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A rather long series of days had passed when Darvid entered his clear, brightly lighted study, after winning one of the very greatest triumphs of his life. In the antechamber he had thrown into the hands of a footman, not his fur, but a somewhat light overcoat; for that day, which for him had been lucky, was succeeded by a warm, spring evening. Whoever might have seen him when he was leaving the lofty threshold of the highest dignitary in that city must have said to himself: "Happy man!" Though he had grown evidently thin during recent days; gladness and pride were beaming from his smile; from his eyes; from his serene forehead. He possessed now that for which he had striven long in vain: he held in his hand the colossal enterprise; before him was a broad arena for iron toil and a great vein, of gold. It is true, that while making ready for that moment of triumph, he had spent days and nights like a Benedictine over piles of books and documents, calculating, combining, covering many folios of paper with arguments and figures. He had toiled immensely, thinking of nothing save the toil; and now, when he stood at his object as a conqueror, all people said: he is happy! He had received a multitude of congratulations already; in the eyes of men he had read much admiration. He had just returned from a meeting where, by accurate and fluent speech, he had convinced and won over a numerous assembly of men of uncommon keenness and significance. Thus had he passed the day; now, in the middle of the evening, he returned to his house; and when he had given the servant in attendance the brief command: "Receive no one!" he asked: "Where is the little dog?"
After that he dropped into a deep armchair near the round table, and had the face, for a while, of a man who is waking from sleep. For a number of days he had been so buried in thought over this weighty enterprise, and that day from early morning he had been so absorbed by the feeling of that victory which he had won, that he had had no time to think of any other thing; now, after a long time, in the first moment of inactivity which had fallen to him, he felt as if waking from sleep, and he was brought to thinking by the question: "Well? What is it for?"
Just this question was to him at that moment reality, while every other thing was accomplished by the power of habit. He had toiled, calculated, triumphed, just as a round body rolls over an inclined plane by the force of acquired motion. Under this surface-life, which had been the one which he had led so long exclusively, was now another one which seized a continually increasing area; this new life, a mystery to every other man, had become for him more tangible than the entire visible universe. Out of it was growing an irresistible, importunate riddle, enclosed in the brief words: What for?
These two brief words kept returning to his mind during every moment of rest, so that hours of noise and movement seemed to him a dream, and only those two words--unceasingly recurrent--the one true reality over which there was reason to be anxious.
Why had he taken on his head and hands this new burden of toil, which was greater than all the others? Why, in general, this climbing a sky-touching ladder with exertion of all his strength of nerve and brain? To what kind of heaven could he climb upon that ladder? New profits, ever-increasing wealth? But he had ceased to desire these! Although that seemed marvellous to the man himself, he had ceased really. Why? Did he own little? He was the possessor of enormously much. He had never been of those who make a golden chariot so as to sit in it with Bacchantes and with Bacchus. But pride? He laughed. Yes, pride, but that was before he had known, intimately, those giants who sit in various corners of the earth. He knows them now; he knows what they can do; and he knows his own power. Why toil? What for? But his worth; that worth which people esteem so immensely that they almost cast themselves at his feet, or do they cast themselves before his golden chariot? For, if that chariot were to shoot away from under him, would he retain the title of modern Cid, Titan, superhuman? It was wonderful with what clearness he saw then Maryan, sitting in that chair, and how distinctly he heard his voice inquiring: "What is the object of your toil, father? The object; the object? That decides everything. What was the object? Of course, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now, since he had ceased to desire these, the question was--what for? But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone down so deeply into his father's being that those questions remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But what does that signify if--he lacks something? What is it that he lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it that he lacks?
With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such--with such what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did! That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into the darkness.
Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before, but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms. This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there, among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his father and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style, plan, and execution.
Lack of logic. Those three words had fixed themselves in Darvid's memory, and after the words "what for?" appeared in it most frequently. Could they really relate to him? Had he in fact committed an error in logic? Yes, it seemed so. In that case his clear, sober, logical reason had deceived him. He rose, and with his profile toward the door, felt again, rather than saw, a black wall of darkness beyond. Again a shiver ran along the skin of his shoulders, which quivered and bent somewhat. He went to the desk, from which he took another letter, thrown down a moment before, and unread yet. Something in the room was moving; certain little steps ran along the carpet quietly. Puffie had woke; had run to the man, and begun to squirm at his feet.
"Puffie!" said Darvid, and he began to read the letter. It was an invitation from Prince Zeno to a grand farewell ball. The prince and his family were going abroad, and wished to take farewell of their acquaintances in the first rank of them with the "modern Cid." Prince Zeno had often given this title to Darvid. But to-day the "modern Cid" read the letter of invitation while his mouth was awry from disgust. It had not the famous smile bristling with pin-points, but simply that disfigurement of the lips which accompanies the swallowing of something which is nauseating and repugnant. He placed before his mind the society in which some time before he had passed a few days at the hunting trip. This society would fill the prince's drawing-rooms on that day, and not only did he note in himself an utter absence of desire to be in that society, but a repulsion for it. Not that he cherished hatred toward those people, but they were perfectly indifferent to him. He did not reproach that society; but when he thought of it he was conscious again of a boundless space and a vacuum, which divided him from those who formed it. He imagined to himself Prince Zeno's drawing-rooms filled with faces, costumes, conversations, card-tables; and, it seemed to him, that it all existed at an immense distance--on the other side of a space that was infinite and empty--on one edge of this space was he; on the other were they; between him and them lay a vacuum; no bond between them; not even one as slender as a spider-web.
In the midst of the lofty chamber, above the round table, burned the lamp with a great and calm light; on the desk, in massive candlesticks, burned candles. In that abundant light Darvid stood near the desk, with bent shoulders; a number of wrinkles between his brows; his face inclined low toward the paper which he held in his hand. At his feet, on the rug, like a tiny statue, sat the motionless Puffie; with upraised head, and through silken hair, the dog looked into the face of the man. But Darvid did not see the little animal, and did not read the flattering phrases on the paper; he only repeated the words which, on a time, he had heard from his daughter: "What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you? What comes of this? Pleasure or profit? What is it all for?"
"I do not love them, little one, and they do not love me. Profit comes to me from this--significance in society."
"But what is significance to you, father? What do you want of significance? Does it give you happiness?"
This time there appeared on his lips the smile full of pinpoints, which was famous in society.
"It has not given it, little one!"
His child had let down on her question his thought to the basis of life, as if on threads. Now he looked around, and his smile was bristling with pin-points of irony, increasing in sharpness. He thought a long time before he said, aloud: "What comes of this?"
And afterward, in an inquiring tone, he almost cried: "An error?"
In the light of this thought that his life with its toils, its conflicts, and its triumphs could be an error, he saw, again, that Medusa-face, pale with terror.
Puffie, perhaps frightened by the cry which had been rent from his master, fell to barking. Darvid turned from the desk, and his glance met the black wall beyond the door.
"Was it an error?" he repeated.
The darkness was silent, and a face without eyes seemed to gaze at him persistently, with attention. He moved forward a few steps quickly, and pressed the bell-knob. To the incoming servant he indicated the door, and said: "Light up the drawing-rooms!"
After a few moments the series of drawing-rooms emerged from the darkness, and stood in the light of blazing lamps and candles. Globe-lamps, burning at the walls, cast a hazy half-light, in which glittered, here and there, golden gleams, and appeared the features of painted faces and landscapes.
From shady corners emerged, partially, the forms of slender and swelling vases; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate mists of dim colors on Gobelin tapestry; the bright scarlet and blue of silk drapery. Farther on, in the small drawing-room, burned, in two chandeliers, a bundle of tapers, beneath which hung a crown of crystals, glittering like icicles, or immense congealed tears. Farther on still, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a bright spot in the grand lamp of pendant bronze above the table. This point seemed very distant from Darvid's study; but on the whole expanse which divided him from it there was neither voice nor sound--there was nothing living. Notwithstanding the multitude of objects scattered, or collected, this was a desert on which silence had imposed itself.
From the threshold of the study to that door, beyond which the largest of the lamps was suspended as a shining object in its bronze above the table, Darvid moved, stepping with inclined face; at his lips the fire of a lighted cigarette; now, as it were, extinguished; and, now, shining up again. Behind him, right there near his feet, with the end of its snout almost touching the floor, rolled along little Puffie, like a bundle of raw silk.
After a while, the step of the advancing man grew more hurried and uneven; increasing disquiet was expressed in him; now the light scattering along the unoccupied and silent space the extent of that space, and he himself wandering along through it. What did all this signify? Here and there, in the gildings and polished surfaces, quivered flashes like playful gnomes; at other points, on bluish backgrounds, pale faces looked from tapestry thrown over furniture; still, farther, a great mirror reflects two clusters of lights, beneath which hang crystal pendants, and, increasing the perspective, made the space still greater, and the light more peculiar; in another place, from behind bluish folds depending from a door, appears a vase of Chinese porcelain; and, at that moment, it assumes, in Darvid's eyes, a strange appearance. Large, covered with blue decorations, it has a form which is swollen in the middle, but slender above, with a long neck, and not altogether visible; it seems to lean forward from behind the curtains, gaze at the passing man, follow his steps, and laugh at him. Yes, the Chinese vase is laughing--its body seems to swell more and more from laughter, and in the blue painting the white background has, here and there, a deceptive similarity to grinning teeth. Darvid strives not to look at the vase, and hastens on; behind him Puffie's shaggy feet tread the floor more hurriedly, but as he returns, the porcelain monster thrusts out its long neck again from behind the curtain, jeers, bares its teeth, and seems ready to burst from laughter. At the opposite side of that drawing-room, on a blue background, is the pale face of an old man, and from above a gray beard the sad and inquisitive eyes of the patriarch are settled on Darvid.
What does all this mean? Darvid halted in the centre of one of the drawing-rooms, right there behind him the bundle of raw silk halted also, and stood on its shaggy paws. What was he doing in those empty drawing-rooms; why had he commanded to light them? This act seems like madness. He called to mind recent acts of an insane king, who, in a brilliantly lighted edifice, listened alone to the rendering of an opera. Is he also becoming insane? Why is he not at work? He has so much to do! Darvid advanced quickly, and halted again. The Chinese vase inclined half way from behind the curtain, it seemed bursting from laughter. Work? What for? The object? The object? That decides everything! He turned his glance from the gnashing teeth of the Chinese monster, and it met the pale face of the patriarch, whose eyes, looking out at him from the blue background, and from above a gray beard, said with sadness, and inquiringly: "The wrong road!"
He had lost the road! Only the habit of restraining internal impulses, and the expression of them, kept him from crying "Help!" But he had the cry within him, and with a quick and uneven tread he went toward the great lamp burning at the end of the perspective, in the centre of the open space between the walls of the dining-room. Behind him ran along Puffie, with all the speed of his shaggy feet.
Meanwhile, in one of the drawing-rooms, the clock began to strike eleven--one, two, three. Its deep sounds penetrated slowly the empty space on which silence had imposed itself, until somewhere, at the other end of the perspective, a second clock began to strike, as if answering this one in a thinner voice and more hurriedly. This seemed a voice, an echo, a conversation carried on by things that were inanimate.
Darvid returned to his study, and pressing the knob of the bell again, said to his servant: "Put out the lights!"
He sat in one of the armchairs at the round table, and felt an unspeakable weariness from the crown of his head to his feet. Some light body sprang to his knee. He placed his hand on the silky coat of the creature nestling up to him, and said: "Puffie!"
He considered that he must renounce absolutely that colossal affair to obtain which he had struggled so long, because strength, and especially desire for such immense toil, seemed to fail him. He was so tired. But if he abandons toil what will he do; what is he to live for? What is the object of life? The darkness was silent, and as a face without eyes seemed to gaze on him with stubbornness and attention.
A few hours later, in a sleeping-room, furnished by the most skilled of decorators in the capital, a night-lamp, placed on the mantle, cast its light on a bed adorned with rich carving; a hand, white and thin, stretched forth on the silken coverlet, and a face, also thin, with ruddy side-whiskers, itself as if carved out of ivory, and gleaming with a pair of blue, sleepless eyes, which wandered through that spacious, half-lighted, chamber with a tortured and heavy expression.
All at once Darvid raised himself in bed, and, with his elbow on the pillow, gazed upward. Higher on the wall was the face of a maiden, small, oval, rosy, with thick, bright hair scattered above her Grecian forehead, and by a movement of her eyes she seemed to summon the man gazing at her. She smiled, with rosy lips, at him, lovingly, and moved her eyelids, inviting him. Darvid, with raised brows, and with his forehead gathered in a number of great wrinkles; with eyes turned to that picture above him bent forward still more, and, with trembling lips, whispered: "My little one." But immediately after he rubbed his eyes, and smiled. It was a picture by Greuze! There were two of them: one almost invisible in the shade; the other that one emerging from the shade into a half light in such fashion that the head of the maiden seemed to stand out from, the canvas as it were suspended.
"It is like Cara; very like her. The same type--the very same lips, hair, and forehead--" He knew that that was a painted face; still, with his head on the pillow, he raised his eyes to it frequently, and as often as he raised them he saw a loving smile on the rosy lips and the distinct movement of the eyes which seemed to call and invite him.
He thought that he was ill, unnerved; that he must summon in physicians. Next morning Darvid heard, in the study of a famous doctor, that his nerves were unstrung remarkably; suffering from a blow which had struck him--over-work. He had toiled beyond measure. There was only one cure: complete and long rest. A journey abroad. A change of impressions, after hard and special toil; life in the midst of splendid scenery and works of art.
Meditating afterward on this advice of the doctor, he thought that he had not the slightest wish to follow it. Neither nature nor art attracted him in any way. During his whole life he had not had the time for them, and it was too late now for new studies. Why was he to undertake a journey if not for that purpose? He had travelled much in his lifetime, but always on business, and with a clearly defined object; without business and an object, travelling through the world seemed to him exactly like that walking in the night through his empty, lighted mansion; something akin to madness.
What then? Days passed again in toil, amidst consultations and reckonings. The arranging of balances and reports--the round body rolled on by the power of impetus. At appointed hours he received visits. He received also Prince Zeno, who came to take farewell of him for many months, till the following winter.
"We are scattering, all of us," said the prince. "Like birds in autumn we are flying to places where the sun shines most beautifully. You, too, will go, of course. Whither? To the South or the East? Perhaps to that estate where your wife and daughter are passing the sad time of family mourning? But apropos of the country. You know that poor Kranitski; well, he came to take farewell of me. He has left the city; left it never to come back again. He has gone to the country. He is to remain on his estate--a small one, not over-pleasantly situated. I was there once on a visit to his mother, with whom I was connected by blood-bonds. A tiresome little hole, that place! But what is to be done? This handsome and once charming man has grown dreadfully old; the conditions of his life were difficult--so he has gone. Your son is making a long journey. Is he in the United States already? Baron Blauendorf is going there also; only yesterday he bade good-by to us. We scatter through the world; but, till we meet again? For I should be in despair were I to lose an acquaintance so precious and dear to me as yours is."
Ah, how indifferent it was to Darvid whether he should keep or lose acquaintance with Prince Zeno. He saw and recognized in the man many fine and agreeable qualities, but he would rather not see him, just as he would rather not see others. All seemed strange to him and distant. Conversation, even with the most agreeable and worthy, both wearied and annoyed him. "What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you?"
One thought now devoured him. That "poor Kranitski" had left the city to live on his estate permanently, or rather in his poor village, situated in that same district as Krynichna, not very near, but in the same region. Of course, he will be a frequent guest at Krynichna--but, maybe not; even, surely not. Indeed, she had broken with him, and, in truth, she felt immense shame and pain--he laughed. A penitent Magdalen! He finished with the thought: Unhappy woman!
But what more had he to do that day? Ah! he had an appointment to meet that young sculptor at the cemetery toward evening, and agree on a monument for Cara. That was to be a monument of great cost and beauty--a mountain of gold above the "little one."
The great cemetery was in the bright green of leaves which had recently unfolded on the trees, and in the intoxicating odor of violets over Cara's grave-mound, which was covered with a carpet, not of modest violets, but of exquisite exotic flowers. Darvid spoke long with the young sculptor, and with a number of other men, giving, agreeably and fluently, opinions and directions concerning the erection of the monument. While doing this, his eyes dropped, at moments, to the grave, and were fixed with such force on it as if he wished to pierce through that carpet of flowers; through the stratum of brick; through the coffin, and look at that which was under the lid. At last, with a polite elevation of his hat, he took farewell of them, and passed on by a path, amid columns and statues intwined with a lace of bright leaves, into the centre of that broad city of the dead. That was his first acquaintance with such a city. He had seen a multitude of other such cities, but had never become acquainted with one of them. He had looked into them sometimes, but briefly, and because he was forced to it--his head was ever filled with thoughts altogether foreign to such places. Now he passed the interior of the cemetery with this thought. So all ends here! He did not go out for a long time. His carriage, with cushions of sapphire-colored damask, and his pair of splendid horses stood long before the cemetery gate, obedient and motionless. In the chapel tower the silver music of the vesper-bell sounded, and ceased to sound. Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery.
"When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he. "Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies himself with men and their entreaties! --I am not sure. I have never given time to this, and it seems to me that no one knows. Men have wrangled over this question for ages and--know nothing. It is a mystery. All places are full of mystery, but men think that reason is a great power. That is an error! Whatever ends thus is misery. Everything ends in stupidity. All things are foolishness! Foolishness!"
Reaching the steps of his mansion he thought that he felt greatly wearied. Is this old age? not long before he felt perfectly youthful. But, evidently, this is the way--Age comes and seizes a man. One giantess more--it seems to him that he is a hundred years old. The same with Malvina. How changed she was when he spoke last to her. She had preserved her youth so long, and on a sudden she was aged. She must have suffered greatly. Hapless woman!
He entered his study; sat down at his desk. Puffie sprang onto his knee immediately. He put one hand on the coat of the little dog, and with the other opened a drawer, looked into it, pushed the drawer back, and, resting comfortably against the arms of the chair, gazed into space with a fixed, torpid look.
He was too wise not to see standing, earlier or later, before him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils, such as labor, success--the eternal lack of time. Now the veils had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to cover it? --he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he had let something slip from his hands which still were so rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it.
When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy. Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in society. Irene, what a strange character! --so deeply tender, and so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!" But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just as in general he was forced to commit many follies--but "useless cruelty" will give reward--Irene will learn that he was not so--no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act. He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that concern him? Nothing concerns him.
By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes raised toward it Darvid smiled.
"Yes, little one, quickly."
He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible for Puffie." He put the pen down, rang, and told the footman to send the telegram immediately. Then, passing his hand over the coat of the sleeping little dog, he sat long, sunk in thought. The world appeared before him with all that he had ever seen, owned, or used in it. Countries, cities, nations, their dwellings and languages, banks, exchanges, markets, offices, noise, throngs, struggles, horse-races, movements, uproar, life. This vision did not halt there before him, but sailed away, as it were, on a giant river, ever farther from him; farther, till it was on the opposite shore of a great space, entirely cut off and entirely indifferent. When he considered that he might spring over that space and mingle again in all those things, repulsion came on him, and also fear; he shook his head in refusal, and said to himself: "I do not want them!"
He was very calm; an expression of happiness began to spread over his features. If anyone had seized him then and tried to hurl him to the side of that broad space on which this life is situated, he would have resisted with all his might, and, if need be, would have begged to remain on that other side.
He looked up and smiled.
"Now, my little one, I am coming!"
He opened the drawer.
Next morning news flew through the city like a thunderbolt, that the renowned financial operator and millionnaire, Aloysius Darvid, had, during the night, in his study, taken his own life with a revolver. The first and universal thought was of bankruptcy. But no. Soon it became clear and most certain that his ship, in full canvas, was sailing on the broad stream of success, and was bearing an immense, glittering golden fleece. The Argonaut, however, no man knew for what reason--through causes hidden altogether from everyone--had sprung from the deck into the dark and mysterious abyss.
THE END.
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{
"id": "20537"
}
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1
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: A Faithful Nurse.
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On a swell of ground, in the wild country extending from Bombay to the foot of the Ghauts, stood a small camp. In the centre was a large pavilion; the residence, for the time, of Major Lindsay, an officer whose charge was to keep the peace in the district. It was no easy matter. The inhabitants, wild and lawless, lived in small villages scattered about the rough country, for the most part covered with forest, and subject to depredations by the robber bands who had their strongholds among the hills. Major Lindsay had with him a party of twenty troopers, not for defence--there was little fear of attack by the natives of the Concan--but to add to his authority, to aid in the collection of the small tax paid by each community, and to deter the mountain robbers from descending on to the plain. He generally spent the cool season in going his rounds while, during the hot weather, his headquarters were at Bombay.
He had with him his wife and infant child. The child was some three months old, and was looked after by an ayah, who had been in Major Lindsay's service ten years; for three elder children had been born to him--all, however, dying from the effects of the climate before reaching the age of five. The ayah had nursed each, in succession, and had become greatly attached to the family, especially to her youngest charge. She had come to speak English well; but with the child she always talked in her native tongue, as the major saw the advantage it would prove to the boy, when he grew up, to be able to speak fluently one, at least, of the native languages.
The nurse was a Mahratta. She had been in the service of the British Resident at Poona and, when he was recalled, had entered that of Major Lindsay, at that time a captain who acted as secretary to the Resident.
A young officer from Bombay had just ridden out, to spend a day or two with the major, and was sitting with him at the entrance to the tent.
"The news from the army," he said, "is most unsatisfactory. As you know, to the astonishment of everyone Colonel Egerton was appointed to the command, in spite of the fact that he was so infirm as to be altogether unfit for active service; and Mostyn, our late Resident at Poona, and Carnac accompanied him as deputies of the Council."
"That is altogether a bad arrangement," the major said. "It has always been a great disadvantage for a general to be accompanied by civilians, with power to thwart his combinations. Against Mostyn's appointment no one could raise any objection as, having been for some years at Poona, he understands the Mahrattas, and indeed is much liked by them, so that in any negotiations he would have far more chance of success than a stranger; but Carnac is hot headed and obstinate, with a very high idea of his own importance, and it is certain that there will be difficulties between him and Egerton."
"I am sorry to say, Major, that these anticipations were very speedily verified. As you know, the advance party landed at Aptee, on November 23rd, and seized the roads over the gorge; and on the 25th the main body disembarked at Panwell. No sooner had they got there than there was a quarrel between Egerton and Carnac. Most unfortunately Mostyn, who would have acted as mediator, was taken ill on the very day after landing, and was obliged to return to Bombay; and I hear there is hardly any chance of his recovery. The army did not reach the top of the Ghauts till the 23rd of December--instead of, at the latest, three days after landing--and actually spent eleven days before it arrived at Karlee, only eight miles in advance of the Bhore Ghauts. Of course this encouraged the enemy, and gave plenty of time for them to assemble and make all their arrangements and, when we last heard, they were harassing our march. For the past two days no news has arrived, and there seems to be little doubt that the Mahrattas have closed in round their rear, and cut off all communications."
"It is monstrous that they should march so slowly. The whole thing has been a hideous blunder, and the idea of encumbering a force of four thousand men with something like thirty thousand camp followers, and with a train of no less than nineteen thousand bullocks, to say nothing of other draught animals, is the most preposterous thing I ever heard of. In fact, the whole thing has been grossly mismanaged.
"I don't say that the conduct of the Mahrattas has not for some time been doubtful, if not threatening. It is well known that the Governor General and the Council at Calcutta have most strongly disapproved of the whole conduct of the Council at Bombay. Indeed, no explanation has ever been given as to why they took up the cause of Rugoba, the scoundrel who grasped the crown; and who was privy to, if he did not instigate, the murder of his nephew, the young Peishwa.
"He was not unopposed, for Nana Furnuwees and Hurry Punt, two of the leading Mahratta ministers, formed a regency under Gunga Bye, the widow of the murdered Peishwa. While matters were undecided, the Bombay Council opened communications with Rugoba, who they thought was likely to be successful; and promised to assist him, if he would advance a considerable sum of money, and cede to the Company Salsette, the small islands contiguous to Bombay and Bassein, which had been captured from the Portuguese by the Mahrattas--an altogether inexcusable arrangement, as the Mahrattas were at peace with us, and Rugoba was not in a position to hand the islands over. That matter, however, was settled by sending an expedition, which captured Salsette and Tannah in 1775, four years ago. Since then Rugoba has become a fugitive and, without a shadow of reason, is making war against the whole force of the Mahratta confederacy; who, although divided amongst themselves and frequently engaged in the struggles for supremacy, have united against us--for they say that Scindia, Holkar, and Hurry Punt are in command of their army. To send four thousand men, of whom less than six hundred are Europeans, against the whole Mahratta power is a desperate step.
"I know we have fought and won against greater odds, many times in the history of India; but our forces have always been well led, marched with the smallest amount of baggage possible, and made up for inferiority in numbers by speed, activity, and dash. Here, on the contrary, we have a force hampered to an unheard-of degree by baggage and camp followers; with an invalid at its head, controlled by two civilians; and moving at a rate which, in itself, testifies to divided councils and utter incompetency on the part of its commander. It is almost impossible even to hope for success, under such conditions."
"The lookout is certainly bad," the younger officer agreed. "However, before now the fighting powers of the British soldier have made up for the blunders of his commanders; and we may hope that this will be the case, now."
"If a disaster happen," the major said, "we shall have the Mahrattas down at the gates of Bombay; and as soon as I hear a rumour of it--and news travels wonderfully fast among the natives--I shall return to the city."
"Oh, I don't think you need fear anything of that sort, Major! Besides, this is not on the direct line between the Ghauts and the city. And even if they find they cannot push on, I should say our force would be able to secure their retreat. The Mahratta horse will never be able to break our squares; but of course, in that case we should have to abandon all our baggage and baggage animals."
"I agree with you that the Mahrattas would doubtless hang on the skirts of our force, and follow them down the Bhore Ghaut, and so would not come anywhere near us; but they might detach flying parties to burn and plunder, as is their custom. Brave as they are, the Mahrattas do not fight for the love of fighting, but simply from the hope of plunder and of enlarging their territories.
"Well, we may hope, in a day or two, to hear that a battle has been fought, and that a victory has been won. Not that one victory would settle the matter, for the Mahratta force consists almost entirely of cavalry and, as we have only a handful, they would, if beaten, simply ride off and be ready to fight again, another day. If we had pushed on and occupied Poona, directly we landed--which should have been easy enough, if the baggage train had been left behind, for it is but forty miles from Panwell to the Mahratta capital--the position would have been altogether different. The Mahrattas would not have had time to collect their forces, and we should probably have met with no opposition and, once in Poona, could have held it against the whole Mahratta force. Besides, it is certain that some of the chiefs, seeing that Rugoba was likely to be made Peishwa, would have come to the conclusion that it would be best for them to side with him.
"Of course, the baggage should all have been left at Panwell and, in that case, the force could have entered Poona three days after landing, instead of delaying from the 25th of November until today, the 7th of January; and even now, at their present rate of advance, they may be another fortnight before they arrive at Poona. I don't think there has been so disgraceful a business since we first put foot in India.
"At any rate, I shall send Mary and the child down to Bombay, tomorrow. It is all very well to have her with me, when everything is peaceable; but although I do not think there is any actual risk, it is as well that, in turbulent times like these, with nothing but a force under such incompetent leading between us and a powerful and active enemy, she should be safe at Bombay."
Just before daybreak, next morning, there was a sudden shout from one of the sentries; who had for the first time been posted round the camp. The warning was followed by a fierce rush, and a large body of horse and foot charged into the camp. The escort were, for the most part, killed as they issued from their tents. The major and his friend were shot down as they sallied out, sword in hand. The same fate befell Mrs. Lindsay.
Then the Mahrattas proceeded to loot the camp. The ayah had thrust the child underneath the wall of the tent, at the first alarm. A Mahratta seized her, and would have cut her down, had she not recognized him by the light of the lamp which hung from the tent ridge.
"Why, cousin Sufder," she exclaimed, "do you not know me?"
He loosed his hold, and stood back and gazed at her.
"Why, Soyera," he exclaimed, "is it you? It is more than ten years since I saw you!
"It is my cousin," he said to some of his companions who were standing round, "my mother's sister's child."
"Don't be alarmed," he went on, to the woman, "no one will harm you. I am one of the captains of this party."
"I must speak to you alone, Sufder."
She went outside the tent with him.
"You have nothing to fear," he said. "You shall go back with us to Jooneer. I have a house there, and you can stay with my wife. Besides, there are many of your people still alive."
"But that is not all, Sufder. I was ayah to the major and his wife--whom your people have just killed, and whom I loved dearly--and in my charge is their child. He is but a few months old, and I must take him with me."
"It is impossible," Sufder replied. "No white man, woman, or child would be safe in the Deccan, at present."
"No one would see his face," the woman said. "I would wrap him up, and will give out that he is my own child. As soon as we get up the Ghauts I would stain his face and skin, and no one would know that he was white. If you will not let me do it, tell your men to cut me down. I should not care to live, if the child were gone as well as his father and mother. You cannot tell how kind they were to me. You would not have me ungrateful, would you, Sufder?"
"Well, well," the man said good naturedly, though somewhat impatiently, "do as you like; but if any harm comes of it, mind it is not my fault."
Thankful for the permission, Soyera hurried round to the back of the tent, picked up the child and wrapped it in her robe; and then when, after firing the place, the Mahrattas retired, she fell in behind them, and followed them in the toilsome climb up the mountains, keeping so far behind that none questioned her. Once or twice Sufder dropped back to speak to her.
"It is a foolish trick of yours," he said, "and I fear that trouble will come of it."
"I don't see why it should," she replied. "The child will come to speak Mahratta and, when he is stained, none will guess that he is English. In time, I may be able to restore him to his own people."
The other shook his head.
"That is not likely," he said, "for before many weeks, we shall have driven them into the sea."
"Then he must remain a Mahratta," she said, "until he is able to make his way to join the English in Madras or Calcutta."
"You are an obstinate woman, and always have been so; else you would not have left your people to go to be servant among the whites. However, I will do what I can for you, for the sake of my mother's sister and of our kinship."
On the way up the hills Soyera stopped, several times, to pick berries. When they halted she went aside and pounded them, and then boiled them in some water in a lota--a copper vessel--Sufder lent her for the purpose, and dyed the child's head and body with it, producing a colour corresponding to her own.
The party, which was composed of men from several towns and villages, broke up the next morning.
"Have you money?" Sufder asked her, as she was about to start alone on her journey.
"Yes; my savings were all lodged for me, by Major Lindsay, with some merchants at Bombay; but I have twenty rupees sewn up in my garments."
"As to your savings, Soyera, you are not likely to see them again, for we shall make a clean sweep of Bombay. However, twenty rupees will be useful to you, and would keep you for three or four months, if you needed but, as you are going to my wife, you will not want them.
"Take this dagger. When you show it to her, she will know that you come from me; but mind, she is, like most women, given to gossip; therefore I warn you not to let her into the secret of this child's birth, for if you did so, half the town would know it in the course of a day or two.
"Now, I must go back with my men to join a party who are on their way to fight the English. I should have gone there direct, but met the others starting on this marauding expedition, which was so much to the taste of my men that I could not restrain them from joining. I shall see you at Jooneer, as soon as matters are finished with the English; then I shall, after staying a few days there, rejoin Scindia, in whose service I am."
Soyera started on her way. At the villages through which she passed, she was questioned as to where she came from; and replied that she had been living down near Bombay but, now that the English were going to fight the Mahrattas, she was coming home, having lost her husband a few months before.
As the road to Jooneer diverged widely from that to Poona, she was asked no questions about the war. All were confident that the defeat of the English was certain, now that Scindia and Holkar and the government of the Peishwa had laid aside their mutual jealousies, and had joined for the purpose of crushing the whites.
On arriving, after two days' journey, at Jooneer, she went to the address that Sufder had given her; but was coldly received by his wife.
"As it is Sufder's order, of course I must take you in," she said, "but when he returns, I shall tell him that I do not want another woman and child in the house. Why do you not go to your own people? As you are Sufder's cousin, you must be the sister of Ramdass. Why should you not go to him?"
"I will gladly do so, if you will tell me where he lives."
"He has a small farm. You must have passed it, as you came along. It is about a mile from here."
"I will go to him at once," Soyera said.
"No, no," the woman exclaimed; "that will never do. You must stop a day or two here. Sufder would be angry, indeed, were he to find that you did not remain here; and would blame me for it. I should be willing enough for you to stay a week, or a month; that is a different thing from becoming an inmate of the house."
"I will wait till tomorrow, for I have made a long two days' journey from the top of the Ghauts and, as I am not accustomed to walking, my feet are sore. In the morning I will go and see my brother. I did not so much as know that he was alive. I feel sure he will take me in, willingly; for he is but two years older than myself, and was always kind to me."
Accordingly the next morning she retraced her steps, and had no difficulty in finding the farm of Ramdass. Choosing the time when he would be likely to be in for his dinner, Soyera walked up to the door of the house, which was standing open.
As she stood there, hesitating, Ramdass came out. He was a man of some forty years of age, with a pleasant and kindly face. He looked at her enquiringly.
"Do you not know me, Ramdass?" she asked.
"Why, 'tis Soyera!" he exclaimed. "And so you have come back, after all these years--thirteen, is it not, since you went away?
"Welcome back, little sister!" and he raised his voice, and called, "Anundee!"
A young woman, two or three and twenty years of age, came to the door.
"Wife," he said, "this is my sister Soyera, of whom you have often heard me speak.
"Soyera, this is my wife. We have been married six years; but come in, and let us talk things over.
"You have come home for good, I hope," he said. "So you too have married and, as you come alone with your child, have, I suppose, had the misfortune to lose your husband?"
"Yes, I was alone in the world, and came hither not knowing whether you were alive or dead; but feeling sure of a welcome, if I found you."
"And you were not mistaken," he said heartily.
"Anundee, you will, I am sure, join me in the welcome; and willingly give my sister and her child a place in our home?"
"Assuredly. It will be pleasant for me, when you are in the fields, to have some one to talk to, and perhaps to help me about the house."
Soyera saw that she was speaking sincerely.
"Thank you, Anundee; you may be sure that I shall not be idle. I have been accustomed to work, and can take much off your hands; and will look after your two children;" for two boys, three or four years old, were standing before her, staring at the newcomer.
"That will be pleasant, Soyera; indeed, sometimes they hinder me much in my work."
"I am accustomed to children, Anundee, as I was for years nurse to English children, and know their ways."
"Well, now let us to dinner," Ramdass broke in. "I am hungry, and want to be off again. There is much to do in the fields."
The woman took a pot off the embers of a wood fire, and poured its contents into a dish. The meal consisted of a species of pulse boiled with ghee, with peppers and other condiments added.
"And how did you like being among the English, Soyera?"
"I liked it very well," the woman said. "They are very kind and considerate to nurses and, although they get angry when the gorrawallah or other men neglect their duty, they do not punish them as a Mahratta master would do. They are not double faced; when they say a thing they mean it, and their word can always be trusted. As a people, no doubt they are anxious to extend their dominion; but they do not wish to do so for personal gain. They are not like the princes here, who go to war to gain territory and revenue. It was reasonable that they should wish to increase their lands; for they are almost shut up in Bombay, with Salsette and the other islands occupied by us, who may, any day, be their enemies."
Her brother laughed.
"It seems to me, Soyera, that you have come to prefer these English people to your own countrymen."
"I say not that, Ramdass. You asked me how I liked them, and I have told you. You yourself know how the tax collectors grind down the people; how Scindia and Holkar and the Peishwa are always fighting each other. Do you know that, in Bombay, the meanest man could not be put to death, unless fairly tried; while among the Mahrattas men are executed on the merest excuse or, if not executed, are murdered?"
"That is true enough," Ramdass said; "none of the three princes would hesitate to put to death anyone who stood in his way, and it seems strange to me that even the Brahmins, who would not take the life even of a troublesome insect, yet support the men who have killed scores of other people. But it is no use grumbling; the thing has always been, and I suppose always will be. It is not only so in the Deccan, but in the Nizam's dominions, in Mysore and, so far as I know, in Oude and Delhi. It seems so natural to us that the powerful should oppress the weak, and that one prince should go to war with another, that we hardly give the matter a thought; but though, as you say, the English in Bombay may rule wisely, and dislike taking life, they are doing now just as our princes do--they are making war with us."
"That is true but, from what I have heard when the English sahibs were speaking together, it is everything to them that a prince favourable to them should rule at Poonah for, were Holkar and Scindia to become all powerful, and place one of their people on the seat of the Peishwa, the next step might be that a great Mahratta force would descend the Ghauts, capture Bombay, and slay every white man in it."
"But they are a mere handful," Ramdass said. "How can they think of invading a nation like ours?"
"Because they know, at least they believe, that Scindia, Holkar, and the Peishwa are all so jealous of each other that they will never act together. Then you see what they have done round Madras and Bengal and, few as they are, they have won battles against the great princes; and lastly, my mistress has told me that, although there are but few here, there are many at home; and they could, if they chose, send out twenty soldiers for every one there is here.
"Besides, it is not these alone who fight. The natives enlist under them, and aid them in their conquests; and this shows, at least, that they are well treated, and have confidence in the good faith of the English."
"It is all very well, Soyera, to talk that way; but I would as willingly believe that the stars will fall from the sky as that these Englishmen, who simply live in Bombay because we suffer them to do so, should ever conquer the Mahrattas, as they have subdued other portions of India where, as everyone knows, the people are not warlike, and have always been conquered without difficulty.
"Look at our power! At Delhi the emperor is a puppet in our hands, and it is the same in all the districts on the plain of the great river. The Rajpoots fear us, and even the Pindaries would not dare carry their raids into our country. That a small body of merchants and soldiers should threaten us seems, to me, altogether absurd."
"Well, brother, we will not argue about it. Time will show. As a woman of the Mahrattas, I trust that day will never come; but as one who knows the English, I have my fears. Of one thing I am sure, that were they masters here, the cultivators would be vastly better off than they are at present."
Ramdass laughed.
"What do you think of my sister's opinions, Anundee?"
"I do not know what to think," the young woman said; "but Soyera has seen much, and is a wise woman, and what she says are no idle words. To us it seems impossible, when we know that the Mahrattas can place a hundred thousand horsemen in the field; but I own that, from what we know of the English, it might be better for people like us to have such masters."
"And now, Soyera," Ramdass said, when he returned from his work in the evening, "tell us more about yourself. First, how did you learn where I was living?"
"I learned it from the wife of our cousin Sufder."
"How did you fall in with him?"
"Well, I must tell you something. I had meant to keep it entirely to myself, but I know that you and Anundee will keep my secret."
"Assuredly we will. I am not a man to talk of other people's affairs and, as to Anundee, you can trust her with your life."
"Well, in the first place, I deceived you; or rather you deceived yourself, when you said, 'I see that you have been married;' but the children were here, and so I could not explain. The infant is not mine. It is the son of my dear master and mistress, both of whom were killed, three days ago, by bands--of which Sufder commanded one--who attacked them suddenly, by night."
"What! Is the child white?" Ramdass asked, in a tone of alarm.
"It is not white, because I have stained the skin; but it is the child of English parents. I will tell you how it happened."
And she related the instances of the attack upon the little camp, the death of her master and mistress, another white officer, and all their escort; told how she had hidden the child under the cover of the tent, how Sufder had saved her life, and her subsequent conversation with him regarding the child.
"Now, what do you intend to do with him, Soyera?"
"I intend to bring him up as my own. I shall keep his skin stained, and no one can suspect that he is not mine."
"Then you do not think of restoring him to his people?"
"Not until he grows up. He has neither father nor mother, and to whom could I hand him, now? Moreover if, as you say, our people intend to drive the English from Bombay, his fate would be certain. When I am by myself with him, I shall talk to him in English, as soon as he is old enough to understand that he must not speak in that language to others; then, when he joins his own people, he will be able to converse with them. In the ten years I have spent in English service I have come to speak their language well. Though I cannot teach him the knowledge of the English, I can do much to fit him to take his place as an Englishman, when the time comes."
"It is a risky business," her brother said, "but I do not say that it cannot be carried out; at any rate, since you have so decided to keep him, I can see no better plan."
Two days later, Sufder came in.
"So you got here safely, Soyera?"
"Yes, I had no trouble. But I did not expect you back so soon."
"The matter is all settled, though I think we were wrong to grant any terms to the English. We had them in our power, and should have finished the matter, straight off."
Delay and inactivity, the natural consequences of utter incompetence and of divided councillors, had occurred. Colonel Egerton, in consequence of sickness, had resigned the command; and had been succeeded by Lieutenant Colonel Cockburn. On the 9th of January they were within eighteen miles of Poona, and they had still three weeks' provisions with them. Two or three skirmishes had taken place, but without any result; yet Mr. Carnac, without having suffered any reverse, and now within a day's march of the capital, proposed that a retreat should be made, at once.
The proposal was combated by Captain Hartley, a gallant young officer, and Mr. Holmes of the Civil Service. Cockburn, being called upon for his opinion, said he had no doubt the army could penetrate to Poona; but that it would be impossible for it to protect its enormous baggage train. Mr. Carnac, however, persisted in his opinion, in spite of the prayers of Rugoba and, at eleven o'clock on the night of the 11th of January, the heavy guns were thrown into a large pool, a quantity of stores burnt, and the force began its retreat, in face of enemies estimated differently at from fifty to a hundred thousand men.
Against such vigilant foes there was but little hope, indeed, that the movement would be unnoticed and, at two o'clock in the morning, a party of horse attacked the advance guard. Cockburn sent forward two companies of Europeans to support them, but the Mahrattas had succeeded in plundering part of the baggage.
In a very short time the rear was also attacked. This was covered by some six companies of Sepoys, with two guns, commanded by Captain Hartley. These received the charge of the enemy's horse and foot with great steadiness and, several times, took the offensive and drove their assailants back.
When morning broke, the little force found themselves altogether surrounded by the whole army of the Mahrattas. Hartley's Sepoys were now sorely pressed, but still maintained their position, and were reinforced by five companies of Europeans and two more companies of Sepoys. With this support, Hartley beat off every attack. At ten o'clock he received orders from Colonel Cockburn to retreat, but the officer who carried the message returned, begging that he would allow Captain Hartley to await a more favourable opportunity. Cockburn agreed to this, but sent Major Frederick to take command of the rear, with orders to retire on the main body. This movement he effected without serious loss, and joined the rest of the force at the village of Wurgaom.
It was already crowded with camp followers, and the wildest confusion reigned. The enemy's horse took advantage of this and charged through the baggage, and the troops were unable to act with effect, being mixed up with the crowd of fugitives. However, they soon extricated themselves, drove off the enemy, and placed the guns in commanding positions round the village. At four o'clock the enemy retired.
Early the next morning the Mahratta artillery opened fire on the village. Some of the Sepoy troops now became dispirited; but Hartley's men stood firm, and the Mahrattas did not venture to attack. The loss on the previous day was found to amount to three hundred and fifty-two killed, wounded, or missing; including many who had deserted during the night. Among the killed and wounded were fifteen European officers, whose loss was a great misfortune for, although the Sepoys fight well under their European officers, they lose heart altogether if not so led.
Mr. Palmer, the secretary of the committee, was now sent to negotiate with the enemy. The first demand made was the surrender of Rugoba; which the committee would have agreed to, but Rugoba had privately arranged to surrender to Scindia. The next demand was that the committee should enter on a treaty, for the surrender of the greater part of the territory of the Bombay Government, together with the revenue of Broach and Surat. These terms were so hard that even the craven committee, who were entirely responsible for the disaster, hesitated to accept them.
Cockburn was asked whether a retreat was wholly impracticable, and he declared that it was so. Captain Hartley protested against this opinion, and showed how a retreat could be managed. His opinion was altogether overruled, and Mr. Holmes was sent with powers to conclude the treaty--which, however, the committee never intended to observe.
Scindia took the principal part in arranging the details, superseding the authority of Nana Furnuwees, the Peishwa's minister. Scindia's favour was purchased by a private promise to bestow upon him the English share of Broach, besides a sum of forty-one thousand rupees as presents to his servants.
For their share in this miserable business Mr. Carnac, Colonel Egerton, and Colonel Cockburn were dismissed from the Company's service; and Captain Hartley was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel. The Governor of Bombay refused to ratify the treaty, on the ground that the officials with the expedition had no power whatever to enter into any arrangement, without the matter being previously submitted to, and approved by, the Government. Fortunately, at this moment a force that had been despatched from Bengal, under Colonel Goddard, to support Rugoba was nearing the scene of action; and that officer, learning the danger to which Bombay was exposed, took the responsibility and, marching from Hoosingabad, avoided a body of twenty-two thousand horse, which had been despatched from Poona to cut him off, and reached Surat without encountering any opposition.
This welcome reinforcement materially altered the situation, and Bombay lay no longer at the mercy of the Mahrattas. There was now Goddard's force, and the army that had fallen back from Poona and, what was still more important, Scindia had by his secret convention deserted the confederacy; and it was morally certain that neither the Peishwa nor Holkar would send his forces against Bombay, leaving to Scindia the power of grasping the supreme authority in the Deccan during their absence.
In 1779 General Goddard, who was now in command at Bombay, entered into negotiations with Nana Furnuwees. These were carried on for some months; but were brought to a conclusion by Nana declaring that the surrender of Salsette, and the person of Rugoba, who was again a fugitive in Bombay, were preliminaries to any treaty. Bombay received a reinforcement of a European regiment, a battalion of Sepoys, and a hundred artillerymen, from Madras; but before they arrived Goddard's force had captured Dubhoy, and a treaty had been effected.
The town of Ahmedabad was to be handed over to our ally, Futteh Sing; but it declined to surrender, and was taken by assault, the storming party being commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Hartley.
Scindia had as usual changed sides, and was now operating in conjunction with Nana; and he and Holkar, with twenty thousand horse, marched to Baroda. Goddard advanced to give battle; but Scindia, to gain time, opened negotiations.
Goddard, however, was not to be duped. The negotiations were broken off, and he advanced against the Mahrattas. Their horse, as usual, charged; but were driven back by the artillery fire, and routed by a regiment of Bengal cavalry. Scindia, however, encamped a short distance off but, when Goddard again advanced to the attack, retired.
Goddard, however, was not to be drawn into pursuit. He captured some small forts, and sent Colonel Hartley to relieve Kallan, which was being besieged by the Mahrattas. Hartley surprised their camp, pursued them for some miles, and killed a great number; while Lieutenant Welsh, who had been sent forward to relieve Surat--which was threatened by a large Mahratta force--defeated these, killed upwards of a hundred, and captured their guns; while one of Scindia's detachments, on the banks of the Nerbuddah, was routed by a detachment of Bengal Sepoys under Major Forbes.
On the other side of India, great successes had been gained by a Bengal force under the command of Captain Popham; who attacked and routed a body of plundering Mahrattas, captured by assault the strong fort of Lahar, and not only carried by surprise the fortress of Gwalior, regarded by the natives as impregnable, but took it without the loss of a single man.
In December, General Goddard laid siege to Bassein. He and Hartley, whose force was covering the siege, were attacked on the 11th of that month by twenty thousand cavalry and infantry. These, however, were defeated after making several desperate charges; and on the following day another battle took place, in which the Mahrattas were totally routed, and their general killed, after which Bassein surrendered.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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2
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: A Strange Bringing Up.
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The war went on during the following year, but in 1782 peace was concluded. In 1784, the Mahrattas joined the Nizam and the British in an alliance, having for its object the overthrow of Mysore; which state, first under Hyder Ali, and afterwards under his son Tippoo, was a source of danger to all the allies.
In the meantime Harry Lindsay, who was now called Puntojee, had been living quietly on the farm of Ramdass; and no suspicion whatever had been excited in the minds of the neighbours, or of any of the people of Jooneer, that he was aught but what he seemed--the son of Soyera. Once a week he was re-stained; and even his playmates, the two sons of Ramdass, believed that he was, like themselves, a young Mahratta. They knew that, sometimes, their aunt talked to the child for hours in a strange language; but she led them to believe it was the dialect of Bombay, which she thought it might be useful for him to learn.
The child was shrewd and intelligent, and strictly obeyed Soyera's instructions never, on any account, to talk in that language with her except when they were alone; for she said that, if he did so, some great misfortune would happen to him.
Thus, at six, he was able to speak English and Mahratta with equal facility. As soon as his hair began to grow, it had also been dyed; for its colour was fair, and would at once have excited attention. He was a sturdy boy, and had never known a day's illness.
Four more years passed, and Soyera then revealed to him the fact that she was not, as he supposed, his mother, but that he was of English parents; and related to him the manner in which they had come by their death, and how she had saved him.
"The language which you are speaking," she said, "is English. I spoke truly, when I said it was the language in use in Bombay; for it is the tongue of the white men there. Now you will understand why I wanted you not to speak in it, to anyone but myself; and why I have stained your skin, once a week. At present we are at peace with the English; but there may be war again, at any time, and in that case were it known that you are white, your life would not be safe for a moment; or you might be thrown into some dungeon, where you would perish miserably."
She then explained to him why she had not attempted to take him down to Bombay, and restore him to his countrymen. She had always hoped the time would come when she could do so but, until he grew up to manhood, it was necessary that he should stay with her; for, being without friends in Bombay he would, as a boy, be unable to earn his living.
The boy was greatly affected at the news. There were things that he had never been able to understand; especially why Soyera should consider it necessary to wash him with dye so often, when neither his cousins nor the other children of his acquaintance were so treated--as far as he knew, for as he had been strictly charged never to speak of the process, which he considered an infliction, he had never asked questions of others. He had never, therefore, for a moment suspected that he was not like those around him. He knew that he was stronger than other boys of his own age; more fond of exercise, and leader in all their games; but he had accepted this as a natural accident. The fact that he belonged to the race that were masters of southern India, and had conquered and slain the Nabob of Bengal, was a gratification to him but, at present, the thought that he might some day have to join them, and leave all those he loved behind, far overpowered this feeling.
"I shall never become English, if you do not go with me," he said. "You saved my life, and have been a mother to me. Why should I go away from your side, to people that I know nothing of, whose ways would be all strange to me?"
"It is right that you should do so, Puntojee--I will not call you by your proper name, Harry Lindsay, lest it should slip out before others. Your life should be spent among your own people; who, I think, will some day rule over all India. They are a great people, with learning of many things unknown here, from whom I always received the greatest kindness. They are not, like the Mahrattas, always quarrelling among themselves; they are not deceitful, and they are honourable. You should be proud to belong to them, and I have no doubt some day you will be so; though at present it is natural that, knowing no place but this, you should not like the thought of leaving."
Harry Lindsay, whose spirits had hitherto been almost inexhaustible, and who had never been happy when sitting quiet, was greatly impressed with what he had heard and, for some time, he withdrew himself almost entirely from the sports of his friends, hiding himself in the groves from their importunities, and thinking over the strange position in which he was placed.
Soyera at last remonstrated with him.
"If I had thought you would take this matter to heart, Puntojee, I should not have told you about it. I did so because I thought you could scarcely be stained, much longer, without demanding the reason for what must have seemed so strange a thing.
"I do not want you to withdraw yourself from your playmates, or to cease from your games. Your doing so will, if it continues, excite talk. Your friends will think that a spell has fallen upon you, and will shun you. I want you to grow up such as your father was--strong and brave, and skilful in arms--and to do this you must be alert and active. It may well be that you should not join your countrymen until you are able to play the part of a man, which will not be for ten years yet; but you know that my cousin Sufder has promised that, as soon as you are able to carry arms, he will procure a post for you under Scindia.
"There you will learn much, and see something of the world whereas, if you remain here, you would grow up like other cultivators, and would make but a bad impression among your countrymen, when you join them. Sufder himself has promised to teach you the use of arms and, as all say he is very skilful, you could have no better master.
"At any rate, I wish you to resume your former habits, to exercise your body in every way, so that you may grow up so strong and active that, when you join your countrymen, they will feel you are well worthy of them. They think much of such things, and it is by their love for exercise and sport that they so harden their frames that, in battle, our bravest peoples cannot stand against them."
"But the Mahrattas are strong, mother?"
"Yes, they can stand great fatigues; living, as they do, so constantly on horseback but, like all the people of India, they are not fond of exercise, save when at war. That is the difference between us and the English. These will get up at daybreak, go for long rides, hunt the wild boar or the tigers in the jungles of the Concan, or the bears among the Ghauts. Exercise to them is a pleasure; and we in the service of the English have often wondered at the way in which they willingly endure fatigues, when they might pass their time sitting quietly in their verandahs. But I came to understand that it was to this love of theirs, for outdoor exercise, that they owed their strength and the firmness of their courage. None can say that the Mahrattas are not brave but, although they will charge gallantly, they soon disperse if the day goes against them.
"So also with the soldiers of Tippoo. They overran Arcot and threatened Madras; Tanjore and the Carnatic were all in their hands; and yet the English never lost their firmness and, little by little, drove Tippoo's troops from the lands they had conquered; and it may be that, ere long, Tippoo will be a fugitive, and his dominions divided among those whom he has provoked.
"Is it not wonderful that, while not very many years ago the Whites were merely a handful, living on sufferance in Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, they are now masters of southern India and half of Bengal; and even venture to engage a great empire like that of the Mahrattas, stretching from the sea on the west to Delhi, and holding the mastery over all central India? There must be something extraordinary about these men. Why, you would scarce believe it, but I have seen often, and wondered always; when they have an entertainment, instead of sitting quietly 'and having dancing girls to posture for their amusement, they dance themselves with their women--not a mere movement of the body and hands, such as you see among our dancers, but violent dancing, exhausting themselves till the perspiration streams from their faces--and this both men and women regard as amusement; so, Puntojee, if you are to take your place among your countrymen again, you must accustom yourself to fatigues, and strengthen your body in every way; or you will be regarded with contempt as one who, although of their blood, has grown degenerate and unworthy of them."
"I will do so," the boy said. "You shall not complain of me, again. Hitherto I have played for amusement, and because I liked to exercise my limbs, and to show the others that I could run faster and was stronger than they were; but in future I shall have a motive in doing so, and will strive to be worthy of my father."
From that time, Harry Lindsay devoted himself to exercises. He learnt from Sufder, when he visited his native town, and from old soldiers, when he was away, to use a sword and dagger, to hurl a light spear accurately, to shoot straight with a musket, that Sufder had picked up on the field of battle at Karlee, and also with the pistol. He rose at daybreak, and walked for miles before coming in to his morning meal; and exercised the muscles of his arms, not only by the use of the sword, but by holding heavy stones at arm's length.
Soyera, although still retaining her own religion, had carefully instructed him in that of the English; with which she had, during her service, become fully acquainted.
"I am only a servant, an ignorant woman, and it is not for me to decide which religion is the best, and I have never thought of giving up that of my people; but the religion of the Christians is much simpler than ours. They believe in one God, only; and in his Son who, like Buddha, was a great saint, and went about doing good. I will tell you all I know of Him, for my mistress frequently spoke to me of Him; and hoped, I think, that in time I should accept Him, as she did. When you join your people, it is as necessary that you should be of their religion, as of their race;" and so, in time, Harry learned at least the elements of Christianity.
As usual he had been, at the age of six, marked, like Soyera, with three perpendicular lines on the forehead--the sign of the worshippers of Vishnu.
"You are twelve years old now, Harry," Soyera said to the boy, one day. "Now I must do what I have concluded, after a talk with Ramdass and Sufder, is the best thing for you. We have agreed that it will be better that you should not join your countrymen, and claim to be the son of Major Lindsay, until you are a man. I do not know what they would do with you. They might send you back to England, but I cannot say what would become of you there; but we have agreed that, when you do join them, you must be like other young English gentlemen, and not be looked down upon as one who, though he has a white skin, is but a Mahratta peasant.
"In the first place, you must learn to speak English."
"But I do speak English!" Harry said, in surprise.
"Yes, such English as I do; but that is not as the white sahibs speak it. We who have learned it speak the right word, but not in the right way. I have seen young white ladies, when they first came out here, and came to the house of your mother, sometimes smile and scarcely understand what I said to them. It is not like that that you must talk English--good enough for an ayah, not good enough for a sahib--so we have decided, Sufder, Ramdass and I, that you must go down to Bombay, and learn to talk proper English.
"We have thought much how this shall be done, and have settled that our thinking, here, is no good. I must wait till I get to Bombay, where I can get advice from people I know."
"Will you stay there with me, Soyera?"
"I cannot say what will be best," she answered, gravely; "I must wait till I get there. Ramdass will go down with me. It is a good time for him to go. The harvest work is done, he can be spared for a month. He would like to go. He has never seen Bombay. We shall go in the wagon."
The distance from Jooneer to Bombay was but about eighty miles, and the journey was performed in five days, and Ramdass took down a light load of maize, whose sale would pay the expenses of their journey. Soyera rode and slept on the maize, except in two villages, where she was able to procure a lodging for the night. Ramdass and Harry walked by the bullocks, and slept at night by the roadside, wrapped in their blankets.
On arriving at Bombay they put up at a khan, in the native town and, the next morning, leaving Ramdass and Harry to wander about and look at the wonders of the city, Soyera went to the shop of a Parsee merchant, who was in the habit of supplying the canteen of the troops, contracted for supplies of forage and other matters, and carried on the business of a native banker. She had often been to his place with Mrs. Lindsay; and had, from the time that she entered her service, deposited her savings with him. She had, in the first place, asked her master to keep them for her; but he had advised her to go to Jeemajee.
The Parsee was, himself, in his shop. She went up to him.
"You do not remember me, sahib?" she said. "I was the ayah of Major Lindsay. I was often here with the mem-sahib."
"I remember you, now," he said. "I do not often forget those I have known. Yes; your master and mistress were killed, at their little camp on the Concan. Nothing was heard of you, if I remember rightly. I have some money of yours in my hands. Have you the receipts?"
"I have them, sahib; but it is not for that that I come to see you. I wish to ask your advice on a private matter."
The Parsee looked a little surprised.
"Come in here with me," he said, leading the way to his private room, behind the shop.
"Now, what is it?" he asked, as he closed the door behind them.
"It was believed, sahib, that Major Lindsay's infant boy was killed, at that time, like all others in the camp. It was not so. I saved him. It is about him that I want to speak to you."
The Parsee thought for a moment.
"Yes, there was a child. Its body was not found, and was supposed to have been eaten by the jackals. Is it alive still?"
"Yes, sahib, I have brought him up as my own. His skin has been always stained; and none but my brother--with whom I live--his wife, and one other, know that he is English. I love him as my own child. I have taught him English, as I speak it; but I want him, in time, to be an English sahib, and for that he must learn proper English."
"But why have you not brought him down here?" the Parsee said.
"Who would have looked after him, and cared for him, sahib, as I, his nurse, have done? Who could have taken him? What would have become of him? I am a poor woman, and do not know how these things would be. I said to myself: "'It will be better that he should live with me, till he is old enough to go down as a young man, and say to the Governor: "'"I am the son of Major Lindsay. I can talk Mahratti like a native. I can ride and use my sword. I can speak English well. I can be useful." " 'Then, perhaps for his father's sake, the Governor will say: "'"I will make you an officer. If there are troubles in the Deccan, you will be more useful than those sahibs who do not know the language."'
"I can do all that for him, but I cannot teach him to speak as English sahibs speak; and that is why I have come to you. You have twelve hundred rupees of mine, in your hands; for I laid out nothing while I was in the sahib's service, and my mistress was very kind, and often gave me presents. My brother, Ramdass, had five hundred rupees saved; and this he has given to me, for he, too, loves the boy. Thus there are seventeen hundred rupees, and this I would pay for him to be, for two years, with someone where he would learn to speak English as sahibs do, so that none can say this white boy is not English.
"Then he will go back, for two or three years, to Jooneer. He will learn to use his arms, and to ride, and to be a man, until he is of an age to come down and say: "'I am the son of Major Lindsay.'"
"But if you were to tell this, at once," the Parsee said, "they would doubtless send him home, to England, to be educated."
"And what would he do there, sahib? He would have no friends, none to care for him; and while his Mahratti tongue would be of great service to him, here, it would be useless to him in his own country.
"Do not say that my plan cannot be carried out, sahib. For twelve years I have thought it over. I have taught him all that I could, so far; and convinced myself that it would be the best. The boy loves me, and is happy: he would be miserable among strangers, who would laugh at his English, and would make him unhappy."
Jeemajee sat for some time in thought.
"I am not sure that your plan is not the best," he said, "and after saving his life, and caring for him, at the risk of your own, for all these years, you have assuredly a better right than any other to say what shall be done now. I will think over what you have asked of me. It is not very easy to find just such a home as you want, but I should consider the sum you offer is sufficient to induce many Englishmen living here to take him; but it is not everyone from whom he would learn English, as you would wish him to do, or who could teach him the manners of white officers.
"Come to me tomorrow evening, but you must not expect that I shall be able to answer you then. I must think it over, and make enquiries."
It was three days, indeed, before anything came of Soyera's visits to the Parsee trader; then he said: "I think that I have found out just the place of which you are in search. I spoke to a friend yesterday, and he at once mentioned one whom I wonder I had not thought of, at once. Some years ago a cadet, who came out here with a young wife, died shortly after his arrival. As he had only been four years in the service, the pension of his wife was but a small one. She did not go back to England, as widows generally do. I know not why, except that I once heard two officers speaking of her. They said that they believed her family had quarrelled with her, for her marriage, and that she was too proud to go back again. She had two girls, who must be about the age of this boy. Her pension was not sufficient for her to live upon comfortably, and she opened a little school for the children of officers here.
"There are not many, you know, for they are generally sent home to England, when they are quite young. But she has always had four or five, sometimes eight or ten. They come to her every morning, and go home in the middle of the day, and she sees no more of them.
"After I had heard this, I went to her. I supply her with many things, for she gets her books and other things from me. I said to her: "'I have a white boy whose father and mother are dead. He is twelve years old. There are reasons why I cannot tell you who they were, but I can say that the boy's father was an English officer. He has been brought up by natives, and speaks English in the way that natives speak it. Those who have brought him up desire that he should learn to talk English well, and learn to have good manners, so that some day, when he goes to England, people should not say of him: "'"This is not an English gentleman, or he would not speak like that."'
"I said that I had interested myself in the matter, and knew that it was right, and had come to her to ask her if she would take him into her house, which was very comfortable and well furnished, and everything as it should be.
"She asked questions. I told her enough to interest her; and said that, when the time came, it was hoped that he would be able to obtain employment under the Government--perhaps in the army, as his father had been. I said that those who brought him up were ready to make great sacrifices for his sake, but that they could not pay for him for more than two years; and that, as the boy knew so much English, they hoped this would be enough. I asked how much, if she agreed to take him, she would charge. She said that she would think it over; and would call here, tomorrow, and tell me whether she would take him.
"She will be here at three. I think you had better come at that hour. I am sure that she would like to speak to you. I do not see why you should not say that you had been his ayah, and had saved his life, and brought him up. Many officers have been killed and, indeed, I do not see why you should not tell her the whole story. It will interest her more in the boy. But of course, before you tell her, you must ask her to promise not to repeat it."
Soyera went on the following day. She found that Jeemajee was already, with a lady, in his private room. She waited until the door was opened, and the merchant beckoned her in.
"This is the woman who has brought the child up, Mrs. Sankey," he said. "As I have told you, she was his ayah, and has behaved most nobly."
Turning to Soyera, he said: "Naturally Mrs. Sankey asked why you had not come forward before. I told her your reasons, and she thinks that, perhaps, you have acted for the best for him. At any rate, she has consented to take the boy for two years; and I am to pay her, for you, the sum that you have named."
In reality, Mrs. Sankey asked a thousand rupees a year; but the Parsee, with the generosity for which his race is distinguished, had agreed to pay the extra three hundred rupees himself.
"Before it is quite settled," Mrs. Sankey said, "I should like to see the boy. As Mr. Jeemajee has told you, I have two daughters about the same age. I must, therefore, be guided in my decision by my impression of him."
"I will bring him to see you, in three or four days," Soyera said. "His stain is already faded a good deal, and I shall be able to get it off, by that time. I have to get English clothes for him.
"I am greatly obliged to you for saying that you will take him, if he pleases you. That I think he will do. I have taught him manners, as well as I could. He is as anxious as I am to improve himself; and will, I am sure, give you no more trouble than he can help."
"I will see that he is properly clothed, Mrs. Sankey," Jeemajee remarked. "I knew his father, and have a great interest in him."
Mrs. Sankey chatted for some little time to Soyera; gave her her card, with her address on Malabar Hill; and then left.
Soyera began to thank the Parsee for his introduction, but he said: "It was a little thing to do and, as I knew his father, it was only right that I should help, as far as I could. Will you bring me, tomorrow morning, the measurement of the boy's height, size around his shoulders and waist, the lengths of his arms and legs? You need trouble yourself no further about it. I shall take that matter upon myself. Come, three days later, for his clothes.
"Goodbye! I have other matters to see about," and, without waiting for any thanks from Soyera, he at once went into his shop, and began to talk to his assistant.
Many were the scrubbings Harry had to undergo, during the next few days; and his hair and face were nearly restored to their proper colour when Soyera returned, one evening, with a coolie carrying a trunk of some size. It contained the whole outfit for a boy: one dark suit, and four of white nankeen; with a stock of shirts, underclothing, and shoes. Soyera showed Harry how these garments, with which he was wholly unacquainted, should be put on.
"They fit you capitally," she said, when she surveyed him. "And you look like a little English sahib."
"They feel very tight and uncomfortable," he said.
"They are sure to do so, at first; but you will soon get over that. Now, Ramdass will take you out for a walk for two or three hours, so that you can get accustomed to them. I should not like you to look awkward, when you go with me to Mrs. Sankey's, tomorrow."
The interview next day was altogether satisfactory. The carriage and bearing of the natives of India is easier, and more graceful, than that of Europeans; and the knowledge Harry had possessed, for some years, that he belonged to a conquering race, the injunctions of Soyera, his strength and activity, and his unquestioned leadership among the boys with whom he played, had given something of confidence to his manner. Mrs. Sankey was greatly taken with him, and he at once became an inmate of her house.
He remained there for two years, and became so great a favourite that Mrs. Sankey insisted on his staying with her, without charge, for three or four months after the time for which she had received payment for him. He had worked hard and earnestly, and now spoke English as well and accurately as any English boy of his own age. He had, after being there a year, made the acquaintance of several boys of his own age, the sons of officers or officials. They knew him only as the orphan son of an English gentleman, in Government employ; and he was often asked to the houses of their parents, and none suspected that he had been brought up among natives.
At the end of his term, Sufder came down for him. Jeemajee, who had remained his steady friend, arranged that he should go to his house, and there resume his native dress and stain. In this garb he felt even stranger and more uncomfortable than he had done, when he first put on European clothes; but this was not long in wearing off and, by the time he reached Jooneer, he was again at home in it. He took with him, at Mrs. Sankey's suggestion, a number of English books, by authors she recommended; so that he could, by reading and learning some of them by heart, retain his knowledge of the language.
For the next three months he spent his whole time in practising with sword, pistol, and gun; under the tuition of an old soldier in Jooneer, who had been a noted swordsman in his time. He was already far stronger than the sons of Ramdass, although these were now young men. Anxious to, at once, exercise his muscles and gain in skill, he now attached himself to a famous shikaree who, seeing the boy's strength and courage, took him as an assistant when he went on excursions among the hills. Here Harry learned to dig pits for the capture of tigers; to smear leaves with a sticky substance, obtained from a plant resembling mistletoe, so that when a tiger or bear trod upon them and, finding them sticking to his feet, paused and rubbed these on his head, until he became blinded and bewildered with a mass of sticky foliage, a well-placed shot would stretch him dead.
[Illustration: For a year he worked with the shikaree.]
For a year he worked with the shikaree. Sometimes they hunted simply for the value of the skins; but more often they were sent for by villagers, who were suffering from the depredations of tigers or leopards, and who were willing to pay for having them killed. Harry Lindsay acquired quite a reputation in Jooneer and the surrounding country, for the shikaree spoke freely of his bravery, intelligence, and skill with his arms. His width of shoulders and the strength of his muscles caused him to be regarded as a prodigy; and it was generally considered that, when he grew up, he would become a great fighter, and attain wide renown as a leader of bands in the service of Holkar, or the Peishwa.
When he was sixteen, Sufder, who had watched his progress with great approval, said to him: "You are scarce a man in years yet, Puntojee; but you are strong, skilful with your weapons, and far more of a man than many ten years older than yourself. It is time that you should see something of war. Since the death of Scindia, a few months back; and the succession of his nephew Doulut, who is about your own age; things have become even more unsettled than before. Scindia was a great man and, although at times worsted by his rivals, always managed to repair his fortunes and to add to his power; but whether the young Scindia will keep the wide territory that his uncle won is doubtful. Holkar, although at times he and Scindia united, as when the English marched against Poona, has been his rival and enemy.
"The Peishwa has sometimes been in alliance with one of these great princes, sometimes with the other. His minister, Nana Furnuwees, is a man of commanding talent. Had it not been for him, it is probable that Scindia and Holkar would long since have become altogether independent; but he has always contrived to play one off against the other and, by securing the services of the secondary chiefs, such as the Rajah of Nagpore and the Rajah of Kolapoore, to hold the balance of power; but he is an old man, and at his death there is no saying how things will go.
"Matters are complicated, too, by the fact that Scindia has now in his service sixteen battalions of drilled infantry, commanded by French officers; and these have proved so valuable, in the various sieges he has undertaken, that Holkar has been obliged to imitate his example. There are many who think that the introduction of infantry will, in the end, prove disastrous to the power of the Mahrattas; whose strength has hitherto lain in their cavalry, which could perform long journeys, strike a blow and be off again, and so were more than a match for the infantry of other Indian princes. But with infantry all this will be altered, for the marches must be no longer or faster than they can journey. The order of battles, too, will be changed altogether; and we shall depend more upon foot, while our horse, until now almost invincible, will become of secondary importance.
"However, that is not the question, at present. The first thing to be considered is, to which of the three great leaders you are to attach yourself. As you know, I was for many years in Scindia's service; but at his death the position was changed. Scindia knew that I was active and capable; had he lived, I should soon have gained much promotion. However, his chief minister took a dislike to me; and I felt that, now the Maharajah was gone, Doulut would be easily swayed by the counsels of those around him; and that instead of promotion I should be more likely to lose my command, and perhaps be put out of the way. Therefore I left Doulut's service, and have entered that of the young Peishwa who, at the advice of Nana Furnuwees, has given me the command of a troop of a hundred men.
"Years ago I gained Nana's goodwill, by apprising him of the hostile intentions of the Rajah of Nagpore; when he promised me that, should I at any time leave Scindia's service, he would give me as good a position as I held there in that of the Peishwa. The young prince is but twenty-one, and I will ask Nana to present you to him as one who, in time, will become a valuable officer; and it is likely that Mahdoo Rao will receive you well when he hears that, though so young, you have gained great credit as a slayer of wild beasts; and that, as he will see for himself, you promise to grow into a strong man, and a brave soldier.
"Nana Furnuwees is a man who, by his conciliating manner, gains the confidence of all who come under his influence; and it is wholly due to him that the authority of the Peishwa has not been entirely overthrown by Scindia and Holkar. He is a reader of men's minds, and has always surrounded himself with friends of discernment and courage; and I think you would be likely, if you remained in the Peishwa's service, to rise to a very much higher rank than I should ever do, being myself but a rough soldier with a heavy hand.
"Holkar, at present, is fast becoming altogether imbecile. He is worn out both in mind and body, and I should not advise anybody to join him. Therefore the choice rests between Doulut Rao Scindia and the Peishwa; as far as I can see, there is an equal chance of your seeing service with either."
"I can choose without hesitation," Harry said. "Had you still been in the army of Scindia, I would have joined it, too; but as you have now entered that of the Peishwa, who is the lawful ruler of the Mahrattas, though overshadowed by Scindia and Holkar, I should certainly choose his service.
"In any case, I would rather be with you. You have taught me the use of arms, and to you I owe it that I was not killed, when an infant; therefore I would assuredly rather fight under your orders, than take service with Holkar or Scindia.
"As to their quarrels, I know nothing. Ramdass has often told me as much as he knew of these matters, but it all seemed to me to be confusion; and the only thing I could understand was that they were always intriguing against each other, instead of putting all their forces in the field, and fighting it out fairly, and so deciding who was to be the chief lord of the Mahrattas."
"Although but a soldier, Puntojee, I cannot but see that this constant antagonism, between the three principal leaders of the Mahrattas, is unfortunate in the last degree. We are wasting the strength that, if properly employed, might bring all India into subjection and, when trouble really comes, we shall be a divided people, instead of acting under one head and with one mind. However, it is not for us soldiers to meddle with these things; but to do our duty to the chief under whom we serve.
"Well, if such be your choice, I will present you to Nana Furnuwees. I am glad that you have chosen that service for, in the first place, being young, he may take a liking to you, and you may obtain rapid promotion; and still more, because I should prefer to have you with me."
Hitherto, Harry had worn only the scanty clothing in use by the peasantry, and the small cultivators; but Sufder now bought him clothes such as were worn by youths of a superior class. Soyera had offered no objection to his departure and, indeed, Sufder had spoken to her on the subject, before he had broached it to Harry. " 'Tis hard upon me to give you up," she said to the lad; "but I have always known that it must be so, and indeed, for the last year I have seen little of you. The change will be good for you. You will learn the manner of war, and take an interest in the intrigues and troubles that are constantly going on, and of which we hear little.
"When you rejoin your countrymen, a few years hence, I shall go with you. You need my testimony, to show that you are the son of Major Lindsay; and I can be useful to you, in managing your household. But at present it is best that I should stay here. A young soldier would not care to have his mother looking after him, and it is for your good that you should go your own way; and besides, you will have the counsels of Sufder to aid you. I should be out of place and, for the present, I am happy here with my good brother and sister-in-law, the latter of whom would miss me sorely. Moreover, Poona is but two days' ride from here, and you will no doubt be able sometimes to come over and see us.
"I have done what little I could for you. You are now old enough to make your own way. The bird that has taught its nestling to fly does not try to keep it in the nest, when it is once able to take care of itself."
"I can never be sufficiently grateful, for all that you have done for me," Harry said earnestly. "You have been more than a mother to me and, wherever I go, I shall not be happy unless you are with me, though I see it is best, this time, that I should go alone; but assuredly, when I join my people, and have a home of my own, it would not seem like a home to me if you did not share it."
Two days later, Harry mounted a horse that Ramdass had given him, and started with Sufder for Poona. On arriving there they rode to the little camp, half a mile out of the town, where Sufder's troop was stationed.
"You don't carry your tents with you, when you are on service in the field?"
"Not when on an expedition where haste is needed; for we should make but poor progress, if we were hampered by luggage. When on a distant expedition, we take tents.
"This is a standing camp, and there are a score like it round the town. They always remain in the same position; sometimes one troop occupies them, sometimes another. When we go on an expedition, we leave them; when we come back, if they are still unoccupied, we again take possession. If they have been allotted to another troop, a vacant one is found for us.
"Only one regiment of horse and two of foot are in the city, where they have lines of huts. We differ from the rest of the army, being always on service; the others are only called out when there is occasion for them, each under its own chief and, in case of necessity, the Peishwa can put thirty thousand horsemen in the field, besides those of the rajahs in alliance with him."
The next morning Sufder, in his best attire, went with Harry into the city; the latter for the first time carrying a sword, dagger and pistols in his cummerbund, or sash. Without being questioned, they entered the chamber were Nana was giving audience to all who waited upon him on business.
Sufder took his place at the lower end of the chamber, moving forward as one after another applicant was disposed of until, at length, his turn arrived. The minister, who knew that he was a brave soldier, who had enjoyed the confidence of the late Scindia, acknowledged his deep salutation with a friendly nod.
"What can I do for you, Sufder?"
"I desire nothing, your excellency, save that I may be permitted to present to you one of my family: the son of a relation of mine who, although still young, I may venture to recommend to you as one possessing great courage and intelligence. I have myself given him lessons in the use of his arms; and he has had other instructors, and done credit to them. For the past year he has been working with a famous shikaree, and has killed many tigers that were a scourge to the villages near the Ghauts, together with many bears and leopards; and his master reported that his fearlessness was great, and that as a marksman his skill was equal to his own. He was most unwilling that he should leave him, but I considered it was time for him to enter the army; in which, I believe, he will soon distinguish himself."
"How old is he?" the minister asked.
"He is as yet but sixteen but, as your highness may see, he is as strong as most men, having devoted himself to exercises of all sorts, since he was a child."
"He is indeed cast in a strong mould, and his face pleases me.
"And so, you would enter the service of His Highness, the Peishwa?"
"That is my desire, your excellency."
"You are young to serve as an officer and, for the present, you had best remain with Sufder's troop. In the meantime, I will see what suitable post can be found for you."
With an expression of thanks, Sufder and Harry left the audience hall.
"It is a good beginning, Puntojee," the soldier said, as they left the minister's palace. "Nana Furnuwees was evidently pleased with you, and I think he will give you special employment. At the same time, serving one master here is not without its danger--Nana especially, powerful as he is, has enemies as powerful; for he has always stood in the way of the ambition of Scindia."
That evening an officer brought, from Nana, an order conferring upon Harry the appointment of an assistant officer in Sufder's troop, with the usual pay and allowances and, three days later, an order came for him to attend the audience of the minister. On arrival, he was told by the officer of the chamber that he was not to present himself at public audience, but that Nana would speak to him privately. He was therefore taken to an inner chamber where, an hour later, Nana joined him.
"I think by your face, Puntojee, that you can be trusted; and I have decided to place you in the service of His Highness, the Peishwa. What position you will hold there must depend upon yourself, and him. I shall simply recommend you as one of whom I have heard much good. It would be as well for you not to mention your age; but let him suppose that, as you look, you are about the same age as himself. He is amiable and kindly, and your position will be a pleasant one.
"I am anxious to prevent evil advisers from obtaining influence over him. He is young and unsuspicious, and much harm might thus come to the state. It is, then, for the general interest that he should be surrounded by those whom I can trust; so that, if any plotters are endeavouring to poison his mind, their plans may be thwarted. I have of course, officers about his person who are thoroughly trustworthy; but these are much older than himself, and he chafes somewhat at what he wrongly considers his tutelage. But indeed, as he is but twenty-one, and wholly unversed in matters of state, it is needful that the management of affairs should rest in the hands of those who have long controlled it.
"Scindia would be the first to take advantage of any imprudence. He is already, by far, the most powerful of the Mahratta princes. His possessions are of immense extent; he holds the emperor at Delhi in the palm of his hand; he can put one hundred thousand horse into the field, and has large numbers of infantry, including sixteen battalions drilled by French officers, and commanded by de Boigne; and although Doulut Rao is but twenty, and as yet we know but little of his disposition, he is of course surrounded by the advisers of his uncle, and may be expected to pursue the same policy. His uncle gained great ascendency over the Peishwa, and his death was a fortunate circumstance. Still, it is certain that the prince, until his powers are matured, will yield to the advice of those to whom the conduct of affairs is entrusted.
"Now, I am going to the palace, and have requested a private audience with Mahdoo Rao, and I will take you with me."
Followed by a train of officers, with whom Harry fell in, the minister proceeded to the palace. His train remained in the public hall, and Nana went into the Peishwa's private apartment. In a few minutes, an official came in and called Puntojee; and Harry at once followed him to an inner room, where the Peishwa and his minister were alone. Harry bowed to the ground.
"This, Prince, is the young man of whom I have spoken to you. He bears an excellent character for his skill in arms, and has killed many tigers and other beasts. It was but the other day that you complained that you had no one of your own age to whom you could talk freely; and I have selected this young officer as one who, I thought, would be agreeable to you."
"I thank you heartily, Nana. In truth, I sometimes need a companion; and I think, by his face, that this officer will be an agreeable one. To what post, think you, had I best appoint him?"
"As he is a famous shikaree, I should say that it would be suitable were you to make him director of the chase."
"But I never go hunting."
"That is true; but in time, when your occupations of state lessen, you might do so," Nana said. "And indeed, even at present, there is nothing to prevent your hunting sometimes in the royal preserves, where there must be an abundance of game of all sorts."
"So let it be, then," the Peishwa said. "In truth, I care not for the killing of beasts, unless they do harm to the villagers. But it is right that there should be someone to direct the men who have charge of the preserves and, as an official, you will have the right of entry here at all times, and will be frequently about my person; and I will confer with you about other things, as well as the chase. You will, of course, have an apartment assigned to you.
"You will arrange about the emoluments, Nana."
"You had better go to my house, and wait for me there," Nana said; and Harry, bowing deeply to the prince and his minister, left the palace.
He did not deceive himself as to the reason for which Nana had thus placed him in a position in which he was likely to be frequently in the company of the young prince. He intended him to act as a spy. This he was firmly determined not to do, in any matter save in thwarting any designs Scindia might have. That was a public duty.
By this time, he had learnt much of the events that were passing. Ramdass and the other ryots of his acquaintance regarded Nana Furnuwees as the guardian of the country. For many years, it was his wisdom and firmness alone that had thwarted the designs of Scindia, whose advent to supreme authority would have been regarded as a grave misfortune, by all the cultivators of the Deccan. Scindia's expenses in keeping up so great an army were enormous, and the exactions of his tax gatherers ground to the dust the cultivators and peasantry of his own wide dominions; and Harry was therefore ready to give Nana a faithful support in all public matters. He knew that the minister had many enemies, even among the rajahs in the Peishwa's dominion, and in those round it; for they regarded him, with reason, as a curb upon their private ambitions and, for years, intrigues had been going on for his overthrow.
On the other hand, Harry was much pleased with Mahdoo Rao, who was a most amiable and kindly young man. While determined, then, to do all that he could in support of Nana; he decided that he would, on no account, give him any report that would be unfavourable to the Peishwa. His interview with the minister, on the return of the latter, was a short one.
"Here," the latter said, "is a purse of five hundred rupees, with which to obtain garments suitable for one in attendance on the Peishwa. Your emolument will be two hundred rupees a month. I shall issue orders to the men employed in the forests and preserves to report to you; and have requested the chamberlain to allot an apartment to you in the palace, and to tell off two servants to be in attendance on you.
"You understand that your mission, as far as I am concerned, is to give me early warning, if any of those favourable to Scindia--you shall be furnished with a list of their names--are endeavouring to obtain an undue influence over the prince; who is of an altogether unsuspicious character, and would be likely to fall an easy victim to bad counsels."
"You can depend upon my doing so," Harry said. "I have been taught to regard Scindia as an enemy to the public peace, and shall use all diligence in carrying out your excellency's orders."
And, leaving the minister, Harry went to Sufder and told him what had happened.
"In truth, Puntojee, you were born under a lucky star. I never dreamt that Nana Furnuwees would have thus introduced you to the Peishwa. Now, lad, you have a fine career opened to you. It will need caution but, as Scindia's ancestor was but a slipper bearer, and rose to the highest rank and honour; so it is open to you to win a great position, if you steer clear of the dangers that attend all who play a part in public affairs. I foresee that you will become a favourite with the prince, but remember to put your trust in Nana. He is, at present, the greatest power in the land, and has been so for many years but, unlike most who have attained such authority, he is liked by the people, for he uses his power well, and for the good of the state.
"You see, even now the young Peishwa is by no means secure on the musnud. The adherents of Rugoba, who was undoubtedly the lawful ruler of the Deccan, still live; and may one day raise the flag of revolt, in favour of his sons Bajee Rao and Chimnajee Appa who, with Amrud Rao, his adopted son, are all in close custody in the hill fort of Sewneree, under two of Nana's officers.
"There is a general feeling of pity for these young men, even among those who regard their imprisonment as necessary--for, were they free, a civil war would assuredly break out again--and the feeling is increased by the fact that Bajee Rao is a youth of extraordinary accomplishments. He is graceful in person, with a handsome countenance and a charming manner and, although but nineteen, he is an excellent horseman, skilled in the use of the bow, and considered to be the finest swordsman in the country. He is deeply read in all our religious books and, in all the country, there is no one of his age so learned.
"All these things, however, only add to the necessity for his being kept in prison. A youth so gifted and, as many people consider, the lawful heir to the throne, would speedily be joined by all the enemies of Nana; and might not only drive the minister into exile, but dethrone Mahdoo Rao. Such being the case, no one can blame Nana for keeping them in confinement--at any rate, until Mahdoo Rao has been master for some years, and has proved that he is able to maintain his position.
"Now, lad, I will go into the town with you, and purchase dresses fit for an official of the palace."
"I quite see that I have been most fortunate in obtaining such a position, Sufder; but I own I should have preferred to remain with you, and learn to do service as a soldier."
"That you may learn later on," Sufder said. "Having the confidence of the Peishwa, you may soon obtain military rank, as well as civil and, if war breaks out, may hold a position vastly better than you could hope to attain to as the mere chief of a troop."
"It seems very ridiculous, Sufder, that I should be thus put forward, without any merit of my own; while you, who have fought in many battles, are still only commander of your troop."
"I have no desire for more," Sufder replied. "I am a soldier, and can do my duty as ordered, but I have no head for intrigues; and I consider the risks of a battle are quite sufficient, without those of being put out of the way for mixing myself up in plots.
"Again, your rise is not altogether undeserved. You have, by your exercises, attained the strength of manhood early; and your experience as a tiger hunter has fitted you for the post for which you are appointed, just as your diligence in exercise in arms will be of good service to you, if you come to hold military command. But you must be circumspect and, above all things, do not forget to use the dye with which Soyera has furnished you. Hitherto your white skin has done you no harm but, were it discovered here that you are English, it would at once be imagined that you were a spy, and little time would be given you to explain how matters stand."
"I will certainly be careful as to that and, now that I am to have a private apartment, I shall be able to apply the dye without the fear of being interrupted, as might have been the case in camp."
On the following day, Harry, having obtained clothes suitable to his position, betook himself to the palace, where one of the officers of the chamberlain conducted him to his apartment, and assigned to him two men appointed to his service.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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3
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: A Change In Affairs.
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Harry Lindsay's duties were little more than nominal. The reports sent in to him, by those in charge of the royal preserves, could scarcely be considered as satisfactory; as they stated that, owing to the fact that for years there had been no hunting there, the tigers had greatly increased in number, and had thinned down the stags and, indeed, in some cases had so destroyed other game that they were driven to escape from the enclosures, and to ravage the villages. But beyond receiving these reports, and riding over occasionally to the preserves, Harry had little to do save to take part in any court ceremonies and, when called upon to do so, to accompany the Peishwa in his walks in the palace garden. He therefore determined to learn to read and write in Mahratta and, for two or three hours a day, a man of the weynsh, or mercantile class, came in to teach him. So careful was Nana Furnuwees, in preventing Scindia's adherents from approaching the prince, that Harry had nothing whatever to report on this head.
One day, when Mahdoo Rao, who had taken a great liking to him, was walking in the garden, chatting familiarly to him of his life in the country, and his adventures with tigers and other wild beasts, he said: "Have you seen my cousin, Bajee Rao?"
"No, Your Highness, I have never seen him."
"You have heard of him, of course, and nothing but good."
"That is so, Prince. It seems that, both in sports and learning, he is wonderfully well instructed."
"I should like to see him," the prince said. "I admire what I have heard of him, greatly, and it is hard that he should be shut up in prison; and yet he is scarcely more a prisoner than I am."
Harry was struck with dismay.
"But Your Highness is in no way a prisoner!"
"I am not shut up in a fortress," the young prince said, "but I am no more my own master than Bajee Rao is. Nana Furnuwees treats me as if I were a child. He is, I know, devoted to me; but that makes it no more pleasant. I can go where I like, but it is always with my retinue. I cannot choose my own friends."
"Your Highness will forgive me, if I say that it is for your own safety, and for the peace of the country that your minister watches over you so jealously; and doubtless he thinks that, having been the chief adviser to your family, for so many years, having guarded it so successfully from those who would have lessened your authority, for the present it is of the greatest importance that he should continue to guide the state."
"I am, at least, very glad that he allows me a companion of my own age, to whom I can talk freely."
"On all subjects, Your Highness, excepting state matters. Nana presented me because I was ignorant of the court, and knew nothing whatever of intrigues, and was not likely to take any part in them. Therefore, Your Highness, I pray you but to speak upon ordinary matters; be assured I am your devoted servant, but the courtiers would grow suspicious, were you to talk of state matters with me. These things speedily become known, and I should fall under Nana's displeasure."
"Perhaps you are right," the Peishwa admitted, in a tone of melancholy. "No doubt, whatever passes in this house is known to my minister; and indeed, it is his duty to make himself so acquainted. Still, I feel it hard that I should not have one friend to whom I can speak."
"The time will come, Prince, when you will be able to do so and, doubtless, there will be at hand those who will dare to have your confidence."
The prince was silent but, after this, he abstained from any remarks to Harry concerning the state. He had, indeed, for some time been in correspondence with Bajee Rao, who had gained the confidence of one of those appointed to look after him and, though there was nothing save expressions of friendship on the part of both princes, Nana was furious when he found out, from his spies, what was going on.
The news came as a shock to the minister. Nana had been the greatest enemy of the house of Rugoba; and the discovery of this correspondence, and the friendship between the two young men, so threatened his authority that, after ordering that Bajee Rao and his brothers should be more strictly confined than before, he visited the Peishwa and upbraided him bitterly for having entered upon a friendship with the head of a party which had harassed his family, and had brought innumerable troubles on the state. Then he sent a message to Harry, bidding him to come, at once.
"How is it, Puntojee," he said sternly, "that you have altogether failed to justify the faith I put in you, and have already assisted Mahdoo Rao to enter into relations with my enemy, Bajee Rao?"
Harry was thunderstruck at this sudden attack.
"My lord, you must have been misinformed. I know nothing of any such correspondence and, if it really went on, I think the Peishwa would have taken me into his confidence."
"Do you mean to say that Mahdoo has not spoken to you about his cousin?"
"No, sir, I do not say so for, some four months ago, he spoke in terms of admiration for Bajee Rao; but he did not pursue the subject, and never afterwards alluded to it."
The minister looked at him fixedly.
"I believe you," he said. "You do not look like a double-faced man, but as one who would tell the truth, whatever were the consequences. Moreover, I felt that if you had known of Mahdoo Rao's intentions, and had not reported them to me, you would, on receiving my message, have endeavoured to make your escape. I have of course enquired, and found that you spent your afternoon, as usual, with your scribe; and that you afterwards rode out to Sufder's camp, and there talked for half an hour, sitting outside the tent and conversing on ordinary matters; and then you returned here to the palace. These proceedings go far to assure me that you were ignorant of the discovery that had been made, that a correspondence had been going on between Mahdoo and Bajee. Still, I thought you might have known of the correspondence, though not of the discovery; but now I am quite convinced that you were altogether ignorant of what was going on."
The scene with Nana, and the knowledge that he had brought upon his cousins even stricter confinement than before, acted most painfully upon the mind of the young Peishwa, already embittered by the restraint in which he was being held. He now shut himself up in his room, and absolutely refused to leave it. His absence from the durbars was put down to illness. Nana paid no great attention to him, believing that the young prince would speedily recover himself.
This, however, was not the case, for settled melancholy took possession of him. On the 22nd of October he appeared at the Duddera, a high ceremonial, went among his troops and, in the evening, received his chiefs and the representatives from the great rajahs but, three days later, he threw himself from a terrace in front of his palace, broke two of his limbs, and so seriously injured himself that he died, two days afterwards; having, almost in his last breath, expressed to Nana his strong desire that Bajee Rao should succeed him on the musnud.
The consternation of the minister was unbounded. It seemed that, by this sudden and unexpected blow, the whole of his plans were overthrown; and that not only his position, but his very life, was in danger.
He sent for Harry, two hours after the Peishwa's death.
"Answer me frankly," he said. "Can I depend upon you, absolutely? And have you had no communication of any kind from my enemies?"
"You can depend upon me, my lord. Everyone knows that you have saved the state, a score of times; and will, I doubt not, do the same again."
"I have the will," the minister said, gravely, "but whether I have the power is another thing. I sent off a messenger to the general, Purseram Bhow, bidding him gather as many troops as possible and march hither; and I shall send letters to the Rajah of Nagpore, and Scindia. Holkar, being in Poona, I have already seen and, as he has always supported me against Rugoba, he is as anxious as I am as to the succession.
"I shall now send you with a duplicate letter to Purseram Bhow for, since the terrible accident to Mahdoo Rao, whom I loved dearly for his amiable character, it is probable that the adherents of Bajee Rao have been active; and that my every movement is watched, and attempts may be made to stop any messengers that I may send out. Take Sufder's troop with you. If you are stopped, fight your way through, whatever their force. It is a matter of supreme importance that this letter should reach the general."
"It shall reach him, my lord," Harry said, as he took it; "in five minutes I shall be on my way."
Going to his room he changed his attire, mounted his horse, and rode to Sufder's camp. The men were all ready, as Nana had sent an order to Sufder to prepare instantly for a journey.
"So it is you, Puntojee!" the captain said, as he rode up; "the orderly did not tell me whom I was to escort, nor our destination. In which direction do we ride?"
"I am bearer of a letter to Purseram Bhow."
"Then I know the direction;" and, giving orders to his men, he rode off at once by the side of Harry.
"This is a terrible business, Puntojee."
"I am greatly grieved, indeed, for no one could have been kinder to me than Mahdoo Rao."
"Yes, yes," Sufder said; "that is all very well, but the serious side of the matter is that, just as everything seemed settled, we may be entering upon another civil war, more terrible than the last. Of course, I am sorry for the young Peishwa; but I doubt whether he was in any way fit to rule over the Mahrattas. Kindness of heart goes for nothing with a people like ours; split up into many factions, led by many chiefs, and ever ready for war. It needs a strong, as well as an able man to hold in check all the parties in the state.
"Scindia was the sort of man to rule us. He was strong in every way, was troubled with no scruples, would strike down without mercy any who opposed him. He took great care of his troops, and they were always ready to follow him. That is the man we want on the musnud; not a young prince, of whom we can only say that he was kindly.
"And why did Nana choose you?"
"I am a second string to his bow. He sent off a messenger as soon as he heard of Mahdoo Rao's accident but, fearing he might be intercepted on the way, he has chosen me as being a person no one would be likely to suspect of being his messenger, on so important a matter."
"It is important, indeed, Puntojee. There is no saying what may be the result of the Peishwa's death. There is no doubt that Scindia and Holkar will, for once, be in complete accord with Nana Furnuwees, and will combine in any plan to keep Rugoba's son from succeeding; still, there are many of the friends of Rugoba who will be ready to declare for his son and, moreover, there are the stories that have been so widely circulated as to Bajee's personal appearance, and his many accomplishments--these will gain for him a great number of partisans."
The journey was performed without interruption. At one time, a body of some fifty horsemen made their appearance on rising ground near the road, but drew off when they saw how strong was the party and, after a ride of sixty miles, they arrived at Purseram Bhow's camp. Harry dismounted in front of the general's tent and, entering, handed him the letter.
"What is your news?" the latter asked, before opening it.
"There is none, General, beyond what the letter, sent to you three hours before I left, will have prepared you to hear. I only bear a copy of that letter, in case the first should not have reached you."
"It is well that the precaution was taken for, in truth, the messenger has not arrived."
"It is possible that he may have been murdered on the way, sir; for we saw a party of fifty horsemen on the road, whose intentions seemed to be hostile, but as I had Sufder's troop of a hundred men with me, they drew off."
"But what is the news, then, that is so important that steps are taken to stop messengers that bear it?"
Harry related what had taken place, the old officer giving many ejaculations of regret, and horror, at the news of Mahdoo Rao's death. " 'Tis a terrible misfortune, indeed," he said, "and is like to throw the whole country into disorder again."
He opened the despatch now, and glanced through it. He called some of his officers, who were gathered near the tent, and ordered them to cause the trumpets to be sounded for all the troops to be in readiness to march, at once; leaving only a small body of infantry to pack up the tents, and follow at a more leisurely pace with the baggage.
An hour later two regiments of cavalry started, infantry men being taken up behind the troopers and, late the next day, they arrived at Poona. Scindia and the Rajah of Berar had also been sent for, in haste and, as soon as they arrived, a council was held as to the choice that should be made of a successor.
All were opposed to the selection of Bajee Rao; for he would have been brought up by his mother, with the deepest enmity towards those who had successfully combined against his father. It was therefore proposed that the widow of Mahdoo Rao should adopt a son, in whose name the government should be carried on.
It was not until two months had been spent in negotiations that the matter was finally settled. One of Scindia's ministers, named Balloba, alone opposed the course decided upon; and Bajee Rao opened communications with him, and succeeded in winning him over to his cause. Having done this he addressed Scindia; offering him a very large addition to his territory, and payment of all his expenses, if he would assist him to gain his rightful position. As Balloba had great influence over the young Scindia, the offer was accepted.
The arrangement was made so secretly that Nana Furnuwees had received no intimation, whatever, of what was going on, until the agreement had been concluded. Purseram Bhow was again summoned to Poona and, with his usual energy, made a march of one hundred and twenty miles in forty-eight hours.
The position was a difficult one, indeed. At one blow, the plans that had been so carefully laid by Nana were shattered. Scindia, who had but a month or two before formed one of the confederacy, had now gone round to the side of Bajee Rao, who regarded the minister as his greatest enemy. Holkar was not to be depended upon and, in Poona, there were many adherents of the son of Rugoba. The council held by Nana, Purseram, and two or three other great officers was long and, at times, stormy; but it was finally agreed that the sole way out of the perilous position, caused by Scindia's desertion, was to anticipate him and to release Bajee Rao, and declare him Peishwa.
Purseram started, at once, to the fort where the brothers were confined. Harry, who was now deeply interested in the course of events, was one of Nana's officers who accompanied Purseram. On hearing the general's errand, the officer in command of the fort at once sent for Bajee, his brother Chimnajee, and Amrud--who was the adopted son of Rugoba, and who stood on an equal footing with regard to the succession. Bajee Rao listened calmly to the proposals made to him in Nana's name, asked several questions, and demanded guarantees; but was evidently disposed to accept the proposals, if assured that they were made in good faith.
Amrud strongly urged him to decline the offer; but Bajee, upon Purseram taking the most solemn oath known to the Hindoos, in proof of his sincerity, accepted the offer and, with his brother Chimnajee, rode with Purseram to Poona; Amrud being left behind in the fort, as Purseram considered that he would continue to exercise his influence over Bajee in a direction hostile to Nana's interest.
As soon as the party arrived at the capital, an interview took place between Bajee and Nana when, in the presence of many of the great officers, both swore to forget all enmities and injuries, and Bajee promised to retain Nana at the head of his administration.
That same evening, the minister sent for Harry.
"Puntojee," he said, "I have a commission for you. I know that you are loyal to me, and that I can depend upon you. I wish you to go at once to Scindia's camp, which is now on the bank of the Godavery, and ascertain how he takes the news. Doubtless Balloba, his prime minister, will be furious at finding that, instead of Bajee becoming a mere creature of Scindia's, I have placed him on the musnud, and retain my place as his chief minister. I can employ you for this business better than most others, for the greater part of my officers are personally known to those of Scindia, while you have scarce been seen by them. I have also a high idea of your shrewdness; and I have no doubt that you will, in some way, be able to gain the information that I require--indeed, it will probably be the public talk of the camp. If you should find an opportunity of entering into negotiations, with any influential person in Scindia's court, I authorize you to do so in my name; and to agree to any reasonable demands that he may make, either for a payment in money or in estates. Scindia's character is wholly unformed and, though today he may be guided by Balloba, tomorrow he may lean on someone else.
"You can go in any guise you think fit, either as a trooper or as a camp follower. In either case, you had better take Sufder and twenty men with you; and leave them in concealment within a few miles of the camp so that, in case of necessity, you can join them; and his men can act as messengers, and bring your reports to me."
As it was now a year since Harry had first gone to Poona, and he had during that time worked diligently, he could now both read and write the Mahratta language, and was thus able to send in written reports; instead of being obliged to rely upon oral messages, which might be misdelivered by those who carried them, or possibly reported to others instead of to the minister; whereas reading and writing were known to but few of the Mahrattas, outside the Brahmin class.
Sufder expressed himself much pleased, when he heard that he was to accompany Harry.
"I am sick of this life of inactivity," he said. "Why, we have had no fighting for the past five years; and we shall forget how to use our arms, unless there is something doing. I would willingly accompany you into Scindia's camp, but I am far too well known there to hope to escape observation. However, I will pick out twenty of my best men so that, if there should be a skirmish, we shall be able to hold our own. Of course, I shall choose men who have good horses, for we may have to ride for it."
Harry himself was very well mounted, for Mahdoo Rao had given him two excellent horses; and as he had, when out with Sufder's troop, tried them against the best of those of the sowars, he felt sure that he could trust to them, in case of having to ride for his life. The trooper who looked after them had become much attached to him, and he determined to take him with him into Scindia's camp, one of Sufder's other men looking after the horses.
After a consultation with Sufder, he decided on adopting the costume of a petty trader or pedlar carrying garments, scarfs, and other articles used by soldiers. Of these he laid in a store and, three hours after his interview with Nana, started with his escort; the trooper leading his spare horse, on which his packs were fastened, and his own man riding a country pony. The distance to Scindia's camp was under a hundred miles, and they took three days in accomplishing it. It was important that the horses should not be knocked up, as their lives might depend upon their speed.
When within ten miles of their destination, they halted in a grove near the Moola river. Here Harry changed his clothes, and assumed those of a small merchant. Then he mounted the pony; a portion of the packs was fastened behind him, and the rest carried by his servant.
Scindia's camp lay around Toka, a town on the Godavery at the foot of a range of hills. On arriving there he went to the field bazaar, where a large number of booths, occupied by traders and country peasants, were erected. The former principally sold arms, saddlery, and garments; the latter, the produce of their own villages. Choosing an unoccupied piece of ground, Harry erected a little shelter tent; composed of a dark blanket thrown over a ridge pole, supported by two others, giving a height of some four feet, in the centre. The pony was picketed just behind this. In front of it a portion of the wares was spread out, and Harry began the usual loud exhortations, to passers by, to inspect them.
Having thus established himself, he left Wasil in charge, explaining to him the prices that he was to ask for each of the articles sold, and then started on a tour through the camp. Here and there pausing to listen to the soldiers, he picked up scraps of news; and learned that there was a general expectation that the army would march, in a day or two, towards Poona--it being rumoured that Scindia and his minister, Balloba, had been outwitted by Nana Furnuwees; and that Balloba had made no secret of his anger, but vowed vengeance against the man who had overthrown plans which, it had been surely believed, would have resulted in Scindia's obtaining supreme control over the Deccan.
Returning to his little tent, he wrote a letter to Nana, telling him what he had gathered, and giving approximately the strength of Scindia's force; adding that, from what he heard, the whole were animated with the desire to avenge what they considered an insult to their prince. This note he gave to Wasil, who at once started on foot to join Sufder; who would forward it, by four troopers, to Poona.
The next morning he returned and, after purchasing provisions from the countrymen, and lighting a fire for cooking them, he assisted Harry at his stall. The latter was standing up, exhibiting a garment to a soldier, who was haggling with him over the price, when a party of officers rode by. At their head was one whose dress showed him to be a person of importance; and whom Harry at once recognized as Balloba, having often noticed him during the negotiations at Poona. As his eye fell upon Harry he checked his horse for a moment, and beckoned to him to come to him.
"Come here, weynsh," he said, using the term generally applied to the commercial caste.
[Illustration: Harry went up to him, and salaamed.]
Harry went up to him, and salaamed.
"How comes it," the minister asked, "that so fine a young fellow as you are is content to be peddling goods through the country, when so well fitted by nature for better things? You should be a soldier, and a good one. For so young a man, I have never seen a greater promise of strength.
"It seems to me that your face is not unknown to me. Where do you come from?"
"From Jooneer, your excellency, where my people are cultivators but, having no liking for that life, I learned the trade of a shopkeeper, and obtained permission to travel to your camp, and to try my fortune in disposing of some of my master's goods."
As Jooneer was but some sixty miles from Toka, the explanation was natural enough and, as the former town lay near to the main road from Scindia's dominions in Candeish, it afforded an explanation of Balloba's partial recognition of his face.
"And as a merchant, you can read and write, I suppose?" the latter went on.
"Yes, your highness, sufficiently well for my business."
"Well, think it over. You can scarcely find your present life more suitable to your taste than that of a cultivator, and the army is the proper place for a young fellow with spirit, and with strength and muscles such as you have. If you like to enlist in my own bodyguard, and your conduct be good, I will see that you have such promotion as you deserve."
"Your excellency is kind, indeed," Harry said, humbly. "Before I accept your kind offer, will you permit me to return to Jooneer to account for my sales to my employer, and to obtain permission of my father to accept your offer; which would indeed be greatly more to my taste than the selling of goods."
"It is well," Balloba said, and then broke off: "Ah! I know now why I remember your face. 'Tis the lightness of your eyes, which are of a colour rarely seen; but somehow or other, it appears to me that it was not at Jooneer, but at Poona, that I noticed your face."
"I was at Poona, with my master, when your highness was there," Harry said.
"That accounts for it."
The minister touched his horse's flanks with his heel and rode on, with a thoughtful look on his face. Harry at once joined Wasil.
"Quick, Wasil! There is no time to be lost. Throw the saddle on to the pony, and make your way out of the camp, at once. Pitch all the other things into the tent, and close it. If you leave them here, it will seem strange. Balloba has seen me at Poona, and it is likely enough that, as he thinks it over, he will remember that it was in a dress altogether different from this. Go at once to Sufder. If you get there before me, tell him to mount at once, and ride fast to meet me."
Two minutes later, everything was prepared; and Wasil, mounting the pony, rode off, while Harry moved away among the tents. In a quiet spot, behind one of these, he threw off his upper garments and stood in the ordinary undress of a Hindoo peasant, having nothing on but a scanty loincloth. He had scarcely accomplished this when he heard the trampling of horses; and saw, past the tent, four troopers ride up to the spot he had just left.
"Where is the trader who keeps this tent?" one of them shouted. "He is a spy, and we have orders to arrest him."
Harry waited to hear no more, but walked in the opposite direction; taking care to maintain a leisurely stride, and to avoid all appearance of haste. Then, going down to the road by the side of which the bazaar was encamped, he mingled with the crowd there. Presently, one of the troopers dashed up.
"Has anyone seen a man in the dress of a trader?" and he roughly described the attire of which Harry had rid himself.
There was a general chorus of denial, from those standing round, and the trooper again galloped on.
Harry continued his walk at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to look at articles exposed for sale, until he reached the end of the bazaar. Then he made across the country. Trumpets were blowing now in the camp, and he had no doubt that Balloba had ordered a thorough search to be made for him. He did not quicken his pace, however, until well out of sight; but then he broke into a swinging trot, for he guessed that, when he was not found in the camp, parties of cavalry would start to scour the country. He had gone some four miles when, looking behind him, he saw about twenty horsemen, far back along the road.
The country here was flat and open, with fields irrigated by canals running from the Moola, and affording no opportunity for concealment. Hitherto he had been running well within his powers; but he now quickened his pace, and ran at full speed. He calculated that Wasil would have at least half an hour's start of him; and that, as he would urge the pony to the top of his speed, he would by this time have joined Sufder; and he was sure that the latter would not lose an instant before starting to meet him. He had hesitated, for a moment, whether he should break into a quiet walk and allow the troopers to overtake him, relying upon the alteration of his costume; but he reflected that Balloba might have foreseen that he would change his disguise, and have ordered the arrest of a young man with curiously light eyes.
Harry had always attempted to conceal this feature, as far as possible, by staining his eyelashes a deep black; but when he looked up, the colour of his eyes could hardly fail to strike anyone specially noticing them.
His constant exercise as a boy had given him great swiftness of foot, and the year passed as a shikaree had added to his endurance and speed and, divested of clothing as he was, he felt sure that the horsemen, who were more than a mile in his rear when he first caught sight of them, would not overtake him for some time. He was running, as he knew, for life; for he was certain that, if caught, Balloba would have him at once put to death as a spy. Although hardy and of great endurance, the Mahratta horses, which were small in size, were not accustomed to being put to the top of their speed except for a short charge; and the five miles that they had galloped already must have, to some extent, fatigued them.
After running at the top of his speed for about a mile, he looked back. The party was still a long distance in his rear. Again he pressed forward, but his exertions were telling upon him and, before he had gone another half mile, the Mahrattas had approached within little more than half that distance.
Far ahead he thought he could perceive a body of horsemen, but these were nearly two miles away, and he would be overtaken before they could reach him; therefore he turned suddenly off, and took to one of the little banks dividing one irrigated field from another. As soon as the horsemen reached the spot where he had left the road, they too turned off; but Harry, who was now husbanding his strength, saw a sudden confusion among them.
The little bank of earth on which he was running was but a foot wide, and was softened by the water which soaked in from both sides. It could bear his weight, well enough; but not that of a mounted man. Only one or two had attempted to follow it, the others had plunged into the field. Here their horses at once sank up to the knees. Some endeavoured to force the animals on, others to regain the road they had quitted. The two horsemen on the bank were making better progress, but their horses' hoofs sank deeply in the soft earth; and their pace, in spite of the exertions of the riders, was but a slow one.
Harry turned when he came to the end of the field, and followed another bank at right angles, and was therefore now running in the right direction. He was more than keeping his lead from the foremost of his pursuers Some of the others galloped along the road, parallel to him, but ahead.
The horsemen he had first seen were now within a mile. On they came, at the top of their speed; and the troopers on the road halted, not knowing whether this body were friends or foes, while those on the bank reined in their horses, and rode back to join their comrades. Harry continued to run till he came to another bank leading to the road and, following this, he arrived there just as Sufder galloped up with his party, one of the troopers leading his horse. They gave a shout of welcome, as he came up.
"I thought it must be you," Sufder said, "from the way you ran, rather than from your attire. Shall we charge those fellows?"
"I think not," Harry said. "In the first place Scindia has not, as yet, declared war against Nana and Bajee; in the second, there may be more men coming on behind; therefore it will be best to leave them alone though, if they attack us, we shall, of course, defend ourselves."
"I think that is their intention, Puntojee. See, they have gathered together! I suppose they daren't go back, and say that you have escaped."
"Give me either your sword or spear."
The latter was part of the regular equipment of the Mahratta horsemen. Sufder handed him his sword and, as the pursuers advanced towards them at a canter which speedily became a gallop, he took his place by the side of Sufder and, the latter giving the word, the band dashed forward to meet their opponents.
The combat was a short one. Sufder's followers were all picked men, and were better mounted than Scindia's troopers. These made special efforts to get at Harry, but the latter's skill with the sword enabled him to free himself from his most pressing opponents. Sufder laid about him stoutly and, his men seconding him well, half their opponents were speedily struck to the ground; and the rest, turning their horses, fled at full speed. Sufder's men would have followed, but he shouted to them to draw rein.
"Enough has been done, and well done," he said. "If Scindia means war, nothing will be said about this fight; but if he does not, complaints will doubtless be laid against us, and it is better that we should be able to say that we fought only in self defence; and that, when the attack ceased, we allowed them to ride off unmolested, though we might easily enough have slain the whole of them."
On arriving at the grove where the troop had halted, Harry at once resumed his own clothes; for although in his early days he had been accustomed to be slightly clad, he felt ill at ease riding almost naked. Here, too, he found Wasil, who had ridden with such speed that his pony was too much exhausted for him to ride back with the rest. He received his master with the greatest joy, for he had feared he would be captured before leaving the camp.
They continued their journey to Jooneer, where they halted for the night. Sufder went to his house, and Harry rode out to the farm.
|
{
"id": "20729"
}
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4
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: A British Resident.
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As Harry drew rein at the farm Soyera ran out, followed by her brother and Anundee, with cries of joy at his unexpected return. It was nearly fifteen months since she had last seen him; though he had, when opportunity offered, sent messages to her assuring her that he was well, and hoped ere long to be able to come over to see her.
"I should scarce have known you," she said, "in those fine clothes of yours. You sent word that you were an officer in the Peishwa's service; but I hardly thought that you could be so much changed. You have grown a great deal, and are now much taller than Ramdass's sons."
The worthy farmer and Anundee were also delighted to see him.
"How long are you going to stay?" the former asked.
"Only till tomorrow, at daybreak. I have to ride forward, with all haste, to Poona; for I have been on a mission for Nana Furnuwees."
"Surely it is not so important that you cannot stay a few hours, Puntojee?"
"It is of importance. You may have known that Nana has placed Bajee Rao on the musnud, and he has installed himself as his minister; thereby defeating the plans of Balloba and Scindia, who will probably come along here with their whole force, in a day or two."
Late that evening, when the others had retired to bed, Soyera and Harry had a long talk together.
"Have you thought, Harry," she asked, after speaking for some time about his doings and position at court, "of joining your people again? There is peace between the Peishwa's court and the English. There is a British Resident at Poona and, as you have now gained a certain rank there, you could go to him with a much better face than if you had come direct from here, as a peasant. Then it would probably have been supposed that you were an impostor. That you were English, of course could be seen by your skin; but it might have been thought that I had adopted some English child, and was now trying to pass it off as the son of an officer."
"I think, mother, that I had best continue, for some time, as I am. You see I have, at present, nothing in common with the English except their blood. Were another war to break out between the Mahrattas and Bombay, I would at once declare myself to the Resident here, and go down to Bombay but, even then, my position would be a doubtful one and, unless I were to enlist in their army, I do not see how I should maintain myself.
"Moreover, you must remember that I have now a deep interest in matters here. Nana Furnuwees has treated me with much kindness, and placed his confidence in me. He has many enemies, as I have told you. Scindia is about to advance against Poona, and it is probable that he may succeed in driving Nana into exile, or imprisoning him for life; and establishing Balloba, or some other person devoted to his interest, as minister, in which case Scindia would be absolutely supreme. Nothing would persuade me to desert Nana; who has, for many years, alone withstood the ambition of Scindia's party. I do not say, for a moment, that my aid would be of the slightest use to him but, at any rate, he shall see that I am not ungrateful for his kindness; and will be faithful to him in his misfortunes, as he has been kind to me, when in power."
"That is right," Soyera said. "The cause of Nana is the cause of all in this part of the Deccan; for we should be infinitely worse off, were Scindia to lay hands on us. But there is an alternative, by which you could at once remain faithful to Nana, and prepare your way for joining the English, when you considered that the time for doing so had arrived."
"What is that, Soyera?"
"You might go to the English Resident, and tell him who you are, and how you have been brought up. Say that, at present, you wish to remain in the service of Nana; who has been a good friend to you, and with whom your sympathies, like those of nearly all the cultivators in the Peishwa's dominions, accord. Say that you hope, when the time comes, to return to your countrymen; and that, in the meantime, you will give him any information in your power as to what is going on, subject only to your friendship for Nana. Thus, by making yourself useful to the Resident, you may prepare your way for joining your countrymen and, at the same time, be able to remain with Nana until either he is victorious over his enemies, or his cause is really lost."
"The plan is an excellent one," Harry said, "and I will certainly adopt it. Undoubtedly, the feeling among the English must be in favour of Bajee Rao and Nana. As Bajee is the son of Rugoba, he is their natural ally. Moreover, they would object most strongly to see Scindia become master of the whole Mahratta power; which he would probably use against them, at the first opportunity. It would, as you say, greatly facilitate my obtaining a fair position among the English; and I might also be able to do Nana a service. Of course, I have seen the English Resident many times, in the streets of Poona; and more than once, on special occasions, at Mahdoo Rao's court. As it is his business to know something of all connected with the palace, it is probable that he may have heard of me; at any rate, it would be easier to explain to him my position, than it would be to go down as a stranger to Bombay--where I should be ignorant as to whom I should first approach, and how to declare myself--a matter I have very often thought over."
The next morning the troop started at daybreak and, riding fast, reached Poona by noon. Harry went at once to report what he had seen to Nana.
"I received your letter yesterday," the minister said, "and the news was indeed bad. Purseram Bhow has offered to go out to give battle to Scindia, but my forces would have no chance: not only is Scindia's army much larger, but he has the infantry regiments commanded by foreign officers, and against these my infantry could not prevail. It would be madness to risk fighting, under such circumstances. The wheel may turn and, ere long, I may be in a position to thwart the schemes of Scindia and Balloba."
Nana had never been conspicuous for personal courage, though his moral courage, and his ability to meet any storm were unbounded. He was now an old man, and dreaded the shock of battle, when the chances appeared to be so much against him. He could not depend upon the support of Bajee, who had already shown himself willing to side with the strongest, and to make terms for himself, without the slightest regard for those who had befriended him.
"But if your excellency does not think of fighting, what course will you pursue?"
"I shall leave the country, at once," he said. "If I stop here, I know that Balloba, who is my personal enemy, will have me put to death. I only need time to recover from this sudden misfortune, and it would be madness for me to wait here, and to fall into the power of my enemies.
"Purseram Bhow is greatly offended, because I will not allow him to fight; but I, who have for so many years done my best to prevent civil war in this country--a war which, however it ended, would break up the Mahratta power--would not bring its horrors upon Poona. It is against me that Balloba is marching and, if I retire, bloodshed will be altogether averted.
"Will you accompany me, Puntojee?" he asked almost wistfully.
"Assuredly I will do so, sir; and I think that I can answer for Sufder, who has, I know, a great regard for your excellency. As to myself, I have little hope that I should escape unharmed, if Balloba arrive here before I leave. He detected me, even in my disguise in his camp; and I had a narrow escape, for a party of his cavalry pursued me, and would probably have caught me had not Sufder, with his band, met me, and defeated them with a loss of half their number. You may be sure that Balloba will learn who was in command, and Sufder's life would be no safer than my own.
"May I ask when your excellency is going to leave Poona?"
"Scouts were sent out yesterday, as soon as your letter was read and, directly Scindia's army gets in motion, I shall receive news. When I do, I shall leave. The horses will be saddled in readiness, and I shall be at the edge of the Ghauts by the time Scindia arrives here. You can tell Sufder to come, at once. He knows the disposition of the captains of the various troops, and will be able to tell me who can be depended upon."
Sufder was indeed outside the palace, having told Harry that he would wait, until he had learned the result of his interview with Nana. Harry briefly related to him his conversation with the minister.
"I think he is right," he said. "Purseram Bhow is a stout fighter, and is as brave as a lion; but Scindia's force would be double that which he could gather, at such a short notice, and Nana does right not to risk everything on the chance of a single fight. He is a wily old fox, and has got safely through dangers which would have crushed an ordinary man. You will see that, before long, he will be back again, and reinstated in power.
"At any rate, I will accompany him. After that thrashing we gave Balloba's horsemen, my head would not be safe here an hour, after his arrival."
On the road, Harry had informed him of the decision at which he had arrived, upon Soyera's advice; and Sufder agreed that it would certainly be a wise step. Accordingly, when the latter entered the palace, Harry went straight to the British Residency. He sent in his native name to Mr. Malet, and asked for an interview, and was at once shown in.
"You wish to speak to me, sir?" the Resident said, in the Mahratta language. "I think I have seen you at Mahdoo Rao's court."
"I have seen your excellency there," Harry replied, in the same language.
Then, seeing that the Resident spoke the language with difficulty, he went on, in English: "It is a matter chiefly personal to myself."
The Resident looked at him in surprise, for it was the first time he had heard a Mahratta speaking English.
"I am the son of Major Lindsay who, with his wife and escort, was murdered by a party of Mahrattas, seventeen years ago, at the time when the English army was advancing against Poona. I was saved by the fidelity of an ayah, who had been in the family for ten years. A cousin of hers was, fortunately, one of the leaders of the party who attacked the camp and, with his connivance, she carried me off and made her way back to her family, near Jooneer. She stained my skin, as you see, and allowed it to be supposed that she had married in Bombay, and that I was her own child.
"She has brought me up with the intention of my rejoining my countrymen, as soon as I became a man; for she did not see how, until then, I could earn my living among strangers. She taught me as much as she knew of the language and religion of the English and, when I was twelve, took me down to Bombay and left me, for some two years and a half, in the house of Mrs. Sankey, a lady who taught some of the children of officers there. When I left Bombay I was able to speak English as well as other English boys of my age.
"My nurse had, from the earliest time I can remember, encouraged me in taking part in all sports and games; and when I was but eight a soldier, a cousin of hers, began to teach me my first exercise in arms. I continued to work at this until I went down to Bombay and, on my return, spent all my time, for some months, in riding and shooting. After this I was, for a year, with a famous shikaree; and took part in the killing of many tigers, and other wild beasts. This was fortunate; for when, through this relation of my nurse, I was introduced to Nana Furnuwees, and by him to Mahdoo Rao, the latter was pleased to take a fancy for me, and appointed me to the charge of the game preserves.
"At the present moment I have just returned from a mission, in disguise, to Scindia's camp. Nana has shown me great kindness. My intention is to remain with him, until he has passed through his present difficulties, which are very serious. After that, I hope to be able to go to Bombay, and to obtain a commission in the Company's service."
"I remember well the circumstances of the murder of Major Lindsay, and his wife; for I was in Bombay at the time. It was a matter of deep regret to us all, for he was greatly liked but, at the time, everyone was excited over the infamous treaty of Wurgaum. I remember that when a party was sent out, on our receiving the news of the attack, the bodies of the major and his wife were found, as also those of his servants and sowars; but it was reported that no trace could be discovered of the infant, or of his ayah. It was thought possible that they had escaped, and hopes were entertained that the woman might have carried off her charge. I have no doubt as to the truth of your story.
"Is your nurse still alive?"
"She is, sir, as is also the man who assisted her. His name is Sufder, and he commands a troop of the Peishwa's cavalry. Both will testify, at the right time, to the truth of my statement."
"I can the more readily believe it," the Resident said, "inasmuch as, in spite of your colour, I can perceive a certain likeness to Major Lindsay, whom I knew intimately."
"My intention, in coming to see you now, sir, was to offer to furnish any information to you, concerning the movements and plans of Nana Furnuwees, so far as such information could do him no harm."
"I heard that there had been discussions between Nana and Purseram Bhow, the latter wishing to give battle to Scindia; but I think that Nana is right in refusing to sanction this for, from all I hear, Scindia's army is very much the stronger."
"It is, sir; and I should say that Purseram's army could hardly be depended upon to fight, under such circumstances."
"What is Nana going to do?"
"He is going to retire, as soon as Scindia's army is fairly in motion."
"He is in an awkward position," Mr. Malet said, "but he has reinstated himself, several times, when it seemed that everything was lost. I have great respect for his abilities, and he is the only man who can curb the ambition of Scindia and his ministers. Scindia's entire supremacy would be most unwelcome to us for, indeed, it is only owing to the mutual jealousy of the three great chiefs of the Mahratta nation, that we have gained successes. Were the whole power in one hand, we should certainly lose Surat, and probably Bassein and Salsette, and have to fight hard to hold Bombay.
"I shall be very glad to receive any reports you can supply me with, for it is next to impossible to obtain anything like trustworthy information here. We only hear what it is desired that we should know, and all these late changes have come as a complete surprise to me; for what news I do obtain is, more often than not, false. Unfortunately, truth is a virtue almost unknown among the Mahrattas. They have a perfect genius for intrigue, and consider it perfectly justifiable to deceive not only enemies, but friends.
"And when do you think of declaring yourself Mr. Lindsay?"
"I shall remain with Nana, so long as there is the slightest chance of his success; unless, indeed, the course of affairs should lead to the English intervening in these troubles; then, in case they declare against Nana, I should feel it my duty to leave him at once."
"I do not think there is any probability of that. Our policy has been to support him, as the Peishwa's minister, against either Scindia or Holkar. I shall, of course, report your appearance to the authorities at Bombay; and I am sure there will be a disposition to advance your views, for the sake of your father; and moreover, your knowledge of the language of the Mahrattas--which is, of course, perfect, or you could not have maintained your deception so long--will of itself be a strong recommendation in your favour."
After thanking Mr. Malet for his kindness, Harry returned to Sufder's camp, and gave him an account of his interview with the Resident.
"That is satisfactory, indeed, Puntojee. It shows the wisdom of the step you took. Now, as to our affairs here, I have mentioned the names of five captains of troops; all of whom can, I think, be relied upon. However, I am now going out to see them, and have only been waiting for your return. Six hundred men is but a small body; but it is a beginning, and I have no doubt that others will join Nana, later on. But I am not sufficiently sure of their sentiments to open the matter to them, and it is essential that no suspicion of Nana's intention to leave the town should get about. There might be a riot in the city and, possibly, some of the captains, who have not received the promotion which they regard as their due, might try to gain Scindia's favour by arresting him."
On the following day a messenger arrived from Nana, requesting Sufder to place himself with his troop, and such other captains as he could rely upon, on the road a mile west of Poona. He himself would leave the town quietly, with a small body of his friends, and join them there. Sufder at once sent off five of his men, with orders to the captains whom he had seen on the previous afternoon and, within an hour, six hundred men were gathered at the point indicated. Half an hour later a party of horsemen were seen coming along, and Furnuwees soon rode up, accompanied by several of his strongest adherents.
The officers were gathered at the head of their troops. Nana, drawing rein, said to them: "Thanks for your fidelity. I shall not forget it; and hope, when the time comes, to reward it as it deserves."
He motioned to Harry to join him.
"Scindia's army was to march this morning," he said, "and his horsemen will be here by tomorrow evening, at latest."
They rode to Satara, where Nana had arranged to stop until he received news, from Purseram Bhow, as to the course of events at Poona; and two days later a messenger rode in, with news that Scindia had arrived near Poona, and had had a friendly interview with Bajee Rao. Balloba had seen Purseram, and had pretended great friendship for him; but the old soldier was by no means deceived by his protestations.
"If we had only to do with Scindia," Nana said, "matters could be easily arranged; but the young rajah is only a puppet in his minister's hands."
Several days passed, and then another letter came from Purseram. It said that Balloba had resolved to oppose Bajee Rao, and to have both a minister and a Peishwa of his own nomination; and that he proposed to him that Mahdoo Rao's widow should adopt Chimnajee as her son, that Bajee should be placed in confinement, and that he, Purseram Bhow, should be his minister. He asked Nana's advice as to what course he should take. He stated that Balloba had said he was greatly influenced, in the methods he proposed, by the hope of rendering them in some degree acceptable to Nana.
As the latter had only placed Bajee Rao on the musnud as a means of checkmating Scindia, he advised Purseram to accept the offer; but pointed out the absolute necessity for his retaining Bajee in his own custody. Purseram omitted to follow this portion of the advice, and a formal reconciliation took place, by letter, between Balloba and Nana. The latter was invited to proceed at once to Poona; but on finding that Purseram had allowed Balloba to retain Bajee in his hands, he suspected that the whole was a scheme to entice him into the power of his enemy, and he therefore made excuses for not going.
Bajee, ignorant of the plot that had been planned, went to Scindia's camp to remonstrate against a heavy demand for money, on account of the expenses to which Scindia had been put; and to his astonishment he was, then and there, made a prisoner. Chimnajee positively refused to become a party to the usurpation of his brother's rights; but he was compelled, by threats, to ascend the musnud. On the day after his installation, Purseram Bhow wrote, proposing that Nana should come to Poona to meet Balloba, and to assume the civil administration of the new Peishwa's government; while the command of the troops, and all military arrangements, should remain as they stood.
In reply, Nana requested that Purseram should send his son, Hurry Punt, to settle the preliminaries; but instead of coming as an envoy, Hurry Punt left Poona with over five thousand chosen horse. This naturally excited Nana's suspicions, which were strengthened by a letter from Rao Phurkay, who was in command of the Peishwa's household troops, warning him to seek safety without a moment's delay.
Now that he saw that half measures were no longer possible, Nana ceased to be irresolute and, when his fortunes seemed to all men to be desperate, commenced a series of successful intrigues that astonished all India. He had quietly increased his force, during the weeks of waiting since he had left Poona. He had ample funds, having carried away with him an immense treasure, accumulated during his long years of government. There was no time to be lost and, as soon as he received the letter of warning, he left the town of Waee and made for the Concan.
As soon as he reached the Ghauts, he set the whole of his force to block the passes, by rolling great stones down into the roads. In addition, strong barricades were constructed, and a force of two hundred men left, at each point, to defend them. The infantry he had recruited he threw into the fort of Raygurh, and added strongly to its defences.
Balloba had proposed that Nana should be followed without delay, and offered some of Scindia's best troops for the purpose; but Purseram, acting in accordance with the advice of some of Nana's friends, raised an objection. He had now, however, resolved to break altogether with the minister, whose timidity at the critical moment was considered, by him, as a proof that he could never again be formidable; and he accordingly gave up Nana's estates to Scindia, and took possession of his houses and property in Poona, for his own use. After remaining for a few days, waiting events and sending off many messengers, Nana sent for Harry.
"I have a mission for you," he said. "It is one that requires daring and great intelligence, and I know no one to whom it could be better committed than to you. You see that, owing to the turn events have taken, Bajee Rao and myself are natural allies. We have both suffered at the hands of Balloba. He is a prisoner in Scindia's camp; though, as I understand, free to move about in it. I privately received a hint that Bajee, himself, recognizes this; but doubtless he believes that I am powerless to help either myself or him.
"In this he is mistaken. I have been in communication with Holkar, who is alarmed at the ever-increasing power of Scindia; and he will throw his whole power into the scale, to aid me. The Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore have engaged to aid me, for the same reason; and the Nizam will sign the treaty that was agreed upon between us, some time since. Rao Phurkay has engaged to bring the Peishwa's household troops over, when the signal is given.
"More than that I have, through Ryajee, a patal, who is an enemy of Balloba, opened negotiations with Scindia himself; offering him the estates of Purseram Bhow, and the fort of Surrenuggar, with territory yielding ten lakhs, on condition of his placing Balloba in confinement, re-establishing Bajee Rao on the musnud, and returning with his troops to his own territory.
"I have no doubt that, when Bajee Rao hears this, he will be glad enough to throw himself heartily into the cause. I may tell you that he is apparently a guest, rather than a prisoner; and that he has a camp of his own, in the centre of that of Scindia; and therefore, when you have once made your way into his encampment, you will have no difficulty in obtaining a private interview with him. It is necessary that he should have money, and silver would be too heavy for you to carry; but I will give you bags containing a thousand gold mohurs, which will enable him to begin the work of privately raising troops."
"I will undertake the business, sir. The only person I fear, in the smallest degree, is Balloba himself. I must disguise myself so that he will not recognize me."
Without delay, Harry mounted his horse, placed the two bags of money that had been handed to him in the wallets behind his saddle, exchanged his dress for that of one of Sufder's troopers, and then started for Poona, which he reached the next day. He did not enter the town; but put up at a cultivator's, two miles distant from it.
"I want to hire a cart, with two bullocks," he said to the man. "Can you furnish one?"
"As I do not know you, I should require some money paid down, as a guarantee that they will be returned."
"That I can give you; but I shall leave my horse here, and that is fully worth your waggon and oxen. However, I will leave with you a hundred rupees. I may not keep your waggon many days."
After it was dark, Harry went to the town and purchased some paints, and other things, that he required for disguise. Having used these, he went to the house of the British Resident and, on stating who he was, he was shown in. Mr. Malet did not recognize, in the roughly-dressed countryman, the young officer who had called upon him before.
"I am Harry Lindsay and, being in Poona, called upon you to give you some information."
"I recognize you by your voice," the Resident said; "but I fear that there is nothing of importance that you can tell me; now that Nana Furnuwees is homeless, and Bajee Rao is no longer Peishwa."
"Nana is not done with, yet, sir."
"Why, he is a fugitive, with a handful of troops under him."
"But he has his brains, sir, which are worth more than an army and, believe me, if all goes well, it will not be long before he is back in Poona, as minister to the Peishwa."
"Minister to Chimnajee?"
"No, sir, minister to Bajee Rao."
"I would that it were so," Mr. Malet said, "but since one is a fugitive and the other a prisoner, I see no chance, whatever, of such a transformation."
"I will briefly tell you, sir, what is preparing. Bajee, feeling certain that he will, ere long, be sent to a fortress, has communicated with Nana, imploring him to aid him."
"If he has turned to Nana for support, he is either mad, or acting as Balloba's tool."
"On the contrary, sir, I think that his doing so shows that he recognizes Nana's ability; and feels that, ere long, he may become a useful ally. Already Nana has been at work. Holkar, who naturally views with intense jealousy Scindia's entire control of the territory of the Peishwa, has already agreed to put his whole army in the field; Rao Phurkay will rebel, with the household troops and, what is vastly more important, Scindia has embraced Nana's offer of a large sum of money, and a grant of territory, to arrest Balloba, and to replace Bajee on the musnud. In addition to this, he has won over the Rajah of Berar, has incited the Rajah of Kolapoore to attack the district of Purseram Bhow; and has obtained the Nizam's approbation of a treaty, that had already been settled between Nana and the Nizam's general, the basis of which is that Bajee is to be re-established, with Nana himself as minister and, on the other hand, the territory formerly seized by the Peishwa to be restored.
"My mission here is to inform Bajee Rao of the plans that have been prepared, and to obtain from him a solemn engagement that Nana shall be reappointed as his minister, on the success of his plans."
Mr. Malet listened to Harry with increasing astonishment.
"This is important news, indeed," he said; "marvellous, and of the highest importance to me. Already I have been asked, by the Council of Bombay, to give my opinion as to whether it is expedient to render any assistance to Nana Furnuwees. It is, to them, almost as important as to Nana that Scindia should not obtain supreme power. I have replied that I could not recommend any such step, for that Nana's cause seemed altogether lost; and that any aid to him would be absolutely useless, and would only serve Scindia with a pretext for declaring war against us. Of course, what you have told me entirely alters the situation. It will not be necessary for the Council to assist Nana, but they can give him fair words and, even if Balloba should win the day, he will have no ground for accusing us of having aided Nana.
"It is impossible to overlook the value of your communication, Mr. Lindsay; and I can promise you that you will not find the Government of Bombay ungrateful, for it will relieve them of the anxiety which the progress of events here has caused them."
On leaving the Residency, Harry returned to the farm where he had left his horse and, early next morning, put on his disguise again, painted lines round his eyes, touched some of the hairs of his eyebrows with white paint, mixed some white horsehair with the tuft on the top of his head, and dropped a little juice of a plant resembling belladonna--used at times, by ladies in the east, to dilate the pupils of their eyes and make them dark and brilliant--in his eyes.
Soyera had told him of this herb, when he related to her how Balloba had detected him by the lightness of his eyes. He was greatly surprised at the alteration it effected in his appearance, and felt assured that even Balloba himself would not again recognize him.
He bought a dozen sacks of grain from the farmer and, placing these in the bullock cart, started for Scindia's camp. He had, during the night, buried the gold; for he thought that, until he knew his ground, and could feel certain of entering Bajee Rao's camp unquestioned, it would be better that there should be nothing in the cart, were he searched, to betray him. He carried in his hand the long staff universally used by bullock drivers and, passing through Poona, arrived an hour later at the camp, which was pitched some three miles from the city.
As large numbers of carts, with forage and provisions, arrived daily in the camp for the use of the troops, no attention whatever was paid to him and, on enquiring for the encampment of Bajee Rao--one of whose officers had, he said, purchased the grain, for his horses and those of his officers and escort--he soon found the spot, which was on somewhat rising ground in the centre of the camp. It was much larger than he had expected to find it as, beyond being prevented from leaving, Bajee had full liberty, and was even permitted to have some of his friends round him, and two or three dozen troopers of his household regiment.
In charge of these was a young officer, who was well known to Harry during the time of Mahdoo Rao. Seeing him standing in front of a tent, Harry stopped the cart opposite to him and, leaving it, went up to him.
"Where shall I unload the cart?" he asked.
"I know nothing about it," the officer said. "Who has ordered it? The supply will be welcome enough, for we are very short of forage."
Then, changing his tone, Harry said: "You do not know me, Nujeef. I am your friend, Puntojee."
"Impossible!" the other said, incredulously.
"It is so. I am not here for amusement, as you may guess; but am on a private mission to Bajee Rao. Will you inform him that I am here? I dare not say whom I come from, even to you; but can explain myself fully to him."
"I will let him know, certainly, Puntojee; but there is little doubt that Balloba has his spies here, and it will be necessary to arrange that your meeting shall not be noticed. Do you sit down here by your cart, as if waiting for orders where to unload it. I will go across to Bajee's tent, and see him."
Nujeef accordingly went over to the rajah's tent, and returned in a quarter of an hour.
"Bajee will see you," he said. "First unload your grain in the lines of our cavalry, place some in front of your bullocks, and leave them there; then cross to the tent next to Bajee's. It is occupied by one of his officers, who carries the purse and makes payments. Should you be watched, it would seem that you are only going there to receive the price of the grain. Bajee himself will slip out of the rear of his tent, and enter the next in the same way. The officer is, at present, absent; so that you can talk without anyone having an idea that you and Bajee are together."
Harry carried out the arrangement and, after leaving his bullocks, made his way to the spot indicated. He found the young rajah had gone there.
"And you are Puntojee!" the latter said. "I saw you but a few times, but Rao Phurkay has often mentioned your name, to me, as being one who stood high in the confidence of my cousin Mahdoo. Nujeef tells me that you have a private communication to make to me; and indeed, I can well believe that. You would not thus disguise yourself, unless the business was important."
"It is, Your Highness. Nana Furnuwees has received your message. He reciprocates your expressions of friendship, and has sent me here to let you know that the time is approaching when your deliverance from Balloba can be achieved."
He then delivered the message with which he had been entrusted. Bajee's face became radiant, as he went on.
"This is news, indeed," he said. "That Phurkay was faithful to me, I knew; but I thought that he was the only friend I had left. Truly Nana Furnuwees is a great man, and I will gladly give the undertaking he asks for; that, in the event of his succeeding in placing me on the musnud, he shall be my minister, with the same authority and power that he had under Mahdoo."
"I have, at the farmhouse where I am stopping, a thousand gold mohurs, which Nana has sent to enable you to begin your preparations; but he urges that you should be extremely careful for, as you see by what I have told you, he has ample power to carry out the plan without any assistance from yourself, and it is most important that nothing shall be done that can arouse the suspicions of Balloba, until all is ready for the final stroke. I have not brought it with me, today, as I knew not how vigilant they might be in camp, and it was possible that my sacks of grain might be examined. As, however, I passed in without question, I will bring it when I next come, which will be in two days."
"I suppose there is no objection to my telling Phurkay what is being done?"
"None at all, Your Highness. He has not yet been informed, though communications have passed between him and Nana. But, although the latter was well convinced of his devotion, he thought it safer that no one should know the extent of the plot, until all was in readiness."
Two days later, Harry made another journey to the camp, and this time with the bags of money hidden among the grain, in one of the sacks. He saw Bajee Rao, as before, and received from him a paper, with the undertaking required by Nana. The sack containing the money was put down where Bajee's horses were picketed, and was there opened by a confidential servant, who carried the bags into the tent which was close by.
As he was leaving the camp, Harry had reason to congratulate himself on the precautions that he had taken; for he met Balloba, riding along with a number of officers. Harry had, with his change of costume, assumed the appearance of age. He walked by the side of the bullocks, stooping greatly and leaning on his staff; and the minister passed without even glancing at him.
Harry, on his return, paid the farmer for the hire of his cart. The latter was well pleased for, in addition to the money so earned, he had charged a good price for the two waggon loads of grain. Harry then put off the peasant's dress, and resumed that of a trooper, and rode back to Raygurh, where he reported to Nana the success of his mission.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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5
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: Down To Bombay.
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Harry's stay with Nana was a short one as, in three days, he was again sent to Poona. This time he was to take up his abode at a large house, occupied by two of the leaders of Bajee's party; the rajah having told him that he would request them to entertain him, if he should again come to Poona. He was the bearer of fifty thousand rupees, principally in gold, which he was to give to them for the use of Bajee. He had no message this time for the prince, personally, Nana having said to him: "I want you to let me know how matters are going on. The young man may do something rash and, if Balloba's suspicions are in any way excited, he may send him to some distant fortress; which would seriously upset my plans, for I should have to retain Chimnajee in power, as representative of his brother.
"We know that he was placed on the musnud greatly in opposition to his wishes; and he certainly hailed, with pleasure, the prospect of Bajee's release. Still, it would not be the same thing for me. A minister of the Peishwa can rule without question by the people but, acting only as minister to a representative of the Peishwa, he would be far more severely criticised; and it is certain that, to raise money for paying Scindia the sum that has been agreed upon, extra taxation must be put on, the odium resulting from which would fall upon me."
The two officers received Harry cordially. He had personally known them both and, as Nana's representative, they would have treated him with much honour, had it not been pointed out to them that this might be fatal to their plans for, did Balloba hear that some strange officer was being so treated by them, he would be sure to set at once about finding out who he was, and what he was doing there.
"Matters are going on well," they said. "The old general, Manajee Phurkay, who was one of Rugoba's devoted adherents, is now staying in Bajee's camp, and is enlisting men for his service."
"Where are they being assembled?"
"In Bajee's camp. He is not interfered with, there."
"It appears to be a very rash proceeding," Harry said. "It is true that Bajee has apparent liberty, and can have with him in his camp many of his friends; but a gathering of armed men can scarcely escape the eye of so keen an observer as Balloba."
[Illustration: Harry . . . saw a party of soldiers coming along the] road.
A few days later, Harry, being out one evening, saw a party of soldiers coming along the road from the direction of Scindia's camp. This was unusual for, in order to prevent plundering, the orders were stringent that none of Scindia's troops should enter Poona. He hurried back to the house, and acquainted the two leaders with what he had seen. They were inclined to laugh at his apprehension but, when a body of horsemen were seen coming down the street, they issued orders for the doors to be closed and barricaded. There were some twenty men in the house, and when the officer who commanded the detachment summoned them to open the door, and to deliver the two nobles to him, he was met by a decided refusal, from the chiefs themselves, from an upper window.
The officer then ordered his men to dismount and break open the door but, when they attempted to do so, they were met by a fire of musketry from every window. Many fell; and the officer, seeing that the house could not be taken, except by a force much larger than that at his command, rode off at full speed, with the survivors, to Scindia's camp.
No sooner had they gone than the horses were brought out from the stables, and the two officers, with ten of their troopers, rode off at full speed. Harry refused to accompany them, as he wished to see what had really happened, in order to carry the news to Nana. He therefore rode out to the farmhouse where he had before stayed, left his horse there, and returned to Poona.
Here he heard that Rao Phurkay had been seized, and that Bajee Rao's encampment was surrounded by troops, who suffered none to enter or leave it. The next morning he went over there and found that, as the supply of water had been cut off, the garrison had surrendered; all being allowed to depart, with the exception of Bajee, over whom a strong guard had been placed.
Before they left, Manajee Phurkay gave them all directions to gather in the neighbourhood of Waee. They did so, and were joined at once by the two chiefs. Nana promptly sent them a supply of money, telling them to take up their position at the Salpee Ghaut; where they were speedily joined by ten thousand men, and openly declared for Bajee Rao.
In the meantime Balloba, believing that the whole plot was the work of Bajee Rao, determined to despatch him, as a prisoner, to a fortress in the heart of Scindia's dominions. He sent him off with a strong escort, under the charge of an officer named Sukaram Ghatgay who, although having command only of a troop of one hundred horse, belonged to an ancient and honourable family.
Balloba could hardly have made a worse choice. Ghatgay had a daughter who was reported to be of exceptional beauty, and the young Scindia had asked her father for her hand. Ghatgay, an ambitious and enterprising man, had given no decided answer; not from any real hesitation, for he saw how enormous would be the advantage, to himself, of such an alliance; but in order to increase Scindia's ardour by pretended opposition, and so to secure the best terms possible for himself. The reason he gave would appear natural to any Mahratta of good blood, as none of these would have given a daughter of their house to one who, however high in rank, had ancestors belonging to a low caste.
Upon the way, Bajee, who was aware of Scindia's wishes, and was most anxious to obtain his goodwill, urged Ghatgay to give him his daughter in marriage and, after much pretended hesitation, the latter agreed to do so--on condition that Bajee would authorize him to promise Scindia a large sum of money, as soon as he again ascended the musnud; and that he would get the prince to appoint him his prime minister, which post would be vacant at the overthrow of Balloba. This being arranged, Bajee Rao pretended that he was seriously ill; and Ghatgay therefore halted, with his escort, on the banks of the Paira.
Taking with him his disguise as a countryman, Harry, as soon as he learned that Ghatgay had started with Bajee, mounted and followed him; and travelled, at some little distance in rear of the party, until they halted. Then he went to the house of a cultivator, left his horse there, and exchanged his dress as fighting man for that of a countryman.
There was no occasion for him, now, to disguise his age or darken his eyes and, as before, he hired a cart, bought some grain for forage, some sacks of rice and other things, and boldly entered Ghatgay's camp. As the prices he asked were low, Ghatgay purchased the whole contents of his cart. When this was cleared, Harry left his cattle and wandered about, saying that he and the animals needed an hour's rest.
Presently he passed Bajee Rao, who was standing listlessly at the door of a tent.
"I am Puntojee," Harry said, as he passed. "I followed you with the horse, that I might help you to escape."
"Stay and talk to me here," the young prince said. "It will seem that I am only passing my time in asking you questions about the country."
"I wanted to ascertain the road by which you will travel, after crossing the river. I have money with me, and will endeavour to raise a force of forty or fifty men; with which to make a sudden attack upon your camp, after nightfall. I will bring a good horse with me. If you will run out when you hear the uproar, I will ride up with the spare horse. You will leap on to its back, and we can gallop off."
"You are a brave fellow, Puntojee, and I thank you heartily for your offer; but, happily, I stand in no need of it. I have gained Ghatgay over, and he will linger here until we hear that Balloba has been arrested, and that Nana Furnuwees is approaching Poona. Believe me, I shall never forget your offer, or the fidelity that has prompted it; and when I am established as Peishwa you shall, if it pleases you, have any post at court you may desire."
"I thank you much, Prince; but I am an officer of Nana, and know that, in acting as I have done, I am acting in his interest, as well as yours. I am glad that the necessity for making an attack upon the camp is obviated. I might have had considerable trouble in raising a sufficient force for such a purpose, for even the most reckless would hesitate to fall on one of Scindia's officers; and in the next place, although I doubt not that I should have been able to carry you off, Ghatgay would, as soon as he had beaten off the attacking party, have set out in pursuit, and raised the whole country, and the difficulty of reaching the Western Ghauts would have been immense.
"I hope to see Your Highness at Poona."
So saying, he strolled carelessly back to the bullock cart, waited till the animals had finished their feed, and then drove off again; returned the cart to its owner, and started again for Poona.
On his arrival there, he went to the Residency and informed Mr. Malet that Bajee had gained over the officer who was escorting him, and was ready to come back to Poona, as soon as the blow was struck.
"It will be struck soon," Mr. Malet said. "All is in readiness. I sent your report on to the Council, urging that, as it seemed likely that Bajee Rao would soon be on the musnud, they should express their readiness to recognize him. I received a despatch only yesterday, saying that they perfectly agreed with me, and had already sent off a messenger to Nana stating their willingness to recognize Bajee as lawful heir to the late Peishwa.
"Things are working well. The Nizam's general has been ordered to watch Purseram Bhow, who is raising troops for the purpose of aiding in crushing Bajee's supporters. Holkar and Scindia's troops also are in readiness to move and, after the fete of the Dussera, the regular battalions in the Peishwa's service, commanded by Mr. Boyd, will march to the Neera bridge, and a brigade of Scindia's regulars will move against Raygurh.
"It is evident that neither Balloba nor Purseram has the slightest suspicion of what is going on, or they would never have despatched troops from here. I certainly have felt very uneasy, since Bajee was carried away; for he is a necessary figure, and should be here as soon as Nana arrives, otherwise there would be no recognized head. It would have been hopeless to try to deliver him, once imprisoned in one of the strong fortresses in Scindia's dominions; and the latter could have made any terms for himself that he chose to dictate.
"Your news has relieved me of this anxiety, and I think it probable that everything will now be managed without bloodshed; and that we may, for a time, have peace here."
The next morning, Harry rode off and rejoined Nana, who thanked him warmly for the manner in which he had carried out his mission, and especially for his offer to attempt to rescue Bajee from his captors.
"It would have been the greatest misfortune," he said, "had he been carried far away. I should have been obliged to recognize his brother Chimnajee; and Scindia, having Bajee in his hands, would have kept up a constant pressure, and might probably have marched to Poona to restore him; which he would certainly have succeeded in doing, for the feeling of the population would have been all in favour of the lawful heir.
"As a token of my satisfaction, here is an order upon my treasurer for fifty thousand rupees."
All being ready, Scindia, on the 27th of October, suddenly arrested Balloba; and sent a body of his troops, with those of the Nizam's general, for the purpose of seizing Purseram Bhow. The latter, receiving news of what had happened in good time, and taking with him Chimnajee, fled to a fortress; but was quickly pursued, and obliged to surrender. Bajee Rao was brought back to Beema, eighteen miles from Poona. His brother Amrud, and Rao Phurkay, were also released.
Nana joined his army at the Salpee Ghaut, and Scindia's infantry, under Mr. Boyd, marched for the capital; which Nana refused to enter, however, until he had received a formal declaration, from Bajee, that he intended no treachery against him. This pledge was given; and a treaty was, at the same time, entered into by the Nizam and Scindia, both agreeing to establish Bajee Rao on the musnud, and reinstate Nana as his prime minister. These matters being settled, Nana returned to Poona, from which he had been absent for nearly a year, and resumed the duties of prime minister.
A fortnight later, Bajee Rao was solemnly invested as Peishwa. One of his first acts was to send for Harry, to whom he gave a robe of honour, and thirty thousand rupees in money, in token of his gratitude for the risk he had run in communicating with him, and for his daring proposal to rescue him from the hands of his escort.
On the day after Nana's re-entry into the capital, Harry received a note from Mr. Malet, asking him to call.
"I expect Colonel Palmer to relieve me of my duties here, in the course of a day or two. I need scarcely say I shall be glad to be released from a work which is surrounded with infinite difficulty, and which constantly upsets all human calculations. Nana is in power again; but another turn of the wheel may take place, at any moment, and he may again be an exile, or possibly a prisoner.
"It seems to me that it would be well for you to accompany me to Bombay. The remembrance of your services will be fresh, and they cannot but be recognized by the Council. That body is frequently changed and, in two or three years' time, there will be fresh men, who will know nothing of what has happened now, and be indisposed to rake up old reports and letters, or to reward past services; especially as the whole position here may have altered, half a dozen times, before that."
"I will gladly do so, sir, and thank you very heartily for your kindness. I will ride over to Jooneer, tomorrow, and bring my old nurse down with me; and I have no doubt Sufder will be willing to accompany us. He has rendered good services to Nana; and the latter will, I am sure, grant him leave of absence for as long as may be necessary."
"I think it would certainly be best to take them both down, if possible. They could make affidavits, in Bombay, that would place it beyond doubt that you are Major Lindsay's son. It is morally certain that there are relatives of your father and mother still living, in England. I do not say that you require any assistance from them; but when you return home, as everyone does, two or three times, in the course of his Indian service, it would be pleasant to find friends there; and it would be well that your position should be established beyond all question."
"I will gladly go down with you," Soyera said, when Harry laid the matter before her. "I am happy and contented here, but should be glad to see Bombay again. It was my home for ten years. I am very glad you have made up your mind to go, for it is time that you should take your place among your countrymen; and the recommendation of the Resident at the court of Poona is as good a one as you could wish for.
"I should say that you had better give up, at once, staining your skin. I can see that you have not used the dye for some days, and it would be as well to recover your proper colour, before Mr. Malet introduces you to the Council at Bombay."
"I will ride down to the town," Harry said, "and engage a gharry [a native carriage] to carry you to Poona. When we get there, I shall learn what route Mr. Malet will take, and how fast he will travel; and shall then see which will be the best for you--to go down in a gharry, or to be carried in a dhoolie [a palanquin]."
"But all this will cost money, Harry."
"I am well provided with funds," Harry said, "for the Nana and Bajee Rao have both made me handsome presents for the services I rendered them. There is, therefore, no reason why we should not travel in comfort."
They arrived at Poona two days later; and Harry--having ascertained that the new Resident would not arrive until the next day, and that he would probably wish Mr. Malet to defer his departure for at least two days, in order to give him his experience of the factions and intrigues there, and of the character of all those who were likely to influence events--rode to see Nana, who had not yet returned to Poona.
"I have come, your excellency," he said, "to tell you that it is my wish to retire from the public service."
The minister looked greatly surprised.
"Why, Puntojee," he said, "this sounds like madness. Young as you are, you have secured powerful protectors, both in the Peishwa and myself; and you may hope to reach a high office in the state, as you grow older.
"I do not know, though," he went on, speaking to himself rather than to the lad, "that high office is a thing to be desired. It means being mixed up in intrigues of all kinds, being the object of jealousy and hatred, and running a terrible risk of ruin at every change in the government here."
Then he turned again to Harry.
"And what are you thinking of doing?"
"I will speak frankly to your highness. I am not a Mahratta, as you and everyone else suppose. I am the son of English parents."
And he then went on to give an account of the killing of his father and mother, and of how he was saved by Soyera, and brought up as her son; until such times as he might, with advantage, go down to Bombay. Nana listened with great interest.
"It is a strange tale," he said, when Harry brought the story to a conclusion, "and explains things which have, at times, surprised me. In the first place, the colour of your eyes always struck me as peculiar. Then your figure is not that of my countrymen. There are many as tall as you; but they have not your width of shoulders, and strong build. Lastly, I have wondered how a young Mahratta should be endowed with so much energy and readiness, be willing to take heavy responsibilities on his shoulders, and to be so full of resource.
"Now that you have told me your story, I think you are right to go down and join your own people. Everything is disturbed, and nothing is certain from day to day here. I was a fugitive but a short time ago and, ere long, I may again be an exile.
"Moreover, no one can tell what may happen to him. Your people are quarrelling with Tippoo, as they quarrelled with his father, Hyder; and I think that, before long, it is possible they will overthrow him, and take possession of his territory.
"Were the various powers of India united, this could not be so; but the English will always find some ready to enter into an alliance with them, and will so enlarge their dominions. The Mahrattas may laugh at the idea of their being overthrown, by such small armies as those the English generals command; but our constant dissensions, and the mutual jealousy between Holkar, Scindia, the Peishwa, the Rajah of Berar, and others, will prevent our ever acting together. It may be that we shall be conquered piecemeal.
"I have watched, very closely, all that has taken place in southern India and in Bengal. I have seen a handful of traders gradually swallowing up the native powers, and it seems to me that it may well be that, in time, they may become the masters of all India. Were I to say as much to any of our princes, they would scoff at my prediction; but it has been my business to learn what was passing elsewhere, and I have agents at Madras and Calcutta, and their reports are ever that the power of the English is increasing. A few years ago, it seemed that the French were going to carry all before them; but they, like our native princes, have gone down before the English; who seem, moreover, to get on better than the French with the natives, and to win their respect and liking.
"Well, young sir, I shall be sorry to lose you; because while I, and with good reason, was seldom able to trust, and to give my absolute confidence to any of those around me, I have always felt that I could wholly rely on you. During the past year I have seen much of you, and have freely told my plans to you, as I have done to no others; and have chosen you for missions that I could not, with safety, have entrusted to any of my own followers, knowing that Scindia or Holkar would be ready to pay great sums for these secrets. None except Bajee, to whom I sent you with particulars, were aware of the extent of my plans, or that I was in communication with more than one of the rajahs.
"You have played your part marvellously well, for I should not have deemed it possible that one of your race could live so long among us, without exciting any suspicion. While you remain in Bombay, I hope that you will act as my confidential agent. I do not ask you to divulge any secrets you may learn, relating to projects connected with the Deccan; but I should like to be informed as to the course of affairs, generally. Of course, my dealings with the Council there must be carried on through the English Resident; but there is much information respecting the views of the Council with regard to Tippoo, the Nizam, and Bengal, that will be valuable for me to know."
"I could not so act, your excellency, without permission from the Council; but I should imagine that they would not be averse to such an arrangement, especially as, perhaps, you would give me private information as to the state of parties, here, such as you would not care to tell their Resident."
"Certainly I would do so. They change their Residents so frequently that it would be impossible for new men to really understand the situation; which you, with your intimate knowledge of Poona, could readily grasp. Of course the arrangement could only be temporary, as my own position is so uncertain and, in any case, my life cannot now be a long one.
"I should propose that your salary, as my private agent, be a thousand rupees a month."
"I thank you much, sir; and if I stay at Bombay, and obtain the permission of the Council to correspond with you, I will readily undertake the part. They can have little objection to the arrangement, as doubtless you have agents in Bombay, already."
"Certainly I have, but these are natives, and necessarily can only send me the rumours current in the bazaars, or known generally to the public; and their news is, for the most part, worthless."
"I have another favour to request," Harry said; "namely, that you will give leave of absence to Sufder, in order that he may accompany me to Bombay. He and my old nurse could, alone, substantiate my birth and identity; and it would be necessary for them to give their evidence before some legal authority."
"That I will readily do. Sufder is honest and faithful, and I can rely upon him, absolutely, for anything in his sphere of duty; and have, only today, appointed him to the command of two hundred men; but although he has a hand ready to strike, he has no brain capable of planning. Had it not been so, I should before this have raised him to a higher position. When he returns from Bombay, I will grant him the revenues of a village, of which he shall be the patal [a mayor]; so that, in his old age, he will be able to live in comfort."
On leaving the minister, Harry went to Sufder's camp. " 'So you are back again, Puntojee?"
"Yes, and have brought Soyera down with me."
"I have great news to tell you," the soldier went on.
"It will not be news to me, Sufder. I know that your command has been doubled, and that you will now be the captain of two hundred men; but I can tell you much more than that. You are to accompany me down to Bombay, the day after tomorrow, so as to give evidence about my birth; and furthermore, Nana will, on your return, bestow upon you the jagheer [revenue] of a village district; so that, as he says, when you grow too old for service, you will be able to live comfortably."
"That is good news indeed--better even than that I am to have the command of two hundred men, for in truth I am beginning to be weary of service. I am now nearly fifty, and I feel myself growing stiff. Nothing would please me more than to be the patal of a village community, of which I hold the jagheer. However, so long as Nana lives and retains power I shall remain a soldier; but at his death I shall serve no other master, and shall take to country life again.
"Does Nana know that you are English?"
"Yes, I have told him my story. I was obliged to give my reasons for resigning and, as Nana has the support of the Government of Bombay, there was no risk in my doing so.
"How long will it be before I get quite rid of this colour, Sufder?"
"That I cannot say. I should think that in a fortnight the greater part of it will have faded out, but maybe Soyera knows of something that will remove it more rapidly."
Soyera, when asked, said that she knew of nothing that would remove the dye at once; but that if he washed his hands and face, two or three times a day, with a strong lye made from the ashes of a plant that grows everywhere on the plain, it would help to get rid of it.
"I will go out, tomorrow morning, and fetch some in."
When she had made the lye, and mixed it with oil, it made a very strong soap.
"How do you mean to dress, to go down, Harry?"
"I have no choice; but even if I had, I should ride out of here in my best court suit, and change it for English clothes when we got down the Ghauts. I may have to come up here again, for aught I know; and it is better, therefore, that no one should know that I am English."
Mr. Malet, however, solved the difficulty; for when, in the evening, Harry went to enquire about the time that they would start, he said: "I had been thinking of offering you a suit to ride down in but, unfortunately, my clothes would be a great deal too small for you. However, I think that, after all, it is best you should go down as you are. In the first place, you would not show to advantage in English clothes, in which you would feel tight and uncomfortable, at first; and in the second place, I think that it is perhaps as well that the Council should see you as you are, then they would the better understand how you have been able to pass as a Mahratta, all these years.
"I will introduce you, now, to Colonel Palmer. It is important that he should know you, for possibly you may be sent up here on some mission or other--for which, having the favour of Nana, you would be specially fitted."
Accordingly, the next morning they started early. Soyera had prepared the liquid soap, but as it was decided that he should go in native dress, Harry thought it as well not to use it, especially as the dye was gradually wearing off. The party consisted of Mr. Malet, Sufder, and Harry; with an escort of ten cavalrymen, belonging to one of the native regiments. The mission clerk had been transferred to Colonel Palmer, as his knowledge of affairs would be useful to the newcomer. Soyera was carried in a dhoolie, and followed close behind the troopers.
That evening they descended the Ghauts into the Concan and encamped there and, on the following day, rode into Bombay; where Mr. Malet took them to an hotel, principally used by natives of rank visiting Bombay.
"You had best stay here, till I send for you," he said, to Harry. "I shall see some of the Council tonight. No doubt there will be a formal meeting, tomorrow, to ask my opinion about the probability of the present state of things continuing at Poona. I shall, of course, tell them your story; and they will likely request you to go, at once, to see them; therefore, do not leave the hotel until you hear from me."
Sufder had not previously visited Bombay, and the next morning early he went out, with Soyera as his guide, to inspect the European part of the town. He was much struck with the appearance of neatness and order in the fort, and the solidity of the buildings.
"It is a strong place, assuredly," he said to Harry, on his return. "In the first place, it would be necessary for a force attacking it to cross over the narrow isthmus, and causeway, uniting the island with the land; and that would be impossible, in face of a force provided with artillery guarding it. Then, if they succeeded in winning that, they would have to make their way through the native town to get on to the maidan; and this would be defended by the guns from all the batteries and, in addition to the artillery on land, it might be swept by guns on board ship. Truly, those who talked about driving the English into the sea cannot have known anything of the strength of the position.
"As to carrying it by assault, it could not be done; nor could the garrison be starved out, since they could always obtain supplies of all sorts by sea. And yet, except at the causeway, the place has no natural strength. The Mahrattas acted unwisely, indeed, when they allowed the English to settle here."
"They could not foresee the future, Sufder. Now, doubtless, they are sorry; but if in the future the British become masters of India, the Mahrattas will have no reason to regret having given them a foothold. Wherever their powers extend, the natives are far better off than they were under the rule of their own princes. Were the British masters, there would be no more wars, no more jealousies, and no more intrigues; the peasants would till their fields in peace, and the men who now take to soldiering would find more peaceful modes of earning a living."
"But you do not think, surely, Harry,"--for after leaving Poona, he had been told to call him so--"that the English can ever become masters of India? They conquered the Carnatic, but even there they were not safe from the forays of Hyder Ali. Mysore bars their way farther north. Then there is the Nizam to be dealt with, and then Berar and the Mahrattas; then comes Rajputana, and beyond are the Sikhs, and the fierce chiefs of Scinde. It is true that the English have beaten the peoples of lower Bengal, but these have always been looked down upon, and despised as cowardly and effeminate, by the fighting men of all India.
"Besides, how few are the white soldiers! They say, too, that the French have promised Tippoo to send a big army, to help to drive the English into the sea."
"The French have quite work enough, at home," Harry said. "It is true that they have got into Egypt, but they are shut up there by our fleets. Moreover, even were they to cross over into Arabia, how could they march across a dry and almost waterless country, for a thousand or two of miles? When they arrived in Scinde they would find all the fighting men of the province, and the Sikhs, opposed to them; and they would never be able to fight their way down to Mysore. The thing is absurd."
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, from the Government House, with a request that Mr. Lindsay should at once attend there. Harry's horse, which had been saddled in readiness, was brought round; for it would have seemed strange for a Mahratta, whose dress showed that he held a good position, to go on foot. Sufder rode by his side, Soyera following on foot.
Dismounting at the Government House, he threw the reins to one of the lads, who were waiting in readiness to hold the horses of officers coming to see the Governor. On Harry mentioning his name, the native doorkeeper said: "I have orders for you to be taken, at once, to the Council chamber, sahib, on your arrival here."
The Governor, with four members of the Council and Mr. Malet, were seated at a long table. Mr. Malet rose and said: "This is Mr. Lindsay, gentlemen."
"Truly, sir, it would be difficult to recognize you as a fellow countryman, in that garb," the Governor said; "though your colour is somewhat less dark than that of a Mahratta."
"Since I left Poona I have ceased to dye, sir; as to my dress, this will be the last time I shall wear it, unless I should be called upon to go to Poona again."
"Your story is a most singular one," the Governor said, "but Mr. Malet assures us that you are the son of Major Lindsay, and has been telling us how you escaped the massacre at the camp, and how your ayah has brought you up."
"She has come down with me, sir. I thought that her testimony would be necessary; and I have also brought down her cousin, who was present at the foray in which my father and mother were killed. My account will be confirmed by their statements."
"You do credit to Mahratta food and training, Mr. Lindsay; but Mr. Malet has mentioned to me that, at one time, you were employed as a shikaree, to keep down the tigers which were doing havoc among the villagers near the top of the Ghauts. He has also informed us of the very valuable service you rendered, by informing him of Nana Furnuwees' measures for regaining power, and replacing Bajee Rao on the musnud--intelligence which saved us a great expenditure of money in preparing to support him; with the certainty that, by doing so, we might excite the enmity of Scindia. He tells us, also, why you continued so long in the Deccan, instead of coming down here; and I think you acted very wisely.
"We have mentioned your services, in that matter, in our reports to the Board of Directors; and have said that, partly as a recognition of this, and partly because you are the son of an English officer, who was killed in their service, we should at once give you an appointment, subject to their approval.
"Now, sir, which would you prefer, the civil or military branch?"
"I should much prefer the military," Harry answered, without hesitation; "unless indeed, sir, you think my services would be more useful in the civil."
"If we were at Calcutta or Madras, there would be more scope for you in the civil service; but as we hold, at present, little territory beyond this island, there are therefore but few appointments affording an opportunity for the display of the intelligence which you certainly possess; but, should circumstances alter, you might, owing to your knowledge of the country and its language, be told off for civil work, in which the emoluments are very much higher than in the military branch of the service.
"You will at once be gazetted to the 3rd Native Cavalry, and do duty with the regiment, until your services are required elsewhere. Fresh disturbances may break out at Poona and, in that case, you might be attached as assistant to Colonel Palmer.
"Do you think you would be known again?"
"I think it would be very unlikely, sir. When my skin has recovered its proper colour, and I am dressed in uniform, I feel sure no one would recognize me as having been an officer in the Peishwa's court."
"Very well, sir. Then you will see your name in the gazette, tomorrow. You will, within a day or so, report yourself to the officer commanding the regiment.
"I may say that it would be well if your nurse, and the man who came down with you, were to draw up statements concerning your birth, and swear to them at the High Court. These might be valuable to you, in the future."
After expressing his thanks to the Governor and Council, Harry went out, and rode back to the hotel with Sufder.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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6
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: In The Company's Service.
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There was no conversation between Harry and Sufder on the way back to the hotel; Harry saying that he would tell the news when Soyera joined them, otherwise he would have to go through it twice. They rode slowly through the streets, and Soyera arrived a few minutes after them.
"Now," Harry said, "we will go up to my room and talk the matter over.
"Mr. Malet has been kind enough to give such a favourable report of me that I am appointed lieutenant to the 3rd Regiment of Native Cavalry, and shall be employed as assistant to the resident at Poona, should there be fresh disturbances there."
"That is good fortune, indeed," Sufder said.
"Wonderfully good fortune! and I owe it all, in the first place to Soyera, and in the next to yourself. You see, I have gained greatly by taking your advice, and remaining in the Deccan until fit for military service. Had she declared who I was when she took me down to Bombay, before, there is no saying what might have become of me.
"And now, the first thing to do is for me to go out and order a uniform. When I return I will draw up, in Mahratti and English, a full account of the manner in which I was saved, by Soyera and you, from being murdered; and how I have been brought up."
Harry had learned, at the Governor's, the name and address of an official at the Judge's Court who would get his statements copied out, in proper form and writing; and when he had taken them down from the lips of Sufder and Soyera, he saw this gentleman, who promised that the documents should be ready by the next day.
Having thus put his business in train, Harry went to call upon Mrs. Sankey. She did not recognize him at once but, as soon as he made himself known, she received him most warmly.
"You looked as if you would grow into a big fellow, but I hardly expected that you would have done it so soon."
"It is more than four years since I left you. I don't think that I am likely to grow any taller than I am; though of course, I shall get broader."
He then told her what had happened since he left her, and how he had just been appointed an officer in a native cavalry regiment.
"I am very glad you have come now. My daughters have both married, and I am going to sail for England in a few days. Whether I shall stay there permanently, or come back, I cannot say but, at any rate, I shall be away at least two years."
"I should have been very sorry to have missed you, Mrs. Sankey. I have always looked back, with the greatest pleasure, at the time I spent here."
"You have kept up your English well," she said.
"I have followed your advice, and hardly ever missed reading aloud for an hour, so as to keep my tongue accustomed to it; and I know many of Shakespeare's plays by heart, and could recite a great many passages from the writings of Dean Swift, Mr. Addison, Mr. Savage, and others."
His next visit was to Jeemajee, who received him with real pleasure, when he told him who he was. Harry had not learned--nor did he ever learn--that the kindly Parsee had contributed a hundred pounds towards the expenses of his education; but he did know that he had presented him with his outfit of clothes, and had been the means of his being placed with Mrs. Sankey; and during the months he remained at Bombay, he paid frequent visits to the man who had so befriended him.
The next day he went with Sufder and Soyera, who swore to their statements before the judge of the High Court.
As soon as his uniform was ready, Harry went to his regiment--which was encamped on the maidan, between the fort and the native town--and was introduced to the colonel.
"I have come to report myself, sir," he said to the colonel. "My name is Lindsay."
"I was expecting you," the colonel said, "for Mr. Malet came in this morning and told me about you; saying that you would most likely come either today or tomorrow. I will have a tent pitched for you, this afternoon; and a soldier told off as your servant. Of course, at first you will have to go through the somewhat unpleasant task of learning your drill.
"From what Mr. Malet told me, I think you are not likely to be much with us as, from your perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and of the country, you can do better service in a staff appointment than with the regiment.
"You are much fairer than they had given me to expect."
"I have been hard at work, for the last two days, in getting rid of the dyes with which I have been coloured, ever since I was an infant."
"Ah! You are not very noticeably darker, now, than other officers in the regiment.
"Now, I will hand you over to the adjutant. You will, of course, mess with us today; and I can then introduce you to your brother officers."
The adjutant was sent for, and soon entered.
"Mr. Lewis," the colonel said, "this is Mr. Lindsay, who was gazetted to us two days ago. He will be very useful to us, if we go up to Poona again--of which there is always a possibility--for he speaks Mahratti like a native, having lived among the people since he was an infant. He is the son of Major Lindsay, who was killed here at the time of the advance on Poona."
"You will be a great acquisition to us," the adjutant said, as he left the tent with Harry. "Most of us speak a little Mahratti; but it will be very useful to have one of us who is perfect, in that way. Of course, you have not got your full kit yet; but you will want a mess jacket and waistcoat. These I can lend you, till you get your own made."
"They are ordered already, and I am to get them in a couple of days. It was so much more important that I should get the undress uniform, to enable me to begin work, that I did not press the tailor quite so much as to the other clothes."
"Are you ready to begin work, at once?"
"The sooner the better," Harry replied.
"Then I shall hand you over to the native officer, who has charge of the drilling of recruits. There is a small yard, behind the barracks, where Europeans are instructed in the first stages. To see them doing the goose step would not add to the respect the soldiers have for their white officers. They are therefore taught such matters in private so that, when they come out for company drill, they are not quite at sea."
Half an hour later, Harry was at work under the instructions of a native officer. By the time he had finished, a tent had been erected for him; and he was glad to find a bath ready, for it was much warmer down in Bombay than above the Ghauts, and it had been hot work drilling. The adjutant had chosen a Mahratta servant, and the man's surprise, when the newly-joined officer addressed him in his own language, was great.
As Mr. Malet had told him that, except when on duty, the officers generally wore civilian clothes, he had purchased several white suits, consisting of jacket and trousers, as these were kept in stock by a Parsee tailor; and he put on one of these, with a white shirt, after he had finished his bath. He had scarcely done so when a bugle sounded.
"That is the call for tiffin, sahib," Abdool said.
"Do the officers go in uniform?"
"No, sahib, not to this meal."
Just at this moment, the adjutant came in.
"Come along, Lindsay," he said. "I thought I would come round for you. It is rather trying going into a room full of strangers."
There were some twelve officers gathered in the mess tent, and the adjutant introduced Harry to them, singly. They were all curious to see him, having heard from the colonel--who had summoned them to the tent, a quarter of an hour before the bugle sounded--some particulars of his life; and how he had been at once appointed to be lieutenant, without going through the usual term as a cadet, as a reward for important services.
Their first impression of him was a favourable one. He was now nearly six feet in height, with a powerful and well-knit frame. His face was pleasant and good tempered and, although the features were still boyish, there was an expression of restraint and determination that had been acquired from the circumstances in which he had been placed.
He had seen the barbarous splendour of the entertainments at the Peishwa's court, but nothing like the well-ordered table now before him; with its snow-white cloth, its bright silver, and perfect appointments.
When the meal was over, the colonel said: "As duty is over for the day, I think it would be most interesting if Mr. Lindsay would give us an account of his life, and adventures. As you are all here, it would save him the trouble of going over his story, again and again; for you are all, I am sure, like myself, anxious to know how it was that he has been able, all these years, to pass as a Mahratta among Mahrattas."
There was a general expression of agreement. Cheroots were lighted, and Harry told his story, with some detail. When he had finished, the colonel said: "I am sure we are all obliged to you, Lindsay. You have had a remarkable experience; and few of us have, in the course of our lives, gone through anything like the same amount of adventures. To have been, at your age, a peasant boy, an English school boy, a shikaree, an officer in the Peishwa's court, a confidential agent of Nana Furnuwees, and now a British officer, is indeed wonderful. It speaks volumes for your intelligence and discretion."
"I cannot take the whole credit to myself, sir. I had two good friends. My nurse, not content with saving my life, taught me English, instructed me in the ways of our people, and even in their religion, and continually urged me to exercise myself in every way; so that when, some day, I left her, I should in bodily strength and activity not be inferior to others; and, aided by her brother, expended all her savings, of years, in having me educated here. Next to her I owe much to Sufder, who first taught me the use of arms, and then presented me to Nana. Without such an introduction I must, had I entered the Mahratta service at all, have gone as a private soldier, instead of obtaining at once a post at court.
"To Mrs. Sankey I owe very much for the kindness she showed me, and the pains she took with me; and I owe much, too, to Mr. Jeemajee, the Parsee merchant."
"Yes, you owe much to both of them," the colonel said; "but their teaching and advice would not have gone for much, had it not been for your own energy, and for the confidence you inspired in the Peishwa's minister.
"What are you going to do about your nurse?"
"We have not quite arranged, as yet, sir; but she will, at any rate, remain here for a time. She loves me as a mother; and I think that, so long as I am quartered here, she will remain. She has already found a lodging, at the house of a woman of the same caste as herself; and tells me that she is sure she will be comfortable with her. If we move, and all goes on quietly in the Deccan, she will return to her brother's, where she is thoroughly at home and happy."
"And Sufder?"
"He will return, in the course of a week or so. He is greatly interested in what he sees here, especially in the shipping, never having seen the sea before. I think that, probably, he will remain for two or three years with his troop of two hundred men; and will then settle in the village, of which and the surrounding country he has received the jagheer. This, although not large, will suffice for him to live in comfort. It is but a few miles from Jooneer, and he will therefore be able to be near his friends, and pay frequent visits to his cousin Ramdass."
In a short time Harry became a general favourite, and made the acquaintance of the officers of all the regiments in the garrison; for his romantic story speedily circulated and, before he had been a fortnight in the city, he had received invitations to dine at all their messes.
After the exciting life he had led, for two years, he felt, on being released from drill, that life in a garrison town was dull and monotonous. The simple habits, in which he had been brought up, did not help him to enjoy heavy meals at regimental mess. Occasionally he and two or three other officers crossed to the mainland, and had some shooting in the wild district of the Concan. But he was pleased when he received an order, from the Governor, to call upon him.
"Colonel Palmer," he said, "has written, requesting me to send him an assistant; as matters do not seem to be going on well at Poona. He suggested that you, from your acquaintance with the people and their intrigues, should be selected for the post but, even had he not done so, I should have chosen you, as being better fitted for it than any other officer here.
"Your instructions are simple. You will watch, and endeavour to penetrate the schemes of the various factions, and assist Colonel Palmer generally."
"Am I to go up in my uniform, sir; or to wear a disguise, similar to that in which I came down here?"
"That is a matter over which I have been thinking. I have come to the conclusion that you will be more likely to obtain intelligence in native garb. All parties look with jealousy upon us, and would be chary of giving any information to an officer of the Residency; and therefore, if you have no objection, we think that it will be an advantage to you to assume native dress. Of course, you could not go in the attire that you came down in for, although you would not be recognized in uniform, you would, if dressed as before.
"I would rather leave that matter entirely to you, and also the manner in which you can proceed. You must also decide, for yourself, whether to renew your connection with Nana Furnuwees. It appears to me that he is the only honest man in the Deccan, and the only man who takes the patriotic view that there should be peace and rest throughout the country. He is, however, no more willing than others that we should, in any way, interfere in the affairs of the Deccan."
"That certainly is so, sir; but I know that it is his most earnest desire to possess the friendship of the authorities of Bombay. He has frequently told me that he is a great admirer of the English, of their methods of government, and of the straightforwardness and sincerity with which they conduct their business. But he is afraid of them. He sees that, where they once make an advance, they never retire; and is convinced that, if they obtained a footing above the Ghauts, there would be no turning them out, and that their influence would be supreme."
"Very well, Mr. Lindsay; you showed such discretion and judgment, during your residence at Poona, that I am well content to leave the matter in your hands. The appointment as assistant to Colonel Palmer will carry with it a civil allowance of three hundred rupees a month. Of course, all necessary expenses will be paid and, should you find it expedient to use a certain amount of bribery, to obtain the news we require in other quarters besides that of the minister, you will refer the matter to the Resident.
"You will, of course, give your reports to Colonel Palmer, and will be under his orders, generally. He will be requested to further your special mission in every way in his power."
"When shall I start, sir?"
"As soon as you like, Mr. Lindsay."
"I shall be ready, sir, as soon as the clothes are made for me. I must have one or two disguises, of various kinds, to use as most desirable. Some of these I can, no doubt, buy ready made--perhaps all of them. If so, I will start at daylight, tomorrow."
"Very well, Mr. Lindsay. I shall be sending up a despatch to Colonel Palmer, and it will be left at your tent, this evening."
On leaving the Government House, Harry went to see Soyera. Scarcely a day had passed, since he came to Bombay, without his paying her a visit.
"I am off again to Poona," he said. "I do not know how long I shall be away. It must depend upon what is going on up there. Of course, I should be glad to have you with me; but that would hamper my movements. I shall, naturally, see Sufder as soon as I get there."
"But what are you going for? Will you travel as an officer?"
"No, I shall be in disguise. It seems that things are unsettled; and I am, if possible, to find out the intentions of the various leaders, and communicate them privately to our Resident. I shall have to take to dyeing my skin again, which is a nuisance, but it cannot be helped. I shall take with me three or four different disguises, and get you to do the shopping for me. I wish to have them by this evening, as I shall start in the morning, early.
"I shall get leave to take my soldier servant, Abdool, with me. He is a sharp fellow, and may be useful. I shall have to buy a pony for him."
"What sort of disguises do you want?"
"One is that of a native soldier."
"That is easy enough, as it differs but little from the ordinary Mahratta's dress."
"One would certainly be the attire of a trader, in good circumstances. I can't think, at present, of any other."
"I should say the dress of a Brahmin might be useful," Soyera suggested.
"Yes, that would give me an entry, unquestioned, to Nana, or to any other person of importance."
By nightfall, Soyera had bought the three disguises, and obtained from a native dyer a supply of stain sufficient for a long time; and Harry had purchased two useful ponies, for himself and his servant.
At mess, that evening, the colonel said: "So you are going to leave us, for a time, Mr. Lindsay. I have received a letter, from the Governor, requesting me to put you in orders, tomorrow, as seconded from the regiment for civil employment. I won't ask you where you are going. That is no business of ours. But I am sure I can say, in the name of my officers as well as myself, that we shall all miss you, very much."
A murmur of acquiescence passed round the table and, seeing that Harry, in thanking the colonel, made no allusion to what he was going to do, they followed the example of their superior officer, and abstained from asking any questions.
"I should like to take my man, Abdool, with me, Colonel," Harry said, later on. "He is a sharp fellow, and I might find him very useful."
"By all means. I will tell the adjutant that I have allowed him to go with you."
"I am not going in uniform, nor are you to do so," Harry said to Abdool, when he returned to his tent. "I am going in Mahratta dress, and I shall take a lodging in the town, and pass as a native. I know, Abdool, that you are a sharp fellow, and feel certain that I can depend upon you."
"You can certainly depend upon me, sahib. You have been a kind master, and I would do anything for you."
"What part of the country do you come from, Abdool?"
"From Rajapoor, in the Concan, sahib. I had no fancy for working in the fields, so I left and took service with the Company. I have never regretted it. I have been a great deal better off than if I had enlisted in the army of one of the great chiefs. The pay is higher, and we are very much better treated."
"Well, Abdool, when this business which I am now starting on is over, I shall recommend you for promotion and, in any case, will make you a present of three months' pay."
The next morning they started at daybreak. When a few miles out of town, they took off their uniforms; and Harry put on the dress of a trader. There was no occasion for any disguise for Abdool who, like all the native troops, was accustomed, after drill was over for the day, to put on native garments. The uniforms were then folded up, and stowed in the wallets behind the saddles.
They had brought with them a good supply of grain for their horses, and provisions for themselves; so that they might not have to stop at any village. They rode at a steady pace, and mounted the Ghauts by eleven o'clock. Then they waited three hours, to feed and rest the animals and, just as the sun was setting, entered Poona, having accomplished a journey of fifty miles. Knowing the place so well, Harry rode to a quiet street near the bazaar and, seeing an old man at one of the doors, asked him if he knew of anyone who could afford accommodation for him and his servant.
"I can do that, myself," the man said. "I am alone in the house. Two merchants who have been staying here left me, yesterday; and I can let you have all the house, except one room for myself."
"You have no stables, I suppose?"
"No, sahib, but there is an outhouse which would hold the two horses."
[Illustration: There was a little haggling over the terms.]
There was a little haggling over the terms; for it would have been altogether contrary, to Indian usages, to have agreed to any price without demur. Finally the matter was arranged, at a price halfway between that which the man demanded, and that offered by Harry and, in a short time, they were settled in the two rooms of the second floor. Harry then went out and bought two thick quilted cushions, used as mattresses, and two native blankets.
They had still provisions enough for the evening. The furniture was scanty, consisting of a raised bed place, or divan; two tables, raised about a foot from the ground; brass basins, and large earthenware jars of water. Harry, however, was too well accustomed to it to consider such accommodation insufficient.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I will get a carpet for sitting upon, and you will have to get copper vessels, for cooking."
Abdool presently went out, and returned with two large bundles of forage for the horses. Soon afterwards they lay down, feeling stiff and tired from their unaccustomed exertions.
The next morning Harry went to the Residency. He had again painted caste marks on his face, which completely changed his appearance. Telling the guard that he had come from Bombay, and had a message for Colonel Palmer, he was shown in.
"You bring a message for me?" the colonel said, shortly; for he was, at the time, writing a despatch.
"Yes, sir," Harry answered, in Mahratti. "I have come to be your assistant."
"Then you are Mr. Lindsay!" the Resident exclaimed, dropping his pen and rising to his feet. "I received a despatch, yesterday, saying that you were coming. Of course, I remember you now, having seen you on the day I came up here; but your dress is altogether different, and the expression of your face seems so changed."
"That is the result of my having adopted different caste marks, larger than they were before, with lines that almost cover my forehead."
"I did not expect you to come in disguise."
"The Governor thought, Colonel, that I might be of greater service, in finding out what was passing in the town, and in going elsewhere, were I to come up as a native. To an officer of the Residency, all parties would keep their lips sealed."
"I thoroughly agree with you," the Resident said. "Your disguise differs so much, from your former appearance, that I do not think any of your acquaintances, of those days, would be likely to recognize you."
"At present I am supposed to be a trader; but I have with me the dress of a peasant, or small cultivator, which I used when I went into Scindia's camp. I have also the dress of a Brahmin--one of the better class--which I thought, if necessary, would enable me to enter the house of Nana, or other leaders, without exciting surprise. I also have my uniform with me.
"I am staying, at present, in the street that faces the market, at the house of a man named Naroo. I myself am Bhaskur. I have a soldier servant with me, on whom I can confidently rely; and I will send him, with a chit, when I have any news to give you, and you can send me word at what hour I had better call.
"Now, Colonel, I am at your orders and, if you will indicate to me the nature of the news which you wish to gain, or the person whom you want watched, I will do the best I can. At present, I know nothing of any changes that have taken place, since I left here."
"The only event that is publicly known is that, while the Peishwa has carried out his engagement with Scindia and with the Rajah of Berar, he refused to ratify any treaty with the Nizam; and the consequence is that the latter's general quitted Poona, without taking leave of Bajee Rao, and returned in great indignation to Hyderabad. This matter might have been smoothed over, if Scindia had intervened, or if the Peishwa had made suitable advances to the Nizam; but he has not done so. There is no doubt that he thoroughly dislikes Nana Furnuwees and, instead of being grateful to him for having placed him on the throne, he would gladly weaken his power. At any rate, it was Nana who formed the confederacy; and I know that his greatest wish is to keep it intact, and to secure peace to the country.
"Moreover, matters have been further complicated by the death of Holkar. He left two sons behind him, Khassee and Mulhar. Unfortunately, Khassee is next door to an imbecile; while Mulhar was a bold and able prince. The brothers quarrelled: two half brothers took the part of Mulhar, who left his brother's camp, with a small body of troops, and took up his abode at a village just outside the city--and was, I believe, favoured by Nana, whose interest naturally was to have an active and able prince, as ruler of Holkar's dominions. Scindia--who was, I suspect, delighted at this quarrel in Holkar's camp--supported Khassee, and sent a body of troops to arrest Mulhar, who, refusing to surrender, maintained a desperate defence, until he was killed. Jeswunt went to Nagpore and Wittoojee fled to Kolapoore, but they were almost the only adherents of Mulhar who effected their escape.
"So matters stand, at present. The fact that the imbecile Khassee owes his elevation to Scindia will, naturally, give the latter a predominating influence over him. Thus, you see, the confederacy has gone completely to pieces. The Nizam is estranged; the Rajah of Berar has gone home to Nagpore; Holkar's power is, for the time, subservient to Scindia; and Nana Furnuwees is, therefore, deprived of all those who aided to bring him back to power.
"You are well known to Nana, are you not?"
"Yes, Colonel, he was kind enough to place a good deal of confidence in me."
"Then I think you cannot do better than see him, to begin with, and gather his views on the matter. I myself have heard nothing from him, for some time. He knows that the Company are well disposed towards him; but he also knows that they can give him no assistance, in a sudden crisis."
"But surely, Colonel, Bajee Rao, who owes everything to him, will not desert him?"
"My opinion of the Peishwa is that he is a man without a spark of good feeling; that he has neither conscience nor gratitude, and would betray his own brother, if he thought that he would obtain any advantage by so doing. He is a born schemer, and his sole idea of politics is to play off one faction against another. I would rather take the word of a man of the lowest class, than the oath of Bajee Rao."
"I am sorry to hear it, sir. He seemed to me to be a fine fellow, with many accomplishments. His handsome face and figure, and winning manner--" "His manner is part of his stock in trade," the colonel said, angrily. "He is a born actor; and can deceive, for a time, even those who are perfectly aware of his unscrupulous character.
"Remember one thing, Mr. Lindsay: that if you are in any difficulty, or if a tumult breaks out in the city, you had best make your way here, at once. A trooper of my escort was thrown from his horse, and killed, the other day; and if you attire yourself in his uniform, you will pass for one of them. Whatever happens, they are not likely to be touched. Both parties wish to stand well with me and, even were it found out that you are an Englishman, you would be safely sheltered here; for I should claim you as my assistant, and an officer in our army, and declare truthfully that you had only assumed this guise in order to ascertain, for me, the feelings of the populace."
"Thank you, sir. I will certainly come here, as soon as any serious trouble begins."
That evening, after rubbing off the caste marks and assuming those of a Brahmin, and putting on the dress suitable for it--padding it largely, to give him the appearance of a stout and bulky man--he went to Nana's house.
"Will you tell the minister," he said to the doorkeeper, "that Kawerseen, a Brahmin of the Kshittree caste, desires to speak to him?"
The man gave the message to one of the attendants who, in two or three minutes, returned and asked Harry to follow him. The minister was alone.
"What have you to say to me, holy man?" he enquired; and then, looking more fixedly at his visitor, he exclaimed: "Why, it is Puntojee!"
"You are right, Nana. I am sent here to ascertain, if possible, what is going on, and how things are likely to tend. But first, I must tell you that I am now here as Colonel Palmer's assistant."
"I will take you entirely into my confidence," Nana said. "Until you told me that you were an Englishman, when you took leave of me two years ago, I could not quite understand why it was that I felt I could confide in you, more than in the older men around me. I esteem the English highly, and especially admire them for their honesty and truthfulness. You at once impressed me as one possessing such qualities and, now that I know you are English, I can understand the feeling that you inspired.
"I am glad you have come. No doubt your Government are well informed, as to the state of affairs here. I feel the power slipping from my hands, without seeing any way by which I can recover my lost ground. Scindia is solely under the domination of Ghatgay, whose daughter he will shortly marry. I have, of course, made it my business to enquire as to the antecedents of this man. I find that he has the reputation of being a brutal ruffian, remarkable alike for his greed and his cruelty--a worse adviser Scindia could not have. Holkar was but a poor reed to lean upon, for he was as weak in mind, as in body. But at any rate, he was a true friend of mine and, now that he has been succeeded by one even more imbecile than himself--and who is but a puppet in the hands of Scindia, to whose troops he owes his accession--his power and his dominions are practically Scindia's.
"There can be no doubt, whatever, that Bajee Rao is acting secretly with Scindia; that is to say, he is pretending so to act, for he is a master of duplicity and, even where his own interests are concerned, seems to be unable to carry out, honestly, any agreement that he has made.
"I am an old man, Mr. Lindsay, and can no longer struggle as I did, two years ago, against fate; nor indeed do I see any means of contending against such powerful enemies. The Rajah of Berar, although well disposed towards me, could not venture, alone, to support me against the united power of Scindia and Holkar, backed by that of the Peishwa.
"There is but one direction in which I could seek for help--namely, from the Government of Bombay--but even this, were it given, would scarcely avail much against the power of my enemies. And even were I sure that it could do so, I would not call it in. My aim, through life, has been to uphold the power of the Peishwa, and to lessen that of Scindia and Holkar and, by playing one against the other, to avert the horrors of civil war. Were I to call in the aid of the English, I should be acting in contradiction to the principles that I have ever held.
"The arrival of a force of English, here, would at once unite the whole of the Mahrattas against them, as it did when last they ascended the Ghauts; and believing as I do in their great valour and discipline, which has been amply shown by the conduct of Scindia's infantry, which are mainly officered by Europeans, it is beyond belief that they can withstand the whole power of the Mahratta empire. But granting that they might do so, what would be the result? I should see my country shaken to the centre, the capital in the hands of strangers, and to what end? Simply that I, an old and worn-out man should, for a very few years, remain in power here. It would be necessary for those who placed me there to remain as my guardians, and I should be a mere cypher in their hands. Nothing, therefore, would persuade me to seek English aid to retain me in power."
"But the English would doubtless act in alliance with the Nizam, and probably with the Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore."
"Possibly they might do so, but what would be the result? Each of these leaders would, in return for his aid, bargain for increased territory, at the expense of the Peishwa; and I, who believe that I am trusted by the great mass of the people here, should become an object of execration at having brought the invaders into our country.
"No, Mr. Lindsay; my enemies can, and I believe will, capture me and throw me into prison. They will scarcely take my life, for to do so would excite a storm of indignation; but I always carry poison about with me and, if they applied torture as a preliminary to death, I have the power of releasing myself from their hands.
"Are you established at the Residency?"
"No, sir; I am living in disguises, of which I have several, in the town. In that way, I can better discover what is going on than if I were in uniform, as assistant to Colonel Palmer. Should there be a tumult in the city, or if I find that my disguise has been detected, I can make for the Residency; and either put on my uniform and declare my true character, or attire myself as one of the Resident's escort."
"Come here as often as you can," Nana said. "I shall always be glad to see you. It is a relief to speak to one of whose friendship I feel secure. As a Brahmin, you can pass in and out without suspicion; and I will always tell you how matters stand."
"I have not yet spoken, Nana, of my work as your agent in Bombay. I have sent you reports, from time to time; but there was nothing in them that could be of any value to you. At present, the attentions of the authorities of Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta are centred upon the probability of war with Mysore. Tippoo has continually broken the conditions under which he made peace with us, six years ago; and it is known that he is preparing for war. He has received with honour many Frenchmen, and is in communication with the French Government; and believes that he will be supported by an army, under General Bonaparte and, as it is certain that, when the war breaks out again, it will need the fighting strength of the three towns to make head against the army of Mysore, as far as I have been able to learn they have given but little attention to the state of affairs in the Deccan. I have therefore been able to furnish you with no useful information, beyond telling you that the sympathies of the Governor and Council are wholly with you, and that they consider that the fact of your being in power here secures them from any trouble with the Mahrattas.
"Therefore, sir, I have put aside the allowance you have given me, considering that I have in no way earned it; and have written this order upon the bankers with whom I have placed it, authorizing them to pay the money to anyone you may depute to receive it;" and he handed the letter to the Nana.
The latter took it and, without opening it, tore it up.
"Your offer does you honour, Mr. Lindsay, but it is impossible for me to accept it. Your information has not been without advantages. I have foreseen that the Nizam would probably enter into an alliance with your people; and that the very large increase that he has made in his battalions, under foreign officers, was intended to make his alliance more valuable. I, however, have not deemed it necessary to imitate his example, and that of Scindia, by raising a similar force. Your communications, therefore, have been of real value, and have saved a large outlay here; but even had it not been so, there can be no question of your returning your pay. You undertook certain work, and you have to the best of your powers carried it out; and it is not because you consider that the information you sent me is not sufficiently valuable that you have, in any way, failed to carry out your part of the contract.
"I consider it of very great value. In the first place because, as I have said, it relieved me from anxiety as to the Nizam's intentions of increasing his army; and in the second place, it eased my mind by showing that neither Scindia nor Holkar was intriguing with Bombay, which knowledge is worth a crore of rupees to me.
"It is the first time, sir, since I have taken part in politics, that anyone has offered to return money he has received on the ground that he had not sufficiently earned it; or indeed, upon any other ground, whatever. Your doing so has confirmed my opinion of the honesty of your people, and I would that such a feeling were common among my countrymen, here. No negotiations can be carried on, no alliance can be formed, without a demand for a large sum of money, or for an addition of territory. All our petty wars are waged, not on a question of principle, but entirely from greed.
"Let us say no more about it. I am, as of course you have heard, a very wealthy man; and have so distributed my money among the shroffs of all India that, whatever may happen here, I shall lose comparatively little; and I am glad to know that some very small portion of it goes to one whom I regard as a genuine friend, and who does not draw a tenth part of what many of those around me accept, without any consideration given for it."
"Thank you, sir, but--at any rate while I am stationed here, as Assistant Resident--I cannot continue to receive pay from you. I should regard it as a disgraceful action, and absolutely incompatible with my duty."
"Well, so far I will humour you, Mr. Lindsay; though from what I hear, in the Carnatic and Bengal the British officers, civil and military, do not hesitate to accept large sums from native princes."
Harry was well aware that this was so, and that many British officials had amassed considerable fortunes, by gifts from native sources. He only replied: "That is a matter for their own consciences, sir. They may be rewards for services rendered, just as I did not hesitate to accept the sum that you so generously bestowed upon me. It is not for me to judge other men, but I cannot but think that the custom of officials accepting presents is a bad one."
"Where can I find you," Nana said, changing the subject, "if I should need to communicate with you, before you call again?"
Harry gave his address.
"Your messenger must enquire for Bhaskur, a trader from Ahmedabad, who is lodging there."
He chatted for some time longer with Nana, and then took his leave and returned to his lodging.
|
{
"id": "20729"
}
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7
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: An Act Of Treachery.
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Some months passed quietly. Scindia more openly assumed supreme power, imprisoned several leading men, and transferred their jagheers to his own relations. Colonel Palmer had gone down to Bombay on leave, his place being filled temporarily by Mr. Uhtoff.
Bajee was, as usual, playing a deep game. He desired to become independent both of Scindia and Nana Furnuwees. The former, he believed, must sooner or later return to his own dominions, and he desired his aid to get rid of Nana; therefore it was against the latter that his intrigues were, at present, directed. The minister was still an object of affection to his people; who believed, as before, in his goodness of character, and who put down every act of oppression as being the work of Scindia.
Harry saw Nana frequently. There being no change in the position, there was little talk of politics; and the minister generally turned the conversation upon England, its power relatively to that of France, the extent of its resources, the modes of life among the population, and its methods of government.
"It all differs widely from ours," Nana said, after one of these conversations, "and in most respects is better. The changes there are made not by force, but by the will of the representatives of the people, in their assembly. A minister defeated there retires at once, and his chief opponent succeeds him. The army has no determining voice in the conduct of affairs, but is wholly under the orders of the minister who may happen to be in power. All this seems strange to us but, undoubtedly, the system is far better for the population. There is no bloodshed, no burning of villages, no plundering, no confiscation of estates. It is a change in the personnel of the government, but no change in the general course of affairs.
"It is strange that your soldiers fight so well when, as you tell me, they never carry arms until they enter the army; while ours are trained from childhood in the use of weapons. And your enemies, the French, is it the same with them?"
"It is the same, Nana, so far as their civil life is concerned; for none carry weapons or are trained in their use. There is one wide point of difference. The French have to go as soldiers when they reach a certain age, however much they may dislike it; while with us there is no compulsion, whatever, and men enlist in the army just as they might take up any other trade. There is, however, a body called the militia. This, like the army, consists of volunteers; but is not liable for service abroad, and only goes out for a short period of training, annually. However, by law, should the supply of volunteers fall short, battalions can be kept at their full strength by men chosen by ballot from the population. But this is practically a dead letter, and I am told that the ballot is never resorted to; though doubtless it would be, in the case of a national emergency."
"Ah! It is pleasant to be a minister in your country, with no fear of plots, of treachery, or assassination. Were I a younger man, I should like to visit England and stay there for a time so that, on my return, I could model some of our institutions upon yours.
"But no; I fear that that would be too much for the most powerful minister to effect. The people are wedded to their old customs, and would not change them for others, however much these might be for their benefit. An order that none, save those in the army, should carry arms would unite the whole people against those who issued it."
It was on the last day of 1797 that Nana Furnuwees made a formal visit to Scindia, in return for one the latter had paid him, a few days before. Michel Filoze, a Neapolitan who commanded eight battalions in Scindia's army, had given his word of honour as a guarantee for the minister's safe return to his home. The European officers in the service of the Indian princes bore a high character, not only for their fidelity to those they served, but also for their honour in all their dealings and, though Nana would not have confided in an oath sworn by Scindia, he accepted that of Filoze without hesitation.
On his arrival near Scindia's camp the traitor seized him and, with his battalions, attacked his retinue, amounting to about a thousand persons, among whom were many of his principal adherents. Some of these were killed, all of them stripped of their robes and ornaments. Parties of soldiers were immediately sent, by Ghatgay, to plunder the house of Nana and those of all his adherents.
Harry was in his room when he heard a sudden outburst of firing and, a minute or two later, Abdool ran in.
"Scindia's men are in the town, sahib! They are attacking the houses of Nana's adherents. These are defending themselves as best they can. There is a general panic, for it is believed that the whole town will be looted."
"Get your things together, Abdool. I will change my dress for that of a native soldier, and we will make for the Residency."
"Shall we ride, sahib?"
"No, we will leave the horses here. If we were to go on horseback, we might be taken for Nana's adherents trying to make their escape, and be shot down without any further question.
"I felt misgivings when I saw Nana going out; but it would have come to the same thing, in the end, for if Scindia's whole army, villainous as is the treachery, had advanced against the town, Nana could have gathered no force to oppose them."
Three or four minutes later they started, Abdool carrying a bundle containing Harry's disguises. They made their way through lanes, where the people were all standing at their doors, talking excitedly. Continuous firing was heard in the direction of the better quarters, mingled with shouts and cries. No one questioned them, all being too anxious as to their own safety to think of anything else.
The Residency was half a mile from the town. There Mr. Uhtoff was standing at his door, and the men of his escort were all under arms. Harry had been in frequent communication with him, from the time that he had taken Colonel Palmer's place. The Resident did not, for the moment, recognize him in his new disguise but, when he did so, he asked anxiously what was going on in the town.
"A strong body of Scindia's troops are there, attacking Nana's adherents. I fear that the minister himself is a prisoner in their camp."
"That is bad news, indeed. Nana told me, yesterday, that he intended to visit Scindia, and had received a guarantee for his safe return, from Filoze. I advised him not to go; but he said that he could confide, implicitly, in the honour of a European officer. I told him that the various European nations differed widely from each other; and that, although I would accept the word of honour of a British officer in Scindia's service, I would not take that of a Neapolitan. However, he said, and said truly, that it was incumbent on him to return Scindia's visit; and that if he did not do so it would be treated as a slight and insult, and would serve as a pretext for open war against him; and that, as he could but muster three or four thousand men, the city must yield without resistance.
"I believe that this is the work of Bajee Rao, and of Ghatgay--two scoundrels, of whom I prefer Ghatgay who, although a ruffian, is at least a fearless one, while Bajee Rao is a monster of deceit. I know that there have, of late, been several interviews between him and Ghatgay; and I have not the least doubt that the whole affair has been arranged between them with the hope, on Bajee's part, of getting rid of Nana; and on Ghatgay's, of removing a sturdy opponent of his future son-in-law, and of acquiring a large quantity of loot by the plunder of Nana's adherents.
"You did well to come here for, if the work of plunder is once begun, there is no saying how far it will spread. I shall ride, at once, to see the Peishwa, and request an explanation of what has occurred. There is that trooper's dress still lying ready for you, if you would like to put it on. There is a spare horse in my stable."
"Thank you, sir; I should like it very much;" and, rapidly changing his dress, he was ready by the time the horses were brought round.
He then took his place among the troopers of the escort, and rode to Bajee Rao's country palace, which was some three miles from the town.
After seeing everything in train, the Peishwa had left Scindia's camp before Nana's arrival there; and had summoned a dozen of the latter's adherents, under the pretence that he desired to see them on a matter of business. Wholly unsuspicious of treachery, they rode out at once; and each, on his arrival, was seized and thrown into a place of confinement.
The Resident learned this from a retainer of one of these nobles. He had made his escape when his master was seized, and was riding to carry the news to the British official; whose influence, he thought, might suffice to save the captives' lives.
On arriving at the palace four of the troopers were ordered to dismount--Harry being one of those selected--and, on demanding to see the Peishwa the Resident was, after some little delay, ushered into the audience chamber, where Bajee Rao was seated, with several of his officers standing behind him. He received Mr. Uhtoff with a show of great courtesy.
The latter, however, stood stiffly, and said: "I have come, Your Highness, to request an explanation of what is going on. The city of Poona is being treated like a town taken by siege. The houses of a number of persons of distinction are being attacked by Scindia's soldiery. Fighting is going on in the streets, and the whole of the inhabitants are in a state of wild alarm.
"But this is not all. Nana Furnuwees has, owing to his reliance upon a solemn guarantee given for his safe return, been seized when making a ceremonial visit to Scindia."
"You must surely be misinformed," the Peishwa said. "You will readily believe that I am in perfect ignorance of such a proceeding."
"I might believe it, Prince," Mr. Uhtoff said, coldly, "had I not been aware that you and your officers have decoyed a number of Nana's friends to this palace and, on their arrival, had them suddenly arrested."
Bajee Rao, practised dissimulator as he was, flushed at this unexpected accusation.
"I learned, sir," he said, after a pause, "that there was a plot against my person, by Nana Furnuwees and his adherents; and I have therefore taken what I considered the necessary step of placing these in temporary confinement."
"It is a little strange, Your Highness, that the man who placed you on the musnud should be conspiring to turn you from it. However, what has been done has been done; and I cannot hope that any words of mine will avail to persuade you to undo an act which will be considered, throughout India, as one of the grossest treachery and ingratitude. My duty is a simple one: namely, merely to report to my Government the circumstances of the case."
The officers behind the Peishwa fingered the hilts of their swords, and the four troopers involuntarily made a step forward, to support the Resident. Bajee, however, made a sign to those behind him to remain quiet; and the Resident, turning abruptly, and without salutation to the Peishwa, left the hall, followed by his men.
They mounted as soon as they had left the palace, and rode back to the Residency; Mr. Uhtoff keeping his place at their head, and speaking no word until he dismounted, when he asked Harry to accompany him to his room.
"This is a bad business, indeed, Mr. Lindsay. I cannot say that I am surprised because, having studied Bajee Rao's character, I have for some time been expecting that he would strike a blow at Nana. Still, I acknowledge that it has come suddenly, and the whole position of affairs has changed. Bajee has freed himself from Nana; but he has only riveted Scindia's yoke more firmly on his shoulders. Like most intriguers, he has overreached himself. He has kept one object in view, and been blind to all else.
"His course should have been to support Nana against Scindia, and thus to keep the balance of power in his own hands. He has only succeeded in ridding himself of the one man who had the good of his country at heart, and who was the only obstacle to Scindia's ambition. The fool has ruined both himself and his country.
"I think, Mr. Lindsay, that the best plan will be for you to mount at once, and ride down to Bombay. Your presence here, just now, can be of no special utility; and it is most desirable that the Government should have a full statement of the matter laid before them, by one who has been present, and who has made himself fully acquainted with the whole politics of the Deccan.
"It is better that you should not go into the town again. I will send in for your horses, as soon as the tumult has subsided. We have several spare animals here, and you and your servant can take two of them. I will write to the Governor a report of my interview with Bajee, and say that I have sent you down to give him all the details of what has taken place; which will save the time that it would take me to write a long report, and will be far more convenient, inasmuch as you can answer any point that he is desirous of ascertaining. I do not think that you can do better than go in the disguise that you now have on; for a soldier to be galloping fast is a common sight, but people would be astonished at seeing either a Brahmin or a trader riding at full speed. I will give orders for the horses to be saddled at once and, in the meantime, you had best take a meal. You will have no chance of getting one on the road, and I have no doubt that dinner is ready for serving. I will tell the butler to give some food to your man, at once."
Twenty minutes later, Harry and Abdool were on their way. Skirting round Poona, they heard the rattle of musketry still being maintained; and indeed, the fighting in the streets of the city continued for twenty-four hours. By two in the morning, they halted at the top of the Ghauts; partly to give the horses a rest, and partly because it would have been very dangerous to attempt to make the descent in the dark.
At daybreak they continued their journey, arriving at Bombay six hours later. They rode straight for the Government House, where Harry dismounted and, throwing the reins of his horse to Abdool, told the attendant to inform the Governor that a messenger, from the Resident at Poona, desired to see him. He was at once shown in.
"Why, it is Mr. Lindsay!" the Governor said, "though I should scarce know you, in your paint and disguise. The matter on which you come must be something urgent, or Mr. Uhtoff would not have sent you down with it."
Harry handed over the despatch of which he was bearer and, as the Governor ran his eye over it, his face became more and more grave, as he gathered the news.
"This is serious, indeed," he said, "most serious. Now be pleased to sit down, Mr. Lindsay, and furnish me with all the particulars of the affair."
When Harry had finished, the Governor said: "I imagine that you can have eaten nothing today, Mr. Lindsay. I am about to take tiffin, and bid you do so with me. I shall at once send to members of the Council and, by the time we have finished our meal, they will no doubt be here."
"I shall be very glad to do so, sir, if you will allow me to go into the dressing room, and put on my uniform. I should hardly like to sit down to table in my present dress."
"Do so by all means, if you wish it; but you must remember that your colour will not agree well with your dress."
"I will remove these caste marks, sir, and then I shall look only as if I were somewhat severely tanned."
In ten minutes a servant knocked at the door, and said that luncheon was ready. Harry was already dressed in his uniform, and had removed the marks on his forehead; the dye, however, was as dark as ever. He had, on leaving the Governor's room, sent a servant down to fetch his wallet, and to tell Abdool that he was to take the horses to the barracks.
The meal was an informal one. The Governor asked many questions, and was pleased at the knowledge that Harry showed of all the principal persons in Poona, and their character and ability.
"At the present moment," he said, "the information that you have given me cannot be utilized; but it would be most valuable, were we to get mixed up in the confusion of parties at Poona. I gather that you consider Nana Furnuwees to be a great man."
"My opinion is not worth much, on that point, sir. I think that he has, over and over again, shown great courage in extricating himself from difficulties which appeared to be overwhelming. I believe him to be a sincere patriot, and that he only desires to be at the head of the administration of affairs that he may prevent civil war from breaking out, and to thwart the ambition of the great princes. His tastes are simple, his house is furnished plainly, he cares nothing for the pleasures of the table; but he is honest and, I believe, absolutely truthful--qualities which certainly are possessed by very few men in the Deccan.
"I grant that he is not disposed to enter into any alliance with the British. He has frequently told me that he admires them greatly for their straightforwardness and truthfulness, as well as for their bravery and their methods of government, both in the great towns and in the districts in which they are masters; but he fears that, were they to send an army to Poona on his behalf, or on that of any of the other parties, it might end by their acquiring control over the affairs of the country, and make them arbitrators in all disputes."
"No doubt he is right, there," the Governor said, with a smile. "However, at present we are certainly not likely to interfere in the quarrels and intrigues beyond the Ghauts; nor do I see why we should be brought into collision with the Mahrattas--at any rate, until they have ceased to quarrel among themselves, and unite under one master. In that case, they might make another effort to turn us out.
"And now we will go into the room where the Council must be, by this time, assembled."
This proved to be the case, and the Governor read to them the note that he had received from Mr. Uhtoff; and then requested Harry to repeat the details, as fully as he had already done. There was a consensus of opinion as to the importance of the news.
"Come round again tomorrow morning, Mr. Lindsay," the Governor said; "by that time I shall have fully thought the matter out."
"So you have been masquerading as a native again, Mr. Lindsay?" the colonel said, when Harry called upon him.
"I can hardly consider it masquerading, as I merely resumed the dress I wore for many years; and I certainly speak Mahratti vastly better than I speak English for, although I improved a good deal while I was here, I am conscious that, though my grammar may be correct, my pronunciation differs a good deal from that of my comrades."
"You speak English wonderfully well, considering that you learned it from the natives," the colonel said. "At first, you spoke as a native that had learned English; but a casual observer would not, now, detect any accent that would lead him to suppose that you had not been brought up in England.
"You will, of course, be at mess this evening?"
"I think it would be better that I should not do so, sir. In the first place, I should have innumerable questions to answer; and in the second, which is more important, anything that I said might be heard by mess waiters. It is quite possible that some of these are in the pay of Scindia, or Holkar, who keep themselves well informed of all that goes on here; and were it known that an English officer had come down in disguise, it would greatly increase the danger when I return there."
"I have no doubt that you are right, Mr. Lindsay. Is there anything new at Poona?"
"Yes, Colonel; and as it will be generally known in two or three days, there can be no harm in my telling you. Scindia has made Nana Furnuwees a prisoner, by an act of the grossest treachery. He has killed almost all his principal adherents and, when I got away, his troops were engaged in looting the town."
"That is grave news," the colonel said. "So long as Nana was in power, it was certain that Scindia could not venture to take his army, out of his own country for the purpose of attacking us; but now that Nana is overthrown, and Scindia will be minister to the Peishwa, we may expect troubles."
"Not at present. Scindia's army has, for months, been without pay. He has no means of settling with them and, until he does so, they certainly will not move."
"I do not think that would detain him long, Mr. Lindsay. He has only to march them into other territories, with permission to plunder, and they would be quite satisfied. He certainly can have no liking for the Rajahs of Berar or Kolapoore, for both of them assisted Nana to regain his power; and an attack upon them would, at once, satisfy vengeance and put his troops in a good temper."
"But there is no doubt that the Peishwa will find it much more irksome to be under Scindia's control than that of Nana. And were Scindia to march away, he would at once organize an army, and buy Holkar's aid, to render himself independent of Scindia."
"They are treacherous beggars, these Mahrattas," the colonel said. "They are absolutely faithless, and would sell their fathers if they could make anything by the transaction.
"Then you do not know yet whether you are to return?"
"No; I shall see the Governor again, tomorrow morning; and shall then receive orders."
"I will have some dinner sent over to your quarters, from the mess. Do not have too much light in the room, or your colour may be noticed by the servant. I will let the officers know that you have returned. No doubt many of them will come in for a chat with you. As no one can overhear you, I do not think that any harm can be done by it."
"I think not, Colonel."
"I will tell them," the colonel went on, "that you are on secret service; that you will tell them as much as you can safely do, but they must abstain from pressing you with questions. We all know that you have been acting as assistant to Mr. Uhtoff, because it was mentioned in orders that you had been detailed for that duty; but they know no more than that, and will doubtless be surprised at your colour. But you can very well say that, as you had an important message to carry down, you thought it best to disguise yourself."
"That will do excellently, Colonel; and I shall be very glad to have a talk with my friends again."
After leaving the colonel, Harry went to his own room; where he found Soyera, who had been fetched by Abdool.
"I am sorry to say that I am going away, almost directly, mother," he said; "but it cannot be helped."
"I do not expect you always to stay here, Harry. Now that you are in the Company's service, you must, of course, do what you are ordered. I am glad, indeed, to find that, although you have been with them only a year, you are chosen for a post in which you can gain credit, and attract the attention of the authorities here."
"It is all thanks to the pains that you took to prepare me for such work.
"I don't expect to be away so long, this time. And indeed, now that Nana Furnuwees is a prisoner, it does not seem to me that there can be anything special to do, until some change takes place in the situation, and Scindia either openly assumes supreme power, or marches away with his army."
That evening, Harry's room was crowded with visitors. The news of the treacherous arrest of Nana Furnuwees excited the liveliest interest; and was received with very much regret, as Nana was considered the only honest man of all the ministers of the native princes, and to be friendly disposed towards the British; and all saw that his fall might be followed by an important change in the attitude of the Mahrattas.
Two days later, Harry returned to Poona. The next eighteen months passed without any very prominent incidents. In order to furnish Scindia with money to pay his troops, and to be in a position to march away, Bajee Rao agreed that Ghatgay should, as Scindia's minister, raise contributions in Poona. Accordingly, a rule of the direst brutality and cruelty took place. The respectable inhabitants--the merchants, traders, and men of good family--were driven from their houses, tortured often to death, scourged, and blown away from the mouths of cannon. No person was safe from his persecution, and the poorest were forced to deliver up all their little savings. The rich were stripped of everything, and atrocities of all kinds were committed upon the hapless population.
Bajee Rao countenanced these things, and was now included in the hatred felt for Ghatgay and Scindia. Troubles occurred between the Peishwa and the Rajah of Satara, who refused to deliver up an agent of Nana whom he had, at Bajee's request, seized. As Scindia's troops refused to move, Purseram Bhow was released from captivity and, raising an army, captured the city of Satara, and compelled the fort to surrender; but when ordered by Bajee Rao to disband the force that he had collected, he excused himself from doing so, on the plea that he had no money to pay them, or to carry out the promises that he had given them.
Scindia himself was not without troubles. In addition to the mutiny of his troops, the three widows of his father who, instead of receiving the treatment proper to their rank, had been neglected and were living in poverty, sought an interview with him; and were seized by Ghatgay, flogged, and barbarously treated. Their cause was taken up by the Brahmins, who had held the principal offices under Scindia's father; and it was at last settled that they should take up their residence at Burrampoor, with a suitable establishment. Their escort, however, had received private orders to carry them to the fortress of Ahmednuggur.
The news of this treachery spread, soon after they had left the camp; and an officer in the interest of the Brahmins started, with a troop of horse which he commanded, dispersed the escort, and rescued the ladies. These he carried to the camp of Amrud Rao, Bajee Rao's foster brother; who instantly afforded them protection and, sallying out, attacked and defeated a party of their pursuers, led by Ghatgay himself.
Five battalions of infantry were then sent by Scindia, but Amrud attacked them boldly, and compelled them to retreat. Negotiations were then opened, and Amrud, believing Scindia's promises, moved his camp to the neighbourhood of Poona. But, during a Mahommedan festival, he and his troops were suddenly attacked by a few brigades of infantry; which dispersed them, slew great numbers, and pillaged their camp.
Holkar now joined Amrud Rao, who had escaped from the massacre. The Peishwa negotiated an alliance with the Nizam. Scindia sent envoys to Tippoo, to ask for his assistance. Bajee Rao did the same, and it looked as if a desperate war was about to break out.
All this time, Harry had been living quietly in the Residency, performing his duties as assistant to Colonel Palmer, who had again taken charge there. There was no occasion for him to resume his disguises. The atrocities committed by Ghatgay, in Poona, were apparent to all; and at present there seemed no possible combination that could check the power of Scindia.
Colonel Palmer, however, had several interviews with Bajee Rao, and entreated him to put a stop to the doings of Ghatgay; but the latter declared that he was powerless to interfere, and treated with contempt the warnings, of the colonel, that he was uniting the whole population in hatred of him.
The rebellion under Amrud, and the adhesion of Holkar to it, seemed to afford some hope that an end would come to the terrible state of things prevailing; and Colonel Palmer became convinced that Scindia was really anxious to return to his own dominions, where his troops, so long deprived of their natural leaders, were in a state of insubordination. If the Nana were but released from his prison at Ahmednuggur, something might be done, he said. He might be able to supply sufficient money to enable Scindia to leave; and the alarm Nana's liberation would give, to Bajee, would compel him to change his conduct, lest Nana should join Amrud and, with the assent of the whole population, place him on the musnud.
"Nana is the only man who can restore peace to this unhappy country," he said to Harry, "but I see no chance of Scindia releasing a prisoner whom he could always use to terrify Bajee, should the latter dare to defy his authority."
Harry thought the matter over that night and, at last, determined to make an attempt to bring about his old friend's release. In the morning he said to the Resident: "I have been thinking over what you said last night, Colonel, and with your permission I am resolved to make an attempt to bring about Nana's release."
"But how on earth do you mean to proceed, Mr. Lindsay?"
"My plans are not quite made up yet, sir. In the first place, I shall ask you to give me three weeks' leave so that, if I fail, you can make it evident that you are not responsible for my undertaking. In the next place, I shall endeavour to see Nana in his prison, and ascertain from him whether he can pay a considerable sum to Scindia for his release. If I find that he is in a position to do so, I shall then--always, of course, in disguise--endeavour to have a private interview with Scindia, and to convince him that it is in every way to his interest to allow Nana to ransom himself. He is, of course, perfectly well aware that, in spite of Bajee's assurances of friendship, he is at heart bitterly opposed to him; and that the return of Nana, with the powers he before possessed, would neutralize the Peishwa's power."
"It would be an excellent thing, if that could be done," the colonel said; "but it appears to me to be an absolute impossibility."
"I would rather not tell you how I intend to act, sir; so that, in case of failure, you can disavow all knowledge of my proceedings."
"Well, since you are willing to undertake the risk, and unquestionably the Bombay Government would see, with great pleasure, Nana's return to power, I will throw no obstacle in your way. You had better, to begin with, write me a formal request for a month's leave to go down to Bombay. Is there anything else that I can do, to aid your project?"
"Nothing, whatever; and I am much obliged to you for acceding to my request. If for no other reason than that my success should have the effect of releasing the inhabitants of Poona, from the horrible tyranny to which they are exposed, I shall be willing to risk a great deal to gain it.
"I shall not leave for a day or two, as I wish to think over all the details of my plan, before I set about carrying it out."
Going into the city, Harry went to the spot where the proclamations of Scindia were always affixed. These were of various kinds; such as forbidding anyone carrying arms to be in the streets after nightfall; and that every inhabitant should furnish an account of his income, in order that taxation should be carefully distributed. To these Scindia's seal was affixed.
One such order had been placed there that morning. A sentry marched up and down in front of it, lest any insult should be offered to the paper. Satisfied that this would suit his purpose, he called Abdool to him, and explained what he wanted.
"It will not be till this evening, for I want, before that step is taken, to collect a party of ten horsemen to ride with me to Ahmednuggur and back. By this time you know a great many people in the town and, if I were to pay them well, you should have no difficulty in getting that number."
"I could do that in half an hour, sahib. There are a great number of the disbanded soldiers of the Peishwa's army who are without employment, and who would willingly undertake anything that would bring them in a little money."
"Well, you can arrange with them, today. They must not attract attention by going out together, but must meet at the village of Wittulwarree."
The next morning, Harry went to the shop of a trader who was, he knew, formerly employed by Nana, and purchased from him a suit such as would be worn by an officer in Scindia's service. Then he wrote out a document in Mahratti, giving an order to the governor of Ahmednuggur to permit the bearer, Musawood Khan, to have a private interview with Nana Furnuwees. This done, he told the resident that he intended to leave that night.
Colonel Palmer asked no questions, but only said: "Be careful, Mr. Lindsay, be careful; it is a desperate enterprise that you are undertaking, and I should be sorry, indeed, if so promising an officer should be lost to our service."
"I will be careful, I assure you. I have no wish to throw away my life."
When evening came on, he went to his room, stained his skin from head to foot, put on the caste marks, then dressed himself in the clothes that he had that morning purchased and, at nine o'clock, left the house quietly with Abdool. At that hour Poona would be quiet, for the terror was so great that few people ventured into the street after nightfall.
When they approached the house on which the proclamation was fixed, they separated. Harry went quietly to the corner of the street, a few yards from the spot where the soldier was marching up and down, and listened intently, peeping out from behind the wall whenever the sentry was walking in the other direction. Presently he heard a smothered sound, and the dull thud of a falling body.
He ran out. Abdool had crawled up to the other end of the sentry's beat, and taken his place in a doorway. The sentry came up to within a couple of yards of him, and then turned. Abdool sprang out and, with a bound, leapt upon the sentry's back and, with one hand, grasped his musket.
Taken wholly by surprise, the sentry fell forward on his face, Abdool still clinging to him. He pressed his knife against the soldier's neck and said that, at the slightest cry, he would drive it home. Half stunned by the fall, the soldier lay without moving.
[Illustration: Harry ran up to the proclamation and tore it down.]
Without the loss of a moment, Harry ran up to the proclamation and tore it down, and then darted off again. Abdool, springing to his feet, brought the butt end of the soldier's musket down on his head; and then, satisfied that a minute or two must elapse before the man would be recovered sufficiently to give the alarm, he too ran off, and joined Harry at the point where they had separated.
"That was well managed, Abdool. Now we will walk quietly until we are outside the town as, if we met some of Scindia's men, they would question were we hurrying."
In a few minutes they were outside the city; and then, running at a brisk pace, they reached the Residency. They were challenged by the sentry but, on Harry giving his name, he was of course allowed to pass.
He went quietly into his room and lighted a candle. Putting his knife in the flame he heated it, and then carefully cut the seal from the paper on which it was fixed, placed it on the order that he had written and, again heating his knife, passed it along under the paper, until the under part of the seal was sufficiently warmed to adhere to it. He placed the order in an inner pocket, put a brace of pistols into his sash, and buckled on a native sword that he had bought that morning; then he went out again, and found that Abdool had the horses in readiness, with two native saddles, with embroidered housings such as was used by native officers; which he had, by Harry's orders, purchased that morning in the bazaar.
They at once mounted, and started at a gallop for Wittulwarree.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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8
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: Nana's Release.
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At the entrance to the village Harry found the ten troopers, whom Abdool had engaged, standing by their horses. He gave the order for them to march and, at a brisk canter, they started for Ahmednuggur. It was a ride of some forty miles and, when they approached the town, they halted until the sun rose and the gates of the city were opened.
They then rode in. The men were left at a khan, Abdool remaining with them. They had been told, if questioned, to say that their leader, Musawood Khan, was an officer high in the service of Scindia.
Harry took two of the troopers with him, and rode to the governor's house. Dismounting, and leaving the horse in their charge, he told one of the attendants to inform the governor that he was the bearer of an order from Scindia, and was at once shown up.
The governor received him with all honour, glanced at the order that Harry presented to him, placed the seal against his forehead in token of submission; and then, after a few words as to affairs at Poona, called an officer and ordered him to accompany Musawood Khan to Nana Furnuwees' apartment. This was a large room, at an angle of the fortress, with a balcony outside affording a view of the country round it; for the governor, knowing how rapidly and often the position changed, and having no orders save to maintain a careful watch over the prisoner, had endeavoured to ingratiate himself with him, by lodging him comfortably and treating him well.
The officer opened the door and, when Harry had entered, locked it behind him. Nana Furnuwees was seated at the window, enjoying the fresh morning air. He looked listlessly round, and then rose suddenly to his feet, as he recognized his visitor.
"What wonder is this," he said, "that you should be here, Mr. Lindsay, except as a prisoner?"
"I am here as one of Scindia's officers," Harry replied, with a smile, "although he himself is not aware of it, in hopes of obtaining your freedom."
"That is too good even to hope for," Nana said, sadly.
"In the first place, sir, are you aware of the state of things in Poona?"
"I have heard nothing since I came here," Nana said. "They make me comfortable, as you see but, except for the daily visit from the governor, I have no visitors; and from him I learn nothing, as he has strict orders, from Scindia, not to give me any information of what happens outside these walls; fearing, no doubt, that I might take advantage of any change, to endeavour to open communication with one or other of the leaders.
"Before you tell me anything else, please explain how you managed to enter here."
"That was easy enough, sir. I simply wrote out an order, to the governor, to permit me to have a private interview with you. I tore down one of Scindia's proclamations, and transferred his seal from it to the order that I had written; dressed myself, as you see, as one of his officers; got together ten mounted men, to ride as my escort, and here I am."
"You will be a great man, some day," Nana said, looking at the tall, powerful figure of his visitor, with its soldierly carriage.
"Now, tell me about affairs. I shall then understand better why you have run this risk."
Harry gave him a sketch of everything that had happened, since his confinement.
"You see, sir," he said, as he concluded, "how the situation has changed. Amrud is nominally acting with his brother's approval, but there is no question that Bajee fears him. Amrud is in alliance with Holkar. Purseram Bhow is at liberty, at the head of an army, and a nominal conciliation has taken place between him and Bajee. The latter has incurred the detestation and hatred of the people of Poona and, most important of all, Scindia is really anxious to get back home, but is unable to do so owing to his inability to pay his troops and, willing as Bajee might be to furnish the money to get rid of him, he is without resources, owing to the fact that the taxation wrung from the people has all gone into the pockets of Scindia, Ghatgay, and his other favourites.
"The question is, sir, whether you would be willing to purchase your liberty, at a heavy price. I think that, if you could pay sufficient to enable Scindia to satisfy his soldiers, he might be induced to release you."
"How much do you think he would want?"
"Of that I can have no idea, sir. Of course, he would at first ask a great deal more than he would afterwards accept."
"Yes, I should be ready to pay," Nana said, after considering for a minute. "As a prisoner here, my money is of no use to me, nor ever would be; but I could pay a large sum, and still be wealthy."
"That is what I wanted to know, sir."
"But why do you run this risk?" Nana asked.
"For several reasons, sir. In the first place, because you have honoured me with your friendship; in the second, because I would fain save the people of Poona from the horrible barbarity with which they are now treated; and lastly, because the Government of Bombay would, I am sure, be glad to hear of your reinstatement, as the only means of restoring peace and tranquillity to the Deccan."
"How will you open this matter to Scindia?"
"I have not fully thought that out, sir; but I have no doubt that I shall, in some way, be able to manage it, and intend to act upon his fears as well as upon his avarice."
"But you say that Ghatgay is all powerful, and he would never permit an interview to take place between a stranger and Scindia."
"From what I hear, sir, Scindia is becoming jealous of Ghatgay's power, and disgusted both by his imperious manner and by his atrocities in Poona--against which he has several times protested, but in vain. If I am to obtain an audience with Scindia, it must be a secret one."
"But there will surely be great danger in such a step?"
"Doubtless it will not be without danger," Harry said, "but that I must risk. I have not yet determined upon my plan, as it would have been useless to think of that, until I had seen you but, as that has been managed so easily, I fancy that I shall have no great difficulty in getting at him. Once I do so, I feel certain that I shall be able to convince him that his best policy is to free you, and place you in your old position as the Peishwa's minister as, in that case, you would be a check upon Bajee Rao, and would be able to prevent him from entering into alliances hostile to Scindia."
"Well, Mr. Lindsay, you have given me such proofs, both of your intelligence and courage, that I feel sure that, if anyone can carry this through, you will be able to do so; and I need hardly say how deeply grateful I shall be, to you, for rescuing me from an imprisonment which seemed likely to terminate only with my life."
"And now I had better go, sir," Harry said. "It is as well that our conference should not be too long a one."
"Well, goodbye, Mr. Lindsay! Even if nothing comes of all this, it will be pleasant for me to know that, at least, I have one faithful friend who was true to me, in my deepest adversity."
Harry went to the door, and knocked. It was immediately opened by the officer who had conducted him there, and who had taken up his post a short distance from the door. He led Harry back to the governor, who pressed him to stay with him; but he replied that his orders were to return to Poona, instantly.
After this interview, he went direct to the tavern where the soldiers had put up, ate a hasty meal, and then mounted and rode out of the town. When ten miles away, he halted in a grove for some hours, and then rode on to Poona. Arrived within a mile of the town, he paid each of the men the amount promised, and told them to re-enter the town separately. Then he secured a room for himself in a small khan, just outside the city and, sitting there alone, worked out the plan of obtaining an interview with Scindia.
He then told Abdool to go quietly to the Residency, and to bring out the Brahmin's dress he had before worn. In the morning, Abdool went out to Scindia's camp with a letter which, when Scindia came out of his marquee, he handed to him. There was nothing unusual in this, for petitions were frequently presented in this way to rulers in India.
As he did so, he said in a low voice, "It is private and important, Your Highness;" and instead of handing it to one of his officers, Scindia went back to his tent to read it.
It stated that the writer, Kawerseen, an unworthy member of the Kshittree Brahmins, prayed for a private interview with His Highness, on matters of the most urgent import. Scindia thought for a moment and then, tearing up the piece of paper, went out and, as he passed Abdool, who was waiting at the entrance, said: "Tell your master to be here at half-past ten, tonight. The sentry will have orders to admit him."
Abdool returned at once to Harry, and delivered his message.
"That is good," the latter said.
"You will take me with you, sahib?"
"Certainly, Abdool, if you are willing to go. There is some danger in it and, should Scindia give the alarm, you may be of great assistance, by cutting down the sentry before he can run in. Take your pistols and tulwar, and bring another sword for me. If I can once get out of the tent we shall be fairly safe for, in the darkness and confusion which will arise, we shall be able to make off quietly. We will ride there, and fasten our horses in that grove that lies about a quarter of a mile from the camp."
At half-past nine they started, and reached Scindia's tent at the time appointed. Harry's belief that he would succeed was largely founded on the knowledge that Scindia was a weak young man, who had never been engaged in warfare, and was wanting in physical courage. An attendant was at the door, and led him to the prince's private tent, which stood in the middle of an encampment composed of large tents; for the purpose of receptions and entertainments, for the abodes of the ladies of the zenana, and for the officers in whom Scindia reposed most confidence. The retinue of servants, attendants, and minor officials were lodged in tents fifty yards behind the royal encampment.
Scindia was sitting on a divan. Two lamps hung from the ceiling. He himself was smoking.
"You have something of importance to say to me?" he said, as Harry entered, and bowed deeply.
"I have, Your Highness. You are doubtless well aware that the Kshittree Brahmins, who formerly held the principal offices under your father, are greatly offended by the elevation of Ghatgay; and still more so by his atrocious deeds in the town of Poona. There has been a private meeting, and twelve of them, myself among the number, have sworn by the feet of Brahma to take your life, either by poison, dagger, or musket ball."
"And you have the insolence to avow that you took such an oath!"
He sprang to his feet, and would have touched the bell on the table but, in an instant, Harry sprung forward with a loaded pistol, pointed at Scindia's head.
"Stop, sir, I beg of you; for assuredly, if you raise a voice or touch a bell, that moment will be your last."
Scindia sank down into his seat again. He had not the least doubt that the man before him would execute his threat.
"Your Highness," he said, "I have not come here for the purpose of assassinating you. I was first on the list, but obtained from the others permission to endeavour to put an end to the present state of things, before carrying out our vow. We know that, in spite of the enormous sums that Ghatgay has raised in Poona, you yourself have not been enriched; and that you have been unable to persuade your troops to march, owing to your want of money to pay up their arrears. We have thought the matter over, and can see but one way by which you can obtain the necessary funds."
"And that is?" Scindia asked.
"That is, Your Highness, to liberate Nana Furnuwees--setting his liberty, of course, at a high price. In this way you will not only be able to move your army, but you will cripple the power of the Peishwa--who would, if possible, overthrow you, now you have done his work and freed him from Nana.
"You are well aware, Prince, that Nana Furnuwees always exercised his authority on the side of peace, and there is no fear that he will permit Bajee Rao to engage in war against you. He is an old man, and useless to you as a prisoner. If you exacted a heavy sum from him it would, in all ways, aid your views."
"But how do you know that Nana could raise such a sum as would satisfy the troops?"
"We have assured ourselves on that score, and I know that it matters not how much Nana Furnuwees will have to give. What I would suggest is that you shall seize Ghatgay, and rid yourself of his domination. He cannot but be as odious to you as he is to Bajee Rao, and to the people."
Scindia sat for some time, in silence.
"Do I understand," he said, "that if I carry out these suggestions, your comrades will be satisfied?"
"That I swear solemnly. I do not threaten Your Highness, for my visit today is one of conciliation. You might, as soon as I leave this tent, order me to be arrested. In that case I should use this pistol against myself, and you would seek in vain for the names of my eleven brethren; but your life would be forfeited--whether in the midst of your guards or in your tent, whether you ride or walk. You would be watched, and your servants would be bribed, and your food poisoned. If the first man fails, he will blow out his brains, and so will they all; but be assured that the vow will be kept and that, whether by night or by day, you will never be safe."
"You are a bold man to speak so," Scindia said.
"I speak so, Your Highness, because I am perfectly ready to die for the good of the country, and to secure for it peace and contentment."
Scindia rose, and took two or three turns up and down the tent; Harry keeping his pistol in his hand, in readiness to fire should he attempt to slip away. At last, Scindia stopped before him.
"I agree to your conditions," he said, "and the more readily because I shall, as you say, at once free myself from difficulties, and avenge myself on Bajee Rao; who is, I know, in spite of his professions of friendship, constantly plotting against me. Tomorrow at daybreak an officer shall ride, with a troop of cavalry, and shall bring Nana here."
"You have chosen wisely, Prince. It is, believe me, your only way of escaping from your present difficulties. I know that, already, your soldiery are becoming mutinous at being thus kept, for months, away from their country, and receiving no pay. That feeling will grow rapidly, unless their demands are conceded. As to Ghatgay, the soldiers hold him in abhorrence, and his arrest and downfall would cause the most lively satisfaction among them. Your men are soldiers and not assassins, and the tortures and executions that daily take place fill them with horror; so that your order for his arrest will be executed with joy.
"Now, Your Highness, I will leave you. I believe that you will keep your promise, as indeed it is to your interest to do so; in which case you will never hear of myself, or my eleven companions."
"Do not fear," Scindia said, "tomorrow my messenger shall certainly start for Ahmednuggur."
Harry, bowing deeply, turned, passed through the curtain, and made his way out of the tent. Abdool, who was squatting near the entrance, at once rose and followed him.
"Is all well, sahib?"
"I think so. I have so frightened Scindia that I have little doubt he will carry out the promise he has given me. I will tell you about it, when we get back."
They passed through the sleeping camp, and mounted their horses in the grove, and rode to the Residency. Colonel Palmer was still up, engaged in writing a report for the Government. It was a dark night, and the sentry on duty, knowing Harry's voice, let him pass without question, not even observing the change in his attire.
"What! Back again, Mr. Lindsay?" the colonel exclaimed, in surprise, when Harry entered. "I thought that it would be a month before you returned--that is, if you ever returned at all, and of this I had but little hope. As I expected, you have, of course, found it impossible to carry out your design."
"On the contrary, sir, I have been, I hope, perfectly successful. I have seen Nana Furnuwees, and ascertained that he is ready to pay a large sum to obtain his freedom, and his former position as the Peishwa's minister. I have seen Scindia. Tomorrow a troop of horse will start, to fetch Nana to his camp; and Ghatgay will be arrested as soon as possible, after he arrives."
"How in the name of fortune have you managed all these things?" the colonel asked.
"I will tell you, sir, now that I am back here. I shall tomorrow reassume my uniform, and there is no danger of my being recognized, or of trouble arising from what I have done."
He then related the various steps he had taken, and his conversations with Nana and Scindia.
"Upon my word, Mr. Lindsay, I do not know whether to admire most your daring, in bearding Scindia in the heart of his camp; or the intelligence with which you have carried out what seemed, to me, an absolutely impossible undertaking.
"Light your cheroot. I need not trouble about this report that I was engaged on, when you entered, but will put it by until the day after tomorrow, when we shall see whether Nana is brought to Scindia's camp.
"You speak Hindustani as well as Mahratti, do you not?"
"Not so well, sir; but as you know I have, during the six months that I was at Bombay, and since I have been here, used most of my spare time working up Hindustani, with a moonshee."
"I am glad to hear it, for I received a letter from the Governor, this morning, saying that Lord Mornington has requested him to send an officer, thoroughly acquainted with Mahratti and with some knowledge of the people; and that he has selected you for the service, as being by far better fitted than anyone he knows for the appointment. A knowledge of Hindustani will, of course, be very useful to you; but Mahratti is the principal thing, as he is intending to open negotiations with the Mahrattas, as well as with the Nizam, to induce them to join in concerted action against Tippoo.
"He says that no vessel will be sailing for Calcutta for less than a month, so you can stay here for a few days, and see how your scheme works out. It will be a great step for you, and ensure you rapid promotion."
"I am indeed obliged to the Governor for selecting me," Harry said, "and will do my best to justify his confidence."
Two days later, Nana Furnuwees was brought to Scindia's camp--news which caused Bajee Rao intense consternation. He at once sent off, to open negotiations with the Nizam for common action, offering a considerable amount of territory for his assistance.
Colonel Palmer rode over the next morning to Scindia's camp, and found that Scindia had demanded three millions of rupees as the price of Nana's release, and appointment as minister to the Peishwa. Nana had protested his absolute inability to raise anything like that sum, but had offered five hundred thousand rupees.
"I can quite believe that he could not pay the sum Scindia demands," the colonel said, on his return; "and when Scindia sees that he would rather return to prison than attempt impossibilities, he will come down in his demands, and Nana will go up in his offer. It is a mere question of bargaining."
When Scindia heard of the step that Bajee Rao had taken, he was greatly alarmed; for he could hardly hope to withstand the Nizam's army, and that which Bajee himself could raise; and he therefore materially lowered his demands, and finally accepted Nana's offer of nine hundred thousand rupees. This arrangement being made, he permitted Nana to leave the camp in order to raise the money; receiving his solemn oath that, if he failed to do so, he would return and render himself a prisoner again.
However, in a few days Nana sent in the money. Scindia fulfilled the other part of his promise, and insisted upon the Peishwa's receiving Nana as his minister. A few days later he had Ghatgay arrested, by the sons of two of his European officers.
Scindia was, indeed, most anxious to be off. He did not know that the Nizam had refused Bajee Rao's offer. He had received news of widespread disaffection among his troops at home, and felt that he could not rely upon those with him. As soon, therefore, as he received the money from Nana, he partially paid the arrears due to the soldiers. The sum, however, was altogether insufficient to satisfy the troops and, as Nana Furnuwees found that Bajee was still intriguing with Scindia for his overthrow, and that no rest could be hoped for until the latter's army marched away, he advanced Scindia fifteen lakhs of rupees from his own private funds. The latter was then able to satisfy his troops.
Scindia accepted the money, but still remained in the neighbourhood of Poona.
These matters were not concluded until months after Harry left for Bombay. On arriving there he called upon the Governor, to report the release of Nana Furnuwees.
"I received Colonel Palmer's last report, four days ago. He has given me full details of the manner in which you, on your own initiative, brought about Nana's release, and the approaching departure of Scindia; and I of course brought them before the Council, and they quite agreed with me as to the remarkable daring and ability with which you had carried out what Colonel Palmer believed to be an impossible scheme.
"I have pleasure in handing you your commission of captain, and only regret that we cannot break the rules of the service, by nominating you major. Tomorrow your name will be removed from the list of officers of the 3rd Regiment, and you will be appointed to the staff. You will have a week before you, to obtain the proper uniform. I shall not require you to perform any duties, and you will therefore have your time to yourself, till you sail. I shall, of course, forward my reasons for sending you to Lord Mornington, and shall give an account of the services that you have rendered; which will doubtless excite as much admiration in Calcutta as in Bombay.
"I shall be glad if you will dine with me, the day after tomorrow, when I shall ask the members of the Council to meet you."
On leaving the Governor, Harry at once went to the shop of the Parsee merchant from whom he had obtained his regimentals, and ordered the various uniforms required for the staff. He then went to Soyera and, to his great satisfaction, found Sufder there. The latter's troop was one of those which had been disbanded when, on the arrival of Scindia, Bajee Rao deemed it necessary to reduce his force; and Sufder, after staying for some time at Jooneer, had now come down to see his cousin.
"I am glad, indeed, to find you here, Sufder; in the first place, because it is always a pleasure to meet a good friend; and in the second, because you can take Soyera back with you, and place her with Ramdass."
"But why should I leave here, Harry?"
"Because, mother, I am to start for Madras in three weeks; and may be, for aught I know, away for a year or more. Of course you can remain here if you prefer it, but it seems to me that the other would be the better plan."
"I should certainly prefer to go with Sufder to my home," Soyera said. "I have numbers of acquaintances here, but no real friends; and Ramdass and Anundee will, I know, joyfully receive me."
"At any rate, you shall be no burden to them, Soyera. I will give you a thousand rupees, with which you can pay your share of the expenses of the house or land; and I will give you a similar sum to hand to Ramdass, as a token of my gratitude for his protection and kindness. This will enable him to add to his holding, and to the comforts of his house. I would willingly give much more, but it might cause suspicion and enquiry, were he to extend his holding largely; and the authorities of Jooneer might demand from him how he became possessed of such means. As I told you, I have received much money in presents, and could afford to give you very much more, if it were of any advantage to you.
"I shall give a thousand rupees also to you, Sufder. They will be useful to you, when you settle down on the revenues of your district; and enable you to cut a good figure among the people when you arrive there."
The day before he was to sail, a Hindu entered Harry's apartment and, bowing deeply, handed him a letter. It was from Nana.
"My good English friend, "I send the enclosed bill, upon my agent, as a small token of acknowledgment for the inestimable service you have rendered me. During my long life I have had many friends; but these, in supporting me, acted in their own interest. You alone have shown me absolutely disinterested friendship. I have always been opposed to your people interfering in the affairs of the Deccan; but I see now that nothing save their intervention can save the country from absolute ruin, owing to the constant struggles for supremacy among the great rajahs; and I see that it were far better we should enjoy peace and protection, under a foreign power, than be exposed to ruin and misery at the hands of warring factions.
"I grieve that I have not seen you again. Colonel Palmer tells me that you are about to start for either Calcutta or Madras, to join the army that is about to act against Tippoo. It is unlikely that I shall ever see you again; but I shall never forget that, had it not been for you, I should have ended my life a prisoner at Ahmednuggur.
"Nana."
The bill enclosed was an order for a hundred thousand rupees, upon Nana's agent in Bombay.
When Harry went to say goodbye to the Governor, the latter said: "It is likely that you will see your old regiment before long, Captain Lindsay. This morning a ship arrived, with orders from Lord Mornington for us to send as many troops as could possibly be spared, to ascend the southern Ghauts and join him near Seringapatam. Lord Mornington is now at Madras, making arrangements for an advance; when his brother, Colonel Wellesley, will move forward with the Nizam's troops. There is still a doubt what part the Mahrattas will take--probably they will hold aloof, altogether, until they see how matters go. We know that Tippoo has sent thirteen lakhs of rupees to Bajee Rao, and that the latter and Scindia are in constant communication with him. However, at present we shall take no notice of these proceedings; but allow the Peishwa to believe that we are deceived by the constant assurances that he gives us of his friendship, although he has declined to enter into a treaty with us, similar to that which the Nizam has made.
"It is enough to have one formidable foe on our hands at a time, and our experience of Bajee assures us that he will not commit himself, by openly declaring for Tippoo, until he sees how matters are going."
The winds were unfavourable, and it was not until six weeks after leaving Bombay that Harry arrived at Madras. It was now November, 1798 and, on landing, he learned that General Harris was in command of the army that was assembling at Vellore, and that the Governor General had returned to Calcutta. He therefore at once went back to the ship, which next day sailed for that town.
On arriving there he presented himself at the Government House and, on sending in his name, was in a short time shown in to Lord Mornington's private room.
"I am glad that you have come, Captain Lindsay," the latter said. "I wish that you had been here sooner."
"I came by the first ship, sir, after the Governor of Bombay received your letter but, owing to contrary winds, we have been nearly two months on the voyage. I landed for an hour at Madras and, hearing that you had returned here, I hesitated whether to come to you for orders, or to join General Harris at Vellore; but I thought it better to come on, and so again embarked on the ship, which has only just anchored."
"You were quite right, sir, for it was an agent rather than a soldier that I required. I own that I thought the Governor would have sent an older man."
"I am the bearer of this letter from him. I believe that in it he gives his reasons for the honour he did me, in selecting me for the post."
"I will look through it, presently," Lord Mornington said; "and if you will dine with me here, I shall then have read it, and shall be able to decide where you can be employed to the best advantage."
The dinner was a quiet one, only the officers of the Governor General's suite being present. The Governor received Harry with much more cordiality than he had evinced at their first interview, and introduced him to his officers, with the expression that Captain Lindsay had done very valuable service in the Deccan. Little allusion was made to business, until the other officers had left, when Lord Mornington said: "I have read the Governor of Bombay's letter, and am convinced that he could have made no better choice than he has done. He speaks of you in the highest terms, and has given me a slight sketch of your story, and a fuller one of the manner in which you obtained the release of Nana Furnuwees. I learn that Nana has always been considered our friend; although we have not been able to give him the support that we could wish, as this would have entailed war with the Mahrattas, which Bombay is in no position to undertake. Nevertheless, his release will doubtless, to some extent, counterbalance the duplicity of the Peishwa who, while lavish in his promises to us, is receiving money from Tippoo; and will undoubtedly, unless restrained by Nana, openly espouse his cause, should he gain any successes over us. You showed such intelligence in the matter that he says I can place every confidence in you.
"Although the Nizam has been obliged to dismiss the French troops in his service, and to send a portion of his army to act in connection with our own against Mysore, he is in no way to be trusted; being as slippery as the rest of these Indian princes and, like the Mahrattas, would assuredly join Tippoo if he saw his way to doing so. This is so certain that nothing would be gained by sending another agent to Hyderabad. I therefore propose to open communications with the Rajah of Berar.
"None of my officers is able to talk Mahratti; though many of them are, of course, familiar with the southern dialects. The rajah is already practically at war with the Mahrattas as, for a long time, his troops have been ravaging the territory of Purseram Bhow; which he was invited to do by the Peishwa, when Purseram took sides against him. He is doubtless in some apprehension of an attack by the Mahrattas and, upon our promising to guarantee his dominions, and to give him support if attacked, he may be willing to venture into an alliance with us; and his doing so would, alike, help us in keeping the Nizam to his engagements, and deter the Mahrattas from moving.
"This is the mission that I intend to confide to you. I believe that it could not be in better hands. If you will call, tomorrow afternoon, your written instructions and powers to act for me, and to enter into engagements in my name, will be ready for you; and I should wish you to start the next morning. You will have an escort of twenty troopers. These Indian princes have little respect for persons who travel unattended.
"You will understand that the instructions recite the maximum that you are authorized to offer to the rajah. If he will be satisfied with less you will, of course, grant as little as you can; if he demands more, you must refer the matter to me. At any rate, so long as you are negotiating, he will take no active steps against us; though I have learned that Bajee Rao has already been at work, trying to persuade him to join himself and Tippoo against us. Were such a treaty concluded, we could no longer hope to retain the Nizam; and indeed, should find it difficult to contend against so powerful a confederacy. At any rate, if the rajah will not join us, you must endeavour at least to secure his neutrality.
"The day after tomorrow you will start. I will have a route map prepared for you. The distance to Nagpore is about eight hundred miles, and you will get there in four weeks, travelling thirty miles a day. I have given orders, today, for one of the Company's ships of war to take you and your escort to the mouth of the Ganjam; and express messengers have already started, with orders to the commandant to provide waggons to carry your tent, equipage and stores. You should, if the winds are favourable, reach there in four or five days' time."
"The carts will delay us, sir, and without them we might make forty miles a day, after we have landed; for the horses of this country have great endurance."
"A few days will make no great difference. There are no towns of any importance on the road to Nagpore, and you would have to put up at wretched khans, and would be considered as worthy of little consideration; whereas I wish you to travel in a style suitable for my agent, and to impress the native mind with your importance.
"Have you horses?"
"I have but one, sir, and a pony for my servant."
"You must purchase another, and a good one, with showy equipments. You will, of course, charge that and all other expenses, and your appointment will be a thousand rupees a month. I have no doubt the rajah will lodge you handsomely. Should he not do so, you had best encamp outside the town. Do not put up with any inferior lodging."
"Very well, sir; I shall endeavour to carry out your orders, to the letter."
Harry was fortunate in being able to purchase an excellent horse and, in the afternoon, received his letters of instruction. On the following day he embarked in a twelve-gun sloop, with twenty troopers under the command of a native officer. The wind was favourable and, in four days, they arrived at the mouth of the Ganjam.
A large native barge came out to meet them. The horses and the stores which Harry had purchased, together with some boxes with presents for the rajah, were transferred to her; and two of the ship's boats took the barge in tow to the shore. The commandant of the small garrison there informed Harry that the bullock carts had already gone on to a village, thirty miles away; and that he would find all in readiness for him, on his arrival.
Without waiting an hour he started with his escort and, half a mile from the village, found the camp already pitched. It consisted of one large and handsome tent, such as those used by high officials, and two smaller ones for the escort. He had engaged at Calcutta a good cook, and this man at once began to light fires, and prepare a meal from the stores Harry had brought with him.
The tent was handsomely furnished. A large carpet covered the ground. There was a bed, four large chairs, and a table; while between the outer and inner walls of the tent was a bath. As soon as they halted, one of the troopers rode into the village and purchased fowls, rice, ghee, and condiments for the use of the escort, who were all Mahommedans.
Harry found, to his satisfaction, that another set of waggons had started that morning for the next halting place; and that he would find everything ready for him there. This was a great satisfaction, for he had feared that the work of taking down and packing the tents would delay his start in the morning, and that at the end of the day's ride he would have to wait some hours before the tents came up; whereas by the system of double carriage, he would not be delayed.
The head man told him that his party would start in the morning, as soon as the cart could be packed; that fresh bullocks would be hired at the village where he would halt, and would travel all night, so as to be in readiness for him when he had accomplished another stage; and that this process would be continued until they reached Nagpore.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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9
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: A Popular Tumult.
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The journey was performed without incident. Harry enjoyed it much, for this luxurious method of travelling was quite new to him and, three weeks after leaving the coast, they arrived at Nagpore. On the previous day the native officer had been sent on, beforehand, to inform the rajah of the arrival of a high officer of the Governor General's; and had taken on a letter from Lord Mornington, accrediting Harry to act in his name. Accordingly, when the party arrived within a mile of the town, they were met by two officers of the rajah; who welcomed him in his name, and said that a residence had been prepared for his use and that of the escort. They were surprised at Harry's perfect knowledge of their language for, hitherto, British agents who had come to Nagpore had had but very slight acquaintance with it, and had had to carry on their conversation by means of an interpreter.
The town was large and straggling and composed, for the most part, of native huts built of mud. There were, however, a few brick houses, the property of flourishing traders. The palace was a large square edifice, without any architectural adornments. Trees grew everywhere in the streets and, in the distance, the town had the appearance of a forest.
Harry was conducted to one of the largest brick houses in the town. A host of sweepers had been at work, carpets were laid down, and furniture placed in the principal rooms. He had no doubt that it had been requisitioned from its owner by the rajah for him, and the furniture supplied from the palace. The principal rooms were on the upper floor, and there was ample accommodation for the escort below.
Harry requested the officers to ascertain when the rajah would be ready to receive a visit from him, and they returned with word that he would receive him, in private audience, at eight o'clock that evening. Accordingly at that hour, followed by four of his troopers, he rode to the palace. A guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance, and saluted as he passed in. The entrance hall and staircase were lined by attendants, and all bowed profoundly as he passed. He was conducted to a large audience chamber, where the rajah, attended by his principal officers, was seated.
The conversation was of the usual ceremonial kind, the prince expressing his satisfaction that the Governor General should have sent one of his officers to confer with him, and assuring Harry of his goodwill and friendship towards the English; while Harry, on his part, expressed the strong desire of Lord Mornington that the relations between him and the rajah should be continued unbroken, and that nothing should ever occur to disturb their amity. The presents sent by the Governor General were then brought in and displayed, and appeared to give much satisfaction to the chief.
After the durbar was over, the latter told Harry that he would receive him, privately, at ten o'clock next morning. On arriving at that time, he was shown into the prince's private apartment, and there explained to him the Governor General's desire that he should join the confederacy between the Nizam and the English.
"I have no quarrel with Tippoo," the rajah said. "At present, none can say how the affair will end. All say that the Peishwa has agreed to assist Tippoo. He is a match, and more, for the Nizam; while we know not whether the English company, or Tippoo, is the strongest. Should I remain neutral, the Peishwa and Tippoo might eat me up."
"That is true, Rajah; but you must remember that, in the last war, the English showed that they were much stronger than Tippoo; and he was glad to make peace with them, by giving up nearly half his territories. We are much stronger now. Ships arrive each day with more and more troops and, believe me, Tippoo will assuredly be unable to stand against the English power, even if he were backed up by the whole strength of Poona.
"Of course, we know that messages have been sent to you by Tippoo, and that he has promised you a large slice of the Nizam's dominions, if you will invade them, and so prevent him from aiding the English."
Harry saw, by the change in the prince's countenance, that he was surprised to find that his negotiations with Tippoo were known to the English Government. He replied, however: "It is true that Tippoo has sent to me, but I have given him no answer. The matter is too important to be settled in a hurry. Certainly, Tippoo's offers were very advantageous."
"I can understand that they were tempting, Rajah; yet they entailed a war against the English and the Nizam, when they had finished with Tippoo. Instead of gaining territory, you would find that much of yours would be lost.
"But undoubtedly, were you to join us, the Governor General would show that he was not unthankful for the service, and your assistance would be handsomely recompensed."
"What does the Governor General offer?"
"He is desirous of knowing what your own views are, Rajah; and he will assuredly meet them, if possible."
"I have not thought of it, yet," the prince said. "I must talk the matter over with my councillors. We are good friends with the Peishwa, also with the Nizam, and with Tippoo. We know that the English are a great people; but we have had nothing to do with them, save that complimentary messages have been exchanged. Therefore it is not a matter upon which one can come to any hasty decision."
"The Governor General would wish you to think the matter over well, before deciding, Rajah; and indeed, there is no occasion for undue haste, seeing that the English army is still lying near Madras, and is not yet ready to advance. Therefore I will leave the matter for the present; believing that, in your wisdom, you will be able to see how matters are likely to go; and whether the English Company, or Tippoo, are likely to be your best friends."
It was nearly a fortnight before Harry heard again from the rajah. The latter had returned his visit, and sent over presents of sweetmeats and food to his guests. At the end of that time he came in, one evening, with only two attendants.
"I have come to speak to you on this matter, privately," he said. "My ministers are altogether divided in opinion. Some say we should fight against Tippoo, who is a cruel and implacable foe, and who has slaughtered all the Hindus in his territory who refused to embrace his religion. Others say it is better to be friends with him, for it seems that these white men intend to eat up all India. Already they have taken the Carnatic and Bengal, now they want to take Mysore. What will they take next?
"For myself, I wish well to the English. Though there are few of them, they are brave and strong; but my council know of the offer that Tippoo has made us and, unless I can show them that the English are also ready to give us material advantages, I shall not be able to persuade my chiefs that our interest must lie in an alliance with them."
"That is so, Rajah, and if you will inform me what are your expectations, I will see how far they tally with those which the Governor General has authorized me to offer."
"I am not greedy," the prince said. "I wish only to have what is fair and just. I think that our aid is worth two crores of rupees (200,000 pounds) and that the Company should put me in possession of the lands of Purseram Bhow, together with the land that lies between us and Malwan, including the territories of the Rajah of Bhopal."
"Your demand," Harry said gravely, "is so far beyond what I was authorized to offer you, that I fear it is altogether useless for me to submit it to the Governor General. He would, I am sure, consider that, in naming such terms, you had resolved to make acceptance impossible."
"That is by no means my intention," the Rajah said. "Nothing could be further from my thoughts; and in order to secure an alliance that, I believe, would be advantageous, I might be able to make some slight concession."
"I will send off a messenger, then, submitting your offer and asking for instructions, and requesting that I may be allowed to meet you, by further concessions on my part; but I fear that, strained as the English treasury is by the preparations for the war against Tippoo, it would be impossible for the Company to pay the sum you name; nor do I think that they would be disposed to guarantee you the territory of Bhopal, seeing that we have no quarrel with the rajah of that country.
"No doubt, they might be willing to grant you a portion of the territories of Mysore, lying on the other side of the Godavery, which would be as valuable as Bhopal."
As the rajah, himself, was still uncertain as to which side it would be most advantageous to take; and as he thought that the campaign against Tippoo would last for many months; he offered no objection to Harry's proposal. The latter sent off two troopers, the next day, with a letter to Lord Mornington saying that as the rajah's demands were, he knew, altogether out of the question, he had sent them to him simply to gain time; hoping that, before the answer arrived, the army would have gained such successes over Tippoo as would induce the prince to greatly modify his terms. The troopers were charged not to use undue haste, but to travel quietly, at a rate not exceeding twenty miles a day.
Two months passed. The rajah was in no hurry, for the two parties among his councillors were so evenly divided that he was by no means sure that, even if he wished it, he could put his army in motion, in support of either the English or Tippoo; and in the next place, he believed that the latter would win, and was reluctant in the extreme to take any step that would draw down upon him the vengeance of the Lord of Mysore. He occasionally saw Harry and, although he expressed his anxiety for the return of the messengers, Harry could see that this feeling was only feigned, and that at heart he was not sorry that he was not yet called upon to decide.
At the end of a month, Harry had received a letter from the Governor General, brought by a messenger in the disguise of a peasant. It only said: "March 6th, 1799.
"The army has left Vellore. On the 11th the Nizam's contingent also marched, as has that from Bombay. By the 1st of this month all should have reached the plateau--the Bombay army at Sedaseer, forty-five miles west of Seringapatam; and the main army about eighty miles east of that town. By the end of the month, both should be before Tippoo's capital. Siege will probably occupy a month.
"Even if Berar decides against us, its army cannot arrive in time to aid Tippoo. Therefore, if you can extend the negotiations for a month after you receive this, your mission will have been fulfilled."
This messenger had, of course, been sent off before the arrival of the troopers in Calcutta and, if Lord Mornington's calculations were correct, Seringapatam would be invested before they could return. Three days later, indeed, a report reached Nagpore that Tippoo had fallen upon the advance guard of the Bombay army, and had been repulsed; and on the 27th he had attacked General Harris, and had again been defeated; and that on the 28th the main army had forded the Cauvery, and had marched to Sosilly.
This news caused great excitement in the town, although Seringapatam was generally supposed to be impregnable and, as the English had failed to take it during the last war, it was believed that, after another futile siege, they would be forced to fall back again from want of food, as they did upon the previous occasion.
The rajah, like the majority, believed that Seringapatam could defy any assault; and that, surrounded as the British army would be by the Mysore cavalry, they would very speedily be forced to retire; and that, although Tippoo might have yielded to the wishes of his general, and attempted to check the advance, it could have been with only a portion of his army.
Including the contingent furnished by the Nizam, the Bombay army amounted to forty-three thousand men. Tippoo was credited with having at least twice that force, and his uniform successes against his neighbours had created a belief that he was invincible. The rajah, therefore, was well content to let matters rest, until more decisive news reached him.
It was on the 7th of April that the messengers returned, with a letter: "We no longer want active assistance from Berar. The army is within striking distance of Seringapatam, and a few thousand native horse, one way or another, will make but little difference. You have done very well in gaining two months, by referring the matter to me. The rajah's demands are, of course, ridiculous. He is evidently playing a double part and, if we were defeated tomorrow, would join Tippoo and attack the Nizam. You can still, however, offer him five lakhs of rupees; but do not guarantee him any additional territory.
"The Peishwa is acting in precisely the same way. The army that was to come to our assistance has not yet moved; and he, like Berar, is simply awaiting events at Seringapatam."
The rajah came in that evening.
"I hear that your messengers have returned, sir."
"Yes; I am sorry to say that the Governor General considers your demands are altogether excessive. The treasury is almost empty and, were he to guarantee you an extension of your dominions, it would bring on a war with the Peishwa and the Rajah of Bhopal; but he is willing to pay five lakhs of rupees, to cover the maintenance of your troops while in the field."
The rajah flushed with anger.
"It is altogether insufficient," he said.
"I do not say that is the final offer, Rajah; that is the offer I am authorized to make, in the first place. Possibly, if you are willing to make concessions of a reasonable kind, I may be able to meet you--and you must remember that the friendship of the Company is of no slight advantage, and would assuredly be of infinite value to you, were your territory invaded by Scindia and the Peishwa. These may, at any moment, make up their differences. Purseram Bhow may again become the commander of the Peishwa's army and, after the manner in which your troops have, for the last two or three years, raided his jagheer, he would be your bitterest enemy."
Harry saw that this consideration made a powerful impression upon the rajah, and the latter said: "I must think these matters over. The sum that you offer is altogether insufficient, and cannot be entertained for a moment. However, there is time for reflection."
During the next four weeks, Harry saw the rajah occasionally; but the latter made no attempt to talk business. He was evidently undecided, in his mind, as to the best course he should take. He feared Tippoo more than he feared the English, and he still believed that the latter would assuredly fail in capturing Seringapatam. Tippoo's offers, too, had been considerably higher than those of Calcutta, as he had promised him a large slice of the Nizam's dominions for his assistance. He had therefore determined to reject the English offer, and to march into the Nizam's country, as soon as he heard that the besieging army had fallen back.
Harry's suspicions that this was the case were, to a certain extent, confirmed by the fact that bodies of armed men began to arrive, in considerable numbers. He felt that his own position was beginning to be precarious, and the native officer commanding his escort brought in almost hourly reports of what was passing in the city. The population was a mixed one, and nearly divided between Hindus and Mahommedans. The latter naturally sympathized altogether with Tippoo, while the former were in favour of taking no part on either side.
So matters continued until the 10th of May, when a horseman rode into the town, with the news that Seringapatam had been captured by the British, and that Tippoo himself was killed. A feeling akin to stupefaction was excited by the news; and it seemed, at first, that it must be false, for it was incredible that Tippoo, with so strong an army, should have been unable to defend the fortress that, as was believed, could withstand any attack, however formidable, for four months.
[Illustration: As he rode through the streets he saw . . . how fierce a feeling of resentment had been excited by the news.]
The rajah sent at once, to ask Harry to visit him. As he rode through the streets he saw, by the scowling faces of the Mahommedan soldiers, how fierce a feeling of resentment had been excited by the news that the native officer had brought in, a few minutes before. The rajah was deeply agitated.
"Have you heard the news, sahib?"
"I have, Rajah."
"And do you think it possible?"
"Perfectly; indeed, I have been expecting it for some days, but I supposed the English general needed time to bring in provisions from the country round, to form his plans, and construct his batteries."
"To me it is astounding!" the rajah said, walking up and down the room.
"Of course," Harry said, "the proposal that I made to you cannot now be carried out; and I do not feel myself justified, under the changed position of things, in continuing the negotiations."
"I always intended to help the English," the rajah went on.
"No doubt, Rajah. I have noticed, for some time, that you have been gathering a large force here; but you have given me no indication for what purpose it was intended."
"It was intended, of course, for service with the English," the rajah said, "and it would have been set in motion, as soon as the negotiations were completed."
"At any rate, Rajah, in spite of the temptations offered you by Tippoo, you have remained neutral. This will be considered in your favour, and I can assure you that there will be no breach in the friendship between yourself and the English; matters will merely remain as they were, before this war commenced."
"Except that the Nizam will become more powerful than before," the rajah said.
"That will no doubt be so, for he will certainly take a considerable share of Tippoo's dominions. But that need not trouble you. I know the desire of the Governor General has always been for peace. He was driven into this war, by the failure of Tippoo to carry out his undertaking to release all European prisoners in his hands, and also by the great preparations he was making to regain territory that he had lost. But it cannot be to the interest of the Company that the Nizam should use his increased power to be a scourge to his neighbours; and I can promise you that any wanton aggression, on his part, will be regarded with displeasure, and probably lead to their interference in your behalf.
"Now, Rajah, I must remind you that I am here as your guest, and I rely upon you to protect me. As I came through the streets, the attitude of the Mahommedan soldiers was very threatening; and I should not be surprised if they attempted to attack the house. I need not say that any outrage upon the escort of a British agent would be tremendously avenged; and that you would be more easily forgiven, had you taken the part of Tippoo, than if you allow me and my escort to be massacred."
"I will take immediate steps for your safety and, should any attempt be made, I shall come with my household guards to your assistance. A squadron of them shall ride back with you, now, to prevent any insult being offered to you in the streets."
"I will relieve you of my presence, tonight," Harry said. "I do not wish to be an object of strife between you and your people, and will therefore take my farewell of you, at once. I shall have pleasure in informing the Governor General of the steps that you have taken to provide for my safety."
"And give him the assurance that my disposition is wholly friendly, and that I rely on nothing so much as to secure his friendship, and to remain on the most amicable terms with him."
Harry had no doubt that the assurance was given in earnest. The fall of Seringapatam, and the death of Tippoo, had been a terrible shock to the rajah; and even the fact that he had missed his opportunity of allying himself with the English, was as nothing to the thought of what would have happened had he declared for Tippoo.
The rajah at once gave orders for a squadron of his horse to mount, and continued his conversation with Harry until they were ready in the courtyard. Then, bidding adieu to the prince, the latter mounted, and was escorted through the streets by the cavalry guard.
But although their presence prevented any attack being made on him, the lower class groaned and yelled, and he had no doubt that, had it not been for his escort, he would have been murdered on his way back.
Directly he arrived he called the troopers to arms, and told them to barricade the gates, and to be ready to take post at the windows, in case of assault. Looking out, he saw that the rajah's men had taken up their position in front of the house.
A great crowd soon began to gather there. Most of the men were evidently soldiers, and had arms in their hands. Loud shouts were raised, and it was not long before a musket was discharged, quickly followed by others. The native officer in charge of the guard ordered the soldiers to seize those who fired but, as his men pressed their horses forward, the crowd closed in upon them, breaking their ranks and rendering them powerless.
While this had been going on, the men of Harry's escort were hard at work in getting up the paving stones of the yard, and piling them against the gate. The lower windows were all barred and, as there was no entrance except by the front gate, it was felt that they could hold the house for some time.
As soon as the guard were swept away, a portion of the crowd attacked the gate with showers of stones, while a heavy musketry fire was opened at every window. So heavy was this that Harry would not allow the troopers to show themselves there, but posted them behind the barricades of stone against the gates so that, when these yielded, they might be able to open fire whilst showing only their heads over the top line of stones.
Harry regretted, now, that he had not, when he returned from the rajah, at once ordered his men to mount and cut their way through the mob. A few at least might have escaped though, doubtless, they would have been pursued by the irregular cavalry. As it was he felt that, although they might sell their lives dearly, they must be destroyed to a man, unless the rajah sent assistance to them. That he would endeavour to do so he felt sure, for the massacre of a British envoy, and his escort, was certain to bring the English troops to Nagpore, sooner or later; and no assurances that the rajah had done all in his power to save them would be accepted as sufficient.
The house stood in a garden, which extended some distance behind it; and it was here that the horses were picketed. The front gate was a very strong one, and was certain to resist all attacks, for some time.
Harry called off half his men, and set them to work at the wall at the end of the garden, which was only constructed of dry mud; directing them to make a hole large enough for a horse to pass through. At this side all was quiet, the people in the native houses there having gone round to the front, to watch what was doing. Harry stood there for a few minutes, watching the men at work, and saw with satisfaction their heavy tulwars rapidly cutting through the soft wall. He told them that, when they had finished, four of them were to remain to guard the hole, in case any might try to force their way in; and the rest were to return, to aid their comrades at the gate.
He had no great fear that the attempt would be made to enter in that direction, for the windows in the back of the house were, like those in front, large; and anyone attempting to climb the walls and enter the garden would be liable to be shot down from the windows, as they could not be covered, as were those on the other side, by a fire kept up from the houses outside. The entrance into the garden from the house was made by a small door, at the bottom of a staircase leading from what had been the zenana, for the gardens were always considered the special domain of the ladies. There was another small door for the servants' offices, used by the men who, early in the morning, went in to keep the garden in order.
When Harry rejoined the party in front, he found that the gates were yielding. The lower portion had been almost chopped away; but here the wall of stones prevented an entrance, and the men with their axes could scarcely reach to touch the upper half. Presently, however, the hinges of the upper end of one of the half doors yielded to the weight. A great shout arose from the mob; and the musketry, hitherto directed against the windows, was now concentrated on the opening.
But it was no longer one sided. The troopers, glad that the time for inaction had passed, returned the fire with vigour. They had shifted the upper line of stones, so that there was room between each for a musket barrel and, lying in shelter, they were enabled to take deliberate aim at their assailants. At every shot a man dropped, and the crowd opened speedily, and cleared away from the line of fire.
There was a pause of some minutes, and then a strong party of soldiers rushed forward, and began to try to pull down the barrier; a number of others opening fire over their heads, so as to prevent the defenders from standing up to fire down into them. It was evident that, ere long, a slope would be formed outside by which an assault could be made.
That his men would for some time repel any attack, Harry thought certain; but sooner or later it would succeed, and there would then be no time to retire. He therefore sent a man back, to see if the hole in the wall was large enough; and he returned directly, saying that the men there had just concluded their work, and that six of them were coming back.
Harry now gave orders, to the native officer who was standing beside him, to order these men to lead the horses through the opening. When he had been gone a minute or two, he sent all the men, except four, to follow the example of their comrades; while those left with him redoubled their fire, so that their assailants should not know that any of the defenders had been withdrawn.
It was not long before a trooper ran back, with the word that all the horses had been taken through. The news came just in time, for so much of the barricade had been pulled down that it could now be climbed. Harry therefore gave the word and, with the last of the defenders, went off at a run.
The troop was gathered in the deserted lane at the bottom of the garden and, on Harry's arrival, the men sprung into the saddles and galloped off. The rattle of musketry was now very heavy, but it suddenly stopped and, a moment later, shouts and yells told that the breach had been carried, and the yard found to be deserted.
"They will search the house, first," Harry said to the native officer, "and they will be cautious about it, as they will think that at any moment they may come upon us, and will be sure that they would meet with a desperate resistance. I expect that it will be ten minutes before they discover how we have slipped through their hands."
They made a long detour, and then approached the palace from the other side; Harry having determined to place himself under the protection of the rajah, for he did not think it possible that they could escape by hard riding, as they might be pursued by the whole of the cavalry. Just as they were approaching it, they heard a fresh outbreak of firing, the musketry being mingled with the crack of field guns.
"The rajah has gone out to our rescue," Harry said. "He would have been too late, if we had stopped there; however, we can rely upon him now."
Five minutes later, they rode into the courtyard of the palace. It was almost deserted, but one of the officials came out and, bowing deeply to Harry, said: "The rajah himself has gone out, with the household troops and a battery of artillery, to put down the tumult. He is furious that his guests should have been attacked."
The firing presently ceased and, a quarter of an hour later, the rajah rode in. A messenger had been despatched, at once, to inform him that the British officer, with his escort, had arrived at the palace. Harry and his men had dismounted, and were still standing by their horses.
The rajah sprang from his saddle as he rode up.
"The gods be thanked that I see you safely here, my friend!" he said. "When I arrived at your house, I feared that all was over, for these rebels had gained possession. You must not blame me for not arriving sooner. When the firing was heard, I feared that the rabble of the town, aided perhaps by many of my soldiers, were attacking you; although, until the officer who commanded the guard I had placed there returned, I did not dream how serious the business was. Then I got my soldiers together; but this occupied some time, as many of them were in the town. However, as soon as a squadron of horse was collected, and a couple of hundred infantry, together with four guns of a battery, I headed them myself and, on arriving, opened fire upon the mob; who speedily scattered, some fifty or sixty of them being killed.
"Then I entered the house, expecting to find only your dead bodies, but there were no signs of strife. I questioned some prisoners we had taken inside; and these said that, just before I came up, a hole had been discovered in the garden wall, and it was believed that you had all escaped through that. I was about to ride, with all speed, to prevent any pursuit being taken up; when a messenger arrived with the welcome news that you had just entered the palace."
"I thank you heartily, Rajah, for having so promptly come to my aid; though assuredly you would have arrived too late to save us, had we not, as soon as the fighting began, set to work to prepare a means of escape. Once we got out, we were sure that you would protect us, and therefore rode here and awaited your return." " 'Tis well, indeed, that you thought of that plan, sahib; for I would not, for half my dominions, that a hair of your head should have been hurt, while you were here as my guest."
"It has all ended fortunately, Rajah; and now, what would you recommend me to do?"
"You had best stay here, until nightfall. I will ride, now, to the camps of my men, to reproach them for their conduct; and to ask if they want to bring the army that has just captured Seringapatam down upon us. When it is dark, I will myself accompany you, with my household cavalry, until you are miles away.
"I pray you to report to the Governor General how grieved I am that evil-disposed persons should have raised a riot, with the intention of killing you; and assure him that I did all in my power to save you, and shall, if they can be discovered, punish those concerned in the matter."
"I shall assuredly report very favourably of your conduct, Rajah--which will, I have no doubt, be warmly appreciated--and shall let the Governor General know that, from the time of my arrival here, I always have been treated with the greatest courtesy and attention by you."
Leaving the infantry and artillery, with their guns, in front of the palace, lest any attack should be made upon it; the rajah rode off with his cavalry and returned, two hours later, with the news that all was quiet, and that the troops had returned to their duty.
As soon as it was dark, the party started. The rajah rode at the head of his cavalry; Harry, at his request, taking his place with his own escort in the centre of it, so that his presence among them should not be suspected.
"It is as well," the rajah said, "that the news that you have left should not be known till tomorrow morning; for although the troops would, I have no doubt, be obedient to my orders, in a town like this there are many budmashes; who might, if they knew that you had started, ride in pursuit, with the intention of attacking you after I had left you."
Once out of the town they proceeded at a rapid pace, which they maintained until twenty miles away from Nagpore. The rajah then returned, with the main body of his cavalry; ordering a native officer and thirty men to escort Harry, until he arrived at the frontier.
There was, however, little occasion for this addition to Harry's force. The news of the fall of Seringapatam had spread like wildfire, and at each village through which they passed, and at those in which they halted for the night, the inhabitants saluted Harry with the deepest respect; and would willingly have supplied him and his escort with provisions, without payment, had he not insisted upon their receiving fair value for them.
At the frontier the rajah's troop turned back, and Harry continued his journey, reaching Calcutta early in June.
When he arrived there, he was well received by the Governor General, who told him that he had rendered a great service, by so delaying the negotiations that the Rajah of Berar had remained neutral during the war with Tippoo; and that he would probably soon require his services again.
A descendant of the Rajah of Mysore, whose government Hyder Ali had usurped, was released from captivity and raised to the musnud. Nearly half the revenue of the country was assigned to him. A large sum was set aside for the maintenance of the families of Hyder and Tippoo, and the remaining territory was divided between the Company and the Nizam.
A portion was set aside as the share of the Peishwa, although he had not fulfilled his engagement in any way; but it was to be given only on the condition that he signed a treaty of alliance with the English, similar to that entered into by the Nizam. The Peishwa, however, would not consent to do this; and the territory set aside for him was, consequently, divided between the Company and the Nizam.
Civil war was raging in the Deccan. The widows of Mahdoo Rao had been joined by a large force, and were plundering Scindia's villages; while Jeswunt Holkar was also ravaging the country. Scindia found that it was necessary to appoint Balloba, who had been for some years in captivity, to the post of his chief minister and, through him, a treaty was made with the widows of Mahdoo, and the trouble in that direction ceased.
The Rajah of Kolapoore was at war with the Peishwa; and the troops of Purseram Bhow, and those of Rastia, were both defeated. Scindia and the Peishwa now sent an army of thirty thousand horse and six thousand infantry against Kolapoore; but Purseram, who was in command, was defeated and fell, mortally wounded. Another army joined the defeated force, and invested Kolapoore.
On the 13th of March, 1800, Nana Furnuwees died; and affairs in the Mahratta country, that had been to some extent kept in order by his wisdom and moderation, now became worse than ever. A dispute at once took place between the Peishwa and Scindia, each being desirous of obtaining the treasures Nana was supposed to possess. Scindia seized his jagheer. Ghatgay was released, and obtained his former influence over Scindia; who seized Balloba and threw him into prison, where he died.
The Peishwa, on his part, was determined to destroy all the friends of Nana and, inviting most of the principal men to the palace, he seized and sent them all, prisoners, to hill forts. He now, with Scindia, determined to destroy the family and adherents of Purseram Bhow. Appa Sahib, Purseram's son, had succeeded him in the command of the army besieging Kolapoore and, receiving intelligence of the conspiracy against him, raised the siege and retired to the Carnatic, and Scindia plundered the whole of Purseram's villages.
A fierce chief in Dhoondia invaded the newly-acquired territories of the British, and Major General Wellesley was sent against him, and totally routed his party.
Jeswunt Holkar was now becoming extremely dangerous; and Scindia was at last obliged to march away, with his army, to defend his own dominions. He left behind him five battalions of regular infantry, and ten thousand horse and, before he set out, compelled the Peishwa to give him gold to the amount of forty-seven lakhs of rupees.
On his way through Malwan, he sent seven of his regular battalions to protect his capital. One column, under Captain Mackintyre, was intercepted on the way, and all killed or made prisoners. Holkar then fell upon the other party, which he also overpowered and defeated. He next attacked Scindia's artillery on the march; but Major Brownrigg, an officer in the latter's service, with four battalions, repulsed his assailants.
The Peishwa, while this was going on, was mercilessly murdering or imprisoning those whom he considered his enemies; and ordered Wittoojee Holkar, the brother of Jeswunt, to be trampled to death by an elephant.
Scindia having sent for Ghatgay to rejoin him, Jeswunt advanced to meet him, and was signally defeated. He speedily gathered a fresh force, and wasted not only Scindia's country but that of the Peishwa; and finally a great battle was fought, near Poona, in which Holkar, thanks to his fourteen regular battalions, officered by Englishmen, won a complete victory over the Peishwa's force and that left behind by Scindia. The Peishwa was forced to fly, and take refuge at Bassein, where he entered into negotiations for British support.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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10
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: A Mission By Sea.
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A Fortnight after Harry's return, he was again sent for by Lord Mornington.
"Captain Lindsay, I am about to employ you on a mission of a somewhat delicate character. There have been many complaints that ships trading among the islands have been attacked and, in some cases, captured and the crews massacred, by Malays. We recently received a communication from a native chief, or rajah, who owns the southern point of the Malay Peninsula. He says that the Dutch, in Java, greatly interfere with his trade; as all vessels trading in the East are bound to touch at Batavia, on their way to Europe, and consequently very few of them visit the Peninsula, as to do so would greatly lengthen their voyage to Batavia. He asks that we should make a settlement at the end of the Peninsula, so that our ships may trade with him; and would be willing to place us in possession of an island, two or three miles from the extreme southern portion of his dominions.
"There can be no doubt that the position would be an extremely valuable one; lying, as it does, on our trade route to the East. But it is also certain that a settlement of that kind would be viewed with extreme jealousy by the Dutch; whose possessions, in Java and other islands, render them practically masters of the whole Malay Archipelago.
"Certainly, at present, our hands are much too full here to permit of our engaging in any enterprise of this kind but, at the same time, it is desirable that we should obtain some reliable information as to the situation there, the power of this rajah, and the advantages that the island offers in the way of ports, the salubrity of its climate, and other similar particulars. Its possession would certainly be desirable, not only as a centre for future trade with Bankok and the East, but as a port from which our vessels of war might suppress the piracy that prevails all along the Malay coast, and in the neighbouring island of Sumatra. Such information may be extremely useful in the future, and when our power in this country is consolidated.
"But this is not the sole object of your mission. You will proceed, either before or after your visit to this rajah, as we will determine, to Batavia; bearing a despatch from me to the Dutch governor, narrating a number of acts of piracy that have taken place among the islands, and requesting that, as they are the paramount power in that district, they will take steps, both for their own sake and ours, to suppress piracy; and offering, on our part, that two or three of our ships of war shall, if they think it desirable, aid them in the punishment of the Malays. You will be accompanied by an interpreter.
"There are several Malay traders established here; and some of them, no doubt, speak Hindustani fluently. I will have enquiries made among them, and will also procure you a Dutch interpreter.
"I do not propose that you shall go in a trading vessel to Java. The appearance of such a vessel, off Batavia, would be resented by the Dutch. Of course, traders do go from here down to the islands, but only to those not under Dutch power. They used generally to trade, on their way down, with Burma and Siam; but the Burmese have shown such hostility to us that it is no longer safe to enter their rivers, and they have wrested the maritime provinces of Siam, on this side of the Peninsula, from that power; so that trade there is, for the present, at an end. I shall therefore send you down in one of our small sloops. A larger vessel might irritate the Dutch, and a small one would be sufficient to furnish you with an escort to this Rajah of Johore--not only for protection, but because the native potentates have no respect for persons who do not arrive with some sort of appearance of state.
"You will, of course, go as high commissioner, with full powers to represent me. I do not anticipate that you will be able to conclude any formal treaty with the Rajah of Johore. He will, of course, ask for an equivalent, either in money or in protection against some neighbouring rajah. We have no money to spare at present, and certainly no troops. Your commission therefore will be to acknowledge his communication, to assure him of our friendship, to ascertain the suitability of the island that he offers, and to tell him that, at present, being so fully occupied with wars here, we are scarcely in a position to extend our responsibility; but that, when matters are more settled, we shall be prepared to enter into a treaty with him, to open a trade with his dominions, to pay a fair sum for the possession of the island, if suitable, and to enter into a treaty of alliance with him.
"Of the value of such a settlement there can be no doubt, whatever; for we may take it that, before very long, some of the Chinese ports will be open to European traders."
A week later, Harry embarked on a brig mounting eight guns, and usually employed in police work along the coast. He was accompanied by a Dutch interpreter, a Malay trader, Abdool, and four troopers of the Governor General's bodyguard, in the handsome uniform worn by that corps. The lieutenant in command of the brig received Harry, with the usual ceremony, as a Government commissioner. He himself was at the gangway to meet him, and twelve of the sailors, with drawn cutlasses, saluted as Harry stepped on to the deck.
The lieutenant, a young man of about four or five and twenty, looked surprised when he found that the official, whom he was to carry down to Java, was apparently younger than himself.
"I suppose, Captain Fairclough," Harry said with a smile, when they entered the cabin, "that you expected to see a middle-aged man."
"Hardly that, Captain Lindsay. I heard that you were a young officer, who had rendered distinguished services on the Bombay side, and had just returned from an important mission in the Deccan; but I own that I had not at all expected to see an officer younger than myself."
"I can quite understand that. I have been exceptionally fortunate, owing to the fact that I speak Mahratti as well as English. Well, I hope that after your reception we have done with ceremony; and that you will forget that I am, at present, a civil official with the temporary rank of commissioner, and regard and treat me as you might any young officer who had been given a passage in your brig. I have led a pretty rough life, and hate anything like ceremony. We may be some weeks on board together, and should have a pleasant time of it, especially as the whole country is new to me."
"And to me also," the lieutenant said. "I generally cruise from the mouth of the Hooghly to Chittagong; and a dreary coast it is, with its low muddy shores and scores of creeks and streams. In the sunderbunds there is little to look after, the people are quiet and very scattered; but farther east they are piratically inclined, and prey upon the native traders, and we occasionally catch them at it, and give them a lesson.
"Well, I shall be very glad to adopt your suggestion, and to drop all ceremony. I have not often had to carry civil officials in this craft, she is too small for any such dignified people; but when I was in the Tigris, we often carried civil and military officials from Madras, and some of them were unmitigated nuisances--not the military men, but the civilians. The absurd airs they gave themselves, as if heaven and earth belonged to them, were sickening; and they seemed to regard us as dust under their feet. Whenever we heard that we were to take a member of the Council from Calcutta to Madras, or the other way, it was regarded as an infliction of a serious kind."
"Well, I propose to begin with that, when we are down here together, we drop titles; you call me Lindsay, and I will call you Fairclough."
"With all my heart," the other said.
"What officers have you?"
"A junior lieutenant, and two midshipmen. The lieutenant, when I am alone, always messes with me. We are not so strict, among our small craft in the Company's service, as they are in the royal navy; and I think, myself, that it would be ridiculous for me to dine here by myself; Mr. Hardy, by himself; and the two midshipmen in a separate mess of their own. That of course they do, for they would not enjoy their meals with Hardy and myself."
"I quite agree with you."
"This is your stateroom."
"But it is your private cabin, Fairclough, is it not?"
"Well, yes; but I am accustomed to turn out, whenever there are passengers."
"Well, at any rate, I shall feel very much disgusted if you do so for me. I should be most uncomfortable, so I must insist on you having your things moved back here. When I tell you that, for sixteen years, I lived in the house of a small Mahratta cultivator, you may well imagine that I can make myself perfectly comfortable, anywhere."
"It will be quite contrary to the rules of our service," the other began, hesitatingly.
"I can't help that," Harry replied. "There are no rules without exceptions, and mine is an altogether peculiar case. You will really oblige me, very much, if you will have the change made.
"I see that you are surprised at what I told you about myself; it is too long a story to tell you now, but I will, after dinner today, repeat to you and Hardy some of my experiences; which you will see have been curious, and account for my having the rank of captain, and being employed in a responsible position, at my age.
"I suppose you will soon be getting up anchor?"
"Yes; the tide will be favourable now, and everything is ready for a start."
A few minutes later, the clank of the capstan was heard and, going on deck, Harry found Lieutenant Hardy preparing to sail. As soon as the vessel was under way he came aft, and was introduced to Harry.
The latter had enquired, of the chief of the Governor's staff, what was customary on these occasions, and whether he was to take on board a stock of provisions.
"Not at all," was the reply; "Government makes an allowance for messing and wine. Sometimes an official will take a dozen or so of champagne with him, as the allowance, though liberal, would scarcely cover this; but it is quite sufficient to enable a captain to keep a good table, and provide port and sherry."
Harry, seeing that the voyage might be much longer than usual, had sent on board four dozen of champagne; some of which he thought might be useful at the table, if the Rajah of Johore came on board with a number of his chiefs, or if the ship was visited by Dutch officials.
The Dutch interpreter was to mess with the petty officers. The Malay preferred to prepare his victuals for himself.
The wind was light, and the brig drifted quietly down the river and, when evening came on, anchored as, on account of the sandbanks and the lightness of the wind, Fairclough had thought it unadvisable to continue his voyage at night. As soon as the sails had been taken in, the two officers went down to the cabin, where dinner was ready for them.
It was a pleasant one, for the two naval men were in high spirits over this change from their ordinary routine, and the prospect of sailing on a strange voyage. Abdool, as usual, had placed himself behind his master's chair, but Harry said: "I sha'n't want you to wait on me during the voyage, Abdool; the captain's steward will do that."
After the meal was over, cheroots lighted, and a decanter of port placed on the table, Fairclough asked Harry for the story he had promised him; and the latter accordingly gave them a sketch of his life and adventures.
"I no longer wonder, Lindsay, at your having attained the rank of captain so young. That old nurse of yours must have been a trump, indeed; but certainly it is wonderful that you should have lived, first as a peasant and then at the Peishwa's court, so long without anyone having had a suspicion that you were an Englishman. Fancy your meddling in politics, being regarded as a friend of the Peishwa and this minister of his, and being the means of getting the latter out of prison, and so perhaps averting a war between the Mahrattas and Bombay! That was a ticklish business, too, at Nagpore; and you were lucky in coming so well out of it.
"But after all, I think the most wonderful part is that a boy of sixteen should have been a shikaree, and killed no end of tigers, leopards, and bears and, after that, have risen so soon to the rank of captain in the Company's service. Why, you have seen and done more than most men double your age!"
"Yes, I have had great luck, and it is all owing to my old nurse having taken such pains; first to enable me to pass as a Mahratta, and in the next place to teach me the English language and English ways.
"Well, the story has been an unconscionably long one. I think I will go on deck and smoke a last cheroot, and then turn in."
"If you were a new hand from England, I should say that you had better smoke it here," Fairclough said; "for the mists from the water and swamps are apt to give fresh hands a touch of fever."
The time passed pleasantly, as they made direct for the mouth of the straits between the Malay Peninsula and Sumatra. There was a light but steady breeze and, on the morning of the eighth day after sailing, Harry, on going on deck, saw land on the port side. As the lieutenant, on the evening before, said that they should next day sight the Great Andaman, he was not surprised.
On looking at the chart, he said to Fairclough: "I should have thought that it would have been shorter to go on the other side of the islands."
"It would have been rather shorter; but there are four or five islands to the north of the Andaman, and another very small one halfway between it and Negrais, so I preferred going outside. When we get south of the Little Andaman Island, we shall pass between it and the Nicobar Islands. I fancy that they, and perhaps the Andamans, once formed a part of Sumatra. They are scattered almost in a line from its northern point. The land has probably sunk; and these islands were, no doubt, the summits of mountains forming part of the chain that runs through Sumatra.
"Once through the passage south of Little Andaman, we shall sail due east for a day or two; and then lay her course nearly southeast, which will take us right up the straits between Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula."
"Are there any islands scattered about there?"
"There is one nasty little group, called the Arroa Islands, nearly in mid-channel. I shall take care to pass them in daylight. Farther down there are several largish islands near the Sumatra coast but, as the passage is some sixty miles wide, there is little fear of our running foul of them."
"Have the Dutch any settlements at Sumatra?"
"Two or three. Palembang is the principal. It is on a river that runs down into the Banca Straits. I believe that they have trading stations at Jambi and Siak."
A fortnight later the brig anchored off the coast of Singapore. During the voyage, Harry had had many conversations with the Malayan interpreter. The latter told him that the chief who had written might not be in a position to carry out his offer. Not only were the small Malay states frequently engaged in wars with each other, but there were constant internal insurrections and struggles, the various petty chiefs frequently endeavouring to set up as independent powers. At the present time the tumangong, or chief justice, had obtained possession of the island of Singapore, and the adjacent district of the mainland; while other chiefs had also thrown off their allegiance to the Rajah of Johore, who himself had usurped the power from the former reigning family.
"If," he said, "you want only to obtain a place for trade, the tumangong is no doubt the person from whom you must obtain it; but if you wanted the whole island, you would have to treat not only with him but with the rajah as, in case the latter should defeat and overthrow the tumangong, he certainly would not recognize the cession of the island to you."
"Is there a good port?"
"No; but it is not needed. They do not have hurricanes, here, as they do in the Bay of Bengal and in the China Seas, and indeed among the islands; so vessels can anchor off the coast, in safety, at all times of the year."
"What is the island like?"
"It is covered with forest and jungle," the Malay replied. "There are but few inhabitants, a hundred and fifty or so. Most of these are my people, but there are a few Chinese and Bugis. The Malays are not cultivators. They live by piracy, attacking small native vessels passing through the narrow passages between Singapore and the mainland. The Chinese cultivate patches of land."
"Is it fertile?"
"Very. Rain falls there more than half the days in the year. If the Chinese had it, they would make a garden of it. It is better, even, than the land on that part of Sumatra where they produce spices and grains of all sorts. The Malay Peninsula would be very wealthy, were it not split up into several kingdoms, that are always at war with each other.
"Singapore was a great place, once. Seven hundred years ago it was the capital of the whole Malay kingdom; but it was taken, a hundred years afterwards, by the King of Java, and Malacca then became the Malay capital."
"The affair does not seem very promising," Harry said, after repeating to Fairclough what he had heard from the Malay. "From my experience of the Indian princes, there is very little trust to be placed in any agreement made with them. They keep it just as long as it suits them, and then break it; without the slightest sense of having done anything dishonourable. It seems to me that the position here is very much like that in the Deccan. Scindia, Holkar, and the Rajahs of Berar and Kolapoore are practically independent of the Peishwa, who maintains only a semblance of authority. From what the interpreter tells me, there seems to be only a puppet rajah who, today, possesses no authority whatever; but who, tomorrow, may excite a quarrel among the other chiefs, and again become their master.
"I think that, in the first place, I shall have to see this semi-independent chief, whose possessions Singapore forms part of; and afterwards the Rajah of Johore, his nominal master.
"The latter may view the matter in one of two ways. In the first place, he may consider the island of no importance, whatever; seeing that, even were he again its master, no revenue could be obtained from the handful of people living there; and would therefore be glad to ratify the cession to us, for a small sum. On the other hand, he may consider that the elevation of the island, into the position of a great European trading port, would add greatly to the power and importance of the tumangong, and might enable him to make himself master of the whole of Johore."
"It seems a complicated business, certainly," the sailor replied. "You see, though this rebel chap, having written to Calcutta, may be trusted to receive you hospitably; there is no saying what the rajah may think of it."
"Nor is it clear how I am to get at the rajah," Harry remarked. "The tumangong would, no doubt, object to my going beyond what he considers as his territory; as it might seem that, did he let me do so, he would be recognizing the power of the rajah to interfere in his business. However, it is certain that I must carry home a clear report on the situation; and to do that I must, at any rate, attempt to see the rajah.
"Of course we must endeavour to learn, from the Malays on the island, whether Johore still holds any territory running down to the sea, or whether the coast chiefs have also revolted against him. In the first case, I will send up a native, to say that I have a mission from the Governor General of India to visit his court; but if he is cut off from the sea, I must endeavour to make my way through, somehow. It would never do to return with only half a story. I do not suppose the Governor General is at all aware of the state of things here, or that the chief who communicated with him is not the acknowledged Rajah of Johore.
"There can be no doubt that the possession of this island would be of great value to us, as it would become a centre of trade, not only with the East, but with all the islands round; except, of course, those belonging to Holland. Therefore, the first essential point is to ascertain whether the old rajah is likely to regain his former authority; and whether, if so, he will recognize, and on what terms, the cession of the island to us."
"Well, I am glad, Lindsay, that it is your business and not mine; for it seems a very difficult affair, and a somewhat dangerous one."
Three weeks after leaving Calcutta the brig reached the island and, at Harry's request, sailed round it, taking soundings very frequently, in order to obtain knowledge of the depth of the water and the nature of the sea bottom. Finally they anchored in the straits between it and the mainland. This varied, in width, from two miles to a quarter of a mile; and the depth of water, at the eastern extremity of the straits, was found to be insufficient for vessels of a large tonnage, though navigable for ordinary native craft.
The island itself was some twenty-five miles long and fifteen miles wide; being, as Fairclough calculated, about a third larger than the Isle of Wight. No high hills were seen; but the whole island was undulating, and everywhere covered with forest and jungle.
Several small Malay canoes had put off to them with fruit; and as, from what the interpreter had told them of the smallness of the population, there was clearly no chance of any attack being made on the brig, they were allowed to come alongside. The supply of fruit was very welcome, and the interpreter learned something from the natives as to the state of things on the mainland.
As to this, however, they appeared to take but little interest. They admitted that the tumangong was their lord but, as they were too poor for him to levy any contributions from them, his mastership was merely a nominal one, and they did not trouble themselves about him. If he should at any time send an officer and troops, to exact tribute money, they would simply retire into the interior, where they could defy pursuit. They had heard reports that there were wars on the mainland but, beyond the fact that the rajah possessed very little authority, they were unable to give any information. They had vaguely heard that some of the chiefs supported the family of the former rajah.
On the day after their anchoring, a large canoe put off from the mainland. In the stern sat two men, whose gay dresses showed them to be minor chiefs or officials. Harry, who had throughout the voyage worn only civilian costume of white drill, now put on his full uniform; as did the sowars of his escort. The ladder was lowered for the accommodation of the visitors; and these, on reaching the deck, were received by Fairclough, his officers, and a guard of honour. The Malay interpreter stood by the captain's side.
"Why do you come here?" was their first question.
"We bring a high officer of the Governor General at Calcutta, to confer with the lord of Singapore," Fairclough answered, through the interpreter.
"Our lord thought that it might be so," one of the officials said, "and therefore sent us off to enquire."
Fairclough led the Malays to the quarterdeck, where Harry was standing, with his four troopers as a bodyguard behind him.
"This is the official whom the Governor General has sent to you."
The Malays, struck with Harry's uniform, and still more with that of his guard--all of which were new to them, and impressed them deeply--salaamed profoundly to him.
"I have arrived," Harry said, "as the agent of our great governor; and in answer to a request of your lord, the tumangong, that he should send an officer of rank here, to treat with him."
"Seeing this vessel of war," the Malay said, when Harry's speech had been translated to him, "our lord hoped that it might be so; and directed us, should this prove correct, to inform you that he will himself come off to see you, in three days' time. He has heard of the might of your lord in India, that he has conquered great kingdoms, that the rule is a wise one, and that the people are well contented. We love not the Dutch, who are hard masters, and make the people labour for them; and he desires to be on terms of friendship with the power which, as he understands, has taken their strong places in India, so that they have no longer any importance there."
"He has done wisely," Harry said, "and I shall be glad to see your lord, and to tell him what is in the mind of our governor."
The envoys were then invited to the cabin, where they were offered refreshments. They ate sparingly, but greatly appreciated the champagne; and asked, through the interpreter, if they could be instructed how to make this liquor; and were much disappointed on learning it could only be made from the juice of the grape, that grew in a certain land in Europe, and could not be manufactured elsewhere, though other wines which were equally good could be made--that as the fruits grown in a hot country like theirs could not be grown in Europe, where the climate was much colder, so the grape could not flourish in their hot country.
Three days later the tumangong came off, in a canoe gaily decorated by flags, attended by several smaller craft. As he set foot on the deck, a salute was fired. He appeared much disturbed when the first gun went off; but the interpreter explained to him that it was a mark of honour, always granted to native princes of importance. Seeing that no harm was done by the fire, the Malay approached Harry, whose escort had been rendered more imposing by a line of blue jackets, with musket and cutlass, drawn up behind them.
Harry advanced to meet him, and friendly greetings were exchanged. He then invited him down into the cabin, where he was accompanied by one of his chief officers. Harry, the captain, and the interpreter went down with them. The Malay commenced the conversation.
"I hope that you bring a favourable answer to my letter?"
"The Governor bids me say that he willingly accepts your offer of friendship, and would readily establish a trading station on the island of Singapore; but that, being now engaged in a serious war in India, it is not in his power, at present, to engage in an alliance that might involve him in war here, since he might be unable to fulfil his obligations. With us, obligations under a treaty are regarded as sacred, and to be upheld at all sacrifices. Later on, when affairs are more settled in India, he will gladly form an alliance with you.
"Here is a despatch, in your language, stating his reasons more fully but, in order to show his friendship, he has sent me down in this ship of war to explain matters to you, and to assure you that he appreciates your offer, and will later on accept it; but that he cannot enter into such a treaty now as, being engaged in war, he might not be able to protect you from all enemies, should you call upon him to do so. I am the bearer of several presents from him, which he has sent as a proof of his friendship towards you."
He touched a bell and, at the signal, some sailors brought in the presents; consisting of a handsome double-barrelled gun, a brace of pistols, some embroidered robes, and some bales of English cloth and other manufactures; also a dinner service of pottery, an ormulu clock, and other articles. The rajah, whose face had at first expressed disappointment, was evidently much pleased with these presents and, after perusing the letter, expressed himself as well contented with its terms.
"I value them all the more," he said, "because they are a proof that the English do not make treaties, unless able to fulfil the conditions. This is far better than accepting treaties, and then withdrawing from them. You can assure the great lord of Calcutta, although I regret much that he cannot at present form an alliance with me, that I shall be ready to renew the negotiations with him, whenever he notifies me that he can do so."
The champagne was then produced. The tumangong had evidently heard, from his officers, how delicious was the strange drink, which bubbled as if it was boiling and was yet quite cold. Two bottles were put upon the table; and the Malays, after tasting it cautiously at first, consumed the greater portion--the two officers only sipping theirs occasionally, and filling up their glasses, so as to keep the others in countenance. Accustomed to more fiery beverages, obtained from traders in the Dutch possessions, the Malays were in no way affected by their potations; although these evidently impressed them with the superiority of the English over their Dutch rivals, for the tumangong remarked: "Truly the English must be a great people, to make such liquors. The Dutch sell us fiery drinks, but their flavour is not to be compared with these. I hope that your lord, when he again sends a ship down to me, will forward me some of this drink."
"I have, fortunately, a case of it with me," Harry said. "It contains two dozen bottles. I will give orders for it to be placed in your boat."
He could see, by the Malay's face, that he was greatly gratified, and he added: "I have no doubt, Tumangong, that when I inform the Governor General that you were pleased with this drink, he will order some of it to be sent down, when there is an opportunity; so that the friendship between you and him can be maintained, until the time comes when he can arrange with you for the concession of a trading station on the island of Singapore."
"The offer shall be always open to him; there is no occasion for haste."
The conversation continued for some time longer, and then the Malay and his officers took their places in their canoe and rowed off, under a salute similar to that which had greeted their arrival.
"That is quite satisfactory," Harry said to the commander.
"Yes; there is no doubt that he thought more of your present of champagne, than of the gifts sent him by the Governor; and your promise to let him have a consignment, occasionally, will keep him in good temper.
"Now, what is your next move?"
"I think it would be best to finish with the Dutch, first. If there were any delay in the other matter, they might get news, from Malacca or some of their trading stations in Sumatra, that the ship has been here and, in that case, they would guess that we are thinking of establishing a trading station, and might send and make their own terms with the tumangong. There can be no doubt that, if we open a free port here, it will do great damage to them, and divert a large portion of the eastern trade here; being so much more handy for all the country craft trading with Siam and China, besides having the advantage of avoiding the heavy dues demanded by the Dutch."
"No doubt that will be the best way," Fairclough said. "We will get up anchor, tomorrow morning."
In the course of the afternoon a large canoe came off, loaded with presents of fresh meat, fruit, and vegetable; sent by the tumangong, together with some handsomely-mounted krises for Harry and the officers of the ship.
They continued their voyage, without incident, to Batavia. Arriving there, they dropped anchor and saluted the Dutch flag. The salute was returned from the shore; and, shortly afterwards a large boat, flying the flag of Holland and carrying several persons, rowed out to them.
It was apparent, at once, when they ascended to the deck, that the visit of the British ship of war was not a welcome one. The jealousy of the Dutch of any attempt, on our part, to obtain a footing among the islands was intense; and the opinion on shore, on seeing the brig, would be that she had come to announce that possession had been taken of some unoccupied island. Their manner, therefore, was cold when Harry informed them, through his Dutch interpreter, that he was the bearer of a despatch to the Dutch Governor from the Governor General.
"I may say that it refers," he said, "to the numerous outrages, committed by the Malays, upon vessels owned by British subjects trading among the islands; and that he suggests that the Dutch authorities should join in an attempt to punish these marauders, from whom they suffer equally with the British."
"The Governor will receive you, at three o'clock this afternoon. You will, of course, wish to deliver your despatch personally to him and, as we shall acquaint him with its import, he will no doubt be prepared to give you an answer, forthwith."
Without further words, the officials returned to their boats.
"They are a surly set of beggars," Fairclough said, as they rowed off. "I don't think there is much chance of cooperation in that quarter. Indeed, I am by no means sure that, at heart, they do not approve of these Malay attacks. At present, they monopolize the trade in spice. The native craft from all the islands bring their productions here; and there can be no doubt that the piracies of the Malays act as a great deterrent, both to the native traders, and our own from Calcutta and Madras."
"I think that, very likely, that is so," Harry agreed. "I do not think that the Governor had any belief that they would cooperate in the matter, and really only invited them to do so because it would explain the presence of a ship of war in these waters; so I shall be in no way concerned, if this part of my business turns out a failure."
At the appointed time, the captain's gig was lowered, and Harry and Fairclough took their places in it. Another boat carried the Dutch interpreter and the four troopers. They were received, on landing, by an official and a guard of honour; and were conducted to the Governor's residence. Another guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance. They were shown into a large room, where the Governor was seated, surrounded by the members of his council.
He rose and advanced a few paces, shook hands with the two officers, and begged them to be seated, on two chairs next to him. Harry handed the despatch to him.
"It is very short, sir," he said, "and perhaps, as you are aware of its import, you will just glance through it."
The Governor did so and, afterwards, handed it to one of the members of the council, and it was passed from hand to hand.
"I am quite in accord," the Governor said, "with Lord Mornington, that the attacks of the Malays which we, as well as yourselves, suffer from are deplorable; and it is greatly to be wished that they could be suppressed. But I think that Lord Mornington could hardly have been informed as to the great number of islands inhabited by the Malays, and the great naval force that would be required to overawe and punish these freebooters; who are so bold that they do not hesitate to attack our traders, even when large ships, and carrying guns for their protection. Nothing short of a great fleet of cruisers would suffice.
"In the next place, did we undertake any operations on a large scale against the Malays throughout the islands, they would unite against us; and might, in revenge, assail many of our ports, and do us enormous damage. Even if your fleet performed half the work, it is we, only, who would be the sufferers. Certainly we have not sufficient vessels of war to attempt such an operation and, even were the Governor General of India to send down as many vessels as we have at our disposal, the force would be altogether inadequate for such extensive operations. These islands are counted by hundreds and, on the approach of ships of war, the people would desert their villages by the seashore and take to the interior--where it would, in most cases, be impossible to follow them--and all the damage we could inflict would be to burn their villages, which could be rebuilt after the ships had sailed away. To exterminate piracy would be the work, not of months, but of many years. However, I shall consult my council, and will draft a reply to the despatch, tomorrow.
"You have had a pleasant voyage down, I hope?"
"Very much so," Harry replied. "We have had fine weather, and light breezes."
The conversation was continued for a few minutes, and then the little party returned to their boats.
"There is not much doubt what the reply will be," Fairclough said.
"No; and on the whole, I don't see that the Governor is to be blamed; though of course, he has not given us the principal reason, which is his objection to our flag being seen flying beside the Dutch among the islands. Still, there is a good deal in what he says."
"I think so, too. You see, they are going to send their answer tomorrow, which may be taken as a proof that they are anxious to get rid of us, as soon as possible."
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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11
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: A Prisoner.
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The next day the Governor himself came off to the brig, and was received with the usual honours.
"The council are quite of my opinion," he said to Harry, "as to the extreme difficulty and cost that an effort to put down piracy among the islands would involve. Our ships on the station would not be at all sufficient for such work and, at any rate, it is a step that we should not venture to engage in, without the assent of the home government. We shall, of course, write home fully upon the matter, and shall leave the final decision to them; at the same time expressing our own views, and giving some idea as to the force that would have to be employed, the expenditure involved, and the time required for the operation.
"This letter contains a reply, as far as we can give it, to the Governor General's proposals."
"His lordship will, I am sure, be sorry to hear your views, sir; but I imagine that he will not hesitate to undertake the work of punishing, at least, the people of some of the islands where outrages have taken place, as soon as affairs are sufficiently settled in India for him to dispense, for a time, with the services of some of the Company's ships of war."
As Harry expected, the face of the Dutch Governor showed that this statement, when translated, was evidently most unpalatable to him. After a moment's hesitation, however, he said: "If Lord Mornington waits until everything is quiet in India, it will probably be a very long time before he will be able to carry out the operation you speak of."
"That may be, sir. I do not know whether you have heard that Seringapatam has been captured, and that Tippoo, himself, fell in its defence?"
A look of amazement, and even of consternation, on the part of the Dutch officials showed that the news was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. The loss of their hold in India, by the wonderful spread of the British power, was an extremely sore point with them. Nothing would have pleased them better than to have heard that the power of the latter had been shattered.
"It is certainly news to us," the Governor said, shortly. "But there are still other powers in India, that are likely to give at least as much trouble as Mysore has done."
"I quite admit that," Harry said, "but have no doubt that we shall be able to deal with them, as satisfactorily as we have done with Tippoo; and possibly as quickly."
"That remains to be seen," the Governor said.
"Quite so, sir. I have a considerable knowledge of India, and of its native armies; and I doubt whether any of them are as good fighters as Tippoo's men were."
"Was Mysore taken by storm, or by famine?"
"By storm, after our batteries had opened fire, for a few days."
[Illustration: 'Well, sir, I will now return to shore,' the Governor] said.
"Well, sir, I will now return to shore," the Governor said, abruptly. "You will please to give the assurances of my high esteem to Lord Mornington."
Harry bowed and, without another word, the Dutch officials descended the accommodation ladder, and returned to shore. When they were out of hearing, Fairclough burst into a hearty laugh.
"That was a severe broadside you poured into him, Lindsay. I could see that they were absolutely flabbergasted, when you told them about Mysore. Their manner, before that, had been almost insolent. But you cut their comb finely."
"I knew that it would be a heavy blow for them. Of course, they view with intense disgust the spread of our power in India. Not only has it destroyed their dream of empire there but, in case of war with them, their islands here will be absolutely at our mercy. If we are strong enough to win kingdom after kingdom in India, there should be no difficulty in turning out the small bodies of troops they have, in their various possessions."
"Yes, I see that; and the time may come very shortly, for the French are likely to lay hands on Holland, before long and, as soon as they do so, we shall be ready to pop down upon them, here. The days of Van Tromp are long passed, and the Dutch navy has become absolutely insignificant.
"Well, I am glad that this is over. The sooner we are off, the better."
Half an hour after the Dutch Governor had left, orders were given to get up the anchor and loosen the sails, and the brig was shortly on her way north.
"Now, what is your next move?" Fairclough asked, as the bustle of getting under way subsided.
"The Malay tells me that there is a small town on the east coast, and that this would be the most handy for landing, as from there to Johore's town is not more than some twenty miles. Whether the road is open, he cannot say. The news he learned, from the tumangong's people, was that there was a great deal of fighting going on between Johore and some of the petty rajahs. What the position is, at the present, moment he could not discover.
"I should propose that we drop anchor off the place; and that, if we find the natives well disposed, the interpreter should make an arrangement, with a couple of natives, to carry up a letter from me to the rajah, saying that I have come on a matter of business from the Governor of India; and asking if he is willing to receive me, and to guarantee my safety. If he says no, there is an end to it. If he says yes, I shall start as soon as the answer comes."
"Would you take some blue jackets with you?"
"No. If we were attacked by a force of Malays, we should probably be annihilated even if I took half your ship's company. Therefore, the smaller the escort I travel with, the better. I shall, of course, take the Malay, my man Abdool, and the four men of the escort. That is quite enough, if we get up without trouble; whereas if there is trouble, the fewer the better."
"Well, I hope no harm will come of it, Lindsay. Of course, if you consider it your duty to go, go you must."
"Yes, I think it my duty. I consider the cession of this island to be of extreme importance. If we only obtain it from the tumangong, some day the Rajah of Johore might get the upper hand, and repudiate the treaty made without his approval and, narrow as the strait is, he might cross with forty or fifty canoes, make his way through the woods, and annihilate the settlement at one blow."
"No doubt that is so," the other agreed. "Well, if you get detained you will, of course, try and make your way down to the coast. I will remain at anchor off the town for a month, after you start. If there is no news of you, then, I shall conclude that it is hopeless to wait longer, and shall sail for Calcutta with your despatches. As I was present at both your interviews, I shall be able to report, from my own knowledge, as to the disposition shown both by the tumangong and the Dutch."
Ten days later, they cast anchor off the village. Some canoes soon came off to them with fruit and other products and, shortly afterwards, a war canoe came out with the chief man of the town. At first he was very reticent; but a bottle of champagne opened his lips, and he and the interpreter conversed for some time together.
"What does he say?" Harry asked, when there was a pause in the conversation.
"He says, sir, that the country is very unsettled, and that it is unsafe to travel. The town acknowledges the rajah as its master, and the territory through which the road runs is nominally his; but it is infested by bands owing allegiance to a neighbouring rajah, who is at war with him."
"Have you asked him if it is possible to send a messenger through?"
"He said that there are plenty of men who would venture to go through, if well paid. He thinks that two men would be better than ten, for they could hide themselves more easily in the forest."
"Well, ask him what he would send two messengers through for."
The Malay answered that he could not say, until he had spoken to some of them; but he thought that for ten dollars they would be willing to undertake it.
"Tell him that I would pay that, and will give them as much more if, on their return, they will guide me and my party to the residence of the rajah."
The Malay shook his head.
"They would want more for that," he said. "Two natives could pass without much danger for, if they were caught, they could say that they belonged to one of the other bands, but had lost their party. It would be quite different if they were to have Europeans with them.
"How many would go?"
"Seven of us, altogether."
"I will see about it," the chief said; "but if I succeed, you will give me three bottles of that drink."
"I have very little of it," Harry said, "but I will agree to give him the three bottles, if he finds messengers to take up my letters; and arranges with them, or others, to guide us up."
The Malay nodded, when the answer was translated to him; drank half a tumbler of ship's rum, with great satisfaction; and then went off.
"This is going to be a more dangerous business than our expedition to Nagpore," Harry said to Abdool, when he told him what the Malay had said about the dangers, and the state of affairs on shore.
"My lord will manage it, somehow," Abdool said; "he was born under a fortunate star, and will assuredly do what is best."
"I shall do what I hope is best, Abdool; but one cannot answer how it will turn out. One thing is certain: that if we fall into the hands of the Malays, we shall meet with little mercy."
"We should have had no mercy, if we had fallen into the hands of the people of Nagpore, master," Abdool said.
"That is true enough, Abdool; and I don't think we should have been much better off, if Scindia had laid hands on us after we had bearded him in his tent. I cannot say that this expedition is one that I should have chosen, were I not convinced that it is my duty. However, we must hope that all will go well with us, as it has done before."
The next day the Malay came off again.
"I have arranged with two men," he said, "to take your message, for ten dollars; but if they go back with you, they will require twenty, because the rajah might detain them."
"That I will pay," Harry said.
"But supposing you should not come back," the Malay said, "they might lose their reward. Will you pay them in advance?"
"No. I will leave the money in Captain Fairclough's hands, and whether I return or not he will, before he leaves, pay it to the men themselves, if they come back, or to their families."
"That is a fair proposal," the Malay said. "When do you wish the messengers to start?"
"The letter will be ready for them, in an hour's time. I will come on shore with it, see the men, and give it to them, with instructions. Will they travel by night, or day?"
"They will start at daybreak," the chief said. "The road is but a track, and could not be followed at night; for a forest extends almost the whole distance, and they would find it too dark to keep to the road. I told them that it would be safer to travel at night, but they said it could not be done. They would not be likely to be surprised in the day, as they would travel noiselessly, and would be sure to hear any movement of a party of men coming along the road, and could hide in the forest until they had passed. Moreover, our people do not like travelling in the dark. Evil creatures are about, and even the bravest fear them."
"Very well, chief; then I will come ashore in an hour, and give them this letter."
As soon as they had left, Harry went down to the interpreter, and gave him the exact purport of the message to the rajah; leaving it to him to put it in the usual form in which communications were addressed to persons in authority, but saying that it was necessary that he should impress him with his importance, as the commissioner of the great Governor of India. When this was transcribed, on some parchment which had been brought for the purpose, Harry went ashore with Lieutenant Hardy and a strong party of seamen for, although the local chief had apparently been most friendly, the treacherous nature of the Malays was well known, and Fairclough thought it as well to order them to take their cutlasses with them, and each man to carry a brace of pistols hidden beneath his jacket.
A number of natives assembled on the shore as the boat approached, but they seemed to be attracted by curiosity, only. Just as the boat touched the beach, the chief came down to meet them, attended by a dozen armed followers. He invited Harry to follow him to his own house, where the two messengers were awaiting him. They were both men in the prime of life--strong, active-looking fellows. Harry, through his interpreter, explained exactly what he wished done.
"If you carry out your mission well, and quickly," he said, "I shall make you a present, in addition to what has been agreed upon. You will notice the rajah's manner, when he reads the letter; and tell me, when you return, whether he appeared to be pleased or not, whether he hesitates as to giving me a guarantee, and whether, in your opinion, he means to observe it. I shall rely much upon your report."
Three days passed, and then a boat brought the messengers off to the ship.
"So you have made your journey safely?" Harry said, through the interpreter.
"We met with no trouble by the way. This is the answer that the rajah has sent."
The letter was a satisfactory one. The rajah expressed willingness to receive the officer whom the English lord had sent to him, and to guarantee his safety while at his town; but said that, owing to the troubled state of the country, he could not guarantee his safety on the road, but would send down an escort of twenty men to guard him on his way up, and the same on his return to the coast.
"And now," Harry said, when the interpreter had read the document, "tell me what passed."
"When we said that we were messengers from an English lord, on board a ship with great guns, we were taken to the rajah's house. He took the letter from us, and read it. Then he asked some of those with him what they thought of the matter. They answered that they could see no harm in it, and perhaps you might bring presents. He then asked us how many would come up with you; and we told him four soldiers, as escort, and an interpreter. He nodded, and then talked in a low voice to those around him, and told us to come again, that afternoon, when a letter would be given us to take to you."
"Do you think that he means treachery?" Harry asked.
"That we cannot say, my lord. We have talked as we came down. It seems to us that he could have nothing to gain by hindering you; but that perhaps he might detain you, in order to obtain a ransom for you from the lord of India."
Harry had already enquired, from the chief of the town, as to the character of the rajah.
"He is feared, but not liked," the chief said. "He knows that there are those who would prefer that the old family should reign again, and he has put many to death whom he has suspected as being favourable to this. This is the reason why the tumangong, and other chiefs, have revolted against him. The loss of so much territory has not improved him and, in his fits of passion, he spares none."
"What has become of the family of the former rajah?" Harry asked.
"His wife and child are prisoners in the palace," he said. "Their friends are surprised that their lives should have been spared; but the rajah is crafty, and it is thought that he holds them so that he could, if his position became desperate, place the young prince on the throne and declare for him; in which case some, who are now his enemies, might come over to his side. I am told that, except that they are kept prisoners, the late rajah's wife and boy are well treated."
The account was not satisfactory, but it did not shake Harry's determination. Questioning the Malays further, he found that they had heard, at Johore, rumours that one of the chiefs on the border of Pahang was collecting a large force, with the intention of attacking the rajah; that the people of Johore were erecting strong palisades round the town; and that the fighting men of the villages round had all been called in for its defence.
"When is this escort to come down?" he asked.
"They started at the same time as we did, my lord, and will be here by this evening."
"Very well. In that case I will land, tomorrow morning at daybreak, and start at once; so that we shall reach Johore tomorrow. Will you hire four men, to act as carriers for us?"
At the time appointed, Harry went on shore with the Malay, Abdool, and four troopers. They had put on full uniform, and Harry had brought with him, to shore, an assortment of presents similar to those he had given to the tumangong. The two messengers and the four natives, as carriers, were awaiting him and, as he went up the beach, he was joined by twenty Malays with an officer of the rajah, who saluted him profoundly. The chief of the village was also there, and accompanied the party until beyond its boundary.
After passing a few plantations, they entered a dense forest. The road was a mere footway, apparently but little used. The ground ascended rapidly and, when they had gone a short distance, some of the Malay soldiers went scouting ahead; the rest following in absolute silence, stopping frequently to listen.
"It is quite evident, Abdool," Harry said, in a whisper, "that what they said at the village is true, and these people from Johore consider the journey to be a very dangerous one. They are evidently expecting a surprise; and I am afraid that, if we are attacked, we shall not be able to place much reliance on them."
Abdool shook his head.
"What are we to do, sahib, if we are attacked?"
"It depends on what these Malays do. If they make a good fight for it, we will fight, too; if not, and we see that resistance is useless, we will remain quiet. It would be of no use for six men to fight fifty, on such ground as this. They would creep up and hurl their spears at us and, though we might kill some of them, they would very soon overpower us.
"Drop back, and tell the four troopers that on no account are they to fire, unless I give them the order."
Presently the Malays came to a stop, and the officer hurried back to Harry.
"We have heard the sound of footsteps in the wood, and one of my men says he saw a man running among the trees."
"It may have been some wild beast," Harry said. "There are plenty of them in the wood, I hear, and your man may have been mistaken in thinking that he saw a human figure. And even if it was so, it might be some villager who, on hearing us, has left the path, thinking us to be enemies."
"It may be that," the officer said, when the words were translated to him. "But it is more likely that he was posted there to watch the path, and that he has gone to tell his band that a party is approaching."
"Even if it were so," Harry said, "the band may be only a small one."
The officer moved forward, and joined his men. Half an hour later, without the slightest warning, a shower of spears flew from among the trees; followed immediately afterwards by a rush of dark figures. Several of the Malay escort were at once cut down. The rest fled, at full speed.
Harry saw that resistance would be hopeless, and would only ensure their destruction. He therefore called to his followers to remain quiet. The four bearers, however, threw down their burdens, and fled at full speed down the path, just as a number of Malays poured out on either side.
They were evidently struck with the appearance of Harry and his followers; but were about to rush upon them, when a chief ran forward and shouted, to them, to abstain from attacking the strangers. Then he walked up to Harry, who was evidently the chief of the party.
"Who are you, white man?" he asked, "and where are you going?"
The interpreter replied that they were going on a visit of ceremony to the Rajah of Johore.
"We are his enemies," the chief said, "and now you must come with us."
"This lord--" the interpreter began, but the chief waved his hand for him to be silent.
He waited for a quarter of an hour, by which time he was joined by that portion of his followers which had pursued the Malays. Many of them carried human heads in their hands and, by the number of these, Harry saw that very few of his native escort could have escaped. The chief ordered his men to pick up the packages that had been thrown down by the bearers, and then turned off into the forest.
After a quarter of an hour's walk, they arrived at the spot where a still-smoking fire showed that the band had halted. No pause was made, however, and the party kept on their way and, in two hours' time, reached the foot of a high range of mountains that had been visible from the coast. The climb was a severe one but, in another hour, they came out upon a flat plateau. Here, in a small village, a considerable body of men were gathered; who hailed the arrival of their comrades, with their ghastly triumphs of victory, with loud shouts.
The chief of the band led his captives to a hut, somewhat superior in appearance to the others, in front of which stood a man whose bright attire and ornaments showed him to be a chief of importance.
"Who is this white man," he asked, "and these soldiers who are with him?"
The officer repeated the description that he had received from the interpreter, whom he pointed out.
"Why was this white man going to Johore?" he asked.
"He was sent by the white lord of India, my lord."
"Ask him why he was sent?"
"I was sent to Johore to ask the rajah if he would grant a trading station to the English."
"We want no English on our coast," the chief said. "There are the Dutch, at Malacca--some day we will turn them out.
"So he was bringing presents to Johore, was he?"
"Yes, my lord; these are the parcels," and he beckoned up the men who carried them.
These approached, and humbly laid them at the rajah's feet.
"I have to report, my lord, that there were twenty of Johore's men with him. These we killed."
"Did the white man and his soldiers aid them?"
"No, my lord. They stood quiet, and offered no resistance, therefore I brought them to you."
"You did well. You are sure that none of the Johore men escaped, to carry off the news that we were here?"
"Quite certain. We have the heads of twenty men, and their officer."
"Good! I will examine these things. Put the white man and this Malay into a hut, and the four soldiers into another.
"Who is this other man, who is dressed differently?"
"He is the white officer's servant," the interpreter said.
"Well, he can go with his master, then."
The four troopers were led off in one direction, and Harry and the others in another. It was a hut roughly constructed of bamboos, thatched with broad leaves, while the entrance had no door. The interpreter did not carry arms; those of Harry and Abdool had been removed.
"Things have turned out badly, Abdool," Harry said.
"Very badly, sahib. I do not like the look of that rajah."
"Nor do I, Abdool. I am convinced that he means mischief, and we must get away as soon as we can.
"Have you got your knife with you? So have I. We must make a way out of the back of this hut."
A group of half a dozen Malays had taken their seats on the ground, at a distance of some fifteen yards from the entrance; but had posted no sentries. Behind it, as they were taken in, Harry noticed that there was a patch of grain, and beyond that rose the forest.
"These knives are no good against bamboo, sahib."
"No, I know that; but we might cut these rattans which bind them together. In the first place, dig down with your knife, and see if the bamboos are sound underneath. They may have rotted there.
"You and I will stand at the entrance," he went on to the interpreter, "then they cannot see in."
"Bamboos are quite sound, sahib."
"Then we must try another way. First cut the rattans--but not in a line with the entrance, a few feet on one side."
The wood was extremely tough, and it was half an hour before Abdool could cut through them, and free three or four of the bamboo poles. While he was doing this, Harry and the interpreter stood talking together, apparently watching the movements of the Malays.
"We are going to try and escape," Harry said. "Will you go with us, or remain here? They will certainly kill us, if they overtake us; there is just a chance that they will not kill us, if we stay."
"They will kill us," the man said, confidently. "It may not be today, because the rajah will be looking over his presents, and will be in a good temper; but tomorrow they will come in and kris us. Assuredly I will go with you."
When Abdool announced that he had cut through the rattans, Harry joined him, telling the interpreter to wait at the entrance till he called him.
"What next, master?" Abdool asked.
"The next thing will be to pull up the bamboos. If you have cut all their lashings, this ought not to be very difficult; but it will make it easier if we cut the ground away, as deep as we can, on this side of them."
Kneeling down, they set to work with their knives and, after half an hour's work, they had laid bare the bottoms of four of the bamboos, which were sunk two feet into the ground.
"Now, Abdool, we ought to get them up easily enough."
With their united strength they pulled up a bamboo, replaced it in its position and, one by one, got the other three up, put them in again, and lightly filled in the earth.
"Now we can go, at a minute's notice," Harry said. "At any rate, we had better wait till it is dark."
The sun had just set, when they saw the rajah come out of his hut. He gave an order, and the four troopers were brought out, and placed in a line. Four natives took their places behind them, kris in hand.
"They are going to murder them!" Harry exclaimed, in horror.
"Now, Abdool, there is not a moment to be lost; it will be our turn, next."
Their guards had all risen to their feet, watching what was going on. Three of the bamboos were plucked up in a moment. This afforded an opening sufficiently large for them to pass through and, keeping the hut between them and the guard, they made their way through the plantation, and dashed into the forest. They heard yells of satisfaction in the village, and Harry had no doubt that the four troopers had been murdered.
They ran at full speed through the forest and, ten minutes later, heard loud shouts of dismay; and had no doubt that a party had been sent to take them out to execution, and had discovered their escape. It was already almost dark, under the thick shade of the trees; but for half an hour they ran on, the Malay in advance, for he could see any obstacles better than they could, the habits and training of his youth having given him experience in such work.
For a time they had heard loud shouts behind them. These had been useful, in enabling them to keep a straight course. The Malay now turned, and struck off at right angles to the line that they had been pursuing.
"We must keep on, for a time," he said. "When they do not overtake us, they will scatter through the forest in all directions."
For hours they toiled on, sometimes at an easy walk, sometimes breaking into a run. At last the Malay admitted that, for the time, they were safe; and they threw themselves down upon the ground.
"Tomorrow," he said, "they will take up the search in earnest, and will track our footsteps. We had better take to a tree, now. It will not be safe to stay here."
The others cordially agreed as, for some time, they had heard the roars of wild beasts, which abounded in these forests; and Harry and Abdool had run with their open knives in their hands, prepared for a sudden attack.
"The others will have gone back to the village, long ago," the Malay said, when they had made themselves as comfortable as they could, in the forks of the tree, "except the men who were guarding us. They will not dare venture into the village, for they would fear the rajah's anger, even more than death from a tiger. They will be first in the search, tomorrow morning.
"Which way do you wish to go, my lord?"
"I have been thinking it over, as we came. I think that our best plan will be to go on to Johore. Doubtless the road down the coast will be watched. How far from Johore do you think we are?"
"Not very far," the Malay said. "We have been going in that direction, ever since we first turned--not very straight, perhaps, but certainly in that direction. I think that we cannot be more than five or six miles from the town. It lies between the hills we crossed, and the higher ones beyond. We have been descending a little, all the time."
"I am afraid that Johore will not be very pleased to see us arriving empty handed, and to learn that the escort he sent us have all been killed. Still, the news that we bring him, that his enemies are not far off, will be useful to him; and we will offer to aid him in the defence of his town, if he is attacked. At any rate, it is a satisfaction to know that we have not very far to go, and have got so good a start of the fellows behind us that they are not likely to overtake us, before we get there."
More than once, during the night, they heard angry growling at the foot of the tree. Towards morning there was a scraping sound.
"That is a leopard, sahib," the Malay said, in alarm; "he is climbing the tree to get at us."
Abdool was sitting immediately below Harry, and the latter called to him to come up beside him.
"Mount as high as you can, my lord," the Malay said. "The trunk is not so rough, when you get higher; and the beast will find it harder to climb."
"We shall do better, here," Harry said. "These two arms, nearly opposite to each other, are just the thing for us.
"You go out to the end of one, Abdool, and I will go out to the end of the other. We will climb out as far as we can, and then he will have to follow us very slowly, whichever way he chooses. If he goes for you, I will follow him. If he comes my way, you follow him. When the bough gets thin he won't be able to turn round, and the one behind can give him a sudden stab, which will make him leave go his hold."
By the time he had finished speaking, they were each far out on their respective branches, and the leopard was close to the fork. It paused a moment, looked at the two men and, after a moment's hesitation, began to crawl out towards Abdool. Harry at once made his way back to the trunk, and then followed the animal.
Abdool had gone out as far as he dared and, holding on tightly, swayed the end of the branch up and down. The leopard, as it approached him, was evidently disconcerted; and clung to the bough, which was scarcely six inches in diameter at the point it had reached. It snarled angrily, as it became conscious that it was being followed.
Harry, feeling convinced that it could not turn, came fearlessly up to it, and then struck his knife into its loin. As the blade was but some four inches long, he had no hope of striking a vital point.
The leopard uttered a roar, and tried to turn and strike at him with one of its forepaws; but the blade again penetrated to its full depth, this time on the other side and, with a start, it lost its footing, clung for a moment to the branch with its forepaws, and strove to regain its hold; but Harry brought his knife down, again and again, on one of its paws.
Abdool, crawling in, quickly struck it under the shoulder and, a moment later, it released its hold and fell heavily through the foliage to the ground. For a time it was heard roaring, and then the sound came only at intervals, and at an increasing distance.
"That was a good business, Abdool," Harry said, as they returned to their former post, where the Malay rejoined them.
"It was well done, indeed, sahib. When I heard the beast climbing the tree, it seemed to me that, as we had no weapons except these little knives, he would surely make an end of one of us."
The interpreter did not understand Mahratti, in which Abdool and Harry always conversed; but he said in Hindustani: "I have seen fights with leopards, my lord, but even with krises, two of my people would hesitate to attack one--they fear them more than tigers--but little did I think that two men, with small knives, could save their lives from one. My blood turned to water, as I saw the beast climbing out on that bough, and you going out after it."
"I have done a good deal of tiger and leopard hunting, in my time," Harry said, "and know that a leopard cannot spring from a bough, unless it is a fairly stout one--stout enough for it to stand with all its paws upon it.
"Well, the day is beginning to break. In half an hour's time the sun will be up, and the wild beasts will have all retired to their lairs. I hope we shall see no more of them. It is all very well to fight under such advantages; but on foot, were a tiger hiding near a path, he would be sure to have one of us as we went along. Our knives would not do more than tickle him."
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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12
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: The Defence Of Johore.
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Half an hour later, the little party were on their way. They were stiff, at first, from passing the night in a sitting attitude; but it was not long before they were able to break into a trot. This they kept up for an hour then, to their great satisfaction, the forest abruptly ceased, and they saw, at a distance of about a mile and a half, the little town of Johore, lying in cultivated fields that extended to the edge of the forest.
They broke into a walk, for a short distance; and then continued at their former pace, for they could not tell how close their pursuers might be behind them. It was not long before they saw men at work in the fields. The interpreter shouted to them that a party of the enemy were not far behind and, throwing down their tools, they also made for the town, spreading the alarm as they went. Fresh and fleet footed, they arrived some minutes before Harry's party and, as these entered the place, they found the whole population in the street, the men armed with spears and krises.
Asking the way, they soon reached the rajah's palace, which consisted of a central house, round which a number of huts were built; the whole surrounded by a stone wall, some eight feet high. The rajah, when they arrived, was questioning some of his people as to the cause of this sudden alarm. He was greatly surprised at the sight of Harry, in his full uniform, attended only by one soldier and a native.
"How comes it that you arrive like this?" he asked, angrily.
"Explain what has happened," Harry said, to the interpreter.
The rajah's brow darkened, as he heard how the escort he had sent down had been slain, to a man, on the previous day. But his excitement increased, when told that a strong force of his enemy was gathered within a few miles of the town; and that an assault might be immediately expected.
"Will you tell the rajah that I am used to warfare, and shall be glad to assist him, to the best of my power, in the defence of his town?"
"How many men were there?" the rajah asked.
"I should think there were a couple of thousand," Harry replied. "Some of them had matchlocks, but the greater part of them only spear and kris."
"And we have not more than five hundred," the rajah said. "We cannot hope to resist them. What think you?"
"I will at once go round the town, and see," Harry said. "It may be that, being accustomed to war, I can suggest some means of so strengthening the defences that we may hold them against the enemy."
The rajah, having heard many tales of the fighting powers of the whites, said: "I will go with you. I would defend the place if I could for, if Johore were lost, I should be but a fugitive. All within it would be killed, and I should have to beg an asylum from those over whom I was once master."
Calling a party of his men to follow him, the rajah accompanied Harry to the edge of the town. It was already surrounded by a palisade; but this was of no great strength, and its circumference was fully a mile and a half.
"Tell the rajah that we could make a first defence, here, but his fighting men are not numerous enough to hold so large a circuit against four times their number. I should suggest that the whole population should be set to work to build another palisade, much nearer to the palace. All the women and children should be sent inside this, all the provisions in the town be taken into the palace enclosure, and a large supply of water stored there.
"As soon as the new palisade is finished, all who can be spared from its defence should set to work to throw up a bank of earth against the wall; and upon this the fighting men can take their places, and should be able to defend the palace against any assault."
The rajah listened attentively to the interpreter.
"The English officer's words are good," he said, "but we have no timber for the palisades that he speaks of."
"Tell the rajah," Harry said, when this was interpreted to him, "that there is plenty of wood and bamboos in the huts that stand outside the line of the new palisade; and that if we pull these down, we can use the materials. Moreover, in any case it would be well to level these houses for, if the enemy fired them, it would be almost certain to fire the houses inside the palisade."
The rajah's face brightened. The tone of assurance in which Harry spoke reassured him, and he said to the interpreter: "Tell the officer that my people shall do just as he tells them, if he will point out where the defence must be erected."
Harry was not long in fixing upon the line for the entrenchments. It was some two hundred yards in diameter and, at the rajah's orders, the whole of the men and women of the town set to work, to pull down the huts standing within fifty or sixty yards of this. This was the work of a couple of hours, and the materials were carried up to the line. The stronger timbers were first planted, in holes dug for them; and the intervals between these were filled with bamboo poles. On the inside face other bamboos were lashed, with rattans across them. As fast as these were used, more houses were pulled down, until the defence was completed, the crossbars being some nine inches apart.
This work performed, the men, women and children brought up what provisions they had, and their most precious belongings. These were carried inside the wall of the palace. It was two o'clock before the work was finished, and there was then a rest for half an hour.
Then all were set to work to dig a trench, three feet deep with perpendicular sides, at a distance of two feet from the palisade. A large store of bamboos that had been too slender for use in the palisade were sharpened, and cut into lengths of two feet; and these were planted, thickly, in the bottom of the trench. Others, five feet long, were sharpened and then thrust through the interstices between the upright bamboos; the ends being fixed firmly in the ground inside, while the sharpened points projected like a row of bayonets, at a height of some two feet above the edge of the ditch.
It was nightfall before the work was finished. The rajah had, himself, been all the time upon the spot; and was delighted when he saw how formidable was the obstacle that had been raised. One small entrance, alone, had been left; and through this all the women and children now passed, and lay down in the space between the new palisade and the wall of the palace.
The men were ordered to take post behind the stockade, and a number of boys were sent out, to act as scouts and give notice if an enemy approached. The rajah, however, was of opinion that, as the enemy would know that the alarm would have been given by the fugitives, on their arrival, and that the inhabitants would be on their guard, they would not attack till daylight.
Harry had, at his invitation, gone up at midnight to his house, and partaken of food; which was also sent out to Abdool and the interpreter. The rajah would have continued the work all through the night, had not Harry dissuaded him; saying that, after six hours' sleep, everyone would work better.
At one o'clock a horn was sounded and, with the exception of a few men left at the outer palisade, all set to work again. The men were employed in digging a trench, a foot in depth, inside the inner palisade; throwing up the earth in front of them, so as to lie protected from arrows and spears, until it was time for them to rise to their feet to repel an actual assault. The women and children filled baskets with the earth thrown from the outer trench, on the previous day, and carried it inside the wall where, by five o'clock, a bank two feet high had been raised; and on this a platform of bamboos, three feet high and eighteen inches wide was erected.
The work had scarcely been finished when a horn was sounded, outside the town; and the boys came running in, while the men ran down to the outer palisade. As day broke, great numbers of dark figures were seen, making their way through the fields on three sides of the town.
"The band we saw must have been joined by another. There are certainly more than two thousand men there. They will undoubtedly carry the outer palisade. Many of our men will be killed, and many others will be unable to join us here. I think that it will be much better to rely on this defence, alone."
Having now great confidence in Harry's judgment, the rajah at once ordered a horn to be sounded and, in a short time, the whole of the men were assembled in their stronghold; and the entrance closed by bamboos, for which holes had been already dug, close together. Then short lengths were lashed across them, and they were further strengthened by a bank of earth piled against them.
Before this was quite finished, yells of triumph were heard as the enemy, finding the palisade unguarded, poured in; expecting to find that the inhabitants had fled at the news of their approach. They paused, however, in surprise, at seeing another line of defence outside the palace. Quickly the numbers increased, until a thick line of dark figures was gathered at the edge of the cleared space.
Inside the defence, all was quiet. Not a man showed himself. Doubtful whether the town had not been entirely evacuated, the Malays paused for some little time, while some of the chiefs gathered together in consultation. Then a few of the men advanced, with the evident intention of examining the defences.
They were allowed to approach within ten yards of the ditch, when a shower of arrows flew from the openings in the palisade; and two, only, of the Malays fled back to their companions. The fall of the others provoked wild yells of anger. A horn sounded, and the assailants rushed upon them from all sides. When within a few yards of the ditch they hurled their spears, and shot a cloud of arrows. A large proportion were stopped by the bamboos, but such as passed through flew harmlessly over the heads of the defenders; who replied with a far more deadly shower of arrows.
Leaping over those who had fallen, the enemy dashed forward. Those in front endeavoured to check their course, on arriving at the edge of the ditch; but they were forced in by the pressure of those behind, and the long spears of the defenders gleamed out through the openings of the bamboos, inflicting terrible damage.
In vain the assailants endeavoured to climb out of the ditch. The bayonet-like line of bamboos checked them; and the arrows of the concealed defenders told, with terrible effect, on the struggling mass. At last, at many points, the ditch was literally filled with dead; and the assailants were enabled to leap upon the line of bamboos which had so long checked their passage.
The advantage was but slight. The slippery poles were some six inches apart and, slanting as they did, afforded so poor a foothold that the Malays were forced to stand between them, on the narrow ledge between the palisading and the ditch. Here they thrust their spears between the palisade; but these were wrenched from their hands, and scores fell from the blows of kris, spear, and arrow; until at last their leaders and chiefs, seeing how terrible was the slaughter, and how impossible it was to climb the bamboo fence, called their men off; and they fell back, pursued by exulting cries from the women, who were standing on the platform behind the wall of the palace, watching the conflict, and by the yells of the defenders of the stockade.
Of these but few had fallen, while some five hundred of the assailants had perished. The rajah was almost beside himself with joy, at this crushing defeat of his enemy.
"I do not suppose it is over yet, Rajah," Harry said, through his interpreter. "There are still some five times our number, and they will surely not retire without endeavouring to avenge their defeat. But I hardly think they will attack the stockade again. Possibly they will try fire, next time; and it will be harder to fight that than to keep men at bay."
The rajah looked serious.
"Yes," he said, "they cannot return to their homes, and say that they have left five hundred dead behind them. What do you advise?"
"They will hardly attack again today, Rajah; therefore I shall have time to think it over. But at present, it seems to me that our only course is to shoot down as many of those who bring up firebrands as possible. We have still a number of long bamboos left, and with these we might thrust away any burning faggots that might be cast against the palisade."
The rajah nodded.
"That might be done," he said, "and with success, no doubt."
"With success at many points, Rajah; but if they succeed, at only one point, in establishing a big fire against the stockade; we must retire within the wall. They cannot burn us out there, except at the gate; and against that we must pile up earth and stones. But I should certainly recommend that the roofs of all the buildings inside should be taken off unless, indeed, you have sufficient hides to cover them. Still, we need not do that until we are driven inside the wall. It takes but a short time to take off the broad leaves with which the roofs are covered."
During the fight, Harry had taken no active part in the conflict. He had divided the circle into three, and had taken charge of one division, Abdool taking another, and the rajah a third. They had each encouraged the men under them, and had gone where the pressure of the attack was most severe.
On leaving the rajah, Harry joined Abdool.
"They will try again, Abdool; but I don't think they will try to carry the stockade by assault again."
"They will try fire, sahib."
"That is just what I am afraid of. The archers will shoot down a good many of them, but in such numbers as they are, this will make little difference; and we must calculate that, at at least a dozen spots, they will place blazing faggots against the palisade."
Abdool nodded.
"I have been telling the rajah," Harry went on, "that the men must provide themselves with long bamboos, which they can thrust through the openings in the stockade, and push the faggots away. But even if we do so, we must calculate upon the enemy succeeding, in some places, in setting the palisades on fire."
"That would be very serious; but of course we should go in behind the wall."
"I do not want to do that, as long as we can possibly stay here. I think that, when night comes, we ought to make a sortie."
"But are we not too few, sahib?"
"Too few to defeat them, Abdool, but not too few to beat them up. You see, the wind always blows, in the evening, up from the sea. I noticed it last night. It was quite strong. What I should propose would be to pull up enough bamboos for four men to go out, together, on the side facing the wind. Two hundred men should first sally out; remaining, as they do so, close to the ditch. When all are ready, they should crawl across the cleared ground and then, at a signal, attack the enemy who, taken by surprise, would be sure to give way, at first.
"As they attack, fifty men with torches should rush out and follow them, and set fire to as many huts as they can. As soon as they had done their work, all should run back, when the signal is given.
"There will be two advantages: in the first place, the sudden attack will disconcert the enemy, and render them less willing to expose their lives, by storming a place so desperately held; in the second place, the wind will carry the flame over the whole town, and I hope the burning fragrants will carry the flames over all the fields where the crops are dry; thus causing them much more difficulty in obtaining dry wood for faggots, and they will be exposed to our arrows, much longer, before they throw them against the stockade."
"It would be excellent, sahib; but do you think the men would go?"
"Just at the present moment, they would do anything; they are half wild with excitement and triumph."
Harry presently went with the interpreter to the rajah's house.
"I have a plan to propose to you," he said, "that will render it much more difficult for the enemy to set fire to the stockade;" and he then explained his scheme.
The rajah's eyes glistened with excitement.
"Nothing could be better," he said; "and there is but one fear, and that is, that the enemy will follow us so hotly, that they will enter through the breach before we can close it."
"I have thought of that," Harry said, "and the order must be that, when the signal is given, the men must throw down their torches; and then each man must run, not for the hole in the stockade, but to the nearest point, and keep along outside the ditch, and enter by it. In that way the point at which they entered would not be known and, moreover, they would be able to enter more rapidly, and with much less confusion, than if they all arrived together in a crowd. A party would, of course, be left at the breach when they sally out and, the moment the last man entered, would replace and lash the bamboos in their position.
"If, however, we are hotly pursued, you and I, with your own guards, should remain outside, and keep them at bay until all the bamboos but one are replaced. This will leave an opening sufficient for one man, and we must fall back fighting. They certainly would not venture to follow us through so narrow a passage."
Two hundred and fifty of the men were brought inside the wall, and the rajah explained to them the duty upon which they would be employed. He told off fifty of them as torch bearers; explained to all, carefully, the plan Harry had devised; gave strict orders that no sound, whatever, must be made until they reached the houses and, at Harry's request, impressed upon them the absolute necessity for not allowing their ardour to carry them too far; but that torches must be thrown down, and everyone run back, as soon as the horn sounded.
There was no doubt that the order was a satisfactory one. The men raised their krises and spears, and shouted with joy. In their present mood, nothing could please them more than the thought of an attack upon their assailants.
All remained quiet, on both sides, until darkness fell; then the crash of falling huts showed that the enemy intended to use fire, and were about to begin the work of making faggots.
"They will attack an hour before daybreak," the rajah said; "or may, perhaps, wait till the sun is up for, in the daylight, those who carried the torches would not be so conspicuous, but would advance in the midst of their whole force."
"At what time are they likely to sleep?"
"Many will sleep early," he said, "in readiness for the fight. Others will sit up and talk, all night; but those who intend to sleep will probably do so, in a couple of hours."
"Do you think that they are likely to place guards?"
"No; they will not dream that we should have the boldness to attack them."
"Let us give them three hours," Harry said, "the sea wind will be blowing strongly, then."
The greater portion of the men who were to remain behind were to be stationed on the side on which the sortie was to be made, so as to cover the retreat of the others, by showers of arrows. The rajah's principal officer was placed in command here. His orders were that, if the enemy came on too strongly, he was to issue out with a hundred men, and aid the party to beat back their assailants. However, Harry did not think it likely that this would be the case. The Malays would be scattered all over the town--some, perhaps, even beyond the outer palisades--and before they could assemble in force, the party ought to be safe within the palisade again.
Just before ten, the two hundred men who were to make the attack sallied out. They were led by the rajah, while Harry was to lead the firing party. He chose this part, because he would not be able to crawl across the open space as noiselessly as the Malays could do.
During the day, a number of hides had been hung on the palisades, so that the enemy should not notice that a gathering of men, with torches, was assembled there; and in order that the light might not be conspicuous at this spot, fires had been lighted at other points, in order to give the impression that the defenders were holding themselves in readiness to repel another attack. The bamboos had been removed, ten minutes before the party issued out. So noiseless was their tread that Harry, though close to the entrance, could not hear it; and when he looked out, as soon as the last man had passed, he could neither see nor hear anything. The men had all thrown themselves on the ground, as soon as they had passed out, and were crawling forward without a sound being audible.
Harry and Abdool had both armed themselves with a kris and spear. Behind them were the torch bearers, arranged four abreast.
It seemed an age before the sound of a horn rose in the air. Instantly they dashed through the opening, followed by the men and, at full speed, crossed the cleared ground. Already the sound of shouts, violent yells, and the clashing of blades showed that the rajah's men were at work.
Scattering as they reached the houses, the torch bearers ran from hut to hut; pausing for a few seconds, at each, till the flame had gained a fair hold. In less than a minute, sixty or seventy houses were in flames. Harry had the man with the horn with him and, as soon as he saw that the work was fairly done, he ordered the signal to be blown. The torches were thrown down, and their bearers ran back at full speed and, half a minute later, the rajah's men poured out from the town. There was no pursuit, and the whole band re-entered the stockade before, with yells of fury, numbers of the enemy ran forward.
As soon as they did so, arrows began to fly fast from the stockade and, knowing that they could effect nothing, without means of breaking through, the Malays retired as rapidly as they had advanced.
Short as was the interval that had elapsed since the first signal was given, the town was, at the point where the attack was made, a sheet of flame, which was spreading rapidly on either hand. The hubbub among the enemy was tremendous. Upwards of a hundred had been killed, by the rajah's party--for the most part before they could offer any resistance--and not more than five or six of their assailants had received severe wounds.
Loud rose the shouts of exultation from the defenders, as the fire spread with ever-increasing rapidity; flakes of fire, driven by a strong wind, started the flames in a score of places, far ahead of the main conflagration and, in half an hour, only red embers and flickering timbers showed where Johore had stood. Beyond, however, there were sheets of flame, where the crops had been dry and ready for cutting; and the garrison felt that their assailants would have to go a long distance, to gather materials for endeavouring to burn them out.
While the position had been surrounded by a zone of fire, the rajah had, at Harry's suggestion, sent the whole of the men and women to cast earth over the dead; piled, at four or five points, so thickly in the ditch.
"If the matter is delayed another day," he said, "the air will be so poisoned that it will be well-nigh impossible to exist here."
The rajah admitted this; but urged that his men would want to cut off the heads of their fallen enemies, this being the general custom among the Malays.
"It may be so, Rajah, but it could not be carried out, here, without great danger. Our own lives depend upon getting them quickly buried. We have no such custom of cutting off heads, in our country, but that is no affair of mine. But the bodies now lie in what is, in fact, a grave; and a few hours' labour would be the means of saving the town from a pestilence, later on.
"When the enemy depart, I should advise you to build a great mound of earth over the trench. It will be a record of your grand defence and, by placing a strong stockade along the top, you would strengthen your position greatly. I should recommend you, in that case, to clear the space within it, as far as the wall, of all houses; and to build the town entirely outside it."
There was great dissatisfaction, among the natives, at being prevented from taking what seemed to them their natural trophies. But when the rajah informed them that the order was given in consequence of the white officer's advice, they set about the work readily and, before morning, the dead were all hidden from sight by a deep layer of earth.
The next day passed without incident. At nightfall a sharp lookout was kept, not only on the palisade but from the top of the rajah's house. It was thought that the enemy, of whom considerable numbers had been seen going into the forest, would bring up the faggots as closely as possible, before lighting them. Still, it would be necessary to carry brands for that purpose and, now that the ground was cleared of huts, some at least of these brands could be seen, even if carefully hidden.
With the exception of the guards, all slept during the day; as it was necessary that they should be vigilant at night, for the enemy might, on this occasion, approach at an earlier hour, hoping to find the garrison unprepared. Harry and Abdool paced round and round on the platform of the wall but, although a few fires burned among the fields, no glimmer of light could be seen where the town had stood.
"I wish I knew what they were up to, Abdool," Harry said, about midnight. "I don't like this silence."
"Perhaps they have gone away, sahib."
"No, I can hardly think that. I believe we shall have another attack, before morning. They may bring ladders with them, for climbing the palisade; they may try fire; but I am convinced that they will do something.
"The position is not so strong as it was. If we had had more bamboos, I should have set our men to dig another ditch, and defend it like the first; but they are all used up, now. I wish we had some rockets; so that we could send up one, from time to time, and see what they are doing."
Another hour passed, and some of the Malays declared that they could hear a sound as of many men moving. Harry listened in vain, but he knew that the Malays' senses were much keener than his own.
He went at once to the rajah. The chief had been up till midnight, and then retired; leaving orders that he was to be called, directly an alarm of any sort was given. He was seated with two or three of his councillors, talking, when Harry, with the interpreter, entered.
"Your people say they hear sounds, Rajah. I can hear nothing, myself, but I know their hearing is keener than mine. I am uneasy, for even they cannot see the faintest glow that would tell that a fire is being brought up. In my opinion, we had better leave only two hundred men at the palisade, and bring the rest in here. We can lead them out, at once, if any point is hotly attacked; and it would prevent confusion, if the stockade were suddenly forced. The enemy may be bringing up hundreds of ladders and, in the darkness, may get up close before they are noticed."
"Do as you think best," the rajah said and, at once, went out and sent officers to bring in three hundred of the men; and also, at Harry's suggestion, to tell the others that, when the rajah's horn sounded, all were to leave the stockade and make at once for the entrance through the wall.
Another half hour passed. Even Harry was conscious, now, that there was a low dull sound in the air.
"I cannot think what they are doing," the rajah, who was now standing on the wall, close to the gate, said to Harry. "However numerous they may be, they should have moved as noiselessly as we did, when we went out to attack them."
"I don't think that it will be long before we know, now, Rajah."
He had scarcely spoken, when there was a loud shout from the palisade in front of them. It was on this side that the men had been posted so thickly, as it was of all things necessary to defend this to the last, in order to enable those at other points to make their way to the gate. The shout of alarm was followed, almost instantly, by the sound of a horn and, immediately, a tremendous yell resounded on all sides.
It was answered by the shouts of the garrison and, a moment later, a score of balls composed of matting, dipped in oil or resinous gum, were thrown flaming over the palisades. These had been prepared the previous day, and the men charged with throwing them had each an earthenware pot, containing glowing charcoal, beside them. Their light showed groups of men, twenty or thirty strong, advancing within twenty yards of the palisade.
"They are carrying trees, to batter down the stockade, Rajah!" said Harry.
Behind the carrying parties was a dense crowd of Malays, who rushed forward as soon as the fireballs fell, hurling their spears and shooting their arrows, to which the defenders replied vigorously.
"The stockade will not stand a moment against those trees," he continued. " 'Tis best to call the men in, at once."
The rajah ordered the native beside him to sound his horn and, in two or three minutes, the men poured in at the entrance. As soon as the last had come in, the bamboos were put in the holes prepared for them, with some rattans twined between them. Scores of men then set to work, bringing up the earth and stones that had been piled close at hand.
In the meantime, the three hundred men on the walls kept up a shower of arrows on the enemy. The battering rams, which consisted of trees stripped of their branches, and some forty feet long and ten inches thick, did their work and, by the time the entrance was secure, the Malays poured in with exultant shouts.
A large supply of the fireballs had been placed on the platforms and, as these were lighted and thrown down, the assailants were exposed to a deadly shower of arrows as they rushed forward. At this moment the rajah's servant brought up four double-barrelled guns.
"They are loaded," the chief said, as he handed one of these to Harry.
"How long is it since they were fired?" the latter asked.
"It is three months since I last went out shooting," the rajah replied.
Harry at once proceeded to draw the charges.
"I should advise you to do the same, Rajah. A gun that has not been fired for three months is not likely to carry straight, and is more dangerous to its owner than to an enemy."
The rajah called up two of his men, and one of these at once drew the charges of the guns, and reloaded them from the powder horn and bag of bullets the servants had brought.
The enemy did not press their attack, but retired behind the palisades and, from this shelter, began to shoot their arrows fast, while a few matchlock men also replied.
"It would be as well, Rajah, to order all your men to sit down. There is no use in their exposing themselves to the arrows, and they are only wasting their own. We must wait, now, to see what their next move will be. Fire will be of no use to them, now; and the wall will take some battering before it gives way and, brave as the men may be, they could not work the battering rams under the shower of spears and arrows that would be poured upon them.
"I should send the greater part of your men down to get off the roofs of the huts. Those up here must place a man or two on watch, at each side, and throw a fireball occasionally."
In a few moments the enemy ceased shooting their arrows, for the light of the fireballs showed them that the garrison was in shelter.
"There is no occasion for you to stay here, any longer, Rajah. I will look after matters until morning, and will send to you, as soon as there is any stir outside."
In half an hour, the huts were stripped of their most combustible material. This was heaped up under the platforms, where it would be safe from falling arrows. The women drew pots of water from the well, and a hundred men were then left in the courtyard, with orders to pull up or stamp out any flaming arrows that might fall. But as the time went on, it was evident that the assailants had not thought of providing themselves with the materials requisite, and the greater part of the garrison lay down quietly and slept.
Harry had waited until he saw the work in the courtyard completed; and then, with the interpreter, entered the rajah's house. The room he generally used was empty. Some lamps were burning there, and he laid himself down on a divan, while the Malay curled himself up on the floor.
Harry had slept but a short time when he was awakened by a light touch on his shoulder and, springing up, saw a woman, with a boy some six years old, standing beside him. The woman placed her finger on her lips, imploringly. Harry at once roused the interpreter. Through him, the woman explained that she was the widow of the late rajah, and that her son was the lawful heir to the throne.
"I have come to you, brave white lord," she said, "to ask you if your people will grant us protection."
"That would be impossible," Harry replied; "my people are busy with their own wars in India and, even were they not so occupied, they could not interfere in a domestic quarrel between the Malay chiefs."
"Why are you fighting here, then?"
"I am fighting in my own quarrel. I was attacked, and my followers killed, by the rajah now assailing this place. I, myself, should have been murdered, had I not made my escape; and should certainly be killed by him, if he were victorious.
"I think it likely that, before very long, there may be an English trading station at Singapore and, if you and your son were to go there, you would certainly be well received. I shall, of course, relate your story, which I have already heard, on my return to Calcutta; and on my explaining that your son is entitled to the throne of Johore, it may be that some sum would be granted for your maintenance; for it may well be that, in time, the throne may again become vacant, and that the people, tired of these constant wars, will unite to accept your son as rajah. I may tell you that I am sure the tumangong will grant us a trading station, and possibly the whole island; but as he is not the Rajah of Johore, although at present independent of him, we should like to have his assent to the cession. It is for this purpose I have come here although, up to the present time, I have not said anything about it to the rajah, as we have both been much too busy to talk of such matters.
"It may be years before the English come to Singapore; but my report will certainly be noted and, assuredly, an asylum would be granted you, and you would be kindly received. I can say no more than that."
"Thanks, my lord, I could have hoped for no more. Forgive me for having thus disturbed you but, as all in the house save ourselves are asleep, I thought that it was an opportunity that would not occur again. I will teach my son that the English are his friends and, should aught happen to me, and should he ever become rajah here, he will act as their friend, also."
When this had been interpreted to Harry, she and the boy left the room, as noiselessly as they had entered. Harry was well pleased with the interview. Probably the present man would, when the result of this struggle became known, regain much of the power he had lost. Assuredly, as long as he remained rajah, he would now be ready to grant anything asked for and, as Singapore was virtually lost to him, his assent would be given without hesitation. If, on the other hand, he were dethroned, or died, it was likely that this boy would in time become rajah and, in view of this possibility, doubtless the Governor would order that if, at any time, he and his mother arrived at Singapore, they should be well received.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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13
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: The Break Up Of The Monsoon.
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The night and early morning passed quietly. The chatter of many voices showed that a portion, at any rate, of the assailants were beyond the stockade; but it was not until nine o'clock that numerous parties were seen coming from the forest.
"I suppose they have been making ladders all night," Harry said to Abdool, who was with him on the wall; from which, owing to the fact that the house stood on a rising knoll of ground, which commanded a good view over the stockade, the assailants could be seen.
"Well, I have no doubt we shall be able to beat them off. We have as many men as we want for the circuit of the walls and, while we shall be partly sheltered, they will have to advance in the open."
The Malays had, indeed, been busy since daybreak in manufacturing arrows from thin reeds and bamboos, used in the construction of the huts demolished on the previous evening; tipping them with chips of stone and winging them with feathers, of which plenty were found in the houses and scattered about the yard. All felt that this would be the decisive attack; and that the enemy, after one more repulse, would draw off. That the repulse would be given, all felt confident. Already the slaughter of their assailants had been very great, while very few of their own number had fallen.
An hour later, large parties of the enemy advanced to the stockade. This they did unmolested, as the distance was too great for anything like certainty of aim. The rajah again took his place by Harry's side. Presently, at the sound of a horn, a great flight of arrows rose high in the air from behind the stockade.
"They are fire arrows!" the rajah exclaimed. "I will send a hundred men down, to help the women to extinguish them;" and he himself descended, an officer following, with the men.
The women were all seated close to the platforms and, as the arrows came raining down, they ran out; being joined by the rajah and his men. Had the leafy roofs remained in their place, the whole would have been in a blaze in two or three minutes. As it was, the vast proportion of the arrows stuck in the earth, and burnt themselves out; while the few that fell among the debris that had not been cleared away were extinguished, immediately. For two or three minutes the showers of arrows continued; and then ceased as, to the surprise of the assailants, there were no indications of the palace being on fire.
Then the signal was given for the attack and, exasperated by the failure of the plan they had relied upon as being certain to cause a panic, the Malays, with loud shouts, rushed forward. A large number of them carried ladders and, in spite of the many who fell under the arrows of the defenders, the ladders were soon planted against the walls; and the Malays swarmed up on all sides.
A desperate struggle took place. Some of the ladders were high enough to project above the wall. These, with the men upon them, were thrown back. On others the Malays, as they climbed up, were met by the spears of the defenders or, as their heads rose above the walls, with the deadly kris. Their leaders moved about among the throng below, urging the men forward; and Harry, seeing that things were going on well, all round, took the guns from the hands of the soldier who attended him, and directed his aim against these.
Three fell to his first shots. As the soldier handed them to him, reloaded, his eye caught a group of chiefs, behind whom stood what was evidently a picked body of men. In the midst of the group was the rajah to whom Harry had recently been a prisoner. With a feeling of deep satisfaction, that his hand should avenge the murder of his four troopers, Harry levelled his gun between two of the defenders of the wall, took a steady aim, and fired.
[Illustration: Without a cry, the rajah fell back, shot through the] head.
As the chief was but some twenty-five yards away, there was little fear of his missing and, without a cry, the rajah fell back, shot through the head. A yell of consternation rose from those around him. Two more shots then rang out, and two more chiefs fell.
The others shouted to their men, and a furious rush forward was made. Harry snatched up a spear, lying by the side of a native who had fallen; shouted to the rajah's guard of twenty men--who were in the yard below, as a reserve in case the enemy gained a footing at any point of the wall--to come up, and then joined in the fight.
The assailants fought with such fury that, for a time, the issue was doubtful. Several times, three or four succeeded in throwing themselves over the wall; but only to be cut down, before they could be joined by others. At last the Malays drew off, amid the exultant shouts of the defenders.
In a short time, the attack became more feeble at all points. The news of the death of their leader had doubtless spread, and its effect was aided by several other chiefs falling under Harry's fire and, ere long, not one of their followers remained inside the palisade. Half an hour later, the lookout from the top of the rajah's house shouted that the whole of the assailants were retiring, in a body, towards the forest.
Excited by their victory, the rajah's troops would have sallied out in pursuit; but Harry dissuaded him from permitting it.
"They must have lost, altogether, over a thousand of their men; but they are still vastly more numerous than your people, and nothing would suit them better than that you should follow them, and give them a chance of avenging the loss they have suffered."
"But the rajah will come again. He will never remain quiet, under the disgrace."
"He will trouble you no more," Harry said. "I shot him myself, and six or seven of his principal chiefs."
"You are indeed my friend!" the rajah exclaimed, earnestly, when the words were translated to him. "Then there is a hope that I may have peace. The death of the rajah, and of so many of the chiefs that have joined him, will lead to quarrels and disputes; and the confederacy formed against me will break up and, while fighting among themselves, they will not think of attacking, again, a place that has proved so fatal to them."
The rajah had some difficulty in allaying the enthusiasm of his men; but he repeated what Harry had said to him, and added that, since it was entirely due to their white guest that they had repulsed the attack, there could be no doubt that his advice must now be attended to, since he had shown himself a master in war.
"Be content," he said. "Wherever our language is spoken, the Malays will tell the story of how three thousand men were defeated by five hundred; and it will be said that the men of Johore surpassed, in bravery, everything that has been told of the deeds of their fathers. There is no fear of the enemy returning here. The rajah and many of his chiefs have fallen, by the hand of our white friend. Henceforth, for many years, you will be able to rest in peace.
"In a month you will have rebuilt the houses, and sown again the fields that have been burnt. After that, we shall have leisure, and a treble stockade shall be built, stronger and firmer than that into which they forced an entry. Your first task must be to carry the bodies of our enemies far out beyond the town, where their skeletons will act as a warning as to what welcome Johore gives to its foes. A present of money will be given to each man, this afternoon, to help him to rebuild his house, and make good the damages that he has suffered."
The interpreter had rapidly translated the speech to Harry as it went on and, as the rajah ended, and the applause that greeted him subsided, Harry said a few words to the interpreter, which he repeated to the rajah. The latter held up his hand, to show that he had more to say.
"My white friend warns me that, for a day or two, we must not leave the town. It may be that the enemy have halted near the edge of the forest, in the hope of taking us unawares. This, however, can only be for a day or two, at most; for I have no doubt that the provisions they brought with them are, by now, exhausted and, if they stop in the forest, they will perish from hunger; therefore let no one go beyond the town, for two days. A watch shall be kept on the roof of my house and, if any of the enemy make their appearance in the forest, a horn will summon all to retire within the walls."
There was feasting that night at the rajah's house. All his officers and men of importance were present. Sacks of rice and other grain were distributed among the soldiers and women; some buffaloes that had been driven inside the wall to serve as food, should the siege prove a long one, were also killed and cut up; and very large jars, containing the fermented juice of the pineapple, and other fruits, were served out.
During the day the breaches in the palisades had all been repaired and, at night, the whole population were told to remain within its shelter, while numerous guards were posted by the rajah. While the meal at the rajah's was going on, a party of native musicians played and sang, the Malays being very fond of music.
Harry sat at the rajah's right hand, and was the subject of unbounded praise and admiration among the company. Speaker after speaker rose and addressed him and, afterwards, the interpreter said a few words to them in his name, thanking them for the goodwill they had shown, and praising them highly, not only for their bravery, but especially for the manner in which they had carried out the orders given to them. The proceedings did not terminate until a very late hour, and Harry was heartily glad when at last he could retire to rest.
In the morning, the rajah said to him: "Now, my friend, you have not told me why you have come here. We have been so busy that we have not spoken on other subjects, save the war. The message you sent up to me was that you came from the great white lord of Calcutta, and desired to see me. You may be sure that whatever you desire of me shall be granted for, were it not for your coming, I should now be a hunted fugitive, and my people slain."
"It is not much that I desire, Rajah. The tumangong is willing to grant to us a trading station, on the island of Singapore and, possibly, we may acquire from him the whole island; but we are aware that he is not the rightful lord of the island, and it may be that, in time, you may recover possession of all Johore. Thus, then, I come to you to ask you if you are willing to consent to this privilege being granted to us; which assuredly will benefit your kingdom by providing a market, close to you, at which you can barter your produce for goods that you require, with us or with native traders from the east. At present, we are not in a position to plant this trading station in Singapore, being engaged in serious wars in India; and it may be a considerable time before things have so settled down that we can do so. I have, therefore, only to ask your assent to our arrangement with the tumangong, whenever it can be carried out; and we shall certainly be willing to recognize your authority, by a gift of money."
"I willingly consent," the rajah said; "it is, indeed, but a small thing. So long as I live, I shall be ready to enter into any treaty with you; and doubtless my successor, whoever he may be, knowing what you have done for us and our state, will also agree."
[It was not, indeed, until the year 1819 that the British took possession of the island, paying sixty thousand dollars to the tumangong. Shortly after they had settled there the young prince, who had escaped from Johore, came down there. He was awarded a pension and, at the death of the rajah, was placed on the throne by the British, to the general satisfaction of the inhabitants.]
The next day, a number of men came in from villages scattered among the hills, who had not heard of the approach of the enemy until too late to enter the town, and take part in its defence. By this time, scouts had penetrated far into the forest, and brought back news that, although there were many dead there, there were no signs of the enemy. The work, therefore, of rebuilding the town was commenced; every available man of the garrison, and those who had come in, being engaged in cutting wood and bringing it in.
In the course of the next day or two several chiefs, whose attitude had before been threatening, came or sent members of their families to congratulate the rajah upon the defeat that he had inflicted upon his enemies, and to assure him of their loyalty to his rule.
Harry had stayed on, at the earnest request of the rajah; but he now declared that he must return to the coast. The rajah's approval of the cession of a trading port, and of the island itself, was written both in the Malay and the English languages, and signed by the chief. Copies were also made and signed, by Harry, to be kept in the palace, in order that on any future occasion they could be consulted.
A great number of presents, of krises and other articles of Malayan manufacture, were offered to Harry; but he excused himself from accepting them, saying that, in the first place, it was not customary for commissioners of the Governor to accept presents; and in the second that, being constantly employed on service, he had no place where these could be deposited, during his long absences.
On the third morning after the retreat of the enemy Harry started, with his two companions, for the coast; attended by an escort of twenty men of the rajah's own guard, commanded by a high officer. There was now no fear of molestation, but the escort was sent as a mark of honour. Starting early, they reached the coast town in the afternoon.
They were received with great joy by the inhabitants, who had been in a state of abject terror. A runner, who was the bearer of a message to the rajah from the headman, had left on the morning after Harry's party had started; and had returned with the news that he had found the headless bodies of all the escort, but had seen no traces of the white man nor his followers, who had doubtless all been carried off by the enemy. The news caused terrible consternation, as it was thought that the town might be attacked, at any moment. Those of the inhabitants who possessed canoes, took to them and paddled away down the coast. The others fled to the mountains.
Finding, however, from scouts who had been left, that four days had passed without the appearance of the enemy, most of them had returned, on the evening before Harry arrived there. On hearing, from his escort, of the defeat of the invaders and their enormous loss, the most lively joy was manifested; and Harry was treated with almost reverential respect, the men of the escort agreeing that it was solely due to him that the victory had been gained. He made, however, but a very short stay in the village; and the headman at once ordered the largest canoe to be prepared. This was decorated with flowers and flags and manned by twenty rowers who, as soon as Harry and his two companions took their seats in it, rowed off to the brig. "Welcome back, Lindsay!" Fairclough shouted, as the canoe approached; "we could hardly believe our eyes, when we saw you come down to the canoe. We have been in a terrible fright about you. The natives brought off news that the escort that had been sent down to take you to Johore were, every one, killed; and that, as there were no signs of any of your party, it was certain that you had been carried off. We sent a boat ashore, every morning, armed to the teeth; but they reported that the place was almost entirely deserted, and the two or three men left there said that no news, whatever, had been received of you."
By this time, Harry had gained the deck.
"Where is your escort?" Fairclough asked.
"I am sorry to say that they were all murdered. However, my story is a long one and, although the rajah sent down some food with the escort he gave me, I am desperately thirsty, and will tell you all that happened when I have wetted my whistle."
Fairclough told Hardy to come with them below, and Harry's story was told in full, over sundry cups of tea, which Harry preferred to stronger beverages.
"That was an adventure, indeed," Fairclough said, when Harry had brought his story to an end. "I would have given anything to have been with you in that siege. I own I should not have cared about being a prisoner in that fellow's camp, especially as you were disarmed, and could not even make a fight for it. That affair with the leopard would have been more to my taste; though, if I had been in your place, with nothing but your knife and Abdool's, I doubt whether I should have come out of it as well as you did; but the other business was splendid, and those Malays of the rajah's must have fought well, indeed, to beat off a force six times their own strength."
"The great point is that I have obtained his ratification of the tumangong's grant, whenever it may be made."
"That is satisfactory, of course; but it would not have, to my mind, anything like the importance of your series of adventures, which will be something to think over all your life. I wish I had been there, with my crew, to have backed you up; though I am afraid that most of them would have shared the fate of your Malay escort, in that sudden attack in the forest."
"Yes; with all their pluck, they could scarcely have repulsed such a sudden onslaught though, certainly, the killing would not all have been on one side. I am glad, indeed, that Abdool also came safely out of it; as I should have missed him, fearfully.
"The interpreter showed himself a good man, and I hope that Lord Mornington will, when I report his conduct, make him a handsome present. If he had not got away with me, it is hardly likely I should ever have found my way to Johore and, if I had done so, I could not have explained to the rajah that he was going to be attacked, or have got him to erect the stockade that was the main cause of our success. In fact, he would probably, in his anger at the slaughter of his escort, have ordered me to be executed on the spot. As it was, he did not take either that, or the loss of his presents, greatly to heart."
"You saved his kingdom for him, there is no doubt. It is not likely that he would ever have ventured to defend himself, had it not been for the confidence that he felt in you, and in the steps you took."
"No; he told me, himself, that he would have taken flight at once and, in that case, his kingdom would have been lost; and he himself, sooner or later, hunted down."
"And now, I suppose we can start as soon as we like?"
"Certainly; the sooner the better. I shall be very glad to be back again, for there is no saying what is going on there. Assuredly, the friendship of the Mahrattas cannot be relied upon. I know that we are not likely to make any fresh move, except in self defence, until Mysore is completely pacified, and a firm government established. Still, there is never any saying what will happen. Having been in the thick of the Mahratta business, all along, I should not like to be out of it, now."
"Well, we will get up anchor at daybreak, tomorrow."
All on board were glad, when the news that they were to sail for Calcutta, the next morning, was circulated through the ship. To the crew, the voyage had been a monotonous one; the weather having been uniformly fine, since they started; and they had had no adventures, such as they had hoped for, with hostile natives.
Nothing was talked of that night, between decks, but Harry's story; which had been told by Lieutenant Hardy to the midshipmen, who had retailed it to the petty officers, and it had rapidly spread. Abdool and the interpreter were made as much of as was possible, considering that neither could understand English; and deep were the expressions of regret that none of the sailors had taken part in so tough a fight.
By the time the sun was up, next morning, the vessel was under weigh and, with light breezes, sailed round Singapore, and then headed northwest. The winds, as before, were light and, as the northeast monsoon was still blowing, the rate of progress was slow.
"I wish we could have got into the Hooghly," Fairclough said, as he walked impatiently up and down the quarterdeck, "before the monsoon broke; but I don't see much chance of it. It generally changes about the middle of April, and we are well on in the first week, now. At the rate at which we are sailing, we shall take at least three weeks before we get there. You see, we are only just clear of the northern point of Sumatra; and it is already a month since we got up anchor."
"But we shall have the wind almost behind us, Fairclough."
"Yes, when it has settled down. It is the change that I do not like. Of course, sometimes we have only a few days of moderately rough weather; but occasionally there is a hurricane at the break up, and a hurricane in the bay of Bengal is no joke. I shall not mind, much, if we get fairly past the Andamans; for from there to the mouth of the Hooghly it is open water, and I should be under no uneasiness as to the brig battling her way through it; but to be caught in a hurricane, with these patches of islands and rocks in the neighbourhood would, to say the least, be awkward."
"Are there any ports among the islands? I recollect hearing an officer say that there was a settlement made there, some years ago."
"That was so. In 1791 an establishment was started in the southern part of the island and, two years later, it was moved to a harbour on the northwest side of the bay. It was called Port Cornwallis; but was abandoned in 1796, being found terribly unhealthy. It was a pity, for it afforded good shelter when the northeast monsoon was blowing, and partially so from the southwest monsoon. No doubt it could have been made more healthy, if the country round had been well cleared; but it was not found to be of sufficient utility to warrant a large outlay, and the natives are so bitterly unfriendly that it would require a garrison of two or three hundred men to overawe them. We should have been always losing life--not from open attacks, perhaps, but from their habit of crawling up, and shooting men down with their arrows."
A week later, they were some seventy or eighty miles to the west of the Andaman group. Directly the brig weathered the northernmost point of Sumatra, the course had been laid more to the west, so as to avoid the dangerous inside passage. When Harry went on deck, in the morning, he found that the wind had dropped altogether.
"There is an end of the monsoon," Fairclough said. "I am just going to shorten sail. There is no saying which way the wind will come. The glass is falling fast but, of course, that is only to be expected. I think, if you are wise, after breakfast you will take off that drill suit, and get into something better calculated to stand rough weather; for that we are sure to have, and any amount of rain. That is always the case, at the changes of the monsoon.
"You see, it is a sort of battle between the two winds; the southwesterly will gain, in the end, but the other will die hard; and it is this struggle that causes the circular storms which, when they are serious, are called hurricanes, though at ordinary times they are simply called the break up of the monsoon, which generally causes bad weather all over the Indian Ocean."
Towards evening, low banks of cloud were seen to the south, and the sky looked dim and misty in the opposite direction.
"They are mustering their forces, you see, Lindsay; and the glass has fallen so far that I fancy the fight will be a hot one. At any rate, we will make all snug for the night."
Sail after sail was taken in, until only a storm jib, a small fore stay-sail, and a close-reefed main top-sail were left standing. The bank of cloud to the south had risen considerably and, when darkness closed in, the upper edge was lit up by the almost incessant flicker of lightning. The upper spars were sent down on deck and then, there being nothing more to be done, the crew, who had all donned rough-weather clothes, awaited the outburst.
That it would be more than ordinarily severe there could be no doubt, and the men, clustered in little groups by the bulwarks, talked in low tones as they watched the slowly-approaching storm from the south; with occasional glances northwards, where indeed no clouds could be seen, but the sky was frequently lit up by the reflections of lightning below the horizon.
"What do you think of it?" Harry asked the interpreter.
"I do not like it," the Malay replied. "I think that there will be a great hurricane. I have seen many changes of the monsoon, but never one that looked so threatening as this."
"It does look bad," Harry said, "though, as I have never been at sea before, at the change of the monsoon, I am no judge at all; but it certainly looks as if we were in for a bad gale. At any rate, we shall be safer, here, than we were in that hut in the mountains."
The Malay made no reply, for some time. Then he said: "Yes, sahib, but there was something to do, there. Directly we got in, you began to prepare for an escape. It was not certain that we should succeed. They might have come in and killed us, before you were ready but, as we were busy, we had not much time to think of the danger.
"Here we can do nothing."
"No. But, as you see, everything has already been done. You and I have not been working, but the sailors have been busy in taking off sail, and getting down all the upper spars. We are ready for the worst, now; just as we were when we had opened the passage for our escape, and we felt fairly confident--although we might meet with many dangers, we had a good chance of getting safely away."
"There are the danger signals, Lindsay," the captain said, as a pale light suddenly shone out above.
Looking up, Harry saw a ball of fire on the main-mast head. Presently, this seemed to roll down the mast, till it reached the top-sail yard; then it broke into two, and these rolled out until they remained stationary, one at each end of the yard. Harry had never seen this phenomenon before.
"What is it?" he asked Fairclough, in an awed voice.
"They are often seen, before the outburst of a severe tempest. Of course, they look like balls of phosphorus; but in reality they are electric, and are a sign that the whole atmosphere is charged with electricity. Sailors have all sorts of superstitions about them but, of course, excepting that they are signs of the condition of the air, they are perfectly harmless."
He raised his voice.
"Don't stand near the foot of the masts, lads; keep well away from them. There is nothing to be afraid of, in those lights; but if we happened to be struck by lightning and it ran down the mast, some of you might be knocked over.
"I don't know why," he continued, to Harry, "the first flash of lightning at the beginning of a storm is always the most dangerous. I can't account for it, in any way, but there is no question as to the fact. I always feel relieved when the first clap of thunder is over; for I know, then, that we are comparatively safe from danger, in that way."
Gradually the stars disappeared.
"Mr. Hardy," the captain said to the lieutenant, who was standing near, "will you go down to my cabin, and see how the glass stands?"
Harry did not hear the answer, when Hardy returned, but Fairclough said to him: "It has gone down another quarter of an inch since I looked at it, half an hour ago; and it was as low, then, as I have ever seen it.
"Mr. Hardy, you had better send the men aloft, and furl the main top-sail, altogether; and run down the fore stay-sail. We can get it up again, as soon as the first burst is over. Put four men at the wheel."
There was still no breath of wind stirring. The stay sail was run down, but the men hung back from ascending the shrouds of the main mast.
"They are afraid of those lights," Fairclough said, "but I do not think there is the slightest danger from them."
"I will go up, myself, sir," Hardy said; and he ran up the starboard shrouds while, at the same moment, one of the midshipmen led the way on the port side. The sailors at once followed their officers.
The latter had nearly reached the yard, when the two balls of fire began to roll along it, joined in the centre, and then slowly ascended the topmast. The fireballs paused there for half a minute, and then vanished.
"Now, Eden," the lieutenant said, "let us get the work done, at once, before that fellow makes his appearance again."
The men followed them out on the yard, and worked in desperate haste, with occasional glances up at the mast head. In a couple of minutes the sail was firmly secured in its gaskets, and all made their way below.
"Thank goodness, here it comes, at last," Fairclough said; "the suspense is more trying than the gale itself."
A low murmur was heard, and a faint pale light was soon visible to the south.
"Get ready to hold on, all!" he shouted to the men.
The sound momentarily increased in volume, and the distant light brightened until a long line of white foam was clearly discernible. It approached with extraordinary speed. There was a sudden puff of air. It lasted but a few seconds, and then died away.
"Hold on!" the captain again shouted.
Half a minute later, with a tremendous roar, the wind struck the brig. Knowing which way it would come, Fairclough had, half an hour before, lowered a boat and brought the vessel's head round, so that it pointed north. The boat had then been hoisted up.
In the interval of waiting, the ship's head had slightly drifted round, again, and the wind struck her on the quarter. So great was the pressure that she heeled far over, burying her bows so deeply that it seemed as if she were going to dive, head foremost. The water swept over the bulwarks in torrents, and extended almost up to the foot of the foremast. Then, very slowly, as she gathered way, the bow lifted and, in a minute, she was scudding fast before the gale; gathering speed, every moment, from the pressure of the wind upon her masts and hull, and from the fragment of sail shown forward. At present there were no waves, the surface of the water seeming pressed almost flat by the weight of the wind.
Then there was a deafening crash, and a blaze of light. The fore-top mast was riven in fragments, but none of these fell on the deck, the wind carrying them far ahead.
"You had better make your way forward, Mr. Hardy," Fairclough shouted, into the lieutenant's ear, "and see if anyone is hurt."
Fortunately the precaution which had been taken, of ordering the men away from the mast, had prevented any loss of life; but several of the men were temporarily blinded. Three or four had been struck to the deck, by the passage of the electric fluid close to them; but these presently regained their feet. Hardy returned, and reported to the captain.
"You had better send the carpenter down, to see that there is no fire below."
In a minute the man ran up, with the news that he believed the foot of the mast was on fire. Mr. Hardy went to a group of men.
"Get some buckets, my lads," he said quietly, "and make your way down to the hold. I will go with you. As was to be expected, the lightning has fired the foot of the mast; but there is no cause for alarm. As we have discovered it so soon, we shall not be long in getting it under."
The men at once filled the fire buckets and, led by Mr. Hardy, went below. As soon as the hatchway leading to the hold was lifted, a volume of smoke poured up.
"Wait a minute, till it has cleared off a little," the lieutenant said; and then, to the midshipman who had accompanied him: "Go to the captain, and tell him that there is more smoke than I like, and ask him to come below. Tell him I think the pumps had better be rigged, and the hose passed down."
Fairclough, who was accompanied by Harry, joined him just as he was about to descend the ladder.
"I will go down with you, Mr. Hardy," he said.
"Mr. Eden, will you go up and send down all hands, except those at the wheel? Set a strong gang to rig the pumps, and pass the hose down."
He and the lieutenant then made their way along the hold. The smoke was very thick, and it was only by stooping low that they could get along. They could see, however, a glow of light ahead.
"We can do nothing with this," the captain said, "beyond trying to keep it from spreading, until we have shifted all these stores. The gang with buckets had better come down, empty them on the pile, and then set to work to clear the stuff away, as quickly as possible."
The men, who came along gradually and with difficulty, began to remove the barrels, coils of rope, and spare sails stowed there. Several of them were overpowered by the smoke, and had to be carried up again; and others came down and took their places.
In three or four minutes the hose was passed down, and the clank of the pumps could be heard. Mr. Hardy took the nozzle and while the men, now a strong party, worked at the stores, directed a stream of water upon the flames.
For a time, the efforts seemed to make no impression, and the steam added to the difficulty of working. Another gang of men were set to work, forward of the mast and, after half an hour's labour, the stores were so far removed that the hose could be brought to play upon the burning mass at the foot of the mast.
The lieutenant had been relieved by Harry, and he by the two midshipmen, in succession. Changes were frequent and, in another quarter of an hour, it was evident that the flames were well under control. The men engaged below relieved those at the pumps and, in an hour from the first outbreak, all danger was over, though pumping was kept up for some time longer.
The captain made frequent visits to the deck. The vessel was still running before the wind, and the sea had got up. The motion of the ship was becoming more and more violent but, as there was nothing to be done, the men below were not disturbed at their work, and this was continued until smoke no longer ascended.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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14
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: The Great Andaman.
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Leaving a party below, to clear away the burnt barrels and debris, and to extinguish any fire that might still smoulder among them, the rest returned on deck. Terrible as was the storm, it was a relief, to all, to cling to the rail and breathe the fresh air, after the stifling atmosphere of the hold.
The scene, however, was a terrible one. Lightning was flashing overhead incessantly, although the thunder was only occasionally heard, above the howl of the storm. The sea was broken and irregular, leaping in masses over the bulwarks, and sweeping the decks. The force of the wind continually tore the heads off the waves, and carried the spray along in blinding showers.
"We are very near the eye of the hurricane," Captain Fairclough shouted, in Lindsay's ear. "The men at the wheel tell me she has been twice round the compass, already; but this broken sea would, alone, tell that. We must get a little sail on the main mast, and try to edge out of it."
A small stay sail was got out and hoisted, and the helm was put down a little. Though still running at but a slight angle before the wind, the pressure was now sufficient to lay her down to her gunwale. The crew gathered under shelter of the weather bulwark, holding on by belaying pins and stanchions.
Night had now set in, but it made little difference; for the darkness had, before, been intense, save for the white crests of the tossing waves. Sheets of foam blew across the deck and, sometimes, a heavy fall of water toppled down on the crew. A pannikin of hot soup had been served out to the men, and this would be the last hot refreshment they would obtain, before the gale broke; for the hatchways were all battened down, and it was impossible to keep the fire alight.
"The best thing you can do is to turn in, Lindsay," Fairclough said, after the former had finished his soup--a task of no slight difficulty, under the circumstances. "You can do no good by remaining up."
"How long is it likely to last?"
"Probably for two or three days, possibly longer."
"I will take your advice," Harry said. "I shall be glad to get these wet clothes off."
For a time, he was sorry that he had lain down, for the motion was so violent that he could, with difficulty, keep himself in his berth. Being, however, completely worn out by the buffeting of the gale, the efforts required to hold on, the excitement of the fire and storm, it was not long before he dropped off to sleep; and he did not wake up until a ray of dim light showed that the morning was breaking. The motion of the ship was unabated and after, with great difficulty, getting into his clothes, he went up on deck.
Except that the clouds were somewhat more broken, there was no change. Dark masses of vapour flew overhead, torn and ragged. The wild tumble of waves rose and fell, without order or regularity. Forward, the bulwark on both bows had been carried away, and the deck was swept clear of every movable object.
One watch was below, the men of the other were for the most part gathered aft, and lashed to belaying pins. Fairclough was standing near the wheel. With some difficulty, Harry made his way to him.
"Not much change since last night," he said. "I feel quite ashamed of myself, for having been sleeping in my berth while you have all been exposed to this gale."
"There has not been much to do," the commander said. "In fact, there is nothing to be done, except to keep her as much as we dare from running straight before the wind. We have not had much success that way for, as you see, the tumble of water shows that we are still but a short distance from the centre of the gale. I sent the starboard watch below at four bells and, in a few minutes, we shall be relieved. Hardy wanted to stay with me, but I would not have it.
"The cook has managed, somehow, to boil some water, and served a pannikin of coffee to all hands, just before the watch turned in; and he has sent word that he will have some more ready, by the time they come up again."
He looked at his watch, and called out, "four bells."
One of the men made his way to the bell, with alacrity. The watch below did not come up, for a few minutes, as they waited to drink their coffee. As soon as they appeared, the men on deck went below.
"All the better for your sleep, Mr. Hardy?" Fairclough asked, as the other joined him.
"Very much better, sir. I think the cook ought to have a medal. The cup of coffee before we turned in, and that we have just drunk, have made new men of us."
"You will call me, instantly, if there is any change, Mr. Hardy.
"Mr. Eden, you had better come with us. The coffee will be ready, in my cabin."
There was no possibility of sitting at the table. But, sitting down on the floor to leeward, and holding a mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other, they managed, with some difficulty, to dispose of the meal. Then Fairclough, putting on some dry clothes, threw himself on his bunk. The midshipman retired to his own cabin, and Harry went on deck.
"How are we heading, Mr. Hardy?" he shouted, when he joined the lieutenant.
"At the present moment, we are running nearly due east but, as we have been round the compass, several times, since the gale struck us, there is no means of saying, with anything like certainty, where our position is. But I was talking it over with the captain, before I went down, and we both agreed that, as the centre of the hurricane is undoubtedly moving to the northeast, we must have gone a good many miles in that direction.
"Of course, there is no means of determining how far till we can get a glimpse of the sun; but there is no doubt that, if the gale continues, we shall soon be in a very perilous position, for we must be driving towards the Andamans. We may have the luck to pass north of them, or to go between them.
"We tried, last night, to get up a little more sail; but she would not stand it, and we were obliged to take it off again. So we can do nothing but hope for the best."
Two hours later, Fairclough came out again.
"I am afraid that you have not been to sleep," Harry said.
"No. I am all the better for the rest, but sleep was out of the question.
"How is she heading now, Mr. Hardy?"
"Northeast, sir."
Fairclough took his telescope from the rack in the companion and, slinging it over his shoulder, mounted the ratlines to the top.
"Have you made out anything?" he asked the sailor stationed there.
"I have thought, once or twice, sir, that I saw land ahead; but I could not say for certain. It is so thick that it is only when the clouds open a bit that one has a chance."
Although he had taken his glass with him, Fairclough did not attempt to use it, at present; but stood gazing fixedly ahead. A quarter of an hour later there was a sudden rift in the clouds, and a low shore was visible, some five or six miles ahead; and a dark mass, much farther off, rising into the cloud. Fairclough instantly unslung the telescope, and adjusted it. A minute afterwards the clouds closed in again and, telling the man to keep a sharp lookout, he descended to the deck.
"We must set the main top-sail on her again, close reefed, of course. We are running straight for land and, unless I am much mistaken, it is the great Andaman. There is a lofty hill, some distance back from the shore. I only caught a glimpse of its lower part, but none of the small islands have any hill to speak of. The shore is about six miles off and, as the peak lies about the centre of the island, and as this is a hundred and forty miles long, we are some seventy miles from the northern point.
"You know what that means. However, we must do all that we can, to keep her off."
"Ay, ay, sir," Hardy said, turning without another word, and then gave orders to the men to set the top sail.
This was done, and the ship's course was laid parallel to the shore. The wind was now nearly northwest, and she lay down until the water was several planks up her deck. The crew were all lashed to windward, clustering where they would be most out of danger, should the mast go.
Fairclough stood for a minute, looking at the shivering mast, and the shrouds stretched like iron bars.
"We must get the guns overboard, Mr. Hardy; she will never stand this," and indeed the waves, striking her broadside, were falling in a cascade over her.
Calling four of the men, Hardy made his way down into the lee scuppers, where the water was nearly up to their waists; opened the portholes and slacked the lashings, when the four guns disappeared overboard. It required much greater pains to get down the guns from the port side, as tackle had to be attached to each, so that they could be lowered carefully, one by one, across the deck; but all worked heartily, and these also were launched overboard.
"That has eased her, a bit," Fairclough said, when Hardy rejoined him. "They helped to pin her down, and I could almost feel the difference, as each gun went overboard."
"I am afraid that it will make no difference, in the long run," Hardy said. "She must be making a great deal of leeway, and I should say that she will be on shore in a couple of hours, at the latest. Still, we may have time to look out for a soft spot."
"We should not have much chance, in that case, Hardy; my only hope is in another shift of wind."
"But it will go round more to the north, sir, and then we sha'n't be able to lie our course, at all. It has gone round a point, since we got up the top sail."
"Quite so; and I doubt whether it will go round soon enough to save us. If it should go round a little more to the north, we must try and get her on the other tack; but I am afraid, in such a sea, she will not go about. Of course, our great aim is to reach Port Cornwallis; or, if we cannot get as far as that, I have just been having a look at the chart, and I see there are three narrow straits. How much water there is in them, I do not know. They are most vaguely marked on the chart. One of them is but thirty miles north of our present position and, if we find that we cannot make the northern point, I shall try to get in there. I am not sure that, in any case, it would not be the best plan; for if there is only water enough to run a mile or so up this passage, we shall ground in comparatively still water; whereas, as the wind has been blowing from every quarter, it is almost certain that there will be a tremendous sea in the open port."
Fairclough placed himself at the wheel, and told the two midshipmen to go round, and tell the crew that there was an inlet ahead, but the depth of the water was uncertain. When they approached it, all hands would come aft, so as to avoid being crushed by the falling masts. A dozen of the men were to take hatchets, and cut away the wreckage if the mast fell, leaving only a couple of the shrouds uncut. When this was done, directly the vessel began to break up, those who could not swim were to make their way by these shrouds to the floating mast. Those who could swim could make, at once, for the shore.
"When all have left the ship but Mr. Hardy and myself, we will cut the shrouds; and the masts will probably ground, ere long."
While before the sailors had, for the most part, been gazing at the coast, on which they had little doubt that their bodies would soon be cast up; they became lively and active, as soon as they received the order. It seemed that, after all, there was a chance for them.
Four hours passed. The wind had now so far headed them that the brig could no longer keep her course parallel with the shore. Twice they had endeavoured to put her about, but each time failed; and she was now making so much leeway that the coast was less than three miles away. A tremendous sea was breaking upon it. One of the midshipmen had, for the past hour, been in the foretop with a glass; and the captain himself now went up, and took his place beside him. He saw at once that, accustomed as he was to use his telescope in rough weather, it would be useless here; for the motion was so great that it was only by following the midshipman's example, and lashing himself to the mast, that he could retain a footing.
"You are sure that you have seen no break in the surf, Mr. Eden?"
"Quite sure, sir."
"We ought not to be far from it, now, if it is rightly marked on the chart."
Another hour passed, and they were within a mile and a half of the shore.
"I think that I can see a break, over there, sir," and the midshipman pointed to a spot a mile along the coast.
"Pray God that it may be so," Fairclough said, "for it is our only chance."
Two or three minutes later, he said: "You are right, there is certainly a break there. There is a line of surf, but it does not run up the shore, as it does everywhere else."
He at once descended to the deck.
"Thank God!" he said, as he joined Mr. Hardy and Harry who, on seeing him coming down, had made their way to the shrouds, "there is a break in the surf. It is not a complete break, but there is certainly an inlet of some sort. And though it looks as if there were a bar, there may be plenty of water for us for, with such a sea as this, it would break in three fathoms of water and, as we don't draw more than two, we may get over it. At any rate, it is our only hope."
"It gives us a chance, if we strike," the lieutenant said, "for it will be comparatively calm water, inside the bar. Those who can swim should have no difficulty in getting ashore. The others might do so, on wreckage. Her masts are sure to come out of her, if she strikes heavily."
"I shall be obliged if you will go up to the foretop, Hardy, and con the brig in; but mind you, come down before we get to the white water. You may as well send Mr. Eden down."
Mr. Hardy was not long before he came down again and, at the captain's suggestion, both he and Harry went below, and armed themselves with pistols. As soon as they came up again, they took their places by Fairclough. The seamen had all gathered aft. The boatswain had cut the lashings holding the spars--that had been sent down from aloft--in their place by the bulwarks. The boats had all been torn from their davits, or smashed; with the exception of the largest cutter, which lay bottom upwards in the middle of the ship, securely lashed to the deck.
"Now, men," the captain said, raising his voice almost to a shout, so that all might hear him, "you have behaved as well as men could do, during this storm; and I have no doubt that you will continue to do so, to the end. Remember that no one is to leave the ship, till I give the order. If you are cool and calm, there is good ground for hope that all may be saved.
"If the mast falls, you who have hatchets run forward at once, and stand in readiness to cut the lanyards; but don't strike until I give the order."
They were now fast approaching the line of surf.
"Let everyone take hold of something," Mr. Fairclough shouted. "If we strike, we are sure to be pooped."
Another minute, and she was close to the breaking waves. Everyone held his breath as, impelled by a great breaker, she dashed into the surf with the swiftness of an arrow. There was a shock, followed by a grating noise, and then the brig slowly came to a standstill.
"Hold on, hold on for your lives!" the captain shouted, as a wave even larger than the last came towering up behind them, in an almost perpendicular wall. It struck the vessel with tremendous force, and swept waist deep along the deck; while the vessel, herself, surged forward. There was another shock, but this time much slighter and, as the next wave carried them on, there was a general cheer from the sailors.
"She has floated, she is through it, hurrah!"
She was, indeed, over the bar.
"There are men in the water," Fairclough shouted. "Get ready to cast ropes to them."
Four men, who had been swept overboard by the rush of water, were rescued; two others were found dead on the deck, having been dashed against the stanchions, or other obstacles.
The brig continued her course, four or five hundred yards farther then, as the banks of the inlet closed in, Fairclough gave orders for the anchors to be let go. Everything had been prepared for this order, and the anchors at once dropped and, as soon as fifty fathoms of chain had been run out, the brig swung round head to wind.
"Muster the men, and see if any are missing."
This was done, and only one, besides three found dead, did not answer to his name. The general opinion was that he had struck against something, as he was swept overboard, and had been killed or disabled; for all who had been seen in the water had been rescued.
"Serve out an allowance of grog, all round, Mr. Eden," Fairclough said, "and tell the cook to get his fire alight, as soon as possible. We shall all be glad of a good meal.
"Well, thank God, everything has ended far better than we could have hoped for!"
Two hours later the crew, having got into dry clothes, were sitting down, enjoying a plentiful allowance of pea soup and salt junk; while the officers were partaking of similar fare, in the cabin. None who saw them there would have dreamt of the long struggle they had been through, and that the ship was well nigh a wreck. It was now late in the afternoon, and Fairclough gave orders that all might turn in, as soon as they liked; except that an anchor watch, of four men, must maintain a sharp lookout, for the natives of the island were bitterly hostile to the whites.
"I don't think there is any real danger," he said to Harry, "or that they will attempt to take the ship. Their habit is, I have heard, to lie in hiding, and to shoot their arrows at any stranger who may land."
They sat chatting, for an hour, after the meal was concluded. Then the conversation flagged, and Fairclough said, presently: "I think that we may as well follow the men's example, and turn in. I can hardly keep my eyes open."
The gale was still blowing strongly, in the morning, though its force had somewhat abated. But inside the bar there was but a slight swell, and the brig rode easily at her anchors; for the wind was now several points west of north, and they were consequently protected by the land.
The work of repairing damages began at once for, owing to the length of the voyage, the stores of provisions and water were beginning to run very short. Two or three buffaloes had been bought, at the village where Harry had landed but, with the exception of some fruit, and the meat sent off by the tumangong, no other fresh food had been obtained, since they sailed from Calcutta. The boat was turned over and launched; and the work of making a new fore-top mast, and overhauling the rigging, proceeded with.
During the day, several of the natives were observed at the edge of the forest by Harry who, having no special work to do, had been asked by Fairclough to keep his eye on the shore, and to ascertain whether they were being watched; as he intended, when the repairs were finished, to see if any spring of fresh water existed in the neighbourhood. He therefore kept a telescope directed on the shore and, soon after daybreak, made out two little men at the edge of the trees.
The natives of the Andaman Islands are among the lowest types of humanity known. Their stature does not exceed five feet and, with their slender limbs and large heads, their appearance is almost that of a deformed people. They use no clothing whatever, plastering their bodies with clay, or mud, to protect the skin from the sun's rays. Animals are scarce on the islands, and the people live chiefly on fish. They carry bows and arrows, and heavy spears; to which, in most cases, are added shields. They inhabit roughly-made arbours, and seldom remain long at any spot; moving about in small communities, according to the abundance or scarcity of food. They use no cooking utensils, and simply prepare their food by placing it on burning embers.
The men first made out soon disappeared but, later on, Harry could see that there were many of them inside the line of forest.
"It is a nuisance," the captain said, when he told him the result of his examination of the shore. "I suppose, in a day or two, we shall have hundreds of them down here. I don't think they will try to interfere with us, as long as we are at work; but they will certainly oppose us, if we attempt to enter the forest, and will effectually prevent our wandering about in search of water. We could only go in a strong body and, even then, might lose a good many lives from their arrows.
"Of course, we should be able to beat them off; but I should be sorry to have to kill a lot of the poor little beggars. One can hardly blame them for their hostility. Naturally, they want to have the place to themselves, and are just as averse to our landing as our forefathers were to Julius Caesar and his Romans.
"Of course they would be, if they only knew it, very much better off by being civil. We have numbers of things that would be invaluable to them. For instance, I would willingly give them a dozen cooking pots, and as many frying pans, if they would let us obtain water peaceably. I suppose that, at some time or other, Malays landed here, and carried off a number of heads; or they may have been shot down by some reckless ruffians of traders, and have so come to view all strangers as deadly enemies. However, so far as I have heard, there is no chance of their being friendly; and native traders say that, of vessels that have been wrecked on the coast, none of the crew ever escaped.
"By the way, I believe that fish are extremely plentiful here. We have a good supply of fishing lines on board, for we generally fish when we are at anchor."
"If you will let me have them, tomorrow," Harry said, "Abdool and I will look after that. I hate having nothing to do and, certainly, fish would be a very agreeable change, after such a long spell of salt meat."
"You shall have them, the first thing in the morning."
Accordingly, the next day the lines were got out; and the Malay interpreter, who knew a great deal more of fishing than did Harry or Abdool, took the matter in hand. The hooks were baited with pieces of meat, or shreds of white or scarlet bunting. The fish bit eagerly, and all three were kept actively employed in drawing them up, and rebaiting the hooks. They were of all sizes, from a quarter of a pound to four or five pounds and, by dinner time, there were enough to furnish an ample meal for all on board.
"I will keep three or four of the men at work, this afternoon," Fairclough said, "and we will have night lines down. We can salt down those we do not eat and, at any rate, we shall not be drawing much on our stores."
By evening the new fore-top mast was in its place. As the heaviest part of the work was now done, orders were given for a boat's crew to start, in the morning, to cruise along the coast and see if any stream ran into it. Mr. Eden was to be in command. The crew were to be well armed, but were not to attempt to effect a landing.
The sea had now calmed down, and the southwest monsoon was blowing steadily.
"You had better go south. The land is much higher there, and there is more likelihood of there being streams. I think you will be able to lie your course or, at any rate, make a long leg and a short one. You are to go, as nearly as you can tell, twenty miles. If you do not meet with a stream by that time, turn back. You will have the wind free, then, and can be back here well before sunset. Of course, if you find fresh water, you will at once return.
"Would you like to go with the boat, Mr. Lindsay?"
"Very much. My hands are so sore, from hauling in the lines, that I am afraid I shall not be able to help in the fishing, tomorrow."
The party started early. It consisted of ten men, the coxswain, the midshipmen, and Harry. The surf was no longer breaking on the bar outside. There was a bright sea, with white-crested waves and, before starting, the captain ordered a reef to be put in the sails.
"She could carry full sail, well enough," he said to Harry, "but there is no occasion for haste; and it is always best to be on the safe side, especially when a middy is in command. Besides, it is just as well to keep dry jackets."
A keg of water and a supply of food, sufficient for two days, were placed on board.
"I expect you will be back by three o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Eden; but it is always well to provide against any accident."
With the sheets hauled tight aft, the cutter was just able to lie her course, outside the line of breakers. In a little over an hour there was a break in the shore, and a stream of some forty feet wide fell into the sea; and a general cheer broke from the sailors, who had been put on allowance for the past week.
"Put her about, coxswain," the midshipman said; "we need go no farther."
"Can't we land, and have a bathe, sir?" the coxswain asked.
"Certainly not. That is the very thing that we mus'n't do. For anything we know, there may be natives about; and some of us might get stuck full of their arrows before we could get out of range. This will be good news, and there will be no longer any need for your being kept on short allowance of water."
At ten o'clock the boat re-entered the inlet, and lowered sail by the side of the brig. "You have been successful, I suppose, by your coming back so soon, Mr. Eden?" the captain said, when they were within easy hail.
"Yes, sir. There is a small stream, about seven miles from here."
"That is very satisfactory. Now you can come on board. There is plenty of work for all hands."
Everyone, indeed, was busy in repairing damages. The carpenters were engaged upon the bulwarks and the stern, which had been much damaged by the wave that had lifted them over the bar. As there were not sufficient planks on board for this work, canvas was utilized for filling up the gaps in the bulwarks; and this, after being nailed to temporary stanchions, was coated with pitch. All hands worked cheerfully. The change of diet already benefited them, and the news that there was plenty of fresh water near enabled the remaining supply to be freely used--a matter of no slight consequence, to men working in the broiling sun.
Two days later the work was finished and, on the following morning, the anchors were weighed and the sails shaken out; and the brig left the inlet that had saved them from destruction and, after sailing out to sea a couple of miles, came about and laid her course for the mouth of the stream.
The fishing had been continued, without intermission. Watches had again been set, and the work of attending to the lines was very welcome, as helping to pass away the four hours of darkness. By the time they left the inlet, a sufficient quantity had been salted down to last the ship's company for a week, without recourse to the salt-meat casks.
The carpenter, with three or four assistants, had patched up the second cutter--the boat that had been least injured. The others had been broken up for firewood, some of the pieces being reserved for the repairs of the cutter.
As soon as the brig reached the mouth of the stream she was anchored, two hundred yards off the shore. The water barrels had already been got up on deck, and some of these were lowered into the first cutter, of which Mr. Hardy took the command. It was not deemed advisable to employ the second boat in bringing water on board as, if heavily laden, the water would force its way in through the hastily-executed repairs. The captain, then, accompanied by Harry and an armed crew, took his place in her; and went ahead of the larger boat into the stream.
It was found to be but three or four feet deep, with a slow current and, for some little distance up, was too brackish to be used. It was not until they entered the line of forest that it was found fresh enough. The men in the first cutter proceeded to fill their casks, while those in the other boat laid in their oars and, musket in hand, watched the forest. In a few minutes the work was done, and the first cutter rowed straight for the brig; while the second cutter followed her, for some distance beyond the trees, and there waited for her return.
"So far, so good," Fairclough said; "but I am afraid that we shall be disturbed, before we have made another trip. No doubt, some of the natives followed the cutter along the shore, yesterday. I don't suppose they recognized what your object was, as you did not enter the stream; but when they saw the brig going the same way this morning, I have no doubt that they set off in this direction. However, with one more boat load we can manage, well enough, until we reach the Hooghly for, with this wind, we shall make a quick run."
In a quarter of an hour the cutter was seen returning and, when it approached them, Fairclough again took the lead. All appeared still in the forest, and the men had just begun to refill the casks, when a shower of arrows fell among the boats.
"Let half your men go on with their work, Mr. Hardy, and the others stand to their arms."
Not a single foe was visible, but the arrows still flew fast from among the trees.
"Open fire!" Fairclough said. "Fire anywhere among the bushes. I don't suppose that we shall hit them, but it may frighten them. They can't know much about firearms."
From both boats a scattering fire of musketry at once opened, the men loading and firing as quickly as they could. The effect was immediate. Arrows still fell, but only occasionally; and evidently shot at random, for but few of them came near the boats.
The men in the first cutter were working energetically, dipping breakers into the water and emptying them into the large casks. In three or four minutes these were filled, and Hardy hailed the captain.
"We are full up, now, sir, both casks and breakers."
"Then retire at once, Mr. Hardy. We will follow you."
As they issued from under the trees, the arrows again fell fast.
"Don't fire," the captain said; "perhaps they may issue out, and then we will give them a lesson--that it is better not to interfere with men who are doing them no harm."
This proved to be the case. No one had been hit by the fire from the boats and, now that the shooting had ceased, the natives, with shouts of triumph, ran out from the forest. There were some hundreds of them.
The captain hailed the boat in front.
"Stop rowing, Mr. Hardy, and open fire on them.
"Now, lads," he went on, to his own crew, "fire steadily, and don't throw away a shot."
[Illustration: The rattle of musketry broke out again.]
As the rattle of musketry broke out again from both boats, many of the natives dropped. The others stopped, at once. A shower of arrows was discharged; and then, as the fire was kept up, they fled back into the woods; and the men, again taking to their oars, rowed out without further molestation to the brig. None of the crew had been killed, but four were wounded by the arrows.
"I hope they are not poisoned," Fairclough said, in a low voice, to Harry. "I don't know whether they use poison, on these islands; but we must hope not. However, we will not frighten them by even hinting at the possibility of such a thing."
Happily, however, no evil symptoms resulted. The wounds were, for the most part slight and, the next day, all were able to return to their duty. The fair weather now set in and, ten days later, the brig dropped anchor in the river, opposite Calcutta.
Harry at once went ashore, and handed to the Governor a full report of what had taken place.
"I have not time to read this rather bulky report of yours, at present, Captain Lindsay," the latter said, with a smile. "Please give me the pith of it, as shortly as possible."
"The island, sir, is well adapted for a trading station; and would, I should think, when the forests are partly cleared away, be a healthy one. I have interviewed the tumangong, who has signed a document agreeing, at any time in the future that it may be desired, to cede either a trading station or the whole island to us. He was greatly pleased with the presents that you sent; and is, I believe, thoroughly in earnest in his desire for a trading station to be established so close to him. The Rajah of Johore has ratified this agreement, and has given his cordial consent for the cession of the island to us.
"It seems that he, himself, is an usurper. The rightful heir is a boy of seven or eight years old, and I think it is possible that, either at the present man's death, or possibly even before that, he may ascend the throne. At present, he and his mother are in the hands of the reigning rajah; but I have promised her that, if we take possession of Singapore, she and her son can find an asylum there, and a small pension for her maintenance; and she, on her part, has promised that she will bring up her son to regard us as his best friends; and that he, if he ascends the throne, shall also ratify the treaty, and will become our warm ally.
"As to the Dutch, the reply of their Governor is with the report, but certainly it is an unfavourable one; and no cooperation, in the work of repressing piracy, can be expected from them."
"I did not expect it, Captain Lindsay; and indeed, as I told you at the time, only sent you to Batavia in order to account for the presence of one of our ships of war in those waters.
"Well, sir, your mission has been, in all respects, most satisfactory. I shall read your report, and give it full consideration, at my leisure. For the present you will remain here, available for any office, military or civil; but at present, at any rate, you will retain your civil employment.
"I will not ask you to dine with me, today, as it is hardly likely that I shall have time to read your report, this afternoon; but I shall be glad if you will do so, tomorrow, and you can then answer any questions that may suggest themselves to me."
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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15
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: Assaye.
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While the Deccan had been torn by civil war, the Government of Bombay had extended their territory. The Nabob of Surat, who had been under their protection, had died; and they had taken the government of the province into their own hands. A civil war having broken out, at Baroda, they had supported one of the rival princes; and had, after a good deal of fighting, placed their candidate on the throne--various districts being assigned to them, in return for their assistance.
Holkar, on hearing of Bajee's arrival at Bassein, placed his brother Amrud on the musnud, and commenced a series of atrocities, in Poona, equal to that which it had suffered at the hands of Ghatgay; respectable inhabitants being robbed and ill treated, many tortured, and some killed, in order to wring from them the treasures that they were supposed to have concealed.
During the months that followed his return to Calcutta, Harry remained attached to the staff of the Marquis of Wellesley--for to this title Lord Mornington had succeeded, during his absence, on the death of his father--and was sent on various missions; among others accompanying the Governor General's brother, the Honorable Henry Wellesley, to the court of Oude. He could now speak Hindustani, as well as Mahratti; and was very useful in acting as an interpreter, and in aiding to carry on the negotiations.
In February, 1803, he was sent by the Governor General to join the force that Major General Wellesley was preparing, in Mysore, to aid Bajee Rao to recover his throne. The treaty that the latter had concluded with the Government, on his arrival at Bassein, was a most advantageous one to the English. In return for their assistance, he agreed that a force of infantry, with guns and European artillerymen, should be stationed within his territories; their maintenance being paid by handing over to the Company a large amount of territory. The two parties were to support each other in case of war, and the Peishwa bound himself not to make aggressions against other states, nor to negotiate with them without the Governor's consent. The Peishwa agreed, also, to abandon the Mahratta claims on Surat, and other districts that had been occupied by the English.
On arriving at General Wellesley's camp, Harry reported himself to that officer for service.
"I am very glad to have you with me, Captain Lindsay. I have frequently heard my brother speak of your services, and your perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and your acquaintance with its people will be of great value to me.
"You know the Peishwa well. Do you think that he will be faithful to the engagement that he has made with us?"
"Certainly not, sir. He has been intriguing, ever since he ascended the musnud. His duplicity is only equalled by his treachery and, as soon as he is restored, in Poona, he will again begin his intrigues with Scindia and the other Mahratta chiefs."
"That is the opinion that I have formed of him, from what I have heard," the general said. "However, the terms of the treaty will render him practically our servant; for we shall maintain a body of troops near Poona, which will effectually prevent any scheme of his from succeeding.
"What course Holkar will take, we cannot say; but the other Mahratta chiefs have all entered into a confederacy against us, and we shall have the forces of Scindia, of the Rajah of Bhopal, the Rajah of Berar, and the Rajah of Kolapoore to deal with."
The partition of Mysore had, indeed, done much to unite the Mahrattas together. The ever-increasing power of the British was a serious source of alarm for, in addition to Mysore, Lord Wellesley had, without a shadow of justification, obtained the control of Oude.
"I am sorry, sir, that the Rajah of Berar has declared against us. I was nearly three months with him; and should, after the news of the capture of Seringapatam, have fallen a victim to the fury of the Mohammedans in the city, had he not taken me under his protection. But at the same time, I have no doubt in my mind that he was ready to join whichever side was victorious."
"You have, then, no good opinion of the Mahrattas, Captain Lindsay?"
"I have met but one honest man among them. Nana Furnuwees was not only an extraordinary man, but devoted his talents wholly to the good of the state. His word could always be relied upon. His life was simple, and his habits frugal. I honoured and esteemed him, greatly."
"Yes, it was owing to you, as my brother told me, that he was released from prison. I was greatly struck with the story, when I heard it; because it showed how much can be accomplished, even by the youngest officer who is active, and enterprising, and ready to act on his own initiative. I saw a copy of Mr. Uhtoff's report of the affair.
"Well, you will be attached to my staff, with no particular duties, at present; but doubtless we shall find plenty for you to do, when we once cross the frontier into the Mahratta country."
Harry found that, in addition to the eight thousand infantry and seventeen hundred cavalry, under the command of General Wellesley, the Nizam's force of eight thousand regular troops and fifteen thousand irregulars were advancing towards the frontier, the whole commanded by Colonel Stephenson. On the 25th of March these forces advanced, and were joined by numerous small Mahratta chiefs in the Peishwa's interest. General Wellesley's army advanced straight on Poona, which was evacuated at once by Holkar's force and, as it was stated that he intended to burn the town, before he retired, the general hastened forward with his cavalry and, on the 20th of April, took possession of the place. Colonel Stephenson, whose cooperation was no longer required, moved north towards the Godavery, to protect the country against the irruptions of Holkar.
Four weeks later Bajee Rao arrived from the coast, and resumed his seat on the musnud amid great rejoicings by the inhabitants; who had suffered terribly, both at the hands of Ghatgay and Holkar.
Scindia, having recovered from the effects of his defeat by Holkar, had returned, crossed the Nerbudda, and encamped on the Nizam's frontier. He was busy preparing for war, in conjunction with the Rajah of Berar; and had even made overtures, to Holkar, to join in opposing the English. Bajee Rao himself, as was afterwards discovered, was also in friendly communication with Scindia.
The Resident at Scindia's court was ordered to leave it, unless that prince retired from his position on the Nizam's frontier. Scindia, when summoned, sent a defiant reply and, as it was now evident that war was impending, General Wellesley was invested with full powers; and Lord Lake, who commanded the army of Hindustan, was ordered to advance to attack the formidable force of French infantry, under Perron, and take possession of Delhi, Agra, and other places held by the Mahrattas. Another attempt was made to persuade Scindia to retire; but evasive answers were returned, and it was not until the 3rd of August that the Resident quitted Scindia, and Wellesley prepared to attack Ahmednuggur.
The possession of this place was of great importance, because it was situated close to the Nizam's frontier, and afforded great facilities for future operations. The town was surrounded by a wall, flanked by towers; and was defended by a number of Arabs, and a battalion of Scindia's regular infantry. These offered a vigorous resistance for, after a breach had been made in the walls, and the troops had entered, they retired; fighting from house to house, and keeping up a heavy fire. However, by nightfall they were driven inside their fort.
A battery of four guns was erected, within four hundred yards of it; and these opened with such effect that the governor surrendered, on being allowed to depart with the garrison and their private property.
On the 24th, General Wellesley crossed the Godavery; Colonel Stephenson moving in the direction of Aurungabad. Scindia and the Rajah of Berar were now within forty miles of him; but they suddenly turned off, as if intending to make a dash for Hyderabad, where the Nizam had expired, three weeks before.
Wellesley followed close after them, and they then turned and took up a position to the north of Julnapoor, a town lying east of Aurungabad. On the 2nd of September, Julnapoor was captured by Colonel Stephenson; who afterwards made a night attack upon Scindia's camp, inflicting considerable loss.
On the 21st the whole Mahratta army, with sixteen battalions of regular infantry, were encamped twenty-two miles north of Julnapoor and, the next day, the army marched against them by two routes; Colonel Stephenson taking the western road, and General Wellesley the eastern.
The next afternoon, when about to halt, General Wellesley learned that the Mahrattas were encamped about six miles from him, on the banks of the Kaitna. He determined to attack them at once, without waiting for Colonel Stephenson; for in another day they would, in all probability, send off their infantry, and begin to carry on a desultory warfare with their horse.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Assaye.]
The general rode on, with his staff and an escort of cavalry, and obtained a view of the Mahratta host from rising ground. They were in the fork formed by the junction of the Kaitna with the Juah. Their right consisted wholly of cavalry, and was protected by the high and rocky bank of the stream; which was, at one or two points, impassable for guns. Their left, consisting of the infantry and artillery, was posted in the village of Assaye, which lay near the fork of the river.
The general determined, at once, to attack at this point. The force under his command consisted of four battalions of Sepoys, and the 74th and 78th Regiments; with the 19th Dragoons, and three regiments of native cavalry--in all, four thousand five hundred men. Opposed to them were ten thousand five hundred disciplined troops, taught and commanded by European officers; Scindia's irregulars, and the infantry of the Rajah of Berar; with a well-appointed train of artillery, of over a hundred guns, and some forty thousand cavalry.
From the position in which the British force arrived they had to march, for some distance, parallel with the river; and exposed to a terrible artillery fire, which created such havoc, especially among the bullocks drawing the guns, that the cavalry could not move forward. The infantry therefore proceeded alone, crossed the Kaitna by a ford; and then, swinging round, advanced against the village. While they were crossing the river, the Mahratta cavalry were brought up from their former position, and took post behind Assaye.
The steadiness with which the little force advanced to the attack, against so immense an army, had already had the effect of shaking the Mahrattas. It seemed to them that their opponents must be conscious that they were invincible. Pouring in a volley, the first British line charged with the bayonet. The Mahratta infantry at once wavered, and then gave way; and fell back on their second line, posted near the Juah.
As the 74th Regiment passed through the village, a body of Mahratta horse charged them; but they were met by the British cavalry, who drove them, with great slaughter, into the river. The second Mahratta line gave way, with scarcely any resistance; and the British cavalry, pressing hotly after them, cut them up terribly. The infantry followed, as quickly as possible.
But suddenly there was a roar of guns, behind them; and the flying Mahrattas at once rallied, and faced their pursuers. As they advanced, the force had captured the Mahrattas' guns; but numbers of the artillerymen had thrown themselves down, lying as if dead. As soon as they saw that the British line was still pressing forward in pursuit, the artillerymen leapt to their feet and, turning the guns, opened fire.
The general at once put himself at the head of the 71st Regiment and the native cavalry and, after a desperate conflict, in which the general had his horse shot under him, succeeded in recapturing the guns. In the meantime, Colonel Maxwell with the cavalry had, again and again, charged the fugitives who had rallied; and succeeded in completely breaking them up, but was himself killed.
The battle had lasted three hours. One thousand five hundred and sixty-six of the British force were killed, or wounded, being rather more than a third of the troops engaged. The enemy left twelve hundred dead on the field of battle, and the country through which they retreated was covered with their wounded. The camp, with a number of bullocks, and a large quantity of military stores and ninety-eight cannon, fell into the hands of the victors.
Scindia, in great alarm, sent an ambassador to the British camp and, after various conferences, a truce was agreed upon between him and the general; the conditions being that Scindia should not approach within forty miles of his frontier, and that the British should not enter his dominions.
On the day after the battle of Assaye, the general sent for Harry.
"Captain Lindsay, I have a mission which you can carry out better than any of my other officers. I wish you to make your way across the country, to inform General Lake of the victory we have won; and to point out that, at present, Scindia is paralysed, and will be unable to send troops to aid his force in the northwest for, should he do so, I shall at once enter his territory.
"Do not run the risk of returning, but tell Lord Lake that my orders are that you shall remain with him. I do not think that we shall have much fighting here though, no doubt, later on, Holkar and the Rajah of Berar will reform their armies and try conclusions with us again; while, on the other side, there is likely to be heavy fighting. You must, of course, travel in disguise, but you are already accustomed to that."
"I will willingly undertake the mission, sir."
"Would you like to take anyone with you?"
"I should be glad if you will give me four troopers, from one of your native cavalry regiments. I shall, of course, ride as a petty chief, but I might be interrupted in small villages, were I alone with only my servant; whereas, if I had four followers, it would appear natural to them, as even the pettiest leader is always accompanied by a party, however small, of horsemen."
"Certainly. I will give orders to the colonel of the 1st Cavalry to choose four well-mounted men, who can speak Mahratti. There are many such in his regiment."
There was no difficulty about disguises, for a large quantity of native clothing had been found in the camp. Harry chose a dress suitable for a native in command of some fifty or sixty men; and the four troopers attired themselves in the garments of native soldiers, which indeed differed in no way from those worn by the peasantry. Harry had packed his uniform in his native saddlebag; and also his cocked hat, after taking out the stiffening so that it would lie flat; and had exchanged his own saddle for that of one of Holkar's horsemen. He advised the men to do the same so that, when they joined Lord Lake, they would be able at once to appear in uniform. There was an abundance of native swords and spears lying where the Mahratta force had been defeated.
Abdool had at once been sent into the village, and had there succeeded in buying some brown dye, used in colouring the clothes; and with this Harry stained his face and hands and, two hours after receiving the order, rode out from camp, followed by Abdool and the four troopers.
He considered that there was but little danger in the journey as, for the greater portion of the distance, he would ride through the dominions of the young Nizam. He would, however, have to pass through the territory of the Rajah of Berar; beyond this, he would enter the country in which the British were already supreme. While in the Nizam's dominions, he experienced no difficulties; the news of the victory of Assaye had already spread, and the inhabitants were relieved of the fears they had been entertaining of a great raid, by Holkar. The passage, therefore, of a petty chief with four followers was regarded with indifference; and indeed, he was generally supposed to be one of the Nizam's irregular cavalry, on his way with some message to Hyderabad.
Still less attention was paid to him in the villages of Berar. Many bodies of the rajah's troops had already passed through, on their way to Nagpore, and they were naturally taken to be some of the fugitives.
They travelled as rapidly as possible. The horses were all inured to long journeys, and they had made from fifty to sixty miles a day. They halted at a village, twenty miles east of Nagpore. Nothing unusual had happened, and Harry had just lain down to sleep, when there was a sound as of people gathering in front of his hut.
He was about to rise, to see what was going on; when the door was opened, and a number of armed villagers at once poured into the room, and he was seized before he had time to leap to his feet. He made no attempt at resistance but, believing that some mistake had been committed, he angrily demanded the reason of this assault.
He was dragged out into the street. As this happened he heard pistol shots and, a moment later, the four troopers rode up.
One of them had remained at the door of the hut, while the others had lain down. Seeing a number of people moving about, he had roused his companions. They had got out of the window at the back of the hut. Here their horses had been picketed and, mounting at once, they rode out, just as a body of men made a rush at the door of their hut. By the use of their pistols and swords they had broken through these and, seeing the crowd in front of the hut that Harry had occupied, they charged without hesitation.
The villagers, unprepared for such an attack, fell back; losing their hold of Harry, and Abdool, whom they had also captured. The latter darted away and, in a few seconds, returned leading the two horses.
"Shall we set the houses alight, before we start, sahib?" one of the troopers asked.
"No; they may rally in a minute or two, and the sooner we are out of it, the better."
He turned and started at once and, as he did so, a dropping fire from matchlocks and guns was opened upon them. The villagers' arms were, however, wholly untrustworthy, and the powder bad. One of the troopers was hit in the arm but, with that exception, they rode out unharmed.
"What does it all mean, Abdool?" Harry asked as, after riding fast for a quarter of a mile, they broke into a slower pace. "Of course, they must in some way have recognized me, for I heard some of them saying, 'Death to the English infidel!'"
"It was through me that they recognized you, sahib," Abdool said. "They seized me before they entered your hut, and tied a bandage round my mouth, to prevent my giving any alarm. As they took me out into the road, one of them said: "'Son of Sheitan, I knew you directly I saw you. You were with that English officer, in Nagpore. Then, when I looked at the head of your party I saw that, though he had changed his dress, and stained his face to the colour of ours, it was the same man who came as an envoy to our rajah, and whose house we attacked. " 'We shall hear what the rajah says to him when we take him to Nagpore.'"
"I understand now, Abdool. I have thought of my own disguise, and that of the troopers; but as you always, except when riding behind me, dress in your native clothes, it seemed to me a matter of course that you would pass without difficulty; and it never occurred to me that you must, during our three months' stay at Nagpore, have become known by sight to most of the people there. It is a bad blunder, and it will be a lesson to me, in future."
Then he turned, and spoke to the troopers.
"You have done well, indeed, tonight," he said, "and I owe it to you that I have escaped, if not death, an imprisonment of months. If I had been taken to Nagpore, and handed over to the rajah, he would doubtless have imprisoned me; but would not have ventured to take my life, for he would have known that the part that he had taken against us would be more readily forgiven, than the murder of a British officer. But I do not think I should have reached the palace. Furious as the people must be at their crushing defeat at Assaye, they would have torn me to pieces, the moment they heard from my captors that I was an Englishman; therefore I feel that you have saved my life.
"How was it that you were not also surprised?"
When he heard how the alarm had been given, and how they had at once mounted and ridden out, just as a party were about to enter the hut, he said: "It was well done, and shows that you are quick fellows, as well as brave. I shall report your conduct when we join the army, and shall myself give you a batta of six months' pay.
"Now, we will ride on for a few miles, and then leave the road and take shelter, till morning, in a wood. The horses have had five hours' rest at the village, and there will be time for them to have as much more, before we mount again.
"It is lucky that you bought some grain for them, this evening, instead of waiting till the morning, so they can have a good feed before starting."
Henceforth they avoided the villages as much as possible, and passed unquestioned until they reached the Hustoo river which, at this point, formed the eastern boundary of Berar. They swam the horses across and, after stopping for a few hours at Dundava, rode on; and continued their journey due north, and crossed the Sone river at Maunpoor, having accomplished a journey of nearly a thousand miles in twenty days.
On arriving there Harry found that General Lake had left, six weeks before, and had encamped at Secundara where, on the 26th of August, despatches had been received from the Governor General, authorizing active operations against Scindia and his allies; and two days later the force halted on the Mahratta frontier, within sight of the mosque at Coel, where Perron was encamped.
Perron, a French officer in Scindia's service, commanded no less than forty-three thousand men, and four hundred and sixty-four guns. About half of these were with Scindia in the Deccan, and the force encamped at Coel numbered about twenty thousand.
Perron, an active and ambitious man, had assumed an almost independent position. A large grant of territory had been given him by Scindia, and in this he ruled with absolute authority and, had it not been for the interposition of the British, it is probable that he would, ere long, have assumed the position of an independent prince. Indeed, his army of partially disciplined men was more than a match for the whole force of Scindia.
At a short distance from Coel was the fortress of Alighur, which was considered to be almost impregnable. It was defended by a triple line of walls and fortifications, so that an enemy entering it would have to advance by a devious route from one gate to another, exposed all the time to a terrible artillery fire. It was almost surrounded by a swamp, and the only approach was along a narrow strip of firm ground, leading to the gate.
Early on the morning of the 29th, the British troops advanced to attack Perron's force; but it at once drew off, although the infantry were supported by twenty thousand horse. Believing that Alighur was impregnable, Perron left a strong force there under one of his officers, named Pedron, and marched with his army towards Agra.
On the 4th of September a storming party, commanded by Colonel Monson, left the British camp; and was accompanied by two batteries, each consisting of four eighteen-pounders. A portion of the defenders was posted on the strip of dry ground, outside the gate, where a battery with three guns had been mounted. Before daybreak, Colonel Monson moved forward, with two companies of the 76th Regiment. The enemy took the alarm before he reached their battery, and fled towards the gate, without waiting to discharge their guns.
Monson pressed after them, in the hope of being able to enter before the gate was shut; but he was too late. The entrance was raked by the guns on the walls, which opened with a destructive fire of grape. Ladders were applied to the walls, but these were manned by so strong a body of pikemen that it was found impossible to gain a footing. So bold were the defenders that, as the soldiers fell back, they ran down the ladders and pursued them hotly; but were soon beaten off.
A six pounder was brought up to burst open the gate, but its fire did but little damage; and a twelve pounder was then employed. The gates yielded, and the storming party rushed in. But during the twenty minutes that had elapsed, between the guns opening fire and the time at which the gate yielded, the troops had been exposed to a terrible fire, both of grape and musketry. Colonel Monson was wounded, and the loss was heavy.
The second gate was forced with comparatively little difficulty, although a terrible fire of artillery and musketry was kept up, from the walls on either side of the road, and from the bastion commanding it. The assailants pressed so hotly, upon the defenders of the second gate, that they gained the third before the enemy had time to close it.
But another and stronger gate had still to be passed, and here a desperate stand was made. The troops were obliged to take shelter, close to the wall, until the twelve pounder was brought up. It was of little avail, for the artillerymen were shot down as soon as they endeavoured to work it. At length, two or three officers gathered a party, and made a rush at the wicket gate. Half a dozen muskets were discharged, together, at the lock; and the gate at once gave way.
The whole party rushed forward into the interior of the fortress, gained the ramparts, and opened fire on the enemy, who in vain attempted to drive out the force gathered near the gate; and Pedron, finding further resistance impossible, surrendered.
The loss of the victors, in killed and wounded, amounted to two hundred and twenty-three; while that of the garrison, in killed alone, exceeded two thousand. An enormous quantity of military stores was found here, the French having made it their chief depot. The number of guns captured was two hundred and eighty-one.
On the 7th of September, the army marched for Delhi. On the way, General Lake received a letter from Monsieur Perron, saying that he had quitted the service of Scindia, and requesting a free passage to Lucknow. The easy capture of a fortress that he and his engineers had rendered, as they believed, impregnable, and the loss of all his military stores, sufficed to show him that he could not hope to withstand the progress of the British; and that it was better for him to resign, at once, than to continue a hopeless struggle, especially as the loss of Alighur would excite the fury of Scindia, and possibly lead to his arrest and execution. He had, indeed, received information that he had already lost Scindia's confidence; and that intrigues were being carried on, with some of his officers, to deprive him of his jagheer and command.
His request was therefore granted and, escorted by a party of his own bodyguard, and by some British dragoons, he proceeded to Lucknow and, afterwards, settled in the neighbourhood of Chandernagore.
The capture of Alighur had indeed made a tremendous impression upon the native mind and, as the army advanced, several fortresses that might have made a long defence were abandoned.
On the 11th, General Lake's army encamped within six miles of Delhi; but the tents were but just pitched when intelligence was received that a large force of the enemy was in position, two miles distant. It consisted of sixteen battalions of regular infantry, six thousand cavalry, and a large train of artillery; commanded by Monsieur Bourquieu, Perron's second in command.
General Lake at once, with the whole of his cavalry, reconnoitred the position that the enemy had taken up. It was two miles from the camp, and consisted of a low hill, covered by broken ground on each flank. Seeing that the enemy could only be attacked in front, General Lake ordered the infantry and artillery to come up.
While waiting for their arrival, the cavalry suffered some loss from the enemy's artillery fire. The general, seeing that it was doubtful whether an attack on so strong a position would be successful, determined to attempt to draw the enemy from it. The cavalry advanced a short distance and then, as the fire upon them redoubled, they were ordered to fall back. Their line had hidden the approach of the infantry from the enemy; and the latter, believing that the cavalry were retreating, left their entrenchments and started in pursuit, with shouts of victory. The cavalry opened right and left, and the enemy found themselves face to face with a steady line of infantry; who at once advanced, the general himself leading them, at the head of the 76th Regiment.
A tremendous fire was opened upon them by the Mahratta guns but, when within a hundred paces of the enemy, the whole line fired a volley, and then charged with the bayonet. The enemy did not stand for a moment but, seized by a panic, fled in all directions, pursued by the cavalry and the horse artillery battery. These followed them as far as the banks of the Jumna, and great numbers of the enemy lost their lives in endeavouring to cross the river.
The British loss, in killed and wounded, was nearly six hundred men; while that of the enemy was estimated at two thousand. Sixty-eight pieces of cannon, two waggons laden with treasure, and thirty-seven with ammunition fell into the hands of the victors who, on the 14th, crossed the Jumna, and took possession of the city without opposition; being welcomed enthusiastically by the population, who had long groaned under the terrible oppression of their Mahratta masters.
Two days later, General Lake paid a visit to the unfortunate emperor, who was now eighty-three years old. He had been blinded by his brutal conquerors, and lived in a state of misery, and poverty, greater than that of any of the tillers of the fields of the wide empire over which he had once ruled. He lived for another three years, and was succeeded by his son, Mirza Akbar.
Leaving a force at Delhi, General Lake marched southward, as the strong town of Agra was still in the possession of Scindia's troops. He arrived before the city on the 4th of October and, in three days, had cut off their communication with the surrounding country; his cavalry being assisted by five thousand horse, sent by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor, who had, as soon as he heard of the fall of Alighur, hastened to enter into an alliance with the British.
The garrison was strong, and seven battalions of Scindia's regular infantry were encamped on the glacis, and held possession of the town. The garrison, however, refused to admit them into the fort; as they had determined to share, among themselves, the large amount of treasure deposited there.
Inside the fort great confusion prevailed. The troops had been commanded by English officers, in Scindia's service, and these had been imprisoned as soon as the war broke out. No answer was, therefore, made to the summons to surrender.
On the morning of the 10th, Scindia's infantry were attacked. They fought stoutly, but were finally defeated, and their twenty-six brass guns captured. Two days later, two thousand five hundred of them, who had retired when defeated, and taken shelter under the guns of the fort, came over in a body and took service with the British.
Siege operations were at once commenced and, on the 17th, a battery of eight eighteen-pounders opened fire, with such effect that a breach was almost effected; when the garrison released the British officers, and sent them to the camp to offer to surrender. They were allowed to do so, and to leave the fort with their clothes, but without arms. Six thousand then marched out under these conditions.
One hundred and sixty-four pieces of cannon, with a vast quantity of ammunition and stores, were found in the fort; together with twenty-two lakhs of rupees, which were divided among the captors.
On the 20th, Harry, with his little party, joined the army. He and his troopers had, at Benares, resumed their uniform. He at once waited on General Lake, and handed him the despatch in which General Wellesley had described the victory at Assaye.
"This is great news, indeed, sir," the general said, "but I cannot understand how you have brought it here so speedily."
"I rode in disguise through Berar, sir, and of course the troopers were also disguised. Except that I was attacked in one village--where I was recognized by a peasant who had seen me, when I was staying as the Governor General's envoy at Nagpore, before the capture of Seringapatam--I got through without difficulty."
"Yes; I heard from the Marquis of Wellesley that the rajah had been kept from declaring against us, by a young officer of great ability, whom he had sent to Nagpore for the purpose, and who narrowly escaped assassination there when the news of the fall of Seringapatam was received. I think he said that you had a perfect knowledge of Mahratti, and also of Hindustani; and that he had sent you to accompany his brother, General Wellesley.
"Well, the news of Assaye is welcome, indeed, and Scindia will be very chary of weakening his army in the Deccan by sending reinforcements in this direction.
"I see, sir, that General Wellesley has begged me to temporarily place you on my staff as, in the present troubled state of the country, it would be dangerous to endeavour to make your way back to him. Of course, I will gladly do so, for your knowledge of the languages will be very useful to me, for none of my staff can speak either of them well."
General Lake sent for the head of his staff, introduced Harry to him, and informed him of the news that he had brought; and then ordered a general salute to be fired, by all the available guns in the fort and artillery batteries. It was not long before the roar of cannon began, telling the army that a splendid victory had been won in the west; and a short time later notices were affixed to the gates of the forts, and other public places, relating how General Wellesley, with but four thousand five hundred men, had routed the army of Holkar and the Rajah of Berar--amounting in all to over fifty thousand, of whom ten thousand five hundred were disciplined troops, commanded by Frenchmen. The news excited the utmost enthusiasm among the troops, as the disproportion of numbers was far greater than it had been at the battle of Delhi.
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{
"id": "20729"
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16
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: A Disastrous Retreat.
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A few days later, the news was received that seven of Scindia's regular battalions had just arrived, from the Deccan, under the command of a French officer; and had been joined by five others, the whole amounting to nine thousand well-trained infantry, with five thousand cavalry and seventy-five guns. As it was understood that they were intending the recapture of Delhi, General Lake marched against them on the 27th of October and, pressing forward with all speed, came up with them on the morning of the 1st of November. They at once retreated; and General Lake, whose infantry was still some distance in the rear, determined to attack them, at once. As they retired, the enemy cut the bank of a large tank and flooded the ground, thereby impeding the advance of the cavalry, and giving time to Scindia's men to take up a strong position between the villages of Laswaree and Mohaulpore.
[Illustration: Plan of the Battle of Laswaree.]
Their right was protected by a deep ravine; their rear by a rivulet; their front was lined with their seventy-five guns, chained together so as to protect the artillerymen from a charge of horse. The ground in front of them was covered with deep grass, which partially concealed their disposition.
The three brigades of cavalry charged boldly up, but were received with a terrible fire, and fell back with much loss and, seeing the impossibility of carrying the enemy's position without infantry, General Lake deferred making another attack until they came up. As soon as these and the artillery reached the spot, he prepared for an assault.
The Mahrattas had, in the meantime, changed their position; and drawn up one line in front and one in rear of the village of Mohaulpore. The French officer who had been in command of their army had, two days before, left their camp and ridden to meet General Lake's army; and had there surrendered, and a Mahratta officer had succeeded him in command. Shaken by the repeated successes of the British, he now offered to surrender his guns. An hour was given him to do so but, as no movement was made at the end of that time, orders were given for the advance.
The infantry consisted of the 76th Regiment and six battalions of Sepoys. One of the three brigades of cavalry was directed to support them; another was sent to the right to watch the enemy, and to take advantage of any confusion that might appear among them; the third brigade formed the reserve. The four batteries of artillery were to support the attack. General Lake's plan was to turn the enemy's right flank, and he moved off his infantry along the bank of a rivulet which ran round near the right angle of the enemy's new position. The high grass, for a time, concealed the movement but, as soon as the Mahrattas perceived it they threw back their right flank, and opened a tremendous fire upon the village.
The British artillery now opened, but the enemy's cannon were far superior in number, and were well served; and the ranks of the 76th, who were in front of the advance, were terribly thinned. The general was with them and, as soon as a battalion and a half of Sepoys had come up, led them against the enemy's position.
The latter now opened with canister and, the ground being of a broken character, the formation of the assailants' line was to some extent disordered and the Mahratta cavalry charged. They were repulsed by heavy volleys from the infantry, but they rallied and, being reinforced, were about to resume the attack, when the general ordered the 29th Dragoons to charge. They burst through both lines of the enemy's infantry, wheeled round and charged the cavalry, and drove them from the field; and then turning again, fell on the rear of the second line, which was now hotly engaged with the British infantry who, following the Dragoons at the double, had rushed forward on the guns, captured them, and driven the first line back on the second.
The rest of the British infantry had now come up; but Perron's regular infantry, who were all drawn from hill districts, and had been victorious in many a fight, resisted to the last. Two thousand were surrounded and made prisoners, but the rest all fought until they fell.
The victory of Laswaree cost the British eight hundred and twenty-four men, killed and wounded; but it completed the overthrow of the whole of the regiments trained by Perron and de Boigne, and laid the tract of country watered by the Jumna under the power of the British.
Harry, who had accompanied the general, having carried the order to the Dragoons to charge, rode with them and came unhurt out of the desperate fight.
A few days later the army quitted Laswaree and moved towards Agra, resting for a fortnight at Besawur. The great successes gained by both the British armies had had their effect, and a number of rajahs came in to make a treaty of alliance. General Lake's force, after a short rest, then marched southward, and took up a position at Biana.
While these events had been going on, a detachment from the army had entered Bundelcund. This had been under the control of the Peishwa but, by an agreement made with him in August, it was ceded to the Company; he receiving, in exchange, grants in the southern Mahratta country, and near Surat. He sent orders to this effect to his officers.
Shamsheer, a descendant of the first Peishwa, refused to obey him; and the British force entered Bundelcund and, being joined by a powerful chief--with eight thousand irregular infantry, four thousand horse, and three regular battalions of infantry, commanded by a European officer--captured several strongholds. Shamsheer then treated for peace but, after having delayed the advance for two months, finally broke off negotiations, suddenly; and the British at once laid siege to Calpee, which capitulated on the 4th of December. Finding himself unable to resist the farther advance of the British, Shamsheer then surrendered.
In October, Ambajee Inglia, who had acted as Scindia's representative and held, under him, extensive territories, had offered to renounce his dependence on Scindia, and become a tributary of the British. Negotiations were, as usual, spun out to a great length; but a treaty was concluded with him, on the 16th of December, by which he agreed to surrender Gwalior and the lands to the north of it, and to remain as an independent sovereign of the other territories in his possession.
A corps, under Colonel White, was sent to take possession of the fortress. The commandant refused to recognize the arrangement but, upon batteries being erected, a breach was soon effected, and the garrison surrendered.
The news came that Scindia had broken his treaty, and had been defeated with great slaughter by General Wellesley, who afterwards besieged the strong fortress of Gawilghur. Guns were brought up, with great difficulty, over thirty miles of mountains and ravines. They opened fire on the 13th of December and, as soon as a breach was practicable, the place was carried by storm, and a large quantity of guns and ammunition fell into the hands of the British.
The Rajah of Berar, terrified at the defeat of Scindia, now sent to ask for peace, and ceded the district of Cuttack; thereby placing the whole of the maritime provinces, between Madras and Calcutta, in the hands of the British. Scindia, finding himself forsaken by his ally, also made peace, surrendering a considerable portion of his territories.
1804 opened quietly, but peace was not long maintained. Holkar had, after his expulsion from Poona, made peace with Scindia and, when hostilities commenced, had waited to see the result before committing himself. At first he viewed with satisfaction the misfortunes that had befallen Scindia and the Rajah of Berar but, when he saw that they were threatened with annihilation, he prepared to aid them. He had, however, delayed too long and, when Scindia and the Rajah of Berar had been obliged to crave for peace, he kept his army on the frontier of the Rajah of Jaipore, now a British ally.
General Lake addressed a letter to him, saying that the British Government were willing to leave him unmolested; but requiring, as a pledge of his good intentions, that he should withdraw into his own territory. Holkar sent back a long list of demands, which were impossible to satisfy; and also addressed a letter to General--now Sir Arthur--Wellesley, threatening to overrun the whole country, unless some of the districts in the Deccan were ceded to him and, after sending off this letter, he began raiding the territory of Jaipore. Colonel Murray was therefore sent to aid the rajah, and to march in the direction of Holkar's capital; while Lord Lake marched westward, until he neared Jaipore.
On the 15th of May a detachment captured the strong fort of Rampoora, the sole fortress which Holkar possessed north of the Chumbul river; and Holkar immediately fell back. The heat being now intense, the general left Colonel Monson, with five battalions of Sepoys and three thousand irregular horse, sent by Rajpoot allies, and returned to Agra, losing numbers of his men on the march, by sunstroke.
Harry had been left with Colonel Monson. The latter, intending to cooperate with Colonel Murray, entered Holkar's territory and, on the way, captured a strong hill fort. He afterwards advanced fifty miles beyond the range of mountains that formed the frontier.
On the 7th of July he heard that Holkar was advancing, with his whole army, to meet him. Monson's force was much weakened by the absence of two detachments, one of which had garrisoned the hill fort that had been captured, and another had gone to fetch a supply of grain. Almost at the same time he heard a report that Colonel Murray intended to fall back.
After consulting with Harry, who, as one of Lord Lake's staff, was considered as his special representative, it was agreed that it would be madness, with so small a force, to give battle to Holkar and, at four in the morning on the following day, Monson sent off his baggage and stores; and remained, with his troops drawn up in order of battle, until nine o'clock; leaving the irregular cavalry, under Lieutenant Lucan, to follow in half an hour, and bring him intelligence of Holkar's movements.
Monson marched twelve miles when a trooper of the irregular cavalry overtook him, with the news that they had been completely defeated by Holkar's army, and that Lucan had been made prisoner. The retreat was continued, and the force reached the pass across the mountains on the evening of the following day, and took up a position there. Holkar's cavalry appeared next morning and, on the 11th, Holkar himself arrived and sent in a demand for the surrender of the cannon and muskets. This was refused, and Holkar, dividing his horse into three bodies, charged the detachment vigorously in front and both flanks; but the defenders again and again repulsed the attack. Holkar then drew off about four miles, and was joined by the artillery and infantry.
"What is your opinion, Captain Lindsay?" Colonel Monson said.
"If we had a regiment of British infantry with us, sir, I should say that we might attack them, with success; but with only four battalions of Sepoys, it seems to me that a retreat would be the better choice of two evils. We shall undoubtedly suffer heavily. The rain is pouring down unceasingly, and I doubt whether we shall be able to get the guns along; but we ought to be able to march as fast as Holkar's infantry and, as to his cavalry, we can certainly beat them off."
Two long marches were made. The enemy's cavalry swarmed round them, but dared not attack; and the force arrived safely at Kotah, where they expected to find food and shelter. The rajah, however, closed the gates and refused to admit them; and the force pressed on towards a ford on the Chumbul. The distance was only seven miles but, from the incessant rain and the state of the road, a whole day was spent in accomplishing it.
The ford was impassable, but during the night it subsided a little, and they were able to cross. A day's halt was necessary, in order to procure some grain; and on the 15th, when the march was continued, the guns sank so deep in the mud that they could not be extricated, and they were therefore spiked and abandoned.
Two days later the force reached another river, but it was so swollen that it was unfordable. The artillerymen were sent across, on elephants; but ten days were spent in carrying the rest of the troops over, partly on elephants and partly on rafts. Terrible privation was suffered, and many men were drowned in crossing; while the wives and children of the Sepoys who, by some gross mismanagement, were left to the last, were slaughtered by the enemy under the eyes of their husbands and fathers.
On the 29th the corps reached Rampoora; where a reinforcement of two battalions of Sepoys, six guns, and a body of cavalry, together with a supply of grain forwarded by Lord Lake from Agra, awaited them. Notwithstanding this reinforcement, Colonel Monson considered it his duty to continue his retreat and, on the 22nd of August, reached the Banass, which was also in flood. Some boats, however, were found, and a portion of the troops were carried across.
Early the next morning Holkar's cavalry appeared, and encamped at a distance of four miles. The next day the river was fordable, and most of the baggage and four battalions crossed. The enemy's cavalry also crossed in great numbers, both to the right and left of the British position.
Their artillery and infantry arrived in the afternoon, and opened fire on the battalions still left on the bank. Harry was with these. Seeing that they were being decimated by the guns, he called upon the Sepoys to charge. This they did with great spirit, drove back the enemy, and captured some of the guns; but the Mahrattas soon rallied and, led by Holkar himself, charged in such overwhelming numbers that the handful of troops was nearly annihilated. Harry, seeing that all was lost, cut his way through the enemy's horse and succeeded in crossing the river.
[Illustration: Harry succeeded in crossing the river.]
Colonel Monson continued his retreat, and reached Kooshalpur on the night of the 25th. He found that the native officer in command there had declared for Holkar; but that the fort, which contained the elephants and baggage, still held out. That evening Monson learnt that some of his Sepoy officers were in communication with Holkar; and two companies, and a large portion of the native cavalry deserted.
The whole of the enemy's cavalry now encamped round the detachment. At seven in the evening Colonel Monson continued his march, forming his troops into an oblong, which the enemy in vain attempted to break. On the night of the 27th, after halting for a few hours, he moved again, at one in the morning; but had no sooner cleared the broken ground than the enemy's cavalry made a desperate charge. This was repulsed with great coolness, the Sepoys reserving their fire till the enemy were within bayonet reach.
At sunset the troops, worn out by fatigue and hunger, arrived at the Biana pass; but the enemy brought up their guns, and the retreat was continued. The confusion in the ranks, which had been increasing all day, now extended; and the troops broke and fled to Agra, pursued by straggling parties of the enemy for the greater portion of the distance.
In consequence of this disastrous affair, it was decided that Lord Lake should immediately take the field; although the wet weather still continued, and a large tract of country was under water. Four weeks after the arrival of Monson, with his fugitives, the army marched out of their cantonment, and encamped on the right bank of the river.
The situation was critical. Holkar's army numbered ninety-two thousand men, of whom sixty-six thousand were cavalry, and he had with him ninety-two cannon. He had advanced to Muttra, which had been abandoned at his approach.
Lord Lake sent for Harry.
"I have another dangerous mission for you, Captain Lindsay. I consider it more than possible that Holkar will make an attempt to recapture Delhi. Colonel Ochterlony, in command there, must be warned of the probability of an attack. He may be in ignorance of what is passing here. You will bear this despatch, urging on him to do all that he can to place the town in a state of defence, and to summon to his assistance as many irregulars as possible from the neighbouring chiefs. The distance is a hundred and twenty miles. I leave it to you whether to go in uniform, or in disguise."
"I think, sir, that I had better disguise myself as, doubtless, Holkar's cavalry are spread all over the country intent on plundering and, should I fall in with them, I ought to have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of themselves. I will leave my uniform here, to be brought on with the baggage. They might take it into their heads to search my saddlebags."
"I think that would be the wisest plan," the general said. "You will, of course, remain at Delhi till reinforcements arrive there. The despatches will be ready for you, in an hour's time."
There was no difficulty in obtaining dye at Agra, and Harry stained himself from head to foot, put on the disguise in which he had ridden with the news of Assaye and, after receiving the despatch, started at once. The direct road lay through Muttra but, as Holkar's main body was at this town, he rode to the northeast as far as Secundara. There was no occasion for any great haste, for it was certain that some little time must elapse before Holkar could march from Muttra; and he accordingly stopped for the night at Coringunga, having ridden about fifty miles. He speedily secured a room, and Abdool at once set to, to prepare a meal. While it was being cooked, there was a sound of a body of horse entering the village.
"It is unfortunate that we have stopped here, Abdool," he said. "We are sure to be questioned."
Ten minutes later the door opened, and an officer of Holkar's irregular horse entered.
"I hear that you have just arrived," he said.
"Yes; I rode in but half an hour ago."
"Where are you going?"
"To Sambol. There seems no chance of fighting, at present; and I therefore left the army to pay a visit, for a day or two, to some friends. My man has just prepared a meal. Will you share it with me?"
"I will, with pleasure," the officer said, "for I have ridden from Muttra, and may have to wait an hour before my supper is ready for me. What may be your name?"
"Puntojee. And yours?"
"Wisnas."
The officer unbuckled his sword, and seated himself on the ground, the room being entirely unfurnished.
"Were you in that affair, when we chased the English dogs from beyond the mountains to Agra?"
"Yes, I was in it; and never wish to campaign in such weather again. I was wet through for three weeks; and hardly feel that I have got dry, yet."
"They are brave fellows, those Sepoys in the English service."
"They are, indeed," Harry agreed. "It seemed that we must destroy them; and yet they withstood our attacks, weary and exhausted as they must have been. The worst of it was that, after all our exertions, there was no booty to be obtained."
"Yes, that was bad. One doesn't feel so disposed to risk one's life, when there is nothing to be gained. We did not even succeed in capturing their treasure chest. If we could have brought our infantry up, we should have destroyed them; but they had to march at the same rate as the guns; and in such weather they could get along but slowly, for it often required the bullocks of four guns to drag one through those quagmires.
"That was where the English had the advantage over us. The road was, no doubt, bad enough for them; it was infinitely worse for us, after they had cut it up in passing.
"It was a mistake when Scindia began to form regiments of infantry, and Holkar and the Peishwa imitated him. Before that, we had India at our mercy. What power could withstand a hundred thousand horsemen, here today, there tomorrow? Then, we had it in our power to waste all the country, and to starve out the fortresses from Cuttack to the north. Our territory extended from the great mountains on the east, to the sea in the west.
"Now we can only move at the pace of footmen; and while, formerly, no infantry would venture to withstand our charge; now, as you see, a handful of Sepoys set us at defiance, repulsed our charges, and gained Agra simply because our guns and infantry could not arrive to help us."
"There can be no doubt that you are right," Harry agreed; "but I cannot blame Scindia and Holkar for forming regiments of infantry, trained by foreign officers. They had seen how the regiments so raised, by the English, had won great victories in the Carnatic and Bengal; and they did not think at that time that, ere long, they might become formidable to the Mahrattas. Scindia and Holkar raised their regiments, not to fight against the strangers, but against each other. It was their mutual hostility that so diminished the strength of the Mahrattas. When dogs fight dogs, the wild boar ravages the land."
"It is true enough," the other said. "As a nation we might have ruled Asia but, divided among ourselves, wasting our forces against each other, we have allowed the stranger to wrest province after province from us.
"Now, I will go out and see that the men have all got quarters, and that the people of the village are feeding them, as they should. In truth, we have been having a bad time, lately."
"Yes, indeed; I thought myself lucky, sometimes, to get a handful of grain after twenty hours in the saddle.
"It cannot be helped, comrade. We must drive the strangers back towards Allahabad; recover Benares, Agra, and Delhi; and then we shall be able to rest in peace, for a time, before we settle accounts with Scindia, and the others who have made a disgraceful peace with the English. We shall never have peace in the Deccan till we sack and destroy Bombay, and force the last Englishman to take to his ships."
Harry started with Abdool before daybreak the next morning and, riding all day, reached Delhi late in the evening. Putting up the horses, he proceeded to the house occupied by Colonel Ochterlony, the Resident.
"Will you tell the colonel," he said, "that I am an officer with despatches from General Lake?"
He was at once shown in. Colonel Burns, the commander of the garrison, was with the Resident. Neither was surprised that the messenger should be a native, for they knew the difficulties a British officer would encounter in travelling from Agra.
"I have ridden with a despatch for you, Colonel, from General Lake. I am Captain Lindsay, and have the honour of serving on the general's staff."
"I am glad to see you, sir," Ochterlony said, kindly. "Your name is pretty well known, to all of us, as that of an officer who has successfully carried out several dangerous enterprises; and this cannot have been one of the most dangerous of them, for indeed, in that disguise I do not think that anyone would entertain the slightest suspicion that you are not what you appear to be.
"I am told you speak Mahratta perfectly."
"I was brought up among the Mahrattas, sir. I have got through easily, and only once came upon a body of Holkar's cavalry."
"You have just arrived, Captain Lindsay?"
"Yes, not ten minutes ago."
The colonel rang the bell, and directed a servant who came in to bring in wine and refreshments. He then opened the despatches which, after reading, he passed across to Colonel Burns.
"Of course, we have heard reports of the disaster to Monson's force. Was it as serious as they say?"
"It was very serious, sir. I was with them, and they suffered terribly. They lost their guns and baggage, and at least a third of their infantry."
"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate, Captain Lindsay. We have had so many victories, of late, that the natives must have almost concluded that we were invincible; but this check will encourage them, and will doubtless bring many waverers over to their side."
"I don't think that it was, in any way, Colonel Monson's fault. His column was to join that of Colonel Murray--who, however, doubtless learning the great strength Holkar had with him, fell back--and with only five battalions of Sepoys, and a dozen guns, it was practically impossible that Monson could, single handed, resist the attack of ninety thousand men. If he had had with him a couple of British battalions, and a regiment or two of our cavalry, he might have held the passes but, alone, it did not seem to me possible that he could do so; especially when the enemy's cavalry could have crossed the hills at other points, and taken them in the rear. Even if he had resisted all attacks, he must have been starved out.
"As being, in a sort of way, representative of General Lake, Colonel Monson was good enough to ask my opinion; and I quite agreed with him that the best plan was to fall back. We believed, of course, that we should find shelter at Kotah, but two days' march in the rear and, had not the rajah declared for Holkar, and shut his gates, all would have been well; for we beat off all attacks, on our way there. It was his treachery, and that of the commandant of Kooshalpur, that caused the disaster."
"Holkar is at Muttra, and Lake is about to march against him?"
"Yes, sir. If Holkar gives battle there he will, no doubt, be defeated but, as this despatch will have informed you, General Lake feared much that, as he advances, Holkar will content himself with harassing him on the march with a cloud of horsemen while, with the main body of his army, he marches rapidly north, to endeavour to recapture Delhi and obtain possession of the Emperor's person. It is to warn you of that danger that I have ridden here."
"The danger is, no doubt, serious," the Resident said; "and the town is certainly in no position for defence. The walls are in a most dilapidated condition, and would crumble after a few hours' cannonade. Colonel Burns's force is wholly inadequate to defend a city of some ten miles in circumference. The irregular troops cannot be relied upon, in case of need. However, we must do what we can and, as we may be sure that General Lake will hasten on with all speed, we shall not have to hold out for many days.
"Now, Captain Lindsay, as you say that you only left Agra yesterday morning, and have ridden some eighty miles, today, I am sure you have need of rest. The general has told me to employ you on any duty that I may think requisite; therefore, if you will come here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I shall be glad, indeed, of your services. Where did you leave your horses?"
"I left them at a khan, a few minutes' walk from here."
"Then if you will go down, and tell your man to bring them up, they can be put up in the stables here. I have already ordered a room to be prepared for you. My servants will give your man some food."
The next morning Harry, after taking the early breakfast a servant brought to his room, went down to Colonel Ochterlony's office.
"I have not brought my uniform with me, Colonel," he said, "for I might have been searched."
"That does not matter. Two of my escort shall ride with you, which will be sufficient to show that you represent me. Here is a list of the zemindars within fifteen miles of the city. You will, today, visit as many of them as possible, and request them to ride in to see me, tomorrow morning. I have directed that you are to have one of my horses for, after the work yours has just had, it will need two or three days' rest.
"Say nothing about the possibility of Holkar's coming here. They might hang back, if you did so. I would rather meet them as a body, and open the matter to them, myself. You will be able to see, by their manner, if any of them have thought of the possibility of the city being besieged. If they have, some of them will possibly excuse themselves coming; though I think that the great majority will come, for they must know well enough that, if Holkar took the city, his troops would ravage the country, as they have done all the villages through which they have passed; and that, therefore, it is to their interest to aid in its defence.
"I am going now to see the Emperor, and to obtain from him an order for all the able-bodied men of the city to set to work, under my orders and those of Colonel Burns, to repair the fortifications at the points where an enemy would naturally attack them.
"In any case, where you see that those you call upon make excuses for not coming in, you have my full authority for telling them that all who do not do so will be regarded as our enemies, and will be severely punished, and their estates forfeited. No excuse, whatever, will be accepted unless, on your arrival, you find that a man is seriously ill; in which case you will order that his son, or some near relation, be sent to represent him."
For the next three days, Harry spent his whole time on horseback and, although it was evident to him that several of those he visited were averse to going into Delhi, none of them ventured to incur the displeasure of the English Resident by an absolute refusal. Each morning, therefore, Colonel Ochterlony received those Harry had visited on the previous day. He told them, frankly, that it was possible that Holkar might appear before the walls; but assured them that he had no doubt of being able to resist all attacks, until General Lake arrived, which he would be sure to do in a few days.
In the meantime, great numbers of men laboured at the walls. The battlements had in some cases fallen, and the gaps were filled up with sandbags. The moat, which had been neglected for many years, was cleared out; and the side made steeper, so that an attacking party would have to use ladders, both for descending into it and climbing out. The bastions were repaired, as far as could be done; and the houses in the lane that ran round, inside the wall, were all loopholed for musketry.
Many of the irregular cavalry had deserted; but the Sepoys stood firm, knowing how terrible were the cruelties perpetrated, by Holkar, on all who fell into his hands. Their number was small; but they were, to some extent, strengthened by the levies brought in by the zemindars.
There was no time to be lost for, on the 2nd of September, General Lake had approached to within a mile of Muttra; which had already been abandoned by Holkar, whose horsemen made their appearance before Delhi on the 7th. The irregular cavalry and those of the zemindars were ordered to attack them but, as soon as they left the town, they dispersed and rode away.
The next day the enemy's infantry and artillery came up, and a heavy fire was immediately opened on the southeast angle of the city wall. In twenty-four hours the whole of the parapet was demolished, and some partial breaches made in the wall itself. The Sepoys, encouraged by the presence and efforts of Ochterlony and Burns, stood their ground with great courage and, at nightfall, laboured incessantly at repairing the breaches, and in making a new parapet with sandbags.
Towards morning they formed up; passed out through one of the breaches, led by their officers; made a rush at the battery that had been doing so much damage, bayoneted or drove off the enemy stationed there, and spiked the guns.
In the meantime, some guns had been playing against the southern walls. Here they were able to approach, through gardens and the ruins of a village, until near the defences and, establishing a powerful battery, opened fire, and soon made a breach in the walls between the Turkoman and Ajmere gates.
Unable to hinder them the Sepoys, aided by a portion of the population, worked from the morning of the 10th until that of the 12th to form an inner defence. The houses near the breach were pulled down, and the materials used for forming strong barricades at the mouths of the streets leading from it. The houses themselves were loopholed, and everything was prepared for a desperate defence. During that day the guns continued to enlarge the breach; and the Sepoys, who had laboured almost incessantly for four nights and days, were able to lie down for some hours.
That night passed quietly. Holkar had probably heard, from adherents in the town, of the retrenchment that had been formed; and Colonel Ochterlony believed that the absence of any movement towards the breach was a sign that he was making preparations for a sudden attack at some other point. Sentries were placed along the walls facing the encampment of his army and, just before dawn, the discharge of a musket, at the Lahore gate, showed that it was against it that the enemy's attack was directed.
The Sepoys had been bivouacked in an open space, in the centre of the city, and they at once proceeded to the point threatened. In the dim early morning light, a great mass of men could be made out approaching and, at the same moment, fifty guns opened fire on the gate, to cover their advance. The cannon on the bastion by the gate replied, directing their fire on the infantry column. These, however, pushed forward with loud shouts. Many of them carried ladders and, although suffering heavily from the musketry fire--opened as soon as they came within easy range--they placed the ladders against the wall, and strove to climb them. The face of the wall was flanked by the bastion and, from this, an incessant fire of musketry was maintained by a strong force of Sepoys; while others repulsed, with the bayonet, the efforts of their assailants to gain a footing, and hurled backwards many of the ladders. Holkar's men, who had expected to effect a surprise, and carry the wall before its defenders could arrive there, soon lost heart and in a short time fled, leaving most of their ladders behind them.
The little garrison remained under arms all that day and the next night, expecting another assault. But, on the morning of the 15th, Holkar and his army were seen marching away in the distance and, on the 18th, Lord Lake arrived.
Harry had not taken part in the defence of Delhi. He had, on the day before Holkar's army arrived before the city, ridden out to Sekerah, some five-and-twenty miles away. It was some distance beyond any point he had hitherto reached; but the petty rajah, who held a wide jagheer, could put five hundred men in the field. A small British force had been stationed there; but it had been recalled, at once, when Harry brought the news of the probable approach of Holkar. The rajah then promised to send three hundred of his troops, to aid in the defence of the city; but none had arrived, and Harry's mission was to urge him to send them off, instantly.
The rajah had, however, heard that Holkar's force was within a day's march of the capital and, entertaining no doubt that he would carry the feeble defences without difficulty, had resolved to throw in his lot with him. Harry was now riding in uniform, having obtained the loan of a jacket, trousers, and cap from one of the British officers of the garrison. The rajah received him in his palace; and Harry saw at once, by the scowling faces of the men who gathered round him, that he had only waited for the news that Holkar's army was near Delhi before throwing off the mask of friendship.
"I have come over, Rajah," he said, "to tell you that Colonel Ochterlony requests that you will send every available fighting man to Delhi, at once. He prays you to despatch as many as you can possibly gather together."
The rajah replied coldly: "Why should I do so? By tomorrow night Holkar, with his great army, will have captured the town. Why should I send my men there to die, fighting for strangers? I take no orders from them. I have received the Emperor's, it is true; but he is old and infirm, and is a prisoner in your hands."
"I deny that he is a prisoner, Rajah. He is treated with all honour, and is in a very different position from that which he occupied when he was imprisoned by the Mahrattas."
"The Mahrattas are a great people," the rajah answered, angrily. "Has not Holkar driven a force of the infidels into Agra? And soon, when he has captured Delhi, he will defeat the rest of them, and carry his arms to Benares."
"In that case," Harry said quietly, "it is a pity that he did not first crush the English army, and then march to Benares, and finish with Delhi at his leisure. Instead of so doing he has avoided a battle, and is retiring north with his army."
"It is not true!" the rajah shouted. "He wishes first to gain possession of the capital, to liberate the Emperor and, after that, he will soon make an end of your people."
He made a sign to those standing round him, who immediately threw themselves upon Harry. The latter offered no resistance, seeing that it would only lead to his being killed, on the spot.
He was at once dragged out from the audience chamber to the courtyard beyond. He saw the bodies of the two native troopers who had accompanied him. Abdool, who had also been with him, was missing and, knowing how watchful and active he was, he hoped that he might have mounted and ridden off, before he could be attacked.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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17
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: An Escape.
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Harry's arms were at once bound. He was placed on a horse and, escorted by ten natives, was taken out of the town and, after a ride of three hours, arrived at the foot of a strong hill fort, perched on a lofty rock. Here the party dismounted. Halfway up the hill they passed through a gate in the lower wall; and then mounted to the fort, where the officer in command received them and, on reading an order from the rajah, conducted the prisoner into a room at the summit of the highest tower. His arms were then unbound, and the governor and soldiers left the room, locking and barring the door behind them.
On the way, Harry had thought over his position. It did not seem to him desperate, if only Holkar failed to capture Delhi; and even if he did so, there was still some hope. He had no doubt that the rajah was waiting to see how matters went. If Holkar captured the city, he would probably send him in to him as a pledge of his goodwill; but he might still hesitate, until he saw the issue of the battle that was likely to be fought outside the walls, when the English army arrived there. He had hitherto affected friendship with the English; and had offered no objection, whatever, to the small force being stationed near his town. But, doubtless, the news of the disaster to Colonel Monson's force had shaken him; and convinced him that the English were not invincible, and that Holkar's immense army would inflict a decisive defeat upon them, in which case those who had shown any friendly feeling towards the English would be made to suffer for it--by devastation of their lands, and the loss of their jagheer, if not of their lives. Harry felt, therefore, that the success of the attack on Delhi would probably be as disastrous, to himself, as to all the defenders of the city.
His first impulse was to look out from the loopholes of the tower. On the one side, as he had noticed, the rock fell sheer away from the foot of the wall, to a depth of two or three hundred feet. On the other side he looked down into a courtyard, sixty feet below him. This was surrounded by high and very strong walls, bristling with cannon; and with strong circular bastions at each corner.
Immediately below him was the flat roof of the house occupied by the rajah, when staying at the fort; and round the yard were low buildings, doubtless containing provisions and munitions of war; and some of them allotted to the picked corps who did duty there, the huts for the rest of the garrison being lower down the hill, near the second wall.
In one corner of the room was a door. On trying it, he found it to be unfastened and, opening it, he walked out. There was a flight of narrow stone steps, in what was evidently a projecting turret. Ascending these, he found himself on a flat roof, on the top of the tower. He spent half an hour here, examining carefully the features of the ground and the defences of the fort. The place, though strong, did not approach, in this respect, many of the hill forts that he had seen in the Deccan; and he concluded that a British force of moderate strength could easily effect its capture though, if stoutly held, it could defy native attack.
He then returned to the room below. Half an hour later, some armed natives entered. One of them carried a large bundle of straw, which he threw down in one corner; another bore a dish of rice, and a third a skin of water. They had evidently been told not to address him for, as soon as they had placed their burdens on the ground, they retired without any remark.
"This is bad," Harry said to himself, when they had left. "I would just as lief sleep on straw as on a bed but, if I had had some blankets, I might have made myself a rope; though I don't think it would have reached the roof of the house below, much less to the courtyard, so that idea must be given up. I have heard of fellows working their way through the floors of their cells; but they have taken away my knife, and there is not a scrap of furniture from which I could get some iron to manufacture a tool. There is no concealing a knife, when they bring my food; for it is sure to be as it is today--rice, or some other grain, boiled, and not even a spoon to eat it with.
"The door seems the only possible way though, at present, I cannot see where the possibility comes in. It is of solid wood, and strong enough to cage a tiger. Still, if I am to get out, I fancy that it must be through the door."
A closer examination of it did not increase his hopes. Even when he pushed his hardest against it, it did not yield in the slightest degree. He sat down on the straw, and turned over every possible idea in his mind. No scheme of getting out of the difficulty presented itself.
"The only chance that I can see is that, instead of four fellows coming up with the man who brings my food, there may be only two. Taking them by surprise, and snatching a weapon from them, I might manage three of them; but I could not even hope to silence five, before they gave the alarm.
"I hope that Abdool got away safely. I think that if he did, he was likely, when he had once shaken off pursuit, to come back and try to find out what had become of me. His face could not have been particularly noticed, for I expect the troopers were attacked as soon as I entered that scoundrel's house; and if he took off his uniform, and went in in native dress, there would be little chance of his being recognized. When he finds out where I have been taken, he will no doubt go back to Delhi, and report; but with Holkar within two miles, they have too much on their hands to think of sending to demand my release. If Holkar fails to take the place, and retires as Lake approaches, there will no doubt be a hot pursuit; and certainly they could not send two or three hundred men here. Less than that would be of no good, whatever. The rajah has committed himself, by the murder of my troopers and, as he cannot hope for forgiveness, he would either fly to Oude, or else move in here with his force, with which he would think himself safe from anything short of an army.
"It is certain that, with such important work on hand, no men can be spared for a rescue expedition. No, there is not a shadow of chance, unless Holkar is defeated."
Having settled this matter in his mind, and decided that no amount of thinking would enable him to see a way of escaping; Harry dismissed the subject from his thoughts, ate his rice, and lay down as soon as it became dark, having had but little rest for the past week.
Two days passed. As he was sitting on the platform over his cell, he heard a distant boom, and knew that Holkar was besieging Delhi. The next day, to his satisfaction, the sound of cannonading was again distinct.
"At any rate," he said to himself, "Holkar has not carried the place by a sudden rush. There is a regularity about the fire that shows that it is deliberate. No doubt they are breaching one of the walls."
Going to the other side of the platform, he saw that a good many of the rajah's followers were standing on the wall, listening to the firing. The wall itself was some thirty-five feet below the spot where he was standing; neither loophole of his cell commanded a view of it, so that a prisoner could hold no conversation with the guard below.
Presently another man came up on to the walls, and approached the group there. He was, like the others, dressed in a small white turban, a short jacket made of unbleached hemp; underneath which was a loose tunic, bound at the waist with a sash, and coming down to the knees. He carried a spear and matchlock, and across his shoulder a small shield was slung. The others did not turn round and, when a few yards from them, he looked up at Harry; and the latter saw, to his delight, that he was Abdool.
Harry dared not make any gesture that might be noticed; but he nodded his head slightly, and walked to the other side of the platform, where he remained for a short time, and then returned. Abdool looked again in his direction; but continued to talk with the others as to the attack upon the town, and agreed with them that Holkar would make short work of its defenders.
Presently the whole party descended to the courtyard, together. Some of them went down to the lower wall, to talk to their comrades there; but whether Abdool accompanied them, or was still in the fort, Harry could not make out. He did not, indeed, remain long on the platform but, after looking towards Delhi for some little time, he went down to his room.
It was evident that Abdool had enlisted in the rajah's service; and had, no doubt, been engaged by the governor of the fort. The rajah would be uneasy in his mind, and would assuredly take on any men that presented themselves; in order to strengthen himself, if Holkar failed to take the town; and also to gain the latter's approbation, by joining him with as large a force as possible. Probably Abdool had only enlisted on the previous day; and would, of course, need time to acquaint himself with the fortifications, the position of the guards, and the manner in which he could best communicate with him.
Harry's meals were brought up twice a day, at seven o'clock in the morning and at nightfall. Hitherto he had been quiet and patient, as there was nothing to be done but to await the course of events. Now that he knew Abdool was there, and would certainly endeavour to open communications with him, it was difficult for him to keep quiet; and he passed hours in pacing round and round his room. Occasionally he went up to the roof, but he could see no signs of Abdool; and therefore remained but a short time on the lookout as, were he to keep on watching the courtyard, it might attract notice, and the idea might occur to someone that he was expecting some signal to be made to him.
Three days passed without a sign; and then, when the guard came in with his ration, Harry saw that Abdool was one of the number. As he glanced at him, Abdool, who was standing a little way behind the others, shook his head, and retired with them. Harry felt a momentary disappointment; but saw at once that nothing could be attempted in broad daylight; and that it was at night, only, that there was a possibility of success. He thought that Abdool had only come up in order to see the nature of the fastenings of the doors, and the general position.
He was not with the party who came up in the evening but, in the centre of his rice, Harry found a small piece of paper rolled into a ball. There was not, however, light enough to enable him to read it; but he lay awake half the night and, at the first gleam of daylight, went up on to the platform and, seating himself so that he was not visible from below, waited till he could see to read the letter. It was, of course, in Mahratti; and so badly written that he had difficulty in deciphering it. He finally, however, made it out.
"Tomorrow evening, when I come up, we will attack the others, if all goes well; if not, will try the next evening."
So intent was he, in deciphering the writing, that he had hardly noticed the outburst of heavy firing in the distance. He had feared the enemy had captured Delhi on the previous day, as he had heard no firing; but now the roar of cannon was very heavy, and he had no doubt that Holkar was trying to take the town by assault.
In less than half an hour the sound ceased, suddenly.
"They have either taken the town, or been beaten off decisively," he said to himself.
In the afternoon he saw a party of horsemen approaching, followed by some palanquins.
"That looks hopeful," he said to himself. "A messenger has probably brought the rajah news that the assault has failed, and he is bringing his zenana here for safety, until he hears the issue of the battle, which will probably take place in a day or two. I wonder whether this will upset Abdool's plans!"
The rajah's return was greeted by the discharge of matchlocks. Presently, however, this was succeeded by cries of rage and a clamour of voices.
"Holkar has been thrashed. Now it is a toss up whether the rajah will, in his anger, send up and have me brought down and executed. I think the chances are in my favour. The fellow is evidently crafty, or he would not have persuaded Ochterlony that he was friendly towards us; and I think he will hold me as a sort of hostage so that, if Holkar is defeated, he may make favourable terms for himself by offering to surrender me."
It was not until an hour later that Harry heard a party ascending the stairs. When the door opened, he saw that two of the men carried torches. Abdool, who was in the rear, closed the door behind him, and then said, "Now sahib!" and struck down the man in front of him with his tulwar.
Harry had risen to his feet, as he heard the men coming; and had braced himself up for a spring, when Abdool gave the word. With a blow straight from the shoulder, he struck the man carrying the dish senseless to the floor; tore the sword from his sash; warded off a hasty blow delivered by one torch bearer, who was too much astonished at the sudden attack to act with decision, and cut him down; while, at the same moment, Abdool almost severed the neck of the other.
"Thanks, Abdool," Harry said, grasping his follower's hand, "you have saved my life!"
"Not yet, sahib. Our work has but begun. There are other dangers to be met. However, the arrival of the rajah has been fortunate. The news he has brought has--but first, let me finish the man you knocked down."
"There is no occasion for that. Tear his sash into strips, and bind his hands and feet; and gag him with his own turban.
"Now, what is our next step?"
"I have a rope round my body, sahib, to lower ourselves on to the ramparts. I am wearing an extra suit of clothes, so that you can get up as one of the garrison. I think we have plenty of time, for it is not likely that these men will be missed. Everyone is too excited by the news, that Holkar has failed to take Delhi, to notice whether we return or not."
He took off the outer garment that he had brought with him, while Harry removed his uniform and attired himself in it and, placing the turban of one of the soldiers on his head, possessed himself of a shield, spear, and dagger, and then said: "What next, Abdool?"
"We will put out these torches, sahib,"--these were still burning on the floor--"the light might be noticed from below, and they might wonder why we stayed here so long."
"Are there any guards on the walls?"
"No, sahib; they have them on the lower wall, but not here."
The torches were extinguished, and then they went up to the platform above. They fastened one end of the rope to the battlement, having first tied knots at short intervals.
"I will go down first on to the wall, sahib; and if by chance any man may have come up from below, which is not likely, I can hide," and he at once commenced to lower himself down.
In two or three minutes, Abdool was joined by Harry. The courtyard was dark, save that a few torches burned here and there. A great babble of talking was going on, and the windows of the rajah's house were lighted up.
"What are your plans, Abdool? I see that we shall be able to get through the gates, here, without fear of discovery. Is the gate through the other wall shut?"
"Yes, sahib, it is always closed at sunset. Except where the road comes up to the gate, there is only one place where the rock projects at the foot of the wall, and there is a possibility of climbing down. That was where I had intended we should cross the wall. The height is but twenty feet, there, and I have another rope of that length. There are no sentries placed, except over the gate.
"It is quite possible that, even there, there is none tonight. There is no order among these fellows, as there is among the Company's troops and, as there is no enemy near, they think that such a watch is unnecessary; and if any have been sent there, they are pretty sure to have gone to the huts, to talk over the news from Delhi. The matter should be easy enough.
"We may as well start at once. These fellows will quieten down presently, and will then be more likely to hear any noise we may make."
Looking about, they went down by the stairs leading to the courtyard and walked carelessly across. Taking care to avoid mingling with the excited groups and, at the same time, keeping as far from the torches burning in the courtyard as possible, they passed through the gate--which was standing open without a guard--and followed the zigzag road, with towers placed at its corners, each mounting two guns so as to sweep the approach.
There were two high walls on either hand, loopholed for musketry; and Abdool said that there was a platform, wide enough for two men to pass, along the whole length of it. The road terminated in a heavy gate, some forty yards above that through the outer wall. A bastion covered it so that, were the lower gate carried, an enemy would not be able to bring guns to bear against it. This gate stood open and, passing through it and behind the bastion, they came at once upon the low, stone-built huts where the majority of the garrison lived, in time of peace.
Several torches were burning here, and round each of these were groups of men, talking excitedly. Leaving Harry behind one of the huts, Abdool strolled up for a few minutes, to listen to the conversation, and then rejoined his master.
"What are they saying, Abdool?"
"They are saying, sir, that it was wrong of Holkar to attack the city, before he had defeated the English. It has cost many lives. But when the English are defeated he will be able, without doubt, to capture the city; which probably would open its gates to him, seeing that no assistance could come to them."
"No one doubts, then, that Holkar will defeat us?"
"Not in the least," Abdool replied. "They say that he has two hundred cannon. These will mow down the English. Then the cavalry will charge, and there will be an end of the matter."
"They seem to have forgotten all about Laswaree," Harry said. "But we had better be going. Where is the way up to the wall?"
"Close by, sahib."
They ascended the steps. As far as could be seen the wall was entirely deserted, and they made their way cautiously until close to the gate. Harry then stopped, and Abdool went on with noiseless tread. He soon returned.
"It is as I thought: no sentries are yet posted."
"But that tower over the gate, Abdool, is a great deal too high for us to descend by that rope that you have got."
"Yes, sahib. We go out by an entrance on to a bastion, flanking the gate. The rope will be long enough there or, at any rate, there will be but a very short drop."
They entered the tower through the door communicating with the wall. Abdool led the way.
"Keep close to me, sahib. I went down here this morning, and can find my way in the dark. I did not think that there was much chance of our coming this way, but it was better to find out all about it."
Moving slowly and cautiously, they came to a flight of steps. They descended some twenty feet, and found themselves at an open portal, leading on to the flanking bastion. The rope was soon fixed.
"I will go first, sahib, and will let you know how far you will have to drop; for the wall looks, to me, higher than it was at the point where I intended to descend."
[Illustration: Abdool at once slipped down.]
It was tied round the neck of a gun, and Abdool at once slipped down. There was a pause, then a slight dull sound, and the rope hung loose.
"The knot at the end is ten feet from the ground," Abdool said, in a low tone.
"That is near enough," Harry replied, and then he swung himself over.
When he came to the last knot, he lowered himself to the full length of his arms and let go. The fall was not much more than a yard; and Abdool stood close by, ready to catch him, should he miss his foothold on alighting.
They at once started, at a rapid pace, down the hill. They had nearly reached the plain when the deep note of a horn was heard.
"That is the alarm!" Harry exclaimed. "They have found out that I have gone."
"They will soon be after us, but there is no fear of their catching us," Abdool said, as they broke into a trot. "No one will know, at first, what has happened. Everyone will run to his post; then they will have to search the fort, and all the ground between it and the lower wall. All that will take time. It may be an hour before horsemen start.
"I did not think that they would miss you till tomorrow morning."
"I suppose the rajah sent up for me, to amuse himself by threatening me. He would hardly venture to do more, until he is sure that Holkar has defeated us. However, as you say, there is very little chance of their catching us."
As soon as they were down on the plain, Harry went on: "We had better strike north, for an hour or two. They are sure to ride across the plain in the direction of Delhi, thinking we shall make straight for the city."
"That will be best, sahib."
Fortunately the rain had ceased, and the sky was cloudless, so that they were able to direct their course by the stars. For two hours they kept due north, and then turned west. It was a long journey from the point where they turned. Harry calculated that it would be nearly fifty miles. The fort was some fifteen miles northeast of Sekerah, and they were now farther away from Delhi than they had been when they started. He felt the advantage of the light native dress, and the sandals that Abdool had given him instead of his boots.
When they came across cultivated ground they walked; but a great portion of the country was a sandy waste; with the ruins of villages and temples that had, in the palmy days of the empire, stood there. Across this they went at a trot, for the sand was generally compact enough to sustain their weight.
"We shall hardly get there before day breaks, sahib," Abdool remarked.
"No; but that is of little consequence. Probably, by this time, Holkar will have marched away--either to give battle or, what is more likely, to recruit; and for many miles round Delhi the country will be rejoicing, at having been spared the ruin that would have befallen it, had he taken the city. So I have no fear that we shall be hindered on the way; for though they may wonder at my appearance--for the dye has now almost worn off, and anyone can see that I am a white--they will be all the more willing to render us any assistance.
"There is no fear of the rajah's horsemen keeping up the pursuit, beyond halfway between Sekerah and the city; for they must know that all the zemindars and people round it are in our favour, and that they might be attacked, when beyond the limits of the rajah's jagheer."
When morning broke they could see, in the distance, the minarets of Delhi.
"They must be ten miles away, Abdool, and I will enter the next house we come to. I fancy, from our position, we must be close to the residence of the zemindar who, at once, brought in a force of fifty men to aid in the defence of the town. There we are sure of hospitable treatment and, indeed, I sorely need rest and food. I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning and, counting the distance we made to the north after leaving the fort, we must have walked nearly fifty miles."
Half a mile farther they saw a house, and made straight for it.
"Is Shuja Khan within?" Harry asked an armed retainer standing at the entrance.
The soldier recognized Harry--having seen him when he called upon his master--and replied: "He returned last night, my lord."
"Will you tell him that Captain Lindsay, who was treacherously captured by the Rajah of Sekerah, has just escaped, and is on his way to the city; and that he asks for his hospitality?"
"Enter, my lord," the man said, salaaming deeply. "Our master will, I am sure, gladly receive you."
He showed Harry into a large room where, a few minutes later, the zemindar joined him.
"Peace be with you, sahib! I am rejoiced to see you in safety; for I heard, at Delhi, that you had not returned, and there were fears that ill had befallen you and your escort."
"My escort were killed, and I myself carried a prisoner to the rajah's hill fort; and I have owed my escape to the faithfulness of my servant, who got away when the others were massacred and, disguising himself, got into the fort and contrived my escape."
"All honour be to him!" the zemindar said. "Then you have walked all night?"
"Yes; we went ten miles to the north first, knowing that we should be pursued; for we heard the alarm given, just after we started. We have walked fifty miles and, when I say that I have eaten nothing since yesterday morning, you may be sure that we are sorely in need of refreshment."
"It shall be got ready, at once, sahib; and, while it is being prepared, you can take a bath and a change of garments."
"I need the bath almost as much as I need a feed," Harry laughed. "I have just been looking into the glass, and I see that I am well-nigh as dark as when I came to you, nine or ten days ago."
His host led him to a room containing a bath, which was soon filled by the servants, one of whom brought in a handsome suit of the zemindar's clothes. It was more than half an hour before he went down again. As soon as he entered the room, a servant brought in a meal; consisting of slices of meat on a skewer, and a pillau of chicken.
The zemindar sat by while he ate his meal, and Harry gave him a short account of the manner in which he had effected his escape. The former, in turn, related the events of the siege; adding that spies had brought in the news, late in the afternoon, that Holkar would march away in the morning, as he had heard that the English army was but two days distant.
"Was he going to meet the English, or to retire towards Malwar?"
"That I cannot say, sahib, for the spies could not tell us. Doubtless he and his army are much dispirited, at their failure to take the city. But the general opinion of the townspeople was that he would give battle, be victorious, and would return and continue the siege."
"I have no fear of his being victorious. He knows, in the battles of Assaye and Poona, how Scindia was utterly routed; and how, at Laswaree and Delhi, the Mahrattas were scattered; and I do not think that he will venture upon giving battle. But if he does, I have no fear, whatever, of the result. It was more than his whole army could do to break up Monson's force, although composed entirely of native infantry, until it was near Agra. This time there will be British infantry and cavalry, and the Mahrattas will never stand against their charge."
Harry had already enquired about Abdool, and found that he had also had a meal, and was now asleep.
"Now, sahib," Shuja said, "it were best that you should rest, for a time. There will be nought doing in Delhi today and, after the heat of the day is over, we can supply you with horses and an escort."
Harry accepted the invitation, for he was stiff and sore from his exertions. The man showed him to a room that had been prepared for him, and he was soon fast asleep. He did not awake until the sun was getting low. He at once went downstairs.
"The horses are ready," the zemindar said, "but I pray you to take a meal, before mounting. It is ready, and will be served directly."
Harry, who had been too tired to do justice to his food in the morning, was by no means sorry to take another meal. As he rose to go, he thanked the zemindar most heartily for his kindness.
"It is an honour that you have bestowed upon me," the zemindar said, courteously. "You and your brave countrymen are fighting to free us from the oppression of the Mahrattas, and any one of your race would meet with a hearty welcome here."
The horses were now brought round. The one intended for Harry was a very handsome animal, richly caparisoned.
"It is a fine horse, indeed," he said, as he was about to mount.
"The horse is yours, sahib," Shuja Khan said. "He is of good breed, and will carry you far and fast. I shall esteem it a great honour that you should ride him.
"Do not thank me, I pray you. 'Tis but a little thing to do, for one of our brave defenders; of whose deeds one of your officers was telling me, when he was deploring your loss."
"I thank you most heartily, Khan; and, after the manner in which you have given it, I cannot refuse so handsome a present. I shall be proud to ride such an animal; and you may be sure that, as I do so, I shall often think of him who presented it to me; and shall assuredly mention, to Colonel Ochterlony, the very great kindness with which you have received me."
As he rode off, followed by an escort of four of the zemindar's retainers, he saw with satisfaction that Abdool was also attired in clean white garments.
"You have done well, I hope, Abdool?"
"I have been well treated, indeed, sahib, and the zemindar's head man told me that I was to consider the horse on which I ride my own. He will carry me well, for he is a stout and serviceable animal. I was wondering what we should do for horses; for there are but few in the city, as most of those owning them sent them away, with their valuables, on hearing of Holkar's approach."
"The zemindar is a generous man, indeed. He has, as you heard, presented me with the horse that I am riding. It is certainly a splendid animal and, though my own was a good one, this is far better. In fact, I have seen no handsomer horse, anywhere.
"I wish you had as good a one, Abdool, and then we need not fear being overtaken, though half the Mahratta army were in pursuit."
They entered the city by the northern gate, and saw nothing of the enemy, who were encamped on the other side of the city. Harry was most warmly received by Colonel Ochterlony.
"I have been in much anxiety about you," he said. "That you had been detained was certain; but I hoped that that petty rajah would not have ventured to harm you, for he would be sure that, sooner or later, we should have a heavy reckoning with him."
"I fancy, sir, that he was waiting for news from here. He was convinced that Holkar would take the city, and defeat Lord Lake. Had he done so, I have no doubt that he would either have sent me prisoner to him, or would have despatched me and forwarded only my head. As I felt certain that things would not turn out as he stated, I had no great fear for my life; but I thought that I might have been kept a prisoner for a very long time, for Lord Lake would have his hands full in other directions."
"Then he released you on the news that Holkar had failed to capture the city?"
"No, sir; I got away owing to the fidelity of my orderly who, after riding off himself, when the two troopers with me were attacked and killed, entered a hill fort where I was confined, took service there, and contrived my escape. I shall hand in a report with the details, for your perusal, when things have quietened down a bit. My man has rendered me other valuable services, and I should be greatly pleased if, in consideration of the fidelity and daring that he has shown, you would think fit to recommend him for promotion as a native officer. He belongs to the 3rd Bombay Cavalry."
"I should certainly have pleasure in doing so, Captain Lindsay. I shall, of course, be drawing up a list of the zemindars and others who have rendered service, and recommending them for reward to the Government. If you will give me the particulars as to the man's name and services I will include him in the list. He has been with you some time, has he not?"
"Yes, sir, for upwards of six years. He accompanied me from Calcutta to Nagpore, when I went on a mission to the rajah, whom it was desirable to keep neutral until the war in Mysore was brought to an end. He was at Assaye, and journeyed in disguise across the country with me, to carry the news of that victory to General Lake. He took part with me in the cavalry charge at Laswaree, and in the retreat of Colonel Monson's column."
"That is quite good enough," Colonel Ochterlony said. "But I should think that it would be the shortest and best way for you to recommend him direct to Lord Lake, who would be able to put him in orders at once. At the same time, I will send to Calcutta a recommendation that some special reward should be granted to him. There will be a large number of forfeitures of the estates of those who have sided with Scindia and Holkar. I make no doubt that, on my strong recommendation, he will obtain a grant of the revenue of a village or two. Such a grant would do good by showing that instances of fidelity, even in the case of a private soldier, do not go unnoticed or unrewarded. We expect the general's arrival here in a couple of days."
"I shall be very glad, sir, if only because my uniform is coming on with his baggage. At present, with my white face and this showy native dress, I feel that I am stared at by everyone I meet. The uniform that Captain Ewart lent me I had to leave behind, when I made my escape."
"It will not inconvenience him, poor fellow," the colonel said, "for he was almost cut in two, by a cannon shot, as the enemy advanced to the last assault."
When the general arrived within three miles of the city, Harry rode out to his camp and, having first obtained his uniform, went in to report himself.
"So you got through safely, Captain Lindsay? I supposed that you had, when the news reached us that Delhi was defending itself stoutly for, had they not had some days warning, they could hardly have held out for an hour."
"This is Colonel Burns's report of the military operations of the siege, sir; and this is a letter from the Resident; and this is my own report, of my doings since I left you at Agra."
"Thank you, Captain Lindsay. I shall have a communication to send to Colonel Ochterlony this afternoon, and should be obliged if you will carry it for me."
Harry bowed and left; and then joined the officers of the staff, who were just sitting down to lunch, and were all glad to see him again.
"So you managed to get through Holkar's lines, Lindsay?"
"Oh, yes! I met with no difficulty, and only fell in once with any of his troops. I spent an evening with their officer, and after that rode through without interruption. There was really no danger, and I do not think Holkar, himself, could have suspected me of being a British officer."
"And now, about the siege. You may imagine that we were all very anxious about it; for though, of course, we should soon have retaken the place, there would have been a general plunder and massacre by that brute Holkar."
"You must wait for particulars until you get there," Harry said, "for I know nothing about it whatever, except what I have heard."
"And how is that?"
"I was, at the time, a prisoner in the hands of the petty Rajah of Sekerah. He promised to send in three hundred men. The day before Holkar arrived, I was sent to urge him to despatch them instantly to aid in the defence. He was evidently impressed with the idea that Holkar was going to retake the place without any difficulty, and would afterwards annihilate our army; so, thinking that was the winning side, he arrested me, and sent me off to a hill fort, fifteen miles away, and murdered my two troopers."
"And how did you get away?"
Harry gave an account of the manner in which Abdool had managed his escape.
"Such a fellow as that is a jewel."
"He is indeed, Major; and I would not part with him for any money. He came round with me from Bombay to Calcutta, six years ago, and has ridden with me ever since. He fought most gallantly, in the Malay Peninsula and at many other places. In my report, to the general, of my last adventure I have mentioned his services with me in my various journeys, and have strongly recommended his promotion."
"He well deserves it," the major said. "He has, like you, carried his life in his hand for, if he had been detected, undoubtedly he would have shared your fate."
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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18
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: An Awkward Position.
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Three hours later, Harry was sent for by the general.
"I have read your report, Captain Lindsay, and thoroughly concur with you that the very meritorious conduct of the soldier of the 3rd Bombay Cavalry, who has so long been attached to your service, should be rewarded. I cannot, of course, promote him in his own regiment. He will therefore appear in orders, tomorrow, as appointed havildar in the 5th Bengal Cavalry, which is at present under my command; with a statement that, having now completed ten years' service in the Bombay army, and having for six years of it been serving chiefly in this presidency, and having distinguished himself by his fidelity and courage, he has now been specially singled out for this promotion; and will be henceforth in charge of an escort of twenty men, of his new regiment, attached to the general's staff.
"As to yourself, sir, I have, in a despatch that will be sent off this evening, strongly recommended you to the Governor General for promotion to the rank of major. You were, I see by our army list, promoted to the rank of captain, seven years ago, before being sent to Calcutta; and, considering the distinguished and dangerous services that you have rendered, I wonder that you have not received another step. That is, however, accounted for by the fact that you have now, for some time, been away from Calcutta with General Wellesley and myself. I am sure that my recommendation will at once be complied with."
"I am very grateful for your kindness, sir."
"You owe it to your own merits, and not to any kindness on my part," Lord Lake said. "You have an altogether exceptional record and, even in the comparatively short time that you have been with me, have performed most valuable services. Colonel Monson reports most highly of your conduct during his retreat; and the mission that you undertook, at my request, to Colonel Ochterlony was a most dangerous one and, in itself, sufficient to ensure your promotion. There are many zealous officers in the service; but few, indeed, so qualified, by their acquaintance with the native languages, as to undertake the missions with which you have been entrusted, and have so successfully carried out."
Harry took the despatches and at once mounted his horse; which Abdool had brought round, as soon as his master was summoned to the general's tent. After he had left the camp, he called Abdool up to his side. The latter was still in his native dress.
"Abdool, I shall have to look out for another cook and body servant; unless, indeed, I have another trooper told off to me."
Abdool looked at Harry in astonishment.
"How is that, my lord? Are you dissatisfied with me?"
Harry laughed.
"Not in any way, Abdool; upon the contrary. But your name will appear in orders, tomorrow, as promoted to the rank of havildar, in the 5th Bengal Cavalry, as a recognition of your faithful services.
"It is a great honour," Abdool said, "especially as I have not served as a soubahdar; but I would far rather stay with you. You have been a father to me, and I pray you to let me remain as I am."
"You are to remain with me, Abdool. If you had had to leave me I should, myself, have told the general that I was sure you would rather not do so; and that, when you left me, I should myself show my gratitude for your good services; but of his own accord he has arranged this. You are not to join your new regiment, but are to command twenty sowars of the 5th, which are to be attached to those of the general's staff, for escort duty. In this way you will still be with me, but as a native officer instead of a servant; and should I be sent on any special duty you will, I am sure, be able to go with me, as before."
Abdool's face brightened.
"That would be well, indeed, sahib. It will truly be a great honour to be an officer and, if I ever return to my native village in the Deccan, I shall be regarded with great respect, and the faces of my father and mother will be made white at the honour I have won. Still, I fear that I shall not be as much with you as I have been, before."
"Nearly as much, Abdool. I expect that Lord Lake, knowing how much I am indebted to you, will permit me to take you with me, when engaged on any detached service; and you and your troopers will form part of his escort, at all times. Besides, it is likely that, as matters stand, I shall not be sent away on any special duty for some time to come. You will, I know, be glad to hear that the general has recommended me for promotion, also; and that I shall shortly be a major."
"That pleases me more than my own promotion, sahib. I thought that you would have had it long ago, after that business at Nagpore."
"I had only been a captain then a few months, and was very young for that rank. It would have been unfair to others if I had been promoted then. I am still very young to be a major."
"It is not years, but what you have done," Abdool said. "Did you not obtain the release of Nana Furnuwees, and so change the state of affairs, altogether, at Poona?"
"Well, it was for that I got the rank of captain and, since then, though I have made a few journeys that would have been perilous, had I not been able to speak Mahratti like a native, I have had no opportunities of specially distinguishing myself.
"As soon as we get to Delhi, you had better order yourself a uniform. You know the dress worn by the native officers of the 5th; and you must hurry the tailor on, for you may be sure that the army will not remain long at Delhi; but will set off to meet Holkar as soon as provisions are collected, for there is no saying how far we may have to march before we meet him. I do not think that he will be in any hurry to give battle."
On the 18th of October, the army arrived before Delhi. Holkar's cavalry were still in the neighbourhood; but news came that the infantry, with a considerable number of his guns and a few thousand horsemen, had left him. On the 29th he crossed the Jumna, below Panniput, to attack a detachment of one battalion of Sepoys and some matchlock men who were, under Colonel Burns, returning to the station at Saharunpoor--from which he had hastened, when a report reached him that Holkar meditated an attack on Delhi. He was overtaken by Holkar at Shamlee.
The inhabitants of the place joined Holkar, but Burns formed his camp into a square, and repulsed all attacks; until General Lake, with six regiments of cavalry, the horse artillery, and a brigade of infantry, arrived to his relief on the 3rd of November; when Holkar at once retired, and marched south into the district known as the Doab, where his horsemen plundered and burnt every village near his line of route. General Lake followed at once.
He had, before leaving Delhi, sent the rest of the British infantry, with two regiments of cavalry, under General Fraser, to attack Holkar's infantry and artillery; which had retired into the dominions of the Rajah of Bhurtpoor who, although he had been the first to enter into alliance with the British, after the capture of Agra, had now declared against them. They had taken up a position near the rajah's fortress of Deeg, which was believed to be impregnable.
Their position was a very strong one. An extensive morass and a deep tank covered their front. On their left was a fortified village; and on their right the fort of Deeg, which was supported by several lines of batteries.
Harry had been directed to accompany General Fraser, and was to take with him Abdool's little troop, to serve as escort and furnish messengers. Abdool--now in his new uniform--rode at its head, behind General Fraser's staff, as he reconnoitred the enemy's position; and felt no small pride in his changed position, especially as the British officers of the staff, all of whom had heard of the manner in which he had brought about Harry's escape, took special notice of him; and on the march one or other had often dropped behind to have a talk with him.
The next morning the British troops moved forward to the attack, in two lines. The 76th Regiment rushed impetuously against the fortified village, and drove its defenders out at the point of the bayonet. A tremendous fire was at once opened by the batteries behind it but, without for a moment hesitating, the 76th charged them, and were speedily in the thick of their enemies. The 1st Bengal European regiment, which followed, seeing them almost surrounded, ran down to their assistance; and were followed by the Sepoys; and Holkar's infantry, unable to resist the assault, fled to shelter of their next line of guns.
General Fraser himself led the attack upon these. They were also carried; but the general fell, mortally wounded. Colonel Monson, who now succeeded to the command, reformed the troops--who were in some disorder, owing to the impetuosity of their charge--and led them forward again. Battery after battery was captured. Numbers of Holkar's men tried to cross the morass, but sank in the mud and lost their lives. The rest took refuge under the walls of Deeg, whose guns at once opened fire upon their pursuers.
While the tide pressed forward, unchecked, the Mahratta horse had ridden down in the rear of the British; and had taken possession of the first line of batteries, and had turned their guns upon their late captors. The consequences would have been serious, had not Captain Norford gathered together twenty-eight men of the 76th Regiment, and led them against the Mahratta horse. These, staggered by the daring with which this handful of men advanced against them, fired a hasty volley and fled. Captain Norford was killed, but the men took possession of the guns; which the Mahrattas, thinking that the day was altogether lost, did not attempt to recapture.
As the fortress of Deeg was far too strong to be attacked by any force unprovided with siege guns, the British drew back, until beyond the range of its cannon; carrying off all the guns captured in the batteries, eighty-seven in number. The total amount of artillery employed against our troops was no less than one hundred and sixty guns. Our loss was naturally heavy, amounting to over six hundred and forty killed and wounded; while that of the enemy was estimated at two thousand killed, or smothered in the morass.
The force encamped beyond the reach of the guns of Deeg, awaiting orders from General Lake. The battle was scarcely over when Colonel Monson rode up to Harry, and said: "It is of great importance that General Lake should receive the news of our victory, as soon as possible. There is no one so well fitted to carry it as you are. There will be no occasion for disguise, this time; for Holkar's depredations must have excited the whole population against him. At the same time, you had better take your havildar and his troopers with you. It will command respect and, if you should come across any small body of Holkar's marauders, I am sure that you will give a good account of them."
"Can you give me any indication as to where General Lake is likely to be, at present, sir?"
"He marched from Shamsheer to Mahomedabad and, as he probably took the road through Sekerah, he no doubt settled accounts with that rascally rajah. I understood, from him, that he suspected Holkar would make for Sherdanah; as the Begum of that place has five battalions of drilled troops, and forty guns, which would be a welcome reinforcement. After that he will, of course, be guided by Holkar's movements.
"The reports of the peasantry lead me to believe that the enemy are advancing in the direction of Furukabad. I should say that you had best cross the Jumna at Muttra, and ride to Alighur. In that way you will not be likely to meet Holkar's force; which must, at present, be beyond the Ganges."
Half an hour later, Harry started with his escort. He crossed the Jumna at Muttra, and there learned that Holkar had, the night before, arrived within twelve miles of the town; and was, as usual, destroying everything before him. Harry continued his course to Cod, within a mile or two of Alighur, which he reached late in the evening.
The capture of the fort, believed to be impregnable, had had the effect of producing so profound a respect for the British arms that Harry, on his arrival, was received by the principal men of the town; and a large house was placed at his disposal, for himself and his escort. Supplies were at once furnished and, when a meal had been eaten and the horses attended to, the troops lay down for the night.
Harry had been informed that a horseman had brought in news that the British army had arrived at Bareilly. He started at daybreak and, late the next evening, after a ride of over one hundred miles, rode into Lord Lake's camp.
"What news do you bring?" the general asked, as he alighted from his horse.
"I have to report, sir, that on the 13th the force under General Fraser attacked the enemy, who were very strongly posted within gunshot of the fortress of Deeg. After hard fighting he completely defeated them, captured eighty-seven of their guns, and drove them from under the guns of Deeg, which at once opened fire on us. The enemy's loss was estimated at two thousand. Ours was not known, when I left the camp; but it was roughly estimated at over six hundred in killed and wounded. Among the former, I regret to say, was General Fraser, who was mortally wounded by a cannon shot, while leading on his men."
"I am sorry to hear of his loss," General Lake said, "while the rest of your news is satisfactory, indeed. Reports had reached me that the Rajah of Bhurtpoor had joined Holkar but, after coming into Agra and begging that we would accept him as an ally, I had difficulty in believing that he would have turned against us; especially as he must have known that, if Holkar was defeated, he would have to bear the whole brunt of our anger--which he could not hope to escape, as his territory lies within two or three days' march of Agra."
The general called his staff, and told them of the brilliant victory that had been won at Deeg. The news spread rapidly through the camp, and was greeted with enthusiastic cheers by the troops. In the meantime Lord Lake had entered his tent, and obtained full particulars of the battle.
"I was close to General Fraser when he was struck, sir," Harry concluded. "He and his escort were with the cavalry, when it charged the second line of their batteries. Five of the escort were killed; and I may say that the others, led by their havildar, were among the first in at the guns."
"I have just received news," the general said, "that Holkar crossed this morning, at Surajepoor; and was believed to be on his way to Furukabad. He is evidently on the march to Deeg and, if he joins his troops there, they may attack Colonel Monson's force. Therefore I intend to leave the tents and infantry to follow; and shall start at daybreak, with the cavalry and horse artillery; and hope to overtake him, especially as he has lately moved fast, and will probably rest a day or two at Furukabad."
The next day the cavalry marched upwards of forty miles and, on the following morning, continued their journey. They had fifty-eight miles now before them. With occasional halts they marched all day, crossed the Ganges at Surajepoor, and pushed on until within a mile of Holkar's camp. Believing the British to be many miles away, no precautions had been taken against surprise; and the first intimation of an enemy being near at hand was the opening of fire, at daybreak, by Lord Lake's artillery into their camp--the guns being posted so as to permit the British cavalry to attack, without coming across the line of fire.
Round after round of grape was poured into the camp; and then the guns ceased firing, as the six regiments of cavalry dashed in among the panic-stricken enemy. Scarcely any resistance was attempted and, in a few minutes, the ground was strewn with dead. Holkar had mounted and ridden off, with a portion of his cavalry, before our men entered the camp; and did not draw rein until he reached Caline, eighteen miles distant. His troops fled in all directions, hotly pursued by the cavalry, for twelve miles; great numbers being overtaken and cut down. The cavalry halted from sheer fatigue, having performed the almost unparalleled march of seventy miles since their last halting place; an exploit rendered all the more wonderful by the fact that they had made a march of three hundred and fifty miles in the preceding fortnight.
Their loss, in the action, was only two killed and twenty wounded. Holkar's loss was estimated at three thousand killed on the field; and half of his cavalry, which was previously sixty thousand strong, were now but scattered fugitives.
That day three royal salutes were fired, for as many victories; namely, that at Furukabad, that at Deeg, and the capture of Shaddone--the last of Holkar's fortresses in the south--by Colonel Wallis. As was expected, Holkar and his cavalry, as soon as they recovered from their panic, rode to Deeg and joined the remains of the infantry and artillery there.
General Lake remained a day or two, to rest the troops after their exertions. The brigade of infantry that, had been left behind when the cavalry started on their last march, had been ordered to move rapidly down to Agra; and to escort thence the heavy guns that would be required for the siege of Deeg and, on the 1st of December, General Lake joined the force near that fortress. The battering train arrived from Agra on the 12th, and the trenches were opened on the following day.
In point of territory, the country ruled over by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor was a comparatively small one. It was inhabited by a people called Jats, who differed in many respects from the communities round them. They were hardy, industrious, and brave; and had, at one time, taken a prominent share in the wars of that part of India, and had been masters of Agra. They had lost the city, however, in 1774; and with it a considerable portion of their territory. Under the present rajah, however, they had regained some of their lost ground and, on his entering into an alliance with the British, he had received a considerable increase of territory.
In these circumstances the defection was wholly unexpected. The rajah had a standing army of six thousand men; and could, on an emergency, place fifty thousand in the field. Nevertheless, seeing how other very much more powerful native princes had been unable to withstand the British arms, his conduct was not only ungrateful and treacherous, but wholly unaccountable.
It was necessary for the army to move forward to Deeg with great circumspection. Holkar's cavalry constantly hovered round them, and they had to protect an enormous train conveying the siege appliances and provisions for the force. In view of the comparatively small equipage now deemed sufficient, in native wars in India, the size of that which accompanied Lord Lake's army, on this occasion, appears prodigious. The followers were estimated at not less than sixty thousand. Besides elephants and camels, a hundred thousand bullocks were employed on preparations for an advance into the town.
But, during the night, Holkar and the garrison of Deeg retired, and made for Bhurtpoor. On the morning of the 25th, therefore, the British took unopposed possession of Deeg; capturing, there and in the batteries outside, a hundred guns. A week later, General Lake moved forward to Bhurtpoor. Holkar, as before, had not entered the town; but had formed a camp a few miles distant. Here he was able to maintain himself, for the Rajah of Bhurtpoor had called to his assistance a great marauding leader, Ameer Khan, who was raiding in Bundelcund; and also a leader named Bapeejee Scindia; and these, with the rajah's cavalry and that of Holkar, formed so powerful a force that the British cavalry were fully occupied in keeping them at a distance from camp, and in protecting the convoy.
On the day of the arrival of the army before Bhurtpoor, Harry--who had now been gazetted to the rank of major--was sent to Agra, thirty-four miles distant, with orders respecting a convoy that was about to be sent off from there. He was accompanied by Abdool and ten troopers. At that time Ameer Khan had not appeared upon the scene, and it was not considered that there was any danger of the communications with Agra being interfered with.
Harry reached the city in the afternoon, and waited there until four o'clock next day; seeing that the preparations for the convoy, which was a very large one, were completed. It started at that hour, and was to get as far as possible by nightfall; so that it would be able to reach the camp by the following evening. After seeing it in motion, Harry started with his escort for the ride back. He was some ten miles away from the convoy when night fell. Bhurtpoor, like Deeg, stood on a plain, surrounded by swamps and morasses; the situation having been chosen from the difficulties these offered to the advance of an enemy.
After proceeding for five miles farther, Abdool, who was riding with Harry, said: "I do not know, sahib, but it seems to me, by the sound of the horses' hoofs, that we have left the track."
Harry called a halt; and Abdool dismounted, and found that his suspicion was correct, and that they had certainly left the road.
"This is awkward," Harry said, "for we do not know how long it is since we left it, or whether it is to the right hand or left."
The night was indeed a very dark one, a mist almost covered the sky, and it was only occasionally that a star could be seen.
"We must go carefully, or we shall fall in one of these morasses."
Two troopers were sent off, one to the right, the other to the left. One of them, when he had gone about a quarter of a mile, was heard to shout that he was fast in the morass. Abdool and four of the men rode to his assistance, and presently returned with him, having with the greatest difficulty extricated his horse. Nothing had been heard of the other trooper. Again and again Harry shouted, but no reply came back. They waited half an hour, and then concluded that either the man, on his return, had missed his way altogether; or that he had fallen into a swamp, when they were too far off to hear his voice, and had perished there.
Harry again gave the word for them to move on, this time at a walk. Abdool preceded them on foot. Presently he said: "The ground is getting softer, sahib. I think that we are approaching a swamp."
"We had better all dismount," Harry said, setting the example.
"Now, let each move in different directions, going very cautiously, and calling out if he comes upon soft ground."
He himself, with two of the troopers, remained with the horses. One after another, the men came upon swampy ground; one only continued to find it firm.
"I suppose that that is the way we came into it, Abdool," Harry said, as the others returned to the horses. "We must follow him, and will do it on foot. This is getting serious."
For a quarter of a mile, they kept on ground that was comparatively firm. Then the man ahead of them gave a sudden shout. He had fallen, waist deep, into a little stream. He was soon hauled out.
"There is nothing to be done, Abdool, but to halt till morning. Let us go back, till we can find a piece of ground dry enough to lie down upon."
They had made, however, little progress when their feet began to sink up to the ankles.
"It is no use, Abdool. We have evidently lost our bearings, altogether. We must stay where we are till morning, or we shall get helplessly bogged."
The hours passed slowly and painfully. From time to time, the men endeavoured to find firmer ground, but always without success; and it was with the deepest satisfaction that, at last, they saw the sky begin to lighten. Half an hour later, they were able to form an idea of their position.
They were far in what appeared to be a wide morass. There were pools of water in some places, and it seemed almost miraculous that they should have succeeded in so far entering the swamp where, even by daylight, there scarcely seemed a yard of firm ground. Abdool again went ahead and, step by step, the little troop followed; frequently having to turn back again, on finding the line that they were pursuing impassable.
They were still a hundred yards from what appeared to be solid ground when they heard loud shouts and, looking round, saw some fifty horsemen skirting the edge of the morass. When they reached the point opposite to the little party, they dismounted and opened fire. One of the troopers fell dead, and several of the horses were hit.
"There is nothing for it but to surrender, Abdool," Harry said, as some of the troopers returned the fire.
The enemy rode off for a hundred yards; and then, leaving the horses in charge of a few of their number, they returned to the edge of the morass, threw themselves down in the long coarse grass, and again opened fire. Two more of the troopers fell, at the first discharge. Harry drew out his handkerchief, and waved it.
[Illustration: Harry drew out his handkerchief, and waved it.]
"We will not surrender, if they are Holkar's men," he said to Abdool. "We should only be tortured, and then put to death. If they are Bhurtpoor's men, we may have fair treatment."
Therefore, as soon as the enemy had stopped firing he shouted: "Whose soldiers are you?"
"The Rajah of Bhurtpoor's," was shouted back.
"We will surrender, if you will swear to take us to Bhurtpoor and hand us over to the rajah. If you will not do so, we will defend ourselves to the last."
A native officer stood up.
"Assuredly we will take you to the rajah. I swear it on my faith."
"Very well then, send a man to guide us out of this place."
An order was given. One of the men went back and mounted his horse, and rode along by the edge of the morass for nearly half a mile. The others, more slowly, followed him.
"It is clear that this place in front of us is absolutely impassable," Harry said, "or they would never all move away."
"It is lucky that you have not got your favourite horse today, sir," Abdool said--for Harry had bought, from one of the cavalry, a horse that had been captured from the Mahrattas, as one was insufficient for the work he had to do.
"I should be very glad, indeed, Abdool, if I thought that I was likely to return to camp soon. But in such peril as this, it is but a small satisfaction to know that he is safe."
"What do you think of our chances, sahib?"
"I don't think the Rajah of Bhurtpoor will harm us. He must feel that his situation is almost desperate, and it would put him beyond the reach of pardon, if he were to massacre his prisoners."
The Jat had now dismounted, and could be seen making his way towards them on foot; sometimes coming straight, but more often making long bends and turns. It was evident, by the absence of any hesitation in his movements, that he was well acquainted with the morass.
"If that is the only way to us," Harry said, "it is marvellous, indeed, that we made our way so far."
"I think, sahib, that it was the instinct of the horses. I felt mine pull at the rein, as I was leading him, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left; and I always let him have his way, knowing that horses can see and smell better than we can and, as we were all in single file, you followed without noticing the turns."
In ten minutes the man arrived. He spoke to Harry, but his language differed widely from either Mahratti or that spoken by the people of Bengal. However, he signed to the troopers to lay down their arms and, when they had done so, started to rejoin the others; and, leading the horses, the party followed. The path was fairly firm, and Harry had no doubt that it was used by fowlers, in search of the game with which, at certain seasons of the year, the lakes and morasses abounded.
When they arrived at the edge of the swamp, where the others were awaiting them, Harry handed his sword to their leader. He and his party then mounted and, surrounded by the Jats, rode to Bhurtpoor. Their entrance was greeted with loud shouts and acclamations by the populace. Making their way straight through the town, which covered a large extent of ground, they reached the palace, a noble building built upon a rock that rose abruptly from the plain. Ascending the steep path leading to the gate, the party entered the courtyard. Here the captives remained in charge of the horsemen, while the leader went in to report to the rajah.
[Illustration: View of the Rajah's Palace, Bhurtpoor.]
Presently he came out, with four of the rajah's guard, and these led Harry and Abdool into the audience chamber. The rajah, with a number of personal attendants, entered and took his seat.
"You are an officer in the English army. What is your rank?" the rajah said in Mahratti.
"I am a major."
"Of what regiment?"
"I am on the personal staff of the general."
"And this man?"
"He is a native officer, at present commanding a portion of the general's escort."
"How was it that you were alone, last night?"
"I had ridden to Agra, the day before; and was too late, in starting back, to gain the camp before it was dark. I lost my way and, finding that we were in the heart of the morass, we were obliged to wait till morning."
"It is well that you did not try to get out. Had you done so, none of you would be here now.
"You speak Mahratti like a native."
"I was some years at Poona and, as a child, had a Mahratta woman as a nurse, and learnt it from her."
The rajah was silent for a minute or two, then he asked: "Does your general think that he is going to capture my town?"
"I do not know, but he is going to try."
"He will not succeed," the rajah said, positively. "We gave up Deeg, because we did not want a large force shut up there. Our walls are strong but, were they levelled to the ground, we would still defend the place to the last."
"I am aware that your people are brave, Rajah. They fought well, indeed; and if Holkar's troops had fought as stoutly, the result might have been different."
The rajah again sat in thought for some time, then he said: "I do not wish to treat you harshly. I can honour brave men, even when they are enemies. You will have an apartment assigned to you here, and be treated as my guest; only, do not venture to leave the palace--at least, unless you leave it with me. There are many who have lost friends at Deeg, many who may lose their lives before your army retires, and I could not answer for your safety. Would you like this native officer to be with you?"
"I should esteem it a great favour, Rajah. He has been with me for several years, and I regard him as a friend. Thank you, also, for your courtesy to me."
"You will give your promise not to try to escape?"
As Harry believed that, in the course of a short time, the British would be masters of the town, he assented without hesitation.
The rajah looked pleased.
"You need be under no uneasiness as to your troopers. They will, of course, be in confinement but, beyond that, they shall have no reason to complain of their treatment."
The rajah said a few words to one of his attendants, who at once motioned to Harry and Abdool to follow him. Harry bowed to the rajah and, with Abdool, followed the attendant. He was taken to a commodious chamber. The walls and divans were of white marble; and the floor was paved with the same material, but in two colours. The framework of the window was elaborately carved, and it was evident that the room was, at ordinary times, used as a guest chamber.
The attendant left them, for a few minutes.
"This is better than I had even hoped for, Abdool. There can be no doubt that the rajah, though he put a good face on it, is desperately anxious; and behaves to us in this way, in hopes that he may finally obtain better terms than he otherwise would do, by his good treatment of us."
"He looks honest and straightforward, sahib. 'Tis strange that he should have behaved so treacherously, just after the Company had granted him an increase of territory."
"We must make some allowances for him. No doubt, like all the Indian princes we have had to do with, he is ready to join the strongest side. He heard that Holkar was coming down with an immense army, and believed that we should not be able to withstand him. In that case he, as our ally, would share in our misfortunes. His territories would be ravaged; and he himself killed or taken back, as a prisoner, to the Deccan. He was probably hesitating, when the news came of Monson's disastrous retreat. This doubtless confirmed his opinion of Holkar's invincibility; and he determined, as the only way of saving himself, to declare for him."
The attendant now entered, with four men bearing cushions for the divans and carpets for the floor, large ewers and basins, with soft, embroidered towels, and a pile of rugs for beds. After he had retired, Harry went to the window and looked out. Below was the courtyard, and the room was on the first story.
"Well, if we are to be prisoners, Abdool, we could hardly wish to be better suited. A fortnight's rest will do us no harm, for we have been riding hard almost ever since we left Agra with Monson's force."
"It is well, sahib, that you were with us when we were captured. Had we been alone, we should have had no mercy. It is because the rajah regards you as such a valuable prisoner that we have been spared.
"If you had not given your promise, I think we might have made our escape."
"We might have done so, Abdool; but if I had not given my promise, you may be sure that we should not have been lodged so comfortably."
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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19
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: Bhurtpoor.
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Half an hour later the attendant entered with two servants, carrying a large tray with a variety of dishes. After they had eaten the meal, Harry proposed that they should go up to the top of one of the central towers of the palace, to obtain a general view of the country.
"It would be better to do that than to venture down into the courtyard, at present, Abdool. The sight of our uniforms might give offence, as it would not be understood that we have the rajah's permission to move about the palace. We must wait till the man comes in with the tray. It is possible that he may understand enough Mahratti to make out what we want, and will show us the way up.
"It would never do for us to try to ascend alone. We might accidentally open the door of the rajah's zenana, and then I doubt if even his desire to hold me as a hostage would suffice to save our lives."
The attendant understood enough of Mahratti to make out their request, and offered at once to accompany them. They ascended numerous staircases until, at last, they reached the flat roof of the palace; above which rose three round towers, surmounted by domes. The highest of these had a gallery running round it, a few feet below the dome.
The attendant led the way to this and, on reaching the gallery, they found that it commanded a very wide view over the flat country. The town itself covered a considerable space, the walls being eight miles in circumference. At the eastern end the fort, a square and solid edifice, was built on ground somewhat higher than the town. It had bastions and flanking towers and, as had been learned from prisoners taken at Deeg, it had a moat much wider and deeper than that which ran round the town walls. It was built within these, one side of the square looking across the country, while the other three were inside. Although the houses were for the most part scattered, the town had a picturesque appearance, from the number of trees growing within it.
Towards the northeast the fort of Deeg could be clearly seen and, to the southwest, the mosques and fort of Agra were faintly visible in the clear air. At a distance of a mile and a half from the city was the British camp, with its white tents; and an irregular black mass marked the low shelters of the camp followers and the enormous concourse of draught animals.
It certainly seemed a hazardous enterprise for so small a number of troops to attack such a large and populous town, strongly fortified, and held by a brave people. Harry remarked on this to Abdool, but the latter said, confidently: "They cannot stand against the English, sahib. General Lake has always been victorious."
"He has so, Abdool, and that is one of the reasons why I do not feel so certain of his success as I did. He has never yet undertaken a siege, and his impetuosity and confidence in his troops may lead him to make an attack with insufficient numbers, and before it is really practicable. I do not think that this town is to be taken by storm, and I doubt whether Lord Lake will be content to wait for regular siege operations, before he tries an assault.
"Look over there, towards Agra. If I am not mistaken, there is a large body of cavalry out there. They are certainly not our men, they are too much mixed up for that. Possibly the rajah may have obtained the aid of a band of Pindarees, or of some other irregular troops; at any rate, it will give trouble to the convoy we left yesterday."
He looked at the camp again.
"There is a stir in the valley, and it looks as if they had heard of that force out there, and are about to start to attack it."
Three regiments of cavalry set out. As they were getting ready, two horsemen could be seen to ride off, at a gallop, from a group of trees half a mile from the camp. As soon as they approached the mass of horsemen in the distance, they turned and rode off at full speed.
"They have evidently no idea of fighting, today, whoever they are. We may as well go down again, Abdool. This is a grand lookout; and we shall, at any rate, get a general idea of the direction in which the attack will be made."
Two days later they were able, from their lookout, to see that bodies of men came and went between the camp and a group of trees, halfway between it and the town.
"I expect that they are establishing a battery among those trees," Harry said, "and it will not be long before the affair begins."
The next morning, six eighteen-pounders opened fire from the wood and, in the afternoon, another battery of eight mortars began throwing shells into the town. The guns on the walls answered, and a brisk fire was kept up, for the next ten days. During this time several breaches had been effected in the wall, near the southeast angle, but the defenders had fixed strong wooden stockades in the debris every night, so that no attack could be made. In order to prevent this being done with the last-made breach, it was determined to assault at once.
The two prisoners had not had the lookout gallery to themselves. Some of the rajah's officers were constantly there, and any movement of troops was at once reported by them. The rajah himself had, twice or thrice, come up for a short time to watch the operations; and had, on each occasion, talked for some minutes with Harry.
"Your people will be mad, if they try to attack us through that small hole in the wall," he said, on the afternoon of the 14th. "Were they to level a quarter of a mile of the wall, they might have some chance, though I doubt whether they would ever get a footing at the top; but with all my soldiers ready to defend that small opening, and with thirty or forty guns to fire at your people as they advance, it is as ridiculous as if ten men should attempt to take this palace. What do you think?"
"I cannot say, Rajah. From here I am unable to see what is taking place at the walls, nor how wide is the breach you speak of, nor how deep the ditch beyond; therefore I can give no opinion."
"The English are brave fighters," the rajah said. "They have taken places in a few hours that seemed impregnable, but they cannot perform impossibilities. Our walls are defended by forty thousand men and--although in the open field I do not say that you might not defeat us, seeing how your troops are disciplined, while with us each man fights for himself--when it is a question of holding a wall or defending a breach, I can trust my soldiers. We are twice as numerous. We have heavier guns, and more of them, than you have and, as I told you, the English will never get into Bhurtpoor."
At seven o'clock in the evening, a deep and almost continuous roar of guns broke out.
"The assault has begun!" Harry exclaimed. "We shall not see much, but we may get some idea as to how things are going from the lookout."
It was too dark for the movements of troops to be seen, but the quick flashes of the guns on either side, and a play of flickering fire along the top of the wall showed that the storming party was approaching. The attack was made in three parties: one advanced against a battery which the defenders had established outside the walls, at a spot where its fire would take in flank any force advancing against the point towards which the fire of the English guns had been directed; another was to attempt a gateway near the breach; while the central column, consisting of five hundred Europeans and a battalion of Sepoys, was to attack the breach itself.
For a time the roar of firing was incessant. The alarm had been given as soon as the British columns advanced from the wood. Notwithstanding this, the right column advanced straight against the battery, captured it, and spiked the guns. The left column, as it approached the gate, came upon a deep cut filled with water and, having no means of crossing this, they moved to the support of the force attacking the breach. This had been greatly delayed. The ground to be crossed was swampy, with many pools and, in the darkness, numbers lost their way, and the force arrived at the point of attack in great confusion.
A small party of twenty-three men only--of the 22nd Regiment, under Lieutenant Manser--who formed the forlorn hope, crossed the ditch, breast high in water, and mounted the breach. In the confusion that reigned among the troops, some of the officers had lost their way, and there was no one to assume the command or to give orders; and Lieutenant Manser, finding that he was unsupported, and could not with a handful of men attempt to attack either of the bastions, from which a terrible fire was being maintained, made the men sit down and shelter themselves as well as they could, in the debris of the breach; while he himself recrossed the ditch to summon up the support. In this he failed. All order was lost, and the men who formed the forlorn hope were at last called back, and the whole force retired, suffering heavily from the terrible fire to which they were exposed. Eighty-five were killed and three hundred and seventy-one wounded.
A more deplorable and ill-managed assault was never made by British troops. As Harry had thought possible, Lord Lake had treated the capture of Bhurtpoor as if it had been but a little hill fort. He had made no attempt to carry out regular siege operations but, trusting to the valour of his troops, had sent them across a considerable distance of plain swept by the enemy's fire, to assault a breach defended by some of the bravest tribesmen of India; and had not even issued commands which would have ensured order and cohesion in the attack.
The lesson that had been taught was not sufficiently taken to heart. Some more batteries were placed in position and, on the 16th, opened a heavy fire against the wall on the left of the former breach, which had been repaired during the two nights following its successful defence. So heavy was the fire from the new batteries that another breach was made in the course of a few hours. The Jats stockaded it during the night, but the timbers were soon knocked to fragments and, for five days, a continuous cannonade was maintained and a large breach formed.
It was necessary to find out how wide the ditch was, and three native cavalry and three British troopers, all dressed as natives, suddenly dashed out of the camp. At a short distance behind them a number of Sepoys ran out, as if in pursuit, discharging their muskets as they did so. Just as the six horsemen arrived at the ditch, two of the troopers' chargers were made to fall. The native havildar shouted to the soldiers on the wall to save them from the accursed feringhees, and show them the nearest entrance to the city. The soldiers pointed to a gate near the breach and, as soon as the men had again mounted, the havildar rode with them along the ditch, and made the necessary observations.
Then they put spurs to their horses, and rode off--the Jats, on seeing that they had been deceived, opening upon them with musketry. Their excitement and fury, however, disturbed their aim, and the six horsemen rode into camp unhurt, and reported that the ditch was not very wide, and that it did not seem to be very deep.
Portable bridges were at once constructed. These were to be carried by picked men, who were instructed in the best method of pushing them over the ditch. To prevent the recurrence of the confusion that had been, before, caused by the assault in the dark, it was determined that it should be made in daylight and, on the following afternoon, the storming party moved forward. It consisted of four hundred and twenty men from the European regiments, supported by the rest of those troops, and three battalions of native infantry. Colonel Macrae was in command. The whole of the batteries opened fire, to cover the movement and keep down that of the besieged.
On arriving at the ditch, it was found that the portable bridges could not be thrown across as, during the night, the garrison had dammed up the moat below the breach and turned a quantity of water into it, thus doubling both its width and depth. A few gallant fellows jumped in, swam across, and climbed the breach; but there were few capable of performing this feat, encumbered by their muskets and ammunition; and Colonel Macrae, seeing the impossibility of succeeding, called them back, and retired under a tremendous fire from the bastions and walls.
This assault was even more disastrous than the last, for the loss in killed and wounded amounted to nearly six hundred. Harry was deeply disappointed at these reverses, which the rajah himself, with great glee, reported to him with full details.
There had been other fighting: two British convoys on their way from Agra had been attacked by the horsemen of Ameer Khan, Holkar, and the rajah. The first might have been successful, for the twelve hundred bullocks were escorted by only fourteen hundred men; and these, although they might have defended themselves successfully, were unable to keep the convoy together. The animals, excited by the firing, were rushing off in all directions when, fortunately, a body of our cavalry which had been sent out to meet the convoy arrived, and drove off the enemy with a loss of six hundred men.
The next morning a general movement could be seen in the British camp. The rajah, who was immediately informed of it, came up to the lookout.
"The English general has given it up as hopeless," he said. "They are about to march away."
"It looks like it, Rajah," Harry admitted, "but I should hardly fancy that Lord Lake will take such a step. He has tried to take the town by a sudden assault, and I think that he will not retreat until he has attempted to do so by a regular siege operation."
An hour later the whole of the tents had been pulled down and, presently, both the troops and the huge body of followers and cattle were in motion.
"They are not going to Agra," the rajah said, after watching them for some time; "they must be going to march to the north."
Two hours later, the great procession had arrived at the north of the town. There they halted, and their long lines of tents began to rise.
"They are going to try another point," the rajah exclaimed. "Truly they are brave men, but they will be repulsed, as they were before."
"I fancy they will begin in another way, Rajah, and will make regular approaches, so that they will not have to pass across the open ground swept by your guns."
This indeed turned out to be the case. The trenches were at once opened and, ere long, two batteries were established at a distance of four hundred yards from the wall. Two days later another, still nearer, opened fire and, by the 20th of February, the trenches had been pressed forward to the edge of the ditch; and a mine sunk, with the intention of blowing up the counterscarp, and so partially filling the ditch. The troops intended for the assault took their places in the trenches at an early hour, so as to be ready to attack as soon as the repairs made by the garrison in the breach during the night could be destroyed by the batteries.
The Jats, however, had been rendered so confident by their previous successes that, during the night, they made a sally, crept into the advanced trench--from which the workmen had been withdrawn--and started to demolish the mine and carry off the tools. As the storming party moved down through the trenches the Jats--who had made the first sally--joined by a considerable number from the town, rushed forward and attacked them; and inflicted considerable loss before they were repulsed. A portion of them, however, still held the advanced trench; and when the 75th and 76th, who were at the head of the column, were ordered to dislodge them, they hesitated.
The repulse of the former attacks had had its effect, and the troops, believing that the enemy would have filled the mine with powder, and would explode it as they advanced, refused to move. The remaining men of the flank companies of the 22nd stepped forward but, as they were too few to attack so considerable a number of the enemy, the 12th and 15th Sepoy Regiments were called to the front, and these advanced gallantly.
The enemy were driven from the trench at the point of the bayonet. The ditch, however, had again been flooded, and was found to be impassable; but there was a bastion to the right that had been damaged by the breaching guns, and the troops at once made for this. A few men of the 12th managed to climb up, and planted the flag of their regiment on it but, as only one could mount at a time, and the Jats were swarming down upon them, they were recalled; and the force again drew off, having lost, in killed and wounded, nearly nine hundred men. Notwithstanding the terrible losses that had been suffered, General Lake persevered in his intention to carry the place at the point of the bayonet; and on the following day the batteries opened their fire on the bastion that had been nearly carried by the 12th Native Infantry.
The position had become serious. The cavalry had, a fortnight or three weeks before, defeated those of the rajah and his allies with heavy loss, and brought in a convoy; and Ameer Khan, who had only joined the Rajah of Bhurtpoor in the hope of plunder, had deserted his ally and ridden off, with his following and a large body of Pindarees, with the intention of devastating and plundering the district of Rohilcund. Three regiments of British cavalry, under General Smith; and as many of native horse, with artillery, followed on his track and, after a pursuit of three weeks, at last came up with him, annihilated his infantry and captured his guns. His cavalry, however, for the most part escaped, as the horses of the pursuers were completely worn out.
They returned to the British camp, after more than a month's absence, from a chase extending over seven hundred miles.
Their absence had greatly increased the difficulties in the British camp. Without their protection, the danger to which convoys were exposed was great. Provisions were running short in camp, the ammunition was almost exhausted, and numbers of the guns were rendered unserviceable. These circumstances afforded the only excuse that can be made for a fresh attack upon Bhurtpoor.
It was even more disastrous than those which had preceded it. The 75th and 76th Regiments, deeply ashamed of their conduct on the preceding occasion, volunteered to a man; and they, with the other European regiments and five regiments of Sepoys, under the command of Colonel Monson, moved out to the attack at three in the afternoon. Nothing could exceed the courage which they displayed, and their conduct rivalled that of the storming party at the siege of Badajos; but they were fighting against impossibilities. The bastion could not be climbed. Some of the soldiers drove their bayonets into the wall, one above another, and attempted to climb up by these steps; but were knocked down by logs of wood, large shot, and other missiles. Others attempted to get in by the shot holes that had been made, here and there; but as only one man could enter at a time, they were killed before a footing could be obtained. All this time a terrible fire was maintained by the enemy against our men, showers of grape and musketry swept their lines, pots filled with gunpowder and other combustibles exploded among them, bales of cotton dipped in oil fell flaming in their midst.
For two hours the hopeless conflict was maintained. Then the order was given to retire, and the men fell back; having lost, in killed and wounded, nine hundred and eighty-seven of their comrades. Thus the four assaults had cost the army three thousand two hundred and three of its best soldiers. The force was still further weakened by a large number of deaths from dysentery and fever, the result of the miasma rising from the marshes.
The camp was now shifted to drier ground, to the northeast of the town, the movement being harassed by the enemy's horse. The rajah, who had been jubilant over his success, looked grave when the new encampment was fixed.
"They have not done with me, yet," he said to Harry. "Why do they not go, now they see that they cannot take the place?"
"Because were they to do so, Rajah, half India would be in arms against them in a fortnight. Never before, since we set foot in India, have such defeats been inflicted upon us; and Lord Lake cannot march away and so own himself entirely beaten. Never before has an English general out here so blundered.
"Still, although unable to take Bhurtpoor, General Lake knows well enough that he can easily repulse all attacks on his camp. He knows, too, that the greatest efforts will be made to send up reinforcements. Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta will all send every available man and, ere long, his losses will be much more than counterbalanced by the forces that will join him. We have, during our history, suffered several disasters; but never one that has not been redeemed and revenged."
"Holkar was here, this morning," the rajah said, after a long silence. "He came to congratulate me on our victory. After he had done so, he asked that you and your troopers should be handed over to him. I need scarcely say that I refused. You were captured by my men and, though I am in alliance with Holkar, I do not owe him any fealty. It is I who have aided him, while he has given but little assistance to me; and would, I am sure, ride away and leave me to my fate, if he knew where to go to. But his country, his capital, and his forts are all in the hands of the English; and he stays near here because it is, at present, the safest place for him."
On the 23rd of March, the British cavalry returned. For a month no attempt had been made to renew the siege, but the camp still remained as a threat against Bhurtpoor, and the time had not been lost. Convoys, escorted by strong parties of infantry, had come out from Agra. Supplies of all kinds, battering guns and ammunition, arrived almost daily. The armourers worked at the old guns, and made them again fit for service; and everything showed that, when the attack was renewed, it would be much more formidable than before.
The cavalry were given a few days' rest after their arrival but, before daybreak on the 29th, they moved out in hopes of surprising Holkar. He had, however, scouts well posted far out; and he effected his retreat with the loss, only, of some of his baggage animals. He retired some miles to the southwest, and again pitched his camp.
On the 2nd of April the cavalry, with the horse artillery, again moved out at midnight and, this time, came upon the enemy undiscovered; and before they had time to mount their horses, the cavalry charged them in front and on both flanks, while the artillery swept the camp with grape. Great numbers were slain, both in Holkar's camp and in the pursuit, which was continued for eight miles. The whole of the camp equipage, the greater portion of the guns, and the bazaars were captured and, during the next day or two, large bodies of Holkar's troops, considering his case hopeless, deserted him. When in his flight he crossed the Jumna, he had but eight thousand horse, five thousand infantry, and thirty guns; the remains of the great army with which he had crossed the river, confident of victory, the year before.
On the following day Lord Lake, who had received considerable reinforcements, again moved his camp to the southeast of the city, and prepared to resume active operations against it. The rajah had, for some time, been in a despondent state and, the next morning, he came alone to Harry's room.
"I want to have a talk with you," he said; and Abdool, seeing that the conversation was to be a private one, at once left the room.
"My friend," he said, "I have, for some time, felt that my cause was becoming hopeless. I have never supposed that, after failing four times, and each with heavy loss, your people would continue the siege. But I see now that I was wrong. We might repulse another attack, and another; but of what use would it be? Your people would only become stronger, after each defeat.
"I see now that I have acted as one bereft of sense. I had no quarrel with the Company. They added to my territory, they had promised to defend me against all attacks but, when I heard that Holkar was approaching with so vast an army, I thought that surely he would recapture Delhi, and drive you out of Agra, and perhaps down to Calcutta; or that, after taking Agra, he would turn against me. And so, foolish man that I was, I joined him.
"And now I would fain make peace, and I pray you to go to your general, and ask what terms he will grant. They may be hard, but I am in no position to stand out. Ameer Khan has been chased and routed, Holkar is little better than a fugitive, and owns only his horse and saddle. There is no one to whom I can look for aid. I put myself in the English general's hands."
"I will willingly go, Rajah. No doubt it has been supposed, for weeks, that I and my escort have perished. And when the general hears of the kind treatment that we have received--a treatment so different from that we should have met with, had we fallen into the hands of Holkar--it will, I feel certain, have an effect on the terms that he will lay down."
Harry had, each day, paid a visit to the troopers, who were confined in a large airy room opening into the courtyard. They had been well fed, and had been permitted to go out into the open air, for several hours a day, and to mingle freely with the Jat soldiers. Half an hour after his interview with the rajah Harry went down there. To his surprise, he found Abdool and the troopers all mounted, as well as a party of the rajah's own guard.
Before leaving, the rajah had returned his sword to him. As he rode through the streets, followed by his own troopers and with the rajah's guard riding ahead, the people looked on with curiosity, but evinced no animosity against him. Successful as had been the defence, the fact that the British had received great convoys and reinforcements had caused a feeling of apprehension as to the final result. Food, too, was becoming very scarce for, although small quantities were brought in by the side opposite to that occupied by the camp, this was altogether insufficient for the needs of a large population, swollen by the fighting men of the whole country.
Even these supplies had ceased, since the return of the British cavalry and the rout of Holkar, and the fighting men were losing heart. Their losses had been small, in comparison with those of the besiegers; but the defeat of Holkar impressed all with the fear that the British must, in the end, triumph. They had already done more than any who had tried to stem the tide of the British power. They had repulsed them four times, and their defence would be the subject of admiration for all the native peoples of India. Therefore, when it was known that the captured English officer was leaving the town, with his troopers, the idea that the end was near caused general satisfaction.
Harry left the town by the gate nearest to the British encampment. The rajah's guard still accompanied him, but halted halfway between the walls and the camp; and there dismounted, the officer in command telling Harry that his orders were to wait until his return. Numbers of the soldiers had gathered at the edge of the camp, on seeing the party riding towards it; and when the guard fell back, and Harry with his troop approached, and it was seen that it was a British officer with an escort of native cavalry, a loud cheer broke out.
Most of the soldiers knew Harry by sight, and all had heard of his being missing with his escort and, as the time had passed without any news of him arriving, it was supposed that all had been killed by the horsemen of Ameer Khan or Holkar. Many of the men of the 5th Native Cavalry were in the crowd, and these shouted welcomes to their comrades; while several English officers ran up and shook Harry by the hand.
"I have been a prisoner in Bhurtpoor," he said, in answer to the questions. "I have been extremely well treated, but I cannot tell you more now. I am here on a mission to the general."
Curious to ascertain the cause of the cheering, General Lake appeared at the entrance of his tent, just as Harry rode up.
"Why, Major Lindsay," he exclaimed, "where did you spring from? We had all given you up as dead, long ago!"
"I have been in Bhurtpoor, sir, and am now here in the character of the rajah's ambassador."
"That is good news. But come in and tell me, first, about yourself."
Harry briefly related how they had lost their way in a morass, and had been attacked in the morning; and that, finding it impossible to make a way out, he had surrendered. He spoke in the warmest terms of the rajah's treatment of him and his followers.
"We were treated as guests, rather than prisoners, sir; and lived in a handsome room, got excellent food, and had the run of the palace. Scarce a day passed on which I did not have a talk with the rajah, himself."
"It is an exceptional case, indeed," the general said. "Had you fallen into Holkar's hands, or into those of Ameer Khan, very different treatment would have awaited you. And now, what has the rajah to say for himself?"
"His plea is, sir, that he believed Holkar's army would assuredly sweep us away; and that, in that case, he would have been attacked by him for having formed an alliance with us."
"His position was certainly an awkward one," the general said. "And now, what does he propose?"
"He does not propose anything, sir. He places himself in your hands. He admits his faults; and is, as he may well be, heartily sorry for them. He believes that he might still defend his town for some time but, his allies having been thrashed, he sees that, in the end, he must be overpowered. He asks that you will formulate your demands."
"Your news is very welcome, Major Lindsay; for indeed, I am as anxious to be off as the rajah can be to see me go. Scindia is giving trouble again, and has written a letter couched in such arrogant terms that it is virtually a declaration of war. I could not leave here until the town was captured; for it would have seemed to all India that we had been defeated, and would have been a terrible blow to our prestige. Therefore, at all costs, I must have taken the place. It will, however, be another fortnight before we shall be ready to recommence the siege.
"I do not wish to be hard on the rajah, and I know that the authorities at Calcutta view the case in the light that he has put it, and are willing to believe that his turning against us was not an act of deliberate treachery, but a fear of Holkar.
"His treatment of you and your escort is, in itself, much in his favour. Of course in this, as in similar cases, we could deprive him of his dominions, and send him a prisoner to a fortress; but the Governor General is most anxious that this business should be concluded. It has already cost us more men than we lost in the overthrow of Tippoo's power. He has given me authority to negotiate a peace, if the rajah offers to surrender. He has named the terms, approximately; and the rajah's treatment of you will certainly induce me to minimize the demands, as far as possible, especially as it is most important that the force shall be available elsewhere.
"Of course, the grant of territory made to him will be rescinded. In the second place, we must, until all the terms of the treaty are fulfilled, retain the fortress of Deeg, which we shall garrison strongly. The rajah must pay twenty lakhs of rupees towards our expenses. We shall not demand this at once, but three lakhs must immediately be paid. One of his sons must be given up to us, as a hostage for the fulfilment of the treaty. The rajah must also bind himself not to enter into any communication with any princes, or chiefs, at war with us.
"I think that you will allow that those are not hard conditions."
"Certainly not, sir; and I have no doubt that the rajah will agree to them, without hesitation."
"I will have a draft of the treaty drawn up, in half an hour," General Lake said. "Of course, you will carry it back to the rajah?"
"Certainly, sir. Fifty men of his bodyguard are waiting for me, halfway between the camp and the town."
Harry left the tent, and found the officers of the staff and many others waiting to welcome him back.
"They will all want to hear what you have to tell, Major," the head of the staff said. "You had best go into the mess tent, and hold a durbar."
The tent was soon filled with the officers, with the exception of the chief of the staff, who had been sent for by the general.
"In the first place, Lindsay," one of the officers said, "we take it that you have come on a mission from the rajah. Does he mean to surrender?"
"He is willing to surrender, if the terms are not too onerous."
The announcement was received with a loud cheer. There was not one present but believed that the next assault would be successful, but the cost of the previous attacks had been so great that it was believed the city would not be taken, unless with great slaughter. The unhealthiness of the country had told upon their spirits, even more than the repulses; and the news that they would soon be able to march away created the deepest satisfaction.
"And now, for your own adventures, Lindsay."
"My adventures began and ended in a swamp. It was four o'clock before the convoy left Agra, and I then rode on fast till it was night, when I was still five or six miles from the camp. It was pitch dark, and we lost our way and, presently, found ourselves in a deep swamp, and could discover no way of getting out of it."
Then he told them of the attack; how they had been obliged to surrender and had been guided out of the morass.
"When we reached the rajah's palace, all our troubles were ended. A handsome chamber was placed at my disposal, and the havildar of my escort was allowed to be with me. I was treated rather as an honoured guest than as a prisoner. I lived on the fat of the land, and was permitted to wander about the palace, and spent most of my time in the gallery round the highest tower, where I could see all that was going on. The rajah himself was most kind to me, and enquired daily if my wants were supplied to my satisfaction. He would often come up to the gallery and chat with me, sometimes for an hour. The troopers, also, were all well treated."
"You have received a great deal of misplaced commiseration," one of the officers said. "We have all thought of you as having been tortured to death, either by Holkar or Ameer Khan; and now we find you have been better housed and better fed than we have.
"And you are going back again, I suppose, with the chief's answer?"
"Yes; I must not tell you the conditions, but I think I can say it is certain that the rajah will not hesitate a moment in accepting them."
"Well, he deserves to be let off leniently, if only for his treatment of you and your men. It is a contrast, indeed, to what has generally happened to officers who have fallen into the hands of any of these native princes."
There was a general talk until an aide-de-camp came in, and asked Harry to accompany him to the general's tent.
"There is the draft of the treaty," the latter said. "I hope that there will be no delay in returning a prompt answer. I want either yes or no. These Indian princes are adepts in the art of prolonging a negotiation. If you see that he has any disposition to do so, say at once that I have told you that the terms I offer are final, and must be accepted or rejected."
"Very well, sir. I hope to return with the answer tomorrow, early."
And, followed by his escort, Harry rode for the city. The rajah's guard mounted, as soon as they saw him coming, and escorted him to the palace. The street leading to it was now thronged with people, and it was evident to Harry that, among the great majority, there was a feeling of hope that he was the bearer of acceptable terms; for among the poorer class the pressure of want was already severe.
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Harry, on arriving at the palace, at once went to the rajah's room.
"Well, sahib, what terms does your general offer me?"
"Terms which I think, sir, you will have no hesitation in accepting. Here is a draft of the treaty that he proposes."
The rajah glanced at the document, which was written in English and in Mahratti, for none of the general's staff understood the Jat language. Harry saw, at once, that the terms were far less onerous than the rajah had expected; for his face brightened, and the air of despondency that it had for some days expressed passed away.
"It is better than I had looked for," he said. "As a rule, the English have not been merciful to those they have subdued. That the territory they gave me would be taken away was a matter of course. The sum to be paid is heavy but, as they have given me time, I can manage to collect it without much difficulty. This is all that is demanded; and that they should hold Deeg and my son as a hostage, until the money is paid, is fair and just."
"I thought that the conditions would meet with your acceptance, Rajah; and I may say that your kindly treatment of myself and my escort has gone some way in mitigating the terms that would otherwise have been demanded. But the general said that you must understand that he can make no further diminution of his demands; and that tomorrow he expects an answer, yes or no."
"I reply yes, at once, Major Lindsay. A load has been lifted from my mind. I shall still have my liberty, my capital, and my people; and am grateful, indeed, for the clemency that has been shown me. I had relied somewhat upon your good offices; but had small hopes that, after what has taken place, I should be offered such terms."
The rajah at once sent for his sons--of whom Harry had seen but little, for they were always on the walls, encouraging the troops and seeing that the breaches were repaired, as soon as made. The rajah read to them the draft of the treaty. They too were visibly relieved; for they had talked the matter over with their father, on the evening before, and had agreed that, probably, he and his family would be kept as prisoners in a fortress, that the fortifications of the town would be destroyed, and some nominee of the British Government created rajah.
"The general has not said which of my sons is to be hostage?"
"No, Rajah, he left that to you. I may say that he took the same view of your position as that which you, yourself, explained to me; namely, that you joined Holkar simply from the apprehension that, if the English were defeated by him, he would next turn his arms against you."
"Which of you will go?" the rajah asked his sons.
All expressed their willingness.
"Then I will choose my third son," he said to Harry; "the others will be more useful here."
Harry rode out, early in the morning, with the news that the rajah accepted the terms offered to him. In an hour the treaty was written out formally, the general affixing his signature. Harry returned to the city, this time accompanied by a general officer, and both signed their names as witnesses to the rajah's signature. Some bullock carts, with chests containing the three lakhs of rupees, were already in the courtyard; and with these and the rajah's third son, Harry returned to camp.
The army afterwards started to meet Scindia, who had advanced with his army, with the intention of joining Holkar and assisting the Rajah of Bhurtpoor. He had, for some time, been almost openly hostile; had sent his relation, Bapeejee Scindia, with a strong body of horse, to act in concert with the cavalry of Ameer Khan and Holkar; and had sent letters to the Government which amounted to a declaration of war. But when Holkar reached his camp a fugitive, and he heard that Bhurtpoor had surrendered, he at once fell back; and endeavoured to make excuses for his conduct, alleging that Bapeejee Scindia has acted entirely without orders, and that he had himself advanced only with the intention of mediating between the Rajah of Bhurtpoor and the English.
No one was deceived by his assurances, but it was thought politic to pretend to believe them. The Marquis of Wellesley's term of office had expired, and a successor had come out, with orders to carry out a policy differing widely from that which he had followed. The latter had enormously extended the area of the British possessions in India, the British troops had won a marvellous series of victories; but this had been effected at an immense cost and, so far, the revenue drawn from the conquered provinces barely sufficed to pay the expenses of occupation and management.
The treaties, too, that had been entered into with various rajahs and chiefs might, at any moment, plunge the Government into war in support of our allies and, accordingly, Lord Cornwallis was again sent out, to carry out the policy of maintaining friendly relations with the native powers, and of abstaining from interference in their quarrels with each other. Indeed, a breathing time was urgently needed. The rapid progress of the British arms had aroused a feeling of distrust and hostility among all the native princes; and it was necessary to carry out a strong but peaceful administration in the conquered provinces, to give confidence to their populations, to appoint civil officers of all sorts; and so to divide the troops that, while they ceased to threaten any of the native powers, they should maintain order in the new dependencies not yet reconciled to the change of masters, or capable of appreciating the benefits arising from orderly rule.
Accordingly, Scindia's excuses were accepted. A considerable portion of the dominions that had been wrested from him were restored; and even Holkar, whose atrocious cruelties to all the British soldiers and officers who fell into his hands should have placed him beyond the pale of pardon, was again invested with most of his former possessions--with the object, no doubt, of counterbalancing Scindia's power as, had Holkar been driven to take refuge in the north, as a fugitive, Scindia would have become paramount among the Mahrattas.
One of the last acts of the Marquis of Wellesley was to offer Harry a high civil appointment, in one of the new provinces; but he declined it, upon the ground that he was about to apply for leave to go to England. He had, indeed, already formed the idea of quitting the service altogether. The presents he had received from Bajee Rao, on his first arrival at Poona, and on being invested as Peishwa; and the still larger one that Nana Furnuwees had given him; had been, for the most part, invested in the purchase of land at Bombay. In the eight years that has elapsed, the town had greatly increased in size; and the land had been gradually sold, at four or five times the sum that it had cost, and the proceeds sent to England. Harry was, therefore, a rich man.
He had been constantly engaged in service for nearly nine years and, as he had never been settled long enough to have an establishment of his own, his military pay had much more than sufficed for his wants; and the large increase which he had obtained, when engaged in civil or special duty, had been entirely laid by. There was, then, no further occasion whatever for him to remain in the service. At any rate, he determined to obtain a three years' leave; and before the end of that time, he could finally make up his mind on the subject.
A month, therefore, after the siege of Bhurtpoor was concluded, Harry had an interview with Lord Lake, and requested three years' leave to go to England.
"You have well earned it, Major Lindsay. Your services have been very great and, if the war was likely to continue, I should have asked you to reconsider your request; but as, from what I hear, a complete change of policy has been determined upon, and it has been decided that there shall be no further extension of our territory, there is likely--at any rate for a time--to be a period of peace. The board of directors desire to consolidate the territory that we have gained, and wish to abstain from all embarrassing alliances, or from any meddling in the affairs of the native princes.
"You, who have been so long at Poona, and understand the shifty nature of Scindia, Holkar, and indeed of all the native princes, must know well that these orders are much more easily given than carried out. If our restraining hand is removed, we shall have Scindia, and Holkar, the Peishwa, the Rajahs of Berar, Kolapoore, and Bhurtpoor at each other's throats again. They will treat our declarations, that we desire peace, only as a proof of weakness; and may, at any moment, lay aside their private quarrels to unite against us; and, unlikely as it may seem at present, my conviction is that there will never be permanent peace in India until we are masters from Cape Comorin to the borders of Afghanistan. It may be another half century, and will certainly only be after hard fighting; but I believe that, until all India acknowledges our rule, there will not be anything like permanent peace within its borders."
"I am afraid that that is so, sir. The only really sincere and honest man that I have met, bent upon serving his country, was Nana Furnuwees and, in consequence, he was equally hated by the Peishwa, Scindia, and Holkar. I was certainly extremely well treated by the Rajah of Bhurtpoor; but this was, no doubt, largely due to the fact that he thought that, if matters went against him, his courtesy to me would tell in his favour, while ill treatment or murder would have put him beyond the pale of forgiveness."
"Your application comes at a fortunate moment, for I am sending a regiment of Bombay cavalry back to their presidency, and it will be well that you should travel with it through Jaipore and Ajmeer to Surat, and so on to Bombay, which will save you a long journey--unless, indeed, you wish to travel by way of the Ganges."
"I would much rather go to Bombay, sir. I wish to visit the good people who brought me up. I will ask you to allow Havildar Abdool to go with me. I don't know whether he will wish to take his discharge, but I should think he would do so and, as he belongs properly to the Bombay army, and is indeed a Mahratta, I am sure that he would prefer to settle there."
"I will certainly do that, and will see that the services he has rendered are mentioned in his discharge; and I will, myself, write to the Government of Bombay, saying that I had intended to grant him a small holding, as a reward for his fidelity; and asking that this may be bestowed upon him, either in the Concan, or in some of the territory that we have become possessed of above the Ghauts."
Abdool was greatly moved, when Harry told him that he had applied for and obtained leave.
"You will take me with you, master, I hope?"
"I think, Abdool, that you would do better to remain in your own country. You would feel very strange in England, among people none of whom speak your language. You would also feel the cold, greatly."
"I would rather go with you, sahib. Were I to go back to my native village, I should find myself among strangers, for I have now been nearly fifteen years away; and what should I do without employment?"
"Well, we will think it over, Abdool. Lord Lake kindly offered to write a letter in your favour to the Government of Bombay, asking them to give you the charge of a village district, which would keep you in comfort."
"I should not be comfortable if I were not with you, sahib."
"Well, Abdool, we are going with the Bombay regiment which starts tomorrow, and shall travel through Central India to Surat. There I shall leave them in the Concan, and cross the Ghauts to Jooneer, and pay a visit to Soyera, Ramdass, and Sufder, and see them all comfortably settled; and then go down to Bombay. So we shall both have plenty of time to think it over."
Accordingly the next morning Harry, after saying goodbye to all his friends, started. The journey to Surat was nearly seven hundred miles, and was accomplished without incident. On their arrival at Jowaur, they ascended the Ghaut to Trimbuck, and then rode to Jooneer, and another half hour took them to the farm.
Harry was received with delight by its occupants. It was six years since he had parted from his old nurse at Bombay, and he had greatly changed since then. He was now a tall and powerfully-built man.
"And so you are already a major, as was your dear father!" she said, after the first greetings were over. "It seems to me but a short time since you were an infant in my arms. But what brings you here?"
"There is going to be a general peace for some time, Soyera; and I have had enough of fighting, and am on my way home to England, where I hope to learn something about my father's and mother's families. I have three years' leave, and as I am as rich as I could desire to be, possibly I may return here no more."
"I shall grieve, Harry; but it is natural for you to do so, and I shall feel happy in the thought that you have become all your parents could have wished, and that I have been the means, in some way, of bringing this about."
"In all ways, Soyera. I owe not only my life, but all that I am, to you. Had you been without friends, I would have taken you to England. But happily you are among your own people, and have now been living with your good brother and his wife for four-and-twenty years; and I can leave you, knowing that you are perfectly comfortable and happy.
"Have you any desire to better your condition, Ramdass? I owe you, too, so much that it would greatly please me to be able, in some way, to show that I am grateful for the shelter you gave me for so many years."
"There is nothing," Ramdass said. "I have all that I can desire. Had I more, I should have greater cares. Those who are rich here are not the best off, for it is they who are squeezed when our lords have need of money. My sons will divide my land when I die, and my daughter is already married and provided for. Had I a larger farm, I should need more hands and have more cares. The bounty which you before gave me has gratified my utmost desires."
A messenger had already been sent off to Sufder, who rode in the next day. He, too, was well and comfortable, and was viewed as a man of importance by the villagers.
Harry remained there four days longer, then bade farewell to those who had proved themselves his true friends, and rode down to Bombay. On the road he had a long talk with Abdool, who remained fixed in his determination to accompany him to England, if he would take him.
"Very well, Abdool, so it shall be. But if, at any time, you have a longing to come back to your own country, I will pay your passage, and give you enough to make you comfortable for life."
Harry remained but a few days in Bombay, wound up his affairs with his agents there and, being fortunate in finding a vessel that was on the point of sailing, took passage in her for England. The voyage was an uneventful one. They experienced bad weather off the Cape but, with that exception, carried all canvas till they entered the Channel. Here they encountered another gale, but arrived safely in the Thames, four months after leaving Calcutta.
It was now January, 1806, and after going with Abdool to an hotel, Harry's first step was to procure warm clothing for himself and his follower. The weather was exceedingly cold, and although Abdool had, as he considered, wrapped himself up in an extraordinary way, he was unable to keep warm, except when sitting in front of a huge fire.
"Is it always like this, sahib?" he asked, in a tone of great anxiety.
"Oh no, Abdool, only for perhaps two months out of the twelve. You will find it pleasant enough in summer and, after two or three winters, will get accustomed to the cold. You had better not think of going out, till you get your clothes. I will have a tailor in to measure you. I should say that it would be more convenient for you to take to European clothes. You will not find them uncomfortable, as you have for so many years been accustomed to uniform. They are much more convenient for getting about in, and you will not be stared at in the streets; as you would be if you went about in native costume. However, you can wear your own turban, if you like."
Abdool willingly consented to this proposal. A tailor was consulted, and suggested loosely-cut trousers and a short jacket, similar to that now worn by the French zouaves, and differing but little from that of the Indian cavalry. In this, with the addition of a long and warmly-lined cloak, Abdool professed his readiness to encounter any degree of cold.
As soon as his own clothes had arrived, Harry went to Leadenhall Street and, sending in his card, was shown into a large room, where two or three of the governors of the Company were seated, considering the reports that had been brought from India in the ship in which Harry had arrived.
"Your name is familiar to us, Major Lindsay," the gentleman at the head of the table said cordially. "You have been mentioned in numerous despatches, and always in terms of the highest commendation. First, by the Governor of Bombay; then by the Marquis of Wellesley, for the manner in which you secured the neutrality of Berar, during the Mysore war; then again, if I remember rightly, for obtaining concessions for our occupation of the island of Singapore, when we are in a position to undertake it. He also sent us your report of that business, by which it appeared that you had some extremely perilous adventures, entailed by your zeal to obtain the Rajah of Johore's consent to the cession. Sir Arthur Wellesley mentioned your name in his despatch after Assaye, and Lord Lake's despatches make numerous mention of your service with him. Altogether, I do not think that any officer has received such warm and general commendation as you have done."
"Thank you, sir. I have always done my best, and been exceptionally fortunate in being engaged in services that gave me an opportunity of, in some degree, distinguishing myself."
"Pray sit down, Major. My colleagues and myself will be glad to know a little more about you. When the Governor of Bombay informed us that he most strongly recommended you for a commission, he mentioned that you were a son of Major Lindsay who, with his wife, was killed in the Concan, at the time of that most unfortunate and ill-managed expedition to Poona. We had never heard of your existence before. Had it been brought before our notice we should, of course, have assigned a pension for your bringing up and education."
Harry, at his request, gave a very brief outline of the manner in which he had been saved by his nurse, who had taught him English, and prepared him for entering the service when he came of age.
"I have returned to England," he said, "partly to find out, if possible, any of my relatives who may exist on my father's or mother's side."
"I have no doubt that we shall be able to put you in the way of doing so. Doubtless, at the time of your father's and mother's death, we notified the fact--at any rate to your father's family--and received communications from them. We will cause a search to be made. Where are you staying?"
Harry gave the name of the hotel.
"We will send you word there, as soon as the records have been searched. At any rate, it is certain that the birthplace of your father and the residence of his father will be found, at the time he obtained his appointment as cadet. I have no doubt that the letter communicating his death was directed to that address."
The next day a messenger brought a note to Harry's hotel: "Dear Major Lindsay: "We find that your grandfather was a landowner in Norfolk. His address was Parley House, Merdford. The letter sent to him with the account of your father's death was answered by a son of his; who stated that his father had died, two months before, and enquired if any news had been obtained of an infant who, they had learned, had been born some months before the murder of its parents. We replied that the report to us had stated, 'body of infant not found.' We, at his request, wrote to Bombay on the subject.
"The answer was as before that, although the body of the child was not found with those of its father and mother, no doubt whatever was entertained that it had been killed. It was some days after the catastrophe happened before any report of it reached the authorities, when a party of cavalry were at once sent out. Many of the bodies had been mutilated, and some almost devoured by jackals. No doubts were entertained that the infant had been altogether devoured."
"The remains were all buried at the spot where they were found; and a stone was erected, some months afterwards, by the officers of his regiment; recording the deaths of Major Lindsay, his wife and child, at that spot."
Two days later Harry took his place with Abdool on the north coach and, after spending a day at Norwich, drove in a post chaise to Merdford. Here he heard that Parley House was two miles distant and, without alighting, drove on there. It was a fine house, standing in a well-wooded park. On a footman answering the bell, Harry handed him his card, "Major H. Lindsay."
He was shown into a library and, a minute later, a gentleman entered. He was about sixty years of age, of the best type of English squire; tall, inclined to be portly, with genial face and hearty voice.
"We are of the same name, I see, Major Lindsay."
"We are, sir; and, strange as it may appear to you, of the same blood."
"Indeed!" he said, shaking hands with his visitor. "What is the relationship? It must be a distant one, for I was not aware that I had any connection of your rank in the army.
"By the way, now that I think of it, I have seen, in the reports of our campaigns in India, the name of a Captain Lindsay frequently mentioned."
"I am the man, sir."
"I am glad to know that one who has so distinguished himself is a relation of mine, however distant."
"It is not so very distant, sir. In point of fact, I am your nephew."
The squire looked at him in bewilderment.
"My nephew!" he repeated.
"Yes, Mr. Lindsay. I am the son of your brother, also Major Lindsay, of the Bombay Army. I returned from India but ten days ago; and learned for the first time, from the governors of the Company, the family to which my father belonged. Had it been otherwise, I should have written to you, years ago, to inform you that I was the infant who was supposed to have perished, when its father and mother were killed."
Harry thought that the colour paled a little in his uncle's face.
"You have, of course, proofs of your identity?" the latter said, gravely.
"Certainly. I have the evidence of the Indian nurse who saved my life, and brought me up; that of a cousin of hers, who was an officer of the band that attacked my father; and that of her brother, with whom I resided from the time she brought me there--three days after the death of my parents--until I was twelve years old, when she placed me with a lady in Bombay, for two years and a half, to be taught to speak English perfectly. After that, I was some three years in the service of the Peishwa.
"These depositions were, by the order of the Governor of Bombay, sworn to by them before the chief justice there. My identity was fully recognized by the Governor of Bombay, who at once recommended me for a commission, in consequence of some service that I had rendered to the Government; and the recommendation was accepted by the court at home, and my commission dated from the time of my appointment by the Governor."
"I see a likeness in you to my brother who, when I last saw him, was about your age. I do not say that you are exactly like him, but your expression and voice both recall him to me. As a matter of form, of course, I should like to see these depositions. I am curious to know the details of your adventures.
"But that will keep. I will at once introduce you to my wife and daughter. Like your father, I was unfortunate in my children. I know that you had several brothers and sisters born before you, all of whom died in their infancy. I did not marry until some years later than he did. I had two boys, who were both drowned when out in a fishing boat at Yarmouth. My daughter was the youngest."
He rose from his seat and led the way to the drawing room, where a lady some fifteen years younger than himself was seated at work, with a girl of nineteen or twenty.
"My dear," he said, "I have a surprise for you. This gentleman, Major Lindsay, who has distinguished himself greatly in India, is our nephew. He claims, and I may say at once that I see no reasons whatever to doubt it, that he is the child of my brother Harry who, as you may remember, was, with his wife, killed in India a few months after we were married. My enquiries resulted in leaving, as it seemed, no room for doubt that the infant had perished with his parents, and that its body had been devoured by wild beasts.
"But it now appears that he was saved by his nurse, who happened to have a relation who was an officer in the party that attacked Harry's camp. She took him to the house of a brother, and there he was brought up; and he afterwards went down to Bombay, where he satisfied the Governor as to his identity, and received a commission. I have not heard further particulars yet, but Major Lindsay-- "I suppose I shall come to call you Harry, in time, nephew-- "Will tell us all about it, himself. I am sure that you will join with me in welcoming Harry's boy heartily, and in my satisfaction that he has proved himself well worthy of his race."
Harry was a little surprised at detecting a tone of warning, in the manner in which the last words were spoken; and at the agitation with which Mrs. Lindsay had listened to her husband. This disappeared, however, as she held out her hand to him.
"I welcome you back to England, nephew. Yours is indeed a strange story. I know that my husband was greatly attached to your father."
"Yes, I loved him dearly," Mr. Lindsay said, "and can see a resemblance to him in his son. He is taller and more strongly built than Harry was. I do not say that the features are very like, but there is something in the expression of his face, and tone of his voice, that recalls him to me strongly.
"This is my daughter Mary. We called her so after your mother. It was a fancy of mine, for I knew her well before she married your father. The two families were on terms of great friendship, and for her sake, as well as for my brother's, I gave her the name."
"I am glad to meet you, cousin," the girl said, holding out her hand frankly to him. "It is, of course, a great surprise to us, and I can hardly realize yet that you are really my cousin."
"Now, Harry," his uncle said briskly, "I will give orders to have your things taken out of the post chaise, and carried up to your room. We shall be having lunch directly and, after that, you shall tell us your story at full length."
Ten minutes later they sat down to lunch. When Harry rejoined the others, he fancied he saw traces of tears in the eyes of Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter; and he thought that perhaps they had been thinking that, if their own boys had lived, they also would be young men now.
After the meal was over, the squire said: "Now, wife, we will all adjourn to the library. It is the most comfortable room in the house, and the cosiest--just the place for listening to a long story. I have told William to get two more armchairs there, so that we can sit round the fire--which is quite the proper thing to do when a story has to be told."
The light had faded out of the sky, and the curtains were drawn; but the squire would not have candles lighted, saying that the blaze of the fire was the proper thing to listen by. Harry related fully the manner in which he had been brought up and trained, by his nurse, for the time when he could present himself at Bombay; and also his adventures in the Deccan, which had paved the way for his obtaining a commission. He told the rest more briefly, though he was obliged, in answer to the questions of the others, to go somewhat further into his personal adventures.
"It is a wonderful story," the squire said, when he at last finished. "There are many things that you have cut very short; and which you must, some other time, tell us fully. Your poor father would have reason to be proud of you, indeed, had he lived to see you now. He thought that he was wonderfully fortunate, in obtaining a majority at the age of thirty-five; but you have got it ten years younger.
"Well, we have not spared you, for we have kept you talking over four hours."
Dinner passed off quickly, and when wine had been placed on the table, and the servants retired, Mr. Lindsay said: "You will understand, Harry, that although absolutely certain that you are my nephew, I do not resign, and offer you my seat at the head of the table, until the documents that you have brought are formally examined."
"What do you mean, uncle?" Harry asked, in surprise.
"I mean, of course, that as your father's son, this estate is yours, and not mine."
Harry rose to his feet.
"I don't understand you, uncle. I never dreamt for a moment--" and he stopped.
"That your father was my eldest brother. Yes, he was a year older than myself; and at his father's death would, of course, have succeeded to the estate. But he died before him; and you, as his son, will of course succeed."
"But I could not dream of such a thing, uncle. Do you think that I have come down here with the idea of turning you and my aunt and cousin out, and taking your place? If I had known it, I should not have come down at all. It would be monstrous if, after you have been master here for twenty-five years, I should come down to claim the estate from you."
"I am glad to hear you say so, Harry," his uncle said, gravely. "Naturally, it did not occur to us that you were ignorant that your father was the eldest son. We thought, from your manner, that you would be willing to arrange everything on amicable terms; for of course, legally, you are entitled to all the back rents, which I honestly say I could not pay. Your aunt's little fortune, and my portion as younger brother, will be amply sufficient to keep us three comfortably; but as to paying the arrears, it would be impossible."
"My dear uncle, the whole thing is impossible. I have returned home with an ample amount of money to live in luxury. I did not think it necessary to mention, in my story, that Nana Furnuwees presented me with a considerable sum of money; and Bajee Rao did the same. This I invested in land close to Bombay, which is now covered with houses, and fetched five times the price I gave for it. In addition to this, I have been in civil employment for the past six years and, as I have always been on the move, I have never had the expense of an establishment, and have thus saved some five thousand pounds.
"Therefore I am master of something over ninety thousand pounds; and can, if I do not return to India--which I have, I may say, already made up my mind not to do, buy an estate. I have had very much more than my share of adventures, and have marvellously escaped. If I return, my luck might change.
"At any rate, I have had enough of it. I have made a very handsome fortune and, even putting everything else aside, would rather know that I owed all I possessed to my own good luck and exertions, than to an accident of birth."
"But that cannot be, lad."
"Well, uncle," Harry said obstinately, "if you choose to see things in that light, all I can say is, that I shall at once throw up my leave and return to India; and if you choose to leave this house and estate, it may go to wreck and ruin for anything I care."
"Well, well, my boy, we won't say anything more about it, now, but will leave it to the lawyers to settle."
"I shall certainly employ no lawyers in the matter, uncle. By all means, obtain your solicitor's opinion as to whether the proofs I have put in your hands are sufficient to establish, beyond all fear of doubt, the fact that I am the son of Major Harry Lindsay. It matters not whether my father was your elder brother or not, to anyone except ourselves. I am perfectly satisfied with having proved, to the satisfaction of all in India, that I am the son of a brave officer. My object in coming to England was not to see whether I was entitled to money, but simply to find friends among the families of my father and mother; and if it were to end in my turning you, my aunt, and cousin out of the place you have believed to be your own, for so many years, my visit here would be a dismal failure, and I should bitterly regret having set foot in England.
"Please do not let us say anything more about it. The matter, so far as I am concerned, is concluded; and nothing that can possibly be said will shake my determination, in any way."
In order to break the silence, for Mrs. Lindsay and Mary were both wiping their eyes, Harry went on: "Now that we have finished this question, uncle, I will tell you how I got the ratification of the treaty, that will some day be made for our occupation of Singapore, from the Rajah of Johore. As far as the excitement went, it certainly was the most stirring business that I was ever employed in;" and he at once launched into the narrative of his capture, the escape, the adventure with the tiger, and the defence of Johore.
"It seems to me, Harry," his uncle said, when he had finished, "that you not only have as many lives as a cat, but as a whole posse of cats. I cannot but think that it was a wild business, altogether; and that, having got the assent of the gentleman with the very hard name, there was no occasion to bother about the rajah, who seemed to have no authority whatever."
"But he might have got it, you see, uncle. It may be ten years or more before a governor general will be able to attend to the business, and it was as well to get it settled, once for all."
"What did the rajah present you with for saving his capital?"
"He offered me a number of weapons and things but, as I had no place to put them in, I could not be bothered with them. I do not think that cash was at all a strong point with him, and I don't suppose he had a thousand dollars in his treasury. I was a little surprised that he did not offer me half a dozen young ladies as wives; but had he done so, I should have resisted the temptation, as they would have been even more trouble than the weapons."
"You never fell in love with any of the Indian beauties, cousin Harry?"
"I have never seen any to fall in love with. The ladies of the upper class in India, whether Hindus or Mussulmans, always go closely veiled; and as to the English ladies, in the first place they were nearly all married, and in the second place I went as little into society as I could help, being on the Governor General's staff, and nearly always away on duty. Certainly I never saw anyone who caused my pulse to beat faster; which I believe, from what I have read, is one of the many symptoms of being in love."
Harry then enquired about his mother's relations.
"I, unfortunately, can tell you nothing about them. She was an only daughter when she married your father. Both her parents died, years ago. They only had a lease of the place they lived in, and I really cannot tell you anything whatever about them. There was a son, who would, I suppose, succeed to any property his father left; but he was a ne'er-do-well, and was seldom at home, and I have never seen or heard of him, since."
"Well, I am quite content with the relations that I have found, and shall not trouble myself to seek further."
Four days passed. At the end of that time, Mr. Lindsay received a letter from his lawyer and, after breakfast, asked Harry to go into the library with him.
"About that business that we were talking about, I have today received an answer to my letter. My lawyer is of opinion, from what I told him of these papers, that your case is a strong one; and that though, if I chose, I might give you a great deal of trouble, he thinks that in the long run you would succeed. As I don't want to give you trouble; and as I am, myself, as completely convinced that you are my brother Harry's son as that I am his brother, the matter may now be considered as finally settled."
"Quite so, uncle. I don't want to hear anything more about it. If you choose to be obstinate, and turn out, I can only say that I shall be sorry that the old house, where my father and you were both born, should go to wreck and ruin. At any rate, let the matter rest, for the present. Possibly it may yet be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties."
"It will certainly not be arranged to my satisfaction," the squire grumbled, "unless you become master here."
"We will talk it over, in six months' time."
He related the conversation to his wife who, to his surprise, looked pleased.
"Nothing could be better," she said; "it would be an excellent plan."
"What on earth do you mean, Louisa?"
"You are as blind as an owl, Peter. There can be only one meaning in what he has said, only one arrangement that could be satisfactory to all parties."
"And what is that, my dear?" the squire said, a little testily.
"I mean, of course, that he should marry Mary."
The squire sat down suddenly, in his surprise.
"Such an idea never entered my head," he said. "But why should you think of it? Why, the young fellow has only been here four or five days!"
"That is quite long enough for him to see that Mary is a charming girl," Mrs. Lindsay said. "He has seen very little of ladies; and he is, no doubt, struck with the idea that she is an extremely nice girl. I don't say that he is in love with her, yet; but quite enough, perhaps, to foresee that, ere long, he will feel more ardent than he does at present; and that it is the only arrangement possible, since we are determined to turn out for him.
"Now mind, Peter, you do not throw out the slightest hint, either to him or to her, that such a solution has ever occurred to us. It might spoil everything. It would make Mary shy with him, and might cause him to be awkward. You give your consent to remain here, for six months. By that time the question will have solved itself. If I am wrong, no harm will have been done. If I am right, the arrangement will be, as he says, a satisfactory one to us all."
"I was always against cousins marrying," Mr. Lindsay said, doubtfully.
"Don't be absurd, Peter. I don't say that, in some cases, there is not a good deal to be said against it; but where both the man and the woman are healthy, and come of healthy families, no union can be more likely to be happy."
"But I think I have heard you speak--" "Never mind what you have heard me speak, sir; circumstances alter cases, and this case is altogether an exceptional one.
"We certainly could not wish for a finer young fellow as Mary's husband. He is a desirable partner, in every respect. He is himself well off and, although I quite agree with you that, whatever it costs, we must give the dear old place up, I grant that it would be very pleasant to avoid so terrible a wrench.
"The one thing I don't like is that man of his. He moves about so noiselessly that it is like having a ghost in the room."
"It is you who are absurd, now, Louisa," the squire said. "The man has, over and over again, proved himself to be a most faithful friend to him. I own that it is a little trying to see him standing behind Harry's chair, without moving, except when his master wants something; but after all, that is less fidgety than having footmen dodging about you.
"Well, Louisa, I will take particular heed of what you have said, and will be mum as a mouse, until we see how the cat jumps."
Mrs. Lindsay's prevision turned out correct. Harry remained a week longer at Parley House. Then he heard that an estate was for sale, two miles away, and drove over quietly to inspect it. Ten days later he wrote from London, and said that he had bought the place.
"He is the most obstinate fellow that I ever knew!" Mr. Lindsay exclaimed, as he read the letter.
"What is it, dear?"
"He has bought Hungerford's place, and never gave me the slightest hint of his intentions."
"Well, I think it will be very nice to have him so near us," Mrs. Lindsay said, decidedly.
"Oh, of course, and it will be so handy for--" "Peter, will you take another cup of tea?" his wife said, sharply; and Mr. Lindsay knew that he had nearly put his foot in it.
A week later Harry came down again--to see, as he said, what required to be done to the house; and he needed no persuasion to stay at Parley Hall. To decide upon matters, he needed a great deal of advice, both from Mrs. Lindsay and Mary; and then, having put the house into the hands of the builders and decorators, he went up to town again. However, he frequently ran down to see how things were getting on and, before the alterations were all finished, Mary had consented to become its mistress.
Abdool preferred to remain as his master's body servant, as before. He had even, before leaving India, picked up a certain amount of English; and had improved considerably his knowledge of the language during the long voyage. Mary, fortunately, had not shared in her mother's feelings about him but, on learning that he had, several times, saved Harry's life, had taken to him greatly. He never returned to his native land.
And although Harry and his wife talked, sometimes, of making the voyage to India, they were never enabled to accomplish it for, as children grew up around them, Mary was no longer free to travel. Abdool's devotion was now divided between his master and mistress and the little ones, who were never tired of listening to his stories of their father's adventures.
Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay lived to an advanced age, and died within a few weeks of each other. Harry then moved to Parley Hall, and sold the estate he had bought; as the management of one estate, and his duties as county magistrate, occupied as much time as he cared to give. The only complaint made against him, by his neighbours, was that he did not care for field sports. But, as he said, he had seen enough bloodshed to last him his lifetime; and would neither shed the blood of bird nor beast, though he had no quarrel with those who liked that sort of thing.
He kept up a regular correspondence, to the end of her life, with his old nurse; and his interest in his Indian friends never abated. He was an old man when the Indian mutiny broke out, and two of his grandsons took their share in the long siege of Delhi, and served with both the forces which, under Sir Colin Campbell, fought their way into Lucknow, and finally broke the neck of the Sepoy mutiny.
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{
"id": "20729"
}
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1
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OLD MOODIE
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The evening before my departure for Blithedale, I was returning to my bachelor apartments, after attending the wonderful exhibition of the Veiled Lady, when an elderly man of rather shabby appearance met me in an obscure part of the street.
"Mr. Coverdale," said he softly, "can I speak with you a moment?"
As I have casually alluded to the Veiled Lady, it may not be amiss to mention, for the benefit of such of my readers as are unacquainted with her now forgotten celebrity, that she was a phenomenon in the mesmeric line; one of the earliest that had indicated the birth of a new science, or the revival of an old humbug. Since those times her sisterhood have grown too numerous to attract much individual notice; nor, in fact, has any one of them come before the public under such skilfully contrived circumstances of stage effect as those which at once mystified and illuminated the remarkable performances of the lady in question. Nowadays, in the management of his "subject," "clairvoyant," or "medium," the exhibitor affects the simplicity and openness of scientific experiment; and even if he profess to tread a step or two across the boundaries of the spiritual world, yet carries with him the laws of our actual life and extends them over his preternatural conquests. Twelve or fifteen years ago, on the contrary, all the arts of mysterious arrangement, of picturesque disposition, and artistically contrasted light and shade, were made available, in order to set the apparent miracle in the strongest attitude of opposition to ordinary facts. In the case of the Veiled Lady, moreover, the interest of the spectator was further wrought up by the enigma of her identity, and an absurd rumor (probably set afloat by the exhibitor, and at one time very prevalent) that a beautiful young lady, of family and fortune, was enshrouded within the misty drapery of the veil. It was white, with somewhat of a subdued silver sheen, like the sunny side of a cloud; and, falling over the wearer from head to foot, was supposed to insulate her from the material world, from time and space, and to endow her with many of the privileges of a disembodied spirit.
Her pretensions, however, whether miraculous or otherwise, have little to do with the present narrative--except, indeed, that I had propounded, for the Veiled Lady's prophetic solution, a query as to the success of our Blithedale enterprise. The response, by the bye, was of the true Sibylline stamp,--nonsensical in its first aspect, yet on closer study unfolding a variety of interpretations, one of which has certainly accorded with the event. I was turning over this riddle in my mind, and trying to catch its slippery purport by the tail, when the old man above mentioned interrupted me.
"Mr. Coverdale! --Mr. Coverdale!" said he, repeating my name twice, in order to make up for the hesitating and ineffectual way in which he uttered it. "I ask your pardon, sir, but I hear you are going to Blithedale tomorrow."
I knew the pale, elderly face, with the red-tipt nose, and the patch over one eye; and likewise saw something characteristic in the old fellow's way of standing under the arch of a gate, only revealing enough of himself to make me recognize him as an acquaintance. He was a very shy personage, this Mr. Moodie; and the trait was the more singular, as his mode of getting his bread necessarily brought him into the stir and hubbub of the world more than the generality of men.
"Yes, Mr. Moodie," I answered, wondering what interest he could take in the fact, "it is my intention to go to Blithedale to-morrow. Can I be of any service to you before my departure?"
"If you pleased, Mr. Coverdale," said he, "you might do me a very great favor."
"A very great one?" repeated I, in a tone that must have expressed but little alacrity of beneficence, although I was ready to do the old man any amount of kindness involving no special trouble to myself. "A very great favor, do you say? My time is brief, Mr. Moodie, and I have a good many preparations to make. But be good enough to tell me what you wish."
"Ah, sir," replied Old Moodie, "I don't quite like to do that; and, on further thoughts, Mr. Coverdale, perhaps I had better apply to some older gentleman, or to some lady, if you would have the kindness to make me known to one, who may happen to be going to Blithedale. You are a young man, sir!"
"Does that fact lessen my availability for your purpose?" asked I. "However, if an older man will suit you better, there is Mr. Hollingsworth, who has three or four years the advantage of me in age, and is a much more solid character, and a philanthropist to boot. I am only a poet, and, so the critics tell me, no great affair at that! But what can this business be, Mr. Moodie? It begins to interest me; especially since your hint that a lady's influence might be found desirable. Come, I am really anxious to be of service to you."
But the old fellow, in his civil and demure manner, was both freakish and obstinate; and he had now taken some notion or other into his head that made him hesitate in his former design.
"I wonder, sir," said he, "whether you know a lady whom they call Zenobia?"
"Not personally," I answered, "although I expect that pleasure to-morrow, as she has got the start of the rest of us, and is already a resident at Blithedale. But have you a literary turn, Mr. Moodie? or have you taken up the advocacy of women's rights? or what else can have interested you in this lady? Zenobia, by the bye, as I suppose you know, is merely her public name; a sort of mask in which she comes before the world, retaining all the privileges of privacy,--a contrivance, in short, like the white drapery of the Veiled Lady, only a little more transparent. But it is late. Will you tell me what I can do for you?"
"Please to excuse me to-night, Mr. Coverdale," said Moodie. "You are very kind; but I am afraid I have troubled you, when, after all, there may be no need. Perhaps, with your good leave, I will come to your lodgings to-morrow morning, before you set out for Blithedale. I wish you a good-night, sir, and beg pardon for stopping you."
And so he slipt away; and, as he did not show himself the next morning, it was only through subsequent events that I ever arrived at a plausible conjecture as to what his business could have been. Arriving at my room, I threw a lump of cannel coal upon the grate, lighted a cigar, and spent an hour in musings of every hue, from the brightest to the most sombre; being, in truth, not so very confident as at some former periods that this final step, which would mix me up irrevocably with the Blithedale affair, was the wisest that could possibly be taken. It was nothing short of midnight when I went to bed, after drinking a glass of particularly fine sherry on which I used to pride myself in those days. It was the very last bottle; and I finished it, with a friend, the next forenoon, before setting out for Blithedale.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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2
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BLITHEDALE
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There can hardly remain for me (who am really getting to be a frosty bachelor, with another white hair, every week or so, in my mustache), there can hardly flicker up again so cheery a blaze upon the hearth, as that which I remember, the next day, at Blithedale. It was a wood fire, in the parlor of an old farmhouse, on an April afternoon, but with the fitful gusts of a wintry snowstorm roaring in the chimney. Vividly does that fireside re-create itself, as I rake away the ashes from the embers in my memory, and blow them up with a sigh, for lack of more inspiring breath. Vividly for an instant, but anon, with the dimmest gleam, and with just as little fervency for my heart as for my finger-ends! The staunch oaken logs were long ago burnt out. Their genial glow must be represented, if at all, by the merest phosphoric glimmer, like that which exudes, rather than shines, from damp fragments of decayed trees, deluding the benighted wanderer through a forest. Around such chill mockery of a fire some few of us might sit on the withered leaves, spreading out each a palm towards the imaginary warmth, and talk over our exploded scheme for beginning the life of Paradise anew.
Paradise, indeed! Nobody else in the world, I am bold to affirm--nobody, at least, in our bleak little world of New England,--had dreamed of Paradise that day except as the pole suggests the tropic. Nor, with such materials as were at hand, could the most skilful architect have constructed any better imitation of Eve's bower than might be seen in the snow hut of an Esquimaux. But we made a summer of it, in spite of the wild drifts.
It was an April day, as already hinted, and well towards the middle of the month. When morning dawned upon me, in town, its temperature was mild enough to be pronounced even balmy, by a lodger, like myself, in one of the midmost houses of a brick block,--each house partaking of the warmth of all the rest, besides the sultriness of its individual furnace--heat. But towards noon there had come snow, driven along the street by a northeasterly blast, and whitening the roofs and sidewalks with a business-like perseverance that would have done credit to our severest January tempest. It set about its task apparently as much in earnest as if it had been guaranteed from a thaw for months to come. The greater, surely, was my heroism, when, puffing out a final whiff of cigar-smoke, I quitted my cosey pair of bachelor-rooms,--with a good fire burning in the grate, and a closet right at hand, where there was still a bottle or two in the champagne basket and a residuum of claret in a box,--quitted, I say, these comfortable quarters, and plunged into the heart of the pitiless snowstorm, in quest of a better life.
The better life! Possibly, it would hardly look so now; it is enough if it looked so then. The greatest obstacle to being heroic is the doubt whether one may not be going to prove one's self a fool; the truest heroism is to resist the doubt; and the profoundest wisdom to know when it ought to be resisted, and when to be obeyed.
Yet, after all, let us acknowledge it wiser, if not more sagacious, to follow out one's daydream to its natural consummation, although, if the vision have been worth the having, it is certain never to be consummated otherwise than by a failure. And what of that? Its airiest fragments, impalpable as they may be, will possess a value that lurks not in the most ponderous realities of any practicable scheme. They are not the rubbish of the mind. Whatever else I may repent of, therefore, let it be reckoned neither among my sins nor follies that I once had faith and force enough to form generous hopes of the world's destiny--yes! --and to do what in me lay for their accomplishment; even to the extent of quitting a warm fireside, flinging away a freshly lighted cigar, and travelling far beyond the strike of city clocks, through a drifting snowstorm.
There were four of us who rode together through the storm; and Hollingsworth, who had agreed to be of the number, was accidentally delayed, and set forth at a later hour alone. As we threaded the streets, I remember how the buildings on either side seemed to press too closely upon us, insomuch that our mighty hearts found barely room enough to throb between them. The snowfall, too, looked inexpressibly dreary (I had almost called it dingy), coming down through an atmosphere of city smoke, and alighting on the sidewalk only to be moulded into the impress of somebody's patched boot or overshoe. Thus the track of an old conventionalism was visible on what was freshest from the sky. But when we left the pavements, and our muffled hoof-tramps beat upon a desolate extent of country road, and were effaced by the unfettered blast as soon as stamped, then there was better air to breathe. Air that had not been breathed once and again! air that had not been spoken into words of falsehood, formality, and error, like all the air of the dusky city!
"How pleasant it is!" remarked I, while the snowflakes flew into my mouth the moment it was opened. "How very mild and balmy is this country air!"
"Ah, Coverdale, don't laugh at what little enthusiasm you have left!" said one of my companions. "I maintain that this nitrous atmosphere is really exhilarating; and, at any rate, we can never call ourselves regenerated men till a February northeaster shall be as grateful to us as the softest breeze of June!"
So we all of us took courage, riding fleetly and merrily along, by stone fences that were half buried in the wave-like drifts; and through patches of woodland, where the tree-trunks opposed a snow-incrusted side towards the northeast; and within ken of deserted villas, with no footprints in their avenues; and passed scattered dwellings, whence puffed the smoke of country fires, strongly impregnated with the pungent aroma of burning peat. Sometimes, encountering a traveller, we shouted a friendly greeting; and he, unmuffling his ears to the bluster and the snow-spray, and listening eagerly, appeared to think our courtesy worth less than the trouble which it cost him. The churl! He understood the shrill whistle of the blast, but had no intelligence for our blithe tones of brotherhood. This lack of faith in our cordial sympathy, on the traveller's part, was one among the innumerable tokens how difficult a task we had in hand for the reformation of the world. We rode on, however, with still unflagging spirits, and made such good companionship with the tempest that, at our journey's end, we professed ourselves almost loath to bid the rude blusterer good-by. But, to own the truth, I was little better than an icicle, and began to be suspicious that I had caught a fearful cold.
And now we were seated by the brisk fireside of the old farmhouse, the same fire that glimmers so faintly among my reminiscences at the beginning of this chapter. There we sat, with the snow melting out of our hair and beards, and our faces all ablaze, what with the past inclemency and present warmth. It was, indeed, a right good fire that we found awaiting us, built up of great, rough logs, and knotty limbs, and splintered fragments of an oak-tree, such as farmers are wont to keep for their own hearths, since these crooked and unmanageable boughs could never be measured into merchantable cords for the market. A family of the old Pilgrims might have swung their kettle over precisely such a fire as this, only, no doubt, a bigger one; and, contrasting it with my coal-grate, I felt so much the more that we had transported ourselves a world-wide distance from the system of society that shackled us at breakfast-time.
Good, comfortable Mrs. Foster (the wife of stout Silas Foster, who was to manage the farm at a fair stipend, and be our tutor in the art of husbandry) bade us a hearty welcome. At her back--a back of generous breadth--appeared two young women, smiling most hospitably, but looking rather awkward withal, as not well knowing what was to be their position in our new arrangement of the world. We shook hands affectionately all round, and congratulated ourselves that the blessed state of brotherhood and sisterhood, at which we aimed, might fairly be dated from this moment. Our greetings were hardly concluded when the door opened, and Zenobia--whom I had never before seen, important as was her place in our enterprise--Zenobia entered the parlor.
This (as the reader, if at all acquainted with our literary biography, need scarcely be told) was not her real name. She had assumed it, in the first instance, as her magazine signature; and, as it accorded well with something imperial which her friends attributed to this lady's figure and deportment, they half-laughingly adopted it in their familiar intercourse with her. She took the appellation in good part, and even encouraged its constant use; which, in fact, was thus far appropriate, that our Zenobia, however humble looked her new philosophy, had as much native pride as any queen would have known what to do with.
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{
"id": "2081"
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3
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A KNOT OF DREAMERS
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Zenobia bade us welcome, in a fine, frank, mellow voice, and gave each of us her hand, which was very soft and warm. She had something appropriate, I recollect, to say to every individual; and what she said to myself was this:--"I have long wished to know you, Mr. Coverdale, and to thank you for your beautiful poetry, some of which I have learned by heart; or rather it has stolen into my memory, without my exercising any choice or volition about the matter. Of course--permit me to say you do not think of relinquishing an occupation in which you have done yourself so much credit. I would almost rather give you up as an associate, than that the world should lose one of its true poets!"
"Ah, no; there will not be the slightest danger of that, especially after this inestimable praise from Zenobia," said I, smiling, and blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure. "I hope, on the contrary, now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called poetry,--true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are going to lead,--something that shall have the notes of wild birds twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods, as the case may be."
"Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?" asked Zenobia, with a gracious smile. "If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings."
"Of all things," answered I, "that is what will delight me most."
While this passed, and while she spoke to my companions, I was taking note of Zenobia's aspect; and it impressed itself on me so distinctly, that I can now summon her up, like a ghost, a little wanner than the life but otherwise identical with it. She was dressed as simply as possible, in an American print (I think the dry-goods people call it so), but with a silken kerchief, between which and her gown there was one glimpse of a white shoulder. It struck me as a great piece of good fortune that there should be just that glimpse. Her hair, which was dark, glossy, and of singular abundance, was put up rather soberly and primly--without curls, or other ornament, except a single flower. It was an exotic of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hothouse gardener had just clipt it from the stem. That flower has struck deep root into my memory. I can both see it and smell it, at this moment. So brilliant, so rare, so costly as it must have been, and yet enduring only for a day, it was more indicative of the pride and pomp which had a luxuriant growth in Zenobia's character than if a great diamond had sparkled among her hair.
Her hand, though very soft, was larger than most women would like to have, or than they could afford to have, though not a whit too large in proportion with the spacious plan of Zenobia's entire development. It did one good to see a fine intellect (as hers really was, although its natural tendency lay in another direction than towards literature) so fitly cased. She was, indeed, an admirable figure of a woman, just on the hither verge of her richest maturity, with a combination of features which it is safe to call remarkably beautiful, even if some fastidious persons might pronounce them a little deficient in softness and delicacy. But we find enough of those attributes everywhere. Preferable--by way of variety, at least--was Zenobia's bloom, health, and vigor, which she possessed in such overflow that a man might well have fallen in love with her for their sake only. In her quiet moods, she seemed rather indolent; but when really in earnest, particularly if there were a spice of bitter feeling, she grew all alive to her finger-tips.
"I am the first comer," Zenobia went on to say, while her smile beamed warmth upon us all; "so I take the part of hostess for to-day, and welcome you as if to my own fireside. You shall be my guests, too, at supper. Tomorrow, if you please, we will be brethren and sisters, and begin our new life from daybreak."
"Have we our various parts assigned?" asked some one.
"Oh, we of the softer sex," responded Zenobia, with her mellow, almost broad laugh,--most delectable to hear, but not in the least like an ordinary woman's laugh,--"we women (there are four of us here already) will take the domestic and indoor part of the business, as a matter of course. To bake, to boil, to roast, to fry, to stew,--to wash, and iron, and scrub, and sweep,--and, at our idler intervals, to repose ourselves on knitting and sewing,--these, I suppose, must be feminine occupations, for the present. By and by, perhaps, when our individual adaptations begin to develop themselves, it may be that some of us who wear the petticoat will go afield, and leave the weaker brethren to take our places in the kitchen."
"What a pity," I remarked, "that the kitchen, and the housework generally, cannot be left out of our system altogether! It is odd enough that the kind of labor which falls to the lot of women is just that which chiefly distinguishes artificial life--the life of degenerated mortals--from the life of Paradise. Eve had no dinner-pot, and no clothes to mend, and no washing-day."
"I am afraid," said Zenobia, with mirth gleaming out of her eyes, "we shall find some difficulty in adopting the paradisiacal system for at least a month to come. Look at that snowdrift sweeping past the window! Are there any figs ripe, do you think? Have the pineapples been gathered to-day? Would you like a bread-fruit, or a cocoanut? Shall I run out and pluck you some roses? No, no, Mr. Coverdale; the only flower hereabouts is the one in my hair, which I got out of a greenhouse this morning. As for the garb of Eden," added she, shivering playfully, "I shall not assume it till after May-day!"
Assuredly Zenobia could not have intended it,--the fault must have been entirely in my imagination. But these last words, together with something in her manner, irresistibly brought up a picture of that fine, perfectly developed figure, in Eve's earliest garment. Her free, careless, generous modes of expression often had this effect of creating images which, though pure, are hardly felt to be quite decorous when born of a thought that passes between man and woman. I imputed it, at that time, to Zenobia's noble courage, conscious of no harm, and scorning the petty restraints which take the life and color out of other women's conversation. There was another peculiarity about her. We seldom meet with women nowadays, and in this country, who impress us as being women at all,--their sex fades away and goes for nothing, in ordinary intercourse. Not so with Zenobia. One felt an influence breathing out of her such as we might suppose to come from Eve, when she was just made, and her Creator brought her to Adam, saying, "Behold! here is a woman!" Not that I would convey the idea of especial gentleness, grace, modesty, and shyness, but of a certain warm and rich characteristic, which seems, for the most part, to have been refined away out of the feminine system.
"And now," continued Zenobia, "I must go and help get supper. Do you think you can be content, instead of figs, pineapples, and all the other delicacies of Adam's supper-table, with tea and toast, and a certain modest supply of ham and tongue, which, with the instinct of a housewife, I brought hither in a basket? And there shall be bread and milk, too, if the innocence of your taste demands it."
The whole sisterhood now went about their domestic avocations, utterly declining our offers to assist, further than by bringing wood for the kitchen fire from a huge pile in the back yard. After heaping up more than a sufficient quantity, we returned to the sitting-room, drew our chairs close to the hearth, and began to talk over our prospects. Soon, with a tremendous stamping in the entry, appeared Silas Foster, lank, stalwart, uncouth, and grizzly-bearded. He came from foddering the cattle in the barn, and from the field, where he had been ploughing, until the depth of the snow rendered it impossible to draw a furrow. He greeted us in pretty much the same tone as if he were speaking to his oxen, took a quid from his iron tobacco-box, pulled off his wet cowhide boots, and sat down before the fire in his stocking-feet. The steam arose from his soaked garments, so that the stout yeoman looked vaporous and spectre-like.
"Well, folks," remarked Silas, "you'll be wishing yourselves back to town again, if this weather holds."
And, true enough, there was a look of gloom, as the twilight fell silently and sadly out of the sky, its gray or sable flakes intermingling themselves with the fast-descending snow. The storm, in its evening aspect, was decidedly dreary. It seemed to have arisen for our especial behoof,--a symbol of the cold, desolate, distrustful phantoms that invariably haunt the mind, on the eve of adventurous enterprises, to warn us back within the boundaries of ordinary life.
But our courage did not quail. We would not allow ourselves to be depressed by the snowdrift trailing past the window, any more than if it had been the sigh of a summer wind among rustling boughs. There have been few brighter seasons for us than that. If ever men might lawfully dream awake, and give utterance to their wildest visions without dread of laughter or scorn on the part of the audience,--yes, and speak of earthly happiness, for themselves and mankind, as an object to be hopefully striven for, and probably attained, we who made that little semicircle round the blazing fire were those very men. We had left the rusty iron framework of society behind us; we had broken through many hindrances that are powerful enough to keep most people on the weary treadmill of the established system, even while they feel its irksomeness almost as intolerable as we did. We had stepped down from the pulpit; we had flung aside the pen; we had shut up the ledger; we had thrown off that sweet, bewitching, enervating indolence, which is better, after all, than most of the enjoyments within mortal grasp. It was our purpose--a generous one, certainly, and absurd, no doubt, in full proportion with its generosity--to give up whatever we had heretofore attained, for the sake of showing mankind the example of a life governed by other than the false and cruel principles on which human society has all along been based.
And, first of all, we had divorced ourselves from pride, and were striving to supply its place with familiar love. We meant to lessen the laboring man's great burden of toil, by performing our due share of it at the cost of our own thews and sinews. We sought our profit by mutual aid, instead of wresting it by the strong hand from an enemy, or filching it craftily from those less shrewd than ourselves (if, indeed, there were any such in New England), or winning it by selfish competition with a neighbor; in one or another of which fashions every son of woman both perpetrates and suffers his share of the common evil, whether he chooses it or no. And, as the basis of our institution, we purposed to offer up the earnest toil of our bodies, as a prayer no less than an effort for the advancement of our race.
Therefore, if we built splendid castles (phalansteries perhaps they might be more fitly called), and pictured beautiful scenes, among the fervid coals of the hearth around which we were clustering, and if all went to rack with the crumbling embers and have never since arisen out of the ashes, let us take to ourselves no shame. In my own behalf, I rejoice that I could once think better of the world's improvability than it deserved. It is a mistake into which men seldom fall twice in a lifetime; or, if so, the rarer and higher is the nature that can thus magnanimously persist in error.
Stout Silas Foster mingled little in our conversation; but when he did speak, it was very much to some practical purpose. For instance:--"Which man among you," quoth he, "is the best judge of swine? Some of us must go to the next Brighton fair, and buy half a dozen pigs."
Pigs! Good heavens! had we come out from among the swinish multitude for this? And again, in reference to some discussion about raising early vegetables for the market:--"We shall never make any hand at market gardening," said Silas Foster, "unless the women folks will undertake to do all the weeding. We haven't team enough for that and the regular farm-work, reckoning three of your city folks as worth one common field-hand. No, no; I tell you, we should have to get up a little too early in the morning, to compete with the market gardeners round Boston."
It struck me as rather odd, that one of the first questions raised, after our separation from the greedy, struggling, self-seeking world, should relate to the possibility of getting the advantage over the outside barbarians in their own field of labor. But, to own the truth, I very soon became sensible that, as regarded society at large, we stood in a position of new hostility, rather than new brotherhood. Nor could this fail to be the case, in some degree, until the bigger and better half of society should range itself on our side. Constituting so pitiful a minority as now, we were inevitably estranged from the rest of mankind in pretty fair proportion with the strictness of our mutual bond among ourselves.
This dawning idea, however, was driven back into my inner consciousness by the entrance of Zenobia. She came with the welcome intelligence that supper was on the table. Looking at herself in the glass, and perceiving that her one magnificent flower had grown rather languid (probably by being exposed to the fervency of the kitchen fire), she flung it on the floor, as unconcernedly as a village girl would throw away a faded violet. The action seemed proper to her character, although, methought, it would still more have befitted the bounteous nature of this beautiful woman to scatter fresh flowers from her hand, and to revive faded ones by her touch. Nevertheless, it was a singular but irresistible effect; the presence of Zenobia caused our heroic enterprise to show like an illusion, a masquerade, a pastoral, a counterfeit Arcadia, in which we grown-up men and women were making a play-day of the years that were given us to live in. I tried to analyze this impression, but not with much success.
"It really vexes me," observed Zenobia, as we left the room, "that Mr. Hollingsworth should be such a laggard. I should not have thought him at all the sort of person to be turned back by a puff of contrary wind, or a few snowflakes drifting into his face."
"Do you know Hollingsworth personally?" I inquired.
"No; only as an auditor--auditress, I mean--of some of his lectures," said she. "What a voice he has! and what a man he is! Yet not so much an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least, he moved me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved, except by the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own. It is a sad pity that he should have devoted his glorious powers to such a grimy, unbeautiful, and positively hopeless object as this reformation of criminals, about which he makes himself and his wretchedly small audiences so very miserable. To tell you a secret, I never could tolerate a philanthropist before. Could you?"
"By no means," I answered; "neither can I now."
"They are, indeed, an odiously disagreeable set of mortals," continued Zenobia. "I should like Mr. Hollingsworth a great deal better if the philanthropy had been left out. At all events, as a mere matter of taste, I wish he would let the bad people alone, and try to benefit those who are not already past his help. Do you suppose he will be content to spend his life, or even a few months of it, among tolerably virtuous and comfortable individuals like ourselves?"
"Upon my word, I doubt it," said I. "If we wish to keep him with us, we must systematically commit at least one crime apiece! Mere peccadillos will not satisfy him."
Zenobia turned, sidelong, a strange kind of a glance upon me; but, before I could make out what it meant, we had entered the kitchen, where, in accordance with the rustic simplicity of our new life, the supper-table was spread.
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{
"id": "2081"
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4
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THE SUPPER-TABLE
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The pleasant firelight! I must still keep harping on it. The kitchen hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends. It was now half an hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke-blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared not what inclemency might rage and roar on the other side of our illuminated windows. A yet sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance. The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers; for the New England yeoman, if he have the misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold.
But it was fortunate for us, on that wintry eve of our untried life, to enjoy the warm and radiant luxury of a somewhat too abundant fire. If it served no other purpose, it made the men look so full of youth, warm blood, and hope, and the women--such of them, at least, as were anywise convertible by its magic--so very beautiful, that I would cheerfully have spent my last dollar to prolong the blaze. As for Zenobia, there was a glow in her cheeks that made me think of Pandora, fresh from Vulcan's workshop, and full of the celestial warmth by dint of which he had tempered and moulded her.
"Take your places, my dear friends all," cried she; "seat yourselves without ceremony, and you shall be made happy with such tea as not many of the world's working-people, except yourselves, will find in their cups to-night. After this one supper, you may drink buttermilk, if you please. To-night we will quaff this nectar, which, I assure you, could not be bought with gold."
We all sat down,--grizzly Silas Foster, his rotund helpmate, and the two bouncing handmaidens, included,--and looked at one another in a friendly but rather awkward way. It was the first practical trial of our theories of equal brotherhood and sisterhood; and we people of superior cultivation and refinement (for as such, I presume, we unhesitatingly reckoned ourselves) felt as if something were already accomplished towards the millennium of love. The truth is, however, that the laboring oar was with our unpolished companions; it being far easier to condescend than to accept of condescension. Neither did I refrain from questioning, in secret, whether some of us--and Zenobia among the rest--would so quietly have taken our places among these good people, save for the cherished consciousness that it was not by necessity but choice. Though we saw fit to drink our tea out of earthen cups to-night, and in earthen company, it was at our own option to use pictured porcelain and handle silver forks again to-morrow. This same salvo, as to the power of regaining our former position, contributed much, I fear, to the equanimity with which we subsequently bore many of the hardships and humiliations of a life of toil. If ever I have deserved (which has not often been the case, and, I think, never), but if ever I did deserve to be soundly cuffed by a fellow mortal, for secretly putting weight upon some imaginary social advantage, it must have been while I was striving to prove myself ostentatiously his equal and no more. It was while I sat beside him on his cobbler's bench, or clinked my hoe against his own in the cornfield, or broke the same crust of bread, my earth-grimed hand to his, at our noontide lunch. The poor, proud man should look at both sides of sympathy like this.
The silence which followed upon our sitting down to table grew rather oppressive; indeed, it was hardly broken by a word, during the first round of Zenobia's fragrant tea.
"I hope," said I, at last, "that our blazing windows will be visible a great way off. There is nothing so pleasant and encouraging to a solitary traveller, on a stormy night, as a flood of firelight seen amid the gloom. These ruddy window panes cannot fail to cheer the hearts of all that look at them. Are they not warm with the beacon-fire which we have kindled for humanity?"
"The blaze of that brushwood will only last a minute or two longer," observed Silas Foster; but whether he meant to insinuate that our moral illumination would have as brief a term, I cannot say.
"Meantime," said Zenobia, "it may serve to guide some wayfarer to a shelter."
And, just as she said this, there came a knock at the house door.
"There is one of the world's wayfarers," said I. "Ay, ay, just so!" quoth Silas Foster. "Our firelight will draw stragglers, just as a candle draws dorbugs on a summer night."
Whether to enjoy a dramatic suspense, or that we were selfishly contrasting our own comfort with the chill and dreary situation of the unknown person at the threshold, or that some of us city folk felt a little startled at the knock which came so unseasonably, through night and storm, to the door of the lonely farmhouse,--so it happened that nobody, for an instant or two, arose to answer the summons. Pretty soon there came another knock. The first had been moderately loud; the second was smitten so forcibly that the knuckles of the applicant must have left their mark in the door panel.
"He knocks as if he had a right to come in," said Zenobia, laughing. "And what are we thinking of? --It must be Mr. Hollingsworth!"
Hereupon I went to the door, unbolted, and flung it wide open. There, sure enough, stood Hollingsworth, his shaggy greatcoat all covered with snow, so that he looked quite as much like a polar bear as a modern philanthropist.
"Sluggish hospitality this!" said he, in those deep tones of his, which seemed to come out of a chest as capacious as a barrel. "It would have served you right if I had lain down and spent the night on the doorstep, just for the sake of putting you to shame. But here is a guest who will need a warmer and softer bed."
And, stepping back to the wagon in which he had journeyed hither, Hollingsworth received into his arms and deposited on the doorstep a figure enveloped in a cloak. It was evidently a woman; or, rather,--judging from the ease with which he lifted her, and the little space which she seemed to fill in his arms, a slim and unsubstantial girl. As she showed some hesitation about entering the door, Hollingsworth, with his usual directness and lack of ceremony, urged her forward not merely within the entry, but into the warm and strongly lighted kitchen.
"Who is this?" whispered I, remaining behind with him, while he was taking off his greatcoat.
"Who? Really, I don't know," answered Hollingsworth, looking at me with some surprise. "It is a young person who belongs here, however; and no doubt she had been expected. Zenobia, or some of the women folks, can tell you all about it."
"I think not," said I, glancing towards the new-comer and the other occupants of the kitchen. "Nobody seems to welcome her. I should hardly judge that she was an expected guest."
"Well, well," said Hollingsworth quietly, "We'll make it right."
The stranger, or whatever she were, remained standing precisely on that spot of the kitchen floor to which Hollingsworth's kindly hand had impelled her. The cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very young woman dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high in the neck, and without any regard to fashion or smartness. Her brown hair fell down from beneath a hood, not in curls but with only a slight wave; her face was of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening habitual seclusion from the sun and free atmosphere, like a flower-shrub that had done its best to blossom in too scanty light. To complete the pitiableness of her aspect, she shivered either with cold, or fear, or nervous excitement, so that you might have beheld her shadow vibrating on the fire-lighted wall. In short, there has seldom been seen so depressed and sad a figure as this young girl's; and it was hardly possible to help being angry with her, from mere despair of doing anything for her comfort. The fantasy occurred to me that she was some desolate kind of a creature, doomed to wander about in snowstorms; and that, though the ruddiness of our window panes had tempted her into a human dwelling, she would not remain long enough to melt the icicles out of her hair. Another conjecture likewise came into my mind. Recollecting Hollingsworth's sphere of philanthropic action, I deemed it possible that he might have brought one of his guilty patients, to be wrought upon and restored to spiritual health by the pure influences which our mode of life would create.
As yet the girl had not stirred. She stood near the door, fixing a pair of large, brown, melancholy eyes upon Zenobia--only upon Zenobia! --she evidently saw nothing else in the room save that bright, fair, rosy, beautiful woman. It was the strangest look I ever witnessed; long a mystery to me, and forever a memory. Once she seemed about to move forward and greet her,--I know not with what warmth or with what words,--but, finally, instead of doing so, she dropped down upon her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed piteously into Zenobia's face. Meeting no kindly reception, her head fell on her bosom.
I never thoroughly forgave Zenobia for her conduct on this occasion. But women are always more cautious in their casual hospitalities than men.
"What does the girl mean?" cried she in rather a sharp tone. "Is she crazy? Has she no tongue?"
And here Hollingsworth stepped forward.
"No wonder if the poor child's tongue is frozen in her mouth," said he; and I think he positively frowned at Zenobia. "The very heart will be frozen in her bosom, unless you women can warm it, among you, with the warmth that ought to be in your own!"
Hollingsworth's appearance was very striking at this moment. He was then about thirty years old, but looked several years older, with his great shaggy head, his heavy brow, his dark complexion, his abundant beard, and the rude strength with which his features seemed to have been hammered out of iron, rather than chiselled or moulded from any finer or softer material. His figure was not tall, but massive and brawny, and well befitting his original occupation; which as the reader probably knows--was that of a blacksmith. As for external polish, or mere courtesy of manner, he never possessed more than a tolerably educated bear; although, in his gentler moods, there was a tenderness in his voice, eyes, mouth, in his gesture, and in every indescribable manifestation, which few men could resist and no woman. But he now looked stern and reproachful; and it was with that inauspicious meaning in his glance that Hollingsworth first met Zenobia's eyes, and began his influence upon her life.
To my surprise, Zenobia--of whose haughty spirit I had been told so many examples--absolutely changed color, and seemed mortified and confused.
"You do not quite do me justice, Mr. Hollingsworth," said she almost humbly. "I am willing to be kind to the poor girl. Is she a protegee of yours? What can I do for her?"
"Have you anything to ask of this lady?" said Hollingsworth kindly to the girl. "I remember you mentioned her name before we left town."
"Only that she will shelter me," replied the girl tremulously. "Only that she will let me be always near her."
"Well, indeed," exclaimed Zenobia, recovering herself and laughing, "this is an adventure, and well-worthy to be the first incident in our life of love and free-heartedness! But I accept it, for the present, without further question, only," added she, "it would be a convenience if we knew your name."
"Priscilla," said the girl; and it appeared to me that she hesitated whether to add anything more, and decided in the negative. "Pray do not ask me my other name,--at least not yet,--if you will be so kind to a forlorn creature."
Priscilla! --Priscilla! I repeated the name to myself three or four times; and in that little space, this quaint and prim cognomen had so amalgamated itself with my idea of the girl, that it seemed as if no other name could have adhered to her for a moment. Heretofore the poor thing had not shed any tears; but now that she found herself received, and at least temporarily established, the big drops began to ooze out from beneath her eyelids as if she were full of them. Perhaps it showed the iron substance of my heart, that I could not help smiling at this odd scene of unknown and unaccountable calamity, into which our cheerful party had been entrapped without the liberty of choosing whether to sympathize or no. Hollingsworth's behavior was certainly a great deal more creditable than mine.
"Let us not pry further into her secrets," he said to Zenobia and the rest of us, apart; and his dark, shaggy face looked really beautiful with its expression of thoughtful benevolence. "Let us conclude that Providence has sent her to us, as the first-fruits of the world, which we have undertaken to make happier than we find it. Let us warm her poor, shivering body with this good fire, and her poor, shivering heart with our best kindness. Let us feed her, and make her one of us. As we do by this friendless girl, so shall we prosper. And, in good time, whatever is desirable for us to know will be melted out of her, as inevitably as those tears which we see now."
"At least," remarked I, "you may tell us how and where you met with her."
"An old man brought her to my lodgings," answered Hollingsworth, "and begged me to convey her to Blithedale, where--so I understood him--she had friends; and this is positively all I know about the matter."
Grim Silas Foster, all this while, had been busy at the supper-table, pouring out his own tea and gulping it down with no more sense of its exquisiteness than if it were a decoction of catnip; helping himself to pieces of dipt toast on the flat of his knife blade, and dropping half of it on the table-cloth; using the same serviceable implement to cut slice after slice of ham; perpetrating terrible enormities with the butter-plate; and in all other respects behaving less like a civilized Christian than the worst kind of an ogre. Being by this time fully gorged, he crowned his amiable exploits with a draught from the water pitcher, and then favored us with his opinion about the business in hand. And, certainly, though they proceeded out of an unwiped mouth, his expressions did him honor.
"Give the girl a hot cup of tea and a thick slice of this first-rate bacon," said Silas, like a sensible man as he was. "That's what she wants. Let her stay with us as long as she likes, and help in the kitchen, and take the cow-breath at milking time; and, in a week or two, she'll begin to look like a creature of this world."
So we sat down again to supper, and Priscilla along with us.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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5
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UNTIL BEDTIME
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Silas Foster, by the time we concluded our meal, had stript off his coat, and planted himself on a low chair by the kitchen fire, with a lapstone, a hammer, a piece of sole leather, and some waxed-ends, in order to cobble an old pair of cowhide boots; he being, in his own phrase, "something of a dab" (whatever degree of skill that may imply) at the shoemaking business. We heard the tap of his hammer at intervals for the rest of the evening. The remainder of the party adjourned to the sitting-room. Good Mrs. Foster took her knitting-work, and soon fell fast asleep, still keeping her needles in brisk movement, and, to the best of my observation, absolutely footing a stocking out of the texture of a dream. And a very substantial stocking it seemed to be. One of the two handmaidens hemmed a towel, and the other appeared to be making a ruffle, for her Sunday's wear, out of a little bit of embroidered muslin which Zenobia had probably given her.
It was curious to observe how trustingly, and yet how timidly, our poor Priscilla betook herself into the shadow of Zenobia's protection. She sat beside her on a stool, looking up every now and then with an expression of humble delight at her new friend's beauty. A brilliant woman is often an object of the devoted admiration--it might almost be termed worship, or idolatry--of some young girl, who perhaps beholds the cynosure only at an awful distance, and has as little hope of personal intercourse as of climbing among the stars of heaven. We men are too gross to comprehend it. Even a woman, of mature age, despises or laughs at such a passion. There occurred to me no mode of accounting for Priscilla's behavior, except by supposing that she had read some of Zenobia's stories (as such literature goes everywhere), or her tracts in defence of the sex, and had come hither with the one purpose of being her slave. There is nothing parallel to this, I believe,--nothing so foolishly disinterested, and hardly anything so beautiful,--in the masculine nature, at whatever epoch of life; or, if there be, a fine and rare development of character might reasonably be looked for from the youth who should prove himself capable of such self-forgetful affection.
Zenobia happening to change her seat, I took the opportunity, in an undertone, to suggest some such notion as the above.
"Since you see the young woman in so poetical a light," replied she in the same tone, "you had better turn the affair into a ballad. It is a grand subject, and worthy of supernatural machinery. The storm, the startling knock at the door, the entrance of the sable knight Hollingsworth and this shadowy snow-maiden, who, precisely at the stroke of midnight, shall melt away at my feet in a pool of ice-cold water and give me my death with a pair of wet slippers! And when the verses are written, and polished quite to your mind, I will favor you with my idea as to what the girl really is."
"Pray let me have it now," said I; "it shall be woven into the ballad."
"She is neither more nor less," answered Zenobia, "than a seamstress from the city; and she has probably no more transcendental purpose than to do my miscellaneous sewing, for I suppose she will hardly expect to make my dresses."
"How can you decide upon her so easily?" I inquired.
"Oh, we women judge one another by tokens that escape the obtuseness of masculine perceptions!" said Zenobia. "There is no proof which you would be likely to appreciate, except the needle marks on the tip of her forefinger. Then, my supposition perfectly accounts for her paleness, her nervousness, and her wretched fragility. Poor thing! She has been stifled with the heat of a salamander stove, in a small, close room, and has drunk coffee, and fed upon doughnuts, raisins, candy, and all such trash, till she is scarcely half alive; and so, as she has hardly any physique, a poet like Mr. Miles Coverdale may be allowed to think her spiritual."
"Look at her now!" whispered I. Priscilla was gazing towards us with an inexpressible sorrow in her wan face and great tears running down her cheeks. It was difficult to resist the impression that, cautiously as we had lowered our voices, she must have overheard and been wounded by Zenobia's scornful estimate of her character and purposes.
"What ears the girl must have!" whispered Zenobia, with a look of vexation, partly comic and partly real. "I will confess to you that I cannot quite make her out. However, I am positively not an ill-natured person, unless when very grievously provoked,--and as you, and especially Mr. Hollingsworth, take so much interest in this odd creature, and as she knocks with a very slight tap against my own heart likewise,--why, I mean to let her in. From this moment I will be reasonably kind to her. There is no pleasure in tormenting a person of one's own sex, even if she do favor one with a little more love than one can conveniently dispose of; and that, let me say, Mr. Coverdale, is the most troublesome offence you can offer to a woman."
"Thank you," said I, smiling; "I don't mean to be guilty of it."
She went towards Priscilla, took her hand, and passed her own rosy finger-tips, with a pretty, caressing movement, over the girl's hair. The touch had a magical effect. So vivid a look of joy flushed up beneath those fingers, that it seemed as if the sad and wan Priscilla had been snatched away, and another kind of creature substituted in her place. This one caress, bestowed voluntarily by Zenobia, was evidently received as a pledge of all that the stranger sought from her, whatever the unuttered boon might be. From that instant, too, she melted in quietly amongst us, and was no longer a foreign element. Though always an object of peculiar interest, a riddle, and a theme of frequent discussion, her tenure at Blithedale was thenceforth fixed. We no more thought of questioning it, than if Priscilla had been recognized as a domestic sprite, who had haunted the rustic fireside of old, before we had ever been warmed by its blaze.
She now produced, out of a work-bag that she had with her, some little wooden instruments (what they are called I never knew), and proceeded to knit, or net, an article which ultimately took the shape of a silk purse. As the work went on, I remembered to have seen just such purses before; indeed, I was the possessor of one. Their peculiar excellence, besides the great delicacy and beauty of the manufacture, lay in the almost impossibility that any uninitiated person should discover the aperture; although, to a practised touch, they would open as wide as charity or prodigality might wish. I wondered if it were not a symbol of Priscilla's own mystery.
Notwithstanding the new confidence with which Zenobia had inspired her, our guest showed herself disquieted by the storm. When the strong puffs of wind spattered the snow against the windows and made the oaken frame of the farmhouse creak, she looked at us apprehensively, as if to inquire whether these tempestuous outbreaks did not betoken some unusual mischief in the shrieking blast. She had been bred up, no doubt, in some close nook, some inauspiciously sheltered court of the city, where the uttermost rage of a tempest, though it might scatter down the slates of the roof into the bricked area, could not shake the casement of her little room. The sense of vast, undefined space, pressing from the outside against the black panes of our uncurtained windows, was fearful to the poor girl, heretofore accustomed to the narrowness of human limits, with the lamps of neighboring tenements glimmering across the street. The house probably seemed to her adrift on the great ocean of the night. A little parallelogram of sky was all that she had hitherto known of nature, so that she felt the awfulness that really exists in its limitless extent. Once, while the blast was bellowing, she caught hold of Zenobia's robe, with precisely the air of one who hears her own name spoken at a distance, but is unutterably reluctant to obey the call.
We spent rather an incommunicative evening. Hollingsworth hardly said a word, unless when repeatedly and pertinaciously addressed. Then, indeed, he would glare upon us from the thick shrubbery of his meditations like a tiger out of a jungle, make the briefest reply possible, and betake himself back into the solitude of his heart and mind. The poor fellow had contracted this ungracious habit from the intensity with which he contemplated his own ideas, and the infrequent sympathy which they met with from his auditors,--a circumstance that seemed only to strengthen the implicit confidence that he awarded to them. His heart, I imagine, was never really interested in our socialist scheme, but was forever busy with his strange, and, as most people thought it, impracticable plan, for the reformation of criminals through an appeal to their higher instincts.
Much as I liked Hollingsworth, it cost me many a groan to tolerate him on this point. He ought to have commenced his investigation of the subject by perpetrating some huge sin in his proper person, and examining the condition of his higher instincts afterwards.
The rest of us formed ourselves into a committee for providing our infant community with an appropriate name,--a matter of greatly more difficulty than the uninitiated reader would suppose. Blithedale was neither good nor bad. We should have resumed the old Indian name of the premises, had it possessed the oil-and-honey flow which the aborigines were so often happy in communicating to their local appellations; but it chanced to be a harsh, ill-connected, and interminable word, which seemed to fill the mouth with a mixture of very stiff clay and very crumbly pebbles. Zenobia suggested "Sunny Glimpse," as expressive of a vista into a better system of society. This we turned over and over for a while, acknowledging its prettiness, but concluded it to be rather too fine and sentimental a name (a fault inevitable by literary ladies in such attempts) for sunburnt men to work under. I ventured to whisper "Utopia," which, however, was unanimously scouted down, and the proposer very harshly maltreated, as if he had intended a latent satire. Some were for calling our institution "The Oasis," in view of its being the one green spot in the moral sand-waste of the world; but others insisted on a proviso for reconsidering the matter at a twelvemonths' end, when a final decision might be had, whether to name it "The Oasis" or "Sahara." So, at last, finding it impracticable to hammer out anything better, we resolved that the spot should still be Blithedale, as being of good augury enough.
The evening wore on, and the outer solitude looked in upon us through the windows, gloomy, wild, and vague, like another state of existence, close beside the little sphere of warmth and light in which we were the prattlers and bustlers of a moment. By and by the door was opened by Silas Foster, with a cotton handkerchief about his head, and a tallow candle in his hand.
"Take my advice, brother farmers," said he, with a great, broad, bottomless yawn, "and get to bed as soon as you can. I shall sound the horn at daybreak; and we've got the cattle to fodder, and nine cows to milk, and a dozen other things to do, before breakfast."
Thus ended the first evening at Blithedale. I went shivering to my fireless chamber, with the miserable consciousness (which had been growing upon me for several hours past) that I had caught a tremendous cold, and should probably awaken, at the blast of the horn, a fit subject for a hospital. The night proved a feverish one. During the greater part of it, I was in that vilest of states when a fixed idea remains in the mind, like the nail in Sisera's brain, while innumerable other ideas go and come, and flutter to and fro, combining constant transition with intolerable sameness. Had I made a record of that night's half-waking dreams, it is my belief that it would have anticipated several of the chief incidents of this narrative, including a dim shadow of its catastrophe. Starting up in bed at length, I saw that the storm was past, and the moon was shining on the snowy landscape, which looked like a lifeless copy of the world in marble.
From the bank of the distant river, which was shimmering in the moonlight, came the black shadow of the only cloud in heaven, driven swiftly by the wind, and passing over meadow and hillock, vanishing amid tufts of leafless trees, but reappearing on the hither side, until it swept across our doorstep.
How cold an Arcadia was this!
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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6
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COVERDALE'S SICK-CHAMBER
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The horn sounded at daybreak, as Silas Foster had forewarned us, harsh, uproarious, inexorably drawn out, and as sleep-dispelling as if this hard-hearted old yeoman had got hold of the trump of doom.
On all sides I could hear the creaking of the bedsteads, as the brethren of Blithedale started from slumber, and thrust themselves into their habiliments, all awry, no doubt, in their haste to begin the reformation of the world. Zenobia put her head into the entry, and besought Silas Foster to cease his clamor, and to be kind enough to leave an armful of firewood and a pail of water at her chamber door. Of the whole household,--unless, indeed, it were Priscilla, for whose habits, in this particular, I cannot vouch,--of all our apostolic society, whose mission was to bless mankind, Hollingsworth, I apprehend, was the only one who began the enterprise with prayer. My sleeping-room being but thinly partitioned from his, the solemn murmur of his voice made its way to my ears, compelling me to be an auditor of his awful privacy with the Creator. It affected me with a deep reverence for Hollingsworth, which no familiarity then existing, or that afterwards grew more intimate between us,--no, nor my subsequent perception of his own great errors,--ever quite effaced. It is so rare, in these times, to meet with a man of prayerful habits (except, of course, in the pulpit), that such an one is decidedly marked out by the light of transfiguration, shed upon him in the divine interview from which he passes into his daily life.
As for me, I lay abed; and if I said my prayers, it was backward, cursing my day as bitterly as patient Job himself. The truth was, the hot-house warmth of a town residence, and the luxurious life in which I indulged myself, had taken much of the pith out of my physical system; and the wintry blast of the preceding day, together with the general chill of our airy old farmhouse, had got fairly into my heart and the marrow of my bones. In this predicament, I seriously wished--selfish as it may appear--that the reformation of society had been postponed about half a century, or, at all events, to such a date as should have put my intermeddling with it entirely out of the question.
What, in the name of common-sense, had I to do with any better society than I had always lived in? It had satisfied me well enough. My pleasant bachelor-parlor, sunny and shadowy, curtained and carpeted, with the bedchamber adjoining; my centre-table, strewn with books and periodicals; my writing-desk with a half-finished poem, in a stanza of my own contrivance; my morning lounge at the reading-room or picture gallery; my noontide walk along the cheery pavement, with the suggestive succession of human faces, and the brisk throb of human life in which I shared; my dinner at the Albion, where I had a hundred dishes at command, and could banquet as delicately as the wizard Michael Scott when the Devil fed him from the king of France's kitchen; my evening at the billiard club, the concert, the theatre, or at somebody's party, if I pleased,--what could be better than all this? Was it better to hoe, to mow, to toil and moil amidst the accumulations of a barnyard; to be the chambermaid of two yoke of oxen and a dozen cows; to eat salt beef, and earn it with the sweat of my brow, and thereby take the tough morsel out of some wretch's mouth, into whose vocation I had thrust myself? Above all, was it better to have a fever and die blaspheming, as I was like to do?
In this wretched plight, with a furnace in my heart and another in my head, by the heat of which I was kept constantly at the boiling point, yet shivering at the bare idea of extruding so much as a finger into the icy atmosphere of the room, I kept my bed until breakfast-time, when Hollingsworth knocked at the door, and entered.
"Well, Coverdale," cried he, "you bid fair to make an admirable farmer! Don't you mean to get up to-day?"
"Neither to-day nor to-morrow," said I hopelessly. "I doubt if I ever rise again!"
"What is the matter now?" he asked.
I told him my piteous case, and besought him to send me back to town in a close carriage.
"No, no!" said Hollingsworth with kindly seriousness. "If you are really sick, we must take care of you."
Accordingly he built a fire in my chamber, and, having little else to do while the snow lay on the ground, established himself as my nurse. A doctor was sent for, who, being homaeopathic, gave me as much medicine, in the course of a fortnight's attendance, as would have laid on the point of a needle. They fed me on water-gruel, and I speedily became a skeleton above ground. But, after all, I have many precious recollections connected with that fit of sickness.
Hollingsworth's more than brotherly attendance gave me inexpressible comfort. Most men--and certainly I could not always claim to be one of the exceptions--have a natural indifference, if not an absolutely hostile feeling, towards those whom disease, or weakness, or calamity of any kind causes to falter and faint amid the rude jostle of our selfish existence. The education of Christianity, it is true, the sympathy of a like experience and the example of women, may soften and, possibly, subvert this ugly characteristic of our sex; but it is originally there, and has likewise its analogy in the practice of our brute brethren, who hunt the sick or disabled member of the herd from among them, as an enemy. It is for this reason that the stricken deer goes apart, and the sick lion grimly withdraws himself into his den. Except in love, or the attachments of kindred, or other very long and habitual affection, we really have no tenderness. But there was something of the woman moulded into the great, stalwart frame of Hollingsworth; nor was he ashamed of it, as men often are of what is best in them, nor seemed ever to know that there was such a soft place in his heart. I knew it well, however, at that time, although afterwards it came nigh to be forgotten. Methought there could not be two such men alive as Hollingsworth. There never was any blaze of a fireside that warmed and cheered me, in the down-sinkings and shiverings of my spirit, so effectually as did the light out of those eyes, which lay so deep and dark under his shaggy brows.
Happy the man that has such a friend beside him when he comes to die! and unless a friend like Hollingsworth be at hand,--as most probably there will not,--he had better make up his mind to die alone. How many men, I wonder, does one meet with in a lifetime, whom he would choose for his deathbed companions! At the crisis of my fever I besought Hollingsworth to let nobody else enter the room, but continually to make me sensible of his own presence by a grasp of the hand, a word, a prayer, if he thought good to utter it; and that then he should be the witness how courageously I would encounter the worst. It still impresses me as almost a matter of regret that I did not die then, when I had tolerably made up my mind to it; for Hollingsworth would have gone with me to the hither verge of life, and have sent his friendly and hopeful accents far over on the other side, while I should be treading the unknown path. Now, were I to send for him, he would hardly come to my bedside, nor should I depart the easier for his presence.
"You are not going to die, this time," said he, gravely smiling. "You know nothing about sickness, and think your case a great deal more desperate than it is."
"Death should take me while I am in the mood," replied I, with a little of my customary levity.
"Have you nothing to do in life," asked Hollingsworth, "that you fancy yourself so ready to leave it?"
"Nothing," answered I; "nothing that I know of, unless to make pretty verses, and play a part, with Zenobia and the rest of the amateurs, in our pastoral. It seems but an unsubstantial sort of business, as viewed through a mist of fever. But, dear Hollingsworth, your own vocation is evidently to be a priest, and to spend your days and nights in helping your fellow creatures to draw peaceful dying breaths."
"And by which of my qualities," inquired he, "can you suppose me fitted for this awful ministry?"
"By your tenderness," I said. "It seems to me the reflection of God's own love."
"And you call me tender!" repeated Hollingsworth thoughtfully. "I should rather say that the most marked trait in my character is an inflexible severity of purpose. Mortal man has no right to be so inflexible as it is my nature and necessity to be."
"I do not believe it," I replied.
But, in due time, I remembered what he said.
Probably, as Hollingsworth suggested, my disorder was never so serious as, in my ignorance of such matters, I was inclined to consider it. After so much tragical preparation, it was positively rather mortifying to find myself on the mending hand.
All the other members of the Community showed me kindness, according to the full measure of their capacity. Zenobia brought me my gruel every day, made by her own hands (not very skilfully, if the truth must be told), and, whenever I seemed inclined to converse, would sit by my bedside, and talk with so much vivacity as to add several gratuitous throbs to my pulse. Her poor little stories and tracts never half did justice to her intellect. It was only the lack of a fitter avenue that drove her to seek development in literature. She was made (among a thousand other things that she might have been) for a stump oratress. I recognized no severe culture in Zenobia; her mind was full of weeds. It startled me sometimes, in my state of moral as well as bodily faint-heartedness, to observe the hardihood of her philosophy. She made no scruple of oversetting all human institutions, and scattering them as with a breeze from her fan. A female reformer, in her attacks upon society, has an instinctive sense of where the life lies, and is inclined to aim directly at that spot. Especially the relation between the sexes is naturally among the earliest to attract her notice.
Zenobia was truly a magnificent woman. The homely simplicity of her dress could not conceal, nor scarcely diminish, the queenliness of her presence. The image of her form and face should have been multiplied all over the earth. It was wronging the rest of mankind to retain her as the spectacle of only a few. The stage would have been her proper sphere. She should have made it a point of duty, moreover, to sit endlessly to painters and sculptors, and preferably to the latter; because the cold decorum of the marble would consist with the utmost scantiness of drapery, so that the eye might chastely be gladdened with her material perfection in its entireness. I know not well how to express that the native glow of coloring in her cheeks, and even the flesh-warmth over her round arms, and what was visible of her full bust,--in a word, her womanliness incarnated,--compelled me sometimes to close my eyes, as if it were not quite the privilege of modesty to gaze at her. Illness and exhaustion, no doubt, had made me morbidly sensitive.
I noticed--and wondered how Zenobia contrived it--that she had always a new flower in her hair. And still it was a hot-house flower,--an outlandish flower,--a flower of the tropics, such as appeared to have sprung passionately out of a soil the very weeds of which would be fervid and spicy. Unlike as was the flower of each successive day to the preceding one, it yet so assimilated its richness to the rich beauty of the woman, that I thought it the only flower fit to be worn; so fit, indeed, that Nature had evidently created this floral gem, in a happy exuberance, for the one purpose of worthily adorning Zenobia's head. It might be that my feverish fantasies clustered themselves about this peculiarity, and caused it to look more gorgeous and wonderful than if beheld with temperate eyes. In the height of my illness, as I well recollect, I went so far as to pronounce it preternatural.
"Zenobia is an enchantress!" whispered I once to Hollingsworth. "She is a sister of the Veiled Lady. That flower in her hair is a talisman. If you were to snatch it away, she would vanish, or be transformed into something else."
"What does he say?" asked Zenobia.
"Nothing that has an atom of sense in it," answered Hollingsworth. "He is a little beside himself, I believe, and talks about your being a witch, and of some magical property in the flower that you wear in your hair."
"It is an idea worthy of a feverish poet," said she, laughing rather compassionately, and taking out the flower. "I scorn to owe anything to magic. Here, Mr. Hollingsworth, you may keep the spell while it has any virtue in it; but I cannot promise you not to appear with a new one to-morrow. It is the one relic of my more brilliant, my happier days!"
The most curious part of the matter was that, long after my slight delirium had passed away,--as long, indeed, as I continued to know this remarkable woman,--her daily flower affected my imagination, though more slightly, yet in very much the same way. The reason must have been that, whether intentionally on her part or not, this favorite ornament was actually a subtile expression of Zenobia's character.
One subject, about which--very impertinently, moreover--I perplexed myself with a great many conjectures, was, whether Zenobia had ever been married. The idea, it must be understood, was unauthorized by any circumstance or suggestion that had made its way to my ears. So young as I beheld her, and the freshest and rosiest woman of a thousand, there was certainly no need of imputing to her a destiny already accomplished; the probability was far greater that her coming years had all life's richest gifts to bring. If the great event of a woman's existence had been consummated, the world knew nothing of it, although the world seemed to know Zenobia well. It was a ridiculous piece of romance, undoubtedly, to imagine that this beautiful personage, wealthy as she was, and holding a position that might fairly enough be called distinguished, could have given herself away so privately, but that some whisper and suspicion, and by degrees a full understanding of the fact, would eventually be blown abroad. But then, as I failed not to consider, her original home was at a distance of many hundred miles. Rumors might fill the social atmosphere, or might once have filled it, there, which would travel but slowly, against the wind, towards our Northeastern metropolis, and perhaps melt into thin air before reaching it.
There was not--and I distinctly repeat it--the slightest foundation in my knowledge for any surmise of the kind. But there is a species of intuition,--either a spiritual lie or the subtile recognition of a fact,--which comes to us in a reduced state of the corporeal system. The soul gets the better of the body, after wasting illness, or when a vegetable diet may have mingled too much ether in the blood. Vapors then rise up to the brain, and take shapes that often image falsehood, but sometimes truth. The spheres of our companions have, at such periods, a vastly greater influence upon our own than when robust health gives us a repellent and self-defensive energy. Zenobia's sphere, I imagine, impressed itself powerfully on mine, and transformed me, during this period of my weakness, into something like a mesmerical clairvoyant.
Then, also, as anybody could observe, the freedom of her deportment (though, to some tastes, it might commend itself as the utmost perfection of manner in a youthful widow or a blooming matron) was not exactly maiden-like. What girl had ever laughed as Zenobia did? What girl had ever spoken in her mellow tones? Her unconstrained and inevitable manifestation, I said often to myself, was that of a woman to whom wedlock had thrown wide the gates of mystery. Yet sometimes I strove to be ashamed of these conjectures. I acknowledged it as a masculine grossness--a sin of wicked interpretation, of which man is often guilty towards the other sex--thus to mistake the sweet, liberal, but womanly frankness of a noble and generous disposition. Still, it was of no avail to reason with myself nor to upbraid myself. Pertinaciously the thought, "Zenobia is a wife; Zenobia has lived and loved! There is no folded petal, no latent dewdrop, in this perfectly developed rose!" --irresistibly that thought drove out all other conclusions, as often as my mind reverted to the subject.
Zenobia was conscious of my observation, though not, I presume, of the point to which it led me.
"Mr. Coverdale," said she one day, as she saw me watching her, while she arranged my gruel on the table, "I have been exposed to a great deal of eye-shot in the few years of my mixing in the world, but never, I think, to precisely such glances as you are in the habit of favoring me with. I seem to interest you very much; and yet--or else a woman's instinct is for once deceived--I cannot reckon you as an admirer. What are you seeking to discover in me?"
"The mystery of your life," answered I, surprised into the truth by the unexpectedness of her attack. "And you will never tell me."
She bent her head towards me, and let me look into her eyes, as if challenging me to drop a plummet-line down into the depths of her consciousness.
"I see nothing now," said I, closing my own eyes, "unless it be the face of a sprite laughing at me from the bottom of a deep well."
A bachelor always feels himself defrauded, when he knows or suspects that any woman of his acquaintance has given herself away. Otherwise, the matter could have been no concern of mine. It was purely speculative, for I should not, under any circumstances, have fallen in love with Zenobia. The riddle made me so nervous, however, in my sensitive condition of mind and body, that I most ungratefully began to wish that she would let me alone. Then, too, her gruel was very wretched stuff, with almost invariably the smell of pine smoke upon it, like the evil taste that is said to mix itself up with a witch's best concocted dainties. Why could not she have allowed one of the other women to take the gruel in charge? Whatever else might be her gifts, Nature certainly never intended Zenobia for a cook. Or, if so, she should have meddled only with the richest and spiciest dishes, and such as are to be tasted at banquets, between draughts of intoxicating wine.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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7
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THE CONVALESCENT
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As soon as my incommodities allowed me to think of past occurrences, I failed not to inquire what had become of the odd little guest whom Hollingsworth had been the medium of introducing among us. It now appeared that poor Priscilla had not so literally fallen out of the clouds, as we were at first inclined to suppose. A letter, which should have introduced her, had since been received from one of the city missionaries, containing a certificate of character and an allusion to circumstances which, in the writer's judgment, made it especially desirable that she should find shelter in our Community. There was a hint, not very intelligible, implying either that Priscilla had recently escaped from some particular peril or irksomeness of position, or else that she was still liable to this danger or difficulty, whatever it might be. We should ill have deserved the reputation of a benevolent fraternity, had we hesitated to entertain a petitioner in such need, and so strongly recommended to our kindness; not to mention, moreover, that the strange maiden had set herself diligently to work, and was doing good service with her needle. But a slight mist of uncertainty still floated about Priscilla, and kept her, as yet, from taking a very decided place among creatures of flesh and blood.
The mysterious attraction, which, from her first entrance on our scene, she evinced for Zenobia, had lost nothing of its force. I often heard her footsteps, soft and low, accompanying the light but decided tread of the latter up the staircase, stealing along the passage-way by her new friend's side, and pausing while Zenobia entered my chamber. Occasionally Zenobia would be a little annoyed by Priscilla's too close attendance. In an authoritative and not very kindly tone, she would advise her to breathe the pleasant air in a walk, or to go with her work into the barn, holding out half a promise to come and sit on the hay with her, when at leisure. Evidently, Priscilla found but scanty requital for her love. Hollingsworth was likewise a great favorite with her. For several minutes together sometimes, while my auditory nerves retained the susceptibility of delicate health, I used to hear a low, pleasant murmur ascending from the room below; and at last ascertained it to be Priscilla's voice, babbling like a little brook to Hollingsworth. She talked more largely and freely with him than with Zenobia, towards whom, indeed, her feelings seemed not so much to be confidence as involuntary affection. I should have thought all the better of my own qualities had Priscilla marked me out for the third place in her regards. But, though she appeared to like me tolerably well, I could never flatter myself with being distinguished by her as Hollingsworth and Zenobia were.
One forenoon, during my convalescence, there came a gentle tap at my chamber door. I immediately said, "Come in, Priscilla!" with an acute sense of the applicant's identity. Nor was I deceived. It was really Priscilla,--a pale, large-eyed little woman (for she had gone far enough into her teens to be, at least, on the outer limit of girlhood), but much less wan than at my previous view of her, and far better conditioned both as to health and spirits. As I first saw her, she had reminded me of plants that one sometimes observes doing their best to vegetate among the bricks of an enclosed court, where there is scanty soil and never any sunshine. At present, though with no approach to bloom, there were indications that the girl had human blood in her veins.
Priscilla came softly to my bedside, and held out an article of snow-white linen, very carefully and smoothly ironed. She did not seem bashful, nor anywise embarrassed. My weakly condition, I suppose, supplied a medium in which she could approach me.
"Do not you need this?" asked she. "I have made it for you." It was a nightcap!
"My dear Priscilla," said I, smiling, "I never had on a nightcap in my life! But perhaps it will be better for me to wear one, now that I am a miserable invalid. How admirably you have done it! No, no; I never can think of wearing such an exquisitely wrought nightcap as this, unless it be in the daytime, when I sit up to receive company."
"It is for use, not beauty," answered Priscilla. "I could have embroidered it and made it much prettier, if I pleased."
While holding up the nightcap and admiring the fine needlework, I perceived that Priscilla had a sealed letter which she was waiting for me to take. It had arrived from the village post-office that morning. As I did not immediately offer to receive the letter, she drew it back, and held it against her bosom, with both hands clasped over it, in a way that had probably grown habitual to her. Now, on turning my eyes from the nightcap to Priscilla, it forcibly struck me that her air, though not her figure, and the expression of her face, but not its features, had a resemblance to what I had often seen in a friend of mine, one of the most gifted women of the age. I cannot describe it. The points easiest to convey to the reader were a certain curve of the shoulders and a partial closing of the eyes, which seemed to look more penetratingly into my own eyes, through the narrowed apertures, than if they had been open at full width. It was a singular anomaly of likeness coexisting with perfect dissimilitude.
"Will you give me the letter, Priscilla?" said I.
She started, put the letter into my hand, and quite lost the look that had drawn my notice.
"Priscilla," I inquired, "did you ever see Miss Margaret Fuller?"
"No," she answered.
"Because," said I, "you reminded me of her just now,--and it happens, strangely enough, that this very letter is from her."
Priscilla, for whatever reason, looked very much discomposed.
"I wish people would not fancy such odd things in me!" she said rather petulantly. "How could I possibly make myself resemble this lady merely by holding her letter in my hand?"
"Certainly, Priscilla, it would puzzle me to explain it," I replied; "nor do I suppose that the letter had anything to do with it. It was just a coincidence, nothing more."
She hastened out of the room, and this was the last that I saw of Priscilla until I ceased to be an invalid.
Being much alone during my recovery, I read interminably in Mr. Emerson's Essays, "The Dial," Carlyle's works, George Sand's romances (lent me by Zenobia), and other books which one or another of the brethren or sisterhood had brought with them. Agreeing in little else, most of these utterances were like the cry of some solitary sentinel, whose station was on the outposts of the advance guard of human progression; or sometimes the voice came sadly from among the shattered ruins of the past, but yet had a hopeful echo in the future. They were well adapted (better, at least, than any other intellectual products, the volatile essence of which had heretofore tinctured a printed page) to pilgrims like ourselves, whose present bivouac was considerably further into the waste of chaos than any mortal army of crusaders had ever marched before. Fourier's works, also, in a series of horribly tedious volumes, attracted a good deal of my attention, from the analogy which I could not but recognize between his system and our own. There was far less resemblance, it is true, than the world chose to imagine, inasmuch as the two theories differed, as widely as the zenith from the nadir, in their main principles.
I talked about Fourier to Hollingsworth, and translated, for his benefit, some of the passages that chiefly impressed me.
"When, as a consequence of human improvement," said I, "the globe shall arrive at its final perfection, the great ocean is to be converted into a particular kind of lemonade, such as was fashionable at Paris in Fourier's time. He calls it limonade a cedre. It is positively a fact! Just imagine the city docks filled, every day, with a flood tide of this delectable beverage!"
"Why did not the Frenchman make punch of it at once?" asked Hollingsworth. "The jack-tars would be delighted to go down in ships and do business in such an element."
I further proceeded to explain, as well as I modestly could, several points of Fourier's system, illustrating them with here and there a page or two, and asking Hollingsworth's opinion as to the expediency of introducing these beautiful peculiarities into our own practice.
"Let me hear no more of it!" cried he, in utter disgust. "I never will forgive this fellow! He has committed the unpardonable sin; for what more monstrous iniquity could the Devil himself contrive than to choose the selfish principle,--the principle of all human wrong, the very blackness of man's heart, the portion of ourselves which we shudder at, and which it is the whole aim of spiritual discipline to eradicate,--to choose it as the master workman of his system? To seize upon and foster whatever vile, petty, sordid, filthy, bestial, and abominable corruptions have cankered into our nature, to be the efficient instruments of his infernal regeneration! And his consummated Paradise, as he pictures it, would be worthy of the agency which he counts upon for establishing it. The nauseous villain!"
"Nevertheless," remarked I, "in consideration of the promised delights of his system,--so very proper, as they certainly are, to be appreciated by Fourier's countrymen,--I cannot but wonder that universal France did not adopt his theory at a moment's warning. But is there not something very characteristic of his nation in Fourier's manner of putting forth his views? He makes no claim to inspiration. He has not persuaded himself--as Swedenborg did, and as any other than a Frenchman would, with a mission of like importance to communicate--that he speaks with authority from above. He promulgates his system, so far as I can perceive, entirely on his own responsibility. He has searched out and discovered the whole counsel of the Almighty in respect to mankind, past, present, and for exactly seventy thousand years to come, by the mere force and cunning of his individual intellect!"
"Take the book out of my sight," said Hollingsworth with great virulence of expression, "or, I tell you fairly, I shall fling it in the fire! And as for Fourier, let him make a Paradise, if he can, of Gehenna, where, as I conscientiously believe, he is floundering at this moment!"
"And bellowing, I suppose," said I,--not that I felt any ill-will towards Fourier, but merely wanted to give the finishing touch to Hollingsworth's image, "bellowing for the least drop of his beloved limonade a cedre!"
There is but little profit to be expected in attempting to argue with a man who allows himself to declaim in this manner; so I dropt the subject, and never took it up again.
But had the system at which he was so enraged combined almost any amount of human wisdom, spiritual insight, and imaginative beauty, I question whether Hollingsworth's mind was in a fit condition to receive it. I began to discern that he had come among us actuated by no real sympathy with our feelings and our hopes, but chiefly because we were estranging ourselves from the world, with which his lonely and exclusive object in life had already put him at odds. Hollingsworth must have been originally endowed with a great spirit of benevolence, deep enough and warm enough to be the source of as much disinterested good as Providence often allows a human being the privilege of conferring upon his fellows. This native instinct yet lived within him. I myself had profited by it, in my necessity. It was seen, too, in his treatment of Priscilla. Such casual circumstances as were here involved would quicken his divine power of sympathy, and make him seem, while their influence lasted, the tenderest man and the truest friend on earth. But by and by you missed the tenderness of yesterday, and grew drearily conscious that Hollingsworth had a closer friend than ever you could be; and this friend was the cold, spectral monster which he had himself conjured up, and on which he was wasting all the warmth of his heart, and of which, at last,--as these men of a mighty purpose so invariably do,--he had grown to be the bond-slave. It was his philanthropic theory.
This was a result exceedingly sad to contemplate, considering that it had been mainly brought about by the very ardor and exuberance of his philanthropy. Sad, indeed, but by no means unusual: he had taught his benevolence to pour its warm tide exclusively through one channel; so that there was nothing to spare for other great manifestations of love to man, nor scarcely for the nutriment of individual attachments, unless they could minister in some way to the terrible egotism which he mistook for an angel of God. Had Hollingsworth's education been more enlarged, he might not so inevitably have stumbled into this pitfall. But this identical pursuit had educated him. He knew absolutely nothing, except in a single direction, where he had thought so energetically, and felt to such a depth, that no doubt the entire reason and justice of the universe appeared to be concentrated thitherward.
It is my private opinion that, at this period of his life, Hollingsworth was fast going mad; and, as with other crazy people (among whom I include humorists of every degree), it required all the constancy of friendship to restrain his associates from pronouncing him an intolerable bore. Such prolonged fiddling upon one string--such multiform presentation of one idea! His specific object (of which he made the public more than sufficiently aware, through the medium of lectures and pamphlets) was to obtain funds for the construction of an edifice, with a sort of collegiate endowment. On this foundation he purposed to devote himself and a few disciples to the reform and mental culture of our criminal brethren. His visionary edifice was Hollingsworth's one castle in the air; it was the material type in which his philanthropic dream strove to embody itself; and he made the scheme more definite, and caught hold of it the more strongly, and kept his clutch the more pertinaciously, by rendering it visible to the bodily eye. I have seen him, a hundred times, with a pencil and sheet of paper, sketching the facade, the side-view, or the rear of the structure, or planning the internal arrangements, as lovingly as another man might plan those of the projected home where he meant to be happy with his wife and children. I have known him to begin a model of the building with little stones, gathered at the brookside, whither we had gone to cool ourselves in the sultry noon of haying-time. Unlike all other ghosts, his spirit haunted an edifice, which, instead of being time-worn, and full of storied love, and joy, and sorrow, had never yet come into existence.
"Dear friend," said I once to Hollingsworth, before leaving my sick-chamber, "I heartily wish that I could make your schemes my schemes, because it would be so great a happiness to find myself treading the same path with you. But I am afraid there is not stuff in me stern enough for a philanthropist,--or not in this peculiar direction,--or, at all events, not solely in this. Can you bear with me, if such should prove to be the case?"
"I will at least wait awhile," answered Hollingsworth, gazing at me sternly and gloomily. "But how can you be my life-long friend, except you strive with me towards the great object of my life?"
Heaven forgive me! A horrible suspicion crept into my heart, and stung the very core of it as with the fangs of an adder. I wondered whether it were possible that Hollingsworth could have watched by my bedside, with all that devoted care, only for the ulterior purpose of making me a proselyte to his views!
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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8
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A MODERN ARCADIA
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May-day--I forget whether by Zenobia's sole decree, or by the unanimous vote of our community--had been declared a movable festival. It was deferred until the sun should have had a reasonable time to clear away the snowdrifts along the lee of the stone walls, and bring out a few of the readiest wild flowers. On the forenoon of the substituted day, after admitting some of the balmy air into my chamber, I decided that it was nonsense and effeminacy to keep myself a prisoner any longer. So I descended to the sitting-room, and finding nobody there, proceeded to the barn, whence I had already heard Zenobia's voice, and along with it a girlish laugh which was not so certainly recognizable. Arriving at the spot, it a little surprised me to discover that these merry outbreaks came from Priscilla.
The two had been a-maying together. They had found anemones in abundance, houstonias by the handful, some columbines, a few long-stalked violets, and a quantity of white everlasting flowers, and had filled up their basket with the delicate spray of shrubs and trees. None were prettier than the maple twigs, the leaf of which looks like a scarlet bud in May, and like a plate of vegetable gold in October. Zenobia, who showed no conscience in such matters, had also rifled a cherry-tree of one of its blossomed boughs, and, with all this variety of sylvan ornament, had been decking out Priscilla. Being done with a good deal of taste, it made her look more charming than I should have thought possible, with my recollection of the wan, frost-nipt girl, as heretofore described. Nevertheless, among those fragrant blossoms, and conspicuously, too, had been stuck a weed of evil odor and ugly aspect, which, as soon as I detected it, destroyed the effect of all the rest. There was a gleam of latent mischief--not to call it deviltry--in Zenobia's eye, which seemed to indicate a slightly malicious purpose in the arrangement.
As for herself, she scorned the rural buds and leaflets, and wore nothing but her invariable flower of the tropics.
"What do you think of Priscilla now, Mr. Coverdale?" asked she, surveying her as a child does its doll. "Is not she worth a verse or two?"
"There is only one thing amiss," answered I. Zenobia laughed, and flung the malignant weed away.
"Yes; she deserves some verses now," said I, "and from a better poet than myself. She is the very picture of the New England spring; subdued in tint and rather cool, but with a capacity of sunshine, and bringing us a few Alpine blossoms, as earnest of something richer, though hardly more beautiful, hereafter. The best type of her is one of those anemones."
"What I find most singular in Priscilla, as her health improves," observed Zenobia, "is her wildness. Such a quiet little body as she seemed, one would not have expected that. Why, as we strolled the woods together, I could hardly keep her from scrambling up the trees, like a squirrel. She has never before known what it is to live in the free air, and so it intoxicates her as if she were sipping wine. And she thinks it such a paradise here, and all of us, particularly Mr. Hollingsworth and myself, such angels! It is quite ridiculous, and provokes one's malice almost, to see a creature so happy, especially a feminine creature."
"They are always happier than male creatures," said I. "You must correct that opinion, Mr. Coverdale," replied Zenobia contemptuously, "or I shall think you lack the poetic insight. Did you ever see a happy woman in your life? Of course, I do not mean a girl, like Priscilla and a thousand others,--for they are all alike, while on the sunny side of experience,--but a grown woman. How can she be happy, after discovering that fate has assigned her but one single event, which she must contrive to make the substance of her whole life? A man has his choice of innumerable events."
"A woman, I suppose," answered I, "by constant repetition of her one event, may compensate for the lack of variety."
"Indeed!" said Zenobia.
While we were talking, Priscilla caught sight of Hollingsworth at a distance, in a blue frock, and with a hoe over his shoulder, returning from the field. She immediately set out to meet him, running and skipping, with spirits as light as the breeze of the May morning, but with limbs too little exercised to be quite responsive; she clapped her hands, too, with great exuberance of gesture, as is the custom of young girls when their electricity overcharges them. But, all at once, midway to Hollingsworth, she paused, looked round about her, towards the river, the road, the woods, and back towards us, appearing to listen, as if she heard some one calling her name, and knew not precisely in what direction.
"Have you bewitched her?" I exclaimed.
"It is no sorcery of mine," said Zenobia; "but I have seen the girl do that identical thing once or twice before. Can you imagine what is the matter with her?"
"No; unless," said I, "she has the gift of hearing those 'airy tongues that syllable men's names,' which Milton tells about."
From whatever cause, Priscilla's animation seemed entirely to have deserted her. She seated herself on a rock, and remained there until Hollingsworth came up; and when he took her hand and led her back to us, she rather resembled my original image of the wan and spiritless Priscilla than the flowery May-queen of a few moments ago. These sudden transformations, only to be accounted for by an extreme nervous susceptibility, always continued to characterize the girl, though with diminished frequency as her health progressively grew more robust.
I was now on my legs again. My fit of illness had been an avenue between two existences; the low-arched and darksome doorway, through which I crept out of a life of old conventionalisms, on my hands and knees, as it were, and gained admittance into the freer region that lay beyond. In this respect, it was like death. And, as with death, too, it was good to have gone through it. No otherwise could I have rid myself of a thousand follies, fripperies, prejudices, habits, and other such worldly dust as inevitably settles upon the crowd along the broad highway, giving them all one sordid aspect before noon-time, however freshly they may have begun their pilgrimage in the dewy morning. The very substance upon my bones had not been fit to live with in any better, truer, or more energetic mode than that to which I was accustomed. So it was taken off me and flung aside, like any other worn-out or unseasonable garment; and, after shivering a little while in my skeleton, I began to be clothed anew, and much more satisfactorily than in my previous suit. In literal and physical truth, I was quite another man. I had a lively sense of the exultation with which the spirit will enter on the next stage of its eternal progress after leaving the heavy burden of its mortality in an early grave, with as little concern for what may become of it as now affected me for the flesh which I had lost.
Emerging into the genial sunshine, I half fancied that the labors of the brotherhood had already realized some of Fourier's predictions. Their enlightened culture of the soil, and the virtues with which they sanctified their life, had begun to produce an effect upon the material world and its climate. In my new enthusiasm, man looked strong and stately,--and woman, oh, how beautiful! --and the earth a green garden, blossoming with many-colored delights. Thus Nature, whose laws I had broken in various artificial ways, comported herself towards me as a strict but loving mother, who uses the rod upon her little boy for his naughtiness, and then gives him a smile, a kiss, and some pretty playthings to console the urchin for her severity.
In the interval of my seclusion, there had been a number of recruits to our little army of saints and martyrs. They were mostly individuals who had gone through such an experience as to disgust them with ordinary pursuits, but who were not yet so old, nor had suffered so deeply, as to lose their faith in the better time to come. On comparing their minds one with another they often discovered that this idea of a Community had been growing up, in silent and unknown sympathy, for years. Thoughtful, strongly lined faces were among them; sombre brows, but eyes that did not require spectacles, unless prematurely dimmed by the student's lamplight, and hair that seldom showed a thread of silver. Age, wedded to the past, incrusted over with a stony layer of habits, and retaining nothing fluid in its possibilities, would have been absurdly out of place in an enterprise like this. Youth, too, in its early dawn, was hardly more adapted to our purpose; for it would behold the morning radiance of its own spirit beaming over the very same spots of withered grass and barren sand whence most of us had seen it vanish. We had very young people with us, it is true,--downy lads, rosy girls in their first teens, and children of all heights above one's knee; but these had chiefly been sent hither for education, which it was one of the objects and methods of our institution to supply. Then we had boarders, from town and elsewhere, who lived with us in a familiar way, sympathized more or less in our theories, and sometimes shared in our labors.
On the whole, it was a society such as has seldom met together; nor, perhaps, could it reasonably be expected to hold together long. Persons of marked individuality--crooked sticks, as some of us might be called--are not exactly the easiest to bind up into a fagot. But, so long as our union should subsist, a man of intellect and feeling, with a free nature in him, might have sought far and near without finding so many points of attraction as would allure him hitherward. We were of all creeds and opinions, and generally tolerant of all, on every imaginable subject. Our bond, it seems to me, was not affirmative, but negative. We had individually found one thing or another to quarrel with in our past life, and were pretty well agreed as to the inexpediency of lumbering along with the old system any further. As to what should be substituted, there was much less unanimity. We did not greatly care--at least, I never did--for the written constitution under which our millennium had commenced. My hope was, that, between theory and practice, a true and available mode of life might be struck out; and that, even should we ultimately fail, the months or years spent in the trial would not have been wasted, either as regarded passing enjoyment, or the experience which makes men wise.
Arcadians though we were, our costume bore no resemblance to the beribboned doublets, silk breeches and stockings, and slippers fastened with artificial roses, that distinguish the pastoral people of poetry and the stage. In outward show, I humbly conceive, we looked rather like a gang of beggars, or banditti, than either a company of honest laboring-men, or a conclave of philosophers. Whatever might be our points of difference, we all of us seemed to have come to Blithedale with the one thrifty and laudable idea of wearing out our old clothes. Such garments as had an airing, whenever we strode afield! Coats with high collars and with no collars, broad-skirted or swallow-tailed, and with the waist at every point between the hip and arm-pit; pantaloons of a dozen successive epochs, and greatly defaced at the knees by the humiliations of the wearer before his lady-love,--in short, we were a living epitome of defunct fashions, and the very raggedest presentment of men who had seen better days. It was gentility in tatters. Often retaining a scholarlike or clerical air, you might have taken us for the denizens of Grub Street, intent on getting a comfortable livelihood by agricultural labor; or Coleridge's projected Pantisocracy in full experiment; or Candide and his motley associates at work in their cabbage garden; or anything else that was miserably out at elbows, and most clumsily patched in the rear. We might have been sworn comrades to Falstaff's ragged regiment. Little skill as we boasted in other points of husbandry, every mother's son of us would have served admirably to stick up for a scarecrow. And the worst of the matter was, that the first energetic movement essential to one downright stroke of real labor was sure to put a finish to these poor habiliments. So we gradually flung them all aside, and took to honest homespun and linsey-woolsey, as preferable, on the whole, to the plan recommended, I think, by Virgil,--"Ara nudus; sere nudus, "--which as Silas Foster remarked, when I translated the maxim, would be apt to astonish the women-folks.
After a reasonable training, the yeoman life throve well with us. Our faces took the sunburn kindly; our chests gained in compass, and our shoulders in breadth and squareness; our great brown fists looked as if they had never been capable of kid gloves. The plough, the hoe, the scythe, and the hay-fork grew familiar to our grasp. The oxen responded to our voices. We could do almost as fair a day's work as Silas Foster himself, sleep dreamlessly after it, and awake at daybreak with only a little stiffness of the joints, which was usually quite gone by breakfast-time.
To be sure, our next neighbors pretended to be incredulous as to our real proficiency in the business which we had taken in hand. They told slanderous fables about our inability to yoke our own oxen, or to drive them afield when yoked, or to release the poor brutes from their conjugal bond at nightfall. They had the face to say, too, that the cows laughed at our awkwardness at milking-time, and invariably kicked over the pails; partly in consequence of our putting the stool on the wrong side, and partly because, taking offence at the whisking of their tails, we were in the habit of holding these natural fly-flappers with one hand and milking with the other. They further averred that we hoed up whole acres of Indian corn and other crops, and drew the earth carefully about the weeds; and that we raised five hundred tufts of burdock, mistaking them for cabbages; and that by dint of unskilful planting few of our seeds ever came up at all, or, if they did come up, it was stern-foremost; and that we spent the better part of the month of June in reversing a field of beans, which had thrust themselves out of the ground in this unseemly way. They quoted it as nothing more than an ordinary occurrence for one or other of us to crop off two or three fingers, of a morning, by our clumsy use of the hay-cutter. Finally, and as an ultimate catastrophe, these mendacious rogues circulated a report that we communitarians were exterminated, to the last man, by severing ourselves asunder with the sweep of our own scythes! and that the world had lost nothing by this little accident.
But this was pure envy and malice on the part of the neighboring farmers. The peril of our new way of life was not lest we should fail in becoming practical agriculturists, but that we should probably cease to be anything else. While our enterprise lay all in theory, we had pleased ourselves with delectable visions of the spiritualization of labor. It was to be our form of prayer and ceremonial of worship. Each stroke of the hoe was to uncover some aromatic root of wisdom, heretofore hidden from the sun. Pausing in the field, to let the wind exhale the moisture from our foreheads, we were to look upward, and catch glimpses into the far-off soul of truth. In this point of view, matters did not turn out quite so well as we anticipated. It is very true that, sometimes, gazing casually around me, out of the midst of my toil, I used to discern a richer picturesqueness in the visible scene of earth and sky. There was, at such moments, a novelty, an unwonted aspect, on the face of Nature, as if she had been taken by surprise and seen at unawares, with no opportunity to put off her real look, and assume the mask with which she mysteriously hides herself from mortals. But this was all. The clods of earth, which we so constantly belabored and turned over and over, were never etherealized into thought. Our thoughts, on the contrary, were fast becoming cloddish. Our labor symbolized nothing, and left us mentally sluggish in the dusk of the evening. Intellectual activity is incompatible with any large amount of bodily exercise. The yeoman and the scholar--the yeoman and the man of finest moral culture, though not the man of sturdiest sense and integrity--are two distinct individuals, and can never be melted or welded into one substance.
Zenobia soon saw this truth, and gibed me about it, one evening, as Hollingsworth and I lay on the grass, after a hard day's work.
"I am afraid you did not make a song today, while loading the hay-cart," said she, "as Burns did, when he was reaping barley."
"Burns never made a song in haying-time," I answered very positively. "He was no poet while a farmer, and no farmer while a poet."
"And on the whole, which of the two characters do you like best?" asked Zenobia. "For I have an idea that you cannot combine them any better than Burns did. Ah, I see, in my mind's eye, what sort of an individual you are to be, two or three years hence. Grim Silas Foster is your prototype, with his palm of sole-leather, and his joints of rusty iron (which all through summer keep the stiffness of what he calls his winter's rheumatize), and his brain of--I don't know what his brain is made of, unless it be a Savoy cabbage; but yours may be cauliflower, as a rather more delicate variety. Your physical man will be transmuted into salt beef and fried pork, at the rate, I should imagine, of a pound and a half a day; that being about the average which we find necessary in the kitchen. You will make your toilet for the day (still like this delightful Silas Foster) by rinsing your fingers and the front part of your face in a little tin pan of water at the doorstep, and teasing your hair with a wooden pocket-comb before a seven-by-nine-inch looking-glass. Your only pastime will be to smoke some very vile tobacco in the black stump of a pipe."
"Pray, spare me!" cried I. "But the pipe is not Silas's only mode of solacing himself with the weed."
"Your literature," continued Zenobia, apparently delighted with her description, "will be the 'Farmer's Almanac;' for I observe our friend Foster never gets so far as the newspaper. When you happen to sit down, at odd moments, you will fall asleep, and make nasal proclamation of the fact, as he does; and invariably you must be jogged out of a nap, after supper, by the future Mrs. Coverdale, and persuaded to go regularly to bed. And on Sundays, when you put on a blue coat with brass buttons, you will think of nothing else to do but to go and lounge over the stone walls and rail fences, and stare at the corn growing. And you will look with a knowing eye at oxen, and will have a tendency to clamber over into pigsties, and feel of the hogs, and give a guess how much they will weigh after you shall have stuck and dressed them. Already I have noticed you begin to speak through your nose, and with a drawl. Pray, if you really did make any poetry to-day, let us hear it in that kind of utterance!"
"Coverdale has given up making verses now," said Hollingsworth, who never had the slightest appreciation of my poetry. "Just think of him penning a sonnet with a fist like that! There is at least this good in a life of toil, that it takes the nonsense and fancy-work out of a man, and leaves nothing but what truly belongs to him. If a farmer can make poetry at the plough-tail, it must be because his nature insists on it; and if that be the case, let him make it, in Heaven's name!"
"And how is it with you?" asked Zenobia, in a different voice; for she never laughed at Hollingsworth, as she often did at me. "You, I think, cannot have ceased to live a life of thought and feeling."
"I have always been in earnest," answered Hollingsworth. "I have hammered thought out of iron, after heating the iron in my heart! It matters little what my outward toil may be. Were I a slave, at the bottom of a mine, I should keep the same purpose, the same faith in its ultimate accomplishment, that I do now. Miles Coverdale is not in earnest, either as a poet or a laborer."
"You give me hard measure, Hollingsworth," said I, a little hurt. "I have kept pace with you in the field; and my bones feel as if I had been in earnest, whatever may be the case with my brain!"
"I cannot conceive," observed Zenobia with great emphasis,--and, no doubt, she spoke fairly the feeling of the moment,--"I cannot conceive of being so continually as Mr. Coverdale is within the sphere of a strong and noble nature, without being strengthened and ennobled by its influence!"
This amiable remark of the fair Zenobia confirmed me in what I had already begun to suspect, that Hollingsworth, like many other illustrious prophets, reformers, and philanthropists, was likely to make at least two proselytes among the women to one among the men. Zenobia and Priscilla! These, I believe (unless my unworthy self might be reckoned for a third), were the only disciples of his mission; and I spent a great deal of time, uselessly, in trying to conjecture what Hollingsworth meant to do with them--and they with him!
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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9
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HOLLINGSWORTH, ZENOBIA, PRISCILLA
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It is not, I apprehend, a healthy kind of mental occupation to devote ourselves too exclusively to the study of individual men and women. If the person under examination be one's self, the result is pretty certain to be diseased action of the heart, almost before we can snatch a second glance. Or if we take the freedom to put a friend under our microscope, we thereby insulate him from many of his true relations, magnify his peculiarities, inevitably tear him into parts, and of course patch him very clumsily together again. What wonder, then, should we be frightened by the aspect of a monster, which, after all,--though we can point to every feature of his deformity in the real personage,--may be said to have been created mainly by ourselves.
Thus, as my conscience has often whispered me, I did Hollingsworth a great wrong by prying into his character; and am perhaps doing him as great a one, at this moment, by putting faith in the discoveries which I seemed to make. But I could not help it. Had I loved him less, I might have used him better. He and Zenobia and Priscilla--both for their own sakes and as connected with him--were separated from the rest of the Community, to my imagination, and stood forth as the indices of a problem which it was my business to solve. Other associates had a portion of my time; other matters amused me; passing occurrences carried me along with them, while they lasted. But here was the vortex of my meditations, around which they revolved, and whitherward they too continually tended. In the midst of cheerful society, I had often a feeling of loneliness. For it was impossible not to be sensible that, while these three characters figured so largely on my private theatre, I--though probably reckoned as a friend by all--was at best but a secondary or tertiary personage with either of them.
I loved Hollingsworth, as has already been enough expressed. But it impressed me, more and more, that there was a stern and dreadful peculiarity in this man, such as could not prove otherwise than pernicious to the happiness of those who should be drawn into too intimate a connection with him. He was not altogether human. There was something else in Hollingsworth besides flesh and blood, and sympathies and affections and celestial spirit.
This is always true of those men who have surrendered themselves to an overruling purpose. It does not so much impel them from without, nor even operate as a motive power within, but grows incorporate with all that they think and feel, and finally converts them into little else save that one principle. When such begins to be the predicament, it is not cowardice, but wisdom, to avoid these victims. They have no heart, no sympathy, no reason, no conscience. They will keep no friend, unless he make himself the mirror of their purpose; they will smite and slay you, and trample your dead corpse under foot, all the more readily, if you take the first step with them, and cannot take the second, and the third, and every other step of their terribly strait path. They have an idol to which they consecrate themselves high-priest, and deem it holy work to offer sacrifices of whatever is most precious; and never once seem to suspect--so cunning has the Devil been with them--that this false deity, in whose iron features, immitigable to all the rest of mankind, they see only benignity and love, is but a spectrum of the very priest himself, projected upon the surrounding darkness. And the higher and purer the original object, and the more unselfishly it may have been taken up, the slighter is the probability that they can be led to recognize the process by which godlike benevolence has been debased into all-devouring egotism.
Of course I am perfectly aware that the above statement is exaggerated, in the attempt to make it adequate. Professed philanthropists have gone far; but no originally good man, I presume, ever went quite so far as this. Let the reader abate whatever he deems fit. The paragraph may remain, however, both for its truth and its exaggeration, as strongly expressive of the tendencies which were really operative in Hollingsworth, and as exemplifying the kind of error into which my mode of observation was calculated to lead me. The issue was, that in solitude I often shuddered at my friend. In my recollection of his dark and impressive countenance, the features grew more sternly prominent than the reality, duskier in their depth and shadow, and more lurid in their light; the frown, that had merely flitted across his brow, seemed to have contorted it with an adamantine wrinkle. On meeting him again, I was often filled with remorse, when his deep eyes beamed kindly upon me, as with the glow of a household fire that was burning in a cave. "He is a man after all," thought I; "his Maker's own truest image, a philanthropic man! --not that steel engine of the Devil's contrivance, a philanthropist!" But in my wood-walks, and in my silent chamber, the dark face frowned at me again.
When a young girl comes within the sphere of such a man, she is as perilously situated as the maiden whom, in the old classical myths, the people used to expose to a dragon. If I had any duty whatever, in reference to Hollingsworth, it was to endeavor to save Priscilla from that kind of personal worship which her sex is generally prone to lavish upon saints and heroes. It often requires but one smile out of the hero's eyes into the girl's or woman's heart, to transform this devotion, from a sentiment of the highest approval and confidence, into passionate love. Now, Hollingsworth smiled much upon Priscilla,--more than upon any other person. If she thought him beautiful, it was no wonder. I often thought him so, with the expression of tender human care and gentlest sympathy which she alone seemed to have power to call out upon his features. Zenobia, I suspect, would have given her eyes, bright as they were, for such a look; it was the least that our poor Priscilla could do, to give her heart for a great many of them. There was the more danger of this, inasmuch as the footing on which we all associated at Blithedale was widely different from that of conventional society. While inclining us to the soft affections of the golden age, it seemed to authorize any individual, of either sex, to fall in love with any other, regardless of what would elsewhere be judged suitable and prudent. Accordingly the tender passion was very rife among us, in various degrees of mildness or virulence, but mostly passing away with the state of things that had given it origin. This was all well enough; but, for a girl like Priscilla and a woman like Zenobia to jostle one another in their love of a man like Hollingsworth, was likely to be no child's play.
Had I been as cold-hearted as I sometimes thought myself, nothing would have interested me more than to witness the play of passions that must thus have been evolved. But, in honest truth, I would really have gone far to save Priscilla, at least, from the catastrophe in which such a drama would be apt to terminate.
Priscilla had now grown to be a very pretty girl, and still kept budding and blossoming, and daily putting on some new charm, which you no sooner became sensible of than you thought it worth all that she had previously possessed. So unformed, vague, and without substance, as she had come to us, it seemed as if we could see Nature shaping out a woman before our very eyes, and yet had only a more reverential sense of the mystery of a woman's soul and frame. Yesterday, her cheek was pale, to-day, it had a bloom. Priscilla's smile, like a baby's first one, was a wondrous novelty. Her imperfections and shortcomings affected me with a kind of playful pathos, which was as absolutely bewitching a sensation as ever I experienced. After she had been a month or two at Blithedale, her animal spirits waxed high, and kept her pretty constantly in a state of bubble and ferment, impelling her to far more bodily activity than she had yet strength to endure. She was very fond of playing with the other girls out of doors. There is hardly another sight in the world so pretty as that of a company of young girls, almost women grown, at play, and so giving themselves up to their airy impulse that their tiptoes barely touch the ground.
Girls are incomparably wilder and more effervescent than boys, more untamable and regardless of rule and limit, with an ever-shifting variety, breaking continually into new modes of fun, yet with a harmonious propriety through all. Their steps, their voices, appear free as the wind, but keep consonance with a strain of music inaudible to us. Young men and boys, on the other hand, play, according to recognized law, old, traditionary games, permitting no caprioles of fancy, but with scope enough for the outbreak of savage instincts. For, young or old, in play or in earnest, man is prone to be a brute.
Especially is it delightful to see a vigorous young girl run a race, with her head thrown back, her limbs moving more friskily than they need, and an air between that of a bird and a young colt. But Priscilla's peculiar charm, in a foot-race, was the weakness and irregularity with which she ran. Growing up without exercise, except to her poor little fingers, she had never yet acquired the perfect use of her legs. Setting buoyantly forth, therefore, as if no rival less swift than Atalanta could compete with her, she ran falteringly, and often tumbled on the grass. Such an incident--though it seems too slight to think of--was a thing to laugh at, but which brought the water into one's eyes, and lingered in the memory after far greater joys and sorrows were wept out of it, as antiquated trash. Priscilla's life, as I beheld it, was full of trifles that affected me in just this way.
When she had come to be quite at home among us, I used to fancy that Priscilla played more pranks, and perpetrated more mischief, than any other girl in the Community. For example, I once heard Silas Foster, in a very gruff voice, threatening to rivet three horseshoes round Priscilla's neck and chain her to a post, because she, with some other young people, had clambered upon a load of hay, and caused it to slide off the cart. How she made her peace I never knew; but very soon afterwards I saw old Silas, with his brawny hands round Priscilla's waist, swinging her to and fro, and finally depositing her on one of the oxen, to take her first lessons in riding. She met with terrible mishaps in her efforts to milk a cow; she let the poultry into the garden; she generally spoilt whatever part of the dinner she took in charge; she broke crockery; she dropt our biggest water pitcher into the well; and--except with her needle, and those little wooden instruments for purse-making--was as unserviceable a member of society as any young lady in the land. There was no other sort of efficiency about her. Yet everybody was kind to Priscilla; everybody loved her and laughed at her to her face, and did not laugh behind her back; everybody would have given her half of his last crust, or the bigger share of his plum-cake. These were pretty certain indications that we were all conscious of a pleasant weakness in the girl, and considered her not quite able to look after her own interests or fight her battle with the world. And Hollingsworth--perhaps because he had been the means of introducing Priscilla to her new abode--appeared to recognize her as his own especial charge.
Her simple, careless, childish flow of spirits often made me sad. She seemed to me like a butterfly at play in a flickering bit of sunshine, and mistaking it for a broad and eternal summer. We sometimes hold mirth to a stricter accountability than sorrow; it must show good cause, or the echo of its laughter comes back drearily. Priscilla's gayety, moreover, was of a nature that showed me how delicate an instrument she was, and what fragile harp-strings were her nerves. As they made sweet music at the airiest touch, it would require but a stronger one to burst them all asunder. Absurd as it might be, I tried to reason with her, and persuade her not to be so joyous, thinking that, if she would draw less lavishly upon her fund of happiness, it would last the longer. I remember doing so, one summer evening, when we tired laborers sat looking on, like Goldsmith's old folks under the village thorn-tree, while the young people were at their sports.
"What is the use or sense of being so very gay?" I said to Priscilla, while she was taking breath, after a great frolic. "I love to see a sufficient cause for everything, and I can see none for this. Pray tell me, now, what kind of a world you imagine this to be, which you are so merry in."
"I never think about it at all," answered Priscilla, laughing. "But this I am sure of, that it is a world where everybody is kind to me, and where I love everybody. My heart keeps dancing within me, and all the foolish things which you see me do are only the motions of my heart. How can I be dismal, if my heart will not let me?"
"Have you nothing dismal to remember?" I suggested. "If not, then, indeed, you are very fortunate!"
"Ah!" said Priscilla slowly.
And then came that unintelligible gesture, when she seemed to be listening to a distant voice.
"For my part," I continued, beneficently seeking to overshadow her with my own sombre humor, "my past life has been a tiresome one enough; yet I would rather look backward ten times than forward once. For, little as we know of our life to come, we may be very sure, for one thing, that the good we aim at will not be attained. People never do get just the good they seek. If it come at all, it is something else, which they never dreamed of, and did not particularly want. Then, again, we may rest certain that our friends of to-day will not be our friends of a few years hence; but, if we keep one of them, it will be at the expense of the others; and most probably we shall keep none. To be sure, there are more to be had; but who cares about making a new set of friends, even should they be better than those around us?"
"Not I!" said Priscilla. "I will live and die with these!"
"Well; but let the future go," resumed I. "As for the present moment, if we could look into the hearts where we wish to be most valued, what should you expect to see? One's own likeness, in the innermost, holiest niche? Ah! I don't know! It may not be there at all. It may be a dusty image, thrust aside into a corner, and by and by to be flung out of doors, where any foot may trample upon it. If not to-day, then to-morrow! And so, Priscilla, I do not see much wisdom in being so very merry in this kind of a world."
It had taken me nearly seven years of worldly life to hive up the bitter honey which I here offered to Priscilla. And she rejected it!
"I don't believe one word of what you say!" she replied, laughing anew. "You made me sad, for a minute, by talking about the past; but the past never comes back again. Do we dream the same dream twice? There is nothing else that I am afraid of."
So away she ran, and fell down on the green grass, as it was often her luck to do, but got up again, without any harm.
"Priscilla, Priscilla!" cried Hollingsworth, who was sitting on the doorstep; "you had better not run any more to-night. You will weary yourself too much. And do not sit down out of doors, for there is a heavy dew beginning to fall."
At his first word, she went and sat down under the porch, at Hollingsworth's feet, entirely contented and happy. What charm was there in his rude massiveness that so attracted and soothed this shadow-like girl? It appeared to me, who have always been curious in such matters, that Priscilla's vague and seemingly causeless flow of felicitous feeling was that with which love blesses inexperienced hearts, before they begin to suspect what is going on within them. It transports them to the seventh heaven; and if you ask what brought them thither, they neither can tell nor care to learn, but cherish an ecstatic faith that there they shall abide forever.
Zenobia was in the doorway, not far from Hollingsworth. She gazed at Priscilla in a very singular way. Indeed, it was a sight worth gazing at, and a beautiful sight, too, as the fair girl sat at the feet of that dark, powerful figure. Her air, while perfectly modest, delicate, and virgin-like, denoted her as swayed by Hollingsworth, attracted to him, and unconsciously seeking to rest upon his strength. I could not turn away my own eyes, but hoped that nobody, save Zenobia and myself, was witnessing this picture. It is before me now, with the evening twilight a little deepened by the dusk of memory.
"Come hither, Priscilla," said Zenobia. "I have something to say to you."
She spoke in little more than a whisper. But it is strange how expressive of moods a whisper may often be. Priscilla felt at once that something had gone wrong.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked, rising slowly, and standing before Zenobia in a drooping attitude. "What have I done? I hope you are not angry!"
"No, no, Priscilla!" said Hollingsworth, smiling. "I will answer for it, she is not. You are the one little person in the world with whom nobody can be angry!"
"Angry with you, child? What a silly idea!" exclaimed Zenobia, laughing. "No, indeed! But, my dear Priscilla, you are getting to be so very pretty that you absolutely need a duenna; and, as I am older than you, and have had my own little experience of life, and think myself exceedingly sage, I intend to fill the place of a maiden aunt. Every day, I shall give you a lecture, a quarter of an hour in length, on the morals, manners, and proprieties of social life. When our pastoral shall be quite played out, Priscilla, my worldly wisdom may stand you in good stead."
"I am afraid you are angry with me!" repeated Priscilla sadly; for, while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.
"Dear me, what can I say to the child!" cried Zenobia in a tone of humorous vexation. "Well, well; since you insist on my being angry, come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!"
Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me with a smile. But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance. It would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the concealed dagger, or the exceedingly sharp bodkin, or mingles the ratsbane in her lover's bowl of wine or her rival's cup of tea. Not that I in the least anticipated any such catastrophe,--it being a remarkable truth that custom has in no one point a greater sway than over our modes of wreaking our wild passions. And besides, had we been in Italy, instead of New England, it was hardly yet a crisis for the dagger or the bowl.
It often amazed me, however, that Hollingsworth should show himself so recklessly tender towards Priscilla, and never once seem to think of the effect which it might have upon her heart. But the man, as I have endeavored to explain, was thrown completely off his moral balance, and quite bewildered as to his personal relations, by his great excrescence of a philanthropic scheme. I used to see, or fancy, indications that he was not altogether obtuse to Zenobia's influence as a woman. No doubt, however, he had a still more exquisite enjoyment of Priscilla's silent sympathy with his purposes, so unalloyed with criticism, and therefore more grateful than any intellectual approbation, which always involves a possible reserve of latent censure. A man--poet, prophet, or whatever he may be--readily persuades himself of his right to all the worship that is voluntarily tendered. In requital of so rich benefits as he was to confer upon mankind, it would have been hard to deny Hollingsworth the simple solace of a young girl's heart, which he held in his hand, and smelled too, like a rosebud. But what if, while pressing out its fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his grasp!
As for Zenobia, I saw no occasion to give myself any trouble. With her native strength, and her experience of the world, she could not be supposed to need any help of mine. Nevertheless, I was really generous enough to feel some little interest likewise for Zenobia. With all her faults (which might have been a great many besides the abundance that I knew of), she possessed noble traits, and a heart which must, at least, have been valuable while new. And she seemed ready to fling it away as uncalculatingly as Priscilla herself. I could not but suspect that, if merely at play with Hollingsworth, she was sporting with a power which she did not fully estimate. Or if in earnest, it might chance, between Zenobia's passionate force and his dark, self-delusive egotism, to turn out such earnest as would develop itself in some sufficiently tragic catastrophe, though the dagger and the bowl should go for nothing in it.
Meantime, the gossip of the Community set them down as a pair of lovers. They took walks together, and were not seldom encountered in the wood-paths: Hollingsworth deeply discoursing, in tones solemn and sternly pathetic; Zenobia, with a rich glow on her cheeks, and her eyes softened from their ordinary brightness, looked so beautiful, that had her companion been ten times a philanthropist, it seemed impossible but that one glance should melt him back into a man. Oftener than anywhere else, they went to a certain point on the slope of a pasture, commanding nearly the whole of our own domain, besides a view of the river, and an airy prospect of many distant hills. The bond of our Community was such, that the members had the privilege of building cottages for their own residence within our precincts, thus laying a hearthstone and fencing in a home private and peculiar to all desirable extent, while yet the inhabitants should continue to share the advantages of an associated life. It was inferred that Hollingsworth and Zenobia intended to rear their dwelling on this favorite spot.
I mentioned those rumors to Hollingsworth in a playful way.
"Had you consulted me," I went on to observe, "I should have recommended a site farther to the left, just a little withdrawn into the wood, with two or three peeps at the prospect among the trees. You will be in the shady vale of years long before you can raise any better kind of shade around your cottage, if you build it on this bare slope."
"But I offer my edifice as a spectacle to the world," said Hollingsworth, "that it may take example and build many another like it. Therefore, I mean to set it on the open hillside."
Twist these words how I might, they offered no very satisfactory import. It seemed hardly probable that Hollingsworth should care about educating the public taste in the department of cottage architecture, desirable as such improvement certainly was.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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10
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A VISITOR FROM TOWN
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Hollingsworth and I--we had been hoeing potatoes, that forenoon, while the rest of the fraternity were engaged in a distant quarter of the farm--sat under a clump of maples, eating our eleven o'clock lunch, when we saw a stranger approaching along the edge of the field. He had admitted himself from the roadside through a turnstile, and seemed to have a purpose of speaking with us.
And, by the bye, we were favored with many visits at Blithedale, especially from people who sympathized with our theories, and perhaps held themselves ready to unite in our actual experiment as soon as there should appear a reliable promise of its success. It was rather ludicrous, indeed (to me, at least, whose enthusiasm had insensibly been exhaled together with the perspiration of many a hard day's toil), it was absolutely funny, therefore, to observe what a glory was shed about our life and labors, in the imaginations of these longing proselytes. In their view, we were as poetical as Arcadians, besides being as practical as the hardest-fisted husbandmen in Massachusetts. We did not, it is true, spend much time in piping to our sheep, or warbling our innocent loves to the sisterhood. But they gave us credit for imbuing the ordinary rustic occupations with a kind of religious poetry, insomuch that our very cow-yards and pig-sties were as delightfully fragrant as a flower garden. Nothing used to please me more than to see one of these lay enthusiasts snatch up a hoe, as they were very prone to do, and set to work with a vigor that perhaps carried him through about a dozen ill-directed strokes. Men are wonderfully soon satisfied, in this day of shameful bodily enervation, when, from one end of life to the other, such multitudes never taste the sweet weariness that follows accustomed toil. I seldom saw the new enthusiasm that did not grow as flimsy and flaccid as the proselyte's moistened shirt-collar, with a quarter of an hour's active labor under a July sun.
But the person now at hand had not at all the air of one of these amiable visionaries. He was an elderly man, dressed rather shabbily, yet decently enough, in a gray frock-coat, faded towards a brown hue, and wore a broad-brimmed white hat, of the fashion of several years gone by. His hair was perfect silver, without a dark thread in the whole of it; his nose, though it had a scarlet tip, by no means indicated the jollity of which a red nose is the generally admitted symbol. He was a subdued, undemonstrative old man, who would doubtless drink a glass of liquor, now and then, and probably more than was good for him,--not, however, with a purpose of undue exhilaration, but in the hope of bringing his spirits up to the ordinary level of the world's cheerfulness. Drawing nearer, there was a shy look about him, as if he were ashamed of his poverty, or, at any rate, for some reason or other, would rather have us glance at him sidelong than take a full front view. He had a queer appearance of hiding himself behind the patch on his left eye.
"I know this old gentleman," said I to Hollingsworth, as we sat observing him; "that is, I have met him a hundred times in town, and have often amused my fancy with wondering what he was before he came to be what he is. He haunts restaurants and such places, and has an odd way of lurking in corners or getting behind a door whenever practicable, and holding out his hand with some little article in it which he wishes you to buy. The eye of the world seems to trouble him, although he necessarily lives so much in it. I never expected to see him in an open field."
"Have you learned anything of his history?" asked Hollingsworth.
"Not a circumstance," I answered; "but there must be something curious in it. I take him to be a harmless sort of a person, and a tolerably honest one; but his manners, being so furtive, remind me of those of a rat,--a rat without the mischief, the fierce eye, the teeth to bite with, or the desire to bite. See, now! He means to skulk along that fringe of bushes, and approach us on the other side of our clump of maples."
We soon heard the old man's velvet tread on the grass, indicating that he had arrived within a few feet of where we Sat.
"Good-morning, Mr. Moodie," said Hollingsworth, addressing the stranger as an acquaintance; "you must have had a hot and tiresome walk from the city. Sit down, and take a morsel of our bread and cheese."
The visitor made a grateful little murmur of acquiescence, and sat down in a spot somewhat removed; so that, glancing round, I could see his gray pantaloons and dusty shoes, while his upper part was mostly hidden behind the shrubbery. Nor did he come forth from this retirement during the whole of the interview that followed. We handed him such food as we had, together with a brown jug of molasses and water (would that it had been brandy, or some thing better, for the sake of his chill old heart!) , like priests offering dainty sacrifice to an enshrined and invisible idol. I have no idea that he really lacked sustenance; but it was quite touching, nevertheless, to hear him nibbling away at our crusts.
"Mr. Moodie," said I, "do you remember selling me one of those very pretty little silk purses, of which you seem to have a monopoly in the market? I keep it to this day, I can assure you."
"Ah, thank you," said our guest. "Yes, Mr. Coverdale, I used to sell a good many of those little purses."
He spoke languidly, and only those few words, like a watch with an inelastic spring, that just ticks a moment or two and stops again. He seemed a very forlorn old man. In the wantonness of youth, strength, and comfortable condition,--making my prey of people's individualities, as my custom was,--I tried to identify my mind with the old fellow's, and take his view of the world, as if looking through a smoke-blackened glass at the sun. It robbed the landscape of all its life. Those pleasantly swelling slopes of our farm, descending towards the wide meadows, through which sluggishly circled the brimful tide of the Charles, bathing the long sedges on its hither and farther shores; the broad, sunny gleam over the winding water; that peculiar picturesqueness of the scene where capes and headlands put themselves boldly forth upon the perfect level of the meadow, as into a green lake, with inlets between the promontories; the shadowy woodland, with twinkling showers of light falling into its depths; the sultry heat-vapor, which rose everywhere like incense, and in which my soul delighted, as indicating so rich a fervor in the passionate day, and in the earth that was burning with its love,--I beheld all these things as through old Moodie's eyes. When my eyes are dimmer than they have yet come to be, I will go thither again, and see if I did not catch the tone of his mind aright, and if the cold and lifeless tint of his perceptions be not then repeated in my own.
Yet it was unaccountable to myself, the interest that I felt in him.
"Have you any objection," said I, "to telling me who made those little purses?"
"Gentlemen have often asked me that," said Moodie slowly; "but I shake my head, and say little or nothing, and creep out of the way as well as I can. I am a man of few words; and if gentlemen were to be told one thing, they would be very apt, I suppose, to ask me another. But it happens just now, Mr. Coverdale, that you can tell me more about the maker of those little purses than I can tell you."
"Why do you trouble him with needless questions, Coverdale?" interrupted Hollingsworth. "You must have known, long ago, that it was Priscilla. And so, my good friend, you have come to see her? Well, I am glad of it. You will find her altered very much for the better, since that winter evening when you put her into my charge. Why, Priscilla has a bloom in her cheeks, now!"
"Has my pale little girl a bloom?" repeated Moodie with a kind of slow wonder. "Priscilla with a bloom in her cheeks! Ah, I am afraid I shall not know my little girl. And is she happy?"
"Just as happy as a bird," answered Hollingsworth.
"Then, gentlemen," said our guest apprehensively, "I don't think it well for me to go any farther. I crept hitherward only to ask about Priscilla; and now that you have told me such good news, perhaps I can do no better than to creep back again. If she were to see this old face of mine, the child would remember some very sad times which we have spent together. Some very sad times, indeed! She has forgotten them, I know,--them and me,--else she could not be so happy, nor have a bloom in her cheeks. Yes--yes--yes," continued he, still with the same torpid utterance; "with many thanks to you, Mr. Hollingsworth, I will creep back to town again."
"You shall do no such thing, Mr. Moodie," said Hollingsworth bluffly. "Priscilla often speaks of you; and if there lacks anything to make her cheeks bloom like two damask roses, I'll venture to say it is just the sight of your face. Come,--we will go and find her."
"Mr. Hollingsworth!" said the old man in his hesitating way.
"Well," answered Hollingsworth.
"Has there been any call for Priscilla?" asked Moodie; and though his face was hidden from us, his tone gave a sure indication of the mysterious nod and wink with which he put the question. "You know, I think, sir, what I mean."
"I have not the remotest suspicion what you mean, Mr. Moodie," replied Hollingsworth; "nobody, to my knowledge, has called for Priscilla, except yourself. But come; we are losing time, and I have several things to say to you by the way."
"And, Mr. Hollingsworth!" repeated Moodie.
"Well, again!" cried my friend rather impatiently. "What now?"
"There is a lady here," said the old man; and his voice lost some of its wearisome hesitation. "You will account it a very strange matter for me to talk about; but I chanced to know this lady when she was but a little child. If I am rightly informed, she has grown to be a very fine woman, and makes a brilliant figure in the world, with her beauty, and her talents, and her noble way of spending her riches. I should recognize this lady, so people tell me, by a magnificent flower in her hair."
"What a rich tinge it gives to his colorless ideas, when he speaks of Zenobia!" I whispered to Hollingsworth. "But how can there possibly be any interest or connecting link between him and her?"
"The old man, for years past," whispered Hollingsworth, "has been a little out of his right mind, as you probably see."
"What I would inquire," resumed Moodie, "is whether this beautiful lady is kind to my poor Priscilla."
"Very kind," said Hollingsworth.
"Does she love her?" asked Moodie.
"It should seem so," answered my friend. "They are always together."
"Like a gentlewoman and her maid-servant, I fancy?" suggested the old man.
There was something so singular in his way of saying this, that I could not resist the impulse to turn quite round, so as to catch a glimpse of his face, almost imagining that I should see another person than old Moodie. But there he sat, with the patched side of his face towards me.
"Like an elder and younger sister, rather," replied Hollingsworth.
"Ah!" said Moodie more complacently, for his latter tones had harshness and acidity in them,--"it would gladden my old heart to witness that. If one thing would make me happier than another, Mr. Hollingsworth, it would be to see that beautiful lady holding my little girl by the hand."
"Come along," said Hollingsworth, "and perhaps you may."
After a little more delay on the part of our freakish visitor, they set forth together, old Moodie keeping a step or two behind Hollingsworth, so that the latter could not very conveniently look him in the face. I remained under the tuft of maples, doing my utmost to draw an inference from the scene that had just passed. In spite of Hollingsworth's off-hand explanation, it did not strike me that our strange guest was really beside himself, but only that his mind needed screwing up, like an instrument long out of tune, the strings of which have ceased to vibrate smartly and sharply. Methought it would be profitable for us, projectors of a happy life, to welcome this old gray shadow, and cherish him as one of us, and let him creep about our domain, in order that he might be a little merrier for our sakes, and we, sometimes, a little sadder for his. Human destinies look ominous without some perceptible intermixture of the sable or the gray. And then, too, should any of our fraternity grow feverish with an over-exulting sense of prosperity, it would be a sort of cooling regimen to slink off into the woods, and spend an hour, or a day, or as many days as might be requisite to the cure, in uninterrupted communion with this deplorable old Moodie!
Going homeward to dinner, I had a glimpse of him, behind the trunk of a tree, gazing earnestly towards a particular window of the farmhouse; and by and by Priscilla appeared at this window, playfully drawing along Zenobia, who looked as bright as the very day that was blazing down upon us, only not, by many degrees, so well advanced towards her noon. I was convinced that this pretty sight must have been purposely arranged by Priscilla for the old man to see. But either the girl held her too long, or her fondness was resented as too great a freedom; for Zenobia suddenly put Priscilla decidedly away, and gave her a haughty look, as from a mistress to a dependant. Old Moodie shook his head; and again and again I saw him shake it, as he withdrew along the road; and at the last point whence the farmhouse was visible, he turned and shook his uplifted staff.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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11
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THE WOOD-PATH
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Not long after the preceding incident, in order to get the ache of too constant labor out of my bones, and to relieve my spirit of the irksomeness of a settled routine, I took a holiday. It was my purpose to spend it all alone, from breakfast-time till twilight, in the deepest wood-seclusion that lay anywhere around us. Though fond of society, I was so constituted as to need these occasional retirements, even in a life like that of Blithedale, which was itself characterized by a remoteness from the world. Unless renewed by a yet further withdrawal towards the inner circle of self-communion, I lost the better part of my individuality. My thoughts became of little worth, and my sensibilities grew as arid as a tuft of moss (a thing whose life is in the shade, the rain, or the noontide dew), crumbling in the sunshine after long expectance of a shower. So, with my heart full of a drowsy pleasure, and cautious not to dissipate my mood by previous intercourse with any one, I hurried away, and was soon pacing a wood-path, arched overhead with boughs, and dusky-brown beneath my feet.
At first I walked very swiftly, as if the heavy flood tide of social life were roaring at my heels, and would outstrip and overwhelm me, without all the better diligence in my escape. But, threading the more distant windings of the track, I abated my pace, and looked about me for some side-aisle, that should admit me into the innermost sanctuary of this green cathedral, just as, in human acquaintanceship, a casual opening sometimes lets us, all of a sudden, into the long-sought intimacy of a mysterious heart. So much was I absorbed in my reflections,--or, rather, in my mood, the substance of which was as yet too shapeless to be called thought,--that footsteps rustled on the leaves, and a figure passed me by, almost without impressing either the sound or sight upon my consciousness.
A moment afterwards, I heard a voice at a little distance behind me, speaking so sharply and impertinently that it made a complete discord with my spiritual state, and caused the latter to vanish as abruptly as when you thrust a finger into a soap-bubble.
"Halloo, friend!" cried this most unseasonable voice. "Stop a moment, I say! I must have a word with you!"
I turned about, in a humor ludicrously irate. In the first place, the interruption, at any rate, was a grievous injury; then, the tone displeased me. And finally, unless there be real affection in his heart, a man cannot,--such is the bad state to which the world has brought itself,--cannot more effectually show his contempt for a brother mortal, nor more gallingly assume a position of superiority, than by addressing him as "friend." Especially does the misapplication of this phrase bring out that latent hostility which is sure to animate peculiar sects, and those who, with however generous a purpose, have sequestered themselves from the crowd; a feeling, it is true, which may be hidden in some dog-kennel of the heart, grumbling there in the darkness, but is never quite extinct, until the dissenting party have gained power and scope enough to treat the world generously. For my part, I should have taken it as far less an insult to be styled "fellow," "clown," or "bumpkin." To either of these appellations my rustic garb (it was a linen blouse, with checked shirt and striped pantaloons, a chip hat on my head, and a rough hickory stick in my hand) very fairly entitled me. As the case stood, my temper darted at once to the opposite pole; not friend, but enemy!
"What do you want with me?" said I, facing about.
"Come a little nearer, friend," said the stranger, beckoning.
"No," answered I. "If I can do anything for you without too much trouble to myself, say so. But recollect, if you please, that you are not speaking to an acquaintance, much less a friend!"
"Upon my word, I believe not!" retorted he, looking at me with some curiosity; and, lifting his hat, he made me a salute which had enough of sarcasm to be offensive, and just enough of doubtful courtesy to render any resentment of it absurd. "But I ask your pardon! I recognize a little mistake. If I may take the liberty to suppose it, you, sir, are probably one of the aesthetic--or shall I rather say ecstatic? --laborers, who have planted themselves hereabouts. This is your forest of Arden; and you are either the banished Duke in person, or one of the chief nobles in his train. The melancholy Jacques, perhaps? Be it so. In that case, you can probably do me a favor."
I never, in my life, felt less inclined to confer a favor on any man.
"I am busy," said I.
So unexpectedly had the stranger made me sensible of his presence, that he had almost the effect of an apparition; and certainly a less appropriate one (taking into view the dim woodland solitude about us) than if the salvage man of antiquity, hirsute and cinctured with a leafy girdle, had started out of a thicket. He was still young, seemingly a little under thirty, of a tall and well-developed figure, and as handsome a man as ever I beheld. The style of his beauty, however, though a masculine style, did not at all commend itself to my taste. His countenance--I hardly know how to describe the peculiarity--had an indecorum in it, a kind of rudeness, a hard, coarse, forth-putting freedom of expression, which no degree of external polish could have abated one single jot. Not that it was vulgar. But he had no fineness of nature; there was in his eyes (although they might have artifice enough of another sort) the naked exposure of something that ought not to be left prominent. With these vague allusions to what I have seen in other faces as well as his, I leave the quality to be comprehended best--because with an intuitive repugnance--by those who possess least of it.
His hair, as well as his beard and mustache, was coal-black; his eyes, too, were black and sparkling, and his teeth remarkably brilliant. He was rather carelessly but well and fashionably dressed, in a summer-morning costume. There was a gold chain, exquisitely wrought, across his vest. I never saw a smoother or whiter gloss than that upon his shirt-bosom, which had a pin in it, set with a gem that glimmered, in the leafy shadow where he stood, like a living tip of fire. He carried a stick with a wooden head, carved in vivid imitation of that of a serpent. I hated him, partly, I do believe, from a comparison of my own homely garb with his well-ordered foppishness.
"Well, sir," said I, a little ashamed of my first irritation, but still with no waste of civility, "be pleased to speak at once, as I have my own business in hand."
"I regret that my mode of addressing you was a little unfortunate," said the stranger, smiling; for he seemed a very acute sort of person, and saw, in some degree, how I stood affected towards him. "I intended no offence, and shall certainly comport myself with due ceremony hereafter. I merely wish to make a few inquiries respecting a lady, formerly of my acquaintance, who is now resident in your Community, and, I believe, largely concerned in your social enterprise. You call her, I think, Zenobia."
"That is her name in literature," observed I; "a name, too, which possibly she may permit her private friends to know and address her by,--but not one which they feel at liberty to recognize when used of her personally by a stranger or casual acquaintance."
"Indeed!" answered this disagreeable person; and he turned aside his face for an instant with a brief laugh, which struck me as a noteworthy expression of his character. "Perhaps I might put forward a claim, on your own grounds, to call the lady by a name so appropriate to her splendid qualities. But I am willing to know her by any cognomen that you may suggest."
Heartily wishing that he would be either a little more offensive, or a good deal less so, or break off our intercourse altogether, I mentioned Zenobia's real name.
"True," said he; "and in general society I have never heard her called otherwise. And, after all, our discussion of the point has been gratuitous. My object is only to inquire when, where, and how this lady may most conveniently be seen."
"At her present residence, of course," I replied. "You have but to go thither and ask for her. This very path will lead you within sight of the house; so I wish you good-morning."
"One moment, if you please," said the stranger. "The course you indicate would certainly be the proper one, in an ordinary morning call. But my business is private, personal, and somewhat peculiar. Now, in a community like this, I should judge that any little occurrence is likely to be discussed rather more minutely than would quite suit my views. I refer solely to myself, you understand, and without intimating that it would be other than a matter of entire indifference to the lady. In short, I especially desire to see her in private. If her habits are such as I have known them, she is probably often to be met with in the woods, or by the river-side; and I think you could do me the favor to point out some favorite walk, where, about this hour, I might be fortunate enough to gain an interview."
I reflected that it would be quite a supererogatory piece of Quixotism in me to undertake the guardianship of Zenobia, who, for my pains, would only make me the butt of endless ridicule, should the fact ever come to her knowledge. I therefore described a spot which, as often as any other, was Zenobia's resort at this period of the day; nor was it so remote from the farmhouse as to leave her in much peril, whatever might be the stranger's character.
"A single word more," said he; and his black eyes sparkled at me, whether with fun or malice I knew not, but certainly as if the Devil were peeping out of them. "Among your fraternity, I understand, there is a certain holy and benevolent blacksmith; a man of iron, in more senses than one; a rough, cross-grained, well-meaning individual, rather boorish in his manners, as might be expected, and by no means of the highest intellectual cultivation. He is a philanthropical lecturer, with two or three disciples, and a scheme of his own, the preliminary step in which involves a large purchase of land, and the erection of a spacious edifice, at an expense considerably beyond his means; inasmuch as these are to be reckoned in copper or old iron much more conveniently than in gold or silver. He hammers away upon his one topic as lustily as ever he did upon a horseshoe! Do you know such a person?" I shook my head, and was turning away. "Our friend," he continued, "is described to me as a brawny, shaggy, grim, and ill-favored personage, not particularly well calculated, one would say, to insinuate himself with the softer sex. Yet, so far has this honest fellow succeeded with one lady whom we wot of, that he anticipates, from her abundant resources, the necessary funds for realizing his plan in brick and mortar!"
Here the stranger seemed to be so much amused with his sketch of Hollingsworth's character and purposes, that he burst into a fit of merriment, of the same nature as the brief, metallic laugh already alluded to, but immensely prolonged and enlarged. In the excess of his delight, he opened his mouth wide, and disclosed a gold band around the upper part of his teeth, thereby making it apparent that every one of his brilliant grinders and incisors was a sham. This discovery affected me very oddly.
I felt as if the whole man were a moral and physical humbug; his wonderful beauty of face, for aught I knew, might be removable like a mask; and, tall and comely as his figure looked, he was perhaps but a wizened little elf, gray and decrepit, with nothing genuine about him save the wicked expression of his grin. The fantasy of his spectral character so wrought upon me, together with the contagion of his strange mirth on my sympathies, that I soon began to laugh as loudly as himself.
By and by, he paused all at once; so suddenly, indeed, that my own cachinnation lasted a moment longer.
"Ah, excuse me!" said he. "Our interview seems to proceed more merrily than it began."
"It ends here," answered I. "And I take shame to myself that my folly has lost me the right of resenting your ridicule of a friend."
"Pray allow me," said the stranger, approaching a step nearer, and laying his gloved hand on my sleeve. "One other favor I must ask of you. You have a young person here at Blithedale, of whom I have heard,--whom, perhaps, I have known,--and in whom, at all events, I take a peculiar interest. She is one of those delicate, nervous young creatures, not uncommon in New England, and whom I suppose to have become what we find them by the gradual refining away of the physical system among your women. Some philosophers choose to glorify this habit of body by terming it spiritual; but, in my opinion, it is rather the effect of unwholesome food, bad air, lack of outdoor exercise, and neglect of bathing, on the part of these damsels and their female progenitors, all resulting in a kind of hereditary dyspepsia. Zenobia, even with her uncomfortable surplus of vitality, is far the better model of womanhood. But--to revert again to this young person--she goes among you by the name of Priscilla. Could you possibly afford me the means of speaking with her?"
"You have made so many inquiries of me," I observed, "that I may at least trouble you with one. What is your name?"
He offered me a card, with "Professor Westervelt" engraved on it. At the same time, as if to vindicate his claim to the professorial dignity, so often assumed on very questionable grounds, he put on a pair of spectacles, which so altered the character of his face that I hardly knew him again. But I liked the present aspect no better than the former one.
"I must decline any further connection with your affairs," said I, drawing back. "I have told you where to find Zenobia. As for Priscilla, she has closer friends than myself, through whom, if they see fit, you can gain access to her."
"In that case," returned the Professor, ceremoniously raising his hat, "good-morning to you."
He took his departure, and was soon out of sight among the windings of the wood-path. But after a little reflection, I could not help regretting that I had so peremptorily broken off the interview, while the stranger seemed inclined to continue it. His evident knowledge of matters affecting my three friends might have led to disclosures or inferences that would perhaps have been serviceable. I was particularly struck with the fact that, ever since the appearance of Priscilla, it had been the tendency of events to suggest and establish a connection between Zenobia and her. She had come, in the first instance, as if with the sole purpose of claiming Zenobia's protection. Old Moodie's visit, it appeared, was chiefly to ascertain whether this object had been accomplished. And here, to-day, was the questionable Professor, linking one with the other in his inquiries, and seeking communication with both.
Meanwhile, my inclination for a ramble having been balked, I lingered in the vicinity of the farm, with perhaps a vague idea that some new event would grow out of Westervelt's proposed interview with Zenobia. My own part in these transactions was singularly subordinate. It resembled that of the Chorus in a classic play, which seems to be set aloof from the possibility of personal concernment, and bestows the whole measure of its hope or fear, its exultation or sorrow, on the fortunes of others, between whom and itself this sympathy is the only bond. Destiny, it may be,--the most skilful of stage managers,--seldom chooses to arrange its scenes, and carry forward its drama, without securing the presence of at least one calm observer. It is his office to give applause when due, and sometimes an inevitable tear, to detect the final fitness of incident to character, and distil in his long-brooding thought the whole morality of the performance.
Not to be out of the way in case there were need of me in my vocation, and, at the same time, to avoid thrusting myself where neither destiny nor mortals might desire my presence, I remained pretty near the verge of the woodlands. My position was off the track of Zenobia's customary walk, yet not so remote but that a recognized occasion might speedily have brought me thither.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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12
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COVERDALE'S HERMITAGE
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Long since, in this part of our circumjacent wood, I had found out for myself a little hermitage. It was a kind of leafy cave, high upward into the air, among the midmost branches of a white-pine tree. A wild grapevine, of unusual size and luxuriance, had twined and twisted itself up into the tree, and, after wreathing the entanglement of its tendrils around almost every bough, had caught hold of three or four neighboring trees, and married the whole clump with a perfectly inextricable knot of polygamy. Once, while sheltering myself from a summer shower, the fancy had taken me to clamber up into this seemingly impervious mass of foliage. The branches yielded me a passage, and closed again beneath, as if only a squirrel or a bird had passed. Far aloft, around the stem of the central pine, behold a perfect nest for Robinson Crusoe or King Charles! A hollow chamber of rare seclusion had been formed by the decay of some of the pine branches, which the vine had lovingly strangled with its embrace, burying them from the light of day in an aerial sepulchre of its own leaves. It cost me but little ingenuity to enlarge the interior, and open loopholes through the verdant walls. Had it ever been my fortune to spend a honeymoon, I should have thought seriously of inviting my bride up thither, where our next neighbors would have been two orioles in another part of the clump.
It was an admirable place to make verses, tuning the rhythm to the breezy symphony that so often stirred among the vine leaves; or to meditate an essay for "The Dial," in which the many tongues of Nature whispered mysteries, and seemed to ask only a little stronger puff of wind to speak out the solution of its riddle. Being so pervious to air-currents, it was just the nook, too, for the enjoyment of a cigar. This hermitage was my one exclusive possession while I counted myself a brother of the socialists. It symbolized my individuality, and aided me in keeping it inviolate. None ever found me out in it, except, once, a squirrel. I brought thither no guest, because, after Hollingsworth failed me, there was no longer the man alive with whom I could think of sharing all. So there I used to sit, owl-like, yet not without liberal and hospitable thoughts. I counted the innumerable clusters of my vine, and fore-reckoned the abundance of my vintage. It gladdened me to anticipate the surprise of the Community, when, like an allegorical figure of rich October, I should make my appearance, with shoulders bent beneath the burden of ripe grapes, and some of the crushed ones crimsoning my brow as with a bloodstain.
Ascending into this natural turret, I peeped in turn out of several of its small windows. The pine-tree, being ancient, rose high above the rest of the wood, which was of comparatively recent growth. Even where I sat, about midway between the root and the topmost bough, my position was lofty enough to serve as an observatory, not for starry investigations, but for those sublunary matters in which lay a lore as infinite as that of the planets. Through one loophole I saw the river lapsing calmly onward, while in the meadow, near its brink, a few of the brethren were digging peat for our winter's fuel. On the interior cart-road of our farm I discerned Hollingsworth, with a yoke of oxen hitched to a drag of stones, that were to be piled into a fence, on which we employed ourselves at the odd intervals of other labor. The harsh tones of his voice, shouting to the sluggish steers, made me sensible, even at such a distance, that he was ill at ease, and that the balked philanthropist had the battle-spirit in his heart.
"Haw, Buck!" quoth he. "Come along there, ye lazy ones! What are ye about, now? Gee!"
"Mankind, in Hollingsworth's opinion," thought I, "is but another yoke of oxen, as stubborn, stupid, and sluggish as our old Brown and Bright. He vituperates us aloud, and curses us in his heart, and will begin to prick us with the goad-stick, by and by. But are we his oxen? And what right has he to be the driver? And why, when there is enough else to do, should we waste our strength in dragging home the ponderous load of his philanthropic absurdities? At my height above the earth, the whole matter looks ridiculous!"
Turning towards the farmhouse, I saw Priscilla (for, though a great way off, the eye of faith assured me that it was she) sitting at Zenobia's window, and making little purses, I suppose; or, perhaps, mending the Community's old linen. A bird flew past my tree; and, as it clove its way onward into the sunny atmosphere, I flung it a message for Priscilla.
"Tell her," said I, "that her fragile thread of life has inextricably knotted itself with other and tougher threads, and most likely it will be broken. Tell her that Zenobia will not be long her friend. Say that Hollingsworth's heart is on fire with his own purpose, but icy for all human affection; and that, if she has given him her love, it is like casting a flower into a sepulchre. And say that if any mortal really cares for her, it is myself; and not even I for her realities,--poor little seamstress, as Zenobia rightly called her! --but for the fancy-work with which I have idly decked her out!"
The pleasant scent of the wood, evolved by the hot sun, stole up to my nostrils, as if I had been an idol in its niche. Many trees mingled their fragrance into a thousand-fold odor. Possibly there was a sensual influence in the broad light of noon that lay beneath me. It may have been the cause, in part, that I suddenly found myself possessed by a mood of disbelief in moral beauty or heroism, and a conviction of the folly of attempting to benefit the world. Our especial scheme of reform, which, from my observatory, I could take in with the bodily eye, looked so ridiculous that it was impossible not to laugh aloud.
"But the joke is a little too heavy," thought I. "If I were wise, I should get out of the scrape with all diligence, and then laugh at my companions for remaining in it."
While thus musing, I heard with perfect distinctness, somewhere in the wood beneath, the peculiar laugh which I have described as one of the disagreeable characteristics of Professor Westervelt. It brought my thoughts back to our recent interview. I recognized as chiefly due to this man's influence the sceptical and sneering view which just now had filled my mental vision in regard to all life's better purposes. And it was through his eyes, more than my own, that I was looking at Hollingsworth, with his glorious if impracticable dream, and at the noble earthliness of Zenobia's character, and even at Priscilla, whose impalpable grace lay so singularly between disease and beauty. The essential charm of each had vanished. There are some spheres the contact with which inevitably degrades the high, debases the pure, deforms the beautiful. It must be a mind of uncommon strength, and little impressibility, that can permit itself the habit of such intercourse, and not be permanently deteriorated; and yet the Professor's tone represented that of worldly society at large, where a cold scepticism smothers what it can of our spiritual aspirations, and makes the rest ridiculous. I detested this kind of man; and all the more because a part of my own nature showed itself responsive to him.
Voices were now approaching through the region of the wood which lay in the vicinity of my tree. Soon I caught glimpses of two figures--a woman and a man--Zenobia and the stranger--earnestly talking together as they advanced.
Zenobia had a rich though varying color. It was, most of the while, a flame, and anon a sudden paleness. Her eyes glowed, so that their light sometimes flashed upward to me, as when the sun throws a dazzle from some bright object on the ground. Her gestures were free, and strikingly impressive. The whole woman was alive with a passionate intensity, which I now perceived to be the phase in which her beauty culminated. Any passion would have become her well; and passionate love, perhaps, the best of all. This was not love, but anger, largely intermixed with scorn. Yet the idea strangely forced itself upon me, that there was a sort of familiarity between these two companions, necessarily the result of an intimate love,--on Zenobia's part, at least,--in days gone by, but which had prolonged itself into as intimate a hatred, for all futurity. As they passed among the trees, reckless as her movement was, she took good heed that even the hem of her garment should not brush against the stranger's person. I wondered whether there had always been a chasm, guarded so religiously, betwixt these two.
As for Westervelt, he was not a whit more warmed by Zenobia's passion than a salamander by the heat of its native furnace. He would have been absolutely statuesque, save for a look of slight perplexity, tinctured strongly with derision. It was a crisis in which his intellectual perceptions could not altogether help him out. He failed to comprehend, and cared but little for comprehending, why Zenobia should put herself into such a fume; but satisfied his mind that it was all folly, and only another shape of a woman's manifold absurdity, which men can never understand. How many a woman's evil fate has yoked her with a man like this! Nature thrusts some of us into the world miserably incomplete on the emotional side, with hardly any sensibilities except what pertain to us as animals. No passion, save of the senses; no holy tenderness, nor the delicacy that results from this. Externally they bear a close resemblance to other men, and have perhaps all save the finest grace; but when a woman wrecks herself on such a being, she ultimately finds that the real womanhood within her has no corresponding part in him. Her deepest voice lacks a response; the deeper her cry, the more dead his silence. The fault may be none of his; he cannot give her what never lived within his soul. But the wretchedness on her side, and the moral deterioration attendant on a false and shallow life, without strength enough to keep itself sweet, are among the most pitiable wrongs that mortals suffer.
Now, as I looked down from my upper region at this man and woman,--outwardly so fair a sight, and wandering like two lovers in the wood,--I imagined that Zenobia, at an earlier period of youth, might have fallen into the misfortune above indicated. And when her passionate womanhood, as was inevitable, had discovered its mistake, here had ensued the character of eccentricity and defiance which distinguished the more public portion of her life.
Seeing how aptly matters had chanced thus far, I began to think it the design of fate to let me into all Zenobia's secrets, and that therefore the couple would sit down beneath my tree, and carry on a conversation which would leave me nothing to inquire. No doubt, however, had it so happened, I should have deemed myself honorably bound to warn them of a listener's presence by flinging down a handful of unripe grapes, or by sending an unearthly groan out of my hiding-place, as if this were one of the trees of Dante's ghostly forest. But real life never arranges itself exactly like a romance. In the first place, they did not sit down at all. Secondly, even while they passed beneath the tree, Zenobia's utterance was so hasty and broken, and Westervelt's so cool and low, that I hardly could make out an intelligible sentence on either side. What I seem to remember, I yet suspect, may have been patched together by my fancy, in brooding over the matter afterwards.
"Why not fling the girl off," said Westervelt, "and let her go?"
"She clung to me from the first," replied Zenobia. "I neither know nor care what it is in me that so attaches her. But she loves me, and I will not fail her."
"She will plague you, then," said he, "in more ways than one."
"The poor child!" exclaimed Zenobia. "She can do me neither good nor harm. How should she?"
I know not what reply Westervelt whispered; nor did Zenobia's subsequent exclamation give me any clew, except that it evidently inspired her with horror and disgust.
"With what kind of a being am I linked?" cried she. "If my Creator cares aught for my soul, let him release me from this miserable bond!"
"I did not think it weighed so heavily," said her companion. .
"Nevertheless," answered Zenobia, "it will strangle me at last!"
And then I heard her utter a helpless sort of moan; a sound which, struggling out of the heart of a person of her pride and strength, affected me more than if she had made the wood dolorously vocal with a thousand shrieks and wails.
Other mysterious words, besides what are above written, they spoke together; but I understood no more, and even question whether I fairly understood so much as this. By long brooding over our recollections, we subtilize them into something akin to imaginary stuff, and hardly capable of being distinguished from it. In a few moments they were completely beyond ear-shot. A breeze stirred after them, and awoke the leafy tongues of the surrounding trees, which forthwith began to babble, as if innumerable gossips had all at once got wind of Zenobia's secret. But, as the breeze grew stronger, its voice among the branches was as if it said, "Hush! Hush!" and I resolved that to no mortal would I disclose what I had heard. And, though there might be room for casuistry, such, I conceive, is the most equitable rule in all similar conjunctures.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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13
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ZENOBIA'S LEGEND
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The illustrious Society of Blithedale, though it toiled in downright earnest for the good of mankind, yet not unfrequently illuminated its laborious life with an afternoon or evening of pastime. Picnics under the trees were considerably in vogue; and, within doors, fragmentary bits of theatrical performance, such as single acts of tragedy or comedy, or dramatic proverbs and charades. Zenobia, besides, was fond of giving us readings from Shakespeare, and often with a depth of tragic power, or breadth of comic effect, that made one feel it an intolerable wrong to the world that she did not at once go upon the stage. Tableaux vivants were another of our occasional modes of amusement, in which scarlet shawls, old silken robes, ruffs, velvets, furs, and all kinds of miscellaneous trumpery converted our familiar companions into the people of a pictorial world. We had been thus engaged on the evening after the incident narrated in the last chapter. Several splendid works of art--either arranged after engravings from the old masters, or original illustrations of scenes in history or romance--had been presented, and we were earnestly entreating Zenobia for more.
She stood with a meditative air, holding a large piece of gauze, or some such ethereal stuff, as if considering what picture should next occupy the frame; while at her feet lay a heap of many-colored garments, which her quick fancy and magic skill could so easily convert into gorgeous draperies for heroes and princesses.
"I am getting weary of this," said she, after a moment's thought. "Our own features, and our own figures and airs, show a little too intrusively through all the characters we assume. We have so much familiarity with one another's realities, that we cannot remove ourselves, at pleasure, into an imaginary sphere. Let us have no more pictures to-night; but, to make you what poor amends I can, how would you like to have me trump up a wild, spectral legend, on the spur of the moment?"
Zenobia had the gift of telling a fanciful little story, off-hand, in a way that made it greatly more effective than it was usually found to be when she afterwards elaborated the same production with her pen. Her proposal, therefore, was greeted with acclamation.
"Oh, a story, a story, by all means!" cried the young girls. "No matter how marvellous; we will believe it, every word. And let it be a ghost story, if you please."
"No, not exactly a ghost story," answered Zenobia; "but something so nearly like it that you shall hardly tell the difference. And, Priscilla, stand you before me, where I may look at you, and get my inspiration out of your eyes. They are very deep and dreamy to-night."
I know not whether the following version of her story will retain any portion of its pristine character; but, as Zenobia told it wildly and rapidly, hesitating at no extravagance, and dashing at absurdities which I am too timorous to repeat,--giving it the varied emphasis of her inimitable voice, and the pictorial illustration of her mobile face, while through it all we caught the freshest aroma of the thoughts, as they came bubbling out of her mind,--thus narrated, and thus heard, the legend seemed quite a remarkable affair. I scarcely knew, at the time, whether she intended us to laugh or be more seriously impressed. From beginning to end, it was undeniable nonsense, but not necessarily the worse for that.
THE SILVERY VEIL You have heard, my dear friends, of the Veiled Lady, who grew suddenly so very famous, a few months ago. And have you never thought how remarkable it was that this marvellous creature should vanish, all at once, while her renown was on the increase, before the public had grown weary of her, and when the enigma of her character, instead of being solved, presented itself more mystically at every exhibition? Her last appearance, as you know, was before a crowded audience. The next evening,--although the bills had announced her, at the corner of every street, in red letters of a gigantic size,--there was no Veiled Lady to be seen! Now, listen to my simple little tale, and you shall hear the very latest incident in the known life--(if life it may be called, which seemed to have no more reality than the candle-light image of one's self which peeps at us outside of a dark windowpane)--the life of this shadowy phenomenon.
A party of young gentlemen, you are to understand, were enjoying themselves, one afternoon,--as young gentlemen are sometimes fond of doing,--over a bottle or two of champagne; and, among other ladies less mysterious, the subject of the Veiled Lady, as was very natural, happened to come up before them for discussion. She rose, as it were, with the sparkling effervescence of their wine, and appeared in a more airy and fantastic light on account of the medium through which they saw her. They repeated to one another, between jest and earnest, all the wild stories that were in vogue; nor, I presume, did they hesitate to add any small circumstance that the inventive whim of the moment might suggest, to heighten the marvellousness of their theme.
"But what an audacious report was that," observed one, "which pretended to assert the identity of this strange creature with a young lady,"--and here he mentioned her name,--"the daughter of one of our most distinguished families!"
"Ah, there is more in that story than can well be accounted for," remarked another. "I have it on good authority, that the young lady in question is invariably out of sight, and not to be traced, even by her own family, at the hours when the Veiled Lady is before the public; nor can any satisfactory explanation be given of her disappearance. And just look at the thing: Her brother is a young fellow of spirit. He cannot but be aware of these rumors in reference to his sister. Why, then, does he not come forward to defend her character, unless he is conscious that an investigation would only make the matter worse?"
It is essential to the purposes of my legend to distinguish one of these young gentlemen from his companions; so, for the sake of a soft and pretty name (such as we of the literary sisterhood invariably bestow upon our heroes), I deem it fit to call him Theodore.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Theodore; "her brother is no such fool! Nobody, unless his brain be as full of bubbles as this wine, can seriously think of crediting that ridiculous rumor. Why, if my senses did not play me false (which never was the case yet), I affirm that I saw that very lady, last evening, at the exhibition, while this veiled phenomenon was playing off her juggling tricks! What can you say to that?"
"Oh, it was a spectral illusion that you saw!" replied his friends, with a general laugh. "The Veiled Lady is quite up to such a thing."
However, as the above-mentioned fable could not hold its ground against Theodore's downright refutation, they went on to speak of other stories which the wild babble of the town had set afloat. Some upheld that the veil covered the most beautiful countenance in the world; others,--and certainly with more reason, considering the sex of the Veiled Lady,--that the face was the most hideous and horrible, and that this was her sole motive for hiding it. It was the face of a corpse; it was the head of a skeleton; it was a monstrous visage, with snaky locks, like Medusa's, and one great red eye in the centre of the forehead. Again, it was affirmed that there was no single and unchangeable set of features beneath the veil; but that whosoever should be bold enough to lift it would behold the features of that person, in all the world, who was destined to be his fate; perhaps he would be greeted by the tender smile of the woman whom he loved, or, quite as probably, the deadly scowl of his bitterest enemy would throw a blight over his life. They quoted, moreover, this startling explanation of the whole affair: that the magician who exhibited the Veiled Lady--and who, by the bye, was the handsomest man in the whole world--had bartered his own soul for seven years' possession of a familiar fiend, and that the last year of the contract was wearing towards its close.
If it were worth our while, I could keep you till an hour beyond midnight listening to a thousand such absurdities as these. But finally our friend Theodore, who prided himself upon his common-sense, found the matter getting quite beyond his patience.
"I offer any wager you like," cried he, setting down his glass so forcibly as to break the stem of it, "that this very evening I find out the mystery of the Veiled Lady!"
Young men, I am told, boggle at nothing over their wine; so, after a little more talk, a wager of considerable amount was actually laid, the money staked, and Theodore left to choose his own method of settling the dispute.
How he managed it I know not, nor is it of any great importance to this veracious legend. The most natural way, to be sure, was by bribing the doorkeeper,--or possibly he preferred clambering in at the window. But, at any rate, that very evening, while the exhibition was going forward in the hall, Theodore contrived to gain admittance into the private withdrawing-room whither the Veiled Lady was accustomed to retire at the close of her performances. There he waited, listening, I suppose, to the stifled hum of the great audience; and no doubt he could distinguish the deep tones of the magician, causing the wonders that he wrought to appear more dark and intricate, by his mystic pretence of an explanation. Perhaps, too, in the intervals of the wild breezy music which accompanied the exhibition, he might hear the low voice of the Veiled Lady, conveying her sibylline responses. Firm as Theodore's nerves might be, and much as he prided himself on his sturdy perception of realities, I should not be surprised if his heart throbbed at a little more than its ordinary rate.
Theodore concealed himself behind a screen. In due time the performance was brought to a close, and whether the door was softly opened, or whether her bodiless presence came through the wall, is more than I can say, but, all at once, without the young man's knowing how it happened, a veiled figure stood in the centre of the room. It was one thing to be in presence of this mystery in the hall of exhibition, where the warm, dense life of hundreds of other mortals kept up the beholder's courage, and distributed her influence among so many; it was another thing to be quite alone with her, and that, too, with a hostile, or, at least, an unauthorized and unjustifiable purpose. I further imagine that Theodore now began to be sensible of something more serious in his enterprise than he had been quite aware of while he sat with his boon-companions over their sparkling wine.
Very strange, it must be confessed, was the movement with which the figure floated to and fro over the carpet, with the silvery veil covering her from head to foot; so impalpable, so ethereal, so without substance, as the texture seemed, yet hiding her every outline in an impenetrability like that of midnight. Surely, she did not walk! She floated, and flitted, and hovered about the room; no sound of a footstep, no perceptible motion of a limb; it was as if a wandering breeze wafted her before it, at its own wild and gentle pleasure. But, by and by, a purpose began to be discernible, throughout the seeming vagueness of her unrest. She was in quest of something. Could it be that a subtile presentiment had informed her of the young man's presence? And if so, did the Veiled Lady seek or did she shun him? The doubt in Theodore's mind was speedily resolved; for, after a moment or two of these erratic flutterings, she advanced more decidedly, and stood motionless before the screen.
"Thou art here!" said a soft, low voice. "Come forth, Theodore!" Thus summoned by his name, Theodore, as a man of courage, had no choice. He emerged from his concealment, and presented himself before the Veiled Lady, with the wine-flush, it may be, quite gone out of his cheeks.
"What wouldst thou with me?" she inquired, with the same gentle composure that was in her former utterance.
"Mysterious creature," replied Theodore, "I would know who and what you are!"
"My lips are forbidden to betray the secret," said the Veiled Lady.
"At whatever risk, I must discover it," rejoined Theodore.
"Then," said the Mystery, "there is no way save to lift my veil."
And Theodore, partly recovering his audacity, stept forward on the instant, to do as the Veiled Lady had suggested. But she floated backward to the opposite side of the room, as if the young man's breath had possessed power enough to waft her away.
"Pause, one little instant," said the soft, low voice, "and learn the conditions of what thou art so bold to undertake. Thou canst go hence, and think of me no more; or, at thy option, thou canst lift this mysterious veil, beneath which I am a sad and lonely prisoner, in a bondage which is worse to me than death. But, before raising it, I entreat thee, in all maiden modesty, to bend forward and impress a kiss where my breath stirs the veil; and my virgin lips shall come forward to meet thy lips; and from that instant, Theodore, thou shalt be mine, and I thine, with never more a veil between us. And all the felicity of earth and of the future world shall be thine and mine together. So much may a maiden say behind the veil. If thou shrinkest from this, there is yet another way." "And what is that?" asked Theodore. "Dost thou hesitate," said the Veiled Lady, "to pledge thyself to me, by meeting these lips of mine, while the veil yet hides my face? Has not thy heart recognized me? Dost thou come hither, not in holy faith, nor with a pure and generous purpose, but in scornful scepticism and idle curiosity? Still, thou mayest lift the veil! But, from that instant, Theodore, I am doomed to be thy evil fate; nor wilt thou ever taste another breath of happiness!"
There was a shade of inexpressible sadness in the utterance of these last words. But Theodore, whose natural tendency was towards scepticism, felt himself almost injured and insulted by the Veiled Lady's proposal that he should pledge himself, for life and eternity, to so questionable a creature as herself; or even that she should suggest an inconsequential kiss, taking into view the probability that her face was none of the most bewitching. A delightful idea, truly, that he should salute the lips of a dead girl, or the jaws of a skeleton, or the grinning cavity of a monster's mouth! Even should she prove a comely maiden enough in other respects, the odds were ten to one that her teeth were defective; a terrible drawback on the delectableness of a kiss.
"Excuse me, fair lady," said Theodore, and I think he nearly burst into a laugh, "if I prefer to lift the veil first; and for this affair of the kiss, we may decide upon it afterwards."
"Thou hast made thy choice," said the sweet, sad voice behind the veil; and there seemed a tender but unresentful sense of wrong done to womanhood by the young man's contemptuous interpretation of her offer. "I must not counsel thee to pause, although thy fate is still in thine own hand!"
Grasping at the veil, he flung it upward, and caught a glimpse of a pale, lovely face beneath; just one momentary glimpse, and then the apparition vanished, and the silvery veil fluttered slowly down and lay upon the floor. Theodore was alone. Our legend leaves him there. His retribution was, to pine forever and ever for another sight of that dim, mournful face,--which might have been his life-long household fireside joy,--to desire, and waste life in a feverish quest, and never meet it more.
But what, in good sooth, had become of the Veiled Lady? Had all her existence been comprehended within that mysterious veil, and was she now annihilated? Or was she a spirit, with a heavenly essence, but which might have been tamed down to human bliss, had Theodore been brave and true enough to claim her? Hearken, my sweet friends,--and hearken, dear Priscilla,--and you shall learn the little more that Zenobia can tell you.
Just at the moment, so far as can be ascertained, when the Veiled Lady vanished, a maiden, pale and shadowy, rose up amid a knot of visionary people, who were seeking for the better life. She was so gentle and so sad,--a nameless melancholy gave her such hold upon their sympathies,--that they never thought of questioning whence she came. She might have heretofore existed, or her thin substance might have been moulded out of air at the very instant when they first beheld her. It was all one to them; they took her to their hearts. Among them was a lady to whom, more than to all the rest, this pale, mysterious girl attached herself.
But one morning the lady was wandering in the woods, and there met her a figure in an Oriental robe, with a dark beard, and holding in his hand a silvery veil. He motioned her to stay. Being a woman of some nerve, she did not shriek, nor run away, nor faint, as many ladies would have been apt to do, but stood quietly, and bade him speak. The truth was, she had seen his face before, but had never feared it, although she knew him to be a terrible magician.
"Lady," said he, with a warning gesture, "you are in peril!" "Peril!" she exclaimed. "And of what nature?"
"There is a certain maiden," replied the magician, "who has come out of the realm of mystery, and made herself your most intimate companion. Now, the fates have so ordained it, that, whether by her own will or no, this stranger is your deadliest enemy. In love, in worldly fortune, in all your pursuit of happiness, she is doomed to fling a blight over your prospects. There is but one possibility of thwarting her disastrous influence."
"Then tell me that one method," said the lady.
"Take this veil," he answered, holding forth the silvery texture. "It is a spell; it is a powerful enchantment, which I wrought for her sake, and beneath which she was once my prisoner. Throw it, at unawares, over the head of this secret foe, stamp your foot, and cry, 'Arise, Magician! Here is the Veiled Lady!' and immediately I will rise up through the earth, and seize her; and from that moment you are safe!"
So the lady took the silvery veil, which was like woven air, or like some substance airier than nothing, and that would float upward and be lost among the clouds, were she once to let it go. Returning homeward, she found the shadowy girl amid the knot of visionary transcendentalists, who were still seeking for the better life. She was joyous now, and had a rose-bloom in her cheeks, and was one of the prettiest creatures, and seemed one of the happiest, that the world could show. But the lady stole noiselessly behind her and threw the veil over her head. As the slight, ethereal texture sank inevitably down over her figure, the poor girl strove to raise it, and met her dear friend's eyes with one glance of mortal terror, and deep, deep reproach. It could not change her purpose.
"Arise, Magician!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot upon the earth. "Here is the Veiled Lady!"
At the word, up rose the bearded man in the Oriental robes,--the beautiful, the dark magician, who had bartered away his soul! He threw his arms around the Veiled Lady, and she was his bond-slave for evermore!
Zenobia, all this while, had been holding the piece of gauze, and so managed it as greatly to increase the dramatic effect of the legend at those points where the magic veil was to be described. Arriving at the catastrophe, and uttering the fatal words, she flung the gauze over Priscilla's head; and for an instant her auditors held their breath, half expecting, I verily believe, that the magician would start up through the floor, and carry off our poor little friend before our eyes.
As for Priscilla, she stood droopingly in the midst of us, making no attempt to remove the veil.
"How do you find yourself, my love?" said Zenobia, lifting a corner of the gauze, and peeping beneath it with a mischievous smile. "Ah, the dear little soul! Why, she is really going to faint! Mr. Coverdale, Mr. Coverdale, pray bring a glass of water!"
Her nerves being none of the strongest, Priscilla hardly recovered her equanimity during the rest of the evening. This, to be sure, was a great pity; but, nevertheless, we thought it a very bright idea of Zenobia's to bring her legend to so effective a conclusion.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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14
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ELIOT'S PULPIT
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Our Sundays at Blithedale were not ordinarily kept with such rigid observance as might have befitted the descendants of the Pilgrims, whose high enterprise, as we sometimes flattered ourselves, we had taken up, and were carrying it onward and aloft, to a point which they never dreamed of attaining.
On that hallowed day, it is true, we rested from our labors. Our oxen, relieved from their week-day yoke, roamed at large through the pasture; each yoke-fellow, however, keeping close beside his mate, and continuing to acknowledge, from the force of habit and sluggish sympathy, the union which the taskmaster had imposed for his own hard ends. As for us human yoke-fellows, chosen companions of toil, whose hoes had clinked together throughout the week, we wandered off, in various directions, to enjoy our interval of repose. Some, I believe, went devoutly to the village church. Others, it may be, ascended a city or a country pulpit, wearing the clerical robe with so much dignity that you would scarcely have suspected the yeoman's frock to have been flung off only since milking-time. Others took long rambles among the rustic lanes and by-paths, pausing to look at black old farmhouses, with their sloping roofs; and at the modern cottage, so like a plaything that it seemed as if real joy or sorrow could have no scope within; and at the more pretending villa, with its range of wooden columns supporting the needless insolence of a great portico. Some betook themselves into the wide, dusky barn, and lay there for hours together on the odorous hay; while the sunstreaks and the shadows strove together,--these to make the barn solemn, those to make it cheerful,--and both were conquerors; and the swallows twittered a cheery anthem, flashing into sight, or vanishing as they darted to and fro among the golden rules of sunshine. And others went a little way into the woods, and threw themselves on mother earth, pillowing their heads on a heap of moss, the green decay of an old log; and, dropping asleep, the bumblebees and mosquitoes sung and buzzed about their ears, causing the slumberers to twitch and start, without awaking.
With Hollingsworth, Zenobia, Priscilla, and myself, it grew to be a custom to spend the Sabbath afternoon at a certain rock. It was known to us under the name of Eliot's pulpit, from a tradition that the venerable Apostle Eliot had preached there, two centuries gone by, to an Indian auditory. The old pine forest, through which the Apostle's voice was wont to sound, had fallen an immemorial time ago. But the soil, being of the rudest and most broken surface, had apparently never been brought under tillage; other growths, maple and beech and birch, had succeeded to the primeval trees; so that it was still as wild a tract of woodland as the great-great-great-great grandson of one of Eliot's Indians (had any such posterity been in existence) could have desired for the site and shelter of his wigwam. These after-growths, indeed, lose the stately solemnity of the original forest. If left in due neglect, however, they run into an entanglement of softer wildness, among the rustling leaves of which the sun can scatter cheerfulness as it never could among the dark-browed pines.
The rock itself rose some twenty or thirty feet, a shattered granite bowlder, or heap of bowlders, with an irregular outline and many fissures, out of which sprang shrubs, bushes, and even trees; as if the scanty soil within those crevices were sweeter to their roots than any other earth. At the base of the pulpit, the broken bowlders inclined towards each other, so as to form a shallow cave, within which our little party had sometimes found protection from a summer shower. On the threshold, or just across it, grew a tuft of pale columbines, in their season, and violets, sad and shadowy recluses, such as Priscilla was when we first knew her; children of the sun, who had never seen their father, but dwelt among damp mosses, though not akin to them. At the summit, the rock was overshadowed by the canopy of a birch-tree, which served as a sounding-board for the pulpit. Beneath this shade (with my eyes of sense half shut and those of the imagination widely opened) I used to see the holy Apostle of the Indians, with the sunlight flickering down upon him through the leaves, and glorifying his figure as with the half-perceptible glow of a transfiguration.
I the more minutely describe the rock, and this little Sabbath solitude, because Hollingsworth, at our solicitation, often ascended Eliot's pulpit, and not exactly preached, but talked to us, his few disciples, in a strain that rose and fell as naturally as the wind's breath among the leaves of the birch-tree. No other speech of man has ever moved me like some of those discourses. It seemed most pitiful--a positive calamity to the world--that a treasury of golden thoughts should thus be scattered, by the liberal handful, down among us three, when a thousand hearers might have been the richer for them; and Hollingsworth the richer, likewise, by the sympathy of multitudes. After speaking much or little, as might happen, he would descend from his gray pulpit, and generally fling himself at full length on the ground, face downward. Meanwhile, we talked around him on such topics as were suggested by the discourse.
Since her interview with Westervelt, Zenobia's continual inequalities of temper had been rather difficult for her friends to bear. On the first Sunday after that incident, when Hollingsworth had clambered down from Eliot's pulpit, she declaimed with great earnestness and passion, nothing short of anger, on the injustice which the world did to women, and equally to itself, by not allowing them, in freedom and honor, and with the fullest welcome, their natural utterance in public.
"It shall not always be so!" cried she. "If I live another year, I will lift up my own voice in behalf of woman's wider liberty!"
She perhaps saw me smile.
"What matter of ridicule do you find in this, Miles Coverdale?" exclaimed Zenobia, with a flash of anger in her eyes. "That smile, permit me to say, makes me suspicious of a low tone of feeling and shallow thought. It is my belief--yes, and my prophecy, should I die before it happens--that, when my sex shall achieve its rights, there will be ten eloquent women where there is now one eloquent man. Thus far, no woman in the world has ever once spoken out her whole heart and her whole mind. The mistrust and disapproval of the vast bulk of society throttles us, as with two gigantic hands at our throats! We mumble a few weak words, and leave a thousand better ones unsaid. You let us write a little, it is true, on a limited range of subjects. But the pen is not for woman. Her power is too natural and immediate. It is with the living voice alone that she can compel the world to recognize the light of her intellect and the depth of her heart!"
Now,--though I could not well say so to Zenobia,--I had not smiled from any unworthy estimate of woman, or in denial of the claims which she is beginning to put forth. What amused and puzzled me was the fact, that women, however intellectually superior, so seldom disquiet themselves about the rights or wrongs of their sex, unless their own individual affections chance to lie in idleness, or to be ill at ease. They are not natural reformers, but become such by the pressure of exceptional misfortune. I could measure Zenobia's inward trouble by the animosity with which she now took up the general quarrel of woman against man.
"I will give you leave, Zenobia," replied I, "to fling your utmost scorn upon me, if you ever hear me utter a sentiment unfavorable to the widest liberty which woman has yet dreamed of. I would give her all she asks, and add a great deal more, which she will not be the party to demand, but which men, if they were generous and wise, would grant of their own free motion. For instance, I should love dearly--for the next thousand years, at least--to have all government devolve into the hands of women. I hate to be ruled by my own sex; it excites my jealousy, and wounds my pride. It is the iron sway of bodily force which abases us, in our compelled submission. But how sweet the free, generous courtesy with which I would kneel before a woman-ruler!"
"Yes, if she were young and beautiful," said Zenobia, laughing. "But how if she were sixty, and a fright?"
"Ah! it is you that rate womanhood low," said I. "But let me go on. I have never found it possible to suffer a bearded priest so near my heart and conscience as to do me any spiritual good. I blush at the very thought! Oh, in the better order of things, Heaven grant that the ministry of souls may be left in charge of women! The gates of the Blessed City will be thronged with the multitude that enter in, when that day comes! The task belongs to woman. God meant it for her. He has endowed her with the religious sentiment in its utmost depth and purity, refined from that gross, intellectual alloy with which every masculine theologist--save only One, who merely veiled himself in mortal and masculine shape, but was, in truth, divine--has been prone to mingle it. I have always envied the Catholics their faith in that sweet, sacred Virgin Mother, who stands between them and the Deity, intercepting somewhat of his awful splendor, but permitting his love to stream upon the worshipper more intelligibly to human comprehension through the medium of a woman's tenderness. Have I not said enough, Zenobia?"
"I cannot think that this is true," observed Priscilla, who had been gazing at me with great, disapproving eyes. "And I am sure I do not wish it to be true!"
"Poor child!" exclaimed Zenobia, rather contemptuously. "She is the type of womanhood, such as man has spent centuries in making it. He is never content unless he can degrade himself by stooping towards what he loves. In denying us our rights, he betrays even more blindness to his own interests than profligate disregard of ours!"
"Is this true?" asked Priscilla with simplicity, turning to Hollingsworth. "Is it all true, that Mr. Coverdale and Zenobia have been saying?"
"No, Priscilla!" answered Hollingsworth with his customary bluntness. "They have neither of them spoken one true word yet."
"Do you despise woman?" said Zenobia.
"Ah, Hollingsworth, that would be most ungrateful!"
"Despise her? No!" cried Hollingsworth, lifting his great shaggy head and shaking it at us, while his eyes glowed almost fiercely. "She is the most admirable handiwork of God, in her true place and character. Her place is at man's side. Her office, that of the sympathizer; the unreserved, unquestioning believer; the recognition, withheld in every other manner, but given, in pity, through woman's heart, lest man should utterly lose faith in himself; the echo of God's own voice, pronouncing, 'It is well done!' All the separate action of woman is, and ever has been, and always shall be, false, foolish, vain, destructive of her own best and holiest qualities, void of every good effect, and productive of intolerable mischiefs! Man is a wretch without woman; but woman is a monster--and, thank Heaven, an almost impossible and hitherto imaginary monster--without man as her acknowledged principal! As true as I had once a mother whom I loved, were there any possible prospect of woman's taking the social stand which some of them,--poor, miserable, abortive creatures, who only dream of such things because they have missed woman's peculiar happiness, or because nature made them really neither man nor woman! --if there were a chance of their attaining the end which these petticoated monstrosities have in view, I would call upon my own sex to use its physical force, that unmistakable evidence of sovereignty, to scourge them back within their proper bounds! But it will not be needful. The heart of time womanhood knows where its own sphere is, and never seeks to stray beyond it!"
Never was mortal blessed--if blessing it were--with a glance of such entire acquiescence and unquestioning faith, happy in its completeness, as our little Priscilla unconsciously bestowed on Hollingsworth. She seemed to take the sentiment from his lips into her heart, and brood over it in perfect content. The very woman whom he pictured--the gentle parasite, the soft reflection of a more powerful existence--sat there at his feet.
I looked at Zenobia, however, fully expecting her to resent--as I felt, by the indignant ebullition of my own blood, that she ought this outrageous affirmation of what struck me as the intensity of masculine egotism. It centred everything in itself, and deprived woman of her very soul, her inexpressible and unfathomable all, to make it a mere incident in the great sum of man. Hollingsworth had boldly uttered what he, and millions of despots like him, really felt. Without intending it, he had disclosed the wellspring of all these troubled waters. Now, if ever, it surely behooved Zenobia to be the champion of her sex.
But, to my surprise, and indignation too, she only looked humbled. Some tears sparkled in her eyes, but they were wholly of grief, not anger.
"Well, be it so," was all she said. "I, at least, have deep cause to think you right. Let man be but manly and godlike, and woman is only too ready to become to him what you say!"
I smiled--somewhat bitterly, it is true--in contemplation of my own ill-luck. How little did these two women care for me, who had freely conceded all their claims, and a great deal more, out of the fulness of my heart; while Hollingsworth, by some necromancy of his horrible injustice, seemed to have brought them both to his feet!
"Women almost invariably behave thus," thought I. "What does the fact mean? Is it their nature? Or is it, at last, the result of ages of compelled degradation? And, in either case, will it be possible ever to redeem them?"
An intuition now appeared to possess all the party, that, for this time, at least, there was no more to be said. With one accord, we arose from the ground, and made our way through the tangled undergrowth towards one of those pleasant wood-paths that wound among the overarching trees. Some of the branches hung so low as partly to conceal the figures that went before from those who followed. Priscilla had leaped up more lightly than the rest of us, and ran along in advance, with as much airy activity of spirit as was typified in the motion of a bird, which chanced to be flitting from tree to tree, in the same direction as herself. Never did she seem so happy as that afternoon. She skipt, and could not help it, from very playfulness of heart.
Zenobia and Hollingsworth went next, in close contiguity, but not with arm in arm. Now, just when they had passed the impending bough of a birch-tree, I plainly saw Zenobia take the hand of Hollingsworth in both her own, press it to her bosom, and let it fall again!
The gesture was sudden, and full of passion; the impulse had evidently taken her by surprise; it expressed all! Had Zenobia knelt before him, or flung herself upon his breast, and gasped out, "I love you, Hollingsworth!" I could not have been more certain of what it meant. They then walked onward, as before. But, methought, as the declining sun threw Zenobia's magnified shadow along the path, I beheld it tremulous; and the delicate stem of the flower which she wore in her hair was likewise responsive to her agitation.
Priscilla--through the medium of her eyes, at least could not possibly have been aware of the gesture above described. Yet, at that instant, I saw her droop. The buoyancy, which just before had been so bird-like, was utterly departed; the life seemed to pass out of her, and even the substance of her figure to grow thin and gray. I almost imagined her a shadow, tiding gradually into the dimness of the wood. Her pace became so slow that Hollingsworth and Zenobia passed by, and I, without hastening my footsteps, overtook her.
"Come, Priscilla," said I, looking her intently in the face, which was very pale and sorrowful, "we must make haste after our friends. Do you feel suddenly ill? A moment ago, you flitted along so lightly that I was comparing you to a bird. Now, on the contrary, it is as if you had a heavy heart, and a very little strength to bear it with. Pray take my arm!"
"No," said Priscilla, "I do not think it would help me. It is my heart, as you say, that makes me heavy; and I know not why. Just now, I felt very happy."
No doubt it was a kind of sacrilege in me to attempt to come within her maidenly mystery; but, as she appeared to be tossed aside by her other friends, or carelessly let fall, like a flower which they had done with, I could not resist the impulse to take just one peep beneath her folded petals.
"Zenobia and yourself are dear friends of late," I remarked. "At first,--that first evening when you came to us,--she did not receive you quite so warmly as might have been wished."
"I remember it," said Priscilla. "No wonder she hesitated to love me, who was then a stranger to her, and a girl of no grace or beauty,--she being herself so beautiful!"
"But she loves you now, of course?" suggested I. "And at this very instant you feel her to be your dearest friend?"
"Why do you ask me that question?" exclaimed Priscilla, as if frightened at the scrutiny into her feelings which I compelled her to make. "It somehow puts strange thoughts into my mind. But I do love Zenobia dearly! If she only loves me half as well, I shall be happy!"
"How is it possible to doubt that, Priscilla?" I rejoined. "But observe how pleasantly and happily Zenobia and Hollingsworth are walking together. I call it a delightful spectacle. It truly rejoices me that Hollingsworth has found so fit and affectionate a friend! So many people in the world mistrust him,--so many disbelieve and ridicule, while hardly any do him justice, or acknowledge him for the wonderful man he is,--that it is really a blessed thing for him to have won the sympathy of such a woman as Zenobia. Any man might be proud of that. Any man, even if he be as great as Hollingsworth, might love so magnificent a woman. How very beautiful Zenobia is! And Hollingsworth knows it, too."
There may have been some petty malice in what I said. Generosity is a very fine thing, at a proper time and within due limits. But it is an insufferable bore to see one man engrossing every thought of all the women, and leaving his friend to shiver in outer seclusion, without even the alternative of solacing himself with what the more fortunate individual has rejected. Yes, it was out of a foolish bitterness of heart that I had spoken.
"Go on before," said Priscilla abruptly, and with true feminine imperiousness, which heretofore I had never seen her exercise. "It pleases me best to loiter along by myself. I do not walk so fast as you."
With her hand she made a little gesture of dismissal. It provoked me; yet, on the whole, was the most bewitching thing that Priscilla had ever done. I obeyed her, and strolled moodily homeward, wondering--as I had wondered a thousand times already--how Hollingsworth meant to dispose of these two hearts, which (plainly to my perception, and, as I could not but now suppose, to his) he had engrossed into his own huge egotism.
There was likewise another subject hardly less fruitful of speculation. In what attitude did Zenobia present herself to Hollingsworth? Was it in that of a free woman, with no mortgage on her affections nor claimant to her hand, but fully at liberty to surrender both, in exchange for the heart and hand which she apparently expected to receive? But was it a vision that I had witnessed in the wood? Was Westervelt a goblin? Were those words of passion and agony, which Zenobia had uttered in my hearing, a mere stage declamation? Were they formed of a material lighter than common air? Or, supposing them to bear sterling weight, was it a perilous and dreadful wrong which she was meditating towards herself and Hollingsworth?
Arriving nearly at the farmhouse, I looked back over the long slope of pasture land, and beheld them standing together, in the light of sunset, just on the spot where, according to the gossip of the Community, they meant to build their cottage. Priscilla, alone and forgotten, was lingering in the shadow of the wood.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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15
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A CRISIS
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Thus the summer was passing away,--a summer of toil, of interest, of something that was not pleasure, but which went deep into my heart, and there became a rich experience. I found myself looking forward to years, if not to a lifetime, to be spent on the same system. The Community were now beginning to form their permanent plans. One of our purposes was to erect a Phalanstery (as I think we called it, after Fourier; but the phraseology of those days is not very fresh in my remembrance), where the great and general family should have its abiding-place. Individual members, too, who made it a point of religion to preserve the sanctity of an exclusive home, were selecting sites for their cottages, by the wood-side, or on the breezy swells, or in the sheltered nook of some little valley, according as their taste might lean towards snugness or the picturesque. Altogether, by projecting our minds outward, we had imparted a show of novelty to existence, and contemplated it as hopefully as if the soil beneath our feet had not been fathom-deep with the dust of deluded generations, on every one of which, as on ourselves, the world had imposed itself as a hitherto unwedded bride.
Hollingsworth and myself had often discussed these prospects. It was easy to perceive, however, that he spoke with little or no fervor, but either as questioning the fulfilment of our anticipations, or, at any rate, with a quiet consciousness that it was no personal concern of his. Shortly after the scene at Eliot's pulpit, while he and I were repairing an old stone fence, I amused myself with sallying forward into the future time.
"When we come to be old men," I said, "they will call us uncles, or fathers,--Father Hollingsworth and Uncle Coverdale,--and we will look back cheerfully to these early days, and make a romantic story for the young People (and if a little more romantic than truth may warrant, it will be no harm) out of our severe trials and hardships. In a century or two, we shall, every one of us, be mythical personages, or exceedingly picturesque and poetical ones, at all events. They will have a great public hall, in which your portrait, and mine, and twenty other faces that are living now, shall be hung up; and as for me, I will be painted in my shirtsleeves, and with the sleeves rolled up, to show my muscular development. What stories will be rife among them about our mighty strength!" continued I, lifting a big stone and putting it into its place, "though our posterity will really be far stronger than ourselves, after several generations of a simple, natural, and active life. What legends of Zenobia's beauty, and Priscilla's slender and shadowy grace, and those mysterious qualities which make her seem diaphanous with spiritual light! In due course of ages, we must all figure heroically in an epic poem; and we will ourselves--at least, I will--bend unseen over the future poet, and lend him inspiration while he writes it."
"You seem," said Hollingsworth, "to be trying how much nonsense you can pour out in a breath."
"I wish you would see fit to comprehend," retorted I, "that the profoundest wisdom must be mingled with nine tenths of nonsense, else it is not worth the breath that utters it. But I do long for the cottages to be built, that the creeping plants may begin to run over them, and the moss to gather on the walls, and the trees--which we will set out--to cover them with a breadth of shadow. This spick-and-span novelty does not quite suit my taste. It is time, too, for children to be born among us. The first-born child is still to come. And I shall never feel as if this were a real, practical, as well as poetical system of human life, until somebody has sanctified it by death."
"A pretty occasion for martyrdom, truly!" said Hollingsworth.
"As good as any other," I replied. "I wonder, Hollingsworth, who, of all these strong men, and fair women and maidens, is doomed the first to die. Would it not be well, even before we have absolute need of it, to fix upon a spot for a cemetery? Let us choose the rudest, roughest, most uncultivable spot, for Death's garden ground; and Death shall teach us to beautify it, grave by grave. By our sweet, calm way of dying, and the airy elegance out of which we will shape our funeral rites, and the cheerful allegories which we will model into tombstones, the final scene shall lose its terrors; so that hereafter it may be happiness to live, and bliss to die. None of us must die young. Yet, should Providence ordain it so, the event shall not be sorrowful, but affect us with a tender, delicious, only half-melancholy, and almost smiling pathos!"
"That is to say," muttered Hollingsworth, "you will die like a heathen, as you certainly live like one. But, listen to me, Coverdale. Your fantastic anticipations make me discern all the more forcibly what a wretched, unsubstantial scheme is this, on which we have wasted a precious summer of our lives. Do you seriously imagine that any such realities as you, and many others here, have dreamed of, will ever be brought to pass?"
"Certainly I do," said I. "Of course, when the reality comes, it will wear the every-day, commonplace, dusty, and rather homely garb that reality always does put on. But, setting aside the ideal charm, I hold that our highest anticipations have a solid footing on common sense."
"You only half believe what you say," rejoined Hollingsworth; "and as for me, I neither have faith in your dream, nor would care the value of this pebble for its realization, were that possible. And what more do you want of it? It has given you a theme for poetry. Let that content you. But now I ask you to be, at last, a man of sobriety and earnestness, and aid me in an enterprise which is worth all our strength, and the strength of a thousand mightier than we."
There can be no need of giving in detail the conversation that ensued. It is enough to say that Hollingsworth once more brought forward his rigid and unconquerable idea,--a scheme for the reformation of the wicked by methods moral, intellectual, and industrial, by the sympathy of pure, humble, and yet exalted minds, and by opening to his pupils the possibility of a worthier life than that which had become their fate. It appeared, unless he overestimated his own means, that Hollingsworth held it at his choice (and he did so choose) to obtain possession of the very ground on which we had planted our Community, and which had not yet been made irrevocably ours, by purchase. It was just the foundation that he desired. Our beginnings might readily be adapted to his great end. The arrangements already completed would work quietly into his system. So plausible looked his theory, and, more than that, so practical,--such an air of reasonableness had he, by patient thought, thrown over it,--each segment of it was contrived to dovetail into all the rest with such a complicated applicability, and so ready was he with a response for every objection, that, really, so far as logic and argument went, he had the matter all his own way.
"But," said I, "whence can you, having no means of your own, derive the enormous capital which is essential to this experiment? State Street, I imagine, would not draw its purser strings very liberally in aid of such a speculation."
"I have the funds--as much, at least, as is needed for a commencement--at command," he answered. "They can be produced within a month, if necessary."
My thoughts reverted to Zenobia. It could only be her wealth which Hollingsworth was appropriating so lavishly. And on what conditions was it to be had? Did she fling it into the scheme with the uncalculating generosity that characterizes a woman when it is her impulse to be generous at all? And did she fling herself along with it? But Hollingsworth did not volunteer an explanation.
"And have you no regrets," I inquired, "in overthrowing this fair system of our new life, which has been planned so deeply, and is now beginning to flourish so hopefully around us? How beautiful it is, and, so far as we can yet see, how practicable! The ages have waited for us, and here we are, the very first that have essayed to carry on our mortal existence in love and mutual help! Hollingsworth, I would be loath to take the ruin of this enterprise upon my conscience."
"Then let it rest wholly upon mine!" he answered, knitting his black brows. "I see through the system. It is full of defects,--irremediable and damning ones! --from first to last, there is nothing else! I grasp it in my hand, and find no substance whatever. There is not human nature in it."
"Why are you so secret in your operations?" I asked. "God forbid that I should accuse you of intentional wrong; but the besetting sin of a philanthropist, it appears to me, is apt to be a moral obliquity. His sense of honor ceases to be the sense of other honorable men. At some point of his course--I know not exactly when or where--he is tempted to palter with the right, and can scarcely forbear persuading himself that the importance of his public ends renders it allowable to throw aside his private conscience. Oh, my dear friend, beware this error! If you meditate the overthrow of this establishment, call together our companions, state your design, support it with all your eloquence, but allow them an opportunity of defending themselves."
"It does not suit me," said Hollingsworth. "Nor is it my duty to do so."
"I think it is," replied I. Hollingsworth frowned; not in passion, but, like fate, inexorably.
"I will not argue the point," said he. "What I desire to know of you is,--and you can tell me in one word,--whether I am to look for your cooperation in this great scheme of good? Take it up with me! Be my brother in it! It offers you (what you have told me, over and over again, that you most need) a purpose in life, worthy of the extremest self-devotion,--worthy of martyrdom, should God so order it! In this view, I present it to you. You can greatly benefit mankind. Your peculiar faculties, as I shall direct them, are capable of being so wrought into this enterprise that not one of them need lie idle. Strike hands with me, and from this moment you shall never again feel the languor and vague wretchedness of an indolent or half-occupied man. There may be no more aimless beauty in your life; but, in its stead, there shall be strength, courage, immitigable will,--everything that a manly and generous nature should desire! We shall succeed! We shall have done our best for this miserable world; and happiness (which never comes but incidentally) will come to us unawares."
It seemed his intention to say no more. But, after he had quite broken off, his deep eyes filled with tears, and he held out both his hands to me.
"Coverdale," he murmured, "there is not the man in this wide world whom I can love as I could you. Do not forsake me!"
As I look back upon this scene, through the coldness and dimness of so many years, there is still a sensation as if Hollingsworth had caught hold of my heart, and were pulling it towards him with an almost irresistible force. It is a mystery to me how I withstood it. But, in truth, I saw in his scheme of philanthropy nothing but what was odious. A loathsomeness that was to be forever in my daily work! A great black ugliness of sin, which he proposed to collect out of a thousand human hearts, and that we should spend our lives in an experiment of transmuting it into virtue! Had I but touched his extended hand, Hollingsworth's magnetism would perhaps have penetrated me with his own conception of all these matters. But I stood aloof. I fortified myself with doubts whether his strength of purpose had not been too gigantic for his integrity, impelling him to trample on considerations that should have been paramount to every other.
"Is Zenobia to take a part in your enterprise?" I asked.
"She is," said Hollingsworth.
"She! --the beautiful! --the gorgeous!" I exclaimed. "And how have you prevailed with such a woman to work in this squalid element?"
"Through no base methods, as you seem to suspect," he answered; "but by addressing whatever is best and noblest in her."
Hollingsworth was looking on the ground. But, as he often did so,--generally, indeed, in his habitual moods of thought,--I could not judge whether it was from any special unwillingness now to meet my eyes. What it was that dictated my next question, I cannot precisely say. Nevertheless, it rose so inevitably into my mouth, and, as it were, asked itself so involuntarily, that there must needs have been an aptness in it.
"What is to become of Priscilla?"
Hollingsworth looked at me fiercely, and with glowing eyes. He could not have shown any other kind of expression than that, had he meant to strike me with a sword.
"Why do you bring in the names of these women?" said he, after a moment of pregnant silence. "What have they to do with the proposal which I make you? I must have your answer! Will you devote yourself, and sacrifice all to this great end, and be my friend of friends forever?"
"In Heaven's name, Hollingsworth," cried I, getting angry, and glad to be angry, because so only was it possible to oppose his tremendous concentrativeness and indomitable will, "cannot you conceive that a man may wish well to the world, and struggle for its good, on some other plan than precisely that which you have laid down? And will you cast off a friend for no unworthiness, but merely because he stands upon his right as an individual being, and looks at matters through his own optics, instead of yours?"
"Be with me," said Hollingsworth, "or be against me! There is no third choice for you."
"Take this, then, as my decision," I answered. "I doubt the wisdom of your scheme. Furthermore, I greatly fear that the methods by which you allow yourself to pursue it are such as cannot stand the scrutiny of an unbiassed conscience."
"And you will not join me?"
"No!"
I never said the word--and certainly can never have it to say hereafter--that cost me a thousandth part so hard an effort as did that one syllable. The heart-pang was not merely figurative, but an absolute torture of the breast. I was gazing steadfastly at Hollingsworth. It seemed to me that it struck him, too, like a bullet. A ghastly paleness--always so terrific on a swarthy face--overspread his features. There was a convulsive movement of his throat, as if he were forcing down some words that struggled and fought for utterance. Whether words of anger, or words of grief, I cannot tell; although many and many a time I have vainly tormented myself with conjecturing which of the two they were. One other appeal to my friendship,--such as once, already, Hollingsworth had made,--taking me in the revulsion that followed a strenuous exercise of opposing will, would completely have subdued me. But he left the matter there. "Well!" said he.
And that was all! I should have been thankful for one word more, even had it shot me through the heart, as mine did him. But he did not speak it; and, after a few moments, with one accord, we set to work again, repairing the stone fence. Hollingsworth, I observed, wrought like a Titan; and, for my own part, I lifted stones which at this day--or, in a calmer mood, at that one--I should no more have thought it possible to stir than to carry off the gates of Gaza on my back.
|
{
"id": "2081"
}
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16
|
LEAVE-TAKINGS
|
A few days after the tragic passage-at-arms between Hollingsworth and me, I appeared at the dinner-table actually dressed in a coat, instead of my customary blouse; with a satin cravat, too, a white vest, and several other things that made me seem strange and outlandish to myself. As for my companions, this unwonted spectacle caused a great stir upon the wooden benches that bordered either side of our homely board.
"What's in the wind now, Miles?" asked one of them. "Are you deserting us?"
"Yes, for a week or two," said I. "It strikes me that my health demands a little relaxation of labor, and a short visit to the seaside, during the dog-days."
"You look like it!" grumbled Silas Foster, not greatly pleased with the idea of losing an efficient laborer before the stress of the season was well over. "Now, here's a pretty fellow! His shoulders have broadened a matter of six inches since he came among us; he can do his day's work, if he likes, with any man or ox on the farm; and yet he talks about going to the seashore for his health! Well, well, old woman," added he to his wife, "let me have a plateful of that pork and cabbage! I begin to feel in a very weakly way. When the others have had their turn, you and I will take a jaunt to Newport or Saratoga!"
"Well, but, Mr. Foster," said I, "you must allow me to take a little breath."
"Breath!" retorted the old yeoman. "Your lungs have the play of a pair of blacksmith's bellows already. What on earth do you want more? But go along! I understand the business. We shall never see your face here again. Here ends the reformation of the world, so far as Miles Coverdale has a hand in it!"
"By no means," I replied. "I am resolute to die in the last ditch, for the good of the cause."
"Die in a ditch!" muttered gruff Silas, with genuine Yankee intolerance of any intermission of toil, except on Sunday, the Fourth of July, the autumnal cattle-show, Thanksgiving, or the annual Fast,--"die in a ditch! I believe, in my conscience, you would, if there were no steadier means than your own labor to keep you out of it!"
The truth was, that an intolerable discontent and irksomeness had come over me. Blithedale was no longer what it had been. Everything was suddenly faded. The sunburnt and arid aspect of our woods and pastures, beneath the August sky, did but imperfectly symbolize the lack of dew and moisture, that, since yesterday, as it were, had blighted my fields of thought, and penetrated to the innermost and shadiest of my contemplative recesses. The change will be recognized by many, who, after a period of happiness, have endeavored to go on with the same kind of life, in the same scene, in spite of the alteration or withdrawal of some principal circumstance. They discover (what heretofore, perhaps, they had not known) that it was this which gave the bright color and vivid reality to the whole affair.
I stood on other terms than before, not only with Hollingsworth, but with Zenobia and Priscilla. As regarded the two latter, it was that dreamlike and miserable sort of change that denies you the privilege to complain, because you can assert no positive injury, nor lay your finger on anything tangible. It is a matter which you do not see, but feel, and which, when you try to analyze it, seems to lose its very existence, and resolve itself into a sickly humor of your own. Your understanding, possibly, may put faith in this denial. But your heart will not so easily rest satisfied. It incessantly remonstrates, though, most of the time, in a bass-note, which you do not separately distinguish; but, now and then, with a sharp cry, importunate to be heard, and resolute to claim belief. "Things are not as they were!" it keeps saying. "You shall not impose on me! I will never be quiet! I will throb painfully! I will be heavy, and desolate, and shiver with cold! For I, your deep heart, know when to be miserable, as once I knew when to be happy! All is changed for us! You are beloved no more!" And were my life to be spent over again, I would invariably lend my ear to this Cassandra of the inward depths, however clamorous the music and the merriment of a more superficial region.
My outbreak with Hollingsworth, though never definitely known to our associates, had really an effect upon the moral atmosphere of the Community. It was incidental to the closeness of relationship into which we had brought ourselves, that an unfriendly state of feeling could not occur between any two members without the whole society being more or less commoted and made uncomfortable thereby. This species of nervous sympathy (though a pretty characteristic enough, sentimentally considered, and apparently betokening an actual bond of love among us) was yet found rather inconvenient in its practical operation, mortal tempers being so infirm and variable as they are. If one of us happened to give his neighbor a box on the ear, the tingle was immediately felt on the same side of everybody's head. Thus, even on the supposition that we were far less quarrelsome than the rest of the world, a great deal of time was necessarily wasted in rubbing our ears.
Musing on all these matters, I felt an inexpressible longing for at least a temporary novelty. I thought of going across the Rocky Mountains, or to Europe, or up the Nile; of offering myself a volunteer on the Exploring Expedition; of taking a ramble of years, no matter in what direction, and coming back on the other side of the world. Then, should the colonists of Blithedale have established their enterprise on a permanent basis, I might fling aside my pilgrim staff and dusty shoon, and rest as peacefully here as elsewhere. Or, in case Hollingsworth should occupy the ground with his School of Reform, as he now purposed, I might plead earthly guilt enough, by that time, to give me what I was inclined to think the only trustworthy hold on his affections. Meanwhile, before deciding on any ultimate plan, I determined to remove myself to a little distance, and take an exterior view of what we had all been about.
In truth, it was dizzy work, amid such fermentation of opinions as was going on in the general brain of the Community. It was a kind of Bedlam, for the time being, although out of the very thoughts that were wildest and most destructive might grow a wisdom, holy, calm, and pure, and that should incarnate itself with the substance of a noble and happy life. But, as matters now were, I felt myself (and, having a decided tendency towards the actual, I never liked to feel it) getting quite out of my reckoning, with regard to the existing state of the world. I was beginning to lose the sense of what kind of a world it was, among innumerable schemes of what it might or ought to be. It was impossible, situated as we were, not to imbibe the idea that everything in nature and human existence was fluid, or fast becoming so; that the crust of the earth in many places was broken, and its whole surface portentously upheaving; that it was a day of crisis, and that we ourselves were in the critical vortex. Our great globe floated in the atmosphere of infinite space like an unsubstantial bubble. No sagacious man will long retain his sagacity, if he live exclusively among reformers and progressive people, without periodically returning into the settled system of things, to correct himself by a new observation from that old standpoint.
It was now time for me, therefore, to go and hold a little talk with the conservatives, the writers of "The North American Review," the merchants, the politicians, the Cambridge men, and all those respectable old blockheads who still, in this intangibility and mistiness of affairs, kept a death-grip on one or two ideas which had not come into vogue since yesterday morning.
The brethren took leave of me with cordial kindness; and as for the sisterhood, I had serious thoughts of kissing them all round, but forbore to do so, because, in all such general salutations, the penance is fully equal to the pleasure. So I kissed none of them; and nobody, to say the truth, seemed to expect it.
"Do you wish me," I said to Zenobia, "to announce in town, and at the watering-places, your purpose to deliver a course of lectures on the rights of women?"
"Women possess no rights," said Zenobia, with a half-melancholy smile; "or, at all events, only little girls and grandmothers would have the force to exercise them."
She gave me her hand freely and kindly, and looked at me, I thought, with a pitying expression in her eyes; nor was there any settled light of joy in them on her own behalf, but a troubled and passionate flame, flickering and fitful.
"I regret, on the whole, that you are leaving us," she said; "and all the more, since I feel that this phase of our life is finished, and can never be lived over again. Do you know, Mr. Coverdale, that I have been several times on the point of making you my confidant, for lack of a better and wiser one? But you are too young to be my father confessor; and you would not thank me for treating you like one of those good little handmaidens who share the bosom secrets of a tragedy-queen."
"I would, at least, be loyal and faithful," answered I; "and would counsel you with an honest purpose, if not wisely."
"Yes," said Zenobia, "you would be only too wise, too honest. Honesty and wisdom are such a delightful pastime, at another person's expense!"
"Ah, Zenobia," I exclaimed, "if you would but let me speak!"
"By no means," she replied, "especially when you have just resumed the whole series of social conventionalisms, together with that strait-bodied coat. I would as lief open my heart to a lawyer or a clergyman! No, no, Mr. Coverdale; if I choose a counsellor, in the present aspect of my affairs, it must be either an angel or a madman; and I rather apprehend that the latter would be likeliest of the two to speak the fitting word. It needs a wild steersman when we voyage through chaos! The anchor is up,--farewell!"
Priscilla, as soon as dinner was over, had betaken herself into a corner, and set to work on a little purse. As I approached her, she let her eyes rest on me with a calm, serious look; for, with all her delicacy of nerves, there was a singular self-possession in Priscilla, and her sensibilities seemed to lie sheltered from ordinary commotion, like the water in a deep well.
"Will you give me that purse, Priscilla," said I, "as a parting keepsake?"
"Yes," she answered, "if you will wait till it is finished."
"I must not wait, even for that," I replied. "Shall I find you here, on my return?"
"I never wish to go away," said she.
"I have sometimes thought," observed I, smiling, "that you, Priscilla, are a little prophetess, or, at least, that you have spiritual intimations respecting matters which are dark to us grosser people. If that be the case, I should like to ask you what is about to happen; for I am tormented with a strong foreboding that, were I to return even so soon as to-morrow morning, I should find everything changed. Have you any impressions of this nature?"
"Ah, no," said Priscilla, looking at me apprehensively. "If any such misfortune is coming, the shadow has not reached me yet. Heaven forbid! I should be glad if there might never be any change, but one summer follow another, and all just like this."
"No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike," said I, with a degree of Orphic wisdom that astonished myself. "Times change, and people change; and if our hearts do not change as readily, so much the worse for us. Good-by, Priscilla!"
I gave her hand a pressure, which, I think, she neither resisted nor returned. Priscilla's heart was deep, but of small compass; it had room but for a very few dearest ones, among whom she never reckoned me.
On the doorstep I met Hollingsworth. I had a momentary impulse to hold out my hand, or at least to give a parting nod, but resisted both. When a real and strong affection has come to an end, it is not well to mock the sacred past with any show of those commonplace civilities that belong to ordinary intercourse. Being dead henceforth to him, and he to me, there could be no propriety in our chilling one another with the touch of two corpse-like hands, or playing at looks of courtesy with eyes that were impenetrable beneath the glaze and the film. We passed, therefore, as if mutually invisible.
I can nowise explain what sort of whim, prank, or perversity it was, that, after all these leave-takings, induced me to go to the pigsty, and take leave of the swine! There they lay, buried as deeply among the straw as they could burrow, four huge black grunters, the very symbols of slothful ease and sensual comfort. They were asleep, drawing short and heavy breaths, which heaved their big sides up and down. Unclosing their eyes, however, at my approach, they looked dimly forth at the outer world, and simultaneously uttered a gentle grunt; not putting themselves to the trouble of an additional breath for that particular purpose, but grunting with their ordinary inhalation. They were involved, and almost stifled and buried alive, in their own corporeal substance. The very unreadiness and oppression wherewith these greasy citizens gained breath enough to keep their life-machinery in sluggish movement appeared to make them only the more sensible of the ponderous and fat satisfaction of their existence. Peeping at me an instant out of their small, red, hardly perceptible eyes, they dropt asleep again; yet not so far asleep but that their unctuous bliss was still present to them, betwixt dream and reality.
"You must come back in season to eat part of a spare-rib," said Silas Foster, giving my hand a mighty squeeze. "I shall have these fat fellows hanging up by the heels, heads downward, pretty soon, I tell you!"
"O cruel Silas, what a horrible idea!" cried I. "All the rest of us, men, women, and livestock, save only these four porkers, are bedevilled with one grief or another; they alone are happy,--and you mean to cut their throats and eat them! It would be more for the general comfort to let them eat us; and bitter and sour morsels we should be!"
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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17
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THE HOTEL
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Arriving in town (where my bachelor-rooms, long before this time, had received some other occupant), I established myself, for a day or two, in a certain, respectable hotel. It was situated somewhat aloof from my former track in life; my present mood inclining me to avoid most of my old companions, from whom I was now sundered by other interests, and who would have been likely enough to amuse themselves at the expense of the amateur workingman. The hotel-keeper put me into a back room of the third story of his spacious establishment. The day was lowering, with occasional gusts of rain, and an ugly tempered east wind, which seemed to come right off the chill and melancholy sea, hardly mitigated by sweeping over the roofs, and amalgamating itself with the dusky element of city smoke. All the effeminacy of past days had returned upon me at once. Summer as it still was, I ordered a coal fire in the rusty grate, and was glad to find myself growing a little too warm with an artificial temperature.
My sensations were those of a traveller, long sojourning in remote regions, and at length sitting down again amid customs once familiar. There was a newness and an oldness oddly combining themselves into one impression. It made me acutely sensible how strange a piece of mosaic-work had lately been wrought into my life. True, if you look at it in one way, it had been only a summer in the country. But, considered in a profounder relation, it was part of another age, a different state of society, a segment of an existence peculiar in its aims and methods, a leaf of some mysterious volume interpolated into the current history which time was writing off. At one moment, the very circumstances now surrounding me--my coal fire and the dingy room in the bustling hotel--appeared far off and intangible; the next instant Blithedale looked vague, as if it were at a distance both in time and space, and so shadowy that a question might be raised whether the whole affair had been anything more than the thoughts of a speculative man. I had never before experienced a mood that so robbed the actual world of its solidity. It nevertheless involved a charm, on which--a devoted epicure of my own emotions--I resolved to pause, and enjoy the moral sillabub until quite dissolved away.
Whatever had been my taste for solitude and natural scenery, yet the thick, foggy, stifled element of cities, the entangled life of many men together, sordid as it was, and empty of the beautiful, took quite as strenuous a hold upon my mind. I felt as if there could never be enough of it. Each characteristic sound was too suggestive to be passed over unnoticed. Beneath and around me, I heard the stir of the hotel; the loud voices of guests, landlord, or bar-keeper; steps echoing on the staircase; the ringing of a bell, announcing arrivals or departures; the porter lumbering past my door with baggage, which he thumped down upon the floors of neighboring chambers; the lighter feet of chambermaids scudding along the passages;--it is ridiculous to think what an interest they had for me! From the street came the tumult of the pavements, pervading the whole house with a continual uproar, so broad and deep that only an unaccustomed ear would dwell upon it. A company of the city soldiery, with a full military band, marched in front of the hotel, invisible to me, but stirringly audible both by its foot-tramp and the clangor of its instruments. Once or twice all the city bells jangled together, announcing a fire, which brought out the engine-men and their machines, like an army with its artillery rushing to battle. Hour by hour the clocks in many steeples responded one to another.
In some public hall, not a great way off, there seemed to be an exhibition of a mechanical diorama; for three times during the day occurred a repetition of obstreperous music, winding up with the rattle of imitative cannon and musketry, and a huge final explosion. Then ensued the applause of the spectators, with clap of hands and thump of sticks, and the energetic pounding of their heels. All this was just as valuable, in its way, as the sighing of the breeze among the birch-trees that overshadowed Eliot's pulpit.
Yet I felt a hesitation about plunging into this muddy tide of human activity and pastime. It suited me better, for the present, to linger on the brink, or hover in the air above it. So I spent the first day, and the greater part of the second, in the laziest manner possible, in a rocking-chair, inhaling the fragrance of a series of cigars, with my legs and slippered feet horizontally disposed, and in my hand a novel purchased of a railroad bibliopolist. The gradual waste of my cigar accomplished itself with an easy and gentle expenditure of breath. My book was of the dullest, yet had a sort of sluggish flow, like that of a stream in which your boat is as often aground as afloat. Had there been a more impetuous rush, a more absorbing passion of the narrative, I should the sooner have struggled out of its uneasy current, and have given myself up to the swell and subsidence of my thoughts. But, as it was, the torpid life of the book served as an unobtrusive accompaniment to the life within me and about me. At intervals, however, when its effect grew a little too soporific,--not for my patience, but for the possibility of keeping my eyes open, I bestirred myself, started from the rocking-chair, and looked out of the window.
A gray sky; the weathercock of a steeple that rose beyond the opposite range of buildings, pointing from the eastward; a sprinkle of small, spiteful-looking raindrops on the window-pane. In that ebb-tide of my energies, had I thought of venturing abroad, these tokens would have checked the abortive purpose.
After several such visits to the window, I found myself getting pretty well acquainted with that little portion of the backside of the universe which it presented to my view. Over against the hotel and its adjacent houses, at the distance of forty or fifty yards, was the rear of a range of buildings which appeared to be spacious, modern, and calculated for fashionable residences. The interval between was apportioned into grass-plots, and here and there an apology for a garden, pertaining severally to these dwellings. There were apple-trees, and pear and peach trees, too, the fruit on which looked singularly large, luxuriant, and abundant, as well it might, in a situation so warm and sheltered, and where the soil had doubtless been enriched to a more than natural fertility. In two or three places grapevines clambered upon trellises, and bore clusters already purple, and promising the richness of Malta or Madeira in their ripened juice. The blighting winds of our rigid climate could not molest these trees and vines; the sunshine, though descending late into this area, and too early intercepted by the height of the surrounding houses, yet lay tropically there, even when less than temperate in every other region. Dreary as was the day, the scene was illuminated by not a few sparrows and other birds, which spread their wings, and flitted and fluttered, and alighted now here, now there, and busily scratched their food out of the wormy earth. Most of these winged people seemed to have their domicile in a robust and healthy buttonwood-tree. It aspired upward, high above the roofs of the houses, and spread a dense head of foliage half across the area.
There was a cat--as there invariably is in such places--who evidently thought herself entitled to the privileges of forest life in this close heart of city conventionalisms. I watched her creeping along the low, flat roofs of the offices, descending a flight of wooden steps, gliding among the grass, and besieging the buttonwood-tree, with murderous purpose against its feathered citizens. But, after all, they were birds of city breeding, and doubtless knew how to guard themselves against the peculiar perils of their position.
Bewitching to my fancy are all those nooks and crannies where Nature, like a stray partridge, hides her head among the long-established haunts of men! It is likewise to be remarked, as a general rule, that there is far more of the picturesque, more truth to native and characteristic tendencies, and vastly greater suggestiveness in the back view of a residence, whether in town or country, than in its front. The latter is always artificial; it is meant for the world's eye, and is therefore a veil and a concealment. Realities keep in the rear, and put forward an advance guard of show and humbug. The posterior aspect of any old farmhouse, behind which a railroad has unexpectedly been opened, is so different from that looking upon the immemorial highway, that the spectator gets new ideas of rural life and individuality in the puff or two of steam-breath which shoots him past the premises. In a city, the distinction between what is offered to the public and what is kept for the family is certainly not less striking.
But, to return to my window at the back of the hotel. Together with a due contemplation of the fruit-trees, the grapevines, the buttonwood-tree, the cat, the birds, and many other particulars, I failed not to study the row of fashionable dwellings to which all these appertained. Here, it must be confessed, there was a general sameness. From the upper story to the first floor, they were so much alike, that I could only conceive of the inhabitants as cut out on one identical pattern, like little wooden toy-people of German manufacture. One long, united roof, with its thousands of slates glittering in the rain, extended over the whole. After the distinctness of separate characters to which I had recently been accustomed, it perplexed and annoyed me not to be able to resolve this combination of human interests into well-defined elements. It seemed hardly worth while for more than one of those families to be in existence, since they all had the same glimpse of the sky, all looked into the same area, all received just their equal share of sunshine through the front windows, and all listened to precisely the same noises of the street on which they boarded. Men are so much alike in their nature, that they grow intolerable unless varied by their circumstances.
Just about this time a waiter entered my room. The truth was, I had rung the bell and ordered a sherry-cobbler.
"Can you tell me," I inquired, "what families reside in any of those houses opposite?"
"The one right opposite is a rather stylish boarding-house," said the waiter. "Two of the gentlemen boarders keep horses at the stable of our establishment. They do things in very good style, sir, the people that live there."
I might have found out nearly as much for myself, on examining the house a little more closely, in one of the upper chambers I saw a young man in a dressing-gown, standing before the glass and brushing his hair for a quarter of an hour together. He then spent an equal space of time in the elaborate arrangement of his cravat, and finally made his appearance in a dress-coat, which I suspected to be newly come from the tailor's, and now first put on for a dinner-party. At a window of the next story below, two children, prettily dressed, were looking out. By and by a middle-aged gentleman came softly behind them, kissed the little girl, and playfully pulled the little boy's ear. It was a papa, no doubt, just come in from his counting-room or office; and anon appeared mamma, stealing as softly behind papa as he had stolen behind the children, and laying her hand on his shoulder to surprise him. Then followed a kiss between papa and mamma; but a noiseless one, for the children did not turn their heads.
"I bless God for these good folks!" thought I to myself. "I have not seen a prettier bit of nature, in all my summer in the country, than they have shown me here, in a rather stylish boarding-house. I will pay them a little more attention by and by."
On the first floor, an iron balustrade ran along in front of the tall and spacious windows, evidently belonging to a back drawing-room; and far into the interior, through the arch of the sliding-doors, I could discern a gleam from the windows of the front apartment. There were no signs of present occupancy in this suite of rooms; the curtains being enveloped in a protective covering, which allowed but a small portion of their crimson material to be seen. But two housemaids were industriously at work; so that there was good prospect that the boarding-house might not long suffer from the absence of its most expensive and profitable guests. Meanwhile, until they should appear, I cast my eyes downward to the lower regions. There, in the dusk that so early settles into such places, I saw the red glow of the kitchen range. The hot cook, or one of her subordinates, with a ladle in her hand, came to draw a cool breath at the back door. As soon as she disappeared, an Irish man-servant, in a white jacket, crept slyly forth, and threw away the fragments of a china dish, which, unquestionably, he had just broken. Soon afterwards, a lady, showily dressed, with a curling front of what must have been false hair, and reddish-brown, I suppose, in hue,--though my remoteness allowed me only to guess at such particulars,--this respectable mistress of the boarding-house made a momentary transit across the kitchen window, and appeared no more. It was her final, comprehensive glance, in order to make sure that soup, fish, and flesh were in a proper state of readiness, before the serving up of dinner.
There was nothing else worth noticing about the house, unless it be that on the peak of one of the dormer windows which opened out of the roof sat a dove, looking very dreary and forlorn; insomuch that I wondered why she chose to sit there, in the chilly rain, while her kindred were doubtless nestling in a warm and comfortable dove-cote. All at once this dove spread her wings, and, launching herself in the air, came flying so straight across the intervening space, that I fully expected her to alight directly on my window-sill. In the latter part of her course, however, she swerved aside, flew upward, and vanished, as did, likewise, the slight, fantastic pathos with which I had invested her.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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18
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THE BOARDING-HOUSE
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The next day, as soon as I thought of looking again towards the opposite house, there sat the dove again, on the peak of the same dormer window! It was by no means an early hour, for the preceding evening I had ultimately mustered enterprise enough to visit the theatre, had gone late to bed, and slept beyond all limit, in my remoteness from Silas Foster's awakening horn. Dreams had tormented me throughout the night. The train of thoughts which, for months past, had worn a track through my mind, and to escape which was one of my chief objects in leaving Blithedale, kept treading remorselessly to and fro in their old footsteps, while slumber left me impotent to regulate them. It was not till I had quitted my three friends that they first began to encroach upon my dreams. In those of the last night, Hollingsworth and Zenobia, standing on either side of my bed, had bent across it to exchange a kiss of passion. Priscilla, beholding this,--for she seemed to be peeping in at the chamber window,--had melted gradually away, and left only the sadness of her expression in my heart. There it still lingered, after I awoke; one of those unreasonable sadnesses that you know not how to deal with, because it involves nothing for common-sense to clutch.
It was a gray and dripping forenoon; gloomy enough in town, and still gloomier in the haunts to which my recollections persisted in transporting me. For, in spite of my efforts to think of something else, I thought how the gusty rain was drifting over the slopes and valleys of our farm; how wet must be the foliage that overshadowed the pulpit rock; how cheerless, in such a day, my hermitage--the tree-solitude of my owl-like humors--in the vine-encircled heart of the tall pine! It was a phase of homesickness. I had wrenched myself too suddenly out of an accustomed sphere. There was no choice, now, but to bear the pang of whatever heartstrings were snapt asunder, and that illusive torment (like the ache of a limb long ago cut off) by which a past mode of life prolongs itself into the succeeding one. I was full of idle and shapeless regrets. The thought impressed itself upon me that I had left duties unperformed. With the power, perhaps, to act in the place of destiny and avert misfortune from my friends, I had resigned them to their fate. That cold tendency, between instinct and intellect, which made me pry with a speculative interest into people's passions and impulses, appeared to have gone far towards unhumanizing my heart.
But a man cannot always decide for himself whether his own heart is cold or warm. It now impresses me that, if I erred at all in regard to Hollingsworth, Zenobia, and Priscilla, it was through too much sympathy, rather than too little.
To escape the irksomeness of these meditations, I resumed my post at the window. At first sight, there was nothing new to be noticed. The general aspect of affairs was the same as yesterday, except that the more decided inclemency of to-day had driven the sparrows to shelter, and kept the cat within doors; whence, however, she soon emerged, pursued by the cook, and with what looked like the better half of a roast chicken in her mouth. The young man in the dress-coat was invisible; the two children, in the story below, seemed to be romping about the room, under the superintendence of a nursery-maid. The damask curtains of the drawing-room, on the first floor, were now fully displayed, festooned gracefully from top to bottom of the windows, which extended from the ceiling to the carpet. A narrower window, at the left of the drawing-room, gave light to what was probably a small boudoir, within which I caught the faintest imaginable glimpse of a girl's figure, in airy drapery. Her arm was in regular movement, as if she were busy with her German worsted, or some other such pretty and unprofitable handiwork.
While intent upon making out this girlish shape, I became sensible that a figure had appeared at one of the windows of the drawing-room. There was a presentiment in my mind; or perhaps my first glance, imperfect and sidelong as it was, had sufficed to convey subtile information of the truth. At any rate, it was with no positive surprise, but as if I had all along expected the incident, that, directing my eyes thitherward, I beheld--like a full-length picture, in the space between the heavy festoons of the window curtains--no other than Zenobia! At the same instant, my thoughts made sure of the identity of the figure in the boudoir. It could only be Priscilla.
Zenobia was attired, not in the almost rustic costume which she had heretofore worn, but in a fashionable morning-dress. There was, nevertheless, one familiar point. She had, as usual, a flower in her hair, brilliant and of a rare variety, else it had not been Zenobia. After a brief pause at the window, she turned away, exemplifying, in the few steps that removed her out of sight, that noble and beautiful motion which characterized her as much as any other personal charm. Not one woman in a thousand could move so admirably as Zenobia. Many women can sit gracefully; some can stand gracefully; and a few, perhaps, can assume a series of graceful positions. But natural movement is the result and expression of the whole being, and cannot be well and nobly performed unless responsive to something in the character. I often used to think that music--light and airy, wild and passionate, or the full harmony of stately marches, in accordance with her varying mood--should have attended Zenobia's footsteps.
I waited for her reappearance. It was one peculiarity, distinguishing Zenobia from most of her sex, that she needed for her moral well-being, and never would forego, a large amount of physical exercise. At Blithedale, no inclemency of sky or muddiness of earth had ever impeded her daily walks. Here in town, she probably preferred to tread the extent of the two drawing-rooms, and measure out the miles by spaces of forty feet, rather than bedraggle her skirts over the sloppy pavements. Accordingly, in about the time requisite to pass through the arch of the sliding-doors to the front window, and to return upon her steps, there she stood again, between the festoons of the crimson curtains. But another personage was now added to the scene. Behind Zenobia appeared that face which I had first encountered in the wood-path; the man who had passed, side by side with her, in such mysterious familiarity and estrangement, beneath my vine curtained hermitage in the tall pine-tree. It was Westervelt. And though he was looking closely over her shoulder, it still seemed to me, as on the former occasion, that Zenobia repelled him,--that, perchance, they mutually repelled each other, by some incompatibility of their spheres.
This impression, however, might have been altogether the result of fancy and prejudice in me. The distance was so great as to obliterate any play of feature by which I might otherwise have been made a partaker of their counsels.
There now needed only Hollingsworth and old Moodie to complete the knot of characters, whom a real intricacy of events, greatly assisted by my method of insulating them from other relations, had kept so long upon my mental stage, as actors in a drama. In itself, perhaps, it was no very remarkable event that they should thus come across me, at the moment when I imagined myself free. Zenobia, as I well knew, had retained an establishment in town, and had not unfrequently withdrawn herself from Blithedale during brief intervals, on one of which occasions she had taken Priscilla along with her. Nevertheless, there seemed something fatal in the coincidence that had borne me to this one spot, of all others in a great city, and transfixed me there, and compelled me again to waste my already wearied sympathies on affairs which were none of mine, and persons who cared little for me. It irritated my nerves; it affected me with a kind of heart-sickness. After the effort which it cost me to fling them off,--after consummating my escape, as I thought, from these goblins of flesh and blood, and pausing to revive myself with a breath or two of an atmosphere in which they should have no share,--it was a positive despair to find the same figures arraying themselves before me, and presenting their old problem in a shape that made it more insoluble than ever.
I began to long for a catastrophe. If the noble temper of Hollingsworth's soul were doomed to be utterly corrupted by the too powerful purpose which had grown out of what was noblest in him; if the rich and generous qualities of Zenobia's womanhood might not save her; if Priscilla must perish by her tenderness and faith, so simple and so devout, then be it so! Let it all come! As for me, I would look on, as it seemed my part to do, understandingly, if my intellect could fathom the meaning and the moral, and, at all events, reverently and sadly. The curtain fallen, I would pass onward with my poor individual life, which was now attenuated of much of its proper substance, and diffused among many alien interests.
Meanwhile, Zenobia and her companion had retreated from the window. Then followed an interval, during which I directed my eves towards the figure in the boudoir. Most certainly it was Priscilla, although dressed with a novel and fanciful elegance. The vague perception of it, as viewed so far off, impressed me as if she had suddenly passed out of a chrysalis state and put forth wings. Her hands were not now in motion. She had dropt her work, and sat with her head thrown back, in the same attitude that I had seen several times before, when she seemed to be listening to an imperfectly distinguished sound.
Again the two figures in the drawing-room became visible. They were now a little withdrawn from the window, face to face, and, as I could see by Zenobia's emphatic gestures, were discussing some subject in which she, at least, felt a passionate concern. By and by she broke away, and vanished beyond my ken. Westervelt approached the window, and leaned his forehead against a pane of glass, displaying the sort of smile on his handsome features which, when I before met him, had let me into the secret of his gold-bordered teeth. Every human being, when given over to the Devil, is sure to have the wizard mark upon him, in one form or another. I fancied that this smile, with its peculiar revelation, was the Devil's signet on the Professor.
This man, as I had soon reason to know, was endowed with a cat-like circumspection; and though precisely the most unspiritual quality in the world, it was almost as effective as spiritual insight in making him acquainted with whatever it suited him to discover. He now proved it, considerably to my discomfiture, by detecting and recognizing me, at my post of observation. Perhaps I ought to have blushed at being caught in such an evident scrutiny of Professor Westervelt and his affairs. Perhaps I did blush. Be that as it might, I retained presence of mind enough not to make my position yet more irksome by the poltroonery of drawing back.
Westervelt looked into the depths of the drawing-room, and beckoned. Immediately afterwards Zenobia appeared at the window, with color much heightened, and eyes which, as my conscience whispered me, were shooting bright arrows, barbed with scorn, across the intervening space, directed full at my sensibilities as a gentleman. If the truth must be told, far as her flight-shot was, those arrows hit the mark. She signified her recognition of me by a gesture with her head and hand, comprising at once a salutation and dismissal. The next moment she administered one of those pitiless rebukes which a woman always has at hand, ready for any offence (and which she so seldom spares on due occasion), by letting down a white linen curtain between the festoons of the damask ones. It fell like the drop-curtain of a theatre, in the interval between the acts.
Priscilla had disappeared from the boudoir. But the dove still kept her desolate perch on the peak of the attic window.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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19
|
ZENOBIA'S DRAWING-ROOM
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The remainder of the day, so far as I was concerned, was spent in meditating on these recent incidents. I contrived, and alternately rejected, innumerable methods of accounting for the presence of Zenobia and Priscilla, and the connection of Westervelt with both. It must be owned, too, that I had a keen, revengeful sense of the insult inflicted by Zenobia's scornful recognition, and more particularly by her letting down the curtain; as if such were the proper barrier to be interposed between a character like hers and a perceptive faculty like mine. For, was mine a mere vulgar curiosity? Zenobia should have known me better than to suppose it. She should have been able to appreciate that quality of the intellect and the heart which impelled me (often against my own will, and to the detriment of my own comfort) to live in other lives, and to endeavor--by generous sympathies, by delicate intuitions, by taking note of things too slight for record, and by bringing my human spirit into manifold accordance with the companions whom God assigned me--to learn the secret which was hidden even from themselves.
Of all possible observers, methought a woman like Zenobia and a man like Hollingsworth should have selected me. And now when the event has long been past, I retain the same opinion of my fitness for the office. True, I might have condemned them. Had I been judge as well as witness, my sentence might have been stern as that of destiny itself. But, still, no trait of original nobility of character, no struggle against temptation,--no iron necessity of will, on the one hand, nor extenuating circumstance to be derived from passion and despair, on the other,--no remorse that might coexist with error, even if powerless to prevent it,--no proud repentance that should claim retribution as a meed,--would go unappreciated. True, again, I might give my full assent to the punishment which was sure to follow. But it would be given mournfully, and with undiminished love. And, after all was finished, I would come as if to gather up the white ashes of those who had perished at the stake, and to tell the world--the wrong being now atoned for--how much had perished there which it had never yet known how to praise.
I sat in my rocking-chair, too far withdrawn from the window to expose myself to another rebuke like that already inflicted. My eyes still wandered towards the opposite house, but without effecting any new discoveries. Late in the afternoon, the weathercock on the church spire indicated a change of wind; the sun shone dimly out, as if the golden wine of its beams were mingled half-and-half with water. Nevertheless, they kindled up the whole range of edifices, threw a glow over the windows, glistened on the wet roofs, and, slowly withdrawing upward, perched upon the chimney-tops; thence they took a higher flight, and lingered an instant on the tip of the spire, making it the final point of more cheerful light in the whole sombre scene. The next moment, it was all gone. The twilight fell into the area like a shower of dusky snow, and before it was quite dark, the gong of the hotel summoned me to tea.
When I returned to my chamber, the glow of an astral lamp was penetrating mistily through the white curtain of Zenobia's drawing-room. The shadow of a passing figure was now and then cast upon this medium, but with too vague an outline for even my adventurous conjectures to read the hieroglyphic that it presented.
All at once, it occurred to me how very absurd was my behavior in thus tormenting myself with crazy hypotheses as to what was going on within that drawing-room, when it was at my option to be personally present there, My relations with Zenobia, as yet unchanged,--as a familiar friend, and associated in the same life-long enterprise,--gave me the right, and made it no more than kindly courtesy demanded, to call on her. Nothing, except our habitual independence of conventional rules at Blithedale, could have kept me from sooner recognizing this duty. At all events, it should now be performed.
In compliance with this sudden impulse, I soon found myself actually within the house, the rear of which, for two days past, I had been so sedulously watching. A servant took my card, and, immediately returning, ushered me upstairs. On the way, I heard a rich, and, as it were, triumphant burst of music from a piano, in which I felt Zenobia's character, although heretofore I had known nothing of her skill upon the instrument. Two or three canary-birds, excited by this gush of sound, sang piercingly, and did their utmost to produce a kindred melody. A bright illumination streamed through, the door of the front drawing-room; and I had barely stept across the threshold before Zenobia came forward to meet me, laughing, and with an extended hand.
"Ah, Mr. Coverdale," said she, still smiling, but, as I thought, with a good deal of scornful anger underneath, "it has gratified me to see the interest which you continue to take in my affairs! I have long recognized you as a sort of transcendental Yankee, with all the native propensity of your countrymen to investigate matters that come within their range, but rendered almost poetical, in your case, by the refined methods which you adopt for its gratification. After all, it was an unjustifiable stroke, on my part,--was it not? --to let down the window curtain!"
"I cannot call it a very wise one," returned I, with a secret bitterness, which, no doubt, Zenobia appreciated. "It is really impossible to hide anything in this world, to say nothing of the next. All that we ought to ask, therefore, is, that the witnesses of our conduct, and the speculators on our motives, should be capable of taking the highest view which the circumstances of the case may admit. So much being secured, I, for one, would be most happy in feeling myself followed everywhere by an indefatigable human sympathy."
"We must trust for intelligent sympathy to our guardian angels, if any there be," said Zenobia. "As long as the only spectator of my poor tragedy is a young man at the window of his hotel, I must still claim the liberty to drop the curtain."
While this passed, as Zenobia's hand was extended, I had applied the very slightest touch of my fingers to her own. In spite of an external freedom, her manner made me sensible that we stood upon no real terms of confidence. The thought came sadly across me, how great was the contrast betwixt this interview and our first meeting. Then, in the warm light of the country fireside, Zenobia had greeted me cheerily and hopefully, with a full sisterly grasp of the hand, conveying as much kindness in it as other women could have evinced by the pressure of both arms around my neck, or by yielding a cheek to the brotherly salute. The difference was as complete as between her appearance at that time--so simply attired, and with only the one superb flower in her hair--and now, when her beauty was set off by all that dress and ornament could do for it. And they did much. Not, indeed, that they created or added anything to what Nature had lavishly done for Zenobia. But, those costly robes which she had on, those flaming jewels on her neck, served as lamps to display the personal advantages which required nothing less than such an illumination to be fully seen. Even her characteristic flower, though it seemed to be still there, had undergone a cold and bright transfiguration; it was a flower exquisitely imitated in jeweller's work, and imparting the last touch that transformed Zenobia into a work of art.
"I scarcely feel," I could not forbear saying, "as if we had ever met before. How many years ago it seems since we last sat beneath Eliot's pulpit, with Hollingsworth extended on the fallen leaves, and Priscilla at his feet! Can it be, Zenobia, that you ever really numbered yourself with our little band of earnest, thoughtful, philanthropic laborers?"
"Those ideas have their time and place," she answered coldly. "But I fancy it must be a very circumscribed mind that can find room for no other."
Her manner bewildered me. Literally, moreover, I was dazzled by the brilliancy of the room. A chandelier hung down in the centre, glowing with I know not how many lights; there were separate lamps, also, on two or three tables, and on marble brackets, adding their white radiance to that of the chandelier. The furniture was exceedingly rich. Fresh from our old farmhouse, with its homely board and benches in the dining-room, and a few wicker chairs in the best parlor, it struck me that here was the fulfilment of every fantasy of an imagination revelling in various methods of costly self-indulgence and splendid ease. Pictures, marbles, vases,--in brief, more shapes of luxury than there could be any object in enumerating, except for an auctioneer's advertisement,--and the whole repeated and doubled by the reflection of a great mirror, which showed me Zenobia's proud figure, likewise, and my own. It cost me, I acknowledge, a bitter sense of shame, to perceive in myself a positive effort to bear up against the effect which Zenobia sought to impose on me. I reasoned against her, in my secret mind, and strove so to keep my footing. In the gorgeousness with which she had surrounded herself,--in the redundance of personal ornament, which the largeness of her physical nature and the rich type of her beauty caused to seem so suitable,--I malevolently beheld the true character of the woman, passionate, luxurious, lacking simplicity, not deeply refined, incapable of pure and perfect taste. But, the next instant, she was too powerful for all my opposing struggles. I saw how fit it was that she should make herself as gorgeous as she pleased, and should do a thousand things that would have been ridiculous in the poor, thin, weakly characters of other women. To this day, however, I hardly know whether I then beheld Zenobia in her truest attitude, or whether that were the truer one in which she had presented herself at Blithedale. In both, there was something like the illusion which a great actress flings around her.
"Have you given up Blithedale forever?" I inquired.
"Why should you think so?" asked she.
"I cannot tell," answered I; "except that it appears all like a dream that we were ever there together."
"It is not so to me," said Zenobia. "I should think it a poor and meagre nature that is capable of but one set of forms, and must convert all the past into a dream merely because the present happens to be unlike it. Why should we be content with our homely life of a few months past, to the exclusion of all other modes? It was good; but there are other lives as good, or better. Not, you will understand, that I condemn those who give themselves up to it more entirely than I, for myself, should deem it wise to do."
It irritated me, this self-complacent, condescending, qualified approval and criticism of a system to which many individuals--perhaps as highly endowed as our gorgeous Zenobia--had contributed their all of earthly endeavor, and their loftiest aspirations. I determined to make proof if there were any spell that would exorcise her out of the part which she seemed to be acting. She should be compelled to give me a glimpse of something true; some nature, some passion, no matter whether right or wrong, provided it were real.
"Your allusion to that class of circumscribed characters who can live only in one mode of life," remarked I coolly, "reminds me of our poor friend Hollingsworth. Possibly he was in your thoughts when you spoke thus. Poor fellow! It is a pity that, by the fault of a narrow education, he should have so completely immolated himself to that one idea of his, especially as the slightest modicum of common-sense would teach him its utter impracticability. Now that I have returned into the world, and can look at his project from a distance, it requires quite all my real regard for this respectable and well-intentioned man to prevent me laughing at him,--as I find society at large does."
Zenobia's eyes darted lightning, her cheeks flushed, the vividness of her expression was like the effect of a powerful light flaming up suddenly within her. My experiment had fully succeeded. She had shown me the true flesh and blood of her heart, by thus involuntarily resenting my slight, pitying, half-kind, half-scornful mention of the man who was all in all with her. She herself probably felt this; for it was hardly a moment before she tranquillized her uneven breath, and seemed as proud and self-possessed as ever.
"I rather imagine," said she quietly, "that your appreciation falls short of Mr. Hollingsworth's just claims. Blind enthusiasm, absorption in one idea, I grant, is generally ridiculous, and must be fatal to the respectability of an ordinary man; it requires a very high and powerful character to make it otherwise. But a great man--as, perhaps, you do not know--attains his normal condition only through the inspiration of one great idea. As a friend of Mr. Hollingsworth, and, at the same time, a calm observer, I must tell you that he seems to me such a man. But you are very pardonable for fancying him ridiculous. Doubtless, he is so--to you! There can be no truer test of the noble and heroic, in any individual, than the degree in which he possesses the faculty of distinguishing heroism from absurdity."
I dared make no retort to Zenobia's concluding apothegm. In truth, I admired her fidelity. It gave me a new sense of Hollingsworth's native power, to discover that his influence was no less potent with this beautiful woman here, in the midst of artificial life, than it had been at the foot of the gray rock, and among the wild birch-trees of the wood-path, when she so passionately pressed his hand against her heart. The great, rude, shaggy, swarthy man! And Zenobia loved him!
"Did you bring Priscilla with you?" I resumed. "Do you know I have sometimes fancied it not quite safe, considering the susceptibility of her temperament, that she should be so constantly within the sphere of a man like Hollingsworth. Such tender and delicate natures, among your sex, have often, I believe, a very adequate appreciation of the heroic element in men. But then, again, I should suppose them as likely as any other women to make a reciprocal impression. Hollingsworth could hardly give his affections to a person capable of taking an independent stand, but only to one whom he might absorb into himself. He has certainly shown great tenderness for Priscilla."
Zenobia had turned aside. But I caught the reflection of her face in the mirror, and saw that it was very pale,--as pale, in her rich attire, as if a shroud were round her.
"Priscilla is here," said she, her voice a little lower than usual. "Have not you learnt as much from your chamber window? Would you like to see her?"
She made a step or two into the back drawing-room, and called,--"Priscilla! Dear Priscilla!"
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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20
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THEY VANISH
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Priscilla immediately answered the summons, and made her appearance through the door of the boudoir. I had conceived the idea, which I now recognized as a very foolish one, that Zenobia would have taken measures to debar me from an interview with this girl, between whom and herself there was so utter an opposition of their dearest interests, that, on one part or the other, a great grief, if not likewise a great wrong, seemed a matter of necessity. But, as Priscilla was only a leaf floating on the dark current of events, without influencing them by her own choice or plan, as she probably guessed not whither the stream was bearing her, nor perhaps even felt its inevitable movement,--there could be no peril of her communicating to me any intelligence with regard to Zenobia's purposes.
On perceiving me, she came forward with great quietude of manner; and when I held out my hand, her own moved slightly towards it, as if attracted by a feeble degree of magnetism.
"I am glad to see you, my dear Priscilla," said I, still holding her hand; "but everything that I meet with nowadays makes me wonder whether I am awake. You, especially, have always seemed like a figure in a dream, and now more than ever."
"Oh, there is substance in these fingers of mine," she answered, giving my hand the faintest possible pressure, and then taking away her own. "Why do you call me a dream? Zenobia is much more like one than I; she is so very, very beautiful! And, I suppose," added Priscilla, as if thinking aloud, "everybody sees it, as I do."
But, for my part, it was Priscilla's beauty, not Zenobia's, of which I was thinking at that moment. She was a person who could be quite obliterated, so far as beauty went, by anything unsuitable in her attire; her charm was not positive and material enough to bear up against a mistaken choice of color, for instance, or fashion. It was safest, in her case, to attempt no art of dress; for it demanded the most perfect taste, or else the happiest accident in the world, to give her precisely the adornment which she needed. She was now dressed in pure white, set off with some kind of a gauzy fabric, which--as I bring up her figure in my memory, with a faint gleam on her shadowy hair, and her dark eyes bent shyly on mine, through all the vanished years--seems to be floating about her like a mist. I wondered what Zenobia meant by evolving so much loveliness out of this poor girl. It was what few women could afford to do; for, as I looked from one to the other, the sheen and splendor of Zenobia's presence took nothing from Priscilla's softer spell, if it might not rather be thought to add to it.
"What do you think of her?" asked Zenobia.
I could not understand the look of melancholy kindness with which Zenobia regarded her. She advanced a step, and beckoning Priscilla near her, kissed her cheek; then, with a slight gesture of repulse, she moved to the other side of the room. I followed.
"She is a wonderful creature," I said. "Ever since she came among us, I have been dimly sensible of just this charm which you have brought out. But it was never absolutely visible till now. She is as lovely as a flower!"
"Well, say so if you like," answered Zenobia. "You are a poet,--at least, as poets go nowadays,--and must be allowed to make an opera-glass of your imagination, when you look at women. I wonder, in such Arcadian freedom of falling in love as we have lately enjoyed, it never occurred to you to fall in love with Priscilla. In society, indeed, a genuine American never dreams of stepping across the inappreciable air-line which separates one class from another. But what was rank to the colonists of Blithedale?"
"There were other reasons," I replied, "why I should have demonstrated myself an ass, had I fallen in love with Priscilla. By the bye, has Hollingsworth ever seen her in this dress?"
"Why do you bring up his name at every turn?" asked Zenobia in an undertone, and with a malign look which wandered from my face to Priscilla's. "You know not what you do! It is dangerous, sir, believe me, to tamper thus with earnest human passions, out of your own mere idleness, and for your sport. I will endure it no longer! Take care that it does not happen again! I warn you!"
"You partly wrong me, if not wholly," I responded. "It is an uncertain sense of some duty to perform, that brings my thoughts, and therefore my words, continually to that one point."
"Oh, this stale excuse of duty!" said Zenobia, in a whisper so full of scorn that it penetrated me like the hiss of a serpent. "I have often heard it before, from those who sought to interfere with me, and I know precisely what it signifies. Bigotry; self-conceit; an insolent curiosity; a meddlesome temper; a cold-blooded criticism, founded on a shallow interpretation of half-perceptions; a monstrous scepticism in regard to any conscience or any wisdom, except one's own; a most irreverent propensity to thrust Providence aside, and substitute one's self in its awful place,--out of these, and other motives as miserable as these, comes your idea of duty! But, beware, sir! With all your fancied acuteness, you step blindfold into these affairs. For any mischief that may follow your interference, I hold you responsible!"
It was evident that, with but a little further provocation, the lioness would turn to bay; if, indeed, such were not her attitude already. I bowed, and not very well knowing what else to do, was about to withdraw. But, glancing again towards Priscilla, who had retreated into a corner, there fell upon my heart an intolerable burden of despondency, the purport of which I could not tell, but only felt it to bear reference to her. I approached and held out my hand; a gesture, however, to which she made no response. It was always one of her peculiarities that she seemed to shrink from even the most friendly touch, unless it were Zenobia's or Hollingsworth's. Zenobia, all this while, stood watching us, but with a careless expression, as if it mattered very little what might pass.
"Priscilla," I inquired, lowering my voice, "when do you go back to Blithedale?"
"Whenever they please to take me," said she.
"Did you come away of your own free will?" I asked.
"I am blown about like a leaf," she replied. "I never have any free will."
"Does Hollingsworth know that you are here?" said I. "He bade me come," answered Priscilla.
She looked at me, I thought, with an air of surprise, as if the idea were incomprehensible that she should have taken this step without his agency.
"What a gripe this man has laid upon her whole being!" muttered I between my teeth.
"Well, as Zenobia so kindly intimates, I have no more business here. I wash my hands of it all. On Hollingsworth's head be the consequences! Priscilla," I added aloud, "I know not that ever we may meet again. Farewell!"
As I spoke the word, a carriage had rumbled along the street, and stopt before the house. The doorbell rang, and steps were immediately afterwards heard on the staircase. Zenobia had thrown a shawl over her dress.
"Mr. Coverdale," said she, with cool courtesy, "you will perhaps excuse us. We have an engagement, and are going out."
"Whither?" I demanded.
"Is not that a little more than you are entitled to inquire?" said she, with a smile. "At all events, it does not suit me to tell you."
The door of the drawing-room opened, and Westervelt appeared. I observed that he was elaborately dressed, as if for some grand entertainment. My dislike for this man was infinite. At that moment it amounted to nothing less than a creeping of the flesh, as when, feeling about in a dark place, one touches something cold and slimy, and questions what the secret hatefulness may be. And still I could not but acknowledge that, for personal beauty, for polish of manner, for all that externally befits a gentleman, there was hardly another like him. After bowing to Zenobia, and graciously saluting Priscilla in her corner, he recognized me by a slight but courteous inclination.
"Come, Priscilla," said Zenobia; "it is time. Mr. Coverdale, good-evening."
As Priscilla moved slowly forward, I met her in the middle of the drawing-room.
"Priscilla," said I, in the hearing of them all, "do you know whither you are going?"
"I do not know," she answered.
"Is it wise to go, and is it your choice to go?" I asked. "If not, I am your friend, and Hollingsworth's friend. Tell me so, at once."
"Possibly," observed Westervelt, smiling, "Priscilla sees in me an older friend than either Mr. Coverdale or Mr. Hollingsworth. I shall willingly leave the matter at her option."
While thus speaking, he made a gesture of kindly invitation, and Priscilla passed me, with the gliding movement of a sprite, and took his offered arm. He offered the other to Zenobia; but she turned her proud and beautiful face upon him with a look which--judging from what I caught of it in profile--would undoubtedly have smitten the man dead, had he possessed any heart, or had this glance attained to it. It seemed to rebound, however, from his courteous visage, like an arrow from polished steel. They all three descended the stairs; and when I likewise reached the street door, the carriage was already rolling away.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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21
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AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
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Thus excluded from everybody's confidence, and attaining no further, by my most earnest study, than to an uncertain sense of something hidden from me, it would appear reasonable that I should have flung off all these alien perplexities. Obviously, my best course was to betake myself to new scenes. Here I was only an intruder. Elsewhere there might be circumstances in which I could establish a personal interest, and people who would respond, with a portion of their sympathies, for so much as I should bestow of mine.
Nevertheless, there occurred to me one other thing to be done. Remembering old Moodie, and his relationship with Priscilla, I determined to seek an interview, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the knot of affairs was as inextricable on that side as I found it on all others. Being tolerably well acquainted with the old man's haunts, I went, the next day, to the saloon of a certain establishment about which he often lurked. It was a reputable place enough, affording good entertainment in the way of meat, drink, and fumigation; and there, in my young and idle days and nights, when I was neither nice nor wise, I had often amused myself with watching the staid humors and sober jollities of the thirsty souls around me.
At my first entrance, old Moodie was not there. The more patiently to await him, I lighted a cigar, and establishing myself in a corner, took a quiet, and, by sympathy, a boozy kind of pleasure in the customary life that was going forward. The saloon was fitted up with a good deal of taste. There were pictures on the walls, and among them an oil-painting of a beefsteak, with such an admirable show of juicy tenderness, that the beholder sighed to think it merely visionary, and incapable of ever being put upon a gridiron. Another work of high art was the lifelike representation of a noble sirloin; another, the hindquarters of a deer, retaining the hoofs and tawny fur; another, the head and shoulders of a salmon; and, still more exquisitely finished, a brace of canvasback ducks, in which the mottled feathers were depicted with the accuracy of a daguerreotype. Some very hungry painter, I suppose, had wrought these subjects of still-life, heightening his imagination with his appetite, and earning, it is to be hoped, the privilege of a daily dinner off whichever of his pictorial viands he liked best.
Then there was a fine old cheese, in which you could almost discern the mites; and some sardines, on a small plate, very richly done, and looking as if oozy with the oil in which they had been smothered. All these things were so perfectly imitated, that you seemed to have the genuine article before you, and yet with an indescribable, ideal charm; it took away the grossness from what was fleshiest and fattest, and thus helped the life of man, even in its earthliest relations, to appear rich and noble, as well as warm, cheerful, and substantial. There were pictures, too, of gallant revellers, those of the old time, Flemish, apparently, with doublets and slashed sleeves, drinking their wine out of fantastic, long-stemmed glasses; quaffing joyously, quaffing forever, with inaudible laughter and song; while the champagne bubbled immortally against their moustaches, or the purple tide of Burgundy ran inexhaustibly down their throats.
But, in an obscure corner of the saloon, there was a little Picture excellently done, moreover of a ragged, bloated, New England toper, stretched out on a bench, in the heavy, apoplectic sleep of drunkenness. The death-in-life was too well portrayed. You smelt the fumy liquor that had brought on this syncope. Your only comfort lay in the forced reflection, that, real as he looked, the poor caitiff was but imaginary, a bit of painted canvass, whom no delirium tremens, nor so much as a retributive headache, awaited, on the morrow.
By this time, it being past eleven o'clock, the two bar-keepers of the saloon were in pretty constant activity. One of these young men had a rare faculty in the concoction of gin-cocktails. It was a spectacle to behold, how, with a tumbler in each hand, he tossed the contents from one to the other. Never conveying it awry, nor spilling the least drop, he compelled the frothy liquor, as it seemed to me, to spout forth from one glass and descend into the other, in a great parabolic curve, as well-defined and calculable as a planet's orbit. He had a good forehead, with a particularly large development just above the eyebrows; fine intellectual gifts, no doubt, which he had educated to this profitable end; being famous for nothing but gin-cocktails, and commanding a fair salary by his one accomplishment. These cocktails, and other artificial combinations of liquor, (of which there were at least a score, though mostly, I suspect, fantastic in their differences,) were much in favor with the younger class of customers, who, at farthest, had only reached the second stage of potatory life. The staunch, old soakers, on the other hand men who, if put on tap, would have yielded a red alcoholic liquor, by way of blood usually confined themselves to plain brandy-and-water, gin, or West India rum; and, oftentimes, they prefaced their dram with some medicinal remark as to the wholesomeness and stomachic qualities of that particular drink. Two or three appeared to have bottles of their own behind the counter; and, winking one red eye to the bar-keeper, he forthwith produced these choicest and peculiar cordials, which it was a matter of great interest and favor, among their acquaintances, to obtain a sip of.
Agreeably to the Yankee habit, under whatever circumstances, the deportment of all these good fellows, old or young, was decorous and thoroughly correct. They grew only the more sober in their cups; there was no confused babble nor boisterous laughter. They sucked in the joyous fire of the decanters and kept it smouldering in their inmost recesses, with a bliss known only to the heart which it warmed and comforted. Their eyes twinkled a little, to be sure; they hemmed vigorously after each glass, and laid a hand upon the pit of the stomach, as if the pleasant titillation there was what constituted the tangible part of their enjoyment. In that spot, unquestionably, and not in the brain, was the acme of the whole affair. But the true purpose of their drinking--and one that will induce men to drink, or do something equivalent, as long as this weary world shall endure--was the renewed youth and vigor, the brisk, cheerful sense of things present and to come, with which, for about a quarter of an hour, the dram permeated their systems. And when such quarters of an hour can be obtained in some mode less baneful to the great sum of a man's life,--but, nevertheless, with a little spice of impropriety, to give it a wild flavor,--we temperance people may ring out our bells for victory!
The prettiest object in the saloon was a tiny fountain, which threw up its feathery jet through the counter, and sparkled down again into an oval basin, or lakelet, containing several goldfishes. There was a bed of bright sand at the bottom, strewn with coral and rock-work; and the fishes went gleaming about, now turning up the sheen of a golden side, and now vanishing into the shadows of the water, like the fanciful thoughts that coquet with a poet in his dream. Never before, I imagine, did a company of water-drinkers remain so entirely uncontaminated by the bad example around them; nor could I help wondering that it had not occurred to any freakish inebriate to empty a glass of liquor into their lakelet. What a delightful idea! Who would not be a fish, if he could inhale jollity with the essential element of his existence!
I had begun to despair of meeting old Moodie, when, all at once, I recognized his hand and arm protruding from behind a screen that was set up for the accommodation of bashful topers. As a matter of course, he had one of Priscilla's little purses, and was quietly insinuating it under the notice of a person who stood near. This was always old Moodie's way. You hardly ever saw him advancing towards you, but became aware of his proximity without being able to guess how he had come thither. He glided about like a spirit, assuming visibility close to your elbow, offering his petty trifles of merchandise, remaining long enough for you to purchase, if so disposed, and then taking himself off, between two breaths, while you happened to be thinking of something else.
By a sort of sympathetic impulse that often controlled me in those more impressible days of my life, I was induced to approach this old man in a mode as undemonstrative as his own. Thus, when, according to his custom, he was probably just about to vanish, he found me at his elbow.
"Ah!" said he, with more emphasis than was usual with him. "It is Mr. Coverdale!"
"Yes, Mr. Moodie, your old acquaintance," answered I. "It is some time now since we ate luncheon together at Blithedale, and a good deal longer since our little talk together at the street corner."
"That was a good while ago," said the old man.
And he seemed inclined to say not a word more. His existence looked so colorless and torpid,--so very faintly shadowed on the canvas of reality,--that I was half afraid lest he should altogether disappear, even while my eyes were fixed full upon his figure. He was certainly the wretchedest old ghost in the world, with his crazy hat, the dingy handkerchief about his throat, his suit of threadbare gray, and especially that patch over his right eye, behind which he always seemed to be hiding himself. There was one method, however, of bringing him out into somewhat stronger relief. A glass of brandy would effect it. Perhaps the gentler influence of a bottle of claret might do the same. Nor could I think it a matter for the recording angel to write down against me, if--with my painful consciousness of the frost in this old man's blood, and the positive ice that had congealed about his heart--I should thaw him out, were it only for an hour, with the summer warmth of a little wine. What else could possibly be done for him? How else could he be imbued with energy enough to hope for a happier state hereafter? How else be inspired to say his prayers? For there are states of our spiritual system when the throb of the soul's life is too faint and weak to render us capable of religious aspiration.
"Mr. Moodie," said I, "shall we lunch together? And would you like to drink a glass of wine?"
His one eye gleamed. He bowed; and it impressed me that he grew to be more of a man at once, either in anticipation of the wine, or as a grateful response to my good fellowship in offering it.
"With pleasure," he replied.
The bar-keeper, at my request, showed us into a private room, and soon afterwards set some fried oysters and a bottle of claret on the table; and I saw the old man glance curiously at the label of the bottle, as if to learn the brand.
"It should be good wine," I remarked, "if it have any right to its label."
"You cannot suppose, sir," said Moodie, with a sigh, "that a poor old fellow like me knows any difference in wines."
And yet, in his way of handling the glass, in his preliminary snuff at the aroma, in his first cautious sip of the wine, and the gustatory skill with which he gave his palate the full advantage of it, it was impossible not to recognize the connoisseur.
"I fancy, Mr. Moodie," said I, "you are a much better judge of wines than I have yet learned to be. Tell me fairly,--did you never drink it where the grape grows?"
"How should that have been, Mr. Coverdale?" answered old Moodie shyly; but then he took courage, as it were, and uttered a feeble little laugh. "The flavor of this wine," added he, "and its perfume still more than its taste, makes me remember that I was once a young man."
"I wish, Mr. Moodie," suggested I,--not that I greatly cared about it, however, but was only anxious to draw him into some talk about Priscilla and Zenobia,--"I wish, while we sit over our wine, you would favor me with a few of those youthful reminiscences."
"Ah," said he, shaking his head, "they might interest you more than you suppose. But I had better be silent, Mr. Coverdale. If this good wine,--though claret, I suppose, is not apt to play such a trick,--but if it should make my tongue run too freely, I could never look you in the face again."
"You never did look me in the face, Mr. Moodie," I replied, "until this very moment."
"Ah!" sighed old Moodie.
It was wonderful, however, what an effect the mild grape-juice wrought upon him. It was not in the wine, but in the associations which it seemed to bring up. Instead of the mean, slouching, furtive, painfully depressed air of an old city vagabond, more like a gray kennel-rat than any other living thing, he began to take the aspect of a decayed gentleman. Even his garments--especially after I had myself quaffed a glass or two--looked less shabby than when we first sat down. There was, by and by, a certain exuberance and elaborateness of gesture and manner, oddly in contrast with all that I had hitherto seen of him. Anon, with hardly any impulse from me, old Moodie began to talk. His communications referred exclusively to a long-past and more fortunate period of his life, with only a few unavoidable allusions to the circumstances that had reduced him to his present state. But, having once got the clew, my subsequent researches acquainted me with the main facts of the following narrative; although, in writing it out, my pen has perhaps allowed itself a trifle of romantic and legendary license, worthier of a small poet than of a grave biographer.
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{
"id": "2081"
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22
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FAUNTLEROY
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Five-and-twenty years ago, at the epoch of this story, there dwelt in one of the Middle States a man whom we shall call Fauntleroy; a man of wealth, and magnificent tastes, and prodigal expenditure. His home might almost be styled a palace; his habits, in the ordinary sense, princely. His whole being seemed to have crystallized itself into an external splendor, wherewith he glittered in the eyes of the world, and had no other life than upon this gaudy surface. He had married a lovely woman, whose nature was deeper than his own. But his affection for her, though it showed largely, was superficial, like all his other manifestations and developments; he did not so truly keep this noble creature in his heart, as wear her beauty for the most brilliant ornament of his outward state. And there was born to him a child, a beautiful daughter, whom he took from the beneficent hand of God with no just sense of her immortal value, but as a man already rich in gems would receive another jewel. If he loved her, it was because she shone.
After Fauntleroy had thus spent a few empty years, coruscating continually an unnatural light, the source of it--which was merely his gold--began to grow more shallow, and finally became exhausted. He saw himself in imminent peril of losing all that had heretofore distinguished him; and, conscious of no innate worth to fall back upon, he recoiled from this calamity with the instinct of a soul shrinking from annihilation. To avoid it,--wretched man! --or rather to defer it, if but for a month, a day, or only to procure himself the life of a few breaths more amid the false glitter which was now less his own than ever,--he made himself guilty of a crime. It was just the sort of crime, growing out of its artificial state, which society (unless it should change its entire constitution for this man's unworthy sake) neither could nor ought to pardon. More safely might it pardon murder. Fauntleroy's guilt was discovered. He fled; his wife perished, by the necessity of her innate nobleness, in its alliance with a being so ignoble; and betwixt her mother's death and her father's ignominy, his daughter was left worse than orphaned.
There was no pursuit after Fauntleroy. His family connections, who had great wealth, made such arrangements with those whom he had attempted to wrong as secured him from the retribution that would have overtaken an unfriended criminal. The wreck of his estate was divided among his creditors: His name, in a very brief space, was forgotten by the multitude who had passed it so diligently from mouth to mouth. Seldom, indeed, was it recalled, even by his closest former intimates. Nor could it have been otherwise. The man had laid no real touch on any mortal's heart. Being a mere image, an optical delusion, created by the sunshine of prosperity, it was his law to vanish into the shadow of the first intervening cloud. He seemed to leave no vacancy; a phenomenon which, like many others that attended his brief career, went far to prove the illusiveness of his existence.
Not, however, that the physical substance of Fauntleroy had literally melted into vapor. He had fled northward to the New England metropolis, and had taken up his abode, under another name, in a squalid street or court of the older portion of the city. There he dwelt among poverty-stricken wretches, sinners, and forlorn good people, Irish, and whomsoever else were neediest. Many families were clustered in each house together, above stairs and below, in the little peaked garrets, and even in the dusky cellars. The house where Fauntleroy paid weekly rent for a chamber and a closet had been a stately habitation in its day. An old colonial governor had built it, and lived there, long ago, and held his levees in a great room where now slept twenty Irish bedfellows; and died in Fauntleroy's chamber, which his embroidered and white-wigged ghost still haunted. Tattered hangings, a marble hearth, traversed with many cracks and fissures, a richly carved oaken mantelpiece, partly hacked away for kindling-stuff, a stuccoed ceiling, defaced with great, unsightly patches of the naked laths,--such was the chamber's aspect, as if, with its splinters and rags of dirty splendor, it were a kind of practical gibe at this poor, ruined man of show.
At first, and at irregular intervals, his relatives allowed Fauntleroy a little pittance to sustain life; not from any love, perhaps, but lest poverty should compel him, by new offences, to add more shame to that with which he had already stained them. But he showed no tendency to further guilt. His character appeared to have been radically changed (as, indeed, from its shallowness, it well might) by his miserable fate; or, it may be, the traits now seen in him were portions of the same character, presenting itself in another phase. Instead of any longer seeking to live in the sight of the world, his impulse was to shrink into the nearest obscurity, and to be unseen of men, were it possible, even while standing before their eyes. He had no pride; it was all trodden in the dust. No ostentation; for how could it survive, when there was nothing left of Fauntleroy, save penury and shame! His very gait demonstrated that he would gladly have faded out of view, and have crept about invisibly, for the sake of sheltering himself from the irksomeness of a human glance. Hardly, it was averred, within the memory of those who knew him now, had he the hardihood to show his full front to the world. He skulked in corners, and crept about in a sort of noonday twilight, making himself gray and misty, at all hours, with his morbid intolerance of sunshine.
In his torpid despair, however, he had done an act which that condition of the spirit seems to prompt almost as often as prosperity and hope. Fauntleroy was again married. He had taken to wife a forlorn, meek-spirited, feeble young woman, a seamstress, whom he found dwelling with her mother in a contiguous chamber of the old gubernatorial residence. This poor phantom--as the beautiful and noble companion of his former life had done brought him a daughter. And sometimes, as from one dream into another, Fauntleroy looked forth out of his present grimy environment into that past magnificence, and wondered whether the grandee of yesterday or the pauper of to-day were real. But, in my mind, the one and the other were alike impalpable. In truth, it was Fauntleroy's fatality to behold whatever he touched dissolve. After a few years, his second wife (dim shadow that she had always been) faded finally out of the world, and left Fauntleroy to deal as he might with their pale and nervous child. And, by this time, among his distant relatives,--with whom he had grown a weary thought, linked with contagious infamy, and which they were only too willing to get rid of,--he was himself supposed to be no more.
The younger child, like his elder one, might be considered as the true offspring of both parents, and as the reflection of their state. She was a tremulous little creature, shrinking involuntarily from all mankind, but in timidity, and no sour repugnance. There was a lack of human substance in her; it seemed as if, were she to stand up in a sunbeam, it would pass right through her figure, and trace out the cracked and dusty window-panes upon the naked floor. But, nevertheless, the poor child had a heart; and from her mother's gentle character she had inherited a profound and still capacity of affection. And so her life was one of love. She bestowed it partly on her father, but in greater part on an idea.
For Fauntleroy, as they sat by their cheerless fireside,--which was no fireside, in truth, but only a rusty stove,--had often talked to the little girl about his former wealth, the noble loveliness of his first wife, and the beautiful child whom she had given him. Instead of the fairy tales which other parents tell, he told Priscilla this. And, out of the loneliness of her sad little existence, Priscilla's love grew, and tended upward, and twined itself perseveringly around this unseen sister; as a grapevine might strive to clamber out of a gloomy hollow among the rocks, and embrace a young tree standing in the sunny warmth above. It was almost like worship, both in its earnestness and its humility; nor was it the less humble--though the more earnest--because Priscilla could claim human kindred with the being whom she, so devoutly loved. As with worship, too, it gave her soul the refreshment of a purer atmosphere. Save for this singular, this melancholy, and yet beautiful affection, the child could hardly have lived; or, had she lived, with a heart shrunken for lack of any sentiment to fill it, she must have yielded to the barren miseries of her position, and have grown to womanhood characterless and worthless. But now, amid all the sombre coarseness of her father's outward life, and of her own, Priscilla had a higher and imaginative life within. Some faint gleam thereof was often visible upon her face. It was as if, in her spiritual visits to her brilliant sister, a portion of the latter's brightness had permeated our dim Priscilla, and still lingered, shedding a faint illumination through the cheerless chamber, after she came back.
As the child grew up, so pallid and so slender, and with much unaccountable nervousness, and all the weaknesses of neglected infancy still haunting her, the gross and simple neighbors whispered strange things about Priscilla. The big, red, Irish matrons, whose innumerable progeny swarmed out of the adjacent doors, used to mock at the pale Western child. They fancied--or, at least, affirmed it, between jest and earnest--that she was not so solid flesh and blood as other children, but mixed largely with a thinner element. They called her ghost-child, and said that she could indeed vanish when she pleased, but could never, in her densest moments, make herself quite visible. The sun at midday would shine through her; in the first gray of the twilight, she lost all the distinctness of her outline; and, if you followed the dim thing into a dark corner, behold! she was not there. And it was true that Priscilla had strange ways; strange ways, and stranger words, when she uttered any words at all. Never stirring out of the old governor's dusky house, she sometimes talked of distant places and splendid rooms, as if she had just left them. Hidden things were visible to her (at least so the people inferred from obscure hints escaping unawares out of her mouth), and silence was audible. And in all the world there was nothing so difficult to be endured, by those who had any dark secret to conceal, as the glance of Priscilla's timid and melancholy eyes.
Her peculiarities were the theme of continual gossip among the other inhabitants of the gubernatorial mansion. The rumor spread thence into a wider circle. Those who knew old Moodie, as he was now called, used often to jeer him, at the very street-corners, about his daughter's gift of second-sight and prophecy. It was a period when science (though mostly through its empirical professors) was bringing forward, anew, a hoard of facts and imperfect theories, that had partially won credence in elder times, but which modern scepticism had swept away as rubbish. These things were now tossed up again, out of the surging ocean of human thought and experience. The story of Priscilla's preternatural manifestations, therefore, attracted a kind of notice of which it would have been deemed wholly unworthy a few years earlier. One day a gentleman ascended the creaking staircase, and inquired which was old Moodie's chamber door. And, several times, he came again. He was a marvellously handsome man,--still youthful, too, and fashionably dressed. Except that Priscilla, in those days, had no beauty, and, in the languor of her existence, had not yet blossomed into womanhood, there would have been rich food for scandal in these visits; for the girl was unquestionably their sole object, although her father was supposed always to be present. But, it must likewise be added, there was something about Priscilla that calumny could not meddle with; and thus far was she privileged, either by the preponderance of what was spiritual, or the thin and watery blood that left her cheek so pallid.
Yet, if the busy tongues of the neighborhood spared Priscilla in one way, they made themselves amends by renewed and wilder babble on another score. They averred that the strange gentleman was a wizard, and that he had taken advantage of Priscilla's lack of earthly substance to subject her to himself, as his familiar spirit, through whose medium he gained cognizance of whatever happened, in regions near or remote. The boundaries of his power were defined by the verge of the pit of Tartarus on the one hand, and the third sphere of the celestial world on the other. Again, they declared their suspicion that the wizard, with all his show of manly beauty, was really an aged and wizened figure, or else that his semblance of a human body was only a necromantic, or perhaps a mechanical contrivance, in which a demon walked about. In proof of it, however, they could merely instance a gold band around his upper teeth, which had once been visible to several old women, when he smiled at them from the top of the governor's staircase. Of course this was all absurdity, or mostly so. But, after every possible deduction, there remained certain very mysterious points about the stranger's character, as well as the connection that he established with Priscilla. Its nature at that period was even less understood than now, when miracles of this kind have grown so absolutely stale, that I would gladly, if the truth allowed, dismiss the whole matter from my narrative.
We must now glance backward, in quest of the beautiful daughter of Fauntleroy's prosperity. What had become of her? Fauntleroy's only brother, a bachelor, and with no other relative so near, had adopted the forsaken child. She grew up in affluence, with native graces clustering luxuriantly about her. In her triumphant progress towards womanhood, she was adorned with every variety of feminine accomplishment. But she lacked a mother's care. With no adequate control, on any hand (for a man, however stern, however wise, can never sway and guide a female child), her character was left to shape itself. There was good in it, and evil. Passionate, self-willed, and imperious, she had a warm and generous nature; showing the richness of the soil, however, chiefly by the weeds that flourished in it, and choked up the herbs of grace. In her girlhood her uncle died. As Fauntleroy was supposed to be likewise dead, and no other heir was known to exist, his wealth devolved on her, although, dying suddenly, the uncle left no will. After his death there were obscure passages in Zenobia's history. There were whispers of an attachment, and even a secret marriage, with a fascinating and accomplished but unprincipled young man. The incidents and appearances, however, which led to this surmise soon passed away, and were forgotten.
Nor was her reputation seriously affected by the report. In fact, so great was her native power and influence, and such seemed the careless purity of her nature, that whatever Zenobia did was generally acknowledged as right for her to do. The world never criticised her so harshly as it does most women who transcend its rules. It almost yielded its assent, when it beheld her stepping out of the common path, and asserting the more extensive privileges of her sex, both theoretically and by her practice. The sphere of ordinary womanhood was felt to be narrower than her development required.
A portion of Zenobia's more recent life is told in the foregoing pages. Partly in earnest,--and, I imagine, as was her disposition, half in a proud jest, or in a kind of recklessness that had grown upon her, out of some hidden grief,--she had given her countenance, and promised liberal pecuniary aid, to our experiment of a better social state. And Priscilla followed her to Blithedale. The sole bliss of her life had been a dream of this beautiful sister, who had never so much as known of her existence. By this time, too, the poor girl was enthralled in an intolerable bondage, from which she must either free herself or perish. She deemed herself safest near Zenobia, into whose large heart she hoped to nestle.
One evening, months after Priscilla's departure, when Moodie (or shall we call him Fauntleroy?) was sitting alone in the state-chamber of the old governor, there came footsteps up the staircase. There was a pause on the landing-place. A lady's musical yet haughty accents were heard making an inquiry from some denizen of the house, who had thrust a head out of a contiguous chamber. There was then a knock at Moodie's door. "Come in!" said he.
And Zenobia entered. The details of the interview that followed being unknown to me,--while, notwithstanding, it would be a pity quite to lose the picturesqueness of the situation,--I shall attempt to sketch it, mainly from fancy, although with some general grounds of surmise in regard to the old man's feelings.
She gazed wonderingly at the dismal chamber. Dismal to her, who beheld it only for an instant; and how much more so to him, into whose brain each bare spot on the ceiling, every tatter of the paper-hangings, and all the splintered carvings of the mantelpiece, seen wearily through long years, had worn their several prints! Inexpressibly miserable is this familiarity with objects that have been from the first disgustful.
"I have received a strange message," said Zenobia, after a moment's silence, "requesting, or rather enjoining it upon me, to come hither. Rather from curiosity than any other motive,--and because, though a woman, I have not all the timidity of one,--I have complied. Can it be you, sir, who thus summoned me?"
"It was," answered Moodie.
"And what was your purpose?" she continued. "You require charity, perhaps? In that case, the message might have been more fitly worded. But you are old and poor, and age and poverty should be allowed their privileges. Tell me, therefore, to what extent you need my aid."
"Put up your purse," said the supposed mendicant, with an inexplicable smile. "Keep it,--keep all your wealth,--until I demand it all, or none! My message had no such end in view. You are beautiful, they tell me; and I desired to look at you."
He took the one lamp that showed the discomfort and sordidness of his abode, and approaching Zenobia held it up, so as to gain the more perfect view of her, from top to toe. So obscure was the chamber, that you could see the reflection of her diamonds thrown upon the dingy wall, and flickering with the rise and fall of Zenobia's breath. It was the splendor of those jewels on her neck, like lamps that burn before some fair temple, and the jewelled flower in her hair, more than the murky, yellow light, that helped him to see her beauty. But he beheld it, and grew proud at heart; his own figure, in spite of his mean habiliments, assumed an air of state and grandeur.
"It is well," cried old Moodie. "Keep your wealth. You are right worthy of it. Keep it, therefore, but with one condition only."
Zenobia thought the old man beside himself, and was moved with pity.
"Have you none to care for you?" asked she. "No daughter? --no kind-hearted neighbor? --no means of procuring the attendance which you need? Tell me once again, can I do nothing for you?"
"Nothing," he replied. "I have beheld what I wished. Now leave me. Linger not a moment longer, or I may be tempted to say what would bring a cloud over that queenly brow. Keep all your wealth, but with only this one condition: Be kind--be no less kind than sisters are--to my poor Priscilla!"
And, it may be, after Zenobia withdrew, Fauntleroy paced his gloomy chamber, and communed with himself as follows,--or, at all events, it is the only solution which I can offer of the enigma presented in his character:--"I am unchanged,--the same man as of yore!" said he. "True, my brother's wealth--he dying intestate--is legally my own. I know it; yet of my own choice, I live a beggar, and go meanly clad, and hide myself behind a forgotten ignominy. Looks this like ostentation? Ah! but in Zenobia I live again! Beholding her, so beautiful,--so fit to be adorned with all imaginable splendor of outward state,--the cursed vanity, which, half a lifetime since, dropt off like tatters of once gaudy apparel from my debased and ruined person, is all renewed for her sake. Were I to reappear, my shame would go with me from darkness into daylight. Zenobia has the splendor, and not the shame. Let the world admire her, and be dazzled by her, the brilliant child of my prosperity! It is Fauntleroy that still shines through her!" But then, perhaps, another thought occurred to him.
"My poor Priscilla! And am I just to her, in surrendering all to this beautiful Zenobia? Priscilla! I love her best,--I love her only! --but with shame, not pride. So dim, so pallid, so shrinking,--the daughter of my long calamity! Wealth were but a mockery in Priscilla's hands. What is its use, except to fling a golden radiance around those who grasp it? Yet let Zenobia take heed! Priscilla shall have no wrong!" But, while the man of show thus meditated,--that very evening, so far as I can adjust the dates of these strange incidents,--Priscilla poor, pallid flower! --was either snatched from Zenobia's hand, or flung wilfully away!
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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23
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A VILLAGE HALL
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Well, I betook myself away, and wandered up and down, like an exorcised spirit that had been driven from its old haunts after a mighty struggle. It takes down the solitary pride of man, beyond most other things, to find the impracticability of flinging aside affections that have grown irksome. The bands that were silken once are apt to become iron fetters when we desire to shake them off. Our souls, after all, are not our own. We convey a property in them to those with whom we associate; but to what extent can never be known, until we feel the tug, the agony, of our abortive effort to resume an exclusive sway over ourselves. Thus, in all the weeks of my absence, my thoughts continually reverted back, brooding over the bygone months, and bringing up incidents that seemed hardly to have left a trace of themselves in their passage. I spent painful hours in recalling these trifles, and rendering them more misty and unsubstantial than at first by the quantity of speculative musing thus kneaded in with them. Hollingsworth, Zenobia, Priscilla! These three had absorbed my life into themselves. Together with an inexpressible longing to know their fortunes, there was likewise a morbid resentment of my own pain, and a stubborn reluctance to come again within their sphere.
All that I learned of them, therefore, was comprised in a few brief and pungent squibs, such as the newspapers were then in the habit of bestowing on our socialist enterprise. There was one paragraph, which if I rightly guessed its purport bore reference to Zenobia, but was too darkly hinted to convey even thus much of certainty. Hollingsworth, too, with his philanthropic project, afforded the penny-a-liners a theme for some savage and bloody minded jokes; and, considerably to my surprise, they affected me with as much indignation as if we had still been friends.
Thus passed several weeks; time long enough for my brown and toil-hardened hands to reaccustom themselves to gloves. Old habits, such as were merely external, returned upon me with wonderful promptitude. My superficial talk, too, assumed altogether a worldly tone. Meeting former acquaintances, who showed themselves inclined to ridicule my heroic devotion to the cause of human welfare, I spoke of the recent phase of my life as indeed fair matter for a jest. But, I also gave them to understand that it was, at most, only an experiment, on which I had staked no valuable amount of hope or fear. It had enabled me to pass the summer in a novel and agreeable way, had afforded me some grotesque specimens of artificial simplicity, and could not, therefore, so far as I was concerned, be reckoned a failure. In no one instance, however, did I voluntarily speak of my three friends. They dwelt in a profounder region. The more I consider myself as I then was, the more do I recognize how deeply my connection with those three had affected all my being.
As it was already the epoch of annihilated space, I might in the time I was away from Blithedale have snatched a glimpse at England, and been back again. But my wanderings were confined within a very limited sphere. I hopped and fluttered, like a bird with a string about its leg, gyrating round a small circumference, and keeping up a restless activity to no purpose. Thus it was still in our familiar Massachusetts--in one of its white country villages--that I must next particularize an incident.
The scene was one of those lyceum halls, of which almost every village has now its own, dedicated to that sober and pallid, or rather drab-colored, mode of winter-evening entertainment, the lecture. Of late years this has come strangely into vogue, when the natural tendency of things would seem to be to substitute lettered for oral methods of addressing the public. But, in halls like this, besides the winter course of lectures, there is a rich and varied series of other exhibitions. Hither comes the ventriloquist, with all his mysterious tongues; the thaumaturgist, too, with his miraculous transformations of plates, doves, and rings, his pancakes smoking in your hat, and his cellar of choice liquors represented in one small bottle. Here, also, the itinerant professor instructs separate classes of ladies and gentlemen in physiology, and demonstrates his lessons by the aid of real skeletons, and manikins in wax, from Paris. Here is to be heard the choir of Ethiopian melodists, and to be seen the diorama of Moscow or Bunker Hill, or the moving panorama of the Chinese wall. Here is displayed the museum of wax figures, illustrating the wide catholicism of earthly renown, by mixing up heroes and statesmen, the pope and the Mormon prophet, kings, queens, murderers, and beautiful ladies; every sort of person, in short, except authors, of whom I never beheld even the most famous done in wax. And here, in this many-purposed hall (unless the selectmen of the village chance to have more than their share of the Puritanism, which, however diversified with later patchwork, still gives its prevailing tint to New England character),--here the company of strolling players sets up its little stage, and claims patronage for the legitimate drama.
But, on the autumnal evening which I speak of, a number of printed handbills--stuck up in the bar-room, and on the sign-post of the hotel, and on the meeting-house porch, and distributed largely through the village--had promised the inhabitants an interview with that celebrated and hitherto inexplicable phenomenon, the Veiled Lady!
The hall was fitted up with an amphitheatrical descent of seats towards a platform, on which stood a desk, two lights, a stool, and a capacious antique chair. The audience was of a generally decent and respectable character: old farmers, in their Sunday black coats, with shrewd, hard, sun-dried faces, and a cynical humor, oftener than any other expression, in their eyes; pretty girls, in many-colored attire; pretty young men,--the schoolmaster, the lawyer, or student at law, the shop-keeper,--all looking rather suburban than rural. In these days, there is absolutely no rusticity, except when the actual labor of the soil leaves its earth-mould on the person. There was likewise a considerable proportion of young and middle-aged women, many of them stern in feature, with marked foreheads, and a very definite line of eyebrow; a type of womanhood in which a bold intellectual development seems to be keeping pace with the progressive delicacy of the physical constitution. Of all these people I took note, at first, according to my custom. But I ceased to do so the moment that my eyes fell on an individual who sat two or three seats below me, immovable, apparently deep in thought, with his back, of course, towards me, and his face turned steadfastly upon the platform.
After sitting awhile in contemplation of this person's familiar contour, I was irresistibly moved to step over the intervening benches, lay my hand on his shoulder, put my mouth close to his ear, and address him in a sepulchral, melodramatic whisper: "Hollingsworth! where have you left Zenobia?"
His nerves, however, were proof against my attack. He turned half around, and looked me in the face with great sad eyes, in which there was neither kindness nor resentment, nor any perceptible surprise.
"Zenobia, when I last saw her," he answered, "was at Blithedale."
He said no more. But there was a great deal of talk going on near me, among a knot of people who might be considered as representing the mysticism, or rather the mystic sensuality, of this singular age. The nature of the exhibition that was about to take place had probably given the turn to their conversation.
I heard, from a pale man in blue spectacles, some stranger stories than ever were written in a romance; told, too, with a simple, unimaginative steadfastness, which was terribly efficacious in compelling the auditor to receive them into the category of established facts. He cited instances of the miraculous power of one human being over the will and passions of another; insomuch that settled grief was but a shadow beneath the influence of a man possessing this potency, and the strong love of years melted away like a vapor. At the bidding of one of these wizards, the maiden, with her lover's kiss still burning on her lips, would turn from him with icy indifference; the newly made widow would dig up her buried heart out of her young husband's grave before the sods had taken root upon it; a mother with her babe's milk in her bosom would thrust away her child. Human character was but soft wax in his hands; and guilt, or virtue, only the forms into which he should see fit to mould it. The religious sentiment was a flame which he could blow up with his breath, or a spark that he could utterly extinguish. It is unutterable, the horror and disgust with which I listened, and saw that, if these things were to be believed, the individual soul was virtually annihilated, and all that is sweet and pure in our present life debased, and that the idea of man's eternal responsibility was made ridiculous, and immortality rendered at once impossible, and not worth acceptance. But I would have perished on the spot sooner than believe it.
The epoch of rapping spirits, and all the wonders that have followed in their train,--such as tables upset by invisible agencies, bells self-tolled at funerals, and ghostly music performed on jew's-harps,--had not yet arrived. Alas, my countrymen, methinks we have fallen on an evil age! If these phenomena have not humbug at the bottom, so much the worse for us. What can they indicate, in a spiritual way, except that the soul of man is descending to a lower point than it has ever before reached while incarnate? We are pursuing a downward course in the eternal march, and thus bring ourselves into the same range with beings whom death, in requital of their gross and evil lives, has degraded below humanity! To hold intercourse with spirits of this order, we must stoop and grovel in some element more vile than earthly dust. These goblins, if they exist at all, are but the shadows of past mortality, outcasts, mere refuse stuff, adjudged unworthy of the eternal world, and, on the most favorable supposition, dwindling gradually into nothingness. The less we have to say to them the better, lest we share their fate!
The audience now began to be impatient; they signified their desire for the entertainment to commence by thump of sticks and stamp of boot-heels. Nor was it a great while longer before, in response to their call, there appeared a bearded personage in Oriental robes, looking like one of the enchanters of the Arabian Nights. He came upon the platform from a side door, saluted the spectators, not with a salaam, but a bow, took his station at the desk, and first blowing his nose with a white handkerchief, prepared to speak. The environment of the homely village hall, and the absence of many ingenious contrivances of stage effect with which the exhibition had heretofore been set off, seemed to bring the artifice of this character more openly upon the surface. No sooner did I behold the bearded enchanter, than, laying my hand again on Hollingsworth's shoulder, I whispered in his ear, "Do you know him?"
"I never saw the man before," he muttered, without turning his head.
But I had seen him three times already.
Once, on occasion of my first visit to the Veiled Lady; a second time, in the wood-path at Blithedale; and lastly, in Zenobia's drawing-room. It was Westervelt. A quick association of ideas made me shudder from head to foot; and again, like an evil spirit, bringing up reminiscences of a man's sins, I whispered a question in Hollingsworth's ear,--"What have you done with Priscilla?"
He gave a convulsive start, as if I had thrust a knife into him, writhed himself round on his seat, glared fiercely into my eyes, but answered not a word.
The Professor began his discourse, explanatory of the psychological phenomena, as he termed them, which it was his purpose to exhibit to the spectators. There remains no very distinct impression of it on my memory. It was eloquent, ingenious, plausible, with a delusive show of spirituality, yet really imbued throughout with a cold and dead materialism. I shivered, as at a current of chill air issuing out of a sepulchral vault, and bringing the smell of corruption along with it. He spoke of a new era that was dawning upon the world; an era that would link soul to soul, and the present life to what we call futurity, with a closeness that should finally convert both worlds into one great, mutually conscious brotherhood. He described (in a strange, philosophical guise, with terms of art, as if it were a matter of chemical discovery) the agency by which this mighty result was to be effected; nor would it have surprised me, had he pretended to hold up a portion of his universally pervasive fluid, as he affirmed it to be, in a glass phial.
At the close of his exordium, the Professor beckoned with his hand,--once, twice, thrice,--and a figure came gliding upon the platform, enveloped in a long veil of silvery whiteness. It fell about her like the texture of a summer cloud, with a kind of vagueness, so that the outline of the form beneath it could not be accurately discerned. But the movement of the Veiled Lady was graceful, free, and unembarrassed, like that of a person accustomed to be the spectacle of thousands; or, possibly, a blindfold prisoner within the sphere with which this dark earthly magician had surrounded her, she was wholly unconscious of being the central object to all those straining eyes.
Pliant to his gesture (which had even an obsequious courtesy, but at the same time a remarkable decisiveness), the figure placed itself in the great chair. Sitting there, in such visible obscurity, it was, perhaps, as much like the actual presence of a disembodied spirit as anything that stage trickery could devise. The hushed breathing of the spectators proved how high-wrought were their anticipations of the wonders to be performed through the medium of this incomprehensible creature. I, too, was in breathless suspense, but with a far different presentiment of some strange event at hand.
"You see before you the Veiled Lady," said the bearded Professor, advancing to the verge of the platform. "By the agency of which I have just spoken, she is at this moment in communion with the spiritual world. That silvery veil is, in one sense, an enchantment, having been dipped, as it were, and essentially imbued, through the potency of my art, with the fluid medium of spirits. Slight and ethereal as it seems, the limitations of time and space have no existence within its folds. This hall--these hundreds of faces, encompassing her within so narrow an amphitheatre--are of thinner substance, in her view, than the airiest vapor that the clouds are made of. She beholds the Absolute!"
As preliminary to other and far more wonderful psychological experiments, the exhibitor suggested that some of his auditors should endeavor to make the Veiled Lady sensible of their presence by such methods--provided only no touch were laid upon her person--as they might deem best adapted to that end. Accordingly, several deep-lunged country fellows, who looked as if they might have blown the apparition away with a breath, ascended the platform. Mutually encouraging one another, they shouted so close to her ear that the veil stirred like a wreath of vanishing mist; they smote upon the floor with bludgeons; they perpetrated so hideous a clamor, that methought it might have reached, at least, a little way into the eternal sphere. Finally, with the assent of the Professor, they laid hold of the great chair, and were startled, apparently, to find it soar upward, as if lighter than the air through which it rose. But the Veiled Lady remained seated and motionless, with a composure that was hardly less than awful, because implying so immeasurable a distance betwixt her and these rude persecutors.
"These efforts are wholly without avail," observed the Professor, who had been looking on with an aspect of serene indifference. "The roar of a battery of cannon would be inaudible to the Veiled Lady. And yet, were I to will it, sitting in this very hall, she could hear the desert wind sweeping over the sands as far off as Arabia; the icebergs grinding one against the other in the polar seas; the rustle of a leaf in an East Indian forest; the lowest whispered breath of the bashfullest maiden in the world, uttering the first confession of her love. Nor does there exist the moral inducement, apart from my own behest, that could persuade her to lift the silvery veil, or arise out of that chair."
Greatly to the Professor's discomposure, however, just as he spoke these words, the Veiled Lady arose. There was a mysterious tremor that shook the magic veil. The spectators, it may be, imagined that she was about to take flight into that invisible sphere, and to the society of those purely spiritual beings with whom they reckoned her so near akin. Hollingsworth, a moment ago, had mounted the platform, and now stood gazing at the figure, with a sad intentness that brought the whole power of his great, stern, yet tender soul into his glance.
"Come," said he, waving his hand towards her. "You are safe!"
She threw off the veil, and stood before that multitude of people pale, tremulous, shrinking, as if only then had she discovered that a thousand eyes were gazing at her. Poor maiden! How strangely had she been betrayed! Blazoned abroad as a wonder of the world, and performing what were adjudged as miracles,--in the faith of many, a seeress and a prophetess; in the harsher judgment of others, a mountebank,--she had kept, as I religiously believe, her virgin reserve and sanctity of soul throughout it all. Within that encircling veil, though an evil hand had flung it over her, there was as deep a seclusion as if this forsaken girl had, all the while, been sitting under the shadow of Eliot's pulpit, in the Blithedale woods, at the feet of him who now summoned her to the shelter of his arms. And the true heart-throb of a woman's affection was too powerful for the jugglery that had hitherto environed her. She uttered a shriek, and fled to Hollingsworth, like one escaping from her deadliest enemy, and was safe forever.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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24
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THE MASQUERADERS
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Two nights had passed since the foregoing occurrences, when, in a breezy September forenoon, I set forth from town, on foot, towards Blithedale. It was the most delightful of all days for a walk, with a dash of invigorating ice-temper in the air, but a coolness that soon gave place to the brisk glow of exercise, while the vigor remained as elastic as before. The atmosphere had a spirit and sparkle in it. Each breath was like a sip of ethereal wine, tempered, as I said, with a crystal lump of ice. I had started on this expedition in an exceedingly sombre mood, as well befitted one who found himself tending towards home, but was conscious that nobody would be quite overjoyed to greet him there. My feet were hardly off the pavement, however, when this morbid sensation began to yield to the lively influences of air and motion. Nor had I gone far, with fields yet green on either side, before my step became as swift and light as if Hollingsworth were waiting to exchange a friendly hand-grip, and Zenobia's and Priscilla's open arms would welcome the wanderer's reappearance. It has happened to me on other occasions, as well as this, to prove how a state of physical well-being can create a kind of joy, in spite of the profoundest anxiety of mind.
The pathway of that walk still runs along, with sunny freshness, through my memory. I know not why it should be so. But my mental eye can even now discern the September grass, bordering the pleasant roadside with a brighter verdure than while the summer heats were scorching it; the trees, too, mostly green, although here and there a branch or shrub has donned its vesture of crimson and gold a week or two before its fellows. I see the tufted barberry-bushes, with their small clusters of scarlet fruit; the toadstools, likewise,--some spotlessly white, others yellow or red,--mysterious growths, springing suddenly from no root or seed, and growing nobody can tell how or wherefore. In this respect they resembled many of the emotions in my breast. And I still see the little rivulets, chill, clear, and bright, that murmured beneath the road, through subterranean rocks, and deepened into mossy pools, where tiny fish were darting to and fro, and within which lurked the hermit frog. But no,--I never can account for it, that, with a yearning interest to learn the upshot of all my story, and returning to Blithedale for that sole purpose, I should examine these things so like a peaceful-bosomed naturalist. Nor why, amid all my sympathies and fears, there shot, at times, a wild exhilaration through my frame.
Thus I pursued my way along the line of the ancient stone wall that Paul Dudley built, and through white villages, and past orchards of ruddy apples, and fields of ripening maize, and patches of woodland, and all such sweet rural scenery as looks the fairest, a little beyond the suburbs of a town. Hollingsworth, Zenobia, Priscilla! They glided mistily before me, as I walked. Sometimes, in my solitude, I laughed with the bitterness of self-scorn, remembering how unreservedly I had given up my heart and soul to interests that were not mine. What had I ever had to do with them? And why, being now free, should I take this thraldom on me once again? It was both sad and dangerous, I whispered to myself, to be in too close affinity with the passions, the errors, and the misfortunes of individuals who stood within a circle of their own, into which, if I stept at all, it must be as an intruder, and at a peril that I could not estimate.
Drawing nearer to Blithedale, a sickness of the spirits kept alternating with my flights of causeless buoyancy. I indulged in a hundred odd and extravagant conjectures. Either there was no such place as Blithedale, nor ever had been, nor any brotherhood of thoughtful laborers, like what I seemed to recollect there, or else it was all changed during my absence. It had been nothing but dream work and enchantment. I should seek in vain for the old farmhouse, and for the greensward, the potato-fields, the root-crops, and acres of Indian corn, and for all that configuration of the land which I had imagined. It would be another spot, and an utter strangeness.
These vagaries were of the spectral throng so apt to steal out of an unquiet heart. They partly ceased to haunt me, on my arriving at a point whence, through the trees, I began to catch glimpses of the Blithedale farm. That surely was something real. There was hardly a square foot of all those acres on which I had not trodden heavily, in one or another kind of toil. The curse of Adam's posterity--and, curse or blessing be it, it gives substance to the life around us--had first come upon me there. In the sweat of my brow I had there earned bread and eaten it, and so established my claim to be on earth, and my fellowship with all the sons of labor. I could have knelt down, and have laid my breast against that soil. The red clay of which my frame was moulded seemed nearer akin to those crumbling furrows than to any other portion of the world's dust. There was my home, and there might be my grave.
I felt an invincible reluctance, nevertheless, at the idea of presenting myself before my old associates, without first ascertaining the state in which they were. A nameless foreboding weighed upon me. Perhaps, should I know all the circumstances that had occurred, I might find it my wisest course to turn back, unrecognized, unseen, and never look at Blithedale more. Had it been evening, I would have stolen softly to some lighted window of the old farmhouse, and peeped darkling in, to see all their well-known faces round the supper-board. Then, were there a vacant seat, I might noiselessly unclose the door, glide in, and take my place among them, without a word. My entrance might be so quiet, my aspect so familiar, that they would forget how long I had been away, and suffer me to melt into the scene, as a wreath of vapor melts into a larger cloud. I dreaded a boisterous greeting. Beholding me at table, Zenobia, as a matter of course, would send me a cup of tea, and Hollingsworth fill my plate from the great dish of pandowdy, and Priscilla, in her quiet way, would hand the cream, and others help me to the bread and butter. Being one of them again, the knowledge of what had happened would come to me without a shock. For still, at every turn of my shifting fantasies, the thought stared me in the face that some evil thing had befallen us, or was ready to befall.
Yielding to this ominous impression, I now turned aside into the woods, resolving to spy out the posture of the Community as craftily as the wild Indian before he makes his onset. I would go wandering about the outskirts of the farm, and, perhaps, catching sight of a solitary acquaintance, would approach him amid the brown shadows of the trees (a kind of medium fit for spirits departed and revisitant, like myself), and entreat him to tell me how all things were.
The first living creature that I met was a partridge, which sprung up beneath my feet, and whirred away; the next was a squirrel, who chattered angrily at me from an overhanging bough. I trod along by the dark, sluggish river, and remember pausing on the bank, above one of its blackest and most placid pools (the very spot, with the barkless stump of a tree aslantwise over the water, is depicting itself to my fancy at this instant), and wondering how deep it was, and if any overladen soul had ever flung its weight of mortality in thither, and if it thus escaped the burden, or only made it heavier. And perhaps the skeleton of the drowned wretch still lay beneath the inscrutable depth, clinging to some sunken log at the bottom with the gripe of its old despair. So slight, however, was the track of these gloomy ideas, that I soon forgot them in the contemplation of a brood of wild ducks, which were floating on the river, and anon took flight, leaving each a bright streak over the black surface. By and by, I came to my hermitage, in the heart of the white-pine tree, and clambering up into it, sat down to rest. The grapes, which I had watched throughout the summer, now dangled around me in abundant clusters of the deepest purple, deliciously sweet to the taste, and, though wild, yet free from that ungentle flavor which distinguishes nearly all our native and uncultivated grapes. Methought a wine might be pressed out of them possessing a passionate zest, and endowed with a new kind of intoxicating quality, attended with such bacchanalian ecstasies as the tamer grapes of Madeira, France, and the Rhine are inadequate to produce. And I longed to quaff a great goblet of it that moment!
While devouring the grapes, I looked on all sides out of the peep-holes of my hermitage, and saw the farmhouse, the fields, and almost every part of our domain, but not a single human figure in the landscape. Some of the windows of the house were open, but with no more signs of life than in a dead man's unshut eyes. The barn-door was ajar, and swinging in the breeze. The big old dog,--he was a relic of the former dynasty of the farm,--that hardly ever stirred out of the yard, was nowhere to be seen. What, then, had become of all the fraternity and sisterhood? Curious to ascertain this point, I let myself down out of the tree, and going to the edge of the wood, was glad to perceive our herd of cows chewing the cud or grazing not far off. I fancied, by their manner, that two or three of them recognized me (as, indeed, they ought, for I had milked them and been their chamberlain times without number); but, after staring me in the face a little while, they phlegmatically began grazing and chewing their cuds again. Then I grew foolishly angry at so cold a reception, and flung some rotten fragments of an old stump at these unsentimental cows.
Skirting farther round the pasture, I heard voices and much laughter proceeding from the interior of the wood. Voices, male and feminine; laughter, not only of fresh young throats, but the bass of grown people, as if solemn organ-pipes should pour out airs of merriment. Not a voice spoke, but I knew it better than my own; not a laugh, but its cadences were familiar. The wood, in this portion of it, seemed as full of jollity as if Comus and his crew were holding their revels in one of its usually lonesome glades. Stealing onward as far as I durst, without hazard of discovery, I saw a concourse of strange figures beneath the overshadowing branches. They appeared, and vanished, and came again, confusedly with the streaks of sunlight glimmering down upon them.
Among them was an Indian chief, with blanket, feathers, and war-paint, and uplifted tomahawk; and near him, looking fit to be his woodland bride, the goddess Diana, with the crescent on her head, and attended by our big lazy dog, in lack of any fleeter hound. Drawing an arrow from her quiver, she let it fly at a venture, and hit the very tree behind which I happened to be lurking. Another group consisted of a Bavarian broom-girl, a negro of the Jim Crow order, one or two foresters of the Middle Ages, a Kentucky woodsman in his trimmed hunting-shirt and deerskin leggings, and a Shaker elder, quaint, demure, broad-brimmed, and square-skirted. Shepherds of Arcadia, and allegoric figures from the "Faerie Queen," were oddly mixed up with these. Arm in arm, or otherwise huddled together in strange discrepancy, stood grim Puritans, gay Cavaliers, and Revolutionary officers with three-cornered cocked hats, and queues longer than their swords. A bright-complexioned, dark-haired, vivacious little gypsy, with a red shawl over her head, went from one group to another, telling fortunes by palmistry; and Moll Pitcher, the renowned old witch of Lynn, broomstick in hand, showed herself prominently in the midst, as if announcing all these apparitions to be the offspring of her necromantic art. But Silas Foster, who leaned against a tree near by, in his customary blue frock and smoking a short pipe, did more to disenchant the scene, with his look of shrewd, acrid, Yankee observation, than twenty witches and necromancers could have done in the way of rendering it weird and fantastic.
A little farther off, some old-fashioned skinkers and drawers, all with portentously red noses, were spreading a banquet on the leaf-strewn earth; while a horned and long-tailed gentleman (in whom I recognized the fiendish musician erst seen by Tam O'Shanter) tuned his fiddle, and summoned the whole motley rout to a dance, before partaking of the festal cheer. So they joined hands in a circle, whirling round so swiftly, so madly, and so merrily, in time and tune with the Satanic music, that their separate incongruities were blended all together, and they became a kind of entanglement that went nigh to turn one's brain with merely looking at it. Anon they stopt all of a sudden, and staring at one another's figures, set up a roar of laughter; whereat a shower of the September leaves (which, all day long, had been hesitating whether to fall or no) were shaken off by the movement of the air, and came eddying down upon the revellers.
Then, for lack of breath, ensued a silence, at the deepest point of which, tickled by the oddity of surprising my grave associates in this masquerading trim, I could not possibly refrain from a burst of laughter on my own separate account.
"Hush!" I heard the pretty gypsy fortuneteller say. "Who is that laughing?"
"Some profane intruder!" said the goddess Diana. "I shall send an arrow through his heart, or change him into a stag, as I did Actaeon, if he peeps from behind the trees!"
"Me take his scalp!" cried the Indian chief, brandishing his tomahawk, and cutting a great caper in the air.
"I'll root him in the earth with a spell that I have at my tongue's end!" squeaked Moll Pitcher. "And the green moss shall grow all over him, before he gets free again!"
"The voice was Miles Coverdale's," said the fiendish fiddler, with a whisk of his tail and a toss of his horns. "My music has brought him hither. He is always ready to dance to the Devil's tune!"
Thus put on the right track, they all recognized the voice at once, and set up a simultaneous shout.
"Miles! Miles! Miles Coverdale, where are you?" they cried. "Zenobia! Queen Zenobia! here is one of your vassals lurking in the wood. Command him to approach and pay his duty!"
The whole fantastic rabble forthwith streamed off in pursuit of me, so that I was like a mad poet hunted by chimeras. Having fairly the start of them, however, I succeeded in making my escape, and soon left their merriment and riot at a good distance in the rear. Its fainter tones assumed a kind of mournfulness, and were finally lost in the hush and solemnity of the wood. In my haste, I stumbled over a heap of logs and sticks that had been cut for firewood, a great while ago, by some former possessor of the soil, and piled up square, in order to be carted or sledded away to the farmhouse. But, being forgotten, they had lain there perhaps fifty years, and possibly much longer; until, by the accumulation of moss, and the leaves falling over them, and decaying there, from autumn to autumn, a green mound was formed, in which the softened outline of the woodpile was still perceptible. In the fitful mood that then swayed my mind, I found something strangely affecting in this simple circumstance. I imagined the long-dead woodman, and his long-dead wife and children, coming out of their chill graves, and essaying to make a fire with this heap of mossy fuel!
From this spot I strayed onward, quite lost in reverie, and neither knew nor cared whither I was going, until a low, soft, well-remembered voice spoke, at a little distance.
"There is Mr. Coverdale!"
"Miles Coverdale!" said another voice,--and its tones were very stern. "Let him come forward, then!"
"Yes, Mr. Coverdale," cried a woman's voice,--clear and melodious, but, just then, with something unnatural in its chord,--"you are welcome! But you come half an hour too late, and have missed a scene which you would have enjoyed!"
I looked up and found myself nigh Eliot's pulpit, at the base of which sat Hollingsworth, with Priscilla at his feet and Zenobia standing before them.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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25
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THE THREE TOGETHER
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Hollingsworth was in his ordinary working-dress. Priscilla wore a pretty and simple gown, with a kerchief about her neck, and a calash, which she had flung back from her head, leaving it suspended by the strings. But Zenobia (whose part among the maskers, as may be supposed, was no inferior one) appeared in a costume of fanciful magnificence, with her jewelled flower as the central ornament of what resembled a leafy crown, or coronet. She represented the Oriental princess by whose name we were accustomed to know her. Her attitude was free and noble; yet, if a queen's, it was not that of a queen triumphant, but dethroned, on trial for her life, or, perchance, condemned already. The spirit of the conflict seemed, nevertheless, to be alive in her. Her eyes were on fire; her cheeks had each a crimson spot, so exceedingly vivid, and marked with so definite an outline, that I at first doubted whether it were not artificial. In a very brief space, however, this idea was shamed by the paleness that ensued, as the blood sunk suddenly away. Zenobia now looked like marble.
One always feels the fact, in an instant, when he has intruded on those who love, or those who hate, at some acme of their passion that puts them into a sphere of their own, where no other spirit can pretend to stand on equal ground with them. I was confused,--affected even with a species of terror,--and wished myself away. The intenseness of their feelings gave them the exclusive property of the soil and atmosphere, and left me no right to be or breathe there.
"Hollingsworth,--Zenobia,--I have just returned to Blithedale," said I, "and had no thought of finding you here. We shall meet again at the house. I will retire."
"This place is free to you," answered Hollingsworth.
"As free as to ourselves," added Zenobia. "This long while past, you have been following up your game, groping for human emotions in the dark corners of the heart. Had you been here a little sooner, you might have seen them dragged into the daylight. I could even wish to have my trial over again, with you standing by to see fair play! Do you know, Mr. Coverdale, I have been on trial for my life?"
She laughed, while speaking thus. But, in truth, as my eyes wandered from one of the group to another, I saw in Hollingsworth all that an artist could desire for the grim portrait of a Puritan magistrate holding inquest of life and death in a case of witchcraft; in Zenobia, the sorceress herself, not aged, wrinkled, and decrepit, but fair enough to tempt Satan with a force reciprocal to his own; and, in Priscilla, the pale victim, whose soul and body had been wasted by her spells. Had a pile of fagots been heaped against the rock, this hint of impending doom would have completed the suggestive picture.
"It was too hard upon me," continued Zenobia, addressing Hollingsworth, "that judge, jury, and accuser should all be comprehended in one man! I demur, as I think the lawyers say, to the jurisdiction. But let the learned Judge Coverdale seat himself on the top of the rock, and you and me stand at its base, side by side, pleading our cause before him! There might, at least, be two criminals instead of one."
"You forced this on me," replied Hollingsworth, looking her sternly in the face. "Did I call you hither from among the masqueraders yonder? Do I assume to be your judge? No; except so far as I have an unquestionable right of judgment, in order to settle my own line of behavior towards those with whom the events of life bring me in contact. True, I have already judged you, but not on the world's part,--neither do I pretend to pass a sentence!"
"Ah, this is very good!" cried Zenobia with a smile. "What strange beings you men are, Mr. Coverdale! --is it not so? It is the simplest thing in the world with you to bring a woman before your secret tribunals, and judge and condemn her unheard, and then tell her to go free without a sentence. The misfortune is, that this same secret tribunal chances to be the only judgment-seat that a true woman stands in awe of, and that any verdict short of acquittal is equivalent to a death sentence!"
The more I looked at them, and the more I heard, the stronger grew my impression that a crisis had just come and gone. On Hollingsworth's brow it had left a stamp like that of irrevocable doom, of which his own will was the instrument. In Zenobia's whole person, beholding her more closely, I saw a riotous agitation; the almost delirious disquietude of a great struggle, at the close of which the vanquished one felt her strength and courage still mighty within her, and longed to renew the contest. My sensations were as if I had come upon a battlefield before the smoke was as yet cleared away.
And what subjects had been discussed here? All, no doubt, that for so many months past had kept my heart and my imagination idly feverish. Zenobia's whole character and history; the true nature of her mysterious connection with Westervelt; her later purposes towards Hollingsworth, and, reciprocally, his in reference to her; and, finally, the degree in which Zenobia had been cognizant of the plot against Priscilla, and what, at last, had been the real object of that scheme. On these points, as before, I was left to my own conjectures. One thing, only, was certain. Zenobia and Hollingsworth were friends no longer. If their heartstrings were ever intertwined, the knot had been adjudged an entanglement, and was now violently broken.
But Zenobia seemed unable to rest content with the matter in the posture which it had assumed.
"Ah! do we part so?" exclaimed she, seeing Hollingsworth about to retire.
"And why not?" said he, with almost rude abruptness. "What is there further to be said between us?"
"Well, perhaps nothing," answered Zenobia, looking him in the face, and smiling. "But we have come many times before to this gray rock, and we have talked very softly among the whisperings of the birch-trees. They were pleasant hours! I love to make the latest of them, though not altogether so delightful, loiter away as slowly as may be. And, besides, you have put many queries to me at this, which you design to be our last interview; and being driven, as I must acknowledge, into a corner, I have responded with reasonable frankness. But now, with your free consent, I desire the privilege of asking a few questions, in my turn."
"I have no concealments," said Hollingsworth.
"We shall see," answered Zenobia. "I would first inquire whether you have supposed me to be wealthy?"
"On that point," observed Hollingsworth, "I have had the opinion which the world holds."
"And I held it likewise," said Zenobia. "Had I not, Heaven is my witness the knowledge should have been as free to you as me. It is only three days since I knew the strange fact that threatens to make me poor; and your own acquaintance with it, I suspect, is of at least as old a date. I fancied myself affluent. You are aware, too, of the disposition which I purposed making of the larger portion of my imaginary opulence,--nay, were it all, I had not hesitated. Let me ask you, further, did I ever propose or intimate any terms of compact, on which depended this--as the world would consider it--so important sacrifice?"
"You certainly spoke of none," said Hollingsworth.
"Nor meant any," she responded. "I was willing to realize your dream freely,--generously, as some might think,--but, at all events, fully, and heedless though it should prove the ruin of my fortune. If, in your own thoughts, you have imposed any conditions of this expenditure, it is you that must be held responsible for whatever is sordid and unworthy in them. And now one other question. Do you love this girl?"
"O Zenobia!" exclaimed Priscilla, shrinking back, as if longing for the rock to topple over and hide her.
"Do you love her?" repeated Zenobia.
"Had you asked me that question a short time since," replied Hollingsworth, after a pause, during which, it seemed to me, even the birch-trees held their whispering breath, "I should have told you--'No!' My feelings for Priscilla differed little from those of an elder brother, watching tenderly over the gentle sister whom God has given him to protect."
"And what is your answer now?" persisted Zenobia.
"I do love her!" said Hollingsworth, uttering the words with a deep inward breath, instead of speaking them outright. "As well declare it thus as in any other way. I do love her!"
"Now, God be judge between us," cried Zenobia, breaking into sudden passion, "which of us two has most mortally offended Him! At least, I am a woman, with every fault, it may be, that a woman ever had,--weak, vain, unprincipled (like most of my sex; for our virtues, when we have any, are merely impulsive and intuitive), passionate, too, and pursuing my foolish and unattainable ends by indirect and cunning, though absurdly chosen means, as an hereditary bond-slave must; false, moreover, to the whole circle of good, in my reckless truth to the little good I saw before me,--but still a woman! A creature whom only a little change of earthly fortune, a little kinder smile of Him who sent me hither, and one true heart to encourage and direct me, might have made all that a woman can be! But how is it with you? Are you a man? No; but a monster! A cold, heartless, self-beginning and self-ending piece of mechanism!"
"With what, then, do you charge me!" asked Hollingsworth, aghast, and greatly disturbed by this attack. "Show me one selfish end, in all I ever aimed at, and you may cut it out of my bosom with a knife!"
"It is all self!" answered Zenobia with still intenser bitterness. "Nothing else; nothing but self, self, self! The fiend, I doubt not, has made his choicest mirth of you these seven years past, and especially in the mad summer which we have spent together. I see it now! I am awake, disenchanted, disinthralled! Self, self, self! You have embodied yourself in a project. You are a better masquerader than the witches and gypsies yonder; for your disguise is a self-deception. See whither it has brought you! First, you aimed a death-blow, and a treacherous one, at this scheme of a purer and higher life, which so many noble spirits had wrought out. Then, because Coverdale could not be quite your slave, you threw him ruthlessly away. And you took me, too, into your plan, as long as there was hope of my being available, and now fling me aside again, a broken tool! But, foremost and blackest of your sins, you stifled down your inmost consciousness! --you did a deadly wrong to your own heart! --you were ready to sacrifice this girl, whom, if God ever visibly showed a purpose, He put into your charge, and through whom He was striving to redeem you!"
"This is a woman's view," said Hollingsworth, growing deadly pale,--"a woman's, whose whole sphere of action is in the heart, and who can conceive of no higher nor wider one!"
"Be silent!" cried Zenobia imperiously. "You know neither man nor woman! The utmost that can be said in your behalf--and because I would not be wholly despicable in my own eyes, but would fain excuse my wasted feelings, nor own it wholly a delusion, therefore I say it--is, that a great and rich heart has been ruined in your breast. Leave me, now. You have done with me, and I with you. Farewell!"
"Priscilla," said Hollingsworth, "come." Zenobia smiled; possibly I did so too. Not often, in human life, has a gnawing sense of injury found a sweeter morsel of revenge than was conveyed in the tone with which Hollingsworth spoke those two words. It was the abased and tremulous tone of a man whose faith in himself was shaken, and who sought, at last, to lean on an affection. Yes; the strong man bowed himself and rested on this poor Priscilla! Oh, could she have failed him, what a triumph for the lookers-on!
And, at first, I half imagined that she was about to fail him. She rose up, stood shivering like the birch leaves that trembled over her head, and then slowly tottered, rather than walked, towards Zenobia. Arriving at her feet, she sank down there, in the very same attitude which she had assumed on their first meeting, in the kitchen of the old farmhouse. Zenobia remembered it.
"Ah, Priscilla!" said she, shaking her head, "how much is changed since then! You kneel to a dethroned princess. You, the victorious one! But he is waiting for you. Say what you wish, and leave me."
"We are sisters!" gasped Priscilla.
I fancied that I understood the word and action. It meant the offering of herself, and all she had, to be at Zenobia's disposal. But the latter would not take it thus.
"True, we are sisters!" she replied; and, moved by the sweet word, she stooped down and kissed Priscilla; but not lovingly, for a sense of fatal harm received through her seemed to be lurking in Zenobia's heart. "We had one father! You knew it from the first; I, but a little while,--else some things that have chanced might have been spared you. But I never wished you harm. You stood between me and an end which I desired. I wanted a clear path. No matter what I meant. It is over now. Do you forgive me?"
"O Zenobia," sobbed Priscilla, "it is I that feel like the guilty one!"
"No, no, poor little thing!" said Zenobia, with a sort of contempt. "You have been my evil fate, but there never was a babe with less strength or will to do an injury. Poor child! Methinks you have but a melancholy lot before you, sitting all alone in that wide, cheerless heart, where, for aught you know,--and as I, alas! believe,--the fire which you have kindled may soon go out. Ah, the thought makes me shiver for you! What will you do, Priscilla, when you find no spark among the ashes?"
"Die!" she answered.
"That was well said!" responded Zenobia, with an approving smile. "There is all a woman in your little compass, my poor sister. Meanwhile, go with him, and live!"
She waved her away with a queenly gesture, and turned her own face to the rock. I watched Priscilla, wondering what judgment she would pass between Zenobia and Hollingsworth; how interpret his behavior, so as to reconcile it with true faith both towards her sister and herself; how compel her love for him to keep any terms whatever with her sisterly affection! But, in truth, there was no such difficulty as I imagined. Her engrossing love made it all clear. Hollingsworth could have no fault. That was the one principle at the centre of the universe. And the doubtful guilt or possible integrity of other people, appearances, self-evident facts, the testimony of her own senses,--even Hollingsworth's self-accusation, had he volunteered it,--would have weighed not the value of a mote of thistledown on the other side. So secure was she of his right, that she never thought of comparing it with another's wrong, but left the latter to itself.
Hollingsworth drew her arm within his, and soon disappeared with her among the trees. I cannot imagine how Zenobia knew when they were out of sight; she never glanced again towards them. But, retaining a proud attitude so long as they might have thrown back a retiring look, they were no sooner departed,--utterly departed,--than she began slowly to sink down. It was as if a great, invisible, irresistible weight were pressing her to the earth. Settling upon her knees, she leaned her forehead against the rock, and sobbed convulsively; dry sobs they seemed to be, such as have nothing to do with tears.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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26
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ZENOBIA AND COVERDALE
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Zenobia had entirely forgotten me. She fancied herself alone with her great grief. And had it been only a common pity that I felt for her,--the pity that her proud nature would have repelled, as the one worst wrong which the world yet held in reserve,--the sacredness and awfulness of the crisis might have impelled me to steal away silently, so that not a dry leaf should rustle under my feet. I would have left her to struggle, in that solitude, with only the eye of God upon her. But, so it happened, I never once dreamed of questioning my right to be there now, as I had questioned it just before, when I came so suddenly upon Hollingsworth and herself, in the passion of their recent debate. It suits me not to explain what was the analogy that I saw or imagined between Zenobia's situation and mine; nor, I believe, will the reader detect this one secret, hidden beneath many a revelation which perhaps concerned me less. In simple truth, however, as Zenobia leaned her forehead against the rock, shaken with that tearless agony, it seemed to me that the self-same pang, with hardly mitigated torment, leaped thrilling from her heartstrings to my own. Was it wrong, therefore, if I felt myself consecrated to the priesthood by sympathy like this, and called upon to minister to this woman's affliction, so far as mortal could?
But, indeed, what could mortal do for her? Nothing! The attempt would be a mockery and an anguish. Time, it is true, would steal away her grief, and bury it and the best of her heart in the same grave. But Destiny itself, methought, in its kindliest mood, could do no better for Zenobia, in the way of quick relief; than to cause the impending rock to impend a little farther, and fall upon her head. So I leaned against a tree, and listened to her sobs, in unbroken silence. She was half prostrate, half kneeling, with her forehead still pressed against the rock. Her sobs were the only sound; she did not groan, nor give any other utterance to her distress. It was all involuntary.
At length she sat up, put back her hair, and stared about her with a bewildered aspect, as if not distinctly recollecting the scene through which she had passed, nor cognizant of the situation in which it left her. Her face and brow were almost purple with the rush of blood. They whitened, however, by and by, and for some time retained this deathlike hue. She put her hand to her forehead, with a gesture that made me forcibly conscious of an intense and living pain there.
Her glance, wandering wildly to and fro, passed over me several times, without appearing to inform her of my presence. But, finally, a look of recognition gleamed from her eyes into mine.
"Is it you, Miles Coverdale?" said she, smiling. "Ah, I perceive what you are about! You are turning this whole affair into a ballad. Pray let me hear as many stanzas as you happen to have ready."
"Oh, hush, Zenobia!" I answered. "Heaven knows what an ache is in my soul!"
"It is genuine tragedy, is it not?" rejoined Zenobia, with a sharp, light laugh. "And you are willing to allow, perhaps, that I have had hard measure. But it is a woman's doom, and I have deserved it like a woman; so let there be no pity, as, on my part, there shall be no complaint. It is all right, now, or will shortly be so. But, Mr. Coverdale, by all means write this ballad, and put your soul's ache into it, and turn your sympathy to good account, as other poets do, and as poets must, unless they choose to give us glittering icicles instead of lines of fire. As for the moral, it shall be distilled into the final stanza, in a drop of bitter honey."
"What shall it be, Zenobia?" I inquired, endeavoring to fall in with her mood.
"Oh, a very old one will serve the purpose," she replied. "There are no new truths, much as we have prided ourselves on finding some. A moral? Why, this: That, in the battlefield of life, the downright stroke, that would fall only on a man's steel headpiece, is sure to light on a woman's heart, over which she wears no breastplate, and whose wisdom it is, therefore, to keep out of the conflict. Or, this: That the whole universe, her own sex and yours, and Providence, or Destiny, to boot, make common cause against the woman who swerves one hair's-breadth out of the beaten track. Yes; and add (for I may as well own it, now) that, with that one hair's-breadth, she goes all astray, and never sees the world in its true aspect afterwards."
"This last is too stern a moral," I observed. "Cannot we soften it a little?"
"Do it if you like, at your own peril, not on my responsibility," she answered. Then, with a sudden change of subject, she went on: "After all, he has flung away what would have served him better than the poor, pale flower he kept. What can Priscilla do for him? Put passionate warmth into his heart, when it shall be chilled with frozen hopes? Strengthen his hands, when they are weary with much doing and no performance? No! but only tend towards him with a blind, instinctive love, and hang her little, puny weakness for a clog upon his arm! She cannot even give him such sympathy as is worth the name. For will he never, in many an hour of darkness, need that proud intellectual sympathy which he might have had from me? --the sympathy that would flash light along his course, and guide, as well as cheer him? Poor Hollingsworth! Where will he find it now?"
"Hollingsworth has a heart of ice!" said I bitterly. "He is a wretch!"
"Do him no wrong," interrupted Zenobia, turning haughtily upon me. "Presume not to estimate a man like Hollingsworth. It was my fault, all along, and none of his. I see it now! He never sought me. Why should he seek me? What had I to offer him? A miserable, bruised, and battered heart, spoilt long before he met me. A life, too, hopelessly entangled with a villain's! He did well to cast me off. God be praised, he did it! And yet, had he trusted me, and borne with me a little longer, I would have saved him all this trouble."
She was silent for a time, and stood with her eyes fixed on the ground. Again raising them, her look was more mild and calm.
"Miles Coverdale!" said she.
"Well, Zenobia," I responded. "Can I do you any service?"
"Very little," she replied. "But it is my purpose, as you may well imagine, to remove from Blithedale; and, most likely, I may not see Hollingsworth again. A woman in my position, you understand, feels scarcely at her ease among former friends. New faces,--unaccustomed looks,--those only can she tolerate. She would pine among familiar scenes; she would be apt to blush, too, under the eyes that knew her secret; her heart might throb uncomfortably; she would mortify herself, I suppose, with foolish notions of having sacrificed the honor of her sex at the foot of proud, contumacious man. Poor womanhood, with its rights and wrongs! Here will be new matter for my course of lectures, at the idea of which you smiled, Mr. Coverdale, a month or two ago. But, as you have really a heart and sympathies, as far as they go, and as I shall depart without seeing Hollingsworth, I must entreat you to be a messenger between him and me."
"Willingly," said I, wondering at the strange way in which her mind seemed to vibrate from the deepest earnest to mere levity. "What is the message?"
"True,--what is it?" exclaimed Zenobia. "After all, I hardly know. On better consideration, I have no message. Tell him,--tell him something pretty and pathetic, that will come nicely and sweetly into your ballad,--anything you please, so it be tender and submissive enough. Tell him he has murdered me! Tell him that I'll haunt him! " --She spoke these words with the wildest energy. --"And give him--no, give Priscilla--this!"
Thus saying, she took the jewelled flower out of her hair; and it struck me as the act of a queen, when worsted in a combat, discrowning herself, as if she found a sort of relief in abasing all her pride.
"Bid her wear this for Zenobia's sake," she continued. "She is a pretty little creature, and will make as soft and gentle a wife as the veriest Bluebeard could desire. Pity that she must fade so soon! These delicate and puny maidens always do. Ten years hence, let Hollingsworth look at my face and Priscilla's, and then choose betwixt them. Or, if he pleases, let him do it now."
How magnificently Zenobia looked as she said this! The effect of her beauty was even heightened by the over-consciousness and self-recognition of it, into which, I suppose, Hollingsworth's scorn had driven her. She understood the look of admiration in my face; and--Zenobia to the last--it gave her pleasure.
"It is an endless pity," said she, "that I had not bethought myself of winning your heart, Mr. Coverdale, instead of Hollingsworth's. I think I should have succeeded, and many women would have deemed you the worthier conquest of the two. You are certainly much the handsomest man. But there is a fate in these things. And beauty, in a man, has been of little account with me since my earliest girlhood, when, for once, it turned my head. Now, farewell!"
"Zenobia, whither are you going?" I asked.
"No matter where," said she. "But I am weary of this place, and sick to death of playing at philanthropy and progress. Of all varieties of mock-life, we have surely blundered into the very emptiest mockery in our effort to establish the one true system. I have done with it; and Blithedale must find another woman to superintend the laundry, and you, Mr. Coverdale, another nurse to make your gruel, the next time you fall ill. It was, indeed, a foolish dream! Yet it gave us some pleasant summer days, and bright hopes, while they lasted. It can do no more; nor will it avail us to shed tears over a broken bubble. Here is my hand! Adieu!"
She gave me her hand with the same free, whole-souled gesture as on the first afternoon of our acquaintance, and, being greatly moved, I bethought me of no better method of expressing my deep sympathy than to carry it to my lips. In so doing, I perceived that this white hand--so hospitably warm when I first touched it, five months since--was now cold as a veritable piece of snow.
"How very cold!" I exclaimed, holding it between both my own, with the vain idea of warming it. "What can be the reason? It is really deathlike!"
"The extremities die first, they say," answered Zenobia, laughing. "And so you kiss this poor, despised, rejected hand! Well, my dear friend, I thank you. You have reserved your homage for the fallen. Lip of man will never touch my hand again. I intend to become a Catholic, for the sake of going into a nunnery. When you next hear of Zenobia, her face will be behind the black veil; so look your last at it now,--for all is over. Once more, farewell!"
She withdrew her hand, yet left a lingering pressure, which I felt long afterwards. So intimately connected as I had been with perhaps the only man in whom she was ever truly interested, Zenobia looked on me as the representative of all the past, and was conscious that, in bidding me adieu, she likewise took final leave of Hollingsworth, and of this whole epoch of her life. Never did her beauty shine out more lustrously than in the last glimpse that I had of her. She departed, and was soon hidden among the trees. But, whether it was the strong impression of the foregoing scene, or whatever else the cause, I was affected with a fantasy that Zenobia had not actually gone, but was still hovering about the spot and haunting it. I seemed to feel her eyes upon me. It was as if the vivid coloring of her character had left a brilliant stain upon the air. By degrees, however, the impression grew less distinct. I flung myself upon the fallen leaves at the base of Eliot's pulpit. The sunshine withdrew up the tree trunks and flickered on the topmost boughs; gray twilight made the wood obscure; the stars brightened out; the pendent boughs became wet with chill autumnal dews. But I was listless, worn out with emotion on my own behalf and sympathy for others, and had no heart to leave my comfortless lair beneath the rock.
I must have fallen asleep, and had a dream, all the circumstances of which utterly vanished at the moment when they converged to some tragical catastrophe, and thus grew too powerful for the thin sphere of slumber that enveloped them. Starting from the ground, I found the risen moon shining upon the rugged face of the rock, and myself all in a tremble.
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{
"id": "2081"
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27
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MIDNIGHT
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It could not have been far from midnight when I came beneath Hollingsworth's window, and, finding it open, flung in a tuft of grass with earth at the roots, and heard it fall upon the floor. He was either awake or sleeping very lightly; for scarcely a moment had gone by before he looked out and discerned me standing in the moonlight.
"Is it you, Coverdale?" he asked. "What is the matter?"
"Come down to me, Hollingsworth!" I answered. "I am anxious to speak with you."
The strange tone of my own voice startled me, and him, probably, no less. He lost no time, and soon issued from the house-door, with his dress half arranged.
"Again, what is the matter?" he asked impatiently.
"Have you seen Zenobia," said I, "since you parted from her at Eliot's pulpit?"
"No," answered Hollingsworth; "nor did I expect it."
His voice was deep, but had a tremor in it, Hardly had he spoken, when Silas Foster thrust his head, done up in a cotton handkerchief, out of another window, and took what he called as it literally was--a squint at us.
"Well, folks, what are ye about here?" he demanded. "Aha! are you there, Miles Coverdale? You have been turning night into day since you left us, I reckon; and so you find it quite natural to come prowling about the house at this time o' night, frightening my old woman out of her wits, and making her disturb a tired man out of his best nap. In with you, you vagabond, and to bed!"
"Dress yourself quickly, Foster," said I. "We want your assistance."
I could not, for the life of me, keep that strange tone out of my voice. Silas Foster, obtuse as were his sensibilities, seemed to feel the ghastly earnestness that was conveyed in it as well as Hollingsworth did. He immediately withdrew his head, and I heard him yawning, muttering to his wife, and again yawning heavily, while he hurried on his clothes. Meanwhile I showed Hollingsworth a delicate handkerchief, marked with a well-known cipher, and told where I had found it, and other circumstances, which had filled me with a suspicion so terrible that I left him, if he dared, to shape it out for himself. By the time my brief explanation was finished, we were joined by Silas Foster in his blue woollen frock.
"Well, boys," cried he peevishly, "what is to pay now?"
"Tell him, Hollingsworth," said I. Hollingsworth shivered perceptibly, and drew in a hard breath betwixt his teeth. He steadied himself, however, and, looking the matter more firmly in the face than I had done, explained to Foster my suspicions, and the grounds of them, with a distinctness from which, in spite of my utmost efforts, my words had swerved aside. The tough-nerved yeoman, in his comment, put a finish on the business, and brought out the hideous idea in its full terror, as if he were removing the napkin from the face of a corpse.
"And so you think she's drowned herself?" he cried. I turned away my face.
"What on earth should the young woman do that for?" exclaimed Silas, his eyes half out of his head with mere surprise. "Why, she has more means than she can use or waste, and lacks nothing to make her comfortable, but a husband, and that's an article she could have, any day. There's some mistake about this, I tell you!"
"Come," said I, shuddering; "let us go and ascertain the truth."
"Well, well," answered Silas Foster; "just as you say. We'll take the long pole, with the hook at the end, that serves to get the bucket out of the draw-well when the rope is broken. With that, and a couple of long-handled hay-rakes, I'll answer for finding her, if she's anywhere to be found. Strange enough! Zenobia drown herself! No, no; I don't believe it. She had too much sense, and too much means, and enjoyed life a great deal too well."
When our few preparations were completed, we hastened, by a shorter than the customary route, through fields and pastures, and across a portion of the meadow, to the particular spot on the river-bank which I had paused to contemplate in the course of my afternoon's ramble. A nameless presentiment had again drawn me thither, after leaving Eliot's pulpit. I showed my companions where I had found the handkerchief, and pointed to two or three footsteps, impressed into the clayey margin, and tending towards the water. Beneath its shallow verge, among the water-weeds, there were further traces, as yet unobliterated by the sluggish current, which was there almost at a standstill. Silas Foster thrust his face down close to these footsteps, and picked up a shoe that had escaped my observation, being half imbedded in the mud.
"There's a kid shoe that never was made on a Yankee last," observed he. "I know enough of shoemaker's craft to tell that. French manufacture; and see what a high instep! and how evenly she trod in it! There never was a woman that stept handsomer in her shoes than Zenobia did. Here," he added, addressing Hollingsworth, "would you like to keep the shoe?"
Hollingsworth started back.
"Give it to me, Foster," said I. I dabbled it in the water, to rinse off the mud, and have kept it ever since. Not far from this spot lay an old, leaky punt, drawn up on the oozy river-side, and generally half full of water. It served the angler to go in quest of pickerel, or the sportsman to pick up his wild ducks. Setting this crazy bark afloat, I seated myself in the stern with the paddle, while Hollingsworth sat in the bows with the hooked pole, and Silas Foster amidships with a hay-rake.
"It puts me in mind of my young days," remarked Silas, "when I used to steal out of bed to go bobbing for hornpouts and eels. Heigh-ho! --well, life and death together make sad work for us all! Then I was a boy, bobbing for fish; and now I am getting to be an old fellow, and here I be, groping for a dead body! I tell you what, lads; if I thought anything had really happened to Zenobia, I should feel kind o' sorrowful."
"I wish, at least, you would hold your tongue," muttered I.
The moon, that night, though past the full, was still large and oval, and having risen between eight and nine o'clock, now shone aslantwise over the river, throwing the high, opposite bank, with its woods, into deep shadow, but lighting up the hither shore pretty effectually. Not a ray appeared to fall on the river itself. It lapsed imperceptibly away, a broad, black, inscrutable depth, keeping its own secrets from the eye of man, as impenetrably as mid-ocean could.
"Well, Miles Coverdale," said Foster, "you are the helmsman. How do you mean to manage this business?"
"I shall let the boat drift, broadside foremost, past that stump," I replied. "I know the bottom, having sounded it in fishing. The shore, on this side, after the first step or two, goes off very abruptly; and there is a pool, just by the stump, twelve or fifteen feet deep. The current could not have force enough to sweep any sunken object, even if partially buoyant, out of that hollow."
"Come, then," said Silas; "but I doubt whether I can touch bottom with this hay-rake, if it's as deep as you say. Mr. Hollingsworth, I think you'll be the lucky man to-night, such luck as it is."
We floated past the stump. Silas Foster plied his rake manfully, poking it as far as he could into the water, and immersing the whole length of his arm besides. Hollingsworth at first sat motionless, with the hooked pole elevated in the air. But, by and by, with a nervous and jerky movement, he began to plunge it into the blackness that upbore us, setting his teeth, and making precisely such thrusts, methought, as if he were stabbing at a deadly enemy. I bent over the side of the boat. So obscure, however, so awfully mysterious, was that dark stream, that--and the thought made me shiver like a leaf--I might as well have tried to look into the enigma of the eternal world, to discover what had become of Zenobia's soul, as into the river's depths, to find her body. And there, perhaps, she lay, with her face upward, while the shadow of the boat, and my own pale face peering downward, passed slowly betwixt her and the sky!
Once, twice, thrice, I paddled the boat upstream, and again suffered it to glide, with the river's slow, funereal motion, downward. Silas Foster had raked up a large mass of stuff, which, as it came towards the surface, looked somewhat like a flowing garment, but proved to be a monstrous tuft of water-weeds. Hollingsworth, with a gigantic effort, upheaved a sunken log. When once free of the bottom, it rose partly out of water,--all weedy and slimy, a devilish-looking object, which the moon had not shone upon for half a hundred years,--then plunged again, and sullenly returned to its old resting-place, for the remnant of the century.
"That looked ugly!" quoth Silas. "I half thought it was the Evil One, on the same errand as ourselves,--searching for Zenobia."
"He shall never get her," said I, giving the boat a strong impulse.
"That's not for you to say, my boy," retorted the yeoman. "Pray God he never has, and never may. Slow work this, however! I should really be glad to find something! Pshaw! What a notion that is, when the only good luck would be to paddle, and drift, and poke, and grope, hereabouts, till morning, and have our labor for our pains! For my part, I shouldn't wonder if the creature had only lost her shoe in the mud, and saved her soul alive, after all. My stars! how she will laugh at us, to-morrow morning!"
It is indescribable what an image of Zenobia--at the breakfast-table, full of warm and mirthful life--this surmise of Silas Foster's brought before my mind. The terrible phantasm of her death was thrown by it into the remotest and dimmest background, where it seemed to grow as improbable as a myth.
"Yes, Silas, it may be as you say," cried I. The drift of the stream had again borne us a little below the stump, when I felt--yes, felt, for it was as if the iron hook had smote my breast--felt Hollingsworth's pole strike some object at the bottom of the river!
He started up, and almost overset the boat.
"Hold on!" cried Foster; "you have her!"
Putting a fury of strength into the effort, Hollingsworth heaved amain, and up came a white swash to the surface of the river. It was the flow of a woman's garments. A little higher, and we saw her dark hair streaming down the current. Black River of Death, thou hadst yielded up thy victim! Zenobia was found!
Silas Foster laid hold of the body; Hollingsworth likewise grappled with it; and I steered towards the bank, gazing all the while at Zenobia, whose limbs were swaying in the current close at the boat's side. Arriving near the shore, we all three stept into the water, bore her out, and laid her on the ground beneath a tree.
"Poor child!" said Foster,--and his dry old heart, I verily believe, vouchsafed a tear, "I'm sorry for her!"
Were I to describe the perfect horror of the spectacle, the reader might justly reckon it to me for a sin and shame. For more than twelve long years I have borne it in my memory, and could now reproduce it as freshly as if it were still before my eyes. Of all modes of death, methinks it is the ugliest. Her wet garments swathed limbs of terrible inflexibility. She was the marble image of a death-agony. Her arms had grown rigid in the act of struggling, and were bent before her with clenched hands; her knees, too, were bent, and--thank God for it! --in the attitude of prayer. Ah, that rigidity! It is impossible to bear the terror of it. It seemed,--I must needs impart so much of my own miserable idea,--it seemed as if her body must keep the same position in the coffin, and that her skeleton would keep it in the grave; and that when Zenobia rose at the day of judgment, it would be in just the same attitude as now!
One hope I had, and that too was mingled half with fear. She knelt as if in prayer. With the last, choking consciousness, her soul, bubbling out through her lips, it may be, had given itself up to the Father, reconciled and penitent. But her arms! They were bent before her, as if she struggled against Providence in never-ending hostility. Her hands! They were clenched in immitigable defiance. Away with the hideous thought. The flitting moment after Zenobia sank into the dark pool--when her breath was gone, and her soul at her lips was as long, in its capacity of God's infinite forgiveness, as the lifetime of the world!
Foster bent over the body, and carefully examined it.
"You have wounded the poor thing's breast," said he to Hollingsworth, "close by her heart, too!"
"Ha!" cried Hollingsworth with a start.
And so he had, indeed, both before and after death!
"See!" said Foster. "That's the place where the iron struck her. It looks cruelly, but she never felt it!"
He endeavored to arrange the arms of the corpse decently by its side. His utmost strength, however, scarcely sufficed to bring them down; and rising again, the next instant, they bade him defiance, exactly as before. He made another effort, with the same result.
"In God's name, Silas Foster," cried I with bitter indignation, "let that dead woman alone!"
"Why, man, it's not decent!" answered he, staring at me in amazement. "I can't bear to see her looking so! Well, well," added he, after a third effort, "'tis of no use, sure enough; and we must leave the women to do their best with her, after we get to the house. The sooner that's done, the better."
We took two rails from a neighboring fence, and formed a bier by laying across some boards from the bottom of the boat. And thus we bore Zenobia homeward. Six hours before, how beautiful! At midnight, what a horror! A reflection occurs to me that will show ludicrously, I doubt not, on my page, but must come in for its sterling truth. Being the woman that she was, could Zenobia have foreseen all these ugly circumstances of death,--how ill it would become her, the altogether unseemly aspect which she must put on, and especially old Silas Foster's efforts to improve the matter,--she would no more have committed the dreadful act than have exhibited herself to a public assembly in a badly fitting garment! Zenobia, I have often thought, was not quite simple in her death. She had seen pictures, I suppose, of drowned persons in lithe and graceful attitudes. And she deemed it well and decorous to die as so many village maidens have, wronged in their first love, and seeking peace in the bosom of the old familiar stream,--so familiar that they could not dread it,--where, in childhood, they used to bathe their little feet, wading mid-leg deep, unmindful of wet skirts. But in Zenobia's case there was some tint of the Arcadian affectation that had been visible enough in all our lives for a few months past.
This, however, to my conception, takes nothing from the tragedy. For, has not the world come to an awfully sophisticated pass, when, after a certain degree of acquaintance with it, we cannot even put ourselves to death in whole-hearted simplicity? Slowly, slowly, with many a dreary pause,--resting the bier often on some rock or balancing it across a mossy log, to take fresh hold,--we bore our burden onward through the moonlight, and at last laid Zenobia on the floor of the old farmhouse. By and by came three or four withered women and stood whispering around the corpse, peering at it through their spectacles, holding up their skinny hands, shaking their night-capped heads, and taking counsel of one another's experience what was to be done.
With those tire-women we left Zenobia.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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28
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BLITHEDALE PASTURE
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Blithedale, thus far in its progress, had never found the necessity of a burial-ground. There was some consultation among us in what spot Zenobia might most fitly be laid. It was my own wish that she should sleep at the base of Eliot's pulpit, and that on the rugged front of the rock the name by which we familiarly knew her, Zenobia,--and not another word, should be deeply cut, and left for the moss and lichens to fill up at their long leisure. But Hollingsworth (to whose ideas on this point great deference was due) made it his request that her grave might be dug on the gently sloping hillside, in the wide pasture, where, as we once supposed, Zenobia and he had planned to build their cottage. And thus it was done, accordingly.
She was buried very much as other people have been for hundreds of years gone by. In anticipation of a death, we Blithedale colonists had sometimes set our fancies at work to arrange a funereal ceremony, which should be the proper symbolic expression of our spiritual faith and eternal hopes; and this we meant to substitute for those customary rites which were moulded originally out of the Gothic gloom, and by long use, like an old velvet pall, have so much more than their first death-smell in them. But when the occasion came we found it the simplest and truest thing, after all, to content ourselves with the old fashion, taking away what we could, but interpolating no novelties, and particularly avoiding all frippery of flowers and cheerful emblems. The procession moved from the farmhouse. Nearest the dead walked an old man in deep mourning, his face mostly concealed in a white handkerchief, and with Priscilla leaning on his arm. Hollingsworth and myself came next. We all stood around the narrow niche in the cold earth; all saw the coffin lowered in; all heard the rattle of the crumbly soil upon its lid,--that final sound, which mortality awakens on the utmost verge of sense, as if in the vain hope of bringing an echo from the spiritual world.
I noticed a stranger,--a stranger to most of those present, though known to me,--who, after the coffin had descended, took up a handful of earth and flung it first into the grave. I had given up Hollingsworth's arm, and now found myself near this man.
"It was an idle thing--a foolish thing--for Zenobia to do," said he. "She was the last woman in the world to whom death could have been necessary. It was too absurd! I have no patience with her."
"Why so?" I inquired, smothering my horror at his cold comment, in my eager curiosity to discover some tangible truth as to his relation with Zenobia. "If any crisis could justify the sad wrong she offered to herself, it was surely that in which she stood. Everything had failed her; prosperity in the world's sense, for her opulence was gone,--the heart's prosperity, in love. And there was a secret burden on her, the nature of which is best known to you. Young as she was, she had tried life fully, had no more to hope, and something, perhaps, to fear. Had Providence taken her away in its own holy hand, I should have thought it the kindest dispensation that could be awarded to one so wrecked."
"You mistake the matter completely," rejoined Westervelt.
"What, then, is your own view of it?" I asked.
"Her mind was active, and various in its powers," said he. "Her heart had a manifold adaptation; her constitution an infinite buoyancy, which (had she possessed only a little patience to await the reflux of her troubles) would have borne her upward triumphantly for twenty years to come. Her beauty would not have waned--or scarcely so, and surely not beyond the reach of art to restore it--in all that time. She had life's summer all before her, and a hundred varieties of brilliant success. What an actress Zenobia might have been! It was one of her least valuable capabilities. How forcibly she might have wrought upon the world, either directly in her own person, or by her influence upon some man, or a series of men, of controlling genius! Every prize that could be worth a woman's having--and many prizes which other women are too timid to desire--lay within Zenobia's reach."
"In all this," I observed, "there would have been nothing to satisfy her heart."
"Her heart!" answered Westervelt contemptuously. "That troublesome organ (as she had hitherto found it) would have been kept in its due place and degree, and have had all the gratification it could fairly claim. She would soon have established a control over it. Love had failed her, you say. Had it never failed her before? Yet she survived it, and loved again,--possibly not once alone, nor twice either. And now to drown herself for yonder dreamy philanthropist!"
"Who are you," I exclaimed indignantly, "that dare to speak thus of the dead? You seem to intend a eulogy, yet leave out whatever was noblest in her, and blacken while you mean to praise. I have long considered you as Zenobia's evil fate. Your sentiments confirm me in the idea, but leave me still ignorant as to the mode in which you have influenced her life. The connection may have been indissoluble, except by death. Then, indeed,--always in the hope of God's infinite mercy,--I cannot deem it a misfortune that she sleeps in yonder grave!"
"No matter what I was to her," he answered gloomily, yet without actual emotion. "She is now beyond my reach. Had she lived, and hearkened to my counsels, we might have served each other well. But there Zenobia lies in yonder pit, with the dull earth over her. Twenty years of a brilliant lifetime thrown away for a mere woman's whim!"
Heaven deal with Westervelt according to his nature and deserts! --that is to say, annihilate him. He was altogether earthy, worldly, made for time and its gross objects, and incapable--except by a sort of dim reflection caught from other minds--of so much as one spiritual idea. Whatever stain Zenobia had was caught from him; nor does it seldom happen that a character of admirable qualities loses its better life because the atmosphere that should sustain it is rendered poisonous by such breath as this man mingled with Zenobia's. Yet his reflections possessed their share of truth. It was a woeful thought, that a woman of Zenobia's diversified capacity should have fancied herself irretrievably defeated on the broad battlefield of life, and with no refuge, save to fall on her own sword, merely because Love had gone against her. It is nonsense, and a miserable wrong,--the result, like so many others, of masculine egotism,--that the success or failure of woman's existence should be made to depend wholly on the affections, and on one species of affection, while man has such a multitude of other chances, that this seems but an incident. For its own sake, if it will do no more, the world should throw open all its avenues to the passport of a woman's bleeding heart.
As we stood around the grave, I looked often towards Priscilla, dreading to see her wholly overcome with grief. And deeply grieved, in truth, she was. But a character so simply constituted as hers has room only for a single predominant affection. No other feeling can touch the heart's inmost core, nor do it any deadly mischief. Thus, while we see that such a being responds to every breeze with tremulous vibration, and imagine that she must be shattered by the first rude blast, we find her retaining her equilibrium amid shocks that might have overthrown many a sturdier frame. So with Priscilla; her one possible misfortune was Hollingsworth's unkindness; and that was destined never to befall her, never yet, at least, for Priscilla has not died.
But Hollingsworth! After all the evil that he did, are we to leave him thus, blest with the entire devotion of this one true heart, and with wealth at his disposal to execute the long-contemplated project that had led him so far astray? What retribution is there here? My mind being vexed with precisely this query, I made a journey, some years since, for the sole purpose of catching a last glimpse of Hollingsworth, and judging for myself whether he were a happy man or no. I learned that he inhabited a small cottage, that his way of life was exceedingly retired, and that my only chance of encountering him or Priscilla was to meet them in a secluded lane, where, in the latter part of the afternoon, they were accustomed to walk. I did meet them, accordingly. As they approached me, I observed in Hollingsworth's face a depressed and melancholy look, that seemed habitual; the powerfully built man showed a self-distrustful weakness, and a childlike or childish tendency to press close, and closer still, to the side of the slender woman whose arm was within his. In Priscilla's manner there was a protective and watchful quality, as if she felt herself the guardian of her companion; but, likewise, a deep, submissive, unquestioning reverence, and also a veiled happiness in her fair and quiet countenance.
Drawing nearer, Priscilla recognized me, and gave me a kind and friendly smile, but with a slight gesture, which I could not help interpreting as an entreaty not to make myself known to Hollingsworth. Nevertheless, an impulse took possession of me, and compelled me to address him.
"I have come, Hollingsworth," said I, "to view your grand edifice for the reformation of criminals. Is it finished yet?"
"No, nor begun," answered he, without raising his eyes. "A very small one answers all my purposes."
Priscilla threw me an upbraiding glance. But I spoke again, with a bitter and revengeful emotion, as if flinging a poisoned arrow at Hollingsworth's heart.
"Up to this moment," I inquired, "how many criminals have you reformed?"
"Not one," said Hollingsworth, with his eyes still fixed on the ground. "Ever since we parted, I have been busy with a single murderer."
Then the tears gushed into my eyes, and I forgave him; for I remembered the wild energy, the passionate shriek, with which Zenobia had spoken those words, "Tell him he has murdered me! Tell him that I'll haunt him!" --and I knew what murderer he meant, and whose vindictive shadow dogged the side where Priscilla was not.
The moral which presents itself to my reflections, as drawn from Hollingsworth's character and errors, is simply this, that, admitting what is called philanthropy, when adopted as a profession, to be often useful by its energetic impulse to society at large, it is perilous to the individual whose ruling passion, in one exclusive channel, it thus becomes. It ruins, or is fearfully apt to ruin, the heart, the rich juices of which God never meant should be pressed violently out and distilled into alcoholic liquor by an unnatural process, but should render life sweet, bland, and gently beneficent, and insensibly influence other hearts and other lives to the same blessed end. I see in Hollingsworth an exemplification of the most awful truth in Bunyan's book of such, from the very gate of heaven there is a by-way to the pit!
But, all this while, we have been standing by Zenobia's grave. I have never since beheld it, but make no question that the grass grew all the better, on that little parallelogram of pasture land, for the decay of the beautiful woman who slept beneath. How Nature seems to love us! And how readily, nevertheless, without a sigh or a complaint, she converts us to a meaner purpose, when her highest one--that of a conscious intellectual life and sensibility has been untimely balked! While Zenobia lived, Nature was proud of her, and directed all eyes upon that radiant presence, as her fairest handiwork. Zenobia perished. Will not Nature shed a tear? Ah, no! --she adopts the calamity at once into her system, and is just as well pleased, for aught we can see, with the tuft of ranker vegetation that grew out of Zenobia's heart, as with all the beauty which has bequeathed us no earthly representative except in this crop of weeds. It is because the spirit is inestimable that the lifeless body is so little valued.
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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29
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MILES COVERDALE'S CONFESSION
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It remains only to say a few words about myself. Not improbably, the reader might be willing to spare me the trouble; for I have made but a poor and dim figure in my own narrative, establishing no separate interest, and suffering my colorless life to take its hue from other lives. But one still retains some little consideration for one's self; so I keep these last two or three pages for my individual and sole behoof.
But what, after all, have I to tell? Nothing, nothing, nothing! I left Blithedale within the week after Zenobia's death, and went back thither no more. The whole soil of our farm, for a long time afterwards, seemed but the sodded earth over her grave. I could not toil there, nor live upon its products. Often, however, in these years that are darkening around me, I remember our beautiful scheme of a noble and unselfish life; and how fair, in that first summer, appeared the prospect that it might endure for generations, and be perfected, as the ages rolled away, into the system of a people and a world! Were my former associates now there,--were there only three or four of those true-hearted men still laboring in the sun,--I sometimes fancy that I should direct my world-weary footsteps thitherward, and entreat them to receive me, for old friendship's sake. More and more I feel that we had struck upon what ought to be a truth. Posterity may dig it up, and profit by it. The experiment, so far as its original projectors were concerned, proved, long ago, a failure; first lapsing into Fourierism, and dying, as it well deserved, for this infidelity to its own higher spirit. Where once we toiled with our whole hopeful hearts, the town paupers, aged, nerveless, and disconsolate, creep sluggishly afield. Alas, what faith is requisite to bear up against such results of generous effort!
My subsequent life has passed,--I was going to say happily, but, at all events, tolerably enough. I am now at middle age, well, well, a step or two beyond the midmost point, and I care not a fig who knows it! --a bachelor, with no very decided purpose of ever being otherwise. I have been twice to Europe, and spent a year or two rather agreeably at each visit. Being well to do in the world, and having nobody but myself to care for, I live very much at my ease, and fare sumptuously every day. As for poetry, I have given it up, notwithstanding that Dr. Griswold--as the reader, of course, knows--has placed me at a fair elevation among our minor minstrelsy, on the strength of my pretty little volume, published ten years ago. As regards human progress (in spite of my irrepressible yearnings over the Blithedale reminiscences), let them believe in it who can, and aid in it who choose. If I could earnestly do either, it might be all the better for my comfort. As Hollingsworth once told me, I lack a purpose. How strange! He was ruined, morally, by an overplus of the very same ingredient, the want of which, I occasionally suspect, has rendered my own life all an emptiness. I by no means wish to die. Yet, were there any cause, in this whole chaos of human struggle, worth a sane man's dying for, and which my death would benefit, then--provided, however, the effort did not involve an unreasonable amount of trouble--methinks I might be bold to offer up my life. If Kossuth, for example, would pitch the battlefield of Hungarian rights within an easy ride of my abode, and choose a mild, sunny morning, after breakfast, for the conflict, Miles Coverdale would gladly be his man, for one brave rush upon the levelled bayonets. Further than that, I should be loath to pledge myself.
I exaggerate my own defects. The reader must not take my own word for it, nor believe me altogether changed from the young man who once hoped strenuously, and struggled not so much amiss. Frostier heads than mine have gained honor in the world; frostier hearts have imbibed new warmth, and been newly happy. Life, however, it must be owned, has come to rather an idle pass with me. Would my friends like to know what brought it thither? There is one secret,--I have concealed it all along, and never meant to let the least whisper of it escape,--one foolish little secret, which possibly may have had something to do with these inactive years of meridian manhood, with my bachelorship, with the unsatisfied retrospect that I fling back on life, and my listless glance towards the future. Shall I reveal it? It is an absurd thing for a man in his afternoon,--a man of the world, moreover, with these three white hairs in his brown mustache and that deepening track of a crow's-foot on each temple,--an absurd thing ever to have happened, and quite the absurdest for an old bachelor, like me, to talk about. But it rises to my throat; so let it come.
I perceive, moreover, that the confession, brief as it shall be, will throw a gleam of light over my behavior throughout the foregoing incidents, and is, indeed, essential to the full understanding of my story. The reader, therefore, since I have disclosed so much, is entitled to this one word more. As I write it, he will charitably suppose me to blush, and turn away my face: I--I myself--was in love--with--Priscilla!
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{
"id": "2081"
}
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1
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FELLOW-TRAVELLERS.
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Our story opens in an Italian railway station, in the spring of 1848. From a train that had just arrived, the passengers were hastening to secure their places in another that stood waiting for them. A guard had succeeded in crowding a party of two ladies and a gentleman into one of these itinerant prison-cells, which already contained seven occupants, before the newcomers perceived that they were being imposed upon. A vigorous protest followed. The elder of the two ladies, seizing the guard by the arm, addressed him in an angry tone, first in German, then in French.
With the calm indifference of an automaton, the uniformed official pointed to a placard against the wall. _Per dieci persone_ was the inscription it bore. Ten persons, it seemed, were expected to find places here.
"But we have first-class tickets," protested the lady, producing a bit of yellow pasteboard in proof of her assertion.
The guard glanced at it with as little interest as he would have bestowed on a scarab from the tomb of the Pharaohs. Shrugging his shoulders, he merely indicated, with a wave of his hand, places where the three passengers might, perhaps, find seats,--one in this corner, a second yonder, and, if its owner would kindly transfer a greasy bundle to his lap, a third over there.
This arrangement, however, was not at all to the liking of either the ladies or their escort. The latter was altogether disinclined to accept a seat between two fat cattle-dealers, being of no meagre dimensions himself.
"We'll see about this!" he exclaimed, and left the compartment in quest of the station-master.
That dignitary was promenading the platform in military uniform, his hands behind his back. The complainant began to explain the situation to him and to demand that consideration to which his first-class ticket entitled him. But the _illustrissimo_ merely opened his eyes and surveyed the gentleman in silence, much as a cuttlefish might have done if similarly addressed. " _Partenza-a-a! _" shouted the guards, in warning.
The indignant gentleman hurried back to his compartment, only to find that, in his absence, three additional passengers had been squeezed into the crowded quarters, so that he himself now raised the total to thirteen,--a decidedly unlucky number. The ladies were in despair, and their attendant had begun to express his mind vigorously in his native Hungarian, when he felt himself touched on the elbow from behind, and heard a voice accosting him, in the same tongue.
"My fellow-countryman, don't heat yourself. Not eloquence, but backsheesh, is needed here. While you were wasting your breath I had a guard open for me a reserved first-class compartment. It cost me but a trifle, and if you and your ladies choose to share it with me, it is at your service."
"Thank you," was the reply, "but we shall not have time to change; we had only two minutes here in all."
"Never fear," rejoined the stranger, reassuringly. "The _due minute_ is a mere form with which to frighten the inexperienced. The train won't start for half an hour yet."
The two ladies were no less grateful to their deliverer than was Andromeda of old to the gallant Perseus. They gladly accepted the comfortable seats offered them, while their escort took a third, leaving the fourth for their benefactor, who lingered outside to finish his cigar. At the second ringing of the bell, he gave his half-smoked Havana to a passing porter, mounted the running-board of the moving train, and entered his compartment.
Seating himself, the young man removed his travelling-cap and revealed a broad, arched forehead, surmounted by a luxuriant growth of hair. Thick eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and a Greek nose were the striking characteristics of his face, which seemed to combine the peculiarities of so many types and races, that an observer would have been at a loss to classify it.
The other gentleman of the party was of genuine Hungarian stock, stout in figure and ruddy of countenance, with a pointed moustache, which he constantly twirled. The younger of the two ladies was veiled, so that only the graceful outlines of a face, evidently classic in its modelling, were revealed to the eye. But the elder had thrown back her veil, exposing to full view an honest, round face, blond hair, lively eyes, and lips that manifestly found it irksome to maintain that silence which good breeding imposes in the presence of a stranger.
The ladies' escort was a very uneasy travelling companion. First he complained that he could not sit with his back toward the engine, as he was sure to be car-sick. The young stranger accordingly changed places with him. Then he found fault with his new seat, because it was exposed to a draught which blew the cinders into his eyes. Thereupon the young man promptly volunteered to close the window for him; but this only made matters worse, for fresh air was indispensable. At this, the blond lady gave up her place to the gentleman, and he, at last, appeared satisfied. Not so, however, the lady herself; she was now seated opposite the stranger, to whom she and her companions were so greatly indebted, and the feeling of indebtedness is always somewhat irksome.
Women on a journey are inclined to regard a stranger's approach with some suspicion, and to be ever on the alert against adventurers. A vague mistrust of this sort concerning the young stranger may have been aroused by the mere fact that, Hungarian though his language indicated him to be, he and the ladies' escort indulged in no interchange of courtesies so natural among fellow-countrymen meeting by chance in a foreign land. Nevertheless the blond lady strove to assume an air that, on her part, should signify an entire absence of interest in all things relating to her _vis-à-vis_. Even when the sun shone in her face and annoyed her, she seemed determined to adjust the window-shade without any help from the stranger, until he courteously prevailed on her to accept his aid.
"Oh, what helpless creatures we women are!" she exclaimed as she sank back into her seat.
"You have yourselves to blame for it," was the other's rejoinder.
If he had simply offered some vapid compliment, protesting, for example, that women were by no means helpless creatures, but, on the contrary, the rulers of the stronger sex, and so of the world,--then she would have merely smiled sarcastically and relapsed into silence; but there was something like a challenge in his unexpected retort. " _Par exemple? _" she rejoined, with an involuntary show of interest.
"For example," he continued, "a lady voluntarily surrenders the comfortable seat assigned to her, and exchanges with a man who occupies an uncomfortable one."
The lady coloured slightly. "A free initiative," said she, "is seldom possible with a woman. She is ever subject to a stronger will."
"Yet she need not be," was the reply; "with the fascination which she exerts over men she is in reality the stronger."
"Ah, yes; but suppose that fascination is employed over a man by women that have no right thus to use their power?"
"Then the legitimate possessor of that right is still at fault. If fascination is the bond by which the man can be held, why does she not make use of it herself? A face of statuesque beauty that knows not how to smile has often been the cause of untold unhappiness."
At these words the younger of the two ladies threw back her veil, perhaps to gain a better view of the speaker, and thus revealed just such a face as the young man had referred to,--a face with large blue eyes and silent lips.
"Would you, then," the elder lady continued the discussion with some warmth, "have a wife employ the wiles of a coquette toward her own husband, in order to retain his love?"
"I see no reason why she should not if circumstances demand it."
"Very good. But you must admit that a wife is something more than a sweetheart; maternal duties and cares also enter into her life, and when, by reason of her exalted mission as a mother, anxieties and fears will, in spite of her, depict themselves on her face, what then becomes of your pretty theory?"
The attack was becoming too warm for the young stranger, and he hastened to capitulate with a good grace. "In that case, madam," he admitted, "the husband is bound to show his wife nothing but the purest devotion and affection. The Roman lictors were, by the consul's orders, required to lower their fasces before a Roman matron; she was undisputed mistress in her sphere. The man who refuses to render the humblest of homage to the mother of his children deserves to have a millstone hung about his neck and to be cast into the sea."
The blond lady seemed softened by this unconditional surrender. "Are you on your way to Rome, may I ask?" she presently inquired, her question being apparently suggested by the other's reference to ancient Roman customs.
"Yes, that is my destination," he replied.
"You go to witness the splendid ceremonies of Holy Week, I infer."
"No; they do not interest me."
"What!" exclaimed the lady; "the sublimest of our Church observances, that which symbolises the very divinity of our Saviour, does not interest you?"
"No; because I do not believe in his divinity," was the calm reply.
The lady raised her eyebrows in involuntary token of surprise at this most unexpected answer. She suddenly felt a strong desire to fathom the mysterious stranger. "I believe the Vatican is seeking an unusually large loan just now," she remarked, half-interrogatively.
The stranger could not suppress a smile. He read the other's surmise that he might be of Hebrew birth and faith. "It is not the papal loan, madam," he returned, "that takes me to Rome; it is a divorce case."
"A divorce case?" The blond lady could not disguise her interest at these words, while even the statuesque beauty at the other end of the compartment turned her face fully upon the speaker, and her lips parted slightly, like the petals of an opening rosebud.
"Yes," resumed the young man, "a separation from one who has denied and rejected me for the sake of another; one whom I must for ever shun in the future, and yet cannot cease to love; one whose loss can never be made good to me. I am going to Rome because it is a dead city and belongs equally to all and to none."
The train halted at a station, and the young man alighted. After a few words to the guard he disappeared from sight.
"Do you know that gentleman?" asked the blond lady of her escort.
"Very well," was the reply.
"And yet you two hardly exchanged a word."
"Because we were neither of us so disposed."
"Are you enemies?"
"Not enemies, and yet in a certain sense opponents."
"Is he a Jew or an atheist?"
"Neither; he is a Unitarian."
"And what is a Unitarian, pray tell me?"
"The Unitarians form one of the recognised religious sects of Hungary," explained the man. "They are Christians who believe in the unity of God."
"It is strange I never heard of them before," said the lady.
"They live chiefly in Transylvania," added the other; "but the great body of them, taken the world over, are found in England and America, where they possess considerable influence. Their numbers are not large, but they hold together well; and, though they are not increasing rapidly, they are not losing ground."
The younger lady lowered her veil again and crossed herself beneath its folds; but her companion turned and looked out of the window with a curious desire to scrutinise the wicked heretic more closely. Both the ladies, as the reader will have conjectured, were strictly orthodox in their faith.
The train soon started again, after the customary ringing and whistling and the guards' repeated warning of "_partenza! _" But the young heretic seemed to put as little faith in bells and whistles and verbal warnings as in the dogma of the Trinity; for he failed to appear as the train moved away from the station. The ladies who owed so much to his kindness could not deny a certain feeling of relief at being freed from the company of one who cherished such heterodox religious convictions.
"You say you are well acquainted with the young man?" the blond lady resumed.
"Yes, I know him well enough," was the answer. "His name is Manasseh Adorjan, he is of good old Szekler descent, and he has seven brothers and a twin sister. They all live at home in their ancestral castle. Some of the brothers have married, but all live together peacefully under one roof and form one household. Manasseh seems to have been recognised by the family as the gifted one,--his brothers are nothing more than honest and intelligent Szeklers,--and for his education and advancement in the world all worked in unison. When he was only twenty years old this young genius became a candidate for the council. In Transylvania it is the custom to make the higher government appointments from all four of the recognised religious sects,--Roman Catholic, Calvinist, Lutheran, and Unitarian. From that time dates our mutual hostility."
"Then you are enemies, after all."
"In politics, yes. However, I must not bore you ladies with political questions. Suffice it to say, then, in regard to Manasseh Adorjan, that a sudden change of government policy, and the defeat of his party, gave the young man a fall from his proud eminence and led him to turn his back, for a time at least, on his native land; for he scorned to seek the preferment that was so easily within his reach by renouncing his principles and joining the opposite party."
"Now I understand," interposed the blond lady, "what he meant by his 'divorce case,' and his parting with one who had denied and rejected him, but whom he could never cease to love. Those were his words, and they referred to his country."
"Yes, probably," assented the other; "for the young man is unmarried."
At the next station the subject of this conversation suddenly reappeared.
"Ah, we thought you were lost," exclaimed the elder of the two ladies, with a not unfriendly smile.
"Oh, no, not lost," returned Manasseh; "what belongs nowhere and to no one cannot be lost. I merely took a seat on the imperial. Come, friend Gabriel,"--turning to the ladies' escort,--"will you not join me there? The view is really fine, and we can smoke also."
The one thus familiarly addressed, and whose name was Gabriel Zimandy, accepted the invitation after a moment's demur. The ladies were left to themselves.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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2
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A LIFE'S HAPPINESS AT STAKE.
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"A splendid country this!" exclaimed Gabriel Zimandy, when he had lighted his meerschaum and found himself at leisure to survey the landscape. "Too bad the Austrians have their grip on it!"
"Look here," interposed Manasseh, "suppose we steer clear of politics. Do you agree?"
"Did I say anything about politics?" retorted Gabriel. "I merely alluded to the beautiful view. Well, then, we'll talk about beautiful women if you prefer. You little know what a tender spot you touched upon with the ladies. I refer to the brunette--not to the blond, with whom you were talking."
"Ah, is the other a brunette? I did not get a good look at her."
"But she got a good look at you, while you were discussing the duties of women toward their husbands, the subject of divorce, and Heaven knows what else besides."
"And did I awaken any unpleasant reminiscences?" asked the young man.
"Not in the bosom of your fair antagonist,--she is already a widow,--but in that of her companion, who sat silent and listened to all you said. She is on her way to Rome to petition the Pope to annul her marriage."
"Is that so!" exclaimed Manasseh, in surprise. "I should have said she was just out of a convent where she had been placed to be educated."
"What eyes you have! Even without looking at her you have guessed her age to a month, I'll warrant! She is my client, the unfortunate Princess Cagliari, _née_ Countess Blanka Zboroy. You know the family: their estates are entailed, so that all but the eldest son have to shift for themselves as best they can. The younger sons go into the army or the Church, and the daughters are wedded to rich husbands, or else they take the veil. But it so happened that once upon a time a rich bishop belonging to this family made a will directing that his property be allowed to accumulate until it became large enough to provide a snug fortune of a million florins for each of his relatives; and this end was recently realised. But by the terms of the will, the heirs are allowed only the usufruct of this legacy, and, furthermore, even that is to be forfeited under certain circumstances, as for example, if allegiance be refused to the reigning dynasty, or if the legatee renounce the Roman Catholic faith, or, in the case of a woman, lead an unchaste life. Any part of the estate thus forfeited goes to the remaining legatees in an equal division, and so you can imagine what a sharp watch the several beneficiaries under this will keep over one another. A million is no bagatelle; the game is worth the candle. But to come back to our starting-point, Countess Blanka was joined in marriage with Prince Cagliari as soon as she left the convent. You must know the prince, at least by reputation; he plays no small part in the political world."
"I have met him several times," replied Manasseh.
"At court balls in Vienna, doubtless," said the advocate; "for, old as Cagliari is, he still turns night into day and burns the candle at both ends. When he married Countess Blanka he was very intimate with the Marchioness Caldariva, formerly known to lovers of the ballet as 'the beautiful Cyrene.' She practised the terpsichorean art with such success that one day she danced into favour with an Italian marquis who honoured her with the gift of his name and rank, after which he shot himself. The marchioness now owns a splendid palace in Vienna, a present from Prince Cagliari, who, they say, forgot to deliver up the key to her when he married Countess Blanka. It is even whispered that the marchioness herself tied the bridegroom's cravat for him on his wedding-day. Well, however that may be, the prince took the young lady to wife, much as a rich man buys a horse of rare breed, or a costly statue, or any other high-priced curiosity. But the poor bride could not endure her husband's presence. She was only a child, and, up to the day of her marriage, had no conception of the real meaning of matrimony. The prince has never enjoyed a moment's happiness with his young wife. His very first attempt to offer her a husband's caresses caused her to turn deadly pale and go into convulsions; and this occurred as often as the two were left alone. The prince complained of his hard lot, and sought medical advice. It was reported that the young wife was subject to epileptic attacks. A man of any delicacy would have accepted the situation and held his peace; but the prince took counsel of his factotum, a certain Benjamin Vajdar----" An involuntary movement, and a half-suppressed exclamation on Manasseh's part, made the speaker turn to him inquiringly; then, as the other said nothing, he resumed: "This factotum is the evil genius of the family, and the two together make a pair hard to match. The prince has obstinacy, sensuality, arrogance, and vindictiveness; and his tool has brains, cunning, and inventiveness, for the effective exercise of the other's evil tendencies. Cagliari finally went back to the beautiful Cyrene for consolation; but she was bent on proving her power over him, and at her bidding he heaped all sorts of indignities upon his innocent and helpless wife. At last, to crown all, he instituted divorce proceedings against her. This was the price he paid to regain the fair Cyrene's favour, but I am convinced that Benjamin Vajdar is at the bottom of it all. The prince bases his suit for a separation on his wife's alleged epileptic attacks and consequent unfitness for the wedded state. Of course that is all nonsense. I am not an epileptic, nor wont to bite or scratch people; but I can't approach this Cagliari without experiencing a sort of foaming at the mouth and a twitching of the muscles, as if I must pitch into the man, tooth and nail. My view of the case is that my client finds her husband's attentions so abhorrent that she even swoons when he offers to kiss her; and so I am going to apply for a total dissolution of the marriage, for if the other side win their case the papal edict will forbid a second marriage on the wife's part. And just imagine a young girl like her, in the first bloom of youth, scarcely twenty years old, compelled to renounce all hope of wedded happiness. We are now on our way to Rome to see whether my fair client's personal appeal may not avail somewhat with her judges. They cannot but take pity on her if their hearts are human. Prince Cagliari has of late lost favour at the Vatican, and all the conditions are in our favour; but there is one man whom I fear,--that cool and crafty Vajdar. I fell in with him in Venice, and asked him whither he was going. 'To Milan,' said he, but I knew he lied. He, too, is bound for Rome, and he will be there ahead of us, or at least overtake us. If we could only reach Rome first, I am confident we should win the game. But I fear he may be on this very train. Why, how warm you look! The perspiration stands in drops on your forehead. Does my pipe annoy you? No? Well, as I was saying, I suspect the fellow is on this train with us, and if he falls into my hands I'll wring his miserable neck! He thinks he's going to ruin the young life of my client and bury her alive, does he? We'll see about that."
"He shall not do it!" exclaimed the other, with emphasis.
"Good for you, my friend! And if you can propose some scheme for balking him, I'll take my hat off to you. Tell me, now, how can the princess make sure of outwitting her foes, and so escape the horrible fate of being buried alive?"
"She can turn Protestant, and then the Church of Rome will have no claim whatever on her."
"Very good, but how about the million florins left her as a good Catholic by the bishop?"
Manasseh Adorjan crumbled his cigar in his fingers. "If the princess has a woman's heart in her bosom," he declared, "she will throw her million away in return for the love of a true man."
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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3
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AN INTRUDER EXPELLED.
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Meanwhile the train had reached another station, a junction where a halt was made for refreshments, pending the arrival of a connecting train. The advocate was hungry, and accordingly made his way to the dining-room, being first warned by his companion to use despatch, as otherwise, on returning to the ladies, he might find his compartment filled.
"And what will you do meantime?" asked Gabriel.
"I have my sketch-book with me," replied Manasseh, "and I am going to draw the view from my perch up here."
"Ah, I did not know you were an artist."
"Yes, I am an artist, and nothing more."
Upon the arrival of the connecting train and the ensuing scramble for seats, the ladies of our little party felt some anxiety lest their privacy should be rudely broken in upon by unwelcome strangers. Princess Cagliari bent forward and looked down the platform, but immediately drew back again. Too late, however; she had been seen; and a moment afterward a young man, of sleek and comely appearance, immaculately dressed, and carrying in one hand a small cane whose peculiar head betrayed the fact that it concealed a rapier, sprang lightly on the foot-board and entered the compartment.
"Ah, what an unexpected pleasure, Princess!" he exclaimed by way of greeting, lifting his hat and appropriating the corner seat opposite her.
"Pardon me," said Blanka, "but that seat is engaged. The gentleman who is with us--" "Why, then, didn't he leave something--coat, or umbrella, or hand-bag--in proof of his claim to the seat?" interrupted the intruder. "The seat is now mine by railway usage, and I cannot deny myself the pleasure of sitting opposite you, my dear princess."
Blanka controlled her indignation as best she could, but her companion felt called upon to come to her aid with an energetic remonstrance.
"Mr. Vajdar," said she, severely, "you should know what is expected of a gentleman in his conduct toward a lady. You are well aware that the princess cannot endure your presence, nor are you ignorant of the reason."
The handsome young man drew a gilt pasteboard box from his side pocket, removed the cover, and offered the contents to the last speaker. "Madam Dormandy, you are fond of sweets. Permit me to solicit your acceptance of these caramels. They are freshly made, and are really excellent."
But Madam Dormandy turned her back disdainfully on the peace-offering and looked anxiously out of the window. "Where can Mr. Zimandy be all this time?" she murmured, impatiently.
"How long will you continue to dog my steps?" asked the princess, addressing the intruder in a voice that trembled with passion.
"Only to the grave," was the smiling reply; "there we shall separate--you to enter the gates of paradise, where I despair of gaining admission."
"But what reason have you for wishing my ruin?"
"Because you yourself will have it so. Have I ever made any secret of my designs or of my motives?"
"Are you determined to make me leave this compartment?"
"You would gain nothing by so doing," was Vajdar's cool retort. "I could not possibly forego the pleasure of your company, in whatever way you might choose to continue your journey."
"What is your purpose in all this?" demanded Blanka.
"To make you either as happy as a man can make a woman, or as wretched as only the devil himself can render a human being."
"I defy you to do either."
"Futile defiance! The game is in my hands, and I can make you as one buried alive."
"God will never allow such an iniquity!" cried the princess.
"Ah, my dear madam, you forget that we are on our way to Rome, where there are churches by the score, but no God."
Blanka shuddered in spite of herself, and drew her shawl more closely about her, while her foe crossed one leg over the other and smiled self-complacently.
The warning cry "_partenza! _" sounded along the platform, and the ladies' escort came running in alarm from the dining-room and sought his compartment.
"Have I your seat, sir?" coolly inquired Benjamin Vajdar of the man who had so lately promised to wring his neck.
"Oh, no, certainly not," mumbled the doughty advocate, in considerable surprise and confusion, as he caught his breath and meekly looked around for a vacant place.
A lightning-flash from the blond beauty's eyes and a mocking smile from the dandy rewarded this courteous forbearance. But the mocking smile changed the next instant to a sudden expression of disquiet, if not of actual fear. Manasseh Adorjan stood in the doorway, and Blanka noted a swift interchange of glances between the young men, like the flashing of two drawn swords.
"That place is already engaged, sir," said Manasseh, quietly.
Benjamin Vajdar's face flushed quickly, and then as suddenly paled. In his eyes one could have read rage, hate, and fear, and his right hand clutched the head of his cane convulsively, as if about to draw the weapon therein concealed. But Manasseh still stood regarding him fixedly, and the intruder yielded without a word. Taking up his satchel, he left the compartment. The whole scene had occupied but a moment. What was it that gave one of these men such power over the other, like that of a lion-tamer over his charge?
Manasseh himself took the vacated seat, without offering it to the advocate, and sat looking out of the window as long as Vajdar was in sight. At length the train started, and as it soon entered on a stretch of monotonous, waste territory, Blanka yielded to the drowsy lullaby of the smoothly rolling wheels, and fell asleep. Once or twice she half opened her eyes and was vaguely conscious that the young stranger opposite her was drawing something in the sketch-book that lay open on his knee. She pushed her veil still farther back from face and brow, hardly aware what she was doing, and again fell asleep.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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4
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A BIT OF STRATEGY.
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A sharp whistle from the locomotive awakened the sleepers.
"Where are we now?" asked Blanka.
"Near Bologna," answered the artist, who alone had remained awake; "and there I have to leave the train, which continues on, via Imola, to Ancona."
"You leave the train? But I thought you, too, were going to Rome," said the princess, in surprise.
"So I am," was the reply, "but by another route. My luggage will go through to Ancona, and thence by diligence to Rome, while I push on over the Apennines to Pistoja and Florence. It is a harder road, but its splendid views amply repay one for an occasional climb on foot by the _vetturino's_ side; and then, too, I shall reach Rome one day ahead of you, who go by way of Ancona."
Blanka listened with interest. "Couldn't we take that route also?" she asked. "What do you say to it, Maria? We could quietly leave the train at Bologna and let our trunks go on to Rome without us."
"But are the mountain passes safe?" queried Madam Dormandy, turning to Manasseh. "Is there no danger of highwaymen?"
"Bad men are to be feared everywhere," replied the young man; "but as for highway robbers, they are much more to be apprehended by those travelling with valises and trunks than by the tourist that simply carries a satchel slung over his shoulder, as I intend to do. In my student days I used to tramp over these mountains in every direction, and the brigands never molested me. Whenever I fell in with a band I used to group the men together and sketch them. Artists have nothing to fear from gentlemen of the road."
"And besides, we are two able-bodied men, and I always carry a brace of pistols--don't you?" spoke up the advocate, his professional zeal kindling at the prospect of stealing a march on the enemy.
"I carry no weapons of any kind," calmly replied the artist.
"Oh, I fear no harm from bad men," exclaimed the princess; "there is but one bad man whom we need to dread."
The others easily guessed to whom she referred; but Gabriel Zimandy was bent on making her meaning still plainer.
"He'd better not follow us into the mountains!" he cried, "for if the young rogue falls into my hands he'll wish he'd never been born. Lucky for him he took our friend's gentle hint; had he kept his seat a moment longer there would have been serious trouble."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Madam Dormandy; "how surprised he will be when he fails to find us at Ancona and is obliged to journey on by diligence with our baggage, but without us!"
"We shall be hurrying on ahead of him over these grand old mountains," added the princess, with enthusiasm, her cheeks glowing in pleased anticipation. "And we have to thank you, Mr. Adorjan, for the suggestion." With an impulsive movement she extended her hand to the young artist, who scarcely ventured to touch her finger-tips in return.
"Very well, then," said he, "we will try the mountain road; and let us take no luggage but what we can carry in our hands. When we come to a beautiful waterfall we will sketch it, and when we chance upon a fine view we will celebrate its beauties in song."
"Yes, and people will take us for strolling minstrels," interposed the princess; "and we must drop our real names and titles. Mr. Zimandy shall be the impresario, and Madam Dormandy the prima-donna; they can pass for husband and wife. We two can be brother and sister. What is your sister's name?"
"Anna."
"Lend me her name for a little while, will you? You don't object?"
Manasseh turned strangely sober. "It would be only for your sake that I should object," he replied. "The bearer of that name is a very unfortunate girl."
So they agreed to leave the train at Bologna and take the mountain pass. It only remained to hoodwink Benjamin Vajdar, and Manasseh Adorjan promised to effect this. He alighted before the train had fairly stopped, having first directed the others to go into the waiting-room. "That young man will not stir from his seat, nor will he even look out of the window," added Manasseh, with as much confidence as if he had acquired a talisman which enabled him to control the other's actions.
As the train rolled out of the station the artist rejoined his party, with the welcome assurance that their enemy was now out of their way.
"Is there a mysterious relation of some sort between you two?" asked Blanka.
"Yes--one of fear: I tremble every time I see the man."
"You tremble?"
"Yes; I am afraid I shall kill him some day."
With that, and as if regretting that he had said so much, he hurried away to engage a carriage to take them to Vergato. During his absence the advocate explained to his client that the Unitarians have an especial horror of bloodshed. He declared that some of them shrank from taking even an animal's life and abstained entirely from the use of meat.
Blanka shook her head incredulously. She could not conceive of a gentleman's being forbidden by his scruples to use arms when the occasion demanded. How else, she asked, could he defend his honour, his loved ones, the women entrusted to his charge?
When the four were seated in their carriage, the gentlemen facing the ladies, Blanka led the conversation back to the point at which Manasseh had dropped it.
"You said you feared you should kill that young man some day," she began. "Does your religion forbid you to kill a man--under any circumstances?"
"With a single exception," he replied; "but that exception is out of the question in this instance."
Blanka wondered what the single exception could be, but refrained from asking. "Are you well acquainted with Mr. Vajdar?" she inquired presently.
"We have known each other from childhood," was the reply. "Whatever I possessed was shared with him. His father was my father's steward; and when the steward proved false to his trust and gambled away a large sum of money committed to his care, and then shot himself, my father adopted the little orphan, and always treated him exactly as he did his own children. He grew up to be a bright and promising young man, and never failed to win a stranger's favour and confidence. But woe to those that thus confided in him! My poor sister, my dear, good little Anna, trusted him, and all was ready for their wedding when he disappeared, deserting her at the very altar."
Even the shades of approaching nightfall could not hide the expression of pain on the speaker's face.
"When did this occur?" asked Blanka, gently.
"Last year--in February."
"The date of my marriage, and of my first seeing that man," was Blanka's silent comment. She pondered the possible connection between the two circumstances. Benjamin Vajdar had left his affianced bride soon after seeing Princess Cagliari; he had then entered Cagliari's service as private secretary, and, a little later, divorce proceedings had been begun by the prince against his young wife.
"Was it Mr. Vajdar's troubled conscience that made him leave us the moment you appeared?" she asked, after a pause.
"No," said Manasseh; "he has no conscience. When he has an object in view, all means are legitimate with him. He knows neither consideration for others nor shame for his own misdeeds."
"And yet he certainly played the coward before you."
"Because he knows that I possess certain information, certain documentary evidence, by which, if I chose, I could hurl him down in confusion and disgrace from any height, however lofty, which he might succeed in attaining."
"And you refrain from using this evidence against him?"
"To use it would be revenge," replied the young man, calmly.
"Is revenge forbidden where you live?"
"Yes."
"Has your sister never found a balm for her wounded affections?"
"Never. My people are of the kind that loves but once."
"Pray tell me where it is that your people have their home," urged the princess. "Is it on an island in the moon?"
"Indeed, princess, it is not unlike those glimpses of the moon that we get through a large telescope when we examine, for instance, the rocky island known to astronomers as 'Plutarch,' or that named 'Copernicus.' Everything where I live would seem to you to savour of another planet. On the maps the place is put down as 'Toroczko.' It is in a mountain gorge, entered by a narrow path along the riverside and through a cleft in the rocks. The northern side of this narrow ravine, being in some measure exposed to the southern sun, is clothed with woods; the southern is a great wall of bare rock rising in terraces, or giant steps, that might well suggest the dreariness and desolation of a landscape in the moon. This barren expanse of naked rock is called the Szekler Stone, and was formerly surmounted by the castle of a Hungarian vice-voivode. Its ruins are still to be seen there. The lower slopes of this mountainside are cultivated now, and the ploughshare is gradually forcing one terrace after another to yield sustenance to the farmer. Thus it is that by these cultivated terraces the centuries of the town's history can be numbered. For there is a village there, deep down in the rocky ravine, as if on the floor of a volcano's crater, and in that village live the happiest people in all the world. Do not think me unduly prejudiced by the fact that I am one of them. No, I am not prejudiced. Strangers also find no terms of praise too high for those happy and industrious people. Noted English and German travellers have visited my native valley and afterward written books about it, as other travellers have about Japan or Circassia. Indeed, those two countries have something in common with my own. My people have developed and perfected industries peculiar to themselves, as have the Japanese, and they also are proud of their handsome women, as are the Circassians--except that the girls of Toroczko are not for sale, nor, for that matter, are they to be had by foreigners, even for love. Their charms bloom only for their own countrymen, and by them they are jealously guarded. They never work in the fields, and so their fair faces are never tanned or freckled. The young maidens keep their rooms, and spin, weave, and embroider for their own adornment. When Sunday comes and they all go to church, they fill six benches and form a veritable 'book of beauties,' of various types, both blond and brunette, which, however, one cannot so easily distinguish, owing to the richly worked kerchiefs under which their hair is hidden. Their entire costume is snow-white, even to the fine sheepskin bodice worn by each."
"Ah, your young women think of nothing but dress, I fear," remarked Blanka.
"By no means," protested Manasseh; "on the contrary, their childhood and youth are largely devoted to education. The people of our little valley maintain a high school for boys and a seminary for girls, as well as a charity school for the poor."
"Then your people must be rich."
"No, not rich. There are no lords or ladies among them, and they have suffered more from the ravages of war than any other community in Hungary."
"But how," asked Blanka, "can they afford to dress their young women in silks and laces, and give both boys and girls an education? They must have some fairy talisman for conjuring wealth out of the rocks on which their houses stand."
"And so they have. Their talisman is industry, and out of their rocky soil they conjure riches in the shape of iron,--the best that can be found in all Transylvania. The same men that fill the church every Sunday, in holiday attire, dig and delve under ground the remaining six days of the week. Another secret of their modest wealth is their abstinence from strong drink. There is not a single grog-shop in Toroczko. But I fear I am wearying you."
Blanka begged him to continue, and took occasion to ask him why he did not go back to the beautiful valley which he seemed to love so warmly.
"Because," was the answer, "my people are now enjoying a period of happiness in which I have no part. If misfortune should ever overtake them, I should go back and strive to lighten it, or at least I would bear it with them."
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{
"id": "20892"
}
|
5
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HOLY WEEK IN ROME.
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It was evening when the travellers reached Rome. They had accomplished the journey in the time promised by Manasseh, and now the query was raised, could their enemy, by any possibility, have outstripped them?
Upon the coachman's inquiring to what hotel he should take his passengers, Gabriel Zimandy drew out his memorandum-book and read the name of a house recommended to him by his landlord at Vienna. European innkeepers, be it observed, join together in a sort of fraternity for mutual aid in a business way, passing their guests along from city to city and from hand to hand, sometimes even providing them with letters of introduction.
The cards of the hotel in question bore the important announcement, "German is spoken here;" and this was an advantage not to be despised.
"You will come with us, won't you?" said the advocate, turning with a courteous bow to Manasseh.
"Where German is spoken? No, I thank you. If I announce myself as a Hungarian, they will kiss my hand and then charge the kiss on the bill; if I say I am a German, I shall get a drubbing and be charged for that, too. I prefer to hunt up a modest little inn where, when I register from Transylvania, the good people will think it is somewhere in America, perhaps in the neighbourhood of Pennsylvania. The Yankees, you know, are highly respected in Italy."
"I regret exceedingly--" began the advocate. "Among so many strangers it would have been very pleasant to have----" "At least one enemy within call," interrupted the young man, with a smile. "Well, you see, I am likely to be in Rome some time; so I shall look up a quiet room for myself near the Colosseum, where the sun shines and I can carry out certain plans of my own."
The carriage turned into a brilliantly lighted street and passed a stately palace before which a richly sculptured fountain was sending its streams of sparkling water into the air.
"The Palazzo Cagliari," remarked Manasseh, but without any significant emphasis.
A natural impulse of curiosity moved Blanka to turn and look at the ancestral mansion of her husband's family. A moment later Manasseh signalled the driver to stop, and alighted from the carriage after shaking hands with his fellow travellers. Gabriel Zimandy said they should be sure to meet again soon; Madam Dormandy hoped they might all go sightseeing together in a few days; but Blanka said nothing as she bowed her farewell.
Reaching their hotel, our three travellers were greeted by the landlord with unmistakable tokens of surprise.
"And have your excellencies met with no mishap on the way?" he took early occasion to inquire.
"Certainly not. Why?"
"Your coming was announced in advance by our Vienna agent, and accordingly we reserved rooms for you. But at the same time another guest was also announced, a gentleman of high station from Hungary; and this afternoon word came that this gentleman and all his party had been captured by bandits in the ravine at the foot of Monte Rosso, and carried off into the mountains, where they will have to stay until their ransom is forthcoming. We feared your excellencies were of the party."
"No," said Gabriel; "we came by way of Orvieto."
"Lucky for you!" exclaimed the landlord.
"What is the name of the gentleman you refer to?" asked the princess, in a tone that betrayed the keenness of her interest.
"It's a queer name," answered the landlord, "and I can't remember it. But I'll find it for you in my letters of advice and send it up to your room."
Blanka had hardly laid aside her wraps when a waiter knocked at her door and presented a card on a silver salver. "Conte Benjamino de Vajdar" was the name she read in the landlord's handwriting.
* * * * * On the following morning, Blanka sent for the hotel-keeper and desired him to procure for herself and her two companions admission tickets to all the sacred ceremonies of the coming week. The worthy man fairly gasped at the coolness of this request. Tickets to the Sistine Chapel, to the Tenebræ, to the Benediction, and to the Glorification--and for three persons? Why, money couldn't buy them at that late hour, he declared. Admission tickets to paradise would be more easily obtainable. At the very utmost, places might still be procured on some balcony overlooking the Piazza di San Pietro, but only at extremely high prices. Yet the view from such a position would be a fine one; and mine host, without waiting to listen to any objections, hastened away to secure tickets, if they were still to be had.
The princess made her lament to Gabriel Zimandy over her poor success in obtaining what she so ardently desired, and that gentleman sought to console her with the assurance that it was highly venturesome for ladies to trust themselves in the crowd that always attended the church ceremonies of Holy Week, and that she could read all about them much more comfortably in the newspapers. Blanka, however, took so much to heart the disappointment of her pious wishes, and came so near the point of tear-letting, that the advocate felt obliged to sally forth in person to see what he could do to console her. In less than an hour he was back again, breathless and exultant. He ran up-stairs with the agility of a much younger and less corpulent man, and hastened to the princess's room, regardless of the fact that she was at the moment under her hair-dresser's hands.
"Victory!" he cried, panting for breath. "The impossible is achieved, and here are tickets for all three of us--to everything--to the Tenebræ, the washing of feet, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, the relics, the Benediction--" "But how did you get them?" interrupted the ladies, overcome with curiosity. Madam Dormandy had come hurrying out of her room at the first sound of his voice, and she and the princess now proceeded to pelt their victorious envoy with a volley of questions.
"Well, you see," replied the lawyer, gradually recovering his breath, "it is a curious story. As I was tearing across the Corso, intent on my errand, I felt some one catch me by the coat-tail and heard a voice call to me in Hungarian, 'Haste makes waste!' I wheeled about, and there stood our Arian friend."
"Manasseh Adorjan?"
"Yes. He asked me if we had our affairs all in order, and I told him, by no means. I complained to him of our ill luck in securing tickets to the sacred ceremonies, and that it seemed impossible to get even anywhere near the Vatican. 'Well,' said he, with that confoundedly serious expression of his that you don't know whether to take as a sign of jest or earnest, 'let me see if I can't make it possible for you.' 'But,' said I, 'you don't imagine that you, a fallen statesman and an Arian heretic, can gain what is denied to Spanish princesses of the strictest orthodoxy?' 'You shall soon see,' he answered, and proceeded to lead me through one crooked street after another, until we found ourselves in front of a palace, at whose door a military watch was posted. He handed his card to the doorkeeper, and presently we were ushered into an anteroom, where Adorjan left me while he himself went with a man who seemed to be a private secretary, or something of the sort, into the next room. It wasn't long before he came out again and put three cards into my hand. 'There they are,' said he. 'Why, you are a regular magician!' I couldn't but exclaim. 'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I am no Cagliostro; the explanation is simple enough. This is the French embassy, and Monsieur Rossi is an old friend of mine. I have visited his family often. So when I asked him for tickets to all the ceremonies of Holy Week for two Hungarian ladies and their escort, he gave them to me at once. But now you must look sharp, for cards enough have been given out to fill the Sistine Chapel six times over, and there will be a scramble to get in.'"
The princess was as pleased as a child. Her dearest wish was gratified; but, singularly enough, she owed this gratification to the very man whom she felt the necessity of avoiding and forgetting. It was, however, to the mysterious charm of the approaching ceremonies that she looked for an effective means of diverting her thoughts from forbidden channels. Yet the fact remained that he himself had opened the way for her to this earnestly desired distraction, and to Blanka it seemed as if his influence over her was only increased and strengthened by his absence.
"What return, pray, did you make for all this kindness?" she asked.
"A very ungracious one, I fear," replied Gabriel. "After receiving these tickets, which are worth many times their weight in gold, I told our benefactor that I feared they would profit us little, unless he procured one for himself, also, and acted as our guide."
"You asked him to escort us?" exclaimed the princess, consternation in her tone.
"I know it was a strange request," admitted the advocate, "to ask a heretic to witness the Passion, and the Resurrection, and the Glorification. It is like burning incense before his Satanic Majesty. Naturally enough, he refused at first point-blank, alleging that he had no right to thrust himself as attendant on two ladies without their invitation. 'Well, then,' said I, 'don't go as the ladies' escort, but just show me, your fellow countryman, the way about, else I shall certainly get lost, and find myself in the Catacombs instead of the Vatican.' Finally, I forced him to yield, and so he is to accompany us."
In the afternoon of the same day Manasseh Adorjan called on the princess, and brought her a piece of good news of the utmost importance. Her trunks, and those of her friends, had arrived safely and promptly, and were at the custom-house. She had concluded that they had fallen into the bandits' hands, but it seemed that it was not the diligence, after all, that the robbers had waylaid; it was a post-carriage engaged by one of the travellers in the hope of reaching Rome a few hours earlier than the public conveyance. This one traveller only had been carried off into the mountains by the bandits, who had despatched a letter from their captive to Rome, addressed to Prince Cagliari, and presumably relating to the ransom. But as the prince was at present in Vienna, and postal communication between the two cities was at that time slow and uncertain, the ransom stood a good chance of being considerably delayed. This was a hint to the princess to make the most of the interim, and plead her cause at the Vatican, before her enemy could put in an appearance and damage her case. Manasseh, however, betrayed no sign of possessing any knowledge of the pending divorce suit, but continued to bear himself with the courteous reserve of a new acquaintance. Two things he sought thenceforth to avoid,--paying court to the beautiful young princess, and speaking lightly of things held sacred by her.
Complying with the expressed wish of the two ladies, in the evening he made with them the round of the principal churches, which now all wore gala attire. He took his seat on the box by the coachman's side, and pointed out, in passing, the buildings and scenes of special interest. In one of the churches he showed the ladies facsimiles of the four nails used in the Crucifixion; of the originals, one, he explained, was preserved in St. Peter's, and another had been used to make the circle of the Iron Crown. He even bought as a souvenir one of these facsimiles, which a Cistercian monk was offering for sale. He obtained also consecrated palm-branches with gilded leaves, and bribed the custodian of the three sacred orange-trees planted by the Apostles to give his party each a tiny leaflet. He schooled his face to betray no incredulity when the keepers of the various holy relics recited their virtues, and related the miracles wrought by them. And when Blanka knelt in prayer before a statue of the Madonna, he withdrew respectfully to a distance. It was an earnest petition she offered before the blessed Virgin, a prayer for rescue from her enemies, and for strength to resist every temptation. And she knew not that her rescuer and her tempter were one and the same person, and that he stood there behind her at that very moment.
Of a highly impressionable temperament, and fresh from her convent life, the princess was so moved by the sacred emblems about her, and by their holy associations, that she could not conceive of any one's viewing these objects with less of awe and reverence than herself. And when her conductor recounted the legend of the sacred lance in the chapel of St. Veronica,--how the Roman lictor Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side with this lance, and been himself struck blind the same instant, but had immediately recovered his sight when he rubbed his eyes with the hand on which four drops of the Redeemer's blood had fallen,--Blanka could not but ask herself whether another such miracle might not be wrought, and another blind man be restored to sight. She dreamed of this miracle that night, and made a vow to the Virgin that in case of her deliverance from her present difficulties, she would show her gratitude by presenting the Madonna with a jewel more precious than any that adorned her crown: she would offer this young man himself, who now refused to worship at her shrine. The princess felt herself rich enough to buy this jewel for her offering. Her heart held inexhaustible treasures, of which no man as yet could claim any share. She ceased to fear him against whom she had hitherto felt obliged to be on her guard; so much strength had she gained from the sacred relics that she now thought herself strong enough to make conquests of her own.
In the morning Manasseh came early to escort the ladies and Gabriel Zimandy to the Sistine Chapel. Upon gaining the Piazza di San Pietro they found a vast throng already assembled, through which the young man was forced to pilot his charges. Blanka was compelled to cling fast to his arm, while Madam Dormandy took the advocate's, and so they made the best of their way forward. As if by instinct, Manasseh knew where a courteous request would open a path before them, where to resort to more energetic measures, and where a couple of _lire_ would prove most effectual. At length he was successful in gaining the very best position in the chapel, and here, unfolding a camp-stool which he had brought with him under his overcoat, he offered Blanka a seat, whence she could view the ceremonies in comfort, and without annoyance from the pushing and crowding multitude.
Alas, poor Blanka! She only learned later from her father confessor what a sin she had committed in thus yielding to the weakness of the flesh, instead of standing through all the weary hours of that morning. A good Christian should not think of bodily comfort while his Saviour hangs bleeding on the cross. But she did not know this at the time, and therefore her escort's kind attention was most grateful to her.
The Tenebræ is one of the most impressive of all the ceremonies of Holy Week in Rome. The Sistine Chapel is draped entirely in black, and only the soft rays of thirteen wax candles serve to lessen the darkness, out of whose depths, as out of the blackness of the tomb, sounds the antiphony of mourning and lamentation. The human forms moving to and fro before the cross are hardly distinguishable, but have the appearance of vague shadows. Then the candles are, one by one, extinguished, until only a single taper is left burning on the altar--that is Jesus. And in this darkness, symbolic of grief and mourning, an invisible choir sings the _Miserere_, Allegri's world-renowned composition, whose mystic notes bring so vividly before us that last scene on Golgotha,--the agony of the dying Saviour, the taunts of the lictors, the wailing of the holy women, the shrieks of the dead whose graves are opened, and who cry aloud for mercy, and finally the rending of the Temple curtain, and the chorus of angels in heaven. All this affects even the most hardened of skeptics with a power that cannot be withstood. For the time being the imagination is mistress of the reason.
As the crowd poured out of the chapel after the ceremony was over, Blanka shot a glance of scrutiny from beneath her veil at the young man by her side. His face wore its wonted look of seriousness, the utter opposite of careless indifference, but at the same time wholly unlike the devout rapture of a believer. In fact, his expression betrayed but too clearly that his thoughts were little occupied with what he had just witnessed.
"Have you heard the _Miserere_ many times before?" asked Blanka.
"Twice only,--once in the Sistine Chapel, and again in St. Stephen's at Vienna."
"But I thought its production was forbidden elsewhere than in Rome," said the princess.
"Formerly that was the case," replied Manasseh, "the publication of Allegri's work being strictly prohibited; but after Mozart had heard it once and written it down from memory, its reproduction could not be prevented. So I had a chance to hear it in Vienna, where, however, it was but ill received, some of the audience even being moved to laughter."
"For what reason, pray?"
"Oh, not from any frivolity or irreverence, but because the music, which sounds so grandly impressive here in the Sistine Chapel, strikes one as a mere confusion of discordant notes amid other surroundings."
On the following day came the washing of the Apostles' feet. Chosen priests from thirteen nations of the earth gathered in the Pauline Chapel to receive this humble service at the hands of the Pope himself. The thirteenth of these chosen ones represented the angel that is said to have appeared with the appointed twelve in St. Gregory's time. Then followed the Last Supper, at which also the holy father ministered to the Apostles in person.
The next day was Saturday, and Gabriel Zimandy declared himself surfeited with holy ceremonies. Madam Dormandy agreed with him and began to complain of a fearful headache. Then the two united in maintaining that the princess looked utterly worn out and in need of rest. But Manasseh, who, by appointment, just then came upon the scene to offer his escort for the day, laughed them all three to shame.
"That is always the way," said he; "people tire themselves out so before Saturday that on that day five-sixths of the crowd stay at home to save up their strength for Easter, and thus miss one of the most impressive spectacles of the week,--the adoration of the true cross."
Poor Gabriel was now given no rest: he was forced to accompany the others once more to the Sistine Chapel, though he declared himself already quite stiff and sore with so much standing.
The chapel was at its best; the black hangings had been removed, the light from the windows was softened, candles burned on the altar, and, as Manasseh had predicted, so many of the sightseers had stayed at home that ample room was left for those who were present. The general multitude could find little pleasure in the ceremony of the day,--the worship of a piece of wood about three yards in length, and unadorned with gold or silver. The Pope and the cardinals, gowned with no pretence to magnificence or pomp, knelt before the relic as it lay on the altar. It was but a fragment of the original cross, broken in the strife that attended its rescue. This piece is said to have been saved and carried off by an emperor, making his way barefoot from Jerusalem to Alexandria, where another emperor concealed the precious relic in a statue, and finally the Templars bore it in triumph through pagan hordes from Constantinople to Rome. And now, when the head of the Church, the pastor of a flock of two hundred million human beings, the keeper of the keys of heaven, approaches this bit of wood, he strips himself of his splendid robes, removes the crown from his head, the shoes from his feet, and goes, simply clad and barefoot, with humble mien, to kneel and kiss the sacred emblem. The cardinals follow his example, and meanwhile the choir sings Palestrina's famous composition, the "Mass of Pope Marcellinus," a wonderful piece that must have been first sung to the composer by the angels themselves.
When the last notes of the music had died away, the bells of St. Peter's began to ring, the hangings before the windows were drawn aside, and Michael Angelo's marvellous frescoes were fully revealed to the admiring gaze of all present. The swords and halberds of the guards were once more raised erect, and the choir, the prelates, and the pilgrims joined in a common "Hallelujah!"
"Hallelujah!" cried Gabriel Zimandy also, rejoicing that the ceremony was finally ended. "Never before in all my life have I been so completely tired out."
On his return to the hotel, he stoutly protested against attending any more Church functions, and argued at length the inadvisability of the ladies exposing themselves to the heat and fatigue of the Easter service. Finally, and most important of all, he added that he had been granted an audience with the Pope and must prepare his address, which was to be in Latin.
"We are infinitely indebted to you, friend Manasseh," he concluded, "for all your kindness; but you see for yourself how the case stands with me."
"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the young man. "The audience is fixed for day after to-morrow, and of course you wish to prepare for it. Let me suggest, too, that you pay the French ambassador, to whose house I took you the other day, the courtesy of a call; he knows a little Latin, although, to be sure, it can't equal your own."
This suggestion, casual though it was meant to appear, made it evident to the advocate that he owed the early granting of his request to the powerful influence of the French minister. And Manasseh, on his part, was not slow to perceive that the advocate's chief concern was lest his fair client, at this critical time, should be seen in public in the company of a strange young man. It might hurt her case irremediably.
With a full understanding of the situation, Manasseh took leave of the princess, who indeed was looking very down-hearted at the prospect of missing what she had so ardently desired. But she was schooled to the denial of her own pleasure, and so quietly shook hands with her caller--then went to the window to watch his retreating form.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
|
6
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THE CONSECRATED PALM-LEAF.
|
Early the next morning the cannon began to boom from the Castle of St. Angelo. Gabriel Zimandy sprang out of bed and dressed himself quickly. His first care was to tap at Madam Dormandy's door and inquire for her health. The patient answered in a pitiful voice that the guns were fairly splitting her poor head, and that she did not expect to live the day through. This reply seemed to be quite to the advocate's liking: of the lady's succumbing to her ailment he had not the slightest fear, while he now felt assured that it would be impossible for his client to go out that day. What conception had he, heartless man, of the longing that filled the young woman's soul for the papal blessing, to which she ascribed such miraculous power, but which to him was nothing more than a Latin phrase?
Soon the bells began to ring from all the church-towers of the city, and a stream of people in gala attire poured toward St. Peter's. Poor Blanka sat at her window with eyes fixed on a certain corner, around which she had the day before seen Manasseh Adorjan's form disappear. The clocks struck twelve, thirteen, fourteen--by Italian reckoning of time; the crowds began to thin, and at last every one seemed to have betaken himself to St. Peter's. An open carriage halted in the now deserted street in front of the hotel, and Blanka recognised in its occupant the very person whose image had been so persistently before her mind's eye.
"Pardon me, princess, for intruding," began Manasseh in greeting, as he entered the young lady's presence; "but yesterday I saw that you were disappointed at not being able to attend the Easter service at St. Peter's. I have found means to remove that disappointment, I hope."
The princess felt her pulse quicken with eager delight, while at the same time she shrank back in nameless apprehension of what the young man might be going to propose.
"I fear it is too late," she replied, quietly. "I am not even dressed for the occasion."
"You have time enough," returned the other, reassuringly. "The French minister's wife has kindly offered to take you with her. Seats for the ladies of the embassy have been reserved and can be easily reached by a special entrance. They are very near the _loggia_ where the papal blessing will be pronounced. In an hour Madame Rossi will be here; that will give you time to get ready."
"And are you going with us?"
"No, that will be impossible, as the reserved seats are for ladies only; but I will escort Madame Rossi and her daughter to your door, and you will, I am sure, find them very pleasant company. For myself, I shall hunt up some sort of a perch where I can get a view of the day's festivities."
So saying, the young man hurried away.
Against this plan Gabriel Zimandy could raise no objections. Indeed, he saw the policy of making friends with the French embassy, and as long as Manasseh was not to accompany the party his professional schemes were in no wise endangered.
When Manasseh returned with the French ladies he sought the lawyer. "Come, my friend," he urged, "if your legs have nothing to say against it, if your religious belief permits, and if you have studied your Latin speech enough for one day, I will find you a good shady spot where you can witness what no mortal eye has seen in all these eighteen Christian centuries, and is little likely to see again in eighteen centuries to come."
"What may that be?"
"A Pope of the Romish Church, pronouncing his blessing from the _loggia_ of St. Peter's on the Roman army, preparatory to its marching forth to fight for freedom. Durando's troops are now marshalled in St. Peter's Square, awaiting the papal blessing on the swords drawn for liberty and country. It has, I know, been your dream to witness a sight like that, and now I come to invite you to its realisation."
"Well, well, that is something worth while," admitted the advocate. "The whole Roman army, and Durando himself! Surely, I can't afford to miss it." The invitation had driven quite out of his head all the objections so strenuously urged the day before.
The ladies had no difficulty in reaching the places reserved for them; for the gentlemen, however, it was not so easy to find even standing-room. But at length Manasseh guided his companion to one end of the scaffolding which supported the ladies' platform, and there found for him a V-shaped seat in the angle of two beams, while he himself stood on a projecting timber which afforded him room for one foot, and clung to the woodwork of the platform with both hands. The discomfort of his position was lightened for him by the fact that, only a few feet above, he could see Blanka's face as she sat with eyes directed toward the _loggia_ where the Pope was soon to appear.
It was a grand spectacle. The whole army--infantry, cavalry, artillery--was drawn up in the immense _piazza_, each regiment carrying two flags--the banner of the Church, on which were depicted the keys of heaven, and the red, white, and green flag of Italian freedom. The background to this scene was furnished by the cathedral itself, a vast throng of spectators crowded the foreground, and the whole united to produce an effect of pomp and grandeur that fairly beggars description.
The clocks struck eighteen--midday. The great bell sounded in the western turret of the cathedral, and the booming of cannon was once more heard from the Castle of St. Angelo. The service within the cathedral was at an end, the leather curtains that hung before the great bronze doors parted, and out poured the procession of pilgrims, until the whole wide expanse of the portico was filled. Mysterious music fell on the ear from somewhere above: a military band stationed aloft in the cupola had struck up a psalm of praise, and it seemed to the listeners to come from heaven itself. Silver trumpets--so the faithful believe--are used in rendering this piece.
All faces were now turned toward the _loggia_, a sort of projecting balcony high up on the front of the cathedral. A sound like the murmur of the sea rose from the multitude: each spectator was shifting his position, and seeking a clearer view. Then the _loggia_ became suddenly filled with moving forms,--cardinals in their splendid robes, knights in mediæval armour, pages in costly livery. The crown-bearers advanced with two triple tiaras, one the gift of Napoleon I., the other presented by the queen of Spain, and both sparkling with diamonds. A third crown,--the oldest of all, originally simple in form, then a double diadem, and finally a threefold tiara,--encircled the head of the Pope himself, who, seated on a golden throne, was borne forward to the stone breastwork, on which two crowns had been placed by their bearers. The pontiff rose from his seat and the sun shone full upon his venerable form. He wore a white robe embroidered with gold, and his appearance was radiant with light. The benignant smile that illumined his countenance outshone all the diamonds in his triple crown.
How happy was Princess Blanka at that moment! and hers were the fairest gems in all that costly array,--two tears that glistened in her large dark eyes as she gazed intently on the scene before her.
The two youngest cardinals took their stand on either side of the Pope, each holding a palm-leaf in his hand. Then, over the awed and silent throng before him, in a voice still strong, sonorous, and vibrant with feeling, the aged pontiff pronounced his blessing in words at once simple, sincere, and gracious.
Blanka and Manasseh exchanged glances, and the young man felt a tear-drop fall upon his cheek. From that moment an indissoluble bond united the two.
When the benediction was over, a stentorian voice from the multitude cried, "_Evviva Pio Nono! _" The shout was caught up by all the vast throng, and sent heavenward in a united cry of ever-swelling volume. Not merely Pius IX., but St. Peter himself seemed to stand before the jubilant multitude, opening heaven's gates with one key, and the portals of an earthly paradise of freedom with another. The two cardinals cast their palm-leaves down to the people, and as they fell, fluttering uncertainly, now this way, now that, all eyes followed them to see who should be the happy ones to secure the precious emblems of benediction and absolution. One leaf, after hovering in the air a moment, sank in ever narrowing circles until it lodged on the flag of a volunteer regiment, whereupon a mighty cheer burst from thousands of throats. The other, borne hither and thither by shifting breezes, was finally wafted toward the raised platform where sat the ladies of the French embassy. A hundred hands reached eagerly for it as it sank lower and lower; but one arm, extending higher than the others, secured the prize. It was Manasseh who from his elevated position, intercepted the coveted token as it fell, and he immediately turned and presented it to Princess Cagliari, amid a storm of applause from the onlookers.
The princess was a beautiful woman, but at the moment of receiving this symbol of forgiveness and blessing, her face gained such a look of radiant happiness as can only be imagined on the countenance of an angel in his flight to heaven; and to her that precious leaf meant heaven indeed. But when she turned to thank the giver he had disappeared.
"That was really grand," admitted Gabriel Zimandy, as his friend piloted him through the surging throng to the nearest cab. "To think of the Pope's giving his blessing to an army mustered in the cause of liberty! Such a sight was never seen before."
"No," returned Manasseh; "and you must make haste to push your client's cause while he is in his present good humour, which may not last."
"But, surely, you don't mean that his Holiness is in any way trifling with the people, do you?" asked the advocate.
"I am fully convinced," replied the other, "that Pio Nono is a gentle, good-hearted, upright man, and a gracious pontiff; but I also believe that, at the very first engagement, the Austrians will give the pious Durando a most unmerciful whipping. What direction the wind will take in Rome after that, no mortal can tell. You will do well, however, to make the most of your time while that palm-leaf is still green."
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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7
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AN AUDIENCE WITH THE POPE.
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On the following day came the audience with his Holiness, Pius the Ninth.
The Very Reverend Dean Szerenyi was first sent by the master of ceremonies to instruct the lawyer and his client in the details of their approaching interview. This envoy even took pains to indicate in what sort of toilet ladies were expected to appear. The gown must come up high about the neck and might be of any colour desired, or of black silk if the wearer was in mourning. Jewelry was not forbidden. A lackey in red livery would usher the strangers into the audience-chamber. Their petition must be carried in the hand. In the throne-room--where ladies were permitted to gaze to their hearts' content on the splendid display of Japanese porcelain--the major-domo would marshal the company in a double file, and there they would wait until his Holiness appeared.
"But look here," interposed Zimandy, with a troubled look, "does the Pope know I am a Calvinist?"
"He never asks about the religious belief of those who seek an audience with him. On all alike he bestows his blessing, assuming that all who court his favour have an equal need of his benediction."
"Are there very many asking an audience at this time?"
"Only eight hundred."
"E-e-e! Eight hundred! How am I ever going to get a chance to deliver my Latin speech that I have been working on all night?"
"You will not be called upon for it at all. It is not customary in a general audience with the Pope to make set speeches. His Holiness addresses whom he chooses, and they answer him. All petitions are taken in charge by the secretary."
"Then it is lucky I put into mine everything that I intended to say. Well, give my respects to his Holiness, and tell him I was the one who made the motion in the Pest Radical Club to have his portrait hung on the wall in a gilt frame; and if he is a smoker, I should be happy to send him some superfine--" But the dean had urgent matters to attend to, and begged to take his leave without further delay.
Our travellers, with the eager promptness characteristic of Hungarians on such occasions, were the first to be ushered into the antechamber at the Vatican. Consequently they had an opportunity to hear the names of all the other petitioners announced by the footman as they came in by ones and twos and in little parties. They seemed to be all foreign prelates, princes, ambassadors, and other high dignitaries; and, in drawing them up in line, the major-domo gave them all precedence over our party, much to the latter's humiliation and disgust. It is not pleasant to stand waiting for a whole hour, only to find at its end that one is no farther forward than at first.
But when the antechamber was nearly full, a uniformed official entered by a side door and made his way to the very foot of the line where the Hungarians were standing.
"Serenissima principessa de Cagliari! Nobilis domina vidua de Dormand! Egregius dominus de Zimand!"
This ceremonious apostrophe was followed by a wave of the hand, which indicated that the persons addressed were to follow the speaker, and that they were granted the special favour of a private hearing before his Holiness. Through the long hall, past lines of waiting men and women, they made their way; and as they went, inquiring looks and suppressed whispers followed them. The princess was recognised by many as the fortunate recipient of the consecrated palm-leaf on the day before, and they whispered one to another, "Ah, _la beata! _" This sudden turn of affairs drove Gabriel Zimandy's Latin speech completely out of his head, so that he could not have given even the first word. As he hastened forward in all his court toggery, as he called it, he could have sworn that there were at least fifty swords dangling between his legs and doing their best to trip him up. After passing through a seemingly endless succession of splendid halls and stately corridors, the party was ushered into an apartment opening on the magnificent gardens of the Vatican. Here it was that Pio Nono was wont to receive the ladies whom he favoured with a private audience.
The princess and her companions stood before the august head of the Church, the sovereign who acknowledges no earthly boundaries to his dominions. Blanka felt a deep joy in her heart as she looked on that benignant countenance, her eyes filled with tears, and she sank on her knees. The Pope bent and graciously raised her to her feet. He laid his hand on her head, and spoke to her words of comfort which she enshrined in the inmost sanctuary of her heart.
When the audience was over and our friends had retired, Gabriel Zimandy could not have given any coherent account of what had passed, nor, indeed, was he in the least certain whether he had unburdened himself of his Latin speech, or stuck fast at the _beatissime pater_. Madam Dormandy, however, was sure to enlighten him as soon as they regained their hotel. He knew at least that the written petition which he had carried in his hand was no longer on his person; hence he must have accomplished his main object.
Madam Dormandy alone seemed to have kept her wits about her through it all. She was able to tell how the Pope, while Zimandy was stammering some sort of gibberish,--Hebrew or Greek, for aught she knew,--had taken his snuff-box from a pocket behind, and smilingly helped himself to a pinch of snuff. Further, the snuff-box had looked like a common tortoise-shell affair with an enamelled cover; and after he had taken his pinch, he had put his hand into the pocket of his gold-embroidered silk gown and drawn out a coarse cotton handkerchief such as the Franciscans use.
But these little details had entirely escaped the princess and her lawyer.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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8
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AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
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One day, when Blanka announced her intention of visiting the Colosseum for the purpose of sketching it, Gabriel Zimandy declared that he could not be one of the party, and the two ladies must get along without his escort. He said he was going to the Lateran, in his client's interest, and added that he had just received unwelcome news from Manasseh.
"Then you have told him what brought us to Rome," said the princess.
"Are you angry with me for doing so?" asked the advocate.
"No, no; you were quite right. What word does he send you?"
"I'll read you what he says--if I can; he writes an abominable hand. 'While you are seeing the sights of Rome with the ladies,' he begins, 'important events are taking place elsewhere. General Durando has had a taste of the Austrians at Ferrara, and found them hard nuts to crack. In his wrath he now proclaims a crusade against them, fastens red crosses on his soldiers' breasts, and is pushing forward to cross the Po. But this action of his is very displeasing to the Pope, who does not look kindly on a crusade by a Roman army against a Christian nation. Accordingly he has forbidden Durando to cross the Po. If now the general disobeys, all those whose powerful favour your client at present enjoys will lose their influence; and should he suffer defeat beyond the Po, as he well may, your client's enemies could hardly fail to gain the upper hand. You will do wisely, therefore, to press an issue before it is too late.'"
"But is it possible that I should be made to suffer for a defeat on the battle-field?" asked Blanka.
"H'm! _Quidquid delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi_," returned the advocate, sententiously; and he hurried away without explaining that the quotation meant,--Whenever kings fall to quarrelling, the common people suffer for it. Such was the old Greek usage.
Blanka was thus left to find her way to the Colosseum with Madam Dormandy, under the guidance of an abbot, whom they had secured as cicerone; and, while the reverend father entertained the young widow with a historical lecture, the princess seated herself at the foot of the cross that stands in the middle of the arena, and sought to sketch the view before her. But her success was poor; she was conscious of failure with every fresh attempt. Three times she began, and as often was forced to discard her work and start over again. The Colosseum will not suffer its likeness to be taken by every one; it is a favour that must be fought for.
High up on the dizzy height of the third gallery sat a wee speck of a man with an easel before him. Even through an opera-glass the painter looked like an ant on a house-top. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and behind him a large umbrella was opened against the fierce rays of the Italian sun. Thus protected, he sat there busily at work. Blanka envied him: he had mastered the mighty Colosseum and caught its likeness. How had he set about it? Why, naturally enough, he had climbed the giddy height and conquered the giant from above. She resolved to come again, early the next morning, and follow his example. With that she tore the spoiled leaves impatiently from her sketch-book, and threw them down among the thistles that sprang up everywhere between the stones of the ruin. It was getting late, and she was forced to return to her hotel and dress for the theatre.
The way back led past the Cagliari palace, and Blanka noted with surprise that its iron shutters were open and the first story brilliantly lighted. The gate, too, was thrown back, giving a view of the courtyard, which wore rather the aspect of a garden. Who could have wrought this sudden transformation in the deserted old mansion?
A still greater surprise awaited the princess when she reached her hotel. The proprietor himself came down the steps to open her carriage door, assist her to alight, and escort her to her rooms.
"Thank you, sir, but pray don't trouble yourself," began Blanka. "I can find my way very well alone."
The innkeeper persisted, however, although the double doors to which he led her, and which he threw open before her, were not those of her own apartment. The ladies found themselves in a sumptuously furnished anteroom, from which, through a half-opened door, they looked into a spacious drawing-room yet more luxuriously fitted up, with oil paintings on its walls and potted plants in its four corners. Leading out of this apartment, to right and left, were still other elaborately furnished rooms, which a footman in gold-braided red livery obsequiously threw open.
"While the princess was out," explained the hotel keeper, with a bow and a smile, "I had this suite of rooms put in order for her reception, and hope they will give entire satisfaction."
"No, no, my dear sir," protested Blanka, "they appear far too magnificent for my needs, and I prefer to remain where I was. And how about this footman?"
"A servant of the house, but now dressed in the princess's livery," was the reply. "Henceforth he is to be at your sole disposal, and a liveried coachman in a white wig, with a closed carriage, is also ordered to serve you. All this is in compliance with directions from high quarters. A gentleman was here in your absence and expressed great displeasure that Princess Cagliari and her party were lodged in a suite of only four rooms. Where is his card, Beppo? Go and fetch it."
Blanka had no need to look at the card: she knew well enough whose name it bore. Controlling her agitation, she turned calmly to the hotel proprietor. "I must beg you," said she, "not to receive orders from any one but my attorney. Otherwise I shall feel obliged to leave your hotel at once. Let my old rooms be opened for me again, and engage no special servants on my account." So saying, she returned to her former quarters.
With no little impatience she awaited the advocate's return, and as soon as he appeared questioned him eagerly for news.
"None at all," he answered, wearily. "I've been running around all day, and have accomplished absolutely nothing; couldn't find the people I wished to see, and those I did find pretended not to understand a word I said. If I only knew where that fellow Manasseh had hidden himself!"
"I could tell you," thought Blanka, but did not offer to do so. "Well," said she, aloud, "if you have no news, I have. Look at this card."
The lawyer put on his eyeglasses and read the name,--"Benjamin Vajdar."
"Prince Cagliari is in Rome also," added Blanka.
The advocate looked at her. "So Vajdar has been here, has he? Did you see him?"
"No; but he is sure to come again. I have given orders that he is to be referred to you. I have nothing to say to him."
"Just let me get hold of him!" cried Gabriel, with menace in his looks, and then added: "I only wish I knew where to find Manasseh."
"I know," said the princess to herself. She had learned his address by a curious accident. When she and the young painter went to see the Sistine Chapel together they were called upon, as are all visitors, to give their names and addresses. Thus she could not avoid hearing the street and number of Manasseh's temporary abode, and this street and number she had afterward written down in her sketch-book--foreign names are so hard to remember.
When her lawyer had withdrawn she sought her book and turned its leaves in search of the address. But though she hunted through all the pages again and again, she could not find the memorandum which she felt sure she had made. Suddenly she remembered having torn out and thrown away two or three leaves,--those containing her futile attempts to sketch the Colosseum.
At this point a letter was delivered to the princess. It was from Prince Cagliari, and asked Blanka to assign an hour at which to receive him. She answered the note at once, naming ten o'clock of the following morning.
Promptly on the hour appointed the prince's equipage appeared at the hotel door, and he himself came up the stairs, leaning on his gold-headed cane. He enjoyed the full use of only one foot, although his gouty condition was not very apparent except when he climbed a flight of stairs. Ordinarily he showed admirable skill in disguising his defect. He was still a fine-looking man, and only the whiteness of his hair betrayed his age. Clean-shaven and of florid complexion, he wore a constant smile on his finely chiselled lips, and bore himself with a graceful air of self-assertion that seldom failed of its effect on the women whom he chose to honour with his attentions.
The head waiter hurried on before him to announce his coming. Blanka met the prince in her antechamber. He took her offered hand and at the same time barred the waiter's exit with his cane.
"Is the princess still lodged in these rooms?" he demanded.
The servant could not find a word to say in apology, but the princess came to his aid.
"I wished to remain here," said she, calmly.
The domestic was then dismissed and the visitor ushered into the next room.
"I greatly regret," he began, "that you chose to put aside my friendly intercession on your behalf. These quarters do not befit your rank. Furthermore, by retaining a Protestant lawyer you appear to challenge me to the bitterest of conflicts."
"Do you so interpret my action?" asked Blanka, proud reproach in her tone.
"No, Blanka, assuredly not. Your own noble heart moved you rather to use mild measures--in spite of your attorney. You generously refrained from pushing your advantage against me while I was detained elsewhere and while my secretary was also unavoidably delayed. In return for this generosity, Prince Cagliari comes to you now, not as your opponent in a suit at law, not as a husband to claim his wife, but as a father seeking his daughter. What say you? Will you accept me as a father?"
Blanka was almost inclined to believe in the speaker's sincerity; yet he had caused her far too much pain in the past to admit of any sudden reconciliation in this theatrical fashion. She remained unmoved.
"Bear in mind, my dear Blanka," proceeded the prince, "that the key to the situation is now in my hands. Recent important events have made me a _persona grata_ at the Vatican, and now the first of the conditions which I feel justified in imposing on you is that you acquiesce in the arrangements which, with all a father's forethought, I have made for your comfort during your sojourn in Rome. If the case between us is to reach a peaceful settlement, we must, above all things, avoid the appearance of mutual hostility; and it is a hostile demonstration on the part of Princess Cagliari to be seen driving about the city in a hired cab, and occupying, with her party, a suite of only four rooms. My duty demanded that I should at least offer you the use of the Cagliari palace, which consists of two entirely distinct wings, with separate entrances, stairs, and gardens; but I knew only too well that you would have rejected the offer."
"Most certainly."
"Therefore nothing was left me but to order the apartments in this hotel commonly occupied by visiting foreign princes to be placed at your disposal. No burdensome obligation, however, will be incurred by you in acceding to this arrangement, as I shall, in the event of our separation, see that the expense is deducted from the allowance which I shall be required to make you."
Blanka, who was naturally of a confiding disposition, not infrequently reposed her confidence where it was undeserved,--a failing not to be wondered at in one so young. Her husband was one of those in whom she thus sometimes placed too large a measure of trust, although she had early learned that no word from his mouth was to be accepted in its obvious meaning. Yet this matter of her apartments in the hotel seemed to her of such trifling moment that she let him have his way and consented to make the change which he desired, albeit at the same time strongly suspecting a hidden motive on his part.
"I am very glad, my dear Blanka," said Cagliari, when the princess had indicated her willingness to comply with his request, "to find you disposed to meet me half-way in this matter. We will, then, leave further details to the hotel keeper. He will provide you with servants in the livery of our house. How many do you wish--two?"
"One will suffice."
"And if he does not suit you, dismiss him and demand another. You shall have no ground for suspecting me of placing a spy upon you in the guise of a servant."
"Even if you should, it would trouble me little. A spy would find nothing to report to you."
"My dear Blanka, no one sees his own face except in a mirror; others can see it at all times."
"Have you anything to criticise in my conduct?"
"Nothing, I assure you. I know your firmness of principle. I look at you now, not through the yellow glass used by a jealous husband in scrutinising his wife, but through the rose-coloured glass that a fond father holds before his eyes in regarding a beloved daughter. If you travelled in a stranger's company on your journey to Rome, that may very well have been a mere matter of chance. If you left the accustomed route under his escort, you may have done so to avoid suspected dangers. If you are seen again in Rome at this stranger's side, I see nothing in that but his recognition of his duty toward you,--the courtesy of a fellow countryman acquainted with Rome toward a lady visiting that city for the first time. And if you walked together arm in arm, it was undoubtedly because of the pressure of the crowd, which always justifies a lady in seeking the protection of the first man available."
This speech filled Blanka with indignation and dismay. Weapons were being forged against her, she perceived; but she could do nothing. Had she offered a denial, her glowing cheeks would have testified against her. She held her peace, accordingly, and preserved such outward composure as she was able. " _N'en parlons plus! _" concluded the prince, fully aware of his triumph. "No one shall boast of outdoing Prince Cagliari in magnanimity,--not even his wife. Where you have knelt and sued for mercy, I too will kneel; what you have written in your petition I will subscribe to, and add still further: 'We are not husband and wife, we are father and daughter.' And you shall learn that this is no empty phrase. I do not seek to sever the bond between us; I exchange it for another."
All this was uttered in so friendly a tone, and with such seeming warmth of feeling, that no one unacquainted with the speaker, and not knowing him for the most consummate of hypocrites and the cleverest of actors, could have listened to him without being moved almost to tears. But his hearer in this instance knew him only too well. She knew that Jerome Cagliari was most to be feared when he professed the noblest sentiments.
Rising from his chair, he added, as if it were a matter of the most trifling importance: "This afternoon I will send my secretary to you."
"Your secretary?" repeated Blanka, with a start. "Pray send me anybody but him,--a notary, a strange lawyer, an attorney's clerk, a servant. I will receive your instructions from any of these, but not from your secretary."
"And why not from him?"
"Because I hate him."
"Then you hate the man who is your best friend in all the world,--yes, even a better friend than I myself. If I were to ask heaven for a son I could pray for no more excellent young man than he. He has my full confidence and esteem."
"But if you knew why I hate him!" interjected Blanka, in a voice that trembled.
"Before you bring your accusation against him," rejoined the other, "remember you are speaking, not to your husband, but to your father, who wishes not only to set you free, but also to make you happy. Accordingly, I will send Mr. Benjamin Vajdar to call on you to-morrow afternoon, to open the way for a harmonious settlement of the affair between us. I beg you to receive him as my confidant and plenipotentiary, and not to let your attorney know of his coming. For myself, I shall, with your permission, allow myself the pleasure of calling on you again."
With this the prince kissed Blanka's hand, and withdrew.
Scarcely had he gone, when Gabriel Zimandy presented himself to learn the object of Cagliari's visit. But Blanka obeyed orders, and kept back the chief motive of his coming, saying simply that he had asked permission to order a larger and finer suite of rooms for her use, and that in this matter she had thought best to humour him. The advocate acquiesced, recognising the importance of securing the prince's good-will under present conditions.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
|
9
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THE ANONYMOUS LETTER.
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No sooner had her lawyer left her than a letter was delivered to Blanka by one of the hotel servants. It was unsigned, and to the following effect: "PRINCESS CAGLIARI:--Be cautious. Prince Cagliari is carrying out a fiendish scheme against you. Like yourself, he is bent on securing a divorce, but only that he may marry you to his protégé and favourite. He is even capable of selling his own wife. Hitherto you have been Cagliari's wife, and the Marchioness Caldariva his mistress; now he wishes to reverse these relations, and make the marchioness his wife, and you his mistress. Be on your guard. You are in the country of the Borgias."
The princess was not a little disturbed by this communication. Monstrous as was the plot which it purported to disclose, she could not disbelieve it when ascribed to the two men in question. Certain fearful remembrances of the past confirmed her suspicions, and even inspired her in her distress with thoughts of suicide.
But what if this letter were merely a trap? Who could have written it? Who, in that city, where so few knew even of her existence, was sufficiently familiar with her private affairs to be able to write it? Whom could she now consult, with whom share her anxious forebodings? Involuntarily she took up her sketch-book, and turned its leaves once more. In vain; the address was gone--gone with the leaves she had torn out and thrown away in the Colosseum.
Having no further engagements for that morning, she proposed to her companion a second visit to the Colosseum, that she might once more essay the sketch which had baffled her the day before. Both Madam Dormandy and the advocate signified their readiness to accompany her, the more so as a party of German visitors was planning an inspection of the Colosseum's subterranean chambers and passages, and Zimandy proposed to join them.
Blanka made it her first care, on arriving at the Colosseum, to search for the lost sketch-book leaves; but though she remembered exactly where she had dropped them, neither she nor her friend could discover the least trace of them. Who could have appropriated them? The artist in the gallery had been the only stranger present at the time of her previous visit.
While the advocate and Madam Dormandy went with the German party to inspect the lower regions, Blanka remained above, on the plea that such subterranean excursions made her unwell. There were no robbers or wild beasts to molest her in the arena during the others' absence, and, besides, the entrances were all guarded.
She sat down at the foot of the cross, but not to draw, for her mind was not now on her sketch. Plucking the dandelions that grew in profusion about her, she fashioned them into a chain and hung it around her neck. The thought came to her, as she was thus engaged, that of all the Christian martyrs torn to pieces by wild beasts in that arena, not one of them, when the tigers and hyenas leaped upon their prey, felt such a terror as hers at sight of the monsters that seemed to be closing in about her to rend her limb from limb.
How happy the artist must be up there in the lofty gallery! For there he was, still at work on his picture. The artist is the only really happy man. He need fear no exile; every land is his home. No foreign tongue can confuse him; his thoughts find a medium of expression intelligible to all. Wars have no terror for him; he paints them, but takes no part in them. Storms and tempests, by land or sea, speak to him not of danger, but are merely the symbols of nature's ever-varying moods. Popular insurrections furnish his canvas with picturesque groupings of animated humanity. Though all Rome surge with uproar about him, he sits under his sun-umbrella and paints. The artist is a cold-blooded man. He paints a madonna, but his piety is none the greater for it. He draws a Venus, but his heart is still whole. He pictures God and Satan, but prostrates himself before neither. How independent, too, he must feel as he wanders through the world! He asks no help in the production of his creations. The priest need not pray for rain or sunshine on his account. He seeks no office or title from prince or potentate. He desires no favour, no privilege, nor does he even require the advantage of a recognised religious belief. With his genius he can conquer the world.
Art it is, moreover, that makes woman the equal of man. The woman artist is something more than man's other half; she is complete in herself. She does not ask the world for a living, she does not beg any man to give her his name, she kneels before no marriage-altar for the priest's blessing; she goes forth and wins for herself all that she desires.
An irresistible impulse drove Blanka to ascend to the painter's lofty perch in order to see how he was succeeding in the task which she herself knew not even how to begin.
An artist engrossed in his work heeds not what is going on around him. The painter in this instance wore a simple canvas jacket, spotted with oil and colours here and there, and a straw hat, broad of brim and ventilated with abundant holes. The princess, looking over his shoulder, was far less interested in the painter than in his work. Indeed, the artist himself was so absorbed in his task that, to save time, he held one of his brushes crosswise between his teeth while he worked with the other. Yet the instinct of politeness impelled him, as soon as he heard the rustle of a lady's skirt behind him, to remove his broad-brimmed hat and place it on the floor at his side.
"Manasseh!"
Startled surprise and gladness spoke in that word, which slipped out ere the speaker's discretion could prevent it. The young man turned quickly.
"Princess!" he exclaimed, "where did you drop from?"
"I was not looking for you," she stammered, thus betraying that she had been seeking him and was rejoiced, heart and soul, at the chance that had led her to him.
Manasseh smiled. "No, not for me, but for the painter wrestling with the Colosseum from this lofty roost. I saw you yesterday attempting the same task from below."
"And you recognised me--so far off?"
"I have very good eyes. I also saw that you were dissatisfied with your attempts, for you tore out one leaf after another from your sketch-book and threw them away."
"Did you find them again?" asked Blanka, breathlessly.
"I made it a point to do so, Princess," was the reply.
"Oh, then give them back to me, please!"
"Here they are."
No creditor ever did his distressed debtor a greater favour in surrendering to him an overdue note than did Manasseh in restoring the lost leaves to their owner. She replaced them carefully in her sketch-book, assuring herself, as she did so, that the missing address was on the blank side of one of them. What if it had caught the young man's eye? How would he have explained its presence there?
She sat down to rest a moment on the stone railing of the gallery, her back to the arena and her face toward Manasseh,--an arrangement that very much interfered with the artist's view of what he was painting. The sun shone directly in her eyes, and she had no sunshade, having left hers in the carriage. The arena was so shaded that she had needed none there. Manasseh adjusted his umbrella so as to shield the princess, and the rosy hue which its red fabric cast on her face reminded him of the _Horæ_ that precede the sun-god's chariot at dawn, their forms glowing with purple and rose-coloured tints in the morning light.
"I am very glad I happened to meet you," said Blanka, speaking more sedately this time. "The party I came with is down below listening to an archæological lecture on the _cunei_, the _podium_, the _vomitorium_, and heaven knows what all, in which I am not interested. So I have time to discuss with you, if you will let me, a point which you raised the other day and which I have been puzzling over ever since. You said that where you used to live revenge is unknown; and that, though you were suffering under a grievous injury and had the means to exact full satisfaction, yet you would not take your revenge. I too am suffering in the same manner, and that is why I am now in Rome. I have pondered your words and have imitated your example. Possessing the means of revenge, I refused to use them. I loosed my enemy's hands when they were bound. Did I do well?"
"Yes."
"No, I did not. I should have taken my revenge. Revenge is man's right."
"Revenge is the brute's right," Manasseh corrected her. "It never repairs an injury that has once been done. In this I and the handful of my fellow-believers differ from mankind in general. In our eyes war is revenge, the duel is revenge, capital punishment is revenge, revolution is revenge. Those who profess themselves followers of Jesus too often forget that when he was dying on the cross he said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'"
"That was said by Jesus the man; but Jesus the God has ascended into heaven, whence he will come to judge the quick and the dead. And that is revenge."
"That conception of the Judgment is one that I cannot entertain," returned Manasseh. "Man has made a god of the noblest of men, and has made him like those earlier divinities who slew Niobe's innocent children with their arrows."
Blanka was sitting so far back on the stone railing that the artist felt obliged to warn her of her danger.
"Oh, I am protected by guardian angels," she replied, lightly. She wished to learn whether one of those angels was then before her. "I received this morning an anonymous letter," she continued, "and as it contains certain facts which only you could know, my first thought was that you had written it."
"I assure you, I have never written you a letter," declared Manasseh.
"Please read it." She handed him the letter.
How quickly the young man's calm face flushed and glowed with passion as he read! The martyrs of old could forgive their enemies for the tortures inflicted on them; but could they also pardon the inhumanity shown to their loved ones? Manasseh crumpled the paper in his hand with vindictive energy, as if he had held in his grasp the authors of that detestable plot. Yet what right had he now to take vengeance on a man whom he had refrained from punishing on Anna's behalf? Anna was his own sister, and as such a beloved being. Her life had been spoiled by this man, yet her brother had been able to declare, "We do not seek revenge"--although this revenge was easily in his power. And what was Blanka to him? A dream. And did this dream weigh more with him than the sorrow that had invaded his own family?
He returned the letter to its owner. "Just like them!" he muttered between his teeth.
"Prince Cagliari is in Rome," remarked Blanka.
"I know it. I met him, and he spoke to me and thanked me for the attentions I had shown his wife during Holy Week."
It was fortunate for the princess that she sat in the rosy light of the red umbrella, so that her heightened colour passed unnoticed.
"He called on me this morning," said she, "and showed himself very gracious. His position is now stronger than it was, affairs at the Vatican being guided at present by those who look upon him with favour."
"Yes, I know that," said Manasseh.
"How do you know it, may I ask?"
"Oh, I have wide-reaching connections. My landlord is a cobbler. 'Messere Scalcagnato' lounges about the _piazza_ by the hour, is therefore well instructed in political matters, and keeps me duly informed of all that takes place at the Vatican."
The princess gave a merry laugh at the thought of Manasseh's taking lessons in politics from the professor of shoemaking. A little feeling of satisfaction contributed also to her display of good humour: she was assured by Manasseh's words that his address was still the same that she had noted in her sketch-book. But her laugh was immediately followed by a sigh, and she folded her hands in her lap.
"I wage war with nobody, Heaven knows!" she exclaimed, sadly. "I have merely sued for mercy, and it has been promised me."
"Princess," interposed the young man, gently, "I cannot intervene between you and your enemies, but I can arm you with a weapon of defence against their assaults. If you wish to repulse the man whom you fear and who pursues you,--to give him such a rebuff that he will never again dare to approach you,--then wait until he makes the proposal which you dread, and give him this answer: 'Between you and me there is a canonical interdict which renders our union impossible; it is contained in the fourteenth paragraph of the Secret Instructions.' As soon as you say that he will vanish so completely from your presence that you will never set eyes on him again."
"Wonderful!" cried Blanka. "That will surely be a miracle."
"Such it may always remain to you," returned Manasseh, "and you may never know how deep a wound you have inflicted. But you must thenceforth look for no mercy. Sue urgently for a decision, and be prepared for a harsh one."
"Thank you," said Blanka, simply. " _N'en parlons plus_"--repeating Prince Cagliari's phrase.
With that she stepped lightly to the stone block which the artist had been using for a chair, and, seating herself on it, began to copy in outline his painting of the Colosseum, as if that had been the sole purpose of her coming. Nor did she so much as ask permission thus to violate the rules of professional courtesy. This sketching from a finished picture she found vastly easier than drawing from the object itself, a task which always proves elusive and baffling to the beginner. Manasseh took his stand behind her as she worked, but his eyes were not wholly occupied in following her pencil.
Meanwhile the archæological explorers had abundant time to inspect all the subterranean passages and chambers of the Colosseum, and it was only when they emerged into the arena and began to seek their lost companion, with loud outcries, that she started up in some alarm and made haste to retrace her steps.
Manasseh picked up the dandelion chain that had fallen from her neck and put it in his bosom.
|
{
"id": "20892"
}
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10
|
THE FOURTEENTH PARAGRAPH.
|
Blanka was now like a boy who fears to stay at home alone, and to whom his father has therefore given a loaded gun as a security. The lad has a shuddering eagerness to encounter a burglar, that he may try his weapon on him, never doubting but that he can kill a giant if need be. Let the robbers come if they wish; he is armed and ready for them.
In this confidence Blanka's entire mood underwent a change: she became light-hearted almost to the point of unrestrained gaiety. At the very door of her hotel she began to exchange pleasantries with the landlord, who came forward to greet her with the announcement that a gentleman, a count, had called upon her in her absence.
"Count who?" asked the princess, whereupon she was presented with a card bearing the name of Benjamin Vajdar. But she read it without losing a particle of her serenity, and then ordered an elaborate lunch.
While her dishes were preparing, she sent for a hair-dresser and for a maid to assist at her toilet. She wished to make herself beautiful--even more beautiful than usual--and, indeed, she accomplished her object. Her slender form, its height accentuated by a long bodice, looked still taller from the imposing manner in which her hair was dressed. Her features, until then somewhat drawn by the strain of constant anxiety, gained now a vivacity that was matched by the added colour that glowed in her cheeks. A single morning in the Italian sun had, it would have seemed to an observer, worked wonders in her appearance. But what she herself marvelled at most of all was the new light that shone in her eyes. What could have caused this transformation? The weapon which she held in her hands,--"the fourteenth paragraph of the Secret Instructions." What cared she that to her these words were utterly meaningless? It sufficed her to know that there was such a paragraph; _he_ had told her so.
A waiter announced that her lunch was served. Ordinarily Blanka ate no more than a sick child; now she was conscious of an appetite like that of a convalescent making up for a long series of lost meals. The dainties which she had ordered tasted uncommonly appetising. While she was busy with her oysters, the head waiter informed her that the "count" had come a second time and begged leave to wait upon her.
"Show him up," promptly replied the princess, without allowing her lunch to be interrupted in the least.
The handsome young man already introduced to the reader was ushered in. The situation in which he found the princess seemed scarcely to harmonise with his plans. It rendered exceedingly difficult any approach to the sentimental.
"Set a chair for the gentleman," Blanka commanded her attendant, speaking, as if from forgetfulness, in Hungarian, and then correcting herself with a great show of surprise at her own carelessness. " _Grazie! _ And now, sir, pray be seated. You will pardon me if I go on with my lunch. We can converse just the same. This man will not understand a word we say. We may consider our interview entirely private."
Vajdar misinterpreted the situation: he thought the princess feared him, as of old, and that therefore she kept her servant in the room. This belief only added fuel to his evil passions. He who sees himself feared gains an increased sense of power.
"I come bearing the olive-branch, Princess," he began, in smooth accents.
At this Blanka turned suddenly to her attendant. "That reminds me," she exclaimed; "Beppo, the waiter forgot my olives."
Vajdar had taken a chair and drawn up to the table. "The prince wishes," he continued, "to keep his promise and to show you all the affectionate concern of a father toward his daughter." He produced a roll of manuscript from his pocket. "There are certain points in your marriage contract which must be discussed. Prince Cagliari made over to you, at the time of your union, one million silver florins. If you should gain your suit you would retain this sum in full; otherwise you would lose it all. He now offers you the following compromise. The principal is not to be paid into your hands, but you are to receive the interest on it, at six per cent., during your lifetime. And, more than that, one-half of the Palazzo Cagliari is placed at your disposal as a dwelling."
The princess bowed, as if in assent, but expressed the hope that she should not be obliged to stay long in Rome.
"I think you will find it advisable to remain some time, at any rate," said the young man.
"But I wish to return home, to Hungary, where, as you know, I have an estate of my own."
"That will be impossible, because the Serbs have burnt your castle to the ground."
"Burnt it to the ground? But my steward has not informed me of this."
"And for a very good reason: the insurgents chopped off his head on his own threshold."
Even this intelligence could not destroy Blanka's appetite. She ate her sardines with unusual relish, and Vajdar could see that she gave little credence to his words.
"Stormy times are ahead of us," he went on, "and I assure you this is the only safe retreat for you,--the holy city, the home of peace."
"As is proved by the iron shutters on the windows of the Cagliari palace," remarked Blanka. "But tell me, if I should wish to choose my own household and my own intimates, would that liberty be allowed me?"
"Undoubtedly. Nevertheless, it would be greatly to your advantage to surround yourself with persons speaking the language of the country and familiar with its ways."
"And if I should win my cause, and should take a fancy to marry again, could I select a husband to suit myself?"
This was too much. It was like throwing raw meat to a caged tiger.
"Without doubt," murmured Benjamin Vajdar between his teeth, at the same time casting furious glances at the servant behind his mistress's chair.
Suddenly the princess changed her tactics. She wished to show her enemy that she dared leave her entrenchments and offer battle in the open field.
"Caro Beppo," said she, turning to the servant, "clear the table, please, and then stay outside until I call you. Meantime, admit no one."
The two were left alone, and Vajdar was free to say what he wished. Blanka made bold to rise and survey herself coquettishly in the mirror, as if to make sure of her own beauty. She was the first to speak.
"All these favourable turns in my affairs are due to your kind intervention, I infer," she began.
"Without wishing to be boastful, I must admit that they are. You know the prince: he has more whims and freaks than Caligula. He has moments when he is capable of throttling an angel from heaven, and gentle moods in which he is ready to do his most deadly enemy a secret kindness. These latter phases of his humour it was my task to lie in wait for and turn to your account. Whether this was a difficult task or not, you who know the prince can judge."
"You will find me not ungrateful," said the princess. "In case the unpleasant affair which has called me to Rome is settled satisfactorily, I shall make over to you, as the one chiefly instrumental in effecting this settlement, the yearly allowance intended for me by the prince. For myself I retain nothing further, and wish nothing further, than my golden freedom."
Vajdar's face glowed with feeling. He was a good actor and could summon the colour to his cheeks at will.
"But even if you should give me your all, and the whole world besides," he returned, "I should count it as dross in comparison with one kind word from your lips. I know it is the height of boldness on my part to strive for the object of my longing; but an ardent passion justifies even the rashest presumption. You remember the fable of the giants' piling Pelion upon Ossa in order to scale Olympus. I am capable of following their example. You would cease to look down on me were I of like rank with yourself; and this equality of station I shall yet attain."
"I am sure I shall be the first to congratulate you."
"The prince has promised to be a father to you if, as the result of a peaceful separation, he ceases to be your husband. A somewhat similar promise he has made to me also."
"Does he intend to adopt you as his son?" asked Blanka.
"Such is his purpose," replied Vajdar.
"And what, pray, is his motive in this?"
Benjamin Vajdar averted his face, as if contending with feelings of shame. "Do not ask me," he begged, "to betray the weakness of my poor mother. Hers was an unhappy lot, and I am the child of her misfortune. He whose duty it is to make that misfortune good is--Prince Cagliari."
Blanka could hardly suppress an exclamation. "Oh, you scoundrel!" she was on the point of crying, "how can you dishonour your mother in her grave, and deny your own honest birth, merely to pass yourself off as a prince's bastard son?" Instead of this she clapped her hands and exclaimed: "How interesting! It is just like a play at the theatre. 'Is not the little toe of your left foot broken?' 'Yes.' 'Then you are my son.' Or thus: 'Haven't you a birthmark on the back of your neck?' 'I have.' 'Let me see it. Aha! you are my long-lost boy.' Or, again: 'Who gave you that half of a coin which you wear on a string around your neck?' 'My mother, on her death-bed.' 'Come to my arms. You have found your father.'"
Her listener was convinced that he had to do with a credulous child whose ears were open to the flimsiest of fairy tales. He proceeded to entertain her with further interesting details of his story, after which the princess produced the anonymous letter she had that morning received. First smoothing it out on her knee,--for it had been sadly crumpled by a certain hand, and, indeed, even bore the impression of a man's thumb in oil,--she presented it to her visitor.
"Please read that," said she, "and then explain it to me."
Vajdar had no sooner glanced at the letter than he perceived that the enemy, by a feigned retreat, had been decoying him over a mine which threatened presently to explode. Yet his assurance did not desert him.
"A stupid bit of play-acting!" he exclaimed, throwing the letter down on the table.
"But whose interest could it have been to indulge in play-acting at my expense?" asked Blanka.
"I can tell you, for I recognise the handwriting. The Marchioness Caldariva wrote you that letter."
"The Marchioness Caldariva? Is she here?"
"To be sure. The prince never travels without her."
"But what motive had she thus to injure herself and, perhaps, prevent her marriage with the prince?"
"Motive enough for a woman," replied Vajdar,--"jealousy."
"Jealousy!" repeated Blanka, in astonishment.
But one glance at the face confronting her was a sufficient explanation. That handsome face, smiling with triumph and self-confidence, made her tingle with wrath and scorn from head to foot. This man, it appeared, was impudent enough to play the rôle of suitor to his patron's wife, and also, at the same time, to pose as the object of a sentimental attachment on the part of that patron's mistress. And he smiled complacently the while.
"Sir," resumed the princess, whom that smile so irritated that she resolved to use her deadly weapon without further delay, "I appreciate your devotion to my cause, but I cannot deceive you. I must not encourage hopes that would end only in disappointment. Let this matter not be referred to again between us."
"But how if it were imposed by the prince as the indispensable condition of a peaceful settlement of your relations with him?"
"I cannot believe that such is the case," replied Blanka, calmly. "But however that may be, I cannot bind myself by any promise to you, knowing as I do that the question of matrimony between us is one that the canons of the Romish Church forbid us to consider."
"Ah, you have been studying ecclesiastical law, I see,--an error like that of the sick man that reads medical works. You undoubtedly have in mind the tenth paragraph, which forbids a son to marry his father's divorced wife; but you should have read farther, where it is declared that a marriage pronounced null and void by the clemency of the Pope is as if it never had been, and thus offers no hindrance to a subsequent union."
"No," rejoined the princess, "I did not refer to the tenth paragraph. The paragraph which renders our union impossible is the fourteenth."
The shot was fired, the mark was hit. Like a tiger mortally wounded the man sprang up and stood leaning on the back of his chair, glaring at his assailant with a fury that made her draw back in alarm. With what sort of ammunition had the gun been loaded, that it should inflict so deadly a wound,--that it should cause such a sudden and complete transformation of that complacently smiling face?
"Who told you that?" demanded Vajdar so furiously that Blanka recoiled involuntarily. "Only one person could have been your informant, and I know who that person is. I shall have my revenge on both of you for this!"
With that he was gone, hurrying out of the room and out of the hotel as if pursued by a legion of devils. Beppo came running to his mistress, and seemed surprised not to find her lying in her blood on the floor with half a dozen dagger-thrusts in her bosom.
"Well," he exclaimed, "whoever that man may be, I shouldn't like to meet him on a dark night in a narrow street."
Blanka told her servant that if the gentleman who had just left ever called again, she should not be at home to him. Then she sent her obedient Beppo away, as she wished to be alone. First of all, she must ponder the meaning of those mysterious words that had proved so potent in routing her enemy. She could hardly wait for her lawyer to return, so eager was she to question him in the matter.
"Well," began the advocate on entering, "what have you accomplished?"
"I have not made peace."
"Why not?"
"Because it would have cost more than war. All negotiations are broken off. Read this letter."
"A devilish plot!" cried the lawyer wrathfully. "But they are fully capable of carrying it out, all three of them. Did you show this to Vajdar?"
"Yes."
"And was that why he ran out of the hotel in such an extraordinary manner that the very waiters felt tempted to seize him at the door?"
"They had no such thought, I'll warrant," returned Blanka. "They are all in his pay. To-morrow I leave this place. You must find me a private dwelling."
"I have one for you already. The Rossis are moving out of the embassy, and have engaged a private house. They invite you to share their new quarters with them. There is ample room."
"Oh, how fortunate for me!"
"And yet the affair is not so altogether fortunate, after all. Rossi has fallen from favour, and with his fall the whole liberal party loses its influence at the Vatican."
But what did the princess care for the liberal party at that moment? She was thinking of the lucky chance that had made it possible for her to meet Manasseh again--at the house of their common friends.
"Now I must beg you," said she, changing the subject, "to press my suit as diligently as possible. But first let me ask you a question. You are thoroughly familiar with the marriage laws of the Romish Church, aren't you?"
"I know them as I do the Lord's Prayer."
"Do you remember the fourteenth paragraph?"
"The fourteenth paragraph? Thank God we have nothing to do with that."
"Why 'thank God'?"
"Because the fourteenth paragraph has to do with state's prison offences; it declares null and void any marriage, if either of the contracting parties has committed such an offence."
The mystery was clear to Blanka now.
|
{
"id": "20892"
}
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11
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THE DECISION.
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Gabriel Zimandy came to the princess one day with a very downcast mien.
"Our case makes no headway," he lamented, "and the reason is that your advocate is a Protestant. Now there are two ways to remedy this: either you must dismiss me and engage a Roman Catholic lawyer, or I must turn Roman Catholic myself. The latter is the shorter and simpler expedient."
Blanka thought him in fun, and began to laugh. But Zimandy maintained his solemnity of manner.
"You see, Princess," he went on, "I am ready to renounce the faith of my fathers and incur the world's ridicule, all to serve you. I am going this morning to the cardinal on whom the whole issue depends, to ask him to be my sponsor at the baptism."
The princess pressed his hand warmly in sign of her appreciation of his devotion.
In a few days the lawyer carried out his purpose and was received into the Church of Rome. The newspapers gave the matter considerable prominence, and it was generally expected that the godfather's present to the new convert would be a favourable decision in the pending divorce suit. And, in fact, a week later the decision was rendered. It was to the following effect: The husband and wife were declared divorced, but with the proviso that the latter should never marry again, and the former not during his divorced wife's lifetime. Thus the coffin-lid was closed on the young wife, who was, as it were, buried alive; but in falling it had caught and held fast the bridal veil of the Marchioness Caldariva, who could not now hope to be led to the altar so long as the princess remained alive. Had there been in this some malevolent design to wreak vengeance on the two women at one stroke, the purpose could not have been better accomplished.
The further provisions of the decree of the Roman Curia were of secondary importance. Prince Cagliari was required to pay to Princess Zboroy--for Blanka retained her rank and title--an annuity of twelve thousand ducats, to give over for her use as a dwelling one wing of the Cagliari palace, and to restore her dowry and jewels. These latter terms were evidently to be credited to Gabriel Zimandy's generalship; for his client might have found herself left with neither home nor annuity. So the lawyer's conversion had met with its reward even in this world.
But Blanka's enjoyment of house and home and yearly income was made dependent on a certain condition: she was never to leave Rome. The nature of the decree rendered this provision necessary. As she was forbidden to contract a second marriage, her judge found himself obliged to keep her under his eye, to make sure that his mandate was obeyed; and no more delicate and at the same time effective way to do this could have been devised than to offer her a palace in Rome and bid her enjoy its possession for the rest of her life. This was surely kinder than shutting her up in a convent.
After the rendering of this decree Blanka lost no time in taking possession of that half of the Cagliari palace assigned to her, and in engaging a retinue of servants befitting her changed surroundings. Her own property yielded her an income equal to that which she received from the prince, and thus she was enabled to allow herself every comfort and even luxury that she could desire. Of the two wings of the palace, Blanka's faced the Tiber, while the other fronted upon the public square. Each wing had a separate garden, divided from its neighbour by a high wall of masonry, and the only connection between the two parts of the house was a long corridor, all passage through which was closed. What had once been a door, leading from the room which Blanka now chose for her bedchamber into the corridor, was filled in with a fireplace, whose back was formed by a damascened iron plate. This apartment the princess selected for her asylum, her hermitage, where she could be utterly shut out from the world.
The next day after the decision was rendered, Blanka was greeted by her bosom friend, the fair widow Dormandy, with the announcement of her engagement to Gabriel Zimandy. They intended to be married in Rome, she said, and then return to Hungary, whither the bridegroom's business called him. It was clear to Blanka now why her lawyer had been so ready to renounce "the faith of his fathers." It was more for the sake of winning the hand of Madam Dormandy, who was a devout Catholic, and of marrying her then and there, in Rome, than on account of his client's interests. Here let us take leave of the worthy man and let him depart with God's blessing, his newly married wife by his side, and his honorarium from Princess Blanka in his pocket.
Thus the divorced wife, who was yet hardly more than a girl, found herself left alone in Rome. She shut herself off entirely from the world, never venturing into society lest people should whisper to one another as she passed,--"_la condannata! _" She received no one but her father confessor, who came to her once a week. The sins which she had to confess to him were,--the doubting of providence, rebellion against human justice, forbidden dreams in waking hours, envy of others' happiness, aversion to prayer, and hatred of life--all sins for which she had to do penance.
Meanwhile quite a different sort of life was being led in the other wing of the palace. She could not but hear, from time to time, sounds of mirth and gaiety in the adjoining garden, or even through the solid partition-wall of the house. Voices that she knew only too well, and some that she hated, penetrated to her ears and drove her from one room to another.
In due time, however, the malarial fever of the Italian summer came to her as another distraction. It was an intermittent fever, and for six weeks she was subject to its periodical attacks, which returned every third day with the constancy of a devoted lover. When at length she began to mend, her physician prescribed a change of air. Knowing that his patient could not absent herself from Rome and its vicinity, he did not send her to Switzerland, but to Tivoli and Monte Mario; and even before venturing on these brief excursions she was obliged to ask permission at the Vatican. The convalescent was allowed to spend her days on Monte Mario, but required to return to Rome at nightfall. Good morals and good laws demanded this.
Nevertheless, even this slight change--the drives to and from Monte Mario, and the mountain air during the fine autumn days--did the princess good, and eventually restored her health.
Meanwhile there was more than one momentous change in the political world, but Blanka heeded them not. What signified to her the watchword of the period,--"Liberty?" What liberty had she? Even were all the world beside free, she was not free to love.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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12
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A GHOSTLY VISITANT.
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It was the irony of fate that the mansion which had been assigned as a permanent dwelling-place to the woman condemned to a life of asceticism, had been originally fitted up as a fairy love-palace for a beautiful creature, possessed of an unquenchable thirst for the fleeting joys of this earthly existence. Over the richly carved mantelpiece in Blanka's sleeping-room was what looked like a splendid bas-relief in marble. It was in reality no bas-relief at all, but a wonderfully skilful bit of painting, so cleverly imitating the sculptor's chisel that even a closer inspection failed to detect the deception. It represented a recumbent Sappho playing on a nine-stringed lyre. The opening in the sounding-board of the instrument appeared to be a veritable hole over which real strings were stretched.
This painting Blanka had before her eyes when she lay down to sleep at night, and it was the first to greet her when she awoke in the morning. Nor was it simply that she was forced to see it: Sappho seemed able to make her presence known by other means than by addressing the sight alone. Mysterious sounds came at times from the lyre,--sometimes simple chords, and again snatches of love-songs which the princess could have played over afterward from memory, so plainly did she seem to hear them. Occasionally, too, the notes of a human voice were heard; and though the words were muffled and indistinct, as if coming from a distance, the air was easily followed. These weird melodies came to Blanka's ears nearly every evening, but she did not venture to tell any one about them. She tried to persuade herself it was all imagination on her part, and feared to relate her experience, lest she should incur suspicion of insanity and be consigned to a less desirable prison than the Cagliari palace.
One evening, as she was preparing to retire, and was standing for a moment before her mirror, the Sappho seemed to give vent to a ripple of laughter. The princess was so startled that she dropped the candle she held in her hand. Once more she heard that mysterious laugh, and then she beat a hasty retreat to her bed and buried herself in the pillows and blankets. But, peeping out at length and throwing one more glance at the picture, which was faintly illumined by her night-lamp, she heard still another repetition of the mysterious laughter, coming apparently from a great distance. Was this, too, an illusion, a dream, a trick of her imagination? If the painted Sappho was alive, why did she give these signs only at night, and not in the daytime as well?
November came, and with it rainy days, so that Blanka was constrained to suspend her drives to Monte Mario and remain in the house. Every evening she sat before her open fire with her eyes fixed on the glowing phoenix with which the back of the fireplace was adorned. It was the work of Finiguerra, the first of his craft to discard the chisel for the hammer. The many-hued feathers of the flaming bird were of steel, copper, brass, Corinthian bronze, silver, and gold. Especially resplendent was the bird's head, with its gleaming red circle around the brightly shining eye. This eye glowed and sparkled in the flickering light of the crackling wood fire until it seemed fairly endowed with life and vision.
One evening, as the princess was watching this glowing eye, it suddenly vanished from the bird's head and left a dark hole in its place. Then, as if not content with this marvellous demonstration, the phoenix next took flight bodily and disappeared, apparently up the chimney, with a rattling, rasping sound, as of the creaking of cogged wheels, leaving a wide opening where it had been. The coals which still glowed on the hearth presently died with a hissing noise, and only the soft light of the shaded lamp diffused itself through the room. Out of the mysterious depths of the fireplace stepped the white-clad form of a woman.
"I am the Marchioness Caldariva," announced the unbidden guest.
The suddenness and the mystery of it all, as well as the name that greeted her ears, might well have startled the Princess Blanka. The strange visitor was of tall and slender form, and suggested, in her closely fitting gown of soft material, a statue of one of the pagan goddesses. Her thick blond hair was carelessly gathered into a knot behind; her complexion was pale, her blue eyes were bright and vivacious, and her coral lips were parted in a coquettish smile. Every movement was fraught with grace and charm, every pose commanded admiration. She followed up her self-introduction with a laugh--a laugh that sounded familiar to her listener. It was the Sappho's tones that she heard. Blanka gazed in wonder at the mysterious apparition. She thought she must be dreaming, and that this was but another creation of her own fancy.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the visitor, "an original way to pay a call, isn't it? --without warning, right through the back wall of your fireplace, and in _négligé_, too! But as you wouldn't visit me, I had to come to you, and this is the readiest communication between our apartments. You didn't know anything about it, did you? The back of your fireplace is a secret door. If you press on the green tile here at the left, the phoenix flies up the chimney, and then if you bear down hard on this one at the right, it returns to its place again. Do you see?"
As she spoke the white lady stepped on the tile last designated, and straightway the phoenix descended and filled the opening through which she had just made her entrance.
"On the other side," she continued, "is a piece of mechanism which will only work when a secret lock has been opened, and to effect this the bird's eye must first be pushed aside to make room for the key. Your ignorance of all this became apparent to me when I found both of the two keys in my room. One of them belongs to you, and I have brought it to give you. Without it you might be broken in upon most unpleasantly by some unwelcome intruder. But with the key in your possession, you can insert it in the lock whenever you wish to guard against any such intrusion."
With that the speaker handed over the key, and then went on: "Now you will be able to visit me, just as I do you. One thing more, however, is necessary. You generally have a fire in your fireplace, and not every woman is a Saint Euphrosyne, able to walk barefoot over glowing coals. Here is a little bottle of liquid with which you can quench the flames at pleasure. It is a chemical mixture expressly prepared for this purpose. And in this other bottle is another liquid for rekindling the fire,--no secret of chemistry, this time, but only naphtha. Let us try it at once, for your room is cold and I have nothing on but this dressing-gown."
The flames were soon crackling merrily again in the fireplace. Blanka, much bewildered and still doubting the evidence of her senses, sank down on a sofa, while her unbidden guest seated herself opposite. The princess raised her eyes involuntarily to the Sappho over the mantelpiece. Again the familiar laugh fell on her ears.
"You look up at the Sappho," said the marchioness. "You have heard her play and sing and laugh more than once, haven't you? Well, you shall learn the secret of it all. A jealous husband once had the passage constructed which connects our two apartments. You know the story of Dionysius's Ear. Here you see it in real life. A hollow tube runs from the opening in the lyre directly to my room, and through this the jealous husband was able to hear every sound in his wife's chamber. Through it, too, you have heard me sing and play and laugh, and I have heard tones of sadness from your room, and exclamations in an unknown tongue, with no cheering word to comfort you and drive away your sorrow. Three days ago, about midnight, you began to sing, and that time I could follow the words,--'_De profundis ad te clamavi, Domine.' _ Don't look so surprised. You are not dreaming all this, and I am really the Marchioness Caldariva, better known as 'the beautiful Cyrene.' I have intruded on you this evening, but to-morrow you will admit me of your own free will, and the day after you shall be my guest. We will signal to each other through the tube when we are alone and disengaged, and we shall soon be great friends."
Blanka started slightly at the bare thought of friendship with this woman.
"I am in love with you already," continued the Marchioness Caldariva. "For the past week we have been meeting every day. We kneel side by side in the same church, for I go to church regularly; but you have not noticed me, because you never raise your eyes from your prayer-book to look at your neighbours' bonnets and gowns. As for me, now, I watch you all the time I am praying. Daily prayers are a necessity with me. In the morning I pray for the sins I have committed the day before, and in the evening for those to be committed on the morrow. Another bond of sympathy between us is the similar lot to which we are both condemned,--a life unblessed by domestic happiness,--and we cherish therefore a common hatred of the world. You, however, show yours by leading a solitary life of mourning, I mine by amusing myself the best way I can. If I were strong enough to follow your example, I should do so, but I can't live without distraction. You are strong; I am weak. I admire in you your power to humble your enemies before you. You were told, weren't you, that I wrote that anonymous letter?"
Blanka looked at the speaker with wide eyes of inquiry and wonder. She began at length to place confidence in her words.
"And you were told the truth, too," continued the other. "Oh, those two men are intriguers of the deepest dye. I was accused of upsetting their plan. I was told how mercilessly you had repulsed one of them. Really, that was a master stroke on your part. The fourteenth paragraph! He himself confessed the secret to me,--how he forged a note, some years ago, in the name of a good friend of his, who now holds the incriminating document in his possession. With it he can at any time crush his false friend and deliver him over to a long imprisonment. The trembling culprit wished to free himself at any cost from this sword of Damocles suspended over his head, and he proposed to me two ways to effect the desired end. One was for me to seduce the young artist and then, as the price of my smiles, cajole him into surrendering the fatal note."
The beautiful Cyrene threw at her listener a look full of the proud consciousness of her own dangerous charms. Blanka drew back in nameless fear under her gaze.
"The other way," proceeded the marchioness, "was to have him assassinated if he refused to give up the forged paper."
Blanka pressed her hands to her bosom to keep from crying out.
"Between these two plans I was asked to choose, and I rejected them both,--the first because I knew the young man adored you, the second because I knew you reciprocated his feeling."
The princess rose hastily and walked across the room, seeking to hide her tell-tale blushes.
"Come," said the marchioness, lightly, "sit down again and let us laugh over the whole affair together. You see, I would have nothing to do with either tragedy. I prefer comedy. Both of our arch-schemers have now taken flight from Rome; they were seized with terror at a street riot the other day, and they won't come back again, you may be sure, unless it be in the rear of a besieging army. So now we have the Cagliari palace quite to ourselves, and can sit and chat together all we please. But I must say good night; I've gossiped enough for one while, and I'm sleepy, too."
Once more the fire was extinguished and the phoenix made to yield a passage, after which Blanka found herself alone again. She shuddered at the thought of having lived for months with an open door leading to her bedroom. She debated with herself whether to stick her key in that door and leave it there permanently, while she herself sought another sleeping-room, or to yield to the charm of her unbidden guest and acquiesce in her plan of exchanging confidential visits. The strangeness and mystery of it all, and still more the hope that her neighbour might let fall an occasional word concerning Manasseh, at length prevailed over her fears and scruples, and determined her to receive the other's advances.
On the following evening she gave her servants permission to go to the theatre,--the play representing the defeat of the Austrian army by the Italians,--while she herself, after having her samovar and other tea-things brought to her room, took up her mandolin and struck a few chords on its strings. The reclining Sappho answered her, and a few minutes later there came a knock on the back of the fireplace.
"Come in!"
The phoenix rose, and the fair Cyrene appeared, this time in full toilet, as for a fashionable call, her hair dressed in the English mode, a lace shawl falling over her pink silk gown, from beneath which one got an occasional glimpse of the richly embroidered underskirt and a pair of little feet encased in high-heeled shoes.
"You were going out?" asked the princess.
"I was coming to see you."
"Did you know I was waiting for you?"
"I told you yesterday I should come, and I knew you were expecting me from your sending your servants away to the theatre."
"And you knew that too?"
"Yes, because they took mine along with them. So here we are all alone by ourselves."
The consciousness of being the only living creatures in a whole house has a delicious charm, fraught with mystery and awe, for two young women. Blanka took her guest's hat and shawl, and then proceeded to start a fire on the hearth. The fair Cyrene meanwhile caught up her mandolin and began to sing one of Alfred de Musset's songs, full of the warmth and glow of the sunny South. Presently the hostess invited her guest to take tea with her, and asked her at the same time her baptismal name.
The marchioness laughed. "Haven't you heard it often enough? They call me 'Cyrene.'"
"But that isn't your real name," objected Blanka. "You were not christened 'Cyrene.'"
"I use it for my name, however, and no one but my father confessor calls me by my real name, so that now I never hear it without thinking that I must fall on my knees and repeat a dozen paternosters in penance. Besides, my name doesn't suit me at all. It is Rozina, and I am as pale as moonshine. You might far better be called Rozina, for you have such beautiful rosy cheeks, and I should have been named Blanka. I'll tell you, suppose we exchange names: you call me Blanka, and I'll call you Rozina."
The suggestion seemed so funny to Blanka that she burst out laughing, and a woman who laughs is already more than half won over.
"Now, then," continued the other, "we can chat away to our heart's content. There's no one to listen to us or play the spy--a good thing for you to know, Rozina, because all your servants are hired spies. Your doorkeeper and his wife keep a regular journal of who comes in and who goes out, what visiting-cards are left, whom you receive, where you drive,--which they learn from your coachman,--whom you visit, and even with whom you exchange a passing word. Your maid reads all your letters and searches all your pockets. Even your gardener keeps an account of all the flowers you order; for flowers, you know, have a language of their own. Be sure you don't buy a parrot, else it will turn spy on you, too."
"Who can it be that is so suspicious of me?" asked the princess, in surprise.
"Have you forgotten the strict terms of your uncle's legacy, and are you unaware how slight an indiscretion on your part might furnish your relatives with a pretext for contesting your right to a share of the property? Do you forget, too, how trifling an error might result in the cutting off of your allowance from Prince Cagliari?"
"Well, let them watch me, if they wish," returned Blanka, composedly. "I have no secrets to hide from anybody."
"A rash assertion for a woman to make," commented the other, as she poured herself a glass of water. "How warm this water is!" she exclaimed, after taking a sip.
Blanka sprang up and offered to bring some ice from the dining-room.
"Aren't you afraid to go for it alone?"
"Certainly not; the lamps are all lighted."
While the hostess was out of the room, her guest turned over Blanka's portfolio of drawings, and among them found her outline sketch of the Colosseum.
"You sketch beautifully," commented the marchioness, upon the other's return.
"It is my only diversion," replied the princess.
"This view of the Colosseum reminds me of one I saw at the Rossis'."
"The artist may have chosen the same point of view," returned Blanka with admirable composure.
"I called on him at his studio lately," proceeded the marchioness. "I had heard one of his pictures very highly praised. It represents a young woman sitting on the gallery railing in the Colosseum, with the sunlight streaming on her through a red umbrella. The warm glow of the sunbeams is in striking contrast with the deep melancholy on the girl's face. I offered the artist two hundred scudi for the piece, but he said it was not for sale at any price."
Blanka felt as powerless in the hands of this woman as a rabbit in the clutches of a lion. The beautiful Cyrene closed the portfolio and exclaimed: "Rozina, these men are terrible creatures! They make us women their slaves. But the woman's first and dominant thought must ever be to find some escape from her bondage."
With that she jumped up and ran out of the room, as if taken suddenly ill. Her hostess followed to see what was the matter, and found her sitting in a corner of the adjoining apartment.
"You are weeping?"
"Not at all; never merrier in my life!"
Nevertheless, two tears were shining in the fair Cyrene's eyes.
Next she ran to the piano and began to rattle off "La Gitana," which Cerito had just made so popular throughout Europe.
"Have you the score?" asked the marchioness, turning to Blanka.
"No, but I can play it from memory."
"Then play it to me, please."
Blanka complied, and the other began to dance "La Gitana" to her playing. The spirit and feeling, the coquettish grace and seductive charm, which the dancer put into the movements of her lithe form, challenge description. If only a man could have seen her then! From sheer amazement Blanka found herself unable to control her fingers, which struck more than one false note.
"Faster! Put more fire into it!" cried the dancer. But Blanka could not go on.
"Ah, you don't remember it, after all."
"I can't play when I look at you," was the reply; and the Marchioness Caldariva believed her. "You could drive a man fairly insane."
"As long as the men will torment us, we must be able to pay them back." She took Blanka's arm and returned with her to the other room. "Woe to him who invades my kingdom!" she continued. "He is bound to lose his reason. Do you wish to wager that I can't drive all Rome crazy over me? If I took a notion to dance the 'Gitana' on the opera-house stage for the benefit of the wounded soldiers, all Rome would go wild with enthusiasm, and the people would half smother me with flowers."
"I will make no such wager with you," returned Blanka, "because I know I should lose."
The beautiful Cyrene changed the subject and invited the princess to attend one of her masked balls,--"a masquerade party," she explained, "of only forty guests at the most, and those the chief personages of Roman society. I ferret out all their secrets and can see through their masks; but I use no witchery about it. My guests are admitted by ticket only, and my major-domo, who receives these cards, writes on the back of each a short description of the bearer's costume. So I have only to go to him and consult his notes to learn my guest's identity."
"But cannot your guests also procure information from the same source--for a consideration?"
"Undoubtedly. My domestics are none of them incorruptible."
Blanka laughed, and Rozina hastened to take advantage of her good humour.
"And now just imagine among these forty masks one guest who comes neither through the door, nor through the major-domo's anteroom, so that no card, no personal description, no cab-number, no information of any kind, is to be had concerning her from my servants. She is acquainted with all the secrets of those around her, but no one can guess her secret, or fathom her mystery. Meanwhile a young painter has taken his seat in one corner behind a screen of foliage, and sketches the lively scene before him. He is the only one who, with beating heart, guesses the name of the mysterious unknown. What do you say,--will this bewitching guest from fairyland deign to figure as the chief personage on my young artist's canvas?"
"Before deciding, may I see a list of those whom you have invited?"
"Certainly--a very proper request." The marchioness handed over her fan, the ribs of which were of ivory, and served the owner as tablets. They were covered with a miscellaneous list of well-known names from all classes, and the last among them was Manasseh Adorjan's. "You can order a costume of black lace, spangled with silver stars," the fair Cyrene went on; "then, with a black velvet mask, you will be ready to appear as the Queen of Night."
Blanka offered no objection to this plan.
"I will admit you upon signal, through our secret passageway, into my boudoir, and from there you will pass, when the way is clear, into the ladies' dressing-room, and thence into the ballroom. With this fan of mine in your hand, you will, after some instructions from me, be able to puzzle and mystify all whom you address, while no one will be in a position even to hazard a surmise as to your identity. When you tire of the sport, come to me, pretend to tease me, and then turn and run away. I will give chase, and under cover of this diversion you will slip out of the room, and return to your own apartments by the same way you came, while I continue the hunt and summon all present to aid me in finding my mysterious guest."
Such was the speaker's influence over Blanka, that the latter could not give her a refusal. Accordingly, when the two parted, it was with the understanding that they were soon to see each other again at the marchioness's masquerade.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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13
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A SUDDEN FLIGHT.
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Blanka sat in her room, with closed doors, preparing her costume for the masked ball. Affairs in the world outside had moved rapidly during the past few days. In the feverish excitement of that revolutionary period, mob violence was threatening to gain the upper hand. Shouts of boisterous merriment reached the princess from the street. From the adjoining wing of the palace, too, other sounds, almost equally boisterous, fell on her ear at intervals. The fair Cyrene was entertaining a company of congenial spirits.
Gradually the noise in the street grew louder, until it seemed as if a cage of wild animals had been let loose before the Cagliari palace. Suddenly, as Blanka stood before her fire, all her senses alert, she saw the glowing phoenix rise from its position, and her fair neighbour stood in the opening.
"Put out your fire, and let me in," bade the marchioness. "I have emptied my extinguisher. Don't you hear the mob storming my palace gates? The soldiery who were summoned to restore order have made common cause with the rioters, and we are in frightful peril. Quick! Out with your fire, and let me and my guests through. We can make our escape by your rear door, and so gain the riverside in safety."
Blanka could not refuse this appeal. She opened the way for the marchioness and her motley company to pass out; then she herself, first closing the secret passage between the two wings of the palace, followed the other fugitives and, gaining the street by a wide détour, engaged a cab to take her to the Vatican.
"His Holiness receives no one this afternoon," was the announcement made to her at the door.
Almost in despair, and bewildered by the sudden turn of events which had thus cast her homeless on the streets, the princess returned to her carriage.
"Do you know where Signor Scalcagnato lives?" she asked the driver.
"Scalcagnato the shoemaker, the champion of the people? To be sure I do: in the Piazza di Colosseo. But if the lady wishes to buy shoes of him she should not address him as _Signor_ Scalcagnato."
"Why not?"
"Because he will ask half as much more for them than if he were called plain _Citizen_ Scalcagnato."
After this gratuitous bit of information the coachman whipped up his horse and rattled away toward the Colosseum with his passenger.
Arriving at the shoemaker's shop, Blanka was received by a little man of lively bearing and a quick, intelligent expression.
"Pst! No words needed," was his greeting. "I know all about it. I am Citizen Scalcagnato, _il calzolajo_. Take my arm, citizeness. Cittadino Adorjano lives on the top floor, and the stairs are a trifle steep. He is out at present, but his studio is open to you."
The young lady was reassured. The honest cobbler evidently did not suspect her of coming to meet his tenant by appointment, but took her for an artist friend on a professional visit, or perhaps a customer come to buy a picture. The shoemaker took the artist's place, in the latter's absence, and sold his paintings for him. Perhaps, too, the artist sold his landlord's shoes when that worthy was abroad.
Thus it was that Blanka took the offered arm without a misgiving, and suffered the cobbler to lead her up the steep stairway to the little attic chamber that served her friend for both sleeping-room and studio. It was as neat as wax, and as light and airy as any painter could desire. A large bow-window admitted the free light of heaven and at the same time afforded a fine view of the Palatine Hill. Leaning for a moment against the window-sill, in mute admiration of the prospect before her, the princess thought how happy a woman might be with this view to greet her eyes every day, while a husband who worshipped her and was worshipped by her worked at her side--or, rather, not _worked_, but _created_. It was a picture far more alluring than any that the Cagliari palace had to offer.
"Pst!" the cobbler interrupted her musing; "come and let me show you the portrait."
So saying, he conducted her to an easel on which rested a veiled picture, which he uncovered with an air of pride and satisfaction.
The feeling of rapture that took possession of Blanka at sight of her own portrait was owing, not to the fact that it was her likeness,--radiant though that likeness was with youth and beauty and all the charm of an ideal creation,--but to the thought that _he_ had painted it.
"The price is thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three _scudi_, and not a _soldo_ less!" announced the shoemaker, with a broad smile. Then he laid his fingers on his lips. "Pst! Not a word! I know all. It will be all right."
Blanka saw now that he had recognised her the moment she entered his shop.
"The citizen painter is not at home," continued the other, "but he will turn up at the proper time where he is wanted. Sun, moon, and stars may fall from heaven, but he will not fail you. No more words! What I have said, I have said. You can now return home, signorina, and need give yourself no further uneasiness. Whatever occurs in the streets, you need not worry. And finally"--they had by this time reached the ground floor again--"it will be well for you to take a pair of shoes with you, to make the coachman think you came on purpose for them. Here's a good stout pair, serviceable for walking or for mountain-climbing. You can rely on them. So take them along; you may need them sometime."
"But how do you know they will fit me?" asked Blanka.
"Citizeness, don't you remember the stone footprint of our Lord in the church of _Domine quo vadis_? And may not the footprint of an angel have been left in the sand of the Colosseum for a devout artist to copy in his sketch-book? Such a sketch is enough for the Cittadino Scalcagnato to make a pair of shoes from, so that they cannot fail to fit."
The princess turned rosy red. "I have no money with me to pay for them," she objected. "A footman usually accompanies me and pays for all my purchases; but to-day I left him at home, and I neglected to take my purse with me."
"No matter; I understand. I'll charge the amount. Here, take this purse and pay your cab-fare out of it when you reach the square. Don't go home in a carriage, but on foot. You needn't fear to do so, with a pair of shoes in your hand. If your gold-laced lackey were with you, you might meet with insult and abuse; but walking alone with the shoes in your hand, you will not be molested, and you will find all quiet at home by this time. Now enough said. I know all. You can pay me back later."
With that the little shoemaker escorted his guest to her carriage and took leave of her with a polite request--intended for the cabman's ear--for her further patronage.
Following the mysterious little man's directions, Blanka reached home unharmed, and found everything there as she had left it. Whatever violence the rioters may have allowed themselves in storming the marchioness's quarters, her own wing of the palace, for some reason that she could only vaguely conjecture, had been spared. After assuring herself of this, the princess tried on her new shoes, and found that Citizen Scalcagnato was no less skilful as a shoemaker than eminent as a politician and a party-leader.
The house was now still and deserted, although the sounds of riotous excess were faintly audible in the distance. The servants had evidently fled at the same time that Blanka and the marchioness left the palace. Looking out of her rear window, the princess noticed that her garden gate was open; it must have been left swinging by her domestics in their flight. She was hastening down-stairs to close it, when a man's form appeared before her in the gathering gloom, and she cried out in sudden terror.
"Do not be alarmed, Princess." The words came in a firm, manly voice that thrilled the hearer; she recognised the tones. Manasseh Adorjan stood before her. "I could not gain admittance by the front door," he explained, "so I went around to the garden gate."
"And how is it," asked Blanka, "that you have come to me at the very moment that I was seeking you?"
"I wished, first, to bid you farewell. I am going home, to Transylvania, for my people are in trouble and I must go and help them. As long as they are happy I avoid them, but when misfortune comes I cannot stay away. War threatens to invade our peaceful valley, and I hasten thither."
"Has the hour come, then, when you feel it right to kill your fellow-men?"
"No, Princess; my part is to restore peace, not to foment strife."
Blanka's hands were clasped in her lap. She raised them to her bosom and begged her fellow-countryman to take her with him.
The colour mounted to his face, his breast heaved, he passed his hand across his brow, whereon the perspiration had started, and stammered, in agitated accents: "No, no, Princess, I cannot take you with me."
"Why not?" asked Blanka, tremulously.
"Because I am a man and but human. I could shield you against all the world, but not against myself. I love you! And if you came with me, how could you expect me to help you keep your vows? I am neither saint nor angel, but a mortal, and a sinful one."
The poor girl sank speechless into a chair and hid her face in her hands.
"Hear me further, Princess," continued the other, with forced calmness. "I have told you but one reason why I sought you here to-day. The other was to show you a means of escape from this place, where you cannot remain in safety another day. You must leave Rome this very night, and that will be no easy thing to accomplish now that all the gates are guarded. But I have a plan. Above all things, you must find a lady to take you under her protection, and that, I think, can be effected. Citizen Scalcagnato issues all the passports for those that leave the city by the Colosseum gate. From him I have learned that the Countess X---- is to leave for the south to-night. I have obtained a pass for you, and you have only to make yourself ready and go with me to the Colosseum gate, where we will wait for her carriage. She is a good friend of yours and cannot refuse to take you as her travelling-companion. Do you approve my plan?"
"Yes, and I thank you."
"Then a few hours hence will see you on your journey southward. I shall set out for the north, and soon the length of Italy will separate us. Is it not best so?"
Blanka gave him her hand in mute assent.
* * * * * An hour later Manasseh and Blanka stood in the shelter of the gateway by which the countess was expected to leave Rome. They had not long to wait: the sound of an approaching carriage was soon heard, and when it halted under the gas-lamp Blanka recognised her friend's equipage. The gate-keeper advanced to examine the traveller's passport, and as the carriage door was thrown open Blanka hastened forward and made herself known.
"What do you wish?" demanded the liveried footman.
The princess turned and looked at him. Surely she had seen that face and form before in a different setting, but she could not recall when or where. So much was evident, however, that the speaker was more wont to give than to receive orders. Blanka turned again to the open carriage door and plucked at the cloak of the person sitting within.
"You are fleeing from Rome, too, Countess," said she. "I beg you to take me with you."
But the carriage door was closed in her face.
"Countess, hear me!" she cried, in distress. "Have pity on me! Don't leave me to perish in the streets!"
Her petition was unheeded. The footman drew her away and, as he turned to remount the vehicle, whispered three words in her ear: "_È il papa! _" It was the Pope, and he was fleeing! The spiritual ruler of the world, the king of kings, Heaven's viceroy upon earth, was flying for his life. The judge fled and left the prisoner to her fate. Blanka felt herself absolved from all her vows. She plucked from her bosom the consecrated palm-leaf, tore it to pieces, and threw the fragments scornfully after the retreating carriage. Then she turned once more to Manasseh.
"Now take me with you whithersoever you will!" she cried, and she sank on his bosom and suffered him to clasp her in a warm embrace.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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14
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WALLACHIAN HOSPITALITY.
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Manasseh had not much choice of routes in making his way, with his companion, to Transylvania. After leaving Italy, he bent his course first to Deés, as the road thither seemed to offer no obstacles to peaceful travellers. Troops were, indeed, encountered here and there on the way; but they suffered Manasseh and Blanka to pass unmolested. Manasseh had fortunately provided a generous hamper of supplies, so that his companion was not once made aware that they were passing through a district lately overrun by a defeated army, which had so exhausted the resources of all the wayside inns that hardly a bite or a sup was to be had for love or money.
The weather was unusually fine, as the sunny autumn had that year extended into the winter. The Transylvanian was perfectly familiar with the region, and entertained his fellow-traveller with legends and stories of the places through which they passed. In the splendid chestnut forests that crowned the heights of Nagy-Banya he told her the adventures of the bandit chief, Dionysius Tolvaj, who kept the whole countryside in terror, until at last the men of Nagy-Banya hunted him down and slew him. In his mountain cave are still to be seen his stone table, his fireplace, and the spring from which he drank. Manasseh also related the adventures of bear-hunters in these woods, and told about the search for gold that had long been carried on in the mountains, and often with success, so that many of them were now honeycombed with shafts and tunnels.
Up from yonder valley rose the spirit of the mountains, a white and vapoury form, with which the sturdy mountaineers fought for the possession of the hidden treasure. In reality, however, it was no genie, but simply the fumes of sulphur and arsenic from the smelting works of the miners, who never drew breath without inhaling poison. And yet they lived and throve and were a healthy and happy people, the men strong, the women fair, and one and all fondly attached to their mountain home.
One evening Manasseh pointed to a town in the distance, and told his companion that it was Kolozsvar. As they drew nearer they saw that it was garrisoned with a division of the national guard. Manasseh was now among people who knew him well, and he did not expect to be asked to show his passport. But he was mistaken. Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm and a firm voice saluted his ears.
"So you thought you'd slip by me without once showing your papers, did you? A pretty way to act, I must say!"
Manasseh turned to the speaker, who proved to be a short, broad-shouldered, thick-set man, in a coarse coat such as the Szeklers wear, high boots, and a large hat. His arms were disproportionately long for his short body, his beard was either very closely cut or sadly in need of the razor, and his legs were planted widely apart as he confronted the travellers in a challenging attitude. Perhaps he wished to invite Manasseh to a wrestling bout.
Blanka looked on in surprise as she saw the two men fling their arms around each other. But it was not the embrace of wrestlers. They exchanged a hearty kiss, and then Manasseh cried, joyfully: "Aaron, my dear brother!"
"Yes, it is Aaron, my good Manasseh," returned the stocky little man, with a laugh; and, throwing aside the jacket that hung from his neck, he extended his right hand to his brother. Then he turned to Blanka. "And this pretty lady is our future sister-in-law, isn't she? God bless you! Pray bend down a bit and let me give your rosy cheek a little smack of a kiss."
Blanka complied, and brother Aaron gave her blushing cheek much more than "a little smack."
"There," declared the honest fellow, with great apparent satisfaction, "I'm delighted that you didn't scream and make a fuss over my bristly beard. You see, I haven't had a chance to shave for four days. Three days and nights I've been here on the watch for my brother and his bride."
"And what about our two brothers, Simon and David?" asked Manasseh, anxiously. "Are they alive and well?"
"Certainly, they are alive," was the answer. "Have you forgotten our creed? Our life is from everlasting to everlasting. But they are really alive and in the flesh, and, what is more"--turning to Blanka--"they are sure to come to meet us and will expect to receive each a nosegay from their brother's sweetheart."
Blanka smiled and promised not to disappoint them, for there were still plenty of autumn flowers in the woods and fields.
"Yes," said Aaron, "you'll find posies enough on the road. We are going by a way that is covered with them. If you don't believe it, look at this bouquet in my hat; it is still quite fresh, and I picked it in the Torda Gap. Have you ever heard of the Torda Gap? There is nothing like it in all the world; you'll remember it as long as you live. It is a splendid garden of wild flowers, and there you will see the cave of the famous Balyika,--he was Francis Rakoczy's general. Thence it is only a step to the Szekler Stone, and we are at home. Do you like to walk in the woods?"
"Nothing better!"
Here Manasseh pulled his brother's sleeve. "Do you really mean to take us by the way of Torda Gap?" he whispered.
"Yes," returned the other, likewise in an undertone; "there is no other way."
A blare of trumpets interrupted this conversation, and presently a squad of hussars came riding down the street, every man of them a raw recruit.
"Look, see how proud he is on his high horse!" interjected Aaron. "He never even looks at a poor foot-passenger like me. Halloa there, brother! What kind of a cavalryman do you call yourself, with no eyes for a pretty girl? Oh, you toad!"
With this salutation Aaron called to his side the young lieutenant who rode at the head of the hussars. He bore a striking resemblance to Manasseh,--the same face, the same form, the same eyes. Indeed, the two had often been mistaken for each other. There was only a year's difference in their ages. The young hussar gave his hand to Manasseh, and while they exchanged cordial greetings they looked each other steadfastly in the eye.
"Whither away, brother?" asked the elder.
"I am going to avenge my two brothers," was the reply.
"And I am going to rescue them," declared Manasseh.
"I am going forth to fight for my country," was the other's rejoinder.
Then the rider bent low over his horse's neck, and the two brothers kissed each other.
"But aren't you going to ask your new sister for a kiss, you young scapegrace?" cried Aaron.
The youthful soldier blushed like a bashful girl. "When I come back--when I have earned a kiss--then I will ask for it. And you will give me one, won't you, dear sister-in-law, even if they bring me back dead?"
Blanka gave him her hand, while a nameless dread showed itself in her face.
"Never fear!" cried the young man. As he gave Blanka a radiant look he saw tears glistening in her eyes. "I shall not die. _Egy az Isten! _"[1] [Footnote 1: See preface.] " _Egy az Isten! _" repeated the elder brother.
Then the young hussar put spurs to his horse and galloped to the head of his little company.
"Come, let us be going," said Aaron, and he led the way toward the farther end of the town, where the family owned a villa which they used whenever occasion called them from Toroczko to Kolozsvar. Adjoining the house lay a garden which was now rented to a market-woman, who made haste to prepare supper for the travellers. Blanka went into the kitchen and helped her, but not before the woman had been instructed in what was going on and warned not to breathe a word to the young mistress of the dangers that encompassed them all in those troublous times. It was Manasseh's desire to lead his bride home without giving her cause for one moment of disquiet on the way.
"Can you sleep in a carriage?" the market-woman asked her, without pausing in her baking and boiling. "Now as for me, many's the time I've slept every night for two weeks in my cart when I was taking apples to market. One gets used to that sort of thing. The gentlemen propose to set out for Torda this very night, because to-morrow is the great market-day in Kolozsvar, and there'll be troops of peddlers and dealers of all sorts coming into town, and farmers driving their cattle and sheep and swine, so that you couldn't possibly make head against them if you should wait till morning."
Blanka readily gave her consent to any plan that seemed best to her conductors.
Aaron meanwhile had brought out three good horses from the stable and harnessed them to a travelling carriage. "Water behind us, fire before us," he remarked to Manasseh as he buckled the last strap.
Wallachian troops were holding the mountain passes about Torda, and had even threatened Toroczko; but thus far the inhabitants had not allowed themselves to be frightened. Now, however, there was a report that General Kalliani was approaching from Hermannstadt with a brigade of imperial soldiery. Consequently it was to be feared that a general flight from Torda to Kolozsvar would soon follow; and, when once the stream of fugitives began, it would be impossible to make one's way in an opposite direction. Therefore our travellers had not a moment to lose.
Blanka was by this time well used to travelling by night, and she entered cheerfully and without question into the proposed plan. A longing to reach "home," and perhaps a vague suspicion of the perils that threatened her party, made her the more willing to push forward. When danger braces to action, a high-bred woman's power of endurance is almost without limit.
Aaron drove, Manasseh sat beside him, and thus the entire rear seat was left to Blanka, who was so swathed and muffled in wraps and furs that she was well-nigh hidden from view. Despite all the plausible explanations, she came very near guessing the well-meant deceit that was practised upon her.
"Why, your horses are saddled!" she exclaimed to Aaron.
"Yes, to be sure," calmly replied the mountaineer. "That's the custom in Transylvania; we put saddles on our carriage-horses just as in Styria they buckle a block of wood over the horse's neck."
Blanka appeared satisfied with this explanation of Transylvanian usage. Aaron gave his good Szekler steeds a free rein. They were raised in the mountains and could, if need were, trot for twenty-four hours on a stretch without food or water; then, if they were unharnessed and allowed to graze a little, they were able to resume the journey with unslackened pace. The driver had no occasion to use reins or whip: they knew their duty,--to pull lustily when the road led up-hill, to hold back in going down-hill, to trot on a level, to overtake and pass any carriage in front of them, to quicken their pace when they heard one behind, and to halt before every inn.
Aaron, turning half around on his seat, beguiled the time by telling stories to his fair passenger, to whom his fund of amusing anecdotes seemed inexhaustible. When at length, as they were ascending a long hill, he noticed that she ceased to laugh at his tales, but sat inert and with head sunk on her bosom, he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and, drawing out an enamelled gold watch, pressed the stem and held it to his ear.
"Half-past twelve," he murmured.
The man himself was a gold watch encased in a rough exterior, a noble heart in a rude setting. His horny hands were hardened by toil, but he had a clever head on his shoulders; he was well endowed with mother-wit, quick at repartee, merciless in his satire toward the haughty and overbearing, cool and good-humoured in the presence of danger,--in short, a genuine Szekler, heart and soul.
When, then, his repeater had told him the hour, Aaron turned and addressed his brother. "The young lady is asleep," said he, "and now you and I can have a little talk together. You asked me how our two brothers came to be captured. Let me begin at the beginning, and you shall hear all about it. You know when freedom is first born she is a puny infant and has to be suckled. That she cries for blood instead of milk is something we can't help. So all the young men of Toroczko enlisted in the militia,--every mother's son of them,--and they are now serving in the eleventh, the thirty-second, and the seventy-third battalions. You ask me, perhaps, why we mountain folk must needs take the field when already we are fighting for our country all our life long in the bowels of the earth. You say it is enough for us to dig the iron in our mountains without wielding it on the battle-field; else what do the privileges mean that were granted us by Andreas II. and Bela IV., by which we are exempted from military service? It's no use your talking, Manasseh; you've been away from home. But had you been here and seen and heard your brother David when he stood up in the middle of the marketplace, made a speech to the young men around him, and then buckled on his sword and mounted his horse, you would certainly have mounted and followed him. How can you quench the flames when every house is ablaze? All the young men were on fire and it was out of the question to dampen their ardour. Besides, this is no ordinary war; freedom itself is at stake, and that is a matter that concerns Toroczko. All the Wallachians around us, stirred up by imperial officers sent from Vienna, took up arms against us, and nothing was left us but to defend ourselves. The people took such a fancy to our brothers that there was no other way but to make them officers. You cry out against the good folk for letting their commanders be taken prisoners. But don't make such a noise about it." (Manasseh had thus far not once opened his mouth.) "You shall soon see that your brothers were no fools, and did not rush into danger recklessly. You know that soon after the Wallachian mass-meeting at Balazsfalva came the Szekler muster at Agyagfalva, and presently we found ourselves like an island in the midst of the sea. A Wallachian army ten thousand strong, under Moga's command, beset us on all sides, while we had but three hundred armed men all told,--just the number that Leonidas had at Thermopylæ. Our eldest brother, Berthold, who, since he turned vegetarian, can't bear to see a chicken killed for dinner, and is dead set against all bloodshed, advised us to make peaceful terms with the enemy. So we drew lots to see who should go out and parley with them, and it fell to our brother Simon. He took a white flag and went into the enemy's camp; but they held him prisoner and refused to let him go. Then David started up and went after him, with an offer of ransom for his release. But they seized him, too, and so now they have them both. Meanwhile the Wallachs are threatening, if we don't surrender to them and admit them into Toroczko, to hang our two brothers before our eyes. We on our part, however, turn a deaf ear to the rascally knaves, and would perish to the last man before we would think of yielding. It's no use your screaming in my ears, you won't make me change my mind. I'm ready to treat with people that are reasonable, but when they bite me I bite back. I agree with you it's a hateful thing to have two of our brothers hanged; noblemen are not to be insulted with the halter; their honour should be spared and their heads taken off decently. But what can we do? Can we hesitate a moment between two noblemen's deaths and the destruction of all the peasantry? One man is as good as another now. So you may make as much rumpus as you please, it won't do any good. I am taking you to Toroczko, and as our two brothers are as good as lost to us, you must take the command of the Toroczko forces. You have seen the barricade fighting in Vienna and Rome, and you understand such things. So, then, not another word! I won't hear it."
Manasseh had not uttered a syllable, but had permitted his brother to argue out the matter with himself.
"I don't gainsay you, brother Aaron," he calmly rejoined, "not in the least. Take me to Toroczko, the sooner the better; but we shall not get there by this road. Do you see that great cloud of dust yonder moving toward us?"
"Aha! What sharp eyes you have to see it, by moonlight too! I hadn't noticed it before. All Torda and Nagy-Enyed are coming to meet us. They must have set out about the same time we did, to make the most of the night. We can't get through this way, that's sure. But don't you worry. It's a sorry kind of a fox that has only one hole to hide in. Do you see that gorge there on our right? It leads to Olah-Fenes. The people there are Wallachs, it is true, but they side with us; to prove it, they have cut their hair short. Next we shall come to Szent-Laszlo, where Magyars live. So far we can drive, though it's a frightful road and one of us must walk beside the carriage and keep it from tipping over. We must wake up the young lady, too, and tell her to hold on tight, or she'll be thrown out. But never fear. The horses can be depended on, and the carriage is Toroczko work and good for the jaunt."
There was a halt, and Blanka awoke of her own accord. Manasseh turned to her, chatted with her a moment on the brightness of the stars and the clearness of the sky, then kissed her hand and bade her draw it back again under her furs, else it would get frost-bitten. Thereupon Aaron reined his horses toward the mountain gorge he had pointed out, and they began their dangerous journey over a rough wood-road that led through the ravine. At one point it ran along the brink of a precipice, and as they paused to breathe their horses the rumble of wagons on the highway from Torda fell on their ears, sounding like distant thunder in the still night. Then, to the north and south, red lights began to glimmer on the mountain peaks.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Blanka, as she gazed at them. Little did she suspect that they were beacon-fires calling to deeds of blood and rapine.
A turn in the road at length conducted the travellers through a gap in the mountain range, and they had a view of the moonlit landscape before them. A noisy brook went tumbling and foaming down the ravine, and over it led a wooden bridge, at the farther end of which could be seen a rude one-story house surrounded by a palisade. Five smaller houses of similar architecture were grouped about it. The barking of dogs greeted the travellers while they were still some distance off, and the crowing of cocks soon followed.
"Do you hear Ciprianu's roosters?" Aaron asked his brother.
"So you are acquainted with Ciprianu and his poultry?" returned Manasseh.
"Yes, I know them well. Ciprianu is a Wallach, but a nobleman of Hungary for all that, and his poultry unique of its sort. The cocks are white, but in head and neck they bear a strong resemblance to turkeys, and they gobble like turkeys, too. They are a special breed and Ciprianu wouldn't part with one of them for a fortune. He guards them jealously from thieves, and that explains why he has so many dogs. As soon as he hears our carriage-wheels he'll come out on his veranda and fire off his gun--not at us, but into the air, to let us know he's awake and ready to meet friend or foe."
The barking increased, the dogs sticking their noses out from between the stakes of the palisade and joining in a full chorus. Presently a shot was heard from the front porch of the house.
"Oh, they are firing at us!" cried Blanka, startled.
"Don't be afraid, sister-in-law," Aaron reassured her; "that shot wasn't aimed at us." Then he shouted, in stentorian tones: "Don't shoot, Ciprianu, don't shoot! There's a lady with us, and she can't bear the noise."
At this there was heard a great commotion among the dogs, as of some one quieting the unruly beasts with a whip. Then the gate opened and a six-foot giant in a sheepskin coat, wool outward, and bearing a club, appeared. He exchanged greetings in Rumanian with Aaron, and the conversation that followed was likewise in that language, so that Blanka could not understand a word of it. The Wallach pointed to the signal-fires on the mountains, and his face assumed an expression of alarm. Finally he took one of the horses by the bridle, and conducted the carriage through the gate and into his stronghold.
"Why are we stopped here?" asked Blanka.
Aaron gave her a reassuring reply. "Ciprianu says it is not best for us to go any farther to-night, as the rains have washed out the road in some places, and we might get into trouble in the dark. So we must accept his invitation and spend the rest of the night under his roof."
Aaron had explained the situation only in part. The Wallachian's argument for detaining them had much less to do with water than with the fires on the mountain tops.
The dogs were kicked aside to make room for the strangers, and sundry villagers appeared out of the gloom to reconnoitre the new arrivals. The country peasantry never give themselves a regular night's sleep, but lie down half-dressed in order to get up occasionally and look around in house and stable, to make sure all is as it should be.
Ciprianu had a handsome daughter, as tall as himself and with regular features of the old Roman cast. At her father's call she came out, lifted Blanka like a child from the carriage, and carried her into the house. It was a pleasant little abode, built of smoothly planed oak beams and planks. The kitchen, which served also as entrance hall, was as neat as wax and cheerfully adorned with brightly polished tinware. The fire on the hearth was still smouldering, and it needed only a handful of shavings to make it blaze up and crackle merrily. The wall which separated the great fireplace from the next room was of glazed tiles, and thus the adjoining apartment was heated by the same fire that warmed the kitchen. Both the master of the house and his daughter were most cordial toward their guests. The father spread the table, while the girl put on the kettle and brought out the best that the house had to offer of food and drink, pressing the refreshments upon Blanka in words that sounded to her not unlike Italian, but were nevertheless quite unintelligible.
"They can both speak Hungarian," whispered Aaron, when father and daughter were out of the room for a moment, "but these are times when they choose to forget all tongues except their own."
Blanka soon learned that her hostess's name was Zenobia. When they sat down to the table, Zenobia made as if to kiss her fair guest's hand; Blanka, however, would not allow it, but embraced the young woman and kissed her on the cheek.
This act was noted by the father with no little pride and satisfaction. Blanka could not understand his words; she could only guess his meaning by the gestures and the play of countenance with which a Wallachian knows so well how to convey his thoughts. Thus, when Ciprianu put his hand first to his head, then tapped Aaron on the shoulder, kissed his own fingers and then stretched them heavenward, made a motion with his head and raised his eyebrows, bowed low, stood erect again, thumped his bosom, and finally extended his great, muscular hands toward Blanka as if to caress her, she could not but infer that the Wallachian-Hungarian nobleman was proud of the courtesy shown to his daughter.
After this bit of eloquent pantomime, Ciprianu turned and hastened out of the room and into the courtyard, whence he soon reappeared amid a great cackling of poultry. He brought with him, tied together by the feet, a cock and a hen of that splendid breed that so strangely resembles, in head and neck, the proudest of Calcutta turkeys. This pair of fowls he presented to Blanka. She smiled her pleasure, and gladly accepted the gift, mindful of the new duties soon to be imposed upon her as a young housewife, and thinking that this present would be a welcome addition to her establishment. The generous host did not wait for his guest's thanks, but disappeared again from the room.
"Sister-in-law," said Aaron, "you little suspect the value of the present you have received. Even to his bishop Ciprianu has never given a cock and a hen of this breed at one time. So now we can sleep soundly in this house, for we have a sure proof that you have won its master's heart. With Ciprianu's cock and hen we can make our way unchallenged through the whole Wallachian army. They are as good as a passport for us."
Blanka laughed, unaware of the full significance of his words. She was like a saint walking over red-hot coals without once singeing the hem of her robe.
Ciprianu's house was, as is usual among the Wallachian nobility, well fitted for the reception of guests. Everything savoured of the householder's nationality, but comfort and abundance were everywhere manifest. Canopied beds were provided for all, only the master of the house, according to established custom, lay down before the kitchen door, wrapped in his sheepskin, and with his double-barrelled musket by his side. In an adjoining room stood two beds for Blanka and Zenobia. Aaron and Manasseh were likewise given a chamber in common.
Curiously enough, one is often most wakeful when most in need of sleep. All her surroundings were so strange to Blanka that she found herself wide awake and listening to the barking of the dogs, the occasional crowing of the cocks, the snoring of the master of the house, and his frequent mutterings as he dreamed of fighting with thieves and housebreakers. Then her companion began to moan and sob in her sleep, and to utter disjointed sentences in Hungarian, of which she had so studiously feigned ignorance a few hours before. "Oh, dear Jonathan," she whispered, passionately, "do not leave me! Kiss me!" Then she moaned as if in anguish.
Blanka could not compose herself to sleep. Only a wooden partition separated her from the room in which the two brothers slept. She could hear Manasseh turning restlessly on his couch and muttering in his sleep as if in dispute with some one.
"No, I will not let you go!" she heard him exclaim. "You may plunge my whole country in blood, you may baptise my countrymen with a baptism of fire, but I will never despair of my dear fatherland. Your hand has girt it round about with cliffs and peopled it with a peaceful race. It is my last refuge, and thither I am carrying my bride. With your strong arm restore me to my beloved home. I will wrestle with you, fight with you; you cannot shake me off. I will not let you go until you have blessed me."
The fisticuffs and elbow-thrusts that followed must have all spent themselves on poor Aaron's unoffending person. At length the elder brother wearied of this diversion and aroused his bedfellow.
"With whom are you wrestling, brother?" he cried in the sleeper's ear.
"With God," returned Manasseh.
"Like Jacob at Peniel?"
"Yes, and I will not let him go until he blesses me--like Jacob at Peniel."
"Take care, or he will put your thigh out of joint, as he did Jacob's."
"Let him, if it is his will."
With that Manasseh turned his face to the wall, on the other side of which lay Blanka, who likewise turned her face to the wall, and so they both fell asleep.
And the Lord blessed them and spake to them: "I am Jehovah, almighty. Increase and be fruitful. From your seed shall spring peoples and races; for you have prevailed with God, and shall prevail also with men."
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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15
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BALYIKA CAVE.
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The sun rises late in November. When Blanka awoke, every one else in the house was already up. Manasseh met her with the announcement that their journey was thenceforth to be on horseback, at which she was as pleased as a child. So that explained why their carriage-horses had been saddled.
In the kitchen a plentiful breakfast stood ready,--hot milk, bacon spiced with paprika, snow-white mountain honey, long-necked bottles of spirits distilled from various fruits, cheeses rolled up in the fragrant bark of the fir-tree,--all of which was new to Blanka and partaken of by her with the keenest relish, to the great satisfaction of her host. What was left on the table by his guests he packed up and made them carry away with them, assuring them it would not come amiss.
Zenobia was to guide the travellers on their way. Blanka laughed with delight as she mounted her horse. At first she found it strange enough to sit astride like a man, but when she saw the stately Wallachian maiden thus mounted, she overcame her scruples and even thought it great fun. The little mountain horses were so steady and sure-footed that it was like being rocked in a cradle to ride one of them.
The two young women rode ahead, while the men lingered behind a moment to drink a stirrup-cup with their host, who would not let them go without observing this ceremony. Entering the forest, Blanka accosted her companion.
"Zenobia, call me 'Blanka,' and speak Hungarian with me. You spoke it well enough in your sleep last night."
The Wallachian girl drew rein abruptly and crossed herself. "Holy Virgin!" she whispered, "don't lisp a word of what you heard me say, and don't ask me about it, either."
They rode on side by side up the slope of the mountain. Blanka was in high spirits. The turf was silvered with hoar frost, except here and there where the direct rays of the sun had melted it and exposed the grass beneath, which looked all the greener by contrast. A stately grove received the travellers. A silence as of some high-arched cathedral reigned, broken occasionally by the antiphony of feathered songsters in the trees overhead. A pair of wild peacocks started up at the riders' approach and alighted again at a little distance. The ascent became steeper. Horses bred in the lowlands must have long since succumbed to the strain put upon them, but Aaron's good mountain ponies showed not even a drop of sweat on their sleek coats.
Gaining the mountain top at length, the travellers saw before them a wild moor threaded by a narrow path, which they were obliged to follow in single file, Zenobia taking the lead. The sun was high in the heavens when they reached the end of this tortuous path and found themselves at a point where their road led downward into the valley below. A venerable beech-tree, perhaps centuries old, marked this spot. It was the sole survivor of the primeval forest that had once crowned the height on which it stood. Held firm by its great, wide-reaching roots, which fastened themselves in the crannies of the rock, it had thus far defied the elements. Its trunk half hid a cavernous opening in the mountainside, before which lay a large stone basin partly filled with water.
"Here we will rest awhile, beside the Wonder Spring," said Zenobia, leaping from her horse and loosening her saddle-girth. "We'll take a bite of lunch and let our animals graze; then later we will water them."
"How can we?" asked Blanka. "There is scarcely any water here."
"There will be enough before long," was the reply. "That is why we call it the Wonder Spring: every two hours it gushes out, and then subsides again."
Blanka shook her head doubtfully, and, as if to make the most of the water still remaining in the basin, she used her hand as a ladle and dipped up enough to quench the thirst of her pair of fowls--for her valuable present had not been left behind.
Meanwhile Aaron had spread the lunch on the green table-cloth provided by good dame Nature, and had begun to cut, with his silver-mounted clasp-knife, a generous portion for each traveller. But Blanka declared herself less hungry than thirsty.
"The saints have but to wish, and their desires are fulfilled," was Zenobia's laughing rejoinder. "Even the barren rocks yield nectar. Hear that! The spring is going to flow in a moment."
A gurgling sound was heard from the cavernous opening behind the beech-tree, and presently an abundant stream of crystal-clear water burst forth, flooded the basin, and then went leaping and foaming over the rocks and down the mountainside into the ravine below. Blanka clapped her hands with delight at this beautiful appearance, and declared that if she were rich, she would build a house there and ask for no other amusement than to watch the spring when it flowed. She laughed like a happy child, and perhaps in all Transylvania, that day, hers was the only happy laugh that was heard.
Aaron gathered a heap of dry twigs and made a fire, at which he taught Blanka to toast bread and broil bacon,--accomplishments not to be despised on occasions like this.
In half an hour the spring ceased to flow. It stopped with a succession of muffled, gurgling sounds from the depths of its subterranean channel, ending finally with gulping down the greater part of the water that had filled the basin. Then all was still once more.
Meanwhile something had occurred to trouble Blanka's happiness. Two or three wasps, of that venomous kind of which half a dozen suffice to kill a horse, lured from their winter quarters by the smell of food, were buzzing about her ears in a manner that spoiled all her pleasure. Aaron hastened to her assistance, and suspecting that the intruders had their nest in the hollow beech, he made preparations to smoke them out. Setting fire to a bunch of dry grass, he inserted it in the hollow of the tree and confidently awaited results. A sound like the snort of a steam-engine followed, and presently flames were seen bursting from the top of the chimney-like trunk. The dry mould and dust of ages that had collected inside this shaft had now caught fire, like so much tinder, turning the whole tree in a twinkling into a mighty torch.
"Oh, what have you done?" cried Zenobia, starting up. "Do you know that you have killed my father and set fire to the house that sheltered you last night?"
Blanka at first thought the girl was joking, but when she saw Aaron's vexed expression and Manasseh's ruffled brow, she knew that the words must have a meaning that the others understood, though she did not.
"Quick!" exclaimed the Wallachian maiden. "Mount and away! You have not a moment to lose. I hasten back to my father. You can find your way down the mountain by following the bed of the brook. Night must not overtake you in this neighbourhood. Oh, Aaron, may God forgive you for what you have done this day!"
Out of the burning tree a pair of owls fluttered, blinded and panic-stricken, a family of squirrels scampered off to a place of safety, and a nest of serpents squirmed and wriggled away from that blazing horror. Yet neither owls nor squirrels nor serpents fled with more headlong haste than did our travellers. Zenobia galloped back the way she had come, while the two men took Blanka between them and clattered down the rocky bed of the now nearly dry mountain torrent.
Of all this Blanka could understand nothing. What great harm, she wondered, could come from the burning of an old beech-tree?
Toward evening the travellers found themselves on a height commanding a wide view of the surrounding country. To the north rose the cliff where they had lunched at noon, and where they could still see black smoke ascending in a column from the smouldering beech as from a factory chimney. To the southeast another column of smoke was visible, and toward the same quarter Torda Gap opened before them in the distance.
Aaron said they must halt here and rest their horses, whereupon all three dismounted and Manasseh spread a sheepskin for Blanka to sit on; but she chose rather to go in quest of wild flowers.
"Your Blanka is a jewel of a woman!" exclaimed Aaron to his brother. "From early dawn she sits in the saddle, bears all the hardships of the journey, and utters not a sigh of weariness or complaint. With that filigree body of hers, she endures fatigues that might well make a strong man's bones ache, and keeps up her good cheer through them all. Nothing daunted by danger ahead, she makes merry over it when it is passed. Yet once or twice I thought she was going to lose heart, but she looked into your face and immediately regained her courage. But the hardest part of the journey is still to come. Turn your field-glass toward Monastery Heights, yonder, where you see the smoke. Do you find any tents there?"
"Yes, and on the edge of the woods I see the gleam of bayonets."
"That is the camp of Moga's insurgents, and it lies between us and the Szekler Stone. Every road leading thither is now unsafe for us. But hear my plan. The insurgents hold Monastery Heights, and we must ride past them, through the Torda Gap. The millers of the two mills that stand one at each end of the Gap are my friends. The Hungarian miller at Peterd has shut off Hesdad Brook to-day, to clear out the mill-race. He does it once in so often, and I know he is about it now. So we shall have no trouble making our way up the dry bed of the stream to the farther end of the Gap. The miller there has promised to give a signal if the road through the Torda woods is clear, and unless it is blocked by the insurgents we can push on at once to the saw-mill on the Aranyos, where a four-horse team is waiting for us with twelve mounted young men from Bagyon as escort. But don't wrinkle your brow, we sha'n't come to bloodshed yet awhile. A dozen Bagyon horsemen make nothing of dashing through the whole Wallachian army, and not a hair of their heads will be touched. We shall be shot at, but from such a distance that we shall never know it. We will tell the young lady it is the custom in our country to receive bridal parties with a volley of musketry. When we reach the Borev Bridge we are as good as at home, and we shall be there before any one can overtake us, I'll warrant."
"But what if the Torda woods are held by the enemy?" queried Manasseh.
"Then we will take up our quarters for the present in Balyika Cave. Everything is provided there for our comfort, and we shall not suffer. We'll wait until the danger passes. Near the Balyika Gate we shall find a signal: a cord will be stretched from one rock to another, and a red rag hung on it if danger threatens, but a green twig if all is well."
"And when you first proposed in Kolozsvar that we should go home by way of Torda Gap, did you know the perils we should have to face?"
"Certainly," replied Aaron. "You can read my heart, brother, like an open book, and I need not try to conceal anything from you. Do you suppose we should ever have taken up arms unless we had been forced to do so, even as you will exchange the olive-branch for the sword as soon as you find what is dearest to you in danger? You cannot do otherwise; the iron hand of destiny constrains you. You have brought your sweetheart with you from Rome; your honour as a man obliges you to make her your lawful wife. Our law, our canon, compels you to make your way home with her, for nowhere else can your wedding be duly solemnised. Suppose the enemy block your way: you are given a good horse, a trusty sword and a brace of pistols, and then, with thirteen loyal comrades, including myself, you clear a path, through blood if need be, to the altar whither it is your duty to lead your betrothed."
While the two men thus discoursed on war and bloodshed, Blanka was enjoying the late autumn flowers that the frost had spared. Indigo-blue bell-flowers and red and white tormentils were still in bloom, while in the clefts of the rocks she came upon the red wall-pepper and a kind of yellow ragwort. She had gathered a great bunch of these blossoms when she had the good fortune to find a clump of bear-berry vines, full of the ripened fruit hanging in red clusters and set off by the leathery, dark green leaves, which never fall. The bear-berry is the pride of the mountain flora, and Blanka was delighted to meet with it.
"Are these berries poisonous?" she asked Aaron, with childish curiosity, as soon as she rejoined her companions.
He put one of them into his mouth to reassure her; then she had to follow his example, but immediately made a wry face and declared the fruit to be very bitter.
"But the berries will do to put in my bouquets for your two brothers who are coming to meet us," she said, as she seated herself on the sheepskin to rest a few minutes and to tie up her flowers.
At these words Aaron's eyes filled, but he hastened to reply, with assumed cheerfulness: "In Balyika Glen we shall find a still more beautiful species of bear-berry. It, too, is a kind of arbutus, but of great rarity, and found nowhere else except in Italy and Ireland. We call it here the 'autumn-spring flower.' The stems are coral-red, the leaves evergreen, and the blossoms grow in terminal umbels, white and fragrant, late in the fall, while the berries do not ripen until the following autumn, so that the beautiful plant bears flowers and fruit at one and the same time, and thus wears our national colours, the tricolour of Hungary."
"Oh, where does it grow? Is it far from here?" exclaimed Blanka, eagerly, starting up from her seat. She had lost all feeling of fatigue.
"It is a good distance, dear sister-in-law," replied Aaron. "To the Torda Gap is a full hour's ride, and thence to Balyika Glen about as far; and I'm afraid somebody is tired enough already, so that we had best stay overnight in the mill and not push on until to-morrow morning."
"No, I am not tired," Blanka asserted. "Let us go on this evening," and she was ready to remount at once.
"But the horses ought to graze a little longer," objected Aaron, "and even then we shall fare much better if we walk down the mountain; it will be easier for us than riding."
With that he went off into the bushes and picked his hat full of huckleberries, returning with which he drew a clean linen handkerchief from his knapsack, used it as a strainer for extracting the juice of the fruit, and then presented the drink in a wooden goblet to Blanka. She left some for Manasseh, who drank after her and declared he had never tasted a more delightful draught. She seemed now fully rested and refreshed, and eager to resume their journey. Aaron put two fingers into his mouth and whistled, whereupon the three horses came trotting up to him. He called them by name, and they followed him as a dog follows his master, while Manasseh and Blanka brought up the rear. Thus the party descended the steep mountainside.
The Torda Gap is one of the most marvellous volcanic formations in existence. It is as if a mighty mountain chain had been rent asunder from ridge to base, leaving the opposing sides of the gorge rugged and precipitous, but matching each other with a rude harmony of detail most curious to behold. The zigzags and windings of the giant corridor, three thousand feet in length, have a wonderful regularity and symmetry in their bounding walls. The whole forms an entrance-way or passage of solid rock, the most imposing gateway in the world, and a marvel to all geologists.
The wonders of this mountain gorge, and the stories and legends that Aaron narrated as the travellers proceeded, made Blanka entirely unconscious of the difficulties of the way. After leaving the Peterd mill behind them, they were forced to use the bed of the stream for a road. Its waters were for the time being restrained, although numerous pools were still standing, in which numbers of small fishes darted hither and thither and crabs were seen in abundance. As the riders advanced through the rocky passageway, its walls came nearer and nearer together and left only a narrow strip of blue sky visible overhead, with a few slanting rays of the evening sunlight playing high up on one side of the gorge. At length the passage became so straitened that only three fathoms' space was left between the confining walls. When Hesdad Brook is at all full one can make his way through only with great difficulty and by boldly breasting its waters. Therefore it is that very few people have ever seen the gate of Torda Gap. Just above this narrow gateway is situated the natural excavation in the mountainside, called from its last defender, Balyika Cave.
As the travellers approached this spot, Aaron rode on ahead, ostensibly to ascertain whether the water was still shallow enough to wade through, but in reality to look for the preconcerted signal and remove it before Blanka should come up. He had agreed with Manasseh, if the signal was favourable, to offer to show her the flower garden of Balyika Glen and to discourage all desire on her part to visit Balyika Cave, by alleging that it was the haunt of serpents; but if the signal should be unfavourable, he was to employ all his arts to make the young lady eager to inspect the cavern and pass the night there.
He soon returned, and reported that it would be easy to wade their horses through the gateway, after which they could go and view the wonders of Balyika Cave.
"But aren't there any snakes in the cave?" was Blanka's first and most natural inquiry. Every woman in her place would have put the same question. Ever since Mother Eve's misadventure with the serpent in Paradise, women have cherished a deadly enmity toward the whole reptile family.
"Yes," was Aaron's reply, "there are snakes there."
Manasseh drew a breath of relief, but this time he had mistaken his brother's meaning.
"We need not fear them, however," the elder made haste to add. "We will build a fire and drive them out. Our fowls, too, will be a still better protection for us; with their naked necks they will be taken for vultures by the snakes, and we shall have no trouble whatever."
Manasseh now knew that dangers surrounded them, and that they must pass the night in the cave. Aaron, however, put forth all his eloquence to depict the charms of the place, likening its cavernous depths to the groined arches of a cathedral, and telling how his ancestors had maintained themselves there for months at a time in the face of a besieging force. He assured Blanka that she would find it most delightful to camp there by a blazing fire; he and Manasseh would take turns watching while she slept, her head pillowed on a fragrant bundle of hay.
They passed through the giant gateway, and clambered up to Balyika Cave, a spacious chamber in the side of the cliff, rudely but strongly fortified by a stone rampart that had been built to guard the entrance. A wild rosebush grew in the narrow doorway and seemed at first to refuse all admittance. Manasseh and Blanka waited without, while Aaron fought his way through the brambles, which tore at his leather coat without injuring it, and presently returned with three broad planks. He and Manasseh held the briers aside with two of them and laid the third as a bridge for Blanka to pass over unharmed. In a corner of the stone wall lay a pile of hay, and behind it a supply of pitch-pine torches, one of which Aaron now lighted. Then, like a lord in his own castle, he issued his orders to his companions. Manasseh was to lead the horses up, one at a time, and stable them in the rude courtyard, while Blanka was instructed to sit on a stone and arrange her flowers and feed her poultry. Meantime the master of ceremonies made everything ready for the other two within the cave.
The cock and hen were soon picking the barley from their mistress's lap, while she busied her fingers with the manufacture of a red necklace of the hips that grew on the wild rosebush. That other necklace, the dandelion chain, was treasured by Manasseh among his most precious possessions. Soon the horses were led up, stalled and fed, and then their groom drew in the wooden planks, according to his brother's instructions, and carried them into the cave, leaving the wild rosebush to resume its guardianship of the doorway. After this Aaron came out and offered his arm, like a courteous host, to escort Blanka into the cavern. She was no little surprised, on entering, to find herself in a stately hall, clean and comfortable, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful fire of fagots in its centre. Near the fire stood a table, neatly spread with a white cloth, on which were placed glasses and a pitcher of fresh spring-water. Beside the table a couch, rude but comfortable, had been prepared for her repose.
"Aaron, you are a magician!" cried the young girl. "Where did you get all these things?"
At this question the good man nearly let the cat out of the bag by explaining that everything had long since been in readiness for their coming. But he checked himself and considered his answer a moment. To say that he had brought all this outfit in his knapsack would have been too obviously a falsehood, so he sought another way out of the difficulty.
"I told the miller," he replied, with a jerk of his thumb over one shoulder, "that we should stay the night here, and he sent these things forward by a short cut over the mountain."
Thus it was only the speaker's thumb, and not his tongue, that lied, by pointing backward to the mill just passed, instead of forward to the other mill at the upper end of Torda Gap.
Aaron now offered to show the wonders of this rock palace, which, like the Palazzo Cagliari, consisted of two wings, from the second of which a low and narrow passage led upward to the mountain spring whence the thoughtful host had procured fresh water for their table. The previous occupants of this abode seemed to have been provided with not a few conveniences.
Returning to the fireside, Blanka was easily persuaded to try the couch that had been spread for her. The three planks, laid on some flat stones and heaped with sheepskins and rugs, made a very comfortable resting-place even for a lady. Blanka demanded nothing further, except a glass of water, and then begged Aaron to tell her some more stories, to which she listened with her chin resting in her hand and her eyelids now and then drooping with drowsiness, despite the interest she took in the narrator's ingenious farrago of fact and fiction, of romance and reality.
He told her how Balyika, the last lord of this castle, had held it for years against the imperial troops; even after Francis Rakoczy's surrender he had refused to lay down his arms, but had maintained his position with a sturdy band of a hundred mountaineers. With this little company he waged bitter warfare against his foes, losing his followers one after another in the unequal contest, until he alone was left. Even then he refused to yield himself, but outwitted all who strove to kill or capture him. Finally he met the fate of many another brave man,--he was betrayed by the woman he loved. He had been smitten with a passion for the daughter of the Torda baker, the beautiful Rosalie; but her affections were already bespoken by the butcher's apprentice, Marczi by name, a youth of courage and activity. However, she deigned to receive the outlawed chieftain's attentions, her sole purpose being to entrap him and deliver him up to his foes. One evening, when she went to keep an appointment with Balyika, she notified the village magistrate and the captain of the yeomen. These two took an armed force and surrounded the lovers' rendezvous, thinking thus at last to capture their man. But he cut his way through the soldiery, and, fleeing over the mountain, made straight for his cave in the Torda Gap, outstripping the pursuit of both horse and foot--with the single exception of the injured lover, Marczi, whom he could not shake off. The young man clung to his heels and chased him to the very entrance of his retreat, where, just as the robber chief was slipping through the opening of his cave, his pursuer hurled his hatchet with such deadly aim that it cleft the fugitive's skull, and he sank dead on the spot.
"And that was how the last lord of the cave came to his end," concluded Aaron.
"But what about Marczi and Rosalie?" asked Blanka.
The narrator proceeded to gratify her curiosity by making the young man fall into the hands of the Mongols, after which he was captured by a troop of Cossacks; and then, when Aaron was putting him through a similar experience with the dog-faced Tartars, his listener succumbed at last to the drowsiness against which she had been struggling, and the story was abruptly discontinued.
"I never heard that tale before, brother," said Manasseh, after assuring himself that Blanka was really asleep.
"Nor I, either," was Aaron's candid reply; "but in a tight pinch a man turns romancer sometimes. I don't know, though, what fables we can invent to keep the young lady here over to-morrow. You think up something, brother; don't let me go to perdition all alone for the lot of yarns I've been reeling off to your sweetheart."
"Very well," assented the other; "I'll set my wits to work. Now you lie down and rest a bit, while I stay up and tend the fire. At midnight I will wake you and lie down myself while you watch."
Aaron lay down with a bundle of twigs under his head for a pillow, and, muttering a snatch of a prayer, was fast asleep in a twinkling. Manasseh was now left undisturbed to devise something new and surprising against his brother's awakening. Tearing a leaf from his sketch-book, he wrote as follows: "DEAR BROTHER AARON:--I cannot close my eyes in sleep while death threatens our brothers Simon and David. Nor can I endure the thought of my birthplace being turned into a bloody battle-field, and of the horrors of war invading the peaceful valley whither I am bringing my bride, and which has ever looked upon bloodshed with disapproval. It was my fond hope to give my wife a glimpse of mankind in something like its original sinless state, and to let her learn to know and worship the God of our fathers as a God of love and gentleness. I am seeking a way by which this cherished hope of mine may yet be realised. While the Lord watches over your slumbers, I go in quest of the insurgent leader. That which force and threats cannot effect may yet be accomplished by peaceful means. I go to rescue our brothers from imprisonment and death. No fears can hold me back, as no inducements could prevail on me to slip stealthily by their place of confinement and push forward to celebrate my wedding while they perhaps were being led out to execution. I go forth alone and unarmed, and I am hopeful of success. Meanwhile do you guard and cherish my beloved. Above all, take her away from this place early to-morrow morning. Our presence here is known to one man, and he may betray us. You know the way to Porlik Grotto; few people are even aware of its existence, so well is it hidden from the view of travellers. Thither you must conduct our companion, and I will join you there with our two brothers from Monastery Heights. I may perhaps be there before you. But if it should please God not to prosper my undertaking, take Blanka home with you, and, if the Lord preserves our family, treat her as a sister. She is worthy of your adoption. Break to her gently the news of my fate. In the accompanying pocketbook is all her worldly wealth, as well as my own savings. Take charge of it. My brother Jonathan resembles me in appearance, and is a much better man than I. To him I leave _all_ that I now call mine.
"Do not betray to Blanka any anxiety on my account. If God be with me, who shall prevail against me?
"Your brother, "MANASSEH."
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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16
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A DESPERATE HAZARD.
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After finishing his letter, Manasseh took a number of banknotes out of his pocketbook and put them into his waistcoat pocket, and then softly slipped the pocketbook itself, with his letter, under Aaron's pillow. On Blanka's pure brow, as she lay asleep, he gently pressed a parting kiss, after which he heaped fresh fuel on the fire, stole out of the cave, saddled his horse, and rode away into the darkness.
The signal-fire on Monastery Heights showed him where to find the Wallachian camp. No outposts challenged his progress, and he made his way unmolested to the ruined monastery which sheltered the insurgents. Fastening his horse to a tree, he turned his steps toward the belfry tower that marked the position of the cloister and the chapel, which, as the only building on the mountain with a whole roof, served the Wallachian leader and his staff as headquarters.
Softly opening the door, Manasseh found himself in a low but spacious apartment. Twelve men were seated around a table on which stood a single tallow candle, whose feeble rays could hardly pierce the enveloping clouds of tobacco smoke. The company was engaged in that engrossing pursuit which, as is well known, claimed so much of the officers' time during the campaigns of the period,--they were playing cards.
One chair in the circle was empty. Perhaps its former occupant had gambled away his last kreutzer and left the room. At any rate, the newcomer advanced without hesitation and took the vacant seat. It may be that the players were too absorbed in their game to notice him; or possibly they had so recently come together that they were not yet sufficiently acquainted to detect a stranger's presence; or, again, the feeble light and the clouds of tobacco smoke may have rendered it impossible to distinguish one's neighbours very clearly. Whatever the reason, the stranger's advent elicited no comment. A pocketful of money furnished him all the language he needed to speak, and the cards were dealt to him as a matter of course. Opposite him sat the Wallachian leader.
The game proceeded and the stakes rose higher and higher. One after another the losers dropped out, until at last Manasseh and the Wallachian commander were left pitted against each other, a heap of coins and banknotes between them. Fortune declared for Manasseh, and he swept the accumulated stakes into his pocket. At this the others looked him more sharply in the face. "Who is he?" was asked by one and another.
"Why, you are Manasseh Adorjan!" exclaimed the leader at length, in astonishment. "What do you mean by this rashness?"
The faces around him assumed threatening looks, and more than one muttered menace fell on his ear; but the hardy intruder betrayed no sign of uneasiness.
"I trust I am among gentlemen," he remarked, quietly, "who will not seek a base revenge on a player that has won their money from them."
The words failed not of their effect. Honour forbade that a hand should be raised against the fortunate winner.
"But, Adorjan," interposed the leader, in a tone of mingled wonder and vexation, "how did you come here and what is your purpose?"
"Time enough to talk about that when we have finished playing," was the careless rejoinder. "First I must win the rest of your money. So have the goodness to resume your seats."
The company began to laugh. Clenched fists relaxed, and the men clapped the intruder jovially on the shoulder, as they again took their places around the table.
"Haven't you a spare pipe to lend me?" Manasseh asked his right-hand neighbour.
"Yes, yes, to be sure," was the ready reply.
Manasseh filled the proffered pipe, drew from his pocket a banknote which he rolled into a lighter, thrust it into the candle-flame, and so kindled his pipe, after which he took up his cards and began to play.
A faint-hearted man, on finding his own and his brothers' lives thus at stake, would have sought to curry favour by allowing his opponents to win. But not so Manasseh. He plundered the company without mercy, as before, and as before he and his _vis-à-vis_ were at last left sole antagonists, while the others rose from their places and gathered in groups about these two. Manasseh still continued to win, and his opponent's supply of money ebbed lower and lower. The loser grew furious, and drank deeply to keep himself in countenance.
"Give me a swallow of your brandy," said Manasseh, but he had no sooner tasted it than he pushed the bottle disdainfully away. "Fusel-oil!" he exclaimed, making a wry face. "To-morrow I will send you a cask of my plum brandy."
"No, you won't," returned his antagonist.
"Why not, pray?"
"Because to-morrow you shall hang."
"Oh, no," replied Manasseh, lightly, "for that would require my personal presence, and I am needed elsewhere."
The Wallachian continued to lose. Finally, in his fury, he staked his last penny--"and your brothers' heads into the bargain!" he added, in desperation.
The other took him up and staked his own head in addition to the bundle of notes which he threw down nonchalantly before him.
They played, and again Manasseh won. A man less bold of temperament might have thought to gain his enemies' good-will by leaving his winnings on the table. But Manasseh knew better. His opponents, angered by their losses, called him a robber, but still respected him. Had he, however, been so timid as to leave the money lying there, they would have regarded his action as such an insult that he would have been compelled to fight the entire company, one after another, in single combat.
"Now, then," said the leader, "we have time to talk. Why are you here--to persuade us to release your two brothers and leave Toroczko in peace?"
"A man of your discernment can fathom my motives without asking any questions," replied Manasseh, with a courteous bow.
"Well, let us see how you are going to work to bring this about. Your brother David, like the simple rustic he is, thought to talk me over with Bible quotations. He preached me a sermon on the love of one's neighbour, Christ's commandments, the almighty power of Jehovah, and a lot more of the same sort, until at last I grew tired of it and had him locked up to keep him quiet. Your brother Simon is a shrewder man; he has been to school at Kolozsvar. He came to me with threats in his mouth, delivered a long harangue on the constitution, the powers of the government, our past history, and kept up such a din in my ears that finally I had to shut him up, too. But you are the cleverest of the three; you have been trained as a diplomat, and have taken lessons in Vienna from Metternich himself. Let us hear what you have to say."
"Set my brothers free," returned Manasseh, boldly, "and promise me not to attack Toroczko; then I will give you sixteen fat oxen and twenty casks of plum brandy."
The Wallachian sprang to his feet and clapped his hand to his sword. "If you were only armed," he exclaimed wrathfully, "you should pay for your insolence by fighting me. Do you take me for an Armenian peddler to be chaffered with in that fashion?"
Manasseh kept his seat on the edge of the table, swinging one foot carelessly to and fro. "If you were an Armenian peddler," was his cool retort, "you would be far more sensibly employed than at present. But why so angry? I offer you what you most need, food and drink; and I ask in return what we most desire, peace."
"But what you offer us we can come and take in spite of you. You three brothers are now in our hands, and we have only to send word to the people of Toroczko that, unless they lay down their arms and surrender the town, we shall hang you from the turret of St. George Castle."
"There are five more of us brothers at home, and, furthermore, in order to reach St. George Castle you must push through the Gap or make your way over the Szekler Stone, and you know well enough that the men of Toroczko have held this valley in times past against the whole invading army of the Tartars."
"You forget that there is still another way to reach Toroczko."
"No, I do not forget it. You mean the bridge over the Aranyos. But our iron cannon guard that bridge, and your bushrangers are hardly the troops to take it."
"Well, then, look out of yonder window toward the west. Do you see that signal-fire, and do you know its meaning? It means that a division of regular troops, with artillery and cavalry, is on the way hither from Szent-Laszlo."
Manasseh burst into a laugh. "It means that a merry company of picnickers took their lunch this noon at the Wonder Spring, at the foot of the great beech-tree. The wasps came out and plagued them, so they stuck burning grass into the hollow trunk, and consequently the whole tree was soon in flames. That is what you see burning now."
"Manasseh, if you are lying to me!"
"You know me. You know I never lie. What I say is true. When I choose not to tell the truth, I hold my tongue. Last night I slept at Ciprianu's. There are no imperial troops to be seen for miles around. What is more, the Hungarian forces have left Kolozsvar. Whither have they gone? I do not know; but it might befall you, while counting on meeting with help, to stumble upon an enemy. After the first three Adorjans, you will encounter a fourth, Jonathan, and he will give you something beside Bible quotations and Metternichian diplomacy."
The Wallachian was visibly affected by this speech, but he sought to hide his concern, and cried out, in a harsh tone: "If you are trifling with me, Adorjan, you'll find you have trifled with your own life. If you have told me a lie, God in heaven shall not save you."
"But as I have not told you a lie, God in heaven will save me, and I beg you to tell me where I may lie down and sleep, for I am very tired."
"Shut him up in the bell-tower," commanded the Wallachian.
"Good!" cried Manasseh, with a laugh. "At least I shall be able to ring you up early in the morning."
"Inasmuch as you have offered us a supply of brandy and eighteen oxen," were the leader's parting words, "we will have another interview in the morning."
"Sixteen was the number," Manasseh corrected him.
A bed of hay under the bell was furnished the captive, and he was locked up for the night, after which the company he had left held a council of war.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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17
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IN PORLIK GROTTO.
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Complying with his brother's instructions, Aaron broke up his quarters at Balyika Cave early the next morning, and, descending with Blanka to the bed of the stream, led her up the valley to Porlik Grotto, one of nature's wonders known to few and seldom visited. From the top of its high-arched entrance hung cornel-bushes with brown leaves and red berries, while luxuriant wild grape-vines, with pendant clusters of ripe fruit, climbed upward from below to meet them, the whole thus forming an almost perfect screen before the opening. Through the screen, however, an observant eye caught the gleam of the stalactites within; the sun's rays, piercing the foliage, lighted them up like so many sparkling chandeliers. But our two travellers' thoughts were not on the beauties of the place.
"If Manasseh should only come out now to meet us!" they both exclaimed at once.
"There!" cried Aaron, "we both wished the same thing, and we have a sort of superstition here that a wish so uttered by two at the same time is bound to be fulfilled."
But Manasseh did not appear.
"Look there," said Aaron, with forced cheerfulness, pointing out the wonders of the grotto; "see how the limestone pillars grow together from above and below, till they meet and make one solid column." And all the while he was thinking: "What if Manasseh should come back, not alone, but with our two brothers! Yet is it right to ask so much of fate? Will not Heaven be angry with me for cherishing such a wish? Ah, let Manasseh himself come, even if he must come alone and with evil tidings!"
"See there, my dove," he continued aloud to his companion, "how the arches extend back, one behind another, with balconies along the sides, just like a theatre, and high up yonder a perch for the gallery gods." Meanwhile he was saying to himself: "Oh, that brother of mine ought to have been here long ago if he was coming at all." Then, aloud to Blanka: "Hear me play on the organ up there,--for theatres have organs sometimes. You notice the pipes, side by side, some longer and some shorter, each for a different note. But you stay here,--the rocks are wet and slippery,--while I go up and play you a pretty tune."
With that he clambered up the side of the cavern to a series of stalactites that presented somewhat the appearance of organ-pipes, and drew the handle of his hatchet across them, assuring his listener the while that he was playing a beautiful melody. Blanka was expected to laugh at this, and had Manasseh only been there, she could have done so with a light heart.
"Don't you think this back wall looks like a stage curtain?" Aaron went on. "With a little stretch of the imagination you might take it for the curtain in the Kolozsvar theatre, with Apollo and the muses painted on it. One feels almost like stamping one's feet, to make it go up and the play begin." But the undercurrent of the speaker's thoughts was quite different. "What if Manasseh shouldn't come by noon--by nightfall?" he was asking himself. "Then what is to become of this poor girl?" Aloud once more: "That lad Manasseh must have made a little mistake--just like these young men! He probably took the longer way, instead of following my advice. But just look out toward the entrance, and see how the sun shines in through the leaves and lights up the whole grotto like a fairy palace."
Blanka, however, was feeling so heavy of heart and, in a vague way, so fearful of impending misfortune, that she was in no mood to enjoy the splendours around her. She crossed her hands on her bosom and, in the half-light of this mysterious subterranean cathedral, yielded to the awe-inspiring influence of the place and gave utterance, in a subdued chant, to these words of the psalmist: "Hear me, O God, nor hide thy face, But answer, lest I die."
Aaron could control his feelings no longer. Throwing himself down on his face, he began to sob as only a strong man can when he is at last moved to tears, not by any selfish grief, but by the very burden of his love and anxiety for others.
But at that moment the psalm was broken off, and Aaron heard himself called three times by name. He rose to his knees and looked toward the opening of the grotto, where a glad and unexpected sight met his eyes. Glorified by the flood of light that poured in from without, appeared the forms of three men, the middle one being the tallest and stateliest. They were Manasseh and his two brothers, David and Simon.
Aaron sprang up and threw himself on them with an inarticulate cry like that of a lioness recovering her lost cubs. Embraces and kisses were not enough: he bore them to the ground and thumped them soundly on the back in the excess of his emotion.
"You rascal, you good-for-nothing, you shameless rogue, to worry me like that!" he exclaimed, accosting now one, now the other of his two lost brothers, after which he embraced them both once more.
"And am I of no account?" asked Manasseh. "Have I no share in all this?"
"You are your brothers' father," Aaron made answer, "before whom they prostrate themselves, even as the sheaves of Joseph's brethren bowed before his sheaf. We are all your humble slaves." So saying, he threw himself at Manasseh's feet and embraced his knees. "Torda Gap is, indeed, a place of wonders, but the greatest wonder of all you have wrought in rescuing your brothers."
This unrestrained outburst of joy opened Blanka's eyes and made her see that there was far more behind the meeting of these brothers than she had at first suspected. She knew now that the vague dread which had oppressed her, and from which she had sought relief in sacred song, had not been unfounded. Thus it was that she felt all the more impelled to take up the psalm where she had broken off, and to pour out her gladness in the concluding lines: "He hears his saints, he knows their cry, And by mysterious ways Redeems the prisoners doomed to die, And fills their tongues with praise."
Much rejoicing then followed, and the two brothers, whom Manasseh now presented to Blanka, told her all about the preparations made for receiving the bridal party at the Borev Bridge. Then all five sat down and emptied the lunch-basket with which Ciprianu had provided his guests; for thenceforth they would not need to carry their supplies with them. Toward noon they mounted their horses, David and Simon taking Blanka between them, and the other two bringing up the rear.
"Now tell me all about it," began the elder brother, as he rode a little behind with Manasseh. "You must have had the eloquence of Aaron and the magician's power of Moses, to prevail on Pharaoh to let your people go."
"I have wrought no miracle and used no eloquence," was the reply. "But I showed our foes neither fear nor haughtiness. I joined their circle, but did not spoil their entertainment. They questioned me, and I told them the truth. I asked them for peace, and offered them a price that I thought we were able to pay."
"How high a price?" asked Aaron.
"Sixteen oxen and twenty casks of plum brandy," was the matter-of-fact reply.
"If my arm were only long enough, wouldn't I box your ears!" exclaimed Aaron, by way of giving vent to his admiration.
"They wished to do something of the sort to me up yonder, too, when they heard my offer," returned the other. "But then they reconsidered the matter, and at last came to see that it was a very fair proposal, and one that needed no lawyer or interpreter to make clear to them. They all understood it, and finally declared themselves satisfied."
"But where did you get the two horses for our brothers?"
"I bought them, and I gave a price, too, such as is paid only for the best English thoroughbreds; but half of the money was what I won from the sellers themselves last night."
"So you have been playing cards with the Amorites, you godless man!"
"They held me prisoner till morning, while they took counsel together what to do with me and my two brothers. Some of them were for sending our heads, minus our bodies, to Toroczko, with a demand to surrender the town, else they would storm it and not leave one stone on another. But the upshot was that they led me out in the morning and told me my terms of peace were accepted. They abandon their plans against Toroczko, disperse to their homes, and promise henceforth to be our good neighbours, as heretofore."
"Did they swear to this?"
"Before the altar, and a priest administered the oath."
"With two candles on the altar?"
"Yes."
"Then they will keep their word."
"And I, as plenipotentiary and envoy extraordinary, gave them a written and sealed pledge to restrain my people from all acts of hostility against them."
"That will cost you a hard fight when you get home."
"But I shall win. The Wallachians will respect the peace, and we shall avoid all contention with them. Their leader, when he handed me our passport, said to me: 'You now have no further cause for uneasiness so far as we are concerned. My comrades and I will do your countrymen no further harm. As to the supplies offered by you, we accept them as a gift, not as a ransom. One parting word I have to add, however, and I bid you mark it well: we cannot promise you that some day a renegade from your own midst may not plunge your town into war and bloodshed.' With that we shook hands and kissed each other; and I can assure you positively that from here to the Aranyos our way will be clear."
"But how did you win them over so easily, I should like to know? Surely, the sixteen oxen and a few casks of brandy could not have done it."
"I gained my end simply by telling the truth. I told them about our setting the beech-tree on fire. They had taken it for a signal, and the mistake might have cost them dear."
"And did they believe you?"
"No, they doubted my word and discussed the matter a long time in their council, one party being strongly opposed to any change in their preconcerted arrangements; and this faction pressed urgently for my immediate execution."
"What, then, was it that saved you?"
"A mere chance--no, it was Providence, rather. It was a heart that beat with warm human feeling and a will that was prompt to act. In the midst of their discussion a messenger came from Ciprianu and confirmed the truth of my words."
"From Ciprianu? Then the messenger must have ridden all night."
"Yes, through a trackless wilderness and over rugged mountains."
"I do not see how mortal man could have accomplished it!" exclaimed Aaron, shaking his head.
"It was not a man; it was a woman that effected the impossible. She came to Monastery Heights to attest the truth of my statement by assuring the insurgents that what they took for a signal-fire was merely the result of an accident. The woman who saved us three from death was Zenobia."
At this point Blanka interrupted the conversation of the two brothers. She laughingly demanded to know what they were so earnestly discussing together.
"We can't agree on what guests to invite to our wedding," was Manasseh's ready reply. "Aaron would have only the immediate family, but I am in favour of inviting all our friends. What are your wishes in the matter, my angel?"
"I have no relatives or friends that I can invite to my wedding," answered Blanka, gently, "but I shall feel very happy if all your family can be present, even to your youngest brother, whom we met in Kolozsvar. You must send for him to come home."
"He will be there, dear heart," Aaron assured her.
"And stay! I have a friend, after all,--a friend that I have made since coming into this country, and should much like to see at my wedding. It is Zenobia, Ciprianu's daughter."
* * * * * At sunset they reached the Aranyos River, beyond which lay the longed-for home, the happy valley which, from Manasseh's description, had so often been the subject of Blanka's dreams. At last she was to see Toroczko.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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18
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TOROCZKO.
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It was a new world to Blanka,--that busy mining community, where clouds of black smoke from the tall chimneys of the smelting works and iron foundries met the eye in every direction, and the cheerful hum of toil constantly saluted the ear.
The Adorjan family gave the newcomer a most hearty welcome. With Anna, Manasseh's twin sister, the girl whom Benjamin Vajdar had so cruelly wronged, Blanka felt already acquainted. They embraced without waiting for an introduction, and when they drew back to scan each other's faces, they could hardly see for the tears that filled their eyes. Blanka was surprised, and agreeably so. She had prepared herself to see a face stamped with the melancholy of early disappointment, whereas she now beheld a fresh, rosy-cheeked countenance, golden locks, and blue eyes in which no tears had been able to dim the dancing light of a lively and cheerful temperament. Other women there were also in the family,--Rebecca, Berthold's wife, and Susanna, the helpmate of Barnabas, with a little circle of children around each.
The home-coming of the long-absent brother with his betrothed was celebrated, in accordance with time-honoured custom, with a great dinner that filled the spacious family dining-room to its utmost. Blanka could not sufficiently admire the skill and patience with which Susanna directed the feast and ministered to the varied wants and the individual tastes of so many guests. The eldest brother and his family were vegetarians and would touch no meat, but indulged freely in milk and eggs, butter and cheese. With them sat Doctor Vernezs, who was even stricter in his vegetarianism; the sole contribution from the animal kingdom that he allowed in his diet was honey. Brother Aaron sat beside Blanka, and partook freely of a dish of garlic that had been provided especially for him. He offered some to Blanka.
"I can eat this all my life," said he, with a roguish twinkle in his eyes, "but you only eleven weeks longer."
She understood the allusion. In Szeklerland a lover and his sweetheart bear themselves with much decorum and mutual respect throughout the entire period of their engagement. Only after the wedding do they exchange the first kiss.
Anna wished to come to her new friend's aid at this embarrassing juncture. "It won't be so long as that, Aaron!" she exclaimed.
"Let us reckon it up, my little turtledove," returned the brother. "To-morrow we will tell the parson that our sister Blanka wishes to join our communion. The law requires her to wait two weeks after this first announcement and then to go and declare her purpose a second time. After that follow six weeks for the divorce proceedings. That makes eight weeks. Then the banns have to be published three successive Sundays, and so we make out the eleven weeks, as I said. For seventy-seven days and nights, then, our peach-blossom will be your companion, sister Anna."
Anna and Blanka embraced each other with much affection. The latter showed no embarrassment at Aaron's plain speech.
"I will add five days to the seventy-seven," said she, with a smile.
"How so?" asked the brother and sister.
"Because I shall not go to the parson to-morrow, but shall wait until after Sunday. I am going to your church on that day, and till then I can't tell whether I wish to belong to it or not."
This prudent resolve met with Aaron's hearty approbation.
* * * * * It was not long before Anna and Blanka became the warmest of friends. They shared the same room together, and the newcomer was allowed to look over all her companion's books, drawings,--for she, like her twin brother, was an artist,--keepsakes, and treasures of every sort. One day she came upon something that made her start back as if stung by an adder. It was a little portrait in an oval frame, a man's face, highly idealised by the artist, and yet strikingly true to life. Evidently the hand of love had depicted those lineaments. The eyes were bright, the lips wore a proud smile, the whole expression was one to charm the beholder. It was Benjamin Vajdar's likeness, and no ghost could have given Blanka a greater start. It was as if her most hated foe had pursued her into paradise itself, to spoil her pleasure there.
Anna noticed her friend's involuntary movement, and she sighed deeply. "Did Manasseh tell you about him?" she asked.
"I know him well," replied Blanka, and she could not control an accent of abhorrence in her voice as she spoke.
Anna clasped her companion's hand in both her own. "I beg you," she entreated, in tones at once sad and tender, "if you know aught ill of him, do not tell it me."
"You still love him?" asked the other, in compassion.
The young girl sank down on the edge of her bed and hid her face in her hands. "He has killed me," she sobbed; "he has done much that a man, an honourable man, ought not to do; and yet I cannot hate him. We may say, 'I loved you yesterday, to-morrow I shall hate you,' and we may act as if we meant it; but we cannot really _feel_ it."
"My poor Anna!" was all Blanka could say.
"I know he is dishonourable," admitted the girl; "there are women here that report everything to me, thinking thus to cure me. But what does it avail? A sick person is not to be made well with words. How many a woman has waited for the return of an absent lover who may perhaps have gone around the world, or to the north pole, and who yet cannot get beyond the reach of her love and yearning!"
"If it were only the earth's diameter that lay between you!" murmured Blanka.
"True," replied Anna, resting her head on her hand; "the wide world is not so effective a barrier as a bewitching face that has once thrust itself between two loving hearts. That is harder to circumnavigate than the earth itself."
"If a pretty face were all that stood between you----" began the other once more, sitting down beside her friend and putting her arms about her.
"Yes, yes, I know," the poor girl interrupted; "the whole world and heaven and hell stand between us. All the laws of honour, of faith, and of patriotism, tear us asunder. I cannot go to him where he is, but yet it may be that he will come back to me--some day."
"Do you think so?"
"I believe it as I believe in one God above us. Not that I think we could now ever be happy together; but I am convinced that the road which he took on going away from here will some day bring him back again to our door. Broken and humbled, scorned and repulsed by all the world, he will then seek the one remaining asylum that stands open to him, and he will find one heart that still beats for him from whom all others have turned away."
The speaker rose from her seat and stood erect, her face all aglow with noble emotion. Was it an angel in love with a devil?
"See!" she continued, pointing to the little portrait, which was encircled by a wreath of immortelles, "this picture here in my room gives daily proof how lasting a thing love is in our family. My brothers all hate him with a deadly hatred, and yet they spare his likeness because they know that I still love him; they leave the little picture hanging in my room, nor offer to offend me by proposing another marriage for me. They know how deep is my love, and they respect my feelings. Oh, I beg you, if you have reason to hate this man, yet suffer his portrait to keep its place, and turn your eyes away from it if it causes you offence."
But Blanka hated the man no longer.
"Now I must not let you see me in tears," said Anna, briskly. "I must not make myself a killjoy in the family. I am naturally of a happy, cheerful temperament, and interested in all that goes on around me. My face shall never frighten people by being pale and wobegone. Just look in the glass! I am as rosy-cheeked as you."
With that she drew Blanka to the mirror, and began to dispute with her as to which could boast the more colour.
"You are happy," she continued, "and will be still happier. Manasseh will turn the earth itself into a paradise for you; just wait till you know him as I do, to the very bottom of his heart."
Blanka could not but smile at the sister's proud claim. Yet Anna was in earnest.
"Perhaps you don't believe me," said she. "Have you ever seen him in anger, with an enemy before him?"
"Yes."
"How did he look?"
"On his forehead were two red spots."
"Yes, and further?"
"His eyes glowed, his face seemed turned to stone, his bosom heaved, and he strove with himself until gradually he recovered his self-control; then his features relaxed, he smiled, and presently he spoke as coolly and collectedly as possible."
"Then you have never seen him really aroused," affirmed the sister, "as I saw him once, when with one hand he seized a strong man who had wronged him, and threw him down with such force that all his family had to hasten to help him up. When he speaks in wrath he can strike terror into a multitude, and he is such a master of all weapons of warfare that no one can vie with him. Now, then, have you ever really learned to know him?"
"Indeed, I think not," returned Blanka, in surprise.
"And hear me further," Anna went on. "When our house witnessed the sad event that spread a widow's veil over my bridal wreath, our whole family was terribly wrought up. My brothers swore to kill the man wherever they found him,--all but Manasseh. Nor did I seek to allay their wrath, knowing but too well that it was justified. But I also knew that they would never go forth into the world to hunt him down. To the people of Toroczko it is an immense undertaking to go even beyond the borders of Transylvania, and, as a general rule, no power on earth could drag one of them to Vienna or Rome. But Manasseh, I knew, must meet with the fugitive, as the two were to be dwellers in the same city and members of the same social circle. Manasseh, however, said not a word, and it was on him that I used all my influence. Still wearing my wedding-dress, I went to his room, where he was preparing for his journey. It happened that he was just putting a brace of pistols into their case; one of them he still held in his hand. I went up to him, threw myself on his bosom, and appealed to him. 'Manasseh,' I pleaded, 'my heart's treasure, unless you wish to kill me too, promise not to kill that man,--not to send his wretched soul out of this world.' Manasseh looked at me: his eyes glowed, as you have described, and two red spots burned on his forehead; his face turned hard, like that of a statue, and while he panted and struggled with the demon in his bosom, the pistol-barrel bent in his clenched hands like a wax taper, and so remained. I was wonder-struck. 'See!' I cried, 'you cannot shoot now any more with that pistol. So let him go; don't lay a finger on him.' Then my brother embraced and kissed me, and, lifting his hand to heaven, said, 'I promise you, sister Anna, that for your sake I will not kill the man, but will let him live.'"
How her lover's image grew in Blanka's heart and assumed larger proportions as she listened to this recital! The twin sister was the brother's complement. It was necessary to know the nature of the one in order to understand that of the other. Hitherto Manasseh's self-control in foregoing all revenge had excited Blanka's wonder only; she had thought that the secret of this self-mastery was to be found in a rigid dogma only, but now she perceived that what really shielded the wretched culprit was the magic influence of a woman's faithful heart that could cease to love only when it ceased to beat. The pledge won from him by his sister Manasseh had come to regard as no less sacred than the articles of his faith. Thenceforth he commanded not merely the love of his betrothed, but her adoration.
* * * * * Blanka soon found herself leading a life that differed in every respect from that which she had so recently quitted. In the Cagliari palace she had been left entirely to herself, and when she went abroad it had been only to witness scenes of intrigue and envy, dissipation and frivolity, hypocrisy and deceit, on every side. But in her new home she found a large family of honest souls living in loving harmony under one roof, all its members engaged in active work for the common good, and sharing at a common table the bread that they earned. Every joy, every sorrow was common to all, and so the newcomer was at once claimed as a sister by all alike, and immediately became a universal favourite. Work was found for her, too, every one assuming that she would far rather work than be idle; and, indeed, she would gladly have engaged in any toil, however severe, but the others would not let her overtax her strength in labours for which they were much better fitted than she. A task was found for her, however, exactly suited to her capacity,--the keeping of the family accounts. She received a big book, in which she entered the current expenses and receipts, with all the details of the family housekeeping that called for preservation.
After the working days of the week came Sunday, the Lord's day. How Blanka had looked forward to that first Sunday, how often pictured to herself the Toroczko church and its Sabbath service! It was a simple structure, with four blank white walls, and a plain white ceiling overhead. A gallery ran across each end of the room, and in the middle stood the pulpit, with the communion table before it. Men and women, youths and maidens, entered the sacred house through special doors. First came the young men and took their places in the galleries, the students all gathering in a body on the same side as the organ. Next entered the married men in the order of their age, the wardens--or, as they were popularly known, the "big-heads"--taking their seats in the first pew facing the pulpit. On the left of the pulpit were seated the foremost families of the place, with the Adorjans at their head.
For the first time Blanka now saw the people assembled in their holiday attire, a costume peculiar to the place, and showing a mixture of Hungarian and German dress. The men wore black dolmans faced with lamb's fleece, and further decorated with rows of carnelian and amethyst buttons, the setting of the stones being silver. Under the dolman was worn a waistcoat of fine leather embroidered with threads of silk and gold, and around the waist was girt a belt, as broad as one's hand, of red leather handsomely trimmed with strips of many-coloured skins. To complete this imposing outfit, there was thrown over one shoulder a handsome cloak richly embroidered with piping-cord, and furnished with a high collar made from the fur of the fox. A large silver brooch held the mantle together at the breast, while six rows of silver clasps adorned it on each side. The whole costume was luxurious in its appointments, and yet no one would presume to find fault with it on that score. The wearer had earned his adornment with the work of his hands.
As soon as the men were seated, the women entered. A Parisian modiste would have been put to the blush by the ingenuity of design displayed by these countrywomen's costumes. The dazzlingly white linen, the tasteful combination of lace, embroidery, and furbelows, the handsome bodice and woven belt, the richly trimmed cloaks, the skirts hanging in many folds, the silk pinafores, the black lace caps set off by white veils disposed in picturesque puffs and creases,--all betrayed a wealth of fancy and nicety of taste on the wearer's part that would be hard to match.
After the matrons were seated, the maidens came in through the fourth and last door, entering now in pairs, now singly, and sat down on the two sides of the house, behind the married women. Finally the children were admitted,--a splendid phalanx, a company of angels of the Murillo and Bernini type.
The pride of the Toroczko church is its people. The churches of Rome boast many a masterpiece of early Italian art on their walls, but their worshippers are ragged and dirty. The walls of the Toroczko temple are bare, but the faces of its congregation beam with happiness. No works of sculpture, resplendent with gold and silver and precious stones, are to be seen there. The people themselves are arrayed in costly stuffs and furnish the adornment of the house.
After a simple opening prayer, the pastor ascended the pulpit and addressed his flock, in words intelligible to all, on such themes as patriotism, man's duty to his fellow-man, the blessings of toil, the recompense of good deeds in the doer's own bosom, and God's infinite mercy toward his children. In his prayer the preacher referred to Jesus as the beloved Son of God, the model for mankind to follow, but he did not deny salvation and paradise to those that chose other leaders for their guidance.
After the service Blanka asked Aaron and Berthold to go with her to the preacher as witnesses while she announced her purpose to join the church. After making this declaration in due form, she was reminded that she had two weeks in which to consider the matter carefully, at the end of which, if she was still of the same mind, she was to come back again and renew her declaration.
"Two weeks longer," sighed Blanka, "and then six weeks more for the divorce!"
Aaron heard her sigh, and hastened to say: "If we make a special effort we can shorten this period. Our law directs that an applicant for a divorce must either be a resident of, or own an estate in, Transylvania. Therefore, if you could acquire a piece of land here, we should only have to wait for the consistory to assemble and ratify the divorce already granted by the Roman Curia, with the added permission to marry again. That done, nothing further remains to hinder the marriage. So you must manage to buy a house-lot or something of the sort in Toroczko."
"Have I money enough, do you think, to purchase an iron mine?"
"What, do you really propose to buy one?"
"Yes,--as my dowry to bring to Manasseh. He said he wished to begin a new career and turn miner."
"Very well, then, we'll buy a mine and call it by your name, and it can't fail to turn out a diamond mine."
The purchase was made on that very day, and in the evening the transfer of the property was solemnised with a banquet. It will be noted here that there is a great difference between the Hungarian Unitarians and the English Puritans. The strict observance of Sunday by the latter presents a marked contrast to the joy and freedom with which the day is celebrated by the former. The people of Toroczko gather in the evening for social intercourse, and even join in the pleasures of the dance, to the music of a gipsy orchestra, until the ringing of the vesper bell. Taverns and pot-houses are unknown in the village.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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19
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A MIDNIGHT COUNCIL.
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While blood was being shed on the banks of the Theiss, on the slopes of the Carpathians, and in the mountains of Transylvania, life at the Austrian capital went on much as usual. A grand ball given by the Marchioness Caldariva made its due claim on the attention of the fashionable world. After the last note of the orchestra had died away and the last guest had departed, Prince Cagliari led the fair hostess to her boudoir.
"How did it please you?" asked the prince, referring to the evening's entertainment.
"Not at all," replied the other, throwing her bracelets and fan down on the table. "Didn't you notice that not one member of the court circle was present? They all sent regrets."
"But the court is in mourning now, you know," was Cagliari's soothing reminder.
"And I am in mourning, too," returned Rozina, in a passion. "How long must I submit to this humiliation?" she demanded, compressing her lips and darting a wrathful look at her devoted slave.
"I swear to you," replied the latter, vehemently, "as soon as I get word of my divorced wife's death, our engagement shall be announced."
"And how long is that woman to live?" demanded the angry beauty, in a tone that startled the listener.
"As long as God wills," was all he could say in reply.
The fair Cyrene drew nearer and laid her cheek caressingly against his shoulder. "Do you know where your wife is now?" she asked softly, and when the other shook his head, she went on: "You see, I don't lose sight of her so easily. As for you, you could only shut her up in Rome and leave her there; but I knew how to go to work to rid ourselves of this obstruction. The dogs of Jezebel were howling under her very windows, when there came a man blundering on to the scene and spoiled everything,--a man who is a man, who is more than a prince, a man from top to toe, in short, who carried off the woman from Rome. I hoped they would take flight to some foreign land, whence we might have obtained an official announcement of her death. Of course it might not have been true, but the fugitives would have changed their names, in all probability, and an official certificate would have answered our purpose. Did you receive Blanka's letter,--the one she wrote you from Trieste in November?"
"No," replied the prince, much astonished at what he had just heard; "and I recently sent to her, by Vajdar, her allowance of fifteen thousand scudi for the current quarter."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the marchioness, "a most affectionate and devoted foster-son you have there! Your letters pass through his hands and are, according to your directions, opened by him. As to this last letter of Blanka's, however, he must have forgotten to deliver it, and he counts himself blameless if a remittance of fifteen thousand scudi, directed to a person whose address cannot be found, goes astray. Really he has a genius for roguery. But you needn't get angry with him. The money has not gone out of the family: he spent it on diamonds for me. I learned all about that letter, too, a month ago."
"And may I inquire what the princess wrote me?"
"She begs leave to discontinue the enjoyment of your bounty, and announces her intention of marrying again; and to that end she declares her purpose of embracing the religion of her betrothed."
"The most pleasing result of which will be the saving to me of sixty thousand scudi a year, which I will henceforth bestow on you." The speaker laid a caressing hand on the woman's shoulder.
"Don't touch me, sir!" cried the marchioness, drawing back. "If one woman has had the spirit to say to you, 'There is your coronet and your gold; pick them up. I need them no longer, for I am going to marry a _man_, who shall be my lord and king,'--why, you may find that another woman can do the same."
"But what would you have me do?" asked the other, helplessly; "follow Blanka Zboroy's example and turn Protestant with you, so that we might marry each other?"
"Really, I have a good mind to say yes. What you propose in jest, sinful as it is, may be more to your liking than what I have to suggest."
"You have a plan, Rozina?"
"Yes. Before our loving couple can gain their end they must first reach Toroczko. There, high up in the mountains, lies the dove-cote where they hope to do their billing and cooing. But the surrounding woods are at present full of birds of prey, and--" "Do you dare to think of such a thing?" interrupted the prince, with a start. The old _roué_ had a dread of ghosts by night; he was full of all sorts of superstitions; he disliked to have a beautiful woman allude to certain unpleasant themes in his presence.
"I am only letting my fancy play a little," replied the marchioness, "but perhaps what I have in mind may come to pass. If not, then will be the time for action."
She fetched from her bookcase a military map of Transylvania. It gave in minute detail the mountains, hills, valleys, rivers, towns, and villages of the country.
"Here in this valley," she resumed, pointing with her finger, "lies Toroczko, and these positions that I have marked are held by the Wallachian insurgents. Have you heard about their doings?"
"Yes, frightful accounts."
"Well, then, what if our runaway couple should stumble upon the scene of some of these horrid deeds? Possibly your wife is even now lying in the bed of one of these mountain streams."
"Horrible!"
"Horrible only if it were really so and we had no proof of it. But I have guarded against that. The war office receives detailed reports of all that is going on in Transylvania, and a transcript of those reports is furnished me."
She produced a roll of manuscript and read a line or two, laughing as she did so. She might have been reading Sanskrit, for all the prince could understand of it. Then she nestled softly at her listener's side and began to stroke his chin with one velvet finger.
"If you wish to make me very happy--to make us both very happy," she murmured, "bring me from the war office the key to this mysterious manuscript. Then we will sit down and decipher it together; and if it contains the name I am so anxious to hear, you shall see how a lioness can kiss her tamer's feet."
The prince listened in silence. What effect her words were producing in his bosom, she could only conjecture. She threw herself back on her sofa with a smile on her face.
"What do you say?" she asked. "It is not yet too late to find some one at the war office to do your bidding. Indeed, the hour is well suited for a confidential mission of that sort. And when you come back, if you find me asleep, just whisper in my ear, 'News from Transylvania!' --and I will wake up at once. So good-bye for the present. I shall expect you back again soon."
Prince Cagliari took leave of the enchantress and made his way to the carriage that awaited him below. Entering it, he gave a direction to his coachman, and the carriage rolled rapidly down the street.
Soon after the fair Cyrene--or Rozina, to call her by her real name--found herself alone, the tall clock in her boudoir struck ten, although the hour was nearer two. She rose at once, and taking a little key from her bosom, unlocked and opened the door of the old-fashioned timepiece. But instead of hanging weights and a swinging pendulum, the opening revealed another open door beyond, through which stepped a young man,--Benjamin Vajdar.
"So you've come at last?" the marchioness exclaimed.
"Yes, and I have the key to the cipher despatches, too!"
All smiles and caresses, the siren led her visitor to the table on which lay the mysterious correspondence. But before the two begin their clandestine work, let us say a few words concerning the relations between them.
Months before, at a court ball to which Prince Cagliari's influence had procured the Marchioness Caldariva a much-coveted invitation, Benjamin Vajdar, who then occupied a subordinate government position, was also present. Struck with the beauty of the marchioness, he sought an introduction, and, to make a long story short, was soon enrolled among her willing slaves. Not long after this first meeting he threw up his modest position and became Prince Cagliari's private secretary. A day had already been set for his marriage with Anna Adorjan, but he had the hardihood to write and beg to be released from the engagement. He did not, however, think it necessary to announce in his letter that he had changed his religion and turned Roman Catholic.
A desire to shine in society, meanwhile, and the difficulty of doing so on a small salary, had led him to employ dishonest and criminal means for replenishing his purse. He had raised money on his friend Manasseh's forged signature. After entering the prince's service and finding himself amply supplied with means, he went to his broker to redeem the false note, but, to his consternation, was informed by the money-lender that, in a moment of financial embarrassment, although the note was not yet due he had presented it to Manasseh, who had promptly discounted it. Benjamin Vajdar felt capable of murdering the broker. A noose now seemed placed around his neck, and the end of the rope was held by the man whose sister he had just wronged so shamefully.
The new secretary's appearance in the prince's household served to hasten the impending outbreak between the recently married couple. One afternoon Blanka left the house and fled to a friend of hers in Hungary, whence her petition for a divorce soon led her, her friend, and her lawyer, as we have already seen, to Rome. The decree which was in due time issued from the Vatican, that, so long as his divorced wife lived, the prince might not marry again, was a serious check upon certain pet schemes cherished by the Marchioness Caldariva.
* * * * * To return to the latter's boudoir, where she and her willing tool were bending over the cipher despatches, after long and fruitless search they came upon a name familiar to them both,--Adorjan. It appeared that a certain Adorjan of Toroczko had gone out to parley with the insurgent forces then besieging the town, and they had seized him and held him prisoner. A second Adorjan had followed to ransom his brother, but he too was detained. Finally there came a third brother,--Manasseh.
"Ah, at last!" cried the marchioness, eagerly.
It appeared that this third Adorjan was on his way home from Italy, and was accompanied by his fiancée, whom he left in care of his brother Aaron while he himself sought the insurgents' camp. He too was seized and imprisoned, and preparations were made for the execution of the three brothers; but in the morning, by some means or other, he succeeded in persuading his captors to release all three of their prisoners and to give the whole party, including the young lady, Princess Blanka Zboroy, a safe-conduct to Toroczko, while the insurgents themselves dispersed to their homes.
"But go on!" urged Rozina; "what occurred after that in Toroczko?"
"Nothing further is said about Toroczko," answered the other.
"Have you no spies there?" demanded the marchioness.
"No, there are no informers in Toroczko. There was one, but you have made him your slave."
"And you can sit there so calm and cool!" cried the woman, in a passion. "Just think, there is a man in that town in whose hand your good name and your freedom lie. If he but takes a fancy, he can drag you in the mud. You can count on no happiness, no security, without his consent. Remember, too, there is a woman with him who has smitten you in the face and made you recoil, who is perhaps even now laughing at you, who is the object of my deadly hatred, and during whose lifetime the door is closed to me into the world I wish to enter. So long as that woman lives the sun does not shine for me: I can show my face only at night. And can you sit there while those two are happy in each other's embraces? Oh, coward! How long are you going to let them live?"
Benjamin Vajdar did not venture to open his mouth. The marchioness drew a key from her bosom and held it before him. "Do you see that?" she whispered, while for an instant a smile lighted up her face. "This key belongs to the man who first brings me word of that woman's death." So saying, she kissed the little key and held it to the other's lips to kiss also. "What do you say?"
"I am wont only to think and to act, not to promise," was his reply.
"Very well. _Au revoir! _" The marchioness pulled her bell-cord three times for her maid,--a signal for her visitor to retire. He hastened to the secret door, accordingly, and disappeared. Calling a cab, he ordered the driver to take him to the Café de l'Europe. The head waiter told him, in answer to his inquiries, that Prince Cagliari was there also,--was, in fact, taking supper with two ladies in a private room. The secretary asked to be shown thither.
"I knew you would turn up here before the night was over," cried the prince, with a laugh, as the young man entered. "I had a cover laid for you."
The two young women were costumed as _fleurs animées_,--the one as a violet, the other as a tulip. The remains of a generous meal were on the table. The newcomer held out his glass to the tulip and begged her to pour him some champagne.
"One moment!" interrupted the prince. "First let me ask a question. How much have you left of my wife's quarterly allowance that I sent her by you?"
"That is exactly what I was going to speak to you about," returned the young man. "I have to ask you for the next quarter's allowance also."
"Indeed! And must you have it immediately?"
"If you please."
"But haven't you already learned, from her letter which she wrote me in November, that she is about to change her religion and marry again, and that consequently she declines all further assistance from me? Didn't this letter come into your hands?"
Benjamin Vajdar shrugged his shoulders and calmly proceeded to squeeze lemon-juice on his oysters. "I assumed without question," he rejoined, "that a man of Prince Cagliari's chivalrous nature would merely reply to this letter: 'It is a matter of indifference to me how the princess orders her life; but so long as she bears my name she must not be forced to go on foot and soil her shoes.'"
"Bravo!" cried the prince. "And you would have me give her a dower for her second marriage, would you, and a quarter's allowance into the bargain?"
"Let us not discuss that at present," returned the other, "it would only spoil our evening. Time enough for serious matters to-morrow."
"But I wish to discuss it now."
"Very well. The truth of the matter is, the beautiful Princess Blanka is at this moment lying dead in the mountains of Transylvania."
The prince recoiled. "Young man, I forbid you to indulge in such ill-chosen jests."
Benjamin rose and made a low bow. "Such a lack of respect as a jest of that sort to my master and benefactor is an utter impossibility."
"Well, then, sit down, and let us have no play-acting. Where do you say this thing occurred?"
"Somewhere on the highway between Nagy-Enyed and Felvincz. She is lying there in the snow, transfixed with an insurgent's lance." The speaker therewith proceeded to relate several episodes in the bloody drama then enacting in Transylvania.
"But why are you so sure that the princess is one of the victims?" asked the listener.
"The names are all recorded," was the answer. "The first thing, therefore, for Prince Cagliari to do is to order the recovery of his wife's body, that it may receive proper interment in his family vault. If you wish to convince yourself of the truth of my statements, I will give you the key to the cipher despatches. The despatches themselves you will find in a place that is always open to you. Go and read for yourself."
"No, no," cried the prince, "I will not look at the papers. What you have said is enough for me."
"Very well," rejoined the secretary, quietly. "Then I will go and make ready to start at once for Transylvania. I am determined to find and bring back to you the remains of the Princess Blanka. It is a grim task, and calls for a heart of iron."
"And a purse of gold," added the other. "Here is my pocketbook to begin with, and I will open an account for you with a Czernovicz banker."
What was most important of all, the smooth-tongued secretary had entirely omitted,--namely, that the subject of his ingenious story was at that moment alive and well, and waiting to see the sun rise over the Toroczko hills.
After the prince had somewhat recovered from the effect produced upon him by Benjamin Vajdar's announcement, he gave himself up to the rapturous thought that now at last he could carry word to Rozina of his wife's death. He sought her presence without delay.
The marchioness, cosily ensconced on her sofa, was either asleep, or feigned to be, when Cagliari entered and whispered in her ear: "Rozina, my wife is dead!"
Her eyes opened and a quick flush of pleasure overspread her face. "How? When? Where?" she asked eagerly.
"At Nagy-Enyed--killed by the insurgents."
"Nonsense!" cried the marchioness. "Who told you so?"
"My private secretary, your favourite, Benjamin Vajdar. He has just read it in the despatches received at the war office."
The listener's eyes flashed with scorn.
"I am telling you the truth," asserted the other, vehemently. "I give you my word of honour, it is as I say. I have this moment given Vajdar my purse and despatched him to Transylvania to bring the poor woman's body back to Vienna." The prince seated himself in an armchair opposite the marchioness, and continued: "I am even more eager than you to see her laid to rest in my family vault. My motives are deeper and stronger than yours. You have been longing for Blanka Zboroy's death because her existence meant humiliation to you. This thought has brought unrest to your pillow, but a legion of demons chases sleep from mine. Shall a Cagliari suffer any living woman to drag his name in the mire before all the world--to laugh to scorn the decree of the Roman Curia--to scratch out his name after her own and replace it with that of a Szekler peasant? That may be allowed to pass among common people, but the descendants of the Ferraras will find a way, or make one, to prevent such a scandal. It has become a necessity in my eyes that _she_ should not walk the same planet with me."
The marchioness was listening by this time with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and parted lips.
"Of late I have suffered heavy losses," the speaker continued. "Formerly my income amounted to a million and a half; now it is barely half a million. My estates in the Romagna have been confiscated, my serfs in Hungary freed, and I have lost frightful sums by my investments. I know many a poor devil has been forced to wont himself to rags and poverty, but for one who has been a leader among men to debase himself and drag out a miserable existence in obscurity--never! Shall I, forsooth, suspend the erection of the votive church which I began at the seat of my ancestors twelve years ago? Or shall I, discarding the masterpieces of a Thorwaldsen, embellish the sacred edifice with the rude productions of a stone-cutter? Would you have me say to the woman I adore, 'My dear, hitherto we have lived in two palaces; henceforth we must be content with one'? But most impossible of all would it be to confess my pecuniary embarrassments to my banker and my major-domo, and to direct them to cut down my future expenditures by a third, to sell my picture-gallery, my museum, and two-thirds of my collection of diamonds. No, no! What I am now telling you has never passed my lips before, nor ever will again; for I know how to apply the remedy, and I will not submit to humiliation, even though it should cost human blood to prevent it."
The speaker bent forward and went on in a more guarded tone: "Now as to the woman of whom we were speaking. When her brothers gave her to me in marriage, we entered into a contract which stipulated that the property of the one who died first should go to the survivor. She was young, I was old; the advantage was all on her side. Our divorce has not annulled this contract. If Blanka Zboroy dies, her brothers must deliver her property over to me."
"But her fortune is only a million."
"Don't you believe it. To be sure, her brothers paid her the interest on only a million, but her property really amounts to five times that sum. My part thus far has been simply to await the turn of events. In Rome, as it appears, this woman's fate hung by a thread; but all at once she took the insane notion of marrying again. However, that does not invalidate the contract between us, as the Roman Curia, though it granted her a divorce, did so on terms that will make it impossible to recognise her marriage with a Protestant. When death overtakes her, it will be as the Princess Cagliari that she leaves this world. One thing we must remember, however: the Protestant Church will require her to renounce her former faith in order to render her separation from her first husband valid. Yet, if she does this she will forfeit all claim to her property, which, by the testator's will, can descend only to Roman Catholic heirs."
With both hands Rozina drew the prince's head down and whispered in his ear: "She must die before this second marriage takes place."
"I shall not meddle with destiny," returned the prince, straightening up again. "I shall be satisfied and ask no questions if Vajdar brings back a leaden casket containing the unhappy woman's remains. I shall render her the last honours with princely pomp, and shall then give orders to pursue and punish the insurgents who were responsible for her death."
Rozina burst out laughing. It is always too irresistibly funny to see the devil trying to wash himself clean. Even Cagliari himself was forced to smile.
"Yes," said he, "that is a joke we may laugh at, if you like. But now hear what I have to say further. If Blanka Zboroy renounces the faith of her fathers and marries again, it will not suffice for her only to die. The man she marries must die also, the parson who joined their hands at the altar, the witnesses of the ceremony, the whole family that received her in its midst, the schoolchildren that sang the bridal hymn, the guests who sat around the wedding-table, the people who looked out of their windows and saw the bridal procession pass,--yes, the whole town where this marriage took place must be destroyed, and I have it in my power to accomplish this. Now are you satisfied?"
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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20
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MIRTH AND MOURNING.
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Meanwhile preparations were going forward in Toroczko for the approaching nuptials. All preliminaries had been duly attended to, Blanka had joined the Unitarian Church, and nothing now stood in the way of her marriage to Manasseh.
In the courtyard to the rear of the Adorjan family mansion stood a little house, containing two rooms and a kitchen, which Aaron secretly fitted up in genuine Toroczko style, with carved hard-wood furniture, a row of pegs running around the wall and hung with a fine array of glazed earthenware mugs, and an old-fashioned dresser filled with pottery and a dazzling display of bright new tinware. In the sleeping-room bedclothes, canopy, and curtain were embroidered by peasant maidens. This little house was not to be shown to Blanka until her wedding day.
During these preparations Aaron climbed the Szekler Stone every evening and surveyed the horizon in search of any beacons blazing on the surrounding hills. "If only no mishap befalls, to spoil everything!" he would murmur to himself as he came down again.
On the Sunday when the banns are published for the last time it is customary for all the friends of the young couple--and there is sure to be a whole army of them--to assemble at the bridegroom's house, which in the present instance was also the bride's. The banquet on this occasion is not furnished by the bridal pair: it is a farewell supper given by the guests of the bride and groom, each of the company contributing a roasted fowl and a cake. The groom merely supplies the wine, but not gratis, as all pay for what they drink, and the sum thus collected goes into the village school fund.
On Monday morning the wedding festivities begin in earnest. At an early hour people are awakened by the firing of cannon, after which young men mount their horses and gallop hither and thither, and two others, accompanied by trumpeters, go forth to invite the village folk to the wedding and to bear the bridal gifts through the street. Then the nuptial procession moves, amid the glad ringing of bells, from the house of the bride to the church. The old men head the line, the young men come next, and the women follow, while the bridegroom with his escort, and the bride with her bridesmaids, are given a place in the middle of the procession. On coming out of the church, the newly married pair receive a shower of flowers from the hands of the maidens gathered at the door. But the ceremonies at the church by no means end the wedding festival. What follows is peculiarly characteristic and important. First the young men bearing the bridal cake run a race from the church to the bridegroom's house, the victor winning a silk neckerchief embroidered by the bride. Then comes the rhymed dialogue, in which the representatives of the bride and of the groom chaffer with each other over the bride, but always with the result that the bridegroom's deputy gets the better of his opponent--yet only after the bridegroom himself has promised to be father and brother to his young wife, and to cherish her as the apple of his eye. Thereupon the maidens form a ring around the bride, sing songs to her to conquer her bashfulness, and so induce her to yield her hand to the bridegroom. After this the bridesmaids escort her to her new home--which in this case was represented by the little house that Aaron had secretly furnished for her. Neither Blanka nor Manasseh had even suspected what he was about.
Blanka found herself in the paradise of her dreams, and when her attendants had placed a gold-embroidered cap on her head, and she came forth again into the courtyard,--which was now crowded with eager friends,--her hand in that of the man whose wife and queen she was thenceforth to be, it seemed to her that the happiness of heaven itself was her portion.
Five hundred guests partook of the wedding feast. Food and drink were provided in plenty, and every heart was filled to overflowing with the joy of the occasion. And yet, to Blanka herself, something was still lacking. "If Jonathan and Zenobia were only here!" she could not but say to herself, and her happiness was not quite complete without them.
Toward evening Aaron himself began to feel uneasy at their non-appearance. He had nearly exhausted his ingenuity in quieting Blanka's anxiety. Finally he played his last card.
"Now, my angel," said he, "you remember I promised you I would dance the Szekler dance at your wedding. Have the goodness to pay attention, and you will see something that is not to be seen every day."
The Szekler dance resembles no other terpsichorean exercise, nor is it by any means easy of execution. It calls for sinews of steel and great suppleness of limb. To make it still more difficult, the performer is obliged to provide his own music by singing a merry popular ballad while he dances. He throws himself first on one leg, then on the other, bending his knee and sinking nearly to the floor, while he extends the other leg straight before him, raises one hand above his head, and rests the other on his hip. His heels must never touch the floor, nor may he, while bobbing thus comically up and down and trolling his lively ditty, suffer his face to relax from that expression of sober and dignified earnestness which marks the true Szekler. It is a dance and a display of great physical strength and endurance at the same time.
While Aaron's performance was still in progress, his brother Alexander broke through the circle of spectators and whispered something in his ear, whereupon the dancer immediately ceased his exhibition with the cry, "They have come!"
With an exclamation of joy Blanka sprang up from her seat. She wished to be the first to welcome the long-awaited pair.
"Sister-in-law," cried Alexander, "don't go out! Don't let her go out!"
But it was too late. Two horses stood before the door, and on one of them sat Zenobia. Blanka ran to her and took her hand.
"Have you come at last?" she exclaimed. "Oh, how long we've been looking for you! Let me help you down."
Zenobia, however, sat silent and made no move to dismount.
"Where is Jonathan?" asked Blanka.
"There he is." Zenobia pointed to the other horse, on whose back was bound a swathed form--a corpse.
"Jonathan!" cried Blanka, wildly.
"Your brother killed my father," Zenobia continued in a monotone, "and my brothers killed your brother; and so it will go on now for nobody knows how long."
Blanka was stricken speechless with horror, but Anna, who followed her, broke out in lamentations, until a strong hand was laid on her from behind and Aaron's voice was heard saying: "Don't cry, don't make a noise! If the people inside hear you, they'll come out and tear Ciprianu's daughter to pieces; and she is now our guest."
Anna buried her face in Blanka's bosom.
"Alexander," said Aaron, softly, turning to his brother, "go in and tell the gipsy band to play a lively reel. The company must be kept amused."
Meanwhile Manasseh had appeared.
"Manasseh," whispered Aaron, "come and help me lift our brother down from the horse."
These words were to Manasseh like a dagger-thrust in his heart. His knees trembled under him. But presently he manned himself and hastened to untie the ropes that held the inanimate form on the horse's back.
Zenobia meanwhile went on talking in a low tone to Blanka. "In the skirmish at Felvincz, the Hungarians had one man killed, and he was the man. His horse carried him until I found him. You invited us to your wedding, and here we are. Now you may, if you wish, take me in and say to your guests, 'This is the daughter of that Ciprianu whose sons laid waste Sasd and Felvincz and killed Jonathan Adorjan.'"
"Away, away!" stammered Blanka, waving her hand. She was terrified at the thought of Zenobia's being found there by the people of Toroczko, and perhaps suffering violence at their hands.
"Go in peace," said Aaron. "My people will not pursue you. Let bygones be bygones between us. We owe each other nothing now."
"I owe you nothing, Aaron, but I owe something to your sister and your sister-in-law for the very kind invitation they sent me; and that is a debt which I will yet repay. To you, Manasseh, I have to say, remember those parting words on Monastery Heights: 'We make peace with you and swear to keep it; but if a traitor from your own number stirs up dissension between us, then tremble!' Think of those words often. And now farewell, and God bless you!"
With that she turned her horse about and rode away, breasting the wind, which blew the snow into her face.
"Where shall we lay the body?" asked Aaron. "The house is full of guests."
"Here, in our little cabin," said Blanka.
"What, in your bridal chamber?" gasped Aaron. "Oh, Father in heaven!"
But there was no other way. The two brothers bore Jonathan into the little house, unswathed his cold limbs, and laid him in the bridal bed until his coffin should be ready for him. So death entered the little abode and was the first guest.
Blanka sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed at the dead face. The resemblance between Jonathan and Manasseh was striking. This lifeless image of her husband suddenly revealed to her all that had hitherto been so carefully kept from her knowledge. When she met Jonathan in Kolozsvar she had conceived of the war, to which so many stately cavaliers were turning their horses' heads, as a kind of splendid tournament. She remembered now the promise she had made to give the young soldier a kiss on his return home, and recalled how he had begged her to keep her word even though he came back dead. And he had come back dead, and now claimed the fulfilment of her promise. She bent down over him, and as she did so the illusion that it was Manasseh himself lying lifeless before her, grew stronger still. She trembled as she touched her lips to the dead man's marble brow, and with an outburst of sobs and tears she called aloud, "Manasseh!"
He was at her side in a moment, bending over her and pressing her to his heart. So he was not dead, after all. She recovered her self-control, but she murmured in his ear: "Oh, do not die! Never let me see you lying like that before me!"
Then she gave place to the three brothers, who likewise embraced the dead man. One by one the other brothers came out of the house of rejoicing and entered the chamber of mourning. Alexander had summoned them. The guests, however, found nothing strange in their disappearance, but merely gave themselves up the more unrestrainedly to the gaiety of the occasion. That the bride and groom should have vanished so suddenly was entirely in accord with established usage: the loving pair had, it was taken for granted, sought the spot where all the delights of paradise awaited them. How different was the reality from these conjectures!
Blanka watched through the long hours by the dead man's couch. So passed her wedding night.
At early dawn the tolling of bells announced to the people of Toroczko that death had laid his cold hand on one of their number. Those who had been wedding guests the day before now came as mourners to the house of the Adorjans.
The brothers were out on the mountainside. Graves for the dead in Toroczko are hewn out of the solid rock, and the side of some bare cliff serves the people for a cemetery. Here each family has a vault, which, as years pass, penetrates more and more deeply into the mountainside, until in many cases it becomes a veritable tunnel. No name is carved over these vaults, and only the memory of the survivors serves to distinguish one tomb from another. When a man dies, his relatives take it on themselves to hollow out his grave in the cliff. This is an old and pious custom. If, however, there is no man in the family to render this last service, the neighbours gladly offer their help. It would be a grievous thing in Toroczko to have one's grave dug by a hired grave-digger.
In the afternoon the catafalque was erected in the church, and the entire population assembled to pay the last honours to the deceased. The people sang, and the pastor delivered a funeral discourse. Then all accompanied the remains to the rock-hewn cemetery. Men bore the coffin on their shoulders, and on the coffin lay the dead man's sword, crowned with garlands, and his shako pierced with a bullet-hole. Leading the procession marched a student chorus singing a dirge, while weeping women brought up the rear. When the family vault was reached, the seven brothers of the deceased took the coffin and laid it in the niche prepared to receive it; then they rolled a great stone before the opening, came out of the vault, and kissed one another.
After that a plain villager, an old and gray-haired man, mounted a stone pulpit and addressed the assembly, telling them who it was they were burying, how he had lived, how he had been loved, and in what manner he had come to his end. The speaker closed with the hope that the memory of the departed might last as long as there were dwellers in the valley to speak his name. The pastor then blessed the grave and pronounced a benediction on the company before him. Finally the student choir rendered a closing selection, while the women and children left the place in groups, and only the men remained behind.
Aaron now ascended the stone pulpit and spoke. "Brothers and friends," he began, "we have done our duty to the dead; now let us discharge our obligations to the living. Enough of funeral dirges for the present! Let us now to arms!"
Three hundred men echoed his words. "To arms!" they cried, "to arms!" They were ready and eager to go in quest of the foemen at whose hands their fellow-townsman had met his death. "Come, let us go home and arm ourselves!" said they, one to another.
"We will meet in the marketplace!" called out Aaron from the stone pulpit, when suddenly he felt a strong hand on his belt behind, and he was lifted down bodily from his place. He did not need to ask who dealt thus summarily with him; he knew that only his brother Manasseh was capable of such a feat of strength.
"What are you thinking of?" cried Manasseh, in a voice that all could hear. "Have I not made peace with our neighbours and sworn in the name of the one living God to maintain it, and would you put me to shame?"
"Have they not murdered our brother Jonathan?" demanded Aaron.
"No; our brother fell in battle like a brave soldier, with his sword in his hand. And others of our land are fighting now for their country and will die for her. We shall mourn them and honour their memory, but we are not wild Indians to exact a bloody vengeance for those fallen on the battle-field."
"Very well, brother Manasseh, but you need not charge us with being wild Indians. I do not ask that we should fall upon our neighbours and burn their houses over their heads, but that we should be on our guard and defend ourselves and our families the best we know how. Believe me, brother, I am as good a Christian as the next man; I go to church every holy day, even when I am ill; but I feel easier, when I pray for my soul's salvation, if I know my gun is loaded and primed."
"Then you are no true believer in God," returned Manasseh, in a tone of reproof. "You worship that Jesus in whose name the massacre of St. Bartholomew was perpetrated, the burning of heretics sanctioned, and the crusades undertaken; but you are no true follower of that Jesus who came with a message of peace and good-will to mankind, and who said to Peter, 'They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"
"I am not so sure that he really said that," rejoined Aaron, shrewdly. "Matthew has it that he did, but Mark and Luke make no mention of it, and, according to John, Jesus simply said to Peter, after the latter had cut off the ear of Malchus, the high priest's servant, 'Put up thy sword into the sheath.' At any rate, I am not clear what I should have done had he said it to me; but I know one thing, if I had been there when the Saviour handed the sop to Judas, I should have dealt Iscariot such a blow on the head that he wouldn't have had wit enough left to betray his master. And just so I will strike down the traitor who leads a foe against Toroczko, if he once comes within my reach."
"What traitor do you mean?"
"The one that the girl spoke of yesterday when she said, 'If a traitor rises up from amidst your own people, then tremble!' I know whom she meant now: with the insurgents is a man, lately come into notice, who surpasses all his fellows in cruelty. He is our Iscariot."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because he calls himself Diurbanu. No genuine Wallachian would have taken the nickname of his king, Decebalus. It is as if one of us should call himself Attila. Now, then, Manasseh, I love you and am ready to follow your lead. I shall never forget how you went up to Monastery Heights and came back with our two brothers. You knew how to serve them better than I. I would have avenged their death merely, but you saved their lives. So, as you made peace with Moga and his people, you have a right to ask us to keep it. Therefore we will demand no atonement from them for Jonathan's death. But when we hear that Diurbanu and his men, who know nothing about that peace and are no parties to it, are advancing on Toroczko, then will be the time for us to act."
"And I will take a hand with you," declared Manasseh.
Therewith the two brothers clasped hands and embraced each other, after which the men all returned to their homes.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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21
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THE SPY.
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Albeit the earth reeked with blood in those days, yet the spring of 1849 saw the flowers blooming in as great profusion as ever, as if God's blessing had been vying with man's curse to see which should outdo the other.
On a beautiful afternoon in May, Blanka and Anna, with Manasseh and Aaron, were climbing a steep and tortuous mountain path. Manasseh had his portfolio and some few other implements of his craft, while Aaron carried the ladies' wraps and lunch-basket. With the exception of iron-shod alpenstocks, none of the party were armed. The two men walked on ahead, side by side, leaving the young women to loiter behind and pick mayflowers. Rhododendrons, orchids, and epigonitis rewarded their search in abundance. From the valley below came up the bleating of goats and the flute-like notes of the blackbird.
"Are you really in earnest, Aaron, about defending the town from this position in case of an attack?" asked Manasseh.
"Wasn't it from the Szekler Stone that our fathers repulsed the whole Mongolian horde?" was the rejoinder.
"But that was in the old days, in old-fashioned warfare."
"Well, the Wallachians are now no further advanced in military science than were the Tartars then."
"Yes, but at that time the Szekler Stone was in a condition for defence," objected Manasseh.
"And how do you know I haven't put it in such a condition again?" asked the other.
"I should like to see how you have accomplished it."
"I shall not show you, for you are not a soldier, and no civilian shall see my fortifications. I will show them to the two young ladies; they count as combatants. The other day they coaxed Alexander to lend them his pistols, and since then they have been practising shooting at a mark in the garden behind the house."
"What, does my wife know how to handle a pistol?"
"To be sure; and it's no elderberry popgun, either. You may depend upon it, she'll sell her life dear. You needn't laugh."
The rocky height known as the Szekler Stone commands a view of vast extent. Nestled among the hills, twenty-two villages may be counted from its summit, with the Aranyos River winding this way and that among them, like a ribbon of silver, until it empties into another tortuous stream which carries its waters to the Maros. But on the opposite side, toward the northwest, in striking contrast with this picture of happy human industry, a boundless waste of rugged, forest-clad mountain peaks meets the eye, with no sign of house or hamlet.
From the side toward Toroczko, which lay smiling in the valley, its fruit-trees in full bloom, its fields looking like so many squares of green carpet, and its church-spire rising conspicuous above the foliage, one could hear, like the throbbing of a giant's heart, the heavy beating of steam hammers. There the scythe and the ploughshare were being fashioned, and all the implements wherewith the hand of man subdued to his use those rugged hillsides.
"If I could only paint that picture!" sighed Manasseh.
"You succeeded with the Colosseum," was Blanka's encouraging rejoinder.
"That was Rome, this is Toroczko. I could hit my sweetheart's likeness; my mother's is beyond me."
Nevertheless he was determined to try his hand; so the others left him at work and went on to view the curiosities of the Szekler Stone.
"Take good care of my wife," Manasseh called to his brother, "and don't let her fall over any precipice."
"Never fear," Aaron shouted back. "The whole Szekler Stone shall fall first."
"Promise not to take Blanka and Anna up Hidas Peak."
"I promise."
"On your honour as a Szekler and a Unitarian?"
"On my honour as a Szekler and a Unitarian."
With that Manasseh let them go their way. But in the midst of his sketching it occurred to him that Aaron had only promised not to "take" the ladies up Hidas Peak, which might mean that he would not carry them up, but was at liberty to lead them; for Aaron was full of all such quips and quibbles as that. Manasseh closed his portfolio, picked up his things, and followed the path taken by the others.
Yet there was no mischievous intent in Aaron's mind. He conducted Anna and Blanka to the verge of the gorge that separates the so-called Hidas Peak of the Szekler Stone from the Louis Peak. This ravine is a deep cutting, down which a steep, breakneck path leads directly to Toroczko, but is very seldom used. On the farther side of the gorge may be seen a cave in the rocks, popularly known as Csegez Cave. A rude stone rampart guards its mouth, and, as only a very narrow path along the brink of the precipice leads to this cavern, it could be easily held against an assault.
On the summit of Hidas Peak was planted a bundle of straw, which was visible from a considerable distance, and served as a warning not to ascend. Was it meant as a protection to the single fir-tree left standing there in lonely majesty, or to deter hay-thieves from cutting the grass that grew there? Perhaps it was a friendly caution to sightseers not to hazard the ascent, as it might cost them their lives.
The two young women recognised at once the inadvisability of their attempting this dangerous climb, but to Aaron the ascent was mere sport. He had often been up there before. Promising his companions that, if they would be on their good behaviour, and not stir from the spot, he would climb the rocky height, blow a blast on his horn that should awake the echoes, and bring them back a twig from the solitary fir-tree, he left them seated on the grass and busy arranging the flowers they had gathered.
It seemed a long time before he gained the summit, and the young women grew tired of sitting still in one place. Anna, true miner's daughter that she was, spied some scattered bits of carnelian in the rubble near by, and pointed them out to Blanka. Agate and chalcedony were also to be found among the loose stones, and often the three occurred together. Both Anna and her companion were soon busy gathering these treasures and pocketing the rarest specimens. Indeed, so intent were they on their work that they failed to note the approach of a strange man, until he stood within fifty paces of them. Whence could he have come? Had he been concealed behind some rock? What was his purpose in thus stealing on the two unprotected women? He wore the Wallachian peasant costume,--a high cap of white lamb's wool, from beneath which his long, black hair hung down over his shoulders, a leather dolman, without sleeves, a broad belt with buckles, under which his shirt extended half-way to his knees, and laced shoes. He carried a scythe over one shoulder, and stood with his back to the sun, so that his features could not be clearly distinguished.
The young women seized each other by the hand, and uttered a cry of alarm. The sight of the strange figure seemed to work on them like a nightmare, or like the ghost of some one known in life, but long since laid to rest in the grave. At first the man appeared to be as badly frightened as the young ladies. He halted, gave a start as of surprise, opened his mouth to speak, and then stood dumb, with staring eyes. For several seconds he seemed undecided what to do next. Then he put himself in motion and advanced toward the ladies, his face at the same time assuming a wild, demoniac expression. He lowered his scythe from his shoulder, and grasped it in his right hand.
At that moment there sounded from the height above the trumpet-like peal of Aaron's horn.
"Aaron! Aaron!" cried both young women in concert and with all their strength.
The intruder, taking fright at sound of the horn and at the name, stood still and threw a look behind.
"Run, _frate_!" [1] shouted Aaron from above, already descrying the man.
[Footnote 1: Rumanian for "brother."]
But the latter, counting with safety on a considerable interval before Aaron could descend, started once more toward Anna and Blanka. Only twenty paces now intervened between him and them. His eyes glowed and his face was distorted with a horrid expression, more brutal than human. His appearance might well have made the boldest recoil. Anna planted herself before her companion, as if to shelter her, while Blanka felt only a mad desire to run and throw herself over the precipice. But suddenly, when the man was only a few steps from them, he halted and drew back as if some one had smitten him in the face, his knees trembled, and an inarticulate cry escaped his lips. He seemed to have encountered something from which he drew back in dismay, as the leopard, when pursuing a deer, turns tail at sight of a lion. Blanka and Anna gave a backward glance and then started to run. Fear now left them, and as they ran they called aloud, in the glad assurance of help near at hand, "Manasseh! Manasseh!" --until they reached him and threw themselves into his arms.
Meanwhile the strange man, looking over his shoulder and seeing Aaron descending upon him with bold leaps and bounds, did not pause long to consider, but dropped his scythe and ran for his life, down the steep side of the gorge, over rubble-stones and slippery boulders.
"What are you so frightened at?" asked Manasseh, taking the matter lightly and kissing back the roses into the ladies' pale cheeks.
Panting and gasping for breath, they could hardly stammer out the cause of their alarm, but managed to explain that a "terrible man" had suddenly come upon them and chased them. Yet neither Blanka nor Anna went on to say of whom this strange figure had reminded her.
"You little geese!" cried Manasseh, laughing, "it was only a hay-thief. Grass grows on Hidas Peak, and ever since the days of King Matthias the Szeklers on the Aranyos have quarrelled with their neighbours over the cutting of it. The man who is on hand first with his scythe carries it off. So that bugaboo of yours was merely a harmless peasant in quest of fodder for his cow, and he took fright at sight of us and ran away. Look there, will you, he has dropped his scythe in his eagerness to escape."
The two young women, still clinging to Manasseh, went with him to examine the Wallachian's scythe.
"A tool of our own make!" he cried, lifting it up and inspecting it. "It has our trade-mark. The snath is full of notches--probably the owner's record of work done and of his share in the harvest."
The said owner was by this time far down the steep path. Aaron now joined his companions, much out of breath, red in the face, and without his hat, which he had thrown away in order to run the faster. He shouted to the fugitive to stop, and, going to the edge of the ravine, snatched up a great stone and hurled it after him.
"Oh, heavens!" cried Anna, "what have you done? What if it should hit him?"
"If it hits him it will help him along the faster," was Aaron's reply as he caught up a second stone, smaller than the first, and sent it to overtake its fellow. But the fleeing form was too far down the hill to serve as a good target, and Aaron's stones bounded harmlessly by.
"You might have killed him!" said Anna, reproachfully.
"And that would have been the best thing for all concerned," answered Aaron, giving his moustache a fierce pull.
"But it would have been a piece of needless cruelty," remarked Manasseh,--"and merely on account of a little hay that has not been touched, after all."
"He didn't come up here to steal hay; he is one of Diurbanu's spies."
"But what, pray, could he spy out here?"
"What could he spy out? Oh, just see how sharp my brother Manasseh is! My fortifications and armament are on the Szekler Stone. Yes, you may laugh now, but you won't laugh when you come to learn their value. I will show the ladies my cannon, but I won't let you see them, Manasseh."
"Cannon, brother?" repeated Manasseh, laughing. "How in the world did you ever get them up here?"
"My business is with the ladies now," was all Aaron would say. "You sit down on a stone and paint the beautiful view. My battery is not for you to see. Yes, I have a battery, all complete. If Aaron Gabor could fit out his Szeklers with artillery, why should not his namesake be able to do the same? You young women may see my big guns; I'll show them to you. But first promise me solemnly not to tell any mortal soul what you see--not even Manasseh."
Blanka and Anna both pledged themselves most solemnly to secrecy, whereupon Aaron led them up to a height on which stood the ruins of Szekler-Stone Castle, one of the oldest monuments to be found in all Hungary.
After a short interval the three rejoined Manasseh, the two ladies laughing and in the merriest of moods, scarcely heeding their conductor's solemnly raised forefinger and sober mien, which were meant to remind them of their promise. But they betrayed no secrets; they only laughed. Yet Aaron thought it betrayal enough for them even to laugh.
"That's always the way," he muttered, "when you let a woman into a secret!"
They soothed and caressed him, but only laughed the more as they did so.
"I wish you to understand that this is no trifling matter," he declared, "and that I had good reason to send those stones after that prying spy."
This allusion checked the young women's merriment at once, and a shudder ran over them at the remembrance of what had passed. "Did we both have the same thought?" whispered Blanka to Anna.
"Yes," returned the latter, with a sigh.
That night, before she lay down to sleep, Anna veiled the little portrait that hung in her room, as if to prevent her seeing it in her dreams.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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22
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THE HAND OF FATE.
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Through the main street of Abrudbanya rode two men, one of them wearing an overcoat with silver buttons over his Wallachian dress, and a tuft of heron's feathers in his cap, while at his side hung a curved sword, pistols protruded from his holsters, and a rifle lay across his saddle-bow. His face had nothing of the Wallachian peasant in its features or expression. The other horseman, however, who rode at some paces' distance in the rear, was manifestly of the peasant class.
The horses' hoofs awoke the echoes of the vacant street. Silence and desolation reigned supreme. Half-burned houses and smoke-blackened walls greeted the riders on every side. High up on the door-post of a church appeared the bloody imprint of a child's hand. How had it come there? Grass and weeds were growing in the marketplace, and a millstone covered the village well. Here and there a lean and hungry dog crept forth at the horsemen's approach, howled dismally, and then retreated among the ruins.
After this scene of devastation was passed, the highway led the riders along the bank of a stream, on both sides of which smelting works had been erected, as this region is rich in gold-producing ore; but nothing except charred ruins was now left of the buildings. At intervals a deserted mill was passed, its wheel still turning idly under the impulse of the tireless stream. Leaving this mining district behind, the two riders came to a settlement of a different sort, which had not been given over entirely to destruction. Only occasionally a house showed windows or doors lacking, while many were wholly unharmed. Among the latter was one building in whose front wall a well-preserved Roman gravestone was set, its carving in high relief being still clearly outlined. Here had once been entombed the ashes of Caius Longinis, a centurion of the third legion. _Sit sibi terra levis! _ One of the door-posts had in ancient times served as a milestone, and the broad bench before the house was made from the lid of a sarcophagus, bearing an inscription which informed the archæologist what saffron-haired Roman beauty had, centuries before, been laid to rest beneath it.
The riders drew rein before this house, and straightway an old woman of extraordinary ugliness stuck her head out of the little door. Among the Wallachians one meets with the comeliest young women and the ugliest old hags. Knock at any door, and it is sure to be opened by one of these ancient dames.
"He isn't at home," called out the old woman, without waiting to be addressed. "He has gone to the 'Priest's Tree.' You'll find him there."
"Well, then, if you know where this 'Priest's Tree' is, go ahead and show us the way," commanded he of the silver buttons, unwilling even to halt long enough to water his horse, so pressing was his errand.
The way led through a vast forest, and when the riders reached their destination it was late evening, the darkness being further increased by gathering thunder-clouds. The so-called "Priest's Tree" is a giant beech standing in a broad open space and fenced around with a hedge planted by pious hands. Under this tree have been sworn the most solemn of oaths, and the ground shaded by it is hallowed. Near by stands a wooden church, exactly like the churches to be seen in all Wallachian villages, its steep roof and sides covered with shingles, and a pointed turret surmounting the whole. The belfry has no bell, and the windows are unglazed, so that the breezes blow at will through the deserted building.
Our riders found a dozen or more horses tethered at the foot of the tree and watched by a few Wallachian lads, who were muffled in fur coats against the approach of the storm. The beech furnished a good shelter: lightning could not strike it, as it was the "Priest's Tree."
Leaving his horse in charge of his attendant, he of the silver buttons hastened on to the church door, where an armed sentry demanded his name.
"Diurbanu," was the reply, whereupon he was admitted.
The interior of the church was very dark. Two wax tapers, indeed, burned on the altar, but they flickered and flared so in the wind as to furnish a very insufficient light. The thunder-clouds without, however, were now rent with frequent flashes of lightning, which served to illumine the scene within. About a dozen men were assembled there, sitting on the benches that had once been occupied by worshippers, some wearing the costume of the country, while others were dressed in military uniform. Before them, with his back to the altar, sat a man of commanding appearance, attired in a clerical gown with long, flowing sleeves. In his lap he held a little fair-haired boy, covering the child with one of his wide sleeves, and giving it the golden crucifix that hung from his neck to play with. At times his long black beard completely concealed the child's face. The little one was playing and prattling, giving no heed to the talk of the men about him and betraying no alarm at the tumultuous approach of the storm.
The newcomer advanced and addressed the group: "Gentleman and friends, glorious descendants of Decebalus and Trajan!"
"Never mind ceremony now, Diurbanu," interrupted the wearer of the gown, in a deep, commanding voice. "What news? Let us hear your errand."
"I am the bearer of instructions."
"Out with them, then!"
"We must prosecute the war with might and main. There is no time to lose. Bem regards the Transylvanian campaign as ended, and has set out with his whole army for the Banat, leaving only a few regulars to guard the passes and to prosecute the siege of Karlsburg. Our part is to check him in his march on Croatia."
"Or, in other words," interrupted the man in the gown, "to prevent him from dealing Jellachich a fatal blow, we are to throw ourselves in Bem's way."
"The victors of Abrudbanya and Brad will not shrink from the undertaking, I should hope," was Diurbanu's response.
"Let us understand each other," said the other, setting the little boy on his knee and trotting him up and down as he spoke. "Is it reasonable to suppose that we could, without cavalry, artillery, or experienced commanders, attack a fully equipped force with any hope of success, especially after that force has driven an Austrian army corps out of the country and shown itself able to repulse the Russian auxiliaries?"
"No one expects that of us. Our operations are to be confined to raids in the mountains."
"But no enemy is to be found now in the mountains. Don't you know that? You have just come over the mountains. Did you see any sign of the enemy?"
"We have foes enough there still. There is Toroczko." Diurbanu's face, as he said this, was suddenly illumined by a blinding flash of lightning.
"And Torda!" cried a voice from the benches.
"No, we have nothing against Torda," declared Diurbanu, almost angrily.
"But what have we against Toroczko?" asked another voice. "The men of Toroczko have never done us any harm. So far we have received their iron only in the form of ploughs and shovels, scythes and wheel-tires."
"Their sons are serving under Bem," was the rejoinder, "and it is from them that we have received their iron in other shapes. Yet that is not the main reason. Toroczko is a breeding-place of Magyar ideas and Magyar civilisation, an asylum open to Protestant reformers, the pride of a handful of people who hope to conquer the world by dint of their science and industry. The fall of Toroczko would spread a wholesome fear far and wide; it would be almost as if one should report the overthrow of Pest itself. Bem's men would halt on the march, panic-stricken at the news, and Bem himself would be forced to yield to their desires and return to Transylvania. And the more terrible our work of devastation, the more brilliant will be the military success that must follow as its result."
The thunder-claps came at such frequent intervals that the speaker could with difficulty make himself heard. When he had ended, the deep voice of him who wore the clerical gown began in reply: "Listen to me, Diurbanu. You are deceived on one point. Those on whom you count in this bloody work are sated with slaughter. So long as they thirsted for revenge they were eager to shed human blood; but now they have slaked their thirst and are beginning to rue their deeds. I saw a family being cut down in the open street, and I rushed forward and snatched this little flaxen-haired boy from the murderers' hands and hid him under my cloak. At that a young man, the most furious one of the party, aimed such a stroke at my head with his scythe that he would certainly have split my skull had not my cap deadened the blow. But three days later this same young man came to see the child whose rescue had filled him with such fury that he had lifted his hand with murderous intent against me, his anointed priest; and because the little boy cried for his lost blackbird, the young man went into the woods and caught another for him. More than that, he would now gladly restore the boy's parents to him if he could. Ever since I saved the little one's life he has clung to me and refused to be parted from me."
The priest spoke in a tongue strange to the little boy, who consequently understood not a word of what was said, but went on with his innocent prattle and laughter.
"Comrades," resumed Diurbanu, addressing the group before him, "all this is wide of the mark. We are in the midst of war, and in war-times the soldier must go whither he is sent."
"Very well, Diurbanu," was the reply, "our soldiers will go whither they are sent. The wind can direct the storm-cloud whither it shall go, but cannot compel it to flash lightning and hurl thunderbolts at command."
"But I know one storm-cloud," rejoined Diurbanu, "that has not withheld its thunderbolts."
"You mean Ciprianu and his men?"
"Yes."
"But Ciprianu and both his sons are now fallen."
"So much the better. He left a daughter who thirsts for revenge."
"Do you know her?"
"She is my sweetheart."
"And have you picked out the village whose destruction is to be her bridal gift? Which one is it?"
"I have told you already,--Toroczko."
"But I say it shall be Torda!" cried a determined voice.
"I protest."
"Let us draw lots to decide it."
"Very well," assented Diurbanu, and, going to the altar on which stood the flickering candles, he wrote a name on each of two cards and threw the bits of pasteboard into his cap. "Now who will draw?" he asked; but no one volunteered. "It must be an innocent hand that decides the fate of these two towns," continued Diurbanu. "This little chap shall draw for us."
"What, this innocent child decide which town shall be given over to fire and blood and pillage!" exclaimed the priest. "An infernal contrivance of yours, Diurbanu!"
But meantime the child had reached out a tiny hand and clutched at one of the cards, which it handed to the priest.
"Bring me one of the candles," bade the latter.
But no candle was necessary, for even as he spoke a flash of lightning penetrated to the remotest corner of the little church. The group of men whose heads were bent over the bit of cardboard started and cried out in concert: "Toroczko!"
In the peal of thunder that followed the very ground shook under their feet and the building rocked over their heads.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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23
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OLD SCORES.
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The inhabitants of the doomed town were warned beforehand by a friendly informer what was in store for them. For two months they knew that they were standing over a mine which awaited only the proper moment to be touched off. Nevertheless, during this time they went about their usual tasks, digging iron out of the bowels of the earth, sowing their grain, planting and weeding their gardens, spinning their flax, tanning their hides, sending their children to school, and all betaking themselves to church on Sunday morning. The Sunday afternoon diversions, however, were suspended, and in their stead the entire male population practised military drill. Even the twelve-year-old boy cried if he was not allowed to take part. All were determined to shed their last drop of blood rather than let the enemy set foot inside their town. Even the women busied themselves sharpening axes and scythes, resolute in their purpose to defend their little ones or, if need were, to put them to death with their own hands and then slay themselves. No woman, no child, should fall into the enemy's clutches alive.
It was the very last day of July. The fields were dotted with sheaves of grain, and the farmers were hastening to gather them in. They had been surprised by countless numbers of crows and ravens which invaded the valley and filled the air with their hoarse, discordant cries. Those experienced in war knew that these birds were the usual attendants and heralds of armies.
More definite tidings were not long in coming. Messengers from St. George arrived breathless with the report that Diurbanu's troops were rapidly approaching. But no one was disconcerted by the news; all were ready for the enemy. Throwing scythes and pitchforks aside, they snatched up their firearms. Each battalion of the national guard had its assigned position. The streets were barricaded with wagons, and the road toward Borev was laid under water by damming the brook, to prevent a surprise from that direction. Aaron, with forty other men, clambered up the steep slope of the Szekler Stone to repulse the enemy from this commanding height,--forty men against as many hundred. They would have laughed at their own folly had they but stopped to think.
Toward noon the sturdy little band of defenders was increased by the coming of fugitives from St. George. For these, too, there were arms enough in Toroczko. The effective force now in the village amounted to nearly four hundred.
Manasseh was at home with the women of the family. They had declined Aaron's offer to conceal them in Csegez Cave, preferring to remain under the family roof and there await what God had appointed them. Manasseh now embraced Blanka and Anna and bade them farewell.
"Where are you going?" asked Blanka, in alarm. Jonathan's pale face seemed at that moment to float before her vision, and she feared to part with her husband, lest he should not return.
"I am going to the enemy's camp."
"Alone?"
"No, not alone. I am well attended: Uriel goes before me, Raphael is on my right hand, Gabriel on my left, behind me Michael, and over my head Israel."
"But you are going unarmed."
"No, I am armed with the peace treaty which our foes concluded with me, swearing not to attack Toroczko. That is my weapon, and with it I will win a bloodless victory."
Blanka looked sorrowfully into her husband's face, and in that look was expressed all that her tongue was powerless to utter,--her infinite love for the man and her deep despair at the thought of perhaps never again meeting those eyes so full of love and tenderness for her.
"I tried it once before, you know," he reminded her, "and you know how well I succeeded then. The leader of the Wallachians is an old acquaintance of mine." But this last was true in a sense that the speaker little dreamed--as he was to learn later.
Blanka pressed her husband's hand. "Very well," said she, with a brave effort at cheerful confidence, "do as seems best to you, and Heaven will care for us."
Manasseh could not suppress a sigh as he kissed his wife on the forehead. Anna, who could read her brother's face, knew what that sigh meant.
"You need not be anxious about us, dear brother," she said. "We are under God's protection, and are prepared for the worst. We decided long ago what we should do if we were forced to it. When all is lost that is dearest to us,--our loved ones, our home, our country,--we shall not wait tamely for the enemy to break into the house. Here are two pistols: each of us will take one of them and point it at the other's heart, each will utter the name that is last in her thoughts, and that will be the last word that will ever pass her lips. Now you may go on your errand and need not fear for us."
Manasseh's feelings were too deep for utterance. Without a word he kissed the dear ones before him and then left the house and hastened away. He turned his face toward St. George. He was alone and had not even a stick in his hand.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. To a good pedestrian St. George is only half an hour's walk from Toroczko. On the outskirts of the village Manasseh met scattered bodies of soldiery who surveyed him in much surprise; but, as he was unarmed, they offered him no injury. His calmness of bearing and the cool, collected look with which he met their scrutiny completely disarmed them. Besides, they were busy cutting up slaughtered cattle and cooking their supper in the open fields. As was usual among such irregular troops, no outposts had been set to challenge the approach of strangers.
Manasseh accosted the first man whose face impressed him favourably, and asked for guidance to the commander's quarters. The man willingly gave him his escort. On the way he went so far as to unbosom himself to Manasseh, complaining that, at this busy season of the year, when all ought to be at home, men were forced to make so long a march. After showing the way to the house where the commander was to be found, he received a cigar from Manasseh, and acknowledged himself amply repaid for his trouble.
Manasseh advanced to the door and announced to a group of armed men lounging about it that he wished to see Diurbanu.
"The general is not to be seen just now," was the reply; "he is at dinner, and will not leave the table for some time yet."
Manasseh drew a visiting-card from his pocket, and, first bending down one corner, sent it in to the general. The bearer of it soon returned with the announcement that Diurbanu bade the visitor wait awhile, and meantime he was to be bound and confined in the cellar. Manasseh assented to this peculiar reception. "Many men, many manners," said he to himself. It would have been easy enough for him to leap the railing of the porch and flee to the woods before the others could lay hands on him, but he had not come hither merely to run away again the next moment.
"Very well, go ahead and bind me," said he, good-humouredly, to the guards. But they looked at one another in helpless inquiry who should undertake to manacle this large, strong man. When at length two had volunteered to essay the task, it appeared that there was no rope in readiness. "Go and get one," commanded the prisoner; and when a stout cord had been procured, he went on with his directions: "Now take my pocketbook out; you'll find some loose change in it which you may divide among you. There is also a folded paper in the pocketbook; deliver it to the general and ask him to read it. Then take a cigar out of my waistcoat pocket, light it and stick it in my mouth."
These commands having been duly executed, two of the guards led their prisoner down into the cellar, which appeared to be Diurbanu's antechamber for such visitors as came to him with troublesome petitions. Not satisfied with conducting him to the main or outer cellar, Manasseh's escort opened the iron door leading into an inner compartment, pushed him through it, and closed the portal upon him, after bidding him take a seat and make himself comfortable.
Manasseh found himself in almost total darkness. Only an air-hole over his door admitted a very feeble light from the dimly illumined outer cellar. He began to consider his situation, comforting himself with the reflection that at Monastery Heights he had been treated in much the same fashion, except that there his hands had not been bound. He had been kept in confinement all night, and in the morning his terms of peace had been accepted. This time, too, he hoped for a like issue.
When a cigar is smoked in the dark it lights up the smoker's face at each puff. Suddenly a voice from out of the gloom called, "Manasseh!"
"Who is there?"
"I." It was a gipsy, whose voice Manasseh recognised. "How came you here, Lanyi?" he asked.
"Diurbanu had me locked up--the devil take him!"
"What grudge had he against you?"
"He ordered me to play to him while he sat at dinner," explained the gipsy; "but I told him I wouldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because I won't make music for my country's enemies."
His country, poor fellow! What share had he in that country beyond the right to tramp the public highway, and make himself a mud hut for shelter?
"Then he gave me a cuff," continued the gipsy, "had me shut up here, and promised to hang me. Well, he may break me on the wheel, for aught I care, but I won't play for him even if he smashes my fiddle for refusing."
"Well, don't be down-hearted, my little man," said Manasseh, cheerily.
"I'm not a bit down-hearted," declared the other. "I only thought I'd ask you not to throw away your cigar-stump when you've finished smoking. You can walk, your feet are free; come here when you are through with your cigar, and let it fall into my mouth, so that I can chew it."
"But you'll find it a hot mouthful."
"So much the better."
This cynical gipsy phlegm exactly suited Manasseh's mood, and he exerted himself to cheer the poor fellow up, promising to secure his release as soon as he himself should gain an audience with Diurbanu.
"But you won't get out of here yourself in a hurry," returned the gipsy. "Once in Diurbanu's hands, you might as well be in the hangman's. Already he has put to death seven envoys who came to treat for peace, and they were only St. George peasants. So what will he do to you who are an Adorjan and wear a seal ring? But you've a breathing-spell yet. The others served him as a little relish before dinner; you are to be kept for dessert. One drinks a glass of spirits at a gulp, but black coffee is to be sipped and enjoyed. I know this Diurbanu well, and you'll know him, too, before he's through with you. I'll bet you my fiddle, Manasseh, you won't live to see another day; but it serves you right! You could handle three such men as Diurbanu in a fair fight; yet, instead of meeting him on the battle-field, you walk right into his clutches and let him bind you fast--like Christ on the cross."
"Take not that name in vain, you rogue!" commanded Manasseh, sternly, "or I'll let you feel the weight of my foot."
"Kick me if you wish to," returned the vagrant, imperturbably; "but, all the same, if I had been Christ I wouldn't have chosen a miserable donkey to ride on, but would have sent for the best horse out of Baron Wesselenyi's stud; and as soon as I had the nag between my legs, I would have snapped my fingers at old Pontius Pilate."
The gipsy's eloquence was here interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the outer door of the cellar.
"They're coming!" cried the fiddler; "and I sha'n't get your cigar-stump, Manasseh. They'll take me out first."
Through the hole above the iron door a reddish light could now be seen. Presently the iron door itself was opened, and two men, bearing pitch-pine torches, entered, and then stood one on each side of the door. Diurbanu came last, dressed in the costume of a Wallachian military commander, his face flushed with wine and evil passions, and his long hair falling over his shoulders. Despite his disguise, Manasseh recognised him at once. He saw that the gipsy's words had conveyed no idle warning. The man before him was none other than Benjamin Vajdar. Yet the prisoner lost nothing of his composure, but with head erect and unflinching gaze faced his deadly enemy.
"Well, Manasseh Adorjan," began the other, "you asked to see me, and here I am. Do you know me now?"
"You are called Diurbanu," replied Manasseh, coldly.
"And don't you know another name for me? Don't I remind you of an old acquaintance?"
"To him whom you resemble, I have nothing to say. I have come to you as to Diurbanu, I have placed in your hands the peace-treaty which your people made with my people, and I demand its observance."
"To convince you that I am not merely Diurbanu, but also another, look here." With that he called one of the torch-bearers and held to the flame the paper he had received from Manasseh.
The latter shrugged his shoulders and blew a cloud of cigar-smoke.
"Do you understand now," continued Diurbanu, "that there is one man in the world who has sworn to march against Toroczko, treaty or no treaty, to leave not one stone on another in that town, and not one of its people alive to tell the story of its destruction? My day has come at last--and Toroczko's night." The speaker's features took on at these words an expression more like that of a hyena than of a human being.
"Idle threats!" muttered Manasseh, scornfully, between his teeth.
"Idle threats, are they?" retorted the other, striking the hilt of his sword and raising his head haughtily. "You think, do you, that I am joking, and that I will take pity on you?"
"Oh, as for me, you may do what you please with me--torture me, kill me, if you choose. I am ready. But that will not help you to take Toroczko. All are in arms there and waiting for you. Go ahead with your plan. You'll find many an old acquaintance to receive you there. Our defences are abundantly able to withstand your soldiers, who, you know well enough, are tired of fighting and have no love for storming ramparts. Kill me, if you wish, but there will be only one man the less against you; and all the satisfaction you and your men will get from Toroczko will be broken heads. Not one stone will you disturb in all the town."
"We'll soon make you sing another tune," returned Diurbanu, and he began to roll up his sleeves, like an executioner preparing to torture his victim. "You shall hear our plan. I will be perfectly honest with you. While a part of my forces conduct a feigned assault in the valley, and so engage the attention of your men, my main body will descend on the town from the direction of the Szekler Stone, and will assail it in the rear, where none but women and children are left to receive the attack. What the fate of these women and children is likely to be, you may conjecture from the fact that the assaulting party is led by a woman,--a woman whose heart is full of bitter hatred, a maiden whose father and two brothers have been killed before her eyes, a proud girl whom your brothers have driven from their door with insulting words. This woman is Zenobia, Ciprianu's daughter, once your brother Jonathan's sweetheart, but now betrothed to me--or, at least, she fancies she is. While I keep your armed forces busy, she will knock at the door of your house. At her signal the work of carnage and destruction will begin. Your whole family will fall into her hands."
Manasseh shuddered with horror, and drew a deep breath. His head was no longer proudly erect, his self-confidence was gone. "God's will be done!" he murmured.
"So I've found your tender spot, have I?" cried the other, with an exultant laugh. "Just think what is in store for your wife (but what am I saying? She is not your wife)--your mistress."
At this insult to his adored Blanka, Manasseh's wrath blazed up and mastered him. He spit his burning cigar stump into the speaker's face. It was the utmost he could do. The other swallowed his rage at the indignity and wiped the ashes from his face, which presently broke into a smile--a hideous smile.
"Very good, Manasseh! One more score to charge up against you. I don't attempt to even the account on your unfeeling body, but on your soul, which I know how to torture. For this last insult, as well as for a hundred former injuries, I shall wreak ample revenge on Blanka Zboroy, before your own turn comes."
"Do not count too confidently on that," rejoined Manasseh. "The moment your ruffian crew break into our house, two women will put their pistols to each other's hearts, and your men will find only a couple of dead bodies."
"Ha, ha! To deprive you of even this last consolation, I beg to assure you that the two women will not lay a finger on their pistols, because Zenobia is to gain entrance to them before the men appear. She will come to them in the guise of a friend and deliverer, promising to rescue them for Jonathan's sake. She will furnish them Wallachian peasant clothes, help them about their disguise, and, amidst the general confusion, bring them away with her, alive and unharmed, to St. George, so that you will have the pleasure of seeing Blanka Zboroy in my power. Further details I will leave to your own imagination; and to enable you to pursue these pleasant fancies undisturbed I will now say good night."
"Manasseh!" called a voice from the darkness, when Diurbanu had gone.
"Who calls? Or is it only a rat?" Manasseh had forgotten that his dungeon contained another prisoner beside himself.
"Yes, it's a rat," answered the voice. "I heard my schoolmaster tell a story once about a lion that fell into a snare, and a mouse came and gnawed the ropes so as to set him free. If you will bend down here I'll untie your knots with my teeth."
Manasseh complied. The gipsy had splendid teeth, and he bit and tugged at the knots until the prisoner's hands were free, and he felt himself another man altogether.
"Now pull this stake out from under my knees," directed the fiddler, whose hands were tied together and passed over his bent knees, where they were held fast by a stick of wood. His legs being freed, he slipped the cords from his hands like a pair of gloves. He was no little elated over his achievements. "And now we will sell our lives dear!" he cried, with a glad leap into the air.
The rattle of small arms in the distance began to be heard, and through the little opening over the iron door a ruddy light as from a fire became visible. At first Manasseh thought some one was coming again with a torch; but as the iron door did not open, and the red light grew constantly brighter, he finally guessed the cause of the illumination. Those who were now assaulting Toroczko must have set fire to St. George first, to furnish the people of the former place an example of what they were themselves to expect, and perhaps also to supply a light for the attacking party. The whole village was in flames. So it appeared that Diurbanu's words had conveyed no empty threat. The work of revenge had begun with St. George, and now came Toroczko's turn. That the latter place was offering a spirited resistance could be inferred from the lively firing that was to be plainly heard. But how would it be when the attack in the rear should begin, from the direction of the Szekler Stone? Could Aaron and his forty men offer any effectual opposition to the invaders?
Night must have fallen ere this. Manasseh paced his prison cell in almost unbearable impatience, as he listened to the distant firing, and watched the red glow over the door growing gradually brighter. A heavy booming as of cannon was heard from the Szekler Stone. So the attack in that quarter had begun, and Aaron's battery was at work. Zenobia must be leading the enemy into the town, for surely no means at Aaron's command could repulse the assaulting party.
Manasseh was fast losing all self-control. "I will find a way out of this!" he cried, in a frenzy.
Running to the door, he seized its iron ring and shook the heavy portal in impotent fury. Then he turned back and surveyed his place of confinement with searching eyes. It was now fairly well lighted by the ruddy glare that came through the air-hole. The place had formerly been a wine cellar, but every cask and barrel was now gone. The support on which they had rested, however, remained behind. This was a massive oak beam which had served to keep the wine casks from the damp earthen floor of the cellar.
"Lanyi," commanded Manasseh, in quick, energetic tones, "take hold of one end of this beam, and we will batter the door down."
"I'm your man!" responded the gipsy, with alacrity. He was small of person, but every sinew in his wiry frame was of steel. He grasped the beam behind while Manasseh carried the forward end, and so they converted it into a Roman battering-ram.
The booming of cannon was drowned now by the pounding on the iron door. The two prisoners wondered that no one in the house seemed to hear them. But those who might before have heard were engaged elsewhere, while to those outside the noises in the street drowned all tumult in the cellar.
At length the lock gave way under the tremendous battering to which it was subjected, and soon the door flew open. The outer door was of wood, and yielded readily.
"Hold on, stand back!" cried the gipsy, as Manasseh was about to run up the stairs. "Wait until I take a peep and see if the coast is clear. I'll mayhap find a gun that some one has thrown down."
"But I can't wait," returned the other, brushing him aside. "I need no gun. The first man that dares get in my way shall furnish me with arms. I am going to seek my wife! Let him who values his life run from before me!"
He burst through the door, and sprang up the steps. No sooner was he in the open air than an armed figure confronted him. But Manasseh did not strike down this person, for it was a woman,--Zenobia. A dirk and a brace of pistols were stuck in her belt.
"Take care!" she cried to Manasseh, and she made as if to shield him from view with her cloak. "Stay where you are!"
But Manasseh seized her by the wrist and shouted hoarsely in her ear: "Where are my wife and sister?"
Zenobia understood his tone and the frenzy with which he grasped her arm. With a sad smile she made answer: "Calm yourself. They are well cared for. They are at home in their own house, where no one can harm them."
He looked at her, in doubt as to her meaning. Zenobia handed him her weapons.
"Here, take these," she commanded. "You may need them. I have no further use for them." Thus, disarmed and in Manasseh's power, she stood calmly before him. "Now be quiet and listen to me," she went on.
The cannon thundered on the Szekler Stone in one continuous roar, while fiery rockets shot from Hidas Peak in a wide curve and fell into the valley below, hastening the mad flight of routed and panic-stricken men, who fled as if for their lives to Gyertyamos, Kapolna, and Bedellö, to the woods, and into the mountain defiles. The burning village of St. George no longer offered them an asylum, and its streets were by this time nearly deserted.
"That is over," said the Wallachian girl, calmly, and she led Manasseh into the empty house. "Aaron might as well stop now," she murmured to herself; "for there are no more to frighten." Then to Manasseh: "You know it takes two to get up a scare,--one to do the frightening and the other to be frightened. If I had but said to our men, 'Stop running away! Those are not the brass cannon of the national guard, but only Aaron Adorjan's holes in the side of the rock, where he is harmlessly exploding gunpowder; and that roll of drums that you hear on the Csegez road does not mean an approaching brigade of Hungarians, but is only the idle rub-a-dub of a band of school children,'--if I had said that, Toroczko would now lie in ashes. But I held my tongue and let the panic do its work. With this day's rout all is ended, and in an hour's time you can safely return home. When you meet your wife and sister, tell them you saw me this evening, and let them know that the Wallachian girl has forgotten nothing--do you hear me? --nothing. They wrote me a beautiful letter, both of them on one sheet of paper, a letter full of love and kindness. They called me sister and invited me to your wedding, promising me that Jonathan should be there, too, and making me promise to come. And when they had written the letter they even coaxed the stiff-necked Aaron, who hates us Wallachians like poison, to add his signature to it, though I could see in the very way he wrote his name how he disliked to do it. I promised to come, and I kept my word. And Jonathan came with me--I brought him. That night I told your wife and your sister that I should come to Toroczko once more, and not with empty hands, but should bring them something. I have come, and I bring them--you, Manasseh, alive and unharmed. That is how a Wallachian girl remembers a kindness."
She turned to go, but then, as if remembering something, came back and drew a ring from her finger.
"Here," said she, "I will give you this ring. Do you remember it?"
"It belonged to my sister," answered Manasseh, in a tone of sadness. "I bought it for her to give to her lover as an engagement ring. Soon afterward he deserted her."
"I know it. Her name is engraved inside the ring. The pretty fellow who gave it me told me all about it. He said to me: 'My pearl, my turtledove, my diamond, see here, I place this ring on your finger and swear to be true to you. But I can't marry you as long as that other woman lives who wears my betrothal ring, for our laws forbid it. That woman dwells in the big house at Toroczko. You know her name and know what to do to enable me to marry you.'"
Manasseh trembled with suppressed passion as he listened. The girl handed him the ring and proceeded: "Give her back her ring; it belongs to her. And tell me, did not this man come to you and tell you how a shameless creature in woman's form was to steal into your house, and, under the pretext of rescuing your wife and sister, lead them away to misery and dishonour? Speak, did he not tell you some such story?"
"Yes, he did."
Zenobia laughed in hot anger and scorn. "Well, then," said she, in conclusion, "I have another present for you. The proverb says, 'Little kindnesses strengthen the bonds of friendship.' And this will be the smallest of gifts I could possibly make you. The handsome young man who gave me this ring, and is betrothed to me--or thinks he is--lies somewhere yonder in a ditch. His horse took fright at the tumult, and threw him so that he broke his ankle. His fleeing troops left him lying there; they stumbled over him and ran on; no one offered to help him up. They all hate him, and they see in his fall a punishment from Heaven. The Wallachian fears to lend aid to him that is thought to lie under God's displeasure. The fallen man's horse you will find in the church. Mount it and hasten back to Toroczko. As for the rider, you will do well to hang him to the nearest tree. You have a gipsy here to help you. And now farewell."
She blew a little whistle that hung at her neck, and a lad appeared leading two mountain ponies. Zenobia mounted one, waved a final adieu to Manasseh, and rode away with her attendant toward Bedellö.
"Come, sir," said the gipsy, touching Manasseh's elbow, "let us set about what she told us to do. You go into the church and get Diurbanu's horse while I go and find the rider. You have two pistols and a dagger. What, don't you want them? Then give them to me."
The fiddler was proud to find himself so well armed. He made a belt of the cords he had brought with him from the cellar, and stuck the weapons into it.
"Now we must hurry," he urged, "or the people will be coming back."
While Manasseh made his way to the church, his companion hastened in search of Diurbanu. The little man had sharp eyes and keen wits. He conjectured that the fallen rider, with his broken leg, would avoid the dry harvest-fields, over which the fire was rapidly spreading, and would be found in the moist ditch beside the road. Nor was he wrong in this surmise. He was soon saluted in a voice that he recognised.
"Gipsy, come here!"
"Not so fast," the fiddler replied. "How do I know you won't shoot me?"
"I have nothing to shoot with. I am lying in the water, so that even if I had my pistols the powder would be soaked through."
"But what do you want of me?"
"I wish you to save my life."
"And won't you have me locked up afterward?"
"If you will help me get away from here I'll make you a rich man. You shall have a thousand florins."
"If you had promised me less I should have believed you sooner."
"But I will pay you the money now. Come, take me on your back and carry me away."
"Where to?"
"Into the church yonder."
The gipsy laughed aloud. "First do your swearing out here, then," said he, "for no one may curse God in his house. But what will you do in the church?"
"I will wait while you run to Gyertyamos and hire a carriage for me. You shall have a thousand florins, the driver the same, and for every hour before sunrise that you accomplish your errand you shall receive an extra hundred."
"You won't see the sun rise," muttered the fiddler to himself as he obeyed the other's directions.
The burden proved not too heavy for the little man's back; he could have carried him all the way to Gyertyamos, but the horse must obey his rider, so into the church he went with him.
"There, Manasseh," he cried, in triumph, "there's our man!" And he dropped his burden on the stone floor.
Diurbanu cried out with pain as he fell, then raised himself on one elbow and met Manasseh's gaze.
"Kill me and be done with it," he muttered, in sullen despair.
But Manasseh remained standing with folded arms before him. "No, Benjamin Vajdar," said he, "you shall not die by my hand. He who kills Cain is seven times cursed. My promise to an angel whom you would have destroyed is your safeguard. I shall neither kill you myself nor let any one else lay hands on you. You are to live many days yet and continue in the way you have begun, obeying the sinful impulses of your wicked nature, and doing evil to those that have done nothing but good to you. You weigh upon our house like a curse, but it is God's will thus to prove and try our hearts. Fulfil your destiny, plot your wicked scheme's against us, and then at last, broken, humbled, scorned of all the world beside, come back to us and sue for pity at the door of those to whom you have shown no pity. God's will be done!"
Manasseh allowed himself to use no reproach, no word of withering scorn, in thus addressing his enemy. He even spoke in German, to spare the fallen man's shame in the gipsy's presence. He had the horse in readiness for its master, and bade the fiddler help him lift the injured rider into the saddle and tie him there with ropes to ensure him against a second fall, especially as one foot was now unfit for the stirrup.
"Aha!" cried the little gipsy, "a good idea! We'll take him alive and show him off in Toroczko."
The fires in the village made the spirited horse restive and hard to manage. Manasseh took him by the bridle and led him out of the church, the gipsy following at the animal's heels.
"Turn to the right and begone!" whispered Manasseh to the rider, and he caused the horse to make a sudden spring to one side.
"Oh, he's got away!" cried the gipsy, in great chagrin. "Why didn't you let me take the bridle? Catch me bringing you another thousand-florin prize, to be thrown away like that!"
"Never mind, my lad. From this day on you shall find a full trencher always ready for you at our house. But now let us start for home."
* * * * * Six weeks later Benjamin Vajdar made his reappearance in Vienna, the net result of his expedition to Transylvania being, first, a heavy draft on the bank-account of his chief, and, second, a limping gait for himself, which proved a sad affliction to him on the dancing-floor.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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24
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A CRUEL PARTING.
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At the close of the war the young men of Toroczko who had served in the national guard returned home and resumed their work in the mines and iron foundries. The mining classes had always been exempt from military service in the imperial army, and so the Toroczko young men had no fear of being soon called away again from their peaceful industry.
Out of these young artisans Manasseh set about forming a guild for the better working of the Toroczko mines. He wished to make intelligent and skilful mining engineers of them, and so enable them to avail themselves, more fully than they had yet done, of the mineral resources of their native hills. And having now had some experience of military discipline, these young men offered him material of no mean order for his experiment. They seconded his efforts with a will, reposing the utmost confidence in their leader, and perceiving that he knew thoroughly what he was undertaking.
It was a great piece of good fortune for Manasseh that he had a partner in his enterprise who was in fullest sympathy with him, and in whom he could place the utmost trust. This partner kept the accounts of the business in which the two had invested their all, and showed the keenest intelligence and the most watchful vigilance in guarding their joint interests. This expert accountant and able manager was none other than Manasseh's wife. In the third year of her marriage, however, she had something else to engage her attention beside iron-mining: in that year the house of Adorjan was increased by the birth of twins,--Bela and Ilonka, the former a likeness in miniature of his father, and the latter a second Blanka. But their aunt Anna insisted on sharing the mother's cares, and soon she assumed almost entire charge of the little ones, thus enabling Blanka to resume her business duties.
In this way everything was running smoothly, when one evening there came a government order requiring all men between certain ages to report within three days at Karlsburg for military service; any who refused would be treated as deserters. Three quarters of Manasseh's workmen came under the terms of this order; but they promptly obeyed and went to Karlsburg, where, after being found physically qualified, they were enrolled for six years' service,--three extra years being added to the usual term because they had neglected to report voluntarily.
This was a hard blow to Manasseh's enterprise. He resolved to go to Vienna and petition for the exemption of his employees from military duty, claiming for them the miners' privileges which they had enjoyed hitherto.
Well acquainted though he had been in government circles in the past, Manasseh now found everything changed and scarcely a familiar face left. Like the veriest stranger, he was forced to wait with the crowd of other petitioners in the war minister's anteroom until his turn should come. Much to his surprise, however, the great man's door suddenly opened and Prince Cagliari advanced to meet him with a face all smiles and words of honey on his lips.
"Ah, my dear friend, how glad I am to see you!" began the prince. "All well at home? That's good. And what brings you hither, may I ask? You come on behalf of your countrymen who were recently drafted? Ah, yes." (Then in a whispered aside: "We'll soon arrange that; a word from me will suffice.") Again aloud: "A very difficult matter, sir, very difficult indeed! These recent complications in the Orient compel us to raise our army to its highest effective strength." (Once more in a whisper, with a stealthy pressure of the hand: "Pray give yourself not the slightest concern. I'll speak to his Excellency about it this very minute.")
Manasseh was by no means pleased at finding himself placed under obligations to Prince Cagliari, but he could not well refuse such a gracious offer of assistance. Accordingly, when the prince returned and smilingly informed him that he had put the petition in the minister's hands, and obtained a promise that it should be speedily taken under favourable consideration, Manasseh forced himself to smile in return and to express his acknowledgments to his intercessor as he took leave of him.
The petition was, in fact, taken under early advisement, and three days after Manasseh's return to Toroczko he was summoned to Karlsburg to learn the issue.
"Your memorial has reached us from Vienna with a refusal," was the chilling announcement that greeted him.
"Impossible!" cried Manasseh, in astonishment. "I was promised a favourable answer."
The government official only shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
"On what ground is the petition rejected?" asked Manasseh.
"On the ground that those for whom you petition forfeited their privileges as miners by taking up arms in '48. Having taken them up once, they cannot refuse to do so a second time."
Manasseh's bitter reflections were somewhat sweetened by the thought that, after all, he was not in any way indebted to Prince Cagliari. But he owed him more than he suspected. As he was turning to go, the government official detained him a moment longer.
"I hope," said he, as if by way of a casual remark, "that your own exemption from service is a matter of no uncertainty."
"My own exemption!" repeated Manasseh, in amazement. It had not once occurred to him that he, a former government councillor, might be drafted into the army. But he controlled his indignation at what seemed an ill-timed jest, and added, calmly: "At any rate, I cannot be charged with having forfeited my rights as a miner by taking up arms in 1848."
"That remains to be seen," was the cool reply. Then, after some search among his papers, the official produced a document from which he read as follows: "'Mr. Manasseh Adorjan is alleged, on unquestionable authority, to have participated in the fight at St. George and Toroczko. In fact, he with his own hands took General Diurbanu prisoner and bound him with a rope to his horse. Only the animal's impatience of control saved the rider and secured him his freedom.'"
After listening to this astounding accusation against him, Manasseh recognised that he was far more deeply in Cagliari's debt than he had supposed.
* * * * * "I have accomplished my mission in brilliant style," was his report when he reached home. "Not only my workmen are drafted, but I also along with them."
The women were struck with consternation, but Aaron burst out laughing.
"Oh, you poor innocent!" he cried, "how can you be a soldier with one shoulder six inches higher than the other?"
"What, am I really so misshapen as that?" asked Manasseh, in surprise.
"To be sure, or at least you can make yourself so for the nonce. Don't you remember how our neighbour Methuselah's grandson went limping about with one leg longer than the other, when the recruiting officer was here?"
"Methuselah's grandson may do that kind of thing," answered Manasseh, "but not an Adorjan. I can't practise any deceit of that sort."
"Deceit!" cried Aaron; "we are deceiving no one--only the government."
"And is the government no one?" asked his brother.
"Well, it's all right to outwit the Austrians," muttered Aaron.
"I don't agree with you," was all Manasseh could say. "If I am ordered to march I shall obey. My poor lads are obliged to exchange the pick for the rifle, and shall I, their master, shirk my duty?"
"Manasseh is right," declared Anna. "What will do for a grandson of Methuselah will not do for an Adorjan. When an Adorjan's name is called he must answer to it like a man. Our brother will be the pride of his regiment, and will soon rise to be an officer; then he can obtain his discharge and come home."
Manasseh pressed his sister's hand in gratitude for these words of courage and good cheer.
"Yes, but suppose he has to go to war?" objected Blanka.
"Never fear," returned her husband. "Even if Austria becomes involved in the present dispute, the Hungarian regiments are not likely to be sent to the front. They will be stationed in Lombardy, where all is as quiet as possible."
"Then I will go with you," said Blanka, brightening up.
"No, you must stay with us," Anna interposed. "You and the children are best cared for here, and, besides, if Manasseh goes away you will have to look after the iron works. New hands are to be engaged, and ever so much is to be done all over again. How can you think of leaving us in the lurch? There will be no one but you to manage things; you alone can direct the works and put bread into our poor people's mouths."
"Ah, me!" sighed the distressed wife; "and must I live perhaps a whole year without seeing Manasseh--a whole autumn, winter, spring, and summer?"
Anna's eyes filled with tears and a sigh escaped her lips. How many a season had she seen pass, without hope and without complaint! Blanka knew the meaning of those tears, and she hastened to kiss them away.
And so it came about that the Toroczko young men, and Manasseh with them, were sent off to Lombardy. Thence every month came a letter to Toroczko, to Blanka Adorjan, from her devoted husband. The very first one told her how he had risen from private to corporal and then from corporal to sergeant. But there he stuck. On parting with his wife, he had consoled her with the confident assurance that in a year, at most, she would see him return; but the year lengthened into five. Little Bela no longer sent meaningless scrawls to his father, but wrote short letters in a round, clear hand, and even added verses on his father's birthday. But not a single furlough could that father obtain to go home and see his dear ones. Nor did he gain his long-expected promotion to a lieutenancy. The colonel of the regiment wrote letters with his own hand to Blanka, praising her husband and telling her how he was looked up to by all his comrades and esteemed by his officers; and yet he could not secure his promotion. Even the commandant at Verona had interceded for him in vain. He must have a powerful enemy who pursued him with relentless persistence.
Blanka well knew who that enemy was, but she took no steps--for she felt that they would have been useless--to try to soften him. Her family were united in opposing any suggestion on her part of undertaking a journey. She did not even venture to visit her husband in Verona. An instinct, a foreboding, and also certain timely warnings, kept her safe at home.
This long period of trial and suspense was not without its chastening effect on the young wife's character. It developed her as only stern experience can. On her shoulders alone rested the cares which her husband had formerly shared with her. The iron works were now under her sole management. Foresight, vigilance, and technical knowledge were called for, and nobly did she meet the demand.
Those five years brought her many a difficult problem to solve and many an anxious hour. Once a hail-storm destroyed all her crops two days before the harvest, and she was forced to buy grain from her own purse. Again it happened that the crop of iron itself was ruined by something far worse than hail. Some one at Vienna dealt a mortal blow to all the iron mines in the land with a single drop of ink. He lowered the tariff, and native iron production thenceforth could go on only at a loss. But Blanka was determined not to close her mines and her foundries. She recognised the hand that had dealt her this severe blow, but she knew the harsh decree would have to be repealed before long, such an outcry was sure to go up against it. So she pawned her jewels, kept all her men at work,--they seconded her efforts nobly by volunteering to take less than full pay,--and wrote nothing at all about her troubles to Manasseh.
|
{
"id": "20892"
}
|
25
|
SECRETS OF THE COMMISSARIAT.
|
The mysterious workings of the commissary department are beyond the understanding of ordinary mortals. Therefore let it suffice us to take only a passing glance at those mysteries.
Benjamin Vajdar was enjoying a tête-à-tête with the Marchioness Caldariva after the theatre.
"Well, what has my cripple to report of his day's doings?" asked Rozina. "Is all going well in Italy?"
"We signed a contract to-day for supplying our army there with forty thousand cattle," was Vajdar's reply.
"Ah, that will make about two hundredweight of beef to a man," returned the other, reckoning on her fingers.
"Not an ounce of which will ever reach them," said the secretary, with a smile; "but we shall make a couple of millions out of the transaction,--a mere bagatelle for Papa Cagliari, however; not enough to keep him in champagne."
"A very clever stroke of yours," commented the marchioness, with approval; "and I can tell you of another little operation the prince has in hand just now. Bring me the morocco pocketbook out of my writing-desk, please."
Vajdar limped across the room and brought the pocketbook. Rozina opened it and drew forth an official-looking document.
"Here is a contract for so and so many bushels of grain to be furnished to the army. You see it foots up a large sum, but the profits won't be so very great, after all, owing to the recent rise in prices on the corn exchange."
"Oh, don't worry about that," interposed Benjamin, with a knowing smile. "Who will ever know the difference if a quarter part of the total weight is chaff and clay? It will all grind up into excellent flour, and when the soldier eats his barley bread or his rye loaf it will taste all the better to him. There is nearly half a million florins' clear profit in the transaction, at a moderate estimate."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the beautiful Cyrene. "So the soldiers must eat half a million florins' worth of chaff and clay to enable Papa Cagliari to take his morning bath in champagne."
"Well, what of that? It makes, at most, only two florins' worth to a man, and the soldier who loves his country ought to be glad to eat two florins' worth of her soil. Has the prince any other contract under consideration?"
"Yes, a very important one. He has procured an order that the troops in Italy shall wear for their summer uniform cotton blouses instead of linen, and he has the contract for furnishing the material."
"But the prices named here are very low," objected Vajdar, reading from the paper Rozina had handed him.
"Ah, but let me explain. The cotton is to be thirty inches wide, with so and so many threads to the warp--according to the specifications. But what soldier will ever think of counting the threads in his blouse, or know whether it was cut from goods thirty inches wide or twenty-eight? So, you see, with a little trimming here and a little paring there we can make a good hundred thousand florins out of the job."
"But are our tracks well covered? Is there no risk in all this?"
"Fear nothing. There are eyeglasses that blind the sharpest of eyes."
"How if there are some eyes that will not be fitted with these glasses?"
"Again I say, never fear. A victorious campaign covers a multitude of sins."
"And a lost one brings everything to light."
"Not at all. A slaughtered army tells no tales. But, by the way, is not our Toroczko friend among those who are likely enough to fall some day before the French and Italians?"
"He is still in Lombardy," said Vajdar, with a significant nod of the head. "We have our eyes on him."
"I am curious to know what this apostle of peace will do when he is ordered into battle. You know, he and his comrades are Unitarians and entertain scruples against shedding blood, except in defence of home and country. Will Manasseh Adorjan fight when he is ordered to, or throw down his arms?"
"In either case, he will die," declared Benjamin Vajdar.
"I should prefer to have him only wounded," said the marchioness. "Then his mate would leave her nest in the mountains and hasten to nurse him in the hospital; and contagious diseases are not uncommon in military hospitals, where both patients and nurses are often swept off by them--so quickly, too, that no one thinks of inquiring very closely into the matter."
"You are impatient, marchioness," commented the secretary.
"And you choose to remark upon it because I would have the prince a widower and a free man?"
With that the fair Cyrene nestled close at her fellow-conspirator's side, and proceeded to caress him and to murmur soft words in his ear.
And so the night sped, and the first peep of dawn overtook the two before they separated.
|
{
"id": "20892"
}
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26
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SOLFERINO.
|
One of the most momentous battles in history was in progress, and the battalion in which Manasseh Adorjan still served as a sergeant stood from early morning until afternoon among the reserves, watching the fight.
Leaning on his gun, Manasseh thoughtfully observed the transformation of that earthly paradise into a scene of slaughter. He thought how, in times of peace, the cry of a single human being in distress would call ready succour and excite the warmest sympathy; but now, when men were dying by thousands, their fellows looked on in the coldest indifference. He asked himself whether this fearful state of things, this deplorable sacrifice of a country's best and bravest sons, was a necessity, and must still go on for ages to come. And while he thus communed with himself he, too, held in his hands a weapon calculated to carry not only death to a valiant foe, but also sorrow and anguish to that foeman's wife and mother, and perhaps destitution to his family.
To the north of the fortress of Solferino rose a wooded height, since known to the historians of that battle as Cypress Hill, and distinguished as the point around which the conflict raged most fiercely. Occupied alternately by each side, the opposing batteries stormed it in succession, and the squadrons, now of one army, now of the other, marched up to assault it. But though they marched up, Manasseh saw none of them return. Austrians, French, and Italians, all seemed to be swallowed up alike in that maelstrom of blood and fire.
At four o'clock in the afternoon the battle was at its height. In the heat of the conflict one could see uniforms of all three armies mingled in inextricable confusion. The Austrian forces were at last becoming exhausted with toil and hunger. Whole regiments were there that had not tasted meat for a week--where were those forty thousand cattle? --and the bread dealt out to them was ill-baked, mouldy, gritty, and altogether unfit to eat.
A final and concentrated effort was determined upon. Reserves to the front! Cypress Hill was to be stormed once more. A battalion of yagers, the pride of the Austrian army, charged up the fatal hill and succeeded in taking it, after which the rattle of musketry beyond announced that the fight was being continued on the farther side.
At this point Manasseh's battalion was ordered to hold the hill while the yagers were pushed farther forward. The order was obeyed, and then Manasseh learned what the cypress-crowned height really was: it was a cemetery, the burial-ground of the surrounding district, and each cypress marked a grave. But the dead under the sod lay not more closely packed than the fallen soldiers with whose bodies the place was covered. Cypress Hill was a double graveyard, heaped with dead and dying Frenchmen, Italians, Austrians, Hungarians, Poles, and Croatians, their bodies disfigured and bleeding and heaped in chaotic confusion over the mounds beneath which slept the regular occupants of the place.
In the soldier's march to glory each step is a human corpse. Manasseh took care to step over and between the prostrate forms before him. Gaining the summit of the hill, he had an open view of the prospect beyond. A large farm, since known to history as the _Madonna della Scoperta_, lay before him. A high terrace facing the hill had been converted by the enemy into a fortress, which commanded the cemetery, and which the yagers were now pressing forward to take. The charge was gallantly led, but after a fierce struggle, in which the assailants exhausted their ammunition, and the engagement became a hand-to-hand fight, the Austrians were driven back in confusion.
Manasseh's battalion was then commanded to charge the terrace, from which the enemy's battery was dealing such deadly destruction, and to capture and hold the _Madonna della Scoperta_. The major gave the necessary orders, but it was to Manasseh that every eye was turned at this critical moment. Had he but shaken his head the whole battalion would have stood still and refused to advance a step. If he said the word, however, his comrades would follow him, and attempt the impossible.
Manasseh looked up at the clouded heavens above, and breathed a sigh. The hour had come when he must bow before the iron will of destiny. He, the apostle of peace, must plunge into the midst of bloody strife. "Thy will be done!" he murmured, then advanced to the front of the battalion, and turned to address his comrades.
"Forward!"
They obeyed him with alacrity, singing as they advanced, "A mighty fortress is our God," and so began the assault.
Not a shot was fired as they pushed forward at double-quick in the face of a murderous artillery discharge from the terrace above. Gaining the foot of the scarp, they planted their bayonets in the earthern wall, and so mounted the rampart, those behind helping up those in front. As they sang the last stanza of their hymn, the _Madonna della Scoperta_ was taken--without the firing of a single shot. The major of the battalion was beside himself with pride and exultation. He embraced Manasseh, and kissed him on both cheeks.
"To-morrow will see you an officer with a medal of honour on your breast," was his confident prediction.
Manasseh smiled sadly. He knew better than the other what to expect.
Meanwhile the enemy had not given up the fight. The terrace, they perceived, must be retaken, and a detachment of French troops was advancing to storm it.
"Let them come on!" cried the major, confidently. "We can handle them, ten to one. Give them a volley, my lads!"
But this time Manasseh shook his head, whereupon the whole battalion grounded arms.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the major, astounded.
Manasseh raised his hand to heaven. " _Egy az Isten! _" he cried, and all his comrades followed his example.
"What do you say?" asked the bewildered officer.
"We swear by the God who has said 'Thou shalt not kill!'" was Manasseh's reply.
"But you are soldiers, and on the battle-field."
"We do our duty, we go whither we are ordered, and we can die if we must; but we will not take human life except in defence of our homes and our fatherland."
"But, man, the enemy will kill you."
"So be it."
The commander threatened, begged, wept--all in vain. The only reply was, "_Egy az Isten! _" The men were willing to discharge their pieces if necessary, but it would only be a waste of ammunition: they would fire into the air.
Troops were now rapidly moving on the threatened position from two directions, one party to assault, the other to defend. Fearful slaughter seemed imminent, and nothing was left for those who had so gallantly carried the terrace but to die where they stood. Suddenly, however, a third power took a hand in the fray, and smote both assailants and defenders with equal fury. The black clouds that had been gathering over the battle-field opened and began such a cannonade as neither side could withstand. Wind, hail, lightning, and thunder, accompanied by an ominous darkness in which friend was indistinguishable from foe, played such havoc with the puny combatants and their mimic artillery, that all were forced to seek shelter and safety from the angry elements. Thus neither side was left in possession of the field, but a third and a mightier power than either claimed the victory in that day's fight.
Manasseh and his comrades fled with the rest before the fury of the storm. They succeeded in gaining a sheltered position where they found campfires burning, and thought themselves among friends. But they were mistaken. They had stumbled in the darkness upon the enemy's camp.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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27
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AN HOUR OF TRIAL.
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Manasseh and those with him were taken prisoners and sent to Bresci. What befell them there is matter of history. Adorjan was surprised one morning by the receipt of the following: a coffee-coloured uniform, trimmed with red cord and its collar adorned with gold lace; a handsome sword in a gold-mounted scabbard; and an official document from the Italian war office, appointing him major of the battalion with which he had been taken prisoner.
The sight of these most unexpected presents could not but thrill Manasseh with pride and exultation. Now at last it was in his power to wreak vengeance on those who had so grievously wronged him,--to cut his way, sword in hand, back to his downtrodden fatherland, perhaps even to exact a rich retribution at the oppressor's hands, and to restore his country once more to a position of proud independence. Added to all this, the seductive picture of future fame, of undying renown as a patriot and liberator, rose before his vision. Already, as hero of the _Madonna della Scoperta_, he had tasted the intoxication of martial glory. A strength and self-denial more than human seemed necessary if he would turn his back coldly on the splendid prospect that opened before him as his country's avenger and deliverer. What words can do justice to the conflicting emotions which Manasseh experienced in that hour of trial? His comrades in arms and many of his dearest friends, he felt convinced, would turn upon him with mockery and reviling if he should now still cling to his principles and refuse to disobey the commandment of his God,--"Thou shalt not kill."
In Italy every house has its image of the crucified Saviour. Manasseh stood now before one of these crucifixes, lost in troubled thought. To Jesus, too, the people had cried: "Be our general, lead us against the Romans, free your nation!" And he had answered them: "I will lead you to a heavenly kingdom, and will free all mankind." Then he was heaped with scorn and abuse, was scourged by the Roman lictors, and was finally dragged before Pontius Pilate and crucified. But not the scourging, not the crown of thorns, or the cruel nails, or the spear of Longinus,--none of these was the really hard thing to bear. A man may suffer the severest physical torture and still utter no cry. The cruelest of all was the scornful laughter of those to whom he had brought salvation and eternal life, the blame of his fellow-citizens for whom he so freely shed his life's blood. That was what only a man of divine nobility and courage could endure.
"I am but mortal!" cried the tempted man, in anguish. "I cannot attain unto such heights." And he buckled on his gold-mounted sword.
The crucified form, however, seemed to turn its eyes upon him in mild reproof and gentle encouragement. "I will lend you my aid," it seemed to say to him.
But Manasseh hastened from the room and turned his steps toward the commandant's quarters. Perturbed in mind and hardly master of himself, he started at the rattle of his own sword; and when some of his comrades saw him pass and cheered him with loud hurrahs, he hurried by and barely returned their salute.
The general received him in his breakfast-room, where he was engaged with his morning mail. Acknowledging Manasseh's greeting, he handed him an open letter. The Hungarian took it and read as follows: "Villafranca. Peace has been concluded. The Hungarian battalion is to be disbanded, and its members allowed to return home."
This room, too, had its crucifix. It seemed to look down on Manasseh with the same gentle reproof, and to say, "Have I failed you in your hour of trial?"
With the first ripening of the fruit in the Toroczko orchards, Manasseh and his comrades were at home. Blanka came to meet her husband as far as Kolozsvar, bringing her little daughter Ilonka with her. Bela could not come, as he had just then a school examination. At the Borev bridge a splendid reception awaited the home-comers. A handsome little lad headed the receiving party, waving a flag.
"Who is that pretty boy?" Manasseh asked his wife.
She laughed merrily, and rebuked him for not knowing his own son. But he had not seen the child for six years.
His brother Aaron, too, he hardly recognised, so gray had his hair turned under the anxieties of the past few years. The speech of welcome which the elder brother was to have delivered proved a total failure, owing to the emotion aroused in the orator's breast at sight of the returned wanderer. But the most affecting part of it all to Manasseh was the appearance of his sister Anna. The poor girl, he could not fail to see, was sinking into an early grave.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
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28
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A DAY OF RECKONING.
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Victory had neither glossed over nor defeat buried from sight those dishonest army contracts. Louder and louder grew the murmurs against the fraud that had contributed so disastrously to the unhappy issue of the war, until at last a high military officer opened his mouth and declared, emphatically, "The parties responsible for such an outrage deserve to be hanged!"
Soon after this bold utterance a decree went forth for an investigation of the scandal and the condign punishment of the guilty ones. Confusion and panic followed in more than one family of exalted station. A nobleman of proud lineage burnt all his papers and then opened the veins of his wrists with a penknife, and so escaped the ignominy of a trial in court. Another submitted to arrest, but no sooner saw his prison door closed upon him than he despatched himself by piercing his heart with a breast-pin. Two others vanished completely from sight and hearing the very day the edict was published, and never showed themselves afterward.
Benjamin Vajdar, black with guilt as he knew himself to be, chose the shrewder course of remaining in Vienna and calmly going about his business, with all the outward confidence of spotless innocence. Suspicion is much like a watch-dog; it leaps upon the man who quails. Prince Cagliari and the Marchioness Caldariva also remained quietly in the city, and even went so far as to forego their wonted sojourn at the seashore when summer came. They seemed to have acquired a sudden extraordinary fondness for the Austrian capital.
But one day the expected happened to Benjamin Vajdar. He was called to the police bureau. The official who received him was an old friend of his who now gave signal proof of his friendliness.
"Benjamin Vajdar," said he, "you are ordered by the government to leave Vienna within twenty-four hours and go back to your native town, beyond which you are forbidden to stir."
This mandate was a surprise to Vajdar, who had expected to be arrested and tried, and had made his preparations accordingly. However, there was nothing to do but submit to the inevitable. Further particulars or explanations were denied him, except that he would find a special police officer placed at his service from that moment until he reached his destination,--which was a polite intimation that he was thenceforth under government surveillance, and that any attempt at flight would be frustrated.
He returned at once to his house, which adjoined that of the Marchioness Caldariva. Indeed, from his bedroom a secret passage, already referred to, led into Rozina's boudoir; but the clock-door had seldom opened to the secretary of late. Toward seven o'clock in the evening he saw a closed carriage drive away from the next door.
"She is going to the opera," said he to himself as he watched the vehicle turn a corner and disappear. He donned hat and coat and sauntered after it, the emissary of the police always ten steps in the rear. Arrived at the opera-house, he purchased tickets for himself and his faithful attendant, and then made his way to the box of the marchioness.
Rozina received him with apparent cordiality and listened to his whispered account of what had befallen him.
"Have you talked this over with Prince Cagliari?" she asked.
"No, and I shall not," replied Vajdar, with significant emphasis. "This is his doing."
"What makes you think so, pray?" asked the marchioness, with an air of surprise. "Why should he plot the ruin of his own secretary and confidant?"
"You yourself are the cause," was the retort.
The beautiful woman bent her head still nearer to him. Even her cruel heart felt the compliment conveyed in this acknowledgment of her power. "And what do you wish of me, my poor boy?" she murmured softly in his ear.
"I wish an interview with you after the opera--a strictly confidential interview."
"Very well. Come to me as soon as I get home, and I will admit you."
"No; you shall not turn me away so easily, with an empty promise."
"What, must I swear to you, then?"
"No, give me the little key, and I shall be sure of gaining admittance."
"I am almost afraid to trust you with it," objected the marchioness, with an arch look; "but still you shall have it--there! And now guard it well, and be discreet."
Vajdar kissed the hand extended to him and retired. The fair Cyrene turned again toward the stage and joined in the applause. One might have thought she was applauding the prima-donna; but no, she was applauding herself.
Benjamin Vajdar returned home, left the police officer quartered in his antechamber, and, with his servant's aid, began packing his trunks. After that task was accomplished he waited impatiently for the close of the opera and Rozina's return. When his watch told him that he must have waited long enough, he passed noiselessly through the secret passage and opened the mysterious door in the tall clock at its farther end. The marchioness was not there. One hour, two hours, he waited in her boudoir, and still she failed to appear.
"Very well; so be it," said Vajdar to himself. "You thought to outwit me; we shall see which will outwit the other."
With that he opened the little writing-desk and took out the morocco-bound pocketbook which he seemed to know so well where to find. A single glance at its contents satisfied him that the papers he desired were still there. He quickly pocketed his prize and then paused to look around for the last time at the dainty appointments of the luxurious apartment.
"Adieu, beautiful Cyrene, adieu, for ever!" he murmured, a smile of irony on his lips.
Stealthily he had come, stealthily he withdrew. He did not take the trouble to close the writing-desk, but he was careful to leave the little key sticking in the clock door, where its rightful owner would be sure to see it.
He found the police officer still awake and waiting for him. A cab was quickly summoned, and the two started on their journey to Transylvania.
When the Marchioness Caldariva entered her boudoir a little later, her eyes fell at once on her open writing-desk, and she perceived that the morocco pocketbook was gone. She laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh to hear.
"Very good," said she, half aloud; "you would have it so, and I am not to blame."
* * * * * Anna Adorjan hovered on the brink of the grave. She had heard that Benjamin Vajdar was charged with a penal offence, and she felt only too well convinced that if such a charge had been brought against him he must be guilty. If guilty, he would be sentenced to a term of imprisonment, and she would never see him return to his old home as she had once so confidently expected. She had nothing now to live for. Her dear brother Manasseh was restored to his family, and she was ready to die.
"Brother," she gently entreated, as she lay on her bed of pain, "if he should by any chance ever come back to us, promise me to treat him as you would if I were still here. You will promise me that, won't you?"
A silent nod of Manasseh's bowed head was her sufficient assurance that her slightest wish would be respected.
"And even though he may never come back, I wish you to make my resting-place in the rocks large enough for two. Perhaps he will return sometime, when he sees his life drawing to a close, and he may be glad to find a place ready for him by my side. You will do as I wish in this matter, brother Manasseh, will you not?"
Another nod of the bowed head.
* * * * * The prediction uttered by Manasseh, when his enemy lay in his power in the desolate church at St. George, was completely fulfilled. Though he would have infinitely preferred banishment to Siberia, Benjamin Vajdar was forced to return to Toroczko, to the very house where he had been reared, and there take up his abode as a state prisoner. The government made him a pitiful allowance of three hundred florins a year, to keep him from starving.
Thus it was, too, that Anna's words came true, and the man despised and rejected of all the world sought refuge in the house where he had been tenderly nurtured as a child. Thus did he return, vanquished in life's battle, to have his wounds bound by the hands of those he had so grievously wronged, and to beg a place in that family circle into which he had done his utmost to bring sorrow and despair.
Manasseh met the police officer at the door, and heard his announcement with perfect composure.
"We have no objection to raise," said he, "against the decree of the government. Benjamin Vajdar was formerly a member of our family, and so we must provide for him. The state allowance of twenty-five florins a month we beg leave to refuse. In our iron works there is a bookkeeper's position open to this man, and we shall ask him to assume its duties. Indeed, we shall ourselves probably be the gainers by this arrangement, as the keeping of our books has become too heavy a burden for my wife, and she will be glad to be relieved. But enough of this at present; to-morrow we will discuss the matter more at length. Meanwhile Mr. Vajdar is welcome to our house."
Benjamin Vajdar's emotions can better be imagined than described. To find himself called upon to lighten Blanka Zboroy's duties and to live in constant sight of her happy home life, after all he had done in the vain attempt to spoil that life, was more than he had counted on. He bit his compressed lips till the blood ran. Opening the door of the chamber into which he had been ushered, he hurried out to seek the freedom of the open air and to set his confused thoughts in order. On his way his attention was caught by an unexpected sight. Through an open door he had a full view of a bier, on which rested a coffin, and in the latter, with hands folded on her bosom, lay the woman he had most cruelly wronged. In those clasped hands he saw a little picture wreathed in evergreen,--his own likeness, which the dead girl had begged her family to bury with her. Now, if never before, the unhappy man saw what a wealth of love he had cast aside, a love that, even in death caused by his base desertion, could forgive him his perfidy and carry his picture in a fond embrace down to the grave. As his guardian angel, she would bear it with her up to God's throne, and there plead his cause. Overcome at last by a flood of anguish and remorse, the guilty man cried aloud in his despair and fell prostrate beside the coffin, striking his head on its corner as he sank unconscious to the floor.
Manasseh found him there and bore him back to his room. After putting him to bed and ministering to his wants, he went out with Aaron to prepare Anna's grave.
"We must make it wide enough for two," said he; "it was her wish."
When, after several hours of hard work, the two brothers returned home, Manasseh went at once to his guest's room. Before his marriage this chamber had been occupied by him, and he still used it occasionally for writing. In his absence Vajdar had risen and seated himself at the desk. Searching the drawer for writing-materials, he had come upon a sheet of paper yellow with age, and written upon in ink now much faded. The document proved to be a promissory note, but the signature was so heavily scored through and through as to be hardly legible. Benjamin Vajdar started violently as he took up the faded sheet and saw that the man whom he had so feared and hated had, by his own voluntary act, disarmed himself and put it out of his power to punish the fraud practised upon him by his false friend. As if distrusting his own constancy and the binding force of his promise to his sister, Manasseh had, with a few strokes of his pen, rendered harmless what could otherwise have been used as incriminating evidence against the forger.
On entering the room, Manasseh detected a peculiar odour in the air. Benjamin Vajdar sat at the writing-desk, a morocco pocketbook open before him. A half-finished letter lay under the writer's hand, but his pen had ceased to move. His eyes met those of his host with a dull stare.
"Don't come near me!" he cried, in warning. "Death is in this room!"
But Manasseh hurried to the window, threw it open, and then, snatching up the pocketbook and the papers scattered over the desk, cast them all into the fire that was burning on the hearth. Thus all the tell-tale documents relating to certain fraudulent army contracts went up in smoke, but not before they had done their deadly work on one, at least, of the guilty men involved. Those papers had passed through the hands of a second Lucretia Borgia, and not without reason had she applauded herself that night at the opera when she permitted her dupe to extort from her the little key which she wore in her bosom.
* * * * * Many years of untroubled peace and happiness for the Adorjan family followed these events. The children and grandchildren born to Manasseh and Blanka grew up to call them blessed, the labours of the Toroczko miners and iron-workers were prospered, and Heaven still smiles on the humble homes of that happy valley.
THE END.
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{
"id": "20892"
}
|
1
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THE AVENGER.
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"Bill! _Wild Bill! _ Is this you, or your ghost? What, in great Creation's name, are you doing here?"
"Gettin' toward sunset, old pard--gettin' toward sunset, before I pass in my checks!"
The first speaker was an old scout and plainsman, Sam Chichester by name, and he spoke to a passenger who had just left the west-ward-bound express train at Laramie, on the U.P.R.R.
That passenger was none other than J. B. Hickok, or "Wild Bill," one of the most noted shots, and certainly the most desperate man of his age and day west of the Mississippi River.
"What do you mean, Bill, when you talk of passing in your checks? You're in the very prime of life, man, and---" "Hush! Talk low! There are listening ears everywhere, Sam! I don't know why, but there is a chill at my heart, and I know my time has about run out. I've been on East with Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack, trying to show people what our plains life is. But I wasn't at home there. There were crowds on crowds that came to see us, and I couldn't stir on the streets of their big cities without having an army at my heels, and I got sick of it. But that wasn't all. There was a woman that fell in love with me, and made up her mind to marry me. I told her that I was no sort of a man to tie to--that I was likely to be wiped out any day 'twixt sunrise and sunset, for I had more enemies than a candidate for President; but she wouldn't listen to sense, and so--_we buckled! _ Thank Heaven, I've coaxed her to stay East with friends while I've come out here; for, Sam, she'll be a widow inside of six weeks!"
"Bill, you've been hitting benzine heavy of late haven't you?
"No; I never drank lighter in my life than I have for a year past. But there's a shadow cold as ice on my soul! I've never felt right since I pulled on that red-haired Texan at Abilene, in Kansas. You remember, for you was there. It was kill or get killed, you know, and when I let him have his ticket for a six-foot lot of ground he gave one shriek--it rings in my ears yet. He spoke but one word--'Sister!' Yet that word has never left my ears, sleeping or waking, from that time to this. I had a sister once myself, Sam, and I loved her a thousand times more than I did life. In fact I never loved life after I lost her. And I can't tell you all about her--I'd choke if I tried. It is enough that she died, and the cause of her death died soon after, and I wasn't far away when--when he went under. But that isn't here nor there, Sam--let's go and warm up. Where do you hang out?"
"I'm in camp close by. I'm heading a party that is bound in for the Black Hills. Captain Jack Crawford is along. You know him. And California Joe, too."
"Good! It is the first streak of luck I've had in a year. I'll join your crowd, Sam, if you'll let me. Captain Jack and Joe are as good friends as I ever had--always barring one."
"And that is?"
"My old six-shooter here. Truth-Teller I call it. It never speaks without saying something. But come, old boy--I see a sign ahead. I must take in a little benzine to wash the car-dust out of my throat."
Bill pointed to a saloon near at hand, and the two old scouts and companions moved toward it.
As they did so, a young man, roughly dressed, with a face fair and smooth, though shadowed as if by exposure to sun and and wind, stepped from behind a shade tree, where he had stood while these two talked, listening with breathless interest to every word. His hair, a deep, rich auburn, hung in curling masses clear to his shoulders, and his blue eyes seemed to burn with almost feverish fire as he gazed in the direction the scouts had taken.
"So! He remembers Abilene, does he?"
And the tone of the young man was low and fierce us an angered serpent's hiss.
"And he thinks his time is near. So do I. But he shall not die in a second, as his victim did, I would prolong his agonies for years, if every hour was like a living death; a speechless misery. Let him go with Sam Chichester and his crowd. The avenger will be close at hand! His Truth-Teller will lie when he most depends on it. For I--I have sworn that he shall go where he has sent so many victims; go, like them all, unprepared, but not unwarned. No, he thinks that death is near; I'll freeze the thought to his very soul! He is on the death-trail now? With me rests when and where it shall end."
The face of the young man was almost fiendish in its expression as he spoke. It seemed as if his heart was the concentration of hate and a fell desire for revenge.
He strode along the streets swiftly, and, glancing in at the saloon which the two men had entered, paused one second, with his right hand thrust within his vest, as if clutching a weapon, and debating in his mind whether or not to use it.
A second only he paused, and then muttering, "It is not time yet," he passed on.
"He went a little way up the same street and entered a German restaurant. Throwing himself heavily on a seat, he said: "Give me a steak, quick. I'm hungry and dry. Give me a bottle of the best brandy in your house."
"We've got der steak, und pread, und peer, und Rhein wine, but no prandy," said the German, who kept the place.
"Cook the steak in a hurry, and send for some brandy then!" cried the young man, throwing down a golden eagle. "Your beer and wine are like dishwater to me. I want fire--fire in my veins now."
"Dunder and blixen! I shouldn't dink as you wus want much more fire as dere is in your eyes, young fellow. But I send for your prandy."
The young man threw one glance around the room to see if he were the only occupant.
There was another person there, one who had evidently just come in, a traveler, judging by a good-sized valise that was on the floor beside his chair. This person looked young, for the face, or as much of it as was not hidden by a very full black beard, was fair and smooth as that of a woman; while the hair which shaded his white brow was dark as night, soft and glossy as silk, hanging on short, curling masses about his face and neck.
He was dressed rather better than the usual run of travelers; in a good black broad-cloth suit--wore a heavy gold watch-chain, had on a fine linen shirt, with a diamond pin in the bosom, and appeared to feel quite satisfied with himself, from the cool and easy manner in which he gave his orders for a good, substantial meal, in a voice rather low and musical for one of his apparent age.
The last comer eyed this person very closely, and a smile almost, like contempt rose on his face, when the dark-eyed stranger called for claret wine, or if they had not that, for a cup of tea.
But his own strong drink was now brought in, and pouring out a glassful of undiluted brandy he drank it down and muttered: "That's the stuff! It will keep up the fire. My veins would stiffen without it. It has carried me so far, and it must to the end. Then--no matter!"
The stranger or traveler looked as if wondering that the young man could take such a fearful dose of fiery liquor, and the wonder must have increased when a second glassful was drained before the food was on the table.
But the latter came in now, and the traveler and the young man with auburn hair, at separate tables, were apparently too busy in disposing of the eatables to take any further notice of each other.
When the first had finished, he took a roll of cigarettes from one of his pockets, selected one, took a match from a silver box, drawn from the same pocket, and lighting his cigarette, threw a cloud of smoke above his head.
The second, pouring out his third glass of brandy, sipped it quietly--the first two glasses having evidently supplied the fire he craved so fiercely.
The traveler, as we may call him, for want of any other knowledge, now rose, and as if impelled by natural politeness, tendered a cigarette to the other.
The man with auburn hair looked surprised, and his fierce, wild face softened a little, as he said: "Thank you, no. I drink sometimes, like a fish, but I don't smoke. Tobacco shakes the nerves, they say, and I want my nerves steady.
"Strong drink will shake them more, I've heard," said the traveler, in his low, musical voice. "But you seem to have a steady hand though you take brandy as if used to it."
"My hand is steady, stranger." was the reply. "There is not a man on the Rio Grande border, where I came from, that can strike a center at twenty paces with a revolver as often as I. And with a rifle at one hundred yards I can most generally drop a deer with a ball between his eyes, if he is looking at me, or take a wild turkey's head without hurting his body."
"Then, you are from Texas?"
"Yes, sir. And you?"
"From the East, sir. I have traveled in the South--all over, in fact--but my home is in the old Empire State.
"If it isn't impudent, which way are you bound now?"
"I haven't quite decided. I may go to the Black Hills--may remain around here awhile--it seems to be rather a pleasant place."
"Yes, for them that like it. I'm off for the Black Hills, myself."
"Ah! with a company?"
"Not much! But there's a company going. I'm one of them that don't care much for company, and can take better care of myself alone than with a crowd about me."
"So! Well, it is a good thing to be independent. Do you know the party that is going?"
"Some of 'em, by sight. The captain is Sam Chichester, and he has California Joe, Cap'n Jack, and about twenty more in his party. And Wild Bill has just come on the train, and I heard him say he was going with the crowd."
"Wild Bill!" cried the stranger, flushing up. "Did you say he was going?"
"Yes."
"Then I'd like to go, too--but I'd like to go with another party, either just before or behind that party. Do you know Wild Bill?" " _Know_ him! Who does not? Hasn't he killed more men than any other white man in the States and Territories--I'll not say _how_, but is he not a hyena, sopped in blood?"
"You do not like him?"
"Who says I don't?" " _You_ do! Your eyes flash hate while you speak of him."
"Do they? Well, maybe I don't like him as well as I do a glass of brandy--maybe I have lost some one I loved by his hand. It isn't at all unlikely."
The traveler sighed, and with an anxious look, said: "You don't bear him any grudge, do you? You wouldn't harm him?"
A strange look passes like a flash over the face of the other: he seemed to read the thoughts or wishes of the traveler in a glance.
"Oh, no," he said, with assumed carelessness. "Accidents will happen in the best families. It's not in me to bear a grudge, because Bill may have wiped out fifteen or twenty Texans, while they were foolin' around in his way. As to harm--he's too ready with his six-shooter, old Truth-Teller, he calls it, to stand in much danger. I'm quick, but he is quicker. You take a good deal of interest in him? Do you know him?"
"Yes; that is, I know him by sight. He is thought a great deal of by an intimate friend of mine, and that is why I feel an interest in him."
"And that friend is a woman?"
"Why do you think so?"
"It is a fancy of mine."
"Well, I will not contradict you. For her sake I would hate to see any evil befall him."
There was a cynical smile on the face of the young man with auburn hair.
"If a woman loved him, she ought, not to leave him, for his life is mighty uncertain," said the latter. "I heard him say to Captain Chichester, not half an hour ago, that he didn't believe he would live long, and such a man as he is sure to die with his boots on!"
"Did he say that?" asked the traveler.
"Yes; and he seemed to feel it, too. He had to do as I do, fire up with something strong to get life into his veins."
"Poor fellow! He had better have staid East when he was there, away from this wild and lawless section."
"Stranger, there mayn't be much _law_ out this way, but justice isn't always blind out here. If you stay long enough, you may learn that."
"Very likely; but you spoke of going to those Black Hills."
"Yes, I'm going."
"Will you let me go with you?"
"You don't look much like roughing it, and the trip is not only hard, but it may be dangerous. The redskins are beginning to act wolfish on the plains."
"I think I can stand as much hardship as you. You are light and slender."
"But tough as an old buffalo bull, for all that. I've been brought up in the saddle, with rifle and lasso in hand. I'm used to wind and weather, sunshine and storm--they're all alike to me."
"And Indians?"
"Yes--to Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache. But these Cheyennes and Sioux are a tougher breed, they tell me. I'll soon learn them too, I reckon. There's one thing sure, I don't go in no crowd of twenty or thirty, with wagons or pack mules along to tempt the cusses with, while they make the travel slow. You want either a big crowd or a very small one, if you travel in an Indian country.
"You have not answered my question yet. Will you let me go through to the Black Hills with you?"
"Why don't you go with the other party? They'll take you, I'll bet."
"I do not want to go where Wild Bill will see me. He may think his wife has sent me as a spy on his movements and actions."
"His _wife! _ Is he married? It must be something new."
"It is. He was married only a short time ago to a woman who almost worships him. She did all she could to keep him from going out into his old life again, but she could not."
"You _can_ go with me!" said the other, abruptly, after a keen and searching look in the traveler's face.
"What is your name?"
"Willie Pond."
"Rather a _deep_ Pond, if I know what water is," said the auburn-haired man, to himself, and then he asked, in a louder tone, "have you horse and arms?"
"No; I just came on the train from the East. But there is money--buy me a good horse, saddle, and bridle. I'll see to getting arms."
And Mr. Willie Pond handed the other a five-hundred dollar treasury note.
"You don't ask my name, and you trust me with money as if you knew I was honest."
"You'll tell me your name when you feel like it!" was the rejoinder. "As to your honesty, if I think you are safe to travel with, you're safe to trust my money with!"
"You're right. Your money is safe. As to my name, call me Jack. It is short, if it isn't sweet. Some time I'll tell you the rest of it."
"All right, Jack. Take your own time. And now get all ready to start either ahead or just behind the other party."
"We'll not go ahead. Where will you stay to-night?"
"Wherever you think best."
"All right. This old Dutchman keeps rooms for lodgers. You'd better stay here, and if you don't want Bill to see you, keep pretty close in doors. He'll be out in the Black Hillers' camp, or in the saloons where they sell benzine and run faro banks. Bill is death on cards."
"So I've heard," said Mr. Pond, with a sigh.
Jack now went out, and Pond called the Dutch landlord to him and engaged a room.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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2
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PERSIMMON BILL.
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As soon as the auburn-haired man who called himself Jack had left the German restaurant, he went to a livery-stable near by, called for his own horse, which was kept there, and the instant it was saddled he mounted, and at a gallop rode westward from the town.
He did not draw rein for full an hour, and then he had covered somewhere between eight and ten miles of ground, following no course or trail, but riding in a course as straight as the flight of an arrow.
He halted then in a small ravine, nearly hidden by a growth of thick brush, and gave a peculiar whistle. Thrice had this sounded, when a man came cautiously out of the ravine, or rather out of its mouth. He was tall, slender, yet seemed to possess the bone and muscle of a giant. His eyes were jet black, fierce and flashing, and his face had a stern, almost classic beauty of feature, which would have made him a model in the ancient age of sculpture. He carried a repeating rifle, two revolvers, and a knife in his belt. His dress was buckskin, from head to foot.
"You are Persimmon Bill?" said Jack, in a tone of inquiry. "Yes. Who are you, and how came you by the signal that called me out?"
"A woman in town gave it to me, knowing she could trust me."
"Was her first name Addie?"
"Her last name was Neidic."
"All right. I see she has trusted you. What do you want?"
"Help in a matter of revenge."
"Good! You can have it. How much help is wanted?"
"I want one man taken from a party, alive, when he gets beyond civilized help, so that I can see him tortured. I want him to die by inches."
"How large is his party, and where are they now?"
"The party numbers between twenty and thirty; they are in camp in the edge of Laramie, and will start for the Black Hills in a few days."
"If all the party are wiped out but the one you want, will it matter to you?"
"No; they are his friends, and as such I hate them!"
"All right. Get me a list of their numbers and names, how armed, what animals and stores they have, every fact, so I can be ready. They will never get more than half way to the Hills, and the one you want shall be delivered, bound into your hands. All this, and more, will I do for her who sent you here!"
"You love her?"
"She loves me! I'm not one to waste much breath on talking love. My Ogallalla Sioux warriors know me as the soldier-killer. Be cautious when you go back, and give no hint to any one but Addie Neidic that there is a living being in Dead Man's Hollow, for so this ravine is called in there."
"Do not fear. I am safe, for I counsel with no one. I knew Addie Neidic before I came here, met her by accident, revealed myself and wants, and she sent me to you."
"It is right. Go back, and be cautious to give the signal if you seek me, or you might lose your scalp before you saw me."
"My scalp?"
"Yes; my guards are vigilant and rough."
_"Your guards?" _ Persimmon Bill laughed at the look of wonder in the face of his visitor, and with his hand to his mouth, gave a shrill, warbling cry.
In a second this mouth of the ravine was fairly blocked with armed and painted warriors--Sioux, of the Ogallalla tribe. There were not less than fifty of them.
"You see my guards--red devils, who will do my bidding at all times, and take a scalp on their own account every chance they get," said Persimmon Bill.
Then he took an eagle feather, with its tip dipped in crimson, from the coronet of the chief, and handed it, in the presence of all the Indians, to Jack.
"Keep thus, and when out on the plains, wear it in your hat, where it can be seen, and the Sioux will ever pass you unharmed, and you can safely come and go among them. Now go back, get the list and all the news you can, and bring it here as soon as you can. Tell Addie to ride out with you when you come next."
Jack placed the feather in a safe place inside his vest, bowed his head, and wheeling his horse, turned toward the town. Before he had ridden a hundred yards he looked back. Persimmon Bill had vanished, not an Indian was in sight, and no one unacquainted with their vicinity could have seen a sign to show that such dangerous beings were near.
No smoke rose above the trees, no horses were feeding around, nothing to break the apparent solitude of the scene.
"And that was Persimmon Bill?" muttered the auburn-haired rider, as he galloped back. "So handsome, it does not seem as if he could be the murderer they call him. And yet, if all is true, he has slain tens, where Wild Bill has killed one. No matter, he will be useful to me. That is all I care for now."
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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3
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A WARNING.
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When Wild Bill and Sam Chichester entered the saloon alluded to in our first chapter, they were hailed by several jovial-looking men, one of whom Wild Bill warmly responded to as California Joe, while he grasped the hand of another fine-looking young man whom he called Captain Jack.
"Come, Crawford," said he, addressing the last named, "let's wet up! I'm dry as an empty powder-horn!"
"No benzine for me, Bill," replied Crawford, or "Captain Jack." "I've not touched a drop of the poison in six months."
"What? Quit drinking, Jack? Is the world coming to an end?"
"I suppose it will sometime. But that has nothing to do with my drinking. I promised old Cale Durg to quit, and I've done it. And I never took a better trail in my life. I'm fresh as a daisy, strong as a full-grown elk, and happy as an antelope on a wide range."
"All right, Jack. But I must drink. Come, boys--all that will--come up and wet down at my expense."
California Joe and most of the others joined in the invitation, and Captain Jack took a cigar rather than "lift a shingle from the roof," as he said.
"Where are you bound, Bill?" asked Captain Jack, as Bill placed his empty glass on the counter, and turned around.
"To the Black Hills with your crowd--that is if I live to get there."
"Live! You haven't any thought of dying, have you? I never saw you look better."
"Then I'll make a healthy-looking corpse, Jack. For I tell you my time is nearly up; I've felt it in my bones this six months. I've seen ghosts in my dreams, and felt as if they were around me when I was awake. It's no use, Jack, when a chap's time comes he has got to go."
"Nonsense, Bill; don't think of anything like that. A long life and a merry one--that's my motto. We'll go out to the Black Hills, dig out our fortunes, and then get out of the wilderness to enjoy life."
"Boy, I've never known the happiness outside of the wilderness that I have in it. What you kill there is what was made for killing--the food we need. What one kills among civilization is only too apt to be of his own kind."
And Bill shuddered as if he thought of the many he had sent into untimely graves.
"Stuff, Bill! You're half crazed by your dramatic trip. You've acted so much, that reality comes strange. Let's go out to camp and have a talk about what is ahead of us."
"Not till I buy a horse, Jack. I want a good horse under me once more; I've ridden on cars and steamboats till my legs ache for a change."
"There's a sale's stable close by. Let's go and see what stock is there," said Sam Chichester.
"Agreed!" cried all hands, and soon Bill and his friends were at the stable, looking at some dozen or more horses which were for sale.
"There's the beauty I want," said Wild Bill, pointing to a black horse, full sixteen hands high, and evidently a thoroughbred. "Name your price, and he is my meat!"
"That horse isn't for sale now. He was spoken for an hour ago, or maybe less by a cash customer of mine--a red-haired chap from Texas."
_"Red-haired_ chap from Texas!" muttered Bill, "Red-haired cusses from Texas are always crossin' my trail. That chap from Abilene was a Texas cattle-man, with hair as red as fire. Where is your cash customer, Mr. Liveryman?"
"Gone out riding somewhere," replied the stable-keeper.
"When he comes back, tell him Wild Bill wants that horse, and I reckon he'll let Wild Bill buy him, if he knows when he is well off! I wouldn't give two cusses and an amen for all the rest of the horses in your stable; I want _him! _" "I'll tell Jack," said the stableman; "but I don't think it will make much odds with him. He has as good as bought the horse, for he offered me the money on my price, but I couldn't change his five hundred-dollar treasury note. It'll take more than a name to scare him. He always goes fully armed."
"You tell him what I said, and that I'm a-coming here at sunset for that horse," said Bill, and he strode away, followed by his crowd.
An hour later the auburn-haired man from Texas reined in his own horse, a fiery mustang from his own native plains, in front of the stable.
Though the horse was all afoam with sweat, showing that it had been ridden far and fast; it did not pant or show a sign of weariness. It was of a stock which will run from rise of sun to its going down, and yet plunge forward in the chill of the coming night.
"You want the Black Hawk horse you spoke for this morning, don't you?" asked the stableman, as Jack dismounted.
"Of course I do. I've got the change; there is his price. Three hundred dollars you said?"
"Yes; but there's been a chap here looking at that horse who told me to tell you his name, and that he intended to take that horse. I told him a man had bought it, but he said: 'Tell him Wild Bill wants it, and that Wild Bill will come at sunset to take it.'"
"He will?"
It was hissed rather than spoken, while the young Texan's face grew white as snow, his blue eyes darkening till they seemed almost black.
"He will! Let him try it! A sudden death is too good for the blood-stained wretch! But if he will force it on, why let it come. The horse is bought: let him come at sunset if he dares!"
And the young man handed the stable-keeper three one hundred-dollar greenback notes.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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4
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"GIVE UP THAT HORSE, OR DIE!"
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Leaving the livery-stable, the young Texan went directly to the German restaurant, and asked for Willie Pond.
He was shown up to the room, recently engaged by the traveler, and found him engaged in cleaning a pair of fine, silver mounted Remington revolvers.
"Getting ready, I see," said the Texan. "I have bought you a horse--the best in this whole section; I gave three hundred dollars. There is your change."
"Keep the two hundred to buy stores with for our trip," said Pond.
"No need of it I've laid in all the stores we need. You can buy yourself a couple of blankets and an India-rubber for wet weather. A couple of tin cans of pepper and salt is all that I lay in when I'm going to rough it on the plains. The man that can't kill all the meat he needs isn't fit to go there."
"Maybe you're right. The less we are burdened the better for our horses. Are we likely to meet Indians on the route?"
"None that will hurt _me_--or you, when you're in my company. The Sioux know me and will do me no harm."
"That is good. The Indians were my only dread."
"I've a favor to ask."
"It is granted before you ask it--what is it?"
"I want to break your horse to the saddle before you try it. You are not so used to the saddle, I reckon, as I am. I will take a ride at sunset, and bring him around here for you to look at."
"That is right. I am only thankful to have you ride him first, though you may find me a better rider than you think!"
"Perhaps. But he looks wild, and I like to tame _wild_ uns. I'll have him here between sundown and dark."
"All right. I told you I'd see to getting arms. I had these revolvers, and cartridges for them, but I want a light repeating rifle. Get me a good one, with as much ammunition as you think I'll need!"
"All right. I'll get a now model Winchester. They rattle out lead faster than any other tool I ever carried."
The Texan now left. He had not spoken of Wild Bill's desire to possess that horse, because he had an idea that Mr. Willie Pond would weaken, and give up the horse, rather than risk bloodshed for its possession. And perhaps he had another idea--a mysterious one, which we do not care to expose at this stage of the story.
This young Texan hastened from the German restaurant to a small, neat house in the outskirts of the town. Knocking in a very peculiar manner, he was admitted at once by a tall and strikingly beautiful young woman, whom he addressed as if well acquainted with her.
"I'm here, Addie, and I've seen _him. _" "You found him all right, when you told him who sent you, did you not?" asked the lady, leading the way to a sitting-room in the rear of the cottage.
"Yes, ready to do anything for one you recommend."
"Poor Bill! A braver man and a truer friend never lived. He loves me, and I fear it will be his ruin, for he will too often come within the reach of those who would destroy him, if they only knew where and how to reach him. Persecution and cruelty placed him on the bloody path he has had to follow, and now--now he is an outlaw, beyond all chance for mercy, should he ever be taken."
"He never will be taken, guarded as he is."
"You saw his guards, then?"
"Yes, forty or fifty of them, and I would rather have them as friends than foes. He wants you to ride out with me to meet him when I go next with some information that he needs."
"When will that be?" asked the lady.
"In the early morning, or perhaps to-night, if nothing happens to me between now and sunset to make it unnecessary!"
"Between now and sunset? That is within two hours. Do you anticipate any danger?"
"Not much. I have a little task before me. I have a horse to break, and a man known as Will Bill to tame."
"Wild Bill! --the dead-shot, the desperado, who has killed at least one man for every year of his life?"
"Yes, the same. But ask me no more questions now. After I have tamed him I will report--or, if he has settled me, there will be no need of it."
"Do not run this risk."
"It must be done. He has, in a manner, defied me, and I accept his defiance!"
"Surely he does not know---" "No, he knows nothing of what you would say if I did not interrupt you. Nor do I intend he shall at present. It is enough that you know it, and will care for both my body and my good name, should I fail."
"You know I will. But you must not fall."
"I do not intend to. I think I can crush him by a look and a word. I shall try, at least. If all goes well, I will be here by eight to-night to arrange for our visit."
"I hope you will come, and safely."
"I will, Addie. Until the cup of vengeance is full. Heaven will surely spare me. But I must go. I have no time to spare."
The young Texan glanced at the chambers of a handsome six-shooter which he carried, to see if it was ready for use, replaced it in his belt, and then, with a cheerful smile, left the room and house.
Hastening to the stable, he selected a saddle, lengthened the stirrups to suit himself, took a stout bridle from among a lot hanging in the store-room, and accompanied by the stable-keeper, approached the newly purchased Black Hawk horse.
"I may as well have him ready," he said; "for if Wild Bill is to be here at sunset, that time is close at hand. You say the horse has not been ridden?"
"No," said the stable-keeper. "My regular breaker was not here when I bought him. Black Joe tried to mount him, but the horse scared him."
"Well, I'll soon see what he is made of, if I can get saddle and bridle on him," said the Texan.
They now together approached the large box stall in which the stallion was kept. The horse, almost perfect in symmetry, black as night, with a fierce, wild look, turned to front them as they approached the barred entrance.
"Steady, boy--steady!" cried the Texan, as he sprang lightly over the bars, and at once laid his hand on the arched neck of the horse.
To the wonder of the stableman, the horse, instead of rearing back or plunging at the intruder, turned his eyes upon him, and with a kind of tremor in his frame, seemed to wait to see what his visitor meant.
"So! Steady, Black Hawk! steady, old boy!" continued the Texan, kindly passing his hand over the horse's neck and down his face.
The horse uttered a low neigh, and seemed by his looks pleased with his attentions.
"That beats me!" cried the stable-keeper. "Old Joe had to lasso him and draw him down to a ringbolt before he could rub him off."
"Hand me the saddle and bridle," said the Texan, still continuing to "pet" the beautiful and spirited animal.
In a few seconds, without difficulty, the same kind and skillful hands had the horse both saddled and bridled.
The Texan now led the horse out on the street, where quite a crowd seemed to be gathering, perhaps drawn there by some rumor of a fight in embryo.
And as he glanced up the street the Texan saw Wild Bill himself, with his six-shooters in his belt, come striding along, with California Joe and a dozen more at his heels.
In a second, the Texan vaulted upon the back of the horse, which made one wild leap that would have unseated most riders, and then reared on its hind legs as if it would fall back and crush its would-be master.
At this instant, Wild Bill rushing forward, pistol in hand, shouted: "Give up that horse, or die!"
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
|
5
|
A SQUARE BACK-DOWN.
|
The Texan paid no heed to the words of the desperado, but bending forward on the horse with his full weight, drove his spurs deeply into its flanks. Startled and stung with pain, the noble animal, at one wild bound, leaped far beyond where Bill and his friends stood, and in a second more sped in terrific leaps along the street.
"The cowardly cuss is running away!" yelled Bill derisively.
"It is false! He is _no_ coward! He will tame the horse first and then _you_!" cried a voice so close that Bill turned in amazement to see who dare thus to speak to him, the _"Terror of the West." _ "A woman!" he muttered, fiercely, as he saw a tall and queenly-looking girl standing there, with flashing eyes, which did not drop at his gaze.
_"Yes_--a woman, who has heard of Wild Bill, and neither fears nor admires him!" she said, undauntedly.
"Is the fellow that rode off on the horse your husband or lover that you take his part?" asked Bill, half angrily and half wondering at the temerity of the lovely girl who thus braved his anger.
"He is neither," she replied, scornfully.
"I'm glad of it. I shall not make you a widow or deprive you of a future husband when he comes under my fire, if he should be fool enough to come back."
"He comes now. See for yourself. He has tamed the horse--now comes your turn, coward and braggart!"
Bill was white with anger; but she was a woman, mind no matter what he felt, too well he knew the chivalry of the far West to raise a hand or even speak a threatening word to her. But he heard men around him murmur her name.
It was Addie Neidic.
And then he turned his eyes upon the black horse and rider. The animal, completely under control, though flecked with foam, came down the street slowly and gently, bearing his rider with an air of pride rather than submission. As he passed the German restaurant, the rider raised his hat in salutation to Willie Pond, who stood in his window, and said, in a cheerful voice: "Remain in your room. I have news for you and will be there soon."
Without checking his horse the rider kept on until he was within half a length of the horse of Wild Bill, then checking the animal, he said, in a mocking tone: "You spoke to me just as I rode away. I've come back to hear you out."
What was the matter with Wild Bill? He stood staring wildly at the Texan, his own face white as if a mortal fear had come upon him.
"Where have I seen that face before?" he gasped. "Can the dead come back to life?"
The Texan bent forward till his own face almost touched that of Wild Bill and hissed out one word in a shrill whisper: "Sister!"
It was all he said, but the instant Wild Bill heard it, he shrieked out: "'Tis him--_'tis him I shot at Abilene! _" and with a shuddering groan he sank senseless to the pavement.
In an instant Bill's friends, who had looked in wonder at this strange scene, sprang to his aid, and, lifting his unconscious form, carried it into the saloon where Bill had met Californian Joe, Captain Jack, and the rest of their crowd.
Left alone, the young Texan said a few words to Addie Neidic, then dismounted and told the stable-keeper to keep that horse saddled and bridled, and to get his own Texan mustang ready for use.
"I must be out of town before sunrise, or Wild Bill and his friends may have questions to ask that I don't want to answer just now," he said.
And then, he walked a little way with Miss Neidic, talking earnestly. But soon he left her, and while she kept on in the direction of her own house, he turned and went to the German restaurant.
Entering the room of Willie Pond, he said, abruptly: "If you want to go to the Black Hills with me on your own horse we'll have to leave this section mighty sudden. Wild Bill has set his mind on having the horse I bought and broke for you, and he has a rough crowd to back him up."
"If I had known Bill wanted the horse so badly I could have got along with another," said Pond, rather quietly.
"What! let _him_ have the horse? Why it hasn't its equal on the plains or in the mountains. It is a thoroughbred--a regular racer, which a sporting man was taking through to the Pacific coast on speculation. He played faro, lost, got broke, and put the horse up for a tenth of its value. I got him for almost nothing compared to his worth. On that horse you can keep out of the way of any red who scours the plains. If you don't want him I do, for Wild Bill shall never put a leg over his back!"
"I'll keep him. Don't get mad. I'll keep him and go whenever you are ready," said Pond, completely mastered by the excitement which this young Texan exhibited.
"Well, we'll get the horses out of town and in a safe place to-night. And for yourself, I'll take you to the house of a lady friend of mine to stay to-night and to-morrow, and by to-morrow night I'll know all I want to about the movements of the other party, and we can move so as to be just before or behind them, as you and I will decide best."
"All right, Jack. I leave it to you. Are you sure the horse will be safe for me to ride?"
"Yes. A horse like that once broken is broken for life. They never forget their first lesson. A mongrel breed, stupid, resentful, and tricky, is different. Be ready to mount when I lead him around, I will send for your traveling-bag, and you will find it at the house where we stop."
"I will be ready," said Pond.
The Texan now left, and Pond watched him as he hurried off to the stable.
"The man hates Wild Bill with a deadly hatred!" he murmured. "I must learn the cause. Perhaps it is a providence that I have fallen in with him, and I have concluded to keep his company to the Black Hills. But I must call the landlord and close up my account before the other comes back with the horses."
The German was so put out by the sudden giving up of a room, which he hoped to make profitable, that he asked an extra day's rent, and to his surprise, got it.
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
|
6
|
OFF TO THE HILLS.
|
It was some time before Wild Bill became fully conscious after he was carried into the saloon, and when he did come to he raved wildly about the red-haired man he shot in Abilene, and insisted it was his ghost, and not a real man, he had seen.
Bill's friends tried to cheer and reassure him, and got several stiff draughts of liquor down his throat, which finally "set him up." as they said, till he began to look natural. But he still talked wildly and strangely.
"I told you, Joe," he said to his old friend; "I told you my time was nigh up. This hasn't been my first warning. That Abilene ghost has been before me a thousand times, and he has hissed that same word, '_sister,_' in my ear."
"Bah! old boy. What's the use of your talking foolish. You've seen no ghost. That red-haired chap was as live as you are."
"He did have red hair and blue eyes, then?"
"Yes; but there are lots of such all over the world. Red hair and blue eyes generally travel in company. But he was nothing to scare you. You could have wiped him out with one back-handed blow of your fist, let alone usin' shootin' irons, of which there wasn't 'casion, seein' he didn't draw."
"Where is he now?"
"I'll go and see. I suppose he is over at the stable."
Joe went out, but soon returned to say that the Texan had just ridden off, after paying his bill; the stable-keeper did not know where.
"Let him go," murmured Bill. "If he _is_ a man, and not a ghost, I wouldn't raise a hand to hurt him, not for all the gold in the Black Hills. He was so like--_so_ like the chap I dropped in Abilene!"
Bill took another drink, but it seemed as if nothing could lift the gloom which weighed down his heart. Only once did his face brighten. That was when Sam Chichester said there was no use hanging on at Laramie any longer for a bigger crowd; they were strong enough now, and would start for the Hills inside of four-and-twenty hours.
"That's the talk for me!" cried Bill. "I want to get out of here as soon as I can, Joe, and pick me out some sort of a horse. I don't care what, so it'll carry me to the Hills, I can't breathe free any longer where there's such a lot of folks."
"I'll get you a first-chop horse, Bill," said Joe. "There's some half-breeds in a corral just out of town, as tough as grizzlies, and heavy enough for your weight or mine."
"I don't weigh down, as I did," said Bill, with a sigh. "I've been losin' weight for six months back. No matter. It'll be less trouble to tote me when I go under. Remember, boys, when I do, bury me with my boots on, just as I die."
"Stop your clatter about dyin', Bill. I'm sick o' that kind of talk. It's time enough to talk of death when its clutch is on you."
"I can't help it, Joe, old pard. It keeps a stickin' in my throat, and if it didn't come out, I'd choke."
"Let's go to camp," said Chichester. "Can you walk now, Bill?'
"Yes."
And the party rose, took a parting drink with the landlord, and started for camp.
Outside, Bill gave a startled, wild glance toward the spot where he had seen the Texan; but no one was there now, and he moved on with his companions toward their camp, listening to, but not joining in their conversation.
On arriving at camp, Chichester, as captain, gave orders that each man should report on paper, or verbally, so it could be taken down, just how much ammunition he had, the number and kind of his arms, private stores, etc., so that if there was not enough to make the trip safely, more could be provided. The number and condition of horses, pack-mules, etc., was also to be given.
No man would be fitted to lead such a party did he not consider and post himself fully in all these particulars.
Quite a crowd of townspeople followed the party out, for the news soon spread that they intended to leave in a short time; so around their blazing camp-fire there were many visitors. Toward these Wild Bill cast many a stealthy glance, but he did not see the red-haired Texan there.
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
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7
|
THE OUTLAW'S LOVE.
|
Willie Pond was much surprised when he found that his ride only extended to a small but pretty cottage just on the outskirts of the town, where the young Texan, introducing him to Miss Neidic as his temporary hostess, left him while he took the horses to a safe place of concealment not far away.
Miss Neidic look her new visitor into the rear sitting-room, and while giving him a cordial welcome, and passing the usual salutations, scanned him with a keen and critical eye. The impression left must have been rather favorable, for the lady seemed to feel none of the embarrassment usual when strangers held a first interview, but talked on as easily and naturally as if she had known him half a lifetime.
"How long have you been in town, Mr. Pond?" was one of her many questions.
"Only a day. I arrived on the express, westward bound, which passed this morning," was the answer.
"Why, that was the same train the desperado, Wild Bill came on."
"Yes, he was pointed out to me by the conductor. But why do you call him a desperado?"
"Because that is his character."
"I thought none but outlaws were celled desperadoes."
"There is where the mistake comes in. Most outlaws are desperadoes, but a man _can_ be a desperado, and yet not an _outlaw. _ If to be always ready to shoot for a look or a word--whether his opponent is ready or not--is not being a desperado. I do not know what is. But excuse me. He may be a friend of yours."
"Oh, no," said Pond, with some confusion in his manner. "But a very dear friend of mine married him not long since, and for her sake I feel a sort of interest in the man. I fancied that he was rather wild when under the influence of liquor, but for all, a brave and generous man, when truly himself."
"Brave, as brutes are, when he feels he has the power to _kill_ in his hands; but _generous? _ _Never! _" said Miss Neidic.
"You are his enemy."
"No; for he has never done me, personally, an injury; but he has injured friends of mine--sent more than one down to untimely graves."
"There, I said it--you are his enemy, because of what he has done to your friends.
"I am _not_ his friend, nor do I wish to be the friend of such a man. But the enmity of a woman is nothing to him. He looks for friends among such men as he now consorts with--California Joe, Sam Chichester, and that crowd. I know but one real gentleman in the party, and that one is Jack Crawford."
"I know none of them."
"You lose nothing, then, for it is little honor one gains by such acquaintances. They suit Wild Bill, for they drink, gamble, and shoot on little cause; they are ready for any adventure, never stopping to count risks or look back when evil is commenced or ruin wrought, no matter what may be its nature."
The entrance of the young Texans now caused a change in the topic of conversation.
"I have learned when that party start." he said. "They are making their final preparations to-night, and will break camp in this morning early enough to make Twenty-mills Creek for their first night's halt--probably about ten o'clock."
"Do you propose to go ahead of them?" asked Pond.
"No; it will be more easy and safe to fellow their trail. They will not have over fifty animals all told, and there will be lots of feed left for us even if we keep close by. And we can get as much game as we need any time, for we can use but little. One pack horse will carry all our stuff, and still be able to travel at speed, if need be."
"You understand it better than I," said Pond. "Arrange things to suit yourself, and I will conform to your plans."
"All right. You had better turn in early, so as to get a good rest. For after we are out, long rides and night-watches will tell on you, for you are not used to them."
"I will show you to a chamber, your valise is already in it," said Miss Neidic.
Mr. Pond followed her, and the Texan was left alone to his thoughts, which he carelessly expressed aloud.
"So far all works well," he said. "Mr. Willie Pond is as soft as mush; but I've read him through and through. He wouldn't go with me if he didn't think he'd have a chance to serve Wild Bill, for, though he shuns Bill, he thinks more of Bill than he would have me think, I'll bet Addie has found that out."
"Found out what?" said the lady herself, who had returned so noiselessly that Jack had not heard her.
"That Mr. Pond, as he calls himself, is a friend of Wild Bill's."
"All of that, and maybe something more, as you may find out before you are through your trip."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing but this--keep your eyes open, and study your Mr. Pond closely."
"There is nothing dangerous about him?"
Miss Neidic laughed heartily.
"Nothing very dangerous to you, at any rate," she said; "but if they all go in the morning, we must see Persimmon Bill to-night."
"That is so. Shall I bring the horses round?"
"No. We might be overheard. I will go to the stables. Get the horses ready. I have some things to put up for Bill, and I will come as soon as I pack them in a pair of saddle-bags."
Jack now left for the stable, and Miss Neidic, with a woman's forethought, began to gather up many little things which might be useful to her outlaw lover, who had little chance to procure articles of comfort, not to speak of luxury, except when on some raid in the settlements.
In ten minutes she was ready and on her way to the stables.
Jack had her own favorite horse saddled, while for himself he chose the Black Hawk beauty.
In a few seconds both were mounted, and in the darkness they sped away over the same route which Jack had taken when he went to visit Persimmon Bill.
Little was said as they rode on, for the horses were kept at a swift gallop, and before the hour was up they had approached the ravine as near as they deemed safe before giving the signal.
Scarcely was it given before it was answered, and a second later Persimmon Bill himself was by the side of Addie Neidic's horse, and she was pressed to the outlaw's bosom with a fervor that showed he had a heart more than half-human left in his breast.
"It's kind of you, Addie, to come out here in the chill of the night to see a wild cuss like me, outlawed by man, and forsaken by Heaven!"
"It's safer to come by night than by day, for you and for me, Bill," she said. "And I couldn't bear you should go away again till I had seen you. And I've brought you a lot of things I know you'll need."
"I shall not need much of anything, Addie, on the trail I'm soon to take. Your friend here I know is safe, or I wouldn't say so much. But the truth is, the reds are going to rise in a body all over the north and northwest, and we'll sweep the Black Hills, and clean out every 'blue-coat' that is sent to check the rising. The Sioux have made me a big chief, and I'll have my hands full. If you hear of the 'White Elk,' as second only to Sitting Bull himself, you'll know who it is."
"You, of course!"
"Yes, Addie; that is the name they have given me. And if the Sioux fight as I think they will, and all the northern tribes join, we'll force a treaty that will give us all the Black Hills and the Yellowstone, Powder River, and Big Horn Country for ourselves forever. Then, my girl, and not till then, can I make a safe home for you, and not till then will I ask you to be my wife. For then the outlaw will be safe, and can live in peace, and look for days of home and happiness."
"Bill, when you ask it, be it in peace or war, I am yours. You are brave as the bravest, and had you never been treated wrongfully, would not now be a hunted outlaw. I love you, and you know it."
"Yes, Addie, and I love you too well to ask you to share my lot till I can see some sunshine. But this stranger has news for me."
Persimmon Bill turned to the Texan, who had drawn his horse away a little, so as not to intrude on the conversation between the lovers.
"I have the news you asked for," said Jack. "The party, all told, who will start at nine or ten in the morning, and camp twenty miles out to-morrow, number twenty-nine men, all well armed, the most of them with repeating rifles and six-shooters. Half of them are old scouts, the rest are miners, gamblers, and a couple of them are traders. They have fifty animals, saddle and pack, and carry no wagons. The mules are loaded pretty heavy, at least them that belong to the traders, and are well worth capture."
"All right, And there is one of the party you don't want hurt until he is in your hands?"
"Yes, that man is Wild Bill. I want him in my power so that I may see him die slowly, surely, awfully!"
"There is another man in that party, Bill, who mustn't be hurt. He did me a kindness once, down at Cheyenne--saved me from insult and wrong. His name is Crawford--Captain Jack, they call him!"
"Yes, I know him. No harm shall befall him, if I can help it."
"Thank you, Bill; you needn't be jealous of him, for it is only what he did that makes me ask a favor for him!"
"I know it, Addie."
"No woman on earth can make me jealous of you. I've too much confidence in your truth and love. But you'll not attack the party anywhere near here?"
"No, not till they are far beyond all the military posts. I want no pursuit when I do my work. Our animals are in good order for the war-path now, and I want to keep them so. I'm drilling my braves at every chance, so as to fit them to meet such men as Crook, Custer, and Carr. All they want is drill and discipline to make them the best soldiers in the world, and they're coming into it finely."
"Well, you were a soldier yourself long enough to know all that should be done."
"A soldier too long, girl--too long a slave to men who held authority only to abuse it," said Bill, in a bitter tone. "The cruelty exercised on me then turned my best blood to gall, and made me what I am. I hate the name, and my blood boils beyond all restraint when my eye falls upon a uniform. Rightly have the Sioux called me the "Soldier Killer," for never do I let one who wears the button escape if he comes within my reach. But you must not stay too long. Good-night--I will not say good-by, for we will meet again."
"Good-night, Bill."
"One word to your friend here," added the outlaw. "Follow the trail of Chichester, about three hours back, whenever he moves. I will probably, for three or four days, be about as far behind you. On the night of the third or fourth day out, or, if it is bad weather for travel, a day or two later, I will surround you, and take you and your friend prisoners, to all appearances. But of course no harm will come to you, and you will be free when the other work is done. Then I will close up and wipe out Chichester's gang, saving the two who are to be spared. Then I will be ready for the war-path, for I need the arms and ammunition these people have to finish arming the drilled marines who are specially under me."
"All right, sir; we understand each other," said the Texan, wheeling his horse to take the back trail.
Addie Neidic, as if from some uncontrollable reason, turned once more toward her lover, and bending from her saddle, threw her arms about his tall and splendid form, and kissed him again and again with passionate tenderness.
"Do be careful of your life, dear Bill," she said. "You are all in all to me. If you perish, life will be valueless to me."
"Addie, I'll try to live for your sake, and work my uttermost to achieve what will give you and me peace and quiet in the end. Good-night, once more good-night, my beautiful, my own."
"Good night, Bill--God bless you!" she sobbed; as she turned her horse, and followed the Texan at a gallop.
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
|
8
|
FOILED BY A WOMAN.
|
It was their last night in town before breaking up camp, and the Black Hillers, as they already called themselves, under Chichester, were determined to have a lively time of it.
They commenced "wetting up," or pouring down liquid lightning in camp, but, being reminded that what they used there would be missed on their journey, they started to skin the saloons in town, and finish out their spree where it would not diminish their own stores.
As Wild Bill said, they were going where money would be of little account, if all the stories about the gold to be found were true; so what they spent now they wouldn't have to carry. And they went in, as such reckless men generally do, spending their money as freely as they could, and drinking with a "looseness" that promised headaches on the morrow, if nothing more.
Wild Bill went in on the spree with a rush, as if he wished to drown the remembrance of his late fright, and despite the cautions of his friend, Captain Jack, who strove hard to keep him within bounds.
California Joe of course was in his element, and in a little while all the party became so turbulent that Crawford left them in disgust. For, as Addie Neidic had said of him, despite his associations, he was a gentleman.
By midnight every saloon had been visited, and many of them pretty well cleaned out, and now Bill proposed to go and break a faro bank that some of the party spoke of.
"I have seven hundred dollars left out of a thousand my woman gave me before I started," said he. "I'll lose that, or break the bank; see if I don't."
All of the party who were sober enough went with Bill, and soon he was before the green board.
Without even waiting to get the run of the game, be planked a hundred dollars on the king, and lost. Without a word, he put two hundred dollars more on the same card, and won. He left the four hundred down, and in another turn he had eight hundred.
"Luck is with me, boys!" He shouted. "I'll break the bank! Let her swing for the king once more, Mr. Dealer!"
To the wonder of all, though it was the last turn of the cards, the king won, and Wild Bill picked up sixteen hundred dollars.
His friends now urged him to quit, but the demon of the game had entered his soul, and he swore, with a terrible oath, that he would play till he broke the bank, or was broke himself.
A new pack was now put in the box, and once more the dealer cried out: "Make your bets gentlemen--make year bets! The game is ready!"
Bill, with a reckless bravado, as much of rum as of his own nature, again laid all his winnings on one card--this time the queen. And with wonderful luck--it could be nothing else--he again doubled his pile, this time his gains being thirty-two hundred dollars.
"Stop now, Bill!" cried California Joe, "This can't last!"
"It shall last! The bank can't stand more than two more such pulls!" shouted Bill, wildly.
And again on the same card he staked his entire winnings.
The dealer and banker were one; he turned pale, but when all bets were down, he pulled his cards without a tremor in his hand. But a groan broke from his lips as the queen once more came out on the winning side.
Once more Bill's stakes were doubled, and this time he changed his card.
The banker hesitated. His capital would hardly cover the pile if Bill won again.
"Keep on," whispered a voice in his ear; "if he breaks you, I'll stake your bank."
The banker looked up and saw, though she was disguised in male attire, a face he well knew. It was that of Addie Neidic, and he knew she was able to keep her word.
Wild Bill had heard the whisper, and his face was white with rage, for he thought the bank would succumb before it would risk another chance with his wonderful luck.
But he let his money lay where he put it, and cried out to the banker to go on with his game if he dared.
The latter; with firm set lips, cried out: "Game ready, gentlemen--game ready."
The cards were drawn, and once more Wild Bill had won.
Coolly, as if money was no more than waste paper, Bill gathered up the pile, and began to thrust it away in his pockets, when the disguised woman, Addie Neidic, thrust a roll of thousand dollar notes into the hands of the banker, and cried out: "This bank is good for fifty thousand dollars. Let no braggart go away and say he has bluffed the bank, till he breaks it!"
Wild Bill trembled from head to foot.
"I know you!" he hissed. "You are the woman who bluffed me at the livery-stable. I'll win your fifty thousand dollars, and then blow the top of any man's head off who'll take your part!"
"Play, don't boast; put up your money!" was the scornful reply.
In an instant Bill put every dollar he had won, every cent he had in the world, and a gold watch on top of that, on the Jack.
Not another man around the table made a bet. A pin could have been heard, had it fallen to the floor, so complete was the silence.
The banker cried out, "Game ready," and slowly drew the cards.
"Jack loses!" he cried, a second after, and Bill's pile, watch and all, was raked in.
"Devil! woman or not, you shall die for this!" he shouted, and his hand went to his belt.
But even as his hand touched his pistol, he heard that fearful whisper, "sister," and saw a white face, wreathed in auburn hair rise over Addie Neidic's shoulder, and with a groan, or a groaning cry of terror, he fell back insensible to the floor.
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
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9
|
THE GHOST AGAIN APPEARS.
|
When Wild Bill fell, the banker declared his game closed for the night; and while Bill's friends gathered about him and sought to bring him to, the woman, Addie Neidic, took up her money, and left by the rear entrance, and the banker, with two or three of his friends, escorted her home, fearing Bill and his gang might annoy her, if the latter came to before she reached her residence.
The auburn-haired Texan did not go with her, but with a slouched hat drawn over his head, and a Mexican blanket over his shoulders, stood back in a corner, unobserved, to hear Bill's words when he came to, and to see what next would appear on the desperado's programme.
"That ghost again! He came to break my luck."
These were the last words that Wild Bill spoke, when recovering his consciousness; he glared out upon the crowd with bloodshot eyes.
"It was a woman who broke your luck. Addie Neidic backed the bank, or 'twould have given in," cried another.
"Who is Addie Neidic?" asked Bill, with a wondering gaze. "Oh! I remember--the woman who called me a coward over at the livery-stable. Who is she? Where does she live?"
"In a cottage west of town. They say she's rich! Let's go and clean out her crib!" cried a ruffian who did not belong to Bill's party, but most likely held some spite against Miss Neidic.
"Ay! That's the word! Let's clean out the house and set fire to it!" cried another, a chum of the first speaker.
It required but a leader now to set the vile work going. And Wild Bill, gradually recovering his reason, but mad with drink, and just realizing that every dollar he had, and even his watch was gone, was just the man for such a leader.
"I'll go! Show me the house, and we'll teach her to wear her own clothes, and let men's games alone!" shouted Wild Bill.
In a moment fifty men were ready to go; but first they made an onslaught on the wines and liquors on the sideboard of the gambling-room.
While they were madly pouring these down, the auburn-haired Texan slipped from the room, and ran swiftly to the cottage of his fair friend.
"Addie," he cried, as she opened the door to his signal, "Wild Bill and a crowd of full fifty men are coming here to rob you, and burn your house. They are mad with drink, and even if the stranger up stairs will fight, we three can hardly hold them at bay, no matter how well we are armed."
"We will not try it!" said Addie, calmly. "I had about made up my mind to go with Persimmon Bill. He loves me so well that I ought to be able and willing to bear hardship for his sake. I care little for the house and furniture, though they are mine, and cost me a large sum. I have money and jewelry that we can carry off. I will rouse my two servants while you call your friend, and we will all be out of the house before they come. No one but you knows where your horses are kept. Let that be the place of rendezvous, and before daylight we will be safe with my lover."
"No; I do not want to be with him yet, Addie. I will take this newly found friend and see you safely in reach of Bill, but we will make camp elsewhere till Bill's party starts. Then we'll be on his trail, and you on ours, as it was agreed upon."
"As you, like, Jack. But we must hurry."
"All right--as soon as I bring my friend down, do you go with him and your servants to the stable, carrying off what you can. Leave me here, for I want to give Wild Bill one more good scare."
"As you please, but be careful he don't kill you while you scare him. Ah! I hear their yells. We must be quick."
Willie Pond had a white, scared face when he came from his chamber, for while the Texan told him of the danger, the yells and shouts of the drunken ruffians who were approaching could be plainly heard. It seemed as if a gang of demons from the lower regions had been let loose on earth.
"Come with me," cried Addie Neidic, as Mr. Pond came down with his valise in hand. "Be quick, or there will be murder under this roof."
Pond, seemingly dazed and bewildered, obeyed, and out by a rear door hastened the fair owner of the doomed house, with her maid, or man-servant, and Willie Pond, while the Texan, telling them he soon would follow, remained.
Plainly now the shouts and vile threats of the drunken marauders came to the ears of the single listener.
"I wish I had a barrel or two of gunpowder here," he muttered. "I'd make them sing another tune."
Nearer and nearer they came, and now the Texan extinguished every light but one, which he shaded with his hat. Then he looked to the front door and windows and saw that they were all barred, except a single shutter which he left so he could open it.
A minute later, and the tramp of a hundred hurrying feet came loudly on his ear. Then shouts: "Clean her out. Kill her and burn her crib!"
In a minute the crowd brought up before the closed doors.
"Open your doors, woman, or we'll shatter them!" cried Wild Bill.
"Open, or down goes everything!" shouted the crowd.
"Here, Bill; here is a shutter loose!" cried one.
Wild Bill sprang toward it, and as he did so the shutter flew open; he saw a white face surrounded by auburn hair; he heard one gasping cry--"sister"--and he fell back in terror, crying out: "The ghost! the ghost!"
But some one fired a shot, the light went out, and all was dark where the light had been.
Bill recovered from his shock almost as soon as he felt it, and joined with the shout: "Down with the doors! Down with the doors."
The crash that followed, told that the frail obstacles had given way, and Bill cried out: "In and clean the crib out. Ghost or no ghost, give us light, and clean the crib out!"
Cheer after cheer told that the house was entered, and a minute later, torches made from splintered doors and shutters, blazed in a dozen hands as the ruffians ran to and for in search of plunder.
"The ghost. Find the ghost, or the woman!" yelled Bill.
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
|
10
|
A MYSTERY.
|
The excited and ruffianly crowd dashed to and fro, overturning the furniture, tearing aside curtains, and looking for plunder, but unable to find anything of value, beyond the furniture, or to see a single living person under the roof. Not a dollar in money, not a piece of plate rewarded their search.
"Fire the crib! fire the crib!" came from fifty throats, and almost as soon as spoken, the act was consummated.
Wild Bill, angered to find no one on whom to vent his wrath, or shake his thirst for revenge, looked on the blaze as it rose with gloomy satisfaction, muttering that he only wished the witch of a woman was burning in it.
The crowd increased as the flames rose higher and tighter, but no one tried to check them, and soon it was but a smoldering mass of ruins where the pretty cottage had stood.
But the late occupant, unharmed, was a mile away, and having just paid off and discharged her faithful servants, was on the point of mounting to ride off with the Texan and Mr. Pond, when the last shout of the dispersing crowd reached her ears.
She smiled when she heard it, and said: "I can afford all the harm they have done, I led but a lonesome life there. I feel that the change I am about to make will be for the better."
The three, with two loaded horses besides those they rode, now moved quietly but swiftly out of the suburbs of the town, where the horses had been stabled, and with the Texan leading the way, steered to the westward, having no compass but the stars.
For an hour the three rode on, and then, pointing to some timber ahead, the Texan said: "Addie, there is where you will find him whom you seek. Tell him I have not altered any of my plans, and that I shall lay in camp to-morrow at Lone-tree Spring, an hour's gallop south of the Twenty-mile Creek. The next morning I will follow the trail we spoke of. And now, Addie, good-by, and don't forgot me."
"You know I will not, I hope yet to see you happy, and to be happier than I am now. We shall meet again, perhaps, Mr. Pond, but good-night for now."
And while the Texan and Mr. Pond remained still on their horses, she rode on, leading one pack-horse, toward a growth of trees seen dimly ahead.
The Texan remained where he was until he heard her give the signal and receive an answer, and then turning to Pond, he said: "She is safe; we may as well move on. We have a long ride to where I intend to camp."
"All right," said the other, "This night's work seems almost like a dream. I can hardly realize that Wild Bill would lead such a disgraceful crowd of ruffians, and do such a dastardly act as to burn a woman out of house and home."
"Rum takes all the _man_ out of those who use it," said the Texan. "I use it myself sometimes, I know, but it is when I feel as if I was all giving out, and couldn't go through what was before me. And I feel abashed when I think I need such a stimulant to fire up my flagging nature."
Pond made no reply, but rode on thoughtfully at the rapid pace which the other led, the pack animal keeping close in the rear. At last he asked: "Who did Miss Neidic expect to meet where we left her?"
"A brave man who loves her dearly, but who has been driven in his desperation by cruel injustice to do some work which keeps him outside of towns and settlements for the present. His love is returned by her, and henceforth she will share his dangers and his hardships."
"None can tell but those who test it, how deeply, how entirely, and how lasting a true woman loves," said Pond, with a sigh.
"And none but a woman wronged can tell how bitterly she can hate!" said the other, as he dashed his spurs into his horse and galloped on.
Miles were swiftly passed over, and the gray of dawn was just beginning to soften night's darkness in the east, when the Texan exclaimed: "Here we are; now for a rest of one day, at least."
And as he spoke he drew up his horse by the side of a small pool of water, which trickled out from under the roots of a single large tree. For an acre or so around it there were bushes growing as high as the horses, but when light came, no other growth but that of short buffalo grass and prickly cactus could be seen.
The Texan unsaddled his horse, and unloaded the pack animal before Pond could get his saddle ungirthed. Then the Texan sprang to his assistance, finished stripping the horse, and with a long lariat picketed it out in the best grass. His own horses he turned loose, saying they never would stray from camp.
Then, taking his rifle, he stepped out from camp, saying he was going after meat.
In fifteen or twenty minutes, Pond heard the crack of his rifle and in less than half an hour the young man was back, with the fat saddle of a young antelope on his shoulder.
"Here is meat enough for to-day and to-morrow," he said. "Next day we will be on buffalo ground, and we'll have some hump ribs to roast."
Gathering a few dry, light sticks, he soon had a hot and almost smokeless fire ablaze. On the coals of this he set his coffee-pot, broiled some meat, and while Mr. Pond looked on in surprise, he quickly had a nice breakfast of antelope steak, coffee, and a few hard biscuit which were in the pack.
While Pond took hold and ate heartily, praising the food by his actions much as his words, the Texan ate lightly, yet all that he wanted--not touching the bread, but using meat entirely.
"There'll be the more left for you," said he, when Pond noticed that he ate no bread. "I never care for anything but meat on the plains. It gives bone and muscle, and that is what we need here. The more simple the food, the better the health. We use ourselves to salt, but we would be just as well off without it. Eat hearty, and take a good nap. We have nothing to do to-day. The party whose trail will be our guide to the "Hills" will not start till late. We shall not move until to-morrow morning, and then I'll show you the coals of the camp-fire which they'll light to-night. There will be no need for any shelter but this tree overhead. Everything looks clean and dry sky-ward--there's no better camping ground than this for a couple on the plains. The water is good, feed plenty, and we don't require much fire this time of year."
Pond, tired and sleepy, was only too glad to take the Texan's advice, so he spread his blanket, lay down, and soon was in the land of dreams.
Meantime the Texan, with a small field-glass in his hand, mounted the tree, and from a perch on its uppermost limbs, scanned the prairie in all directions, but most often in the direction from which they had come.
Nothing was in sight but wild game, scattered here and there, and he soon came down and prepared to take a rest on his own account.
"They'll not pass till afternoon," he muttered, "and I may as well rest a few hours while I can in peace and safety."
He took a long and curious look at the form of his sleeping traveling companion, and a strange smile flitted over his face, as he muttered: "A mystery, but I can solve it."
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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11
|
IN THE WILDS.
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If ever a man was astonished, when he responded to that after midnight signal at the mouth of Dead Man's Hollow, it was the outlaw, Persimmon Bill. He came from his place of concealment expecting to meet the Texan with news, and found instead Addie Neidic, and with her, on a pack horse, all the wealth and apparel she had in the world.
"Addie, love, what does this mean?" he cried, as she sprang from the horse and threw herself into his arms.
"It means this, Bill. I have come to stay with you, go where you go, live as you live, and die where you die!"
"Addie, dearest, did I not tell you to wait till I could give you a home in peace and quietness!"
"Yes, Bill, but there were those that would not let me wait. To-night, had it not been for thy Texan friend, most likely I would have been murdered by a mob of drunken ruffians led on by Wild Bill. Warned in time, I escaped with all that I had worth saving, except my house and furniture. Those they burned; I saw the blaze from my stable, where I went to get my horses to come to you."
"By all that's fiendish, this is more than I can bear! I'll ride in with my Sioux and burn the cursed town!"
"No, Bill; for my sake keep cool and hear me. I am glad it is done. I was wretched and lonely there--how lonely no words may tell. I was in constant anxiety on your account. I trembled daily, hourly, lest I should hear of your death or capture. Now I shall be with you, know of your safety, or if you are in peril, share the danger with you."
"But, Addie, you can never endure the privations and the fatigue of such a life as I must lead at present. Soon I must be on a bloody war-path. We will have regular troops to meet, great battles to fight."
"And it will be my glory and pride to be with you in all your perils--to show your red allies what a pale-faced woman dares and can do for him whom she loves."
"Dearest, I see not how it can be helped. But I grieve to see you suffer."
"Do not grieve, my love, while my face is bright with smiles. Do not let your heart be heavy while mine is full of joy. Think but this--I am thine until death. We will never part while life thrills our veins. Your triumphs shall be mine; I will glory in your courage, and in your enterprise. I have arms and well know their use. No warrior in all your following can ride better than I. That I am fearless I really believe, for twice inside of ten hours have I defied Wild Bill in his anger, and laughed when his hand was on his pistol. But take me to your camp. I am tired, and the night air is chilly; and take care of the pack horse. My silver and over one hundred thousand dollars in money is on his back, and what clothing I shall need for a time."
"You bring a rich dowry, Addie, but your love is worth more than all the treasures the world could show. Come, darling, I will take you as the most precious gift a wild, bad man ever received."
"You are not bad, Bill. You are my hero and my love!"
Bill could only press his answer on her lips, and then with the bridle of her horses in his hand, and her arm linked in his, he walked back up the winding bed of the ravine for near a quarter of a mile.
Then he emerged into an open space where there were full a hundred Indian ponies staked out, with their owners lying in groups about near small smoldering camp-fires. A few only were on guard, and these on seeing their white chief appear paid no apparent attention to the companion, though they doubtless saw her. It is the Indian's nature to be stoical and never to manifest surprise, no matter what occurs.
Inside the line where the ponies were staked was a small brush house, and in front of this Bill halted with his led horses, with his own hands unsaddled one and unpacked the other, leaving packs and saddles in front of the house.
Well he knew they were as safe there as they would have been behind bolts and bars in the settlements--even more safe.
"Come in, my love," he said. "The Sioux will care for the horses. Come in and receive the best a fond heart can give in the way of shelter and comfort."
"It is all I ask," she murmured, as with him she entered the "Outlaw's Home."
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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12
|
ON THE TRAIL.
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It was high noon when the young Texan woke up and when he rose Pond still lay sleeping. The former laughed lightly, as he rose and bathed his face in the limpid water, for the beard of the sleeper had got all awry, showing that it was false.
"No need for a disguise here," said the Texan. "But let him keep it up. When the time comes I'll read him a lesson."
Cutting some antelope stakes, the Texan built up a smokeless fire, and had them nicely broiled when Willie Pond woke up.
"Mercy! how I have slept!" he said, as he looked at the sun, already fast declining toward the west.
"You are not used to passing sleepless nights," said the Texan. "When we are fairly launched into the Indian country you may not sleep so sound. Take hold and eat. A hearty eater on the plains generally stands travel best. To-morrow, it is likely, we'll have a fifty-mile ride or more, if those Black Hillers get sobered down to their work. They'll do well if they make their twenty to-day."
Pond went and bathed his face and hands in the limpid water before eating, and as he expressed it, "rubbed the sleep" out of his eyes; then he went at the toothsome steak with appetite not at all impaired by the pure open air he was breathing.
The meal, taken with comfort and deliberation, occupied a half hour or more, and as there were no dishes to wash, "clearing up things" only consisting in tossing the bones out of the way, wiping their knives on a bunch of grass, scouring them with a plunge or two in the dry sand, they were all ready for next meal-time.
"Your horse hears something, so does mine," said the Texan, pointing to the animals, which suddenly stopped feeding, and with their ears pricked forward, looked off to the east-ward.
"I can see nothing. What can alarm them!" said Pond.
"They hear the tramp of the Black Hills party, I think. Horses have far better hearing than we have, and will feel a jar of the ground that would not attract our attention. I want no better sentinel than my mustang, and your Black Hawk seems to take to the watch by instinct. I will go up on my look-out post and see if anything is in sight."
Slinging the strap of his field-glass over his shoulder, the Texan hurriedly climbed up the tree. Seated among the top-most limbs, he adjusted his glass and looked away to the northeast.
"There they are!" he cried.
"Who? What?" exclaimed Pond, rather nervously.
"The Black Hillers, struggling along mighty careless. Their route covers half a mile in length; when in good marching order it should not cover a hundred yards, with scouts in the rear, front, and on both flanks, at twice the distance. That is the way we travel in Texas."
"Wild Bill has been a scout so long I should think he would know all about it," said Pond.
"A heap them scouts know who travel with Uncle Sam's troop's!" said the Texan, in a tone of contempt. "Let them ride with a gang of Texan Rangers a few months and they'd learn something. Your troops can't move, or stop to water, without sounding their bugles to tell the Indians where they are. In the morning, all day, and at night, it is toot, toot with their infernal horns, and the reds know just where to find 'em. One of our Texan Ranger bands will travel a hundred miles and you'll not hear noise enough to wake a coyote from them all. These Black Hillers travel slow to-day. They're sore-headed from their spree, I reckon."
"They deserve to be. Drunkenness always punishes the drunkard. I have no pity for them."
"Can you see any sign of them from where you stand?" asked the Texan.
Pond looked carefully off in the direction the other pointed, and replied: "No. They do not even raise dust."
"Then we are safe here from observation. They go too slow to make dust, and they're moving over grass any way. It will be dark before they reach their camping-ground. But to make the next, which is full fifty miles away, they'll have to start earlier. Ah! what does that mean?"
"What startles you?"
"Nothing _startles_ me, but a couple of men from that party have dashed out from the line at a gallop, and they ride this way."
"Heaven! I hope Bill--Wild Bill--is not one of them!" cried Pond, greatly excited. "Are you sure they are coming here?"
"Riding _this way_ does not assume that they're coming _here!" _ said the Texan, coolly. "They may have flanked off to look for some fresh meat. Yes, that is it," he added. "They bear up to the north now; they want to go ahead of the party so as to kill something fresh for supper. Captain Jack kept sober when all the rest were drinking last night, and I'll wager he is one of the hunters, and most likely Sam Chichester is the other. We're safe from observation, Mr. Pond, so don't get nervous. We'll not see Wild Bill to-day."
Pond smiled, but there was a tremor about him that showed he was easy to take alarm and hard to get over it.
The Texan came down from the tree and busied himself in gathering some dry fuel--small sticks which would make a quick hot blaze and little or no smoke. Then he cut off some long thin flakes of antelope flesh from the saddle hanging on the tree, and half cooked, half dried it.
"Meat may be a little unhandy to get in the rear of that straggling band," he said. "If we have a little on hand, it will do no hurt."
"You are thoughtful," said Pond. "I would make a poor manager, I fear, on the plains. I should forget everything until it was needed."
"You are not too old to learn," said the Texan, laughing.
"Excuse my asking the question, but have you long been acquainted with that strange and beautiful woman, Addie Neidic?"
"Not very long, myself. But I had a brother who knew her very well, and loved her almost to madness, She was his true friend, but she did not love him."
"Is he living now?"
"Living? _No! _ If ever you meet Wild Bill--but no, it is my secret. Ask me no more about him."
Every word just spoken flew from the Texan's lips like sheets of fire; his eyes flashed and his face flushed, while his form trembled from head to foot.
"Forgive me! I did not mean to wound your feelings!" said Pond, moved by the excitement of the other.
"No matter; I know you didn't. No matter. It will all come right one of these days. I wish my heart was stone!"
Pond was silent, for he saw the Texan's eyes fill with tears, and he seemed to know that nothing which he could say could soften a grief so deeply felt.
The Texan was the first to speak.
"Addie Neidic is a strange, but a noble girl," he said. "Her father was a rough sporting man, but her mother was a lady born and bred. The mother lived long enough to educate Addie in her own ways, but she died just as Addie was budding into beauty. Addie met her lover when he was a soldier at Fort Russell, near Cheyenne. After he was driven to desertion by cruelty and injustice, she met him from time to time, and when her father died, leaving her all his fortune, she moved up to Laramie. I think I know now the reason why--she could, meet him more often."
"You said that he was an outlaw."
"Yes; when he deserted he killed the two sentinels who were on guard over him, then killed a mounted officer and rode away on his horse. He was hunted for by whole companies as fast as they could be mounted, but he could not be taken. But after that, if a soldier or an officer rode alone a mile or more from the post, he seldom returned, but his body told that Persimmon Bill, the 'Soldier Killer,' as he was called, still lived around. Wild Bill has done bloody work--cruel work in his time, but Persimmon Bill has killed ten men to his one."
"It is strange that an intelligent woman like Addie Neidic should love such a man."
"No--he is both a martyr and a hero in her eyes. A more stately form, a nobler face, never met favor in the eyes of woman. To his foes fierce and relentless, to her he is gentle and kind. She will never meet aught but tenderness at his hands."
"I wish I could have seen him."
"You may yet see him, Mr. Pond. He travels the plains as free as the antelopes which bound from ridge to ridge. Adopted by the Sioux nation, known to them as the 'White Elk,' he has become a great chief, and their young braves follow in his lead with a confidence which makes them better than the solders sent to subdue them."
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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13
|
THE BLACK HILLERS EN ROUTE.
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The young Texan had judged rightly when he conjectured that it was Sam Chichester and Captain Jack that had ridden out from the straggling column of the Black Hillers, as he saw from his eyrie in the tree.
They had two objects in doing so. The ostensible object was to reach the camping-ground first with some game for supper, but another was to converse, unheard by the others, on the probable dangers of the trip, and means to meet and overcome such dangers.
"There is no doubt the Sioux are on the war-path," said Chichester to Captain Jack, as they rode on side by side.
"None in the world. They've taken a hundred scalps or more already on the Black Hills route. The troops have been ordered to move up the Missouri and Yellowstone, and that will make them worse than ever. We'll be lucky if we get through without a brush. That was a mean thing, the burning out of that Neidic girl last night, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Crawford, and if Persimmon Bill ever comes across Wild Bill, _his goose is cooked! _ Mark that. There is not a surer shot, or a deadlier foe on earth then Persimmon Bill. He has defied the whole border for the past three years--ridden right into a military post and shot men down, and got away without a scratch. They say he has been adopted by the Sioux, and if he has, with such backing he'll do more mischief than ever."
"I don't believe Bill would have injured the woman had he been sober. It was a mean thing to do any way, and I'm sorry any of our party had a hand in it."
"So am I. But look, Jack, you can see tree-tops ahead. That is the timber on Twenty-mile Creek. There we camp. We'll spread a little here, and the one who sees a fat elk first will drop him. We'll keep within sight and hearing of each other, and if one fires the other will close on him."
"All right, Sam."
And the brave young scout, all the better for being ever temperate and steady, gently diverged to the right, while Chichester bore off to the left.
Game in the shape of prairie hens rose right and left as they rode on, and every little while a band of antelopes, taking the alarm, would be seen bounding over the sandy ridges, while an elk farther off startled by the antelope, would take fright and trot off in style.
The two hunters were now nearing the timber, and they rode more slowly and with greater caution.
Suddenly, as Chichester rose over a small ridge, he came upon a band of a dozen or more noble elk, which trotted swiftly off to the right, where Captain Jack, seeing them coming, had sprung from his horse and crouched low on the ridge.
Chichester saw his movement, and lowered the rifle which he had raised for a flying shot, for he knew by their course the elk would go so close to Crawford that he could take his pick among them and make a sure shot.
The result justified his movement, for the noble animals, seeing only a riderless horse, scented no danger, and kept on until they were within easy pistol-shot of the experienced hunter.
Crack went his rifle, and the largest, fattest elk of the band gave one mighty bound and fell, while the rest bounded away in another course, fully alarmed at the report of a gun so close and its effects so deadly to the leader of the band.
"You've got as nice a bit of meat here as ever was cut up," cried Chichester to Captain Jack, as he came in at a gallop, while Crawford was cutting the throat of the huge elk. "The boys will have enough to choke on when we get to camp."
"I reckon they'll not growl over this," said Jack, laughing. "I never had an easier shot. They came down from your wind, and never saw me till I raised with a bead on this one's heart."
The two hunters had their meat all cut up and in condition for packing to camp when the column came up.
One hour later, just as the sun began to dip beyond the trees on the creek side, the party went into camp, and soon, over huge and carelessly built camp-fires, slices of elk steak and elk ribs were roasting and steaming in a most appetizing way.
The party were hungry, and the hungriest among them were those who had drank the hardest the night before, for till now they had not been able to eat. But the day's travel had worked some of the poison rum out of them, and their empty stomachs craved something good and substantial, and they had it in the fresh, juicy elk meat.
It was a hard and unruly crowd to manage on the start. Chichester found it difficult to get men to act as sentinels, for they mostly declared that there was no danger of Indians and no need to set guards.
Little did they dream that even then, within three hours' ride, or even less, there were enough blood-thirsty Sioux to meet them in fair fight, and defeat them, too.
Only by standing a watch himself and putting Crawford on for the most dangerous hour, that of approaching dawn, did Captain Chichester manage to have his first night's camp properly guarded.
Wild Bill, gloomy and morose, said he didn't "care a cuss" if all the Indians of the Sioux nation pitched upon them. He knew his time was close at hand, and what did it matter to him whether a red wore his scalp at his belt or some white man gloried in having wiped him out.
But the night passed without disturbance, and a very early start was made next morning.
Chichester made the men all fill their canteens with water, and the animals were all led into the stream to drink their fill, for there was a long, dry march to the next camping-ground.
Chichester and Captain Jack both knew the route well, for they had both been over it in one of the first prospecting parties to the "Hills."
|
{
"id": "21113"
}
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14
|
POND SEIZED WITH TERROR.
|
Nothing of note occurred in the little camp at the Lone-tree Spring that first night. Just before sunset the young Texan and Willie Pond took a gallop of four or five miles to exercise their horses and use themselves to the saddle, and when they came back with freshened appetites, ate heartily, and afterward slept soundly.
The next morning both woke with the sun, and after a hearty meal the pack-horse was loaded, the other animals saddled, and the route taken for the Hills.
A ride of six or seven miles brought them into the trail of the larger party, and at noon, or a little before, the Texan halted on the camping-ground occupied by that party the night before.
The embers of their fires were yet alive, and over them the Texan cooked dinner for himself and companion.
Pointing to the bones and scraps of meat thrown around, the Texan laughed, and said: "They've plenty now, but before they get through they'll be more careful, for if the Indians are thick, game will be hard to get; and I'm thinking they'll find Indians before they're three days out."
"You said the Sioux would be friendly to you?"
"Yes; I have a talisman. Did you not see me put this eagle feather, tipped with crimson, in my hat last night before I rode out?"
"Yes. Is that your talisman?"
"It is. It is from the coronet of a Sioux chief, and was given to me as a safeguard."
"I wish I had one."
"Keep with me and you will not need it."
"Do not fear that I will go far from you. Alone, I should feel utterly lost on these prairies. Where will we camp to-night?"
"Very close to the party that is ahead of us. They will go to a creek and a piece of timber that is fully fifty miles from here. About a mile from where I think they will camp there is a small ravine, in which we will find what grass and water we need. It will be near nightfall when we get there, if we do our best in travel. But if we ride hard, we'll take the longer rest. I do not care to keep too close to them as a general thing, but to-night we can't help it."
Their nooning was short, and taking the precaution to water their horses well, and fill their canteens, they rode forward over the well-defined trail quite swiftly.
Toward night they could see the trail freshened, but nothing was in sight except a distant mark when night fell, which the Texan said was the timber where the party ahead would camp. Just as the sun was setting smoke was seen to rise in that direction, and the Texan spoke contemptuously of the carelessness which would thus expose a camping-place to those who were miles distant.
"If a captain of a ranger band would do such a thing in Texas," he said, "his men would reduce him to the ranks and put one in his place who knew how to be cautious."
"It surely is imprudent. But they are a large party to cook for, and must have large fires," said Pond.
The young Texan laughed scornfully.
"Let every man make his own fire, make such fires as you have seen me make, and the smoke could not be seen a rifle-shot away," was the answer. "That party will never reach the Hills. Mark that! If Indians are within twenty miles they'll see a smoke like that. But what is it to us? We're safe."
"I am not so selfish as to wish harm to reach them, even if we are safe!" said Pond, testily.
"That is as much as to say that I am selfish. Well, I acknowledge it. I go in for number one. If they can't take ordinary care of themselves, let them suffer."
Willie Pond made no answer, but rode on in silence. Night was now upon them, and all was still except the thud of the galloping hoofs upon the plain.
Suddenly a gleam of fire was seen far ahead. The Texan noted it, and swerved off to the left.
"There is the camp," he said. "I can easily find our resting-place now. I was afraid we would not see their fires until we were right up to the timber. But they are careless with their fire as they are with their smoke. We shall have moonlight in an hour, and in less time we'll be in camp."
He rode on now, more slowly, for the horses were tired, and he seemed to know so well where to go that there was no haste.
The moon was just above the trees when the Texan led the way into a narrow ravine, with heavy timber on either side. Up this, full ten minutes they rode, and then an exclamation of pleased wonder broke from the lips of Willie Pond. For they came out into an open circular plain or area of several acres in extent, covered with rich grass and centered by a bright, mirror-like lake.
"What a lovely spot!" cried Pond. "Who on earth would dream of finding such a paradise inside of gates so dark and rude."
"One who had been here before," said the Texan. "But speak low, for careless as they may be over there in camp, some one might be outside listening."
"Why, it is over a mile away, is it not?"
"Yes, along the line of the wood. But over this cliff, were it crossed, it is not a quarter of that distance."
And the Texan pointed to a rugged tree-crowned cliff on their right.
"I will be careful," said Pond. "My enthusiasm breaks out when I see beautiful things. I can hardly restrain myself."
"We will unsaddle and camp. Our horses are tired, and need food and drink," was all that the Texan said.
And he at once unloaded the pack-horse, and unsaddled his mustang.
Pond, becoming more handy, now did the same for Black Hawk, who seemed to take quite a fancy to his new master, curving his back proudly under his caressing touch.
"Shall I picket him, as we did at the last camp?" asked Pond, when he had unsaddled his horse.
"No, let him go with mine. They have been together long enough to mate, and they'll feed peaceably in company. Mine will never stray or stampede, and the other will not go off alone."
The simple camp was soon fixed; and as they had cooked meat left, and biscuit, with plenty of water to drink, both agreed that there was no necessity to build any fire.
"The smell of smoke might reach some sharp-nosed scout over there," said the Texan, "for the wind blows that way. We'll eat, and then turn in, for rest will come good to both of us."
The horses plunged off to the water and drank, and then went to cropping the luxuriant grass, while their masters ate their suppers with appetites strengthened by their long and wearying ride.
After they had supped, Willie Pond would, as usual, have enjoyed his dainty cigarette, had not the Texan warned him that tobacco smoke would scent farther than any other, and might be more dangerous, in betraying their presence, than anything else.
So Mr. Pond had to forego his smoke. He took a blanket, and moving up to a little mossy knoll just under the edge of the cliff, threw himself down to sleep.
The Texan also took his blanket, but he lay down near the saddles and packs.
Pond was so very weary that he soon fell asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but a strange, oppressive dream woke him, and with the moonlight, shining full in the valley, while he lay shaded beneath a tree and the overhanging cliff, he saw a sight which froze his very heart with a mortal terror.
The ravine by which he and his companion had entered was filled with mounted Indians, who were riding silently into the little valley.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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15
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CHEATED OF THEIR PREY.
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Literally dumb with terror, so weak that he could not rise, Pond saw this strange cavalcade moving up toward the little lake, and looked to the spot where the Texan had lain down to see if he had yet taken the alarm.
To his wonder and redoubled alarm, he saw the Texan not alone, but with a white man, dressed in buckskin, by his side, and a woman also, apparently in friendly converse, calmly waiting the Indian advance.
Recognizing at a glance the woman as Addie Neidic, Pond realized that the man must be no other than Persimmon Bill, and that his followers were the blood-thirsty Sioux, whom he headed.
"Heaven help me! There is some fearful treachery here. Wild Bill and his companions are lost if they are not warned in time. How can it be done?"
How strangely, as if by intuition, strategy, and cunning thought come to some when environed by unlooked-for danger.
Without a moment's hesitation, Pond so arranged his blanket that if glanced at it would appear he was yet sleeping under it, for he left his hat on the stone where his head had been, and his rifle leaning against the tree right over it.
Then, bare-headed, with no weapons but his pistols and knife in his belt, he crept off up the hill-side with the silence and stealth of a scout who had been a life-time in the business. He wondered at himself as he began to scale the mountain-side, not daring to look back, how he could creep up amid those fearful crags so noiselessly, and how he could have got away unseen, when the Texan and those who were with him were not a pistol shot away.
On, on he kept, ever seeking the shadowed spots, where no moonlight could reveal his form, until at last he was on the very crest of the hill. Looking down he plainly saw the camp-fires of the Black Hillers below. They were most likely buried in slumber, and, if they had sentinels out, his life would be endangered by a rapid approach. But of this he seemed not to think as he hurried almost recklessly down through thickets, over crags, and along rugged gulches.
How he got down he hardly knew, but he was down, and rushing toward the nearest fire, when he heard a stern, short summons close in his front: "Halt! Who comes there?"
A man, armed with rifle and pistols, stepped from the shadow of a tree, and Pond gasped out: "A friend. A friend come to save all your lives. There are a hundred Indians within a mile of you, led by the desperado Persimmon Bill."
"Who are you?" was the stern inquiry.
"Wild Bill will know me. Take me to him, quick!" was the response.
"To our captain first. Come along!" said the sentinel.
The next moment Willie Pond was in the presence of Sam Chichester and Captain Jack, telling his story.
"It looks like truth, and if it is, the quicker we get out of here the better. If we can get fifteen or twenty miles the start we may keep it," said Chichester.
"He says Wild Bill knows him. Where is Bill?" cried Jack. "Ah, there he comes."
Bill, awakened by hearing his name called, was rising, and now approached the party.
Pond sprang forward, and addressed him hurriedly in whispered tones.
Wild Bill for an instant seemed lost in astonishment, his first exclamation being, "Great Heaven! you here?"
But after he heard the whispered words he only added, addressing Chichester: "Captain, this friend of mine will not lie. We are in danger, and he has risked his life to save us. I want a spare horse for him, and the sooner we get from here, the better for our hair."
With as little noise as possible, the whole party were aroused, and the danger explained. Quickly the animals were saddled, and in less than twenty minutes the camp-ground was all deserted, though more fuel had been purposely heaped on the fires to keep up the appearance of occupation, if scouts should be sent to examine the camp.
"It lacks four hours yet to daylight!" said Chichester to Captain Jack, "We'll get just that much start, for they'll make no attack until just as day begins to break. I know the ways of them red cusses only too well."
"You haven't much the advantage of me in that kind of knowledge, Sam. But if that fellow was anywhere right as to their numbers, and the Sioux are well mounted, they'll bother us yet before we get to the hills, no matter if we do get eighteen or twenty miles the start!"
"We'll give 'em a long race and a tough tussle before they get our hair any way!" said Chichester. "I wonder who that fellow is? Bill seems to like him right well, for they ride as close as their horses can move together. Bill has supplied him with a hat--he came in bare-headed, you know."
"Yes; he must have had a terrible climb to get over to us. The only wonder is he got away undiscovered."
"He said he left his blanket in a shape to make them think he was sleeping under it."
"He must be an old hand to fool them so nicely."
"He doesn't look like it, He doesn't ride like a scout or a plainsman--he sits his horse too gracefully."
"No matter; one thing is certain. Wild Bill knows him well, trusts him, and they stick as close together as twins."
"Yes, Captain Jack, I wish you'd take the rear and make those packers keep up. There must be no lagging. If a horse or mule fails they must be left. I'll keep the advance going."
Thus the Black Hillers swept on at a gallop, knowing that a merciless fate was theirs if overtaken by the Sioux.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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16
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THE PURSUIT.
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The young Texan had not dreamed of being followed so soon by Persimmon Bill and his Indians, and he had lain down to sleep as honestly and confidently as Willie Pond, when he dropped down by the saddles and pack.
He was aroused by a touch on his shoulder, when he awoke and was surprised to find Bill and Addie Neidic standing by his side.
"Where are your Indians?" was the first question the Texan asked, as Bill whispered, in a low tone: "I am here. I have followed the trail a little sooner than I thought I would. The Indians are in the ravine waiting for my signal to come in and let their horses feed and rest before we attack. Where is your friend?" continued Bill.
"Sound asleep under that tree up there. He sleeps like a log, and will not wake till I shake him up. I never saw such a sleeper. Yesterday he spent most of the day snoring."
"It is well. There is no use of alarming him before we are ready for work. I will give the signal, and let my warriors file in."
The outlaw waved a blanket in the air, and the Indians silently filed into the valley. At another signal they turned their horses loose to graze, and then gathered in groups out on the plain to take food and rest themselves while their leader conversed with the Texan, whom having seen before, they knew as his friend.
Meantime, the Texan motioning Addie Neidic and her lover to take seats on his blanket, conversed with the latter in a low tone on the plan of attack.
"I shall not make it until just as day dawns--for two reasons," said the outlaw. "First, then they will keep the most careless guard; second, when light is coming, we can see how to kill, and how to save the two whose lives are to be spared. We will do the work in a hurry when it is done. I have given my warriors their orders; most of them know Wild Bill and Captain Jack, for both have been on the reservations often when they have been in. For these reds can go where I cannot, and get arms and ammunition where I would not dare apply for them."
"Shall I not make you and Addie some coffee?" asked the Texan. "I can do it without danger, for I have a small alcohol lamp in my pack, which I had to keep for use when I could not get fuel.
"It will be refreshing, indeed, if there is no risk in making it," said Addie Neidic.
"There is none, and I will soon have it made," was the reply. Shaded from even Indian observation by the blanket he raised on some bushes, the young Texan speedily made a quart cupful of strong coffee, and shared it between the lady and her outlaw lover. It and some cooked meat he had gave them strength, and then all three lay down like the others to rest for an hour or two, the outlaw bidding one of his warriors keep watch, and to wake him when the morning star was seen over the trees in the east.
And little dreaming that their intended victims were far away from their camp, the Indians and their leader took rest preparation to their deadly work.
When his warrior sentinel awoke him, Persimmon Bill found that the morning star was well up, and it was full time to be moving toward the scene of action.
"You will stay here in the valley, dear Addie, till we come back," he said. "We will steal away quietly, and not wake that sleeping stranger if it can be helped, for he might, in his terror, fire his gun, or in some way give an alarm. Should he wake, hearing firing over there, keep him quiet with persuasion or your revolver until we return, and then if he is obstreperous, I will quiet him."
"Let me go with you, Bill," she said. "I am not afraid."
"It must not be, dear Addie, There is no need of your being exposed _there,_ and it is well to have _him_ watched here. Our main certainty of complete success is in a surprise. The least alarm may prevent it."
"I will remain then," she said. "And you need not fear for any alarm from him--for I know I can keep him quiet should he wake. I have a keen persuader here, if I have to use it."
And she touched a poniard in her belt, which also contained two good revolvers.
"An outlaw's bride," she added, smiling, "must be prepared to take care of herself."
The Indians now began silently to form their march, as they saw their white leader mount, and the young Texan also get his horse. The Black Hawk seemed uneasy that his master was not at hand, and the Texan was obliged to tie him by the side of the horse ridden by Addie Neidic before he would be quiet.
"It is strange that Mr. Pond does not wake with all this noise," said the Texan, as he rode off with Persimmon Bill. "But as I told you, he is the soundest sleeper I ever traveled with."
The Indians now filed away out of the valley as silently as they entered it, for, knowing the close vicinity of the other camp, they were aware how necessary it was to be cautious.
And now Addie Neidic stood alone, while the morning star rose higher and higher, gazing at what she supposed was the sleeping man on the knoll.
The moon had got so far around that she could see his hat, the rifle against the tree, and the outlines of his form, as she believed.
"I will move up and secure his rifle," she thought, after the band had been gone some time. "He might wake; and in his first alarm use it foolishly."
So she moved with a noiseless step within reach of the gun, and the next moment it was in her possession. Then she looked down, to see if he showed signs of waking. To her surprise, she saw no motions of a breathing form under the blanket. A closer look told her that if a form had been beneath the blanket, or a head under that hat, it was gone. And, feeling with her hand under the blanket, she, found it cold; no warm living form had been there for hours.
"He has been alarmed, seen us, and crept away--perhaps is hiding in terror in the brush," she muttered.
She did not even then realize that he might have fled away to alarm the other camp. She did not even understand several shrill yells, which reached her ear from over the hill. She had not been with the Sioux long enough to know their cries. These yells were the signal cries of scouts sent in, who had found a deserted camp. She only wondered, after hearing the yells, that she did not hear firing--the sounds of battle raging.
While she yet wondered, day dawned, finding her standing there by the empty blanket of Willie Pond, holding his rifle, and looking up the hill to see if he would not creep out, now that light had come and the Indians had gone.
A shrill neigh from the black horse called her attention toward the animal, and she saw the Texan riding into the valley on a keen run.
"Where is Bill?" she asked, as she ran to meet the rider, with Pond's blanket, hat, and rifle in her hand.
"Gone at full speed with his warriors on the trail of the Black Hillers, who have been alarmed in some way, and, have got at least two hours start. He sent me back to bring you and Pond along."
"Here is all of Mr. Pond that can be found," said Addie, holding up what she had found. "I went to the nest, the bird had flown, and the nest was cold."
The Texan rode quickly to the spot, and in a moment saw the trail over the ridge made by Pond when he had escaped.
"It was he who gave the alarm--him whom I believed so sleepy!" he muttered. "He must have seen Bill and the Indians when they first came, arranged his blanket and hat as you found it, and crept over the hill. When I cautioned him to keep quiet, I told him how near and in what direction they were. I see it all. Green as I took him to be, he has outwitted us all!"
"It is so. This is his horse--a noble animal, too. We will take that with us."
"Of course; and we must hurry on, for Bill is miles on the trail already. He will be even more surprised than we when he knows how the Black Hillers got warning. I'll not give much for Mr. Pond's hair," said the Texan.
In a few seconds the horse which Addie had ridden was saddled and ready, and, leaving his pack-horse behind, but leading the Black Hawk, the young Texan, with Addie Neidic by his side, dashed at full speed over the valley, and out of the ravine.
Once out on the open plain, they could see far away to the west a cloud of dust. It was made by the Sioux under the White Elk, who were pushing the horses to their wildest speed on the trail of the fugitives. This trail the Texan and Addie Neidic followed at their utmost speed.
The double trail made by the Black Hillers and the pursuing Indians would have been plain indeed to follow had not the column of dust served as a guide.
With their horses at full speed, and better than the general run of Indian ponies, the Texan and his fair companion gained slowly but surely on the Indians, and within an hour had passed the rear of their column, and were pressing well to the front.
Yet it was noon when they ranged alongside of Persimmon Bill himself, and reported the discovery Addie Neidic had made.
"One more scalp ahead of us," was all he said, when he heard the report.
And he pressed on still faster.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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17
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UNLOOKED-FOR AID.
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With their heavily-laden pack-horses, lengthy as their start was, the party under Chichester saw their pursuers plainly in their rear before the day was two-thirds passed, and Captain Jack, hurrying up the rear all he could, sent word to Chichester that the reds were gaining rapidly.
Chichester sent word back to press the rear forward at its utmost speed. He could see timber ahead, and if they could only reach it, they might be able to make a stand. Satisfied, from the report of Willie Pond, that over one hundred well-armed and well-mounted Indians were on his trail, fearful that many of his men would flinch in battle, he dared not, with the few that were true, make a stand on the open plain.
Had all been like Wild Bill, California Joe, and Captain Jack, he would have halted, rested his horses, and given the reds battle rather than fly from even treble his number. But he knew well that a few cowards would weaken the rest, and he wanted to get some shelter before he met such odds.
The timber was yet fully two hours' ride distant, half of the pack-horses had given out and been left, and many of the mounted men complained that they could not keep their horses much longer in the column.
Sam Chichester had been obliged to slacken the pace in front, and the enemy were gaining so fast that the glitter of their arms, could be seen even and the dust-cloud that rose above them.
Suddenly another column of dust was seen, and this appeared to come from the direction of the timber, though south of the route the Black Hillers were taking.
"Men!" muttered Sam Chichester, "there's no use in our running much farther. If that new cloud of dust is made by Indian's, all that we can do is to sell our lives as dearly as we can. We will soon know one thing or the other."
"They're not on the line we're taking. They can't be coming for us," said Captain Jack, who had ridden to the front. "They're coming in our flank."
"And night is coming, too," growled California Joe. "If we can keep on for two hours more, we'll have darkness to shield us, for no red will fight in the dark without he attacks, and has camp-fires to light up with."
"We'll keep them, on while an animal will move, and when we must, turn and fight for life or vengeance, if we must go under," said Chichester. "Forward, men--forward once more!"
Again Captain Jack took the post of honor, for such indeed was the rear guard in this case. Suddenly, on looking back, he saw that the Indians, instead of gaining, had come to a halt.
"They've given it up! they've given it up!" he cried, sending a messenger forward to Captain Chichester to slacken the speed of the column.
It was now almost sundown, and the men in the column, choked and thirsty, weary beyond expression, could hardly believe the news was true. They were soon satisfied, though, that it was; but it was not for an hour yet, when twilight was beginning to gather, that they learned the real cause of their present safety.
The Indians would have been upon them before night set in, had they not first discovered the nature of the dust cloud to the south-west, or rather who it was raised by. The field-glass of the Texan, even miles and miles away, had detected the flutter of cavalry guidons amid the dust, and showed that mounted troops were near enough to come to the aid of the Black Hill men before they could be crushed and their scalps taken.
So, much against his will, Persimmon Bill was obliged to slacken his pace, and soon to turn his course, so, as by a night march, to put his warriors beyond the reach of those who might turn on them.
When night fell, Chichester, joined by two companies of cavalry, bound for the Hills, under orders to join forces already on the way by another route, moved slowly to a camping-ground in the timber, for which he had been heading hours back.
The horses of the troops were weak from scant forage, and the commanding officer did not feel it his duty to wear them out chasing Indians, though he held himself ready to protect the mining party as long as they remained with him.
And they were just too willing to go on with such an escort, even with the loss of all the pack animals left on their trail; and had Persimmon Bill only halted, instead of falling back, he would have found that there was no danger of pursuit.
Chichester and Crawford, when they compared notes, and found not a man of their party lost, though half its property was gone, felt satisfied that it was no worse, for at one time it seemed to both that nothing was left to them but to sell their lives as dearly as they could.
In a well-guarded camp all were settled before the moon rose, and never was rest more needed by animals and men.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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18
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ON THE DEATH-TRAIL.
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Bivouacked on the treeless plain, so far from the old trail and from the timber ahead that they could see no sign of the Black Hillers or the troops, the next morning's sun rose on the band of Sioux led by Persimmon Bill. Used to all kinds of exigencies, the red men did not mind either a lack of food or of water for so short a time. They were only angered with the thought that those whom they had deemed an easy prey had escaped them.
As soon as it was light, Persimmon Bill had the captured pack-horses examined, and it was found that several of them were laden with provisions. Others had ammunition and stores, and on some of them were found kegs of liquor.
These the wary leader at once destroyed, telling his followers that there was no foe so deadly to the red man as this fire-water and not one drop should pass his lips or theirs. The provisions were at once distributed among them, as also the stores, but the liquor was given to the thirsty sands, where at least it could do no harm.
Then a council was held by the leader with the chiefs and head warriors of the band, and it was decided that it would be foolish to pursue the Black Hill people farther, now that troops were with them, unless a large band of Sioux could be found. For it is not Indian policy to risk battle against odds, or where there is danger of great loss and little gain. To reach water and good hunting-grounds was their first necessity; after that they could consider where next to go. Sitting Bull was rallying all the tribes for war, and the "White Elk" had promised to join him.
Gloomily the young Texan heard all this talk, and at its close, when a decision had been arrived at, he said: "Here we must part. I follow the trail of Wild Bill, if I follow it alone. I had hoped to see him die a slow and cruel death, where I could have heard him plead, and plead in vain for mercy. But that hope is gone, if he reaches the Hills in safety. But he cannot live--he shall not! I have sworn to kill him, and I will! The spirit of him who fell at Abilene cries up from a bloody grave for vengeance, and the cry shall be answered. You have been kind to me Addie Neidic, and so has he to whom your heart is given. I shall never forget it. But our courses now lie apart--I follow yonder trail, while you go I know not where. We may not meet again--if we do, I shall tell you Wild Bill is dead!"
"Stay with us. I will yet help you to your vengeance," said Persimmon Bill.
"No; it will be too long delayed. I am hot on the death-trail now, and I will not leave it. Fear not for me. I shall hover near them till they reach the Hills, and then I will not wait long to fulfill my work. When the deed is done, if I still think life is precious, and his friends press me too hard, I may look for safety, as you have done, with the Sioux."
"Come and you shall find in me a sister, and in him a brother," cried Addie Neidic. " _A brother? _ I had one once," came in a low, sobbing cry from the young Texan's lips; then, with his head bowed, and scalding tears rolling down his cheeks, he drove the spurs into his horse, and sped away swiftly in the direction of the old trail.
The Black Hawk horse, saddled and bridled, but riderless, galloped on by the side of the Texan's fleet mustang, with no wish to part from his company.
"He had death in his eye! He will kill Wild Bill, and we shall never see him again," said Persimmon Bill. "The miners are rough, and condemn before they try, and hang as soon as condemnation is spoken. I pity the boy--for he is but a boy."
Addie Neidic smiled.
"We shall see your boy again," she said, "Something seems to whisper to me that his fate is in some way linked with ours. I, too, feel sure that he will kill Wild Bill, and then escape to join us. And you, my hero, will rise till all these Indian nations call you king. How these who follow you look up to you now, obeying every word or sign. And think, on these vast plains, and in the endless range of hills, valleys, and mountains, there must be countless thousands, who want but a daring, skillful leader to make them the best light troops in the world."
"You are ambitions for me, dearest," said Bill, with a strange, sad smile. "I hope to prove worthy of your aspirations. But we must move. I head now for the Big Horn Valley, to meet Sitting Bull."
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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19
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"SAVE, OH, SAVE MY HUSBAND!"
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"Safe and in port at last, as old Cale Durg used to say, when a scout was over and he was back in garrison."
This was the joyous exclamation of Captain Jack Crawford, as he turned to Sam Chichester when their party rode into the settlement at the Deadwood Mines in the Black Hills. Escorted nearly all the way by the cavalry they had so providentially met, they had been troubled no more by the Indians, and excepting the loss of some horses, and part of their "fit-out" and stores, had suffered nothing. Not a man had been hurt, and best of all, they came in sober, for the benzine had all gone with the lost packs, for it was heaviest on the mules, as it would have been on the men, had it not been host.
"I'm glad the trip is over. My temper never has been more tried," said Chichester. "The most of the men have had their own way, though when we started they promised on honor to obey me as captain. But honor is a scarce article with the majority of them. Now they're here, they'll go it with a looseness."
"You bet," was Crawford's sententious remark. "Wild Bill will be in his element. Look at the signs. Rum, faro, monte, all have a swing here, you can swear."
"Men, into line one minute, and then we part!" shouted Captain Chichester to his party.
For a wonder, with temptation on every side, the weary riders obeyed, and drew up in a straggling line to hear their leader's parting speech.
"Men, I promised to bring you here safely if I could, but to get all of you here that I could, any way. I've kept my promise we're here."
"Ay! Three cheers for Sam Chichester!" shouted Wild Bill.
The cheers were given, and Chichester said: "Thank you, boys. Now do me one favor. You are here in a busy place, and I see by the sign that benzine is about as plenty as water. Touch it light, and do behave, yourselves, that my name will not be disgraced by any of Sam Chichester's crowd. Every man is his own master now, and must look out for himself. I wish you all good luck, and shall work hard for it myself."
The speech was over, and in a second the line melted away and every man was seeking quarters or pitching into the benzine shops.
Wild Bill would have been the first to go there, had not his companion, Willie Pond, said, in a low tone: "Bill, please get quarters for you and me before you do anything else. You know what you have promised. Remember, if it had not been for me, neither you nor one of this party would ever have got here."
"You're right. But I'm so cussed dry!" muttered Bill. "You're right, I'll find housing for us two before a drop passes my lips."
And Bill rode on to the upper part of the town, as it might be called, where some men were putting up a new shanty, in fact, just putting the finishing touch on it by hanging a door.
"Will you sell that shebang?" asked Bill, of the man who seemed to be the head workman.
"Yes, if we get enough. We can build another. What will you give?"
"These two horses, and a century," said Bill, pointing to the animals ridden by himself and companion, and holding up a hundred-dollar bill which Pond had furnished him.
"O. K. The house is yours!" said the man. "Boys, put for timber, and we'll have another up by sunset."
Bill and his companion dismounted, removed their blankets, arms, and saddle-bags into the house, gave up the horses and were at home. It did not take long to settle there.
* * * * * * * * Night had fallen on the town of Deadwood, but not the calm which generally comes with night where the laborer is but too glad to greet the hour of rest. Lights flashing through chinks in rude cabins, lights shimmering through canvas walls, songs, shouts, laughter, curses, and drunken yells made the place seem like a pandemonium on earth.
Almost every other structure, either tent, cabin, or more pretentious framed house, was either a saloon or gambling-hell, or both combined. And all these seemed full. The gulches, sinks, and claims that had been the scene of busy labor all the day were now deserted, and the gold just wrenched from the bowels of the earth was scattered on the gambling table, or poured into the drawer of the busy rumseller.
At this same hour, a man rode into the edge of the town on a noble black horse, leading a tired mustang. Both of these animals he staked out in a patch of grass, leaving the saddles on, and the bridles hanging to the saddle-bow of each. Then he placed his rifle against a tree near by, took the old cartridges out of a six-shooter and put in fresh ones. This done with the greatest deliberation, he pulled his slouch hat well over his face, entered the nearest saloon, threw down a silver dollar, and called for brandy.
A bottle and glass were set before him. He filled the glass to the brim, drank it off, and walked out.
"Here, you red-haired cuss, here!" cried the bar-keeper. "Here's a half comin' to you; we only charge half-price when it goes by wholesale!"
The joke fell useless, for the red-haired man had not remained to hear it.
In the largest hall in the place, a heavy gambling game was going on. There was roulette, faro, and monte, all at different points.
Before the faro-table there was the greatest gathering.
Wild Bill, furnished with money by the person known to us so far as Willie Pond, was "bucking against the bank" with, his usual wonderful luck, and the crowd centered around him as a character more noted and better known than any other who had yet come to Deadwood.
"I'll bet my whole pile on the jack!" shouted Wild Bill, who had taken enough strong drink to fit him for anything.
"Do be careful, Bill--do be careful!" said a low, kind voice just behind him.
It was that of Willie Pond.
"Oh, go home and mind your business. I'll break this bank to-night, or die in the trial!" cried Bill, defiantly.
"You'll die before you break it!" shrieked out a shrill, sharp voice, and the red-haired Texan sprang forward with an uplifted bowie-knife, and lunged with deadly aim at Bill's heart, even as the person we have so long known as Willie Pond shrieked out: "Save, oh, save my husband!"
But another hand clutched the hilt of the descending knife and the hand of a short, thickset, beetle-browed desperado, was shouted, as he drew a pistol with his other hand: "Wild Bill is my game. No one living shall cheat me of my revenge! Look at this scar, Bill--you marked me for _life_ and now I mark you for _death! _" And even as he spoke, the man fired, and a death-shot pierced Wild Bill's heart.
The latter, who had risen to his feet, staggered toward the Texan, who struggled to free his knife-hand from the clutch of the real assassin, and with a wild laugh, tore the false hair from the Texan's head. As a roll of woman's hair came down in a flood of beauty over her shoulders, Bill gasped out: "Jack McCall, I'm thankful to you, even though you've killed me. Wild Bill does not die by the hand of a _woman!" _ A shudder, and all was over, so far as Wild Bill's life went.
His real and true wife wept in silence over his body, while sullen, and for a time silent, the supposed Texan stood and gazed at the dead body.
Then she spoke, addressing McCall: "Villain, you have robbed me of my revenge! for by my hand should that man have fallen. No wrong he could have done you can be more bitter than that which put me on his death-trail, and made me swear to take his life.
"Two years ago a young man left a ranch close to the Rio Grande border with a thousand head of cattle, which had been bought from him, to be paid for when delivered in Abilene, Kansas. He was noble, brave, handsome. He was good and true in all things. He was the only hope of a widowed mother, the very idol of a loving sister, whose life seemed linked with his. He promised when he left those he loved and who so loved him that he would hasten back with the proceeds of the sale, and then, with his mother and sister, he would return to the birthplace of the three, to the old Northern homestead, where his father's remains were buried, buy the old estate, and settle down to a quiet and a happy life. Long, anxiously, and prayerfully did that mother and sister wait for his return. Did he come? No; but the soul-blighting news came, which, like a thunderbolt, struck that mother--my mother--dead! Wild and despairing, I heard it--heard _this. _ "The son, the brother, who never used a drop of strong drink in all his life; who never uttered an oath, or raised a hand in unkindness to man or woman, had been murdered--killed without provocation--no chance to defend his life, no warning to prepare for another world--shot down in mere wantonness. There lies the body of him who did it. Do you wonder that, over my dead mother's body, girl though I was, I swore to follow to the death him who killed my brother? It is not my fault that I have not kept my oath. I would have done it had I known that you, his friends, would have torn me limb from limb before his body was cold."
"And served him right!" said an old miner, whose eyes were dimmed with moisture while the Texan girl told her story.
"Where is McCall? His act was murder," cried Sam Chichester.
"He has sloped, but I'll take his trail, and if there is law in Montana he shall hang," said California Joe, who bounded from the house, when it was discovered that the murderer had slipped away in the moment of excitement.
How well California Joe kept his promise, history has already recorded. Followed over many a weary mile of hill and prairie, McCall was finally arrested, tried and convicted, as well by his own boast as the evidence of others, and he was hanged.
But one glance at our heroine, for such the red-haired Texan is.
With a look of haughty defiance, she asked: "Have I done aught that requires my detention here?"
"No," said Captain Jack; "thank Heaven you have not. We'd make a poor fist at trying a woman by Lynch law, if you had done what you meant to."
"Then I go, and few will be the white faces I ever see again!" she cried.
The next moment she passed out, and as the crowd followed to see whither she went, she was seen to spring on a coal-black horse which stood unhitched before the door, and on it she rode at wild speed away toward the north-west, while a saddled but unridden mustang followed close behind her.
The course she took led toward the regions where Sitting Bull, in force, awaited the attack of the soldiers then on his trail.
[THE END.]
"DIAMOND DICK, JR'S TRUNK CHECK; or, THE MAN IN THE SILVER MASK," by W. B, Lawson will be published in the next number (193) of the DIAMOND DICK LIBRARY.
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{
"id": "21113"
}
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1
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IN TROUBLE, TO BEGIN WITH
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There are few things in this world that have filled me with so much astonishment as the fact that man can kill a whale! That a fish, more than sixty feet long, and thirty feet round the body; with the bulk of three hundred fat oxen rolled into one; with the strength of many hundreds of horses; able to swim at a rate that would carry it right round the world in twenty-three days; that can smash a boat to atoms with one slap of its tail, and stave in the planks of a ship with one blow of its thick skull;--that such a monster can be caught and killed by man, is most wonderful to hear of, but I can tell from experience that it is much more wonderful to see.
There is a wise saying which I have often thought much upon. It is this: "Knowledge is power". Man is but a feeble creature, and if he had to depend on his own bodily strength alone he could make no head against even the ordinary brutes in this world. But the knowledge which has been given to him by his Maker has clothed man with great power, so that he is more than a match for the fiercest beast in the forest, or the largest fish in the sea. Yet, with all his knowledge, with all his experience, and all his power, the killing of a great old sperm whale costs man a long, tough battle, sometimes it even costs him his life.
It is a long time now since I took to fighting the whales. I have been at it, man and boy, for nigh forty years, and many a wonderful sight have I seen; many a desperate battle have I fought in the fisheries of the North and South Seas.
Sometimes, when I sit in the chimney-corner of a winter evening, smoking my pipe with my old messmate Tom Lokins, I stare into the fire and think of the days gone by till I forget where I am, and go on thinking so hard that the flames seem to turn into melting fires, and the bars of the grate into dead fish, and the smoke into sails and rigging, and I go to work cutting up the blubber and stirring the oil-pots, or pulling the bow-oar and driving the harpoon at such a rate that I can't help giving a shout, which causes Tom to start and cry: "Hallo! Bob" (my name is Bob Ledbury, you see). "Hallo! Bob, wot's the matter?"
To which I reply, "Tom, can it all be true?"
"Can _wot_ be true?" says he, with a stare of surprise--for Tom is getting into his dotage now.
And then I chuckle and tell him I was only thinking of old times, and so he falls to smoking again, and I to staring at the fire, and thinking as hard as ever.
The way in which I was first led to go after the whales was curious. This is how it happened.
About forty years ago, when I was a boy of nearly fifteen years of age, I lived with my mother in one of the seaport towns of England. There was great distress in the town at that time, and many of the hands were out of work. My employer, a blacksmith, had just died, and for more than six weeks I had not been able to get employment or to earn a farthing. This caused me great distress, for my father had died without leaving a penny in the world, and my mother depended on me entirely. The money I had saved out of my wages was soon spent, and one morning when I sat down to breakfast, my mother looked across the table and said, in a thoughtful voice: "Robert, dear, this meal has cost us our last halfpenny."
My mother was old and frail, and her voice very gentle; she was the most trustful, uncomplaining woman I ever knew.
I looked up quickly into her face as she spoke. "All the money gone, Mother?"
"Aye, all. It will be hard for you to go without your dinner, Robert, dear."
"It will be harder for _you_, Mother," I cried, striking the table with my fist; then a lump rose in my throat and almost choked me. I could not utter another word.
It was with difficulty I managed to eat the little food that was before me. After breakfast I rose hastily and rushed out of the house, determined that I would get my mother her dinner, even if I should have to beg for it. But I must confess that a sick feeling came over me when I thought of begging.
Hurrying along the crowded streets without knowing very well what I meant to do, I at last came to an abrupt halt at the end of the pier. Here I went up to several people and offered my services in a wild sort of way. They must have thought that I was drunk, for nearly all of them said gruffly that they did not want me.
Dinner-time drew near, but no one had given me a job, and no wonder, for the way in which I tried to get one was not likely to be successful. At last I resolved to beg. Observing a fat, red-faced old gentleman coming along the pier, I made up to him boldly. He carried a cane with a large gold knob on the top of it. That gave me hope, "for of course," thought I, "he must be rich." His nose, which was exactly the colour and shape of the gold knob on his cane, was stuck in the centre of a round, good-natured countenance, the mouth of which was large and firm; the eyes bright and blue. He frowned as I went forward hat in hand; but I was not to be driven back; the thought of my starving mother gave me power to crush down my rising shame. Yet I had no reason to be ashamed. I was willing to work, if only I could have got employment.
Stopping in front of the old gentleman, I was about to speak when I observed him quietly button up his breeches pocket. The blood rushed to my face, and, turning quickly on my heel, I walked away without uttering a word.
"Hallo!" shouted a gruff voice just as I was moving away.
I turned, and observed that the shout was uttered by a broad rough-looking jack-tar, a man of about two or three and thirty, who had been sitting all the forenoon on an old cask smoking his pipe and basking in the sun.
"Hallo!" said he again.
"Well," said I. "Wot d'ye mean, youngster, by goin' on in that there fashion all the mornin', a-botherin' everybody, and makin' a fool o' yourself like that? eh!"
"What's that to you?" said I savagely, for my heart was sore and heavy, and I could not stand the interference of a stranger.
"Oh! it's nothin' to me of course," said the sailor, picking his pipe quietly with his clasp-knife; "but come here, boy, I've somethin' to say to ye."
"Well, what is it?" said I, going up to him somewhat sulkily.
The man looked at me gravely through the smoke of his pipe, and said, "You're in a passion, my young buck, that's all; and, in case you didn't know it, I thought I'd tell ye."
I burst into a fit of laughter. "Well, I believe you're not far wrong; but I'm better now."
"Ah! that's right," said the sailor, with an approving nod of his head; "always confess when you're in the wrong. Now, younker, let me give you a bit of advice. Never get into a passion if you can help it, and if you can't help it get out of it as fast as possible, and if you can't get out of it, just give a great roar to let off the steam and turn about and run. There's nothing like that. Passion han't got legs. It can't hold on to a feller when he's runnin'. If you keep it up till you a'most split your timbers, passion has no chance. It _must_ go a-starn. Now, lad, I've been watchin' ye all the mornin', and I see there's a screw loose somewhere. If you'll tell me wot it is, see if I don't help you!"
The kind frank way in which this was said quite won my heart, so I sat down on the old cask, and told the sailor all my sorrows.
"Boy," said he, when I had finished, "I'll put you in the way o' helpin' your mother. I can get you a berth in my ship, if you're willin' to take a trip to the whale fishery of the South Seas."
"And who will look after my mother when I'm away?" said I.
The sailor looked perplexed at the question.
"Ah! that's a puzzler," he replied, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Will you take me to your mother's house, lad?"
"Willingly," said I, and, jumping up, I led the way. As we turned to go, I observed that the old gentleman with the gold-headed cane was leaning over the rail of the pier at a short distance from us. A feeling of anger instantly rose within me, and I exclaimed, loud enough for him to hear: "I do believe that stingy old chap has been listening to every word we've been saying!"
I thought I observed a frown on the sailor's brow as I said this, but he made no remark, and in a few minutes we were walking rapidly through the streets. My companion stopped at one of those stores so common in seaport towns, where one can buy almost anything, from a tallow candle to a brass cannon. Here he [Transcriber's note: two pages missing from book] I've got neither family nor friends, and I'm bound for the South Seas in six days; so, if you'll take it, you're welcome to it, and if your son Bob can manage to cast loose from you without leaving you to sink, I'll take him aboard the ship that I sail in. He'll always find me at the Bull and Griffin, in the High Street, or at the end o' the pier."
While the sailor was speaking, I observed a figure standing in a dark corner of the room near the door, and, on looking more closely, I found that it was the old gentleman with the nose like his cane knob. Seeing that he was observed, he came forward and said: "I trust that you will forgive my coming here without invitation; but I happened to overhear part of the conversation between your son and this seaman, and I am willing to help you over your little difficulty, if you will allow me."
The old gentleman said this in a very quick, abrupt way, and looked as if he were afraid his offer might be refused. He was much heated, with climbing our long stair no doubt, and as he stood in the middle of the room, puffing and wiping his bald head with a handkerchief, my mother rose hastily and offered him a chair.
"You are very kind, sir," she said; "do sit down, sir. I'm sure I don't know why you should take so much trouble. But, dear me, you are very warm; will you take a cup of tea to cool you?"
"Thank you, thank you. With much pleasure, unless, indeed, your son objects to a '_stingy old chap_' sitting beside him."
I blushed when he repeated my words, and attempted to make some apology; but the old gentleman stopped me by commencing to explain his intentions in short, rapid sentences.
To make a long story short, he offered to look after my mother while I was away, and, to prove his sincerity, laid down five shillings, and said he would call with that sum every week as long as I was absent. My mother, after some trouble, agreed to let me go, and, before that evening closed, everything was arranged, and the gentleman, leaving his address, went away.
The sailor had been so much filled with surprise at the suddenness of all this, that he could scarcely speak. Immediately after the departure of the old gentleman, he said, "Well, good-bye, mistress, good-bye, Bob," and throwing on his hat in a careless way, left the room.
"Stop!" I shouted after him, when he had got about half-way down stair.
"Hallo! wot's wrong now?"
"Nothing; I only forgot to ask your name."
"Tom Lokins," he bellowed, in the hoarse voice of a regular boatswain, "w'ich wos my father's name before me."
So saying, he departed, whistling "Rule, Britannia," with all his might.
Thus the matter was settled. Six days afterwards, I rigged myself out in a blue jacket, white ducks, and a straw hat, and went to sea.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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2
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AT SEA
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My first few days on the ocean were so miserable that I oftentimes repented of having left my native land. I was, as my new friend Tom Lokins said, as sick as a dog. But in course of time I grew well, and began to rejoice in the cool fresh breezes and the great rolling billows of the sea.
Many and many a time I used to creep out to the end of the bowsprit, when the weather was calm, and sit with my legs dangling over the deep blue water, and my eyes fixed on the great masses of rolling clouds in the sky, thinking of the new course of life I had just begun. At such times the thought of my mother was sure to come into my mind, and I thought of her parting words, "Put your trust in the Lord, Robert, and read His Word." I resolved to try to obey her, but this I found was no easy matter, for the sailors were a rough lot of fellows, who cared little for the Bible. But, I must say, they were a hearty, good-natured set, and much better, upon the whole, than many a ship's crew that I afterwards sailed with.
We were fortunate in having fair winds this voyage, and soon found ourselves on the other side of the _line_, as we jack-tars call the Equator.
Of course the crew did not forget the old custom of shaving all the men who had never crossed the line before. Our captain was a jolly old man, and uncommonly fond of "sky-larking". He gave us leave to do what we liked the day we crossed the line; so, as there were a number of wild spirits among us, we broke through all the ordinary rules, or, rather, we added on new rules to them.
The old hands had kept the matter quiet from us greenhorns, so that, although we knew they were going to do some sort of mischief, we didn't exactly understand what it was to be.
About noon of that day I was called on deck and told that old father Neptune was coming aboard, and we were to be ready to receive him. A minute after I saw a tremendous monster come up over the side of the ship and jump on the deck. He was crowned with seaweed, and painted in a wonderful fashion; his clothes were dripping wet, as if he had just come from the bottom of the sea. After him came another monster with a petticoat made of sailcloth and a tippet of a bit of old tarpaulin. This was Neptune's wife, and these two carried on the most remarkable antics I ever saw. I laughed heartily, and soon discovered, from the tones of their voices, which of my shipmates Neptune and his wife were. But my mirth was quickly stopped when I was suddenly seized by several men, and my face was covered over with a horrible mixture of tar and grease!
Six of us youngsters were treated in this way; then the lather was scraped off with a piece of old hoop-iron, and, after being thus shaved, buckets of cold water were thrown over us.
At last, after a prosperous voyage, we arrived at our fishing-ground in the South Seas, and a feeling of excitement and expectation began to show itself among the men, insomuch that our very eyes seemed brighter than usual.
One night those of us who had just been relieved from watch on deck were sitting on the lockers down below telling ghost stories.
It was a dead calm, and one of those intensely dark, hot nights, that cause sailors to feel uneasy, they scarce know why. I began to feel so uncomfortable at last, listening to the horrible tales which Tom Lokins was relating to the men, that I slipt away from them with the intention of going on deck. I moved so quietly that no one observed me; besides, every eye was fixed earnestly on Tom, whose deep low voice was the only sound that broke the stillness of all around. As I was going very cautiously up the ladder leading to the deck, Tom had reached that part of his story where the ghost was just appearing in a dark churchyard, dressed in white, and coming slowly forward, one step at a time, towards the terrified man who saw it. The men held their breath, and one or two of their faces turned pale as Tom went on with his description, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. Just as I put my head up the hatchway the sheet of one of the sails, which was hanging loose in the still air, passed gently over my head and knocked my hat off. At any other time I would have thought nothing of this, but Tom's story had thrown me into such an excited and nervous condition that I gave a start, missed my footing, uttered a loud cry, and fell down the ladder right in among the men with a tremendous crash, knocking over two or three oil-cans and a tin bread-basket in my fall, and upsetting the lantern, so that the place was instantly pitch-dark.
I never heard such a howl of terror as these men gave vent to when this misfortune befell me. They rushed upon deck with their hearts in their mouths, tumbling, and peeling the skin off their shins and knuckles in their haste; and it was not until they heard the laughter of the watch on deck that they breathed freely, and, joining in the laugh, called themselves fools for being frightened by a ghost story. I noticed, however, that, for all their pretended indifference, there was not one man among them--not even Tom Lokins himself--who would go down below to relight the lantern for at least a quarter of an hour afterwards!
Feeling none the worse for my fall, I went forward and leaned over the bow of the ship, where I was much astonished by the appearance of the sea. It seemed as if the water was on fire. Every time the ship's bow rose and fell, the little belt of foam made in the water seemed like a belt of blue flame with bright sparkles in it, like stars or diamonds. I had seen this curious appearance before, but never so bright as it was on that night.
"What is it, Tom?" said I, as my friend came forward and leaned over the ship's bulwark beside me.
"It's blue fire, Bob," replied Tom, as he smoked his pipe calmly.
"Come, you know I can't swallow that," said I; "everybody knows that fire, either blue or red, can't burn in the water."
"Maybe not," returned Tom; "but it's blue fire for all that. Leastwise if it's not, I don't know wot else it is."
Tom had often seen this light before, no doubt, but he had never given himself the trouble to find out what it could be. Fortunately the captain came up just as I put the question, and he enlightened me on the subject.
"It is caused by small animals," said he, leaning over the side.
"Small animals!" said I, in astonishment.
"Aye; many parts of the sea are full of creatures so small and so thin and colourless, that you can hardly see them even in a clear glass tumbler. Many of them are larger than others, but the most of them are very small."
"But how do they shine like that, sir?" I asked.
"That I do not know, boy. God has given them the power to shine, just as he has given us the power to walk or speak; and they do shine brightly, as you see; but how they do it is more than I can tell. I think, myself, it must be anger that makes them shine, for they generally do it when they are stirred up or knocked about by oars, or ships' keels, or tumbling waves. But I am not sure that that's the reason either, because, you know, we often sail through them without seeing the light, though of course they must be there."
"P'r'aps, sir," said Tom Lokins; "p'r'aps, sir, they're sleepy sometimes, an' can't be bothered gettin' angry."
"Perhaps!" answered the captain, laughing. "But then again, at other times, I have seen them shining over the whole sea when it was quite calm, making it like an ocean of milk; and nothing was disturbing them at that time, d'ye see."
"I don' know _that_," objected Tom; "they might have bin a-fightin' among theirselves."
"Or playing, maybe," said I.
The captain laughed, and, looking up at the sky, said: "I don't like the look of the weather, Tom Lokins. You're a sharp fellow, and have been in these seas before; what say you?"
"We'll have a breeze," replied Tom, briefly.
"More than a breeze," muttered the captain, while a look of grave anxiety overspread his countenance; "I'll go below and take a squint at the glass."
"What does he mean by that, Tom?" said I, when the captain was gone; "I never saw a calmer or a finer night. Surely there is no chance of a storm just now."
"Aye, that shows that you're a young feller, and han't got much experience o' them seas," replied my companion. "Why, boy, sometimes the fiercest storm is brewin' behind the greatest calm. An' the worst o' the thing is that it comes so sudden at times, that the masts are torn out o' the ship before you can say Jack Robinson."
"What! and without any warning?" said I. "Aye, _almost_ without warnin'; but not _altogether_ without it. You heer'd the captain say he'd go an' take a squint at the glass?"
"Yes; what is the glass?"
"It's not a glass o' grog, you may be sure; nor yet a lookin'-glass. It's the weather-glass, boy. Shore-goin' chaps call it a barometer."
"And what's the meaning of barometer?" I enquired earnestly.
Tom Lokins stared at me in stupid amazement. "Why, boy," said he, "you're too inquisitive. I once asked the doctor o' a ship that question, and says he to me, 'Tom,' says he, 'a barometer is a glass tube filled with quicksilver or mercury, which is a metal in a soft or fluid state, like water, you know, and it's meant for tellin' the state o' the weather.' " 'Yes, sir,' I answers, 'I know that well enough.' " 'Then why did you ask?' says he, gettin' into a passion. " 'I asked what was the meanin' o' the _word_ barometer, sir,' said I. "The doctor he looked grave at that, and shook his head. 'Tom,' says he, 'if I was to go for to explain that word, and all about the instrument, in a scientific sort o' way, d'ye see, I'd have to sit here an' speak to you right on end for six hours or more.' " 'Oh, sir,' says I, 'don't do it, then. _Please_, don't do it.' " 'No more I will,' says he; 'but it'll serve your turn to know that a barometer is a glass for measurin' the weight o' the air, and, _somehow or other_, that lets ye know wot's a-coming. If the mercury in the glass rises high, all's right. If it falls uncommon low very sudden, look out for squalls; that's all. No matter how smooth the sea may be, or how sweetly all natur' may smile, don't you believe it; take in every inch o' canvas at once.'"
"That was a queer explanation, Tom."
"Aye, but it was a true one, as you shall see before long."
As I looked out upon the calm sea, which lay like a sheet of glass, without a ripple on its surface, I could scarcely believe what he had said. But before many minutes had passed I was convinced of my error.
While I was standing talking to my messmate, the captain rushed on deck, and shouted: "All hands tumble up! Shorten sail! Take in every rag! Look alive, boys, look alive."
I was quite stunned for a moment by this, and by the sudden tumult that followed. The men, who seemed never to take thought about anything, and who had but one duty, namely, to _obey orders_, ran upon deck, and leaped up the rigging like cats; the sheets of nearly all the principal sails were clewed up, and, ere long, the canvas was made fast to the yards. A few of the smaller sails only were left exposed, and even these were close-reefed. Before long a loud roar was heard, and in another minute the storm burst upon us with terrific violence. The ship at first lay over so much that the masts were almost in the water, and it was as impossible for anyone to walk the deck as to walk along the side of a wall. At the same time, the sea was lashed into white foam, and the blinding spray flew over us in bitter fury.
"Take in the topsails!" roared the captain. But his voice was drowned in the shriek of the gale. The men were saved the risk of going out on the yards, however, for in a few moments more all the sails, except the storm-trysail, were burst and blown to ribbons.
We now tried to put the ship's head to the wind and "lay to", by which landsmen will understand that we tried to face the storm, and remain stationary. But the gale was so fierce that this was impossible. The last rag of sail was blown away, and then there was nothing left for us but to show our stern to the gale, and "scud under bare poles".
The great danger now was that we might be "pooped", which means that a huge wave might curl over our stern, fall with terrible fury on our deck, and sink us.
Many and many a good ship has gone down in this way; but we were mercifully spared. As our safety depended very much on good steering, the captain himself took the wheel, and managed the ship so well, that we weathered the gale without damage, further than the loss of a few sails and light spars. For two days the storm howled furiously, the sky and sea were like ink, with sheets of rain and foam driving through the air, and raging billows tossing our ship about like a cork.
During all this time my shipmates were quiet and grave, but active and full of energy, so that every order was at once obeyed without noise or confusion. Every man watched the slightest motion of the captain. We all felt that everything depended on him.
As for me, I gave up all hope of being saved. It seemed impossible to me that anything that man could build could withstand so terrible a storm. I do not pretend to say that I was not afraid. The near prospect of a violent death caused my heart to sink more than once; but my feelings did not unman me. I did my duty quietly, but quickly, like the rest; and when I had no work to do, I stood holding on to the weather stanchions, looking at the raging sea, and thinking of my mother, and of the words of kindness and counsel she had so often bestowed upon me in vain.
The storm ceased almost as quickly as it began, and although the sea did not all at once stop the heavings of its angry bosom, the wind fell entirely in the course of a few hours, the dark clouds broke up into great masses that were piled up high into the sky, and out of the midst of these the glorious sun shone in bright rays down on the ocean, like comfort from heaven, gladdening our hearts as we busily repaired the damage that we had suffered from the storm.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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3
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OUR FIRST BATTLE
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I shall never forget the surprise I got the first time I saw a whale.
It was in the forenoon of a most splendid day, about a week after we arrived at that part of the ocean where we might expect to find fish. A light nor'-east breeze was blowing, but it scarcely ruffled the sea, as we crept slowly through the water with every stitch of canvas set.
As we had been looking out for fish for some time past, everything was in readiness for them. The boats were hanging over the side ready to lower, tubs for coiling away the ropes, harpoons, lances, &c., all were ready to throw in, and start away at a moment's notice. The man in the "crow's-nest", as they call the cask fixed up at the masthead, was looking anxiously out for whales, and the crew were idling about the deck. Tom Lokins was seated on the windlass smoking his pipe, and I was sitting beside him on an empty cask, sharpening a blubber-knife.
"Tom," said I, "what like is a whale?"
"Why, it's like nothin' but itself," replied Tom, looking puzzled. "Why, wot a queer feller you are to ax questions."
"I'm sure you've seen plenty of them. You might be able to tell what a whale is like."
"Wot it's like! Well, it's like a tremendous big bolster with a head and a tail to it."
"And how big is it?"
"They're of all sizes, lad. I've seen one that was exactly equal to three hundred fat bulls, and its rate of goin' would take it round the whole world in twenty-three days."
"I don't believe you," said I, laughing.
"Don't you?" cried Tom; "it's a fact notwithstandin', for the captain himself said so, and that's how I came to know it."
Just as Tom finished speaking, the man in the crow's-nest roared at the top of his voice, "There she blows!"
That was the signal that a whale was in sight, and as it was the first time we had heard it that season, every man in the ship was thrown into a state of tremendous excitement.
"There she blows!" roared the man again.
"Where away?" shouted the captain.
"About two miles right ahead."
In another moment the utmost excitement prevailed on board. Suddenly, while I was looking over the side, straining my eyes to catch a sight of the whale, which could not yet be seen by the men on deck, I saw a brown object appear in the sea, not twenty yards from the side of the ship; before I had time to ask what it was, a whale's head rose to the surface, and shot up out of the water. The part of the fish that was visible above water could not have been less then thirty feet in length. It just looked as if our longboat had jumped out of the sea, and he was so near that I could see his great mouth quite plainly. I could have tossed a biscuit on his back easily. Sending two thick spouts of frothy water out of his blow-holes forty feet into the air with tremendous noise, he fell flat upon the sea with a clap like thunder, tossed his flukes or tail high into the air, and disappeared.
I was so amazed at this sight that I could not speak. I could only stare at the place where the huge monster had gone down.
"Stand by to lower," shouted the captain.
"Aye, aye, sir," replied the men, leaping to their appointed stations; for every man in a whale-ship has his post of duty appointed to him, and knows what to do when an order is given.
"Lower away," cried the captain, whose face was now blazing with excitement.
In a moment more three boats were in the water; the tubs, harpoons, &c., were thrown in, the men seized the oars, and away they went with a cheer. I was in such a state of flutter that I scarce knew what I did; but I managed somehow or other to get into a boat, and as I was a strong fellow, and a good rower, I was allowed to pull.
"There she blows!" cried the man in the crow's-nest, just as we shot from the side of the ship. There was no need to ask, "where away" this time. Another whale rose and spouted not more than three hundred yards off, and before we could speak a third fish rose in another direction, and we found ourselves in the middle of what is called a "school of whales".
"Now, lads," said the captain, who steered the boat in which I rowed, "bend your backs, my hearties; that fish right ahead of us is a hundred-barrel whale for certain. Give way, boys; we _must_ have that fish."
There was no need to urge the men, for their backs were strained to the utmost, their faces were flushed, and the big veins in their necks swelled almost to bursting, with the tremendous exertion.
"Hold hard," said the captain in a low voice, for now that we were getting near our prey we made as little noise as possible.
The men at once threw their oars "apeak", as they say; that is, raised them straight, up in the air, and waited for further orders. We expected the whale would rise near to where we were, and thought it best to rest and look out.
While we were waiting, Tom Lokins, who was harpooner of the boat, sat just behind me with all his irons ready. He took this opportunity to explain to me that by a "hundred-barrel fish" is meant a fish that will yield a hundred barrels of oil. He further informed me that such a fish was a big one, though he had seen a few in the North-West Seas that had produced upwards of two hundred barrels.
I now observed that the other boats had separated, and each had gone after a different whale. In a few minutes the fish we were in chase of rose a short distance off, and sent up two splendid water-spouts high into the air, thus showing that he was what the whalers call a "right" whale. It is different from the sperm whale, which has only one blowhole, and that a little one.
We rowed towards it with all our might, and as we drew near, the captain ordered Tom Lokins to "stand up", so he at once laid in his oar, and took up the harpoon. The harpoon is an iron lance with a barbed point. A whale-line is attached to it, and this line is coiled away in a tub. When we were within a few yards of the fish, which was going slowly through the water, all ignorant of the terrible foes who were pursuing him, Tom Lokins raised the harpoon high above his head, and darted it deep into its fat side just behind the left fin, and next moment the boat ran aground on the whale's back.
[Illustration: "TOM LOKINS RAISED THE HARPOON"] "Stern all, for your lives!" roared the captain, who, before his order was obeyed, managed to give the creature two deep wounds with his lance. The lance has no barbs to its point, and is used only for wounding after the harpoon is fixed.
The boat was backed off at once, but it had scarcely got a few yards away when the astonished fish whirled its huge body half out of the water, and, coming down with a tremendous clap, made off like lightning.
The line was passed round a strong piece of wood called the "logger-head", and, in running out, it began to smoke, and nearly set the wood on fire. Indeed, it would have done so, if a man had not kept constantly pouring water upon it. It was needful to be very cautious in managing the line, for the duty is attended with great danger. If any hitch should take place, the line is apt to catch the boat and drag it down bodily under the waves. Sometimes a coil of it gets round a leg or an arm of the man who attends to it, in which case his destruction is almost certain. Many a poor fellow has lost his life in this way.
The order was now given to "hold on line". This was done, and in a moment our boat was cleaving the blue water like an arrow, while the white foam curled from her bows. I thought every moment we should be dragged under; but whenever this seemed likely to happen, the line was let run a bit, and the strain eased. At last the fish grew tired of dragging us, the line ceased to run out, and Tom hauled in the slack, which another man coiled away in its tub. Presently the fish rose to the surface, a short distance off our weather bow.
"Give way, boys! spring your oars," cried the captain; "another touch or two with the lance, and that fish is ours."
The boat shot ahead, and we were about to dart a second harpoon into the whale's side, when it took to "sounding",--which means, that it went straight down, head foremost, into the depths of the sea. At that moment Tom Lokins uttered a cry of mingled anger and disappointment. We all turned round and saw our shipmate standing with the slack line in his hand, and such an expression on his weather-beaten face, that I could scarce help laughing. The harpoon had not been well fixed; it had lost its hold, and the fish was now free!
"Gone!" exclaimed the captain with a groan.
I remember even yet the feeling of awful disappointment that came over me when I understood that we had lost the fish after all our trouble! I could almost have wept with bitter vexation. As for my comrades, they sat staring at each other for some moments quite speechless. Before we could recover from the state into which this misfortune had thrown us, one of the men suddenly shouted, "Hallo! there's the mate's boat in distress."
We turned at once, and, truly, there was no doubt of the truth of this, for, about half a mile off, we beheld our first mate's boat tearing over the sea like a small steamer. It was fast to a fish, and two oars were set up on end to attract our attention.
When a whale is struck, it sometimes happens that the whole of the line in a boat is run out. When this is about to occur, it becomes necessary to hold on as much as can be done without running the boat under the water, and an oar is set up on end to show that assistance is required, either from the ship or from the other boats. As the line grows less and less, another and another oar is hoisted to show that help must be sent quickly. If no assistance can be sent, the only thing that remains to be done is to cut the line and lose the fish; but a whale-line, with its harpoon, is a very heavy loss, in addition to that of the fish, so that whalers are tempted to hold on a little too long sometimes.
When we saw the mate's boat dashing away in this style, we forgot our grief at the loss of our whale in anxiety to render assistance to our comrades, and we rowed towards them as fast as we could. Fortunately the whale changed its course and came straight towards us, so that we ceased pulling, and waited till they came up. As the boat came on I saw the foam curling up on her bows as she leaped and flew over the sea. I could scarcely believe it possible that wood and iron could bear such a strain. In a few minutes they were almost abreast of us.
"You're holding too hard!" shouted the captain.
"Lines all out!" roared the mate.
They were past almost before these short sentences could be spoken. But they had not gone twenty yards ahead of us when the water rushed in over the bow, and before we could utter a word the boat and crew were gone. Not a trace of them remained! The horror of the moment had not been fully felt, however, when the boat rose to the surface keel up, and, one after another, the heads of the men appeared. The line had fortunately broken, otherwise the boat would have been lost, and the entire crew probably would have gone to the bottom with her.
We instantly pulled to the rescue, and were thankful to find that not a man was killed, though some of them were a little hurt, and all had received a terrible fright. We next set to work to right the upset boat, an operation which was not accomplished without much labour and difficulty.
Now, while we were thus employed, our third boat, which was in charge of the second mate, had gone after the whale that had caused us so much trouble, and when we had got the boat righted and began to look about us, we found that she was fast to the fish about a mile to leeward.
"Hurrah, lads!" cried the captain, "luck has not left us yet. Give way, my hearties, pull like Britons! we'll get that fish yet."
We were all dreadfully done up by this time, but the sight of a boat fast to a whale restored us at once, and we pulled away as stoutly as if we had only begun the day's work. The whale was heading in the direction of the ship, and when we came up to the scene of action the second mate had just "touched the life"; in other words, he had driven the lance deep down into the whale's vitals. This was quickly known by jets of blood being spouted up through the blowholes. Soon after, our victim went into its dying agonies, or, as whalemen say, "his flurry ".
This did not last long. In a short time he rolled over dead. We fastened a line to his tail, the three boats took the carcass in tow, and, singing a lively song, we rowed away to the ship.
Thus ended our first battle with the whales.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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