at the writing-desk. All rosy, imitating the deep and solemn voice of the servant, she said: "Dinner is served!"
Darvid felt a stream of warmth and sweetness flowing to his breast.
"Oh, you rogue!" said he, "you sunray! You little one!"
When he was entering the dining-room soon after with Cara, Maryan led in his mother through the opposite door; she was all in black silk and jet.
Darvid inclined and touched his wife's hand with his lips; on Malvina's face there was a pleasant smile.
"I am so immensely occupied," said he, "that I have not time every day to inquire after your health."
"I thank you, my health is excellent."
At a rich side-table two servants were occupied; at the table gleaming with crystal and silver stood Miss Mary, graceful and still young, with puritanic simplicity in her closely fitting garment, and with smooth hair over her calm forehead. The master of the house greeted her and expressed his regret that, because of business, he could see her only rarely. When all were seated at table, Malvina, with the experience of a trained lady of the house, began conversation: "We have been talking just now of the United States, with which Ira and Maryan have begun to be greatly interested."
"No doubt because of the exhibition at Chicago," said Darvid; "it must be something colossal indeed."
Miss Mary mentioned the congress of women which was to meet there. Malvina and Irene supplemented that statement with details; the conversation flowed on smoothly, easily, coolly; it was filled with various kinds of information. Maryan took no part in it. He sat stiff, deaf, dumb, with fixed features. When he ate, his movements had the appearance of an automaton, even his eyelids winked very rarely. He was a picture of apathy, contempt, and biliousness. Even his fair complexion had grown sallow, and his lips had paled. He caused exactly the impression of a wax doll in an elegant dress, with glittering eyes.
Darvid, with some humor and playfully, spoke of the edifice which was to be erected in Chicago according to a plan by a female architect.
"I tremble for those who are to visit the building. In architecture, equilibrium has immense meaning, and for women equilibrium is most difficult. Women lose equilibrium so easily, so generally, so inevitably, almost."
This was said in a manner quite airy and trifling; still--it was unknown why--in the voice of the speaker certain biting tones quivered, and a pale flush came out on Malvina's forehead. Irene fell at once to talking most vivaciously with Miss Mary about the latest movement among English women toward emancipation, and Darvid himself, with some haste, expressed quietly, though with some irony, opinions touching these movements.
A great bronze lamp cast abundant light on the table, which was covered with the brightness of silver and crystal. White-gloved servants, as silent as apparitions, changed the plates adorned with painted and gilded monograms; with bottles in their hands they inquired about the kind of wine which they were to pour out; they served dishes from which came the excellent odor of truffles, pickles, rare meat, and vegetables. A number of wall-lamps, placed high, lighted the sides of the dining-hall, which was decked with pictures in brightly shining frames, and with festoons of heavy curtains at the doors and windows. When it left America, the conversation, carried on in French and English, turned to European capitals and to the various phenomena of life in them. English was spoken out of regard for Miss Mary, but French sometimes, for Darvid and his wife preferred that language to English. Irene and Cara might have been considered as genuine English. The ready and accurate English; the pure Parisian French; the varied information, in an atmosphere of light falling from above on a table glittering with costly plate; the order and the dignified ornaments of the great hall; the grand scale of living seemed undoubted high life. There was a moment in which Darvid cast his glance around and threw back his head somewhat; his forehead freed itself from wrinkles--smooth, clever, shining somewhat at the temples--it seemed to be carved out of ivory. His nostrils, delicate and nervous, expanded and contracted, as if inhaling, with the odor of wines and delicacies, the more subtle and intoxicating odor of his own greatness. But this lasted only a short time; soon certain pebbles of seriousness and breaths of distraction began to interrupt his conversation and to dull his clear thought. Balancing in two fingers a dessert knife, he said to Miss Mary: "I respect your countrymen greatly for their practical sense and sound reason. That's a people--that's a people--" He stammered somewhat now--a thing which, in his low and fluent speech, never happened. He was thinking of something else.
"That is the nation which said to itself: 'Time is money,' which also--" Again he faltered. His eyes, attracted by an invincible power, turned continually toward that point of the table where black jets glittered richly and gloomily, and then his lips finished the judgment which he had begun: "Which also possesses to-day the greatest money-power."
Here Maryan spoke for the first time: "Not only money; England now leads the newest tendencies in art."
This was spoken at the edges of his lips, without cooperation of other parts of his face, which continued fixed; and on Darvid's lips appeared his smile, of which people said that it bristled with pins.
"The newest tendencies of art!" repeated he, and the words hissed in his mouth somewhat. "Art is something splendid, but the pity is that it is turned into a plaything by wrongly reared children!"
Maryan raised at his father a look from which a whole flood of irony rushed forth, and answered, with the edge of his lips: "He alone is not a child who knows that we are all children, turning everything into playthings for ourselves. The point is that there are various playthings."
"Maryan!" whispered Malvina, with an alarm which she could not suppress.
Darvid turned his face to her suddenly, and their glances which till then had avoided each other carefully, met for a few seconds; but during that time Darvid's eyes filled with the glitter of keen steel, and Malvina bent her face so low over the plate that, in the sharp light, one could see only her forehead, with its one deep wrinkle. But that same moment Irene began to converse with her father about London, where he had spent a considerable time on two occasions. He answered her at once; spoke long, fluently, and interestingly, engaging also in the conversation Miss Mary, to whom he turned frequently and with pleasure.
Again the conversation went on smoothly, easily, deliberately. Above the table, in place of the odors of meats and sauces, hovered the light odors of fruit and vanilla. When the dessert was served, Darvid spoke of fruits peculiar to various climates which he had visited in his almost ceaseless journeys; all at once he stopped the conversation in mid-career, and turned to Cara, who struggled a few times with a dry and stubborn cough.
"I thought that you had recovered entirely. But you are coughing yet. That is sad!"
On the girl's face, which was flushing in a fiery manner, there was an expression of sorrow or anger. Quickly and broken came the words from her lips which were pouting like those of an angry child: "There are so many sad things in the world, father, that my cough is a bit of dust compared with them."
This was an answer thoroughly unexpected, but the impression which it might have made was hindered at once by Irene through a laugh and an exclamation too loud, perhaps: "See where pessimism is going to fix itself! Is Puffie sick?"
"Cara's remark is precocious but pointed," said Maryan, with the edges of his lips.
Malvina, too, began to speak. Giving a small cup to her son, she inquired: "You like black coffee so well that I ought to reserve another cup, ought I not?"
Maryan made no answer; with a wrinkle on her forehead, and a smile on her lips, she continued quickly and hurriedly: "I share your taste for coffee, Maryan. Some time ago I drank much coffee, but I saw that it injured my nerves and deprived me of sleep. It is very disagreeable not to sleep, and better to give up a favorite luxury than suffer from insomnia."
Smiling and moving her head she talked, and talked on with great charm, and with a sweetness which always filled the tones of her voice. She mentioned mere nothings, connecting opinion with opinion, just to talk, to kill time, or avoid other topics. Darvid raised his head somewhat and looked at her through the glasses with which he had shaded his eyes until she bent her head before the gleam in those glasses, and her face sank very low over the cup, and was covered with an expression not to be hidden by a woman who wants to vanish through the earth, dissolve in air, become a shade, become dust, become a corpse; if she can only escape from where she is and from being what she is. Then Irene, with a light tap, dropping her cup on the saucer, began: "You must know well, father, how they make coffee in the Orient?"
He knew, for he had been in the Orient; and, in a way which was picturesque enough, he told about the Turks; how, sitting around in a circle, they put the favorite drink into their mouths slowly.
"They delight themselves with it, as dignified as Magi, and silent as fish. The time in which they give themselves to this absolute rest, composed of black coffee and silence, bears with them the name 'keif.'"
This word called laughter to the lips of all. Darvid laughed, too. On all faces weariness grew evident. Cara's thin voice called out: "The Turks do well to be silent, for what good is there in people's talk? What good is there?"
"Here is a little sage, she is never satisfied with questions," said Darvid, jestingly.
"Capacity for criticism is a family trait of ours," laughed Irene.
"Cara had been distinguished by curiosity from childhood," added Malvina, with a smile.
Even Maryan, looking at his younger sister, said: "The time always comes when children begin to speak instead of prattling."
Miss Mary, with an anxious forehead under her puritan hair, said nothing.
On the faces of all who spoke, anxiety was evident, and above the smiling lips weariness was present in every eye.
Malvina rose from her chair; Darvid left his place, bowed to all with exquisite politeness, and, advancing some steps, gave his arm to his wife.
They passed through a small, brightly lighted drawing-room and halted in the following chamber, where the walls were adorned with white garlands and the curtains and upholstering were of blue watered-silk. Beyond, in a small drawing-room. Miss Mary sat down to play chess with Maryan; Cara took her place near them in the character of observer, and Irene unrolled in the lamp-light a piece of church stuff, very old and time-worn, which the baron had brought her as a rarity, and which she intended to repair by embroidering it with silk and gold thread.
Darvid and Malvina stopped among the pieces of blue furniture in the tempered light of a shade-covered lamp. Malvina was very pale, and her heart must have beaten with violence, for her breath was hurried. At last that had come which she had waited for long and vainly: a positive and decisive conversation.
With all her strength she desired an explanation, a change of some kind, and in any shape, if it would only bring a change in her position. She was waiting, ready to yield to everything, to endure everything, if he would only speak. He spoke, and said: "To-morrow I shall go to a hunt on the estate of Prince Zeno, and as I go from there to a place where I have business, I shall return in ten days, more or less. Immediately after my return, and during the last week of the Carnival, there will be in our house a reception, a ball simply, the most brilliant possible. My business requires it, and public opinion concerning this family requires it also. I wish, too, that Cara should make her first appearance in society at that ball. I have drawn up, and will send you a list of persons to whom it is necessary to send invitations, persons of whom you might not have thought; the rest of society you know better than I do. I know that you can arrange such matters excellently, and I trust that this time you will do all that is best. The check-book will be brought you by my secretary, whose abilities and time you may use without limit, as well as the check-book. There is no need to hesitate at outlay; everything should be in a style rarely seen in any house, or rather in a style never seen except in this house. This ball is needed for my business and for--public opinion concerning our family, which opinion is a little, even more than a little, lowered."
He spoke slowly and politely, with an accent of command at the basis of the politeness. At the last words he cast into her face a gleam of his eyes which was firm and penetrating, then he bowed, and made a move to go.
"Aloysius!" cried Malvina, with tightly clasped hands, and she began to tremble. How was this? A ball, and nothing more! The question with her was of things as important as human dignity, conscience, unendurable restraint, and fear in the presence of her children.
He stopped and inquired: "What is your command?"
She bowed her head and began: "I require; I wish to speak with you at length and positively."
He smiled.
"For what purpose? We have nothing pleasant to say to each other, and unpleasant conversation injures the nerves more than--black coffee."
She raised her head, and with an effort, to which she brought herself with difficulty, said: "Things cannot remain as they are. My position--" With an expression of profoundest astonishment on his face, he interrupted: "Your position! But your position is brilliant!"
He made a gesture which seemed to indicate everything which was in that drawing-room, and in the whole house; but she blushed deeply, and like one in whom the sensitive place is touched, exclaimed: "But this is just what--what I do not wish any longer. I have the right to desire to be free, to withdraw, to cast from myself this glitter, and go somewhere."
With all her strength she struggled against the tears which were overpowering her. He repeated with the profoundest astonishment: "You do not wish? You have the right?"
Everything in him--cheeks, wrinkles on his forehead, pale lips--trembled with excitement now beyond restraint. But he was master of his voice yet. He spoke in low tones, but with a hiss: "What right? You have no right! You have lost every right! You do not wish? You have no right to wish, or not to wish. You must live as it happens you, and as is needed. As to conversations and serious theatrical scenes, I want none of them--I, who have not lost the right to wish. I am silent, and I will enforce silence. That is, and will always be, our modus vivendi, which, moreover, should be for you the easiest thing in the world to preserve. You have everything: a high position, luxury, brilliancy, even the love of your children as it seems. You have everything except--except--" He hesitated. His habit of preserving in all cases correctness of form, struggled with the excitement which had overcome him, and these words hissed through his lips in a low though envenomed voice: "Except--the lover whom you have dismissed, on which deed I congratulate you, and--my respect, which you have lost, but without which you must live on to the end. On this subject we are talking now for the first and last time. We are talking too long. I am in a hurry to my work. I wish you good-night."
The bow which he made before his wife might seem from a distance full of friendly kindness; he withdrew with perfect calmness and freedom of manner, still Irene went to her mother with a firm though hurried step, and with the piece of ancient stuff in her hand, she said: "I am sure that without your assistance I shall not be equal to my task. To restore this Middle Age wonder requires taste, an eye, shading of colors; all this is beyond my poor ability."
She stood before her mother, and among the large flowers on the cloth, which was changing from silver to sapphire, she indicated certain defects produced by time. Her eyelids blinked with marvellous quickness, and therefore, perhaps, she did not notice her mother's chalky pallor, trembling hands, and despairing expression of eyes. Apparently noticing nothing she spoke in a loud voice and joyously: "You have an ocean of various silks left after so many things which we made in company. Let us search among them. Shall we go? They are in your chamber. Come, mamma! I am so impatient to begin the restoration of this beautiful ruin! You will help me to match the silks, will you not? Oh, how many beautiful things you and I have made together with these four hands of ours, which were always in company."
And they were in company then. She thrust her hand under her mother's arm, and holding the strip of silver and azure stuff she escorted the very pale woman in black jets through the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, past the chess-table at which were sitting three persons, through the dining-hall, where servants were hurrying, through her mother's study, in which both had passed most hours of their life, till she came to Malvina's bedroom, where, amid the yellow damask furniture a shaded lamp was burning. In the twinkle of an eye Irene drew the brass door-bolt, and with face turned toward her mother, with cheeks which flushed immediately, she took Malvina's two hands in her own.
"Enough of these secrets, of things partly said, and of barriers raised between our hearts and lips."
This hurried whisper burst from her like a current from a covered vessel filled with heat and opened suddenly.
"Let us tell each other everything--or no, say no word, I know everything and neither will I speak--but let us counsel--let us meditate together--Oh, mamma!"
Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness, scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother, whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes.
"Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me."
Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began almost with the movement of a guardian: "Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges--I, least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an angel; we have lived with you; we love you--I most of all. Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and--a kindred one--for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have decision, save yourself."
Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added: "And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I know not myself what to do."
Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her knees slowly.
"True," whispered she. "You--you, so long and so earnestly have I wished to speak--of you--and had not the courage."
"Well, let us speak now," said Irene.
And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight.
"The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk, a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our plans into action; know how to wish."
At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil, laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began: "Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go to America--beyond the seas--" "Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not that! Not that! Something different--entirely different."
At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the door-latch.
"Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked: "Who is there?"
There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a timid, and, as it were, imploring manner.
"You cannot come in," repeated Irene.
There was a rustle against the sofa outside, a light and quick step moved away.
"Cara!" whispered Malvina.
"For her as well as for ourselves there is need to end this position at the earliest," said Irene, with a sudden frown.
It was Cara; she had left the door of her mother's room with drooping head, with a great frown on her forehead, and no thought for the little dog, tugging at her skirt as usual. Half an hour before, when Maryan and Miss Mary had risen from chess, she rose, too, pushed her hand under her brother's arm and said: "I have something to say to you."
Her seriousness was so evident that Maryan answered, with a smile: "If your speech is to be as solemn as your face is we shall have little joy. What have you to tell me?"
Without answering she led him through the blue drawing-room to the next one more faintly lighted. Here she halted, looked around, and, seeing only inanimate objects, asked: "Why have you quarrelled with father?"
This question in her mouth astonished him, and he asked in turn: "Why do you wish this information? You might dream of the role of peacemaker."
Without a shade of laughter, with forehead somewhat wrinkled beneath bright curls of hair, she repeated the question: "Why have you quarrelled with father? Do you not love him? Why can you not love him? For me, father is an ideal! He is so wise, noble, great. When he was so long away I dreamed about him, wanted his return, imagined how happy we should all be when he came. But that is not the case in any way. All in the house seem to be at variance, angry, disappointed--I see this well, but I cannot understand why. Why? why is it?"
Maryan fixed his eyes on her attentively and laughed, but his laugh was not sincere, it was forced.
"Curiosity," said he, "is the first step toward hell, and the surest road to premature age. You will grow old before your time, little one."
"This is not curiosity!" interrupted Cara. "There is some kind of trouble here, I know not what it is; but something so unpleasant and--dreadful. Sometimes it seems to me that someone will die, or that something will vanish, and that, in general, something awfully bad will happen to somebody--I--know not what it is, but it is very bad. I know not what it is, but it is something--it is something--" Maryan frowned and interrupted her: "Since you know not what it is, nor to whom it will happen, nor how, what do you ask me for? Am I a master of the cabala, to interpret childish dreams for you?"
"This is not a dream; it is something of the sort that wanders in the air, touches, breathes, goes away and comes again, like a haze--or the wind. You are grown up, and all say that you are clever. I beg you to explain this--I think, too, that, if you wished, you might so arrange matters that all would go better. It is your duty to do this. Do you not love mamma, father, Ira? I love them immensely--I would give up everything for them. I do not understand even how any person could live without loving somebody with full heart, and all strength--I could not. But what use--I am not grown up, not wise, I cannot even understand anything. With you it is different, but you have quarrelled with father. You do not even love him, I see that well. For what reason? Why? My brother, you might, at least, tell me something to explain."
She stopped, and he stared at her, a look of indecision increased on his face. Something of concern, and a trifle of tenderness gleamed in his eyes. It might have seemed for some seconds that he would put his arm around her, or stroke her with his palm and smooth away the wrinkles from her childish forehead. But--"Arcadian" feelings were in the past, so he began to speak coldly and deliberately: "My dear, you are torturing your little head for nothing with affairs of this world; you are not equal to them yet. I cannot tell anything to you, or explain anything, for you and I are at the two opposite poles of thought. You speak of devotion, duty, and love, like a governess, for you have a governess yet. As to my disagreement with father, you know nothing of what caused it; but, to be a kindly brother, I will answer a few words. Two developed and energetic individualities have met in this case and come into collision, like two planets. Two egotisms also--do not show such frightened eyes. Stupid nurses frighten children with a beggar, a gypsy, or an egotist, but mature people know that egotism is a universal right; and, moreover, good business. Be an egotist. Take no trouble about what does not concern your own self and strive to develop your own individuality. Keep this in view, play joyously with Puffie, and go to sleep early, for long watching spoils the complexion of young ladies. Begin to think to-morrow of the dress which you will wear at that brilliant ball--planned by our father to torment mamma--and you will have success. Do not mind those mists, dreams, and other visions which come and go. They are conditions of mind which are very much subject to fancy, and other painted pots. This is all that I, your great-grandfather, can tell you, or mention as advice. Look at Ira and imitate her wisdom, which knows how to make sport of the world around her. Good-night to you, little one!"
He pressed her hand in such a friendly manner that he hurt it, and then went away, disappearing at the other end of the chamber.
Cara stood for a time with her eyes fixed on the floor, then she raised her head and looked around at the void in which silence had fixed itself. The globe-lamps burning, here and there, at the walls, filled the drawing-room with a hazy, half-light, in which, here and there, glittered golden reflections, and the features of faces, and landscapes flimmered on pictures. Farther on, from the shady corner of the other drawing-room, slender and swelling vases appeared, partially; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate dimness of dulled colors on Gobelin tapestry. Farther still, in the small warm and bright drawing-room, lights were burning in the candelabra, and a crown of glittering crystals were hanging like icicles, or immense frozen tears. Farthest off, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a great lamp, in its hanging bronze, like a point of light, above the table. This point seemed very far from where Cara was standing, and in all the space between her and it there was not a voice, not a rustle, nothing living. Only once a waiter, dressed in black, passed on tip-toe through the dining-room, emerged into the full light of the lamp, and disappeared behind a door. After that there was no voice, no step, no noise--nothing living. All at once a clock began to strike nine. Its metallic sound inclined to bass, and was heard clearly in the silence which had settled in the vacant chambers. One, two, three--at the fourth stroke another clock was heard in a distant study. Its sound was thinner and more like singing--these two seemed to be a voice and its echo; the sounds from these resembled a mysterious conversation carried on by things that were inanimate.
Cara hurried then, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly wrinkled.
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{
"id": "20537"
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Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business--of labors and visits which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote, reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night, or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men, who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation, the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and physical condition of wild men--seemed to him children which were sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true, though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field; the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature. Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them. Perhaps he, too, would have done so if the career of his life had led him into their presence, but the path of his life led him in another direction, far from nature and art, hence he did not know them; he had not had the time. He looked at a field, at snow, at a forest--and he saw a field, snow, a forest--nothing higher, nothing more. He was of those who call a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue, and hold every hyperbole, ode, and enthusiasm in silent contempt. He listened to his lyric companion, at first with curiosity, investigating in the man a certain kind of people little known to him. When he had finished he listened only through politeness, and with concealed annoyance. He concealed his annoyance, and tried openly to pretend that he shared the enthusiasm, the rapture, and the gladness. He was, of course, in an assembly of very wealthy persons, standing very high. He sailed in a sea of blood purely blue, so he hid away irony, contempt, and yawning, and had on the outside only smoothness itself, affability, and general pleasantness of manner, speech, and smiles. That was also a labor, rewarded at once with a certain degree of lively enjoyment. In lordly drawing-rooms, himself the equal of the highest, while passing the time in a friendly manner and conversing with princes he was unconscious at first that he raised his smooth, lofty forehead and gave himself out as greater than he was in reality, and inhaled with distended nostrils the odor of that grandeur which surrounded him as well as that which was his own. But soon this condition yielded to something embarrassing, not quite clearly defined, but causing this, that he did not feel altogether certain of himself and the fitness of his whole self to the surrounding. For though the politeness of those about him was unquestioned and most exquisite, though words of praise in recognition of his services and labor struck his hearing, though his strong feet had under them a foundation carved from gold; he felt strange in that position, involved in phenomena which were new to him, and bristling with difficulties. Sometimes the guests mentioned things of which he was ignorant, they used expressions which were strange to him, and referred to degrees of relationship, and events with which he was unacquainted. He began to stand guard over his own words and movements, with a mysterious fear lest something of his might come out too emphatic, or high colored for the background before which he found himself. In spite of everything which connected the man with that background, he began to feel a broad vacuum between him and it himself.
This timidity, a thing entirely new, entirely unknown to Darvid from his earliest years, was an oppression which, during the last days of the hunt, fell on him together with weariness, and some third thing--a feeling of the difference between himself and those who surrounded him. Nothing could help him: neither the iron labor which they praised audibly, nor the millions piled up by that labor--millions for which they felt unconcealed reverence. Among those men into whose society he had always desired to enter as an integral part thereof, on that social height to which he had been climbing in imagination and with effort, he felt as if he were in some uneasy chair, put out in a cold wind, and deprived of every outlook. He found nothing there on which to rest his eye, or his thought. Emptiness, emptiness, weariness. A little humiliation which, like a tiny, but venomous worm, was boring into the bottom of his heart. It was not wonderful, therefore, that when he thought of how he had used his time, and of all that he had seen, heard, and passed through, there was on his lips one of those smiles most bristling with pins points, while in his mind he repeated the expression: "Wretchedness!"
He was too wise not to give this name at times to many things of the world which he desired and toward which he was struggling.
After some days of labor, so intense that it astonished those who saw it, and which weakened those who assisted in it, he received at an hour before evening, as customary, in his study, all men who came either on business, or with visits. He knew no exceptions for anyone, nor indulgence for himself. He received all, conversed with all, for it was impossible to foresee what a given man might contribute, or what he might be good for, if not at the moment, some time, if not much, then a little. But his cheeks seemed thinner than usual, and at moments his speech was less fluent. That hunting trip, and all which he had experienced at it, and afterward, days of activity and unparalleled exertion, were reflected on his face in an expression of suffering. And sometimes even a slight hesitation in speech arose from this, that his mind ran to a subject which tortured him, and raised in his breast a lump of slimy serpents. Some hours before he had inquired of his secretary, who, in spite of youth, zeal, and wit, was bending beneath the burden of labor imposed on him, whether everything was ready for the ball to be given soon, and whether he had received directions from the lady of the house during his, Darvid's, recent absence. The secretary showed great astonishment. How was that? Then the project had not been abandoned? On the morning after the departure of his principal the secretary sought to come to an understanding with Pani Darvid on this subject, but was able to see only Panna Irene, who declared that he would receive no instructions, and that his assistance would not be needed. After that there was silence in the house, undisturbed by preparations of any kind.
"Then," said Darvid, "my wife must be out of health. She has neuralgia frequently. What is to be done? A woman's nerves are a force majeure."
But now, while receiving visits and speaking of business, he avoided thinking of the unexpected resistance. How was this! She--the woman for whom the highest favor, the pinnacle of happiness had been the possibility of remaining at the head of his house, in the brilliancy of wealth and general respect, dared--had the shamelessness to oppose his will! He felt such contempt that, in thought, he threw that woman on the ground to trample her; in spite of this, that, almost unconsciously, he ascribed the blame not to her, but to Irene. Almost unconsciously he saw the tall young lady; she stood before his eyes, cold and distinguished; she, who at the foot of the stairway, in the down of her black fur cloak, with an almost hard glitter in her eyes, under the fantastic hat, had said: "That ball will not be given."
That was Irene. The other woman could not have risen to this act. Did he not know her? She had always been so mild and weak--powerless, pitiable! She could not command such energy! It was Irene!
With these thoughts he pressed the hand of the last guest, and said to him at the threshold, that there was absolute need for the commercial company of which they had been talking to gain a broader foundation of activity by obtaining more and surer sources of credit.
"Credit, my dear sir, credit is the first letter in the alphabet of contemporary finance. Send some man to the capital--some man--" He hesitated here, thinking "It was Irene!" Then he finished: "Some man with proper authority and weight--best of all that person of whom we have been speaking. Such is my advice."
After the last bow of the guest they closed the door of the anteroom. Darvid turned and saw Irene standing at the round table. That day, while passing on the stairs, when she was returning from a trip to the city, and he was hastening to the carriage waiting for him, they had greeted each other hurriedly and in passing. He had not a moment's time then to talk with her; she, too, was in a hurry, for she ran up the stairs quickly.
"Bon jour, pere!" said she, inclining her head with swift movement.
"Bon jour, Irene," answered he, touching his hat. Behind him moved the secretary, carrying a heavy portfolio of papers; after her went some merchant's servant with packages. No greeting was necessary now. Irene, standing at the table, began to speak at once: "I have come, father, to beg you in mamma's name and my own for a half-an-hour's conversation, but to-day, now, absolutely."
Her bodice, which was dark and close fitting, had a very high-standing ruff, which enclosed her slightly elongated and very pale face, just as the half-open shield of a leaf encloses a white flower-bud. Her whole person, in that chamber, with its very high ceiling and massive furniture, seemed smaller and less tall than elsewhere. However, the words "now and absolutely" were spoken with such solid emphasis, that Darvid halted in the middle of the room and fixed a sharp glance on her.
"You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will."
"No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you mamma's will and mine."
"As to that ball?" asked he, quickly.
"No, the question is immensely more important than the ball."
Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had moved there, and then stopped moving.
"It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and conscience."
"What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in my family. I should prefer simple speech from you."
"The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless, between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.
"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this world is so involved, so vain, and relative."
She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed eyes.
"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And have you come to talk about--this?"
"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any result we must first of all push away painted pots from between us."
"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.
"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them would be to-day in my case."
She laughed.
"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward. Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant, triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison, and shame."
For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and, inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her father, who had sat down in front of her.
"To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma."
"It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyeglasses on his nose with a nervous movement.
"No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you. This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called, personal to him, unlike others."
She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders: "For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment, etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great business power--we were children--Cara had barely begun to speak then. Well, a moment came--do I know when? I do not know--but--finally that happened which must have happened more than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged journeys. Do I not speak the truth?"
In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but she smiled a little, and with strangely flashing eyes looked directly into the face of her father.
"For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you loved her in general--mamma, of course, did not think that you did."
"Irene!" cried Darvid.
But she did not permit interruption.
"Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean souls, or from noble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an offence comes from a noble soul it is to that soul a great and terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls somewhere, but that which I saw--I assure you, father, did not encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the idyllic angle."
Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.
"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once, and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis, and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well, was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish is."
With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost blue.
"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has comes from you."
At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner, but no one turned attention to it.
Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily, stopped again: "Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life."
Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity: "This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here with mamma."
Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached facts, and facts demanded cool blood.
"If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I must tell you--" "You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly, for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay."
She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of silence: "Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what use can it be to you?"
Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former place: "I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there as quickly as possible."
"What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon he began to speak calmly: "I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any surprise."
"That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other," interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she, "and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment, voluntarily accepted. If time and circumstances were favorable she would enter a cloister assuredly, and put on a hair shirt. That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand perfectly; for, first of all--" She made a gesture of contempt with her hand.
"All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them we find dust, emptiness, nothing."
"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid.
"What do you say, father?" inquired she.
"Your age, the brilliant position in which you have lived since childhood--and this disenchantment."
"Just this brilliant position, father--just because of this brilliant position, perhaps. We are not talking of me, however--but because of this, which in me you call disenchantment, I am able to understand mamma's wish to leave society, all the more because, if I were in her position, all homage, show, luxury, amusements would for me be as impossible as they are for her. This depends on character. Moreover, mamma remembers that everything which she uses is yours, and the use of it attended by your contempt, and the evident impossibility of ever coming to any understanding is such a poison--so I beg you to give me Krynichna. I am your daughter, and, as it seems to me, you have no thought of disinheriting me, so if I own Krynichna, mamma will live with me and receive everything from me alone."
Her voice grew weaker, and her posture less constrained, in her whole form there was an expression of suffering. Everything which she said cost her, in spite of appearances to the contrary, much effort and suffering. Darvid was silent a while, then he said: "It seems to me that I am Ali Baba, listening to the tales of Sheherazade. If I should agree to your plan what would you do there?"
"I do not know clearly as yet. This is mamma's idea; her wish; she will discover more and tell me. We will examine; we shall see. Into mamma's plans, besides quiet obscurity, and modesty of life, labor enters also."
She spoke in a low, wearied voice: "An idyl!" laughed Darvid.
"An idyl, father; I used to laugh at all idyls without knowing that I had one in myself. It has saved me from many, and, perhaps, dreadful things. Yes, I have an idyl: I love mamma."
Then her thin lips, famous in society for their precocious, bitter irony, quivered as do those of children when preparing to cry.
Darvid turned to her quickly, and said with a prolonged hiss: "Why?"
She raised sad eyes to him, and with a voice in which Malvina's sweet tones were heard, she answered: "I am not sure that anyone could tell why he or she loves. Mamma has always been kind--but I do not know--she is very pleasant, and she and I have been together always--I do not know--it may be, besides, that often I have seen her so unhappy. You see, father, that I am sincere; I answer all your questions as far as I am able. Have regard to mamma's scruples, I beg, and my request; do not oppose our plans."
Darvid stood in the middle of the room, he raised his head, his eyes had the flash of steel.
"No," said he. "My daughter shall not wither away in a remote corner with my consent, because it pleases her mother to hide her--shame there."
"Father," answered Irene, "I must explain that your resistance will only give a more permanent, and, for you, a more disagreeable, form to our withdrawal."
She rose, and again on her face, surrounded by the high ruff, was an expression of resolve and energy. A moment before she was full of emotion and pain, now with the need of defence she found energy.
"Do you suppose, father, that you can understand what happened, forgive, to use the general phrase, and restore your esteem and friendship to mamma?"
With a form as rigid as iron, and with an evil smile on his lips, Darvid answered immediately: "No. I am very sorry that I cannot play a comedy of noble-mindedness, for this is perhaps a popular comedy. But that of which you speak is forever and altogether impossible."
Irene moved her head affirmatively.
"Then mamma and I must withdraw; if not to Krynichna to some remote place abroad--I know four European languages well, I know how to paint, and I know a few other things. Mamma possesses a real genius in several rare accomplishments, and you remember well her beautiful music. We will give lessons, and do something else--I know not what--we shall find means of existence. But I beg you, father, to believe that in no case shall we remain in this house."
With pale, almost with blue lips, she laughed and added: "Either as inhabitants of Krynichna, or making our own living in some distant place--which do you prefer, father? In the last instance it depends on you. One of these two things we shall do most certainly; that is, properly speaking, I shall do it; I, who am mamma's only defence. I became of age some months ago. I have finished my twenty-first year, and--no one can hinder me from acting in this way."
Whoever had seen her at that moment would have believed, perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex, she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said in addition: "It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet--she knows nothing--she loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling, a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will happen."
She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the antechamber called: "The horses are ready."
Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking, thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his watch.
"I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow."
"Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow."
Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life. From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for the songs of nightingales; artistic playthings, porcelain figures, suggested a child amused with dolls yet; but a multitude of large books in gilt bindings suggested the active and methodical development of a young mind, which surely had dreams of Paradise on that lace and satin bed which covered a bedstead inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On all the furniture: small arm-chairs, tables, screens, which reminded one of butterfly-wings, mother-of-pearl rainbow-tints passed into milk-white. Spring tones, joyous motives, light and graceful forms, filled the room of that little daughter of a millionnaire with an atmosphere of childish innocence and tenderness; it was lighted, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, with a cheering light, poured from the rosy tulip-shaped shade of a grand lamp.
In that rosy lamp-light Miss Mary seemed full of care. Under her smooth hair her forehead was smooth and calm, but in her thoughtful eyes, and in the way that her head rested on her hand, anxiety was evident. Conscientiously devoted to the duties undertaken by her, she retained the warmth and purity which permeated the house of an Anglican pastor; chance had committed to her care, in a strange atmosphere, a rare spirit, one of those which come to the world in the form of a flame. Even three years earlier, Cara had seemed to her, at first glance, one of those souls for whom life is love, worship, trust, and--nothing more. No ambitions or imaginings beyond those. All her thoughts and wishes issued from her heart and went back to it. Her innate sensitiveness was inexplicable in its source, just as genius is in other persons. Sensitiveness in her demanded the accomplishment of her wishes as imperiously as, in organisms of another sort, hunger claims satisfaction for the body. She was by nature a flame and a bird. The riddle of her existence was involved in two words: to blaze and to fly. Besides, she had impulse and caprice; she loved to twitter, and to laugh quietly in a corner. From the thoughtfulness into which she dropped oftener and oftener, she woke up as a gladsome and petted child; that room was filled with her quick speech, her thin voice, her gestures, almost theatrical, her laughing, her humming, and at times all the drawing-rooms were filled with them.
This day she woke up full of twittering, and before dressing threw her bare arms around Miss Mary, looking into her eyes, declaiming verses, telling childish dreams.
"Why are you so delighted?" inquired Miss Mary. "Is it at the coming ball?"
Cara pouted her scarlet lips contemptuously, and answered: "The ball! What do I care? I do not want the ball! Mamma and Ira do not want it either, so I will go to-day and beg father to defer it. But I am delighted this morning! The sun is so pleasant! Do you see how the rays quiver; how they slip among the leaves, like little snakes, or spring, like golden butterflies?"
With outstretched finger she showed the play of sunrays among the clumps of green at the windows; herself in white muslin which covered her slender neck and childish breast, and with naked arms, she might remind one of a butterfly escaping from the chrysalis of childhood.
In the evening (of that day) Cara circled about the room; her mouth filled with historical names, and lines of poetry, with which she had been occupied all day. Finally, she caught Puffie in her arms, and, courtesying so low before Miss Mary that she touched the floor, announced that she was going to her father. From time immemorial she had not talked with him a moment. Sometimes he was going out, or had not the time. But to-day she would watch him, she would wait till all his business was finished, all his guests gone; she would seize her father and bring him to her mother's study. Miss Mary would go there; perhaps Maryan would be there too.
Her idyllic heart, like a bird in a grove, was eternally dreaming of quiet retreats, of confidential talks, of the attachment of hearts and the pressure of hands. Her picture of the Anglican rectory taken from Miss Mary's narrative, and situated in a grove of old oaks, smiled at her like a bit of Paradise. "But mamma's study is so quiet, and full of fragrant flowers--" An hour had passed since she had skipped away with Puffie in her arms, and with the reflection of a bit of Paradise in her eyes. Miss Mary felt alarmed. For some time she had felt continual alarm. She observed carefully the change taking place in Cara's disposition, and discovered in it causes for anxiety. But she could do nothing. While she was friendly to the family to which fate had brought her, and while she experienced from it kindness mingled with respect, it was to her a stranger. She observed everything, and said nothing. She strove, more and more, to be inseparable from Cara, and to turn her attention toward things of remote interest. That was a splendid mansion, but terrors were roaming around in its drawing-rooms, among plushes, mirrors, damasks, satins, and gold.
From the gates of the mansion, the rumble of a carriage went forth, grew faint in the street, and was lost in the distance. The master of the mansion was in that carriage which sank in the uproar of the city, to return, barely, at daybreak. A quarter of an hour passed, Cara did not return. Maybe she went to her mother? Another quarter of an hour. Miss Mary rose up, took a small candlestick in her hand with a candle, which she lighted to use in her wandering through the series of drawing-rooms. But among the soft folds of cretonne and muslin the lofty door, ornamented with gilded arabesques and borders, opened slowly, and Cara walked into the chamber holding Puffie at her bosom. Her face was so bent that the lower part of it was hidden in the silky coat of the little animal. Miss Mary, sitting down again, inquired: "Where were you, Cara, after your father went away? With mamma?"
In answer, a few steps from the door, the sound of a fall was heard. That was Puff, he had dropped from her arms to the floor. She had let him slip down along her dress. Cara had never treated her favorite with such indifference, or so carelessly. Leaning forward, Miss Mary fixed her eyes on the young girl. Oh, my God! What has happened? Who can tell, but something has happened, that is certain. Cara's cheeks, recalling usually the leaves of a full rose, were as white as the soft muslin covering her chamber, and her lips, always scarlet, formed a barely visible line, pale and narrow. Tall, slender, and erect, without the slightest movement of hand or head, with dry eyes looking somewhere into remoteness, she passed through the room, and with automatic movement dropped into a low chair near Miss Mary, who touched her hand and felt the cold of ice in it.
"What is the matter, my dear? Are you ill?"
Instead of giving an answer Cara rose and went to the cluster of green plants at the window. With her shoulders turned toward Miss Mary, she seemed to be looking at the plants; but, after a few minutes, she turned, and making some steps stopped, with her eyes fixed on the floor.
"Cara, come to me!" cried Miss Mary.
She went, and sat down at her side. The English girl looked at her sharply, and asked in a low voice: "Have you met anything disagreeable? Or anyone? Or has anyone--" She did not finish, for the delicate, pale face turned from her with quick movement, and said very hurriedly: "No! no! no!"
Then the slender form of the girl slipped slowly from the chair to the carpet, and her head rested heavily on the knees of her governess. But barely had the soft hand of the English girl touched her hair, when Cara rose and went to the other side of the room, where the light screen, struck by her skirt, tottered and fell with a clatter. Without noticing the noise Cara turned now toward the lamp, and with a face which was growing ever paler she sat down opposite Miss Mary and opened one of the books lying on the table. Her brows were raised, this brought many wrinkles to her forehead; for a time it seemed as though she were reading, then she closed the book with a sudden gesture, stood up again, and went toward the door leading to the drawing-rooms.
"Are you going to your mamma?"
She made no answer, but sat on a low stool near the door. Puff went up, and, putting his forepaws on her knees, licked her hand. But that hand, usually so fondling, pushed the little dog far away with a sudden movement. Miss Mary rose, and was going to the stool, but she had hardly reached the middle of the room when Cara rose again and went to meet her. The English girl seized both her hands.
"My dear," began the governess, "you frighten me. What has happened? What is your trouble? You should have confidence in me--I am your friend, and a friend of your family--perhaps, I can explain, or help you in some way. Has anything happened? Has there been an accident? What is it that troubles you?"
The dry, dark eyes of the girl, looking, as it were, from some distant depth, met the kindly glance of her friend, and this whisper came from her lips: "Nothing! Nothing!"
Then going some steps, she stopped at the table with the lamp on it, and again opened one of the books there. Miss Mary followed, put her arm around Cara, and wished to draw her near, but she, with an alarmed and supple movement, slipped from her embrace, put the book down, and turning, started to go somewhere. Miss Mary faced toward the door, and said: "I will go for your mother."
But that instant she was frightened; for Cara, recovering her voice at once, screamed: "No!"
Her eyes grew wild, and she began to tremble.
There was no doubt: In the row of empty drawing-rooms which stretched beyond that door, ornamented with arabesques and gilded borders, the girl had seen some horror. But what the horror was, and whence it had crept forth, Miss Mary did not know. She sat down, and pale with fear, placed her helpless hands upon her knees. What could she do in presence of those blue lips, which were as silent as if shut by some seal, either sacred or infernal? What could she do? Cara's father was not at home, and to call her mother, when the very mention of that mother brought a cry of terror from the girl's breast, would have been a useless cruelty. Her brother? Her elder sister? Miss Mary's hand moved in a manner indicating doubt. It was necessary to wait, to leave her some time to herself. She might grow calm, overcome her fear, speak.
Left to herself Cara went to the bed, knelt by it, and buried her face in the coverlet; but a few minutes later she wound her lithe form like the twist of a serpent, and turned her face toward the ceiling. She remained in this posture rather long, only changing, from time to time, the position of her head, which rested on the coverlet.
Miss Mary remembered people seized with violent pains, who, in the fruitless hope of allaying them, changed positions and postures continually. She remembered, also, the faintness and weariness which cover the faces of people with pallor and an expression of unbearable disgust. A certain disgust, repulsive and unendurable, must be working in that slender breast, from which a low moan came when she turned her head from side to side.
"Are you ill, dearest Cara; are you in pain?"
Prom the bed, in a scarcely audible whisper, came: "No."
She rose, went to Miss Mary, sat on the carpet, put her head on the English girl's knee, with her face toward the ceiling. She threw her hands back on her dishevelled hair, and then let them drop without control, so that they fell on the carpet as if lifeless. Her dry, inflamed eyes continued to look at the ceiling. Miss Mary, bent, and making her words as low and fondling as human words could be, inquired again: "Has anything happened? Has anything hurt you?"
Changing the position of her head, and shaking it, as if she wished to shake something off, she whispered: "Nothing."
And rising, she went again to the end of the room. Her hair, not long, but thick, like a bundle of silken flax, lay motionless on her narrow shoulders; her pendent hands seemed like two rose-buds falling from a bush. She stood again for a moment before the clump of green plants, then went around it and hid beyond the thickest palms at the window. Outside the window was the darkness of a winter evening, relieved somewhat by snow which covered the broad garden. The darkness was spotted by red lamps, which illuminated the street beyond the garden. Some months before, Cara had opened a window overlooking that same garden; she did this in the middle of the night to look at the first snow and at the frost in the moonlight. Snow was lying there now, at the close of winter, surely the last snow.
Much time passed. Miss Mary rose, and went to the narrow space between the clump of plants and the window. Cara was standing there at the very window, looking into the darkness, or at the red spots made by lanterns, placed here and there in it. The governess saw that a change had taken place in her. She was not pale as before; on the contrary, a lively flush had come out on her face. Her features were less rigid; instead of the nauseous disgust and dull pain, an expression of deep thought had covered them. As happened often when Cara was thinking deeply, the point of her finger was in her mouth. Miss Mary felt relieved. "Cara is no longer pale," thought she; "she has stopped over something; she stands long in one place; she is recovering her balance; soon she will be pacified completely, and will tell what has happened."
"Do you not wish me to read to you?"
Cara shook her head, and said in a low voice: "I want to sleep."
"To sleep! so early? But you are tired, of course. Very well, dear. Lie down and rest. I will call Ludvika to open the bed. Or no--I will do it myself. No one need make a noise here that would prevent us from talking."
With great goodness and kindly grace, while arranging the bed with a rustle of silk, and the waves of lace going through her fingers, Miss Mary told vivaciously of many things which were near and confidential, things always affecting Cara, and though no answer came to her from beyond the green plants, her voice, which sounded agreeably, scattered the gloom and silence of the chamber.
Half an hour later the door to the drawing-room was opened partly, and the voice of Irene said some words in English. Miss Mary went to the door on tip-toe.
"Cara is sleeping already," whispered she; "we ought not to wake her; she is a little unwell."
The door was closed slowly and in silence; some minutes later the maid brought a tray in with tea and many dishes.
Soon after Malvina entered the room. She approached her daughter's bed quietly, and anxious.
"What is the matter?" whispered she. "Why did she go to bed so early?"
Miss Mary gave some pacifying answer. That was caution. She felt always in that house, and on that day more than ever, the need of caution in making observations. Both looked at the girl, who, as they thought, was sleeping soundly; she breathed slowly and evenly, with a deep flush on her cheeks.
Malvina bent down and impressed a long kiss on the forehead of her sleeping daughter. Then Miss Mary noted something of which she was not sure: when her mother's lips rested on Cara's forehead a quiver ran through the girl's body, from head to foot. But Miss Mary was not sure whether Cara really trembled, or it only seemed so to her. After Malvina's departure she remained at the bedside, with eyes fixed on the delicate face, which was growing more inflamed with an ever-increasing flush. A number of dark spots came out on her purple lips, which were parched and half open, her small pearl-like teeth gleamed behind them.
"She is sick, but has fallen asleep!" thought Miss Mary. "Perhaps that horror, which I thought seized the child in the empty drawing-rooms, was an invention of her mind? Surely it was nothing more; she is simply ill; perhaps, not very ill, since she fell asleep so quickly."
The small night-lamp shone in Cara's room like a blue spark. In the adjoining room, beyond the open door, far into the night, rustled book-leaves turned by the English governess. Miss Mary watched long, and stood often in the open door, between her room and Cara's, inclining forward, looking from a distance at the bed from which the regular, unbroken sound of breathing came to her. She is asleep. She moved a number of times and groaned, then again she was silent. Puff lay at her feet, like a bundle of ash-colored silk, and snored slightly. The street beyond the garden grew more and more silent till it was silent altogether. At the windows light began to whiten the shades and to draw aside the black curtain of darkness which was on the furniture. The wearied Miss Mary, in a long dressing-gown, ready to spring from her bed any moment, slept for a short time and then woke with a feeling of great fear. She was roused by a sharp cold by a breath of frosty air coming in through the open door. She sprang up and ran, with a cry, to Cara's chamber. There, on the threshold she saw beyond the spreading palm leaves the great window half open, and a slender, white figure sitting there in the gray dawn. When had she done that? How long had she sat there with her shoulders resting on the window-frame, with her naked feet hanging in the air, with her breast and arms stripped even of muslin? No one was ever to know.
Miss Mary, while carrying the girl to bed with that strength which only terror can give one, felt in her embrace, limbs as stiff as those of a frozen corpse; but her breast rose and fell with her breathing which was heavy and audible; her cheeks and forehead were burning. In half a minute the window was closed; Miss Mary, with all the strength of long and supple arms, strove to warm the breast and shoulders, which were as cold as ice, and the skin on them stiffened.
"Oh, child! you unkind! most dear! poor child! Why have you done this? Is it possible to do such things? Did you know what you were doing? Was that an unfortunate accident, or did you do it purposely? Tell, was it done purposely? Tell me! tell!"
Cara for the first time looked straight into Miss Mary's face; she bent her head with a lively movement; her eyes shot forth triumph; a smile encircled her parched lips. In the glitter of her eyes, in the smile, in the curve of her neck, for the twinkle of an eye, shone forth once again the wilful, capricious Cara. Next moment her teeth began to chatter and her whole body trembled in a feverish chill, so that the silk of the bed rustled loudly. With that rustling was joined a dry, unbroken cough, which shook the fragile and ice-cold breast, the skin of which was rough, and had a tanned and withered look. Miss Mary sprang from her knees. On her lips were the words: "Her parents! A doctor!"
The rumbling of a carriage was heard far away on the street, it drew nearer and nearer, rolled in through the gate of the house, and was silent. Miss Mary, all in white, her hair hanging over her shoulders, hastened to Darvid's study, through drawing-rooms in which, from behind black veils which the pale dawn was removing, emerged glass, metal, pictures, mirrors, plush, silk, polished surfaces, gildings, mosaics, marbles, porcelain, in the dull gleam of their colors.
The dawn was in Darvid's study also; but the servant was lighting the hanging-lamp over the round table. Darvid, very pale, with a nervous movement, tore rather than drew the gloves from his hands.
"Then did she return from me? Where did she come from? You say that she was with me, and returned--in that condition? But she was not here yesterday; I did not see her; she was not here--" "She was," answered Miss Mary; "she said that she was going to you; she did not return for more than an hour."
"She might have been with her mother?"
"No; I asked her sister about that. She was not with her mother; she was here."
Darvid was astonished; he thought a while, and called suddenly: "Ah!"
There was something tragic in the gesture with which he indicated the thick case full of books, forming with the two walls a little triangular space; then in the manner in which he intertwined his fingers: "She was there! And--she heard! Ah!"
He stood for a moment as if rooted to the floor; he bit his lip; there were quivers on his cheeks and wrinkles on his forehead; then he approached Miss Mary, and asked in such a low voice that she barely heard him: "Did she do this purposely--purposely? Purposely?"
"With clasped hands she said in a very low voice: "I cannot hide--maybe something will depend on this--she did it purposely."
Then that man, usually calm and regular in all his movements, rushed to the door of the antechamber with the spring of a tiger.
"Carriage!" cried he.
"When the most famous doctor in the city came out of the sick girl's chamber that day for the second time, Darvid met him in the blue drawing-room, alone. He was as usual self-possessed, and with a pleasing smile in the presence of that man with a great name.
"Is the disease defined?" asked he.
It was defined, and very serious. Inflammation had seized the greater part of the lungs, and was working fiercely on an organism weakened by a previous attack. Besides, some kind of complication had supervened, something coming from the brain, from the nerves, something psychic.
Darvid mentioned a consultation.
"We may summon from abroad--from Paris, from Vienna; we have telegraphs and railroads at our service--as to expense--" concluded he with indifference "--as to expense, I shall not spare it. My whole fortune is at the disposal of--" He fixed in the eyes of the doctor a look in which was the desire for a silent understanding.
"This is no hyperbole, or figure of rhetoric. I am ready to summon half medical Europe, and spend half my fortune."
There was a quiver on his temples, around his mouth, and near his eyes, but he smiled. The doctor smiled also.
"My dear sir," said he, "the case is not so peculiar as to need presentation before the judgment of Europe. But being in Europe--yes. I will serve you at once with the names of my foreign colleagues. But as to colossal money sacrifices, I must say that they will not help. Death, my dear sir, is such a giantess, that if she is to come, mountains of gold will not stop her. I will not say that she must come surely in this case. But if she is to come, half your fortune--that is, golden mountains--yes, golden mountains will be no hindrance to her. She will spring over them and--come."
After the doctor had gone, Darvid remained alone for a while, and, with his eyes fixed on the floor, he thought: "A giantess! Golden mountains will not stop her! True, but science is also a giantess. And, besides, is human, and every human thing travels in golden chariots. But to set one giantess against the other, gold and energy are needed."
For some time the great study was seething with activity, in sending letters and telegrams. Darvid was heard commanding and giving directions in a voice always low, but emphatic. He was decisive, cool, and active, as he always was when going to a contest. In the course of a few minutes arriving carriages halted, one after another, before the gate of the mansion. Out of them issued men full of importance, with famous names, very learned, specialists, old and young, strong in theory and practice. Some of these men it was almost impossible to see, for they were reposing in wealth and on laurels, but they had been snatched from their rest by the rumble of the golden chariot which came for them. There were many of these men. The blue room grew black from their garments as from a cloud. Darvid pressed their hands a little more firmly than he was wont to do; perhaps his side-whiskers dropped a little less symmetrically than usual, along cheeks somewhat paler than usual, but there was no other change in the man. And when the cloud of dark garments flowed from the blue room to the chamber of his daughter, a spark of triumph glittered in his eye. Let one giantess fight with the other; we shall see which one wins. The power of science was one of the very few articles of Darvid's faith. That power had to be great, since it was indispensable in the conquest of wealth. He had tried that power more than once in his mighty struggles for wealth; he would try it now, also. This was only the beginning of the battle. Diseases last a series of days, sometimes weeks, but to-morrow, after to-morrow, Europe will begin to ride hither on the golden chariot. Giantess against giantess! We shall see their force.
Inflammation extending with great rapidity in the weak breast of the girl, besides a complication of the brain, not considerable, but giving much cause for concern--the normal condition of the mind shaken--that was the case. A long consultation was carried on in an undertone; some medicines were prescribed, and some advice given, in the domain of hygiene. Among the carriages which left the gate of the mansion, two were empty. The two dignitaries of science, who had remained in his house, Darvid conducted to his study for black coffee, excellent liquors, and cigars of uncommon quality. They had to remain some hours, then they would be relieved by others. They opposed this wish at first, for it was in opposition to their customs, to obligations assumed elsewhere; but Darvid, with his eyes looking very kindly into theirs, uttered a magic word. It was a figure unheard of--almost fabulous. They hesitated still; resisted; then they came to an understanding as to the how-and-when--and remained. Darvid's forehead smoothed for the moment, all wrinkles vanished from it. His child (in his mind he added), "my little one," during one hour of the day or night would not be without the good giantess, who would do battle against the wicked one.
In the city, people said that Darvid, in anxiety for his daughter would commit some mad folly; but those who had seen him shrugged their shoulders. Not at all! There was not a man on earth who could preserve better, in such straits, cool blood, self-confidence, fluent speech, affability perfect, though cold. Only at times, from the quiver which ran over his face, from the temporary stare of his eyes, and the slight carelessness in dressing his hair, was it possible to divine in him a man playing for great stakes. Really, in the battle which he had begun and was fighting, the question was not of Cara alone--it was of her above all, but not of her alone. At the bottom of his being he felt himself a player, then, as he had been countless times before in cases wholly different; a player aided by energy, money, and universal reason, which was his own and that bought by money. The stakes in this play were not only the life of his child, but the one faith which he had--his faith in the all-mightiness, and all-effectiveness of energy, sound sense, and money.
At one time and another, either with the doctors, or without them, Darvid entered Cara's chamber; where, in obedience to medical advice, they had not darkened the great windows through which light was pouring in its golden torrents. This light penetrated the yellowish folds of cretonne at the walls, lent apparent life to forget-me-nots and rose-buds scattered over them, played among the palm leaves, lay on the flowery carpet, struck out golden sparks on the gilding of toys and books, played with rainbow gleams on surfaces inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In this gleaming light, near the mirror, which was surrounded by porcelain flowers, amid flasks gilded and enamelled, a rosy Cupid was drawing a bow with a golden arrow, a marble cat lay at the feet of a statuette, which held a dove rat its bosom; on a small desk of lapis-lazuli as blue as the sky, a bronze statuette personifying the Dew was inclining gracefully an amphora above an open book, skeins of various colored silks were hanging at little looms. Amid all these tones of spring, joyous themes, light and graceful forms, the sunlight went to Cara's bed, and, from the white cambric on which she was lying, increased the paleness of her yellow hair. On the pillow with lace it was difficult at first to distinguish where the sunrays ended and the maiden's hair began. But, amid the yellow of the rays and the hair, her oval, delicate face in its bright flush seemed a scarlet flower. Her lips, blooming with a bloody purple, her eyes, flashing with a dry fire, were silent. But her breast labored with hoarse, hurried breathing, and a cough shook her body, the slender, fragile form of which was indicated beneath the blue silk coverlet, like a fine piece of sculpture.
When Darvid entered the chamber a dark-robed woman drew back from the bed of the suffering Cara, without the least rustle, and stood at some distance with a pained, pallid face under smoothly dressed hair of the same hue exactly as that which, in dishevelled abundance, lay mingled with pale sunrays on the pillow of the sick girl.
"How is it with you, little one?" asked Darvid. "Perhaps you feel somewhat better? Perhaps you would like something?"
For its only answer the face, which was like a scarlet flower, turned toward the wall, covered with forget-me-nots and rose-buds.
"Why not answer, Cara? Perhaps you would like something? Only say, only whisper. Say into my ear. I would bring you anything, get it, buy it. Perhaps you would like something? Have something, something to look at. You can have anything--anything, only say what it is--whisper in my ear."
But in vain he bent low, brought his ear to her lips almost, no sound came from them, no whisper, only her face turned away still more and her breath became hoarser and heavier.
How many times did he go there and put to her the question: "Would you like something? Will you tell what?" He thought that the young girl, though sick, must remember some wish, some desire which, if granted, might give her relief and some comfort. He had power to gratify every wish, even the wildest, but had not the power of drawing from her lips even one word, and that the briefest.
Some days passed. In front of the mansion the carriages of doctors were arriving and departing continually, meeting on the way a multitude of equipages from which men came out and entered the study of the master of the mansion, or only came to the entrance to inscribe their names in a book furnished by the Swiss in livery. Once, when coming home, Darvid met on the stairway two men who spoke a foreign language. He was eloquent, triumphant. These were allies from abroad, coming to strengthen the local forces, which joined them in full array for a consultation. Again a cloud of black garments moved from the blue room to the chamber which was full of spring colors, of childhood's playthings, of mother-of-pearl rainbow gleams. One more mountain of gold and of intellect set up as a bulwark of defence near the bed of the sick girl. When the cloud of black garments and serious faces had vanished, the mother drew near: "These gentlemen have wearied you. That is nothing. Because they have come you will be well. Those are very wise men. The two who have just come are Germans; throughout the whole world they are famous. They will cure you to a certainty. But now you may swallow a little of those excellent sweets which those gentlemen let us give you. Or a drop of wine. Perhaps a spoonful, one little spoonful of bouillon?"
Cara's only answer was to turn on her yellowish bed to the wall sprinkled with spring flowers, her face in scarlet flushes. Malvina, bending low, kissed the little hand, the heat of which burnt her lips, and which trembled under those lips, like a leaf in a blast of wind.
"Why not answer me, Cara? One word! only one short, little word! Shall I give a drop of wine? Those gentlemen ordered it--will you have it now? Whisper!"
But in vain did she put her ear almost down to Cara's lips, not a sound, not a whisper, she only turned her face away farther, while her breath grew in hoarseness.
Maryan came in with a great bouquet of flowers in his hand.
"What, are we sick, little one!" began he. "Well, that is nothing wonderful! King Solomon said that for everyone there must be a time for sickness and a time for dancing. You will be sick a little while, and then you will dance. But now I have brought flowers to cheer you. Flowers without odor, for sick girls might get headache from fragrant ones. These have no fragrance, but they are very beautiful. You will look most poetic when I scatter them on the bed before you. They will gladden your sight after looking at those dreary pedants who are like a flock of wise ravens. Father has brought in the wisest ravens from all the world for you; I have gathered throughout this whole city the most beautiful flowers. Mein Lieichen, was willst du mehr?"
While laughing he scattered on the blue coverlet, and on the slender form of the maiden indicated under it, the most beautiful flowers which the best conservatories could yield to him; she only looked at her brother with great burning eyes, and when he went away she began, with a slow and monotonous movement to throw them from the bed. She did not look at these flowers, but the slender, dry, rosy hand of the girl worked and worked on, pushing from the bed the rich twigs and beautiful flowers, which fell, one after another, with a dull rustle on the carpet. She wanted nothing. But in the night, when Malvina and Miss Mary thought that she was sleeping, a whisper was heard in the deep stillness calling: "Puffie! Puffie!"
Miss Mary raised the little dog from a neighboring chair and gave him to her. Cara took him in her burning hands, but soon she pushed him away with the same kind of slow gesture with which she had thrown down the flowers, turned her face toward the wall, and then whispered: "No."
Next morning the faces of the "wise ravens" were very gloomy. Those who flew in from the neighborhood, and those who came from a distance took on more and more that mysterious solemnity which reminds one of death-bells.
But Darvid waited yet; he did not lay down his arms; he did not lose faith in the power of the good giantess. He waited for a new reinforcement. This was the greatest medical name in all Europe, that of a man who had the fame almost of one who worked miracles. Here again was a mountain of gold, and of intellect piled up, the highest mountain among all of them. In the blue drawing-room a suppressed, many-tongued murmur was heard. Servants bore about food and drink. Darvid gave cigars to his worthy guests, the most worthy of all, he who had just arrived; listened with close attention to the explanation of his colleagues touching the case before which he was to find himself. At last, calm, and perfectly correct, with a pleasant smile on his lips, a smile almost of triumph, Darvid indicated with a gesture full of welcome the door of his daughter's chamber. The most famous of the famous entered first, and stopped some steps from the threshold; behind him stopped the others. On the parched lips of the sick girl appeared ruby-like drops of blood; her eyes were opened very widely; to her forehead, which was damp from perspiration, some slender locks of pale, yellow hair adhered. Throughout the room sounded in an audible, hoarse whisper: "Ira! Ira!"
Irene approached quickly, and, bending over, removed, delicately, with a thin handkerchief, the liquid rubies from the lips of her sister.
"What do you want, little one; what do you wish?"
Cara fixed on her sister eyes in which something uncommon had begun to take place, for the dark pupils became larger every moment, and larger, more prominent, they seemed to grow and to swell, as if concentrating into one point all power of vision, until a glassy film began to come down over them, and at the same time her lips, sprinkled with blood, moved a number of times wishing to pronounce something and not being able. At last, fixing on her sister from behind the glassy film the sight of her swollen pupils, Cara, as if in sign that she understood, shook her head, and with a whisper which was heard through the room with a note of alarm and complaint, she said: "Pain-ted pots!"
Then in her breast a great orchestra began to play: hoarse, discordant, wheezing, and her head, grown suddenly heavy, fell into the pillow deeply. Prom the assembly of men standing there at the door, the most famous, the small sprightly, iron-gray Frenchman, with a face greatly thoughtful, advanced a few steps, stood at the bedside, and after some minutes, with his hands resting on the laboring bosom, cast into the deep silence which possessed the room these words: "The agony!"
As if in answer to that word, at the very door, behind the cloud of black garments, was heard a loud hand-clap. That was Darvid, who, with a movement most unexpected for him, had in this manner wrung his hands, intertwining them with a strength which almost broke his fingers, and then raised them above his head.
So the giantess had sprung over all the mountains--and had come!
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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9
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From street to street, and from one alley of the public garden to another, passed Arthur Kranitski, with the step and the mien of a person who is strolling through a city without great desire or object. In his shining hat and well-fitting fur coat, on the costly collar of which traces of wear were observable, the man seemed notably older and poorer in some sort than he had been during a past which was still recent. In his erect form and springy step one might discover that disagreeable effort with which people guard themselves when they fear lest observers may penetrate their sad secret in some way. But despite every effort Kranitski's secret was manifest sometimes in his stooping shoulders, drooping head, pendant cheeks, and dimmed glances. All this was the more evident since Pan Arthur was advancing in the full gleam of the sun which flooded with light the sidewalks of the streets and the alleys of the great public garden. The end of the winter had been exceptionally mild and serene, the snow had almost melted away, and only, here and there, mingled its dull white with the azure of the sky and the golden hue of the atmospheres. While passing multitudes of people, Kranitski raised his hand to his hat frequently, and at times, with a smile which was winning, nay, almost seductive, he made movements as if to approach, or even spring forward to those whom he greeted; but they, with a courteous though prompt inclination, moved past the man swiftly. These persons were stylish young gentlemen conversing with one another vivaciously, or young ladies hastening to some point. They returned bow after bow, but none took note of Kranitski's desire to draw near, or, at least, none had the wish to observe it. Each man or woman had some person at his side or hers with whom to converse, and was going, or even hastening, to some place. How recent and intimate had been his acquaintance with those persons! --lie had known them from early childhood. He knew everything touching them: the names and life-histories of their parents, the nicknames given them in jest or in tenderness, names given at an age when they were barely lisping. He knew every chamber, almost every corner of the houses in which they had been reared. He had raised many of them in his strong arms from the floor--he who at that time was the praised, the beloved, the sought for. He who had amused and entertained them, was he, indeed, to imagine a day when they would pass him at a distance and indifferently? How could he? He with rosy glasses on his eyes, those eyes famed at that period for beauty, had been given to tenderness and attachments; he had considered the feelings and relations of men as eternal. But from various causes a multitude of his relations with people had ended already--and now they were ending to the last one. He had the vivid sensation of hanging in a vacuum, and felt a growing need to grasp after something or someone lest he might tumble into a place which he knew not, but which he felt must be abyss-like. At the beginning of his walk he thought that in that bright hour of the day when throngs of gayly-dressed people were covering the sidewalks, and the middle of the street was filled with passing carriages, some person would stop him, would invite him, would attend him somewhere, or take him to some place. What was he to do now? Whither was he to go? Baron Emil, whose mediaeval mansion had been in recent days almost his one refuge from weariness and lonely tedium, had gone to his estate to make trips in various directions and search in village cottages and under their roofs for remnants of art which were genuine or suitable. He was to return soon; but, meanwhile, Kranitski could not sit in the broad chair before Tristan, who was giving obeisance on the wall of the chamber to Isolde, nor sit at the table where, besides gastronomic tidbits, he found conversation to which he was accustomed, nor in presence of the Triumph of Death sweeping through the air on bat wings, or experience the tone of beyond-the-worldness. With the departure of the baron he lost the only ground on which he met Maryan--that dear child. The very thought now of Maryan, from whom after so many years of life in common he was separated, brought tears to Kranitski's eyelids.
He took a seat on a bench of the garden, and wishing to light a cigarette drew the golden case from his pocket. He did not light the cigarette, however; for there, beyond the low paling near which he was sitting, passed a splendid carriage drawn by two horses and bearing servants in livery. In that carriage sat a man of thirty years, at sight of whom Kranitski pushed forward as if to rush after him, as if to fly like the wind to him. This young man was the son of Count Alfred, of him whom Kranitski had nursed with endless devotion during illness under the sky of Italy. In those days the young man was a child, and remembered little of the hours in which Kranitski had occupied in his family the place of the best of friends, and somewhat that of the most faithful of servants. Afterward he forgot those hours completely, and put away by degrees "that excellent Kranitski," who was growing old; and though this Kranitski, on a time, had rendered some sort of service to the young man's father, he had been rewarded richly by resorting to the house for years, and, very likely, by loans of money given frequently and with no thought of payment. Very wealthy and a frequent traveller, Count Arthur's son had too many affairs on his head, and too many in it to cherish any desire of stuffing it further with old-fashioned trumpery. Kranitski soon observed this frame of mind in the young son of his former friend and protector, and he had long considered that house as lost and its master as a stranger. This did not sadden him at first over much, for he had a port, which he entered with, full sail at all times. But now the passing sight of that young man struck his heart with something which cut and burned at the same instant. Services are forgotten, ties are broken, the past is rejected; oh, the ingratitude of mankind! And still with what delight would he have ridden through the streets of the city on such a spring day in that carriage with rubber ties, bearing the persons within it on yielding cushions, with the soft movement of a cradle. With a still greater feeling of delight would he have conversed while going with someone who possessed the same habits, tastes, and relations which he had; with what vivid satisfaction would he halt before one of the best restaurants of that city to have an exquisite lunch, between walls decorated with taste, and amid sounds of joyfulness. But all those things which on a time were as cheap as good-morning, are now as remote and unattainable as the blue sky above him.
In his closely drawn coat, and bent over so much that his shoulders took the form of a half-circle; in his hat, from beneath which black hair was visible and a row of furrows above his dark brows, he gazed at the street which stretched along outside the paling, and in his fingers, covered with Danish gloves, he twirled the golden toy from habit. The hat shone like satin above his head, and on tire cigarette-ease, which he twirled in his fingers, the sun-gleams were crossing one another.
The street beyond that paling lay before a square which was rather extensive; this square seemed dominated by two lofty buildings, before the ornamented fronts of which there was a great movement of people. Through the broad doors of these buildings a throng of men went in and came out, equipages stopped before them; on the steps which led up to them halted, advanced, decreased, and again increased a crowd of figures clad in black, noisy, gesticulating, occupied passionately in some work. No wonder! These were the bank and the exchange, which stood with opposing fronts, and, with their multitude of windows, seemed to gaze eye to eye at each other. Kranitski looked neither at these piles nor the throng of men circulating about them. He had never had anything in common with activity in those buildings. But all at once he bent forward a second time and fixed his eyes on a carriage which passed the paling, or rather he fixed them on the man sitting in it.
It was Aloysius Darvid who, on that sunny day, was in an open carriage drawn by a pair of large, costly horses, which, in light harness without mounting, stepped slowly, with grace and importance. On the box sat a coachman and footman, in high hats and immense fur collars; in the carriage, finished in sapphire damask, a man of not large stature, slender, with pale face, ruddy side-whiskers, and with the glitter of a golden spark in the glasses which covered his eyes. Slowly, with dignity, the carriage with muffled sound of rubber-bound wheels halted before the bank entrance. The footman sprang from the box, stood at the door, and taking a card from his master's hand hurried into the building. Five minutes had not passed when out came two serious persons who approached the carriage hastily, and began to converse with the man sitting in it. Surely officials, even dignitaries of the bank, whom he had summoned by two words outlined on the card. To go to them, to ascend the high steps, he had not time perhaps, so they ran down those steps to him. They did not walk down, they ran, and now, with the most courteous smiles in the world and with raising of hats above their important heads, these men seemed to counsel with him about something, to indicate some point, to promise. While he, ever unchanged, perfectly polite though cold, with a shade of sarcasm on his lean face, rather listened than spoke, and with a golden spark in his glasses, against a background of bright sapphire damask, had the seeming of a demi-god.
In five minutes' time the conversation was over. Darvid inclined with befitting profoundness; the officers bowed much lower their hats above their heads. With the muffled sound of rubber tires, with the slow and important gait of the splendid horses, that carriage moved on, described a large circle and stopped at the long and broad steps leading up to the edifice opposite. Here the footman opened the carriage door; Darvid alighted and began to ascend the steps where a dense throng of men, dressed in black, opened before him as a wave opens to an oncoming vessel. That must be no common craft; for, along the wave of men, quivers passed as they pass through one living organism at the touch of an electric current. The opening throng formed eddies, whispered, was silent; a number of hands were raised toward heads, and hats or caps hung in the air; a multitude of faces were turned toward that one face, and fixed their eyes on it. These movements had in them an expression of timid curiosity, an expression which seemed almost humble. The most confident stepped forth from the throng with bared heads, and with steps which were either too slow or too hurried, but never such steps as they made habitually. These men approached the newly arrived and spoke to him of something; they were doubtless inquiring, taking counsel, perhaps petitioning; for all those acts were expressed in their movements, and on their faces. Thus was formed something like that retinue of the elite who surround a demi-god, and between the two walls of people, along the splendid steps of the stairway they went up with him higher and higher to the entrance of the temple, and vanished there with him. The heads of the common crowd were covered with hats and caps now, but many eyes, unable to gaze on Phaeton himself, turned to his chariot, and were fixed for a long time yet on its sapphire-colored damask, which was warmed by the sunrays, and on those two splendid animals which, standing there in trained fixedness, seemed like bronze steeds of the sun before the gates of that money mart.
Kranitski, sitting on the garden bench, had grown rigid in the posture described above--his mouth awry, his eyes gleaming. So this is what has happened! In a few weeks after the death of the hapless Cara he is active and triumphant; he hurls his lariat on the golden calf and captures new millions. A demi-god! A Titan! The king of markets! He sweeps forward in seven-league boots over roads, at the crossing-points of which are Americans with milliards, they are millionnaires no longer, but masters of milliards. He is the man who, as Baron Emil said, knows how to will.
Still, how small he seemed and devoid of desire at the hour when he stood near the corpse of his daughter, joined with the silent smoke of the censer, which rose like light mist in the air. How petty he appeared at that juncture, crushed, as it were, by some giant hand--not a demi-god in any sense, or a Titan, but rather an insect, pushing into some narrow cranny to hide from a bird of prey. Kranitski had seen Darvid then, for, on hearing of the misfortune, no power on earth or in hell could have stopped him from running, from flying to the house where it had happened.
That misfortune had pierced his heart. And straightaway he felt, also, those inward and other pains which for some time had attacked him without pity and more frequently; but, in spite of his pains, he ran on without a thought that he had been forbidden that house, or a thought of what might meet him within it. He entered, and by well-known ways went directly to the chambers of the lady. Happen what might, he must see, in such a terrible moment, that woman, that saint, that mild and noble being. She was surrounded by many; there was a throng of people about her, but he did not see who they were, nor did he think what they might say of him. Before his eyes was a mist which veiled all things in front of him, save the face of that woman so dreadfully changed and grown old recently; that woman who no longer had the bright aureole of pale, golden hair above her forehead, but on that forehead and across the whole width of it was the dark furrow of a deep wrinkle. Without seeing, or greeting a person, he walked up to her directly, and, dropping on his knees, pressed to his lips the hem of her mourning garment. He did this without the trace of a plan, without forethought; he did it through an impulse which threw him at the feet of the woman. That action came from his heart, and from his heart only. For never was anyone like her, he thought. Many a time he had had fortune with women. In life he had been loved, and had loved in various fashions, but as he had loved her, never had he loved woman.
He did not remember; he was unconscious of what happened after that; but it seemed that Irene seized in her arms the loudly weeping lady; that Maryan was there also, and many other persons, who, going in and passing out with silent tread and low words, produced a sound something like the rustle of leaves when they are falling. In some corner of the chamber he sat down, or stood up, he cannot tell which, he only remembers that he was surrounded by the odor of alder-blossoms which filled the chamber, till, finally, he felt that it was late, that he had to go out just as had others. He could not be with that beloved being in her suffering; of all pains that was the most unendurable. But life contains sometimes such cruelties. Life at times is atrocious! He went once again to look at the "little one," he saw her, and with her the demi-god, in such a position that he thought: Here, too, is a man who is ended! At this point of meditation Kranitski rested his elbow on the arm of the bench, shaded his eyes with his palm, and placed before his imagination that wonderful sight which seemed a fable, a dream to him.
What luxury, what originality of thought and taste! What a mountain of gold was poured out there! The plan and the taste were seemingly Maryan's. The grand drawing-room had been turned into a grotto, which, from floor to ceiling, was covered with soft folds of white crape and muslin, meeting above in a gigantic rosette resembling the mystic four-leafed roses painted on Gothic church-windows, save that this one at which the wavy drapery met and hid walls and ceiling was as white and soft as if formed by the fantastic play of cloud substance. But everything in that chamber, the walls, the arch, the rosette, seemed made up of clouds and of snow, on which had fallen an immense rain of white flowers, white only. In garlands, woven together, or cast about without order by the movement of hands, they clung to the walls and the vault, covered the floor, were scattered over everything, were visible everywhere, and seemed to have fallen out of every place. Aside from them and among them, there was nothing but abundance of light; stars, bunches, columns were formed of lights, burning in branch-holders and candlesticks. It is unknown where they were invented, so uncommon were these holders and candlesticks, so fantastic. They were so peculiar in style that it would seem as if they had been brought from the dream-world of an excited fancy to the world of existence. There was no color, no tinsel, no emblem of death, nothing in that sea of snowy whiteness save an avalanche of snow-covered flowers and the dazzling gleam of burning tapers, with the odor of lilies-of-the-valley, roses, alder-blossoms, hyacinths, to which was added incense of some kind, as peculiar as was everything in that chamber. This incense, burning it was unknown in what place, sent hither and thither through the air, from time to time, small grayish cloudlets of smoke amid the gleam of the lights and tinged by the gold of them. In that chamber were virginity, with an atmosphere of mysticism, inventiveness unwilling to recognize the impossible--a chapter of magic, a strophe of a poem, and in it, as a central point for all else, was the slender form of Cara on a lofty place, fallen asleep calmly, arrayed as in a bridal robe, with her delicate face, which, in the pale, golden hair, with a shade of whiteness barely discernible, emerged from the flood of snowy crape and flowers. In that flood of snowy white, in that gleaming brilliance of the tapers, in that richness of intoxicating odors, in that atmosphere of haze moving from the burning censer, Cara was sleeping calmly, with the smooth arches of her dark brows below the Grecian outline of her forehead; on her closed lips was a smile which was almost gladsome.
It must have been late at night when Kranitski rose from his knees and found himself alone in that chamber. Outside the words and prayers of watchers were heard murmuring beyond the doors and the walls, but there the sleep of death seemed to reign alone. After a while, however, something rustled near one of the walls. Kranitski looked around and saw a man who seemed at first to be an undefined patch on the snowy background. After a few seconds he recognized Darvid's features in ruddy side-whiskers, but he strained his eyes rather long inquiring whether he was not mistaken. Neither sorrow nor despair, commonly roused by death in the living, but something still greater and beyond that was depicted in the look and the posture of Darvid. His eyes, usually so clear, so positive, so like glittering steel, had in them now an abyss of thought at the bottom of which terror was secreted, while the form of the man seemed shrunk and crushed down. Neither irony, nor energy, nor bold certainty of self was in it now. He looked smaller than usual, and in the manner of bending his head forward there was something of the vanquished. The soft folds at which he stood surrounded him in such a way that he seemed flattened and recalled definitely, like an insect in flight which was trying to push through a narrow crack to escape before something immense which was swooping down suddenly. He turned his eyes toward Kranitski, recognized the man, and casting an indifferent glance at him, gazed again in another direction at the enormous something. He had no feeling of hatred, or contempt, or offence. Kranitski on his part had none of those feelings either. He thought that various tales and dramas represent mortal enemies who, in moments like that, reach their hands to one another and are reconciled. Pathos is not truthful! It has no sufficient reason. What are men's quarrels or agreements in presence of--this? He looked a little longer at the maiden sleeping under the shower of white blossoms, and whispered: "Death! yes, yes! death! eternal sleep!" then, with drooping head, he went forth from that grotto, which was snow-white and gleaming with lights. He was so broken that he dragged himself out of it rather than walked.
Now, on the bench of the garden, Kranitski raised his face from his palms and looked at the exchange. The porch with its broad steps was empty, but Darvid's carriage was there yet, showing a spot of gleaming sapphire in the sunny air, the horses stood in trained fixedness, like statues cast from bronze. Kranitski's lips were awry with distaste.
With a bitterness to which his mild nature came rarely, he whispered: "Labor! iron labor!"
With lips full of gall, not thinking now of straightening his shoulders or giving his steps an appearance of elasticity, he dragged along from street to street, halting sometimes for a moment before the gates of the grandest houses. Each one of these reminded him of something, of some brilliant or happy moment, of some fragment of the past. This one he had entered while going to one of the smaller or greater "stars of his existence;" out of that one he had gone when taking the ailing Count Alfred to Italy; through this one he had hurried daily to do some kindness for Prince Zeno; that one brought to him the memory of a certain ball, so brilliant that it bordered upon fairy-land. Now all these gates and those mansions are for him like that hall which guests have deserted, in which the lights are extinguished, and through which a man finds his way with a night-lamp--remembering, as he passes, a spot where had gleamed the naked shoulders of a beauty; or another, where the faces of joyous comrades had smiled at him; a third, where had risen the odor of flowers, or the odor of roast pheasants.
At last, late in the afternoon, Mother Clemens heard a ring in the antechamber, and ran along the floor in her clattering old overshoes, hastening to answer the door-bell. On her broad shoulders was a barred kerchief, in her hand was a needle with a thick thread, and above her eyes, now growing dim, a second pair of eyes, which were glass, in spectacles raised to the woman's wrinkled forehead.
"Hm!" commenced she immediately, "I thought that thou hadst fastened for the day in some pleasant company; but, Arabian adventure! thou hast returned before evening. This is well, for guests have been here, and they will come again shortly."
"Guests?" inquired Kranitski, and his face cleared somewhat, but briefly, because Clemens snorted.
"Yes, one of them was very important. Be pleased with the honor! Berek Shyldman! He said that next week, as God is God, he would sell thy furniture."
Seeing, however, that Kranitski, after he had removed his coat, dragged his feet through the little drawing-room, and that red wrinkles came out above his brows, she grew mild and spoke in better humor: "But thou mayst take delight in two other guests who came. Great dandies, and of thy company, though young enough to be thy sons."
"Who were they? who? who? Speak, mother!"
"How can I remember those Arabian names? But they left cards--wait, I'll bring them this minute--I put them in the kitchen."
She turned toward the kitchen, but right behind her, stepping almost on her heels went Kranitski, delighted and impatient, he almost snatched from her hand two visiting cards, on which he read the names: Maryan Darvid and Baron Emil Blauendorf.
"Ah!" cried he, "those dear children! The baron has returned then! And his first thought after returning was of me! What a heart! I go; I run!"
And, indeed, he ran to the door of the antechamber, radiant, rejuvenated, but Mother Clemens stood in his way, squaring out her shoulders in the checkered kerchief.
"Whither art thou going? What for? Is it to meet them on the steps, or at the gate? They said that they would come again in an hour. To each other they said that they would go to see the Nazarene--" "What Nazarene?" asked Kranitski, with astonishment. "What Nazarene?"
"But how should I know what Nazarene? It may be an image of the Lord Jesus of Nazareth. They only said that they would go to look at it, and come back here."
"Come back," repeated Kranitski, "that is well. We shall have a talk--it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone--and I shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!"
Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them. Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him with her two pair of eyes.
"See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to life!"
He stopped confused before her.
"Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a bottle of liqueur."
Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall.
"Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? Berek Shyldman--thy furniture--" "What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember me--" "Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something into them the first minute."
"What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level is earth to earth--she only thinks of this cursed money!"
"But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!"
Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.
Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and seemed frightened.
"Well, has pain caught thee?"
It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.
"Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money will that Arabian pate cost?"
"And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski.
When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee.
"Let mother prepare black coffee--thou knowest how to do it perfectly."
"What more!" snorted she. "Perhaps it would be well to take the panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?"
Kranitski spread out his arms.
"Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can the stove and the glass have? There is no comparison between black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates me."
Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered, but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up: "Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a card for me; I will go and buy what is needed."
Kranitski struggled on the sofa.
"With what money wilt thou buy it, mother?"
But she was already in the doorway of the neighboring room, and gave no answer.
"Is it with thy own?" cried Kranitski, "surely with thy own! I know that mother is spending her capital this good while--" She came back with the checkered kerchief over her head, without spectacles, and ready for the errand.
"Well, what if I do spend it? Hast thou not Lipovka? Thou hast, and what I lend thou wilt return. Oi, oi! I stand with one foot in the grave, and should I fight about a rouble when thou art in need of it?"
Kranitski raised his hands and his eyes: "What a heart!" whispered he; "what attachment! No one can equal the old servants of our ancient families!"
After a few minutes steps were heard in the antechamber of people coming in, and the fresh voice of a man cried: "May one see the master of this place?"
Kranitski ran to the antechamber.
"Of course, my dears! You make me happy, altogether happy!"
And indeed he had the face of a man made happy, and also tilled with emotion; for, taking his place in one of the armchairs opposite Maryan, who sat in another, he listened to the baron's narrative, which gave details of his recent expedition. Baron Emil was uncommonly vivacious, but at the same time he feigned to be more nervous and excited than usual.
He did not sit down for one instant.
"Merci, merci" said he to the master of the house who indicated a chair to him; "I am in such a condition, that really, I cannot sit in one place. Something within me is toiling, and crying, and biting. I am full of trembling of hopes, and of anger--" A brick-colored rosy blush appeared on his yellow cheeks; as usual, he spoke through his nose and through his teeth, but more quickly than common. While walking through the drawing-room he said, that in smaller and greater country residences which he had visited he had found a few remnants of former wealth, specimens of art, and of ornamental industry, which were of considerable, and sometimes even of high, value. A multitude of these rich things had been acquired by the English, who had circled about through the country more than once in pursuit of them; but much remained yet, and the only need was to inquire, seek, examine, and it was possible to find real treasures, even, often most unexpectedly. He halted before Maryan.
"I say this because who, for example, could hope or expect to find in possession of a schoolmaster, a teacher of geography, an absolute Arcadian, a picture by Steinle hung behind a door, smoked befouled by flies--an undoubted, a genuine Steinle--Edward Steinle--" "But is it undoubted?" interrupted Maryan; "once more I turn thy attention to certain traits which seem to speak in favor of Kupelweiser."
"What, Kupelweiser!" cried the baron, walking still more quickly through the drawing-room. "No Kupelweiser, my dear; not a shadow of a Kupelweiser. Kupelweiser, though the teacher of Steinle was considerably inferior to him in drawing--that firmness and elegance of outline, that harmony of composition, that piety, that genuine compunction which is dominant in the faces of the saints--that is Steinle, the purest Steinle, undoubted Steinle, whose collection of cartoons in Frankfort--" "Was Steinle, for I do not recollect, pre-Raphaelite?" put in Kranitski timidly, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance.
"Yes, if you like," answered the baron, "we may reckon among the pre-Raphaelites the German school of Nazarenes. But this school is distinct."
"Then surely you examined this Steinle to-day, my dears, before you came to me?"
"Yes, we heard of it by chance; we went to examine it, and imagine, we found this pearl in the possession of an Arcadian who has neither a conception, nor the shadow of a conception of the Nazarenes, or who Steinle--" "But perhaps we should pardon him," laughed Maryan, "for the Germans themselves know almost nothing of Steinle, who fell into disfavor among his successors."
"On the contrary!" exclaimed the baron, "I beg pardon, my dear, real judges always value him highly, and he is greatly sought for by museums. His cartoons when placed at the side of Overbeck's Triumph of Religion in Art lose nothing; on the contrary, that compunction distinguishes his figures."
"But thou canst not compare him with Overbeck!" said Maryan, with indignation.
"I can, I can! I make him equal to Overbeck; and I consider him superior to Fuhrich and Veit--" "I will give thee Veit, but as to Overbeck, that marvellous melancholy which fills the eyes of his women--" "It is earthly, earthly, rather than that perfect expression from beyond which is dominant in Steinle's figures. In this regard Steinle is the only man whom we may compare with Fra Angelico--" "I would rather compare him with Lippo-Mani."
"Perhaps," said the baron, half agreeing, "as Fuhrich, whenever I look at him, reminds me of Buffalmaco."
"And me, of Piero di Cosimo."
"No, no," objected the baron, "Piero di Cosimo in coloring is different from Fuhrich and Buffalmaco."
"I can compare Buffalmaco, to-day, with Rossetti alone."
In this manner they conversed some time longer of the Italian painters of the epoch preceding Raphael, and of their modern followers. At times disputing slightly; at times growing enthusiastic in company, till they agreed in one opinion; namely, that the greatest master of painting, whom it was impossible to compare with anyone among contemporaries, was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, an Englishman, but that the school of German Nazarenes, to which Overbeck, Steinle, Fuhrich, and others belonged, was, in spite of certain inequalities and weaknesses, altogether pure Quatrocento.
"Yes, Quatrocento," finished the baron; "who knows even if they are not purer, more perfect Quatrocento than Rossetti and Morris."
Kranitski listened, spoke rarely, while something within him began to weep. He, too, loved art, but how far was he now from its loftiest caprices. How much would he give if those dear boys there, those noble hearts, would speak of something else to him, of something nearer. After a time he remarked with a smile to which he brought himself with effort: "Then you have the first parts of that golden fleece which you are to bear beyond the sea?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the baron, "the golden fleece! splendidly said! In truth, we shear the sheep, or, if you like, the shepherds, for you cannot imagine what a rheumatism of thought in this matter prevails throughout the country. No man knows the value of what he has; no man knows what he possesses. There is no conception of art; no aesthetic knowledge. In my journey I felt as if wandering through ancient Scythia. All are related to me, or are old neighbors of my parents; they greeted me with open arms. Kisses with saliva, and chops cooked in buckwheat-grits! Their rooms are filled with progeny, who look as though they might grow up without trousers. The parents we may almost call, now, the shirtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes tears of gratitude. They saw in me a saviour. Had I wished, I might have won the glory of a patriot bringing salvation to his countrymen. But glory is a painted pot. I am not a man to be covered with labels. I buy cheap to sell dear, that is my game. And, though I told them this, they kissed me. I filled their mouths, which were suffering from that hunger which goes before harvest. They opened old cupboards before me, also storehouses; one man even opened a chapel in which I found church-cloths of incomparable antiquity. I suspect that one of these is of Flemish make, and reaches back to Robert the Pious, just such a one did I see in the museum at Cluny. Finally, a number of images; some girdles and brocades; some old weapons, which would befit John of Dresden very well; this is my booty. Here we have discovered one Overbeck and one Steinle; but Maryan, during my absence, found, somewhere, Saxon porcelain, of incredible age, in perfect preservation. But this is only the beginning. There will be a whole harvest of these things, a whole harvest!"
"A golden fleece!" whispered Kranitski.
He grew more and more gloomy, and felt in his right side a pain which was well-nigh unendurable. The tone in which the baron gave account of his journey in regions about his birthplace, roused almost instinctive disgust in Kranitski. He looked at Maryan. Was he the same also? After a while he asked: "Has the American project crystallized thoroughly? Is it settled? Are you going to America surely?"
"It has crystallized this far," answered Maryan, "that I start no later than to-morrow. Emil will remain here some weeks yet. I, to become acquainted with the people and the country, leave here to-morrow."
Kranitski straightened himself and sat there dumb for a time, with fixed look, then he repeated: "To-morrow?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Maryan; and, when the baron sat down after long walking, he rose, and began in turn to walk through the drawing-room, declaring that he had come to-day purposely to take farewell of Kranitski.
"I could not go without taking farewell of my good, old man," said he.
It may be that he would not have gone so soon had not certain details made his life impossible. One of these details was, that the week before his father had withdrawn the allowance paid up to that time. A certain period had ended just a week earlier, and, through commands from above, the treasury had withheld payment.
In speaking of this Maryan grew red in the face; the vein in his forehead swelled like a blue cord; his eyes glittered brightly. He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and practical views had won the victory. He demanded that in one of the factories belonging to him, Maryan should begin a course of self-restraint, obedience, and labor.
"Our two individualities," said Maryan, "came into collision, and sprang back in a state of complete inviolability--not the least dint was made on Mm or on me. Our wills remained unbroken. He, of course, is a man with a mighty will. It seemed at first that the death of that poor little Cara crushed him, but he straightened quickly, and now again he is going through genuine orgies of his iron labor. I admire that integrity of will in him, and I confess that it is a power of the highest quality; but I have no thought of abdicating my own personality because my father, with all his undoubted endowments, has a head badly ventilated. It may be that one of my great-grandfathers said, that if one child gave itself as food to worms, another should give itself to be crushed by its father's chariot. But I am not my own great-grandfather, and I know that every yielding of one's self to be tormented by Pavel to amuse Gavel is a painted pot."
"It is a darned sock!" added the baron.
Another reason why Maryan had to leave the city without delay was the impression produced on him by the death of that poor little girl. But he did not admit that so many atavistic instincts were at work in him. He was a man of the new style, but he experienced now the spiritual condition of his great-grandfather, which affected him so that, like Maeterlinck's Hjalmar, he wished to throw handfuls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in "Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming: Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have pale and sickly souls.
He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries.
He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes, and after a rather long silence, he added: "Thou art going away I see!"
And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired: "Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the house.' What is going on there?"
To this the baron answered, with growing blushes: "How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in a few days--for a retreat?"
"To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there."
Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin: "Then--" "Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether, and Panna Irene the sunny day."
The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and malicious.
"But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of her idyl Panna Irene has much in her, very much of the cry of life, of that beautiful impulse toward--what Ruysbrook called love in action, toward ecstatic impressions, and with such a disposition, as far as my skill extends in this matter, it is difficult to halt at the mere spectacle of sparrows making love outside one's window--" "A truce to malicious phrases, Emil," interrupted Maryan. "Thou art not threatened with the fate of Werther because my sister has broken with thee--" "Of course not!" laughed the baron.
And Maryan added quickly: "And thou shouldst even offer up to her that painted pot, called gratitude, because she has not closed to thee the road to some daughter of a multi-millionnaire Yankee. America possesses men of 'iron toil,' whose daughters are far richer than the daughters--alas! than the only daughter of my father."
"Perhaps! perhaps!" agreed the baron; "the daughters of the richest American fathers pay very high prices for European titles. In this way, or another, or both together, I may make a colossal fortune. Yes, wealth is a door before which the heralds of life have their station--I am not a man pasted over with labels. I confess that this perspective entices me; what I possess now is merely a little crumb for my hunger of life. I shall leave here greedy for new sensations and new profits--eager for love in action and for gain."
After a moment's silence Kranitski whispered: "They are going!"
"They are going: Then glancing along the faces of the two young men, he added: "You are going!"
"Yes," said the baron, "and therefore we make a certain proposition. Perhaps you would take upon yourself to be one of our agents."
He presented in detail a plan of the enterprise--to carry out this there would be agents disposed through the whole country to discover and purchase.
"We need aesthetic persons, a company of developed men, and it is difficult, very difficult to find them. In this country sterility reigns throughout the whole region of gray matter in the brain--it is sterility in the great gray substance--if you wish--" Kranitski was silent. It was not long since he had desired this position, perhaps, and something which might attach him to people and to life. But now--during this discourse with his two friends--an increasing disgust had seized hold of him. The sarcasm of the baron about shirtless parents who kissed him with lips suffering from hunger before harvest pierced his heart cruelly. In his mind hovered the words "departure, death!" and before his imagination rose the vision of a flock of birds flying in every direction.
To buy cheap to sell dear! That was vile! At the same time he felt that the pains in his side and his heart had grown keener, and a feeling of faintness possessed him. After a moment's thought, he said: "No, my dear friends; it seems that I shall not be able to serve you. I am sick--I am growing old--besides, my dears, I must tell you openly--" He hesitated, and took from the table his gold case, which he had opened before the guests. He meditated a moment, and then said: "Your undertaking has sides which wound my sense of propriety somewhat. This business will always be buying in a temple, even in temples, I might say, for art is sacred, and so is the fatherland. You are both too clever to require explanation on this point. The loneliness in which I shall be when you are gone frightens and pains me--pains me immensely, but I am forced to say that I shall not be with you in this matter; no, decidedly, I shall not be of your company."
By nature Kranitski was averse to disputes, and for various reasons unused to them, hence he had begun to speak with hesitation and dislike; but afterward he rested his shoulder against the arm of the sofa, and with head somewhat raised, twirling the cigarette-case in his hand, he had the look of a great lord, especially if compared with the baron, who always seemed somewhat like a mosquito preparing to bite. And this time he began with a sneering smile: "You are always painted in the color of romantic poetry of sacred memory. While you were speaking I seemed to be listening to 'a postillion, playing under the windows of incurable patients,' and--" But Mary an rose from his armchair, and broke in: "As for me, I respect individuality; and since that of our beloved Pan Arthur is developed in his way, we have no right to insist on attacking him with ridicule. To be ridiculous proves nothing. 'Thou art ridiculous,' is no argument. I may be ridiculous in the eyes of another man, though right in my own. But a truce to discussion; I remind thee, Emil, of our porcelain--" "Yes, yes!" replied the baron, and he rose also. "We must take farewell of our beloved friend here--" At that moment, through the open door of the sleeping-room, entered Mother Clemens with a great tray. Since she had gratified her favorite she wished to do it in the best manner possible. On her head was a cap as white as snow; the clattering overshoes were no longer on her feet; and a checkered kerchief was arranged neatly, even with elegance, across her bosom. On the tray were small glasses, a bottle of liqueur, a pate de foie gras, and three cups from which rose the excellent odor of coffee. All this she placed on a table before the sofa, and left the little drawing-room with gloomy eye, but firm foot.
Kranitski sprang up from the sofa.
"My dearest friends, I beg you--take a glass of liqueur, that which thou lovest, baron--Maryan, a little of the pate de foie gras--" But they touched their watches simultaneously.
"No, no!" began the baron, refusing, "we have only three minutes left."
"We lunched at Borel's, who, as my father says, gives us Lucullus feasts."
Kranitski did not cease to urge them. Certain habits or instincts of a noble brightened his eyes, and shaped his arms in gestures of entreaty. But they resisted. In five minutes they must be in that apparently wretched antiquarian shop, where Maryan had discovered the amazing porcelain. The baron, giving his hand to Kranitski in parting, said: "We shall see each other again. You will visit me. I do not leave for a number of weeks--I doubt if this porcelain comes from Meissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory in Meissen?"
"In 1709," answered Maryan, and to Kranitski he said: "Adieu, my good friend, adieu; be well, and write to me sometimes. Thou wilt find the address with Emil."
He turned to the door; Kranitski held him by the hand, however, and looked into his face with eyes which were mist-covered.
"Then it has come to this; for long years! It may be forever!"
"Well, well! See, thou art growing tender," began Maryan, but he stopped, and over his rosy face passed something like a shade of feeling.
"Well, my old man, embrace me!"
And when Kranitski had held him long in his arms, he said: "La! La! leave regrets! Some ancient poet has told us that man is a shadow that is dreaming of shadows. We have been dreaming, my good friend-. The only cure is to jest at every thing, come what may!"
With these words, Maryan went to the anteroom and put on his overcoat; meanwhile, the baron said: "That cannot have come from Meissen, nor be of the year 1709. That is much more recent. It comes from the Ilmenau factory--" "How so? Say rather that it comes from Prankenthal?"
The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked: "It is too smooth and shining for such an old date."
Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock: "It is polished with agate."
And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold, began: "And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit--" The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room, and whispered: "'Polished with agate'--'Biscuit,' and those are their last words!"
Some minutes later, in a Turkish dressing-gown with patched lining and mended sleeves, Kranitski lay on his long chair, opposite his collection of pipes, and, in deep thought, twirled his golden cigarette-case. In vain did Mother Clemens urge him to eat a little of that Arabian pate and drink a glass of liqueur; he tried, but could swallow nothing. Sorrow had closed his throat; he was sunk in reminiscences. He felt with perfect tangibleness that breath of cold air which was blowing around him. In this manner did Time blow on the man--Time, that merciless jester, who had always circled about playing various pranks on him; but Kranitski had never looked into the face of that jester, with attention. Occasionally, sorrow and grief had come to him in company with the trickster, but they were transient, not of the kind which go into the depth of the heart, but such as slip along over the surface. He grew gloomy; was sorry for having lost someone, or having missed something, and passed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long continued youth, humming some fashionable ditty; or, with tender smile on his lips, living easily and joyously in endless pursuit of agreeable trifles. But, now, he has the first look at Time, face to face and near by. The current has borne away; the abyss has swallowed; people, houses, relations, feelings, and nothing comes back from them but one word in a ceaseless murmur: "Gone! gone! gone!" That which is ended to-day calls to the man's mind all things that have been. That past is to him something in the form of a mighty grave, or rather a catacomb, composed of a host of graves, through the openings of which are visible the absent; not only those snatched away by death, but also those gone through separation, removal, oblivion. Dead were faces once dear; faded were moments once precious; portions of life had dropped into dust; and Time, standing before the catacomb, his cheeks swollen in jeering, puffs his cold breath of the grave on that man who is calling up the past.
Kranitski wrapped himself closely in his dressing-gown; hung his head so low that the bald spot, whitening on his crown, became visible; his lower lip dropped; red furrows came out above his black brow. Mother Clemens stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Wilt thou eat dinner now?" inquired she.
He made no answer. She withdrew, but returned in half an hour bringing a cup of black coffee.
"Drink," said she, "perhaps thou wilt grow cheerful, and I will tell the news from Lipovka."
She pushed a small table to the long chair, sat down with hands on her knees, and with immense attention in the expression of her quick and shining eyes, fell to repeating the substance of a letter just received from her godson, the tenant of Lipovka. He wrote that he had repaired the dwelling; that he was living himself in a building outside; that he had put the place in order most neatly, as if for the arrival of the owner. The furniture was the same as in the time of the former master; though old, it was sound yet, and beautiful, because repaired and cleaned. The garden was larger than of old, for many fruit-trees had been added. The bees, brought in recently, were thriving. It was quiet there; calm, green in summer; white in winter; not as in that cursed city of throngs and shouting-- She laughed.
"And there is no Berek Shyldman there."
Then she added: "Be at rest about debts. Thou wilt sell thy pipes and cupids, and if they do not bring enough, I will give all my own things. All that I have I will give, and I will drag thee out of this hell. Oh, Arabian adventure! If this lasts longer, thou wilt lose the last of thy health; thou wilt go deeper in debt, and die in a hospital. Tulek, dost thou hear what I say? Why not answer?"
And since he made no answer even then, she continued: "But rememberest thou that Lipovka grove beyond the yard? It is there yet. Stefan has not cut it down; God forbid! And dost thou remember how beautifully the sun sets behind that grove?"
When the sun had gone down in the world it began to grow dark in Kranitski's room. And Mother Clemens continued in the thickening twilight: "And rememberest thou how quiet the evenings are there? In summer, the nightingales sing; in autumn, the bagpipes play; in winter, God's winds rush outside the wall and roar; but, inside, it is honest, and quiet, and safe."
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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What Maryan had told Kranitski about Darvid was true. The man was engaged in real orgies of labor. His assistants and associates were bending beneath it, and losing breath; he seemed more untiring than ever: Counsels, meetings, accounts, balances, correspondence, discussions with functionaries of the government, of finance, and of industries, banks, bureaus, exchanges, auctions, etc. And in all this appeared order, sequence, punctuality, logic, lending to the course of these gigantic interests the seeming of a machine with multitudes of wheels moved by a force elemental, invincible. For even those who had known him longest and most intimately, Darvid had become this time a surprise; he had surpassed himself. The number of men was continually increasing who began to look on him as on a rare phenomenon of nature. Whence did the man get such uncommon mental and physical vigor? From mid-day till hours which were far beyond midnight he was unceasingly active. When has he time to sleep and take rest? What is he seeking to reach? What will he reach? This last question brought out before the imagination of men certain summits of financial might, to be reared to such dizzy heights for the first time in the history of the country. A giant of mentality and energy. Some said: He is superhuman.
But in the immense number of men connected with Darvid by a net of most varied relations there were some to whom he seemed a curious enigma, representing a certain inveterate struggle, the motives of which rested on the mysterious bases of his being. That hurling of himself with greater force than at any time hitherto into the whirl of occupations and business; that exertion to the remotest limits of the possible, directed toward one object of thought and energy, seemed to penetrating eyes, not merely a thirst for acquisition and profit, but a desperate conflict with something undiscovered and invisible. At that moment of his life it seemed to some that Darvid was like a man running straight forward and with all his might, because he felt that were he to halt, something awful would seize him. Others said, that he called to mind a man into whose ear some buzzing insect had crept, and who was hiding in a factory filled with uproar which was to drown the unendurable buzzing of the insect.
The truth was, that Darvid was building at that time, and with iron labor, a wall between himself and the giantess whom, for the first time in life, he had seen face to face, and very closely. It was clear enough that he had always known, not merely of her existence, but of this, that there was no power in the world more familiar than that giantess; still, this knowledge of his had been in a comatose condition, something separated altogether from the every-day substance of life, and touching which there had never been any need of thinking. Someone dies--a certain acquaintance; a comrade in amusement; a famous, or unknown power in the world--what do people say? A pity that he is gone! or, no help for it! Well, what influence can the disappearance of that man exercise on a given sphere of human action; on the course of men's relations and interests? Life, like a rushing river, tears all living men forward, and behind them, ever more distant, remains that misty region, which is filled with the vanished and forgotten. Who are they who, at any time, think of that misty region, and look at the face of the giantess who reigns in it? Priests, perhaps, devotees it may be; a few poets at times; or people who sail on a slow and sad stream in life. Darvid had never had time for such thoughts. The stream which bore him on was rushing and roaring, glittering and turbulent.
But the giantess, because of her power, sprang over all golden mountains--and came! He was thinking of this at the moment when Kranitski saw him standing at the wall and squeezing into its snowy drapery, just as a frightened insect might squeeze itself into a cranny. That was a cranny in one more of his golden mountains. In the great city, people had spoken with amazement of the cost, well-nigh fabulous, of that last chamber of the millionnaire's little daughter. He had means to do that and much more. What are those means to him? He had vanquished enormously great things in life, and he had immense power at that moment. But of what use is that power to him, since something has come which he cannot overthrow; something against which he can do nothing, and which has struck him doubly--struck his heart with pain, and his head with anxiety? What virtue is there in power which cannot shield a man from suffering? And even suffering is not important, since man can battle with it; but to shield against annihilation! That, at which he was looking then so nearly, was a sudden and merciless annihilation of life, blooming in all its charm and with great fullness. Something out of the air, something out of space, and from beyond boundaries attainable by human thought, had rushed in and trampled down that life fresh and beautiful. A power invincible--not to be bribed by wealth, persuaded by reason, or vanquished by energy. A mysterious power--the beginning and object of which were unknown, which had flown in on silent wings and swept from the earth everything that it wished to take; and, against this, there were no means of resistance, or rescue. It seemed to him that the gloomy rustle of giant wings was filling that snowy chamber of the dead from edge to edge; and, for the first time in life, he felt things beyond mankind and the senses. His breast, which had breathed with pride; his head, which held one faith, the might of reason, and that which reason can accomplish, were struck now by an incomprehensible secret, which roused in him for the first time a feeling of his own inconceivable insignificance. He felt as small as an earth-worm must feel when on the grass along which it is crawling--the shadow of a vulture falls as it sweeps through the azure sky--and as the worm hides in the crack of a stone, so he sank into the snowy folds of crape and muslin which veiled the walls of that chamber. He felt as weak as if he were not a man of strong will and splendid labor, but a little child which is unable to push aside with its tiny fingers the terror which is standing out in front of it. With his shoulders and one half of his head sunk in the snowy folds, with his glance fixed on the sleeping face of Cara, which was visible among the white flowers, he said to her, mentally: "I can do nothing, nothing for thee, little one! I can do much, almost anything; but for thee I can do nothing!" Slender, grayish bits of smoke passed above her sleeping face, and, impelled by invisible movements of air, stretched in waving threads from her to him. Just at that moment he saw Kranitski come from an inner apartment of the house and kneel at the steps strewn with flowers. He looked; he recognized the man, and felt none of those emotions which his name alone had roused in him previously. What were human anger, hatred, disagreement in presence of that immense something into whose face he was gazing at that moment? What could Kranitski, hitherto hateful to Darvid, be to him now, when he said to himself: "I know not; I understand not; it is impossible to comprehend this; and still it is real; since I--I can do nothing for thee, my little daughter."
But this was not the only discovery which he was to make on that occasion. He knew not how many hours he had passed in that chamber, but he saw the dawn, which drew a blue lining beyond the snowy folds which covered the windows, and then he saw the sun which flooded it with molten gold; he heard clocks striking a number of times in a chamber; one of these clocks was bass, and announced the hours slowly somewhere behind him, while another before him answered in a thinner and more hurried voice, till, all at once, beyond the closed doors, in one of the drawing-rooms, music was heard. Darvid knew what the meaning of that was: another golden mountain which he had reared for the "little one."
Much gold had been poured out in bringing those voices, the chorus of which raised a hymn of prayer and sorrow above his dead daughter. But previously the door was opened, and the white chamber was half filled with the highest of the most brilliant society in that city, showing signs of profound respect and sympathy. Prince Zeno escorted Malvina Darvid, who was all in tears and black crape. Maryan brought in the princess. Irene entered, leaning on the arm of a young prince, celebrated for beauty; next came stars of these three powers: birth, money, and reputation. They were not many, since summits are always few in number; slight sounds were heard of bringing, giving, and moving chairs; there were whispers and the rustle of silk garments.
Black silks, laces, and crape; the black dress of men mixed with glittering white; hands folded sadly on knees, or crossed on breasts, with seriousness; faces sunk in thought--solemn stillness. Meanwhile, out of silence in the adjoining chamber, to the accompaniment of instrumental music, rose a grand funeral hymn, given by a chorus of the most famous artists in the city. The solemnity of the mourning, with its character of high life and unusualness, roused admiration for the man who had given such magnificent homage to his departed daughter. From out the mountain of gold gushed a fountain of enchanting music, on which that child sailed away beyond the boundaries of earthly existence.
Darvid did not greet those who entered; and, for the first time in life, perhaps, failed to meet the demands of society; they also, respecting a frame of mind which they divined in him, troubled the man in no way. He remained resting against the wall, and, from a distance, resembled a silhouette outlined on it darkly, as on a background. He looked on the brilliant assembly, from which he was separated by half the chamber, and felt that he was divided from those people by a space as great as if they were at one end of the world and he at the other end. Those shadows there whose names he knew, but who were nothing to him, and he nothing to them. They might exist, or not; that was all one to Darvid. Why had they come? Why were they there? Never mind, he knew only this, that they did not exist for him, as he did not for them. He was struck by the feeling of an immense vacuum, which divided him from men. This vacuum was something like a space which the eye could not take in, a space with two edges, on one of which he was found, and they on the other. They were by themselves, he was by himself.
The singing of the chorus rose in power, in thunders, then became like nightingale voices heard in space, with notes clear and resonant. Invisible movements of air passed along the crapes, and the immense number of tapers, causing the flames on them to quiver.
Darvid had not paid attention to music; he had never had time to learn and to love it; but he felt that those tones were passing into his vitals, moving the secret strata of his being, and bringing them into movements unknown to him till that moment. He looked at Cara's face, rising up among the white blossoms, and he thought, or rather felt that, while those others seemed removed by boundless space, she alone was very near to him. "Mine!" he whispered. She alone. He did not know precisely how that could happen, but mentally he placed that little head with golden hair upon his shoulders, and said to it: "Let us flee, little one! Thou didst ask me once what those people were to me. Now I will tell thee that they are nothing. I do not need them; they are strangers to me; with me they have no relations whatever; thou alone art needful to me; thou alone, such a sunray as I once saw on a journey and forgot, bright and warm. Thou alone art mine! Let us go; let us flee together from all and from everyone, for everything and all people are nothing to you and me; they are strange, and distant."
Here he remembered that never and nowhere would he be able to go with her, or to flee with her. He was joint possessor of a number of railroads; he had the power to employ for himself alone a number of trains passing over those roads; in the East, on a gigantic river, his own vessels were sailing, in clouds of steam; in one capital and another, and in this great city, swarms of people inhabited his houses--still he could not take that sleeping girl by land or by water, to any city, or to any house. To his eyes, which were raised toward her, a biting moisture began to come, and gathered into drops, a number of which flowed down his cheeks, and were shaken in every direction by quiverings of the skin.
But at that moment appeared on his lips the smile, which, as people said, was bristling with pin-points.
"What is this? Is it exaltation?"
He discovered exaltation in himself. A few days before, nay, down to that very night, he would have laughed at the supposition that in him it could darken judgment and clear vision. He thought, however, that a man is at times to himself the most marvellous of all surprises. Under various influences forces spring up in him, the presence of which he is farthest from suspecting. Darvid discovered, now in himself, the thing most unexpected: exaltation. The habit of a life-time; that which he had always considered as an unshaken conviction, rose now with loud laughter at itself. Will he begin now as a poet to write a threnody over his dead daughter, or like a monk yield himself to thoughts about death? Misery! Earlier, that word had occurred more than once to him, but only now does it career through his head freely. Still, he will not let exaltation master him. He must stand erect and look at things soberly.
He straightened himself; removed his shoulders from the wall; calmed his face and glance; by strength of will brought a greeting smile to his lips; and moved toward his guests. The moment the hymn stopped he gave his hand to those present, in very polite welcome, and thanked them with a few, but pleasant phrases. This was the beginning of one of those herculean struggles, the like of which he had fought many times in the past. This, in its farther course, had an orgie of labor, which he continued for a number of weeks, and which roused admiration, or curiosity, in every on-looker.
One day, between his return from the city and the hour of reception, he was standing in the blue drawing-room at the window, thinking: What that peculiar movement was which on returning from the city he noted while walking up the stairway. Porters were bearing out articles of some sort, which he did not examine, but which seemed to him pictures, and other things also. Was Maryan leaving the house? Perhaps. It was impossible to foresee what that self-sufficient and stubborn youth was capable of doing. But whatever happened he would not yield, and he would permit no longer that vain method of life, with its mad excesses, excesses which are costly. But in those recent hours everything, not excepting Maryan, had concerned him considerably less than before. Why was this? He did not answer that question, for he heard a noise of steps, and a whisper: "Aloysius!"
He looked around. It was Malvina greatly changed. Beneath her hair, dressed with stern simplicity, her forehead was furrowed with a dark, deep wrinkle; the corners of her pale mouth were drooping; on the back of her head a heavy roll of hair, coiled carelessly, dropped to her dress of black material, which was almost like the robe of a religious. She stood in the descending darkness, some steps from him. She had pronounced his name, but was unable to go further. Her white hand, resting on a small table, trembled; her head was inclined, and she raised to him eyes which were dim but had a painfully timid and anxious expression. They looked at each other for a moment, and then he inquired: "In what can I serve?"
The question was polite and formal. After a moment of hesitation, or of collecting her strength, she began: "Irene and I are to leave here in a few days. It is impossible for me to do this without speaking to thee, Aloysius. I have waited for a convenient moment, and seeing thee here, I have come."
She was silent again. She breathed quickly, and was excited. Standing toward her in profile, the definite and sharp outline of his face was fixed on the background of the window, beyond which was darkness; he inquired: "What is the question?"
She answered in a whisper: "Be patient--this is hard for me--" And as if fearing to exhaust that patience for which she was begging, the woman began hurriedly, and therefore without order, to say: "A common misfortune has struck us--thou hast been, Aloysius, so kind, so immensely loving to our poor Cara--when I go from here with, thou wilt be so much alone--Maryan has some project of travel--so perhaps--if it were possible--if thou couldst forget the past--I do not know even--forgive--if thou shouldst wish, I and Irene would remain--" While speaking she gained some courage; some internal motive was to be felt in her, which forced her to speak.
"I will not try to justify myself before thee, Aloysius, nor to deny that I am guilty--I will say only this, that I, too, was unhappy, and that my fault has caused me dreadful suffering. I wished to say to thee, Aloysius, that, perhaps, even on thy part also, for thou didst not know me--that is, thou didst know my face, my eyes, my hair, the sound of my voice, and they pleased thee, hence thou didst make me thy wife, but thou didst not know my soul, and didst not wish to be its confidant, or its defender. This soul was not devoid of good desires; not without some small beginning of heartfelt happiness--though it was the unfortunate soul of a woman attacked by wealth and idleness. But thou, Aloysius, didst make a rich woman of a girl who, though poor and a toiler, held her head high--thou didst make her a rich and unoccupied woman, who--was left to herself at all times. Still, it was thy wish and demand that I should represent thy name in society with the utmost effect; thy name; thy firm, as thou didst call it."
She was silent, for her eyes met his smile which was bristling with pin-points.
"It seems to me," said he, "that in this tragic piece which it pleases thee to play, the role of villain will fall to me."
"Oh, no!" cried she, clasping her hands. "Oh, no! I did not wish to complain of thee in any way, or to make reproaches--I have not the right--but--I think that since all of us in this world are guilty in some way, and life is so sad, and all is so--poor, it would perhaps be better to forgive each other--to yield, to renounce. This is what I think, and though my pride is wounded this long time because all that I must use is thine, I yield, and I will use it, though my only wish is to go from here, to withdraw from the world, to vanish forever in some lonely corner--" Her voice quivered, shaken by sobbing, but she restrained herself and finished: "I will renounce this desire, and remain, if--only thou wish--if only thou wilt not despise me--" With his profile outlined more and more sharply on the window-pane, which grew darker from the gloom, he answered, after a moment of silence: "I have not the strength for it. I am very sorry; but in me is not stuff to make the hero of a Christian romance. Thou hast perfect freedom of movement; Krynichna belongs to thy daughter. Thou mayst vanish with her in that 'lonely corner,' in which I cannot wish pleasant lives to you, or remain and live here as hitherto, which I could understand better; but in no case--" He stopped suddenly, and was silent.
While speaking with that woman he had felt beneath his throat a coil of snakes stifling him, but in his brain certain memories were sounding, as it were voices, the echo of something distant. This echo issued from that woman's features, changed and faded, though the same in which on a time he had fixed his eyes with rapture, from the sound of her voice, which, at all times, had possessed for him a charm beyond description. His head, as if pressed by something above him and invisible, dropped with an almost indiscernible movement. Shall he forgive? And what would the result be? An idyl? Harmony? A return to family happiness? Folly!
That can never be. Only one thing in this world is undoubted and indestructible: a fact. A fact has taken place, and there is no power in existence to cause that fact not to be. All views except this are exaltation! After a moment of silence he finished coldly and with deliberation: "In no case can my feelings, or our relations be subject to change."
She rested her hand against the table more firmly, and bent her head lower--through that head were still wandering certain thoughts of a return to pure womanly honor through expiation, through yielding obediently to the will of the offended.
Then she began in a very low voice: "Can I aid thee in any way?"
After a moment of silence he answered: "No."
"Can I be of use to thee in anything?"
He was silent a little longer, and said: "No," a second time.
The profile which had been turned to her was looking now through the window-pane to a ruddy cloud, which was moving on in darkness above the roof opposite, that cloud reminded him of something. She looked at him, and, after a moment, added: "Our daughter will write to thee, Aloysius."
He interrupted her, hurriedly: "Thy daughter!"
She began in astonishment: "Irene--" He knew now that that ruddy cloud moving over the darkening sky reminded him of Cara. He turned his face toward the face of the woman standing there.
"Irene is thy daughter," said he--"for what meaning have blood-bonds when there are no others? I had a child who was my own--" At that moment desire for revenge boiled up in him; the desire to crush, so he finished: "And I lost her--through thee!"
"Through me?"
Her questioning cry was full of amazement.
"Thou knowest of nothing then? They have hidden it from thee? A proper regard for the delicate nerves of a woman! But my rude nerves of a man feel the need of sharing this knowledge with thy nerves."
Slowly and emphatically he uttered his words; words which, from moment to moment, were hissed through his pallid lips, and thus he concluded: "Once thy daughter had an interesting conversation with me; a very interesting conversation about--everything which took place in our family idyl. The little girl, hidden behind some furniture, heard the conversation, and became mentally disordered--oh! temporarily, of course, and this would have passed, but under its influence she exposed herself to the cold night air so as to die. Inflammation of the lungs was complicated by mental disorder. Her death--was suicide."
The last words went out of his straitened throat in a suppressed whisper, still they were so definite as to be heard in every part of the great chamber. They were deadened, however, by the overpowering shriek of the woman and the noise made as her body fell to the floor. Pani Darvid's knees bent under her, and dropping, with her face in her hands, her head struck the corner of the table near which she had been standing. At that moment Irene shot into the chamber; like a skylark, flying forward to defend its little ones, she ran to her mother, and surrounding her bent form with both arms, she raised to her father a face covered with a flood of tears.
"A needless cruelty, father," cried she. "Ah, how I hid this from her; how I tried to hide it! This is a needless cruelty! I thought that a man as wise as thou would do nothing so uncalled for. But thou hast committed a vileness!"
Darvid made an abrupt movement, but restrained himself, and with his face toward the window he heard the retreating footsteps of the two women. There was a second of time during which he turned his head, and his lips moved as if some word, a name was to escape from him. At that moment the two women, holding to each other, moved slowly through the next drawing-room, advanced in the increasing darkness, and vanished. He uttered no word. What was his feeling when she shrieked and struck her head against the edge of the table? Was it pity? Perhaps. Was it a quiver of sorrow for that past which had left him forever, and for that daughter who went out with the word "vileness" hanging on her lips? Perhaps. But he said nothing; he uttered no name. He remained alone. It was silent around him and empty. Emptiness occupied that part of space beyond the window, for the rosy cloud which had passed there a while before had vanished. The figure of Darvid standing at the window became darker in that gloom, which, growing denser, dimmed and then concealed the white, the blue, and the gilding of the great drawing-room. By degrees the lines of his face became invisible; his trembling hands and the quiver of the skin on his cheeks were no longer to be distinguished, and Darvid appeared on the gray background of the window as a narrow and perfectly black line. He did not go away, for he was riveted there, fixed in thought, filled with amazement. In this way, in this manner then, all things on earth are ended. Those invisible giants, Death, Insanity, Anguish, Rage, go about the world trampling, crushing, rending, and no man has power to arrest them! He had never thought about those giants. How could he? Was he a philosopher? He had not had time to think. Now he was thinking, and at the bottom of his stony meditation he beholds a pale, dreadful visage. Something which recalls a Medusa-head, which he had seen some time in a picture. It has struggled out of raging waves, and is resting on them face upward; its hair is torn; its gaze has endless depth; and on its blue lips is a jeering smile. What is it jeering at? Perhaps at the grandeur of the man who appears as a narrow line on the gray background of that window, black, and alone as he is, in the gathering gloom and the silence?
Now something soft and timid touches his feet, and he sees a little dark point moving. He stoops and calls: "Puffie!"
At the floor was heard thin barking. Puffie had always barked that way to call the attention of his mistress.
Darvid bent low with his hand on the silky coat, and repeated: "Puffie!"
Then he straightened himself, and, leaving the window, called several times in succession: "Puffie! Puffie!"
The black line moved on, in the gray darkness, through two drawing-rooms, and behind it, on the floor, rolled the dark small ball-like object, till a space of bright light gleamed before them. This was the widely open door of his clearly lighted study.
In the door the footman pronounced loudly a name, at the sound of which Darvid's step quickened. At last the man had returned--the envoy, the agent, the hound had come hack! Beyond doubt he brings favoring news, otherwise he would have no cause to come. Hence, that colossal business; that immense arena of toil and struggle, through which an enormous vein of gold runs, may belong to Darvid. How timely this is! The business will freshen him; snatch him out of the evil dreams into which he has fallen for some time past. Indeed, all these exaltations, all these elements of feeling, which have risen in him with such power, are an unwholesome and nervous dream, out of which he must shake himself and return to clear, sober, sound reality.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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