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"CUTTING IN" THE BLUBBER AND "TRYING OUT" THE OIL
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The scene that took place on board ship after we caught our first fish was most wonderful. We commenced the operation of what is called "cutting in", that is, cutting up the whale, and getting the fat or blubber hoisted in. The next thing we did was to "try out" the oil, or melt down the fat in large iron pots brought with us for this purpose; and the change that took place in the appearance of the ship and the men when this began was very remarkable.
When we left port our decks were clean, our sails white, our masts well scraped; the brass-work about the quarter-deck was well polished, and the men looked tidy and clean. A few hours after our first whale had been secured alongside all this was changed. The cutting up of the huge carcass covered the decks with oil and blood, making them so slippery that they had to be covered with sand to enable the men to walk about. Then the smoke of the great fires under the melting pots begrimed the masts, sails, and cordage with soot. The faces and hands of the men got so covered with oil and soot that it would have puzzled anyone to say whether they were white or black. Their clothes, too, became so dirty that it was impossible to clean them. But, indeed, whalemen do not much mind this. In fact, they take a pleasure in all the dirt that surrounds them, because it is a sign of success in the main object of their voyage. The men in a _clean_ whale ship are never happy. When everything is filthy, and dirty, and greasy, and smoky, and black--decks, rigging, clothes, and person--it is then that the hearty laugh and jest and song are heard as the crew work busily, night and day, at their rough but profitable labour.
The operations of "cutting in" and "trying out" were matters of great interest to me the first time I saw them.
After having towed our whale to the ship, cutting in was immediately begun. First, the carcass was secured near the head and tail with chains, and made fast to the ship; then the great blocks and ropes fastened to the main and fore mast for hoisting in the blubber were brought into play. When all was ready, the captain and the two mates with Tom Lokins got upon the whale's body, with long-handled sharp spades or digging-knives. With these they fell to work cutting off the blubber.
I was stationed at one of the hoisting ropes, and while we were waiting for the signal to "hoist away", I peeped over the side, and for the first time had a good look at the great fish. When we killed it, so much of its body was down in the water that I could not see it very clearly, but now that it was lashed at full length alongside the ship, and I could look right down upon it, I began to understand more clearly what a large creature it was. One thing surprised me much; the top of its head, which was rough and knotty like the bark of an old tree, was swarming with little crabs and barnacles, and other small creatures. The whale's head seemed to be their regular home! This fish was by no means one of the largest kind, but being the first I had seen, I fancied it must be the largest fish in the sea.
Its body was forty feet long, and twenty feet round at the thickest part. Its head, which seemed to me a great, blunt, shapeless thing, like a clumsy old boat, was eight feet long from the tip to the blowholes or nostrils; and these holes were situated on the back of the head, which at that part was nearly four feet broad. The entire head measured about twenty-one feet round. Its ears were two small holes, so small that it was difficult to discover them, and the eyes were also very small for so large a body, being about the same size as those of an ox. The mouth was very large, and the under jaw had great ugly lips. When it was dying, I saw these lips close in once or twice on its fat cheeks, which it bulged out like the leather sides of a pair of gigantic bellows. It had two fins, one on each side, just behind the head. With these, and with its tail, the whale swims and fights. Its tail is its most deadly weapon. The flukes of this one measured thirteen feet across, and with one stroke of this it could have smashed our largest boat in pieces. Many a boat has been sent to the bottom in this way.
I remember hearing our first mate tell of a wonderful escape a comrade of his had in the Greenland Sea Fishery. A whale had been struck, and, after its first run, they hauled up to it again, and rowed so hard that they ran the boat right against it. The harpooner was standing on the bow all ready, and sent his iron cleverly into the blubber. In its agony the whale reared its tail high out of the water, and the flukes whirled for a moment like a great fan just above the harpooner's head. One glance up was enough to show him that certain death was descending. In an instant he dived over the side and disappeared. Next moment the flukes came down on the part of the boat he had just left, and cut it clean off; the other part was driven into the waves, and the men were left swimming in the water. They were all picked up, however, by another boat that was in company, and the harpooner was recovered with the rest. His quick dive had been the saving of his life.
I had not much time given me to study the appearance of this whale before the order was given to "hoist away!" so we went to work with a will. The first part that came up was the huge lip, fastened to a large iron hook, called the blubber hook. It was lowered into the blubber-room between decks, where a couple of men were stationed to stow the blubber away. Then came the fins, and after them the upper jaw, with the whalebone attached to it. The "right" whale has no teeth like the sperm whale. In place of teeth it has the well-known substance called whalebone, which grows from the roof of its mouth in a number of broad thin plates, extending from the back of the head to the snout. The lower edges of these plates of whalebone are split into thousands of hairs like bristles, so that the inside roof of a whale's mouth resembles an enormous blacking brush! The object of this curious arrangement is to enable the whale to catch the little shrimps and small sea-blubbers, called "medusa;", on which it feeds. I have spoken before of these last as being the little creatures that gave out such a beautiful pale-blue light at night. The whale feeds on them. When he desires a meal he opens his great mouth and rushes into the midst of a shoal of medusae; the little things get entangled in thousands among the hairy ends of the whalebone, and when the monster has got a large enough mouthful, he shuts his lower jaw and swallows what his net has caught.
The wisdom as well as the necessity of this arrangement is very plain. Of course, while dashing through the sea in this fashion, with his mouth agape, the whale must keep his throat closed, else the water would rush down it and choke him. Shutting his throat then, as he does, the water is obliged to flow out of his mouth as fast as it flows in; it is also spouted up through his blowholes, and this with such violence that many of the little creatures would be swept out along with it but for the hairy-ended whalebone which lets the sea-water out, but keeps the medusae in.
Well, let us return to our "cutting in". After the upper jaw came the lower jaw and throat, with the tongue. This last was an enormous mass of fat, about as large as an ox, and it weighed fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds. After this was got in, the rest of the work was simple. The blubber of the body was peeled off in great strips, beginning at the neck and being cut spirally towards the tail. It was hoisted on board by the blocks, the captain and mates cutting, and the men at the windlass hoisting, and the carcass slowly turning round until we got an unbroken piece of blubber, reaching from the water to nearly as high as the mainyard-arm. This mass was nearly a foot thick, and it looked like fat pork. It was cut off close to the deck, and lowered into the blubber-room, where the two men stationed there attacked it with knives, cut it into smaller pieces, and stowed it away. Then another piece was hoisted on board in the same fashion, and so on we went till every bit of blubber was cut off; and I heard the captain remark to the mate when the work was done, that the fish was a good fat one, and he wouldn't wonder if it turned out to be worth 300 pounds.
Now, when this process was going on, a new point of interest arose which I had not thought of before, although my messmate, Tom Lokins, had often spoken of it on the voyage out. This was the arrival of great numbers of sea-birds.
Tom had often told me of the birds that always keep company with whalers; but I had forgotten all about it until I saw an enormous albatross come sailing majestically through the air towards us. This was the largest bird I ever saw, and no wonder, for it is the largest bird that flies. Soon after that, another arrived, and although we were more than a thousand miles from any shore, we were speedily scented out and surrounded by hosts of gonies, stinkards, haglets, gulls, pigeons, petrels, and other sea-birds, which commenced to feed on pieces of the whale's carcass with the most savage gluttony. These birds were dreadfully greedy. They had stuffed themselves so full in the course of a short time, that they flew heavily and with great difficulty. No doubt they would have to take three or four days to digest that meal!
Sharks, too, came to get their share of what was going. But these savage monsters did not content themselves with what was thrown away; they were so bold as to come before our faces and take bites out of the whale's body. Some of these sharks were eight and nine feet long, and when I saw them open their horrid jaws, armed with three rows of glistening white sharp teeth, I could well understand how easily they could bite off the leg of a man, as they often do when they get the chance. Sometimes they would come right up on the whale's body with a wave, bite out great pieces of the flesh, turn over on their bellies, and roll off.
While I was looking over the side during the early part of that day, I saw a very large shark come rolling up in this way close to Tom Lokins's legs. Tom made a cut at him with his blubber-spade, but the shark rolled off in time to escape the blow. And after all it would not have done him much damage, for it is not easy to frighten or take the life out of a shark.
"Hand me an iron and line, Bob," said Tom, looking up at me. "I've got a spite agin that feller. He's been up twice already. Ah! hand it down here, and two or three of ye stand by to hold on by the line. There he comes, the big villain!"
The shark came close to the side of the whale at that moment, and Tom sent the harpoon right down his throat.
"Hold on hard," shouted Tom.
"Aye, aye," replied several of the men as they held on to the line, their arms jerking violently as the savage fish tried to free itself. We quickly reeved a line through a block at the fore yard-arm, and hauled it on deck with much difficulty. The scene that followed was very horrible, for there was no killing the brute. It threshed the deck with its tail, and snapped so fiercely with its tremendous jaws, that we had to keep a sharp look-out lest it should catch hold of a leg. At last its tail was cut off, the body cut open, and all the entrails' taken out, yet even after this it continued to flap and thresh about the deck for some time, and the heart continued to contract for twenty minutes after it was taken out and pierced with a knife.
I would not have believed this had I not seen it with my own eyes. In case some of my readers may doubt its truth, I would remind them how difficult it is to kill some of those creatures with which we are all familiar. The common worm, for instance, may be cut into a number of small pieces, and yet each piece remains alive for some time after.
The skin of the shark is valued by the whalemen, because, when cleaned and dry, it is as good as sand-paper, and is much used in polishing the various things they make out of whales' bones and teeth.
When the last piece of blubber had been cut off our whale, the great chain that held it to the ship's side was cast off, and the now useless carcass sank like a stone, much to the sorrow of some of the smaller birds, which, having been driven away by their bigger comrades, had not fed so heartily as they wished perhaps! But what was loss to the gulls was gain to the sharks, which could follow the carcass down into the deep and devour it at their leisure.
"Now, lads," cried the mate, when the remains had vanished, "rouse up the fires, look alive, my hearties!"
"Aye, aye, sir," was the ready reply, cheerfully given, as every man sprang to his appointed duty.
And so, having "cut in" our whale, we next proceeded to "try out" the oil.
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{
"id": "21202"
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5
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A STORM, A MAN OVERBOARD, AND A RESCUE
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The scenes in a whaleman's life are varied and very stirring. Sometimes he is floating on the calm ocean, idling about the deck and whistling for a breeze, when all of a sudden the loud cry is heard, "There she blows!" and in a moment the boats are in the water, and he is engaged in all the toils of an exciting chase. Then comes the battle with the great leviathan of the deep, with all its risks and dangers. Sometimes he is unfortunate, the decks are clean, he has nothing to do. At other times he is lucky, "cutting in" and "trying out" engage all his energies and attention. Frequently storms toss him on the angry deep, and show him, if he will but learn the lesson, how helpless a creature he is, and how thoroughly dependent at all times for life, safety, and success, upon the arm of God.
"Trying out" the oil, although not so thrilling a scene as many a one in his career, is, nevertheless, extremely interesting, especially at night, when the glare of the fires in the try-works casts a deep-red glow on the faces of the men, on the masts and sails, and even out upon the sea.
The try-works consisted of two huge melting-pots fixed upon brick-work fireplaces between the fore and main masts. While some of the men were down in the blubber-room cutting the "blanket-pieces", as the largest masses are called, others were pitching the smaller pieces on deck, where they were seized by two men who stood near a block of wood, called a "horse", with a mincing knife, to slash the junks so as to make them melt easily. These were then thrown into the melting-pots by one of the mates, who kept feeding the fires with such "scraps" of blubber as remain after the oil is taken out. Once the fires were fairly set agoing no other kind of fuel was required than "scraps" of blubber. As the boiling oil rose it was baled into copper cooling-tanks. It was the duty of two other men to dip it out of these tanks into casks, which were then headed up by our cooper, and stowed away in the hold.
As the night advanced the fires became redder and brighter by contrast, the light shone and glittered on the bloody decks, and, as we plied our dirty work, I could not help thinking, "what would my mother say, if she could get a peep at me now?"
The ship's crew worked and slept by watches, for the fires were not allowed to go out all night. About midnight I sat down on the windlass to take a short rest, and began talking to one of the men, Fred Borders by name. He was one of the quietest and most active men in the ship, and, being quite a young man, not more than nineteen, he and I drew to one another, and became very intimate.
"I think we're goin' to have a breeze, Bob," said he, as a sharp puff of wind crossed the deck, driving the black smoke to leeward, and making the fire flare up in the try-works.
"I hope it won't be a storm, then," said I, "for it will oblige us to put out the fires."
Just then Tom Lokins came up, ordered Fred to go and attend to the fires, sat down opposite to me on the windlass, and began to "lay down the law" in regard to storms.
"You see, Bob Ledbury," said he, beginning to fill his pipe, "young fellers like you don't know nothin' about the weather--'cause why? you've got no experience. Now, I'll put you up to a dodge consarning this very thing."
I never found out what was the dodge that Tom, in his wisdom, was to have put me up to, for at that moment the captain came on deck, and gave orders to furl the top-gallant sails.
Three or four of us ran up the rigging like monkeys, and in a few minutes the sails were lashed to the yards.
The wind now began to blow steadily from the nor'-west; but not so hard as to stop our tryworks for more than an hour. After that it blew stiff enough to raise a heavy sea, and we were compelled to slack the fires. This was all the harm it did to us, however, for although the breeze was stiffish, it was nothing like a gale.
As the captain and the first mate walked the quarter-deck together, I heard the former say to the latter, "I think we had as well take in a reef in the topsails. All hereabouts the fishing-ground is good, we don't need to carry on."
The order was given to reduce sail, and the men lay out on the topsail yards. I noticed that my friend Fred Borders was the first man to spring up the shrouds and lay out on the main-topsail yard. It was so dark that I could scarcely see the masts. While I was gazing up, I thought I observed a dark object drop from the yard; at the same moment there was a loud shriek, followed by a plunge in the sea. This was succeeded by the sudden cry, "man overboard!" and instantly the whole ship was in an uproar.
No one who has not heard that cry can understand the dreadful feelings that are raised in the human breast by it. My heart at first seemed to leap into my mouth and almost choke me. Then a terrible fear, which I cannot describe, shot through me, when I thought it might be my comrade Fred Borders. But these thoughts and feelings passed like lightning--in a far shorter time than it takes to write them down. The shriek was still ringing in my ears when the captain roared-- "Down your helm! stand by to lower away the boats."
At the same moment he seized a light hen-coop and tossed it overboard, and the mate did the same with an oar in the twinkling of an eye. Almost without knowing what I did, or why I did it, I seized a great mass of oakum and rubbish that lay on the deck saturated with oil, I thrust it into the embers of the fire in the try-works, and hurled it blazing into the sea.
[Illustration: "HURLED IT BLAZING INTO THE SEA"] The ship's head was thrown into the wind, and we were brought to as quickly as possible. A gleam of hope arose within me on observing that the mass I had thrown overboard continued still to burn; but when I saw how quickly it went astern, notwithstanding our vigorous efforts to stop the ship, my heart began to sink, and when, a few moments after, the light suddenly disappeared, despair seized upon me, and I gave my friend up for lost.
At that moment, strange to say, thoughts of my mother came into my mind, I remembered her words, "Call upon the Lord, my dear boy, when you are in trouble." Although I had given but little heed to prayer, or to my Maker, up to that time, I did pray, then and there, most earnestly that my messmate might be saved. I cannot say that I had much hope that my prayer would be answered--indeed I think I had none,--still, the mere act of crying in my distress to the Almighty afforded me a little relief, and it was with a good deal of energy that I threw myself into the first boat that was lowered, and pulled at the oar as if my own life depended on it.
A lantern had been fastened to the end of an oar and set up in the boat, and by its faint light I could see that the men looked very grave. Tom Lokins was steering, and I sat near him, pulling the aft oar.
"Do you think we've any chance, Tom?" said I.
A shake of the head was his only reply.
"It must have been here away," said the mate, who stood up in the bow with a coil of rope at his feet, and a boat-hook in his hand. "Hold on, lads, did anyone hear a cry?"
No one answered. We all ceased pulling, and listened intently; but the noise of the waves and the whistling of the winds were all the sounds we heard.
"What's that floating on the water?" said one of the men, suddenly.
"Where away?" cried everyone eagerly.
"Right off the lee-bow--there, don't you see it?"
At that moment a faint cry came floating over the black water, and died away in the breeze.
The single word "Hurrah!" burst from our throats with all the power of our lungs, and we bent to our oars till we wellnigh tore the rollicks out of the boat.
"Hold hard! stern all!" roared the mate, as we went flying down to leeward, and almost ran over the hen-coop, to which a human form was seen to be clinging with the tenacity of a drowning man. We had swept down so quickly, that we shot past it. In an agony of fear lest my friend should be again lost in the darkness, I leaped up and sprang into the sea. Tom Lokins, however, had noticed what I was about; he seized me by the collar of my jacket just as I reached the water, and held me with a grip like a vice till one of the men came to his assistance, and dragged me back into the boat. In a few moments more we reached the hen-coop, and Fred was saved!
He was half dead with cold and exhaustion, poor fellow, but in a few minutes he began to recover, and before we reached the ship he could speak. His first words were to thank God for his deliverance. Then he added: "And, thanks to the man that flung that light overboard. I should have gone down but for that. It showed me where the hen-coop was."
I cannot describe the feeling of joy that filled my heart when he said this.
"Aye, who wos it that throw'd that fire overboard?" enquired one of the men.
"Don't know," replied another, "I think it wos the cap'n."
"You'll find that out when we get aboard," cried the mate; "pull away, lads."
In five minutes Fred Borders was passed up the side and taken down below. In two minutes more we had him stripped naked, rubbed dry, wrapped in hot blankets, and set down on one of the lockers, with a hot brick at his feet, and a stiff can of hot rum and water in his hand.
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{
"id": "21202"
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6
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THE WHALE--FIGHTING BULLS, ETC.
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As the reader may, perhaps, have been asking a few questions about the whale in his own mind, I shall try to answer them, by telling a few things concerning that creature which, I think, are worth knowing.
In the first place, the whale is not a fish! I have applied that name to it, no doubt, because it is the custom to do so; but there are great differences between the whales and the fishes. The mere fact that the whale lives in water is not sufficient to prove it to be a fish. The frog lives very much in water--he is born in the water, and, when very young, he lives in it altogether--would die, in fact, if he were taken out of it; yet a frog is not a fish.
The following are some of the differences existing between a whale and a fish:--The whale is a warm-blooded animal; the fish is cold-blooded. The whale brings forth its young alive; while most fishes lay eggs or spawn. Moreover, the fish lives entirely under water, but the whale cannot do so. He breathes air through enormous lungs, not gills. If you were to hold a whale's head under water for much longer than an hour, it would certainly be drowned; and this is the reason why it comes so frequently to the surface of the sea to take breath. Whales seldom stay more than an hour under water, and when they come up to breathe, they discharge the last breath they took through their nostrils or blowholes, mixed with large quantities of water which they have taken in while feeding. But the most remarkable point of difference between the whale and fishes of all kinds is, that it suckles its young.
The calf of one kind of whale is about fourteen feet long when it is born, and it weighs about a ton. The cow-whale usually brings forth only one calf at a time, and the manner in which she behaves to her gigantic baby shows that she is affected by feelings of anxiety and affection such as are never seen in fishes, which heartless creatures forsake their eggs when they are laid, and I am pretty sure they would not know their own children if they happened to meet with them.
The whale, on the contrary, takes care of her little one, gives it suck, and sports playfully with it in the waves; its enormous heart throbbing all the while, no doubt, with satisfaction.
I have heard of a whale which was once driven into shoal water with its calf and nearly stranded. The huge dam seemed to become anxious for the safety of her child, for she was seen to swim eagerly round it, embrace it with her fins, and roll it over in the waves, trying to make it follow her into deep water. But the calf was obstinate; it would not go, and the result was that the boat of a whaler pulled up and harpooned it. The poor little whale darted away like lightning on receiving the terrible iron, and ran out a hundred fathoms of line; but it was soon overhauled and killed. All this time the dam kept close to the side of its calf, and not until a harpoon was plunged into her own side would she move away. Two boats were after her. With a single rap of her tail she cut one of the boats in two, and then darted off. But in a short time she turned and came back. Her feelings of anxiety had returned, no doubt, after the first sting of pain was over, and she died at last close to the side of her young one.
There are various kinds of whales, but the two sorts that are most sought after are the common whale of the Greenland Seas, which is called the "right whale", and the sperm whale of the South Sea. Both kinds are found in the south; but the sperm whale never goes to the North Seas. Both kinds grow to an enormous size--sometimes to seventy feet in length, but there is considerable difference in their appearance, especially about the head. In a former chapter I have partly described the head of a _right_ whale, which has whalebone instead of teeth, with its blowholes on the back of the head. The sperm whale has large white teeth in its lower jaw and none at all in the upper. It has only one blowhole, and that a little one, much farther forward on its head, so that sailors can tell, at a great distance, what kind of whales they see simply by their manner of spouting.
The most remarkable feature about the sperm whale is the bluntness of its clumsy head, which looks somewhat like a big log with the end sawn square off, and this head is about one-third of its entire body.
The sperm whale feeds differently from the right whale. He seizes his prey with his powerful teeth, and lives, to a great extent, on large cuttle-fish. Some of them have been seen to vomit lumps of these cuttle-fish as long as a whale-boat. He is much fiercer, too, than the right whale, which almost always takes to flight when struck, but the sperm whale will sometimes turn on its foes and smash their boat with a blow of his blunt head or tail.
Fighting-whales, as they are called, are not uncommon. These are generally old bulls, which have become wise from experience, and give the whalers great trouble--sometimes carrying away several harpoons and lines. The lower jaw of one old bull of this kind was found to be sixteen feet long, and it had forty-eight teeth, some of them a foot long. A number of scars about his head showed that this fellow had been in the wars. When two bull-whales take to fighting, their great effort is to catch each other by the lower jaw, and, when locked together, they struggle with a degree of fury that cannot be described.
It is not often that the sperm whale actually attacks a ship; but there are a few cases of this kind which cannot be doubted. The following story is certainly true; and while it shows how powerful a creature the whale is, it also shows what terrible risk and sufferings the whaleman has frequently to encounter.
In the month of August, 1819, the American whaleship _Essex_ sailed from Nantucket for the Pacific Ocean. She was commanded by Captain Pollard. Late in the autumn of the same year, when in latitude 40 degrees of the South Pacific, a shoal, or "school", of sperm whales was discovered, and three boats were immediately lowered and sent in pursuit. The mate's boat was struck by one of the fish during the chase, and it was found necessary to return to the ship to repair damages.
While the men were employed at this, an enormous whale suddenly rose quite close to the ship. He was going at nearly the same rate with the ship--about three miles an hour; and the men, who were good judges of the size of whales, thought that it could not have been less than eighty-five feet long. All at once he ran against the ship, striking her bows, and causing her to tremble like a leaf. The whale immediately dived and passed under the ship, and grazed her keel in doing so. This evidently hurt his back, for he suddenly rose to the surface about fifty yards off, and commenced lashing the sea with his tail and fins as if suffering great agony. It was truly an awful sight to behold that great monster lashing the sea into foam at so short a distance.
In a short time he seemed to recover, and started off at great speed to windward. Meanwhile the men discovered that the blow received by the ship had done her so much damage, that she began to fill and settle down at the bows; so they rigged the pumps as quickly as possible. While working them one of the men cried out: "God have mercy! he comes again!"
This was too true. The whale had turned, and was now bearing down on them at full speed, leaving a white track of foam behind him. Rushing at the ship like a battering-ram, he hit her fair on the weather bow and stove it in, after which he dived and disappeared. The horrified men took to their boats at once, and in _ten minutes_ the ship went down.
The condition of the men thus left in three open boats far out upon the sea, without provisions or shelter, was terrible indeed. Some of them perished, and the rest, after suffering the severest hardships, reached a low island called Ducies on the 20th of December. It was a mere sand-bank, which supplied them only with water and sea-fowl. Still even this was a mercy, for which they had reason to thank God; for in cases of this kind one of the evils that seamen have most cause to dread is the want of water.
Three of the men resolved to remain on this sand-bank, for dreary and uninhabited though it was, they preferred to take their chance of being picked up by a passing ship rather than run the risks of crossing the wide ocean in open boats, so their companions bade them a sorrowful farewell, and left them. But this island is far out of the usual track of ships. The poor fellows have never since been heard of.
It was the 27th of December when the three boats left the sand-bank with the remainder of the men, and began a voyage of two thousand miles, towards the island of Juan Fernandez. The mate's boat was picked up, about three months after, by the ship _Indian_ of London, with only three living men in it. About the same time the captain's boat was discovered, by the _Dauphin_ of Nantucket, with only two men living; and these unhappy beings had only sustained life by feeding on the flesh of their dead comrades. The third boat must have been lost, for it was never heard of; and out of the whole crew of twenty men, only five returned home to tell their eventful story.
Before resuming the thread of my narrative, I must not omit to mention, that in the head of the sperm whale there is a large cavity or hole called the "case", which contains pure oil that does not require to be melted, but can be baled at once into casks and stowed away. This is the valuable spermaceti from which the finest candles are made. One whale will sometimes yield fifteen barrels of spermaceti oil from the "case" of its head. A large fish will produce from eighty to a hundred barrels of oil altogether, sometimes much more; and when whalemen converse with each other about the size of whales, they speak of "eighty-barrel fish", and so on.
Although I have written much about the fighting powers of the sperm whale, it must not be supposed that whales are by nature fond of fighting. On the contrary, the "right" whale is a timid creature, and never shows fight except in defence of its young. And the sperm whale generally takes to flight when pursued. In fact, most of the accidents that happen to whalemen occur when the wounded monster is lashing the water in blind terror and agony.
The whale has three bitter enemies, much smaller, but much bolder than himself, and of these he is terribly afraid. They are: the swordfish, the thrasher, and the killer. The first of these, the sword-fish, has a strong straight horn or sword projecting from his snout, with which he boldly attacks and pierces the whale. The thrasher is a strong fish, twenty feet long, and of great weight. Its method of attack is to leap out of the water on the whale's back, and deal it a tremendous blow with its powerful tail.
The sword-fish and thrasher sometimes act together in the attack; the first stabbing him below, and the second belabouring him above, while the whale, unable, or too frightened to fight, rushes through the water, and even leaps its whole gigantic length into the air in its endeavours to escape. When a whale thus leaps his whole length out of the water, the sailors say he "breaches", and breaching is a common practice. They seem to do it often for amusement as well as from terror.
But the most deadly of the three enemies is the killer. This is itself a kind of small whale, but it is wonderfully strong, swift, and bold. When one of the killers gets into the middle of a school of whales, the frightened creatures are seen flying in all directions. His mode of attack is to seize his big enemy by the jaw, and hold on until he is exhausted and dies.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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7
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TOM'S WISDOM--ANOTHER GREAT BATTLE
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One day I was standing beside the windlass, listening to the conversation of five or six of the men, who were busy sharpening harpoons and cutting-knives, or making all kinds of toys and things out of whales' bones. We had just finished cutting in and trying out our third whale, and as it was not long since we reached the fishing-ground, we were in high hopes of making a good thing of it that season; so that everyone was in good spirits, from the captain down to the youngest man in the ship.
Tom Lokins was smoking his pipe, and Tom's pipe was an uncommonly black one, for he smoked it very often. Moreover, Tom's pipe was uncommonly short, so short that I always wondered how he escaped burning the end of his nose. Indeed, some of the men said that the redness of the end of Tom's nose was owing to its being baked like a brick by the heat of his pipe. Tom took this pipe from his mouth, and while he was pushing down the tobacco with the end of his little finger, he said: "D'ye know, lads, I've been thinkin'----" "No, have ye?" cried one of the men, interrupting him with a look of pretended surprise. "Well now, I do think, messmates, that we should ax the mate to make a note o' that in the log, for it's not often that Tom Lokins takes to thinkin'."
There was a laugh at this, but Tom, turning with a look of contempt to the man who interrupted him, replied: "I'll tell you wot it is, Bill Blunt, if all the thoughts that _you_ think, and especially the jokes that you utter, wos put down in the log, they'd be so heavy that I do believe they would sink the ship!"
"Well, well," cried Bill, joining in the laugh against himself, "if they did, _your_ jokes would be so light and triflin' that I do believe they'd float her again. But what have you been a-thinkin' of, Tom?"
"I've been thinkin'," said Tom slowly, "that if a whale makes his breakfast entirely off them little things that you can hardly see when you get 'em into a tumbler--I forget how the captain calls 'em--wot a _tree-mendous_ heap of 'em he must eat in the course of a year!"
"Thousands of 'em, I suppose," said one of the men.
"Thousands!" cried Tom, "I should rather say billions of them."
"How much is billions, mate?" enquired Bill.
"I don't know," answered Tom. "Never could find out. You see it's heaps upon heaps of thousands, for the thousands come first and the billions afterwards; but when I've thought uncommon hard, for a long spell at a time, I always get confused, because millions comes in between, d'ye see, and that's puzzlin'."
"I think I could give you some notion about these things," said Fred Borders, who had been quietly listening all the time, but never putting in a word, for, as I have said, Fred was a modest bashful man and seldom spoke much. But we had all come to notice that when Fred spoke, he had always something to say worth hearing; and when he did speak he spoke out boldly enough. We had come to have feelings of respect for our young shipmate, for he was a kind-hearted lad, and we saw by his conversation that he had been better educated than the most of us, so all our tongues stopped as the eyes of the party turned on him.
"Come, Fred, let's hear it then," said Tom.
"It's not much I have to tell," began Fred, "but it may help to make your minds clearer on this subject. On my first voyage to the whale fishery (you know, lads, this is my second voyage) I went to the Greenland Seas. We had a young doctor aboard with us--quite a youth; indeed he had not finished his studies at college, but he was cleverer, for all that, than many an older man that had gone through his whole course. I do believe that the reason of his being so clever was, that he was for ever observing things, and studying them, and making notes, and trying to find out reasons. He was never satisfied with knowing a thing; he must always find out _why_ it was. One day I heard him ask the captain what it was that made the sea so green in some parts of those seas. Our captain was an awfully stupid man. So long as he got plenty oil he didn't care two straws for the reason of anything. The young doctor had been bothering him that morning with a good many questions, so when he asked him what made the sea green, he answered sharply, 'I suppose it makes itself green, young man,' and then he turned from him with a fling.
"The doctor laughed, and came forward among the men, and began to tell us stories and ask questions. Ah! he was a real hearty fellow; he would tell you all kinds of queer things, and would pump you dry of all you knew in no time. Well, but the thing I was going to tell you was this. One of the men said to him he had heard that the greenness of the Greenland Sea was caused by the little things like small bits of jelly on which the whales feed. As soon as he heard this he got a bucket and hauled some sea-water aboard, and for the next ten days he was never done working away with the sea-water; pouring it into tumblers and glasses; looking through it by daylight and by lamplight; tasting it, and boiling it, and examining it with a microscope."
"What's a microscope?" enquired one of the men.
"Don't you know?" said Tom Lokins, "why, it's a glass that makes little things seem big, when ye look through it. I've heerd that say beasts that are so uncommon small you that can't see them at all are made to come into sight and look quite big by means o' this glass. But I can't myself say that it's true."
"But I can," said Fred, "for I have seen it with my own eyes. Well, after a good while, I made bold to ask the young doctor what he had found out. " 'I've found,' said he, 'that the greenness of these seas is in truth caused by uncountable numbers of medusae----'" "Ha! that's the word," shouted Tom Lokins, "Medoosy, that's wot the captain calls 'em. Heave ahead, Fred."
"Well then," continued Fred, "the young doctor went on to tell me that he had been counting the matter to himself very carefully, and he found that in every square mile of sea-water there were living about eleven quadrillions, nine hundred and ninety-nine trillions of these little creatures!"
"Oh! hallo! come now!" we all cried, opening our eyes very wide indeed.
"But, I say, how much is that?" enquired Tom Lokins.
"Ah! that's just what I said to the young doctor, and he said to me, 'I'll tell you what, Fred Borders, no man alive understands how much that is, and what's more, no man ever will; but I'll give you _some notion_ of what it means'; and so he told me how long it would take forty thousand men to count that number of eleven quadrillions, nine hundred and ninety-nine trillions, each man of the forty thousand beginning 'one ', 'two', 'three', and going on till the sum of the whole added together would make it up. Now, how long d'ye think it would take them? --guess."
Fred Borders smiled as he said this, and looked round the circle of men.
"I know," cried one; "it would take the whole forty thousand _a week_ to do it."
"Oh! nonsense, they could do it easy in two days," said another.
"That shows how little you know about big numbers," observed Tom Lokins, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "I'm pretty sure it couldn't be done in much less than six months; workin' hard all day, and makin' allowance for only one hour off for dinner."
"You're all wrong, shipmates," said Fred Borders. "That young doctor told me that if they'd begun work at the day of creation they would only have just finished the job last year!"
"Oh! gammon, you're jokin'," cried Bill Blunt.
"No, I'm not," said Fred, "for I was told afterwards by an old clergyman that the young doctor was quite right, and that anyone who was good at 'rithmetic could work the thing out for himself in less than half an hour."
Just as Fred said this there came a loud cry from the mast-head that made us all spring to our feet like lightning.
"There she blows! There she breaches!"
The captain was on deck in a moment.
"Where away?" he cried.
"On the lee beam, sir. Sperm whale, about two miles off. There she blows!"
Every man was at his station in a moment; for, after being some months out, we became so used to the work, that we acted together like a piece of machinery. But our excitement never abated in the least.
"Sing out when the ship heads for her."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Keep her away!" said the captain to the man at the helm. "Bob Ledbury, hand me the spy-glass."
"Steady," from the mast-head.
"Steady it is," answered the man at the helm.
While we were all looking eagerly out ahead we heard a thundering snore behind us, followed by a heavy splash. Turning quickly round, we saw the flukes of an enormous whale sweeping through the air not more than six hundred yards astern of us.
"Down your helm," roared the captain; "haul up the mainsail, and square the yards. Call all hands."
"All hands, ahoy!" roared Bill Blunt, in a voice of thunder, and in another moment every man in the ship was on deck.
"Hoist and swing the boats," cried the captain. "Lower away."
Down went the boats into the water; the men were into their places almost before you could wink, and we pulled away from the ship just as the whale rose the second time, about half a mile away to leeward.
From the appearance of this whale we felt certain that it was one of the largest we had yet seen, so we pulled after it with right good will. I occupied my usual place in the captain's boat, next the bow oar, just beside Tom Lokins, who was ready with his harpoons in the bow. Young Borders pulled the oar directly in front of me. The captain himself steered, and, as our crew was a picked one, we soon left the other two boats behind us.
Presently a small whale rose close beside us, and, sending a shower of spray over the boat, went down in a pool of foam. Before we had time to speak, another whale rose on the opposite side of the boat, and then another on our starboard bow. We had got into the middle of a shoal of whales, which commenced leaping and spouting all round us, little aware of the dangerous enemy that was so near.
In a few minutes more up comes the big one again that we had first seen. He seemed very active and wild. After blowing on the surface once or twice, about a quarter of a mile off, he peaked his flukes, and pitched down head foremost.
"Now then, lads, he's down for a long dive," said the captain; "spring your oars like men, we'll get that fish for certain, if you'll only pull."
The captain was mistaken; the whale had only gone down deep in order to come up and breach, or spring out of the water, for the next minute he came up not a hundred yards from us, and leaped his whole length into the air.
A shout of surprise broke from the men, and no wonder, for this was the largest fish I ever saw or heard of, and he came up so clear of the water that we could see him from head to tail as he turned over in the air, exposing his white belly to view, and came down on his great side with a crash like thunder, that might have been heard six miles off. A splendid mass of pure white spray burst from the spot where he fell, and in another moment he was gone.
"I do believe it's _New Zealand Tom_," cried Bill Blunt, referring to an old bull whale that had become famous among the men who frequented these seas for its immense size and fierceness, and for the great trouble it had given them, smashing some of their boats, and carrying away many of their harpoons.
"I don't know whether it's New Zealand Tom or not," said the captain, "but it's pretty clear that he's an old sperm bull. Give way, lads, we must get that whale whatever it should cost us."
We did not need a second bidding; the size of the fish was so great that we felt more excited than we had yet been during the voyage, so we bent our oars till we almost pulled the boat out of the water. The other boats had got separated, chasing the little whales, so we had this one all to ourselves.
"There she blows!" said Tom Lokins, in a low voice, as the fish came up a short distance astern of us.
We had overshot our mark, so, turning about, we made for the whale, which kept for a considerable time near the top of the water, spouting now and then, and going slowly to windward. We at last got within a few feet of the monster, and the captain suddenly gave the word, "Stand up."
This was to our harpooner, Tom Lokins, who jumped up on the instant, and buried two harpoons deep in the blubber.
"Stern all!" was the next word, and we backed off with all our might. It was just in time, for, in his agony, the whale tossed his tail right over our heads, the flukes were so big that they could have completely covered the boat, and he brought them down flat on the sea with a clap that made our ears tingle, while a shower of spray drenched us to the skin. For one moment I thought it was all over with us, but we were soon out of immediate danger, and lay on our oars watching the writhings of the wounded monster as he lashed the ocean into foam. The water all round us soon became white like milk, and the foam near the whale was red with blood.
Suddenly this ceased, and, before we could pull up to lance him, he went down, taking the line out at such a rate that the boat spun round, and sparks of fire flew from the loggerhead from the chafing of the rope.
"Hold on!" cried the captain, and next moment we were tearing over the sea at a fearful rate, with a bank of white foam rolling before us, high above our bows, and away on each side of us like the track of a steamer, so that we expected it every moment to rush inboard and swamp us. I had never seen anything like this before. From the first I had a kind of feeling that some evil would befall us.
While we were tearing over the water in this way, we saw the other whales coming up every now and then and blowing quite near to us, and presently we passed close enough to the first mate's boat to see that he was fast to a fish, and unable, therefore, to render us help if we should need it.
In a short time the line began to slack, so we hauled it in hand over hand, and Tom Lokins coiled it away in the tub in the stern of the boat, while the captain took his place in the bow to be ready with the lance. The whale soon came up, and we pulled with all our might towards him. Instead of making off again, however, he turned round and made straight at the boat. I now thought that destruction was certain, for, when I saw his great blunt forehead coming down on us like a steamboat, I felt that we could not escape. I was mistaken. The captain received him on the point of his lance, and the whale has such a dislike to pain, that even a small prick will sometimes turn him.
For some time we kept dodging round this fellow; but he was so old and wise, that he always turned his head to us, and prevented us from getting a chance to lance him. At last he turned a little to one side, and the captain plunged the lance deep into his vitals.
"Ha! that's touched his life," cried Tom, as a stream of blood flew up from his blowholes, a sure sign that he was mortally wounded. But he was not yet conquered. After receiving the cruel stab with the lance, he pitched right down, head foremost, and once more the line began to fly out over the bow. We tried to hold on, but he was going so straight down that the boat was almost swamped, and we had to slack off to prevent our being pulled under water.
Before many yards of the line had run out, one of the coils in the tub became entangled.
"Look out, lads!" cried Tom, and at once throwing the turn off the logger-head, he made an attempt to clear it. The captain, in trying to do the same thing, slipped and fell. Seeing this, I sprang up, and, grasping the coil as it flew past, tried to clear it. Before I could think, a turn whipped round my left wrist. I felt a wrench as if my arm had been torn out of the socket, and in a moment I was overboard, going down with almost lightning speed into the depths of the sea. Strange to say, I did not lose my presence of mind. I knew exactly what had happened. I felt myself rushing down, down, down with terrific speed; a stream of fire seemed to be whizzing past my eyes; there was a dreadful pressure on my brain, and a roaring as if of thunder in my ears. Yet, even in that dread moment, thoughts of eternity, of my sins, and of meeting with my God, flashed into my mind, for thought is quicker than the lightning flash.
[Illustration: "IN A MOMENT I WAS OVERBOARD"] Of a sudden the roaring ceased, and I felt myself buffeting the water fiercely in my efforts to reach the surface. I know not how I got free, but I suppose the turn of the line must have slackened off somehow. All this happened within the space of a few brief moments; but oh! they seemed fearfully long to me. I do not think I could have held my breath a second longer.
When I came to the surface, and tried to look about me, I saw the boat not more than fifty yards off, and, being a good swimmer, I struck out for it, although I felt terribly exhausted. In a few minutes my comrades saw me, and, with a cheer, put out the oars and began to row towards me. I saw that the line was slack, and that they were hauling it in--a sign that the whale had ceased running and would soon come to the surface again. Before they had pulled half-a-dozen strokes I saw the water open close beside the boat, and the monstrous head of the whale shot up like a great rock rising out of the deep.
He was not more than three feet from the boat, and he came up with such force, that more than half his gigantic length came out of the water right over the boat. I heard the captain's loud cry--"_Stern all! _" But it was too late, the whole weight of the monster's body fell upon the boat; there was a crash and a terrible cry, as the whale and boat went down together.
For a few moments he continued to lash the sea in his fury, and the fragments of the boat floated all round him. I thought that every man, of course, had been killed; but one after another their heads appeared in the midst of blood and foam, and they struck out for oars and pieces of the wreck.
Providentially, the whale, in his tossings, had shot a little away from the spot, else every man must certainly have been killed.
A feeling of horror filled my heart, as I beheld all this, and thought upon my position. Fortunately, I had succeeded in reaching a broken plank; for my strength was now so much exhausted, that I could not have kept my head above water any longer without its assistance. Just then I heard a cheer, and the next time I rose on the swell, I looked quickly round and saw the mate's boat making for the scene of action as fast as a stout and willing crew could pull. In a few minutes more I was clutched by the arm and hauled into it. My comrades were next rescued, and we thanked God when we found that none were killed, although one of them had got a leg broken, and another an arm twisted out of joint. They all, however, seemed to think that my escape was much more wonderful than theirs; but I cannot say that I agreed with them in this.
We now turned our attention to the whale, which had dived again. As it was now loose, we did not know, of course, where it would come up: so we lay still awhile. Very soon up he came, not far from us, and as fierce as ever.
"Now, lads, we _must_ get that whale," cried the mate; "give way with a will."
The order was obeyed. The boat almost leaped over the swell, and, before long, another harpoon was in the whale's back.
"Fast again, hurrah!" shouted the mate, "now for the lance."
He gave the monster two deep stabs while he spoke, and it vomited up great clots of blood, besides spouting the red stream of life as it rolled on the sea in its agony, obliging us to keep well out of its way.
I could not look upon the dying struggles of this enormous fish without feelings of regret and self-reproach for helping to destroy it. I felt almost as if I were a murderer, and that the Creator would call me to account for taking part in the destruction of one of His grandest living creatures. But the thought passed quickly from my mind as the whale became more violent and went into its flurry. It began to lash the sea with such astonishing violence, that all the previous struggles seemed as nothing. The water all round became white like milk, with great streaks of red blood running through it, and the sound of the quick blows of its tail and fins resembled that of dull hollow thunder. We gazed at this scene in deep silence and with beating hearts.
All at once the struggles ceased. The great carcass rolled over belly up, and lay extended on the sea in death. To me it seemed as if a dead calm had suddenly fallen around us, after a long and furious storm, so great was the change when that whale at length parted with its huge life. The silence was suddenly broken by three hearty cheers, and then, fastening a rope to our prize, we commenced towing it to the ship, which operation occupied us the greater part of the night, for we had no fewer than eight miles to pull.
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{
"id": "21202"
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8
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DEATH ON THE SEA
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The whale which we had taken, as I have related in the last chapter, was our largest fish of that season. It produced ninety barrels of oil, and was worth about 500 pounds, so that we did not grieve much over the loss of our boat.
But our next loss was of a kind that could not be made up for by oil or money, for it was the loss of a human life. In the whale-fishery men must, like soldiers, expect to risk their lives frequently, and they have too often, alas! to mourn over the loss of a shipmate or friend. Up to this time our voyage had gone prosperously. We had caught so many fish that nearly half our cargo was already completed, and if we should be as lucky the remainder of the voyage, we should be able to return home to Old England much sooner than we had expected.
Of course, during all this time we had met with some disappointments, for I am not describing everything that happened on that voyage. It would require a much thicker volume than this to tell the half of our adventures. We lost five or six fish by their sinking before we could get them made fast to the ship, and one or two bolted so fast that they broke loose and carried away a number of harpoons and many a fathom of line. But such misfortunes were what we had to look for. Every whaler meets with similar changes of luck, and we did not expect to fare differently from our neighbours. These things did not cause us much regret beyond the time of their occurrence. But it was far otherwise with the loss that now befell us.
It happened on a Sunday forenoon. I was standing close to the starboard gangway early that morning, looking over the side into the calm water, for there was not a breath of wind, and talking to the first mate, who was a gruff, surly man, but a good officer, and kind enough in his way when everything went smooth with him. But things don't go very smooth generally in whaling life, so the mate was oftener gruff than sweet.
"Bob Ledbury," said he, "have you got your cutting-in gear in order? I've got a notion that we'll 'raise the oil' this day."
"All right, sir," said I; "you might shave yourself with the blubber-spades. That was a good fish we got last, sir, wasn't it?"
"Pretty good, though I've seen bigger."
"He gave us a deal of trouble too," said I. "Not so much as I've seen others give," said he. "When I was fishing in the Greenland Seas we made fast to a whale that cost us I don't know how many hundred dollars." (You must know the first mate was a Yankee, and he reckoned everything in dollars.)
"How was that, sir?" asked I. "Well, it was something in this fashion. We were floating about in the North Atlantic one calm, hot day, just something like this, only it was the afternoon, not the morning. We were doing nothing, and whistling for a breeze, when, all of a sudden, up comes five or six whales all round the ship, as if they had spied her from the bottom of the sea, and had come up to have a squint at her. Of course the boats were manned at once, and in less than no time we were tearing after them like all alive. But them whales were pretty wildish, I guess. They kept us pullin' the best part of five hours before we got a chance at them. My boat was out of sight of the ship before we made fast to a regular snorer, a hundred-barreller at the least. The moment he felt the iron, away he went like the shot out of a gun; but he didn't keep it up long, for soon after another of our boats came up and made fast. Well, for some two or three hours we held fast, but could not haul on to him to use the lance, for the moment we came close up alongside of his tail he peaked flukes and dived, then up again, and away as fast as ever. It was about noon before we touched him again; but by that time two more harpoons were made fast, and two other boats cast tow-lines aboard of us, and were hauled along. That was four boats, and more than sixteen hundred fathoms of line, besides four harpoons that was fast to that whale, and yet, for all that, he went ahead as fast as we could have rowed, takin' us along with him quite easy.
"A breeze having sprung up, our ship overhauled us in the course of the afternoon, and towards evening we sent a line on board, to see if that would stop the big fish, and the topsails were lowered, so as to throw some of the ship's weight on him, but the irons drew out with the strain. However, we determined to try it again. Another line was sent aboard about eight o'clock, and the topsails were lowered, but the line snapped immediately. Well, we held on to that whale the whole of that night, and at four o'clock next morning, just thirty-six hours after he was first struck, two fast lines were taken aboard the ship. The breeze was fresh, and against us, so the top-gallant sails were taken in, the courses hauled up, and the topsails clewed down, yet, I assure you, that whale towed the ship dead against the wind for an hour and a half at the rate of two miles an hour, and all the while beating the water with his fins and tail, so that the sea was in a continual foam. We did not kill that fish till after forty hours of the hardest work I ever went through."
Some of my shipmates seemed to doubt the truth of this story; but, for my part, I believed it, because the mate was a grave, truthful man, though he was gruff, and never told lies, as far as I knew. Moreover, a case of the same kind happened some years afterwards, to a messmate of mine, while he was serving aboard the _Royal Bounty_, on the 28th of May, 1817.
I know that some of the stories which I now tell must seem very wild and unlikely to landsmen; but those who have been to the whale-fishery will admit that I tell nothing but the truth, and if there are any of my readers who are still doubtful, I would say, go and read the works of Captain Scoresby. It is well known that this whaling captain was a truly religious man, who gave up the fishing, though it turned him in plenty of money, and became a minister of the gospel with a small income, so it is not likely that he would have told what was untrue. Well, in his works we find stories that are quite as remarkable as the one I have just told, some of them more so.
For instance, he tells us of one whale, in the Greenland Seas, which was not killed till it had drawn out ten thousand four hundred and forty yards, or about _six miles_ of line, fastened to fifteen harpoons, besides taking one of the boats entirely under water, which boat was never seen again.
The mate told us two or three more stories, and a lot of us were gathered round him, listening eagerly, for there is nothing Jack likes so much as a _good yarn_, when all of a sudden, the man at the mast-head sang out that a large sperm whale was spouting away two points off the lee-bow. Of course we were at our posts in a moment.
"There she blows! there she breaches!" sung the look-out.
"Lower away!" roared the captain.
The boats were in the water, and the men on their seats in a moment.
The whale we were after was a very large one, we could see that, for after two hours' hard pulling we got near enough to throw a harpoon, and after it was fixed he jumped clean out of the water. Then there was the usual battle. It was fierce and long; so long that I began to fear we would have to return empty-handed to the ship. We put ten harpoons into him, one after another, and had a stiff run between the fixing of each.
It is astonishing the difference between the fish. One will give you no trouble at all. I have often seen a good big fellow killed in half an hour. Another will take you half a day, and perhaps you may lose him after all. The whale we were now after at last took to showing fight. He made two or three runs at the boat, but the mate, who was in command, pricked him off with the lance cleverly. At last we gave him a severe wound, and immediately he dived.
"That was into his life," remarked Tom Lokins, as we sat waiting for him to come up again. The captain's boat was close to ours, about ten yards off. We had not to wait long. The sudden stoppage and slacking off of all the lines showed that the whale was coming up. All at once I saw a dark object rising directly under the captain's boat. Before I could make out what it was, almost before I could think, the boat flew up into the air, as if a powder magazine had exploded beneath it. The whale had come up, and hit it with his head right on the keel, so that it was knocked into pieces, and the men, oars, harpoons, lances, and tackle shot up in confusion into the air.
Immediately after that the whale went into his flurry, but we paid no attention to him, in our anxiety to pick up our companions. They all came to the surface quickly enough, but while some made for the boats vigorously, others swam slowly and with pain, showing that they were hurt, while one or two floated, as if dead, upon the water.
Most of the men had escaped with only a few cuts and bruises, but one poor fellow was hauled out of the water with a leg broken, and another was so badly knocked about the head that it was a long time before he was again fit for duty. The worst case, however, was that of poor Fred Borders. He had a leg broken, and a severe wound in the side from a harpoon which had been forced into the flesh over the barbs, so that we could hardly get it drawn out. We laid him in the stern of the boat, where he lay for some time insensible; but in a short time he revived, and spoke to us in a faint voice. His first words were: "I'm dying, messmates. It is into my life, too."
"Don't say that, Fred," said I, while my heart sank within me. "Cheer up, my boy, you'll live to be the death of many a whale yet. See, put your lips to this can--it will do you good."
He shook his head gently, being too weak to reply.
We had killed a big fish that day, and we knew that when he was "tried in" we should have completed our cargo; but there was no cheer given when the monster turned over on his side, and the pull to the ship that evening seemed to us the longest and heaviest we ever had, for our hearts were very sad.
Next day Fred was worse, and we all saw that his words would come true--he was dying; and before the sun had again set poor Fred had left us for ever.
We buried our shipmate in the usual sailor fashion. We wrapped him in his hammock, with a cannon-ball at his feet to sink him. The captain read the burial-service at the gangway, and then, in deep silence, we committed his corpse to the deep.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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9
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NEWS FROM HOME--A GAM
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Shoregoing people have but little notion of the ease with which the heart of a jack-tar is made to rejoice when he is out on a long voyage. His pleasures and amusements are so few that he is thankful to make the most of whatever is thrown in his way. In the whale-fisheries, no doubt, he has more than enough of excitement, but after a time he gets used to this, and begins to long for a little variety--and of all the pleasures that fall to his lot, that which delights him most is to have a GAM with another ship.
Now, a gam is the meeting of two or more whale-ships, their keeping company for a time, and the exchanging of visits by the crews. It is neither more nor less than a jollification on the sea--the inviting of your friends to feast and make merry in your floating house. There is this difference, however, between a gam at sea and a party on land, that your _friends_ on the ocean are men whom you perhaps never saw before, and whom you will likely never meet again. There is also another difference--there are no ladies at a gam. This is a great want, for man is but a rugged creature when away from the refining influence of woman; but, in the circumstances, of course, it can't be helped.
We had a gam one day, on this voyage, with a Yankee whale-ship, and a first-rate gam it was, for, as the Yankee had gammed three days before with another English ship, we got a lot of news second-hand; and, as we had not seen a new face for many months, we felt towards those Yankees like brothers, and swallowed all they had to tell us like men starving for news.
It was on a fine calm morning, just after breakfast, that we fell in with this ship. We had seen no whales for a day or two, but we did not mind that, for our hold was almost full of oil-barrels. Tom Lokins and I were leaning over the starboard bulwarks, watching the small fish that every now and then darted through the clear-blue water like arrows, and smoking our pipes in silence. Tom looked uncommonly grave, and I knew that he was having some deep and knowing thoughts of his own which would leak out in time. All at once he took his pipe from his mouth and stared earnestly at the horizon.
"Bob," said he, speaking very slowly, "if there ain't a ship right off the starboard beam, I'm a Dutchman."
"You don't mean it!" said I, starting with a feeling of excitement.
Before another word could be uttered, the cry of "Sail ho!" came ringing down from the mast-head. Instantly the quiet of the morning was broken; sleepers sprang up and rubbed their eyes, the men below rushed wildly up the hatchway, the cook came tearing out of his own private den, flourishing a soup-ladle in one hand and his tormentors in the other, the steward came tumbling up with a lump of dough in his fist that he had forgot to throw down in his haste, and the captain bolted up from the cabin without his hat.
"Where away?" cried he, with more than his usual energy.
"Right off the starboard beam, sir."
"Square the yards! Look alive, my hearties," was the next order; for although the calm sea was like a sheet of glass, a light air, just sufficient to fill our top-gallant sails, enabled us to creep through the water.
"Hurrah!" shouted the men as we sprang to obey.
"What does she look like?" roared the captain.
"A big ship, sir, I think," replied the lookout: "but I can only just make out the top of her main t-gallan' s'l."--(Sailors scorn to speak of _top-gallant sails_.)
Gradually, one by one, the white sails of the stranger rose up like cloudlets out of the sea, and our hearts beat high with hope and expectation as we beheld the towering canvas of a full-rigged ship rise slowly into view.
"Show our colours," said the captain.
In a moment the Union Jack of Old England was waving at the mast-head in the gentle breeze, and we watched anxiously for a reply. The stranger was polite; his colours flew up a moment after, and displayed the Stripes and Stars of America.
"A Yankee!" exclaimed some of the men in a tone of slight disappointment.
I may remark, that our disappointment arose simply from the fact that there was no chance, as we supposed, of getting news from "home" out of a ship that must have sailed last from America. For the rest, we cared not whether they were Yankees or Britons--they were men who could speak the English tongue, that was enough for us.
"Never mind, boys," cried one, "we'll have a jolly gam; that's a fact."
"So we will," said another, "and I'll get news of my mad Irish cousin, Terrence O'Flannagan, who went out to seek his fortin in Ameriky with two shillin's and a broken knife in his pocket, and it's been said he's got into a government situation o' some sort connected with the jails--whether as captain or leftenant o' police, or turnkey, I'm not rightly sure."
"More likely as a life-tenant of one of the cells," observed Bill Blunt, laughing.
"Don't speak ill of a better man than yerself behind his back," retorted the owner of the Irish cousin.
"Stand by to lower the jolly-boat," cried the captain.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Lower away!"
In a few minutes we were leaping over the calm sea in the direction of the strange ship, for the breeze had died down, and we were too eager to meet with new faces, and to hear the sound of new voices, to wait for the wind.
To our joy we found that the Yankee had had a gam (as I have already said) with an English ship a few days before, so we returned to our vessel loaded with old newspapers from England, having invited the captain and crew of the Yankee to come aboard of us and spend the day.
While preparation was being made for the reception of our friends, we got hold of two of the old newspapers, and Tom Lokins seized one, while Bill Blunt got the other, and both men sat down on the windlass to retail the news to a crowd of eager men who tried hard to listen to both at once, and so could make nothing out of either.
"Hold hard, Tom Lokins," cried one. "What's that you say about the Emperor, Bill?"
"The Emperor of Roosia," said Bill Blunt, reading slowly, and with difficulty, "is--stop a bit, messmates, wot can this word be? --the Emperor of Roosia is----" "Blowed up with gunpowder, and shattered to a thousand pieces," said Tom Lokins, raising his voice with excitement, as he read from _his_ paper an account of the blowing up of a mountain fortress in India.
"Oh! come, I say, one at a time, if you please," cried a harpooner; "a feller can't git a word of sense out of sich a jumble."
"Come, messmates," cried two or three voices, as Tom stopped suddenly, and looked hard at the paper, "go ahead! wot have ye got there that makes ye look as wise as an owl? Has war been and broke out with the French?"
"I do believe he's readin' the births, marriages, and deaths," said one of the men, peeping over Tom's shoulder.
"Read 'em out, then, can't ye?" cried another.
"I say, Bill Blunt, I think this consarns _you_," cried Tom: "isn't your sweetheart's name Susan Croft?"
"That's a fact," said Bill, looking up from his paper, "and who has got a word to say agin the prettiest lass in all Liverpool?"
"Nobody's got a word to say against her," replied Tom; "but she's married, that's all."
Bill Blunt leaped up as if he had been shot, and the blood rushed to his face, as he seized the paper, and tried to find the place.
"Where is it, Tom? let me see it with my own two eyes. Oh, here it is!"
The poor man's face grew paler and paler as he read the following words:-- "Married at Liverpool, on the 5th inst., by the Rev. Charles Manson, Edward Gordon, Esq., to Susan, youngest daughter of Admiral Croft----" A perfect roar of laughter drowned the remainder of the sentence.
"Well done, Bill Blunt--Mister Blunt, we'll have to call him hereafter," said Tom, with a grim smile; "I had no notion you thought so much o' yourself as to aim at an admiral's daughter."
"All right, my hearties, chaff away!" said Bill, fetching a deep sigh of relief, while a broad grin played on his weather-beaten visage. "There's _two_ Susan Crofts, that's all; but I wouldn't give _my_ Susan for all the admirals' daughters that ever walked in shoe-leather."
"Hallo! here come the Yankees," cried the captain, coming on deck at that moment.
Our newspapers were thrown down at once, and we prepared to receive our guests, who, we could see, had just put off from their ship in two boats. But before they had come within a mile of us, their attention, as well as ours, was riveted on a most extraordinary sight.
Not more than a hundred yards ahead of our ship, a whale came suddenly to the surface of the water, seeming, by its wild motions, to be in a state of terror. It continued for some time to struggle, and lash the whole sea around it into a white foam.
At once the boats were lowered from both ships, and we went after this fish, but his motions were so violent, that we found it utterly impossible to get near enough to throw a harpoon. When we had approached somewhat closely, we discovered that it had been attacked by a killer fish, which was fully twenty feet long, and stuck to it like a leech. The monster's struggles were made in trying to shake itself free of this tremendous enemy, but it could not accomplish this. The killer held him by the under jaw, and hung on there, while the whale threw himself out of the water in his agony, with his great mouth open like a huge cavern, and the blood flowing so fast from the wound that the sea was dyed for a long distance round. This killer fought like a bulldog. It held on until the whale was exhausted, but they passed away from us in such a confused struggle, that a harpoon could not be fixed for an hour after we first saw them. On this being done, the killer let go, and the whale, being already half dead, was soon killed.
The Yankee boats were the first to come up with this fish, so the prize belonged to them. We were well pleased at this, as we could afford to let them have it, seeing that we could scarcely have found room to stow away the oil in our hold. It was the Yankee's first fish, too, so they were in great spirits about it, and towed it to their ship, singing "Yankee-doodle" with all their might.
As they passed our boat the captain hailed them.
"I wish you joy of your first fish, sir," said he to the Yankee captain.
"Thank you, stranger. I guess we're in luck, though it ain't a big one. I say, what sort o' brute was that that had hold of him? Never seed sich a crittur in all my life."
"He's a killer," said our captain.
"A killer! Guess he just is, and no mistake: if we hadn't helped him, he'd have done the job for himself! What does he kill him for?"
"To eat him, but I'm told he only eats the tongue. You'll not forget that you've promised to gam with us to-night," cried our captain, as they were about to commence pulling again.
"All right, stranger, one half will come to-night, before sundown; t'other half to-morrow, if the calm holds. Good day. Give way, lads."
The men dipped their oars, and resumed their song, while we pulled back to our ship. We did not offer to help them, because the fish was a small one, and the distance they had to go not great.
It was near sunset when, according to promise, the Yankees came on board, and spent a long evening with us. They were a free, open-hearted, boastful, conceited, good-humoured set of fellows, and a jolly night we had of it in the forecastle, while the mates and captains were enjoying themselves and spinning their yarns in the cabin.
Of course, we began with demands for home-news, and, when we had pumped out of them every drop they had, we began to songs and spinning yarns. And it was now that my friend Tom Lokins came out strong, and went on at such a rate, that he quite won the hearts of our guests. Tom was not noisy, and he was slow in his talk, but he had the knack of telling a good story; he never used a wrong word, or a word too many, and, having a great deal of humour, men could not help listening when he began to talk.
After this we had a dance, and here I became useful, being able to play Scotch reels and Irish jigs on the fiddle. Then we had songs and yarns again. Some could tell of furious fights with whales that made our blood boil; others could talk of the green fields at home, until we almost fancied we were boys again; and some could not tell stories at all. They had little to say, and that little they said ill; and I noticed that many of those who were perfect bores would cry loudest to be heard, though none of us wanted to hear them. We used to quench such fellows by calling loudly for a song with a rousing chorus.
It was not till the night was far spent, and the silver moon was sailing through the starry sky, that the Yankees left us, and rowed away with a parting cheer.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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10
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RETURN HOME
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Six months after our "gam" with the Yankees Tom Lokins and I found ourselves seated once more in the little garret beside my dear old mother.
"Deary me, Robert, how changed ye are!"
"Changed, Mother! I should think so! If you'd gone through all that I've done and seen since we last sat together in this room, you'd be changed too."
"And have ye really seen the whales, my boy?" continued my mother, stroking my face with her old hand.
"Seen them? aye, and killed them too--many of them."
"You've been in danger, my son," said my mother earnestly, "but the Lord has preserved you safe through it all."
"Aye, Mother, He has preserved my life in the midst of many dangers," said I, "for which I am most thankful."
There was a short silence after this, during which my mother and I gazed earnestly at each other, and Tom Lokins smoked his pipe and stared at the fire.
"Robert, how big is a whale?" enquired my mother suddenly.
"How big? why, it's as big as a small ship, only it's longer, and not quite so fat."
"Robert," replied my mother gravely, "ye didn't use to tell untruths; ye must be jokin'."
"Joking, Mother, I was never more in earnest in my life. Why, I tell you that I've seen, aye, and helped to cut up, whales that were more than sixty feet long, with heads so big that their mouths could have taken in a boat. Why, Mother, I declare to you that you could put this room into a whale's mouth, and you and Tom and I could sit round this table and take our tea upon his tongue quite comfortable. Isn't that true, Tom?"
My mother looked at Tom, who removed his pipe, puffed a cloud of smoke, and nodded his head twice very decidedly.
"Moreover," said I, "a whale is so big and strong, that it can knock a boat right up into the air, and break in the sides of a ship. One day a whale fell right on top of one of our boats and smashed it all to bits. Now that's a real truth!"
Again my mother looked at Tom Lokins, and again that worthy man puffed an immense cloud of smoke, and nodded his head more decidedly than before. Being anxious to put to flight all her doubts at once, he said solemnly, "Old ooman, that's a fact!"
"Robert," said my mother, "tell me something about the whales."
Just as she said this the door opened, and in came the good old gentleman with the nose like his cane-knob, and with as kind a heart as ever beat in a human breast. My mother had already told me that he came to see her regularly once a week, ever since I went to sea, except in summer, when he was away in the country, and that he had never allowed her to want for anything.
I need scarcely say that there was a hearty meeting between us three, and that we had much to say to each other. But in the midst of it all my mother turned to the old gentleman and said: "Robert was just going to tell me something about his adventures with the whales."
"That's capital!" cried the old gentleman, rubbing his hands. "Come, Bob, my boy, let's hear about 'em."
Being thus invited, I consented to spin them a yarn. The old gentleman settled himself in his chair, my mother smoothed her apron, folded her hands, and looked meekly into my face. Tom Lokins filled his pipe, stretched out his foot to poke the fire with the toe of his shoe, and began to smoke like a steam-engine; then I cleared my throat and began my tale, and before I had done talking that night, I had told them all that I have told in this little book to you, good reader, almost word for word.
Thus ended my first voyage to the South Seas. Many and many a trip have I made since then, and many a wonderful sight have I seen, both in the south and in the north. But if I were to write an account of all my adventures, my little book would grow into a big one; I must therefore come to a close.
The profits of this voyage were so great, that I was enabled to place my mother in a position of comfort for the rest of her life, which, alas! was very short. She died about six months after my return. I nursed her to the end, and closed her eyes. The last word she uttered was her Saviour's name. She died, as she had lived, trusting in the Lord; and when I laid her dear head in the grave my heart seemed to die within me.
I'm getting to be an old man now, but, through the blessing of God, I am comfortable and happy. As I have more than enough of this world's goods, and no family to care for, my chief occupation is to look after the poor, and particularly the old women who live in my neighbourhood. After the work of the day is done, I generally go and spend the evening with Tom Lokins, who lives near by, and is stout and hearty still; or he comes and spends it with me, and, while we smoke our pipes together, we often fall to talking about those stirring days when, in the strength and hope of youth, we sailed together to the South Seas, and took to--_Fighting the Whales_.
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{
"id": "21202"
}
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1
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None
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A long time ago, something very sad happened in one of the districts of Scotland. I cannot tell you how it all came about, but a great many people were obliged to leave their homes where they and their forefathers had lived for many generations. A few scattered themselves through other parts of the country; a few went to the great towns to seek for a livelihood; but by far the greater number made up their minds to leave for ever the land of their birth, and rose in the new, strange world beyond the sea a home for themselves and their children.
I could never make you understand what a sorrowful time that was to these poor people, or how much they suffered in going away. For some of the old left children behind them, and some of the young left their parents, or brothers, or sisters; and all left the homes where they had lived through happy years, the kirks where they had worshipped God together, and the kirkyards where lay the dust of the dear ones they had lost.
And, besides all this, they knew little of the land to which they were going, and between them and it lay the great ocean, with all its terrors. For then they did not count by days, as we do now, the time that it took to cross the sea, but by weeks, or even by months; and many a timid mother shrank from the thought of all her children might have to suffer ere the sea was passed. Even more than the knowledge of the many difficulties and discouragements which might await them beyond it, did the thought of the dangers of the sea appal them. And to all their other sorrows was added the bitter pain of saying farewell for ever and for ever to Scotland, their native land. It is true that not among all her hills or valleys, or in all her great and prosperous towns, could be found room for them and theirs; it is true that a home in the beloved land was denied them: but it was their native land all the same, and eyes that had refused to weep at the last look of dear faces left behind, grew dim with tears as the broken outline of Scotland's hills faded away in the darkness.
But out of very sorrowful events God oftentimes causes much happiness to spring; and it was so to these poor people in their banishment. Into the wide Canadian forests they came, and soon the wilderness and the solitary place were glad for them; soon the wild woods were made to rejoice with the sound of joyful voices ringing out from many a happy though humble home. And though there were those among the aged or the discontented who never ceased to pine for the heather hills of the old land, the young grew up strong and content, troubled by no fear that, for many and many a year to come, the place would become too strait for them or for their children.
They did not speak English these people, but a language called Gaelic, not at all agreeable to English ears, but very dear to the heart of the Scottish Highlander. It is passing somewhat out of use now; but even at this day I have heard of old people who will go many miles to hear a sermon preached in that language--the precious gospel itself seeming clearer and richer and more full of comfort coming to them in the language which they learned at their mother's knee.
"It was surely the language first spoken on earth, before the beguiling serpent came to our mother," once said an old man to me; "and maybe afterwards too, till the foolish men on the plain of Shinar brought Babel on the earth. And indeed it may be the language spoken in heaven to-day, so sweet and grand and fit for the expression of high and holy thoughts is it."
It is passing out of use now, however, even among the Highlanders themselves. Gaelic is the household language still, where the father and mother are old, or where the grand-parents live with the rising generation; but English is the language of business, of the newspapers, and of all the new books that find their way among the people. It is fast becoming the language in which public worship is conducted too. There are very few books in the Gaelic. There are the Bible and the Catechism, and some poems which they who understand them say are very grand and beautiful; and there are a few translations of religious books, such as "The Pilgrim's Progress," and some of the works of such writers as Flavel and Baxter. But though there are not many, they are of a kind which, read often and earnestly, cannot fail to bring wisdom; and a grave and thoughtful people were they who made their homes in this wilderness.
Among those who were most earnest in overcoming the difficulties which at every step meet the settler in a new country were two brothers, Angus and Evan MacIvor. Their farms lay next to each other. They were fortunate in securing good land, and they were moderately successful in clearing and cultivating it. They lived to a good old age, and the youngest son of each succeeded him in the possession of the land. It is about the families of these two sons that my story is to be told.
The two cousins bore the same name, Angus MacIvor; but they were not at all alike either in appearance or character. The one was fair, with light hair and bright blue eyes; and because of this he was called Angus Bhan, or Angus the fair, to distinguish him from his cousin, who was very dark. He had a frank, open face and kind manner; and if anyone in the neighbourhood wanted a favour done, his first thought was sure to be of Angus Bhan.
His cousin Angus Dhu, or Angus the black, had a good reputation among people in general. He was honest and upright in his dealings, his word could be relied on; but his temper was uncertain, and his neighbours called him "close," and few of them would have thought of looking to Angus Dhu when they wanted a helping hand.
When these two began life they were very much in the same circumstances. Their farms were alike as to the quality of the soil and as to the number of acres cleared and under cultivation. They were both free from debt, both strong men accustomed to farm-work, and both, in the opinion of their neighbours, had a fair chance of becoming rich, according to the idea of wealth entertained by these people.
But when twenty years had passed away the affairs of the two men stood very differently. Angus Dhu had more than realised the expectations of his neighbours. He was rich--richer even than his neighbours supposed. More than half of his farm of two hundred acres was cleared and under cultivation. It was well stocked, well tilled, and very productive. Near the site of the log-house built by his father stood a comfortable farm-house of stone. All this his neighbours saw, and called him a prosperous man; and now and then they speculated together as to the amount of bank-stock to which he might justly lay claim.
The world had not gone so well with Angus Bhan. There was not so much land under cultivation, neither was what he had so well cultivated as his cousin's. He had built a new house too, but he had been unfortunate as to the time chosen to build. Materials were dear, and a bad harvest or two put him sadly back in the world. He was obliged to run into debt, and the interest of the money borrowed from his cousin was an additional burden. He was not successful in the rearing of stock, and some heavy losses of cattle fell on him. Worse than all, his health began to fail, for then his courage failed too; and when there came to that part of the country rumours of wonderful discoveries of the precious metals in the western parts of the continent, he only faintly withstood the entreaties of his eldest son that he might be permitted to go away and search for gold among the mountains of California. His going away nearly broke his mother's heart; and some among the neighbours said it would have been far wiser for young Allister to stay at home and help his father to plough and sow and gather in the harvest, than to go so far and suffer so much for gold, which might be slow in coming, and which must be quick in going should sickness overtake him in the land of strangers. But the young are always hopeful, and Allister was sure of success; and he comforted his mother by telling her that in two or three years at most he could earn money enough to pay his father's debt to Angus Dhu, and then he would come home again, and they would all live happily together as before. So Allister went away, and left a sorrowful household behind.
And there was another sorrowful household in Glengarry about that time. There was only _sorrow_ in the hearts of Angus Bhan and his wife when their first-born son went away; for he went with their consent, and carried their blessing with him. But there were sorrow and bitter anger in the heart of Angus Dhu when he came to know that his son had also gone away. He was not a man of many words, and he said little to anyone about his son; but in his heart he believed that he had been beguiled away by the son of Angus Bhan, and bitter resentment rose within him at the thought.
A few months passed away, and there came a letter from Allister, written soon after his arrival in California. His cousin Evan Dhu was with him. They had done nothing to earn money as yet, but they were in high spirits, and full of hope that they would do great things. This letter gave much comfort to them all; but it was a long time before they heard from the wanderers again.
In the meantime the affairs of Angus Bhan did not grow more prosperous. It became more and more difficult for him to pay the interest of his debt; and though his cousin seldom alluded in words to his obligation, he knew quite well that he would not abate a penny either of principal or interest when the time of payment came.
A year passed away. No more letters came from Allister, and his father's courage grew fainter and fainter. There seemed little hope of his ever being able to pay his debt; and so, when Angus Dhu asked him to sell a part of his farm to him, he went home with a heavy heart to consult his wife about it. They agreed that something must be done at once; and so it was arranged that if Allister was not heard from, or if some other means of paying at least the interest did not offer before the spring, the hundred acres of their land that lay next to the farm of Angus Dhu should be given up to him. It was sad enough to have to do this; but Angus Bhan said to his wife,-- "If anything were to happen to me, you and the children would be far better with half the land free from debt, than with all burdened as it must be till Allister comes home."
They did not say much to each other, but their hearts were very sore-- his, that he must give up the land left to him by his father; hers, for his sake, and also for the sake of her first-born son, a wanderer far away.
That autumn, when the harvest was over, the second son, Lewis, set off with some young men of the place to join a company of lumberers, who were, as is their custom, to pass the winter in the woods. It was a time of great prosperity with lumber-merchants then, and good wages could be earned in their service. There was nothing to be done at home in the winter which his father, with the help of the younger children, could not do; and Lewis, who was eighteen, was eager to earn money to help at home, and eager also to enter into the new and, as he thought, the merry life in the woods. So Lewis went away, and there were left at home Hamish and Shenac, who were twins, Dan, Hugh, Colin, and little Flora, the youngest and dearest of them all. The anxieties of the parents were not suffered to sadden the lives of the children, and the little MacIvors Bhan were as merry young people as one could wish to see.
Though they were not so prosperous, they were a far happier household than the MacIvors Dhu. There was the same number of children in each family; but Angus Dhu's children were most of them older than their cousins, and while Angus Bhan had six sons and two daughters, Angus Dhu had six daughters and two sons. "His cousin should have been a far richer man than he, with so many sons," Angus Dhu used to say grimly. But three of the boys of Angus Bhan were only children still, and one of them was a cripple. And as for the daughters of Angus Dhu, they had been as good as sons even for the farm-work, labouring in the fields, as is the custom for young women in this part of the country, as industriously and as efficiently as men--far more so, indeed, than their own brother Evan did; for he was often impatient of the closeness with which his father kept them all at work, and it was this, quite as much as his love of adventure and his wish to see the world, that made him go away at last. The two eldest daughters were married, and the third was living away from home; so, after Evan left, there were four in their father's house--three girls and Dan, the youngest of the family, who was twelve years of age. The children of these two families had always been good friends. Indeed, the younger children of Angus Dhu had more pleasure in the house of their father's cousin than in their own home; and many a winter evening they were in the habit of passing there.
They had a very quiet winter after Lewis went away. There was less visiting and going about in the moonlight evenings than ever before; for the boys were all too young to go with them except Hamish, and he was a cripple, and not so well as usual this winter, and though the girls were quite able to take care of themselves, they had little pleasure in going alone. So Angus Dhu's girls used to take their knitting and their sewing to the other house, and they all amused themselves in the innocent, old-fashioned ways of that time.
Shenac seldom went to visit her cousins; for, besides the fact that her father's house was the pleasantest meeting-place, her brother Hamish could not often go out at night, and she would rarely consent to leave him; and no one added so much to the general amusement as Hamish. He was very skilful at making puzzles and at all sorts of arithmetical questions, and not one of them could sing so many songs or tell so many stories as he. He was very merry and sweet-tempered too. His being a cripple, and different from all the rest, had not made him peevish and difficult to deal with as such misfortunes are so apt to do, and there was no one in all the world that Shenac loved so well as her twin-brother Hamish.
I suppose I ought to describe Shenac more particularly, as my story is to be more about her than any of the other MacIvors. A good many years after the time of which I am now writing; I heard Shenac MacIvor--or, as English lips made it, Jane MacIvor--spoken of as a very beautiful woman (the Gaelic spelling is Sinec); but at this time I do not think it ever came into the mind of anybody to think whether she was beautiful or not. She had one attribute of beauty--perfect health. There never bloomed among the Scottish hills, which her father and mother only just remembered, roses and lilies more fresh and fair than bloomed on the happy face of Shenac, and her curls of golden brown were the admiration and envy of her dark haired cousins. They called little Flora a beauty, and a rose, and a precious darling; but of Shenac they said she was bright and good, and very helpful for a girl of her age; and her brother Hamish thought her the best girl in the world--indeed, quite without a fault, which was very far from being true.
For Shenac had plenty of faults. She had a quick, hot temper, which, when roused, caused her to say many things which she ought not to have said. Hamish thought all those sharp words were quite atoned for by Shenac's quick and earnest repentance, but there is a sense in which it is true that hasty and unkind words can never be unsaid.
Shenac liked her own way too in all things. This did not often make trouble, however; for she had learned her mother's household ways, and, indeed, had wonderful taste and talent for these matters. Being the only daughter of the house, except little Flora, and her mother not being very strong, Shenac had less to do in the fields than her cousins, and was busy and happy in the house, except in harvest-time, when even the little lads, her brothers, were expected to do their part there.
Hamish and Shenac were very much alike, as twins very often are--that is, they were both fair, and had the same-coloured hair and eyes. But, while Shenac was rosy and strong, the very picture of health, her brother was thin and pale, and often of late there had been a look of pain on his face that it made his mother's heart ache to see. They were all in all to each other--Shenac and Hamish. They missed Lewis less on this account, and they knew very little of the troubles that so often made their father and mother anxious; and the first months of winter passed happily over them after Lewis went away.
Christmas passed, and the new year came in. A few more pleasant weeks went by, and then there came terrible tidings to the house of Angus Bhan. Far away, on one of the rapids of the Grand River, a boat had been overturned. Three young men had been lost under the ice. The body of one had been recovered: it was the body of Lewis MacIvor.
"We should be thankful that we can at least bring him home," said Angus Bhan to his wife, while she made preparations for his sad journey. But he said it with very pale, trembling lips, and his wife struggled to restrain the great burst of weeping that threatened to have way, that he might have the comfort of thinking that she was bearing her trouble well. But when she was left alone all these sad days of waiting, she was ready to say, in the bitterness of her heart, that there was no sorrow like her sorrow. One son was a wanderer, another was dead, and on the face of the dearly-beloved Hamish was settling the look of habitual suffering, so painful to see. Her cup of sorrow was full to the brim, she declared, but she knew not what she said.
For, when a few days had passed, there were brought home for burial two dead bodies instead of one. Her husband was no more. He had nearly accomplished his sorrowful errand, when death overtook him. He had complained to the friend who was with him of feeling cold, and had left the sleigh to walk a mile or two to warm himself. They waited in vain for him at the next resting-place, and when they went back to look for him they found him lying with his face in the snow, quite dead. He had not died from cold, the doctor said, but from heart-disease, and probably without suffering; and this comfort the bereaved widow tried to take to herself.
But her cup of sorrow was not full yet. The very night before the burial was to be, the house caught fire and burned to the ground. It was with difficulty that the few neighbours who gathered in time to help could save the closed coffins from the flames; and it seemed a small matter, at the time, that nearly all their household stuff was lost.
The mother's cup _did_ seem full now. I do not think that the coming of any trouble, however great, could at this time have added to her grief. She had striven to be submissive under the repeated strokes that had fallen upon her, but the horrors of that night were too much for her, weakened as she was by sorrow. For a time she was quite distracted, heeding little the kind efforts of her neighbours to alleviate her distress and the distress of her children. All that kind hearts and willing hands could do was done for them. The log house which their grandfather had built still stood. It was repaired, and filled with gifts from every family in the neighbourhood, and the widow and her children found refuge there.
"Oh, what a sad beginning for a story!" I think some of my young readers may say, in tones of disappointment. It is indeed a sad beginning, but every sorrowful word is true. Every day there are just such sorrowful events happening in the world, though it is not often that trouble falls so heavily at once on any household. I might have left all this out of my story; but then no one could have understood so well the nature of the work that fell to Shenac, or have known the difficulties she had to overcome in trying to do it well.
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It was May-day. Oftentimes in the northern country this month is ushered in by drizzling rain, or even by the falling snow; but this year brought a May-day worthy of the name--clear, mild, and balmy. There was not a cloud in all the sky, nor wind enough to stir the catkins hanging close over the waters of the creek. The last days of April had been warm and bright, and there was a tender green on the low-lying fields, and on the poplars that fringed the wood; and the boughs of the maple-trees in the sugar-bush looked purple and brown over the great grey trunks.
There is never a May-day when some flowers cannot be found beneath these trees, and in the warm hollows along the margin of the creek; but this year there were more than a few. Besides the pale little "spring flower," which hardly waits for the snow to go away before it shows itself, there were daffodils and anemones and wake-robins, and from the lapful which little Flora MacIvor sat holding on the bank close beside the great willow peeped forth violets, blue and white. There were lady-slippers too somewhere not far away, Flora was sure, if only Dan or Hughie could be persuaded to look for them a little farther down the creek, in the damp ground under the cedars, where she had promised her mother she would not go.
But the lads had something else to do than to look for flowers for Flora. Down the creek, which was broad and full because of the melting snow, a number of great cedar chips were floating. Past the foot-bridge, and past the eddy by the great rock, and over the pool into which the creek widened by the old ashery, the mimic fleet sailed safely; while the lads shouted and ran, and strove by the help of long sticks to pilot them all into the little cove by the willow where little Flora was sitting, till even the flower-loving little maiden forgot her treasures, and grew excited like the rest.
You would never have thought, looking at those bright faces, that heavy trouble had been in their home for months. Listening to their merry, voices, you would never have imagined that there were, in some hearts that loved them, grave doubts whether for the future they were to have a home together or no. But so it was.
Higher up the bank, where the old ashery used to stand, Shenac and Hamish were sitting. The triumphant shout with which the last and largest of the boats was landed, startled them out of the silence in which they had been musing, and the girl said sadly,-- "Children forget so soon!"
Hamish made no answer. He was not watching the little sailors. His face was quite turned away from them, and looked gloomy and troubled enough. The girl watched a moment anxiously; and then turning her eyes where his had been for some time resting, she cried passionately,-- "I wish a fire would break out and burn it to ashes, every stick!"
"What would be the good of that? Angus Dhu would put it all up again," said Hamish bitterly. "He might save himself the trouble, though. He means to have _all_ the land shortly."
They were watching the progress of a fence of great cedar rails which three or four men were building; and no wonder they watched it with vexation, for it went from line to line, dividing in two parts the land that had belonged to their father. He was dead now, and their brother Allister was far away, they knew not where, in search of gold; and there was no one now, besides themselves, except their mother, and the little ones who were so thoughtless, making merry with the great cedar chips which Angus Dhu sent, floating down the stream.
"Nobody but you and me to do anything; and what can _we_ do?" continued the lad with a desponding gesture. "And my mother scarcely seems to care to try."
"Whisht, Hamish dear; there's no wonder," said Shenac in a low voice. "But about the land. Angus Dhu can never get it surely!"
"He has gotten the half of it already. Who is to hinder his getting the rest?" said Hamish. "And he might as well have it. What can _we_ do with it?"
"Was it wrong for him to take it, do you think, Hamish?" asked Shenac gravely.
"Not in law. Angus Dhu would never do what is unlawful. But he was hard on my father, and he says--" Hamish paused to ask himself whether it was worth while to vex Shenac with the unkind words of Angus Dhu. But Shenac would not be denied the knowledge.
"What was it, Hamish? He would never dare to say a light word of our father. Did you not then and there show him the door?"
Shenac's blue eye flashed. She was quite capable of doing that and more to vindicate her father's memory.
"Whisht, Shenac," said Hamish. "Angus Dhu loved my father, though he was hard on him. There were tears in his eyes when he spoke to my mother about him. But he says that the half of the land is justly his, for money that my father borrowed at different times, and for the interest which he could not pay. And he wants to buy the other half; for he says we can never carry on the farm, and I am afraid he is right," added the lad despondingly.
"And what would become of us all?" asked Shenac, her cheeks growing pale in the pain and surprise of the moment.
"He would put out the money in such a way that it would bring an income to my mother, who could live here still, with Colin and little Flora. He says he will take Dan to keep till he is of age, and Elder McMillan will take Hugh. You are old enough to do for yourself, he says; and as for me--" He turned away, so that his sister might not see the working of his face. But Shenac was thinking of something else, and did not notice him.
"But, Hamish, we have written to Allister, and he will be sure to come home when he hears what has happened to us."
Hamish shook his head.
"Black Angus says Allister will never come back. He says he was an unsettled lad before he went away. And, Shenac, he says our Allister beguiled Evan, or he never would have left home. He looked black when he said it. He was angry."
Shenac's eyes blazed again.
"Our Allister unsettled--he that went away for our father's sake, and for us all! Our Allister to beguile Evan, that wild lad! And you sat and heard him say it, Hamish!"
"What else could I do?" said Hamish bitterly.
"And my mother?" said Shenac.
"She could only cry, and say that Allister had always been a good son to her and to my father, and a dear brother to us all."
There was a long pause. Shenac never removed her eyes from the men, who were gradually drawing nearer and nearer, as one after another of the great cedar rails was laid on the foundation of logs and stones already prepared for them along the field; and anger gathered in her heart and showed itself in her face as she gazed. Hamish had turned quite away from the fence and from his sister, towards the creek where his brothers were still shouting at their play. But he was not thinking of his brothers; he did not see them, indeed. He made an effort to keep back the tears, which, in spite of all he could do, would flow. If Shenac had spoken to him, they must have gushed out; but he had time to force them back before Shenac turned away with an angry gesture.
"It's of no use, Shenac," he said then. "There's reason in what Angus Dhu says. We will have to give up the farm."
"Hamish, that shall never be done!" said Shenac. "It would break my mother's heart."
"It seems broken already," said Hamish hoarsely. "And it is easy to say the land must be kept. But what can we do with it? Who is to work it?"
"You and I and the little lads," cried Shenac. "There is no fear. God will help us," she added reverently--"the widow and orphan's God. Hamish, don't you mind?"
Hamish had no voice with which to answer for a moment; but in a little while he said with some difficulty,-- "It is easy for _you_ to say what you will do, Shenac--you who are strong and well; but look at me! I am not getting stronger, as we always hoped. What could I do at the plough? I had better go to some town, as Angus Dhu advised my mother, and learn to make shoes."
"Oh, but he's fine at making plans, that Angus Dhu," said Shenac scornfully. "But we'll need to tell him that we're for none of his help. Hamish," she added, suddenly stooping down over him, "do you think any plan made to separate you and me will prosper? I think I see black Angus coming between you and me with his plans."
Her words and her caress were quite too much for Hamish, and he surprised himself and her too by a sudden burst of tears. The sight of this banished Shenac's softness in a moment. She raised herself from her stooping posture with an angry cry. Separated from the rest of the fence-makers, and approaching the knoll where the brother and sister had, been sitting, were two men. One was Angus Dhu, and the other was his friend, and a relation of his wife, Elder McMillan. He was a good man, people said, but one who liked to move on with the current,--one who went for peace at all risks, and so forgot sometimes that purity was to be set before even peace. There was nothing in Shenac's knowledge of the man to make her afraid of him, and she took three steps towards them, and said,-- "Angus Dhu, do you mind what the Bible says of them that oppress the widow and the fatherless? Have you forgotten the verse that says, `Remove not the ancient land-mark'?"
She stopped, as if waiting for an answer. The two men stood still from sheer surprise, and looked at her. Shenac continued:-- "And do you mind what's said of them that add field to field? and--" "Shenac, my woman," said the elder at last, "it's no becoming in you to speak in that kind of a way to one older than your father was. I doubt you're forgetting--" But Shenac put his words aside with a gesture of indifference.
"And to speak false words of our Allister to his mother in her trouble as though he had led your wild lad Evan astray. You little know what our Allister saved him from more than once. But that is not for to-day. I have this to, say to you, Angus Dhu: you must be content with the half you have gotten; for not another acre of my father's land shall ever be yours, though all the elders in Glengarry stood at your back. --I will not whisht, Hamish. He is to know that he is not to meddle between my mother and me. It's not or the like of Angus Dhu to say that my mother's children shall be taken from her in her trouble. Our affairs may be bad enough, but they'll be none the better for your meddling in them."
"Shenac," entreated Hamish, "you'll be sorry for speaking that way to our father's cousin."
"Our father's oppressor rather," she insisted scornfully. But she had said her say; and, besides, the lads and little Flora had heard their voices, and were drawing near.
"Children," said Shenac, "you are to come home. And mind, you are not to set foot on this bank again without our mother's leave. It's Angus Dhu's land now, he says, and not ours."
The creek--that part of it near which the willows grew, and where the old ashery used to stand--had been their daily resort every summer-day all their lives; and they all looked at her with astonishment and dismay, but none of them spoke.
"Come home to our mother, boys. --Flora, come home." And Shenac lifted her little sister over the foundation of great stones, and beckoned to the boys to follow her.
"Come, Hamish, it's time we were home." And Hamish obeyed her as silently as the rest had done.
"Hamish," said the elder, "speak here, man. You have some sense, and tales such as yon wild girl is like to tell may do your father's cousin much harm."
In his heart Hamish knew Shenac to be foolish and wrong to speak as she had done, but he was true to her all the same, and would hold no parley with the enemy. So he gave no heed to the elder's words, but followed the rest through the field. Shenac's steps grew slower as they approached the house.
"Hamish," she said a little shamefacedly, "there will be no use vexing our mother by telling her all this."
"That's true enough," said Hamish.
"But mind, Hamish, I'm not sorry that I said it. I have aye meant to say something to Angus Dhu about the land; though I daresay it would have been as well to say it when that clattering body, Elder McMillan, was out of hearing."
"And John and Rory McLean," murmured Hamish.
"Hamish, man, they never could have heard. Not that I am caring," continued Shenac. "It's true that Angus Dhu has gotten half our father's land, and that he is seeking the other half; but _that_ he'll never get--_never_!" And she flashed an angry glance towards the spot where the men were still standing.
Hamish knew it was always best to leave his sister till her anger cooled, so he said nothing in reply. He grieved for the loss of the land as much as Shenac did, but he did not resent it like her. Though he believed that Angus Dhu had been hard on his father, he did not believe that he had dealt unjustly by him. And he was right. Even in taking half the land he had taken only what he believed to be his due, and in wishing to possess himself, of the rest, he believed he was about to do a kindness to the widow and children of his dead cousin. He believed they could never get their living from the land. They must give it up, he thought; and it was far better that it should fall into his hands than into the hands of a stranger. Had his cousin lived, he would never have wished for the land; and he said to himself that he would do much for them all, and that the widow and orphans should never suffer while he could befriend them.
At the same time, he could not deny that he would be glad to get the land. When Evan came home, it might keep the lad near him to have this farm ready for him. He had allowed himself to think a great deal about this of late. He would not confess to himself that any part of the uncomfortable feelings that Shenac's outbreak had stirred within him sprang from disappointment. But he was mistaken. For when the girl planted her foot on the other side of the new fence, and looked back at him defiantly, he felt that she would make good her word, and hold the land, at least, until Allister came home.
He did not care much what the neighbours might say about him; but he told Elder McMillan that he cared, and that doubtless yon wild girl would have plenty: to say about things she did not understand, and that she would get ill-minded folks enough to hearken to her and to urge her on. And he tried to make himself believe that it was this, and nothing else, that vexed him in the matter.
"And what's to be done?" asked the elder uneasily, as Shenac and the rest disappeared.
"Done!" repeated his friend angrily. " _I_ shall do nought. If they can go on by themselves, all the better. I shall be well pleased. Why should I seek to have the land?"
"Why, indeed?" said the elder.
"I shall neither make nor meddle in their affairs, till I am asked to do it," continued Angus Dhu; but the look on his face said, as plainly as words could have done, "and it will not be very long before that will happen."
But he made a mistake, as even wise men will sometimes do.
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I am glad to say that Shenac did not let the sun go down on her wrath. Indeed, long before sunset she was heartily ashamed of her outbreak towards Angus Dhu, and acknowledged as much to Hamish. Not that she believed he had acted justly and kindly in his past dealings with her father; nor was she satisfied that the future interests of the family would be safe in his hands. Even while acknowledging how wrong and foolish she had been in speaking as she had done, she declared to Hamish that Angus Dhu should neither "make nor meddle" in their affairs. They must cling together, and do the best they could, till Allister should come home, whatever Angus Dhu might say.
That her mother might yield to persuasion on this point, she thought possible; for the widow had lost courage, and saw only the darker side of their affairs. But Shenac stoutly declared that day to Hamish that no one should be suffered to persuade her mother to the breaking of her heart. No one had a right to interfere in their affairs further than should be welcome to them all. For her part, she was not afraid of Angus Dhu, nor of Elder McMillan, nor of any one else, when it came to the question of breaking up their home and sending them, one here and another there, away from the mother.
Shenac felt very strong and brave as she said all this to Hamish; and yet when, as it was growing dark that night, she saw Elder McMillan opening their gate, her first impulse was to run away. She did not, however, but said to herself, "Now is the time to stand by my mother, and help her to resist the elder's efforts to get little Hugh away from us." Besides, she could not go away without being seen, and it would look cowardly; so she placed herself behind the little wheel which the mother had left for a moment, and when the elder came in she was as busy and as quiet as (in his frequently-expressed opinion) it was the bounden duty of all young women to be.
Now, there was nothing in the whole round of Shenac's duties so distasteful to her as spinning on the little wheel. The constant and unexciting employment for hands and mind that spinning afforded, and perhaps the pleasant monotony of the familiar humming of the wheel, always exerted a soothing influence on the mother; and one of the first things that had given them hope of her recovery after the shock of the burning of the house was her voluntary bringing out of the wheel. But it was very different with Shenac. The strength and energy so invaluable to her in her household work or her work in the fields were of no avail to her here. To sit following patiently and constantly the gradual forming and twisting of the thread, did not suit her as it did her mother; and watchful and excited as she was that night, she could hardly sit quiet while the elder went through his usual salutations to her mother and the rest.
He was in no haste to make known his errand, if he had one, and he was in no haste to go. He spoke in slow, unwilling sentences, as he had done many times before, of the mysterious dealings of Providence with the family, making long pauses between. And through his talk and his silence the widow sat shedding a few quiet tears in the dark, and now and then uttering a word of reply.
What was the good of it all Shenac would have liked to shake him, and to bid him "say his say" and go; but the elder seemed to have no say, at least concerning Hugh. He went slowly through his accustomed round of condolence with her mother and advice to the boys and Shenac, and, as he rose to go, added something about a bee which some of the neighbours had been planning to help the widow with the ploughing and sowing of her land, and then he went away.
"Some of the neighbours," repeated Shenac in a whisper to her brother. "That's the elder's way of heaping coals on my head--good man!"
"What do you suppose the elder cares about a girl like you, or Angus Dhu either?" asked Hamish with a shrug.
Shenac laughed, but had no time to answer.
"I was afraid it might be about wee Hughie that the elder wanted to speak," said the mother with a sigh of relief as she came in from the door, where she had bidden the visitor good-night.
"And what about Hughie?" asked Shenac, resuming her spinning. She knew very well what about him; but her mother had not told her, and this was as good a way as any to begin about their plans for the summer.
Instead of answering her question, the mother said, after a moment's silence,-- "He's a good man, Elder McMillan."
"Oh yes, I daresay he's a good man," said Shenac with some sharpness; "but that's no reason why he should want to have our Hughie."
The little boys were all in bed by this time, and Hamish and Shenac were alone with their mother. After a little impatient twitching of her thread, Shenac put aside her wheel, swept up the hearth, and moved about putting things in order in the room, and then she came and sat down beside her mother. She did not speak, however; she did not know what to say. Any allusion to the summer's work was almost surer to make her mother shed tears, and Shenac could not bear to grieve her. She darted an impatient glance at Hamish, who seemed to have no intention of helping her to-night. He was sitting with his face upon his hands, just as he had been sitting through the elder's visit, and Shenac could not catch his eye. It seemed wrong to risk the bringing on of a wakeful, moaning, miserable night to her mother; and she was thinking she would say no more till morning, when her mother spoke again.
"Yes, Elder McMillan is a good man. I would not be afraid for Hugh, and he would be near at hand."
"Yes," said Shenac, making an effort to speak quietly, "if Hugh must go, he might as well go to Elder McMillan's as anywhere--" She stopped.
"And Dan needs a firm hand, they say," continued the mother, her voice breaking a little; "but I'm afraid for him. Angus Dhu is a stern man, and Dan has been used to a hand gentle as well as firm. But he would not be far away."
Shenac broke out impatiently,-- "Angus Dhu's hand was not firm enough to keep his own son at home, and he could never guide our Dan. Mother, never heed them that tell you any ill of Dan. Has he ever disobeyed you once since--since then?" Shenac's voice failed a little, then she went on again, "Why should Dan go away, or any of us? Why can't we bide all together, and do the best we can, till Allister comes home?"
"But that must be a long time yet, if he ever comes," said the mother, sighing.
"Yes, it may be long," said Shenac eagerly. "Of course it cannot be for the spring work, and maybe not for the harvest, but he's sure to come, mother; and think of Allister coming and finding no home! Yes, I know you are to bide here; but the land would be gone, and it would be no home long to Allister or any of us without the land. Angus Dhu should be content with what he's got," continued Shenac bitterly. "Allister will never be content to let my father's land go out of our hands; and Angus Dhu promised my father to give it up to Allister. Mother, we must do nothing till Allister comes home. --Hamish, why don't you tell my mother to wait till Allister comes home?"
"Till Allister comes home! When Allister comes home!" This had been the burden of all Shenac's comforting to her mother, even when she could take no comfort from it herself. For a year seemed a long time to Shenac; but three months of the year had passed already, and surely, surely Allister would come.
Hamish raised his face as Shenac appealed to him, but it was anything but a hopeful face, and Shenac was glad that her mother was looking the other way.
"But what are we to do in the meantime?" he asked, and his voice was as little hopeful as his face. For a moment Shenac was indignant at her brother. It would need the courage of both to make the future look otherwise than dark to their mother, and she thought Hamish was going to fail her. She was growing very eager; but she knew that the quick, hot words that might carry Hamish with her would have no force with her mother, and she put a strong restraint on herself, and said quietly,-- "We can manage through the summer, mother. The wheat was sown in the fall, you know, and the elder said we were to have a bee next week for the oats, and we can do the rest ourselves--Hamish and Dan and I--till Allister comes home."
"It would be a hard fight for you all," said the mother despondingly.
"You should say Dan and you and little Hugh and Colin," said Hamish bitterly. "They could help far more than I can, unless I am much better than I am now." And then he dropped his head on his hands again.
Shenac rose suddenly and placed herself between him and her mother, and then she said quietly,-- "And, mother, the elder thinks we can do it, or he wouldn't have spoken about the bee. Nobody can think it right that Angus Dhu should take our father's land from us; and the elder said nothing about Hugh; and Dan would never bide with Angus Dhu and work our father's land for him. Never! never! Mother, we must try what we can do till Allister comes home."
There was not much said after that. There was no decision in words as to their plans, but Shenac knew they were to make a trial of the summer's work--she and her brothers--and she was content.
There were but two rooms downstairs in the little log house, and the mother and Flora slept in the one in which they had been sitting. So when Hamish came back from looking whether the gates and barn-doors were safely shut, he found Shenac, who had much to say to him, waiting for him outside.
"Hamish," she said eagerly, "what ails you? Why did you not speak to my mother and tell her what we ought to do? Hamish," she added, putting out her hand to detain him as he tried to pass her--"Hamish, speak to me. What ails you to-night, Hamish?"
"What right have I to tell my mother--I, who can do nothing?"
He shook off her detaining hand as if he was angry; but there was a sound of tears in his voice, and Shenac's momentary feeling of offence was gone. She would not be shaken off, and putting her arms round his neck she held him fast. He did not try to free himself after the first moment, but he turned away his face.
"Hamish," she repeated, "what is it? Don't you think we can manage to keep together till Allister comes home? Is it that, Hamish? Tell me what you think it is right for us to do."
"It is not that, Shenac; and I have no right to say anything--I, who can do nothing."
"Hamish!" exclaimed his sister, in a tone in which surprise and pain were mingled.
"If I were like the rest," continued Hamish--"I, who am the eldest; but even Dan can do more than I can. You must not think of me, Shenac, in your plans."
For a moment Shenac was silent from astonishment; this was so unlike the cheerful spirit of Hamish. Then she said,-- "Hamish, the work is not all. What could Dan or any of us do without you to plan for us? We are the hands, you are the head."
Hamish made an impatient movement. "Allister would be head and hands too," he said bitterly.
"But, Hamish, you are not Allister; you are Hamish, just as you have always been. You are not surely going to fail our mother now--you, who have done more than all of us put together to comfort her since then?"
Hamish made no answer.
"It is wrong for you to look at it in that way, Hamish," continued Shenac. "I once heard my father say that though you were lame, God might have higher work for you to do than for any of the rest of us. I did not know what he meant then, but I know now."
"Hush! don't, Shenac," said Hamish.
"No; I must speak, Hamish. It is not right to fret because the work you have to do is not just the work you would choose. And you'll break my heart if you vex yourself about--because you are not like the rest. Not one of us all is so dear to my mother and the rest as you are; you know _that_, Hamish. And why should you think of this now, more than before?"
"Shenac, I have been a child till now, thinking of nothing. My looking forward was but the dreaming of idle dreams. I have wakened since my father died--wakened to find myself useless, a burden, with so much to be done."
"Hamish," said Shenac gravely, "that is not true, and it's foolish, besides. If you _were_ useless--blind as well as lame--if you were as cankered and ill to do with as you are mild and sweet, there would be no question of burden, because you are one of us, our own. If you were thinking of Angus Dhu, you might speak of burdens; but it is nonsense to say that to me. You know that you are more to my mother than any of us, and you are more to me than all my brothers put together; but I need not tell you _that_. Hamish, if it had not been for you, I think my mother must have died. What is Dan, or what am I, in comparison to you? Hamish, you must take heart and be strong, for all our sakes."
They were sitting on the doorstep by this time, and Shenac laid her head on her brother's shoulder as she spoke.
"I know I am all wrong, Shenac. I know I ought to be content as I am," said Hamish at last, but he could say no more.
Shenac's heart filled with love and pity unspeakable. She would have given him her health and strength, and would have taken up his burden of weakness and deformity to bear them henceforth for his sake. But she did not tell him so; where would have been the good? She sat quite still, only stroking his hand now and then, till he spoke again.
"Perhaps I am wrong to speak to you about it, Shenac, but I seem to myself to be quite changed; I seem to have nothing to look forward to. If it had been me who was taken instead of Lewis."
"Hamish," said Shenac gravely, "it is not saying it to me that is wrong, but thinking it. And why should you have nothing to look forward to? We are young. A year seems a long time; but it will pass, and when Allister comes home, and we are prosperous again, it will be with you as it would have been if my father had lived. You will get to your books again, and learn and grow a wise man; and what will it signify that you are little and lame, when you have all the honour that wisdom wins? Of course all these sad changes are worse for you than for the rest. _We_ will only have to work a little harder, but your life is quite changed; and, Hamish, it will only be for a little while, till Allister comes home."
"But, Shenac," said Hamish eagerly, "you are not to think I mind _that_ most; I am not so bad as that. If I were strong--if I were like the rest--I would like nothing so well as to labour always for my mother and you all; but I can do little."
"Yes, I know," said Shenac; "but Dan can do that, and so can I But your work will be different--far higher and nobler than ours. Only you must not be impatient because you are hindered a little just now. Hamish, bhodach, what is a year out of a whole lifetime? Never fear, you will find your true work in time."
"Bhodach" is "old man" in the language in which these children were speaking. But on Shenac's lips it meant every sweet and tender name; and, listening to her, Hamish forgot his troubles, or looked beyond them, and his spirit grew bright and trustful again--peaceful for that night at least. The shadow fell on him many a time again; but it never fell so darkly but that the sunshine of his sister's face had power to chase it away, till, by-and-by, there fell on both the light before which all shadows for ever and for ever flee away.
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And so, with a good heart, they began their work. I daresay it would be amusing to some of my young readers if I were to go into particulars, and tell them all that was done by each from day to day; but I have no time nor space for this.
The bee was a very successful one. As everybody knows, a bee is a collection of the neighbours to help to do in one day work which it would take one or two persons a long time to do. It is not usually to do such work as ploughing or sowing that bees are had; but all the neighbours were glad to help the Widow MacIvor with her spring work, and so two large fields, one of oats and another of barley, were in those two days ploughed and harrowed, and sowed and harrowed again.
Shenac was not quite at her ease about the bee, partly because she thought it had been the doing of Angus Dhu and the elder, and partly because she felt if they were to be kept together they must depend, not on their neighbours, but upon themselves. But it was well they had this help, for the young people were quite inexperienced in such work as ploughing and sowing, and the summers are so short in Canada that a week or two sooner or later makes a great difference in the sowing of the seed.
There was enough left for Shenac and her brothers to keep them busy from sunrise to sunset, during the months of May and June. There was the planting of potatoes and corn, and the sowing of carrots and turnips; and then there was the hoeing and keeping them all free from weeds. There was also the making of the garden, and the keeping of it in order when it was made. This had always been more the work of Hamish than of any of the rest, and he made it his work still; and though he was not so strong as he used to be, there never had been so much pains taken with the garden before. Everybody knows what comfort for a family comes out of a well-kept garden, even though there may be only the common vegetables and very little fruit in it; and Hamish made the most of theirs that summer, and so did they all.
It must not be supposed that because Shenac was a girl she had no part in the field-work. Even now, in that part of the country, the wives and daughters of farmers help their fathers and brothers during the busy seasons of spring and harvest; and for many years after the opening up of the country the females helped to clear the land, putting their hands to all kinds of out-door work as cheerfully as need be. As for Shenac, she would have scorned the idea that there was any work that her brothers could do for which they had not the strength and skill.
Indeed, Shenac had her full share of the field-work, and much to do in the house besides. The mother was not strong yet, either in mind or body: she would never be strong again, Shenac sometimes feared, and she must be saved as far as possible from all care and anxiety. So the heaviest of the household work fell to Shenac. They had not a large dairy, and never could have again; for the greater part of their pasture and mowing land lay on the wrong side of the high cedar fence so hotly resented by the children. But the three cows which they had were her peculiar care. She milked them morning and evening, and, when the days were longest, at noon too; and though her mother prepared the dishes for the milk and skimmed the cream, Shenac always made the butter, because churning needed strength as well as skill; and oftener than otherwise it was done before she called her brothers in the morning.
Much may be accomplished in a short time by a quick eye and a ready hand, and Shenac had both. The minutes after meal-time which her brothers took for rest, or for lingering about to talk together, she filled with the numberless items of household work which seem little in the doing, but which being left undone bring all things into disorder.
When any number of persons are brought together in circumstances where decision and action become necessary, the leadership will naturally fall on the one among them who is best fitted by natural gifts or acquired knowledge to assume responsibility. It is the same in families where the head has been suddenly removed. Quite unconsciously to herself, Shenac assumed the leadership in the household; and it was well for her brothers that she had duties within-doors as well as in the fields. There were days in these months of May and June which were not half long enough for the accomplishment of her plans and wishes. I am afraid that at such times the strength of Hamish and the patience of Dan must have given out before she found it too dark to go on with their labours. But the thought of the mother, weary with the work at home, made her shorten the day to her brothers and lengthen it to herself.
One of Shenac's faults was a tendency to go to extremes in all things that interested her. She had made up her mind that the summer's work must be successful; and to insure success all other things must be made to yield. It was easy for her to forget the weakness of Hamish, for he was only too willing to forget it himself; and as for Dan, though there was some truth in Angus Dhu's assertion to his mother that "he was a wild lad, and needed a firm hand to guide him," he gave no tokens of breaking away as yet. Shenac had so impressed him with the idea that they must keep the farm as their own, and show the neighbours that they could keep it in order, that to him every successful day's work seemed a triumph over Angus Dhu as well as over circumstances. His industry was quite of his own free will, as he believed, and he gave Shenac none of the credit of keeping him busy, and indeed she took none of the credit to herself. In her determination to do the most that could be done, she might have forgotten her mother's comfort too; but this was not permitted. For if the mother tired herself with work, or if she saw anything forgotten or neglected in the house, she became fretful and desponding, and against this Shenac always strove to guard.
If Shenac were ever so tired at night, it rested her to turn back to look over the fields beginning to grow green and beautiful under their hands. They worked in those days to some purpose, everybody acknowledged. In no neighbourhood, far or near, were the fields better worth looking at than those that had been so faithfully gone over by Shenac and her brothers. Many a farmer paused, in passing, to admire them, saying to himself that the Widow MacIvor's children were a credit to her and to themselves; and few were so churlish as to refrain from speaking a word of encouragement to them when an opportunity came.
Even Angus Dhu gave many a glance of wonder and pleasure over his cedar rails, and gave them credit for having done more than well. He was very glad. He said so to himself, and he said so to his neighbours. And I believe he was glad, in a way. He was too good a farmer not to take pleasure in seeing land made the most of; and I think he was glad, too, to see the children of his dead friend and cousin capable of doing so well for themselves.
It is just possible that deep down in his heart, unknown or unacknowledged to himself, there lurked a hope that when Shenac should marry, as he thought she was sure to do, and when wild Dan should have gone away, as his brothers had done before him, those well-tilled fields might still become his. Perhaps I am wrong, and hard upon him, as Shenac was.
She gave him no credit for his kind thoughts, but used to say to her brothers, when she caught a glimpse of his face over the fence,-- "There stands Angus Dhu, glowering and glooming at us. He's not praying for summer rain on our behalf, I'll warrant. --Oh well, Angus man, we'll do without your prayers, as we do without your help, and as you'll have to do without our land. Make the most of what you have got, and be content."
"Shenac," said Hamish on one of these occasions, "you're hard on Angus Dhu."
"Am I, Hamish?" said Shenac, laughing. "Well, maybe I am; but it will not harm him, I daresay."
"But it may harm yourself, Shenac," said Hamish gravely. "I think I would rather lose all the work we have done this spring than have it said that our Shenac was bearing false witness against our neighbour, and he of our own kin, too."
"Nobody would dare to say that of me," said Shenac, reddening.
"But if it is true, what is the difference whether it is said or not?" said Hamish. "You seem more glad of our success because you think it vexes Angus Dhu, than because it pleases our mother and keeps us all at home together. It does not vex him, I'm sure of that; and, whether it does or not, it is wrong for you always to be thinking and saying it. You are not to be grieved or angry at my saying it, Shenac."
But both grieved and angry Shenac was at her brother's reproof. She did not know which was greater, her anger or her grief. She did not trust herself to answer him, and in a little time Hamish spoke again:-- "It cannot harm him--at least, I think it cannot really harm him, though it may vex him; and I'm sure it must grieve the girls to hear that you say such things about their father. But that is not what I was thinking about. It must harm yourself most. You are growing hard and bitter. You are not like yourself, Shenac, when you speak of Angus Dhu."
The sting of her brother's words was in the last sentence, but it was the first part that Shenac answered.
"You know very well, Hamish, that I never speak of Angus Dhu except to you--not even to my mother."
"You have spoken to Dan--at least, you have spoken in his hearing. What do you think I heard him saying the other day to Shenac yonder?"
"Shenac yonder" was the youngest daughter of Angus Dhu, so called by the brothers to distinguish her from their sister, who was "our Shenac" to them. Other people distinguished between the cousins as they had between the fathers. One was Shenac Bhan; the other, Shenac Dhu.
"I don't know," said Shenac, startled. "What was it?"
"Something like what you were saying to me just now. You may think how Shenac's black eyes looked when she heard him."
Shenac was shocked.
"She would not mind what Dan said."
"No. It was only when Dan told her that _you_ said it that she seemed to mind," said Hamish gravely.
"Dan had no business to tell her," said Shenac hotly; then she paused.
"No," said Hamish; "I told him that."
"I'll give him a hearing," began Shenac.
"I think, Shenac, you should say nothing to Dan about it," said Hamish. "Only take care never to say more than you think before the little ones, or indeed before any one again. You may vex Angus Dhu, and Shenac yonder, and the rest, but the real harm is done to us at home, and especially to yourself, Shenac; for you no more believe that Angus Dhu is a robber--the oppressor of the widow and the fatherless--than I do."
Shenac uttered an exclamation of impatience.
"I shall give it to Dan."
"No, Shenac, you will not. Dan must be carefully dealt with. He has a strong will of his own, and if it comes into his mind that you or any one, except our mother, is trying to govern him, he'll slip through our fingers some fine day."
"You've been taking a leaf out of Angus Dhu's book. There's no fear of Dan," said Shenac.
"There's no fear of him as long as he thinks he's pleasing himself, and that his sister is the best and the wisest girl to be found," said Hamish. "But if it were to come to a trial of strength between you, Dan would be sure to win."
Shenac was silent. She knew it would not be well to risk her influence over Dan by a struggle of any sort. But she was very angry with him.
"He might have had more sense," she said, after a moment.
"And indeed, Shenac, so might you," said Hamish gravely. "There should be no more said about Angus Dhu, for his sake and ours. He has been very friendly to us this summer, considering all things."
"Considering what I said to him, you mean," said Shenac sharply. "I was sorry for that as soon as I said it. But, Hamish, if you think I'm going down on my knees to Angus Dhu to tell him so, you're mistaken. He may not be a thief and a robber, but he's a dour carle, though he is of our own kin, and as different from our father as the dark is different from the day. And I can say nothing else of him, even for your sake, Hamish."
"It is not for my sake that I am speaking, Shenac, but for your own. You are doing yourself a great wrong, cherishing this bitterness in your heart."
Shenac was too much grieved and too angry to speak. She knew very well that she was neither very good nor very wise; but it had hitherto been her great pleasure in life to know that Hamish thought her so, and his words were very painful to her. She was vexed with him, and with Dan, and with all the world. Above all, she was vexed with herself.
She would not confess it, but in her heart she knew that a little of the zest would be taken from their labours if she were sure that their success would not be a source of vexation to Angus Dhu. And then Hamish had said she was injuring Dan--encouraging him in what was wrong-- perhaps risking her influence for good over him.
The longer she thought about all this, the more unhappy she became. "Bearing false witness!" she repeated. It was a great sin she had been committing. It had been done thoughtlessly, but it was none the less a sin for that, Shenac knew. Hamish was right. She was growing very hard and wicked; and no wonder that he had come to think so meanly of her. Shenac said all this to herself, with many sorrowful and some angry tears. But the anger passed away before the sorrow. There were no confessions made openly; but, whatever may have been her secret thoughts of Angus Dhu, neither Dan nor Hamish nor anybody else ever heard Shenac speak a disrespectful word of him again.
Dan never got the "hearing" with which she had threatened him. She checked him more than once, when in the old way he began to remark on the evident interest that their father's cousin took in their work; but she did it gently, remembering her own fault.
The intercourse which had almost ceased between the families was gradually renewed--at least, between the younger ones. Shenac could not bring herself to go often to her cousins' house. She always felt, as she said to Hamish, as though Angus Dhu "eyed her" at such times. And, besides, she was too busy to go there or anywhere else. But her cousins came often to see her when the day's work was over; and Shenac, the youngest, who was her father's favourite, and who could take liberties that none of the others could have done at her age, came at other times. She was older than our Shenac by a year or so; but she was little and merry, and her jet-black hair was cut close to her head like a child's, so she seemed much younger. She could not come too often. She was equally welcome to the grave, quiet Hamish and the boyish Dan, and more welcome to Shenac than to either. For she never hindered work, but helped it rather. She brought the news, too, and fought hot, merry battles with the lads, and for the time shook even Hamish out of the grave ways that were becoming habitual to him, and did Shenac herself good by reminding her that she was not an old woman burdened with care, but a young girl not sixteen, to whom fun and frolic ought to be natural.
There were not many newspapers taken in those parts about that time; but Angus Dhu took one, and Shenac used to come over the fence with it, and, giving it to Hamish, would take his hoe or rake and go on with his work while he read the news to the rest. The newspaper was English, of course. Gaelic was the language spoken at home--the language in which the Bible was read, and the Catechism said; but the young people all spoke and read English. And very good English too, as far as it went; for it was book-English, learned at school from books that are now considered out of date. But they were very good books for all that. They used to have long discussions about the state of the world as they gathered it from the newspapers--not always grave or wise, but useful, especially to Shenac, by keeping her in mind of what in her untiring industry she was in danger of forgetting, that there was a wide world beyond these quiet lines within which they were living, where nobler work than the mere earning of bread was being done by worthy and willing hands.
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July had come. There was a little pause in the field-work, for all the seed had been sown and all the weeds pulled up, and they were waiting for a week or two to pass, and then the haying was to begin. Even haying did not promise to be a very busy season with them, for the cutting and caring for the hay in their largest field would this year fall to the lot of Angus Dhu. It was as well so, Shenac said to herself with a sigh, for they could not manage much hay by themselves, and paying wages would never do for them. Indeed, they would need some help even with the little they had; for Dan had never handled a scythe except in play, and Hamish, even if he had the skill, had not the strength.
And then the wool. They must have their cloth early this year, for last year they had been obliged to sell the wool, and the boys' clothes were threadbare. If they could get the wool spun early, McLean the weaver would weave their cloth first. She must try to see what could be done. But, oh, that weary little wheel!
Shenac's mother thought it was a wonderful little wheel; and so indeed it was. It had been part of the marriage outfit of Shenac's grandmother before she left her Highland home. It had been in almost constant use all these years, and bade fair to be as good as ever for as many years to come. There was no wearing it out or putting it out of order, for, like most things made in those old times, it had strength if not elegance, and Shenac's mother was as careful of it as a modern musical lady is of her grand piano.
I cannot describe it to you, for I am not very well acquainted with such instruments of labour. It was not at all like the wheels which are used now-a-days in districts where the great manufactories have not yet put wheels out of use. It was a small, low, complicated affair, at which the spinner sat, using both foot and hand. It needed skill and patience to use it well, and strength too. A long day's work well done on the little wheel left one far wearier than a day's work in the field.
As for Shenac, the very thought of it made her weary. If she had lived in the present day, she would have said it made her nervous. But, happily for Shenac, she did not know that she had any nerves, and her mother's wheel got the blame of her discomfort. Not that she ever ventured to speak a disrespectful word of it. The insane idea that perhaps her mother might be induced to sell it and buy one of the new-fashioned kind, like that Archie Matheson's young wife had brought with her, _did_ come into her head once, but she never spoke of it. It would have been wrong as well as foolish to do so, for her mother would never try to learn to use the new one, and half the comfort of her life would be gone without her faithful friend, the little wheel.
"Oh, if I could get one for myself!" said Shenac. She had seen and used Mary Matheson's last summer, and now, hurried as she was at home, she took an afternoon to go with Hamish to see it again.
"Could you not make one, Hamish?" she said entreatingly; "you can do so many things."
But Hamish shook his head.
"I might make the stock if I had tools; but the rest of it--no."
The sheep were shorn. There were sixteen fleeces piled up in the barn; but a great deal must be done to it before it could be ready for the boys to wear. One thing Shenac had determined on. It should be sent and carded at the mill. The mill was twenty miles away, to be sure-- perhaps more; but the time taken for the journey would be saved ten times over. Shenac thought she might possibly get through the spinning, but to card it by hand, with all there was to do in the fields, would be quite impossible.
This matter troubled Shenac all the more that she could not share her vexation with Hamish. The idea of selling the grandmother's wheel seemed to him little short of sacrilege; and neither he nor their cousin Shenac could see why the mother could not dye and card and spin the wool, as she had been accustomed to do. But Shenac knew this to be impossible. Her mother was able for no such work now, though she might think so herself; and Shenac knew that to try and fail would make the mother miserable. What was to be done? Over this question she pondered with an earnestness, and, alas! with a uselessness, that gave impatience to her hand and sharpness to her voice at last.
"What aileth thee, Shenac Bhan, bonny Shenac, Shenac the farmer, Shenac the fair? Wherefore rests the shadow on thy brow, and the look of sadness in thine azure eyes?" Hamish had been reading to them Gaelic Ossian, and Shenac Dhu had caught up the manner of the poem, and spoke in a way that made them all laugh. Shenac Bhan laughed too; but not because she was merry, for her cousin's nonsense always vexed her when she was "out of sorts." But her cousin Christie was there, Mrs More, the eldest sister of Shenac Dhu; and so Shenac Bhan laughed with the rest. She was here on a visit from the city of M--- where she lived, and had come over to see her aunt, as Angus Dhu's children always called the widow. A heavy summer shower was falling, and all the boys had taken refuge from it in the house, and there were noise and confusion for a time.
"I want Christie to come into the barn and see our wool," said Shenac Bhan at last, when the shower was over. "And, Shenac--dark Shenac, doleful Shenac--you are to stay and keep the lads in order till we come back."
Shenac Dhu made a face, but let them go.
Mrs More was a pale, quiet woman, with a grave but kind manner, which put Shenac at her ease at once, though she had not seen her since her marriage, which was more than five years before. She had always been very kind to the children when she lived at home, and the memory of this gave Shenac courage to ask her help out of at least one of her difficulties.
"How much you have grown, Shenac!" said her cousin. "I hardly think I would have known you if I had seen you anywhere else. Yes, I think I would have known your face anywhere. But you are a woman now, and doing a woman's work, they tell me."
"We have all been busy this summer," said Shenac; "but our hurry is over now for a while."
Heedless of the little pools that were shining here and there, they went first into the garden, and then round the other buildings, and over to the spot, still black and charred, where the house had stood. But little was said by either of them.
"Do you like living in the city?" said Shenac at last.
"For some things I like it--for most things, indeed; but sometimes I long for a sight of the fields and woods, more for my wee Mary's sake than for my own."
"This is our wool," said Shenac, as they entered the barn; "I wish it was spun."
"Shenac," said her cousin kindly, "have you not undertaken too much? It's all very well for you to speak of Hamish and Dan, but the weight must fall on you. I see that plainly."
But Shenac would not let her think so.
"I only do my share," said she eagerly.
"I think you could have helped them more by coming to M--- and taking a situation. You could learn to do anything, Shenac, if you were to try."
But Shenac would not listen.
"We must keep together," said she; "and the land must be kept for Allister. There is no fear. We shall not grow rich, but we can live, if we bide all together and do our best."
"Shenac," persisted her cousin, "I do not want to discourage you; but there are so many things which a girl like you ought not to do--cannot do, indeed, without breaking your health. I know. I was the eldest at home. I know what there is to do in a place like yours. The doctor tells me I shall never be quite well again, because of the long strain of hard work and exposure when I was young like you. Think, if your health was to fail."
Shenac turned her compassionate eyes upon her.
"But your father was hard on you, folks say, and I have the work at my own taking."
Mrs More shook her head sadly.
"Ah, Shenac dear, circumstances may be far harder on you than ever my father was on me. You do not know what may lie before you. No girl like you should have such responsibility. If you will come with me or follow me, you and Hamish, I can do much for you. You could learn to do anything, Shenac, and Hamish is very clever. There are places where his littleness and his lameness would not be against him, as they must be on the land. Let my father take Dan, as he wished, and let Hughie go to the elder's for a while. The land can lie here safe enough till Allister comes home, if that is what you wish. Indeed, Shenac, you do not know what you are undertaking."
"Cousin Christie," said Shenac gently, "you are very kind, but I cannot leave my mother; and I am strong--stronger than you think. Christie, you speak as though you thought Allister would never come home. Was our Allister a wild lad, as your father says? Surely, he'll come home to his mother, now that his father is dead."
She sat down on the pile of wool, and turned a very pale, frightened face to her cousin. Mrs More stooped down and kissed her.
"My dear," she said gently, "Allister was not a wild lad in my time, but good and truthful--one who honoured his parents. But, Shenac, the world is wide, and there are so many things that those who have lived in this quiet place all their lives cannot judge of. And even if Allister were to come back, he might not be content to settle down here in the old quiet way. The land would seem less to him than it seems to you."
"But if Allister should not come home, or if he should not stay, my mother will need me all the more. No, Cousin Christie, you must not discourage me. I must try it. And, indeed, it is not I alone. Hamish has so much sense and judgment, and Dan is growing so strong. And we will try it anyway."
"Well, Shenac, you deserve to succeed, and you will succeed if anybody could," said her cousin. "I will not discourage you. I wish I could help you instead."
"You can help me," said Shenac eagerly; "that's what I brought you out to say. Our wool--you are going back soon, and if the waggon goes, will you ask your father to let our wool go to the mill? The carding takes so long, and my mother is not so strong as she used to be. And that is one of the things I cannot abide. The weary little wheel is bad enough. Will you ask your father, Christie?"
Mrs More laughed.
"That is but a small favour, Shenac. Of course my father will take it, and he'll bring it back too; for, though it is not his usual plan at this time of the year, he's going on all the way to M--- with butter. There came word yesterday that there was great demand for it. The wool will be done by the time he comes back; and he is to take his own too, I believe."
Shenac gave a sigh of relief.
"Well, that's settled."
"Why did you not ask my father himself?" said Mrs More. "Are not you and he good friends, Shenac?" Shenac muttered something about not liking to give trouble and not liking to ask Angus Dhu. Mrs More laughed again.
"I think you are hard on my father, Shenac. I think he would be a good friend to you if you would let him. You must not mind a sharp word from the like of him. His bark is worse than his bite."
Shenac was inexpressibly uncomfortable, remembering that all the hard words had come from her and not from Angus Dhu.
"Well, never mind," said Mrs More; "the carrying of the wool is my father's favour. What can I do for you, Shenac?"
"You can do one thing for me," said Shenac briskly, glad to escape from a painful subject, and laying her hand on a shining instrument of steel that peeped from beneath the wool on which she was sitting. "You can cut my hair off. My mother does not like to do it, and Hamish won't. I was going to ask Shenac yonder; but you will do it better." And she began to loosen the heavy braids.
"What's that about Shenac yonder?" said that young person, coming in upon them. "I should like to know what you are plotting, you two, together--and bringing in my innocent name too!"
"Nothing very bad," said Shenac, laughing. "I want Christie to cut my hair, it is such a trouble; it takes a whole half-hour at one time or other of the day to keep it neat, and half-hours are precious."
"I don't like to do it, Shenac," said Mrs More.
Shenac Dhu held up her hands in astonishment.
"Cut your hair off! Was the like ever heard of? --Nonsense, Christie! she never means it; and Hamish would never let her, besides. She'll look no better than the rest of us without her hair," continued she, taking the heavy braids out of Shenac's hands and pushing her back on the pile of wool from which she had risen. "Christie, tell Shenac about John Cameron, as you told us last night."
While Shenac listened to the account of a sad accident that had happened to a young man from another part of the country, Shenac Dhu let down the long, fair hair of her cousin, and, by the help of an old card that lay near, smoothed it till it lay in waves and ripples of gold far below her waist. Then, as Shenac Bhan still sat, growing pale and red by turns as she listened, she with great care rolled the shining mass into thick curls over neck and shoulders.
"Now stand up and show yourself," said she, as she finished. "Is she not a picture? Christie, you should take her to the town with you and put her up in your husband's shop-window. You would make her fortune and your own too."
Shenac Bhan had this advantage over her cousin, and indeed over most people--that the sun that made them as brown as a berry, after the first few days' exposure left her as fair and unfreckled as ever; and she really was a very pretty picture as she stood laughing and blushing before her cousins. The door opened, and Hamish came in.
"My mother sent me to bid you all come in to tea;" but he stopped as his eye fell on his sister.
"Tea!" cried Shenac Bhan. "I meant to do all that myself. Who would have thought that we had been here so long?" And she made a movement, as if to bind back her hair, that she might hasten away.
"Be quiet; stay till I bid you go," said Shenac Dhu, hastily letting the curls fall again. "I wonder if all the puddles are dried up? --She ought to see herself. Cut them off! The vain creature! Never fear, Hamish."
"Christie is to cut it," said Shenac Bhan, laughing, and holding the wool-shears towards Mrs More. "I must do it, Hamish; it takes such a time to keep it decently neat. My mother does not care, and why should you?"
"Whisht, Hamish," said Shenac Dhu, "you're going to quote Saint Paul and Saint Peter about a woman's hair being a covering and a glory. Don't fash yourself. Why, she would deserve to be a Scots worthy more than George Wishart, or than the woman who was drowned even, if she were to do it!"
"You had your own cut," said Shenac Bhan, looking at her cousin with some surprise. "Why should I not do the same?"
"You are not me. Everybody has not my strength of mind," said Shenac Dhu, nodding gravely.
"Toch! you cut yours that it might grow long and thick like our Shenac's," said Dan, who had been with them for some time. "Think of your hair, and look at this." And he lifted the fair curls admiringly.
Shenac Bhan laughed.
"It's an awful bother, Dan."
"But it would be a pity to lose it. What a lot of it there is!" And the boy walked round his sister, touching it as he went.
"She never meant to do it; but after that she could not," said Shenac Dhu, pretending to whisper.
"Our Shenac never says what she doesn't mean," said Dan hotly.
"Whatever other people's Shenacs do," said Hamish laughing.
Shenac Dhu made as if she would charge him with the great shears.
"Give them to Christie," said Shenac Bhan. "What a work to make about nothing!"
"She does not mean to do it yet," said Shenac Dhu; but she handed the shears to her sister.
"I don't like to do it, Shenac," said Mrs More. "Think how long it will take to grow again; and it is beautiful hair," she added, as she came near and passed her fingers through it.
"Nonsense, Christie, she's not in earnest," persisted Shenac Dhu.
With a quick, impatient motion, Shenac Bhan took the shears from her cousin's hand and severed one--two--three of the bright curls from the mass. Shenac Dhu uttered a cry.
"There! did I not tell you?" cried Dan, forgetting everything else in his triumph over Shenac Dhu. Hamish turned and went out without a word.
"There," said Shenac Bhan; "you must do it now, Christie."
Mrs More took the great shears and began to cut without a word; and no one spoke again till the curls lay in a shining heap at their feet. Then Shenac Dhu drew a long breath, and said,-- "Don't say afterwards it was my fault."
"It was just your fault, Shenac Dhu, you envious, spiteful thing," exclaimed the indignant Dan.
"Nonsense, Cousin Shenac. --Be quiet, Dan. She had nothing to do with it. It has been a trouble all summer, and I'm glad to be rid of it. I only wish I could spin it, like the wool."
"What a lot of it there is!" And Shenac Dhu stooped down and lifted a long tress or two tenderly, as if they had life.
"What will you do with it, Shenac?"
"Burn it, since I cannot make stockings of it. Put them in here." And she held up her apron.
"Will you give your hair to me, Shenac?" asked Mrs More.
"What can you do with it?" asked Shenac in some surprise. "Surely I'll give it to you, so that I hear no more about it." The curls were carefully gathered, and tied in Mrs More's handkerchief.
"Shenac Bhan," said the other Shenac solemnly, "you look like a shorn sheep. I shall never see you again without thinking of the young woman tied to the stake on the sands, and the sea coming up and up--" "Shenac, be quiet. It is sinful to speak lightly of so solemn a thing," said her sister gravely.
"Solemn!" said Shenac. "Lightly! By no means. I was putting two solemn things together. I don't know which is more solemn. For my part, I would as soon feel the cold water creeping up my back, like--" "Shenac," said our Shenac entreatingly, "don't say foolish things and vex my mother and Hamish."
Her cousin put her hand on her mouth.
"You have heard my last word."
But the last word about the shining curls was not spoken yet.
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The day when the haying was to have commenced was very rainy, and so was every day for a week or more. People were becoming a little anxious as to the getting in of the hay; for in almost all the fields it was more than ripe, and everybody knows that it should not stand long after that. The fields of the Macivors were earlier than those of most people, and Shenac was especially careful to get the hay in at the right time and in good condition, because they had so much less of it than ever before.
And besides, the wheat-harvest was coming on, and where there were so few to help, every day made a difference. Whenever there came a glimpse of sunshine, Dan was out in the field, making good use of his scythe; for mowing was new and exciting work to him, though he had seen it done every summer of his life. It is not every boy of fourteen that could swing a scythe to such good purpose as Dan, and he might be excused for being a little proud and a little unreasonable in the matter. And after all, I daresay he knew quite as much about it as Shenac. When she told him how foolish it was to cut down grass when there was no chance of getting it dried, he only laughed and pointed to the fields of Angus Dhu, where there were three men busy, and acres and acres of grass lying as it had fallen.
"You are a good farmer, Shenac, but Angus Dhu, you must confess, has had more experience, and is a better judge of the weather. We're safe enough to follow him."
There was reason in this, but it vexed Shenac to have Angus Dhu quoted as authority; and it vexed her too that Dan should take the matter into his own hands without regard to her judgment.
"Angus Dhu can get all the help he needs to make the hay when it fairs," said she. "But if we have too much down we shall not be able to manage it right, I'm afraid."
"There's no fear of having too much down. I must keep at it. Where there's only one man to cut, he must keep at it," said Dan gravely. "If you and the rest of the children are busy when the sun shines, you will soon overtake me."
"Only one man!" "You and the rest of the children!" Vexed as Shenac was, she could not help being amused, and fortunately a good deal of her vexation passed away in the laugh, in which Dan heartily joined.
This week of rain was a trying time to Shenac. Nothing could be done out of doors, for the rain was constant and heavy. If she could have had the wheel to herself, she would have got on with the spinning, and that would have been something, she thought. Her mother was spinning, however; and though she could not sit at the wheel all day, she did not like to have her work interfered with, and Shenac could not make use of the time when her mother was not employed, and very little was accomplished. There was mending to be done, which her mother could have done so much better than she could, Shenac thought. But her mother sat at the wheel, and Shenac wearied herself over the shirts and trousers of her brothers, and at last startled herself and every one else by speaking sharply to little Flora and shaking Colin well for bringing in mud on their feet when they came home from school.
After that she devoted her surplus energies to the matter of house-cleaning, and that did better. Everything in the house, both upstairs and down, and everything in the dairy, passed through her hands. Things that could be scrubbed were scrubbed, and things that could be polished were polished. The roof and the walls were whitewashed, and great maple-branches hung here and there upon them, that the flies might not soil their whiteness; and then Shenac solemnly declared to Hamish that it was time the rain should cease.
Hamish laughed. The week had passed far less uncomfortably to him than to his sister. He had made up his mind to the necessity of staying within-doors during such weather; and he could do so all the more easily as, with a good conscience, he could give himself up to the enjoyment of a book that had fallen into his hands. It was not a new book. Two or three of the first pages were gone, but it was as good as new to Hamish. It was a new kind of arithmetic, his friend Rugg, the peddler, told him. He knew Hamish liked that sort of thing, and so he had brought it to him.
Hamish was quite occupied with it. He forgot the hay, and the rain, and even his own rheumatic pains, in the interest with which he pored over it. Shenac did not grudge him his pleasure. She even tried to get up an interest in the unknown quantities, whose values, Hamish assured her, were so easily discovered by the rules laid down in the book. But she did not enter heartily into her brother's pleasure, as she usually did. She wondered at him, and thought it rather foolish in him to be so taken up with trifles when there was so much to think about. She forgot to be glad that her brother had found something to keep him from vexing himself, as he had done so much of late, by thinking how little he could do for his mother and the rest; and she said to herself that Christie More had been right when she said that it was upon her that the burden of care and labour must fall.
"You are tired to-night, Shenac," said Hamish, as she sat gazing silently and listlessly into the fire.
"Tired!" repeated Shenac scornfully. "What with, I wonder. Yes, I am tired with staying within-doors, when there is so much to be done outside. If my mother would only let me take the wheel, that would be something."
"But my mother is busy with it herself," said Hamish. "Surely you do not think you can do more or better than my mother?"
"Not better, but more; twice as much in a day as she is doing now. We'll not get our cloth by the new year, at the rate the spinning is going on, and the lads' clothes will hardly hold together even now." Shenac gave an impatient sigh.
"But, Shenac," said her brother, "there is no use in fretting about it; that will do no good."
"No; if only one could help it," said Shenac.
"Shenac, my woman," said the mother from the other side of the fire, "I doubt you'll need to go to The Eleventh to-morrow for the dye-stuffs. I am not able to go so far myself, I fear."
The townships, or towns, of that part of the country are all divided off into portions, a mile in width, called concessions; and as the little cluster of houses where the store was had no name as yet, it was called The Eleventh; and indeed, all the different localities were named from the concession in which they were found.
"There is no particular hurry about going, I suppose, mother," Shenac answered indifferently.
"The sooner the better," said her mother. "The things are as well here as there, and we'll need them soon. What is to hinder you from going to-morrow?"
"If the morning is fair, I'll need Shenac's help at the hay, mother," said Dan with an air.
"I'll need Shenac's help!" It might have been Angus Dhu himself, by the way it was said, Shenac thought. It was ludicrous. Her mother did not seem to see anything ludicrous in it, however; for she only answered,-- "Oh yes, Dan; if it should be fair, I suppose I can wait." Hamish was busy with his book again.
"It's a very heavy crop," continued Dan. "It is all that a man can do to cut yon grass and keep at it steady."
Of course Dan did not mean to take the credit of the heavy crop to himself, but it sounded exactly as if he did; and there was something exceedingly provoking to Shenac in the way in which he stretched himself up when he said, "all that a man can do." A laughing glance that came to her over the top of Hamish's book dispelled her momentary anger, however.
"If Hamish does not mind, I'm sure _I_ need not," she said to herself.
Dan went on:--"I shall put what I have cut to-day in the long barn. It will be just the thing for the spring's work."
Dan's new-found far-sightedness was too much for the gravity of Hamish, and Shenac joined heartily in the laugh. Dan looked a little discomfited.
"You must settle it with Shenac and your brother," said the mother.
"All right, Dan, my boy," said Hamish heartily; "it's always best to look ahead, as Mr Rugg would say. --What do you think, Shenac?"
"All right; only you should not say `my boy' to our Dan, but `my man,'" said Shenac gravely.
Even little Flora could understand the joke of Dan's assuming the airs of manhood, and all laughed heartily. Dan joined in the laugh good-humouredly enough.
"You see, Shenac," said Hamish, during the few minutes they always lingered together after the others had gone to bed, "Dan may be led, but he will not be driven--at least, not by you or me."
"Led!" exclaimed Shenac; "I think he means to lead us all. That scythe has made a man of him all at once. I declare it goes past my patience to hear the monkey."
"It must not go past your patience if you can help it, Shenac," said her brother. "All that nonsense will be laughed out of him, but it must not be by you or me."
"Oh, well, I'm not caring," said Shenac. "I only hope it will be fair to-morrow, so that I can get to help him. I could mow as well as he, if my mother would let me. However, it's all the same whether I help him or he helps me, so that the work is done some way."
"We'll all help one another," said Hamish. "Shenac, you were right the other day when you told me I was wrong to murmur because I could not do more than God had given me strength to do. It does not matter what work falls to each of us, so that it is well done; and we can never do it unless we keep together."
"No fear, Hamish, bhodach, we'll keep together," said Shenac heartily. "I do hope to-morrow may be fine."
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But to-morrow was not fine; it was quite the contrary. Shenac milked in the rain, and gathered vegetables for dinner in the rain, and would gladly have made hay all day in the rain, if that had been possible. Not a pin cared Shenac for the rain. It wet her face, and twined her hair into numberless little rings all over her head, and that was the very worst it could do. It could not spoil her shoes, for in summer she did not wear any, unless she was in the field; and it took the rain a long time to penetrate through the thick woollen dress she always wore in rainy weather. Indeed, she rather liked to be out in the rain, especially when there was a high wind, against which she might measure her strength; and she was just going to propose to her mother that she should set out to The Eleventh for the dye-stuffs, when the door opened, and her cousin Shenac came in.
Rain or shine, Shenac Dhu was always welcome, and quite a chorus of exclamations greeted her.
"Toch! what about the rain! I'm neither salt nor sugar to melt in it," she said, as Shenac Bhan took off her wet plaid and drew her towards the fire. "I must not stay," she continued. --"Hamish, have you done with your book? Mr Rugg stayed at our house last night, and he's coming here next, and so I ran over the field to see his pretty things. --O Shenac, he has such a pretty print this time--blue and white."
"But could you not see his pretty things last night? And are you to get a dress of the blue and white?" asked Shenac Bhan.
"Of course I could see them, but I could not take a good look at them because my father was there. He thinks me a sensible woman, and I can't bear to undeceive him; and my eyes have a trick of looking at pretty things as though I wanted them, and that looks greedy. But I'm not for a dress of the blue and white. Mysie Cairns in The Sixteenth has one, and that's enough for one township."
"But Mr Rugg will not open his packs here; we want nothing," said Shenac Bhan, "unless he may have dye-stuffs for my mother."
"He has no dye-stuffs--you'll get that at The Eleventh," said Shenac Dhu; "but it's nonsense about not wanting anything. I'll venture to say that Mr Rugg will leave more here than he left at our house, or at any house in the town-ship. I wish he would come."
They all had plenty to say to Shenac Dhu, but that her mind was full of other things it was easy to see. She laughed and chatted, but she watched the window till the long, high waggon of the peddler came in sight, and then she drew Shenac Bhan into a corner and kept her there till the door opened.
"Good-morning, good-morning," said the peddler as he came in. Glancing round the room, he stood still on the door-mat with a comical look of indecision on his face. "I don't suppose you want to see me enough to pay for the tracks I shall make on the floor," he said to Shenac Bhan. "I don't know as I should have come round this way this time, only I've got something for you--something you'll be glad to have."
Everybody was indignant at the idea of his not coming in.
"Never mind the floor," said Shenac Bhan. "We don't want anything to-day, but we are glad to see you all the same."
"Don't say you don't want anything till you see what I've got," said Mr Rugg gravely. "I ha'n't no doubt there's a heap of things you would like, if you could get them. Now, a'n't there?"
"She wants a wig, for one thing," said Shenac Dhu.
"Well, no; I calculate she'll get along without that as well as most folks. I don't see as you spoiled your looks, for all Mrs More said," he added, as he touched with his long forefinger one of the little rings that clustered round Shenac's head. "Come, now, a'n't there something I've got that you want?" he asked as Shenac turned away with an impatient shrug.
"No; not if you haven't a wig. Do we want anything, mother? It is not worth while to open your box in the rain."
Mr Rugg was already out of hearing.
"We can look at them, at any rate," said Shenac Dhu. But Shenac Bhan looked very much as if she did not intend to do even that, till the door opened again, and Mr Rugg walked in, followed by Dan, and between them they carried a spinning-wheel.
"A big wheel, just like Mary Matheson's!" exclaimed Shenac Bhan.
"No; a decided improvement upon that," said Mr Rugg, preparing to put on the rim and the head. The band was ready, too; and he turned the wheel and pulled out an imaginary thread with such gravity that all laughed. "Well, what do you think of it, girls?" he asked after a little time. "Will you have it, Miss Shenac?"
"I should like to borrow it for a month," said Shenac with a sigh.
"It a'n't to be lent nor to be borrowed," said the peddler; "leastways, it a'n't for me to lend. The owner may do as she likes."
"How much would it cost?" asked Shenac with a vague, wild idea that possibly at some future time she might get one.
"I can tell you that exactly," said the peddler. "I've got the invoice here all right, and another document with it;" and he handed Shenac a letter, directed, as she knew at a glance, in the handwriting of her cousin, Mrs More.
"It's from Christie," said Shenac Dhu, looking over her shoulder. "Open it, Shenac; what ails you?"
Shenac opened the letter, and the other Shenac read it with her. It need not be given here. It told how Mrs More had taken Shenac's hair to a hair-dresser in the city, and how the money she had received for it had been given into the hands of Mr Rugg, who was to buy a wheel with it, as something Shenac would be sure to value.
"And here it is," said Mr Rugg; "as good a wheel as need be. --It will put yours quite out of fashion, Mrs Macivor."
It was with some difficulty that the mother could be made to understand that the wheel was Shenac's--bought and paid for. As for Shenac, she could only stand and look at it, saying not a word. Shenac Dhu shook her heartily.
"Here I have come all the way in the rain to hear what you would say, and you stand and glower and say nothing at all."
"Try it, Shenac," said Hamish, bringing a handful of rolls of wool from his mother's wheel.
"She'll need to learn first," said Shenac Dhu.
But Shenac had tried Mary Matheson's wheel more than once; and besides, as Mr Rugg had often said, and now triumphantly repeated, she had a "faculty." There really did seem nothing that she could not learn to do more easily than other people. Now the long thread was drawn out even and fine as any that ever passed through the mother's hands on the precious little wheel. The mother examined and approved, Shenac Dhu exclaimed, and the little lads laughed and clapped their hands. As for Shenac Bhan, she could hardly believe in her own good fortune. She did not seem to hear the talk or the laugh, but, with a face intent and grave, walked up and down, drawing out the long, even threads, and then letting them roll up smoothly on the spindle.
"Take it moderate, Miss Shenac," said the peddler, "take it moderate. It don't pay to overdo even a good thing."
But Shenac was busy calculating how many days' work there might be in the wool, and how long it would take her to finish it.
"The rainy days will not be lost now," she said to herself triumphantly. "Of course I must stick to the hay; but mornings and evenings and rainy days I can spin. No fear for the lads' clothes now."
"Hamish," said Shenac Dhu, "I shall never see her without fancying she has a wheel on her head."
Hamish laughed. His pleasure in the pleasure of his sister was intense.
"I don't know what we can ever say to Christie for her kindness," he said.
"We'll write a letter to her, Hamish, you and I together," said his sister eagerly. "I can't think how it all happened. But I am so glad and thankful; and I must tell Christie."
The next day was fair. When Shenac went out with little Hugh to the milking in the pasture, she thought she heard the pleasant sound of the whetting of scythes nearer than the fields of Angus Dhu. She could see nothing, however, because of the mist that lay close over the low lands. But when she went out after breakfast to spread the grass cut by Dan during the rainy days, she found work going on that made Dan's efforts seem like play.
"Is it a bee?" said Shenac to herself.
No, it was not a bee, Aleck Munroe said, but he and the other lads thought there was as much hay down in their fields as could be well cared for, and so they thought they would see what could be done in their neighbour's. It was likely to continue fine now, as the weather had cleared at the change of the moon; and a few hours would help here, without hindering there.
"Help! Yes, indeed!" thought Shenac as she watched the swinging of the scythes, and saw the broad swaths of grain that fell as they passed on. Dan followed, but he made small show after the young giants that had taken the work in hand; and in a little while he made a virtue of necessity and exchanged the scythe for the spreading-pole, to help Shenac and the little ones in the merry, healthful work.
After this there were no more rainy days while the hay-time lasted. Shenac and Dan were not the first in all the concessions to finish the getting in of the hay, but they were by no means the last. It was all got in in a good state, too; and the grain-harvest began cheerfully and ended successfully. Shenac took the lead in the cutting of the grain.
In those days, in that part of the country, there were none of those wonderful machines which now begin to make farm-work light. The horses were used to draw the grain and hay to the barn or the stacks when it was ready; but there were no patent rakes or mowing or reaping machines for them to draw. All the wheat, and a good deal of the other grain, was cut down with the old-fashioned hook or sickle, the reapers stooping low to their work. It was tedious and exhausting labour, and slow, too. Shenac's "faculty" and perfect health stood her in good stead at this work as at other things. She tired herself thoroughly every day, but she was young and strong; and though the summer nights were short there was no part of them lost to her, for she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. Even thoughts of the weary and suffering Hamish did not often disturb her rest. She slept the dreamless sleep of perfect health till the dawn awakened her, cheerful and ready for another day's labour.
They had very little help for the harvest. There was one moonlight bee. They say the grain is more easily cut with the dew upon it; and moonlight bees are common in Glengarry even now. But Shenac and her brothers knew nothing of this one till, on going out in the morning, they found more than half of their wheat lying ready to be bound up in sheaves.
The rest of the harvest was very successful. Indeed, it was a favourable harvest everywhere that year. There was rejoicing through all the township--through many town-ships; and even the most earthly and churlish of the farmers assented with a good grace when a day of thanksgiving was appointed, and kept it outwardly in appearance, if not inwardly with the heart.
As for Shenac, it would be impossible to describe her triumph and thankfulness when the last sheaf was safely gathered in. For she was truly thankful, though I am afraid her triumphant self-congratulation went even beyond her thankfulness. Her thankfulness was not displayed in a way that made it apparent to others; but it filled her heart and gave her courage to look forward. It did more than this: it gave her a self-reliance quite unusual--indeed not very desirable--in one so young; and there was danger, all the greater because she was quite unconscious of it, that it might degenerate into something different from an humble yet earnest self-reliance. But there was nothing of that as yet, and all the little household rejoiced together.
The spinning too had prospered. In the mornings and evenings, and on rainy days, the wheel had been busy; and now the yarn, dyed and ready, lay in the house of weaver McLean, waiting to be woven into heavy cloth for the boys; and the flannel for shirts and gowns would not be long behind. So Shenac made a pause, and took time to breathe, as Hamish said.
And, really, with a plentiful harvest gathered safely in, there seemed little danger of want; and Shenac's thoughts were more hopeful than anxious when she looked forward. The mother was more cheerful, too, than she had been since the father's death. She was always cheerful now, when matters went smoothly and regularly among them. It was only when vexations arose, when Dan was restless or inclined to be rebellious, or when the children stood in need of anything which they could not get, or when she fancied that the affairs of the farm were not going on well, that she grieved over the past or fretted for the home-coming of Allister. The little ones went to school again after the harvest--the little boys and Flora; and altogether matters seemed to promise to move smoothly on, and so the mother was content.
There was one thing that troubled the mother and Shenac too. The harvest-work had been hard on Hamish, and in the haste and eagerness of the busy time Shenac had not been so mindful of him as she might have been, and he suffered for it afterwards; and it grieved them all that his voice should be so seldom heard as it was among them, for Hamish never complained. The more he suffered, the more quiet he grew. It was not bodily pain alone with which he struggled on in silence. It was something harder to bear--a sense of helplessness and uselessness, a fear of becoming a burden when there was so much to bear already. And, worse than even this, there was the knowledge that there lay no bright future before him, as there might lie before the rest. He must always be a helpless cripple. He could have no hope beyond the weary round of suffering which fell to his lot day by day. What the others did with a will, with a sense of power and pleasure, was a weariness to him. There were times when he wished that death might come and end it all; but he never spoke of himself, unless Shenac made him speak. His fits of depression did not occur often, and Shenac came at last to think it was better to let them pass without notice; and, though her eye grew more watchful and her voice more tender, she said nothing for a while, but waited patiently for more cheerful days.
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I dislike to speak about the faults of Shenac. It would be far pleasanter to go on telling all that she did for her mother and brothers and little Flora--how her courage never failed, and her patience and temper very seldom; and how the neighbours looked on with wonder and pleasure at all the young girl was able to accomplish by her sense and energy, till they quite forgot that she was little more than a child-- not sixteen when her father died--and spoke of her as a woman of prudence and a credit to her family. She looked like a woman. She was tall and strong. She seemed, indeed, to have the health and strength which should have fallen to her twin-brother Hamish; and she was growing to seem to all the neighbours much older than he. I suppose this change would have come in any circumstances, after a while, for girls of seventeen are generally more mature than boys of the same age; but the change was more decided in Shenac because of the care that had fallen on her so early. Still, they were alike. They had the same golden-brown hair, though the brother's was of a darker shade, the same blue eyes, and frank, open brow. But the eyes of Hamish had a weary look, and his brow looked higher and broader because of the thin pale cheeks beneath it; and while he grew more quiet and retiring every day, no one could have been long in the house without seeing in many ways that Shenac was the ruling spirit there.
It was right it should be so. It could not have been otherwise, for her mother was broken in health and spirits, and Allister was away. Hamish was not able to take the lead in the labour, because of his lameness and his feeble health; and though he had great influence in the family councils, it was exercised indirectly, by quiet, sensible words, and by a silent good example to the rest.
As for Dan, his will was strong enough to command an army, and he had a great deal of good sense hidden beneath a reckless manner; but he was two years younger than his sister--quite too young and inexperienced, even if he had been steady and industriously disposed, to take the lead. So of course the leadership fell upon Shenac.
They all said, after a while--the neighbours, I mean--that it could not have fallen into better hands; and, as far as the family affairs were concerned, that was true. But for Shenac herself it was not so well. It is never well to take girls quickly out of their childhood, and it was especially bad for her to have so much the guidance of these affairs, for she naturally liked to lead--to have her own way; and, without being at all conscious of it, there were times when she grew sharp and arbitrary, expecting to be obeyed unquestioningly by them all.
She was always gentle with the mother, who sometimes was desponding and irritable, and needed a great deal of patient attendance; but even with the mother she liked to have her own way. Generally, Shenac's way was the best, to be sure; for the mother, weakened in mind and body, saw difficulties in very trifling things, and fancied dangers and troubles where the bright, cheerful spirit of her daughter saw none. So, though she yielded in word, she often in deed gave less heed to the mother's wishes than she ought to have done, and she was in danger, through this, of growing less lovable as the years went on.
But a sadder thing happened to Shenac than this. In the eagerness with which she devoted herself to her work she forgot higher duties. For there is a higher duty than that which a child owes to parents and friends--the duty owed to God. I do not mean that these are distinct and separate, or that they naturally and necessarily interfere with each other. Quite the contrary. It is only as our duty to our Father in heaven is understood and acknowledged that any other duty can be well or acceptably performed. And so, in forgetting God, Shenac was in danger of allowing her work to become a snare to her.
Humbly acknowledging God in all her ways, asking and expecting and waiting for his blessing in all that she undertook, she would hardly have grown unduly anxious or arbitrary or heedless of her mother's wish and will. Conscious of her own weakness, and leaning on eternal strength, she would hardly have grown proud with success, or sinfully impatient when her will was crossed.
But in those long, busy summer days, Shenac said to herself she had no time to think of other things than the work which each day brought. They had worship always, morning and evening, whatever the hurry might be. The Scriptures were read and a psalm was sung, and then the mother or Hamish offered a few words of prayer. They would as soon have thought of going without their morning and evening meals as without worship. It would have been a godless and graceless house, indeed, without that, in the opinion of those who had been accustomed to family worship all their lives.
Shenac was not often consciously impatient of the time it took, and her voice was clearest and sweetest always in their song of praise. But too often it was her voice only that rose to Heaven. Her heart was full of other things; her thoughts often wandered to the field or the dairy, even when the words of prayer or praise were on her lips. She lost the habit of the few minutes' quiet reading of her Bible in the early morning, and also before she went to bed; and her prayers were brief and hurried, and sometimes they were forgotten altogether. She and Hamish had always been fond of reading, and though few new books found their way among them, they had gone over and over the old ones, liking them chiefly because of the long talks to which they gave rise between them.
Many of their favourite books were religious, and various were the speculations as to doctrine and duty into which they used to fall. There might have been some danger in this, had not a spirit of reverence for God's authority been deep and strong within them. It was to the infallible standard of the inspired volume that all things were brought. With what is written there all theories and opinions were compared, and received or rejected according as they agreed with or differed from the voice of inspiration. I do not mean that they were always right in their judgment, or that their speculations were not sometimes foolish and vain. But their spirit was right. They sought to know the truth, and, in a way, they helped each other to walk in it.
But all this seemed past now. There was no time for reading or for talking--at least Shenac had none. All day she was too busy, and at night she was too weary. Even the long, quiet Sabbath-day was changed. Not that there was work done on that day, either within or without the house. I daresay there were many in the township who did not keep the law of the Sabbath rest in spirit; but there were none in those days who did not keep it in letter, in appearance. In the fields, which through the week were the scenes of busy labour, on the Sabbath not a sound was heard save in the pastures--the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep.
Few people made the labour of the week an excuse for turning the Sabbath into a day of rest for the body only. The old hereditary respect for God's day and house still prevailed among them, and the great, grey, barn-like house of worship, which had been among the first built in the settlement, was always filled to overflowing with a grave and reverent congregation.
But among them, during all that long summer, Shenac was seldom seen. Her mother went when it was not too warm to walk the long three miles that lay between their house and the kirk, or when she got a seat in a neighbour's waggon; and Hamish and Dan were seldom away. But Shenac as seldom went.
"What is the use of going?" she said, in answer to her mother's expostulations, "when I fall asleep the moment the text is given out. It's easy to say I should pay attention to the sermon. The minister's voice would put me to sleep if I were standing at the wheel. Sometimes it takes the sound of the water, and sometimes of the wind; but it's hush-a-by that it says to me all the time. And, mother, I think it's a shame to sleep in the kirk, like old Donald or Elspat Smith. Somebody must stay at home, and it may as well be me."
I daresay it was not altogether the fault of the minister that Shenac fell asleep, though his voice was a drowsy drone to many a one besides her. The week's activity was quite sufficient to account for her drowsiness, to say nothing of the bright sunshine streaming in through ten uncurtained windows, and the air growing heavy with the breathing of a multitude. Shenac tried stoutly, once and again; but it would not do. The very earnestness with which she fixed her eyes on the kindly, inanimate face of the minister hastened the slumber; and, touched by her mother or Hamish, she would waken to see two or three pairs of laughing eyes fastened upon her. Indeed she did think it a shame; but it was a hard struggle listening to words which bore little interest, scarcely a meaning, to her. So she stayed at home, and made the Sabbath-day a day of rest literally; for as soon as the others were away, and her light household tasks finished, she took her book and fell asleep, as surely, and far more comfortably, than she did when she went to the kirk; so that, as a day in which to grow wiser and better, the Sabbath was lost to Shenac.
She was by no means satisfied with herself because of this, for in her heart she did not believe her weariness was a sufficient excuse for staying away from the kirk; so whenever there was a meeting of any sort in the school-house, which happened once a month generally, Shenac was sure to be there. It was close by, and it was in the evening, and she could take Flora and her little brothers, who could seldom go so far as the kirk.
"Shenac," said her cousin one day, "why were you not at the kirk last Sabbath? Such a fine day as it was; and to think of your letting Hamish go by himself!"
"He did not go by himself; Dan went with him, and you came home with him. And I did go to the kirk--at least I went to the school-house, where old Mr Forbes preached," said Shenac.
"Toch!" exclaimed Shenac Dhu scornfully; "do you call _that_ going to the kirk? Yon poor old body--do you call _him_ a minister? They say he used to make shoes at home. I'm amazed at you, Shenac! you that's held up to the rest of us as a woman of sense!"
Shenac Bhan laughed.
"Oh, as to his making shoes, you mind Paul made tents; and his sermons are just like other folk's sermons: I see no difference."
"The texts are like other folk's, you mean," said Shenac Dhu slyly. "I daresay you take a nap when he's preaching."
"No," said Shenac Bhan, not at all offended; "that's just the difference. I never sleep in the school-house. I suppose because it's cool, and I have a sleep before I go," she added candidly. "But as for the sermons, they are just like other folk's."
"But that is nonsense," said Shenac Dhu. "He's just a common man, and does not even preach in Gaelic."
"But our Shenac would say Paul did not do that, nor Dr Chalmers, nor plenty more," said Hamish, laughing.
"Hamish," said Shenac Dhu severely, "don't encourage her in what is wrong. Elder McMillan says it's wrong to go, and so does my father. They don't even sing the Psalms, they say."
"That's nonsense, at any rate," said Shenac Bhan. "The very last Sabbath they sang,-- "`I to the hills will lift mine eyes.'
"You can tell the elder that, and your father, if it will be any consolation to them."
"Our Shenac sang it," said little Hugh. "John Keith wasn't there, and the minister himself began the tune of Dundee. You should have heard him when he came to the high part."
"I've heard him," said Shenac Dhu; and she raised her voice in a shrill, broken quaver, that made them all laugh, though Shenac Bhan was indignant too, and bade her cousin mind about the bears that tore the mocking children.
"But our Shenac sang it after, and me and little Flora," continued Hugh. "And, Shenac, what was it that the minister said afterwards about the new song?"
But Shenac would have no more said about it. She cared very little for Shenac Dhu's opinion, or for her father's either. She went to the school whenever the old man held a meeting there, and took the children with her. It was a great deal less trouble than taking them all so far as to the kirk, she told her mother; and whatever the elder and Angus Dhu might say, the old man's sermons were just like other folk's sermons.
About this time there came a letter from Allister. The tidings of his father's death had reached him just as he was about to start for the mining district with his cousin and others; he had entered into engagements which made it necessary for him to go with them,--or he thought so. He said he would return home as soon as possible; but for the sake of all there he must not come till he had at least got gold enough to pay the debt, so that he might start fair. He could not, at so great a distance, advise his mother what to do; but he knew she had kind friends and neighbours, who would not let things go wrong till he came home, which would be at the earliest possible day. In the meantime, he sent some money--not much, but all he had--and he begged his mother to keep her courage up, for the sake of the children with her, and for his sake who was far away.
This letter had been so long in coming, that somehow they had fallen into the way of thinking that there would be no letter, but that Allister must be on his way; so, when Shenac got it, it was with many doubts and fears that she carried it home to her mother. She dreaded the effect this disappointment might have on her in her enfeebled state, and shrank in dismay from a renewal of the scenes that had followed her father's death and the burning of the house.
But she need not have feared. It was indeed a disappointment to the mother that the coming home of her son must be delayed, and she grieved for a day or two. But everything went on just as usual, and gradually she settled down contentedly to her spinning and knitting again; and you may be sure that whatever troubles fell to the lot of Shenac, she did not suffer her mother to be worried by them.
And Shenac had many anxieties about this time. Of course she had none peculiar to herself; that is, she had none which were not shared by Hamish, and in a certain sense by Dan. But Hamish would have been content with moderate things. Just to rub on as quietly and easily as possible till Allister came home, was all he thought they should try to do. And as for Dan, the future and its troubles lay very lightly on him.
But with Shenac it was different. That the hay and grain were safely in was by no means enough to satisfy her. If Allister had been coming soon, it might have been; but now there was the fall ploughing, and the sowing of the wheat, and the flax must be broken and dressed, and the winter's wood must be got up, and there were fifty other things that ought to be done before the snow came. There was far more to do than could be done by herself, or she would not have fretted. But when Hamish told her to "take no thought for the morrow," and that she ought to trust as well as work, she lost patience with him. And when Dan quoted Angus Dhu, and spoke vaguely of what must be done in the spring, quite losing sight of what lay ready at his hand to do, she nearly lost patience with him too. Not quite, though. It was a perilous experiment to try on Dan--a boy who might be led, but who would not be driven; and many a time Shenac wearied herself with efforts so to arrange matters that what fell to Dan to do might seem to be his own proposal, and many a time he was suffered to do things in his own way, though his way was not always the best, because otherwise there was some danger that he would not do them at all.
Not that Dan was a bad boy, or very wilful, considering all things. But he was approaching the age when boys are supposed to see very clearly their masculine superiority; and to be directed by a woman how to do a man's work was more than a man could stand.
If he could have been trusted, Shenac thought, she would gladly have given up to him the guidance of affairs, and put herself at his disposal to be directed. Perhaps she was mistaken in this. She enjoyed the leadership. She enjoyed encountering and conquering difficulties. She enjoyed astonishing (and, as she thought, disappointing) Angus Dhu; and though she would have scorned the thought, she enjoyed the knowledge that all the neighbours saw and wondered at, and gave her the credit of, the successful summer's work.
But her being willing or unwilling made no difference. Dan was not old enough nor wise enough to be trusted with the management. The burden of care must fall on her, and the burden of labour too; and she set herself to the task with more intentness than ever when the letter came saying that Allister was not coming home.
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It was a bright day in the end of September. Shenac had been busy at the wheel all the morning, but the very last thread of their flannel was spun now. The wheel was put away, and Shenac stood before her mother, dressed in her black gown made for mourning when her father died. Her mother looked surprised, for this gown was never worn except at church, or when a visit was to be made.
"Mother," said Shenac, "I have made ready the children's supper, and filled the sacks in case Dan should want to go to the mill, and I want to go over to see if Shenac and Maggie can come some day to help me with the flax."
The mother assented, well pleased, for it was a long time since Shenac had gone to the house of Angus Dhu of her own will.
"And, mother, maybe I'll go with Shenac as far as The Eleventh. It's a long time since I have seen Mary Matheson, and I'll be home before dark."
"Well, well, go surely, if you like," said her mother; "and you might speak to McLean about the flannel, and bespeak McCallum the tailor to come as soon as he can to make the lads' clothes; and you might ask about the shoes."
"Yes, mother, I'll mind them all. I'll just speak to Hamish first, and then I'll away."
Hamish was in the garden digging and smoothing the ground where their summer's potatoes had grown, because he had nothing else to do, he said, and it would be so much done before the spring. Shenac seated herself on the fence, and began pulling, one by one, the brown oak leaves that hung low over it. There was no gate to the garden. It was doubtful whether a gate could have been made with sufficient strength, or fastened with sufficient ingenuity, to prevent the incursions of the pigs and calves, which, now that the fields were clear from grain, were permitted to wander over them at their will. So the garden was entered by a sort of stile--a board was placed with one end on the ground, and the other on the middle rail of the fence--and it was on this that Shenac sat down.
"Hamish," she said after a little, "what do you think of my asking John Firinn to plough the land for the wheat--and to sow it too, for that matter?"
"I don't think you had better call him by _that_ name, if you want him to do you a favour," said Hamish, laughing. "But why ask John Firinn of all the folk in the world?"
("Firinn" is the Gaelic name for "truth," and it was added to the name of one of the many John McDonalds of the neighbourhood; not, I am sorry to say, because he always spoke the truth, but because he did not.)
Shenac laughed.
"No; it's not likely. But I'm doing it for him because his wife has been sick all the summer, and has not a thread of her wool spun yet, and I am going to change work with them."
"But, Shenac," said Hamish gravely, "does our mother know? I am sure she will think you have enough to do at home, without going to spin at John Firinn's."
"I should not go there, of course; they must let me bring the wool home. And there's no use in telling my mother till I see whether they'll agree. It would only vex her. And, Hamish, it's all nonsense about my having too much to do. There's only the potatoes; and Hugh can bide at home from the school to gather them and the turnips, and Dan will be as well pleased if I leave them to him. I am only afraid that he has been fancying he is to plough, and he's not fit for it."
"No, he's not fit for it," said Hamish. "But I don't like John Firinn. Is there no one else?"
"No; for if we speak to the Camerons or Angus Dhu, it will just be the same as saying we want them to make a bee. I hate bees,--for us, I mean. It was well enough when they all thought it was just for the summer, and that then Allister would be home. But now we must do as other folk do, and be independent. So I must speak to John. He's not very trustworthy, I'm afraid; but that's maybe because few trust him. I don't think he'll wrong my mother, if he promises to do the land."
"Perhaps you are right, Shenac," said Hamish with a sigh.
"But, Hamish," said Shenac eagerly, "_you_ could not do this work, even if you were well and strong." She was not answering his words, but the thoughts which she knew were in his heart. "Come with me, Hamish. It will do you good, and it would be far better for you to make a bargain with John Firinn than for me. Shenac yonder is going. Come with us, Hamish."
"No," said Hamish. "The children are at the school, and maybe Dan will go to the mill; and my mother must not be left alone. And you are the one to make the bargain about the spinning. I don't believe John will be hard upon you; and if you are shamefaced, Shenac yonder will speak for you."
But Shenac did not intend her cousin to know anything about the matter till it should be settled, though she did not tell her brother so. She went away a little anxious and uncertain. For though she had been the main dependence all summer for the work both in the house and in the field, she had had very little to do with other people; and her heart failed her at the thought of speaking to any one about their affairs, especially to John Firinn. So it was with a slow step and a troubled face that she took her way over the field to find her cousin.
She had been a little doubtful all day whether she should find Shenac at home and at liberty to go with her, but she never thought of finding Shenac's father there. They were rolling--that is, clearing off--the felled trees in Angus Dhu's farther field, she knew, and Shenac might be there, and she thought that her father must be. She had not met Angus Dhu face to face fairly since that May-day by the creek; that is, she had never seen him unless some one else was present, and the thought of doing so was not at all pleasant to her. So when, on turning the corner, she saw his tall and slightly-bent figure moving towards her, in her first surprise and dismay she had some thoughts of turning and running away. She did not, however, but came straight on up the path.
"I was not sure it was you, Shenac," was her uncle's greeting; "you are seen here so rarely. It must be something more than common that brings you from home to-day, you have grown such a busy woman."
"I came for Cousin Shenac to go with me to Mary Matheson's, if she can be spared. Is she at home to-day?" said Shenac, with some hesitation, for she would far rather have made her request to Shenac's mother.
"Oh yes, she's at home. Go into the house. I daresay her mother will spare her." And he repeated a Gaelic proverb, which being translated into English would mean something like, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Shenac smiled to herself as she thought of her mother's many messages and her dreaded mission to John Firinn. It did not seem much like play to her.
But burdens have a way of slipping easily from young shoulders, and the two Shenacs went on their way cheerily enough, and I daresay a stranger meeting them might have fancied that our Shenac was the lighter-hearted of the two. The cloud fell again, however, when they came to the turn of the road that took them to Mary Matheson's.
"I have to go down to the McDonalds', Shenac. Just go on, and I will follow you in two or three minutes."
"To the McDonalds'!" repeated Shenac Dhu. "Not to John Firinn's surely? What in all the world can you have to do with him? You had better take me with you, Shenac. They say John has a trick of forgetting things sometimes. You might need me for a witness."
Shenac Bhan laughed and shook her head.
"There's no need. Go on to Mary's, and tell her I am coming. I shall not be long."
She wished heartily that Hamish had been with her, or that she could have honestly said her mother had sent her; for it seemed to her that she was taking too much upon her to be trying to make a bargain with a man like John Firinn. There was no help for it now, however, and she knocked at the door, and then lifted the latch and went in with all the courage she could summon.
She did not need her courage for a little time, however; but her tact and skill in various matters--her "faculty," as Mr Rugg called it-- stood her in good stead for the next half-hour.
Seated on a low chair, looking ill and harassed, was poor Mrs McDonald, with a little wailing baby on her knee, and her other little ones clustering round her, while her husband, the formidable John himself, was doing his best to prepare dinner for all of them. It was long past dinner-time, and it promised to be longer still before these little hungry mouths would be stopped by the food their father was attempting to prepare. For he was unaccustomed and inexpert, and it must have added greatly to the sufferings of his wife to see his blundering movements, undoing with one hand what he did with the other, and using his great strength where only a little skill was needed. Shenac hesitated a moment, and then advanced to Mrs McDonald.
"Are you no better? Can I do anything for you? --Let me do that," she added hastily, as she saw the success of the dinner put in jeopardy by an awkward movement of the incompetent cook. In another moment Shenac's black dress was pinned up, and soon the dinner was on the table, and the father and children were seated at it. To her husband's entreaty that she would try and eat something, the poor woman did not yield. She was flushed and feverish, and evidently in great pain.
"I am afraid you are in pain," said Shenac, as she turned to her, offering to take the baby.
"Yes; I let my sister go home too soon, and what with one thing and another, I am nearly as bad as ever again." And she pressed her hand on her breast as she spoke.
A few more words told the state of the case, and in a little time the pain was relieved by a warm application, and the weary woman lay down to rest. Then there was some porridge made for the baby. Unsuitable food it seemed, but the little creature ate it hungrily, and was soon asleep. Then the kettle was boiled, and the poor woman surprised herself and delighted Shenac by drinking a cup of tea and eating a bit of toasted bread with relish. Then her hands and face were bathed, and her cap straightened, and she declared herself to be much better, as indeed it was easy to see she was. Then Shenac cleared the dinner-things away and swept the hearth, the husband and wife looking on.
When all this was done, Shenac did not think it needed so much courage to make her proposal about the change of work. Mrs McDonald looked anxiously at her husband, who had listened without speaking.
"I think I could spin it to please you," said Shenac. "My mother is pleased with ours, though she did not like the big wheel at first; and you can speak to weaver McLean. I don't think he has had much trouble with the weaving. I would do my best."
"Could you come here and do it?" asked John. "Because, if you could, it would be worth while doing the ploughing just to see you round, let alone the wool."
Shenac shook her head. She was quite too much in earnest to notice the implied compliment.
"No; that would be impossible. I could not be away from home. My mother could not spare me. She is not so strong as she used to be. But I would soon do it at home. Our work is mostly over now. Our land does much the best with the fall wheat, and the wheat is our main dependence."
"I'm rather behind with my own work," began John; "and I heard something said about the Camerons doing your field, with some help."
"Oh, a bee," said Shenac. "But that is just what I will not have. I don't want to seem ungrateful. All the neighbours have been very kind," she added humbly. "But now that Allister is not coming home, we must carry on the place by ourselves, or give it up. We must not be expecting too much from our neighbours, or they will tire of us. And I don't want a bee; though everybody has been very kind to us in our trouble."
She was getting anxious and excited.
"Bees are well enough in their way," said Mrs McDonald. "And some of the neighbours were saying they would gather one to help me with the wool. But, John, man, if you could do this for the widow Macivor, I would far rather let Shenac do the wool."
"I would do it well," said Shenac. "I would begin to-morrow."
"But if you were to do the wool, and then something was to happen that I could not plough or sow the field, what then?" asked John gravely.
Shenac looked at him, but said nothing.
"What could happen, John, man?" said his wife.
"We could have it written down, however," said John, "and that would keep us to our bargain. Should we have it written down, Shenac?"
"If you like," said Shenac gravely; "but there is no need. I would begin the wool to-morrow, and do it as soon as I could."
"Oh ay, oh ay! but you might need the bit of writing to bind _me_, Shenac, my wise woman. I might slip out of it when the wool was done."
"John, man!" remonstrated his wife.
"You would never do that," said Shenac quietly. "If you wished to do it, a paper would not hold you to it. I don't see the use of a writing; but if you want one I don't care, of course."
But neither did John care, and so they made the bargain. John was to charge the widow a certain sum for the work to be done, and Shenac was to be allowed the usual price for a day's work of spinning; and it was thought that when the wool was spun and the field ploughed and sowed, they would be about even. There might be a little due on one side or the other, but it would not be much.
"Well then, it's all settled," said Shenac, and she did not attempt to conceal her satisfaction.
It came into John's mind that being settled was one thing and being done was quite another; but he did not say so. He said to himself, as he saw Shenac busy about his wife and child,-- "If there is a way to put that wheat in better than wheat was ever put in before, I shall find it out and do it."
He said the same to his wife, as together they watched her running down the road to meet Shenac Dhu.
"What in the world kept you so long?" asked her cousin. "Have you been hearkening to one of John Firinn's stories? Better not tell it again. What made you bide so long?"
"Do you know how ill the wife has been?" asked Shenac Bhan. Then she told how she found the poor woman suffering, and about the children and their dinner, and so was spared the necessity of telling what her business with John had been.
Greatly to the surprise of Angus Dhu and all the neighbours, in due time John McDonald brought his team into the widow Macivor's field. Many were the prophecies brought by Dan to Hamish and Shenac as to the little likelihood there was of his doing the work to the satisfaction of all concerned.
"It will serve you right too, Shenac," said the indignant Dan. "To think of a girl like you fancying you could make a bargain with a man like John Firinn!"
"Is it Angus Dhu that is concerned, and the Camerons?" asked Shenac. "It's a pity they shouldn't be satisfied. But if the work is done to please the mother and Hamish and me, they'll need to content themselves, I doubt, Dannie, my lad."
"Johnnie Cameron said they were just going to call a bee together and do it up in a day or two; and then it would have been done right, and you would have been saved three weeks' spinning besides."
"We're obliged to the Camerons all the same," said Shenac a little sharply. "But if it had needed six weeks' spinning instead of three, it would please me better to do it than to trouble the Camerons or anybody. Why should we need help more than other folk?" she added impatiently. "I'm ashamed of you, Dan, with your bees."
"Well, I'll tell them what you say, and you'll not be troubled with their offers again, I can tell you," said Dan sulkily.
"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Hamish. "Nonsense, Dan, my lad; Shenac is right, and she's wrong too. She's right in thinking the less help we need the better; but she should not speak as though she did not thank the neighbours for their wishing to help us."
"Oh, I'm very thankful," said Shenac, dropping a mocking courtesy to Dan. "But I'm not half so thankful for their help as I am for the chance to spin John Firinn's wool. And Dan can tell the Camerons what he likes. I'm not caring; only don't let us hear any more of their bees and their prophecies."
Lightly as Shenac spoke of the spinning of the wool, it was no light work to do. For her mother was not pleased that she had undertaken it without her knowledge and consent, and fretted, and cast difficulties in the way, till Shenac, more harassed and unhappy than she had ever been before, offered to break the bargain and send back the wool. Her mother did not insist on this, however, and Shenac span on in the midst of her murmurings. Then Hamish took the mother away to visit her sister in the next township, and during their absence Shenac kept little Flora away from the school to do such little things as she could do about the house, and finished the wool by doing six days' work in three, and then confessed to Dan in confidence, that she was as tired as she ever wished to be.
She need not have hurried so much, for mother came home quite reconciled to the spinning--indeed a little proud of all that had been said in Shenac's praise when the matter was laid before the friends they had been to see. So she said, as Mrs McDonald was far from well yet, she would dye her worsted for her; and Shenac was glad to rest herself with the pleasant three miles' walk to give the message and get directions.
Shenac's part of the bargain was fulfilled in spirit and letter; and certainly nothing less could be said as to the part of John Firinn. Even Angus Dhu and John Cameron, who kept sharp eyes on him during his work, had no fault to find with the way in which it was done. It was done well and in the right time, and it was with satisfaction quite inexpressible that Shenac looked over the smooth field and listened to her mother's congratulations that this was one good job well and timely done. Ever after that she was John McDonald's fast friend, and the friend of his sickly wife. No one ever ventured to speak a disrespectful word of John before her; and the successful sowing of the wheat-field was by no means the last piece of work he did, and did well, for the widow and her children.
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{
"id": "21227"
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10
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Winter set in early that year, but not too early for Shenac and her brothers. The winter preparations had all been made before the delightful stormy morning came, when Hugh and Colin and little Flora chased one another round and round in the door-yard, making many paths in the new-fallen snow. The house had been banked up with earth, and every crack and crevice in the roof and walls closed. The garden had been dug and smoothed as if the seeds were to be sown the next day. The barn and stable were in perfect order. The arrangements for tying up oxen and cows, which are always sure to get out of order in summer, had been made anew, and the farming-tools gathered safely under cover.
These may seem little things; but the comfort of many a household has been interfered with because such little things have been neglected. What may be done at any time is very often left till the right time is past, and disorder and discomfort are sure to follow. I daresay the early snow fell that year on many a plough left in the furrow, and on many a hoe and spade left in garden or yard. But all was as it should be at Mrs Macivor's.
In summer, when a long day's work in the field was the order of things, when those who were strong and able were always busy, it seemed to Hamish that he was of little use. This was a mistake of his. He was of great use in many ways, even when he went to the field late and left it early; for though Shenac took the lead in work and planning, she was never sure that her plans were wise, or even practicable, till she had talked them over with Hamish. She would have lost patience with Dan and the rest, and with her mother even, if she had not had Hamish to "empty her heart to." But even Shenac, though she loved her brother dearly, and valued his counsels and sympathy as something which she could not have lived and laboured without--even she did not realise how much of their comfort depended on the work of his weak hands. It was Hamish who banked the house and made the garden; it was he who drove nails and filled cracks, who gathered up tools and preserved seeds, quietly doing what others did not do and remembering what others forgot. It was Hamish who cared for the creatures about the place; it was he who made and mended and kept in order many things which it would have cost money to get or much inconvenience to go without. So it may be said that it was owing to Hamish that the early snow did not find them unprepared.
A grave matter was under discussion within-doors that morning while little Flora and her brothers were chasing each other through the snow. It was whether Dan was to go to the school that winter. It was seldom that any but young children could go to school in the summer-time, the help of the elder ones being needed in the field as soon as they were old enough to help. But in the winter few young people thought themselves too old to go to school while the teacher could carry them on. Hamish and Shenac had gone up to the time of their father's death. But as for Dan, he thought himself old enough now to have done with school. He had never been, in country phrase, "a good scholar?" --that is, he had never taken kindly to his books--a circumstance which seemed almost like disgrace in the eyes of Shenac; and she was very desirous that he should get the good of this winter, especially as they were to have a new teacher, whose fame had preceded him. Dan was taking it for granted that he was the mainstay at home, and that for him school was out of the question. But the rest thought differently; and it was decided, much to his discontent, that when the winter's wood was brought, to school he must go.
Great was his disgust--so great that he began to talk about going to the woods with the lumberers; at which Shenac laughed, but Hamish looked grave, and bade him think twice before he gave his mother so sore a heart as such a word as that would do. Dan did think twice, and said nothing more about the woods. His going to school, however, did not do him much good in the way of learning, but it did in the way of discipline. At any rate, it left him less idle time than he would otherwise have had; and though his boyish mischief vexed Shenac often, things might have been worse with Dan, as Hamish said, and little harm was done.
Winter is a pleasant time in a country farm-house. In our country the summers are so short, and so much work must be crowded into them, that there is little time for any enjoyment, save that of doing well what is to be done, and watching the successful issue. But in winter there is leisure--leisure for enjoyment of various kinds, visiting, sewing, singing; and it is generally made the most of.
As for Shenac, the feeling that all the summer's work was successfully ended, that the farm-products were safely housed beyond loss, gave her a sense of being at leisure, though her hands were full of work, and would be for a long time yet. The fulled cloth and the flannel came home. The tailor came for a week to make the lads' clothes, and she helped him with them; and tailor McCallum, though as a general thing rather contemptuous of woman's help, acknowledged that she helped him to purpose.
A great deal may be learned by one who begins by thinking nothing too difficult to learn; and Shenac's stitching and button-holes were something to wonder at before the tailor's visit was over.
Then came Katie Matheson to help with the new gowns. Shenac felt herself quite equal to these, but, as Shenac Dhu insisted, "Katie had been at M--- within the year, and knew the fashions;" so Katie came for a day or two. Of this wish to follow the fashion, the mother was inclined to speak severely; for what had young folk with their bread to win to do with the fashions of the idle people of the world? But even the mother did not object to following them when she found the wide, useless sleeves, so much sought after by foolish young girls, giving place to the small coat-sleeves which had been considered the thing in her own and her mother's youth. They were, as she said, far more sensible-like, and a saving besides. The additional width which Katie quietly appropriated to Shenac's skirt would have been declared a piece of sinful extravagance, if the mother had known of it before Shenac was turning round, from one to another, to be admired with the new dress on. She did cry out at the length. Why the stocking could only just be seen above the shoe tied round the slender ankle! There was surely no call to waste good cloth by making the skirt so long. "Never mind," said Katie: "Flora's should be all the shorter;" and by that means little Flora was in the fashion too.
I daresay Shenac's pleasure in her new dress might have awakened amusement, perhaps contempt, among young people to whom new dresses are not so rare a luxury. But never a young belle of them all could have the same right to take pleasure and pride in silk or satin as Shenac had to be proud of her simple shepherd's plaid. She had shorn the wool, and spun and dyed it with her own hands. She had made it too, with Katie's help; and never was pleasure more innocent or more unmixed than hers, as she stood challenging admiration for it from them all.
Indeed, both the dress and the wearer might have successfully challenged admiration from a larger and less interested circle than that--at least, so thought the new master, who came in with Hamish while the affair was in progress. He had seen prettier faces, and nicer dresses too, it is to be supposed; but he had certainly never seen anything prettier or nicer than Shenac's innocent pride and delight in her own handiwork.
Shenac Dhu gave the whole a finishing touch as she drew round her cousin's not very slender waist a black band fastened with a silver clasp--an heirloom in the family since the time that the Macivors used to wear the Highland garb among their native hills.
"Now walk away and let us see you," said she, giving her a gentle push.
Shenac minced and swung her skirts as she moved, as little children do when they are playing "fine ladies." Even her mother could not help laughing, it was so unlike the busy, anxious Shenac of the last few months.
"Is she not a vain creature?" said Shenac Dhu. "No wonder that you look at her that way, Hamish, lad."
The eyes of Hamish shone with pride and pleasure as they followed his sister.
"Next year I'll weave it myself," said Shenac, coming back again. "You need not laugh, Shenac Dhu. You'll see."
"Yes, I daresay. And where will you get your loom?" And Shenac Dhu put up both hands and made-believe to cut her hair. Shenac Bhan shook her head at her.
"I can learn to weave; you'll see. Anybody can learn anything if they try," said Shenac.
"Except the binomial theorem," said Hamish, laughing.
His sister shook her head at him too. Charmed with the "new kind of arithmetic" which Mr Rugg had brought, yet not enjoying any pleasure to the full unless his sister enjoyed it with him, Hamish had tried to beguile her into giving her spare hours to the study. But Shenac's mind was occupied with other things, and, rather scornful of labour which seemed to come to nothing, she had given little heed to it.
"I could learn that too, but what would be the good of it?" asked Shenac.
"Ask the master," said Hamish.
"Well?" said Shenac, turning to Mr Stewart.
"Do you mean what is the good of algebra, or what would be the good of it to you?" asked Mr Stewart.
"What would be the good of it to me? I can never have any use for the like of that."
"The discipline of learning it might be good for you," said Mr Stewart. "I once heard a lady say that her knowledge of Euclid had helped her to cut and make her children's clothes."
Shenac laughed.
"I daresay Katie here could have taught her more about it with less trouble."
"I daresay you are right," said the master. "And the discipline of the wheel and the loom, and of household care, may be far better than the discipline of study to prepare you for life and what it may bring you. I am sure this gown, for instance," he added, laying his finger on the sleeve, "has been worth far more to you already than the money it would bring. I mean the patience and energy expended on it will be of far more value to you; for you know these good gifts, well bestowed, leave the bestower all the richer for the giving."
"I don't know how that may be," said Shenac, "but I know I would rather have this gown of my own making than the prettiest one that Katie has made for twelve months."
I do not know how I came to speak of the winter as a season of leisure in connection with Shenac, for this winter was a very busy time with her. True, her work did not press upon her, so as to make her anxious or impatient, as it sometimes used to do in summer; but she was never idle. There were sewing and housework and a little wool-spinning, and much knitting of stockings and mittens for them all. The knitting was evening work, and, when Hamish was not reading aloud, Shenac's hands and eyes were busy with different matters. She read while she knitted, and enjoyed it greatly, much to her own surprise, for, as she told Hamish, she thought she had given up caring about anything but to work and to get on.
They had more books than usual this winter, and more help to understand them, so that instead of groping on alone, sometimes right and sometimes wrong, Hamish made great progress; and wherever Hamish was, Shenac was not far away. It was a very quiet winter in one way--there was not much visiting here and there. Hamish was not fit for that. Shenac went without him sometimes now. She was young, and her mind being at ease, she took pleasure in the simple, innocent merry-makings of the place. She was content to leave Hamish when she did not have to leave him alone, which rarely happened now. The master lived in the house of Angus Dhu, but it seemed that the humbler home of the widow and the company of Hamish suited him best, for scarcely two evenings passed without finding him there; and Shenac could go with a good heart, knowing that her brother was busy and happy at home.
Afterwards, when changes came, and new anxieties and cares pressed upon her, Shenac used to look back on this winter as the happiest time of her life. It was not merely that the summer's work had been successful, but that the summer's success seemed to make all their future secure. There was no doubt now about their being able to keep together and carry on the farm. That was settled. She was at rest--they were all at rest-- about that. Their future did not depend now upon Allister's uncertain coming home. It would not be true to say she saw no difficulties in the way; but she saw none to daunt her. Even Dan seemed to have come to himself. He seemed to have forgotten his self-assertion--his "contrariness," as Shenac called it--and was a boy again, noisy and full of fun, but gentle and helpful too. The little ones were well and happy, and getting on well in school, as all the Macivors were bound to do. The mother was comparatively well and cheerful. Her monotonous flax-spinning filled up the quiet, uneventful days, and, untroubled by out-door anxieties, she was content.
But, in looking back over this happy time, it was to Hamish that Shenac's thoughts most naturally turned, for it was the happiness of her twin-brother, more than all the rest put together, that made the happiness of Shenac. And Hamish was happier, more like himself, than ever he had been since their troubles began. Not so merry, perhaps, as the Hamish of the former days; but he was happy, that was sure. He was far from well, and he sometimes suffered a good deal; but his illness was not of a kind to alarm them for his life, and unless he had been exposed in some way, or a sudden change of the weather brought on his old rheumatic pains, he was, on the whole, comfortable in health. But whether he suffered or not, he was happy, that was easily seen. There was no sitting silent through the long gloamings now, no weary drooping of his head upon his hands, no wearier struggle to look up and join in the household talk of the rest. There were no heart-sick broodings over his own helplessness, no murmurings as to the burden he might yet become. He did not often speak of his happiness in words, just as he had seldom spoken of his troubles; but every tone of his gentle voice and every glance of his loving eye spoke to the heart of his sister, filling it with content for his sake.
What was the cause of the change? what was the secret of her brother's peace? Shenac wondered and wondered. She knew it was through his friend, Mr Stewart, that her brother's life seemed changed; but, knowing this, she wondered none the less. What was his secret power? What could Hamish see in that plain, dark man, so grave and quiet, so much older than he?
True, they had the common tie of a love of knowledge, and pored together over lines and figures and strange books as though they would never grow weary of it all. It was true that, more than any one had ever done before, the master had opened new paths of knowledge to the eager lad-- that by a few quiet words he put more life and heart into a subject than others could do by hours and hours of talk. But all these things Shenac shared and enjoyed without being able to understand how, through the master, a new and peaceful influence seemed to have fallen on the life of Hamish.
She did not grudge it to him. She was not jealous of the new interest that had come to brighten her brother's life--at least at this time she was not. Afterwards, when new cares and vexations pressed upon her, she vexed herself with the thought that something had come between her brother and herself which made her troubles not so much his as they used to be, and she blamed this new friendship for the difference. But no such thoughts vexed these first pleasant months.
Hamish was indeed changed. Unrealised at first by himself, the most wonderful change that can come between the cradle and the grave had happened to him. He had found a secret spring of peace, hidden as yet from his sister's eyes. He had obtained a staff to lean on, which made his weakness stronger than her strength; and this had come to him through the master. There was a bond between the friends, stronger, sweeter, and more enduring than even that which united the twin brother and sister--the BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IN CHRIST. On Norman Stewart had been conferred the highest of all honours; to him had been given the chief of all happiness. Through _his_ voice the voice of Jesus had spoken peace to a troubled soul. To him it had been given so to hold forth the word of life that to a soul sitting in darkness a great light sprang up.
I cannot tell you how it came about, except that the heart of the master being full of love to Christ, it could not but overflow in loving words from his lips. Attracted first to Hamish by the patience and gentleness with which he suffered, he could not do otherwise than seek to lead him to the Great Healer; and his touch was life. Then all the shadows that had darkened the past and the future to the lame boy fled away. Gradually all the untoward circumstances of his life seemed to adjust themselves anew. His lameness, his suffering, his helplessness were no longer parts of a mystery, darkening all the future to him, but parts of a plan through which something better than a name and a place in the world might be obtained. Little by little he came to know himself to be one of God's favoured ones; and then he would not have turned his hand to win the lot that all his life had seemed the most desirable to him. Before his friend he saw such a life--a life of labour for the highest of all ends. Before himself he saw a life of suffering, a narrow sphere of action, helplessness, dependence; but he no longer murmured. He was coming to know, through the new life given him, how that "to do God's will is sweet, and to bear God's will is sweet--the one as sweet as the other, to those to whom he reveals himself;" and to have learned this is to rejoice for evermore.
The master's term of office came to an end, and the friends were to part. It was June by this time; and when he had bidden all the rest goodbye, Mr Stewart lingered still with Hamish at the gate. Hamish had said something about meeting again, and the master answered,-- "Yes, surely we shall meet again--if not here, yonder;" and he pointed upward. "We shall be true friends there, Hamish, bhodach; be sure of that."
Tears that were not all sorrowful stood on the cheeks of Hamish, and he laid his face down on the master's shoulder without speaking.
"Much may lie between us and that time," continued the master--"much to do, and, it may be, much to suffer; but it is sure to come."
"For me, too," murmured Hamish. "They also serve who only wait."
"Yes," said the master; "they who wait are blessed."
"And I shall thank God all my life that he sent you here to me," said Hamish.
"And I too," said the master. "It seemed to me an untoward chance indeed that turned me aside from the path I had chosen and sent me here, and the good Father has put my doubts and fears to shame, in that he has given me you, and, through you, others, to be stars in my crown of rejoicing against that day. God bless you! Farewell."
"God bless you, and farewell," echoed Hamish.
So Mr Stewart went away, and Hamish watched till he was out of sight, and still stood long after that, till Shenac came to chide him for lingering out in the damp, and drew him in. She did not speak to him. There were tears on his cheek, she thought, and her own voice failed her. But when they came to the light the tears were gone, but the look of peace that had rested on his face all these months rested on it still.
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{
"id": "21227"
}
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11
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The happy winter drew to an end, and spring came with some pleasures and many cares. I am not going to tell all about what was done this spring and summer; it would take too long. Shenac and her brother had not the same eagerness and excitement in looking forward to the summer's work that they had had the spring before; but they had some experience, and were not afraid of failure. The spring work was well done, and with comparatively little help. The garden was made, and the first crop of weeds disposed of from some of the beds; and Shenac was beginning to look forward to the little pause in outdoor work that was to give her time for the wool again, when something happened. It was something which Shenac declared delighted her more than anything that had happened for a long time; and yet it filled her with dismay. An uncle, a brother of their mother, who resided in the neighbourhood of the C--- Springs, celebrated for their beneficial effects on persons troubled with rheumatic complaints, sent for Hamish to pass the rest of the summer at his house. The invitation was urgent. Hamish would be sure to get much benefit from the use of the baths, and would return home before winter, a new man.
Hamish alone hesitated; all the rest declared that he must go, and none more decidedly than Shenac. In the first delighted moment, she thought only of the good that Hamish was to get, and not at all of how they were to get on without him. She did not draw back when she thought of it, but worked night and day to get his things ready before the appointed time.
I do not know whether the union between twins is more tender and intimate than that between other brothers and sisters, but when Hamish went away it seemed to Shenac that half her heart had gone with him. The house seemed desolate, the garden and fields forsaken. Her longing for a sight of his face was unspeakable.
All missed him. A strange silence seemed to fall upon the household. They had hardly missed the master, in the bustle that had preceded the going away of Hamish; but now they missed them both. The quiet grew irksome to Dan, and he used in the evenings to go elsewhere--to Angus Dhu's or the Camerons'--thus leaving it all the quieter for the rest. The mother fretted a little for the lame boy, till a letter came telling that he had arrived safe and well, and not very tired; and then she was content.
As for Shenac, she betook herself with more energy than ever to her work. She did not leave herself time to be lonely. It was just the first moment of coming into the house and the sitting down at meals that she found unbearable. For the first few days her appetite quite failed her--a thing that had never happened within her memory before. But try as she might, the food seemed to choke her. There was nothing for it but to work, within doors or without, till she was too weary to stand, and then go to bed.
And, indeed, there was plenty to do. Not too much, however, Shenac thought--though having the share of Hamish added to her own made a great difference. But she would not have minded the work if only Dan had been reasonable. She had said to herself often, before Hamish went away, that she would be ten times more patient and watchful over herself than ever she had been before, and that Dan should have no excuse from her for being wilful and idle. It had come into her mind of late that Angus Dhu had not been far wrong when he said Dan was a wild lad, and she had said as much to Hamish. But Hamish had warned her from meddling with Dan.
"You must trust him, and show that you trust him, Shenac, if you would get any good out of him. He is just at the age to be uneasy, and to have plans and ways of his own, having no one to guide him. We must have patience with Dan a while."
"If patience would do it," said Shenac sadly.
But she made up her mind that, come what might, she would watch her words and her actions too with double care till Hamish came home again. She was very patient with Dan, or she meant to be so; but she had a great many things pressing on her at this time, and it vexed her beyond measure when he, through carelessness or indifference to her wishes, let things intrusted to him go wrong. She had self-command enough almost always to refrain from speaking while she was angry, but she could not help her vexed looks; and the manner in which she strove to mend matters, by doing with her own hands what he had done imperfectly or neglected altogether, angered Dan far more than words could have done.
They missed the peace-maker. Oh, how Shenac missed him in all things where Dan was concerned! She had not realised before how great had been the influence of Hamish over his brother, or, indeed, over them all. A laughing remark from Hamish would do more to put Dan right than any amount of angry expostulation or silent forbearance from her. Oh, how she missed him! How were they to get through harvest-time without him?
"Mother," said Dan, as he came in to his dinner one day, "have you any message to The Sixteenth? I am going over to McLay's raising to-morrow."
"But, Dan, my lad, the barley is losing; and, for all that you could do at the putting up of the barn, it hardly seems worth your while to go so far," said his mother.
Shenac had not come in yet, but Shenac Dhu, who had come over on a message, was there.
"Oh, I have settled that, mother. The Camerons and Sandy McMillan are coming here in the morning. The barley will be all down by dinner-time, and they'll take their dinner here, and we'll go up together."
"But, Dan, lad, they have barley of their own. What will Shenac say? Have you spoken to your sister about it?" asked his mother anxiously.
"Oh, what about Shenac?" said Dan impatiently. "They will be glad to come. What's a short forenoon to them? And I believe Shenac hates the sight of one and all. What's the use of speaking to her?"
"Did you tell them that when you asked them?" said Shenac Dhu dryly.
"I haven't asked them yet," said Dan. "But what would they care for a girl like Shenac, if I were to tell?"
"Try and see," said Shenac Dhu. "You're a wise lad, Dan, about some things. Do you think it's to oblige you that Sandy McMillan is hanging about here and bothering folk with his bees and his bees? Why, he would go fifty miles and back again, any day of his life, for one glance from your sister's eye. Don't fancy that folk are caring for _you_, lad."
"Shenac Dhu, my dear," said her aunt in a tone of vexation, "don't say such foolish things, and put nonsense into the head of a child like our Shenac."
"Well, I won't, aunt; indeed I dare not," said Shenac Dhu, laughing, as at that moment Shenac Bhan came in.
"Shenac, what kept you?" said her mother fretfully. "Your dinner is cold. See, Dan has finished his."
"I could not help it, mother," said Shenac, sitting down. "It was that Sandy McMillan that hindered me. He offered to come and help us with the barley."
"And what did you say to him?" asked Shenac Dhu demurely.
"Oh, I thanked him kindly," said Shenac, with a shrug of her shoulders.
"I must see him. Where is he, Shenac?" said Dan. "He must come to-morrow, and the Camerons, and then we'll go to the raising together. Is he coming to-morrow?"
"No," said Shenac sharply; "I told him their own barley was as like to suffer for the want of cutting as ours. When we want him we'll send for him."
"But you did not anger him, Shenac, surely?" said her mother.
"No; I don't think it. I'm not caring much whether I did or not," said Shenac.
"Anger him!" cried Dan. "You may be sure she did. She's as grand as if she were the first lady in the country."
This was greeted by a burst of merry laughter from the two Shenacs. Even the mother laughed a little, it was so absurd a charge to bring against Shenac. Dan looked sheepishly from one to the other.
"Well, it's not me that says it," said Dan angrily; "plenty folk think that of our Shenac. --And you had no business to tell him not to come, when I had spoken to him."
"What will Sandy care for a girl like Shenac?" asked his cousin mockingly.
"Well, _I_ care," persisted Dan. "She's always interfering and having her own way about things--and--" "Whisht, Dan, lad," pleaded the mother.
"I didn't know that you had spoken to Sandy--not that it would have made any difference, however," added Shenac candidly.
"And, Dan, you don't suppose any one will care for what a girl like Shenac Bhan may say. He'll come all the same to please you," said Cousin Shenac.
"Whether he comes or not, I'm going to McLay's raising," said Dan angrily. "Shenac's not _my_ mistress, yet a while."
"Whisht, Dan; let's have no quarrelling," pleaded the mother. --"Why do you vex him?" she continued, as Dan rushed out of the room.
"I did not mean to vex him, mother," said Shenac gently.
This was only one of many vexatious discussions that had troubled their peace during the summer. Sometimes Shenac's conscience acquitted her of all blame; but, whether it did or not, she always felt that if Hamish had been at home all this might have been prevented. She did not know how to help it. Sometimes her mother blamed her more than was quite fair for Dan's fits of wilfulness and idleness, and she longed for Hamish to be at home again.
Dan went to the raising, and, I daresay, was none the better for the companionship of the offended Sandy. Shenac stayed at home and worked at the barley till it grew dark. She even did something at it when the moon rose, after her mother had gone to bed; but she herself was in bed and asleep before Dan came, so there was nothing more said at that time.
The harvest dragged a little, but they got through with it in a reasonable time. There were more wet weather and more anxiety all through the season than there had been last year; but, on the whole, they had reason to be thankful that it had ended so well. Shenac was by no means so elated as she had been last year. She was very quiet and grave, and in her heart she was beginning to ask herself whether Angus Dhu might not have been right, and whether she might not have better helped her mother and all of them in some other way. They had only just raised enough on the farm to keep them through the year, and surely they might have managed just to live with less difficulty. Even if Dan had been as good and helpful as he ought to have been, it would not have made much difference.
Shenac would not confess it to herself, much less to any one else, but the work of the summer had been a little too much for her strength and spirits. Her courage revived with a little rest and the sight of her brother. He did not come back quite a new man, but he was a great deal better and stronger than he had been for years; and the delight of seeing him go about free from pain chased away the half of Shenac's troubles. Even Dan's freaks did not seem so serious to her now, and she made up her mind to say as little as possible to Hamish about the vexations of the summer, and to think of nothing unpleasant now that she had him at home again.
But unpleasant things are not so easily set aside out of one's life, and Shenac's vexations with Dan were not over. He was more industrious than usual about this time, and worked at cutting and bringing up the winter's wood with a zeal that made her doubly glad that she had said little about their summer's troubles. He talked less and did more than usual; and Hamish bade his mother and Shenac notice how quiet and manly he was growing, when he startled them all by a declaration that he was going with the Camerons and some other lads to the lumbering, far up the Grand River.
"I'm not going to the school. I would not, even if Mr Stewart were coming back; and I am not needed at home, now that you are better, Hamish. You can do what is needed in the winter, so much of the wood is up; and, at any rate, I am going."
Hamish entreated him to stay at home for his mother's sake, or to choose some less dangerous occupation, if he must go away.
"Dangerous! Nonsense, Hamish! Why should it be more dangerous to me than to the rest? I cannot be a child all my life to please my mother and Shenac."
"No; that is true," said Hamish; "but neither can you be a man all at once to please yourself. You are neither old enough nor strong enough for such work as is done in the woods, whatever you may think."
"There are younger lads going to the woods than I am," muttered Dan sulkily.
"Yes; but they are not going to do men's work nor get men's wages. If you are wise, you will bide at home."
But all that Hamish could get from Dan was a promise that he would not go, as he had first intended, without his mother's leave. This was not easy to get, for the fate of Lewis might well fill the mother's heart with terror for Dan, who was much younger than his brother had been. But she consented at last, and Shenac and Hamish set themselves to make the best of Dan's going, for their mother's sake.
"He'll be in safe keeping with the Camerons, mother, and it will do him good to rough it a little. We'll have him back in the spring, more of a man and easier to do with," said Hamish.
But the mother was not easily comforted. Dan's going brought too vividly back the going of those who had never returned; and the mother fretted and pined for the lad, and murmured sometimes that, if Shenac had been more forbearing with him, he might not have wanted to go. She did not know how she hurt her daughter, or she never would have said anything like that, for in her heart she knew that Shenac was not to blame for the waywardness of Dan. But Shenac did not defend herself, and the mother murmured on till the first letter came, saying that Dan was well and doing well, and then she was content.
About this time they had a visit from their Uncle Allister, their mother's brother, in whose house Hamish had passed the summer. He brought his two daughters--pretty, cheerful girls--who determined between themselves, encouraged by Hamish, that they should carry off Shenac for a month's visit when they went home. They succeeded too, though Shenac declared and believed it to be impossible that she should leave home, even up to the day before they went. The change did her a great deal of good. She came back much more like the Shenac of two years ago than she had seemed for a long time; and, as spring drew on, she could look forward to the labours of another summer without the miserable misgivings that had so vexed her in the fall. Indeed, now that Hamish was well, whether Dan came home or not, she felt sure of success, and of a quiet and happy summer for them all.
But before spring came something happened. There came a letter from Allister--not this time to the mother, but to Angus Dhu. It told of wonderful success which had followed his going to the gold country, and made known to Angus Dhu that in a certain bank in the city of M--- he would find a sum of money equal to all his father's debt, with interest up to the first day of May following, at which time he trusted that he would give up all claim to the land that had been in his possession for the last two years, according to the promise made to his father. He was coming home soon, he added; he could not say just when. He meant to make more money first, and then, if all things were to his mind, he should settle down on his father's land and wander no more.
It was also added, quite at the end of the paper, as though he had not intended to speak of it at first, that he had had nothing to do with the going away of his cousin, as he had heard the lad's father had supposed, but that he should do his best to bring him home again; "for," he added, "it is not at all a happy life that folk must live in this golden land."
To say that Angus Dhu was surprised when this letter came would not be saying enough. He was utterly amazed. He had often thought that when Allister was tired of his wanderings in foreign lands he might wander home again and claim his share of what his father had left. But that he had gone away and stayed away all this time for the purpose of redeeming the land which his father had lost, he never for a moment supposed. He even now thought it must have been a fortunate chance that had given the money first into Allister's hand and then into his own. He made up his mind at once that he should give up the land. It did not cost him half as much to do so as it would have cost him two years ago not to get it. It had come into his mind more than once of late, as he had seen how well able the widow's children were to manage their own affairs, that they might have been trusted to pay their father's debt in time; and, whatever his neighbours thought, he began to think himself that he had been hard on his cousin. Of course he did not say so; but he made up his mind to take the money and give up the land.
And what words shall describe the joyful pride of Shenac? She did not try to express it in words while Angus Dhu was there, but "her face and her sparkling eyes were a sight to behold," as the old man afterwards in confidence told his daughter Shenac. There were papers to be drawn up and exchanged, and a deal of business of one kind or another to be settled between the widow and Angus Dhu, and a deal of talk was needed, or at least expended, in the course of it; but in it Shenac took no part. She placed entire reliance on the sense and prudence of Hamish, and she kept herself quite in the background through it all.
She would not acknowledge to any one who congratulated her on Allister's success, that any surprise mingled with her pleasure; and once she took Shenac Dhu up sharply--gave her a down-setting, as that astonished young woman expressed it--because she did not take the coming of the money quite as a matter of course, and ventured to express a little surprise as well as pleasure at the news.
"And what is there surprising in it?" demanded Shenac Bhan. "Is our Allister one whose well-doing need astonish any one? But I forgot. He is not _your_ brother. You don't know our Allister, Shenac."
"Don't I?" said Shenac Dhu, opening her black eyes a little wider than usual. "Well, I don't wonder that you are proud of your brother. But you need not take a body up like that. I'm not surprised that he minded you all, and sent the money when he got it; but it is not, as a general thing, the good, true hearts that get on in this world. I was aye sure he would come back, but I never thought of his being a rich man."
Shenac Dhu sighed, as if she had been bemoaning his poverty.
"She's thinking of Evan yonder," said Shenac Bhan to herself. "Our Allister is not a rich man," she said gravely. "He sent enough to pay the debt and the interest. There is a little over, because your father won't take the interest for the last two years, having had the land. But our Allister is not rich."
"But he means to be rich before he comes home," persisted Shenac Dhu; "and neither he nor Evan will be content to bide quietly here again-- never. It aye spoils people to go away and grow rich."
Shenac Bhan looked at her with some surprise.
"I cannot answer for Evan, but our Allister says he is coming home to stay. I'm not afraid for him."
"Oh, but he must be changed after all these years. He has forgotten how different life is here," said Shenac Dhu with a sigh. "But, Shenac, your Allister speaks kindly of our Evan--in the letter your mother got, I mean."
"That he does," said Shenac Bhan eagerly. "He says they are like brothers, and he says your father need not be sorry that Evan went away. He needed hardening, and he'll win through bravely; and Allister says he'll bring Evan with him when he comes. You may trust our Allister, Shenac."
"May I?" said Shenac Dhu a little wistfully. "Well, I will," she added, laughing. "But, Shenac, I cannot help it. I _am_ surprised that Allister should turn out a rich man. He is far too good for the like of that. But there is one good thing come out of it--my father has got quit of the land. You can never cast that up again, Shenac Bhan."
Shenac Bhan's cheek was crimsoned.
"I never cast it up to you, Shenac Dhu," said she hastily. "I never spoke to any one but himself; and I was sorry as soon as I said it."
"You need not be. He thought none the worse of you, after the first anger. But, Shenac, my father is not so hard a man as folk think. I do believe he is less glad for the money than he is for Allister and you all. If Evan would only come home! My father has so set his heart on Evan."
Though Shenac took the matter quietly as far as the rest of the world was concerned, she "emptied her heart" to Hamish. To him she confessed she had grown a little doubtful of Allister.
"But, Hamish, I shall never doubt or be discouraged again. If Allister only comes safe home to my mother and to us all, I shall be content. We are too young, Hamish. It does not harm you, I know; but as for me, I am getting as hard as a stone, and as cross as two sticks. I shall be glad when the time comes that I can do as I am bidden again."
Hamish laughed. "Are you hard, Shenac, and cross? Well, maybe just a little sometimes. I am not afraid for you, though. It will all come right, I think, in the end. But I am glad Allister is coming home, and more glad for your sake than for all the rest."
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{
"id": "21227"
}
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It is May-day again--not so bright and pleasant as the May-day two years ago, when Hamish and Shenac sat so drearily watching Angus Dhu's fence-building. They are sitting on the same spot now, and the children are under the big willow, sailing boats as they did that day--all but Dan. You could not make him believe that he had done such a foolish thing as that two years ago. Two years! It might be ten for the difference they have made in Dan. He only came back from the Grand River two days ago, and Shenac has not ceased wondering and laughing at the change in him. It is not merely his new-fashioned coat and astonishing waistcoat that have changed him. He has grown amazingly, and his voice is almost always as deep and rough as Angus Dhu's; and the man and the boy are so blended in all he says and does, that Shenac has much ado to answer him as gravely as he expects.
"Hamish," he called out from the top of the fence on which he was sitting, "you are a man of sense, and I want to ask you a question. Whose fence is this that I am sitting on? Is it ours, or Angus Dhu's?"
Hamish had not considered the question. Indeed, Dan did not wait for an answer.
"Because, it is of no use here. If it is ours, we'll draw the rails up to the high field, and get them out of the way before Allister comes home. If it belongs to Angus Dhu, we'll--we'll throw the rails into the creek."
"There's no hurry about it, is there?" said a voice behind him; and Dan, jumping down, turned about, and with more shamefacedness than Shenac would have believed possible, met the offered hand of Angus Dhu.
"I heard you had come back again, Dan, lad; and I thought you would not let the grass grow under your feet. --Are you for putting my good rails in the creek, Hamish, man?"
Hamish was laughing too much at Dan's encounter to be able to answer at once. Shenac was laughing too; but she was nearly as shamefaced as Dan, remembering her own encounter on the same ground.
"If it is Allister you're thinking about, he's not here yet, and you need not be in a hurry. And as to whether the rails are yours or mine, when the goods are bought and paid for there need be no words about the string that ties them. But for all that, Dan, lad, I have something to say to your mother yet, and you may as well let them be where they are a while. --Are you for sending my good rails down the creek, too?" he added suddenly, turning to Shenac.
"It was Dan's plan, not mine," said Shenac. "Though once I would have liked to do it," she added candidly.
"No, Shenac," said Hamish; "you wanted to burn it. Don't you mind?"
"O Hamish!" exclaimed Shenac.
Angus Dhu smiled.
"That would be a pity. They are good rails--the very best. And if they were put up too soon, they can be taken down again. You have heard from your brother again?"
"No; not since about the time of your letter," said Hamish. "We are thinking he may be on the way."
For an instant an eager look crossed the face of the old man, but he shook his head.
"No. With gold comes the love of it. He will stay where he is a while yet."
"You don't know our Allister," exclaimed Shenac hotly.
But Hamish laid his hand on hers.
"Whisht. He's thinking of Evan," he said softly.
"He'll not be here this while yet," continued Angus Dhu, not heeding the interruption. "You'll have the summer before you, I'm thinking; and the question is, whether you'll take down the fence just now, while the creek is full," he added, smiling significantly at Dan, "or whether you'll let things be as they are till you have more help. I have done well by the land, and will yet, and give you what is just and right for the use of it till your brother comes. But for what am I saying all this to children like you? It is your mother that must decide it."
Accordingly, before the mother the matter was laid; but it was not the mother who decided it. Shenac could hardly sit still while he spoke of the time that might pass before Allister should come home. But when he went on to say that, unless they had more help, the boys and Shenac could not manage more land than they had already, she felt that it was true. Hamish thought so too, and said heartily to Angus Dhu that the land would be better under his care till Allister should come.
Dan was indignant. He felt himself equal to anything, and declared that, with two men at his disposal, he could make the farm look like a different place. But the rest had less faith in Dan than he had in himself. He did not conceal his disgust at the idea of creeping on through another summer in the old, quiet way, and talked of leaving it to Hamish and Shenac and seeking work somewhere else. But they knew very well he would never do that, now that Allister might be home among them any day; and he did not. There was no pulling down of the fence, however. It stood as firm as ever; but it was not an eyesore to Shenac now.
The spring passed, and the summer wore away slowly, for there was no more word of Allister. Shenac did not weary herself with field-work, as she had done the last two years; for she felt that they might get help now, and, besides, she was needed more in the house. Her mother had allowed herself to think that only a few weeks would pass before she should see her first-born, and the waiting and suspense told upon her sadly. It told upon Shenac, too. In spite of her declaration to Hamish, she did feel anxious and discouraged many a time. Hamish was ill again, not always able to see to things; and Dan was not proving himself equal to the emergency, now that he was having his own way out-of-doors. That would not matter much, if Allister were come. He would set all things right again, and Dan would not be likely to resist his oldest brother's lawful authority.
But if Allister did not come soon? Shenac shrank from this question. If he did not come soon, she would have something else to think about besides Dan's delinquencies. Her mother could not endure this suspense much longer. It was wearing out her health and spirits; and it needed all Shenac's strength and courage to get through some of these summer days. It was worse when Hamish went again for a few weeks to his uncle's. He must go, Shenac said, to be strong and well to welcome Allister; and much as it grieved him to leave his sister, he knew that a few weeks of the baths would give him the best chance to be able to help her should this sad suspense change to sadder certainty and Allister never come home again. So he went away.
Often and often, during the long days that followed his going away, Shenac used to wonder at herself for ever having been weary of the labour that had fallen to her during the last two years. Now, when her mother had a better day than usual, when little Flora could do all that was needed for her, so that Shenac could go out to the field, she was comparatively at peace. The necessity for bodily exertion helped her for the time to set aside the fear that was growing more terrible every day. But, when the days came that she could not leave her mother, when she must sit by her side, or wander with her into the garden or fields, saying the same hopeful words or answering the same questions over and over again, it seemed to her that she could not very long endure it. A fear worse than the fear of death grew upon her--the fear that her mother's mind would give way at last, and that she would not know her son when he came. Even the fear that he might never come seemed easier to bear than this.
Shenac Dhu helped her greatly at this time. Not that she was very cheerful herself, poor girl; but the quick, merry ways she would assume with her aunt did her good. She would speak of the coming home of Allister as certain and near at hand, and she would tell of all that was to be done and said, of the house that he was to build, and of the gowns that Shenac Bhan was to wear, while her aunt would listen contentedly for a while. And when the old shadow came back, and the old moan rose, she would just begin and go over it all again.
She was needed at home during the day; but all the time that Hamish was away she shared with Shenac Bhan the task of soothing the weary, wakeful nights of the mother. She sat one night in the usual way, speaking softly, and singing now and then, till the poor weary mother had dropped asleep. Rising quietly and going to the door, she found Shenac Bhan sitting on the step, with her head on her hands.
"Shenac," she said, "why did you not go to bed, as I bade you? I'll need to begin on you, now that aunt is settled for the night. You are tired, Shenac. Why don't you go to bed?"
Her cousin moved and made room for her on the step beside her. The children were in bed, and Dan had gone away with one of Angus Dhu's men to a preaching that was going on in a new kirk several miles away. It was moonlight--so bright that they could see the shadows of the trees far over the fields, and only a star was visible here and there in the blue to which, for a time, the faces of both were upturned.
"You're tired, Shenac Bhan," said her cousin again; "more tired than usual, I mean."
"No, not more tired than you are. Do you know, Shenac, your eyes look twice as big as they used to do, and twice as black?"
"Do they? Well, so do yours. But no wonder that you are growing thin and pale; for I do believe, you foolish Shenac Bhan, that it sometimes comes into your mind that Allister may never come home. Now confess."
"I often think it," said Shenac, in an awed voice.
"Toch! I knew it by your face. You are as bad as my aunt."
"Do you never think so?" asked our Shenac.
"Think it!" said Shenac Dhu scornfully. "I trow not. Why should I think it? I will not think it! He'll come and bring Evan. Oh, I'm sure he'll come."
"Well, I'm not always hopeless; there is no reason," said Shenac. "He did not say he would come at once; but he should write."
"Oh, you may be sure he has written and the letter has been lost. I hardly ever take up a paper but I read of some ship that has gone down, and think of the letters that must go down with it, and other things."
Each saw the emotions that the face of the other betrayed in the moonlight.
"And think of the sailors," continued Shenac Dhu. "O Shenac, darling, we are only wearying for a lost letter; but think of the lost sailors, and the mothers and sisters that are waiting for them!" A strong shudder passed over Shenac Bhan.
"I don't think you know what you are saying, Shenac," said she.
"Yes; about the lost letters, and the sailors," said Shenac Dhu hurriedly. "The very worst that can happen to us is that we may lose the letters. God would never give us the hope of seeing them, and then let them be drowned in the sea."
The thought was too much for them, and they burst into bitter weeping.
"We are two fools," said Shenac Dhu, "frightening ourselves for nothing. We need Hamish to scold us and set us right. Why should we be afraid? If there was any cause for fear there would be plenty to tell us of it. Nobody seems afraid for them except my father; and it is not fear with him. He has never settled down in the old way since the letter came saying that Allister would bring Evan home."
Yes, they needed Hamish more than they knew. It was the anxiety for the mother, the sleepless nights and unoccupied days, that, all together, unnerved Shenac Bhan. It was the dwelling on the same theme, the going over and over the same thing--"nothing would happen to him?" --"he would be sure to come?" --till the words seemed to mock her, they made her so weary of hoping and waiting.
For, indeed, nobody seemed to think there was anything strange in the longer stay of Allister. He had stayed so long and done so well, he might be trusted surely to come home when the right time came. No, there was no real cause for fear, Shenac repeated to herself often. If her mother had been well and quite herself, and if Hamish had been at home, she thought she would never have fallen into this miserable dread.
She was partly right. It was better for them all when Hamish came home. He was well, for him, and cheerful. He had never imagined how sadly the time was passing at home, or he would not have stayed away so long. He was shocked at the wan looks of the two girls, and quite unable to understand how they should have grown so troubled at a few weeks' or even a few months' delay. His wonder at their trouble did them good. It could not be so strange--the silence and the delay--or Hamish would surely see it. The mother was better too after the return of Hamish. The sight of him, and his pleasant, gentle talk, gave a new turn to her thoughts, and she was able again to take an interest in what was going forward about her; and when there came a return of the old restlessness and pain, it was Hamish who stayed in the house to soothe her and to care for her, while Shenac betook herself with her old energy to the harvest-field.
The harvest passed. Dan kept very steady at it, though every night he went to the new kirk, where the meetings were still held. He did not say much about these meetings even when questioned, but they seemed to have a wonderful charm for him; for night after night, wet or dry, he and Angus Dhu's man, Peter, walked the four miles that lay between them and the new kirk to hear--"What?" Shenac asked one night.
"Oh, just preaching, and praying, and singing."
"But that is nonsense," insisted Shenac. "You are not so fond of preaching as all that. What is it, Dan?"
"It's just that," said Dan; "that is all they do. The minister speaks to folk, and sometimes the elders; and that's all. But, Shenac, it's wonderful to see so many folk listening and solemn, as if it was the judgment day; and whiles one reads and prays--folk that never used; and I'm always wondering who it will be next. Last night it was Sandy McMillan. You should have heard him, Shenac."
"Sandy McMillan!" repeated Shenac contemptuously. "What next, I wonder? I think the folk are crazed. It must be the singing. I mind when I was at Uncle Allister's last year I went to the Methodist watch-meeting, and the singing--oh, you should have heard the singing, Hamish! I could not keep back the tears, do what I would. It must be the singing, Dan."
Dan shook his head.
"They just sing the psalms, Shenac. I never heard anything else--and the old tunes. They do sound different, though."
"Well, it goes past me," said Shenac. "But it is all nonsense going every night, Dan--so far too."
"There are plenty of folk who go further," said Dan. "You should go yourself, Shenac."
"I have something else to do," said Shenac.
"Everybody goes," continued Dan; and he repeated the names of many people, far and near, who were in the new kirk night after night. "Come with me and Peter to-night, Shenac."
But Shenac had other things to think about, she said. Still she thought much of this too.
"I wonder what it is, Hamish," said she when they were alone. "I can understand why Dan and Peter McLay should go--just because other folk go; and I daresay there's some excitement in seeing all the folk, and that is what they like. But so many others, sensible folk, and worldly folk, and all kinds of folk, in this busy harvest-time! You should go, Hamish, and see what it is all about."
But the way was long and the meetings were late, and Hamish needed to save his strength; and he did not go, though many spoke of the meetings, and the wonderful change which was wrought in the heart and life of many through their means. He wondered as well as Shenac, but not in the same way; for he had felt in his own heart the wondrous power that lies in the simple truth of God to comfort and strengthen and enlighten; and it came into his mind, sometimes, that the good days of which he had read were coming back again, when the Lord used to work openly in the eyes of all the people, making his Church the instrument of spreading the glory of his name by the conversion of many in a day. It did not trouble or stumble him, as it did his sister, that it was not in their church--the church of their fathers--that this was done. They were God's people, and it made no difference; and so, while she only wondered, he wondered and rejoiced.
But about this time news came that put all other thoughts out of their minds for a while. The mother was sleeping, and Shenac and Hamish were sitting in the firelight one evening in September, when the door opened and their cousin Shenac came in. She seemed greatly excited, and there were tears on her cheeks, and she did not speak, but came close up to Shenac Bhan, without heeding the exclamations of surprise with which they both greeted her.
"Did I not tell you, Shenac, that God would never drown them in the sea?"
She had run so fast that she had hardly a voice to say the words, and she sank down at her cousin's feet, gasping for breath. In her hands she held a letter. It was from Evan--the first he had written to his father since he went away. Shenac told them that her father had received it in the morning, but said nothing about it then, going about all day with a face like death, and only told them when he broke down at worship-time, when he prayed as usual for "all distant and dear."
"Then he told my mother and me," continued Shenac Dhu, spreading out a crushed morsel of paper with hands that trembled. It was only a line or two, broken and blurred, praying for his father's forgiveness and blessing on his dying son. He meant to come home with his cousin. They were to meet at Saint F---, and sail together, But he had been hurt, and had fallen ill of fever in an inland town, and he was dying. "And now the same ship that takes this to you will take Allister home. He will not know that I am dying, but will think I have changed my mind as I have done before. I would not let him know if I could; for he would be sure to stay for my sake, and his heart is set on getting home to his mother and the rest. And, father, I want to tell you that it was not Allister that beguiled me from home, but my own foolishness. He has been more than a brother to me. He has saved my life more than once, and he has saved me from sins worse than death; and you must be kind to him and to them all for my sake."
"And then," said Shenac Dhu, "there is his name, written as if he had been blind; and that is all."
The three young people sat looking at one another in silence. Shenac Bhan's heart beat so strongly that she thought her mother must hear it in her bed; but she could not put her thought in words--"Allister is coming home." Shenac Dhu spoke first.
"Hamish--Shenac, I told my father that Allister would never leave our Evan alone to die among strangers."
She paused, looking eagerly first at one and then at the other.
"No," said Hamish; "he would never do that, if he knew it in time to stay. We can but wait and see."
"Wait and see!" Shenac Bhan echoed the words in her heart. If they had heard that he was to stay for months, or even for years, she thought she could bear it better than this long suspense.
"Shenac," said her cousin, reading her thought, "you would not have Allister come and leave him? It will only be a little longer whether Evan lives or dies."
"No," said Shenac; "but my mother."
"We will not tell her for a little while," said Hamish. "If Allister is coming it will be soon; and if he has stayed, it will give my mother more hope of his coming home at last to hear that he is well and that he is waiting for Evan."
"And my father," said Shenac Dhu. "Oh! if you had seen how he grasped at the hope when I said Allister was sure to stay, you would not grudge him for a day or two. Think of the poor lad dying so far from home and from us all!" And poor Shenac clung to her cousin, bursting into sobs and bitter tears.
"Whisht, Shenac, darling," said her cousin, her own voice broken with sobs; "we can only have patience."
"Yes," said Hamish; "we can do more than that--we can trust and pray. And we will not fear for the mother, Shenac. She will be better, now that there is a reason for Allister's stay. --And, Cousin Shenac, you must take hope for your brother. No wonder he was downcast thinking of being left. You must tell your father that there is no call to give up hope for Evan."
"O Hamish, my father loved Evan dearly, though he was hard on him. He has grown an old man since he went away; and to-day,--oh, I think to-day his heart is broken."
"The broken and contrite heart He will not despise," murmured Hamish. "We have all need of comfort, Shenac, and we'll get it if we seek it."
And the two girls were startled first, and then soothed, as the voice of Hamish rose in prayer. It was no vague, formal utterance addressed to a God far away and incomprehensible. He was pleading with a Brother close at hand--a dear and loving elder Brother--for their brothers far away. He did not plead as one who feared denial, but trustfully, joyfully, seeking first that God's will might be done in them and theirs. Hamish was not afraid; nothing could be plainer than that. So the two Shenacs took a little comfort, and waited and trusted still.
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{
"id": "21227"
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And so they waited. For a few days it did not seem impossible to Shenac that Allister might come; and she watched each hour of the day and night, starting and trembling at every sound. But he did not come, and in a little while Hamish broke the tidings to his mother, how they had heard that Allister was to have sailed on a certain day, but his Cousin Evan having been taken ill, they were to wait for another ship; but they would be sure to come soon.
Happily, the mother's mind rested more on having heard that her son was well, and was coming some time, than on his being delayed; and she was better after that. She fell back for a little time into her old ways, moving about the house, and even betaking herself to the neglected flax-spinning. But she was very feeble, going to bed early, and rising late, and requiring many an affectionate stratagem on the part of her children to keep her from falling into invalid ways.
It was a sad and weary waiting to them all, but to none more than to Angus Dhu. If he had heard of his son's death, it would not have been so terrible to him as the suspense which he often told himself need not be suspense. There was no hope, there could be none, after the words written by his son's trembling hands. He grew an old, feeble man in the short space between the harvest and the new year. The grief which had fallen on all the family when Evan's letter came gave way before the anxiety with which they all saw the change in him. His wife was a quiet, gentle woman, saying little at any time, perhaps feeling less than her stern husband. They all sorrowed, but it was on the father that the blight fell heaviest.
It was a fine Sabbath morning in October. It was mild, and not very bright, and the air was motionless. It was just like an Indian-summer day, only the Indian summer is supposed to come in November, after some snow has fallen on brown leaves and bare boughs; and now the woods were brilliant with crimson and gold, except where the oak-leaves rustled brown, or the evergreens mingled their dark forms with the pervading brightness. It was a perfect Sabbath day, hushed and restful. But it must be confessed that Shenac shrank a little from its long, quiet, unoccupied hours; and when something was said about the great congregation that would be sure to assemble in the new kirk, she said she would like to go.
"Go, by all means," said the mother; "and Hamish too, if you are able for the walk. Little Flora can do all that is to be done. There's nothing to hinder, if you would like to go."
There was nothing to hinder; the mother seemed better and more cheerful than she had seemed for many days. They might very well leave her for a little while; they would be home again in the afternoon. So they went early--long before the people were setting out--partly that they might have time to rest by the way, and partly that they might enjoy the walk together.
And they did enjoy it. They were young, and unconsciously their hearts strove to throw off the burden of care that had pressed so long and so heavily upon them.
"It has seemed like the old days again," said Shenac as they came in sight of the new kirk, round which many people had already gathered. They were strangers mostly, or, at least, people that they did not know very well; and, a little shy and unaccustomed to a crowd, they went into the kirk and sat down near the door. It was a very bright, pleasant house, quite unlike the dim, dreary old place they were accustomed to worship in; and they looked round them with surprise and interest.
In a little time the congregation began to gather, and soon the pews were filled and the aisles crowded with an eager multitude; then the minister came in, and worship began. First the psalm was named, and then there was a pause till the hundreds of Bibles or psalm books were opened and the place found. Then the old familiar words were heard, and yet could they be the same?
Shenac looked at her Bible. The very same. She had learned the psalm years ago. She had heard it many a time in the minister's monotonous voice in the old kirk; and yet she seemed to hear it now for the first time. Was it the minister's voice that made the difference? Every word fell sweet and clear and full from his lips--from his heart--touching the hearts of the listening hundreds. Then the voice of praise arose "like the sound of many waters." After the first verse Hamish joined, but through it all Shenac listened; she alone was silent. With the full tones of youth and middle age mingled the shrill, clear notes of little children, and the cracked and trembling voices of old men and women, dwelling and lingering on the sweet words as if they were loath to leave them. It might not be much as music, but as praise it rose to Heaven. Then came the prayer. Shenac thought of Jacob wrestling all night with the angel at Jabbok, and said to herself, "As a prince he hath power with God." Then came the reading of the Scriptures, then more singing, and then the sermon began.
Shenac did not fall asleep when the text was read; she listened, and looked, and wondered. There were no sleepers there that day, even old Donald and Elspat Smith were awake and eager. Every face was turned upward towards the minister. Many of them were unknown to Shenac; but on those that were familiar to her an earnestness, new and strange, seemed to rest as they listened.
What could it be? The sermon seemed to be just like other sermons, only the minister seemed to be full of the subject, and eager to make the truth known to the people. Shenac turned to her brother: she quite started when she saw his face. It was not peace alone, or joy, or triumph, but peace and joy and triumph were brightly blended on the boy's face as he hung on the words of life spoken there that day.
"They with the fatness of thy house Shall be well satisfied; From rivers of thy pleasures thou Wilt drink to them provide," repeated Shenac. And again it came into her mind that Hamish was changed, and held in his heart a treasure which she did not share; and still the words of the psalm came back:-- "Because of life the fountain pure Remains alone with thee; And in that purest light of thine We clearly light shall see."
Did Hamish see that light? She looked away from her brother's fair face to the congregation about them. Did these people see it? did old Donald and Elspat Smith see it? did big Maggie Cairns, at whose simplicity and queerness all the young people used to laugh, see it? Yes, even on her plain, common face a strange, bright look seemed to rest, as she turned it to the minister. There were other faces too with that same gleam of brightness on them--old weather-beaten faces, some of them careworn women's faces, and the faces of young girls and boys, one here and another there, scattered through the earnest, listening crowd.
By a strong effort Shenac turned her attention to the minister's words. They were earnest words, surely, but wherein did they differ from the words of other men? They seemed to her just like the truths she had heard before--more fitly spoken, perhaps, than when they fell from the lips of good old Mr Farquharson, but just the same.
"For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."
This was the text. It was quite familiar to her; and so were the truths drawn from it, she thought. What could be the cause of the interest that she saw in the faces of those eager hundreds? Did they see something hidden from her? did they hear in those words something to which her ears were deaf? Her eyes wandered from one familiar face to another, coming back to her brother's always with the same wonder; and she murmured again and again,-- "From rivers of thy pleasures thou Wilt drink to them provide."
"He that drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst."
"That is for Hamish, I'm sure of that. I wonder how it all happened to him? I'll ask him."
But she did not. The bright look was on his face when the sermon ended, and while the psalm was sung. It was there when the great congregation slowly dispersed, and all the way as they walked home with the neighbours. It was there all day, and all the week; and it never left him. Even when pain and sickness set their mark on his face, through all their sorrowful tokens the bright look of peace shone still; and Shenac watched and wondered, but she did not speak of it yet.
This was Shenac's first visit to the new kirk, but it was by no means the last.
It would be out of place to enter here into any detailed history of this one of those awakenings of God's people which have taken place at different times in this part of the country; and yet it cannot be quite passed over. For a long time all the settlers in that neighbourhood worshipped in the same kirk; but when the time came which proved the Church in the motherland--the time which separated into two bodies that which had long been one--the same division extended to the far-away lands where the Scottish form of worship had prevailed. After a time, they who went away built another house in which they might worship the God of their fathers; and it was at the time of the opening of this house that the Lord visited his people.
A few of those to whom even the dust of Zion is dear, seeking to consecrate the house, and with it themselves, more entirely to God's service, met for prayer for a few nights before the public dedication; and from that time for more than a year not a night passed in which the voice of prayer and praise did not arise within its walls. All through the busy harvest-time, through the dark autumn evenings, when the unmade roads of the country were deep and dangerous, and through the frosts and snows of a bitter winter, the people gathered to the house of prayer. Old people, who in former years had thought themselves too feeble to brave the night and the storm for the sake of a prayer-meeting, were now never absent. Young people forsook the merry gatherings of singers and dancers, to join the assemblies of God's people.
It was a wonderful time, all say who were there then. Connected with it were none of those startling circumstances which in many minds are associated with a time of revival. The excitement was deep, earnest, and silent; there was in use none of the machinery for creating or keeping up an interest in the meetings. A stranger coming into one of those assemblies might have seen nothing different from the usual weekly gatherings of God's people. The minister held forth the word of life as at other times. It was the simple gospel, the preaching of Christ and him crucified, that prevailed, through the giving of God's grace, to the saving of many.
At some of the meetings others besides the minister took part. At first it was only the elders or the old people who led the devotions of the rest, or uttered words of counsel or encouragement; but later, as God gave them grace and courage, younger men raised their voices in thanksgivings or petitions, or to tell of God's dealings with them. But all was done gravely and decently. There was no pressing of excited and ignorant young people to the "anxious seats," no singing of "revival hymns." They sang the Psalms from first to last--the old, rough version, which people nowadays criticise and smile at, wondering how ever the cramped lines and rude metre could find so sure and permanent a place in the hearts and memories of their fathers. It is said now that these old psalms are quite insufficient for all occasions of praise; but to those people, with hearts overflowing with revived or new-found love, it did not seem so. The suffering and sorrowful saint found utterance in the cry of the psalmist, and the rejoicing soul found in his words full expression for the most triumphant and joyful praise. They who after many wanderings were coming back to their first love, and they who had never come before, alike took his words of self-abasement as their own. So full and appropriate and sufficient did they prove, that at last old and experienced Christians could gather from the psalm chosen what were the exercises of the reader's mind; and the ignorant, or those unaccustomed to put their thoughts in words, found a voice in the words which the Sabbath singing and family worship had made familiar to them.
After a time, when the number of inquirers became so numerous that they could not be conveniently received at the manse or at the houses of the elders, they were requested to stay when the congregation dispersed; and oftentimes the few went while the most remained. Then was there many a word "fitly spoken;" many a "word in season" uttered from heart to heart; many a seeking sinner pointed to the Lamb of God; many a sorrowful soul comforted; many a height of spiritual attainment made visible to upward-gazing eyes; many a vision of glory revealed.
I must not linger on these scenes, wondrous in the eyes of all who witnessed them. Many were gathered into the Church, into the kingdom, and the name of the Lord was magnified. In the day when all things shall be made manifest, it shall be known what wonders of grace were there in silence wrought.
For a long time Shenac came to these meetings very much as Dan had done--because of the interest she took in seeing others deeply moved. She came as a spectator, wondering what it all meant, interested in what was said because of the earnestness of the speakers, and enjoying the clear and simple utterance of truth, hitherto only half understood.
But gradually her attitude was changed. It was less easy after a while to set herself apart, for many a truth came home to her sharply and suddenly. Now and then a momentary gleam of light flashed upon her, showing how great was her need of the help which Heaven alone could give. Many troubled and anxious thoughts she had, but she kept them all to herself. She never lingered behind with those who wished for counsel; she never even spoke to Hamish of all that was passing in her heart.
This was, for many reasons, a time of great trial for Shenac. Day after day and week after week passed, and still there came no tidings from Allister or Evan, and every passing day and week seemed to her to make the hope of their return more uncertain. The mother was falling into a state which was more terrible to Shenac than positive illness would have been. Her memory was failing, and she was becoming in many things like a child. She was more easily dealt with in one sense, for she was hardly ever fretful or exacting now; but the gentle passiveness that assented to all things, the forgetfulness of the trifles of the day, and the pleased dwelling on scenes and events of long ago, were far more painful to her children than her fretfulness had ever been.
With a jealousy which all may not be able to understand, Shenac strove to hide from herself and others that her mother's mind was failing. She punished any seeming neglect or disrespect to their mother on the part of the little ones with a severity that no wrong-doing had ever called forth before, and resented any sympathising allusions of the neighbours to her mother's state as an insult and a wrong.
She never left her. Even the nightly assembling in the kirk, which soon began to interest her so deeply, could not beguile her from home till her mother had been safely put to rest, with Hamish to watch over her. All this, added to her household cares, told upon Shenac. But a worse fear, a fear more terrible than even the uncertainty of Allister's fate or the doubt as to her mother's recovery, was taking hold upon her. Her determination to drive it from her served to keep it ever in view, for it made her watch every change in the face and in the strength of her beloved brother with an eagerness which she could not conceal.
Yes, Hamish was less strong than he had been last year. The summer's visit to the springs had not done for him this year what it had done before. He was thinner and paler, and less able to exert himself, than ever. Even Dan saw it, and gave up all thoughts of going to the woods again, and devoted himself to out-door matters with a zeal that left Shenac free to attend to her many cares within.
At last she took courage and spoke to her brother about her fears for him. He was greatly surprised, both at her fears and at the emotion with which she spoke of them. She meant to be very quiet, but when she opened her lips all that was in her heart burst forth. He would not acknowledge himself ill. He suffered less than he had often done when he went to the fields daily, though there still lingered enough of rheumatic trouble about him to make him averse to move much, and especially to brave the cold. That was the reason he looked so wan and wilted--that and the anxious thoughts about his mother.
"And, indeed, Shenac, you are more changed than I am in looks, for that matter."
Shenac made an incredulous movement.
"I am perfectly well," said she.
"Yes; but you are changed. You are much thinner than you used to be, and sometimes you look pale and very weary, and you are a great deal older-looking."
"Well, I am older than I used to be," said Shenac.
She rose and crossed the room to look at herself in the glass.
"I don't see any difference," she added, after a moment.
"Not just now, maybe, because you have been busy and your cheeks are red. And as for being a great deal older, how old are you, Shenac?"
"I am--I shall be nineteen in September; but I feel a great deal older than that," said Shenac.
"Yes; that is what I was saying. You are changed as well as I. And you are not to fancy things about me and add to your trouble. I am quite well. If I were not, I would tell you, Shenac. It would be cruel kindness to keep it from you; I know that quite well."
Shenac looked wistfully in her brother's face.
"I know I am growing a coward," she said in a broken voice. "O Hamish, it does seem as though our troubles were too many and hard to bear just now!"
"He who sent them knows them--every one; and He can make his grace sufficient for us," said Hamish softly.
"Ay, for you, Hamish."
"And for you too, Shenac. You are not very far from the light, dear sister. Never fear."
"And in that purest light of thine We clearly light shall see," murmured Shenac. They were ever coming into her mind--bits of the psalms she had been hearing so much lately; and they brought comfort, though sometimes she hesitated to take it to her heart as she might.
But light was near at hand, and peace and comfort were not far away. Afterwards, Shenac always looked back to this night as the beginning of her Christian life. This night she went to the house of prayer, from which her fears for Hamish had for a long time kept her, and there the Lord met her. Oh, how weary in body and mind and heart she was as she sat down among the people! It seemed to her that not one of all the congregation was so hopeless or so helpless as she--that no one in all the world needed a Saviour more. As she sat there in the silence that preceded the opening of the meeting, all her fears and anxieties came over her like a flood, and she felt herself unable to stand up against them in her own strength. She was hardly conscious of putting into words the cry of her heart for help; but words are not needed by Him from whom alone help can come.
God does not always choose the wisest and greatest, even among his own people, to do his noblest work. It was a very humble servant of God through whose voice words of peace were spoken to Shenac. In the midst of her trouble she heard a voice--an old man's weak, quavering voice-- saying,-- "Praise God. The Lord praise, O my soul. I'll praise God while I live; While I have being to my God In songs I'll praises give. Trust not in princes;" and so on to the fifth verse, which he called the key-note of the psalm:-- "O happy is that man and blest, Whom Jacob's God doth aid; Whose hope upon the Lord doth rest, And on his God is stay'd;" and so on to the end of the 146th Psalm, pausing on every verse to tell, in plain and simple words, why it is that they who trust in God are so blessed.
I daresay there were some in the kirk that night who grew weary of the old man's talk, and would fain have listened to words more fitly chosen; but Shenac was not one of these. As she listened, there came upon her a sense of her utter sinfulness and helplessness, and then an inexpressible longing for the help of Him who is almighty. And I cannot tell how it came to pass, but even as she sat there she felt her heaviest burdens roll away; the clouds that had hung over her so long, hiding the light, seemed to disperse; and she saw, as it were, face to face, Him who came to bear our griefs and carry our sorrows, and thenceforth all was well with her.
Well in the best sense. Not that her troubles and cares were at an end. She had many of these yet; but after this she lived always in the knowledge that she had none that were not of God's sending, so she no longer wearied herself by trying to bear her burdens alone.
It was not that life was changed to her. _She_ was changed. The same Spirit who, through God's Word and the example and influence of her brother, made her dissatisfied with her own doings, still wrought in her, enlightening her conscience, quickening her heart, and filling her with love to Him who first loved her.
It would not have been easy for her, in the first wonder and joy of the change, to tell of it in words, except that, like the man who was born blind, she might have said, "One thing I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see." But her life told what her lips could not, and in a thousand ways it became evident to those at home, and to all who saw her, that something had happened to Shenac--that she was at peace with herself and with all the world as she had not been before; and as for Hamish, he said to himself many a time, "It does not matter what happens to Shenac now. All will be well with her, now and always."
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After long waiting, Allister came home. Shenac and Hamish had no intention of watching the going out of the old year and the coming in of the new; but they lingered over the fire, talking of many things, till it grew late. And while they sat, the door opened, and Allister came in. They did not know that he was Allister. The dark-bearded man lingering on the threshold was very little like the fair-faced youth who had left them four years ago. He made a step forward into the room, and said,-- "This is Hamish, I know; but can this be our little Shenac?" And then they knew him.
It would be vain to try to describe the meeting. The very happiest meeting after years of separation must be sorrowful too. Death had been among them since Allister went, and the bereavement seemed new to the returned wanderer, and his tears fell as he listened to the few words Hamish said about his father's last days.
When the first surprise and joy and sorrow were a little abated, Shenac whispered,-- "And Evan--Hamish, should we go to-night to tell Angus Dhu that Allister has come home?"
"What about Evan, Allister?" said Hamish.
"Do you not know? Did you not get my letter? I waited for Evan. He had been robbed and hurt, and thought himself dying. But it was not so bad as that. He is better now--quite well, I think. I left him at his father's door."
"At home! Evan at home! What did his father say? Did you see Angus Dhu?"
Shenac was quite breathless by the time her questions were asked.
"No; I could not wait. The field between there and here seemed wider to me than the ocean. When I saw the light, I left him there." And the manly voice had much ado to keep from breaking into sobs again as he spoke.
"His father has been so anxious. No letter has come to us since Evan's came to his father to say that he was dying. I wish the old man had been prepared," said Shenac.
"Oh, I am grieved! If I had but thought," said Allister regretfully.
"It is quite as well that he was not prepared," said Hamish. And he was right.
Shenac Dhu told them about it afterwards.
"My mother went to the door, and when she saw Evan she gave a cry and let the light fall. And then we all came down; and my father came out of his bed just as he was, and when he saw my mother crying and clinging about the lad, he dropped down in the big chair and held out his hands without saying a word. You may be sure Evan was not long in taking them; and then he sank down on his knees, and my father put his arms round him, and would not move--not even to put his clothes on," continued Shenac Dhu, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "So I got a plaid and put about him; and there they would have sat, I dare say, till the dawn, but after just the first, Evan looked pale and weary, and my father said he must go to bed at once. `But first tell us about your cousin Allister,' my father said. Evan said it would take him all night, and many a night, to tell all that Allister had done for him; and then my father said, `God bless him!' over and over. And I cannot tell you any more," said Shenac Dhu, laughing and crying and hiding her face in her hands.
"But as to my father being prepared," she added gravely, after a moment's pause, "I am afraid if he had had time to think about it, it would have seemed his duty to be stern at first with Evan. But it is far better as it is; and he can hardly bear him out of his sight. Oh, I'm glad it is over! I know now, by the joy of the home-coming, how terrible the waiting must have been to him."
Very sad to Allister was his mother's only half-conscious recognition of him. She knew him, and called him by name; but she spoke, too, of his father and Lewis, not as dead and gone, but as they used to be in the old days when they were all at home together, when Hamish and Shenac were little children. She was content, however, and did not suffer. There were times, too, when she seemed to understand that he had been away, and had come home to care for them all; and she seemed to trust him entirely that "he would be good to Hamish and the rest when she was no more."
"Folk get used to the most sorrowful things at last," said Shenac to herself, as, after a time, Allister could turn quietly from the mother, so broken and changed, to renew his playful sallies with his brothers and little Flora. Indeed, it was a new acquaintance that he had to make with them. They had grown quite out of his remembrance, and he was not at all like the brother Allister of their imaginations; but this making friends with one another was a very pleasant business to them all.
He had to renew his acquaintance with others too--with his cousins and the neighbours. He had much to hear and much to tell, and after a while he had much to do too; and through all the sayings and doings, the comings and goings,--of the first few weeks, both Hamish and Shenac watched their brother closely and curiously. Apart from their interest in him as their brother whom they loved, and in whose hands the future of all the rest seemed to lie, they could not but watch him curiously. He was so exactly like the merry, gentle, truthful Allister of old times, and yet so different! He had grown so strong and firm and manly. He knew so many things. He had made up his mind about the world and the people in it, and could tell his mind too.
"Our Allister is a man!" said Shenac, as she sat in the kitchen one night with Shenac Dhu and the rest. The words were made to mean a great deal by the way in which they were spoken, and they all laughed. But her cousin answered the words merely, and not the manner:-- "That is not saying much. Men are poor creatures enough, sometimes."
"But our Allister is not one of that kind," said Dan, before his sister had time to answer. "He _is_ a man. He is made to rule. His will must be law wherever he is."
Dan had probably some private reason for knowing this better than the rest, and Shenac Dhu hinted as much. But Dan took no notice, and went on,-- "You should hear Evan tell about him. Why, he saved the lives of the whole band more than once, by his firmness and wisdom."
"I have heard our Evan speaking of him," said Shenac Dhu, her dark eyes softening, as she sat looking into the fire; "but if one is to believe all that Evan says, your Allister is not a man at all, but--don't be vexed, Dan--an angel out of heaven."
"Oh, I don't know about that part of it," said Dan; "but I know one thing: he'll be chief of the clan, boss of the shanty, or he'll know the reason why. --O Shenac, dear, I'm sorry for you; your reign is over, I doubt. You'll be farmer-in-chief no longer."
The last words were spoken with a mingled triumph and pathos that were irresistible. They all laughed.
"Don't be too sorry for me, Dan," said his sister. "I'll try to bear it."
"Oh yes, I know: you think you won't care, but I know better. You like to rule as well as Allister. You'll see, when spring comes, that you won't put him aside as you used to put me."
"There won't be the same need," said Shenac, laughing.
"Won't there? It is all very fine, now that Allister is new. But wait and see. You won't like to be second-best, after having been first so long."
Both Hamish and Shenac Dhu were observing her. She caught their look, and reddened a little.
"Do you think so, Shenac Dhu? --You surely cannot think so meanly of me, Hamish?"
"I think there may be a little truth in what Dan says, but I cannot think meanly of you because of that," said Hamish.
"Nonsense, Hamish!" said Shenac Dhu; "you don't know anything about it. It is one thing to give up to a lad without sense, like Dan, but quite another thing to yield to a man like Allister, strong and wise and gentle. You are not to make Shenac afraid of her brother."
"I shall never be afraid of Allister," said Shenac Bhan gravely; "and indeed, Hamish, I don't think it is quite kind in you to think I like my own way best of all--" "I did not mean that, Shenac," said her brother.
"But you are afraid I will not like to give up to Allister. You need not--at least, I think you need not," she added meditatively. "I shall be glad and thankful to have our affairs managed by stronger hands and a wiser head than mine."
"If stronger and wiser could be found, Shenac, dear," said a new voice, and Shenac's face was bent back, while her brother kissed her on the cheek and lip. "Uncle Angus thinks it would not be easy to do that."
They were all taken aback a little at this interruption, and each wondered how much he had heard of what had been said.
"Have you been long here, Allister?" asked Dan.
"No; I came this minute from the other house. Your mother told me you were here, Shenac Dhu."
"Did you hear what we were saying?" asked Dan, not content to let well alone.
"No; what was it?" said Allister surprised, and a little curious.
"Oh, you should have heard these girls," said Dan mischievously. "Such stuff as they have been talking!"
"The chief of the clan, and the boss of the shanty," said Hamish gravely; "and that was you, Dan, was it not?"
"Oh! what I said is nothing. It was the two Shenacs," said Dan.
Shenac Dhu, as a general thing, was able enough to take her own part; but she looked a little shamefaced at the moment, and said nothing.
"What did they say, Dan?" asked Allister, laughing.
Shenac Dhu need not have feared. Dan went on to say,-- "I have been telling our Shenac that she will have to `knock under,' now that you are come home; but she says she is not afraid."
"Why should she be?" asked Allister, who still stood behind his sister, passing his hand caressingly over her hair.
"Oh, you don't know our Shenac," said Dan, nodding wisely, as though he could give some important information on the subject. The rest laughed.
"I'm not sure that I know anybody's Shenac very well," said Allister gravely; "but in time I hope to do so."
"Oh, but our Shenac's not like the rest of the girls. She's hard and proud, and looks at folk as though she didn't see them. You may laugh, but I have heard folk say it; and so have you, Shenac Dhu."
"No, I never did," said Shenac Dhu; "but maybe it's true for all that: there's Sandy McMillan--" "And more besides him," said Dan. "There's your father--" "My father! Oh, he's no mark. He believes Shenac Bhan to be at least fifteen years older than I am, and wiser in proportion. But as for her not seeing people, that's nonsense, Dan."
But Shenac Bhan would have no more of it.
"Shenac Dhu, you are as foolish as Dan to talk so. Don't encourage him. What will Allister think?"
Shenac laughed, but said no more.
They were right. Allister was a man of the right sort. Whether, if circumstances had been different, he would have been content to come back and settle down as a farmer on his father's land, it is not easy to say. But as it was, he did not hesitate for a moment. Hamish would never be able to do hard work. Dan might be steady enough by-and-by to take the land; but in the meantime Shenac must not be left with a burden of care too heavy for her. So he set himself to his work with a good will.
He had not come back a rich man according to the idea of riches held by the people he had left behind him; but he was rich in the opinion of his neighbours, and well enough off in his own opinion. That is, he had the means of rebuilding his father's house, and of putting the farm in good order, and something besides. He lost no time in commencing his labours, and he worked, and made others work, with a will. There were among the neighbours those who shook their cautious old heads when they spoke of his energetic measures, as though they would not last long; but this was because they did not know Allister Macivor.
He had not been at home two days before he made up his mind that his mother should not pass another winter in the little log-house that had sheltered them since his father's death; and he had not been at home ten days when preparations for the building of a new house were commenced. Before the snow went away, stone and lime for the walls and bricks for the chimneys were collected, and the carpenters were at work on windows and doors. As soon as the frost was out of the ground, the cellar was dug and stoned, and everything was prepared for the masons and carpenters, so that when the time for the farm-work came, nothing had to be neglected in the fields because of the work going on at the new house. So even the slow, cautious ones among the neighbours confessed that, as far as could be judged yet, Allister was a lad of sense; for the true farmer will attend to his fields at the right time and in the right way, whatever else may be neglected.
But the house went on bravely--faster than ever house went on in those parts before, for all things were ready to the workmen's hands.
May-day came, and found Allister and Dan busy in taking down Angus Dhu's fence--at least, that part of it that lay between the house-field and the creek.
"I didn't think the old man meant to let us have these rails," said Dan. "Not that they are his by rights. I should not wonder if he were down upon us, after all, for taking them away." And Dan put up his hands to shade his eyes, as he turned in the direction of Angus Dhu's house.
"Nonsense, Dan; I bought the rails," said Allister.
Dan whistled.
"If I had been you, I would have taken them without his leave," said he.
"Pooh! and quarrelled with a neighbour for the sake of a few rails."
"But right is right," insisted Dan. "Not that I think he would have made much ado about it, though. The old man has changed lately. I always think the hearing that our Shenac gave him on this very place did him a deal of good."
Dan looked mysterious, and Allister was a little curious.
"I have always told you that you don't know our Shenac. Whether it is your coming home, or my mother's not being well, that has changed her, I can't say. Or maybe it is something else," added Dan thoughtfully. He had an idea that others in the parish were changed as well as Shenac. "She's changed, anyway. She's as mild as summer now. But if you had seen her when Angus Dhu was making this fence--Elder McMillan was here;" and Dan went off into a long account of the matter, and of other matters of which Allister had as yet heard nothing.
"Angus Dhu don't seem to bear malice," said he, when Dan paused. "He has a great respect for Shenac."
"Oh yes, of course; so have they all." And Dan launched into a succession of stories to prove that Shenac had done wonders in the way of winning respect. For though he had sometimes been contrary enough, and even now thought it necessary to remind his sister that, being a girl, she must be content to occupy but a humble place in the world, Shenac had no more stanch friend and supporter than he. Indeed, Dan was one who, though restless and jealous of his rights when he thought they were to be interfered with, yielded willingly to a strong hand and rightful authority; and he had greatly improved already under the management of his elder brother, of whom he was not a little proud.
"Yes," continued he, "I think they would have scattered us to the four winds if it had not been for Shenac. She always said that you would come home, and that we must manage to keep together till then. Man, you should have seen her when Angus Dhu said to my mother that he doubted that you had gone for your own pleasure, and would stay for the same. She could not show him the door, because my mother was there, and he is an old man; but she turned her back upon him and walked out like a queen, and would not come in again while he stayed, though Shenac Dhu cried, and begged her not to mind."
"I suppose Shenac Dhu was of the same mind--that I was not to be trusted," said Allister.
Dan shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, as to that, I don't know. She's only a girl, and it does not matter what she thinks. But how it vexed her to be told what our Shenac said about her father."
"But the two Shenacs were never unfriendly?" said Allister incredulously.
"No," said Dan; "I don't think they ever were. Partly because Shenac yonder did not believe all I said, I suppose, and partly because she was vexed herself with her father. Oh yes, they are fast friends, the two Shenacs. You should have seen them the night Angus Dhu came to speak to my mother about the letter that came from Evan. Our Shenac was as proud of you as a hen is of one chicken, though she did not let the old man see it; and Shenac Dhu was as bad, and said over and over again to her father, `I told you, father, that Allister was good and true. He'll never leave Evan; don't be afraid.' I doubt Evan was a wild lad out yonder, Allister."
"Not wilder than many another," said Allister gravely. "But it is a bad place for young men, Dan. Evan was like a brother to me always."
"You were a brother to him, at any rate," said Dan.
"We were like brothers," said Allister.
"Oh, well, it's all right, I daresay," said Dan. "It has come out like a story in a book, you both coming home together. And, Allister, I was wrong about our Shenac in one thing. She does not mind in the least letting you do as you like. She seems all the better pleased when you are pleased; but she was hard on me, I can tell you."
"That's queer, too," said Allister, with a look in his eyes that made Dan laugh in spite of himself.
"Oh yes, I know what you are thinking: that there is a difference between you and me. But there is a difference in Shenac too."
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Dan was right,--Shenac was changed. Even if Allister had not come home, if the success of the summer's work had depended, as it had hitherto mainly done, upon her, it would have been a very different summer from the last. The labour, though it had been hard enough, from early morning till night every day of the year, was not what had been worst for her. The constant care and anxiety had been harder to bear. Not the fear of want. That had never really troubled her. She knew that it would never come to that with them. But the welfare of all the family had depended on her strength and wisdom while they kept together, and the responsibility had been too heavy for her. How much too heavy it had been she only knew by the blessed sense of relief which followed its removal.
But it would have been different now, even had her cares been the same, for a new element mingled in her life--a firm trust in God. She had known, in a way, all along that, labour as she might, the increase must come from God. She had always assented to her brother's gentle reminders of the heavenly care and keeping promised to the widow and the fatherless; but she had wearied and vexed herself, taking all the weight of the burden, just as if there had been no promise given, no help made sure.
It would have been quite different now. Even failure would have brought no such burden as had come with a sense of success before, because of her sure and certain knowledge that all that concerned her was safe in the best and most loving care.
And, with Allister between her and the summer's work, she had no need to trouble herself. Every day had strengthened her trust in him, not only as a loving brother, but as a wise man and a good farmer; and many a time she laughed merrily to herself as Dan's foolish words about her not wishing to give place to Allister came to her mind. She could never tell him or any one else how blessed was the sense of relief and peace which his being at home gave her. She awoke every morning with the restful feeling fresh in her heart. There was no half-conscious planning about ways and means before her eyes were open; no shrinking from possible encounters with Dan's idleness or wilfulness; no balancing of possibilities as to his doing well, or doing at all, some piece of work depending upon him.
She heard more in the song of the birds now than just the old burden, "It is time to be at work again." It gave her quite a sense of pleasure now and then to find herself looking over the fields with delight just because they were fresh and green and beautiful, and not at all because of the tons of hay or the bushels of grain which they were to yield. Of course it was pleasant to anticipate a good harvest, and it was pleasant to know that there were wider fields to harvest this year, and that the barns would be full to overflowing. It did not in the least lessen the pleasure to know that this year success would not be due to her. Indeed, her pride in Allister's work was quite as great as it ever had been in her own, and the pleasure had fewer drawbacks. She could speak of it and triumph in it, and did so with Hamish and Shenac Dhu, and sometimes with Allister himself.
She was happy, too, in a half-conscious coming back to the thoughts and enjoyments of the time before their troubles had overtaken them. She was very young still, quite young enough to grow light-hearted and mirthful; and if her mother had been well, it would truly have seemed like the old happy days again.
Not that she had very much leisure even now. She did not go to the fields; but what with the dairy and the house-work, and after a little while the wool, she had plenty to do. There were two more cows in the enlarged pasture, and some of the people who were busy about the new house took their meals with them, so there was little time for lingering over anything. Besides, the house-work, which in the busy seasons had seemed a secondary concern, was done differently now. Shenac took pride and pleasure in doing everything in the very best way, and in having the house in order, the linen snow-white, and the table neatly laid; and the little log-house was a far pleasanter home than many a more commodious dwelling.
If there had lingered in Angus Dhu's heart any indignation towards Shenac for having interfered with his plans, and for having spoken her mind to him so plainly, it was gone now. They had no more frequent visitor than he, and few who were more welcome. His coming was for Allister's sake, his sister used to think; and, indeed, the old man seemed to see no fault in the young farmer. He gave him his confidence as he had never given it to any one before. After the first meeting he never spoke of what Allister had done for him in bringing Evan home, but he knew it was through his care and tenderness that he had ever seen his son's face again, and he was deeply grateful.
There was another reason why he found pleasure in the young man's society. He had loved Allister's father when they had been young together, before the love of money had hardened his heart and blinded his eyes. His long trouble and fear for his son had made him feel that wealth is not enough to give peace. It had shaken his faith in the "god of this world;" and as God's blessing on his sorrow softened his heart, the worldly crust fell away, and he came back to his old thoughts--or rather, I should say, his young thoughts of life again.
Allister was just what his father had been at his age--as gentle, as manly, and kind-hearted; having, besides, the strength of character, the knowledge of men and things, which his father had lacked. He had always been a bold, frank lad. Even in the old times he had never stood in awe of "the dour old man," as the rest had done. In the old times his frankness had been resented as an unwarrantable liberty; but it was very different now. Even his own children felt a little restraint in the presence of the stern old man; but Allister always greeted him cheerfully, talked with him freely, and held his own opinions firmly, though they often differed widely enough from those of Angus Dhu. But they never quarrelled. The old man's dogmatic ways vexed and irritated Shenac many a time; even Hamish had much ado to keep his patience and the thread of his argument at the same time; but Allister never lost his temper, and if the old man grew bitter and disagreeable, as he sometimes did, the best cure for it was Allister's good-humoured determination not to see it, and so they always got on well together.
Of all their friends, Angus Dhu was the one whom their mother never failed to recognise. She did not always remember how the last few years had passed, and spoke to him, as she so often did to others, as though her husband were still living and her children young; but almost always she was recalled to the present by the sight of him, and rejoiced over Allister's return, and the building of the new house, and the prosperity which seemed to be coming back to them. But, whether she was quite herself or not, he was always very gentle with her, answering the same questions and telling the same incidents over and over again for her pleasure, with a patience very different from anything that might have been expected from him.
There was one thing about Allister, and Shenac too, which greatly vexed their uncle. In his eyes it seemed almost like forsaking the God of their fathers when, Sabbath after Sabbath, they passed by the old kirk and sat in the new. He would have excused it on the days when old Mr Farquharson was not there and the old kirk was closed; but that they should hold with these "new folk" at all times was a scandal in his eyes.
It was in vain that Hamish proved to him that in doctrine and discipline--in everything, indeed, except one thing, which could not affect them in this country--the new folk were just like the old. This only made the matter less excusable in the eyes of Angus Dhu. The separation which circumstances might have made necessary at home--as these people still lovingly called the native land of their fathers--was surely not needed here, and it grieved and vexed the old man sorely to see so many leaving the old minister and the kirk their fathers had built and had worshipped in so long.
But even Angus Dhu himself ventured into the forbidden ground of the new kirk, when word was brought that Mr Stewart, the schoolmaster of two years ago, was come to supply the minister's place there for a while. He had a great respect for Mr Stewart, and some curiosity, now that he was an ordained minister, to hear him preach; and having heard him, he acknowledged to himself, though he was slow to speak of it to others, that the word of God was held forth with power, and he began to think that, after all, the scores of young people who flocked to hear him were as well while listening here as when sleeping quietly under the monotonous voice of the good old minister; and very soon no objection was made when his own Evan and Shenac Dhu went with the rest.
Mr Stewart had changed much since he came among them first. His health was broken then, and he was struggling with a fear that he was not to be permitted to work the work for which he had all his lifetime been preparing. That fear had passed away. He was well now, and well-fitted to declare God's gospel to men. It was a labour of love to him, all could see. The grave, quiet man seemed transformed when he stood in the pulpit He spoke with authority, as one who knew from deep, blessed experience the things which he made known, and no wonder that all listened eagerly.
Hamish was very happy in the renewal of their friendship, and Allister was almost as happy in coming to know the minister. He came sometimes to see them, but not very often, for he had many engagements, and his visits made "white days" for them all. Hamish saw much more of him than the rest, for he was comparatively idle this summer, and drove the minister to his different preaching stations, and on his visits to the people, with much profit to himself and much pleasure to both.
It was a very pleasant summer, for many reasons, to Shenac and them all. The only drawback was the state of the mother. She was not getting better--would probably never be better, the doctor said, whom Allister had brought from far to see her. But she might live a long time in her present state. She did not suffer, and was almost always quite content. All that the tenderest care could do for her was done, and her uneventful days were made happy by her children's watchful love.
The entire renewal of confidence and intercourse between the two families was a source of pleasure to all, but especially to Shenac, who had never been quite able to believe herself forgiven by her uncle before. Two of Angus Dhu's daughters were married in the spring, and left their father's house; and partly because she was more needed at home, and partly for other reasons, Shenac Dhu did not run into their house so often as she used to do. But Evan was often there. He and Hamish were much together, for neither of them was strong, and much help was not expected from them on the land or elsewhere. Evan was hardly what he had been before his departure from home. He was improved, they thought, on the whole; but his health was not firm, and his spirits and temper were variable, and, as Shenac said, he was as different from Allister as weakness is from strength, or as darkness is from the day. But they were always glad to see him, and his intercourse with these healthy, cheerful young people did him much good.
The new house progressed rapidly. There was a fair prospect that they might get into it before winter, and already Shenac was planning ways and means towards the furnishing of it. The wool was sorted and dyed with reference to the making of such a carpet as had never been seen in those parts before; and every pound of butter that was put down was looked upon as so much security for a certain number of things for use or for adornment in the new house. For Shenac had a natural love for pretty things, and it was pleasant to feel that she might gratify her taste to a reasonable degree without hazarding the comfort of any one.
She made no secret of her pleasure in the prospect of living in a nice house with pretty things about her, and discussed her plans and intentions with great enjoyment with her cousin Shenac, who did not laugh at her little ambitions as much as might have been expected. Indeed, she was rather grave and quiet about this time, and seemed to shun, rather than to seek, these confidences. She was too busy now that Mary and Annie were both gone, to leave home often, and when our Shenac wished to see her she had to go in search of her. It was not quite so formidable an affair as it used to be to go to Angus Dhu's house now, and Shenac and her brother often found themselves there on summer evenings. But at home, as elsewhere, Shenac Dhu was quiet and staid, and not at all like the merry Shenac of former times.
This change was not noticed by Shenac Bhan so quickly as it would have been if she had been less occupied with her own affairs; but she did notice it at last, and one night, drawing her away from the door-step where the rest were sitting, she told her what she was thinking, and entreated to know what ailed her.
"What ails me?" repeated Shenac Dhu, reddening a little. "What in the world should all me? I am busier than I used to be, that is all."
"You were always busy; it is not that. I think you might tell _me_, Shenac."
"Well," began her cousin mysteriously, "I will tell you if you will promise not to mention it. I am growing wise."
Shenac Bhan laughed.
"Well, I don't see what there is to laugh at. It's time for me to grow wise, when you are growing foolish."
Shenac Bhan looked at her cousin a little wistfully.
"Am I growing foolish, Shenac? Is it about the house and all the things? Perhaps I am thinking too much about them. But it is not for myself, Shenac; at least, it's not all for myself."
But Shenac Dhu stopped her.
"You really _are_ foolish now. No; of course the house has nothing to do with it. I called you foolish for saying that something ails me, which is nonsense, you know. What could ail me? I put it to yourself."
"But that is what I am asking you. How can I tell? Many a thing might go wrong with you," said Shenac Bhan.
"Yes; I might take the small-pox, or the bank might break and I might lose my money, or many a thing might happen, as you say; and when anything does happen, I'll tell you, you may be sure. Now tell me, is the wide stripe in the new carpet to be red or green?"
"You are laughing at me, Cousin Shenac," said our Shenac, gravely. "I daresay it is foolish in me, and may be wrong, to be thinking so much about these things and teasing you about them; but, Shenac, our Allister is a man now, and folk think much of him, and I want his house to be nice, and I do take pleasure in thinking about it. And you know we have been so poor and so hard pressed for the last few years, with no time to think of anything but just what must be done to live; and it will be so nice when we are fairly settled. And, Shenac, our Allister is so good. There never was such a brother as Allister--never. I would not speak so to every one, Shenac; but _you_ know."
Shenac Dhu nodded. "Yes, I know."
"If my mother were only well!" continued Shenac Bhan, and the tears that had risen to her eyes fell on her cheeks now. "We would be too happy then, I suppose. But it seems sad enough that she should not be able to enjoy it all, and take her own place in the new house, after all she has gone through."
"Yes," said Shenac Dhu, "it is very sad."
"And yet I cannot but take pleasure in it; and perhaps it is foolish and unkind to my mother too. Is it, Shenac?"
There were two or three pairs of eyes watching--no, not watching, but seeing--the two girls from the doorstep, and Shenac Dhu drew her cousin down the garden-path towards the plum-tree before she answered her. Then she put her arms round her neck, and kissed her two or three times before she answered,-- "You are not wrong or foolish. You are right to take pride and pleasure in your brother and his house, and in all that belongs to him. And he is just as proud of you, Shenac, my darling."
"That is nonsense, you know, Cousin Shenac," said Allister's sister; but she smiled and blushed too, as she said it, with pure pleasure.
There was no chance after this to say anything more about the change, real or supposed, that had taken place in Shenac Dhu, for she talked on, allowing no pause till they had come quite round the garden and back to the door-step; but Shenac Bhan knew all about it before she saw her cousin again.
That night, as she was going home through the field with Allister, he asked her rather suddenly,-- "What were you and Cousin Shenac speaking about to-night when you went round the garden?"
"Allister," said his sister, "do you think Cousin Shenac is changed lately?"
"Changed!" repeated Allister. "How?"
"Oh, of course you cannot tell; but she used to be so merry, and now she is quite quiet and grave, and we hardly ever see her over with us now. I was asking her what ailed her."
"And what did she say?"
"Oh, she laughed at me, and denied that anything ailed her, and then she said she was growing wise. But I know something is wrong with her, though she would not tell me."
"What do you think it is, Shenac?"
"I cannot tell. It is not only that she is quieter--I could understand that; but she hardly ever comes over now, and something is vexing her, I'm sure. Could it be anything Dan has said? He used to vex her sometimes. What do you think it can be, Allister?"
There was a little pause, and then Allister said,-- "I think I know what it is, Shenac."
"You!" exclaimed Shenac. "What is it? Have I anything to do with it? Am I to blame?"
"You have something to do with it, but you are not to blame," said Allister.
"Tell me, Allister," said his sister.
There was a silence of several minutes, and then Allister said,-- "Shenac, I have asked Cousin Shenac to be my wife." Shenac stood perfectly still in her surprise and dismay. Yes, she _ was_ dismayed. I have heard it said that the tidings of a brother's engagement rarely bring unmixed pleasure to a sister. I daresay there is some truth in this. Many sisters make their brothers their first object in life-- pride themselves on their talents, their worth, their success, live in their lives, glory in their triumphs; till a day comes when it is softly said of some stranger, or some friend--it may be none the pleasanter to hear because it is a friend--"She is more to him than you could ever be." Is it only to jealous hearts, ignoble minds, that such tidings come with a shock of pain? Nay, the truer the heart the keener the pain. It may be short, but it is sharp. The second thought may be, "It is well for him; I am glad for him." But the pang is first, and inevitable.
Allister had been always first, after Hamish, in Shenac's heart--perhaps not even after Hamish. She had never thought of him in connection with any change of this kind. In all her plans for the future, no thought of possible separation had come. She stood perfectly still, till her brother touched her.
"Well, Shenac?"
Then she moved on without speaking. She was searching about among her astonished and dismayed thoughts for something to say, for she felt that Allister was waiting for her to speak. At last she made a grasp at the question they had been discussing, and said hurriedly,-- "But there is nothing to vex Shenac in that, surely?"
"No; unless she is right in thinking that you will not be glad too."
"I am glad it is Shenac. I would rather it would be Shenac than any one else in the whole world--" "I was sure of it," said her brother, kissing her fondly.
Even without the kiss she would hardly have had the courage to add,-- "If it must be anyone."
"And, Shenac," continued her brother, "you must tell her so. She fancies that for some things you will not like it, and she wants to put it off for ever so long--till--till something happens--till you are married yourself, I suppose."
Now Shenac was vexed. She was in the way--at least, Allister and Shenac Dhu thought so. It was quite as well that the sound of footsteps gave her no time to speak the words that rose to her lips. They were overtaken by Mr Stewart and Hamish. It had been to see the minister that they had all gone to Angus Dhu's, for he was going away in the morning, and they did not know when they might see him again. It was late, and the farewells were brief and earnest.
"God bless you, Shenac!" was all that Mr Stewart said; and Shenac answered never a word.
"I'll walk a little way with you," said Allister. Hamish and Shenac stood watching them till they passed through the gate, and then Shenac sat down on the doorstep with a sigh, and laid her face upon her hands. Hamish looked a little astonished, but he smiled too.
"He will come back again, Shenac," he said at last.
"Yes, I know," said she, rising slowly. "I must tell you before he comes. We must not stay here. Come in; you will take cold. I don't know what to think. He expected me to be pleased, and I shall be in a little while, I think, after I have told you. Do you know it, Hamish?"
"I know--he told me; but I thought he had not spoken to you," said the puzzled Hamish.
"Did Allister tell you? Are you glad, Hamish?"
"Allister?" repeated Hamish.
"Allister has asked Shenac Dhu to be his wife," said Shenac in a whisper.
"Is that it? No, I had not heard that, though I thought it might be-- some time. You must have seen it, Shenac?"
"Seen it! the thought never came into my mind--never once--till he told me to-night."
"Well, that's odd, too," said Hamish, smiling. "They say girls are quick enough to see such things. Are you not pleased, Shenac?"
"I don't know. Should I be pleased, Hamish? I think perhaps in a little while I shall be." Then she added, "It will make a great difference."
"Will it?" asked Hamish. "Cousin Shenac has almost been like one of ourselves so long."
"I suppose it is foolish, and maybe it is wrong, but it does seem to put Allister farther from us--from me, at least. He seems less our own."
"Don't say that, Shenac dear," said her brother gently. "Allister can never be less than a dear and loving brother to us all. It is very natural and right that this should happen. It might have been a stranger. We all love Shenac Dhu dearly."
"Yes," said Shenac; "I said that to Allister."
"And, Shenac, I am very glad this should happen. Allister will settle down content, and be a good and useful man."
"He would have done that anyway," said Shenac, a little dolefully.
"He might, but he might not," said Hamish. "They say marriage is the natural and proper state. I am glad for Allister, Shenac; and you will be glad by-and-by. I wish I had known this a little sooner. I am very glad, Shenac."
Shenac sighed. "I suppose it is altogether mean and miserable in me not to be glad all at once; and I'll try to be. I suppose we must stay here now, Hamish," she added, glancing round the low room.
"Do you think so?" said Hamish in surprise. "No, you must not say so. I am sure it would grieve Cousin Shenac."
"There are so many of us, Hamish, and our mother is a great care; it would not be fair to Shenac. I must stay here and take care of my mother and you."
There was a long silence.
"Shenac," said her brother at last, "don't think about this just now; don't make up your mind. It is not going to happen soon."
"Allister says soon, but Shenac says not till--" She stopped.
"Well, soon or late, never mind; it will all come right. Let us be more anxious to do right than for anything else. God will guide us, Shenac. Don't let us say anything to vex Allister. It would vex him greatly, I know, to think that you and all of us would not go with him and Shenac."
"But it would not be fair to Shenac herself. Think what a large family there is of us."
"Whisht, Shenac, there may be fewer of us soon. You may marry yourself."
"And leave my mother and you?" Shenac smiled incredulously.
"Stranger things have happened," said her brother. "But, Shenac, our mother will not be here long, and Allister's house is her place, and you can care for her all the same there--better indeed. I am glad of this marriage, for all our sakes. Shenac Dhu is like one of ourselves; she will always care for the little ones as no stranger could, and for our mother. It _is_ a little hard that _you_ should not have the first place in the new house for a while, till you get a home of your own, after all the care and trouble you have had for us here--" "Do you think that has anything to do with it, Hamish?" said Shenac reproachfully. "It never came into my mind; only when Allister told me it seemed as though I would be so little to him now. Maybe you are right, though. Everybody seems to think that I like to be first. I know I have thought a great deal about the new house; but it has been for the rest, and for Allister most of all."
"Shenac, you must not vex yourself thinking about it," said her brother. "I am more glad of this for your sake than for all the rest. I cannot tell you how glad I am."
"Well, I am glad too--I think I am glad; I think it will be all right, Hamish. I am not really afraid of anything that can happen now."
"You need not be, dear; why should you be afraid even of trouble?" said her brother. "And this is not trouble, but a great blessing for us all."
But Shenac thought about it a great deal, and, I am afraid, vexed herself somewhat, too. She did not see Shenac Dhu for a day or two, for her cousin was away; and it was as well to have a little time to think about it before she saw her. There came no order out of the confusion, however, with all her thinking. That they were all to be one family she knew was Allister's plan, and Hamish approved it, though the brothers had not exchanged a word about the matter. But this did not seem the best plan to her, nor did she think it would seem so to her cousin; it was not best for any of them. She could do far better for her mother, and Hamish too, living quietly in their present home; and the young people would be better without them. Of course they must get their living from the farm, at least partly; but she could do many things to earn something. She could spin and knit, and she would get a loom and learn to weave, and little Flora should help her.
"If Allister would only be convinced; but they will think I am vexed about the house, and I don't think I really cared much about it for myself--it was for Allister and the rest. Oh, if my mother were only able to decide it, I do think she would agree with me about it."
She thought and thought till she was weary, and it all came to this:-- "I will wait and see what will happen, and I will trust. Surely nothing can go wrong when God guides us. At any rate, I shall say nothing to vex Allister or Shenac; but I wish it was well over."
It was the first visit to Shenac Dhu which, partly from shyness and partly from some other feeling, she did dread a little; but she need not have feared it so much. She did not have to put a constraint on herself to _seem_ glad; for the very first glimpse she caught of Shenac's sweet, kind face put all her vexed thoughts to flight, and she was really and truly glad for Allister and for herself too.
She went to her uncle's one night, not at all expecting to see her cousin; but she had returned sooner than was expected, and when she went in she found her sitting with her father and Allister. Shenac did not see her brother, however. She hastily greeted her uncle, and going straight to her cousin put her arms round her neck and kissed her many times. Shenac Dhu looked up in surprise.
"I know it now, Cousin Shenac," said Allister's sister; and in a moment Allister's arms were round them both. It was Angus Dhu's turn to be surprised now. He had not been so startled since the day that Shenac Bhan told him her mind down by the creek. The girls escaped, and Allister explained how matters stood. The old man was pleased, but he grumbled a little, too, at the thought of losing his last daughter.
"You must make an exchange, Allister, my man. If you could give us your Shenac--" Allister laughed. In his heart he thought his sister too good to be sent there, and he was very glad he had not the matter to decide.
"Shenac, my woman," said the old man as they were going away, "I wonder at you being so willing to give up the fine new house. I think it is very good in you."
"I would not--to anybody else," said she, laughing.
"But she's not going to give it up, father," said Shenac Dhu eagerly.
"Well, well, maybe not, if you can keep her."
Shenac still pondered over the question of what would be best for them all, and wearied herself with it many a time; but she gave none the less interest to the progress of the house and its belongings. She spun the wool for the carpet, and bleached the new linen to snowy whiteness, and made all other preparations just the same as if she were to have the guiding and governing of the household. She was glad with Allister and glad with Shenac, and, for herself and the rest, quite content to wait and see what time would bring to pass.
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But a day came when Shenac saw how needless all her anxious thoughts about her mother's future had been, when she acknowledged, with tears of mingled sorrow and joy, that she had tenderer care and safer keeping than son or daughter could give.
All through the long harvest-days the mother failed slowly--so slowly that even the watchful eyes of Shenac did not see how surely. Then, as the autumn wore away, and the increasing cold no longer permitted the daily sitting in the sunshine, the change became more rapid. Then there was a time of sharper suffering. The long days and nights lingered out into weeks, and then all suffering was over--the tired heart ceased to struggle with the burden of life, and the widow was laid to rest beside her husband and son.
That this was a time of great sorrow in the household need not be told. Neighbours came from far and near with offers of help and sympathy. All that kind hearts and experienced hands could do to aid these young people in the care of their suffering mother was done; but all was only a little. It was the strong arm of Allister which lifted and laid down, and moved unceasingly, the never-resting form of the mother. It was Shenac who smoothed her pillow and moistened her lips, and performed all the numberless offices so necessary to the sick, yet too often so useless to soothe pain. It was the voice of Hamish that sometimes had the power to soothe to quietness, if not to repose, the ever-moaning sufferer. Friends came with counsel and encouragement, but her children never left her through all. It was a terrible time to them. Their mother's failure had been so gradual that the thought of her death had not been forced upon them; and, quite unaccustomed to the sight of so great suffering, as the days and nights wore on, bringing no change, no respite, but ever the same moaning and agony, they looked into one another's faces appalled. It was terrible; but it came to an end at last. They could not sorrow for her when the close came. They rejoiced rather that she had found rest. But they were motherless and desolate.
It was a very hushed and sorrowful home that night, when all the friends who had returned with them from the grave were gone, and the children were alone together; and for many days after that. If this trouble had come upon them a year ago, there would have been some danger that the silence and sadness that rested upon them might have changed to gloom and despondency on Shenac's part; for she felt that her mother's death had "unsettled old foundations," and when she looked forward to what her life might be now, it was not always that she could do so hopefully. But she was quiet and not impatient--willing to wait and see what time might bring to them all.
By-and-by the affairs of the house and of the farm fell back into the old routine, and life flowed quietly on. The new house made progress. It was so nearly completed that they had intended to remove to it about the time their mother became worse. The work went on through all their time of trouble, and one after another the workmen went away; but nothing was said of any change to be made, till the year was drawing to a close. It was Hamish who spoke of it then, first to Shenac and then to Allister; and before Christmas they were quite settled in their new home.
Christmas passed, and the new year came in, and a month or two more went by, and then one night Shenac said to her brother,-- "Allister, when are you going to bring Shenac home?"
Allister had been the gravest and quietest of them all during the time that had passed since their mother's death. He was silent, though he started a little when his sister spoke. In a moment she came close to him, and standing behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and said softly,-- "It would be no disrespect to the memory of our mother, coming now. Hamish says so too. Shenac is not like a stranger; and it might be very quiet." Allister turned and touched with his lips the hand that lay on his shoulder, and then drew her down on the seat beside him. This was one of the things which made Allister so different from other people in Shenac's eyes. Even Hamish, loving and kind as he was, had not Allister's gentle, caressing ways. A touch, a smile, a fond word, came so naturally from him; and these were all the more sweet to Shenac because she was shy of giving such tokens herself, even where she loved best.
"If Shenac would come," said Allister.
Shenac smiled. "And will she not?"
"Should I ask it now, dear?"
"Yes, I think so," said his sister gravely. "The spring will soon be here, and the busy time. I think it should be soon. Have you spoken to Shenac since?"
"No; I have not. Though I may wish it, and Shenac might consent, there is more to be thought of. We will not have you troubled, after all you have gone through, till you are quite ready for it--you and Hamish."
"But surely Shenac cannot doubt I will speak to her myself; and I think it should be soon," said his sister.
They were sitting in the new, bright kitchen, and it was growing dark. There was a stove in it, one of the latest kind, for use; but there was a great wide fireplace too, for pleasure; and all the light that was in the room came from the great maple logs and glowing embers. Little Flora had gone to the mill with Dan, Hamish was at his uncle's, and the other lads were not come in; so they had the house to themselves. There was silence between them for a little while, and then his sister said again,-- "I'll speak to Shenac."
The chance to do so was nearer than she thought; for there was a touch at the door-latch, and a voice said softly,-- "Are you here, Cousin Shenac? I want to speak to you. Hamish told me you were quite alone."
"Yes, she's quite alone, except me." And Allister made one stride across the floor, and Shenac Dhu was held fast. She could not have struggled from that gentle and firm clasp, and she did not try.
"I thought you were at The Sixteenth, Allister," said she. "I was there, but I am here now. And our Shenac wants to speak to you."
He brought her to the fire-light, where our Shenac was waiting, a little shyly--that is, Shenac waited shyly. Allister brought the other Shenac forward, not at all shyly, quite triumphantly, indeed, and then our Shenac said softly,-- "When are you coming home, sister Shenac?"
With that the startled little creature gave one look into our Shenac's face, and breaking from Allister's gentle hold, she clasped her round the neck, and wept and sobbed in a way that astonished them more than a little. For indeed there was no cause for tears, said Shenac Bhan; and indeed she was very foolish to cry, said Allister--though there were tears in his own eyes; and as for Shenac Bhan, the tears did not stay in her eyes, but ran down over her face and fell on the soft black braids of the other Shenac's bowed head; for joy will make tears fall as well as sorrow sometimes, and joy and sorrow mingled is the source of these.
But indeed, indeed, I never thought of telling all this. When I began my story I never meant to put a word of love or marriage in it. I meant to end it at the happy day when Allister came home. But all Shenac's work at home was not done when her good and loving brother took the place she had filled so well. So my story has gone on, and will go on a little longer; though that night, when Shenac Dhu went away and Allister went with her, leaving Shenac Bhan to her own thoughts, she said to herself that very soon there would be nothing more for her to do. Allister and Shenac Dhu would care for the little ones better than she ever could have done; for the lads were wilful often, and sometimes her patience failed, and Allister would make men of them--wise, and strong, and gentle, like himself. And Shenac, sweet, kind, merry Shenac Dhu, would never be hard with the lads or little Flora, for she loved them dearly; and it would be better for the children just to have Allister and Shenac Dhu, and no elder sister to appeal to from them. It would be better that she should go away--at least for a little while, till other authority than hers should be established.
Yes; her work for the children was done. She said it over and over again, repeating that it was better so, and that she was glad and thankful that all would be so well. But she said it with many a tear and many a sigh and sob; for, having no experience of life beyond her long labour and care for them, it seemed to this foolish Shenac that really and truly her life's work was done. No, she did not say it in words, even to herself; but the future looked blank and bare to her. Any future that seemed possible to her looked rather dark than bright; and she feared--oh, so much! --to take her destiny in her hands and go away alone.
But not a word of all this had been spoken to Allister and Shenac Dhu. Not even Hamish had been told of her plans. No, not her plans--she had none--but the vague blending of wishes and fears that came with all her thoughts of the future. There would be time enough by-and-by to tell him; and, indeed, Shenac was a little afraid to let the light of her brother's sense and wisdom in on all her thoughts. For Hamish had a way of putting things in a light that made them look quite different. Sometimes this made her laugh, and sometimes it vexed her; but, whether or not, the chances were she would come round in time to see things as he saw them.
And, besides, there was something in this matter that she could not tell to Hamish--at least, it seemed to her that she could not, even if it would be right and kind to do so; and without this she feared that her wish to go away from home might not commend itself to him. Indeed, if it had not been for this thing which could not be told, she might not have wished to leave home. She would hardly have found courage to break away from them all and go to a new, untried life, of her own free will, even though her work at home were done.
This was the thing which Shenac thought she never could tell even to Hamish. One night, on her way home from his house, she had been waylaid by Angus Dhu, and startled out of measure by a request, nay, an entreaty, that "she would be kind to poor Evan." Then the old man had gone on to say how welcome she would be if she would come home and be the daughter of the house when his Shenac went to Allister. He told her how fondly she should be cherished by them all, and how everything within and without should be ordered according to her will; for he was sure that union with one of her firm yet gentle nature was just what was needed to make a good man of his wayward lad. She had listened, because she could not break away, wishing all the time that the earth would open and that she might creep away into the fissure and get out of sight. For, indeed, she had never thought of such a thing as that. Nor Evan either, she was sure--she thought--she did not know. Oh, well, perhaps he had thought of it, and had tried to make it known to her in his foolish way. But she never really would have found it out or thought about it if his father had not spoken; and now she would never be able to think about anything else in the presence of either.
It was too bad, and wrong, and miserable, and uncomfortable, and I don't know what else, she said to herself, for it could never be--never. And yet, why not? It would seem natural enough to people generally; her aunt would like it, her uncle's heart was set on it, and Allister and Shenac Dhu would be pleased. Even Hamish would not object. And Evan himself? Oh, no; it could never be. She would never care for him in that way. He was not like Allister, nor like any one she cared for--so different from--from--Shenac was sitting alone in the dark, but she suddenly dropped her face in her hands. For quite unbidden, with a shock of surprise and pain that made her heart stand still for a moment, and then set it beating wildly, a name had come to her lips--the name of one so wise and good in her esteem that to speak it at such a time, even in her thoughts, seemed desecration.
"I am growing foolish, I think, with all this vexation and nonsense; and I won't think about it any more. I have enough to keep me busy till Shenac Dhu comes home, and then I'll have it out with Hamish."
The wedding was a very quiet one. It was hardly a wedding at all, said the last-married sisters, who had gone away amid feasting and music. There was no groomsman nor bridesmaid, for Shenac Bhan could hardly stand in her black dress, and Shenac Dhu would have no one else; and there were no guests out of the two families. Old Mr Farquharson came up one morning, and it was "put over quietly," as Angus Dhu said; and after dinner, which might have served half the township both for quantity and quality, Allister and his bride went away for their wedding trip, which was only to the town of M--- to see Christie More and make a few purchases. They were to be away a week--certainly no longer--and then the new life was to begin.
Shenac Bhan stood watching till they were out of sight; and then she stood a little longer, wondering whether she might not go straight home without turning into the house. No; she could not. They were all expected to stay the rest of the day and have tea, and visit with her cousins, who lived at some distance, and had been little in their father's house since they went to their own.
"Mind you are not to stay away, Hamish, bhodach," whispered Shenac, as they turned towards the house; and Hamish, who had been thinking of it, considered himself in honour bound to return after he had gone to see that all was right at home.
It was not so very bad, after all. The two young wives were full of their own affairs, and compared notes about the butter and cheese-making which they had carried on during the summer, and talked about flannel and full-cloth and the making of blankets in a way that must have set their mother's heart at rest about their future as notable house-keepers. And Shenac Bhan listened and joined, seemingly much interested, but wondering all the time why she did not care a pin about it all. Flannel and full-cloth, made with much labour and pains, as the means of keeping Hamish and little Flora and the lads from the cold, had been matters of intense interest; and butter put down, and cheese disposed of, as the means of getting sugar and tea and other things necessary to the comfort of her mother and the rest, had been prized to their utmost value. But flannel and full-cloth, butter and cheese, were in themselves, or as a means of wealth, matters of indifference. Allister's good heart and strong arm were between them and a struggle for these things now; and that made the difference.
But, as she sat listening and wondering, Shenac did not understand all this, and felt vexed and mortified with herself at the change. Annie and Mary, her cousins, were content to look forward to a long routine of spinning and weaving, dairy-work and house-work, and all the rest. Why should she not do the same? She used to do so. No; she used to work without looking forward. She could do so still, if there were any need for it--any good in it--if it were to come to anything. But to work on for yards of flannel and pounds of butter that Flora and the rest, and all the world indeed, would be just as well without--the thought of that was not pleasant.
She grew impatient of her thoughts, as well as the talk, at last, and went to help her aunt to set out the table for tea. This was better. She could move about and chat with her concerning the cream-cheese made for the occasion, and of the cake made by Shenac Dhu from a recipe sent by Christie More, of which her mother had stood in doubt till it was cut, but no longer. Then there were the new dishes of the bride, which graced the table--pure white, with just a little spray of blue. They were quite beautiful, Shenac thought. Then her aunt let her into the secret of a second set of knives and forks--very handsome, which even the bride herself had not seen yet; and so on till Hamish came in with Angus Dhu. Then Shenac could have cried with vexation, she felt so awkward and uncomfortable under the old man's watchful, well-pleased eye; and when Evan and the two Dans came in it was worse. She laid hands on a long grey stocking, her aunt's work, and betook herself to the corner where Annie and Mary were still talking more earnestly than ever. She startled them by the eagerness with which she questioned first one and then the other as to the comparative merits of madder and--something else--for dyeing red. It was a question of vital importance to her, one might have supposed, and it was taken up accordingly. Mrs McLay thought the other thing was best--gave much the brighter colour; but Mrs McRea declared for the madder, because, instead of fading, it grew prettier the longer it was worn and the oftener it was washed. But each had enough to say about it; and this lasted till the lads and little Flora came in from their play, and Shenac busied herself with them till tea was ready. After tea they had worship, and sung a little while, and then they went home.
"Oh, what a long day this has been!" said Shenac, as they came in.
"Yes; I fancied you were a little weary of it all," said Hamish.
"It would be terrible to be condemned to do nothing but visit all one's life. It is the hardest work I ever undertook--this doing nothing," said Shenac.
Hamish laughed.
"Well, there is comfort in knowing that you have not had much of that kind of work to do in your lifetime, and are not likely to have."
There were several things to attend to after coming home, and by the time all these were out of the way the children had gone to bed, and Hamish and Shenac were alone.
"I may as well speak to Hamish to-night," said Shenac to herself. "Oh dear! I wish it were well over. If Hamish says it is right to go, I shall be sure I am right, and I shall not be afraid. But I must go--I think it will be right to go--whether Hamish thinks so or not. Hamish can do without me; but how shall I ever do without him?"
She sat looking into the fire, trying to think how she should begin, and started a little when Hamish said,-- "Well, Shenac, what is it? You have something to tell me."
"I am going to ask you something," said his sister gravely. "Do you think it is wrong for me to wish to go away from home--for a while, I mean?"
"From home? Why? When? Where? It all depends on these things," said Hamish, laughing a little.
"Hamish, what should I do?" asked his sister earnestly. "I cannot do much good by staying here, can I? Ought I to stay? Don't tell me that I ought not to go away--that you have never thought of such a thing."
"No, I cannot tell you that, Shenac; for I have thought a great deal about it; and I believe you ought to go--though what we are to do without you is more than I can tell."
So there were to be no objections from Hamish. She said to herself that was good, and she was glad; but her heart sank a little too, and she was silent.
"You have been thinking about us and caring for us all so long, it is time we were thinking what is good for you," said Hamish.
"You are laughing at me, Hamish."
"No, I am not. I think it would be very nice for us if you would be content to stay at home and do for us all as you have been doing; but it would not be best for you."
"It would be best for me if it were needful," said Shenac eagerly; "but, Hamish, it is not much that I could do here now. I mean Allister and Shenac Dhu will care for you all; and just what I could do with my hands is not much. Anybody could do it."
"And you think you could do higher work somewhere else?"
"Not higher work, Hamish. But I think there must be work somewhere that I could do better--more successfully--than I can do on the farm. Even when I was doing most, before Allister came, Dan could go before me when he cared to do it. And he did it so easily, forgetting it all the moment it was out of his hand; while I vexed myself and grew weary often, with planning and thinking of what was done and what was still to do. I often feel now it was a wild thing in us to think of carrying on the farm by ourselves. If I had known all, I would hardly have been so bold with Angus Dhu that day."
"But it all ended well. You did not undertake more than you carried through," said Hamish.
"No; it kept us all together. But, Hamish, I often think that Allister came home just in time. If it had gone on much longer, I must either have given out or become an earth-worm at last, with no thought but how to slave and save and turn everything to account."
"I don't think that would ever have happened, Shenac," said her brother. "But I think it was well for us all, and especially for you, that Allister came home just when he did."
"I don't mean that field-labour may not in some cases be woman's work. For a girl living at home, of course, it must be right to help in whatever way help is needed; but I don't think it is the work a woman should choose, except just to help with the rest. Surely I can learn to do something else. If I were to go to Christie More, she could find a place of some kind for me. Don't you mind, Hamish, what she once said about our going with her to M---, you and me? Oh, if we could only go together!"
But Hamish shook his head.
"No, Shenac. It would be useless for me. I must be far stronger than I am now to undertake anything of that kind. And you must not be in a hurry to get away. You must not let Shenac think you are running away from her. Wait a while. A month or two will make no difference, and by that time the way will open before us. I don't like the thought of your taking any place that Christie More could get for you. You will be far better at home for a while."
"But, Hamish, you really think it will be better for me to go?"
"Yes--some time. Why should you be in haste? Is there any reason that you have not told me why you should wish to go?"
Shenac did not answer for a moment.
"Is it about Evan, Shenac?" asked her brother. "That could never be, I suppose."
"Who told you, Hamish? No; I think it could never be. Allister would like it, and Shenac Dhu; and I suppose to folk generally it would seem a good thing for me. But I don't like Evan in that way. No, I don't think it could ever be."
"Evan will be a rich man some day, Shenac; and you could have it all your own way there."
"Yes; Allister said that to me once. They all seem to think I would like to rule and to be rich. But I did not think you would advise me because of that, Hamish, or because Evan will be a rich man."
"I am not advising you, Shenac," said Hamish eagerly. "If you cared for Evan it would be different; but I am very glad you do not."
"I might come to care for him in time," said Shenac, a little wearily. "But I never thought about him in that way till--till Angus Dhu spoke to me."
"Angus Dhu!" exclaimed Hamish.
"Yes--and frightened me out of my wits," said Shenac, laughing a little. "I never answered a word, and maybe he thinks that I am willing. Allister spoke about it too. Would it please you, Hamish? I might come to like him well enough, in time."
"No, Shenac. It would by no means please me. I am very glad you do not care for Evan--in that way. I would not like to see you Evan's wife."
There was not much said after that, though they sat a long time together in the firelight.
"Did I tell you that I had a letter from Mr Stewart to-day, Shenac?" Hamish asked at last.
"No," said Shenac; "was he well?"
"He has a call to be minister of the church in H---, and he is to go there soon; and he says if he can possibly do it he will come this way. It will be in six weeks or two months, if he comes at all."
Shenac said nothing to this; but when Hamish had added a few more particulars, she said,-- "Perhaps it may seem foolish, Hamish, but I want to go soon."
"Because of Evan?" asked her brother.
"Partly; or rather, because of Angus Dhu," she said, laughing. "And Allister and Shenac would like it."
"But they would never urge it against your will."
"No; I suppose not. But it is uncomfortable; and, Hamish, it is not impossible that I might let myself be persuaded."
Hamish looked grave.
"I don't know but it is the best thing that could happen to me," Shenac continued. "I am not fit for any other life, I am afraid. But I must go away for a while at any rate."
Hamish said nothing, though he looked as if he had something to say.
"If you are willing, Hamish, it will go far to satisfy Allister. And I can come back again if I should find nothing to do."
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But Shenac's work at home was not all done yet. Sitting that night by the fireside with her brother, could she have got a glimpse of the next few months and all they were to bring about, her courage might have failed her; for sorrowful as some of the past days had been, more sorrowful days were awaiting her--sorrowful days, yet sweet, and very precious in remembrance.
A very quiet and happy week passed, and then Allister and his wife came home. There was some pleasure-seeking then, in a quiet way; for the newly-married pair were entertained by their friends, and there were a few modest gatherings in the new house, and the hands of the two Shenacs were full with the preparations, and with the arrangement of new furniture, and making all things as they ought to be in the new house.
But in the midst of the pleasant bustle Hamish fell ill. It was not much, they all thought--a cold only, which proved rather obstinate and withstood all the mild attempts made with herb-drinks and applications to remove it. But they were not alarmed about it. Even when the doctor was sent for, even when he came again of his own accord, and yet again, they were not much troubled. For Hamish had been so much better all the winter. He had had no return of his old rheumatic pains. He would soon be well again, they all said,--except himself; and he said nothing. They were inclined to make light of his present illness, rejoicing that he was no longer racked with the terrible pains that in former winters had made his nights sleepless and his days a weariness. He suffered now, especially at first, but not as he had suffered then.
All through March he kept his bed, and through April he kept his room; but he was comfortable, comparatively--only weak, very weak. He could read, and listen to reading, and enjoy the family conversation; and his room became the place where, in the gloaming, all dropped in to have a quiet time. This room had been called during the building of the house "the mother's room," but when Hamish became ill it was fitted up for him. It was a pleasant room, having a window which looked towards the south over the finest fields of the farm, and one which looked west, where the sun went down in glory, over miles and miles of unbroken forest.
Even now, though years have passed since then, Shenac, shutting her eyes, can see again the fair picture which that western window framed. There is the mingling of gorgeous colours--gold, and crimson, and purple, fading into paler tints above. There is the glory of the illuminated forest, and on this side the long shadows of the trees upon the hills. Within, there is the beautiful pale face, radiant with a light which is not all reflected from the glory without--her brother's dying face.
Now, when troubles come, when fightings without and fears within assail her, when household cares make her weary, and the thought of guiding wayward hearts and wandering feet makes her afraid, the remembrance of this room comes back to her as the remembrance of Bethel or Peniel must have come to Jacob in his after-wanderings, and her strength is renewed. For there _she_ met God face to face. There she was _smitten_, and there the same hand healed her. There she tasted the sweetness of the cup of bitterness which God puts to the lips of those of his children who humbly and willingly, through grace which he gives, drink it to the dregs. The memory of that room and the western window is like the memory of the stone which the prophet set up--"The stone of help."
"I will trust, and not be afraid."
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
The words seem to come again from the dear dying lips; and as they were surely his to trust to, to lean on when nought else could avail, so in all times of trouble Shenac knows that they are most surely hers.
But much sorrow came before the joy. March passed, and April, and May-day came, warm and bright this year again; and for the first time for many weeks Hamish went out-of-doors. He did not go far; just down to the creek, now flowing full again, to sit a little in the sunshine, with a plaid about his shoulders and another under his feet. It was pleasant to feel the wind in his face. All the sights and sounds of spring were pleasant to him--the gurgle of the water, the purple tinge on the woods, the fields growing fair with a tender green.
Allister left the plough in the furrow, and came striding down the long field, just to say it was good to see him there. Dan shouted, "Well done, Hamish, lad!" in the distance; and little Flora risked being too late for the school, in her eagerness to gather a bunch of spring flowers for him. As for Shenac, she was altogether triumphant. There was no cloud of care darkening the brightness of her loving eyes, no fear from the past or for the future resting on her face. Looking at her, and at his fair little sister tying up her treasures for him, Hamish for a moment longed--oh, so earnestly! --to live, for their sakes.
Hidden away among Flora's most precious treasures is a faded bunch of spring-flowers, tied with a thread broken from the fringe of the plaid on which her brother sat that day; and looking at them now, she knows that when Hamish took them from her hand, and kissed and blessed her with loving looks, it was with the thought in his heart of the long parting drawing near. But she did not dream of it then, nor did Shenac. He watched with wistful eyes the little figure dancing over the field and down the road, saying softly as she disappeared,-- "I would like to live a little while, for their sakes."
Shenac did not catch the true sense of his words, and mistaking him, she said eagerly,-- "Ah, yes, if we could manage it--you and Flora and I. Allister might have the lads; he will make men of them. I am not wise enough nor patient enough. But you and Flora and I--it would be so nice for us to live together till we grow old." And Shenac cast longing looks towards the little log-house where they had lived so long and so happily.
But Hamish shook his head. "I doubt it can never be, my Shenac."
"No, I suppose not," said Shenac, with a sigh; "for Allister is to take down the old house--the dear old shelter--to make the garden larger. He is an ambitious lad, our Allister," she added laughing, "and means to have a place worthy of the chief of the clan. But, somewhere and some time, we'll have a wee house together, Hamish--you and I and Flora. Don't shake your wise head, lad. There is nothing that may not happen-- some time.
"Do you remember, Hamish," she continued (and her voice grew low and awed as she said it)--"do you remember the night you were so ill? I did not say it to you, but I feared that night that you were going to die, and I said to myself, if God would spare you to my prayers, I would never doubt nor despond again; I would trust God always. And I will."
"But, Shenac, what else could you do but trust God if I were to die?" asked her brother gravely. "My living or dying would make no difference as to that."
"But, Hamish, that is not what I mean. It may seem a bold thing to say, but I think God heard my prayer that night, and spared you to us; and it would seem so wrong, so ungrateful, to doubt now. All will be for the best now, I am sure, now that he has raised you up again."
"For a little while," said Hamish softly. "But, Shenac, all will be for the best, whether I live or die. You do not need me to tell you that, I am sure."
"But you _are_ better," said Shenac eagerly, a vague trouble stirring at her heart.
"Surely I am better. But that is not the question. I want you to say to me that you will trust and not be afraid even if I were to die, Shenac, my darling. Think where your peace and strength come from, think of Him in whom you trust; and what difference can the staying or going of one like me make, if He is with you?"
For just a moment it was clear to Shenac how true this was--how safe they are whom God keeps, how much better than a brother's love is the love divine, which does not shield from all suffering, but which most surely saves from all real evil.
"Yes, Hamish," she said humbly, "I see it. But, oh, I am glad you are better again!"
But was he really better? Shenac asked herself the question many a time in the days that followed. For the May that had come in so brightly was, after all, a dreary month. There were some cold days and some rainy days, and never a day, till June came, that was mild enough for Hamish to venture out again. And when he did, it was not on the hillock by the creek where Shenac spread the plaid, but close to the end of the old log-house, where the mother used to sit in the sunshine. For the creek seemed a long way off to Hamish now. When Allister came down the hill to speak to his brother, it came into Shenac's mind that his face was graver, and his greeting not so cheery, as it had been that May-day. As for Dan, he did not hail him as he had done then, but only looked a moment with wistful eyes, and then went away.
"Truly, the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun," said Hamish softly, as he leaned back against the wall. "I thought, the last time I was out, that nothing could be lovelier than the sky and the fields were then; but they are lovelier to-day. It helps one to realise `the living green' that the hymn speaks about, Shenac:-- "`There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers,'" he murmured.
But Shenac had no answer ready. Day by day she was coming to the knowledge of what must be, but she could not speak about it yet. Nay, she had never really put it to herself in words that her brother was going to die. She had all these days been putting the fear from her, as though by that means she might also put away the cause. Now in the sunshine it looked her in the face, and would not be put aside. But, except that she sat very still and was very pale, she gave no token of her thoughts to Hamish; and if he noticed her, he said nothing.
"Shenac," said he in a little while, "when Allister takes away the poor old house to make the garden larger, he should make a summer-seat here, just where the end of the house comes, to mind you all of my mother and me. Will you tell him, Shenac?"
"He may never change the garden as he thought to do," answered Shenac. "He will have little heart for the plans we have all been making."
"Yes, just at first, I know; but afterwards, Shenac. Think of the years to come, when Allister's children will be growing up about him. He will not forget me; but he will be quite happy without me, as the time goes on; and you too, Shenac. It is well that it should be so."
Shenac neither assented nor denied. Soon Hamish continued:-- "I thought it would be my work to lay out the new garden. I would like to have had the thought of poor lame Hamish joined with the change; but it does not really matter. You will not forget me; but, Shenac, afterwards you must tell Allister about the summer-seat."
"Afterwards!" Ah, well, there would be time enough for many a thing afterwards--for the tears and bitter cries which Shenac could only just keep back, for the sickness of the heart that would not be driven away. Now she could only promise quietly that afterwards Allister should be told; and then gather closer about him the plaid, which her brother's hand had scarcely strength to hold.
"You are growing weary, Hamish," she said.
"Yes," said Hamish; and they rose to go. But first they would go into the old house for a moment, for the sake of old times.
"For, with all your cares, and all my painful days and nights, we were very happy here, Shenac," said Hamish, as the wide, low door swung back and they stepped down into the room. Oh, how unspeakably dreary it looked to Shenac--dreary, though so familiar! There was a bedstead in the room yet, and some old chairs; and the heavy bunk, which was hardly fit for the new house. There was the mother's wheel, too; and on the walls hung bunches of dried herbs and bags of seeds, and an old familiar garment or two. There was dust on the floor, and ashes and blackened brands were lying in the wide fireplace, and the sunshine streaming in on all through the open door. Shenac shivered as she entered, but Hamish looked round with a smile, and with eyes that were taking farewell of them all. Even in her bitter pain she thought of him first. She made him sit down on the bunk, and gathered the plaid about him again, for the air was chill.
It all came back: the many, many times she had seen him sitting there, in health and in sickness, in sorrow and in joy; all their old life, all the days that could never, never come again. Kneeling down beside him, she laid her head upon his breast, and just this once--the first time and the last in his presence--gave way to her grief.
"O Hamish! Hamish, bhodach! Must it be? Must it be?" He did not speak. She did not move till she felt tears that were not her own falling on her face. Then she rose, and putting her arms round him, she made him lean on her, all the while softly soothing him with hand and voice.
"I am grieved for you, my Shenac," said he. "We two have been nearer to each other than the rest. You have not loved me less because I am little and lame, but rather more for the trouble I have been to you; and I know something will be gone from your life when I am not here."
"Oh, what will be left?" said Shenac.
"Shenac, my darling, I know something that you do not know, and I see such a beautiful life before you. You are strong. There is much for you to do of the very highest work--God's work; and then at the end we shall meet all the happier because of the heart-break now."
But beyond the shadow that was drawing nearer, Shenac's eyes saw nothing, and she thought indeed that her heart was breaking--dying with the sharpness of the pain.
"It won't be long, at the very longest; and after just the first, there are many happy days waiting you."
Shenac withdrew herself from her brother, she trembled so, and slipping down beside him, she laid her face on his bosom again. Then followed words which I shall not write down--words of prayer, which touched the sore place in Shenac's heart as they fell, but which came back afterwards many a time with a comforting and healing power.
All through the long summer afternoon Hamish slumbered and woke and slumbered again, while his sister sat beside him, heart-sick with the dread, which was indeed no longer dread, but sorrowful certainty.
"It is coming nearer," she said to herself, over and over again--"it is coming nearer." But she strove to quiet herself, that her face might be calm for his waking eyes to rest upon.
Allister and his wife came in as usual to sit a little while with him, when the day's work was done; and then Shenac slipped away, to be alone a little while with her grief. An hour passed, and then another, and a third was drawing to a close, and she did not return.
"She must have fallen asleep. She is weary with the long day," said Hamish. "And you are weary too, Allister and Shenac. Go to bed. I shall not need anything till my Shenac comes."
Shenac Dhu went out and opened the door of her sister's room. Little Flora was sleeping sweetly, but there was no Shenac. Very softly she went here and there, looking and listening in vain. The late moon, just rising, cast long shadows on the dewy grass as she opened the door and looked out. The pleasant sounds of a summer night fell on her ear, but no human voice mingled with the music. All at once there came into her mind the remembrance of the brother and sister as they sat in the afternoon at the old house-end, and, hardly knowing why, she went through the yard and down the garden-path. All was still without, but from within the house there surely came a sound.
Yes; it was the sound of weeping--not loud and bitter, but as when a "weaned child" has quieted itself, and sobs and sighs through its slumbers.
"Alone with God and her sorrow!"
Shenac Dhu dared not enter; nor shall we. When a stricken soul lies in the dust before God, no eye should gaze, no lip tell the story. Who would dare to speak of the mystery of suffering and blessing through which a soul passes when God first smites, then heals? What written words could reveal his secret of peace spoken to such a one?
That night all the grief of Shenac's sore heart was spread out before the Lord. All the rebellion of the will that clung still to an earthly idol rose up against him; and in his loving-kindness and in the multitude of his tender mercies he had compassion upon her. That night she "did eat angels' food," on the strength of which she went for many a day.
Shenac Dhu still listened and waited, meaning to steal away unseen; but when the door opened, and the moonlight fell on her sister's tear-stained face, so pale and calm, now that the struggle was over, she forgot all else, and clung to her, weeping. Shenac did not weep; but, weary and spent with the long struggle, she trembled like a leaf, and, guiding each other through the dim light, they went home.
Shenac Dhu was herself again when she crossed the threshold, and when her cousin would have turned towards the door of her brother's room, she gently but firmly drew her past it.
"No; it is Allister's turn and mine to-night," she said; and Shenac had no strength to resist, but suffered herself to be laid down by little Flora's side without a word.
She rose next morning refreshed; and after this all was changed. She gave Hamish up after that night; or, rather, she had given up her own will, and waited that God's will might be done in him and in her. It was not that she suffered, and had strength to hide her suffering from her brother's eye. She did not suffer as she had done before. She did not love her brother less, but she no longer grudged him to his Lord and hers. It was not that for him the change would be most blessed, nor that for her the waiting would not be long. It was because God willed that her brother should go hence; and therefore she willed it too.
And what blessed days those were that followed! Surely never traveller went down the dark valley cheered by warmer love or tenderer care. There was no cloud, no shadow of a cloud, between the brother and sister after that night. Though Shenac never said it, Hamish knew that after that night she gave him up and was at peace. It was a peaceful time to all the household, and to the friends who came now and then to see them; but there was more than peace in the hallowed hours to the brother and sister. It was a foretaste of "the rest that remaineth." To one, that rest was near. Between it and the other lay life--it might be long--a life of care and labour and trial; but to her the rest "remaineth" all the same.
He did not suffer much--just enough to make her loving care constant and very sweet to him--just enough to make her not grudge too much, for his sake, the passing of the days. Oh, how peacefully they glided on! The valley was steep, but it never was dark. Not a shadow, to the very last, came to dim the brightness of those days; and in remembrance the brightness lingers still.
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But I must go back again to the June days when Shenac's peace was new. The light came in through the western window, not from the sun, but from the glory he had left behind; and with his face upturned towards the golden clouds, Hamish sat gazing, as if he saw heaven beyond.
"Ready and waiting!" thought Shenac--"ready and waiting!"
For a moment she thought she must have spoken the words aloud, as her brother turned and said,-- "I have just one thing left to wish for, Shenac. If I could only see Mr Stewart once again."
"He said he would come, dear, in August or September," said Shenac, after a moment's pause.
"I shall not see him, then," said Hamish softly.
"He might come sooner, perhaps, if he knew," said Shenac. "Allister might write to him."
"I so long to see him!" continued Hamish. "I do love him so, Shenac dear--next to you, I think. Indeed, I know not which I love best. Oh, I could never tell you all the cause I have to love him."
"He would be sure to come," said his sister.
"I want to see him because I love him, and because he loves me, and because--" He paused.
"Have you anything to say to him that I could tell him afterwards? But he will be sure to come."
"You could write and ask him, Shenac."
"Yes; oh yes. Only Allister could do it better," said Shenac; "but I could let him know that you are longing to see him again."
But it was Hamish himself who wrote--two broken lines, very unlike the letters he used to take so much pains to make perfect. But the irregular, almost illegible, characters were eloquent to his friend; and in a few days there came an answer, saying that in a day or two business would bring him within fifty miles of their home, and it would go hard with him if he could not get a day for his friend. And almost as soon as his letter he himself came. He had travelled all night to accomplish it, and must travel all night again; but in the meantime there was a long summer day before them.
A long, happy day it was, and long to be remembered. They had it mostly to themselves. All the morning Mr Stewart sat beside the low couch of Hamish, and spoke or was silent as he had strength to listen or reply. On the other side sat Shenac, never speaking, never moving, except when her brother needed her care.
Once, when Hamish slumbered, Mr Stewart, touching her bowed head with his hand, whispered,-- "Is it well?" And Shenac answered, "It is well. I would not have it otherwise."
"And afterwards?" said her friend.
"I cannot look beyond," she murmured.
He stooped to whisper,-- "I will not fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea."
"I am not afraid," said Shenac. "I do not think when the time comes I shall be afraid."
After that Mr Stewart carried Hamish out to the end of the house, and there they were alone. When they came in again, one and another of his friends came to see Mr Stewart, and Hamish rested. As it grew dark, they all gathered in to worship, and then it was time for Mr Stewart to go. When all was ready, and he came to say farewell, Hamish slumbered. Shenac stooped down and spoke his name. Mr Stewart bent over him and kissed him on the brow and lips. As he raised himself, the closed eyes opened, and the smiling lips murmured, as Shenac stooped again to catch the words,-- "He will come again, to care for you always. I could hardly have borne to leave my Shenac, but for that."
Shenac lifted her startled eyes to Mr Stewart's face.
"Is he wandering?" she asked.
"No. Will you let me care for you always, Shenac, good and dear child?"
Shenac did not catch the true meaning of his words, but she saw that his lip quivered, and the hand he held out trembled; so she placed hers in it for a farewell. Then he kissed her as he had kissed her brother, and then he went away.
There was no break in the long summer days after this. Sabbaths and weekdays were all the same in the quiet room. Once or twice Hamish was carried in Allister's strong arms to the door, or to the seat at the end of the house, and through almost all July he sat for an hour or two each day in the great chair by the western window. But after August came in, the only change he had was between his bed and the low couch beside it. He did not suffer much pain, but languor and restlessness overpowered him often; and then the strong, kind arms of his elder brother never were wearied, even when the harvest-days were longest, but bore him from bed to couch, and from couch to bed again, till he could rest at last. Sometimes, when he could rest nowhere else, he would slumber a little while with his head on his sister's shoulder, and her arms clasped about him.
When a friend came in to sit with him for a while, or when he was easy or slumbered through the day, Shenac made herself busy with household matters; for, what with the milk and the wool and the harvest-people, Shenac Dhu had more than she could well do, even with the help of her handmaid Maggie, and her sister strove to lighten the labour. But the care of her brother was the work that fell to her now, and at night she never left him. She slept by snatches in the great chair when he slept, and whiled away the wakeful hours when his restless turns came on.
She was not doing too much for her strength; she was quite fit for it all. The neighbours were more than kind, and many of them would gladly have shared the watching at night with her; but Hamish was not used to have any one else about him, and it could hardly be called watching, for she slept all she needed. And, besides, it was harvest-time, and all were busy in the fields, and those who worked all day could not watch at night. She was quite well--a little thin and pale--"bleached," her aunt said, by being in the house and not out in the harvest-field; but she was always alert and cheerful.
The coming sorrow was more hers than any of the others. They all thought with dismay of the time when Shenac should be alone, with half her heart in the grave of Hamish. But she did not look beyond the end to that time, and sought no sympathy because of this.
It is a happy, thing that they who bear the burdens of others by this means lighten their own; and Shenac, careful for her young brothers and little Flora, anxious that the few hushed moments in their brother's room--his prayers, his loving words, his gentle patience, his immortal hope--should henceforth be blended with all their inward life, never to be forgotten, never to be set aside, thought more of them than of herself through all those days and nights of waiting.
When a sudden shower or a rainy day gave the harvesters a little leisure, she used to make herself busy in the house that Dan might feel himself of use to Hamish, and might hear, with no one else to listen, a sweet, persuasive word or two from his dying brother's lips.
For Shenac's heart yearned over her brother Dan. He did so need some high aim, some powerful motive of action, some strengthening, guiding principle of life. All need this; but Dan more than others, she thought. If he did not go straight to the mark, he would go very far astray. He would soon be his own master, free to guide himself, and he would either do very well or very ill in life; and there had been times, even since the coming home of Allister, when Shenac feared that "very ill" it was to be.
And yet at one time he had seemed not very far from the kingdom. During all the long season of religious interest, no one had seemed more interested, in one way, than he. Without professing to be personally earnest in the matter, he had attended all the meetings, and watched-- with curiosity, perhaps, but with awe and interest too--the coming out from the world of many of his companions, their changed life, their higher purpose. But all this had passed away without any real change to himself, and, as a reaction from that time, Dan had grown a little more than careless--very willing to be called careless, and more, by some who grieved, and by others who laughed.
So Shenac watched and prayed, and forgot herself in longings that, amid the influences of a time so solemn and so sweet, Dan might find that which should make him wise and strong, and place him far beyond all her doubts and fears for ever.
It was a day in the beginning of harvest--a rainy day, coming after so long a time of drought and dust and heat that all rejoiced in it, even though it fell on golden sheaves and on long swaths of new-cut grain. It was not a misty, drizzling rain; it came down with a will in sudden showers, leaving little pools in the chip-yard and garden-paths. Every now and then the clouds broke away, as if they were making preparation for the speedy return of the sunshine; but the sun did not show his face till he had only time to tinge the clouds with golden glory before he sank behind the forest.
"Carry me to the window, Dan," said Hamish. "Thank you: that is nice. You carry me as strongly and firmly as Allister himself. You are as strong, and nearly as tall, I think," continued he, when he had been placed in the great chair and had rested a little. At any other time Dan would have straightened himself up to declare how he was an eighth of an inch taller than Allister, or he would have attempted some extraordinary feat--such as lifting the stove or the chest of drawers-- to prove his right to be called a strong man. But, looking down on his brother's fragile form and beautiful colourless face, other thoughts moved him. Love and compassion, for which no words could be found, filled his heart and looked out from his wistful eyes. It came to him as it had never come before--what a sorrowful, suffering life his brother's had been; and now he was dying! Hamish seemed not to need words in order that he might understand his thoughts.
"I used to fret about it, Dan; but that is all past. It does not matter, as I am lying now. I would not change my weakness for your strength to-day, dear lad."
A last bright ray of sunlight lighted up the fair, smiling face, and flecked with golden gleams the curls that lay about it. There came into Dan's mind thoughts of the time when Hamish was a little lad, strong and merry as any of them all; and his heart was moved with vague wonder and regret at the mystery that had changed his happy life to one of suffering and comparative helplessness. And yet, what did it matter, now that the end had come? Perhaps all that trouble and pain had helped to make the brightness of to-day, for there was no shadow in the dying eyes, no regret for the past, no fear for the future. He let his own eyes wander from his brother's face away to the clouds and the sinking sun and the illuminated forest, with a vague notion that, if his feelings were not suppressed, he should do dishonour to his manliness soon. Hamish touched his hand, as he said,-- "It looks dark to you, Dan, with the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer; but it is only a shadow, lad, only a shadow, and I am not afraid."
Dan felt that he must break down if he met that smile a moment longer, and, with a sudden wrench, he turned himself away; but he could not have spoken a word, if his reputation for strength had depended on it. Hamish spoke first.
"Sit down, lad, if you are not needed, and read a while to me, till Shenac comes back again."
"All right," said Dan. He could endure it with something to do, he thought. "What book, Hamish?"
"There is only one book now, Dan, lad," said Hamish as he lifted the little, worn Bible from the window-seat.
Dan could do several things better than he could read, but he took the book from his brother's hand. Even reading would be better than silence--more easily borne.
"Anywhere, I suppose?" said he.
The book opened naturally at a certain place, where it had often been opened before, and he read:-- "Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ."
The sigh of satisfaction with which Hamish laid himself back, as the words came slowly, said more to Dan than a sermon could have done. He read on, thinking, as verse by verse passed his lips, "That is for Hamish," till he came to this:-- "For if when we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life."
"Was this for Hamish only?" Dan's voice was not quite smooth through this verse; it quite broke down when he tried the next; and then his face was hidden, and the sobs that had been gathering all this time burst forth.
"Why, Dan, lad! what is it, Dan?" said Hamish; and the thin, transparent fingers struggled for a moment to withdraw the great, brown, screening hands from his eyes. Then his arm was laid across his brother's neck. "They are all for you, Dan, as well as for me," he murmured. "O Dan, do not sob like that. Look up, dear brother, I have something to say to you."
If I were to report the broken words that followed, they might not seem to have much meaning or weight; but, falling from those dear dying lips, they came with power to the heart of Dan. And this was but the beginning. The veil being once lifted from Dan's heart, he did not shrink again from his brother's gentle and faithful ministrations. There were few days after that in which the brothers were not left alone together for a little while. Though the days were not many, in Dan's life they counted more than all the years that had gone before.
The harvest was drawing to a close before the last day came. The dawn was breaking after a long and weary night More than once, during the slowly-passing hours, Shenac had turned to the door to call her brothers; but thoughts of the long laborious day restrained her, and now a little respite had come. Hamish slumbered peacefully. It was not very long, however, before his eyes opened on his sister's face with a smile.
"It is drawing nearer, my Shenac," he murmured.
Her answering smile was tearful, but very bright.
"Yes, it is drawing nearer."
"And you do not grudge me to my rest, dear?"
"No; even at my worst time I did not do that. For myself, the way looked weary; but at the very worst time I was glad for you."
The brightness of her tearful smile never changed till his weary eyes closed again. The day passed slowly. They thought him dying in the afternoon, and they all gathered in his room; but he revived, and when night came he was left alone with Shenac. There were others up in the house all night, and now and then a face looked in at the open door; but they slept, or seemed to sleep--Shenac in the great chair, with her head laid on her brother's pillow and her bright hair mingling with his. On her cheek, pale with watching and with awe of the presence that overshadowed them, one thin, white hand was laid. The compressed lips and dimmed eyes of Hamish never failed to smile as in answer to his touch she murmured some tender word--not her own, but _His_ whose words alone can avail when it comes to a time like this.
As the day dawned they gathered again--first Dan, then Allister and Shenac Dhu, then Flora and the little lads; for the change which cannot be mistaken had come to the dying face, and they waited in silence for the King's messenger. He slumbered peacefully with a smile upon his lips, but his eyes opened at last and fastened on his sister's face. She had never moved through the coming in of them all; she did not move now, but spoke his name.
"Hamish, bhodach!"
Did he see her?
"How bright it is in the west! It will be a fair day for the harvest to-morrow."
It must have been a glimpse of the "glory to be revealed" breaking through the dimness of death; for he did not see the dear face so close to his, and if he heard her voice, he was past all answering now. Just once again his lips moved, murmuring a name--the dearest of all--"Jesus;" and then he "saw him as he is."
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And having closed the once beaming eyes and straightened the worn limbs for the grave, Shenac's work at home was done. Through the days of waiting that followed, she sat in the great chair with folded hands. Many came and went, and lingered night and day in the house of death, as is the custom of this part of the country, now happily passing away; and through all the coming and going Shenac sat still. Sometimes she roused herself to answer the friends who came with well-meant sympathy; but oftener she sat silent, scarcely seeming to hear their words. She was "_resting_," she said to Dan, who watched her through those days with wistful and anxious eyes.
Yes, she was resting from the days and nights of watching, and from the labours and cares and anxieties of the years that had gone before. All her weariness seemed to fall upon her at once. Even when death enters the door, the cares and duties of such a household cannot be altogether laid aside. There was much to do with so many comers and goers; but there were helpful hands enough, and she took no part in the necessary work, but rested.
She took little heed of the preparations going on about her--different in detail, but in all the sad essentials the same, in hut and hall, at home and abroad--the preparations for burying our dead out of our sight. During the first day, Allister and his wife said, thankfully, to each other, "How calm she is!" The next day they said it a little anxiously. Then they watched for the reaction, feeling sure it must come, and longing that it should be over.
"It will be now," said Shenac Dhu as they brought in the coffin; and she waited at her sister's door to hear her cry out, that she might weep with her. But it was not then; nor afterwards, when the long, long procession moved away from the house so slowly and solemnly; nor when they stood around the open grave in the kirkyard. When the first clod fell on the coffin--oh, heart-breaking sound! --Dan made one blind step towards Shenac, and would have fallen but for Angus Dhu. Little Flora cried out wildly, and her sister held her fast. She did not shriek, nor swoon, nor break into weeping, as did Shenac Dhu; but "her face would never be whiter," said they who saw it, and many a kindly and anxious eye followed her as the long line of mourners slowly turned on their homeward way again.
After the first day or two, Shenac tried faithfully to fall back into her old household ways--or, rather, she tried to settle into some helpful place in her brother's household. The wheel was put to use again, and, indeed, there was need, for all things had lagged a little during the summer; and Shenac did her day's work, and more, as she used to do. She strove to be interested in the discussions of ways and means which Allister's wife was so fond of holding, but she did not always strive successfully. It was a weariness to her; everything was a weariness at times. It was very wrong, she said, and very strange, for she really did wish to be useful and happy in her brother's household. She thought little of going away now; she had not the heart for it. The thought of beginning some new, untried work made her weary, and the thought of going away among strangers made her afraid.
When it was suggested that she and little Flora should pay a long-promised visit to their uncle, at whose house Hamish had passed so many weeks, and that they should go soon, that they might have the advantage of the fine autumn weather, she shrank from the proposal in dismay.
"Not yet, Allister," she pleaded; "I shall like it by-and-by, but not yet."
So nothing of the kind was urged again. They made a mistake, however. A change of some kind was greatly needed by her at this time. Her brother's long illness and death had been a greater strain on her health and spirits than any one dreamed. She was not ill, but she was in that state when if she had been left to herself, or had had nothing to do, she might have become ill, or have grown to fancy herself so, which is a worse matter often, and worse to cure. As it was, with her good constitution and naturally cheerful spirit, she would have recovered herself in time, even if something had not happened to rouse and interest her.
But something did happen. Shenac went one fair October afternoon over the fields to the beech woods to gather nuts with Flora and the young lads, and before they returned a visitor had arrived. They fell in with Dan on their way home, and as they came in sight of the house, chatting together eagerly, there was something like the old light in Shenac's eye and the old colour in her cheek. If she had known whose eyes were watching her from the parlour window, she would hardly have lingered in the garden while the children spread their nuts on the old house-floor to dry. She did not know till she went into the house--into the room. She did not know till he was holding her hands in his, that Mr Stewart had come.
"Shenac, good, dear child, is it well with you?"
She had heard the words before. All the scene came back--the remembrance of the summer days, her dying brother and his friend--all that had happened since then. She strove to answer him--to say it was well, that she was glad to see him, and why had he not come before? But she could not for her tears. She struggled hard; but, long restrained, they came in a flood now. When she felt that to struggle was vain, she would have fled; but she was held fast, and the tears were suffered to have way for a while. When she could find voice, she said,-- "I am not grieving too much; you must not think that. Ask Allister. I did not mean to cry, but when I saw you it all came back."
Again her face was hidden, for her tears would not be stayed; but only one hand was given to the work. Mr Stewart held the other firmly, while he spoke just such words as she needed to hear of her brother and herself--of all they had been to each other, of all that his memory would be to her in the life that might lie before her. Then he spoke of the endless life which was before them, which they should pass together when this life--short at the very longest--should be over. She listened, and became quiet; and by-and-by, in answer to his questions, she found herself telling him of her brother's last days and words, and then, with a little burst of joyful tears, of Dan, and all that she hoped those days had brought to him.
Never since the old times, when she used "to empty her heart out" to Hamish, had she found such comfort in being listened to. When she came to the tea-table, after brushing away her tears, she seemed just as usual, Shenac Dhu thought; and yet not just the same, she found, when she looked again. She gave a little nod at her husband, who smiled back at her, and then she said softly to Mr Stewart,-- "You have done her good already."
Of course Mr Stewart, being a minister, whose office it is to do good to people, was very glad to have done good to Shenac. Perhaps he thought it best to let _well_ alone, for he did not speak to her again during tea-time, nor while she was gathering up the tea-things--"just as she used to do in the old house long ago," he said to himself. She washed them, too, there before them all; for it was Shenac Dhu's new china--Christie More's beautiful wedding present--that had been spread in honour of the occasion, and it was not to be thought of that they should be carried into the kitchen to be washed like common dishes. She was quiet, as usual, all the evening and at the time of worship, when Angus Dhu and his wife and Evan and some other neighbours, having heard of the minister's arrival, came in. She was just as usual, they all said, only she did not sing. If she had raised her voice in her brother's favourite psalm,-- "I to the hills will lift mine eyes," she must have cried again; and she was afraid of the tears which it seemed impossible to stop when once they found a way.
Mr Stewart fully intended for that night to "let well alone." Shenac had welcomed him warmly as the dearest friend of her dead brother, and he would be content for the present with that. He had something to say to her, and a question or two to ask; but he must wait a while, he thought. She must not be disturbed yet.
But when the neighbours were gone, and he found himself alone with her for a moment, he felt sorely tempted to change his mind. As he watched her sitting there with folded hands, so quiet and grave and sweet, so unconscious of his presence, as it seemed to him, a fear came over him-- a fear as to the answer his question might receive. It was not at all a pleasant state of mind. He endured it only while he walked up and down the room two or three times; then pausing beside her, he said softly,-- "Is this my Shenac?"
She looked up with only wonder in her eyes, he saw, with a little shock of pain; but he went on,-- "Hamish gave his sister to me, to keep and cherish always. Did he never tell you?"
"I do not understand you, Mr Stewart," said Shenac; but the sudden drooping of the eye and the rush of colour over her face seemed to say something else.
"To be my wife," he said, sitting down beside her and drawing her gently towards him. She did not resist, but she said hastily,-- "Oh, no; I am not fit for that."
"But if I am content, and can make you content?"
"But that is not enough. I am not fit. No; it is _not_ humility. I know myself, and I am not fit."
It is just possible that Mr Stewart wished that he had for that night "let well alone."
"But I must have it out with her, now that I have begun," he said to himself as he rose and went to the door, at which a footstep had paused. Whoever it was, no one came in; and, shutting the door, he came and sat down again.
In the meantime, Shenac had been calling up a vision of the new minister's wife, the one who had succeeded old Mr Farquharson, and, in view of the prettily-dressed, gentle-mannered, accomplished little lady that presented herself to her mind, she had repeated to herself, more emphatically,-- "No, I am _not_ fit."
So when Mr Stewart came back she was sitting with closely-folded hands, looking straight before her, very grave indeed. They were both silent for a moment; then Mr Stewart said,-- "Now, Shenac, tell me why."
Shenac started. "You must know quite well."
"But indeed I do not. Tell me, Shenac."
It was not easy to do so. In the unspeakable embarrassment that came over her, she actually thought of flight.
"I am not educated," she murmured. "I have never been anywhere but at home. I can only do common work. I am not fit."
"Hamish thought you fit," said Mr Stewart softly.
"Ah, yes; Hamish, bhodach!"
Her voice fell with such a loving cadence. All the pain and embarrassment passed out of her face, giving place to a soft and tender light, as she turned towards him.
"I was perfect in his eyes; but--you know better, Mr Stewart."
"The eyes of the dying are very clear to see things as they are," said Mr Stewart. "And as we sat at the end of the house that day, I think Hamish was more glad for me than for you. He was willing to give you to me, even for your sake; but he knew what a treasure he was giving to his friend, if I could win you for my own."
Her tears were falling softly. She did not try to speak.
"Will you tell me in what respect you think you are not fit?"
She did not know how to answer. She was deficient in so many ways--in every way, indeed, it seemed to her. She did not know where to begin; but she must speak, and quickly too, that she might get away before she quite broke down. Putting great force upon herself, she turned to him, and said,-- "I can do so few things; I know so little. I could keep your house, and--and care for you in that way; but I have seen so little. I am only an ignorant country girl--" "Yes; I thought that myself once," said Mr Stewart.
"You must have thought it many times," said Shenac with a pang. It was not pleasant to hear it from his lips, let it be ever so true. But it took the quiver from her voice, and gave her courage to go on, "And all you care for is so different from anything I have ever seen or known, I should be quite left out of your real life. You do not need me for that, I know; but I don't think I could bear it--to be so near you and so little to you."
She rose to go. She was trembling very much, and could hardly utter the words.
"You are very kind, and I thank you; but--you know I am not fit. An ignorant country girl--you have said so yourself."
"Shall I tell you when I thought so, Shenac? Do you mind the night that I brought little Flora home, crying with the cold? It was the first time I saw your face. Do you mind how you comforted Flora, and put the little lads to shame for having left her? And then you thanked me, and asked me to sit down. And do you mind how you made pancakes for supper, and never let one of them burn, though you were listening all the time to Hamish and me? I remember everything that happened that night, Shenac--how you put away the things, and made a new band for the mother's wheel, and took up the lost loops in little Flora's stocking. Then you helped the little lads with their tables, and kept Dan in order, listening all the time to your brother and me; and, best of all, you bade me be sure and come again. Have you forgotten, Shenac?"
"It was for the sake of Hamish," said Shenac, dropping her head; but she raised it again quickly. "That does not make any difference."
"Listen. That night, as I went over the fields to Angus Dhu's, I said to myself that if ever I grew strong and well again, if ever I should live to have a kirk and a manse of my own--was I too bold, Shenac? --I said to myself you should help me to do my work in them as I ought."
Shenac shook her head.
"It was not a wise thought. You little know how unfit I was then, how unfit I am now."
"Say that you do not care for me, Shenac," said Mr Stewart gravely.
"No, I cannot say that; it would not be true. I mean, that has nothing to do with my being fit."
Mr Stewart thought it had a great deal to do with it, but he did not say so.
"You said you would be left out of my real life. What do you mean, Shenac? Do you know what my life's work is to be? It is, with God's help, to be of use to souls. Don't you care for that, Shenac? Do you think a year or two of life in the world--common life--could be to you what these months by your brother's death-bed have been, as a preparation for real life-work--yours and mine? Do you think that any school could do for you what all these years of forgetting yourself and caring for others have done--all your loving patience with your afflicted mother, all your care of your sister and the little lads, all your forbearance with Dan, all your late joy in him? If you cared for me, Shenac, you would not say you are not fit."
It was very pleasant to listen to all this. There was some truth in it, too, Shenac could not but acknowledge. He was very much in earnest, at any rate, and sincere in every word, except perhaps the last He wanted to hear her say again that she eared for him; but she did not fall into the trap, whether she saw it or not.
"I know I care for your work," she said, "and you are right--in one way. I think all our cares and troubles have done me good, have made me see things differently. But I could not help you much, I'm afraid."
"Don't say that, Shenac; you could give me what I need most--sympathy; you could help my weakness with your strength and courage of spirit. Think what you were to Hamish. You would be tenfold more to me. Oh, I need you so much, Shenac!"
"Hamish was different. You would have a right to expect more than Hamish."
But she grew brave again, and, looking into his face, said,-- "I do sympathise in your work, Mr Stewart, and I would like it to be mine in a humble way; but there are so many things that I cannot speak about. Think of your own sisters. How different I must be from them! Allister and Shenac saw your sister Jessie when they were in M---, and they said she was so accomplished--such a perfect little lady--and yet so good and sweet and gentle. No, Mr Stewart, I could never bear to have people say your wife was not worthy of you, even though I might know it to be true."
"I was thinking how our bonnie little Jessie might sit at your feet to learn everything--almost everything--that it is worth a woman's while to know."
"You are laughing at me now," said she, troubled.
"No, I am not; and, Shenac, you must not go. I have a question to ask. I should have begun with it. Will you answer me simply and truly, as Hamish would have wished his sister to answer his friend?"
"I will try," said she, looking up with a peculiar expression that always came at the name of Hamish. He bent down and whispered it.
"I have always thought you wise and good, more than any one, and--" There was another pause.
"It is a pleasant thing to hear that you have always thought me wise and good; but you have not answered my question, Shenac."
"Yes, I do care for you, Mr Stewart. It would make me happy to share your work; but I am not fit for it--at least, not yet."
In his joy and simplicity he thought all the rest would be easy; and, to tell the truth, so did Allister and his wife, who ought to have known our Shenac better. When Shenac Dhu kissed her, and whispered something about Christmas, and how they could ever bear to lose her so soon, Shenac spoke. She was going away before Christmas, and they could spare her very well; but she was not going with Mr Stewart for two years at the very least Allister had told her there was something laid up for her against the time she should need it, and it would be far better that she should use it to furnish her mind than to furnish her house; and she was going to school.
"To school!" repeated Mrs Allister in dismay. "Does Mr Stewart know?"
"No; you must tell him, Shenac--you and Allister. I am not fit to be his wife. You will not have people saying--saying things. You must see it, Shenac. I know so little; and it makes me quite wretched to think of going among strangers, I am so shy and awkward. I am not fit to be a minister's wife," she added with a little laugh that was half a sob. Shenac Dhu laughed too, and clapped her hands.
"A minister's wife, no less! Our Shenac!" And then she added gravely, "I think you are right, Shenac. I know you are good enough and dear enough to be Mr Stewart's wife, though he were the prince of that name, if there be such a person. But there are little things that folk can only learn by seeing them in others, and I think you are quite right; but you will not get Mr Stewart to think so."
"If it is right he will come to think so; and you must be on my side, Shenac--you and Allister, too."
Shenac Dhu promised, but in her heart she thought that her sister would not be suffered to have her own way in this matter. She was mistaken, however. Shenac was firm without the use of many words. She cared for him, but she was not fit to be his wife yet. This was the burden of her argument, gone over and over in all possible ways; and the first part was so sweet to Mr Stewart that he was fain to take patience and let her have her own way in the rest.
In Shenac's country, happily, it is not considered a strange thing that a young girl should wish to pursue her education even after she is twenty, so she had no discomfort to encounter on the score of being out of her 'teens. She lived first with her cousin, Christie More, who no longer occupied rooms behind her husband's shop, but a handsome house at a reasonable distance towards the west end of the town. Afterwards she lived in the school-building, because it gave her more time and a better chance for study. She spent all the money that Allister had put aside for her; but she was moderately successful in her studies, and considered it well spent.
And when the time for the furnishing of the western manse came, there was money forthcoming for that too; for Angus Dhu had put aside the interest of the sum sent to him by Allister for her use from the very first, meaning it always to furnish her house. It is possible that it was another house he had been thinking of then; but he gave it to her now in a way that greatly increased its value in her eyes, kissing her and blessing her before them all.
All these years Shenac's work has been constant and varied; her duties have been of the humblest and of the highest, from the cutting and contriving, the making and mending of little garments, to the guiding of wandering feet and the comforting of sorrowful souls. In the manse there have been the usual Saturday anxieties and Monday despondencies, needing cheerful sympathy and sometimes patient forbearance. In the parish there have been times of trouble and times of rejoicing; times when the heavens have seemed brass above, and the earth beneath, iron; and times when the church has been "like a well-watered garden," having its trees "filled with the fruits of righteousness." And in the manse and in the parish Shenac has never, in her husband's estimation, failed to fill well her allotted place.
The firm health and cheerful temper which helped her through the days before Allister came home, have helped her to bear well the burdens which other years have brought to her. The firm will, the earnest purpose, the patience, the energy, the forgetfulness of self, which made her a stronghold of hope to her mother and the rest in the old times, have made her a tower of strength in her home and among the people. And each passing year has deepened her experience and brightened her hope, has given her clearer views of God's truth and a clearer sense of God's love; and thus she has grown yearly more fit to be a helper in the great work beside which all other work seems trifling--the work in which God has seen fit to make his people co-workers with himself--the work of gathering in souls, to the everlasting glory of his name.
And so, when her work on earth is over, there shall a glad "Well done!" await her in heaven.
THE END.
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{
"id": "21227"
}
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1
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JENNY PREPARES TO GO A-JOURNEYING.
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"Jenny, my dear maid, thou wilt never fetch white meal out of a sack of sea-coal." Jenny tossed her head. It would have been a nice little brown head, if it had not been quite so fond of tossing itself. But Jenny was just sixteen, and laboured under a delusion which besets young folks of that age--namely, that half the brains in the world had got into her head, and very few had been left in her grandmother's.
"I don't know what you mean, Grandmother," said Jenny, as an accompaniment to that toss.
"O Jenny, Jenny! what a shocking thing of you to say, when you knew what your grandmother meant as well as you knew your name was Jane Lavender!"
"I rather think thou dost, my lass," said old Mrs Lavender quietly.
"Well, I suppose you mean to run down Mr Featherstone," said Jenny, pouting. "You're always running him down. And there isn't a bit of use in it--not with me. I like him, and I always shall. He's such a gentleman, and always so soft-spoken. But I believe you like that clod-hopper Tom Fenton, ever so much better. I can't abide him."
"There's a deal more of the feather than the stone about Robin Featherstone, lass. If he be a stone, he's a rolling one. Hasn't he been in three places since he came here?"
"Yes, because they didn't use him right in none of 'em. Wanted him to do things out of his place, and such like. Why, at Hampstead Hall, they set him to chop wood."
"Well, why not?" asked Mrs Lavender, knitting away.
"Because it wasn't his place," answered Jenny, indignantly. "It made his hands all rough, and he's that like a gentleman he couldn't stand it."
"Tom Fenton would have done it, I shouldn't wonder."
"As if it would have mattered to Tom Fenton, with his great red hands! They couldn't be no rougher than they are, if he chopped wood while Christmas. Besides, it's his trade--wood-chopping is. Mr Featherstone's some'at better nor a carpenter."
"They're honest hands, if they are red, Jenny."
"And he's a cast in his eyes."
"Scarcely. Anyhow, he's none in his heart."
"And his nose turns up!"
"Not as much as thine, Jenny."
"Mine!" cried Jenny, in angry amazement, "Grandmother, what will you say next? My nose is as straight as--as the church tower."
"Maybe it is, in general, my lass. But just now thou art turning it up at poor Tom." " `Poor Tom,' indeed!" said Jenny, in a disgusted tone. "He'd best not come after me, or I'll `poor Tom' him. I want none of him, I can tell you."
"Well, Jenny, don't lose thy temper over Tom, or Robin either. Thou'rt like the most of maids--they'll never heed the experience of old folks. If thou wilt not be `ruled by the rudder, thou must be ruled by the rock.' `All is not gold that glitters,' and I'm afeard thou shalt find it so, poor soul! But I can't put wisdom into thee; I can only pray the Lord to give it thee. Be thy bags packed up?"
"Ay," said Jenny, rather sulkily.
"And all ready to set forth?"
"There's just a few little things to see to yet."
"Best go and see to them, then."
Mrs Lavender knitted quietly on, and Jenny shut the door with a little more of a slam than it quite needed, and ran up to her own room, where she slept with her elder sister.
"Jenny, thy bags are not locked," said her sister, as she came in.
"Oh, let be, Kate, do! Grandmother's been at me with a whole heap of her old saws, till I'm worn out. I wish nobody had ever spoke one of 'em."
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, she's at me about Robin Featherstone: wants me to give up keeping company with him, and all that. Tom Fenton's her pattern man, and a pretty pattern he is. I wouldn't look at him if there wasn't another man in Staffordshire. Robin's a gentleman, and Tom's a clown."
"I don't see how you are to give up Robin, when you are going into the very house where he lives."
"Of course not. 'Tis all rubbish! I wish old women would hold their tongues. I'm not going to Bentley Hall to sit mewed up in my mistress' chamber, turning up the whites of my eyes, and singing Psalms through my nose. I mean to lead a jolly life there, I can tell you, for all Grandmother. It really is too bad of old folks, that can't knock about and enjoy their lives, to pen up young maids like so many sheep. I shall never be young but once, and I want some pleasure in my life."
"All right," said Kate lightly. "I scarce think they turn up the whites of their eyes at Bentley Hall. Have your fling, Jenny--only don't go _too_ far, look you."
"I can take care of myself, thank you," returned Jenny scornfully. "Lock that striped bag for me, Kate, there's a darling; there's father calling downstairs."
And Jenny ran off, to cry softly in a high treble to Kate, a minute afterwards--"Supper!"
Supper was spread in the large kitchen of the farmhouse. Jenny's father was a tenant farmer, his landlord being Colonel Lane, of Bentley Hall, and it was to be maid (or, as they said then, "lady's woman") to the Colonel's sister, that Jenny was going to the Hall. Mrs Jane was much younger than her brother, being only six years older than Jenny herself. In the present day she would be called Miss Jane, but in 1651 only little girls were termed _Miss_. Jenny had always been rather a pet, both with Mrs Lane and her daughter; for she was a bright child, who learned easily, and could repeat the Creed and the Ten Commandments as glibly as possible when she was only six years old. Unhappily, lessons were apt to run out of Jenny's head as fast as they ran in, except when frequently demanded; but the Creed and the Commandments had to stay there, for every Saturday night she was called on to repeat them to her Grandmother, and every Sunday afternoon she had to say them at the catechising in church. In Jenny's head, therefore, they remained; but down to Jenny's heart they never penetrated.
It was only now that Mrs Jane was setting up a maid for herself. Hitherto she had been served by her mother's woman; but now she was going on a visit to some relatives near Bristol, and it was thought proper that she should have a woman of her own. And when the question was asked where the maid should be sought, Mrs Jane had said at once--"Oh, let me have little Jenny Lavender!"
Farmer Lavender was not quite so ready to let Jenny go as Mrs Jane was to ask it. Bristol seemed to him a long way off, and, being a town, most likely a wicked place. Those were days in which people made their wills before they took a journey of a hundred miles; and no wonder, when the roads were so bad that men had frequently to be hired to walk beside a gentleman's carriage, and give it a push to either side, when it showed an inclination to topple over; or oxen sometimes were fetched, to pull the coach out of a deep quagmire of mud, from which only one half of it was visible. So Farmer Lavender shook his head, and said "he didn't know, no, he didn't, whether he'd let his little maid go." But Mrs Jane was determined--and so was Jenny; and between them they conquered the farmer, though his old mother was on the prudent side. This was Friday, and Mrs Jane was to leave home on Tuesday; and on Saturday afternoon, Robert Featherstone, Colonel Lane's valet, whom Jenny thought such a gentleman, was to come for her and her luggage.
If a gentleman be a man who never does any useful thing that he can help, then Mr Robin Featherstone was a perfect gentleman--much more so than his master, who was ready to put his hand to any work that wanted doing. Mr Featherstone thought far more of his elegant white hands than the Colonel did of his, and oiled his chestnut locks at least three times as often. He liked the Colonel's service, because he had very little to do, and there were plenty of people in the house as idle and feather-pated as himself. Colonel Lane was in Robin's eyes a good master, though old Mrs Lavender thought him a bad one. That is, he allowed his servants to neglect their work with very little censure, and took no notice of their employments during their leisure hours. And Satan was not a bit less busy in 1651 than he is in 1895, in finding mischief for idle hands to do. Leisure time is to a man what he chooses to make it--either a great blessing or a great curse. And just then, for those who chose the last, the disturbed and unsettled state of the country offered particular opportunities.
The war between the King and the Parliament was just over. Charles the First had been beheaded at Whitehall nearly two years before; and though his son, Charles the Second, was still in England, fighting to recover his father's kingdom, it was pretty plainly to be seen that his struggle was a hopeless one. The great battle of Worcester, which ended the long conflict, had been fought about three weeks before, and the young King had only just escaped with his life, through the bravery of his gallant troops, who made a desperate stand in the street, keeping the victors at bay while their commander fled to a place of concealment.
The Cavaliers, as Charles's troops were called, had few virtues beyond their loyalty and courage. After their dispersion at Worcester, they spread over the country in small parties, begging, stealing, or committing open ravages. Many of the Parliamentary troops--not all-- were grave, sensible, God-fearing men, who were only concerned to do what they believed was right and righteous. Much fewer of the Cavaliers had any such aim, beyond their devotion to the monarchy, and their enthusiastic determination to uphold it. They were mostly gay, rollicking fellows, with little principle, and less steadfastness, who squandered their money on folly, if nothing worse; and then helped themselves to other people's goods without any uneasiness of conscience.
Colonel Lane was a Cavalier, and devoted to the King, and most of his tenants were Cavaliers also. A few were Roundheads--staunch adherents of the Parliament; and a few more had no very strong convictions on either side, and while they chiefly preferred the monarchy, would have been content with any settlement which allowed them to live honest and peaceable lives. Old Mrs Lavender belonged to this last class. If asked which side she was on, she would have said, "For the King"; but in her heart she had no enmity to either. Her son was a warmer politician; Jenny, being sixteen, was a much warmer still, and as Robin Featherstone, her hero, was a Cavalier, so of course was she.
We have given the worthy farmer and his family a good while to sit down to supper, which that night included a kettle of furmety, a mermaid pie, and a taffaty tart. What were they? A very reasonable question, especially as to the mermaid pie, since mermaids are rather scarce articles in the market. Well, a mermaid pie was made of pork and eels, and was terribly rich and indigestible; a taffaty tart was an apple-pie, seasoned with lemon-peel and fennel-seed; and the receipt for furmety--a very famous and favourite dish with our forefathers--I give as it stands in a curious little book, entitled, _The Compleat Cook_, printed in 1683.
"Take a quart of cream, a quarter of a pound of French barley, the whitest you can get, and boyl it very tender in three or four several waters, and let it be cold; then put both together. Put into it a blade of mace, a nutmeg cut in quarters, a race of ginger cut in four or five pieces, and so let it boyl a good while, still stirring, and season it with sugar to your taste; then take the yolks of four eggs, and beat them with a little cream, and stir them into it, and so let it boyl a little after the eggs are in: then have ready blanched and beaten twenty almonds (kept from oyling), with a little rosewater; then take a boulter strainer, and rub your almonds with a little of your furmety through the strainer, but set on the fire no more: and stir in a little salt, and a little sliced nutmeg, pickt out of the great pieces of it, and put it in a dish, and serve it."
The farmhouse family consisted only of Farmer Lavender, his mother, and his two daughters, Kate and Jenny. But fifteen people sat down to supper: for the whole household, including the farmer's men down to the little lad who scared the crows, all ate together in the big kitchen. Mrs Lavender sat at the head of the table, the farmer at the other end, with Jenny on his right hand: for there was in the father's heart a very warm place for his motherless Jenny.
"All ready to set forth, my lass?" he said gently--perhaps a little sadly. "Yes, Father, all ready."
"Art thou glad to go, child?"
"I'd like well to see the world, Father."
"Well, well! I mind the time when I'd ha' been pleased enough to have thy chance, my lass. Be a good girl, and forget not the good ways thy grandmother has learned thee, and then I cast no doubt thou'lt do well."
Jenny assented with apparent meekness, inwardly purposing to forget them as fast as she could. She ran into the garden when supper was over, to gather a nosegay, if possible, of the few flowers left at that time of year. She was just tucking a bit of southernwood into her bodice, when a voice on the other side of the hedge said softly,-- "Jenny."
"Well, what do you want, Tom Fenton?" responded Jenny, in a tone which was not calculated to make her visitor feel particularly welcome.
It was one of Jenny's standing grievances against Tom, that he would call her by her name. Robin Featherstone called her plain "Mrs Jenny," which pleased her vanity much better.
"You're really going to-morrow, Jenny?"
"Of course I am," said Jenny.
"You'll forget me, like as not," said Tom, earnestly hoping to be contradicted.
"Of course I shall," replied Jenny flippantly.
"I wish you wouldn't, Jenny," said Tom, with a meek humility that should have disarmed Jenny's resentment, but only increased it. Like many other foolish people, Jenny was apt to mistake pert speeches for cleverness, and gentleness for want of manly spirit. "I wish you wouldn't, Jenny. There isn't a soul as thinks as much of you as I do, not in all the country-side. Nor there isn't one as 'll miss you like me."
"I just wish you'd take up with somebody else, and give over plaguing me," said Jenny mercilessly. "There's Ruth Merston, and Dolly Campion, and Abigail--" "I don't want ne'er a one on 'em," answered Tom, in a rather hurt tone. "I've never thought, not a minute, o' nobody but you, Jenny, not since we was a little lad and lass together. I've always loved you, Jenny. Haven't you ne'er a kind word for me afore we part? May be a long day ere we shall meet again."
"I'm sure I hope it will," said Jenny, half vexed at Tom's pertinacity, and half amusing herself, for she thought it good fun to tease him.
"Don't you care the least bit for me, Jenny, dear?"
"No, I don't. Why should I?"
"But you used, Jenny, once. Didn't you, now? That day I brought you them blue ribbons you liked so well, you said--don't you mind what you said, dear heart?"
"I said a deal o' nonsense, I shouldn't wonder. Don't be a goose, Tom! You can't think to bind a girl to what she says when you give her blue ribbons."
"I'd be bound to what I said, ribbons or no ribbons," said Tom firmly. "But I see how it is--it's that scented idiot, Featherstone, has come betwixt you and me. O Jenny, my dear love, don't you listen to him! He'll not be bound to a word he says the minute it's not comfortable to keep it. He'll just win your heart, Jenny, and then throw you o' one side like a withered flower, as soon as ever he sees a fresh one as suits him better. My dear maid--" "I'm sure I'm mighty obliged to you, Mr Fenton!" said Jenny, really angry now. "It's right handsome of you to liken me to a withered flower. Mr Featherstone's a gentleman in a many of his ways, and that's more nor you are, and I wish you good evening."
"Jenny, my dear, don't 'ee, now--" But Jenny was gone.
Tom turned sorrowfully away. Before he had taken two steps, he was arrested by a kindly voice.
"You made a mistake, there, Tom," it said. "But don't you lose heart; it isn't too bad to be got over."
Tom stopped at once, and went back to the hedge, whence that kindly voice had spoken.
"Is that you, Kate?" he said.
"Ay," answered the voice of Jenny's sister. Kate was not a very wise girl, but she was less flighty and foolish than Jenny; and she had a kind heart, which made her always wish to help anyone in trouble. "Tom, don't be in a taking; but you've made a mistake, as I said. You know not how to handle such a maid as Jenny."
"What should I have said, Kate? I'm fair beat out of heart, and you'll make me out of charity with myself if you tell me 'tis my own fault."
"Oh, not so ill as that, Tom! But next time she bids you go and take up with somebody else, just tell her you mean to do so, and `there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.' That's the way to tackle the likes of her; not to look struck into the dumps, and fetch sighs like a windmill."
"But I don't mean it, Kate," said Tom, looking puzzled.
"Oh, be not so peevish, Tom! Can't you _say_ so?"
"No," answered Tom, with sudden gravity; "I can't, truly. I've alway looked for Jenny to be my wife one day, ever since I was as high as those palings; but I'll not win her by untruth. There'd be no blessing from the Lord on that sort of work. I can't, Kate Lavender."
"Well, I never did hear the like!" exclaimed Kate. "You can't think so much of Jenny as I reckoned you did, if you stick at nought in that way."
"I think more of Jenny than of anyone else in the world, Kate, and you know it," said Tom, with a dignity which Kate could not help feeling. "But I think more yet of Him that's above the world. No, no! If ever I win Jenny--and God grant I may I--I'll win her righteously, not lyingly. I thank you for your good meaning, all the same."
"Good even to you both!" said an old man's voice; and they turned to see the speaker coming down the lane. He was a venerable-looking man, clad in a long brown coat, girt to him by a band of rough leather; his long, silvery hair fell over his shoulders, and under his arm was a large, clasped book, in a leather cover which had seen much service.
"Uncle Anthony!" cried Tom. "I knew not you were back. Are you on your way up the hill? Here, prithee, leave me carry your book. Good even, Kate, and I thank you!"
"Good even!" said Kate, with a nod to both; and Tom tucked the big book under his own arm, and went forward with the traveller.
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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2
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HOW JENNY FARED THE FIRST EVENING.
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"Well, for sure, Aunt Persis will be some fain to see you!" said Tom Fenton, as he and his uncle, old Anthony, went forward up the hill. "But whence come you, now, Uncle? Are you very weary? Eh, but I'm glad you've won home safe!"
"God bless thee, my lad! Ay, He's brought me home safe. A bit footsore, to be sure, and glad enough of rest: but gladder to be suffered to do His will, and minister to His suffering servants. Whence come I? Well, from Kidderminster, to-day; but--" "Dear heart! but you never footed it all the way from Kidderminster?"
"No, no, dear lad. A good man gave me a lift for a matter o' eight miles or more. But, dear me! I mind the time I could ha' run nigh on a mile in five minutes, and ha' trudged my forty mile a day, nor scarce felt it. I reckon, Tom, lad, thou'rt not so lissome as I was at thy years. Well, to be sure! 'Tis all right; I'm only a good way nearer Home."
They walked on together for a few minutes in silence. Tom's thoughts had gone back from the momentary pleasure of welcoming his uncle, to whom he was greatly attached, to his sore disappointment about Jenny.
"What is it, Tom?" said the old man quietly.
"Oh, only a bit of trouble, Uncle. Nought I need cumber you with."
"Jenny Lavender?" was the next suggestion.
"Ay. I thought not you knew how I'd set my heart on her, ever since she was that high," said Tom, indicating a length of about a yard. "I've never thought o' none but her all my life. But she's that taken up with a sorry popinjay of a fellow, she'll not hear me now. I'd always thought Jenny'd be my wife."
Poor Tom's voice was very doleful, for his heart was sore.
"Thou'd alway thought so," said the quiet voice. "But what if the Lord thinks otherway, Tom?"
Tom came to a sudden stop.
"Uncle Anthony! Eh, but you don't--" and Tom's words went no further.
"My lad, thou'rt but a babe in Christ. 'Tisn't so many months since thou first set foot in the narrow way. Dost thou think He means Jenny Lavender for thee, and that thy feet should run faster in the way of His commandments for having her running alongside thee? Art thou well assured she wouldn't run the other way?"
Old Anthony had spoken the truth. Tom was but a very young Christian, of some six months' standing. He had never dreamed of any antagonism arising between his love to Christ and his love to Jenny Lavender. Stay--had he not? What was that faint something, without a name--a sort of vague uneasiness, which had seemed to creep over him whenever he had seen her during those months--a sense of incongruity between her light prattle and his own inmost thoughts and holiest feelings? It was so slight that as yet he had never faced it. He recognised now it was because his heart had refused to face it. And conscience told him, speaking loudly this time, that he must hold back no longer.
"Uncle Anthony," he said, in a troubled voice, "I'm sore afeard I've not set the Lord afore me in that matter. I never saw it so afore. But now you've set me on it, I can't deny that we shouldn't pull same way. But what then? Must I give her up? Mayn't I pray the Lord to touch her heart, and give her to me, any longer?"
The old man looked into the sorrowful eyes of the young man, whom he loved as dearly as if he had been his own son.
"Dear lad," he said, "pray the Lord to bring her to Himself. That's safe to be His will, for He willeth not the death of a sinner. But as to giving her to thee, if I were thou, Tom, I'd leave that with Him. Meantime, thy way's plain. `Be ye not unequally yoked together.' The command's clear as daylight. Never get a clog to thy soul. Thou canst live without Jenny Lavender; but couldst thou live without Jesus Christ?"
Tom shook his head, without speaking.
"To tell truth, Tom, I'm not sorry she's going away. Maybe the Lord's sending her hence, either to open her eyes and send her back weary and cloyed with the world she's going into so gaily now, or else to open thine, and show thee plain, stripped of outside glitter, the real thing she is, that thou mayest see what a sorry wife she would make to a Christian man. No, I'm not sorry. And unless I mistake greatly, Tom, the time's coming when thou shalt not be sorry neither. In the meantime, `tarry thou the Lord's leisure.' If He be the chief object of thy desire, thy desire is safe to be fulfilled. `This is the will of God, even our sanctification.'"
They turned to the left at the top of the hill, and went a few yards along the lane, to a little cottage embowered in ivy, which was Anthony's home.
"Wilt thou come in, Tom, lad?"
"No, Uncle, I thank you. You've opened my eyes, but it's made 'em smart a bit too much to face the light as yet. I'll take a sharp trudge over the moor, and battle it out with myself."
"Take the Lord with thee, lad. Satan'll have thee down if thou doesn't. He's strong and full o' wiles, and if he can't conquer thee in his black robe, he'll put on a white one. There's no harm in thy saying to the Lord, `Lord, Thou knowest that I love Jenny Lavender'; but take care that it does not come before, `Lord, Thou knowest that I love _Thee_.' Maybe He's putting the same question to thee to-night, that He did to Peter at the lake-side."
"Ay, ay, Uncle. I'll not forget. God bless thee!"
Tom wrung old Anthony's hand, and turned away.
One moment the old man paused before he went in.
"Lord, Thou lovest the lad better than I do," he said, half aloud. "Do Thy best for him!"
Then he lifted the latch, and met a warm welcome from his wife Persis.
"Mrs Jenny, your servant!" said the smooth tones of Robin Featherstone at the farmhouse door, about twenty hours later. "The horse awaits your good pleasure, and will only be less proud to bear you than I shall to ride before you."
Jenny's silly little heart fluttered at the absurd compliment.
"Farewell, Grandmother," she said, going up to the old lady. "Pray, your blessing."
Old Mrs Lavender laid her trembling hand on the girl's head.
"May God bless thee, my maid, and make thee a blessing! I have but one word for thee at the parting, and if thou wilt take it as thy motto for life, thou mayest do well. `Look to the end.' Try the ground afore thou settest down thy foot. `Many a cloudy morrow turneth out a fair day,' and `'tis ill to get in the hundred and lose in the shire.' So look to the end, Jenny, and be wise in time. `All that glittereth is not gold,' and all gold does not glitter, specially when folk's eyes be shut. We say down in my country, `There's a hill against a stack all Craven through,' and thou'lt find it so. God keep thee!"
Jenny's father gave her a warm embrace and a hearty blessing, and his hand went to his eyes as he turned to Robin Featherstone.
"Fare you well, Robin," said he, "and have a care of my girl."
The elegant Mr Featherstone laid his hand upon that portion of his waistcoat which was supposed to cover his heart.
"Mr Lavender, it will be the pride of my heart to serve Mrs Jenny, though it cost my life."
He sprang on the brown horse, and Jenny, helped by her father, mounted the pillion behind him. Women very seldom rode alone at that day.
Kate ran after them, as they started, with an old shoe in her hand, which she delivered with such good (or bad) effect that it hit the horse on the ear, and made it shy. Happily, it was a sedate old quadruped, not given to giddy ways, and quickly recovered itself.
"Good luck!" cried Kate, as they rode away.
A second horse followed, ridden by one of Colonel Lane's stable-boys, carrying Jenny's two bags.
It was not a mile from the farm to Bentley Hall, and they were soon in the stable-yard, where Jenny alighted, and was taken by Featherstone into the servants' hall, where with another complimentary flourish he introduced her to the rest of the household.
"My lords and ladies, I have the honour to present to you the Lady Jane Lavender."
"Now you just get out of my way, with your lords and ladies," said the cook, pushing by them. "Good even, Jenny. We've seen Jenny Lavender afore, every man jack of us."
Mr Featherstone got out of the way without much delay, for the cook had a gridiron in his hand, and he had been known before now to box somebody's ears with that instrument.
He recovered his dignity as soon as he could, and suggested that Jenny should go up to the chamber of her new mistress.
"Maybe Mrs Millicent should be pleased to take her," he said, making a low bow to Mrs Lane's maid.
"She knows her way upstairs as well as I do," answered Millicent bluntly. "Have done with your airs, Robin! and prithee don't put Jenny up to 'em.
"Now, Jenny, you run up and wait for Mrs Jane; she'll be there in a minute, most like. You can hang your hood and cloak behind the door."
There were no bonnets in those days, nor shawls; women wore hoods or tall hats on their heads when they went out, and cloaks in cold weather; when it was warm they merely tied on a muslin or linen tippet, fastening it with a bow of ribbon at the throat.
The gown sleeves then came down mostly to the wrist; but sometimes only to the elbows, where they were finished with a little frill. How the neck was covered, in the house, depended on its owner's notions. If she were gay and fashionable, it was not covered at all. But if she were sensible and quiet, she generally wore the same kind of muslin tippet that was used on warm days out of doors. Old women sometimes wore the close frill round the neck, which had been used in Queen Elizabeth's time; but this was quite gone out of fashion for younger ones.
Mrs Jane's room was empty. Jenny knew her way to it well enough, for she had often been there before; but her heart beat high when she saw something in the corner that had never been there before--a neat, little low bed, covered with a quilt of coarse, padded blue silk. That was for Jenny, as Jenny knew. The room was long, low, and somewhat narrow. Four windows, so close together as to have the effect of one, ran along the whole length of one end, filled with small diamond-shaped panes of greenish glass.
In the midst of these stood a toilet-table, whereon were a number of pots and boxes, the uses of which were as yet unknown to the new maid. The large bed was hung with flowered cherry-coloured satin; an inlaid chair, filled with cushions, stood before the fireplace, and a small Turkey carpet lay in front of it.
Jenny stood contemplating everything, with a sense of great elation to think that her place henceforward would be in the midst of all this comfort and grandeur. Suddenly a quick step ran up the polished staircase, the door opened, and a young lady made her made her appearance.
Her description will serve for the ladies of that day in general.
Her skirt came just down to the foot, and was moderately full; it was made of green satin. Over this was the actual gown, of tawny or yellowish-brown silk, trimmed with silver lace. The skirt was open in front, and was bunched up all round so as barely to reach the knees. The bodice, which was tight to the figure, was laced up in front with silver; it was cut low on the neck, and over it was a tippet of clear muslin, tied with green ribbon to match the skirt. The sleeves were slightly fulled, and were finished by very deep cuffs of similar muslin, midway between the wrist and the elbow. The young lady's hair was dressed in a small knob behind; it came a little over the forehead at the front in a point, and flowed down at the sides in slender ringlets.
"Oh, Jenny, are you come? That is right," said she.
"Yes, madam, to serve you," answered Jenny, dropping a courtesy.
"Very good. Here, pick up these pins, and put them into that box. You must learn to dress me, and dress my hair. Dear me, you have all to learn! Well, never mind; the best woman living had to begin once."
"Yes, madam," said smiling Jenny.
Mrs Jane sat down before the toilet-table, and with more rapidity than Jenny could well follow, showed her the articles upon it, and the uses for which they were designed.
"Here is pearl powder; that is for my forehead. This is rouge, for my cheeks and lips. Now, mind what you do with them! Don't go and put the white powder on my cheeks, and the red upon my nose! This is pomatum for my hair; and this empty box holds my love-locks (you'll have to learn how to put those in, Jenny); in this bottle is a wash for my face. I don't dye my hair, nor use oils for my hands--one must draw the line somewhere. But the other matters you must learn to apply."
Jenny listened in silent amazement. She had never realised till that moment what an artificial flower her young mistress was.
Her own cosmetics were soap and water; and she was divided between disgust and admiration at the number of Mrs Jane's beautifiers. Poor Jenny had no idea that Mrs Jane used a very moderate amount of them, as contrasted with most fashionable ladies of her day.
"I must have a word with you, Jenny, as to your manners," said Mrs Jane, more gravely. "I can't do to have you falling in love with anybody. It would be very inconvenient, and, in fact, there's nobody here for you. Remember _now_, you are above Featherstone and all the men-servants; and you must not set your cap at the chaplain, because he's Mrs Millicent's property."
Above that elegant gentleman, Mr Featherstone! Jenny felt as if she trod on perfumed air. She was not in the least surprised to be told that she was not to marry the chaplain; the family chaplain, of whom there was one in every family of any pretension, was considered a poor mean creature, whose natural wife was the lady's maid; and Jenny quite understood that Mrs Millicent took precedence of her.
"You take your seat at table, Jenny, next below Mrs Millicent. Of course you know you are not to speak there? If any one should have such ill-manners as to address you, you must answer quite respectfully, but as short as possible. Well, now to tell you your duties. You rise every morning at five of the clock; dress quietly, and when you are ready, wake me, if I have not woke sooner. Then you dress me, go with me to prayers in the chapel, then to breakfast in the hall; in the morning (when I am at home) you follow me about in my duties in the kitchen, stillroom, and dairy; you help me to see to the poultry, get up my muslins and laces, and mend my clothes. In the afternoon you go out visiting with me, work tapestry, embroider, or spin. In the evening, if there be music or dancing, you can join; if not, you keep to your needle."
Jenny courtesied, and meekly "hoped she should do her duty." Some portions of this duty, now explained to her, were sufficiently to her taste; others sounded very uninteresting. These were the usual services expected from a lady's maid two hundred years ago.
"Very well," said Mrs Jane, looking round. "I think that is all at the present. If I think of any other matter, I will mention it. Now ring that little bell on the side-table, and Millicent shall give you your first lesson in dressing my hair."
Jenny found that first lesson a trial. Millicent was quick and precise; she gave her instructions almost sharply, and made little allowance for Jenny's ignorance and inaptitude.
She seemed to expect her to know what to do without being told, or at the utmost to need only once telling. Jenny found it necessary to have all her wits about her, and began to think that her new situation was not quite so perfect a Paradise as she had supposed it.
From this exercise they went down to supper in the hall, where Jenny found herself placed at the higher table between Millicent and the steward--a stiff, silent, elderly man, who never said a word to her all supper-time. Robin Featherstone sat at the lower table; for the two tables made the only distinction between the family and the household, who all ate together in the hall.
The next discovery was that she must never ask for a second helping, but must take what was given her and be content. Accustomed to the freedom and plenty of the farmhouse kitchen, Jenny sadly felt the constraint of her new life. She was obliged to fall back for her consolation on the pleasure of her elevation above all her old associates. It was rather poor fare.
When, after assisting Mrs Jane to undress, with sundry snubbings from Millicent, and some not ill-natured laughter from her young mistress at Jenny's blunders, she was at last free to lie down to rest herself, she was conscious of a little doubt, whether the appellation of "Mrs Jenny," the higher place at the table, and the distinction of being nobody in the drawing-room, were quite as agreeable as plenty to eat and drink, and liberty to run into the garden, dance and sing whenever she chose to do so.
The Sunday which followed was spent as the Holy Day was wont to be spent by Cavalier families who were respectable and not riotous.
The Lanes were members of the Church of England, but the Church had been abolished, so far as it lay in the power of those in authority at that time. Many of the clergy were turned out of their livings--it cannot be denied that some of them had deserved it--and the Book of Common Prayer was stringently suppressed. No man dared to use it now, except secretly. Those solemn and beautiful prayers, offered up by many generations, and endeared to their children as only childhood's memories can endear, might not be uttered, save in fear and trembling, in the dead of night, or in hushed whispers in the day-time.
Early in the morning, before the world was astir, a few of Colonel Lane's family met the chaplain in the private chapel, and there in low voices the morning prayers were read, and the responses breathed. There was no singing nor chanting; that would have been too much to dare. The men who had themselves suffered so much for holding secret conventicles, and preferring one style of prayer to another, now drove their fellow-countrymen into the very same acts, and imposed on them the same sufferings.
This secret service over, the family met at breakfast, after which they drove in the great family coach to Darlaston Church. The present Vicar, if he may so be termed, was an independent minister. These ministers, who alone were now permitted to minister, were of three kinds.
Some were true Christians--often very ripely spiritual ones--who preached Christ, and let politics alone. Another class were virulent controversialists, who preached politics, and too often let Christianity alone. And a third consisted of those concealed Jesuits whom Rome had sent over for the purpose of stirring up dissension, some of whom professed to be clergy of the Church, and some Nonconformists.
The gentleman just now officiating at Darlaston belonged to the second class. His sermon was a violent diatribe against kings in general, and "Charles Stuart" in particular, to which the few Royalists in his congregation had to listen with what patience they might.
Jenny Lavender did not carry away a word of it. Her head was full of the honour and glory of driving in the Bentley Hall coach (wherein she occupied the lowest seat by the door), and of sitting in the Bentley Hall pew.
She only hoped that Ruth Merston and Dolly Campion, and all the other girls of her acquaintance, were there to see her.
They drove back in the same order. Then came dinner.
As Jenny took her seat at the table she perceived that a stranger was present, who sat on the right hand of Mrs Lane, and to whom so much deference was paid that she guessed he must be somebody of note. He was dressed in a suit of black plush, slashed with yellow satin, and a black beaver hat; for gentlemen then always wore their hats at dinner. His manners charmed Jenny exceedingly. Whenever he spoke to either of the ladies, he always lifted his plumed hat for a moment. Even her model gentleman, Robin Featherstone, had never treated her with that courtesy.
Jenny was still further enchanted when she heard Mrs Lane say to him, "My Lord."
So interested and excited was she that she actually presumed to ask Millicent, in a whisper, who the stranger was. Millicent only demolished her by a look. The steward, on the other side of Jenny, was more accommodating.
"That is my Lord Wilmot," he said; "an old friend of the Colonel."
Jenny would have liked to ask a dozen questions, but she did not dare. She already expected a scolding from Millicent, and received it before an hour was over.
"How dare you, Jane Lavender," demanded Jenny's superior officer, "let your voice be heard at the Colonel's table?"
"If you please, Mrs Millicent," answered Jenny, who was rather frightened, "I think only Mr Wright heard it."
"You think! Pray, what business have you to think? Mrs Jane does not pay you for thinking, I'm sure."
Jenny was too much cowed to say what she thought--that Mrs Jane did not pay her extra to hold her tongue. She only ventured on a timid suggestion that "they talked at the lower table."
"Don't quote the lower table to me, you vulgar girl! You deserve to be there, for your manners are not fit for the upper. Everybody knows the lower table is only for the household"--a word which then meant the servants--"but those who sit at the upper, and belong to the family, must hold their tongues. If we did not, strangers might take us for the gentlewomen."
Jenny silently and earnestly wished they would.
"Now then, go into the parlour and behave yourself!" was the concluding order from Millicent.
Poor Jenny escaped into the parlour, with a longing wish in her heart for the old farmhouse kitchen, where nobody thought of putting a lock upon her lips. She felt she was buying her dignities very dear.
What was she to do all this long Sunday afternoon? Being Sunday, of course she could not employ herself with needlework; and though she was fond of music, and was a fairly good performer on the virginals, she did not dare to make a noise.
She was not much of a reader, and if she had been, there were no books within her reach but the Bible and a cookery book, on the former of which, for private reading, Jenny looked as a mere precursor of the undertaker.
Sunday afternoon and evening, at the farmhouse, were the chief times of the week for enjoyment. There were sure to be visitors, plenty of talk and music, and afterwards a dance: for only the Puritans regarded the Sabbath as anything but a day for amusement, after morning service was over. Farmer Lavender, though a sensible and respectable man in his way, was not a Puritan; and though his mother did not much like Sunday dancing, she had not set her face so determinately against it as to forbid it to the girls.
The long use of _The Book of Sports_, set forth by authority, and positively compelling such ways of spending the Sabbath evening, had blunted the perception of many well-meaning people. The idea was that people must amuse themselves, or they would spend their leisure time in plotting treason! and the rulers having been what we should call Ritualists, they considered that the holiness of the day ended when Divine service was over, and people were thenceforward entitled to do anything they liked. Yet there in the Bible was the Lord's command to "turn away from doing their pleasure on His holy day."
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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3
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THE GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
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Jenny, crushed by Millicent, crept into a corner of the parlour, from which she amused herself in the only way she could find--watching the family and their guest, Lord Wilmot. They sat in the bay window, conversing in low tones, a few words now and then reaching Jenny in her corner, but only just enough to give her an idea that they were speaking of the young fugitive King, and of the sore straits to which he might be reduced. His stay at Boscobel House, and his subsequent adventure in the oak, so well known in future years, were discussed at length, for it was only a few days since they had happened.
"What a mercy the leaves were on the trees!" said Mrs Lane.
"Ay, in very deed," replied the Colonel. "Had the boughs been bare, His Majesty had been taken without fail."
"I saw him two days gone," added Lord Wilmot, "and a sorry sight he was: his dress a leather doublet, with pewter buttons; a pair of old green breeches and a coat of the same; his own stockings, the embroidered tops cut off; a pair of old shoes, too small for him, cut and slashed to give ease to his feet; an old, grey, greasy hat, without lining, and a noggen shirt of the coarsest linen."
The word _noggen_ originally meant made of hemp, and had come to signify any texture which was thick, rough, and clumsy.
"Poor young gentleman!" exclaimed Mrs Lane.
"What a condition for the King of England!" said the Colonel, indignantly.
"Ay, truly," answered Lord Wilmot. "The disgrace is England's, not his own."
Mr Lane was one of the party this evening. He was an elderly man, and an invalid, mostly keeping to his own quiet room. Mrs Lane, who was younger, and much more active, managed the house and estate with the help of her son; and the Colonel having for some years been practically the master, was generally spoken of as such among the tenants. The old man now rose, and said that he would go back to his own chamber. The Colonel gave his arm to his father to help him upstairs; and Mrs Jane, turning from the window, caught sight of Jenny's tired, dull look.
"Come, we have had enough of talk!" said she. "Sweep the rushes aside, and let us end the evening with a dance."
"You were best to dance after supper," responded her mother, glancing at the clock. "There is but a half-hour now."
Mrs Jane assented to this, and going to the virginals, called Jenny to come and sing. The half-hour passed rapidly, until the server, or waiter, came to say that supper was served in the hall, and the party sat down.
As Jenny took her place, she saw Robin Featherstone making room at the lower table for a stranger--a young man, aged about two or three and twenty, dressed in a tidy suit of grey cloth, and apparently a new servant. His complexion was unusually dark, and his hair jet black. He was not handsome, and as Jenny did not admire dark complexions, she mentally set him down as an uninteresting person--probably Lord Wilmot's man.
The good-natured steward, on her right hand, noticed Jenny's look at the new comer.
"That is Mrs Jane's new man," said he kindly; "he goeth with you into Somerset. My Lord Wilmot hath spoken for him to the Colonel, and commends him highly, for a young man of exceeding good character."
Young men of good character were not attractive people to Jenny; a young man with good looks would have had much more chance of her regard.
"His name is William Jackson," added the steward.
Jenny was rather sorry to hear that this uninteresting youth would have to go with them to Bristol; the rather, because it destroyed the last vestige of a faint hope she had entertained, that Robin Featherstone might be chosen for that purpose.
The worst of all her grievances was, that she seemed completely cut off from his delightful society. She had really seen far more of him at the farm than she did now, when she was living in the same house. And then to have all her rose-coloured visions for the future destroyed--Jenny felt herself a badly used young woman.
Supper ended, the dance followed according to Mrs Jane's decree, led off by herself and Lord Wilmot; and Jenny, to her great satisfaction, found herself the partner of the enchanting Robin.
"Mrs Jenny, I have not had so much as a word with you since yestereven!" said that gentleman reproachfully.
"No, in very deed," assented Jenny; "and I hear you go not into Somerset, Mr Featherstone."
"No such luck!" lamented the valet. "I'm to be mewed up here. That black crow yonder will rob me of all your sweet smiles, my charmer."
"Indeed he won't!" said Jenny. "I don't like the look of him, I can tell you."
At that moment the new servant, and his partner, the dairy-maid, whisked round close beside them, and Jenny saw, from the amused twinkle in his dark eyes, that Jackson had overheard her disparaging remark.
"He looks as if he hadn't washed himself this week," observed Mr Featherstone, whose complexion was fair.
"He's an ill-looking fellow," replied Jenny.
"Do you hear what they say of you?" asked Fortune, the dairy-maid, of her partner.
"I hear 'em," was Will Jackson's reply.
"Won't you knock him down?"
"I think not. Wouldn't be convenient to the Colonel."
"I doubt you're chicken-hearted," replied she.
"Think so?" said Will Jackson, quite calmly.
"Well, you're a queer fellow!" said Fortune.
"Hold you there!" was the reply; "I shall be queerer anon."
The Monday was a very busy day, for Mrs Jane proposed to set forth with the lark on the Tuesday morning. She had obtained a pass from the Parliament for herself and friends, and four others were to accompany her; her cousin Mr Lascelles, and his wife, and a neighbouring lady and gentleman named Petre. Jenny was very busy all day packing trunks and bags under the instructions of her young mistress. In the afternoon, as they were thus employed, Mrs Lane came rather hastily into the room.
"Jane, child," she said to her daughter, "I am really concerned that you should have no better attendance in your journey than that fellow Jackson. I do indeed think we must send him back, and get you a more suitable man."
Mrs Jane was on her knees, packing a little leather trunk. She looked up for a moment, and then resumed her work, giving all her attention to a troublesome box, which would not fit into the space that she had left for it.
"Is he unsuitable, madam? I pray you, how so?"
"Child, the man doth not know his business. He is now in the yard, looking to your saddle and harness; and he doth not know how to take the collar off the horse. Dick bade him lift the collar off Bay Winchester, and he was for taking it off without turning it. And really, some of his--" The sentence was never finished.
"O, Madam! O, Mrs Jane!" cried Millicent, coming in with uplifted hands. "That horrid creature. I'm certain sure he's a Roundhead! Robin has heard him speak such dreadful words! Do, I beseech you, madam, tell the Colonel that he is cherishing a crocodile in his bosom. We shall all be murdered in our beds before night!"
Mrs Jane sat back on the floor and laughed.
"Ah, my dear young gentlewoman, you may laugh," was the solemn comment of Millicent; "but I do assure you 'tis no laughing matter. If Mrs Jane will not listen to reason, madam, I beg _you_ to hear me when I tell you what I have heard."
The solemnity of Millicent's tones was something awful. Mrs Jane, however, was so misguided as to laugh again; but her mother said, in a half-alarmed tone, "Well, Millicent, what is it? You speak of the new man, Jackson, I suppose?"
"Madam, Robin tells me that early this morning, as soon as my Lord Wilmot was gone, he went down to the blacksmith's with something of the Colonel's--a chain, I think he said, or was it--" "Never mind what it was," said Mrs Jane; "let us have the story."
"Well, he was in the blacksmith's shop, and to get out of the way of the blacks, which were flying all over, he had slipped behind the door; when who should come up but this Jackson, on Mrs Jane's horse, that had cast a shoe. He could not see Robin, he being behind the door; I dare be bound if he had, he would not have been so free in his talk. You know, madam, what a horrid Roundhead the blacksmith is; Robin saith he wishes in his heart he never had to go near him. Well, as this fellow holds the horse's foot (and Robin says he did it the most awkward he ever saw), he asks the smith what news. `Oh,' saith he, `none that I know of, since the good news of the beating of the rogues of Scots.' `What,' saith Jackson, `are none of the English taken that were joined with the Scots?' Then, madam, the smith said, saving your presence, for really it makes me feel quite creepy to repeat such shocking words, `I don't hear,' quoth he, `that that rogue Charles Stuart is taken, but some of the others are.' Oh, madam, to speak so dreadfully of His Sacred Majesty!"
Mrs Millicent's eyes went up till more white than iris was visible.
"Very shocking, truly," said Mrs Lane. "Well, what further?"
"And then, madam, that Jackson said--Robin heard him! --`If that rogue were taken,' quoth he, `he deserves to be hanged more than all the rest, for bringing in the Scots.' Oh, dear, dear! that I should live to tell you, madam, that a servant of my good master could let such words come out of his lips! Then quoth the smith, `You speak like an honest man.' And so Jackson up on the horse and rode away."
"Well, it doth but confirm me in my view that the man is a most unsuitable guard for you, Jane. I shall speak to your brother about making a change."
"I don't think Jackson is a Roundhead," said Mrs Jane quietly, rearranging some laces in a little box.
"Dear heart, Mrs Jane! but what could the creature have said worse, if he had been Oliver Cromwell himself?"
"Well, and I do not think he is Oliver Cromwell either," replied Mrs Jane, laughing. "And as to his not knowing his business, madam," she added, turning to her mother, "I pray you remember how exceeding good a character my Lord Wilmot gave him."
"My dear Jane! A good character is all very well, but I do want some capability in my servants as well as character. You do not choose your shoemaker because he is sober and steady, but because he makes good shoes."
"Under your correction, madam, he would not make good shoes long if he were neither steady nor sober. Howbeit, I pray you, speak to my brother: methinks you shall find him unready to discharge Jackson for no better reason than that he cannot take the collar off an horse."
"But the words, Mrs Jane! Those awful words!"
"Very like they grew in Robin's brain," calmly answered Mrs Jane, turning the lock of her trunk. "He is a bit jealous of Jackson, or I mistake."
"Jealous of that black creature!" cried Millicent. "Why, he could not hold a tallow candle to Robin!"
"I dare say he won't try," replied Mrs Jane, with a little amusement in her voice.
Mrs Lane, who had left the room, returned looking somewhat discomfited.
"No, I cannot win your brother to see it," she said, in rather a vexed tone. "He thinks so much, as you do, of the commendation my Lord Wilmot gave the young man. He saith he is sure he is not a Roundhead (I marvel how he knows); and as for his inaptitude, he said the man hath not been before in service, and hath all to learn. If that be so, it cannot be helped, and you will have to be patient with him, Jane."
"I will be as patient as I can, madam," said Mrs Jane gravely.
"Oh, my dear Mrs Jane! Oh, Madam! how you _can_!" exclaimed Millicent. "We shall all be murdered by morning, I feel certain of it! Oh, dear, dear!"
"Then you'd better make your will this evening," coolly observed Mrs Jane. "Look here, Millicent, should you like these cherry ribbons? They would not go ill with your grey gown."
Millicent passed in a moment from the depths of despair to the heights of ecstasy.
"Oh, how good of you, Mrs Jane! They are perfectly charming! I shall take the guarding off my grey gown to-morrow, and put them on."
"If you survive," said Mrs Jane solemnly.
Millicent looked slightly disconcerted.
"Well, Mrs Jane, I was going to tell you--but after what Madam said--if the young man be respectable--I don't know, really--this morning, as he was coming into the hall, I thought--I really thought he was going to offer to take me by the hand. It gave me such a turn!"
"I don't see why, if he had washed his hands," said Mrs Jane.
"Oh, Mrs Jane! what things you do say!"
Millicent had some excuse for her horror, since at that time shaking hands was a form of greeting only used between relatives or the most intimate friends. To give the hand to an inferior was the greatest possible favour.
"Well," said Mrs Jane, locking the second trunk, "I expect Will Jackson is a decent fellow, and will attend me very well. At any rate, I mean to try him."
"Well, Mrs Jane, I have warned you!"
"You have so, Millicent. And if Jackson murders me before I come home, I promise to agree with you. But I don't believe he will."
"Well!" repeated Millicent, "one thing is certain; the creature has surely never been in a _gentleman's_ service before. I expect he has followed the plough all his life. But I do hope, Mrs Jane, you may come back safe."
"Thank you, Millicent; so do I," answered Mrs Jane.
The friends who were to accompany Mrs Jane arrived at Bentley Hall on the Monday evening, and the party set out, eight in all, a little after five o'clock on the Tuesday morning. Mrs Lascelles and Mrs Petre rode behind their husbands; Mrs Jane behind her new man, Jackson. For Jenny an escort was provided in the shape of Mr Lascelles' servant, a sober-looking man of about forty years, whom she thought most uninteresting. So they rode away from Bentley Hall, Robin Featherstone kissing his hand to Jenny, and making her a very elaborate bow in the background.
The first day's journey brought them to the house of Mr Norton, a relative of the Lanes.
"Remember, Jackson," said Mrs Jane as she alighted, "I shall want my palfrey by six to-morrow morning at the latest."
Jackson touched his hat, and promised obedience. Mr Norton led Mrs Jane into the house, desiring his butler, whose name was Pope, to look to her man, and to put Jenny in the care of Mrs Norton's maid. Jenny, being unused to ride much on horseback, was sadly tired by her day's journey, and very glad when bed-time came. She made one nap of her night's rest, and was not very readily roused when, before it was fully light, a tap came on Mrs Jane's door.
Mrs Jane sat up in bed, awake at once.
"Who is there? Come within," she said.
The answer was the entrance of Ellice, Mrs Norton's maid.
"I crave pardon for disturbing you thus early, madam, but my mistress hath sent me to say your man is took very sick of an ague, and 'twill not be possible for you to continue your journey to-day."
"How? Was ever anything so unfortunate!" cried Mrs Jane. "Is he really very bad?"
"My master thinks, madam, he is not the least fit for a journey."
Mrs Jane lay down again, with an exclamation of dismay.
"I do hope the young man is not weakly," she said. " 'Tis most annoying. I reckoned, entirely, on continuing my journey to-day. Well, there is no help, I suppose, though this news is welcome but as water into a ship. We must make a virtue of necessity. Come, Jenny, we'll take another nap. May as well have what comfort we can."
And, turning round, Mrs Jane went off to sleep again.
For three days Mr Norton reported Jackson quite too poorly to ride; on the fourth he was a little better, and by the evening of the following Sunday it was thought Mrs Jane might venture to resume her journey the next day.
They were up early the next morning, and as Jenny followed her mistress into the hall, Mrs Norton being with them, Pope and Jackson came in from the opposite door. Jackson at once came forward to meet them, and for an instant Jenny was reminded of Millicent's complaint, for he seemed just on the point of shaking hands with the ladies. Suddenly he drew back, took off his hat, and with a low bow informed Mrs Jane that he was ready to do her service.
The departure was fixed to take place after dinner; but before that meal was served, Mrs Norton was seized with sudden and serious illness. Mrs Jane showed great concern for her cousin, seeming to Jenny's eyes much more distressed than she had been for the previous postponement of her journey. While everything was in confusion, a cavalcade of visitors unexpectedly arrived, and made the confusion still greater. Mrs Jane arranged to stay for some days longer, and act as hostess in Mrs Norton's place.
As the party sat that night at supper, a traveller's horn sounded at the gate, and Pope, having gone to receive the new arrival, returned with a letter, which he gave to Mrs Jane.
"Dear heart!" she exclaimed in surprise, "what have we now here? This is from my mother."
"Pray you open it quickly, cousin," replied Mr Norton. "I trust it is no ill news."
Mrs Jane's reply was to bury her face in her handkerchief. She seemed scarcely able to speak; but Mr Norton, to whom she passed the letter, informed the company that it contained very sad news from Bentley Hall. Mr Lane had become so much worse during the week of his daughter's absence, that her mother desired her to return as soon as she had paid a hurried visit to her cousins in Somersetshire.
"I fear, cousin, we must not keep you with us longer," said Mr Norton, kindly to Jane.
Mrs Jane was understood to sob that she must go on the next morning. Too much overcome to remain, she left the hall, and went up to the chamber of Mrs Norton, still with her handkerchief at her eyes. Jenny followed her, going into her bedroom, which was near to that of the hostess. She heard voices through the wall, accompanied by sounds which rather puzzled her. Was Mrs Jane weeping? It sounded much more like laughing. But how could anyone expect so devoted a daughter to have the heart to laugh on this sad occasion?
When Mrs Jane came out of her cousin's room, she was apparently calm and comforted. The handkerchief had disappeared; but considering the bitter sobs she had heard, Jenny wondered that her eyes were not redder.
The journey was resumed, and they arrived safely at Trent Hall, the residence of Colonel Wyndham, who was strolling about his grounds, and met them as they came up to the house. Mrs Jane having alighted and shaken hands with her cousin the Colonel, it astonished Jenny to see Will Jackson go familiarly up as if to offer the same greeting. Remembering himself in an instant, he slunk back as he had done before, and took off his hat with a low bow. Colonel Wyndham, Jenny thought, looked rather offended at Jackson's bad manners, dismissing him by a nod, and calling one of his stable-men to see to him, while he took Mrs Jane into the house. Jenny felt once again that Millicent must have guessed rightly, and that Jackson had never been in service in a gentleman's family before.
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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4
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SUDDEN CHANGES.
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Great was the lamentation among the cousins at Trent House, when it was found that Mrs Jane could stay only two days with them, instead of the two months upon which they had reckoned.
"I am the most to be pitied, Jane," said one of the young ladies, whose name was Juliana Coningsby, "for I start for Lyme in a week hence, and I had hoped to win you to accompany me thither. Now I know not what to do for a convoy."
"Well, I cannot go, Gillian," was the answer, "yet may I help you at this pinch. Take you my man as your guard; I can contrive without him, since my good cousin, Mr Lascelles, is to return with me."
A little friendly altercation followed, Mrs Juliana protesting that she could not dream of depriving her cousin of so needful a servant, and Mrs Jane assuring her that the pleasure of helping her out of a difficulty was more than compensation for so slight an inconvenience; but in the end it was agreed that Jackson should proceed with Mrs Juliana, returning to Bentley Hall when she should no longer require his services.
The party of eight, therefore, who had left Bentley, were reduced to four on their return, Mrs Jane and Mr Lascelles on one horse, Jenny and Mr Lascelles' groom upon another.
They reached the Hall late on a Thursday evening, Mr Lascelles suggesting when they came to the lodge that Mrs Jane should sit and rest for a few minutes, while he rode up to the house to hear the latest news of Mr Lane's health.
The woman who kept the lodge came out courtesying to meet them, and Jenny wondered why they did not ask her how the old gentleman was.
Mr Lascelles, however, had ridden hastily forward, and he soon returned with cheering news. Mr Lane had "got well over this brunt," he said; and Mrs Jane professed herself much cheered and comforted to hear it.
In the hall, as they entered, was Millicent.
"Well, Millicent, I'm not murdered, you see!" cried Mrs Jane cheerily.
"Indeed, Mrs Jane, I'm glad to see it, in especial considering all the warnings we've had. Three times of a night hath old Cupid bayed the moon; and a magpie lighted on the tree beside my window only this morning; and last night I heard the death-watch, as plain as plain could be!"
"Oh, then, that's for you, not me," responded Mrs Jane quite cheerfully; "so look Jackson doth not murder you on his return, as he has left me unharmed."
Millicent looked horrified.
"Oh me! Mrs Jane, is the fellow coming back?"
Mrs Jane only laughed, and said, "Look out!"
Considering the chain of shocks and disappointments which Mrs Jane had suffered, Jenny was astonished to see how extremely bright and mirthful she was, and still more surprised to perceive that this light-heartedness appeared to infect the Colonel. It was not, however, shared by Mrs Lane.
"Well, Jane, child," she said one morning to her daughter, "I am truly glad to see thee so light of heart, in especial after all the troubles and discomfitures thou hast gone through. 'Tis a blessing to have a hopeful nature."
"Oh, I never trouble over past clouds when the sun shines again, madam," said Mrs Jane cheerily.
"I marvel what we can make of your man, when he cometh back," resumed Mrs Lane. "If you go not now again into Somerset, you will have no work for him to do."
"Maybe, Madam, he shall not return hither," answered her daughter.
"My cousin, Colonel Wyndham, had some notion he could find him a good place down yonder, and I thought you would judge it best to leave the matter to his discretion."
"Oh, very good," assented Mrs Lane. "So much the better. I would not have the young man feel himself ill-used, when my Lord Wilmot spake so well of him."
"There is no fear of that, I hope," replied Mrs Jane.
"O Mrs Jane! I am so thankful to hear that creature may not come back, after all!" cried Millicent.
"Ay, Millicent, you may sleep at ease in your bed," said Mrs Jane, looking amused. "But I marvel why you feared him thus. I found him a right decent fellow, I can assure you."
"Then I can assure you solemnly, madam," answered Millicent, with a look to match her words, "that is more than I did. Never can I forget the horrid moment when I thought that nasty black creature went about to take me by the hand. It made me feel creepy all over--faugh! I cannot find words to tell you!"
"Pray don't trouble yourself," calmly responded Mrs Jane. "I am going upstairs, so you need not give yourself the labour to look for them."
Before many weeks were over, Colonel Lane came one evening into the drawing-room, to report a wonderful piece of good news.
"His Majesty hath escaped the realm!" cried he, "and is now clean over sea to France."
"God be praised!" exclaimed his mother. "This is indeed good news."
Farmer Lavender was almost as excited as his landlord, and declared that he would light a bonfire in the farm-yard, if he could be sure the stacks wouldn't get alight.
"Nay, Joe, I wouldn't," said his prudent mother. "Thou can be as glad as thou wilt, and the Parliament 'll say nought to thee; but bonfires is bonfires, lad."
Will Jackson did not come back to Bentley, and Mrs Jane remarked in a satisfied tone that she supposed Colonel Wyndham had found a place to suit him.
Millicent contemptuously observed to Jenny that she wondered how Colonel Wyndham, who was a gentleman born, could take any trouble about that creature Jackson.
"Well, and I do too, a bit," said Jenny, "for I'm sure the Colonel did not seem over pleased when Will would have taken him by the hand as we was a-coming up to the house."
"No, you don't say!" ejaculated Millicent. "Did he really, now? --to the Colonel? Well, I'm sure, the world's getting turned upside down."
Millicent was considerably more of that opinion when a few months were over. Early one spring morning, before anyone was up, some slight but singular noises roused Mrs Jane from sleep, and calling Jenny, she desired her to look out of the window and see what was the matter.
Jenny's shriek, when she did so, brought her young mistress to the casement in a moment. Bentley Hall was surrounded by armed men-- Parliamentary soldiers, standing still and stern--awaiting in complete silence the orders of their commander.
Mrs Jane went very white, but her self-command did not desert her.
"Never mind screaming, Jenny," she said coolly. "That will do no good. They'll not take you, child; and these Roundheads, whatever else they are, are decent men that harm not women and children. I must say so much for them. Come quick, and dress me, and I will go down to them."
"Oh dear!" cried Jenny. "Madam, they'll kill you!"
"Not they!" said the young lady. "I'm not afraid,--not of a man, at any rate. I don't say I should have no fear of a ghost. Jenny, hast thou lost thy head? Here be two shoes--not a pair--thou hast given me; and what art thou holding out the pomade for? I don't wash in pomade."
Jenny, who was far more flurried and frightened than her mistress, confusedly apologised as she exchanged the pomade for the soap.
"But--Oh dear! madam, will they take you?" she asked.
"Maybe not, child," said Mrs Jane, quite coolly. "Very like not. I guess 'tis rather my brother they want. We shall see all the sooner, Jenny, if thou makest no more blunders."
Jenny, however, contrived to make several more, for she was almost too excited and terrified to know what she was doing. She put on Mrs Jane's skirt wrong side out, offered her the left sleeve of her kirtle for the right arm, and generally behaved like a girl who was frightened out of her wits.
Mrs Jane, dressed at last, softly opened her door, and desired Jenny to follow.
"I will wake none else till I know what the matter is," she said.
"Come after me, and I will speak with the Captain of these men from the little window in the hall."
Jenny obeyed, feeling as if she were more dead than alive.
Mrs Jane quietly unfastened the little window, and said to a soldier who had taken up his position close beside it--"I would speak with your Captain."
The Captain appeared in a moment.
"For what reason are you here?" asked the young lady.
"Madam, I hold a warrant to take the bodies of Thomas Lane, and John Lane his son, and I trust that none in this house shall impede me in the execution of my duty."
"My brother! --and my father!" exclaimed Mrs Jane, under her breath.
"Sir, we shall not do that. But will you suffer me to say to you that my father is an old and infirm man, in weakly health, and I beg of you that you will be as merciful to his condition as your duty will allow."
The Roundhead captain bowed.
"Be assured, madam," he said respectfully, "that Mr Lane shall fare better for the beseechment of so good a daughter, and that I will do mine utmost to have him gently handled."
"I thank you, sir," replied Mrs Jane, as she closed the window.
Then, Jenny still following, a little less frightened, since the enemy seemed after all to be a man, and not a very bad man either.
Mrs Jane went upstairs and tapped at her brother's door.
"Who's there?" demanded the Colonel's voice very sleepily.
"The reward of your deeds," answered his sister, drily. "Make haste and busk thee, Jack; thou art wanted to go to prison."
"Very good!" responded the Colonel, to Jenny's astonishment. "Do you bear me company?"
"Nay; would I did, rather than our father."
"Our father! Is _he_--?"
"Ay. God have mercy on us!" said Mrs Jane gravely.
"Amen!" came through the closed door.
"Jenny, go back to my chamber," said her mistress. "I will come to thee anon. The hardest of my work lieth afore me yet."
For two hours all was haste and tumult in Bentley Hall. Then, when the soldiers had departed, carrying their prisoners with them, a hush almost like that of death fell upon the house.
Mrs Lane had wept till she had no more tears to shed; her daughter did not weep, but she looked very white and sad.
"Now you mark my words!" said Millicent to Jenny; "'tis that Jackson has done it. He's played the traitor. Didn't I always say he was a Roundhead! Depend upon it, he's betrayed something the Colonel's done in His Majesty's service, and that's why that wicked Parliament's down on him. Robin, he says the same. He never did like that scheming black creature, and no more did I." "Well, I don't know! He seemed a decent sort o' man, far as I could see, only that he wasn't well-favoured," said Jenny doubtfully.
"He was a snake in the grass!" said Millicent solemnly; "and you'll find that out, Jenny Lavender."
To the surprise of the whole family, and themselves most of all, the prisoners were released after only four months' detention. That was considered an exceedingly short business in 1652. Neither father nor son seemed any worse for their trial; the Roundheads, they said, had not treated them ill, and had even allowed sundry extra comforts to old Mr Lane.
So matters dropped back into their old train at Bentley Hall for about a month longer. Then, one August morning, Colonel Lane, who had ridden to Kidderminster, entered the parlour with an open letter in his hand. His face was grave almost to sternness, and when his sister saw it, an expression of alarm came into her eyes.
"A letter, Jane, from Penelope Wyndham," he said, giving her the letter.
"Mrs Millicent and Mrs Jenny, I pray you give us leave."
That was a civil way of saying, "Please to leave the room," and of course it was at once obeyed. Evidently something of consequence was to be discussed.
"I do hope Mrs Jane will not go away again," said Millicent.
"Well, I don't know; I shouldn't be sorry if she did," answered Jenny.
"Very like not; you think you'd go withal. But I can tell you it is vastly dull for us left behind. There's a bit of life when she is here."
Jenny went up to Mrs Jane's room, where she occupied herself by tacking clean white ruffles into some of her mistress's gowns. She had not progressed far when that young lady came up, with a very disturbed face.
"Let those be," she said, seeing how Jenny was employed. "Jenny, child, I am grieved to tell thee, but thou must needs return to thine own home."
"Send me away!" gasped Jenny. "Oh, Mrs Jane, madam, what have I done!"
"Nothing, child, nothing; 'tis not that. I am going away myself."
"And mustn't I go with you?" asked Jenny, in a very disappointed tone.
"To France? We are going to France, child."
Jenny felt in a whirl of astonishment. Going abroad in those days was looked on as a very serious matter, not to be undertaken except for some important reason, and requiring a great deal of deliberation. And here was Mrs Jane, after scarcely half-an-hour's reflection, announcing that she was going to start at once for France.
Mrs Jane put her hand in her pocket.
"Here be thy wages, Jenny," she said. "Twelve pound by the year we agreed on, and thou hast been with me scarce a year; howbeit, twelve pound let it be. And for the ill-conveniency I put thee to, to send thee away thus suddenly, thou shalt have another pound, and my flowered tabby gown. Thou wilt soon win another place if thou list to tarry in service, and my mother hath promised to commend thee heartily to any gentlewoman that would have thee.
"So cheer up, child; there is no need for thee to fret."
Jenny felt as if she had considerable need to fret. Here were all her distinctions flying away from her at a minute's notice. Instead of being Mrs Jenny, and sitting in the drawing-room at Bentley Hall, she would once more be plain Jenny Lavender in the farmhouse kitchen. It was true her freedom would return to her; but by this time she had become accustomed to the restraint, and did not mind it nearly so much. The tears overflowed and ran down.
"Come, come, child!" said Mrs Jane, giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder; "take not on thus, prithee. Thy life is yet before thee. Cheer up and play the woman! Ah, Jenny, maid, 'tis well for thee thou art not so high up as some I could name, and therefore shalt fall the lighter. Now go, and pack up thy mails, and Robin shall take thee and them to the farm this evening."
"Must I go to-day, madam?" exclaimed Jenny, more dismayed than ever.
"I go myself to-day, Jenny," said Mrs Jane, gently but gravely. "The matter will brook no delay. Take thine heart to thee, and do as I bid thee: thou wert best be out of it all."
Poor Jenny went slowly up to the garret to fetch her bags, which had been stowed there out of the way.
As she came down with them in her hands, she met Millicent.
"You've had warning, have you?" said Millicent, in a whisper. "There's somewhat wrong, you take my word for it! You make haste and get away, and thank your stars you've a good home to go to. We're all to go, every soul save two--old Master's Diggory and me."
"What, Mr Featherstone too?" exclaimed Jenny.
"Oh, he's going with the Colonel to France. But Master and Madam, they set forth to-morrow, and Diggory and I go with them. Mark my words, there's somewhat wrong! and if it goes much further, I shall just give my warning and be off. I've no notion of getting into trouble for other folks."
"But whatever is it all about?" said Jenny.
"Well, if you want my thoughts on it," whispered Millicent, in an important tone, "I believe it's all 'long of that Jackson. You thought he was a decent sort of fellow, you know. But you've to learn yet, Jenny Lavender, as all isn't gold as glitters."
"I think I'm finding that out, Mrs Millicent," sighed Jenny; "didn't I think I was made for life no further back than yesterday? However, there's no time to waste."
She packed up her things, and made a hurried dinner; took leave of all in the house, not without tears; and then, mounting Bay Winchester behind Robin Featherstone, rode home in the cool of the evening.
"Farewell, sweetheart!" said Featherstone, gallantly kissing Jenny's fingers. "I go to France, but I leave my heart in Staffordshire. Pray you, sweet Mrs Jenny, what shall I bring you for a fairing from the gay city of Paris? How soon we shall return the deer knows; but you will wait for your faithful Robin?" And Mr Featherstone laid his hand elegantly on his heart.
"Oh, you'll forget all about me when you are over there taking your pleasure," said Jenny, in a melancholy tone.
Mr Featherstone was only half through a fervent asseveration to the effect that such a catastrophe was a complete impossibility, when Farmer Lavender came out.
"What, Jenny I come to look at us?" said he. "Thou'rt as welcome, my lass, as flowers in May. But how's this--bags and all? Thou'st never been turned away, child?"
"Not for nought ill, father," said Jenny, almost crying with conflicting feelings; "but Mrs Jane, she's going to France, and all's that upset--" and Jenny sobbed too much to proceed.
Mr Featherstone came to the rescue, and explained matters.
"Humph!" said the farmer; "that's it, is it? World's upset, pretty nigh, seems to me. Well, folks can't always help themselves--that's true enough. Howbeit, thou'rt welcome home, Jenny! there's always a place for thee here, if there's none anywhere else. You'll come in and take a snack, Mr Featherstone?"
Mr Featherstone declined with effusive thanks. He had not a moment to spare. He remounted Winchester, shook hands with the farmer, kissed his hand to Jenny, and rode away. And the question whether Jenny would wait for his return was left unanswered.
"I'm glad to see thee back, my lass," said old Mrs Lavender. "Home's the best place for young lasses. Maybe, too, thou'lt be safer at the farm than at the Hall. The times be troublous; and if more mischief's like to overtake the Colonel, though I shall be sorry enough to see it, I shan't be sorry to know thou art out of it. Art thou glad to come back or not, my lass?"
"I don't know, Granny," said Jenny.
Kate laughed. "Have you had your fling and come down, Jenny?" she asked; "or haven't you had fling enough? --which is it?"
"I think it's a bit of both," said Jenny. "It's grand to be at the Hall, and ride in the coach, and sit in the pew at church, and that; but I used to get dreadful tired by times, it seemed so dull. There's a deal more fun here, and I'm freer like. But--" Jenny left her "but" unfinished.
"Ay, there's a many buts, I shouldn't wonder," said Kate, laughing. "Well, Jenny, you've seen somewhat of high life, and you've got it to talk about."
Jenny felt very sad when she went to church on the following Sunday. The Hall pew was empty, and Jenny herself was once more a mere nobody in the corner of her father's seat. There was no coach to ride in; and very humiliated she felt when Dorothy Campion gave her a smart blow on the back as she went down the churchyard.
"Well, _Mrs_. Jenny! so you've come down from your pedestal? Going to be very grand, weren't you? --couldn't see your old acquaintances last Sunday! But hey, presto, all is changed, and my fine young madam come down to a farmhouse lass.
"How was it, Jenny? Did Mrs Jane catch you at the mirror, trying on her sky-coloured gown? or had her necklace slipped into your pocket by accident? Come, tell us all about it."
"She gave me a gown, then," said Jenny, with spirit; "and that's more, I guess, than she ever did to you, Dolly Campion. And as for why I'm come home, it's neither here nor there. Mrs Jane's a-going to France, to be one of the Queen's ladies, maybe, and that's why; so you can take your change out o' that."
Miss Campion immediately proceeded to take her change out of it.
"Dear heart, Jenny, and why ever didn't you go and be one of the Queen's ladies, too?"
"Oh, she's climbed up so high, queens isn't good enough company for her," suggested Abigail Walker, coming to Dolly's help.
"Now, you two go your ways like tidy maids," said the voice of Tom Fenton behind them; "and don't make such a to-do of a Sabbath morning.
"Jenny, I'll see you home if you give me leave."
He spoke with a quiet dignity, which was not like the old Tom Fenton whom Jenny had known; and his manner was more that of a friend helping her to get rid of an annoyance, than that of a suitor who grasped at an opportunity of pleading his cause.
"I thank you, Tom, and I'll be glad of it," said the humbled and harassed Jenny.
So they went back together, Tom showing no sign that he heard Dorothy's derisive cry of-- "Room for Her Majesty's Grace's Highness and her servant the carpenter!"
The word lover, at that day, meant simply a person who loved you; where we say "lover," they said "servant."
At the farmhouse door Tom took his leave.
"No, I thank you, Jenny," he said, when she asked him to come in; "I'm going on to Uncle Anthony's to dinner. Good morning."
And Jenny felt that some mysterious change in Tom had put a distance between him and her.
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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5
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WILL JACKSON REAPPEARS.
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Fortune May, the dairy-maid at Bentley Hall, came into the farmhouse at supper-time that Sunday evening.
"Well, they're all gone," said she, "and the house shut up. They say the Parliament 'll send folks down to take it some day this week, and 'll give it to some of their own people."
"Ay, I hear Mr Chadderton, whose land joins the Colonel's, has applied for it," answered Farmer Lavender. "Though he's a Roundhead, he's a friend of the Colonel's, and I shouldn't wonder if he give it him back when King Charles comes in."
"That'll not be so soon, I take it," observed his mother.
"The time's out of joint," said the farmer. "I'd as lief not say what'll be or won't be."
"Jenny, I've a good jest to tell you," said Fortune, with a twinkle in her eyes. "I did not see you in time afore you left the Hall. You'll mind, maybe, that Robin and me and Dolly Campion went together to the green, Sunday even?"
Yes, Jenny did remember, and had been rather put out that Featherstone should prefer Fortune's company to hers, though a little consoled by the reflection that it was on account of her superior dignity.
"Well!" said Fortune, telling her tale with evident glee, "as we went up the blind lane come a little lad running down as hard as ever he could run. `What's ado?' says I. `Mad bull! mad bull!' quoth he. Dolly was a bit frighted, I think; I know I was. But will you believe it, Robin, he takes to his heels without another word, and leaves us two helpless maids a-standing there. Dolly and me, we got over the gate into the stubble-field, and hid behind the hedge; and presently we saw some'at a-coming down the lane, but I thought it came mortal slow for a mad bull. And when it got a bit nigh, lo and behold! it was Widow Goodwin's old dun cow, as had strayed. There she was coming down the lane as peaceable as could be, and staying by nows and thens to crop the grass by the roadside. We'd a good laugh at the mad bull, Dolly and me; and then says I to Dolly, `Let's go and hunt out Robin.' So we turned back, but nought of him could we see till we came to the big bean-field, and then a voice comes through the hedge, `Is he by, maids?' Eh, but he is a coward! Did you think he'd been so white-livered as that?" Farmer Lavender laughed heartily. Jenny was exceedingly disgusted. She tried to persuade herself that Fortune's tale was over-coloured, perhaps spiteful. But one and another present chimed in with anecdotes of Featherstone's want of moral and physical courage, till disbelief became impossible.
"How will he get along in France, think you?" said Fortune. "They've naught but frogs to eat there, have they?"
On that point the company was divided, being all equally ignorant. But Farmer Lavender's good sense came to the rescue.
"Why," said he, "Jenny here tells me Colonel Wyndham's got a Frenchman to his cook; and he'd make a poor cook if he'd never dressed nought but frogs, I reckon."
"They'll have a bit o' bread to 'em, like as not," suggested the waggoner.
"Well, I must be going," said Fortune, rising. "Jenny, what's come of your grand gown as Mrs Jane gave you? We looked to see you in it this Sunday. Folks 'll think it's all a make-up if you put it off so long." " 'Tisn't finished making up," said Kate, laughing.
"You'll see me in it next Sunday, if you choose to look," replied Jenny, in a rather affronted tone.
She was put out by Fortune's hint that the dress was considered a fiction; and she was thoroughly annoyed by the story about Featherstone's cowardly conduct. Bravery was one of the qualities that Jenny particularly admired; and she could not help feeling angry with Featherstone for thus lowering himself in her esteem. She thought of it many times during the week, when she was altering the flowered tabby to fit herself, and by the time that the dress was finished, Jenny's regard for Robin Featherstone was about finished also. Love she had never had for him; but he had flattered her vanity, and she liked it.
The next Sunday morning came, and Jenny dressed herself in the flowered tabby, with a pink bow on her muslin tippet. With a gratified sense of pride, she passed Fortune and Dolly Campion on her way up the churchyard; not less gratified to hear their respective whispers.
"Well, it wasn't a make-up, then!" said Dolly, in a rather disappointed tone.
"Dear heart! isn't she fine?" responded Fortune.
Little did Jenny Lavender think, as she passed up the aisle to her father's pew, that the Jenny who entered that church was never to leave it again. There was a stranger in the pulpit that day--a man of a very different sort from the usual preacher. He was an old man, and the style of his sermon was old-fashioned. Instead of being a learned and closely-reasoned discourse, seasoned with scraps of Latin, or a political essay on the events of the day, it was a sermon such as had been more common in the beginning of the century--simple, almost conversational, striking, and full of Gospel truth. Such a sermon Jenny Lavender had never heard before.
The text was Genesis, chapter 32, verse 26: "I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me." The preacher told his hearers in a plain fashion, without any learned disquisitions or flowery phrases, what blessing meant; that for God to bless a man was to give him, not what he wished, but what he really needed for his soul's welfare; that many things which men thought blessings, were really evils, and that all which did not help a man towards God, only hurried him faster on the road to perdition. He told them that Christ was God's greatest blessing, His unspeakable gift; and that he who received Him was in truth possessed of all things. When he came near the end of his sermon, he bent forward over the pulpit cushion, and spoke with affectionate earnestness to his hearers.
"Now, brethren, how many here this day," he said, "are ready to speak these words unto the Lord? How many of you earnestly desire His blessing? What, canst thou not get so far, poor soul? Be thine hands so weak that thou canst not hold Him? Be thy feet so feeble that thou canst not creep thus far up the ladder at the top whereof He standeth? Well, then, let us see if thou canst reach the step beneath--`Lord, I most earnestly desire Thy salvation.' Or is this too far for thy foot to stretch? Canst thou say but, `Lord, I desire Thy salvation,' however feeble and faint thy desire be? Poor sinful soul, art thou so chained and weak, that thou canst not come even so far? Then see if thy trembling foot will not reach the lowest step of all: `Lord, make me to desire Thy salvation.' Surely, howsoever sunk in the mire, and howsoever blind thou be, thou canst ask to be lifted forth, and to have sight given thee. Brethren, will ye not so do? When ye fall to your prayers this even, ere ye sleep, will ye not say so much as this? Yea, will ye not go further, and run up the ladder, and cry with a mighty voice, `I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me'?"
When Jenny Lavender came out of church, she stood on the second step of the ladder. She scarcely heard Abigail Walker's taunt of "Well, if Mrs Jane did give her the gown, I'll go bail she stole that pink ribbon." Such things were far beneath one who had set foot on that ladder. And Jenny did not stay at the bottom; she ran up fast. By the time that she knelt down at her bedside for her evening prayers, she had come to the fourth step--"I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me."
The last atom of Jenny's old admiration for Robin Featherstone, which had been already shaken, vanished that day. The Spirit of God, who had touched her heart through the preacher, led her to see that folly, vanity, and frivolity were utterly out of concord with Him. And then came a feeling of regret for the unkind flippancy with which she had treated Tom Fenton. Jenny knew that Tom was a Christian man; it had been one reason why she despised him, so long as she was not herself a Christian woman. There was a gulf between them now, and of her own digging. Tom had given over coming to the farm except on business; he gave her a kindly "Good morrow!" when they met, but it was no more than he gave to Kate, or any other girl of his acquaintance; and Jenny saw nothing of him beyond that. On every side she heard his praises, as a doer of brave and kindly actions. She knew that, apart from the mere outside, there was not a man to be compared to Tom Fenton in the whole neighbourhood. It was bitter to reflect that the time had been when Tom was ready to put himself and all he had at her feet, and she had only her own folly to thank that it was over. No wonder Jenny grew graver, and looked older than she used to be. Her father was uneasy about her; he feared she was either ill or unhappy, and consulted his sensible old mother.
"Nay," said Mrs Lavender, "Jenny's not took bad; and as for her sadness, it's just womanhood coming to her. Don't you spoil it, Joe. The furnace burns up the dross, and let it go! It won't hurt the good gold."
"You don't think then, mother, there's any fear of the dear lass going into a waste, like?" asked Farmer Lavender anxiously.
"No, Joe, I don't; I'll let you know when I do. At this present I think she's only coming to her senses a bit."
The old preacher appeared no more in the pulpit at Darlaston; but so far as Jenny Lavender was concerned, he had done the work for which he was sent there. Jenny had not a single Christian friend except old Persis Fenton; and she kept away from Tom's aunt, just because she was his aunt. She was therefore shut up to her Bible, which she read diligently; and perhaps she grew all the faster because she was watered direct from the Fountain-Head. Old Mrs Lavender was wise in a moral sense, but not in a spiritual one, beyond having a general respect for religion, and a dislike to any thing irreverent or profane. Farmer Lavender shared this with her; but he looked on piety as a Sunday thing, too good to use every day. So Jenny stood alone in her own family.
While all this was passing at the farm, Colonel Lane and Mrs Jane were speeding, post-haste, to France. The Colonel explained to Featherstone, whom alone of his servants he took with him, that he and his sister having had the honour of performing an important service to the King, their lives were in danger from the resentment of the Parliamentary party.
The King himself was now safe at Paris, where they hoped to join him; and on arriving there, if Featherstone wished to return home, he thought there was no doubt that he could get a passage for him in the suite of some person journeying to England. If, on the contrary, he preferred to remain in France, the Colonel would willingly retain his services.
"I have entered into arrangements," he concluded, "whereby my rents will be secure, and will be remitted to me from time to time while we remain in France. I trust it may not be long ere the King shall be restored, and we can go back with him."
Featherstone requested a little time to think the matter over. He certainly had no desire to leave the Colonel before reaching Paris, a city which he wished to see beyond all others.
"Ay, take your time," answered the Colonel. "My sister will provide herself with a woman when we arrive thither. In truth, it was not for her own sake, but for Jenny's, that she left her at home."
This conversation confirmed Featherstone in two opinions which he already entertained. First, he was satisfied that an understanding had been arrived at between the Colonel and his friend Mr Chadderton, whereby the latter was to remit the Colonel's rents under colour of keeping the estates for himself. Secondly, he was more convinced than ever that Will Jackson had played the traitor, and that it was through him the Parliament had been made aware of the Colonel's service to the King's cause, whatever it might be.
Dover was reached in safety, and the party embarked on board the _Adventure_ for Calais. It took them twenty hours to cross; and before ten of them were over, Robin Featherstone would have been thankful to be set down on the most uninhabited island in the Pacific Ocean, with no prospect of ever seeing Paris or anything else, might he but have been safe upon dry land. It was in a very limp, unstarched condition of mind and body that he landed on the Calais quay. Colonel Lane, an old traveller, and an excellent sailor, was rather disposed to make merry at poor Robin's expense; for toothache and sea-sickness are maladies for which a man rarely meets with much sympathy.
They slept the last night at Saint Denis, where the Colonel encountered an old acquaintance, an English gentleman who was just starting for Paris, and who assured the Colonel that he should communicate the news of his approach to the King.
"Truly, I am weary of horse-riding as I may well be," said Mrs Jane, as she mounted the next morning, to traverse the eight miles which lie between Saint Denis and Paris. "Poor little Jenny Lavender! 'tis well I brought her not withal; she would have been dog-weary ere we had won thus far."
For this short distance Mrs Jane rode by herself, the Colonel mounting another horse beside her. Featherstone followed, and a French youth came last, conducting the baggage-horse. Rather more than half the distance to the capital had been traversed, when a large cavalcade was seen approaching. It consisted of a number of gentlemen on horseback, preceding one of the large cumbrous coaches then in common use, in which sat two ladies and a little girl. The coach was drawn by six heavy Flanders mares, which went at so leisurely a pace that they could easily be accompanied by a crowd of French sight-seers who ran before, behind, and all around them.
As soon as the two parties came within sight of each other, one of the gentlemen who preceded the coach rode forward and met the travellers, pulling off his hat as he came up to them. Featherstone perceived that he was Lord Wilmot.
"How do you, Colonel Lane?" he said. "Mrs Jane, your most obedient! I pray you be in readiness for the high honour which awaits you. His Majesty comes himself to meet you, with the Princes his brothers, and the Queen in her coach, desiring to do you as much honour, and give you as good a welcome as possible."
"We are vastly beholden to their Majesties," replied Colonel Lane, looking as pleased as he felt, which was very much: for the honour thus paid to him was most unusual, and showed that the young King and his mother considered his service an important one. "Featherstone!" he called, looking back, "keep you close behind, or we may lose you."
Featherstone tried hard to obey, but found the order difficult of execution. The crowd was only bent on seeing the meeting, and cared not a straw whether Featherstone were lost or not. He knew not a word of French, and was aware that if he did lose his master, he would probably have no little trouble in finding him again. Moreover, he was very curious to see the King--partly on Kate Lavender's principle, of afterwards having it to talk about. Just at that awkward moment his horse took to curvetting, and he had enough to do to manage him. He was vaguely conscious that one of the riders, who sat on a fine black horse, had come forward beyond the rest, and was cordially shaking hands with Mrs Jane and the Colonel. He heard this gentleman say, "Welcome, my life, my fair preserver!" and dimly fancied that the voice was familiar. Then, having reduced his horse to decent behaviour, he lifted up his eyes and saw--Will Jackson.
Will Jackson, and none other, though now clad in very different garb! He it was who sat that black barb so royally; the King's plumed hat was in his left hand, while the right held that of Mrs Jane. It was at Will Jackson's words of thanks that she was smiling with such delight; it was he before whom Colonel Lane bent bare-headed to his saddlebow. The awkward lout who had never been in a gentleman's service, the ignorant clown, fresh from the plough-tail, the Roundhead, the traitor, had all vanished as if they had never been, and in their stead was King Charles the Second, smilingly complimenting the friends to whose care and caution he owed his safety. If the earth would have opened and swallowed him up, Featherstone thought he would have been thankful. But a worse ordeal was before him. As he sat on his now quiet horse, gazing open-mouthed and open-eyed, the King saw him, and the old twinkle, which Featherstone knew, came into the dark eyes.
"Ha! I see an old friend yonder," said he comically. "I pray you, fetch my fellow-servant up to speak with me."
Poor Featherstone was laid hold of, pulled off his horse, and pushed forward close to that of the King.
"How do, Robin?" asked the merry monarch, who heartily enjoyed a little affair of this sort. "Nay, look not so scared, man--I am not about to cut off thine head."
Featherstone contrived to mumble out something in which "forgive" was the only word audible.
"Forgive thee! what for?" said King Charles. "For that thou knewest me not, and tookest me for a Roundhead? Why, man, it was just then the finest service thou couldst have done me. I have nought to forgive thee for save a glass of the best ale ever I drank, that thou drewest for me at breakfast on the morrow of my departing. Here, some of you"--His Majesty plunged both hands in turn into his pockets, and, as usual, found them empty. "What a plague is this money! Can none of you lend me a few louis?"
The pockets of the suite proved to be almost as bare as those of the King. The Duke of Hamilton managed to find a half-louis (which he well knew he should never see again); Queen Henrietta was applied to in her coach, but in vain, as she either had no money, or did not choose to produce it, well knowing her son's extravagance and thoughtlessness. Colonel Lane had a sovereign, which he furnished. The King held them out to Featherstone.
"There!" he said, "keep somewhat for thyself, and give somewhat to the little dairy-maid that took my part, and would have had me knock thee down. Tell her she'll make a brave soldier for my Guards, when all the men are killed. Divide it as thou wilt. Nay, but I must have a token for pretty Mrs Jenny." His Majesty cast his eyes about, and they fell on his plumed hat. Without a minute's consideration he loosened the diamond buckle. "Give her that," said he, "and tell her the King heartily agrees with her that Will Jackson's an ill-looking fellow."
It was just like King Charles to give away a diamond buckle, when neither he nor his suite had money to pay for necessaries. Robin Featherstone stepped back into the crowd, where he was pretty well hustled and pushed about before he regained his horse; but he managed to keep fast hold of the money and the diamond clasp. He was rather troubled what to do with them. The jewel had so pointedly been intended for Jenny, that he could scarcely help dealing rightly in that instance; but the division of the money was not so clear. A man who was just and generous would have given the sovereign to Fortune, and have kept the half-louis (worth about 8 shillings 6 pence) for himself; but Feathers tone was not generous, and not particularly anxious to be just. The portion to be appropriated to Fortune dwindled in his thoughts, until it reached half-a-crown, and there for very shame's sake it stayed.
"And why not?" demanded Mr Featherstone of his conscience, when it made a feeble remonstrance. "Did not His Majesty say, `Divide it as thou list'? Pray who am I, that I am not to obey His Majesty?"
Had His Majesty's order been a little less in accordance with his own inclinations, perhaps Mr Featherstone would not have found it so incumbent on him to obey it. It is astonishing how easy a virtue becomes when it runs alongside a man's interest and choice. Featherstone had never learned self-denial; and that is a virtue nearly as hard to exercise without practice as it would be to play a tune on a musical instrument which the player had never handled before. In that wonderful allegory, the _Holy War_--which is less read than its companion, the _Pilgrim's Progress_, but deserves it quite as much-- Bunyan represents Self-Denial as a plain citizen of Mansoul, of whom Prince Immanuel made first a captain, and then a lord. But he would never have been selected for either honour, if he had not first done his unobtrusive duty as a quiet citizen. Self-denial and self-control are not commonly admired virtues just now. Yet he is a very poor man who has not these most valuable possessions.
Robin Featherstone stayed with the Colonel just as long as it suited himself, and until he had exhausted such pleasures as he could have in Paris without knowing a word of the French language, which he was too lazy to learn. What a vast amount of good, not to speak of pleasure, men lose by laziness! When this point was reached, Featherstone told the Colonel that he wished to return to England; and Colonel Lane, who, happily for himself, was not lazy, set things in train, and procured for Robert a passage to England in the service of a gentleman who was going home.
"I wonder how little Jenny's going on," said our idle friend to himself, as he drew near Bentley. "I might do worse than take little Jenny. I only hope she hasn't taken up with that clod-hopper Fenton while I've been away, for want of a better. I almost think I'll have her. Dolly Campion's like to have more money, 'tis true; but it isn't so much more, and she's got an ugly temper with it. I shouldn't like a wife with a temper--I've a bit too much myself; and two fires make it rather hot in a house. (Mr Featherstone did not trouble himself to wonder how far Jenny, or any other woman, might like a husband with a temper.) Ay, I think I'll take Jenny--all things considered. I might look about me a bit first, though. There's no hurry."
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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6
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WHEREIN JENNY MAKES HER LAST MISTAKE.
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"I marvel Tom and Jenny Lavender doesn't make it up," said Persis Fenton, as she laid the white cloth for supper on her little table. "Here's Jenny got a fine sensible young woman, with God's grace in her heart (more than ever I looked for), and Tom goes on living in that cottage all by his self, and never so much as casts an eye towards her-- and that fond of her as he'd used to be, afore, too! Tony, man, don't you think it's a bit queer?"
"I think," said old Anthony, looking up from his big Bible, which he was reading by the fireside, "I think, Persis, we'd best leave the Lord to govern His own world. He hasn't forgot that Tom's in it, I reckon, nor Jenny neither."
"Well, no--but one'd like to help a bit," said Persis, lifting off the pan to dish up her green pudding, which was made of suet and bread-crumbs, marigolds and spinach, eggs and spice.
"Folks as thinks they're helping sometimes hinders," replied Anthony, quietly taking off his great horn spectacles, and putting them away in the case.
"Tell you what, Tony, I hate to see anything wasted," resumed Persis, after grace had been said. "If there's only an end of thread over, I can't abear to cast it away; I wind it on an old bobbin, thinking it'll come in some time."
"The Lord never wastes nothing, wife," was Anthony's answer. "See how He grows plants in void places, and clothes the very ruins with greenery. It's always safe to trust Him with a man's life."
"Ay," half assented Persis, "but it do seem a waste like of them young things' happiness."
"Where didst thou ever read in the Word, Persis, as happiness was the first thing for a man to look to? The Lord's glory comes first, and then usefulness to our fellows, a long way afore happiness. Bless the Lord, He do make it happy work for man to seek His glory--and that's what Tom doth. I'll trust the Lord to see to his happiness."
Just as the green puddings came out of the pan, Tom Fenton turned into the lane leading up to his own home, having been engaged in delivering a work-table that he had made for the Vicar's wife. It was a beautiful day at the end of October, very warm for the time of year, and the sun was near its setting. As Tom came to a turn in the lane, he saw a short distance before him, up a bye-road which led past Farmer Lavender's house, a solitary girlish figure, walking slowly, and now and then stopping to gather something from the bank. A slight quickening of his steps, and a turn into the bye-road, soon brought him up with the solitary walker.
"Good even, Jenny!"
"Good even, Tom!"
For some seconds they walked abreast without any further speech. Then Tom said-- "I've just been up to parson's."
"Oh, have you?" replied Jenny, a little nervously.
"Their Dorcas saith she's heard as Featherstone's back."
"Is he so?" said Jenny, in a still more constrained tone.
"Didn't like it in France, from what she heard."
"Very like not," murmured Jenny.
"He's got a place with Mr Chadderton--the young gentleman who was married of late, and who's coming to live at Bentley Hall; so you're like to see a bit of him again."
"I don't want to see him," said Jenny suddenly. "I'd as lief he didn't come nigh me."
"You was used to like him middling well wasn't you, Jenny?"
Before Jenny could answer, the very person of whom they were speaking appeared at a turn of the lane, coming towards them.
"Mrs Jenny Lavender, as I live!" said he. "Now, this is luck! I was on my way to the farm--" "With your back to it?" asked Tom.
Mr Featherstone ignored both Tom and the question.
"Mrs Jenny, since I had the delight of sunning myself in your fair eyes, I have had the high honour of beholding His Most Gracious Majesty King Charles, who was pleased to command me to deliver into your white hands a jewel which His Majesty detached from his own hat. He--" "Me!" exclaimed Jenny, in so astounded a tone as to remind Featherstone that he was beginning his story at the wrong end.
"Oh, of course you know not," he said, a little put out, for his speech had been carefully studied, though he had forgotten the peroration, "that His Majesty is Will Jackson. I mean, Will Jackson was His Majesty. At least--" "Are you quite sure you know what you do mean, Mr Featherstone?" demanded Tom. "Sounds as if you'd got a bit mixed up, like. Is it the King you've seen, or is't Will Jackson?"
Tom rather suspected that Featherstone was not quite sober. But he was, though between annoyance and self-exaltation he was behaving rather oddly.
"Look here!" he said angrily, holding out the diamond clasp. "Was Will Jackson like to give me such as this for Mrs Jenny? I tell you, His Majesty the King gave it me with his own hand."
Suddenly Tom's conscience spoke. "Are you acting like a Christian man, Tom Fenton?" it said. "Have you any right to work Featherstone up into a passion, however foolish he may have been? Is that charitable? is it Christ-like?"
"Very good, Mr Featherstone," said Tom quietly.
"I ask your pardon, and I'll relieve you of my company. Good night-- Good night, Jenny."
Jenny could have cried with disappointment. She was afraid that Tom was vexed with her, and wholly unwilling to be left to the society of Featherstone. As to the diamond buckle, she did not half believe the story. Tom's action, however, had its effect upon Featherstone.
"Don't you believe me, Mrs Jenny?" he said more gently. "I doubt I've made a mess of my story, but 'tis really true. Will Jackson was the King himself in disguise, and he bade me bring that to you, and tell you that he entirely agreed with you that Will was an ill-looking fellow."
When Jenny really understood the truth, she was overwhelmed. Was it possible that she had actually told King Charles to his face that she considered him ugly? Of course she was pleased with the gift in itself, and with his kindly pardon of her impertinence.
"But, eh dear!" she said, turning round the clasp, which flashed and glistened as it was moved, "such as this isn't fit for the likes of me!"
Farmer Lavender was exceedingly pleased to see the clasp and hear its story, and in his exultation gave Featherstone a general invitation to "turn in and see them whenever he'd a mind."
"Why, Jenny!" cried Kate, "you'll have to hand that down to your grandchildren!"
Jenny only smiled faintly as she went upstairs. She liked the clasp, and she liked the gracious feeling which had sent it; but what really occupied her more than either was a distressed fear that she had offended Tom Fenton. He never came to the farm now. The only hope she had of seeing him lay in an accidental meeting.
Sunday came, and Jenny dressed herself in the flowered tabby, tying her tippet this time with blue ribbons. When she came into the kitchen ready to go to church, her sister's eyes scanned her rather curiously. "Why, Jenny, where's your clasp?"
"What clasp?" asked Jenny innocently. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
"What clasp!" repeated Kate, with a burst of laughter. "Why, the clasp King Charles sent you, for sure. Have you got so many diamond clasps you can't tell which it is?"
"Oh! --Why, Kate, I couldn't put it on."
"What for no? If a King sent me a diamond, I'd put it on, you take my word for it! --ay, and where it'd show too."
"I'd rather not," said Jenny in a low voice. "Not for church, anyhow."
"Going to save it for your wedding-day?" Jenny felt very little inclined for jests; the rather since she was beginning to feel extremely doubtful if she would ever have any wedding-day at all. She felt instinctively that a jewel such as King Charles's clasp was not fit for her to wear. Tom would not like to see it, she well knew; he detested anything which looked like ostentation. And, perhaps, Christ would not like it too. Would it not interfere with the wearing of that other ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, with which He desired His handmaidens to adorn themselves? Jenny resolved that she would not put on the clasp.
"No, Kate, I shouldn't like to wear it," she said quietly. "I've got it put by safe, and you can see it whenever you have a mind: but it's best there."
"Thou'rt right, my lass," said old Mrs Lavender.
"Well, I shouldn't like you to lose it, of course," admitted Kate.
Jenny fancied, and with a heavy heart, that Tom carefully avoided speaking to her in the churchyard. Old Anthony and Persis had a kind word for her, but though Tom went away in their company, carrying his aunt's books, he never came up to speak with Jenny. It distressed her the more because Kate said afterwards: "Have you had words with Tom Fenton, Jenny? I asked him if he'd a grudge against you, that he never spoke."
"What did he say?" asked Jenny quickly.
"He didn't say neither yea nor nay," answered Kate, laughing.
The afternoon brought several young people, and there was, as usual, plenty of mirth and chatter. Jenny felt utterly out of tune for it, and slipped out of the back door into the lane. She went slowly up, feeling very low-spirited, and wondering what God was going to do with her. When she came to the gate of the bean-field--the place where Tom had overtaken her a few evenings before--she stopped, and resting her arms upon the gate, watched the sun sinking slowly to the west. Thinking herself quite alone, she said aloud, sorrowfully--"Oh dear! I wonder if I've never done anything but make mistakes all my life!"
"Ay, we made one the other night, didn't we?" said a voice behind her.
Jenny kept her start to herself.
"Yes, we did, Tom," she replied soberly.
"I've made a many afore now," said Tom gravely.
"Not so many as me," answered Jenny, sorrowfully.
"Tell me your biggest, Jenny, and you shall hear mine."
"There's no doubt of that, Tom. The biggest mistake ever I made was when I fancied God's service was all gloom and dismalness."
"Right you are, Jenny. That's about the biggest anybody can make. But what was the second, now?"
"Oh look, Tom, those, lovely colours!" cried Jenny, suddenly seized with a fervent admiration for the sunset. "Them red streaks over the gold, and the purple away yonder--isn't it beautiful?"
"It is, indeed. But that second mistake, Jenny?"
"Nay, I was to hear your biggest, you know," said Jenny slily.
"Well, Jenny, the biggest mistake ever I made, next after that biggest of all that you spoke of just now--was to fancy that I could forget Jenny Lavender, my old love."
Two hours afterwards, the door of old Anthony's cottage opened about an inch.
"Uncle Anthony, are you there?"
"Ay, lad. Come in, Tom."
"Don't want to come in. I only want to tell you that the Lord's given me back the greatest thing I ever gave up for Him."
Old Anthony understood in a moment.
"Ay so, Tom? I'm fain for thee. And thou'lt be glad all thy life long, my lad, that thou waited for the Lord to give it thee, and didn't snatch it like out of His hand. We're oft like children, that willn't wait till the fruit be ripe, but makes theirselves ill by eating it green. And when folks does that, there's no great pleasure in the eating, and a deal of pain at after."
"That's true. Well, good night, Uncle Anthony. I thought I'd just let you know."
"I'm right glad to know it, my dear lad. Good night, and God bless thee!"
It was not for nine years that the Lanes came back to Bentley Hall. Their lives would have been in danger had they done so at an earlier date. They came back with King Charles--when Oliver Cromwell was dead, and his son Richard had shown himself unfit to govern, and a season of general tumult and uncertainty had brought England into readiness to accept any firm hand upon the helm, and an inclination to look longingly to the son of her ancient Kings, as the one above all others given by God to govern her. But she had made the terrible mistake of first driving him away into lands where he found little morality and less religion, and it was to her woeful hurt that he came back.
It was on a beautiful June evening that the Lanes returned to Bentley: and the old master of the Hall only came back to die. Colonel Lane was looking much older, and his mother was now an infirm old woman. Mrs Jane, a blooming matron of thirty, came with her husband, Sir Clement Fisher, of Packington Hall, Warwickshire, a great friend of her brother, and like him an exile for the King.
Charles did not forget the service done him by the Lanes, nor leave it unrewarded, as he did that of some of his best friends. He settled on Lady Fisher an annuity of a thousand pounds, with half that sum to her brother; and he presented Colonel Lane with his portrait, and a handsome watch (a valuable article at that time), which he desired might descend in the family, being enjoyed for life by each eldest daughter of the owner of Bentley Hall. They are still preserved by the Lane family.
A few days after the Lanes returned, Jenny Fenton stood washing and singing in the back yard of the cottage. Tom's work-shed ran along one side of it, and there he was carefully fitting the back of a chair to its seat, while a younger Tom, and a still more youthful Joe, were as diligently building a magnificent sailing-vessel in the corner. A woman of middle age came up to the door, lifted her hand as if to knock, stepped back, and seemed uncertain how to act. A child of six years old, at that moment, ran round the cottage, and looked up in surprise at the stranger standing before the door.
"Little maid, what is thy name?" said the stranger.
A little doubtful whether the stranger, who in her eyes was a very grand lady, was about to hear her say her catechism, the small child put her hands meekly together, and said-- "Molly, please."
"Molly what?" pursued the stranger, with a smile.
"Molly Fenton, please."
"That will do. Where's mother?"
"Please, she's a-washing at the back."
"Is that she that singeth?"
"Yes, that's her," returned Molly, carefully avoiding grammar.
The song came floating to them through the balmy June air. " `O God, my strength, and fortitude, Of force I must love Thee! Thou art my castle and defence In my necessity.'"
The strange lady sighed, much to Molly's perplexity; then she rapped at the door. It was opened by Jenny, who stood with an inquiring look on her face, which asked the visitor plainly to say who she was.
"You don't know me, then, Jenny Lavender?"
"No, Ma-- Dear heart! is it Mrs Millicent?"
"It is Millicent Danbury, Jenny. And I am Millicent Danbury still, though you are Jenny Fenton."
"Pray you, come within, Mrs Millicent," said Jenny cordially. "I'm right glad to see you. There's been a many changes since we met--Molly, dust that chair, quick, and bring it up for the gentlewoman."
"Ay," said Millicent, with another sigh, as she sat down in the heavy Windsor chair which it required all Molly's strength to set for her; "there are many changes, Jenny, very many, since you and I lived together at Bentley Hall."
"Not for the worser, are they?" replied Jenny cheerfully.
"Ah! I'm not so sure of that, Jenny," answered Millicent.
"Well, I'm nowise afeard of changes," said Jenny, in the same bright tone. "The Lord means His people good by all the changes He sends. Mrs Millicent, won't you tarry a while and sup your four-hours with us?"
The meal which our ancestors called "four-hours" answered to our tea; but tea had not yet been introduced into England, though it was very soon to be so. They drank, therefore, either milk, or weak home-brewed ale.
"With all my heart," was the reply, "if I'm not in your way, Jenny. You are washing, I see."
"I've done for to-day, and Tom and me'll be as pleased as can be if you'll take a bit with us, Mrs Millicent. Molly, child, fetch forth the table-cloth, and get the salt-cellar, and then run and tell father. --She's a handy little maid for her years," added Jenny, with motherly pride.
Millicent smiled rather sadly. "You are a happy woman, Jenny!" she said.
"Bless the Lord, so I am!" echoed Jenny. "It's the Lord's blessing makes folks happy."
"Say you so? --then maybe that is why I am not," said Millicent, rather bitterly. "I don't know much of the Lord."
"That's a trouble can be mended," said Jenny softly; "and you'll be main glad when it is, take my word for it."
"I don't know how to set about it, Jenny."
"Why, dear heart! how do you set about knowing anybody? Go and see 'em, don't you, and talk with 'em, and get 'em to do things for you? The good Lord always keeps His door open, and turns away none as come."
At that moment Tom came in, with a hearty welcome to his guest. Jenny, helped by Molly, bustled about, setting the table, and cutting bread and butter, while Tom drew the ale; and they had just sat down when a little rap came on the door.
"Anybody at home here?" asked a bright voice. Jenny knew it at once.
"O Mrs Jane! --I crave pardon, my Lady! --pray you come in, and do us the honour to sit down in our house."
"I'll do you more honour than that," said Lady Fisher comically, as she came forward. "I'll eat that bread and butter, if you'll give it me, for I have been a great way afoot, and I am as hungry as a hunter."
"I pray you take a chair, madam, and do us so much pleasure," said smiling Jenny. "I have here in the oven a cake but just ready to come forth, made the Princess Elizabeth's way, His Majesty's sister, and I shall be proud if your ladyship will taste it."
"I'll taste it vastly, if I get the chance," said Lady Fisher, laughing, as Jenny took her cake out of the oven.
The Princess Elizabeth was that young gentle girl who had died a prisoner at Carisbrooke Castle, a few years after her father's murder, her cheek resting on the little Bible which had been his last gift. Her cake was a rich plum-cake, made with cream, eggs, and butter.
"Did you get your other honour, Jenny?" asked Lady Fisher, as she helped herself to the cake.
"Madam?" asked Jenny, in some doubt.
"Why, the jewel His Majesty sent you. I was something inclined to doubt Featherstone might forget it."
"Oh yes, madam, I thank you for asking, I have it quite safe. It was a vast surprise to me, and most kind and gracious of His Majesty."
"Well, now I think it was very ungracious in His Majesty," said Lady Fisher, laughing. "I am sure he ought to have sent it to Millicent here, who reckoned him a Roundhead and an assassin to boot, if he meant to show how forgiving he could be to his enemies."
"Oh!" cried Millicent, clasping her hands, "shall I ever forget how the dear King took me by the hand? To think of having touched the hand of His Sacred Majesty--" "Hold, Millicent! that's a new story," said Lady Fisher. "Last time I heard you tell it, that horrid creature, Will Jackson, only offered to take you by the hand. Has he got it done by now?"
Millicent looked slightly confused, but speedily recovered herself.
"O madam, I think he touched me. I do think I had the honour of touching His Gracious Majesty's little finger, I really do!"
"Really do, by all means, if it makes you happier; _I've_ no objection. Jenny, I shall eat up all your cake. It is fit to be set before the Queen. Millicent, I wonder you can find in your heart to wash your hands."
"Oh, but I _had_ washed them, madam, before I knew," answered Millicent regretfully.
"Well, I hope you had," answered Lady Fisher, "seeing there lay nine years betwixt. Heigh ho! time runs away, and we with it. Seems pity, doesn't it!"
"Depends on where we're running to," replied Tom, who had entered unseen. "Children that's running home, when they know their father's got a fine present for them, isn't commonly feared of getting there too soon."
"But how if folks don't know, Tom?" suggested Jenny, and Millicent's eyes reflected her query.
"My dear," answered Tom humbly, "it's not for the likes of me to speak afore such as her Ladyship. But I know what my dear old Uncle Anthony was wont to say: `The only way to be certain you're on the way Home is to make sure that you are going to your Father; and to do that you must go with Him.' And I doubt if he'd speak different, now that he's got Home."
"Ay, I suppose we would all like to have God go with us," said Lady Fisher gravely.
"Madam, saving your presence, Uncle was used to say there's a many would like vastly well to have God go with them, that isn't half so ready to get up and go with God. David spake well when he said, `Make _Thy_ way plain before my face.' The Lord's way is the sure and safe way, and 'tis the only one that leads Home."
"I think, Jenny, you _are_ a happy woman," said Lady Fisher, an hour later, as she took her leave. Tom had gone back to his work-shed. "Good night; God be with you."
"I am that, Madam, the Lord be praised," answered Jenny. "But the Lord is to be praised for it, for I've done nought all my life but make mistakes, until He took hold of me and put me right."
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note: That part of the story which relates to King Charles and the Lane family is quite true, with the exception of a few small details. Authorities differ as to whether the King and Mrs Jane rode to Trent House alone, or accompanied by the persons mentioned. Lord Wilmot followed them the whole time, at a safe distance.
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{
"id": "21234"
}
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1
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PHOEBE ARRIVES AT WHITE-LADIES.
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"The sailing of a cloud hath Providence to its pilot."
_Martin Farquhar Tupper_.
In the handsome parlour of Cressingham Abbey, commonly called White-Ladies, on a dull afternoon in January, 1712, sat Madam and her granddaughter, Rhoda, sipping tea.
Madam--and nothing else, her dependants would have thought it an impertinence to call her Mrs Furnival. Never was Empress of all the Russias more despotic in her wide domain than Madam in her narrow one.
As to Mr Furnival--for there had been such a person, though it was a good while since--he was a mere appendage to Madam's greatness--useful in the way of collecting rents and seeing to repairs, and capable of being put away when done with. He was a little, meek, unobtrusive man, fully (and happily) convinced of his own insignificance, and ready to sink himself in his superb wife as he might receive orders. He had been required to change his name as a condition of alliance with the heiress of Cressingham, and had done so with as much readiness as he would in similar circumstances have changed his coat. It was about fourteen years since this humble individual had ceased to be the head servant of Madam; and it was Madam's wont to hint, when she condescended to refer to him at all, that her marriage with him had been the one occasion in her life wherein she had failed to act with her usual infallibility.
It had been a supreme disappointment to Madam that both her children were of the inferior sex. Mrs Catherine to some extent resembled her father, having no thoughts nor opinions of her own, but being capable of moulding like wax; and like wax her mother moulded her. She married, under Madam's orders, at the age of twenty, the heir of the neighbouring estate--a young gentleman of blood and fortune, with few brains and fewer principles--and died two years thereafter, leaving behind her a baby daughter only a week old, whom her careless father was glad enough to resign to Madam, in order to get her out of his way.
The younger of Madam's daughters, despite her sister's passive obedience, had been the mother's favourite. Her obedience was by no means passive. She inherited all her mother's self-will, and more than her mother's impulsiveness. Much the handsomer of the two, she was dressed up, flattered, indulged, and petted in every way. Nothing was too good for Anne, until one winter day, shortly after Catherine's marriage, when the family assembled round the breakfast table, and Anne was found missing. A note was brought to Madam that evening by one of Mr Peveril's under-gardeners, in which Anne gaily confessed that she had taken her destiny into her own hands, and had that morning been married to the Reverend Charles Latrobe, family chaplain to her brother-in-law, Mr Peveril. She hoped that her mother would not be annoyed, and would receive her and her bridegroom with the usual cordiality exhibited at weddings.
Madam's, face was a study for a painter. Had Anne Furnival searched through her whole acquaintance, and selected that one man who would be least acceptable at Cressingham, she could not have succeeded better.
A chaplain! the son of a French Huguenot refugee, concerned in trade! -- every item, in Madam's eyes, was a lower deep beyond the previous one. It was considered in those days that the natural wife for a family chaplain was the lady's maid. That so mean a creature should presume to lift his eyes to the sister of his patroness, was monstrous beyond endurance. And a Frenchman! --when Madam looked upon all foreigners as nuisances whose removal served for practice to the British fleet, and boasted that she could _not_ speak a word of French, with as much complacency as would have answered for laying claim to a perfect knowledge of all the European tongues. And a tradesman's son! A tradesman, and a gentleman, in her eyes, were terms as incompatible as a blue rose or a vermilion cat. For a man to soil his fingers with sale, barter or manufacture, was destructive of all pretension not only to birth, but to manners.
On the head of her innocent spouse Madam's fury had been outpoured in no measured terms. Receive the hussy, she vehemently declared, she would not! She should never set foot in that house again. From this moment she had but one daughter.
Two years afterwards, on the evening of Catherine's funeral, and of the transference of baby Rhoda to the care of her grandmother, a young woman, shabbily dressed, carrying an infant, and looking tired and careworn, made her way to the back door of the Abbey. She asked for an interview with Madam.
"I cannot disturb Madam," said the grey-haired servant, not unkindly; "her daughter was buried this morning. You must come again, my good woman."
"Must I so, Baxter?" replied the applicant. "Tell her she has one daughter left. Surely, if ever she will see me, it were to-night."
"Eh, Mrs Anne!" exclaimed the man, who remembered her as a baby in arms. "Your pardon, Madam, that I knew you not sooner. Well, I cannot tell! but come what will, it shall never be said that I turned my young mistress from her mother's door. If I lose my place by it, I'll take in your name to Madam."
The answer he received was short and stern. " _My daughter_ was buried this morning. I will not see the woman."
Baxter softened it a little in repeating it to Mrs Latrobe. But he could not soften the hard fact that her mother refused to see her. She was turning away, when suddenly she lifted her head and held out her child to him.
"Take it to her! 'Tis a boy."
Mrs Latrobe knew Madam. If a grandchild of the nobler sex produced no effect upon her, no more could be hoped. Baxter carried the child in, but he shook his grey head when he brought it back. He did not repeat the message this time.
"I'll have nought to do with that beggar tradesfellow's brats!" said Madam, in a fury.
"Mrs Anne, there's one bit of comfort," said old Baxter, in a whisper. "Master slipped out as soon as I told of you, and I saw him cross the field towards the church. Go you that way, and meet him."
She did not speak another word, but she clasped the child tight to her bosom, and hurried away. As she passed a narrow outlet at the end of the Abbey Church, close to the road, Mr Furnival shambled out and met her.
"Eh, Nancy, poor soul, God bless thee!" faltered the poor father, who was nearly as much to be pitied as his child. "She'll not see thee, my girl. And she'll blow me up for coming. But that's nothing--it comes every day for something. Look here, child," and Mr Furnival emptied all his pockets, and poured gold and silver into Anne's thin hand. "I can do no more. Poor child! poor child! But if thou art in trouble, my girl, send to me at any time, and I'll pawn my coat for thee if I can do no better."
"Father," said Mrs Latrobe, in an unsteady voice, "I am sorry I was ever an undutiful child to _you_."
The emphasis was terribly significant.
So they parted, with much admiration of the grandson, and Mr Furnival trotted back to his penance; for Madam kept him very short of money, and required from him an account of every shilling. The storm which he anticipated broke even a little more severely than he expected; but he bore it quietly, and went to bed when it was over.
Since that night nothing whatever had been heard of Mrs Latrobe until four months before the story opens. When Mr Furnival was on his death-bed, he braved his wife's anger by naming the disowned daughter. His last words were, "Perpetua, seek out Anne!"
Madam sat listening to him with lips firmly set, and without words. It was not till he was past speech that she gave him any answer.
"Jack," she said at last, to the pleading eyes which were more eloquent than the hushed voice had been, "look you here. I will not seek the girl out. She has made her bed, and let her lie on it! But I will do this for you--and I should never have done that without your asking and praying me now. If she comes or sends to me, I will not refuse her some help. I shall please myself what sort. But I won't turn her quite away, for your sake."
The pleading eyes turned to grateful ones. An hour later, and Madam was a widow.
Fourteen years passed, during which Rhoda grew up into a maiden of nineteen years, always in the custody of her grandmother. Her father had fallen in one of the Duke of Marlborough's battles, and before his death had been compelled to sell Peveril Manor to liquidate his gambling debts. He left nothing for Rhoda beyond his exquisite wardrobe and jewellery, a service of gold plate, and a number of unpaid bills, which Madam flatly refused to take upon herself, and defied the unhappy tradesmen to impose upon Rhoda. She did, however, keep the plate and jewels; and by way of a sop to Cerberus, allowed the "beggarly craftsmen," whom she so heartily despised, to sell and divide the proceeds of the wardrobe.
When the fourteen years were at an end, on an afternoon in September, a letter was brought to the Abbey for Madam. Its bearer was a respectable, looking middle-aged woman. Madam ordered her to have some refreshment, while she read the letter. Rhoda noticed that her hand shook as she held it, and wondered what it could be about. Letters were unusual and important documents in those days. But it was the signature that had startled Madam--"Anne Latrobe."
Mrs Latrobe wrote in a strain of suffering, penitence, and entreaty. She was in sore trouble. Her husband was dead; of her five children only one was living. She herself was capable of taking a situation as lady's maid--a higher position then than now--and she knew of one lady who was willing to engage her, if she could provide otherwise for Phoebe. Phoebe was the second of her children, and was now seventeen. She expressed her sorrow for the undutiful behaviour of which she had been guilty towards both parents; and she besought in all ignorance the father who had been dead for fourteen years, to plead with Madam, to help her, in any way she pleased, to put Phoebe into some respectable place where she could earn her own living. Mrs Latrobe described her as a "quiet, meek, good girl,--far better than ever I was,"--and said that she would be satisfied with any arrangement which would effect the end proposed.
For some minutes Madam sat gazing out of the window, yet seeing nothing, with the letter lying open before her. Her promise to her dead husband bound her to answer favourably. What should she do with Phoebe? After some time of absolute silence, she startled Rhoda with the question,-- "Child, how old are you?"
"Nineteen, Madam," answered Rhoda, in much surprise.
"Two years!" responded Madam,--which words were an enigma to her granddaughter.
But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary of her sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of some eligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She was more perplexed than ever with the next question.
"Would you like a companion, child?"
"Very much, Madam." Anything which was a change was welcome to Rhoda.
"I think I will," said Madam. "Ring the bell."
I have already stated that Madam was impulsive. When her old butler came in--a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability--she said, "Send that woman here."
The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within the door.
"Your name, my good woman?" asked Madam, condescendingly.
"An't please you, Molly Bell, Madam."
"Whence come you, Molly?"
"An't please you, from Bristol, Madam."
"How came you?"
"An't please you, on foot, Madam; but I got a lift in a carrier's cart for a matter of ten miles."
"Do you know the gentlewoman that writ the letter you brought?"
"Oh, ay, Mistress Latrobe! The Lord be thanked, Madam, that ever I did know her, and her good master, the Reverend, that's gone to the good place."
"You are sure of that?" demanded Madam; but the covert satire was lost on Molly Bell.
"Sure!" exclaimed she; adding, very innocently, "You can never have known Mr Latrobe, Madam, to ask that; not of late years, leastwise."
"I never did," said Madam, rather grimly. "And do you know Mrs Phoebe?"
"Dear heart, Madam!" said Molly, laughing softly, "but how queer it do sound, for sure, to hear you say Mrs Phoebe! She's always been Miss Phoebe with us all these years; and we hadn't begun like to think she was growing up. Oh, dear, yes, Madam, I knew them all--Master Charles, and Miss Phoebe, and Master Jack, and Miss Perry, and Miss Kitty."
"Miss Perry?" said Madam, in an interrogative tone.
"Miss Perpetua, Madam--we always called her Miss Perry for short. A dear little blessed child she was!"
Rhoda saw the kind which held the letter tremble again.
"And they are all dead but Miss Phoebe?"
"It's a mercy Miss Phoebe wasn't taken too," said Molly, shaking her head. "They died of the fever, in one fortnight's time--Miss Perry went the first; and then Master Jack, and then Master Charles, and the Reverend himself, and Miss Kitty last of all. Miss Phoebe was down like all of 'em, and the doctor did say he couldn't ha' pulled her through but for her dear good mother. She never had her gown off, Madam, night nor day, just a-going from one sick bed to another; and they all died in her arms. I wonder she didn't lie down and die herself at last. I do think it was Miss Phoebe beginning to get better as kept her in life."
"Poor Anne!"
If anything could have startled Rhoda, it was those two words. She recognised her aunt's name, and knew now of whom they were speaking.
Had Molly been retained as counsel for Mrs Latrobe, she could hardly have spoken more judiciously than she did. She went on now,-- "And, O Madam! when all was done, and the five coffins carried out, she says to me, Mrs Latrobe says, `Molly,' she says, `I'd ought to be very thankful. I haven't been a good child,' she says, `to my father and mother. But _they'll_ never pay me back my bitter ways,' she says. And I'm right sure, Madam, as Miss Phoebe never will, for she's that sweet and good, she is! So you see, Madam, Mrs Latrobe, she's had her troubles, and if so be she's sent to you for comfort, Madam, I take the liberty to hope as you'll give her a bit."
"You can go back to the kitchen, Molly," said Madam, in what was for her a very gracious tone. "I will order you a night's lodging here, and to-morrow one of my carters, who is going to Gloucester, shall take you so far on your way. I will give you a letter to carry."
"Thank you kindly, Madam!"
And with half a dozen courtesies, one for Rhoda, and the rest for Madam, Molly retreated, well pleased. Madam sat down and wrote her letter. This was Madam's letter, written in an amiable frame of mind:-- "Daughter,--I have yowr leter. Your father is ded thise foreteen yeres. I promissed him as he lay a dyeing yt wou'd doe some thing for you. You have nott desarv'd itt, but I am sory to here of your troble. If you will sende youre childe to mee, I will doe so mutch for yow as too brede her upp with my granedor Roda, yowr sistar Catterin's child. I wou'd not have yow mistak my meaneing, wch is nott that shee shou'd be plac'd on a levell with her cosin, for Roada is a jantlewoman, and yt is moar than she can say. But to be Rodes wating mayd, and serve her in her chamber, and bere her cumpany when she hath need. I will give the girle too sutes of close by the yere, and some tims a shillinge in her pockit, and good lodgeing and enow of victle. And if shee be obediant and humbel, and order her self as I wou'd she may, I will besyde al this give her if shee mary her weding close and her weddying diner,--yt is, if she mary to my minde,--and if noe, thenn shee may go whissel for anie thing I will doe for her. It is moar than she cou'd look for anie whear els. You will bee a foole to say Noe.
"P. Furnival.
"Lett the girle come when you goe to your place. There is a carrer goes from Bristoll to Teukesburry, and a mann with an horse shal mete her at the Bell."
Be not horrified, accomplished modern reader, at Madam's orthography. She spelt fairly well--for a lady in 1712.
An interval of about two months followed, and then came another letter from Mrs Latrobe. She wrote in a most grateful strain; she was evidently even more surprised than pleased with the offer for Phoebe. There was a reference of penitent love to her father; a promise that Phoebe should be at Cressingham on or as near as possible to the twenty-ninth of January; and warm thanks for her mother's undeserved kindness, more especially for the consideration which had prompted the promise that Phoebe should be met at Tewkesbury, instead of being left to find her way alone in the dark through the two miles which lay between that town and Cressingham.
So, on the afternoon of that twenty-ninth of January, an hour after the man and horses had started, Madam and Rhoda sat in the Abbey parlour, sipping their tea, and both meditating on the subject of Phoebe.
Madam, as became a widow, was attired in black. A stiff black bombazine petticoat was surmounted by a black silk gown adorned with flowers in raised embroidery, and the train of the gown was pulled through the pocket-hole of the petticoat. At that time, ladies of all ages wore their dresses low and square at the neck, edged with a tucker of nett or lace; the sleeves ended at the elbows with a little white ruffle of similar material to the tucker. In London, the low head-dress was coming into fashion; but country ladies still wore the high commode, a superb erection of lace and muslin, from one to three feet in height. Long black silk mittens were drawn up to _meet_ the sleeves. The shoes reached nearly to the ankles, and were finished with large silver buckles.
Rhoda was much smarter. She wore a cotton gown--for when all cotton gowns were imported from India, they were rare and costly articles--of an involved shawl-like pattern, in which the prevailing colour was red. Underneath was a petticoat of dark blue quilted silk. Her commode was brightened by blue ribbons; she wore no mittens; and her shoe-buckles rivalled those of her grandmother. Rhoda's figure was good, but her face was commonplace. She was neither pretty nor ugly, neither intellectual nor stupid-looking. Of course she wore powder (as also did Madam); but if her hair had been released from its influence, it would have been perceived that there was about it a slight, very slight, tinge of red.
The coming of her cousin was an event of the deepest interest to Rhoda, for she had been ever since her birth absolutely without any society of her own age. Never having had an opportunity of measuring herself by other girls, Rhoda imagined herself a most learned and accomplished young person. It would be such a triumph to see Phoebe find it out, and such a pleasure to receive--with a becoming deprecation which meant nothing--the admiration of one so far her inferior. Rhoda had dipped into a score or two of her grandfather's books, had picked up sundry fine words and technical phrases, with a smattering of knowledge, or what would pass for it; and she sat radiant in the contemplation of the delightful future which was to exalt herself and overawe Phoebe.
So lost was she in her own imaginations, that she neither heard Madam ring her little hand-bell, nor was conscious that the horses had trotted past the window, until Sukey, one of Madam's maids, came in answer to the bell, and courtesying, said, "An it please you, Madam, Mrs Phoebe Latrobe."
Rhoda lifted her eyes eagerly, and saw her cousin. The first item which she noticed was that Phoebe's figure was by no means so good as her own, her shoulders being so high as almost to reach deformity; the next point was that the expression of Phoebe's face was remarkably sweet; the third was that Phoebe's dress was particularly shabby. It was a brown stuff, worn threadbare, too short for the fashion, and without any of the flounces and furbelows then common. Over it was tied a plain white linen apron--aprons were then worn both in and out of doors--and Phoebe's walking costume consisted of a worn black mantua or pelisse, and a hood, brown like the dress, which was the shabbiest of all. The manner of the wearer, however, while extremely modest and void of self-assertion, was not at all awkward nor disconcerted. She courtesied, first to her grandmother, then to her cousin, and stood waiting within the door till she was called forward.
"Come hither, child!" said Madam.
Phoebe walked forward to her, and dropped another courtesy. Madam put two fingers under Phoebe's chin, and lifting up the young face, studied it intently. What she saw there seemed to please her.
"You'll do, child," she said, letting Phoebe go. "Be a good maid, and obedient, and you shall find me your friend. Sit down, and loose your hood. Rhode, pour her a dish of tea."
And this was Madam's welcome to her granddaughter.
Phoebe obeyed her instructions with no words but "Thank you, Madam." Her voice was gentle and low. If the tears burned under her eyelids, no one knew it but herself.
"Take Phoebe upstairs, Rhoda, to your chamber," said Madam, when the new-comer had finished her tea. "I see, child, your new clothes had better not be long a-coming."
"I have a better gown than this, Madam, in my trunk," she answered.
"Well, I am glad of it," said Madam shortly.
Rhoda led her cousin up the wide stone staircase, and into a pretty room, low but comfortable, fitted with a large bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a dressing-table. The two girls were to occupy it together. And here Rhoda's tongue, always restrained in her grandmother's presence, felt itself at liberty, and behaved accordingly. A new cousin to catechise was a happiness that did not occur every day.
"Have you no black gown?" was the first thing which Rhoda demanded of Phoebe.
"Oh, yes," said Phoebe. "I wear black for my father, and all of them."
Heedless of what she might have noticed--the tremor of Phoebe's voice-- Rhoda went on with her catechism.
"How long has your father been dead?"
"Eight months."
"Did you like him?" " _Like_ him!" Phoebe seemed to have no words to answer.
"I never knew anything about mine," went on Rhoda. "He lived till I was thirteen; and I never saw him. Only think!"
Phoebe gave a little shake of her head, as if _her_ thoughts were too much for her.
"And my mother died when I was a week old; and I never had any brother or sister," pursued Rhoda.
"Then you never had any one to love? Poor Cousin!" said Phoebe, looking at Rhoda with deep compassion.
"Love! Oh, I don't know that I want it," said Rhoda lightly. "How is Aunt Anne, and where is she?"
"Mother?" Phoebe's voice shook again. "She is going to live with a gentlewoman at the Bath. She stayed till I was gone."
"Well, you know," was the next remark of Rhoda, whose ideas were not at all neatly put in order, "you'll have to wear a black gown to-morrow. It is King Charles."
"Yes, I know," said Phoebe.
"Was your father a Dissenter?" queried Rhoda.
"No," said Phoebe, looking rather surprised.
"Because I can tell you, Madam hates Dissenters," said Rhoda. "She would as soon have a crocodile to dinner. Why didn't you come in your black gown?"
"It is my best," answered Phoebe. "I cannot afford to spoil it."
"What do you think of Madam?"
Phoebe shrank from this question. "I can hardly think anything yet."
"Oh dear, I wish to-morrow were over!" said Rhoda with an artificial shiver. "I do hate the thirtieth of January. I wish it never came. We have to go to church, and there is only tea and bread and butter for dinner, and we must not divert ourselves with anything. I'll show you the ruins, and read you some of my poetry. Did you not know I writ poetry?"
"No," replied Phoebe. "But will that not be diverting ourselves?"
"Oh, but we can't always be miserable!" said Rhoda. "Besides, what good does it do? It is none to King Charles: and I'm sure it never does me good. Oh, and we will go and see the Maidens' Lodge, and make acquaintance with the old gentlewomen."
"The Maidens' Lodge, what is that?"
"Why, about ten years ago Madam built six little houses, and called it the Maidens' Lodge; a sort of better-most kind of alms-houses, you know, for six old gentlewomen--at least, I dare say they are not all old, but some of them are. (Mrs Vane does not think she is, at any rate.) You can't see them from this window; they are on the other side of the church."
"And are they all filled?"
"All but one, just now. I protest I don't know why Madam built them. I guess she thought it was good works. I should have thought it would have been better works to have sent for Aunt Anne, as well as you; but don't you tell her I said so!"
"Don't be afraid," said Phoebe, smiling. "I trust I am not a pick-thank. But don't you think, when you would not have a thing said again, it were better not to say it at the first?"
[Note: A meddlesome mischief-maker.]
"Oh, stuff! I can't always be such a prig as that!"
Phoebe was unpacking a trunk of very modest dimensions, and Rhoda, perched on a corner of the bed, sat and watched her.
"Is _that_ your best gown?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, lifting it carefully out.
"How many have you?"
"This and that."
"Only two? How poor Aunt Anne must be!"
"We have always been poor."
"Have you always lived in Bristol?"
"No. We used to live at the Bath when I was a child. Father was curate at the Abbey Church."
"How much did he get?"
"Twenty-five pounds a year."
"That wasn't much for seven of you."
"It was not," returned Phoebe, significantly.
"What can you do?" asked Rhoda, suddenly. "Can you write poetry?"
"I never tried, so I cannot tell," said Phoebe.
"Can you sing?"
"Yes."
"And play on anything?"
"No. I cannot do much. I can sew pretty well, and knit in four different ways; I don't cook much--I mean, I don't know how to make many things, but I always try to be nice in all I can do. I can read and write, and keep accounts."
"Can you dance a jig? --and embroider, and work tapestry?"
"No, I don't know anything of that."
"Can't work tapestry! Why, Phoebe!"
"You see, there never was any time," said Phoebe, apologetically. "Of course, I helped mother with the cooking and sewing; and then there were the children to see to, and I learned Perry and Kitty to read and sew. Then there were all the salves and physic for the poor folk. We could not afford much in that way, but we did what we could."
"Well, I wouldn't marry a parson; that's flat!" said Rhoda. "Fancy spending all your days a-making salves and boluses! Fiddle-faddle!"
Phoebe gave a little laugh. "I was not always making salves," she said.
"Had you any pets? We have a parrot; I believe she's near as old as Madam. I want a monkey, but Madam won't hear of it."
"We never had but one," said Phoebe, the quiver coming again into her voice, "and--it died."
"What was it?"
"A little dog."
"I don't much care for dogs," said Rhoda. "Mrs Vane is the one for pets; that is, whenever they are modish. She carries dormice in her pocket, and keeps a lapdog and a squirrel. When the mode goes out, she gives the thing away, and gets something newer."
"Oh, dear!" said Phoebe. "I could never give my friends away."
"Oh, it is not always to friends," said Rhoda, misunderstanding her. "She gave one of her cats to a tailor at Tewkesbury."
"But the creatures are your friends," said Phoebe. "How can you bear to give them away?"
"Cats, and dogs, and squirrels--friends!" answered Rhoda, laughing. "Why, Phoebe, what a droll creature you are!"
"They would be my friends," responded Phoebe.
"I vow, I'd like to see you make a friend of Mrs Vane's Cupid!" exclaimed Rhoda, laughing. "He is the most spiteful little brute I ever set eyes on. He thinks his teeth were made to bite everybody, and his tail wasn't made to wag."
"Poor little thing! I don't wonder, if he has a mistress who would give him away because it was not the mode to keep him."
"I never saw a maid so droll!" said Rhoda, still laughing; "'twill never serve to be so mighty nice, that I can tell you. Why, you talk as if those creatures had feelings, like we have!"
"And so they have," said Phoebe, warming up a little.
"You are mightily mistaken," returned Rhoda.
"Why do they bark, and bite, and wag their tails, then?" said Phoebe, unanswerably. "It means something."
"Why, what does it signify if they have?" demanded Rhoda, not very consistently. "I say, Phoebe, is that your best hood? How shabby you go!"
"Yes," answered Phoebe, quietly.
"How much pin-money do you mean to stand for?" was Rhoda's next startling question.
"How much what?" said astonished Phoebe, dropping the gloves she was taking out of her trunk.
"How much pin-money will you make your husband give you?"
"I've not got one!" was Phoebe's very innocent response.
"Well, you'll have one some day, of course," said Rhoda. "I mean to have five hundred, at least."
"Pounds?" gasped Phoebe.
"Of course!" laughed Rhoda. "I tell you, I mean to be a modish gentlewoman, as good as ever Mrs Vane; and I'll have a knight at least. Oh, you'll see, one of these days. I can manage Madam, when I determine on it. Phoebe, there's the supper bell. Come on."
And quite regardless of the treasonable language in which she had just been indulging, Rhoda danced down into the parlour, becoming suddenly sober as she crossed the threshold.
Phoebe followed, and unless her face much belied her thoughts, she was a good deal puzzled by her new cousin.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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2
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MAKING ACQUAINTANCES.
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"Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a distant waste: No shepherds' tents within thy view appear, Yet the Chief Shepherd is for ever near."
_Cowper_.
The Abbey Church of White-Ladies, to which allusion has already been made, was not in any condition for Divine Service, being only a beautiful ruin. When Madam went to church, therefore, she drove two miles to Tewkesbury.
At nine o'clock punctually, the great lumbering coach was drawn to the door by the two heavy Flanders mares, with long black tails which almost touched the ground. Madam, in a superb costume of black satin, trimmed with dark fur and white lace, took her seat in the place of honour. Rhoda, in a satin gown and hood, with a silk petticoat, all black, as became the day, sat on the small seat at one side of the door. But Rhoda sat with her face to the horses, while the yet lower place opposite was reserved for Phoebe, in her unpretending mourning. The great coach rumbled off, out of the grand gates, always opened when Madam was present, past the ruins of the Abbey Church, and drew up before a row of six little houses, fronted by six little gardens. They were built on a very minute scale, exactly alike, each containing four small rooms--kitchen, parlour, and two bedrooms over, with a little lean-to scullery at the back. On the mid-most coping-stone appeared a lofty inscription to the effect that-- "The Maidens' Lodge was built to the Praise and Glory of God, by the pious care of Mistress Perpetua Furnival, Widow, for the lodging of six decayed gentlewomen, Spinsters, of Good Birth and Quality,--A.D. 1702."
It occurred to Phoebe, as she sat reading the inscription, that it might have been pleasanter to the decayed gentlewomen in question not to have their indigence quite so openly proclaimed to the world, even though coupled with good birth and quality, and redounding to the fame of Mistress Perpetua Furnival. But Phoebe had not much time to meditate; for the door of the first little house opened, and down the gravel walk, towards the carriage, came the neatest and nicest of little old ladies, attired, like everybody that day, in black, and carrying a silver-headed cane, on which she leaned as if it really were needed to support her. She was one of those rare persons, a pretty old woman. Her complexion was still as fair and delicate as a painting on china, her blue eyes clear and expressive. Of course, in days when everyone wore powder, hair was of one colour--white.
"This is Mrs Dolly Jennings," whispered Rhoda to Phoebe; "she is the eldest of the maidens, and she is about seventy. I believe she is some manner of cousin to the Duke--not very near, you know."
The Duke, in 1712, of course, meant the Duke of Marlborough.
"Good morning, Madam," said Mrs Jennings, in a cheerful yet gentle voice, when she reached the carriage.
"Good morning, Mrs Dorothy. I am glad I see you well enough to accompany me to church."
"You are very good, Madam," was the reply, as Mrs Dorothy clambered up into the lumbering vehicle; "I thank God my rheumatic pains are as few and easy to-day as an old woman of threescore and ten need look for."
"You are a great age, Mrs Dorothy," observed Madam.
"Yes, Madam, I thank God," returned Mrs Dorothy, as cheerfully as before.
While Phoebe was meditating on this last answer, the second Maiden appeared from Number Two. She was an entire contrast to the first, being tall, sharp, featured, florid, high-nosed, and generally angular.
"Mrs Jane Talbot," whispered Rhoda.
Mrs Jane, having offered her civilities to Madam, climbed also into the coach, and placed herself beside Mrs Dorothy.
"Marcella begs you will allow her excuses, Madam, for she is indisposed this morning," said Mrs Jane, in a quick, sharp voice, which made Phoebe doubt if all her angularity were outside.
While Madam was expressing her regret at this news, the doors of Numbers Five and Six opened simultaneously, and two ladies emerged, who were, in their way, as much a contrast as Mrs Jane and Mrs Dorothy. Number Six reached the carriage first. She was a pleasant, comfortable looking woman of about fifty years of age, with a round face and healthy complexion, and a manner which, while kindly, was dignified and self-possessed.
"Good morning, my Lady Betty!" said the three voices.
Phoebe then perceived that the seat of honour, beside Madam, had been reserved for Lady Betty. But Number Five followed, and she was so singular a figure that Phoebe's attention was at once diverted to her.
She looked about the age of Lady Betty, but having evidently been a beauty in her younger days she was greatly indisposed to resign that character. Though it was a sharp January morning, her neck was unprotected by the warm tippet which all the other ladies wore. There was nothing to keep her warm in that quarter except a necklace. Large ear-rings depended from her ears, half a dozen rings were worn outside her gloves, a long chatelaine hung from her neck to her waist, to which were attached a bunch of trinkets of all shapes and sizes. She was laced very tight, and her poor nose was conscious of it, as it showed by blushing at the enormity. Under her left arm was a very small, very fat, very blunt-nosed Dutch pug. Phoebe at once guessed that the lady was Mrs Vane, and that the pug was Cupid.
"Well, Clarissa!" said Mrs Jane, as the new-comer took her seat at the door opposite Rhoda; "pity you hadn't a nose-ring!"
Mrs Vane made no answer beyond an affected smile, but Cupid growled at Mrs Jane, whom he did not seem to hold in high esteem. The coach, with a good effort on the part of the horses, got under way, and rumbled off towards Tewkesbury.
"And how does Sir Richard, my Lady Betty?" inquired Madam, with much cordiality.
"Oh, extremely well, I thank you," answered Lady Betty. "So well, indeed, now, that he talks of a journey to London, and a month at the Bath on his way thence."
"What takes him to London?" asked Mrs Jane. " 'Tis for the maids he thinks to go. He would have Betty and Gatty have a season's polishing; and for Molly--poor little soul! --he is wishful to have her touched."
"Is she as ill for the evil as ever, poor child?"
"Oh, indeed, yes! 'Tis a thousand pities; and such sprightly parts as she discovers!"
[Note: So clever as she is.] " 'Tis a mercy for such as she that the Queen doth touch," said Mrs Jane. "King William never did."
"Is that no mistake?" gently suggested Lady Betty.
"Never _dared_," came rather grimly from Madam.
"Well, maybe," said Mrs Jane. "But I protest I cannot see why Queen Mary should not have done it, as well as her sister."
"I own I cannot but very much doubt," returned Madam, severely, "that any good consequence should follow."
By which it will be perceived that Madam was an uncompromising Jacobite. Mrs Jane had no particular convictions, but she liked to talk Whig, because all around were Tories. Lady Betty was a Hanoverian Tory--that is, what would be termed an extreme Tory in the present day, but attached to the Protestant Succession. Mrs Clarissa was whatever she found it the fashion to be. As to Mrs Dorothy, she held private opinions, but she never allowed them to appear, well knowing that they would be far from acceptable to Madam. And since Mrs Dorothy was sometimes constrained unwillingly to differ from Madam on points which she deemed essential, she was careful not to vex her on subjects which she considered indifferent.
Rhoda was rather disappointed to find that Phoebe showed no astonished admiration of Tewkesbury Abbey. She forgot that the Abbey Church at Bath, and Saint Mary Redcliffe at Bristol, had been familiar to Phoebe from her infancy. The porch was lined with beggars, who showered blessings upon Madam, in grateful anticipation of shillings to come. But Madam passed grandly on, and paid no attention to them.
The church and the service were about equally chilly. Being a fast-day, the organ was silent; but all the responding was left to the choir, the congregation seemingly supposing it as little their concern as Cupid thought it his--who curled himself up comfortably, and went to sleep. The gentlemen appeared to be amusing themselves by staring at the ladies; the ladies either returned the compliment slily behind their fans, or exchanged courtesies with each other. There was a long, long bidding prayer, and a sermon which might have been fitly prefaced by the announcement, "Let us talk to the praise and glory of Charles the First!" It was over at last. The gentlemen put down their eye-glasses, the ladies yawned and furled their fans; there was a great deal of bowing, and courtesying, and complimenting--Mr William informing Mrs Betty that the sun had come out solely to do her honour, and Mrs Betty retorting with a delicate blow from her fan, and, "What a mad fellow are you!" At last these also were over; and the ladies from Cressingham remounted the family coach, nearly in the same order as they came--the variation being that Phoebe found herself seated opposite Mrs Clarissa Vane.
"Might I pat him?" said Phoebe, diffidently.
"If you want to be bit, do!" snapped Mrs Jane.
"Oh deah, yes!" languishingly responded Mrs Clarissa. "He neveh bites, does 'e, the pwetty deah!"
"Heyday! Doesn't 'e, the pwetty deah!" observed Mrs Jane, in such exact imitation of her friend's affected tones as sorely to try Phoebe's gravity.
Lady Betty laughed openly, but added, "Mind what you are about, child."
"Poor doggie!" softly said Phoebe.
Cupid's response was the slightest oscillation of the extreme point of his tail. But when Phoebe attempted to stroke him, to the surprise of all parties, instead of snapping at her, as he was expected to do, Cupid only wagged rather more decidedly; and when Phoebe proceeded to rub his head and ears, he actually gave her, not a bite of resentment, but a lick of friendliness.
"Deah! the sweet little deah! 'E's vewy good!" said his mistress.
The gentle reader is requested not to suppose that the elision of Mrs Clarissa's poor letter H, as well as R, proceeded either from ignorance or vulgarity--except so far as vulgarity lies in blindly following fashion. Mrs Clarissa's only mistake was that, like most country ladies, she was rather behind the age. The dropping of H and other letters had been fashionable in the metropolis some eight years before.
"Clarissa, what a goose are you!" said Mrs Jane.
"Come, Jenny, don't you bite!" put in Lady Betty. "Cupid has set you a better example than so."
"I'll not bite Clarissa, I thank you," was Mrs Jane's rather spiteful answer. "It would want more than one fast-day to bring me to that. Couldn't fancy the paint. And don't think I could digest the patches."
Lady Betty appeared to enjoy Mrs Jane's very uncivil speeches; while Cupid's mistress remained untouched by them, being one of those persons who affect not to hear anything to which they do not choose to respond.
"Well, Rhoda, child," said Lady Betty, as the coach neared home, "'tis no good, I guess, to bid you drink tea on a fast-day?"
"Oh, but I am coming, my Lady Betty," answered Rhoda, briskly. "I mean to drink a dish with every one of you."
"I shan't give you anything to eat," interpolated Mrs Jane. "Never do to be guzzling on a fast-day. You won't get any sugar from me, neither."
"Never mind, Mrs Jane," said Rhoda. "Mrs Dolly will give me something, I know. And I shall visit her first."
Mrs Dorothy assented by a benevolent smile.
"I hope, child, you will not forget it is a fast-day," said Madam, gravely, "and not go about to divert yourself in an improper manner."
"Oh no, Madam!" said Rhoda, drawing in her horns.
No sooner was dinner over--and as Rhoda had predicted, there was nothing except boiled potatoes and bread and butter--than Rhoda pounced on Phoebe, and somewhat authoritatively bade her come upstairs. Madam had composed herself in her easy chair, with the "Eikon Basilike" in her hand.
"Will Madam not be lonely?" asked Phoebe, timidly, as she followed Rhoda.
"Lonely? Oh, no! She'll be asleep in a minute," said Rhoda.
"I thought she was going to read," suggested Phoebe.
"She fancies so," said Rhoda, laughing. "I never knew her try yet but she went to sleep directly."
Unlocking a closet door which stood in their bedroom, and climbing on a chair to reach the top shelf, Rhoda produced a small volume bound in red sheepskin, which she introduced to Phoebe's notice with a rather grandiloquent air.
"Now, Phoebe! There's my Book of Poems!"
Phoebe opened the book, and her eye fell on a few lines of faint, delicate writing, on the fly-leaf.
"To Rhoda Peveril, with her Aunt Margaret's love."
"Oh, you have an aunt!" said Phoebe.
"I have two somewhere," said Rhoda. "They are good for nothing. They never give me anything."
Phoebe looked up with a rather surprised air. "They seem to do, sometimes," she observed, pointing to the book.
"Well, that one did," answered Rhoda; "one or two little things like that; but she is dead. The others are just a pair of spiteful old cats."
Phoebe's look of astonishment deepened.
"They must be very different from my aunt, then. I have only one, but I would not call her names for the world. She loves me, and I love her."
"Why, what are aunts good for but to be called names?" was the amiable response. "But now listen, Phoebe. I am going to read you a piece of my poetry. You see, our old church is dedicated to Saint Ursula; and there is an image in the church, which they say is Saint Ursula--it has such a charming face! Madam doesn't think 'tis charming, but I do. So you see, this poem is to that image."
Phoebe looked rather puzzled, but did not answer.
"Now, I would have you criticise, Phoebe," said Rhoda, condescendingly, using a word she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books.
"I don't know what that is," said Phoebe.
"Well, it means, if you hear anything you don't like, say so."
"Very well," replied Phoebe, quietly.
And Rhoda began to read, with the style of a rhetorician--as she supposed-- "Step softly, nearer as ye tread To this shrine of the royal dead! This Abbey's hallowed unto one, Daughter of Britain's ancient throne,-- History names her one sole thing, The daughter of a British King."
Rhoda paused, and looked at her cousin--ostensibly for criticism, really for admiration. If Phoebe had said exactly what she thought, it would have been that her ear was cruelly outraged: but Phoebe was not accustomed to the sharp speeches which passed for wit with Rhoda. She fell back on a matter of fact.
"Does history say nothing more about her?"
"Of course it does! It says the Vandals martyred her. Phoebe, you can't criticise poetry as if it were prose."
It struck Phoebe that Rhoda's poetry was very like prose; but she said meekly, "Please go on. I ask your pardon."
So Rhoda went on-- "Her glorious line has passed away-- The wild dream of a by-gone day! We know not from what throne she sprang, Britain is silent in her song--" "What's the matter?" asked Rhoda, interrupting herself.
"I ask your pardon," said Phoebe again. "But--will _song_ do with _sprang_? And if Ursula was a real person, as I thought she had been, she wasn't a wild dream, was she?"
"Phoebe, I do believe you haven't a bit of taste!" said Rhoda. "I'll try you with one more verse, and then-- "O wake her not! Ages have passed Since her fair eyelids closed at last."
"I should think, then, you would find it difficult to wake her," remarked Phoebe: but Rhoda went on as if she had not heard it,-- "For twice six hundred years, 'tis said, Hath rested 'neath yon tomb her head,-- That head which soft reposed of old On couch of satin and of gold."
"Dear!" was Phoebe's comment. "I didn't know they had satin sofas twelve hundred years ago." " 'Tis no earthly use reading poetry to you!" exclaimed Rhoda, throwing down the book. "You haven't one bit of feeling for it, no more than if it were a sermon I was reading! Tie your hood on, and make haste, and we'll go and see the Maidens."
Phoebe seemed rather troubled to have annoyed her cousin, though she evidently did not perceive how it had been effected. The girls tied on their hoods, and Rhoda, who was not really ill-natured, soon recovered herself when she got into the fresh air.
"Now, while we are going across the Park," she said, "I will tell you something about the old gentlewomen. I couldn't this morning, you know, more than their names, because there was Madam listening. But now, hark! Mrs Dolly Jennings--the one who came in first, you know, and sat over against Lady Betty--I don't know what kin she is, but there is some kin between her and the Duchess of Marlborough. She is the oldest of the Maidens, and the best one to tell a story--except she falls to preaching, and then 'tis tiresome. Do you like sermons, Phoebe?"
"It all depends who preaches them," said Phoebe.
"Well, of course it does," said Rhoda. "I don't like anyone but Dr Harris--he has such white hands!"
"He does not preach about them, does he?" said Phoebe, apparently puzzled as to the connection.
"Oh, he nourishes them about, and discovers so many elegancies!" answered Rhoda.
"But how does that make him preach better?"
"Why, Phoebe, how stupid you are! But you must not interrupt me in that way, or I shall never be done. Mrs Dolly, you see, is seventy or more; and in her youth she was in the great world. So she has all manner of stories, and she'll always tell them when you ask her. I only wish she did not preach! Well, then, Mrs Jane Talbot--that one with the high nose, that sat next Mrs Dolly in the coach--she has lively parts enough, and that turn makes her very agreeable. I don't care for her sister, Mrs Marcella, that lives next her--she's always having some distemper, and I don't like sick people. Mrs Clarissa Vane is the least well-born of all of them; but she's been a toast, you see, and she fancies herself charming, poor old thing! As for Lady Betty--weren't you surprised? I believe Madam pays her a good lot to live there; it gives the place an air, you know. She is Sir Richard Delawarr's aunt, and he is the great man all about here--all the land that way belongs to him, as far as you can see. He is of very good family--an old Norman house. They are thought a great deal of, you know."
"But isn't that strange?" said Phoebe, meditatively. "If Sir Richard is thought more of because his forefathers came from France six hundred years ago, why is my grandfather thought less of because he came from France thirty years ago?"
"O Phoebe! It is not the same thing at all!"
"But why is it not the same thing?" gently persisted Phoebe.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Rhoda, cutting the knot peremptorily. "Phoebe, can you speak French?"
"Yes."
"Have a care you don't let Madam hear you! Who taught you? --your father?"
"Yes. He said it was our own language."
"Why, you don't mean to say he was _proud_ of being a Frenchman?" cried Rhoda, in amazement.
"I think he was, if he was proud of anything," answered Phoebe. "He loved France very dearly. He thought it the grandest country in the world."
And Phoebe's voice trembled a little. Evidently her father was in her eyes a hero, and all that he had loved was sacred.
"But, Phoebe! not greater than England? He couldn't!" cried Rhoda, to whom such an idea seemed an impossibility.
"He was fond of England, too," said Phoebe. "He said she had sheltered us when our own country cast us off, and we should love her and be very thankful to her. But he loved France the best."
Rhoda tried to accept this incredible proposition.
"Well! 'tis queer!" she said at last. "Proud of being a Frenchman! What would Madam say?" " 'Tis only like Sir Richard Delawarr, is it?"
"Phoebe, you've no sense!"
"Well, perhaps I haven't," said Phoebe meekly, as they turned in at the gate of Number One.
Mrs Dolly Jennings was ready for her guests, in her little parlour, with the most delicate and transparent china set out upon the little tea-table, and the smallest and brightest of copper kettles singing on the hob.
"Well, you thought I meant it, Mrs Dolly!" exclaimed Rhoda laughingly, as the girls entered.
"I always think people mean what they say, child, until I find they don't," said Mrs Dorothy. "Welcome, Miss Phoebe, my dear!"
"Oh, would you please to call me Phoebe?" said the owner of that name, blushing.
"So I will, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy, who was busy now pouring out the tea. "Mrs Rhoda, take a chair, child, and help yourself to bread and butter."
Rhoda obeyed, and did not pass the plate to Phoebe.
"Mrs Dolly," she said, interspersing her words with occasional bites, "I am really concerned about Phoebe. She hasn't the least bit of sense."
"Indeed, child," quietly responded Mrs Dorothy, while Phoebe coloured painfully. "How doth she show it?"
"Why, she doesn't care a straw for poetry?"
"Is it poetry you engaged her with?"
"What do you mean?" said Rhoda, rather pettishly. "It was my poetry."
"Eh, dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, but there was a little indication of fun about her mouth. "Perhaps, my dear, you write lyrics, and your cousin hath more fancy for epical poetry."
"She doesn't care for any sort, I'm sure," said Rhoda.
"What say you to this heavy charge, Phoebe?" inquired little Mrs Dorothy, with a cheery smile.
"I like some poetry," replied Phoebe, bashfully.
"What kind?" blurted out Rhoda, apparently rather affronted.
Phoebe coloured, and hesitated. "I like the old hymns the Huguenots used to sing," she said, "such us dear father taught me."
"Hymns aren't poetry!" said Rhoda, contemptuously.
"That is true enough of some hymns, child," answered Mrs Dorothy. "But, Phoebe, my dear, will you let us hear one of your hymns?"
"They are in French," whispered Phoebe.
"They will do for me in French, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy.
Rhoda stared in manifest astonishment. Phoebe struggled for a moment with her natural shyness, and then she began:-- "Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger."
"My lot asks no complaining, But joy and confidence; I have no fear remaining, For God is my Defence."
But the familiar words evidently brought with them a rush of associations which was too much for Phoebe. She burst in tears, and covered her face with her hands.
"What on earth are you crying for?" asked Rhoda.
"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs Dorothy. "The verse is enough for a day, and the truth which is in it is enough for a life."
"I ask your pardon!" sobbed Phoebe, when she could speak at all. "But I used to sing it--to dear father, and when he was gone I said it to poor mother. And they are all gone now!"
"Oh, don't bother!" said Rhoda. "My papa's dead, and my mamma too; but you'll not see me crying over it."
Rhoda pronounced the words "Pappa," and "Mamma," as is done in America to this day.
"You never knew your parents, Mrs Rhoda," said the little old lady, ever ready to cast oil on the troubled waters. "Phoebe, dear child, wouldst thou wish them all back again?"
"No; oh, no! I could not be so unkind," said Phoebe, wiping her eyes. "But only a year ago, there were seven of us. It seems so hard!"
"I say, Phoebe, if you mean to cry and take on," said Rhoda, springing up and drinking off her tea, "you'll give me the spleen. I hate to be hipped. I shall be off to Mrs Jane. Come along!"
"Go yourself, Mrs Rhoda, my dear, and leave your cousin to recover, if tears be your aversion."
"Why, aren't they all our aversions?" said Rhoda, outraging grammar. "You don't need to pretend, Mrs Dolly! I never saw you cry in my life."
"Ah, child!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if she meant to indicate that there had been more of her life than could be seen from Rhoda's standing-point. "But you'll do well to take an old woman's counsel, my dear. Run off to Mrs Jane, and divert yourself half an hour; and when you return, your cousin will have passed her trouble, and I will have a Story to tell you both. I know you like stories."
"Come, I'll go, for a story when I came back," said Rhoda; "but I meant to take Phoebe. Can't she wipe her eyes and come?"
"Then I shall not tell you a story," responded Mrs Dorothy.
Rhoda laughed, and ran off. Mrs Dorothy let Phoebe have her cry out for a short time. She moved softly about, putting things in order, and then came and sat down by Phoebe on the settle.
"The world is too great for thee, poor child!" she said, tenderly, taking Phoebe's hands in hers. "It is a long way from thy father's grave; but, bethink thee, 'tis no long way from himself, if he is gone to Him that is our Father."
"I know he is," whispered Phoebe.
"And is the Lord thy Shepherd, dear child?"
"I know He is," said Phoebe, again. " `Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre,'" softly repeated Mrs Dorothy.
"Oh, it is wrong of me!" sobbed Phoebe. "But it does seem so hard. Nobody cares for me any more."
"Nay, my child, `He careth for thee.'"
"Oh, I know it is so!" was the answer; "but I can't feel it. It all looks so dark and cold. I can't feel it!"
"Poor little child, lost in the dark!" said Mrs Dorothy, gently. "Dear, the Lord must know how very much easier it would be to see. But His especial blessing is spoken on them that have not seen, and yet have believed. 'Tis an honour to thy Father, little Phoebe, to put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee where He will. Thine earthly father would have liked thee to trust him. Canst thou not trust the heavenly Father?"
Phoebe's tears were falling more softly now.
"Phoebe, little maiden, shall I love thee?"
"Thank you, Mrs Dorothy, but people don't love me," said Phoebe, as if it were a fact, sad, indeed, but incontrovertible. "Only dear father and Perry."
"And thy mother," suggested Mrs Dorothy, in a soothing tone.
"Well--yes--I suppose so," doubtfully admitted Phoebe. "But, you see, poor mother--I had better not talk about it, Mrs Dorothy, if you please."
Mrs Dorothy let the point pass, making a note of it in her own mind. She noticed, too, that Phoebe said, "Dear father" and "poor mother"; yet it was the father who was dead, and the mother was living. The terms, thought Mrs Dorothy, must have some reference to character.
"Little Phoebe," she said, "if it should comfort thee betimes to pour out thine heart to some human creature, come across the Park, and tell thy troubles to me. Thou art but a young traveller; and such mostly long for some company. Yet, bethink thee, my dear, I can but be sorry for thee, while the Lord can help thee. He is the best to trust, child."
"Yes, I know," whispered Phoebe. "You are so good, Mrs Dorothy!"
"Now for the story!" said Rhoda, dancing into the little parlour. "You've had oceans of time to dry your eyes. I have been to Mrs Jane, and Mrs Clarissa, and my Lady Betty; and I've had a dish of tea with each one. I shall turn into a tea-plant presently. Now I'm ready, Mrs Dorothy; go on!"
"What fashion of tale should you like, Mrs Rhoda?"
"Oh, you had better begin at the beginning," said Rhoda. "I don't think I ever heard you tell about when you were a child; you always begin with the Revolution. Go back a little earlier, and let us have your whole history."
Mrs Dorothy paused thoughtfully.
"It won't do me any harm," added Rhoda; "and I can't see why you should care. You're nearly seventy, aren't you?"
Phoebe's shy glance at her cousin might have been interpreted to mean that she did not think her very civil; but Mrs Dorothy did not resent the question.
"Yes, my dear, I am over seventy," she said, quietly. "And I don't know that it would do you any harm. You have to face the world, too, one of these days. Please God, you may have a more guarded entrance into it than I had! Here is a cushion for your back, Mrs Rhoda; and, Phoebe, my dear, here is one for you. Let me reach my knitting, and then you shall hear my story. But it will be a long one."
"So much the better, if 'tis agreeable," answered Rhoda. "I don't care for stories that are over in a minute."
"This will not be over in a day," said Mrs Dorothy.
"All right," responded Rhoda, settling herself as comfortably as she could. "I say, Phoebe, change cushions with me; I'm sure you've got the softer."
And Phoebe obeyed in an instant.
|
{
"id": "21235"
}
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3
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LITTLE MRS. DOROTHY.
|
"And the thousands come and go All along the crowded street; But they give no ear to the things we know, And they pass with careless feet. For some hearts are hard with gold, And some are crushed in the throng, And some with the pleasures of life are cold-- How long, O Lord, how long!"
"If I am to begin at the beginning, my dears," said little Mrs Dorothy, "I must tell you that I was born in a farmhouse, about a mile from Saint Albans, on the last day of the year of our Lord 1641; that my father was the Reverend William Jennings, brother to Sir Edward; and that my mother was Mrs Frances, daughter to Sir Jeremy Charlton."
"Whatever made your father take up with a parson's life?" said Rhoda. "I wouldn't be one for an apron full of money! Surely he was married first, wasn't he?"
"He was married first," answered Mrs Dorothy; "and both his father and my mother's kindred took it extreme ill that he should propose such views to himself,--the rather because he was of an easy fortune, his grandmother having left him some money."
"Would I have been a parson!" exclaimed Rhoda. "I'm too fond of jellies and conserves--nobody better."
"Well, my dear Mrs Rhoda, if you will have me say what I think," resumed Mrs Dorothy.
"You can if you like," interjected Rhoda.
"It does seem to me, and hath ever done so, that the common custom amongst us, which will have the chaplain to rise and withdraw when dessert is served, must be a relique of barbarous times."
Dessert at that time included pies, puddings, and jellies.
"O Mrs Dorothy! you have the drollest notions!"
And Rhoda went off in a long peal of laughter. The idea of any other arrangement struck her as very comical indeed.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs Dorothy, "I hope some day to see it otherwise."
"Oh, how droll it would be!" said Rhoda. "But go on, please, Mrs Dolly."
"Through those troublous times that followed on my birth," resumed the old lady, "I was left for better safety with the farmer at whose house I was born; for my father had shortly after been made parson of a church in London, and 'twas not thought well that so young a child as I then was should be bred up in all the city tumults. My foster-father's name was Lawrence Ingham; and he and his good wife were as father and mother to me."
"But what fashion of breeding could you get at a farmhouse?" demanded Rhoda, with a scornful pout.
"Why, 'twas not there I learned French, child," answered Mrs Dorothy, smiling; "but I learned to read, write, and cast accounts; to cook and distil, to conserve and pickle; with all manner of handiworks--sewing, knitting, broidery, and such like. And I can tell you, my dear, that in all the great world whereunto I afterwards entered I never saw better manners than in that farmhouse. I saw more ceremonies, sure; but not more courtesy and kindly thought for others."
"Why, I thought folks like that had no manners at all!" said Rhoda.
"Then you were mightily mistaken, my dear. Farmer Ingham had two daughters, who were like sisters to me; but they were both older than I. Their names were Grace and Faith. 'Twas a very quiet, peaceful household. We rose with the sun in summer, and before it in winter--" "Catch me!" interpolated Rhoda.
"And before any other thing might be done, there was reading and prayer in the farmhouse kitchen. All the farm servants trooped in, and took their places in order, the men on the right hand of the master, and the women on the left of the mistress. Then the farmer read a chapter, and afterwards prayed, all joining in `Our Father' at the end."
"But--he wasn't a parson?" demanded Rhoda, with a perplexed look.
"Oh no, my dear."
"Then how could he pray?" said Rhoda. "He'd no business to read the Prayer-Book; and of course he couldn't pray without it."
"Ah, then he made a mistake," replied Mrs Dorothy very quietly. "He fancied he could."
"But who ever heard of such a thing?" said Rhoda.
"We heard a good deal of it in those days, my dear. Why, child, the Common Prayer was forbid, even in the churches. Nobody used it, save a few here and there, that chose to run the risk of being found out and punished."
"How queer!" cried Rhoda. "Well, go on, Mrs Dolly. I hope the prayers weren't long. I should have wanted my breakfast."
"They were usually about three parts of an hour."
"Ugh!" with a manufactured shudder, came from Rhoda.
"After prayers, for an hour, each went to her calling. Commonly we took it turn about, the girls and I--one with the mistress in the kitchen, one with the maids in the chambers, and the third, if the weather was fine, a-weeding the posies in the garden, or, if wet, at her sewing in the parlour. Then the great bell was rung for breakfast, and we all gathered again in the kitchen. For breakfast were furmety, eggs, and butter, and milk, for the women; cold bakemeats and ale for the men."
"No tea?" asked Rhoda.
"I was near ten years old, child, ere coffee came into England; and tea was some years later. The first coffee-house that ever was in this realm was set up at Oxford, of one Jacobs, a Jew; and about two years after was the first in London. For tea, 'twas said Queen Catherine brought it hither from Portingale; but in truth, I believe 'twas known among us somewhat sooner. But when it came in, for a long time none knew how to use it, except at the coffee-houses. I could tell you a droll tale of a neighbour of Farmer Ingham's, that had a parcel of tea sent her as a great present from London, with a letter that said 'twas all the mode with the quality. And what did she, think you, but boiled it like cabbage, and bade all her neighbours come taste the new greens."
"Did they like them?" asked Rhoda, as well as she could speak for laughing.
"I heard they all thought with their hostess, who said, `If those were quality greens, the quality were welcome to keep 'em; country folk would rather have cabbage and spinach any day.'"
"Well!" said Rhoda, bridling a little, when her amusement had subsided; "'tis very silly for mean people to ape the quality."
"It is so, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy, with that extreme quietness which was the nearest her gentle spirit could come to irony. " 'Tis silly for any to ape another, be he less or more."
"Why, there can be no communication between them," observed Rhoda, with a toss of her head. " `Communication,' my dear," said Mrs Dolly. "Yonder's a new word. Where did you pick it up?"
"O Mrs Dolly! you can't be in the mode if you don't pick up all the new words," answered Rhoda more affectedly than ever. She was showing off now, and was entirely in her element.
"And pray what are the other new words, my dear?" inquired Mrs Dorothy good-naturedly, and not without a little amusement. "That one sounds very much like the old-fashioned `commerce.'"
"Well, I don't know them all!" said Rhoda, with an assumption of humility; "but now-o'-days, when you speak of any one's direction, you must say _adresse_, from the French; and if one is out of spirits, you say he is _hipped_--that's from hypochondriacal; and a crowd of people is a _mob_--that's short for mobile; and when a man goes about, and doesn't want to be known, you say he is _incog. _--that means incognito, which is the Spanish for unknown. Then you say Mr Such-an-one spends _to the tune of five_ hundred a year; and there are a lot of men _of his kidney_; and _I bantered them_ well about it. Oh, there are lots of new words, Mrs Dolly."
"So it seems, my dear. But are you sure incognito is Spanish?"
"Oh, yes! William Knight told me so," said Rhoda, with another toss of her head.
"I imagined it was Latin," observed Mrs Dorothy. "But 'tis true, I know nought of either tongue."
"Oh, William Knight knows everything," said Rhoda, hyperbolically.
"He must be a very ingenious young man," quietly observed Mrs Dorothy.
"Well, he is," said Rhoda, scarcely perceiving the satire latent in Mrs Dorothy's calm tones.
"I am glad to hear it, my dear," returned the old lady.
"But he's very uppish,--that's pos.," resumed the young one.
"Really, my dear, you are full of new words," said Mrs Dorothy, good-naturedly. "What means `pos.,' pray you?"
"Why, `positive,'" said Rhoda, laughing. "And _rep._ means reputation, and _fire_ means spirit, and _smart_ means sharp, and a _concert_ means a lot of people singing and playing on instruments of music, and an _operation_ means anything you do, and a _speculation_ means--well, it means--it means a speculation, you know."
"Dear, dear!" cried little Mrs Dorothy, holding up her hands. "I protest, my dear, I shall be drove to learn the English tongue anew if this mode go on."
"Well, Mrs Dolly, suppose your tale should go on?" suggested Rhoda. "Heyday! do you know what everybody is saying? --everybody that is anybody, you understand."
"I thought that everybody was somebody," remarked Mrs Dorothy, with a comical set of the lips.
"Oh dear, no!" said Rhoda. "There are ever so many people who are nobody."
"Indeed!" said Mrs Dorothy. "Well, child, what is everybody saying?"
"Why, they say the Duke is not so well with the Queen as he has been. 'Tis thought, I assure you, by many above people."
"Is that one of the new words?" inquired Mrs Dorothy, with a little laugh. "Dear child, what mean you? --the angels?"
"Oh, Mrs Dorothy, you are the oddest creature!" cried Rhoda. "Why, you know very well what I mean. Should you be sorry, Mrs Dolly, if the Duke became inconsiderable?"
"No, my dear. Why should I?"
"Well, I thought--" but Rhoda's thought went no further.
"You thought," quietly continued the old lady, "that I had not had enow of town vanities, and would fain climb a few rungs up the ladder, holding on to folks' skirts. Was that it, child?"
"Well, I don't know," said Rhoda uneasily, for Mrs Dorothy had translated her thought into rather too plain language.
"Ah, my dear, that is because you would love to climb a little yourself," said Mrs Dorothy, smilingly, "and you apprehend no inconveniency from it. But, child, 'tis the weariest work in all the world--except it be climbing from earth to heaven. To climb on men's ladders is mostly as a squirrel climbs in its cage,--round and round; you think yourself going vastly higher, but those that stand on the firm ground and watch you see that you do but go round. But to climb up Jacob's ladder, whereof the Lord stands at the top, it will be other eyes that behold you climbing up, when in your own eyes you have not bettered yourself by a step. Climb as high as you will there, dear maids! --but never mind the ladders that go round. They are infinitely disappointing. I know it, for I have climbed them."
"Well, Mrs Dolly, do go on, now, and tell us all about it, there's a good soul!" said Rhoda.
Little Mrs Dorothy was executing some elaborate knitting. She went on with it for a few seconds in silence.
"I was but sixteen," she said, quietly, "when my mother came to visit me. I could not remember seeing her before: and very frighted was I of the grand gentlewoman, for so she seemed to me, that rustled into the farmhouse kitchen in silken brocade, and a velvet tippet on her neck. She was evenly disappointed with me. She thought me stiff and gloomy; and I thought her strange and full of vanities. `In three years' time, Dolly,' quoth she, `thou wilt be nineteen, and I will then have thee up to Town, and thou shalt see somewhat of the world. Thou art not ill-favoured,' quoth she,--'twas my mother that said this, my dears," modestly interpolated Mrs Dorothy,--"and I dare say thou wilt be the Town talk in a week. 'Tis pity there is no better world to have thee into! --and thy father as sour and Puritanical as any till of late, save the mark! --but there, `we must swim with the tide,' saith she. `'Tis a long lane that has no turning.' Ah me! but the lane had turned ere I was nineteen."
"Why, Mrs Dolly, the Restoration must have been that very year," observed Rhoda.
"That very year," repeated Mrs Dorothy. " 'Twas in April I quitted Farmer Ingham's house, and was fetched up to London; and in May came the King in, and was shortly thereafter crowned."
"If it please you," asked Phoebe, speaking for the first time of her own accord, "were you glad to go, Madam?"
"Well, my dear, I was partly glad and partly sorry. I was sorrowful to take leave of mine old friends, little knowing if I should ever see them again or no; yet, like an untried maid, I was mightily set up with the thought of seeing London, and the lions, and Whitehall, and the like. Silly maid that I was! I had better have shed tears for the last than for the first."
"What thought you the finest thing in London?" said Rhoda. "But tell us, what thought you of London altogether?"
"Why, the first thing I thought of was the size and the noise," answered Mrs Dorothy. "It seemed to me such a great overgrown town, so different from Saint Albans; and so many carts and wheelbarrows always rattling over the stones; and so many folks in the streets; and all the strange cries of a morning. I thought my father a very strange, cold man, of whom I was no little afraid; and my mother was sadly disappointed that I did not roll my eyes, and had not been taught to dance."
"Why did they ever leave you at a farmhouse?" inquired Rhoda, rather scornfully. " _I_ cannot entirely say, my dear; but I think that was mainly my father's doing. My poor father!"
And Mrs Dorothy's handkerchief was hastily passed across her eyes.
"The first night I came," she said, "my mother had a large assembly in her withdrawing-chamber. There were smart-dressed ladies fluttering of their fans, and gentlemen in all the colours of the rainbow; and I, foolish maid! right well pleased when one and another commended my country complexion, or told me something about my fine eyes: when all at once came a heavy hand on my shoulder, and my father saith, `Dorothy, I would speak with you.' I followed him forth, not a little trembling lest he should be about to chide me; but he led me into his own closet, and shut the door. He bade me sit, and leaning over the fire himself, he said nought for a moment. Then saith he, `Dorothy, you heard Mr Debenham speak to you?' `Yes, Sir,' quoth I. `And what said he, child?' goes on my father, gently. I was something loth to repeat what he had said; for it was what I, in my foolish heart, thought a very fine speech about Mrs Doll's fine eyes, that glistered like stars. Howbeit, my father waited quiet enough; and having been well bred to obey by Farmer Ingham, I brought it out at last. `Did you believe it, Dorothy?' saith my father. `Did you think he meant it?' I did but whisper, `Yes, Sir,' for I could not but feel very much ashamed. `Then, Dorothy,' saith he, `the first lesson you will do well to learn in London is that men and women do not always mean it when they flatter you. And he does not. Ah!' saith my father, fetching a great sigh,--`'tis easy work for fathers to say such things, but not so for maidens to believe them. There is one other thing I would have you learn, Dorothy.' `Yes, Sir,' quoth I, when he stayed. He turned him around, and looked in my face with his dark eyes, that seemed to burn into me, and he saith, `Learn this, Dorothy,--that 'tis the easiest thing in all the world for a man to drift away from God. Ay, or a woman either. You may do it, and never know that you have done it,--for a while, at least. David was two full years ere he found it out. Oh Dorothy, take warning! I was once as innocent as you are. I have drifted from God, oh my child, how far! The Lord keep you from a like fate.' I was fairly affrighted, for his face was terrible. An hour after, I saw him dealing the cards at ombre, with a look as bright and mirthful as though he knew not grief but by name."
Phoebe looked up with eyes full of meaning. "Did he never come back?"
"Dear child," said Mrs Dorothy, turning to her, "hast thou forgot that the Good Shepherd goeth after that which was lost, until He find it? He came back, my dear. But it was through the Great Plague and the Great Fire."
It was evident for a few minutes that Mrs Dorothy was wrestling with painful memories.
"Well, and what then?" said Rhoda, who wanted the story to go on, and was afraid of what she called preaching.
"Well!" resumed the old lady, more lightly, "then, for three days in the week I had a dancing-master come to teach me; and twice in the week a music-master; and all manner of new gowns, and my hair dressed in a multitude of curls; and my mother's maid to teach me French, and see that I carried myself well. And when this had gone on a while, my mother began to carry me a-visiting when she went to see her friends. For above a year she used a hackney coach; but then my father was made Doctor, and had a great church given him that was then all the mode; and my Lady Jennings came up to Town, and finding he had parts, she began to take note of him, and would carry him in her coach to the Court; and my mother would then set up her own coach, the which she did. And at length, the summer before I was one-and-twenty, my Lady Jennings, without the privity of my father, offered my mother to have me a maid to one of the Ladies in Waiting on the Queen. From this place, said she, if I played my cards well, and was liked of them above me, I might come in time to be a Maid of Honour."
"O rare!" exclaimed Rhoda. "And did you, Mrs Dolly?"
"Yes, child," slowly answered Mrs Dorothy. "I did so."
Rhoda's face was sparkling with interest and pleasure. Phoebe's was shadowed with forebodings, of a sad end to come.
"The night ere I left home for the Court," pursued the old lady, "my mother held long converse with me. `Thou art mightily improved, Dolly,' saith she, `since thy coming to London; but there is yet a stiff soberness about thee, that thou wilt do well to be rid of. Thou shouldst have more ease, child. Do but look at thy cousin Jenny, that is three years younger than thou, and yet how will she rattle to every man that hath a word of compliment to pay her!' But after she had made an end, my father called me into his closet. `Poor Dorothy!' he said. `The bloom is not all off the peach yet. But 'tis going, child--'tis fast going. I feared this. Poor Dorothy!'"
"Oh, dear!" said Rhoda. "You were not going to a funeral, Mrs Dolly!"
"Ah, child! maybe, if I had, it had been the better for me. The wise man saith, `It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting.'"
"But pray, what harm came to you, Mrs Dorothy?"
"No outward bodily harm at all, my dear. Yet even that was no thanks to me. It was `of the Lord's compassion,' seeing He had a purpose of mercy toward me. But, ah me! what inward and spiritual harm! Mrs Rhoda, my dear, I saw sights and heard sayings those two years I dwelt in the Court which I would give the world, so to speak, only to forget them now."
"What were they, Mrs Dorothy?" asked Rhoda, eagerly sitting up.
"Think you I am likely to tell you, child? No, indeed!"
"But what sort of harm did they to you, Mrs Dolly?"
"Child, I learned to think lightly of sin. People did not talk of sin there at all; the words they used were crime and vice. Every wrong doing was looked on as it affected other men: if it touched your neighbour's purse or person, it was ill; if it only grieved his heart, then 'twas a little matter. But how it touched God was never so much as thought on. There might have been no God in Heaven, so little account was taken of Him there."
"Now do tell us. Mrs Dolly, what the Queen was like, and the King," said Rhoda, yawning. "And how many Maids of Honour were there? Just tell us all about it."
"There were six," replied the old lady, taking up her knitting, which she had dropped in her earnestness a minute before. "And Mrs Sanderson was their mother. I reckon you will scarce know that always a married gentlewoman goeth about with these young damsels, called the Mother of the Maids, whose work it is to see after them."
"And keep them from everything jolly!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Now, that's a shame! Wouldn't it be fun to bamboozle that creature? I protest I should enjoy it!"
"O Mrs Rhoda! Mrs Rhoda!"
"I should, of all things, Mrs Dolly! But now, what were the King and Queen like? Was she very beautiful?"
[Note: Charles the Second and Catherine of Braganza.]
"No," said Mrs Dorothy, "she was not. She had pretty feet, fine eyes, and very lovely hair. 'Twas rich brown on the top of her head, and descending downward it grew into jet black. For the rest, she was but tolerable. In truth, her teeth wronged her by sticking too far out of her mouth; but for that she would have been lovelier by much."
"Horrid!" said Rhoda. "I forget where she came from, Mrs Dolly?"
"She came from Portingale, my dear, being daughter to the King of that country, and her name was Catherine."
"And what was the King like?"
"When he was little, my dear, his mother, Queen Mary, used to say he was so ugly a baby that she was quite ashamed of him. He was better-favoured when he grew a man; he had good eyes, but a large Mouth."
[Note: Queen Mary was Henrietta Maria, always termed Queen Mary during her own reign.]
"He was a black man, was he not?"
By which term Rhoda meant what we now call a dark man.
"Yes, very black and swarthy."
"Where did he commonly live?"
"Mostly at Whitehall or Saint James's. At times he went to Hampton Court, and often, for a change of sir, to Newmarket; now and then to Tunbridge Wells. He was but little at Windsor."
"Did you like him, Mrs Dorothy?"
Phoebe looked up, when no answer came. The expression of Mrs Dorothy's face was a curious mixture of fear, repulsion, and yet amusement.
"No!" she said at length.
"Why not?" demanded Rhoda.
"Well, there were some that did," was the reply, in a rather constrained tone; "and the one that he behaved the worst to loved him the best of all."
"How droll!" said Rhoda. "And who were your friends, then, Mrs Dorothy?"
"That depends, my dear, on what you mean by friends. If you mean them that flattered me, and joked with me, and the like,--why, I had very many; or if you mean them that would take some trouble to push me in the world,--well, there were several of those; but if you mean such as are only true friends, that would have cast one thought to my real welfare, whether I should go to Heaven or Hell,--I had but one of that sort."
"And who was your one friend, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, pursing up her lips a little.
"The King's Scots cook, my dear," quietly replied Mrs Dorothy.
"The _what_?" shrieked Rhoda, going into convulsions of laughter.
"Ah, you may laugh, Mrs Rhoda. You know there's an old saying, `Let them laugh that win.' If ever an old sinner like me enters the gates of Heaven, so far as the human means are concerned, I shall owe it, first of all, to old David Armstrong."
"Will you please to tell us about him, Madam?" rather timidly asked Phoebe.
"With all my heart, my dear. Dear old Davie! Methinks I see him now. Picture to yourselves, my dears, a short man, something stooping in the shoulders, with sharp features and iron-grey hair; always dressed in his white cooking garb, and a white cap over his frizzled locks. But before I tell you what I knew of old Davie, methinks I had better tell you a tale of him that will give you some diversion, without I mistake."
"Oh do, Mrs Dolly?" cried Rhoda, who feared nothing so much as too great seriousness in her friend's stones.
"Well," said Mrs Dorothy, "then you must know, my dears, that once upon a time the King and Queen were at dinner, and with them, amongst others, my Lord Rochester, who was at that time a very wild gallant. He died, indeed, very penitent, and, I trust, a saved man; but let that be. They were sat after dinner, and my Lord Rochester passes the bottle about to his next neighbour. `Come, man!' saith the King, in his rollicksome way, `take a glass of that which cheereth God and man, as Scripture saith.' My Lord Rochester at once bets the King forty pound that there was no such saying in Scripture. The King referreth all to the Queen's chaplain, that happened to be the only parson then present; but saith again, that though he could not name the place, yet he was as certain to have read it in Scripture as that his name was Charles, `What thinks your Majesty?' quoth my Lord Rochester, turning to the Queen. She, very modestly--" "But, Mrs Dolly, was not the Queen a Papist? What would she know about the Bible?"
"So she was, my dear. But they have a Bible of their own, that they allow the reading of to certain persons. And I dare say she was one. However, my Lord Rochester asked her, for I heard him; and she said, very womanly, that she was unfit to decide such matters, but she could not think there to be any such passage in the Bible."
"Why, there isn't!" rashly interpolated Rhoda.
Mrs Dorothy smiled, but did not contradict her.
"Then up spoke the Queen's chaplain, and gave his voice like his mistress, that there was no such passage; and several others of them at the table said they thought the like. So the King, swearing his wonted oath, cried out for some to bring a Bible, that he might search and see."
"O Mrs Dolly! what was his favourite oath?"
"I do not see, my dear, that it would do you any good to know it. Well, the Bible, as matters went, was not to be had. King, Queen, chaplain, and courtiers, there was not a man nor woman at the table that owned to possessing a Bible."
"How shocking!" said Phoebe, under her breath.
"Very shocking, my dear," assented Mrs Dorothy. "But all at once my Lord Rochester cries out, `Please your Majesty, I'll lay you forty shillings there's one man in this palace that has a Bible! He cut me short for swearing in the yard a month since. That's old David, your Majesty's Scots cook. If you'll send for him--' `Done!' says the King. `Killigrew, root out old Davie, and tell him to come here, and bring his Bible with him.' So away went Mr Killigrew, the King's favourite page; and ere long back he comes, and old Davie with him, and under Davie's arm a great brown book. `Here he is, Sire, Bible and all!' says Mr Killigrew. `Come forward, Davie, and be hanged!' says the King. `I'll come forward, Sire, at your Majesty's bidding,' says Davie, `and gin ye order it, and I ha'e deservit it, I can be hangit,' saith he, mighty dry; 'but under your Majesty's pleasure I'll just tak' the liberty to ask, Sire, what are ye wantin' wi' the Buik?"
"Oh, how queer you talk, Mrs Dolly!"
"As David talked, my dear. He was a Scot, you know. Well, the King gave a hearty laugh; and says he, `Oh, come forward, Davie, and fear nothing. We'll not hang you, and we want no hurt to your darling book.' `Atweel, Sire,' says Davie, `and I'd ha'e been gey sorry gin ye had meant to hurt my buik, seein' it was my mither's, and I set store by it for her sake; but trust me, Sire, I'd ha'e been a hantle sorrier gin ye had meant onie disrespect to the Lord's Buik. I'll no stand by, wi' a' honour to your Majesty, an' see I lichtlied.'"
"What does that mean, Mrs Dolly?"
"Set light by, my dear. Well, the King laughed again, but I think Davie's words a little sobered him, for he spoke kindly enough, that no harm should be done, nor was any disrespect intended; `but,' saith he, `my Lord Rochester and I fell a-disputing if certain words were in the Bible or no; and as you are the only man here like to have one, I sent for you.' Davie looks, quiet enough, round all the table; and he says, under his breath, `The only man here like to have a Bible! Ay, your Majesty, I ken weel eneuch that I ha'e my habitation among the tents o' Kedar. Atweel, Sire, an' I'll be pleasit to answer onie sic question, gin ye please to tell me the words.' My Lord Rochester saith, `"Wine, which cheereth God and man." Are such words as those in the Bible, David?' Neither yea nor nay said old Davie: but he turned over the leaves of his Bible for a moment, and then, clearing his voice, and first doffing his cook's cap (which he had but lifted a minute for the King), he read from the Book of Judges, Jotham's parable of the trees. 'Twas a little while ere any spoke: then said the Queen's chaplain, swearing a great oath, that he could not but be infinitely surprised to find there to be such words in the Bible."
"O Mrs Dolly! a parson to swear!"
"There are different sorts of parsons, my dear. But old David thought it shocking, for he turns round to the chaplain, and saith he, `Your pardon, Mr Howard, but gin ye'd give me leave, I'd be pleasit to swear the neist oath for ye. It would sound rather better, ye ken, for a cook than a chaplain.' `Hurrah!' says the King, swearing himself, `the sprightliest humour I heard of a long time! Pray you, silence, and hear old Davie swear!' `I see nothing to swear anent the now, an' it please your Majesty,' says Davie, mighty dry again: `when I do, your Majesty'll be sure to hear it.' The King laughed heartily, for he took Davie right enough, though I saw some look puzzled. Of course he never would see reason to do a sinful thing. But a new thought had come into the King's head, and he turns quick to Mr Howard, and desires that he would give exposition of the words that Davie had read. `You ought to know what they mean, if we don't, poor sinners,' saith the King. `I protest, Sire,' saith the chaplain, `that I cannot so much as guess what they mean.' `Now then, David the divine,' cries my Lord Rochester, `your exposition, if you please.' And some of the courtiers, that by this time were not too sober, drummed on the table with glasses, and shouted for David's sermon."
"I think, Mrs Dolly, that was scarce proper, in the King's and Queen's presence."
"So I think, my dear. But King Charles's Court was Liberty Hall, and every man did that which was right in his own eyes. But Davie stood very quiet, with the Bible yet open in his hands. He waited his master's bidding, if they did not. `Oh ay, go on, Davie,' saith the King, leaning back in his chair and laughing. `Silence for Mr David Armstrong's sermon!' cries my Lord Rochester, in a voice of a master of ceremonies. But Davie took no note of any voice but the King's, though 'twas to my Lord Rochester he addressed him when he spoke. `That wine cheereth man, your Lordship very well knows,' quoth Davie, in his dry way: and seeing his Lordship had drank a bottle and a half since he sat down, I should think he did, my dears. `But this, that wine cheereth God, is referable to the drink-offering commanded by God of the Jews, wherein the wine doth seem to typify the precious blood of Christ, and the thankfulness of him that hath his iniquity thereby purged away. For in the fifteenth chapter of the Book of Numbers you shall find this drink-offering termed "a sweet savour unto the Lord." And since nothing but Christ is a sweet savour unto God, therefore we judge that the wine of the drink-offering, like to that of the Sacrament, did denote the blood of Christ whereby we are redeemed; the one prefiguring that whereto it looked forward, as the other doth likewise figure that whereunto it looketh back. This, therefore, that wine cheereth God, is to be understood by an emblem, of the blood of Christ, our Mediator; for through this means God is well pleased in the way of salvation that He hath appointed, whereby His justice is satisfied. His law fulfilled, His mercy reigneth, His grace doth triumph, all His perfections do agree together, the sinner is saved, and God in Christ glorified. Now, Sire, I have done your bidding, and I humbly ask your Majesty's leave to withdraw.' The King said naught, but cast him a nod of consent. My dears, you never saw such a change as had come over that table. Every man seemed sobered and awed. The Queen was weeping, the King silent and thoughtful. My Lord Rochester, whom at that time nothing could sober long, was the only one to speak, and rising with make-believe gravity, as though in his place in the House of Lords, he offered a motion that the King should please to send Mr Howard into the kitchen to make kail, and raise the Reverend Mr David Armstrong to the place of chaplain."
"What is kail, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, laughing. " 'Tis Scots broth, my dear, whereof King Charles was very fond, and old David had been fetched from Scotland on purpose to make it for him."
"What a droll old man!" exclaimed Rhoda.
"Ah, he was one of the best men ever I knew," said Mrs Dorothy. "But, my dear, look at the clock!"
"I declare!" cried Rhoda. "Phoebe, we have but just time to run home ere supper, if so much as that. Good evening, Mrs Dolly, and thank you. What will Madam say?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note: David Armstrong is a historical person, and this anecdote is true. The surname given to him only is fictitious, as history does not record any name but "David."
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{
"id": "21235"
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4
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THROUGH THORNY PATHS.
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"I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought."
_Caroline Bowles_.
"Is it long since Madam woke, Baxter?" cried Rhoda in a breathless whisper, as she came in at the side door.
"But this minute, Mrs Rhoda," answered he.
"That's good!" said Rhoda aside to Phoebe, and slipping off her shoes, she ran lightly and silently upstairs, beckoning her cousin to follow.
Phoebe, having no idea of the course of Rhoda's thoughts, obeyed, and followed her example in doffing her hood and smoothing her hair.
"Be quick!" said Rhoda, her own rapid movements over, and putting on her shoes again.
They found Madam looking barely awake, and staring hard at her book, as if wishful to persuade herself that she had been reading.
"I hope, child, you were not out all this time," said she to Rhoda.
"Oh no, Madam!" glibly answered that trustworthy young lady. "We only had a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly, and I made my compliments to the other gentlewomen."
"And where were you since, child?"
"We have been upstairs, Madam," said Rhoda, unblushingly.
"Not diverting yourselves, I hope?" was Madam's next question.
"Oh no, not at all, Madam. We were not doing anything particular."
"Talking, I suppose, as maids will," responded Madam. "Phoebe, to-morrow after breakfast bring all your clothes to my chamber. I must have you new apparelled."
"Oh, Madam, give me leave to come also!" exclaimed Rhoda, with as much eagerness as she ever dared to show in her grandmother's presence. "I would so dearly like to hear what Phoebe is to have! Only, please, not a musk-coloured damask--you promised me that."
"My dear," answered Madam, "you forget yourself. I cannot talk of such things to-day. You may come if you like."
Supper was finished in silence. After supper, a pale-faced, tired-looking young man, who had been previously invisible, came into the parlour, and made a low reverence to Madam, which she returned with a queenly bend of her head. His black cassock and scarf showed him to be in holy orders. Madam rang the hand-bell, the servants filed in, and evening prayers were read by the young chaplain, in a thin, monotonous voice, with a manner which indicated that he was not interested himself, and did not expect interest in any one else. Then the servants filed out again; the chaplain kissed Madam's hand, and wished her good-night, bowed distantly to Rhoda, half bowed to Phoebe, instantly drew himself up as if he thought he was making a mistake, and finally disappeared. " 'Tis time you were abed, maids," said Madam.
Rhoda somewhat slowly rose, knelt before her grandmother, and kissed her hand.
"Good-night, my dear. God bless thee, and make thee a good maid!" was Madam's response.
Phoebe had risen, and stood, rather hesitatingly, behind her cousin. She was doubtful whether Madam would be pleased or displeased if she followed Rhoda's example. In her new life it seemed probable that she would not be short of opportunities for the exercise of meekness, forbearance, and humility. Madam's quick eyes detected Phoebe's difficulty in an instant.
"Good-night, Phoebe," she said, rising.
"Good-night, Madam," replied Phoebe in a low voice, as she followed Rhoda. It was evident that no relationship was to be recognised.
"Here, you carry the candle," said Rhoda, nodding towards the hall table on which the candlesticks stood. "That's what you are here for, I suppose,--to save me trouble. Dear, I forgot my cloak,--see where it is! Bring it with you, Phoebe."
Demurely enough Rhoda preceded Phoebe upstairs. But no sooner was the bedroom door closed behind them, than Rhoda threw herself into the large invalid chair, and laughed with hearty amusement.
"Oh, didn't I take her in? Wasn't it neatly done, now? Didn't you admire me, Phoebe?"
"You told her a lie!" retorted Phoebe, indignantly. " 'Sh! --that's not a pretty word," said Rhoda, pursing her lips. "Say a fib, next time. --Nonsense! Not a bit of it, Phoebe. We had been upstairs since we came in."
"Only a minute," answered Phoebe. "You made her think what was not true. Father called that a lie,--I don't know what you call it."
"Now, Phoebe," said Rhoda severely, "don't you be a little Puritan. If you set up for a saint at White-Ladies, I can just tell you, you'll pull your own nest about your ears. You are mightily mistaken if you think Madam has any turn for saints. She reckons them designing persons-- every soul of 'em. You'll just get into a scrape if you don't have a care."
Phoebe made no reply. She was standing by the window, looking up into the darkened sky. There were no blinds at White-Ladies.
It was well for Rhoda--or was it well? --that she could not just then see into Phoebe's heart. The cry that "shivered to the tingling stars" was unheard by her. "O Father, Father," said the cry. "Why did you die and leave your poor little Phoebe, whom nobody loves, whose love nobody wants, with whom nobody here has one feeling in common?" And then all at once came as it were a vision before her eyes, of a scene whereof she had heard very frequently from her father,--a midnight meeting of the Desert Church, in a hollow of the Cevennes mountains, guarded by sentinels posted on the summit,--a meeting which to attend was to brave the gallows or the galleys,--and Phoebe fancied she could hear the words of the opening hymn, as the familiar tune floated past her:-- "Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger."
It was a quiet, peaceful face which was turned back to Rhoda.
"Did you hear?" rather sharply demanded that young lady.
"Yes, I heard what you said," calmly replied Phoebe. "But I have been a good way since."
"A good way! --where?" rejoined her cousin.
"To France and back," said Phoebe, with a smile.
"What are you talking about?" stared Rhoda. "I said nothing about France; I was telling you not to be a prig and a saint, and make Madam angry."
"I won't vex her if I can help it," answered Phoebe.
"Well, but you will, if you set up to be better than your neighbours,-- that's pos. ! Take the pins out of my commode."
"Why should not I be better than my neighbours?" asked Phoebe, as she pulled out the pins.
"Because they'll all hate you--that's why. I must have clean ruffles-- they are in that top drawer."
"Aren't you better than your neighbours?" innocently suggested Phoebe, coming back with the clean ruffles.
Rhoda paused to consider how she should deal with the subject. The question was not an easy one to answer. She believed herself very much better, in every respect: to say No, therefore, would belie her wishes and convictions; yet to say Yes, would spoil the effect of her lecture. There was moreover, a dim impression on her mind that Phoebe was incapable of perceiving the delicate distinction between them, which made it inevitable that Rhoda should be better than Phoebe, and highly indecorous that Phoebe should attempt to be better than Rhoda. On the whole, it seemed desirable to turn the conversation.
"Oh, not these ruffles, Phoebe! These are some of my best. Bring a pair of common ones--those with the box plaits. --What were you thinking about France?"
"Oh, nothing particular. I was only--" "Never mind, if you don't want to tell," said Rhoda, graciously, now that her object was attained. "I wonder what new clothes Madam will give you. A camlet for best, I dare say, and duffel for every day. Don't you want to know?"
"No, not very much."
"I should, if I were you. I like to go fine. Not that she'll give _you_ fine things, you know--not likely. There! put my shoes out to clean, and tuck me up nicely, and then if you like you can go to bed. I shan't want anything more."
Phoebe did as she was requested, and then knelt down.
"I vow!" exclaimed her cousin, when she rose. "Do you say your prayers on Sunday nights? I never do. Why, we've only just been at it downstairs. And what a time you are! I'm never more than five minutes with mine!"
"I couldn't say all I want in five minutes," replied Phoebe.
"Want! why, what do you want?" said Rhoda. "I want nothing. I've got to do it--that's all."
"Well, I dare say five minutes is enough for that," was the quiet reply from Phoebe. "But when people get into trouble, then they do want things."
"Trouble! Oh, you don't know!" said Rhoda, loftily. "I've had heaps of trouble."
"Have you?" innocently demanded Phoebe, in an interested tone.
"Well, I should think so! More than ever you had."
"What were they?" said Phoebe, in the same manner.
"Why, first, my mother died when I was only a week old," explained Rhoda. "I suppose, you call that a trouble?"
"Not when you were a week old," said Phoebe; "it would be afterwards-- with some people. But I should not think it was, much, with you. You have had Madam."
"Well, then my father went off to London, and spent all his estate, that I should have had, and there was nothing left for me. That was a trouble, I suppose?"
"If you had plenty beside, I should not think it was." " `Plenty beside!' Phoebe, you are the silliest creature! Why, don't you see that I should have been a great fortune, if I had had Peveril as well as White-Ladies? I should have set my cap at a lord, I can tell you. Only think, Phoebe, I should have had sixty thousand pounds. What do you say to that? Sixty thousand pounds!"
"I should think it is more than you could ever spend."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Rhoda. "When White-Ladies is mine, I shall have a riding-horse and a glass coach; and I will have a splendid set of diamonds, and pearls too. They cost something, I can tell you. Oh, 'tis easy spending money. You'll see, when it comes to me."
"Are you sure it will come to you?"
"Why, of course it will!" exclaimed Rhoda, sitting up, and leaning on her elbow. "To whom else would Madam leave it, I should like to know! Why, you never expect her to give it to _you_, poor little white-faced thing? I vow, but that is a good jest!"
Rhoda's laugh had more bitterness than mirth in it. Phoebe's smile was one of more unmixed amusement.
"Pray make yourself easy," said Phoebe. "I never expect anything, and then I am not disappointed."
"Well, I'll just tell you what!" rejoined her cousin. "If I catch you making up to Madam, trying to please all her whims, and chime in with her vapours, and that--fancying she'll leave you White-Ladies--I tell you, Phoebe Latrobe, I'll never forgive you as long as I live! There!"
Rhoda was very nearly, if not quite, in a passion. Phoebe turned and looked at her.
"Cousin," she said, gently, "you will see me try to please Madam, since 'tis my duty: but if you suppose 'tis with any further object, such as what she might give me, you very ill know Phoebe Latrobe."
"Well, mind your business!" said Rhoda, rather fiercely.
A few minutes later she was asleep. But sleep did not visit Phoebe's eyes that night.
When the morning came, Rhoda seemed quite to have forgotten her vexation. She chattered away while she was dressing, on various topics, but chiefly respecting the new clothes which Madam had promised to Phoebe. If words might be considered a criterion, Rhoda appeared to take far more interest in these than Phoebe herself.
Breakfast was a solemn and silent ceremony. When it was over, Madam desired Phoebe to attend her in her own chamber, and to bring her wardrobe with her. Rhoda followed, unasked, and sat down on the form at the foot of the bed to await her cousin. Phoebe came in with her arms full of dresses and cloaks. She was haunted by a secret apprehension which she would not on any account have put into words--that she might no longer be allowed to wear mourning for her dead father. But Phoebe's fears were superfluous. Madam thought far too much of the proprieties of life to commit such an indecorum. However little she had liked or respected the Rev. Charles Latrobe, she would never have thought of requiring his child to lay aside her mourning until the conventional two years had elapsed from the period of his decease.
Phoebe's common attire was very quickly discarded, as past further wear; and she was desired to wear her best clothes every day, until new ones were ready for her. This decided, Rhoda was ordered to ring for Betty, Madam's own maid, and Betty was in her turn required to fetch those stuffs which she had been bidden to lay aside till needed. Betty accordingly brought a piece of black camlet, another of black bombazine, and a third of black satin, with various trimmings. The two girls alike watched in silence, while Betty measured lengths and cut off pieces of camlet and bombazine, from which it appeared that Phoebe was to have two new dresses, and a mantua and hood of the camlet: but when Rhoda heard Betty desired to cut off satin for another mantua, her hitherto concealed chagrin broke forth.
"Why, Madam! --she'll be as fine as me!"
"My dear, she will be as I choose," answered Madam, in a tone which would have silenced any one but Rhoda. "And now, satin for a hood, Betty--" "'Tis a shame!" said Rhoda, under her breath, which was as much as she dared venture; but Madam took no notice.
"You will line the hoods and mantuas warm, Betty," pursued Madam, in her most amiable tone. "Guard the satin with fur, and the camlet with that strong gimp. And a muff she must have, Betty."
"A muff!" came in a vexed whisper from Rhoda.
"And when the time comes, one of the broidered India scarves that were had of Staveley, for summer wear; but that anon. Then--" "But, Madam!" put in Rhoda, in a troubled voice, "you have never given me one of those scarves yet! I asked you for one a year ago." To judge from her tone, Rhoda was very near tears.
"My dear!" replied Madam, "'tis becoming in maids to wait till they are spoken to. Had you listened with proper respect, you would have heard me bid Betty lay out one also for you. You cannot use them at this season."
Rhoda subsided, somewhat discontentedly.
"Two pairs of black Spanish gloves, Betty; and a black fan, and black velvet stays. (When the year is out she must have a silver lace.) And bid Dobbins send up shoes to fit on, with black buckles--two pairs; and lay out black stockings--two pairs of silk, and two of worsted; and plain cambric aprons--they may be laced when the year is out. I think that is all. Oh! --a fur tippet, Betty."
And with this last order Madam marched away.
"Oh, shocking!" cried Rhoda, the instant she thought her grandmother out of hearing. "I vow, but she's going to have you as fine as me. Every bit of it. Betty, isn't it a shame?"
"Well, no, Mrs Rhoda, I don't see as how 'tis," returned Betty, bluntly. "Mrs Phoebe, she's just the same to Madam as you are."
"But she isn't!" exclaimed Rhoda, blazing up. "I'm her eldest daughter's child, and she's only the youngest. And she hasn't done it before, neither. Last night she didn't let her kiss her hand. I say, Betty, 'tis a crying shame!"
"Maybe Madam thought better of it this morning," suggested Betty, speaking with a pin in her mouth.
"Well, 'tis a burning shame!" growled Rhoda.
"Perhaps, Mrs Betty," said Phoebe's low voice, "you could leave the satin things for a little while?"
"Mrs Phoebe, I durstn't, my dear!" rejoined Betty; "nay, not if 'twas ever so! Madam, she's used to have folk do as she bids 'em; and she'll make 'em, too! Never you lay Mrs Rhoda's black looks to heart, my dear, she'll have forgot all about it by this time to-morrow."
Rhoda had walked away.
"But I shall not!" answered Phoebe, softly.
"Deary me, child!" said Betty, turning to look at her, "don't you go for to fret over that. Why, if a bit of a thing like that'll trouble you, you'll have plenty to fret about at White-Ladies. Mrs Rhoda, she's on and off with you twenty times a day; and you'd best take no notice. She don't mean anything ill, my dear; 'tis only her phantasies."
"Oh, Mrs Betty! I wish--" "Phoebe!" came up from below. "Fetch my cloak and hood, and bring your own--quick, now! We are about to drive out with Madam."
"Come, dry your eyes, child, and I'll fetch the things," said Betty, soothingly. "You'll be the better of a drive."
Rhoda's annoyance seemed to have vanished from her mind as well as from her countenance; and Madam took no notice of Phoebe's disturbed looks. The Maidens' Lodge, was first visited, and a messenger sent in to ask Lady Betty if she were inclined to take the air. Lady Betty accepted the offer, and was so considerate as not to keep Madam wailing more than ten minutes. No further invitation was offered, and the coach rumbled away in the direction of Gloucester.
For a time Phoebe heard little of the conversation between the elder ladies, and Rhoda, as usual in her grandmother's presence, was almost silent. At length she woke up to a remark made by Lady Betty.
"Then you think, Madam, to send for Gatty and Molly?"
"That is my design, my Lady Betty. 'Twill be a diversion for Rhoda; and Sir Richard was so good as to say they should come if I would."
"Indeed, I think he would be easy to have them from home, Madam, till they may see if Betty's disorder be the small-pox or no."
"When did Betty return home, my Lady?"
"But last Tuesday. 'Tis not possible that her sisters have taken aught of her, for she had been ailing some days ere she set forth, and they have bidden at home all the time. You will be quite safe, Madam."
"So I think, my Lady Betty," replied Madam. "Rhoda, have you been listening?"
"No, Madam," answered Rhoda, demurely.
"Then 'tis time you should, my dear," said Madam, graciously. "I will acquaint you of the affair. I think to write to Lady Delawarr, and ask the favour of Mrs Gatty and Mrs Molly to visit me. Their sister Mrs Betty, as I hear, is come home from the Bath, extreme distempered; and 'tis therefore wise to send away Mrs Gatty and little Mrs Molly until Mrs Betty be recovered of her disorder. I would have you be very nice toward them, that they shall find their visit agreeable."
"How long will they stay, Madam?" inquired Rhoda.
"Why, child, that must hang somewhat on Mrs Betty's recovering. I take it, it shall be about a month; but should her distemper be tardy of disappearing, it shall then be something longer."
"Jolly!" was the sound which seemed to Phoebe to issue in an undertone from the lips of Rhoda. But the answer which reached her grandmother's ears was merely a sedate "Yes, Madam."
"I take it, my Lady Betty," observed Madam, turning to her companion, "that the sooner the young gentlewomen are away, the better shall it be."
"Oh, surely, Madam!" answered Lady Betty. " 'Tis truly very good of you to ask it; but you are always a general undertaker for your friends."
"We were sent into this world to do good, my Lady Betty," returned Madam, sententiously.
Unless Phoebe's ears were deceived, a whisper very like "Fudge!" came from Rhoda.
The somewhat solemn drive was finished at last; Lady Betty was set down at the Maidens' Lodge; inquiries were made as to the health of Mrs Marcella, who returned a reply intimating that she was a suffering martyr; and Rhoda and Phoebe at last found themselves free from superveillance, and safe in their bedroom.
"Now that's just jolly!" was Rhoda's first remark, with nothing in particular to precede it. "Molly Delawarr's a darling! I don't much care for Gatty, and Betty I just hate. She's a prig and a fid-fad both. But Molly--oh, Phoebe, she's as smart as can be. Such parts she has! You know, she's really--not quite you understand--but really she's almost as clever as I am!"
Phoebe did not seem overwhelmed by this information; she only said, "Is she?"
"Well, nearly," said Rhoda. "She knows fourteen Latin words, Molly does; and she always brings them in."
"Into what?" asked Phoebe, with the little amused laugh which was very rare with her.
"Into her discourse, to be sure, child!" said Rhoda, loftily, "You don't know fourteen Latin words; how should you?"
"How should I, indeed," rejoined Phoebe, meekly, "if father had not taught me?"
"Taught you--taught you Latin?" gasped Rhoda.
"Just a little Latin and Greek; there wasn't time for much," humbly responded Phoebe.
"Greek!" shrieked Rhoda.
"Very little, please," deprecated Phoebe.
"Phoebe, you dear sweet darling love of a Phoebe!" cried Rhoda, kissing her cousin, to the intense astonishment of the latter; "now won't you, like a dear as you are, just tell me one or two Greek words? I would give anything to outshine Molly and make her look foolish, I would! She doesn't know one word of Greek--only Latin. Do, for pity's sake, tell me, if 'tis only one Greek word! and I won't say another syllable, not if Madam gives you a diamond necklace!"
Phoebe was laughing more than she had yet ever done at White-Ladies. She was far too innocent and amiable to think of playing Rhoda the trick of which Melanie's father was guilty, in _Contes a ma Fille_, when, under the impression that she was saying in Latin, "Knowledge gives the right to laugh at everything," he cruelly caused her to remark in public, "I am a very ridiculous donkey." Phoebe bore no malice. She only said, still smiling, "I don't know what words to tell you."
"Oh, any!" answered Rhoda, accommodatingly. "What's the Greek for ugly?"
"I don't know," said Phoebe, dubiously. "Kakos means _bad_."
"And what is _good_ and _pretty_?"
"Agathos is _good_," replied Phoebe, laughing; "and _beautiful_ is kallios."
"That'll do!" said Rhoda, triumphantly. " 'Tis plenty,--I couldn't remember more. Let me see,--kaks, and agathos, and kallius--is that right?"
Phoebe laughingly offered the necessary corrections. "All right!" said Rhoda. "I've no more to wish for. I'll take the shine out of Molly!"
At supper that evening, Madam announced that she had sent her note to Lady Delawarr by a mounted messenger, and had received an answer, according to which Gatty and Molly might be expected to arrive at White-Ladies on Wednesday evening. Madam appeared to be in one of her most gracious moods, for she even condescended to inform Phoebe that Mrs Gatty was two months older than Rhoda, and Mrs Molly four years her junior,--"two years younger than you, my dear," said Madam, very affably.
"Now, Phoebe, I'll tell you what we'll do," asserted Rhoda, as she sat down before the glass that night to have her hair undressed by her cousin. "I'm not going to have Molly teasing about the old gentlewomen down yonder. I'll soon shut her mouth if she begins; and if Gatty wants to go down there, well, she can go by herself. So I'll tell you what: you and I will drink a dish of tea with Mrs Dolly to-morrow, and we'll make her finish her story. I only do wish the dear old tiresome thing wouldn't preach! Then I'll take you in to see Mrs Marcella, and we'll get that done. Then in the morning, you must just set out all my gowns on the bed, and I'll have both you and Betty to sew awhile I must have some lace on that blue. I'll make Madam give me a pair of new silver buckles, too. I can't do unless I cut out those creatures somehow. And the only way to cut out Gatty is by dress, because she hasn't anything in her,--'tis all on her. I cut out Molly in brains. But my Lady Delawarr likes to dress Gatty up, because she fancies the awkward thing's pretty. She isn't, you know,--not a speck; but _she_ thinks so."
Whether the last pronoun referred to Lady Delawarr or to Gatty, Rhoda was not sufficiently perspicuous to indicate. Phoebe went on disentangling her hair in silence, and Rhoda likewise fell into a brown study.
Of the nature of her thoughts that young lady gave but two intimations: the first, as she tied up her hair in the loose bag which then served for a night-cap,-- "I cannot abide that Betty!"
The second came a long while afterwards, just as Phoebe was dropping to sleep.
"I say, Phoebe!"
"Yes?"
"Did you say `kakios?'"
Phoebe had to collect her thoughts. "Kakos," she said.
"Oh, all right; _they_ won't know. But won't I take the shine out of that Molly!"
Phoebe's arrested sleep came back to her as she was reflecting on the curious idea which her cousin seemed to have of friendship.
"Come along, Phoebe! This is the shortest way."
"Oh, couldn't we go by the road?" asked Phoebe, drawing back apprehensively, as Rhoda sprang lightly from the top of the stile which led into the meadow.
"Of course we could, but 'tis ever so much further round, and not half so pleasant. Why?"
"There are--cows!" said Phoebe, under her breath.
Rhoda laughed more decidedly than civilly.
"Cows! Did you never see cows before? I say, Phoebe, come along! Don't be so silly!"
Phoebe obeyed, but in evident trepidation, and casting many nervous glances at the dreaded cows, until the girls had passed the next stile.
"Cows don't bite, silly Phoebe!" said Rhoda, rather patronisingly, from the height of her two years' superiority in age.
"But they toss sometimes, don't they?" tremblingly demanded Phoebe.
"What nonsense!" said Rhoda, as they rounded the Maidens' Lodge.
Little Mrs Dorothy sat sewing at her window, and she nodded cheerily to her young guests as they came in.
"What do you think, Mrs Dolly? --good evening!" said Rhoda, parenthetically. "If this foolish Phoebe isn't frighted of a cow!"
"Sure, my dear, that is no wonder, for one bred in in the town," gently deprecated Mrs Dorothy.
"So stupid and nonsensical!" said Rhoda. "I say, Mrs Dolly, are you afraid of anything?"
"Yes, my dear," was the quiet answer.
"Oh!" said Rhoda. "Cows?"
"No, not cows," returned Mrs Dorothy, smiling.
"Frogs? Beetles?" suggested Rhoda.
"I do not think I am afraid of any animal, at least in this country, without it be vipers," said Mrs Dorothy. "But--well, I dare say I am but a foolish old woman in many regards. I oft fear things which I note others not to fear at all."
"But what sort of things, Mrs Dolly?" inquired Rhoda, who had made herself extremely comfortable with a large chair and sundry cushions.
"I will tell you of three things, my dear, of which I have always felt afraid, at the least since I came to years of discretion. And most folks are not afraid of any of them. I am afraid of getting rich. I am afraid of being married. And I am afraid of judging my neighbours."
"Oh!" cried Rhoda, in genuine amazement. "Why, Mrs Dolly, what _do_ you mean? As to judging one's neighbours,--well, I suppose the Bible says something against that; but we all do it, you know."
"We do, my dear; more's the pity."
"But getting rich, and being married! Oh, Mrs Dolly! Everybody wants those."
"No, my dear, asking your pardon," replied the old lady, in a tone of decision unusual with her. "I trust every Christian does not want to be rich, when the Lord hath given him so many warnings against it. And every man does not want to marry, nor every woman neither."
"Well, not every man, perhaps," admitted Rhoda; "but every woman does, Mrs Dolly."
"My dear, I am sorry to hear a woman say it," answered Mrs Dorothy, with as much warmth as was consonant with her nature. "I hoped that was a man's delusion."
"Why, Mrs Dolly! I do," said Rhoda, with great candour.
"Then I wish you more wisdom, child."
"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Didn't you, when you were young, Mrs Dolly?"
"No, I thank God, nor when I was old neither," replied Mrs Dorothy, in the same tone.
"But, Mrs Dolly! A maid has no station in society!" said Rhoda, using a phrase which she had picked up from one of her grandfather's books.
"My dear, your station is where God puts you. A maid has just as good a station as a wife; and a much pleasanter, to my thinking."
"Pleasanter!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Why, Mrs Dolly, nobody thinks anything of an old maid, except to pity her."
"They may keep their pity to themselves," said Mrs Dorothy, with a little laugh. "We old maids can pity them back again, and with more reason."
"Mrs Dolly, would you have all the world hermits?"
"No, my dear; nor do I at all see why people should always leap to the conclusion that an old maid must be an ill-tempered, lonely, disappointed creature. Sure, there are other relatives in this world beside husbands and children; and if she choose her own lot, what cause hath she for disappointment? 'Tis but a few day since Mr Leighton said, in my hearing, `Of course we know, when a gentlewoman is unwed, 'tis her misfortune rather than her fault'--and I do believe the poor man thought he paid us women a compliment in so speaking. For me, I felt it an insult."
"Why so, Mrs Dolly?"
"Why, think what it meant, my dear. `Of course, a woman cannot be so insensible to the virtues and attractions of men that she should wish to remain unwed; therefore, if this calamity overtake her, it shows that she hath no virtues nor attractions herself.'"
"You don't think Mr Leighton meant that, Mrs Dolly?" asked Rhoda, laughing.
"No, my dear; I think he did not see the meaning of his own words. But tell me, if it is not a piece of great vanity on the part of men, that while they never think to condole with a man who is unmarried, but take it undoubted that he prefers that life, they take it as equally undoubted that a woman doth not prefer it, and lament over her being left at ease and liberty as though she had suffered some great misfortune?"
"I never did see such queer notions as you have, Mrs Dolly! I can't think where you get them," said Rhoda. "However, you may say what you will; _I_ mean to marry, and I am going to be rich too. And I expect I shall like both of them."
"My dear!" and Mrs Dorothy laid down her work, and looked earnestly at Rhoda. "How do you know you are going to be rich?"
"Why, I shall have White-Ladies," answered Rhoda. "And of course Aunt Harriet will leave me everything."
"Have Madam and Mrs Harriet told you so, my dear?"
"No," said Rhoda, rather impatiently. "But who else should they leave it to?"
Mrs Dorothy let that part of the matter drop quietly. " `They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" she said, taking up her work again.
"What snare?" said Rhoda, bluntly.
"They get their hearts choked up," said the old lady.
"With what, Mrs Dolly?" " `Cares, and riches, and pleasures of this life.' O my dear, may the Lord make your heart soft! Yet I am afraid--I am very sore afraid, that the only way of making some hearts soft is--to break them."
"Well, I don't want my heart breaking, thank you," laughed Rhoda; "and I don't think anything would break it, unless I lost all my money, and was left an old maid. O Mrs Dolly, I can't think how you bear it! To come down, now, and live in one of these little houses, and have people looking down on you, instead of looking up to you--if anything of the sort would kill me, I think that would."
"Well, it hasn't killed me, child," said Mrs Dorothy, calmly; "but then, you see, I chose it. That makes a difference."
"But you didn't choose to be poor, Mrs Dolly?"
"Well, yes, in one sense, I did," answered the old lady, a little tinge of colour rising in her pale cheek.
"How so?" demanded Rhoda, who was not deterred from gaining information by any delicacy in asking questions.
"There was a time once, my dear, that I might have married a gentleman of title, with a rent-roll of six thousand a year."
"Mrs Dolly! you don't mean that?" cried Rhoda. "And why on earth didn't you?"
"Well, my dear, I had two reasons," answered Mrs Dorothy. "One was"-- with a little laugh--"that as you see, I preferred to be one of these same ill-conditioned, lonely, disappointed old maids. And the other was"--and Mrs Dorothy's voice sank to a softer and graver tone--"I could not have taken my Master with me into that house. I saw no track of His footsteps along that road. And His sheep follow Him."
"But God means us to be happy, Mrs Dolly?"
"Surely, my dear. But He knows better than we how empty and fleeting is all happiness other than is found in Him. 'Tis only because the Lord is our Shepherd that we shall not want."
"Mrs Dolly, that is what good people say; but it always sounds so gloomy and melancholy."
"What sounds melancholy, my dear?" inquired Mrs Dorothy, with slight surprise in her tone.
"Why, that one must find all one's happiness in reading sermons, and chanting Psalms, and thinking how soon one is going to die," said Rhoda, with an uncomfortable shrug.
"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs Dorothy, "when did you ever hear me say anything of the kind?"
"Why, that was what you meant, wasn't it," answered Rhoda, "when you talked about finding happiness in piety?"
"And when did I do that?"
"Just now, this minute back," said Rhoda in surprise.
"My dear child, you strangely misapprehend me. I never spoke a word of finding happiness in piety; I spoke of finding it in God. And God is not sermons, nor chanting, nor death. He is life, and light, and love. I never think how soon I shall die. I often think how soon the Lord may come; but there is a vast difference between looking for the coming of a thing that you dread, and looking for the coming of a person whom you long to see."
"But you will die, Mrs Dolly?"
"Perhaps, my dear. The Lord may come first; I hope so."
"Oh dear!" said Rhoda. "But that means the world may come to an end."
"Yes. The sooner the better," replied the old lady.
"But you don't _want_ the world to end, Mrs Dolly?"
"I do, my clear. I want the new heavens and the new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness."
"Oh dear!" cried Rhoda again. "Why, Mrs Dolly, I can't bear to think of it. It would be an end of everything I care about."
"My dear," said the old lady, gravely and yet tenderly, "if the Lord's coming will put an end to everything you care about, that must be because you don't care much for Him."
"I don't know anything about Him, except what we hear in church," answered Rhoda uneasily.
"And don't care for that?" softly responded her old friend.
Rhoda fidgeted for a moment, and then let the truth out.
"Well, no, Mrs Dolly, I _don't_. I know it sounds very wicked and shocking; but how can I, when 'tis all so far off? It doesn't feel real, as you do, and Madam, and all the other people I know. I can't tell how you make it real." " _He_ makes it real, my child. 'Tis faith which sees God. How can you see Him without it? But I am not shocked, my dear. You have only told me what I knew before."
"I don't see how you knew," said Rhoda uncomfortably; "and I don't know how people get faith."
"By asking the Lord for it," said Mrs Dolly. "Phoebe, my child, is it a sorrowful thing to thee to think on Christ and His coming again?"
"Oh no!" was Phoebe's warm answer. "You see, Madam, I haven't anything else."
"Dear child, thank God for it!" replied Mrs Dorothy softly. " `Ton sort n'est pas a plaindre.'"
"I declare, if 'tis not four o'clock!" cried Rhoda, springing up, and perhaps not sorry for the diversion. "There, now! I meant you to finish your story, and we haven't time left. Come along, Phoebe! We are going to look in a minute on Mrs Marcella, and then we must hurry home."
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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5
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GATTY'S TROUBLES.
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"And I come down no more to chilling praise, To sneers, to wearing out of empty days, But rest, rejoicing in the power I've won, To go on learning, though my crying's done."
_Isabella Fyvie Mayo_.
As the two girls turned into the little garden of Number Three, the latch of the door was lifted, and Mrs Jane came out.
"Good evening!" said she. "Come to see my sister, are you? I and my Deb are doing for her to-day, for her Nell has got a holiday--gone to see her mother--lazy slut!"
"Which is the lazy slut, Mrs Jane?" asked Rhoda, laughing.
"Heyday! they're all a parcel together," answered Mrs Jane. "Nell and her mother, and her grandmother before them. And Marcella, too, she's no better. Go in, if you want a string of complaints. You can come out when you've had plenty."
"How many complaints are plenty, Mrs Jane?"
"One," said Mrs Jane, marching off. "Plenty for me."
Rhoda lifted the latch, and walked in, Phoebe following her. She tapped at the inner door.
"Oh, come in, whoever it is," said a querulous, plaintive voice. "Well, Mrs Rhoda, I thought you would have been to see me before. A poor lonely creature, that nobody cares for, and never has any comfort nor pleasure! And who have you with you? I'm sure she's in a deep consumption from the looks of her. Coltsfoot, my dear, and horehound, with plenty of sugar, boiled together; and a little mallow won't hurt. But they'll not do you much good, I should say; you're too far gone: still, 'tis a duty to do all one can, and some strange things do happen: like Betty Collins--the doctors all gave her up, and there she is, walking about, as well as anybody. And so may you, my dear, though you don't look like it. Still, you are young--there's no telling: and coltsfoot is a very good thing, and makes wonderful cures. Oh, that careless Jane, to leave me all alone, just when I wanted my pillows shaking! And so inconsiderate of Nell to go home just to-day, of all days, when she knew I was sure to be worse; I always am after a fast-day. Fast-days don't suit me at all; they are very bad for sick people. They make one's spirits so low, and are sure to give me the vapours. Oh dear, that Jane!"
"What's the matter with that Jane?" demanded the bearer of the name, stalking in, as Phoebe was trying to brace up her courage to the point of offering to shake the pillows. "Want another dose of castor oil? I've got it."
A faint shriek of deprecation was the answer.
"Oh dear! And you know how I hate it! Jane, do shake up my pillows. They feel as if there were stones instead of flocks in them, or--" "Nutmegs, no doubt," suggested Mrs Jane. "Shake them up? Oh yes, and you too--do you both good."
"Oh, don't, Jane! Have you an orange for me?"
"Sit down, my dears," said Mrs Jane, parenthetically. "Can't afford them, Marcella. Plenty of black currant tea. Better for you."
"I don't like it!" said Mrs Marcella, plaintively.
"Oranges are eightpence a-piece, and currants may be had for the gathering," observed Mrs Jane, sententiously.
"They give me a pain in my side!" moaned the invalid.
"Well, the oranges would give you a pain in your purse. I'd rather have one in my side, if I were you."
"You don't know what it is to be ill!" said Mrs Marcella, closing her eyes.
"Don't I? I've had both small-pox and spotted fever."
"So long ago!"
"Bless you, child! I'm not Methuselah!" said Mrs Jane.
"Well, I think you might be, Jane, for really, the way in which you can sit up all night, and look as fresh as a daisy in the morning, when you have not had a wink of sleep, and I am perfectly worn-out with suffering--just skin and bone, and no more--" "There's a little tongue left, I reckon!" said Mrs Jane.
"The way she will get up and go to market, my dears, after such a night as that," pursued Mrs Marcella, who always ran on her own line of rails, and never shunted to avoid collision; "you never saw anything like her--the amount she can bear! She's as tough as a rhinoceros, and as strong as an elephant, and as wanting in feeling as--as--" "A sensitive plant," popped in Mrs Jane. "Now, Marcella, open your mouth and shut your eyes, and take this."
"Is it castor oil?" faintly screamed the invalid, endeavouring to protect herself.
"Stuff! 'Tis good Tent wine. Take it and be thankful."
"Where did you get it, Jane?"
"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," said Mrs Jane. "It was honestly come by."
"Well, I think we must be going, Mrs Marcella," said Rhoda, rising.
"Oh, my dear! Must you, really? And so seldom as you come to see a poor thing like me, who hasn't a living creature to care for her--except Jane, of course, and she doesn't, not one bit! Dear! And to think that I was once a pretty young maid, with a little fortune of my own; and there was many a young gentleman, my dear, that would have given his right hand for no more than a smile from me--" "Heyday! how this world is given to lying!" interpolated Mrs Jane.
"And we were a large family then--eight of us, my dear; and now they are all dead, and I am left quite alone, except Jane, you know. Oh dear, dear, but to think of it! But there is no thankfulness in the world, nor kindness neither. The people I have been good to! and now that I have _come down_ a little, to see how they treat me! Jane doesn't mind it; she has no tender feelings at all; she can stand all things, and never say a word, I am sure I don't know how she does it. I am all feeling! These things touch me so keenly. But Jane's just like a stone. Well, good evening, my dear, if you must go. I think you might have come a little sooner, and you might come oftener, if you would. But that is always my lot, to be neglected and despised--a poor, lonely, ugly old maid, that nobody cares for. And it wasn't my fault, I am sure; I never chose such a fate. I cannot think why such afflictions have been sent me. I am sure I am no worse than other people. Clarissa is a great deal vainer than I am; and Jane is ever so much harder; and as to Dorothy, why, 'tis misery to see her--she is so cheerful and full of mirth, and she has not a thing to be content with--it quite hurts me to see anyone like that. But people are so wanting in feeling! I am sure--" "Go, if you want," said Mrs Jane, shortly, holding the door open.
"Oh, yes, go! Of course you want to go!" lamented Mrs Marcella. "What pleasure can there be to a bright young maid like you, to sit with a poor, sick, miserable creature like me? Dear, dear! And only to think--" Rhoda escaped. Phoebe followed, more slowly. Mrs Jane came out after them, and shut the door behind them.
"She's in pain, this evening," said the last-named person in her usual blunt style. "Some folks can bear pain, and some can't. And those that can must beat with those that can't. She'll be better of letting it out a bit. Good evening."
"Oh, isn't it dreadful!" said Rhoda, when they were out of the gate. "I just hate going to see Mrs Marcella, especially when she takes one of her complaining fits. If I were Mrs Jane, I should let her have it out by herself. But she is hard, rather--she doesn't care as I should."
But Phoebe thought that a mistake. She had noticed the drawn brow of the silent sister, while the sufferer was detailing her string of troubles, and the sudden quiver of the under lip, when allusion was made to the eight of whom the family had once consisted: and Phoebe's deduction was, not that Jane Talbot bore no burden, but that she kept it out of sight. Perhaps that very characteristic bluntness of her manner denoted a tight curb kept upon her spirit.
Rhoda had noticed nothing of all this. Herself a surface character, she could not see below the surface in another.
The Wednesday evening came, and with it Sir Richard Delawarr's coach, conveying his two younger daughters. They were extremely unlike in person. Gatty was tall, calm, and deliberate; Molly was rather diminutive for her years, and exceedingly lively. While Gatty came forward in a stately, courteous manner, courtesying to Madam, and kindly answering her inquiries after Betty, Molly linked her arm in Rhoda's, with-- "How goes it, old jade?"
And when Mr Onslow, who happened to be crossing the hall, stopped and inquired in a rather timid manner if Mrs Betty's health were improving, Molly at once favoured him with a slap on the back, and the counter query,-- "What's that to you, you old thief?" Phoebe was horrified. If these were aristocratic manners, she preferred those of inferior quality. But noticing that Gatty's manners were quiet and correct, Phoebe concluded that Molly must be an exceptional eccentricity. She contemplated the prospect of a month in that young lady's company with unmitigated repugnance.
"Well, Mrs Molly, my dear,--as smart as ever!" remarked Madam, turning to Molly with a smile. "All right, old witch!" said Molly. And to Phoebe's astonishment, Madam smiled on, and did not resent the impertinence.
"Well! --how do you like Gatty and Molly?" said Rhoda to Phoebe, when they were safe in their own room.
"Pretty well, Mrs Gatty," replied Phoebe, leaving the question of Molly undecided.
"Don't you like Molly?" demanded Rhoda, laughing. "Ah! I see. She's rather too clever to please you."
"I ask your pardon, but I don't see any cleverness in downright rudeness," timidly suggested Phoebe.
"Oh, nobody cares what Molly says," answered Rhoda. "They put up with all that,--she's so smart. You see, she's very, very ingenious, and everybody thinks so, and she knows people think so. She's a rep., you see, and she has to keep it up."
"I ask your pardon," said Phoebe again; "a _what_, if you please?"
"A rep., child," answered Rhoda, in her patronising style. "A reputation,--a character for smartness, you know. Don't you see?"
"Well, I would rather have a character for something better," said Phoebe.
"You may make yourself easy; you'll never get a character for smartness," responded her cousin with an unpleasant laugh. "Well, I say, Phoebe, while they are here I shall have Molly in my room, and you must sleep with Gatty. You can come in and dress me of a morning, you know, and help me into bed at night; but we can't do with three in one room."
Phoebe was inwardly thankful for it. What little she had seen of Gatty was rather negative than positive; but at least it had not, as in the case of Molly revealed anything actively disagreeable. Rhoda was heartily welcome to Molly's society so far as Phoebe was concerned. But it surprised and rather perplexed Phoebe to find that Rhoda actually liked this very objectionable maiden.
"Panem?" asked Molly, the next morning at breakfast. Her Latin, such as it was, was entirely unburdened with cases and declensions. "Thank you, I will take kakos."
"Fiddle-de-dee! what's that?" said Molly. Rhoda had completely forgotten what the word meant.
"Oh, 'tis the Greek for biscuit," said she, daringly.
Phoebe contrived to hide a portion of her face in her teacup, but Gatty saw her eyes, and read their meaning.
"The Greek!" cried Molly. "Who has taught you Greek, Ne'er-do-well?"
"A very learned person," said Rhoda, to whom it was delight to mystify Molly.
"Old Onslow?" demanded irreverent Molly, quite undeterred by the consideration that the chaplain sat at the table with her.
"You can ask him," said Rhoda.
"Did you, old cassock?" inquired Molly, who appeared to apply that adjective in a most impartial manner.
"Indeed, Mrs Molly, I did not--I never knew--" stammered the startled chaplain, quite shaken out of his propriety.
"Never knew any Greek? I thought so," responded audacious Molly, thereby evoking laughter all round the table, in which even Madam joined.
Phoebe, who had recovered herself, sat lost in wonder where the cleverness of all this was to be found. It simply disgusted her. Rhoda was not always pleasant to put up with, but Rhoda was sweetness and grace, compared with Molly. Gatty sat quietly, neither rebuking her sister's sallies, nor apparently amused by them. And Rhoda _liked_ this girl! It was a mystery to Phoebe.
When night came Phoebe found her belongings transferred to Gatty's room. She assisted Rhoda to undress, herself silent, but a perpetual chatter being kept up between Rhoda and Molly on subjects not by any means interesting to Phoebe.
The latter was at length dismissed, and, with a sense of relief, she went slowly along the passage to the room in which she and Gatty were to sleep.
Though it was getting very late, the clock being on the stroke of ten, yet Gatty was not in bed. She seemed to have half undressed herself, and then to have thrown a scarf over her shoulders and sat down by the window. It was a beautiful night, and a flood of silvery moonlight threw the trees into deep shadow and lit up the open spaces almost like day. Phoebe came and stood at the window beside Gatty. Perhaps each was a little shy of the other; for some seconds passed in silence, and Phoebe was the first to speak.
"You like it," she said timidly.
"Oh, yes. 'Tis so quiet," was Gatty's answer.
Phoebe was thinking what she should say next, when Gatty rose, took off her scarf, which she folded neatly and put away in the wardrobe, finished her undressing, and got into bed, without another word beyond "Good-night."
For three weeks of the month which the visit was to last this proved to be the usual state of matters. Gatty and Phoebe regularly exchanged greetings, night and morning; but beyond this their conversation was limited to remarks upon the weather, and an occasional request that Phoebe would inspect the neat and proper condition of some part of Gatty's dress which she could not conveniently see. And Phoebe began to come to the conclusion that Rhoda had judged rightly,--Gatty had nothing in her.
But one evening, when Molly had been surpassingly "clever," keeping Rhoda in peals of laughter, and Phoebe in a state of annoyed disgust,-- on reaching their bedroom, Phoebe found Gatty, still dressed, and sitting by the bed, with her face bowed upon her hands.
"I ask your pardon, but are you not well?" said Phoebe, in a sympathising tone.
"Oh, yes. Quite well," was Gatty's reply, in a constrained voice; but as she rose and moved her hands from her face, Phoebe saw that she had been crying.
"You are in trouble," said Phoebe, gently. "Don't tell me anything, unless you like; but I know what trouble is; and if I could help you--" "You can't," said Gatty, shortly.
Phoebe was silent. Her sympathy had been repulsed--it was not wanted. The undressing was, as usual, without a word.
But when the girls had lain down in bed, Phoebe was a little surprised to hear Gatty say suddenly,-- "Phoebe Latrobe! --does anybody love you?"
"God loves me," said Phoebe, simply. "I am not sure that any one else does."
"I like you," said Gatty. "You let me be. That's what nobody ever does."
"I am not sure that I understand you," responded Phoebe.
"I'll tell you," replied Gatty, "for I think you can hold your tongue, and not be always chatter, chatter, chatter, like--like some people. You think there's only one Gatty Delawarr; and I'll be bound you think her a very dull, stupid creature. Well, you're about right there. But there are two: there's me, and there's the thing people want to make me. Now, you haven't seen me,--you've only seen the woman into whom I am being pinched and pulled. This is me that talks to you to-night, and perhaps you'll never see me again,--only that other girl,--so you had better make the most of me now that you have me. I'm sure, if you dislike her as much as I do--! You see, Phoebe, there are three of us-- Betty, and me, and Molly: and Mother's set her heart on our all making a noise in the world. Well, perhaps we could have managed better if we might have made our own noise; but we have to make it to order, and we don't do it well at all. Betty's the best off, because Mother hit on something that went with her nature,--she's the notable housewife. So she plays her play well. But when she set up Molly for a wit, and me for a beauty, she made a great blunder. Molly hasn't a bit of wit, so she falls back on rude speeches, and they go through me just as if she ran a knife into me. You did not think so, did you?"
"No," said Phoebe, wonderingly; "I thought you did not seem to care."
"That's the other Gatty. She does not care. She's been told,--oh, a hundred times over! --to compose herself and keep her features calm, and not let her voice be ruffled; and move slowly, so that her elbows are not square, and all on in that way; and she has about learned it by this time. I know how to sit still and look unconcerned, if my heart be breaking. And it is breaking, Phoebe."
"Dear Mrs Gatty, what can I do for you?"
"You can't do anything but listen to me. Let me pour it out this once, and don't scold me. I don't mean anything wrong, Phoebe. I don't wish to complain of Mother, or Molly, or any one. I only want to tell somebody what I have to bear, and then I'll compose myself again to my part in the world's big theatre, and go away and bear it, like other girls do. And you are the only person I have acquaintance with, that I feel as if I could tell."
"Pray go on, Mrs Gatty; I can feel sorry, if I can do nothing else."
"Well,--at home somebody is at me from morning to night. There's a posture-master comes once a week; and Mother's maid looks to my carriage at all times, 'tis an endless round of--`Gatty, hold your head up,'--`Gatty, put that plate down, and take it up with your arm rounded,'--`Gatty, you must not laugh,'--`Gatty, you must not sneeze,'--`Gatty, walk slower,'--come, that's enough. Then there's Molly on the top of it. And there's Betty on the top of Molly,--who can't conceive why anybody should ruffle her mind about anything. And there's Mother above all, for ever telling me she looks to have me cut a dash, and make a good match; and if I had played my cards rightly I ought to have caught a husband ere I was seventeen,--'tis disgraceful that I should thus throw away my advantages. And, Phoebe, _I_ want nothing but to creep into some little, far-away corner, and _be me_, and throw away my patches and love-locks, and powder and pomatum, and never see that other Gatty any more. That's how it was up to last month."
Gatty paused a moment, and drew a long sigh.
"And then, there came another on the scene, and I suppose the play grew more entertaining to Mother, and Betty, and Molly, in the boxes. People don't think, you know, when they look down at the prima donna, painted, and smiling, and decked with flowers,--they don't think if she has a husband who ill-uses her, or a child dying at home. She has come there to make them sport. Well, there came an old lord,--a man of sixty or seventy,--who has led a wild rakish life all these years, and now he thinks 'tis time to settle down, and he wants me to help him to make people think he's become respectable. And they say I shall marry him. Phoebe, they say I must,--there is to be no help for it. And I can't bear him to look at me. If he touches my glove, I want to fling it into the fire when it comes off. And this one month, here, at White-Ladies, is my last quiet time. When I go home--if Betty be recovered of her distemper--I am to be married to this old man in a week's time. I am tied hand and foot, like a captive or a slave; and I have not even the poor relief of tears. They make my eyes red, and I must not make, my eyes red, if it would save my life. But nothing will save me. The lambs that used to be led to the altar are not more helpless than I. The rope is round my neck; and I must trot on beside the executioner, and find what comfort I can in the garland of roses on my head."
There was a silence of a few seconds after Gatty finished her miserable tale. And then Phoebe's voice asked softly,-- "Dear Mrs Gatty, have you asked God to save you?"
"What's the use?" answered Gatty, in a hopeless tone.
"Because He would do it," said Phoebe. "I don't know how. It might be by changing my Lady Delawarr's mind, or the old lord's, or yours; or many another way; I don't know how. But I do know that He has promised to bring no temptation on those that fear Him, beyond what they shall be able to bear."
"Oh, I don't know!" said Gatty, in that tone which makes the word sound like a cry of pain.
"Have you tried entreating my Lady Delawarr?"
"Tried! I should think so. And what do you think I get by it? `Gatty, my dear, 'tis so unmodish to be thus warm over anything! Compose yourself, and control your feelings. Love! --no, of course you do not love my Lord Polesworth, while you are yet a maid; 'twould be highly indecorous for you to do any such thing. But when you are his wife, you'll be perfectly content; and that is all you can expect. My dear, do compose yourself, or your face will be quite wrinkled; and let me hear no more of this nonsense, I beg of you. Maids cannot look to choose for themselves, 'tis not reasonable.' That is what I get, Phoebe."
"And your father, Mrs Gatty?"
"My father? Oh! `Really, Gatty, I can't interfere,--'tis your mother's affair; you must make up your mind to it. We can't have always what we like,'--and then he whistles to his hounds, and goes out a-hunting."
"Well, Mrs Gatty, suppose you try God?"
"Suppose I have done, Phoebe, and got no answer at all?"
"Forgive me, I cannot suppose it."
"Is He so good to _you_, Phoebe?"
The question was asked in a very, very mournful tone.
"Mrs Gatty," said Phoebe, softly, "He has given me Himself. I do not think He has given me anything else of what my heart longs for. But that is enough. In Him I have all things."
"What do you mean?" came in accents of perplexity from the bed in the opposite corner.
"I am afraid," said Phoebe, "I cannot tell you. I mean, I could not make you understand it." " `Given you Himself!'" repeated Gatty. "I can fancy how He could reward you or make you happy; but, `give you Himself!'"
"Well, I cannot explain it," said Phoebe. "Yes, it means giving happiness; but it means a great deal more. I can feel it, but I cannot put it in words."
"I don't understand you the least bit!"
"Will you talk awhile with Mrs Dolly Jennings, and see if she can explain it to you? I do not think any one can, in words; but I guess she would come nearer to it than I could."
"I like Mrs Dolly," said Gatty, thoughtfully; "she is very kind."
"Very," assented Phoebe.
"I think I should not mind talking to her," said Gatty. "We will walk down there to-morrow, if we can get leave."
"And now, had we not better go to sleep?" suggested Phoebe.
"Well, we can try," sighed Gatty. "But, Phoebe, 'tis no good telling me to pray, because I have done it. I said over every collect in the Prayer-book--ten a day; and the very morning after I had finished them, that horrid man came, and Mother made--I had to go down and sit half an hour listening to him. Praying does no good."
"I am not sure that you have tried it," said Phoebe.
"Didn't I tell you, this minute, I said every--" "I ask your pardon for interrupting you, but saying is not praying. Did you really pray them?"
"Phoebe, I do not understand you! How could I pray them and not say them?"
"Well, I did not quite mean that," said Phoebe; "but please, Mrs Gatty, did you feel them? Did you really ask God all the collects say, or did you only repeat the words over? You see, if I felt cold in bed, I might ask Mrs Betty to give me leave to have another blanket; but if I only kept saying that I was cold, to myself, over and over, and did not tell Mrs Betty, I should be long enough before I got the blanket. Did you say the collects to yourself, Mrs Gatty, or did you say them to the Lord?"
There was a pause before Gatty said, in rather an awed voice, "Phoebe, when you pray, is God there?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, readily.
"He is not, with me," replied Gatty. "He feels a long, long way off; and I feel as if my collects might drop and be lost before they can get up to Him. Don't you?"
"Never," answered Phoebe. "But I don't send my prayers up by themselves; I give them to Jesus Christ to carry. He never drops one, Mrs Gatty." " 'Tis all something I don't understand one bit," said Gatty, wearily. "Go to sleep, Phoebe; I won't keep you awake. But we'll go and see Mrs Dolly."
The next afternoon, when Rhoda and Molly had disappeared on their private affairs, Gatty dropped a courtesy to Madam, and requested her permission to visit Mrs Dolly Jennings.
"By all means, my dear," answered Madam, affably. "If Rhoda has no occasion for her, let Phoebe wait on you."
The second request which had been on Gatty's lips being thus forestalled, the girls set forth--without consulting Rhoda, which Gatty was disinclined to do, and which Phoebe fancied that she had done--and reached the Maidens' Lodge without falling in with any disturbing element, such as either Rhoda or Molly would unquestionably have been. Mrs Dorothy received them in her usual kindly manner, and gave them tea before they entered on the subject of which both the young minds were full. Then Gatty told her story, if very much the same terms as she had given it to Phoebe.
"And I can't understand Phoebe, Mrs Dolly," she ended. "She says God has given her Himself; and I cannot make it out. And she says she gives her prayers to Jesus Christ to carry. I don't know what she means. It sounds good. But I don't understand it--not one bit."
Mrs Dorothy came up to where Gatty was sitting, and took the girl's head between her small, thin hands. It was not a beautiful face; but it was pleasant enough to look on, and would have been more so, but for the discipline which had crushed out of it all natural interest and youthful anticipation, and had left that strange, strained look of care and forced calm upon the white brow.
"Dear child," she said, gently, "you want rest, don't you?"
Gatty's grey eyes filled with tears.
"That is just what I do want, Mrs Dolly," she said, "somewhere where I could be quiet, and be let alone, and just be myself and not somebody else."
"Ah, my dear!" said Mrs Dorothy, shaking her head, "you never get let alone in this world. Satan won't let you alone, if men do. But to be yourself--that is what God wants of you. At least 'tis one half of what He would have; the other half is that you should give yourself to Him." " 'Tis no good praying," said Gatty, as before.
"Did the Lord tell you that, my dear?"
"No!" said Gatty, looking up in surprise.
"Well, I would not say it till He does, child. But what did you pray for?"
"I said all the collects over."
"Very good things, my dear; but were they what you wanted? I thought you had a special trouble at this time."
"But what could I do?" asked Gatty, apparently rather bewildered.
"Dear child, thou couldst sure ask thy Father to help thee, without more ado. But `bide a wee,' as my old friend, Scots Davie, was wont to say. There is a great deal about prayer in the Word of God. Let us look at a little of it." Little Mrs Dorothy trotted to her small work-table, which generally stood at her side, and came back with a well-worn brown Bible. Gatty watched her with a rather frightened look, as if she thought that something was going to be done to her, and was not sure whether it might hurt her.
"Now hearken: `Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.' Again: `Whatsoever ye shall ask in My Name, that will I do.' These are grand words, my dear."
"But they can't mean that Mrs Dorothy! Why, only think--if I were to ask for a fortune, should I get it?"
"I must have two questions answered, my dear, ere I can tell that. Who are the _you_ in these verses?"
"I thought it meant everybody."
"Not so. Listen again: `If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.' 'Tis not everybody doth that."
"But I don't know what that means, Mrs Dorothy."
"Then, my dear, you have answered my second question--Are you one of these? For if you know not even what the thing is, 'tis but reasonable to conclude you have never known it in your own person."
"I suppose not," said Gatty, sorrowfully.
"You see, my dear, 'tis to certain persons these words are said. If you are not one of these persons, then they are not said to you."
"I am not." And Gatty shook her head sadly. "But, Mrs Dorothy, what does it mean?"
"Dear," said the old lady, "when we do truly abide in Christ, we desire first of all that His will be done. We wish for this or that; but we wish more than all that He choose all things for us--that He have His own way. Our wills are become His will. It follows as a certainty, that they shall be done. We must have what we wish, when it is what He wishes who rules all things. `Ye shall ask what ye will.' He guides us what to ask, if we beg Him to do so."
"Is any one thus much perfect?" inquired Gatty, doubtfully.
"Many are trying for it," said Mrs Dolly. "There may be but few that have fully reached it."
"But that makes us like machines, Mrs Dolly, moved about at another's will."
"What, my dear! Love makes us machines? Never! The very last thing that could be, child."
"I don't know much about love," said Gatty, drearily.
"About love, or about being loved?" responded Mrs Dolly.
"Both," answered the girl, in the same tone.
"Will you try it, my dear? 'Tis the sweetener of all human life."
Gatty looked up with a surprised expression. " _I_ can't make people love me," she said.
"Nor can you make yourself love others," added Mrs Dorothy. "But you can ask the Lord for that fairest of all His gifts, saving Jesus Christ."
"Ask God for a beau! O Mrs Dorothy!" exclaimed Gatty in a shocked tone.
"My dear, I never so much as named one," responded Mrs Dorothy, with a little laugh. "Sure, you are not one of those foolish maids that think they must be loveless and forlorn without they have a husband?"
Gatty had always been taught to think so; and she looked bewildered and mystified. A more eligible husband than old Lord Polesworth was the only idea that associated itself in her mind with the word love.
"But what else did you mean?" she asked.
"Ay me!" said Mrs Dorothy, as if to herself. "How do men misunderstand God! Child, wert thou never taught the first and great commandment? `Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength?'"
"Oh, of course," said Gatty, as if she were listening to some scientific formula about a matter wherein she was not at all concerned.
"Have you done that, my dear?"
"Done what?" demanded Gatty in a startled tone.
"Have you loved God with all your heart?"
Gatty looked as if she had been suddenly roused from sleep, and was unable to take in the circumstances.
"I don't know! I--I suppose, so."
"You suppose so! Dear child, how can you love any, and not know it?"
"But that is quite another sort of love!" cried Gatty.
"There is no sort but one, my dear. Love is love."
"Oh, but we can't _love_ God!" said Gatty, as if the idea quite shocked her. "That means--it means reverence, you know, and duty, and so on. It can't mean anything else, Mrs Dorothy."
Mrs Dorothy knitted very fast for a moment. Phoebe saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Poor lost sheep!" she said, in a grieved voice. "Poor straying lamb, whom the wolf hath taught to be frightened of the Shepherd! You did not find that in the Bible, my dear."
"Oh, but words don't mean the same in the Bible!" urged Gatty. "Surely, Mrs Dorothy, 'twould be quite unreverent to think so."
"Surely, my dear, it were more unreverent to think that God does not mean what He saith. When He saith, `I will punish you seven times for your sins,' He means it, Mrs Gatty. And when He saith, `I will be a Father unto you,' shall we say He doth not mean it? O my dear, don't do Him such an injury as that!"
"Do God an injury!" said Gatty in an awed whisper.
"Ay, a cruel injury!" was the answer. "Men are always injuring God. Either they try to persuade themselves that He means not what He says when He threatens: or else they shut their hearts up close, and then fancy that His heart is shut up too. My dear, He did not tarry to offer to be your Father, until you came and asked Him for it. `He _first_ loved you.' Child, what dost thou know of the Lord Jesus Christ?"
Ah, what did she know? For Gatty lived in a dreary time, when religion was at one of its lowest ebb-tides, and had sunk almost to the level of heathen morality. If Gatty had been required to give definitions of the greatest words in the language, and had really done it from the bottom of her heart, according to her own honest belief, the list would have run much in this way:-- "God. --The Great First Cause of all things, who has nothing to do with anything now, but will, at some remote period, punish murderers, thieves, and very wicked people.
"Christ. --A supernaturally good man, who was crucified seventeen hundred years ago.
"Heaven. --A delightful place, where everybody is happy, to which all respectable people will go, when they can't help it any longer.
"Bible. --A good book read in church; intensely dry, as good books always are no concern of mine.
"Salvation, peace, holiness, and the like. --Words in the Prayer-Book.
"Faith, hope, love, etcetera. --Duties, which of course we all perform, and therefore don't need to trouble ourselves about them.
"Prayer. --An incantation, to be repeated morning and evening, if you wish to avert ill luck during the day."
These were Gatty's views--if she could be said to have any. How different from those of Mrs Dorothy Jennings! To her, God was the Creator, from whom, and by whom, and to whom, were all things: the Fountain of Mercy, who had so loved the world as to give His only-begotten Son for its salvation: the Father who, having loved her before the world was, cared for everything, however insignificant, which concerned her welfare. Christ was the Friend who sticketh closer than a brother--the Lamb who had been slain for her, the High Priest who was touched with every feeling of human infirmity. Heaven was the home which her Father had prepared for her. The Bible was the means whereby her Father talked with her; and prayer the means whereby she talked with Him. Salvation was her condition; holiness, her aim; faith, love, peace, the very breath she drew. While, in Gatty's eyes, all this was unknown and unreal, to Mrs Dorothy it was the most real thing in all the world.
Gatty answered her friend's query by a puzzled look.
"It comes in church," she said. "He is in the Creed, and at the end of the prayers. I don't know!"
"Child," replied Mrs Dorothy, "you don't know Him. And, Mrs Gatty, my dear, you must know Him, if you are ever to be a happy woman. O poor child, poor child! To think that the Man who loved you and gave His life for you is no more to you than one of a row of figures, a name set to the end of a prayer!"
Gatty was taken by surprise. She looked up with both unwonted emotion and astonishment in her eyes.
"Mrs Dolly," she said, with feeling, "I cannot tell, but I think 'twould be pleasant to feel like you. It sounds all real, as if you had a live friend."
"That is just what it is, my dear Mrs Gatty. A Friend that loves me enough to count the very hairs of my head,--to whom nothing is a little matter that can concern me. And He is just as ready to be your Friend too."
"What makes you think so, Mrs Dolly?"
"My dear, He died on purpose to save you."
"The world, not me!" said Gatty.
"If there had been no world but you," was the answer, "He would have thought it worth while."
Gatty's answer was not immediate. When it came, it was-- "What does He want me to do?"
"He wants you to give Him your heart," said the old lady. "Do that first, and you will very soon find out how to give Him your hands and your head."
"And will He keep away my Lord Polesworth?" asked the girl, earnestly.
"He will keep away everything that can hurt you. Not, maybe, everything you don't like. Sometimes 'tis just the contrary. The sweet cake that you like might harm you, and the physic you hate might heal you. If so, He will give you the physic. But, child, if you are His own, He will put the cup into your had with a smite which will make it easy to take."
"I should like that," said Gatty, wistfully. "But could it be right to wed with my Lord Polesworth, when I could not love nor honour him in my heart at all?"
"It can never be right to lie. Ask God to make you a way of escape, if so it be."
"What way?"
"Leave that to Him."
Mrs Dorothy's little clock struck four.
"I think, if you please, Mrs Gatty," said Phoebe's hitherto silent voice, "that Madam will be looking for us."
"Yes, I guess she will," answered Gatty, rising, and courtesying. "I thank you, Mrs Dolly. You have given me a ray of hope--if 'twill not die away."
Mrs Dorothy drew the girl to her, and kissed her cheek.
"Christ cannot die, my child," she replied. "And Christ's love is deathless as Himself. `Death hath no more dominion over Him.' And He saith to His own, `Because I live, ye shall live also.'"
"It should be a better life than this," said Gatty, with a sigh.
"This is not the Christian's life, my dear. `His life is hid with Christ in God.' 'Tis not left in his own hands to keep; he would soon lose it, if it were. Farewell, dear child; and may the Lord keep thee!"
Gatty looked up suddenly. "Tell me what to say to Him."
Mrs Dorothy scarcely hesitated a moment. " `Teach me to do Thy will,'" she answered. "That holds everything. You cannot do His will unless you are one of His redeemed. He must save you, and hold you up, and guide you to glory, if you do His will--not because you do it, for the salvation cometh first; but without the one, there cannot be the other. And he that doeth the will of God soon learns to love it, better than any mortal thing. `Oh, how love I Thy law!' saith David. `There is nothing on earth that I desire in comparison of Thee.'"
She kissed both the girls again, and they went away.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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6
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TRAPS LAID FOR RHODA.
|
"La souveraine habilite consiste a bien connoitre le prix des choses."
_La Rochefoucauld_.
There was an earnest, wistful, far-away look in Gatty's eyes, as though some treasure-house had been opened to her, the existence of which she had never previously suspected; but neither she nor Phoebe said a word to each other as they crossed the Park, and went up the wide white steps of the Abbey.
"Where on earth have you been, you gadabouts?" came in Rhoda's voice from the interior of the hall. "Oh, but I've such a jolly piece of news for you! Molly and me heard it from Madam. Guess what it is."
Rhoda's grammar was more free and easy than correct at all times; and Phoebe could not help thinking that in that respect, as in others, she had perceptibly deteriorated by contact with Molly.
"I don't care to hear it, thank you," said Gatty, rather hastily, walking straight upstairs.
"Oh, don't you, Mrs Prim?" demanded Rhoda. "Well, it doesn't concern you much. Now, Phoebe, guess!"
Phoebe felt very little in tune for the sort of amusement usually patronised by Rhoda. But she set herself to gratify that rather exacting young lady.
"I don't guess things well," she said. "Is one of your aunts coming?"
"My aunts!" repeated Rhoda, in supreme scorn. "Not if I know it, thank you. I said it was jolly. Why, Phoebe! to guess such a thing as that!"
"Well, I should be pleased enough if mine were coming to see me," said Phoebe, good-temperedly. "I don't know what else to guess. Has some one given you a present?"
"Wish they had!" ejaculated Rhoda. "No, I'm sorry to say nobody's had so much good sense. But there's somebody--I shall have to tell you sooner or later, you stupid goose, so I may as well do it now-- somebody's coming to Number Four. Mrs Eleanor Darcy, a cousin of my Lord Polesworth--only think! --and (that's best of all) she's got a nephew."
"How is that best of all?" asked Phoebe.
"Mr Marcus Welles--isn't it a pretty name? --and he will come with her, to settle her in her new house. `_Why_?' Oh, what a silly Phoebe you are! He has three thousand a year."
"Then I should think he might take better care of his aunt than let her be an indigent gentlewoman," said Phoebe, rather warmly.
"As if he would want to be pothered with an old aunt!" cried Rhoda. "But I'll tell you what (you are so silly, you want telling everything!) --I mean to set my cap at him."
"Won't you have some cleaner lace on it first?" suggested Phoebe, with the exceedingly quiet, dry fun which was one of her characteristics.
"You stupid, literal thing!" said Rhoda. "I might as well talk to the cat. Oh, here you come, Molly! Now for tea, if 'tis ready, and then--" Madam was already at the tea-table, and Baxter was just bringing in the kettle.
"I trust you have had a pleasant walk, my dears," said she, kindly, as the four girls filed in--Molly first, Phoebe last.
"Middling," said Molly, taking the initiative as usual. "Robbed seventeen birds' nests, climbed twenty-four trees, and jumped over a dozen five-barred gates."
"Oh, did you!" murmured Phoebe, in a shocked tone, too horrified for silence.
Rhoda went into convulsions behind her handkerchief.
"Innocent little darling!" exclaimed Molly; "she thinks we did!"
"You said so," answered Phoebe, reproachfully.
"You are so smart, my dear Mrs Molly," said Madam, smilingly. "Did you all walk together?"
"No, I thank you!" responded Molly. "Gatty and the innocent little dear went to a Quakers' meeting."
Had Madam taken the assertion literally, she would have been alarmed and horrified indeed; for at that time all Dissenters were considered dangerous characters, and Quakers the worst of all. But, recognising it as one of Molly's flights of intellect, she smiled placidly, and said no more.
"My dear, I think you will be acquainted with Mrs Eleanor Darcy?" asked Madam, addressing herself to Gatty.
"She has visited my mother, but only once," answered Gatty.
"Oh, the pootsy-bootsy!" broke in Molly. "Isn't she a sweet, charming, handsome creature? --the precious dear!"
"I fear she doth not please you, Mrs Molly?" asked Madam, interpreting Molly's exclamation by the rule of contrary.
"She's the ugliest old baboon that ever grinned!" was Molly's complimentary reply.
"What say you, Mrs Gatty?"
"She is certainly not handsome," answered Gatty, apparently with some reluctance; "but I have heard her well spoken of, as very kind and good."
"Have you met with Mr Welles, her nephew, my dear?"
Molly had clasped her hands, leaned back, lifted her eyes with an expression of sentimental rapture, and was executing an effective _tableau vivant_.
"Yes, I have seen him two or three times," said Gatty.
"Is he a young man of an agreeable turn?" inquired Madam.
"He is very handsome," replied Gatty, rather doubtfully, as if she hardly knew what to say.
"Pleasant as a companion?" pursued Madam.
"People generally think so, I believe," answered Gatty, with studied vagueness.
"You dear old concatenation, you'll get nothing out of my wretch of a sister," impetuously cried Molly.
"I'll tell you all about Marcus. He's the brightest eyes that ever shone, and the sweetest voice that praised your fine eyes, and the most delightful manners! White hands, and a capital leg, and never treads on your corns. Oh, there's nobody like him. I mean to marry him."
"Molly!" said Gatty. It was the first time she had offered anything like a reproof to her sister.
"Now, you hold your tongue, Mrs Prude!" responded Molly. "You're not a bit better than I am."
Gatty made no reply.
"Don't you set up to be either a prig or a saint!" continued Molly, angrily. "Betty's enough. She isn't a saint; but she's a prig. If ever you're either, I'll lead you a life!"
And there could be little doubt of Molly's fulfilling her threat.
The next day, Gatty and Molly Delawarr went home. Betty had quite recovered, and was gone to stay with a friend near Bristol; the house had been thoroughly disinfected, and was pronounced free from all danger; and Lady Delawarr thought there was no longer need for the girls to remain away.
"I wonder what will become of me without you, Molly!" said Rhoda, dolefully.
"Oh, you'll have plenty to do, old Gatepost," observed Molly, apparently in allusion to Rhoda's uneventful life. "You've got to fall in love with Marcus. I'll cut you into slices if you do, and make buttered toast of you."
"Good-bye!" said Rhoda laughing. " _Vale_!" responded Molly.
"Good-bye, dear little Phoebe!" was Gatty's farewell. "I wonder what would have become of me if I had not met you and Mrs Dorothy. For I have asked Him to be my Friend,--you know,--and I think, I _think_ He will."
"I am sure of it. Good-bye."
And so Gatty and Molly passed out of the life at White-Ladies.
On returning to the old order of things, Phoebe found Rhoda, as she expected, considerably changed for the worse. What had been a sort of good-humoured condescension was altered into absolute snappishness, and Phoebe was sorely tried. But the influence of Molly, bad as it had been, proved temporary. Rhoda sank by degrees--or shall I say rose? -- into her old self, and Phoebe presently had no more to bear than before the visit from Delawarr Court.
About a fortnight after the departure of Gatty and Molly, as Phoebe was sitting at the parlour window with her work, she perceived Mrs Jane Talbot, hooded, cloaked, and pattened,--for the afternoon was damp,-- marching up to the side door. The fact was communicated to Madam, who rose and glanced at herself in the chimney-glass, and ringing her little hand-bell, desired Baxter to show Mrs Jane into the parlour.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Jane; 'tis a pleasure I did not look for," said Madam, as she rose.
"Your servant, Madam," returned Mrs Jane, who had divested herself of cloak and pattens in the hall.
"Pray be seated, Mrs Jane. And what brings you hither? --for methinks some matter of import will have called you out on so rainy a day as this."
"Easy to guess," answered Mrs Jane, taking a seat as requested, and delivering her communication in short, blunt sentences, like small shot. "A whim of Marcella's. Got a fancy for Port O Port. Sent me to beg a sup of you, Madam. Fancies it will cure her. Fiftieth time she has thought so, of something. All nonsense. Can't help it."
"Indeed, my dear Mrs Jane, I am happy to be capable of helping Mrs Marcella to her fancy, and trust it may be of the advantage she thinks. --Phoebe! tell Betty to bid Baxter bring hither a bottle of the best Port O Port--that from the little ark in the further cellar. --And how does Mrs Marcella this afternoon?"
"As cross as two sticks," said Mrs Jane.
"She is a great sufferer," observed Madam, in her kindest manner.
Mrs Jane made no reply, unless her next remark could properly be called one.
"Mrs Darcy came last night."
"Last night!" answered Madam, in accents of surprise. "Dear! I quite understood she was not to arrive before this evening. You have seen her, Mrs Jane?"
"Seen her! Oh dear, yes; I've seen her. We were schoolfellows."
"Were you, indeed? That I did not know. 'Twill be a pleasure to you, Mrs Jane, to have an old schoolfellow so near."
"Depends," said Mrs Jane sententiously.
"No doubt," answered Madam. "Were you and Mrs Eleanor friends at school, Mrs Jane?"
"No, Madam."
"Not? Perhaps you were not near enough of an age."
"Only six months between. No; that wasn't it. I was a silly scapegrace, and she was a decent, good maid. Too good for me. I haven't got any better. And she hasn't got any handsomer."
"Pray forgive me," replied Madam, with a smile, "but I cannot think that name applies to you now, Mrs Jane. And was her nephew with Mrs Eleanor; as he engaged?"
"Large as life," said Mrs Jane.
"And how large is that, in his case?" inquired Madam.
"Asking him or me?" retorted Mrs Jane. " _I_ should say, about as big as a field mouse. He thinks himself big enough to overtop all the elephants in creation. Marcus Welles! Oh, yes, I'll mark him well,-- you trust me."
It was tolerably evident that Mr Welles had not succeeded in fascinating Mrs Jane, whatever he might do to other people.
"I was told he was extreme handsome?" remarked Madam, in a tone of inquiry.
Mrs Jane's exclamation in response sounded very like--"Pish!"
"You think not, Mrs Jane?"
"Folks' eyes are so different, Madam," answered Mrs Jane. "Chinamen's beauties wouldn't go for much in England, I guess. He's a silly, whimsical, finnicking piece--that's what he is! Pink velvet coat, laced with silver. Buff breeches. White silk stockings with silver clocks. No cloak. And raining cats and dogs and pitchforks. Reckon Eleanor got all the sense that was going in that family. None left for Mr Mark-me-well. Missed it, anyhow."
From that day forward, behind his back, Mark-me-well was the only name bestowed by Mrs Jane on the young man in question. To his face she gave him none,--an uncivil proceeding in 1714; but Mrs Jane being allowedly an eccentric character, no one expected her to conform to conventional rules on all occasions.
It would seem that Mr Welles wished to lose no time in paying his court to Madam; for that very evening, as soon as calling-hours began, he put in an appearance at White-Ladies.
Calling-hours and visiting-days were as common then as now; but the hours were not the same. From five to eight o'clock in the evening was the proper time for a visit of ceremony; candles were always lighted, there was a special form of knock, and the guests sat round the room in a prim circle.
Perhaps the "cats, dogs, and pitchforks" alluded to before had spoiled the pink and buff suit which had roused the scorn of Mrs Jane. The colours in which Mr Welles chose to make his _debut_ at White-Ladies were violet and white. A violet velvet coat, trimmed with silver lace, was fastened with little silver hasps; white satin breeches led downwards to violet silk stockings with silver clocks, girt below the knee with silver garters. A three-cornered hat, of violet silk and silver lace, was heavily adorned with white plumes, and buttoned up at one side with a diamond. He wore shoes with silver buckles and very high red heels, white-silver fringed gloves, a small muff of violet velvet; and carried in his hand a slender amber-headed cane. Being a London beau of fashion, he was afflicted with a slight limp, and also with intense short-sightedness, which caused him to wear a gold eye-glass, constantly in use--except when alone, on which occasions Mr Welles became suddenly restored to the full use of his faculties.
He certainly was very handsome, and his taste was good. His wig was always suited to his complexion, and he rarely wore more than two colours, of which one was frequently black or white. Mr Welles was highly accomplished and highly fashionable; he played ombre and basset, the spinnet and the violin; he sang and danced well, composed anagrams and acrostics, was a good rider, hunted fearlessly and gamed high, interlarded his conversation with puns, and was a thorough adept at small talk. He was personally acquainted with every actor on the London stage, and by sight with every politician in the Cabinet. His manners were of the new school then just rising--which means, that they were very free and easy, removed from all the minute and often cumbersome ceremonies which had distinguished the old school. He generally rose about noon, dined at three p.m., spent the evening at the opera or theatre, and went to bed towards morning. Add to this, that he collected old china, took much snuff, combed his wig in public, and was unable to write legibly or spell correctly--and a finished portrait is presented of Mr Marcus Welles, and through him of a fashionable London gentleman of his day.
The impression made by Mr Welles on the ladies at the Abbey was of varied character. Madam commended him, but with that faint praise which is nearly akin to censure. He was well favoured, she allowed, and seemed to be a man of parts; but in her young days it was considered courteous to lead a lady to a chair before a gentleman seated himself; and it was not considered courteous to omit the Madam in addressing her. Rhoda said very little in her grandmother's presence, reserving her opinion for Phoebe's private ear. But as soon as they were alone, the girls stated their ideas explicitly.
"Isn't he a love of a dear?" cried Rhoda, in ecstasy.
"No, I don't think he is," responded Phoebe, in a tone of unmistakable disgust.
"Why, Phoebe! Are you not sensible of the merit of such a man as that?"
"No, I am sure I did not see any," said Phoebe, as before.
"Oh, Phoebe! Such taste as he has! And his discourse! I never saw so quick a wit. I am sure he is a man of great reach, and a man of figure too. I shall think the time long till I see him again."
"Dear me! I shan't!" exclaimed Phoebe. "Taste? Well, I suppose you may dress a doll with taste. His clothes are well enough, only they are too fine for anything but visiting."
"Well, wasn't he visiting, you silly Phoebe?"
"And he may be a man of figure--I don't know; but as to reach! I wonder what you saw in his discourse to admire; it seemed to me all about nothing."
"Why, that's just his parts!" said Rhoda. "Any man can talk about something; but to be able to talk in a clever, sprightly way about nothing--that takes a man of reach."
"Well! he may take his reach out of my reach," answered Phoebe, in a disgusted tone. "I shall think the time uncommonly short, I can promise you, till I see him again; for I never wish to do it."
"Phoebe, I do believe you haven't one bit of discernment!"
But Phoebe held her peace.
Madam called in due form on her new guest at the Maidens' Lodge, and Mrs Darcy returned the visit next day. She proved to be a short, stout, little woman, with a face which, while undeniably and excessively plain, was so beaming with good humour that it was difficult to remember her uncomeliness after the first _coup d'oeil_. Mr Welles accompanied her on the return visit. What had induced him to take up his quarters at the Bear, at Tewkesbury, was an enigma to the inhabitants of White-Ladies. Of course he could not live at the Maidens' Lodge, Madam being rigidly particular with respect to the intrusion of what Betty called "he creeturs" into that enchanted valley, and not tolerating the habitual presence even of a servant of the obnoxious sex. According to the representations of Mr Welles himself, he was fascinated by the converse and character of Madam, and was also completely devoted to his dear Aunt Eleanor. But Mr Welles had not favoured the Bear with very much of his attention before it dawned upon one person at least that neither Madam nor Mrs Eleanor had much to do with his frequent visits to Cressingham. Mrs Dorothy Jennings quickly noticed that Mr Welles was quite clever enough to discover what pleased different persons, and to adapt himself accordingly with surprising facility; and she soon perceived that the attraction was Rhoda, or rather Rhoda's prospects as the understood heiress of White-Ladies. Mr Welles accommodated himself skilfully to the prejudices of Madam; his manners assumed a graver and more courtly air, his conversation a calm and sensible tone; and Madam at length remarked to her grand-daughters, how very much that young man had improved since his first arrival at Cressingham.
With Rhoda, in the absence of her grandmother, he was an entirely different being. A great deal of apparent interest in herself, and deference to her opinions; a very little skilful flattery, too delicately administered for its hollowness to be perceived; a quick apprehension of what pleased and amused her, and a ready adaptation to her mood of the moment--these were Mr Welles' tactics with the heiress for whom he was angling. As to Phoebe, he simply let her alone. He soon saw that she was of no account in Rhoda's eyes, and was not her chosen _confidante_, but simply the person to whom she talked for want of any other listener. There was not, therefore, in his opinion, any reason why he should trouble himself to propitiate Phoebe.
Ever since the visit of the Delawarrs, Rhoda had seemed disinclined for another call on Mrs Dorothy Jennings. Now and then she went to see Mrs Clarissa, when the conversation usually turned on the fashions and cognate topics; sometimes she drank tea with Lady Betty, whose discourse was of rather a more sensible character. Rarely, she looked in on Mrs Marcella. Mrs Jane had thoroughly estranged her by persisting in her sarcastic nickname for Rhoda's chosen hero, and letting off little shafts against him, more smart than nattering. On Mrs Darcy she called perpetually, perhaps with a view to meet him at her house; but all Mr Welles' alleged devotion to his dear Aunt Eleanor scarcely ever seemed to result in his going to see her at the Maidens' Lodge. When Rhoda met him, which she very often did, it was either by his calling at the Abbey, or by an accidental _rencontre_--if accidental it were--in some secluded glade of the Park.
At length, one day, without any warning, a horse cantered up to the side door, and Molly Delawarr's voice in its loudest tones (and very loud they were) demanded where all those stupid creatures were who ought to be there to take her horse. Then Miss Molly, having been helped off, came marching in, and greeted her friends with a recitative-- "Lucy Locket lost her pocket; `Kitty Fisher found it!'"
"My dear Mrs Molly, I am quite rejoiced to see you!"
"No! you aren't, are you?" facetiously responded Molly. "Rhoda--I vow, child, you're uglier than ever! --mother wants you for a while. There's that jade Betty going to come of age, and she means to make the biggest fuss over it ever was heard. She said she would send Wilson over, but I jumped on my tit, and came to tell you myself. You'll come, won't you, old hag?"
Rhoda looked at her grandmother.
"My dear, of course you will go!" responded Madam, "since my Lady Delawarr is so good. 'Tis so kind in Mrs Molly to take thus much trouble on herself."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" ejaculated Molly. "I'm no more kind than she's good. She wants a fuss, and a lot of folks to make it; and I wanted a ride, and some fun with Rhoda. Where's the goodness, eh?"
"Shall I take Phoebe?" asked Rhoda, doubtfully.
"You'd better," returned Molly, before Madam could speak. "You'll want somebody to curl your love-locks and stitch your fal-lals; and I'm not going to do it--don't you fancy so. Oh, I say, Rhoda! you may have Marcus Welles, if you want him. There's another fellow turned up, with a thousand a year more, that will suit me better."
"Indeed! I thank you!" said Rhoda, with a little toss of her head.
"My dear Mrs Molly, you are so diverting," smiled Madam.
"You don't say so!" rejoined that fascinating young person. "You'll put on your Sunday bombazine, Rhoda. We're all going to be as fine as fiddlers. As for you"--and Molly's bold eyes surveyed Phoebe, seeming to take in the whole at a glance--"it won't matter. You aren't an heiress, so you can come in rags."
Phoebe said nothing.
"I don't think," went on Molly, in a reflective tone, "that you can make a catch; but you can try. There is the chaplain--horrid old centipede! And there's old Walford"--Molly never favoured any man with a Mr to his name--"an ugly, spiteful old bear that nobody'll have: he's rich enough; and he might look your way if you play your cards well. Any way, you'll not have much chance else; so you'd better keep your eyes pretty well open. Now, Rhoda, come along, and we'll have some fun."
And away went Molly and Rhoda, with a smiling assent from Madam.
What a very repulsive, vulgar disagreeable girl this Molly Delawarr is! True, my gentle reader. And yet--does she do much more than say, in plain language, what a great number of Mollys are not ashamed to think?
Phoebe's sensations, in view of the coming visit to the Court, were far removed from pleasure. Must she go? She braced up her courage, and ventured to ask.
"If you please, Madam--" "Well, child?" was the answer, in a sufficiently gracious tone to encourage Phoebe to proceed.
"Must I go with Mrs Rhoda to Delawarr Court, if you please, Madam?"
"Why, of course, child." Madam's tone expressed surprise, though not displeasure.
Phoebe swallowed her regret with a sigh, and tried to comfort herself with the thought of meeting Gatty, which was the only bright spot in the darkness. But would Gatty be there?
Rhoda and Molly came in to tea arm-in-arm.
"And how has my Lady Delawarr her health, Mrs Molly?" inquired Madam, as she poured out the refreshing fluid.
Molly had allowed no time for inquiries on her first appearance.
"Oh, _she's_ well enough," said Molly, carelessly.
"And Mrs Betty is now fully recovered of her distemper?"
"She's come out of the small-pox, and tumbled into the vapours," said Molly.
"The vapours" was a most convenient term of that day. It covered everything which had no other name, from a pain in the toe to a pain in the temper, and was very frequently descriptive of the latter ailment. Betty's condition, therefore, as subject to this malady, excited little regret.
"And how goes it with Mrs Gatty? Is she now my Lady Polesworth?"
"My Lady Fiddlestrings!" responded Molly. "Not she--never will. Old Polesworth wanted a pretty face, and after Gatty's small-pox, why, you couldn't--" "Small-pox!" cried Madam and Rhoda in concert.
"What, didn't you know?" answered Molly. "To be sure--took it the minute she got home. But that wasn't all, neither. Old Polesworth told Mum"--which meant Lady Delawarr--"that he might have stood small-pox, but he couldn't saintship; so Saint Gatty lost her chance, and much she'll ever see of such another. Dad and Mum were as mad as hornets. Dad said he'd have horsewhipped her if she'd been out of bed. Couldn't, _in_ bed, you see--wouldn't have looked well."
"But, my dear, she could not help taking the small-pox?"
"Maybe not, but she might have helped taking the saint-pox," said Molly. "I believe she caught it from you," nodding at Phoebe. "But what vexed Mum most was that the grey goose actually made believe to be pleased when she lost her chance of the tinsel. Trust me, but Mum blew her up-- a little! All leather and prunella, you know, of course. Pleased to be an old maid! --just think, what nonsense. She will be an old maid now, sure as eggs are eggs, unless she marries some conventicle preacher. That would be the best end of her, I should think."
Phoebe sat wondering why Molly paid so poor a compliment to her own denomination as to suppose that the natural gravitation of piety was towards Dissent. But Molly's volatile nature passed to a different subject the next moment.
"I say, old Roadside, bring a white gown. The Queen's coming to the Bath, and a lot of folks are trying to make her come on to Berkeley; and if she do, a whole parcel of young gentlewomen are to be there to courtesy to her, and give her a posy, and all that sort of flummery. And Mum says she'll send us down, if they do it."
"Who's to give the posy?" eagerly asked Rhoda.
"Don't know. Not you. You won't have a chance, old Fid-fad. No more shan't I. It'll be some thing of quality. I'll tread on her tail, though,--see if I don't."
"Whose?" whispered Rhoda; for Molly's last remark had been confidential. "You don't mean the Queen?"
"Of course I do,--who better? Her grandmother was a baronet's daughter; what else am I? I'll have a snip of her gown, if I can."
"O Molly!" exclaimed Rhoda in unfeigned horror.
"Why not? I've scissors in my pocket."
"Molly, you never could!"
"Don't you lay much on those odds, my red currant bush. I can do pretty near anything I've a mind--when I _have_ a mind."
Rhoda was not pleased by Molly's last vocative, which she took as an uncomplimentary allusion to the faint shade of red in her hair,--a subject on which she was peculiarly sensitive. This bit of confidence had been exchanged out of the hearing of Madam, who had gone to a cabinet at the other end of the long room, but within that of Phoebe, who grew more uncomfortable every moment.
"Well, 'tis getting time to say ta-ta," said Molly, rising shortly after tea was over. "Where's that tit of mine?"
"My dear, I will send to fetch your horse round," said Madam, "Pray, make my compliments to my Lady Delawarr, and tell her that I cannot but be very sensible of her kindness in offering Rhoda so considerable a pleasure."
Madam was about to add more, but Molly broke in.
"Come now! Can't carry all that flummery. My horse would fall lame under the weight. I'll say you did the pretty thing. Ta-ta! See you on Monday, old gentlewoman." She turned to Rhoda; threw a nod, without words, to Phoebe, and five minutes afterwards was trotting across the Park on her way home to Delawarr Court.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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7
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DELAWARR COURT.
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"Le coeur humain a beaucoup de plis et de replis."
_Madame de Motteville_.
"And how goes it, my dear, with Madam and Mrs Rhoda?" inquired little Mrs Dorothy as she handed a cup to Phoebe.
"They are well, I thank you. Mrs Dolly, I have come to ask your counsel."
"Surely, dear child. Thou shalt have the best I can give. What is thy trouble?"
"I have two or three troubles," said Phoebe, sighing. "You know Rhoda is going to-morrow to Delawarr Court; and I am to go with her. I wish I need not!"
"Why, dear child?"
"Well, I am afraid it must sound silly," answered Phoebe, with a little laugh at herself; "but really, I can scarce tell why. Do you never feel thus unwilling to do a thing, Mrs Dorothy, almost without reason?"
"Ah, there is a reason," said the old lady: "and it comes either from your body or your mind, Phoebe. If 'tis from your body, let your mind govern it in any matter you _must_ do. If it come from your mind, either you see a clear cause for it, or you do not."
"I do not, Mrs Dolly. I reckon 'tis but the spleen."
Everything we call nervous then fell under the head of spleen.
"There is an older name for that, Phoebe, without it arise from some disorder of the body."
"What, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Discontent, my child."
"But that is sin!" said Phoebe, looking up, as if startled.
"Ay. `Whatsoever is not of faith is sin.'"
"Then should I be willing to go, Mrs Dolly?"
"What hast thou asked, my dear? Should God's child be willing to do her Father's will?"
Phoebe's face became grave.
"Dear Phoebe, `when the people murmured, it displeased the Lord.' Have a care! --Well, what is your next trouble?"
"I have had a letter from mother," said Phoebe, colouring and looking uncomfortable.
"Is that a trouble, child?"
"No,--not that. Oh no! But--" "But a trouble sticks to it. Well,--what?"
"She says I ought to--to get married, Mrs Dorothy; and she looks for me to do it while I tarry at White-Ladies, for she reckons that will be the best chance."
Mrs Dorothy was silent. If her thoughts were not complimentary to Mrs Latrobe, she gave no hint of it to Phoebe.
"I don't think I should like it, please, Mrs Dorothy," said Phoebe uneasily. "And ought I?"
"I suppose somebody had better ask you first," was Mrs Dorothy's dry answer.
"I would rather live with Mother," continued Phoebe. And suddenly a cry broke out which had been repressed till then. "I wish--oh, I wish Mother loved me! She never seemed to do it but once, when I was ill of the fever. I do so wish Mother could love me!"
Mrs Dorothy busied herself for a moment in putting the cups together on her little tea-tray. Then she came over to Phoebe.
"Little maid!" she said, lovingly, "there are some of us women for whom no love is safe, saving the love of Him that died for us. If we have it otherwise, we go wrong and set up idols in our hearts. Art thou one of those, Phoebe?"
"I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe. "How can I know?"
"Dear child, He knows. Canst thou not trust Him? `Dieu est ton Berger.' The Shepherd takes more care of the sheep, Phoebe, than the sheep take care of themselves. Poor, blundering creatures that we are! always apt to think, in the depth of our hearts, that God would rather not save us, and that we shall have to take a great deal of trouble to persuade Him to do it. Nay! it is the Shepherd that longs to have the lamb safe folded, and the poor silly lamb that is always straying away. Phoebe, `the Father Himself loveth thee.'"
"Oh, I know! But I can't see Him, Mrs Dorothy."
"I suppose He knows that, too," answered her old friend, softly. "He knows how much easier it would be to believe if we could see and feel. Maybe 'tis therefore He hath pronounced so special a blessing upon such as have not seen, and yet have believed."
"Mrs Dorothy,"--and Phoebe looked up earnestly,--"don't you think living is hard work?"
"I did once, my maid. But I am beyond the burden and the heat of the day now. My tools are gathered together and put away, and I am waiting for the Master to call me in home to my rest. Thou too wilt come to that, child, if thy life be long enough. And to some, even here,--to all, afterward,--it is given to see where the turns were taken in the path, and whereto the road should have led that we took not. Ah, child, one day thy heaviest cause of thankfulness may be that in this or that matter--perchance in the matter that most closely engaged thee in this life--thy Father did not give thee the desire of thine heart."
"Yet that is promised as a blessing?" said Phoebe, interrogatively, looking up.
"As a blessing, dear child, when thy will is God's will. Can it be any blessing, when thy will and His run contrary the one to the other?"
"Then you think I should not wish to be loved!" said Phoebe, with a heavy sigh.
"I think God's child will do well to leave the choice of all things to her Father."
"I must leave it. He will have it."
"He will have it," repeated Mrs Dorothy solemnly; "but, Phoebe, you can leave it in loving submission, or you can have it wrenched from you in judgment. Though it may be that you must loose your hold on a gem, yet you please yourself whether you yield it as a gift, or wait to have it torn away."
"I see," said Phoebe.
"Was there any further trouble, my dear?"
"Only that," replied Phoebe. "Life seems hard. I get so tired!"
"Thou art young to know that, child," said Mrs Dorothy, with a rather sad smile.
"Well, I don't know," answered Phoebe, doubtfully. "I think I have always been tired. And don't you know some people rest you, and some people don't? When there is nobody that rests one-- Father used-- but--" Mrs Dorothy thought there was not much difficulty in reading the story hidden behind Phoebe's broken sentences.
"So life is hard?" she echoed. "Poor child! Dear, it was harder to Him that sat on the well at Sychar, wearied with His journey. He has not forgotten it, Phoebe. Couldst thou not go and remind Him of it, and ask Him to bless and rest thee?"
"Mrs Dolly, do you feel tired like that?"
A little amused laugh was Mrs Dolly's answer.
"Thou hast not all the sorrows of life in thine own portion, little Phoebe. I have felt it. I do not often now. The journey is too near at an end to fret much over the hard fare or the rough road. When there be only a few days to pass ere you leave school, your mind is more set on the coming holidays than on the length or hardness of the lessons that lie betwixt."
"I wish I hadn't to go to Delawarr Court!" sighed Phoebe. "There will be a great parcel of people, and not one I know but Rhoda, and Mrs Gatty, and Mrs Molly; and Rhoda always snubs me when Mrs Molly's there."
"Molly is trying," admitted the old lady. "But I think, dear child, you might make a friend of Gatty."
"Perhaps," said Phoebe.
"And, Phoebe, strive against discontent," said Mrs Dorothy; adding, with a smile, "and call it discontent, and not vapours. There is a great deal in giving names to things. So long as you call your pride self-respect and high spirit, you will reckon yourself much better than you are; and so long as you call your discontent low spirits or vapours, you will reckon yourself worse used than you are. Don't split on that rock, Phoebe. The worst thing you can do with wounds is to keep pulling off the bandage to see how they are getting on; and the worst thing you can do with griefs and wrongs is to nurse them and brood over them. Carry them to the Lord and show them to Him, and ask His help to bear them or right them, as He chooses; and then forget all about them as fast as you can. Dear old Scots Davie gave me that counsel, and through fifty years I have proved how good it was."
"You never finished your story, Mrs Dolly," suggested Phoebe.
"I did not, my dear. Yet there was little to finish. I did but tarry at Court till the great plague-time, when all was broke up, and I went home to nurse my mother, who took the plague and died of it. After that I continued to dwell with my father. For a while after my mother's death, he was very low and melancholical, saying that God had now met with him and was visiting his old sins upon him. And then, the very next year, came the fire, and we were burned out and left homeless. Then he was worse than ever. 'Twas like the curse pronounced on David, said he, that the sword should never depart from his house: he could never look to know rest nor peace any more; God hated him, and pursued him to the death. No word of mine, though I strove to find many from the Word of God, seemed to bring him any comfort at all. They were not for him, he said, but for them toward whom God had purposes of mercy, and there was none for him. He had sinned against light and knowledge; and God would none of him any more.
"One morning, about a week after the fire, as I was coming back from my marketing to the little mean lodging where we had took shelter, and was just going in at the door, I was sorely started to feel a great warm hand on my shoulder, and a loud, cheery voice saith, `Dolly Jennings, whither away so fast thou canst not see an old friend?' I looked up, and there was dear old Farmer Ingham, in his thick boots and country homespun; but I declare to you, child, that in my trouble his face was to me as that of an angel of God. I brake down, and sobbed aloud. `Come, come, now!' saith he, comfortably; `not so bad as that, is it? I've been seeking thee these four days, Dolly, child. I knew I could find thee if I came myself, though the Missis said I never should; and I've asked at one, and asked at another, and looked up streets and down streets, till this morning I saw a young maid, with her back to me, a-going down an alley; and says I, right out loud, "That's Dolly's back, or else I'm a Dutchman!" So I ran after thee, and only just catched thee up. I'm not so lissome as thou; nay, nor so lissome as I was at thy years. However, here I am, and here thou art; so that's all right. And there's a good bed and a warm welcome for everyone of you at Ingle Nook'--that was the name of his farm, my dear--`and I've brought up a cart and the old tit to drag it, and we'll see if we can't make thee laugh and be rosy again.' Dear old man! no nay would he take, nor suffer so much as a word from father about our being any cost and trouble to him. `Stuff and nonsense!' said he; `I've got money saved, and the farm's doing well, and only my two bits of maids to leave it to; and who should I desire to help in this big trouble, if not my own foster-child, and hers?' So father yielded, and we went down to Ingle Nook.
"Farmer Ingham very soon found what was wrong with father. `Eh, poor soul!' said he to me, `he's the hundredth sheep that's got lost out on the moor, and he reckons the Shepherd'll bide warm in the fold with the ninety and nine, and never give a thought to him, poor, starved, straying thing! Dear, dear! --and as if _I'd_ do such a thing, sinner that I am! --as if I could eat a crust in peace till I'd been after my sheep, poor wretch! --and to think the good Lord'd do it! --and the poor thing a-bleating out there, and wanting to get home! Dear, dear! how we poor sinners do wrong the good Lord!' I said, `Won't you say a word to him, daddy?' That was what I had always called him, my dear, since I was a little child. `Eh, child!' says he, `what canst thou be thinking on? The like of me to preach to a parson, all regular done up, bands and cassock and shovel hat and all! But I'll tell thee what--there's Dr Bates a-coming to bide with me a night this next week, on his way from the North into Sussex, and I'll ask him to edge in a word. He's a grand man, Dolly! "Silver-tongued Bates." Thou'lt hear.'
"Well, I knew, for I had heard talk of it at the time, that Dr Bates was one of them that gave up their livings when the Act of Uniformity came in, so that he was regarded as no better than a conventicler; and I wondered how father should like to be spoke to by Dr Bates any more than by Farmer Ingham, because to him they would both be laymen alike. But at that time I was learning to tarry the Lord's leisure--ah! that's a grand word, Phoebe! For His leisure runs side by side with our profit, and He'll be at leisure to attend to you the minute that you really need attending to. So I waited quietly to see what would come. Dr Bates came, and he proved to be no common hedge-preacher, but a learned man that had been to the University, and had Greek and Hebrew pat at his tongue's end. I could see that it was pleasant to father to talk with such a man; and maybe he took to him the rather because he had the look of one that had known sorrow. When a man is suffering, he will converse more readily with a fellow-sufferer than with a hale man. So they talked away of their young days, when they were at school and college, and father was much pleased, as I could see, to find that Dr Bates and he were of the same college, though not there at the same time: and a deal they had to say about this and that man, that both knew, but of course all strangers to me. I thought I had never seen Father seem to talk with the like interest and pleasure since my mother's death.
"But time went on, and their talk, and not a word from Dr Bates of the fashion I desired. I went to bed somewhat heavy. The next morning, however, as I was sat at my sewing by the parlour window--which was open, the weather being very sultry--came Dr Bates and father, and stood just beyond the window. The horse was then saddling for Dr Bates to be gone. All at once, they standing silent a moment, he laid his hand on father's shoulder, and saith very softly, `"I will hearken what the Lord God will say concerning me."' Father turns and stares at him, as started. But he goes on, and saith, `"For the iniquity of his covetousness was I wroth, and smote him: I hid Me and was wroth, and he went on frowardly in the way of his heart. I have seen his ways, and will heal him; I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners. I create the fruit of the lips. Peace, peace to him that is far off"'--he said it twice--`"peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him."' He did not add one word, but went and mounted his horse, and when he had bid farewell to all else, just as he was turning away from the door, he calls out, in a cheerful voice, `Good morning, Brother Jennings.' Then, as it were, Father seemed to awake, and he runs after, and puts his hand in Dr Bates's, who drew bridle, and for a minute they were busy in earnest discourse. Then they clasped hands again, and father saith, `God bless you!' and away rode Dr Bates. But after that Father was different. He said to me--it was some weeks later--`Dolly, if it please God, I shall never speak another word against the men that turned out in Sixty-Two. They may have made blunders, but some at least of them were holy men of God, for all that.'"
"I was always sorry for them," said Phoebe. "And Father said so too."
"True, my dear. Yet 'tis not well we should forget that the parsons were turned out the first, and the conventiclers afterward. There were faults on both sides."
"But, Mrs Dolly, why can't good men agree?"
"Ah, child! `They shall see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring again Zion.' No sooner. Thank God that He looketh on the heart. I believe there may be two men in arms against each other, bitter opposers of each other, and yet each of them acting with a single eye to the honour of their Lord. He knows it, and He only, now. But how sorry they will be for their hard thoughts and speeches when they come to understand each other in the clear light of Heaven!"
"It always seems to me," said Phoebe, diffidently, "that there are a great many things we shall be sorry for then. But can anybody be sorry in Heaven?"
Mrs Dorothy smiled. "We know very little about Heaven, my dear. Less than Madam's parrot or Mrs Clarissa's dog understands about anyone writing a letter."
"Dogs do understand a great deal," remarked Phoebe. "Our Flossie did."
"My dear, I have learned no end of lessons from dogs. I only wish we Christians minded the word of our Master half as well as they do theirs. I wish men would take pattern from them, instead of starving and kicking them, or tormenting them with a view to win knowledge. We may be the higher creatures, but we are far from being the better. You may take note, too, that your dog will often resist an unpleasant thing--a dose of medicine, say--just because he does not understand why you want to give it to him, and does not know the worse thing that would otherwise befall him. Didst thou never serve thy Master like that, dear?"
"I am afraid so," said Phoebe, softly.
"We don't trust Him enough, Phoebe. It does seem as if the hardest thing in all the world was for man to trust God. You would not think I paid you much of a compliment if you heard me say, `I'll trust Phoebe Latrobe as far as I can see her.' Yet that is what we are always doing to God. The minute we lose sight of His footsteps, we begin to murmur and question where He is taking us. But, my dear, I must not let you tarry longer; 'tis nigh sundown."
"Oh, dear!" and Phoebe looked up and rose hurriedly. "I trust Madam will not be angry. 'Tis much later than I thought."
She found Madam too busy to notice what time she returned. Rhoda's wardrobe was being packed for her visit, under the supervision of her grandmother, by the careful hands of Betty. The musk-coloured damask, which she had coveted, was the first article provided, and a cherry-coloured velvet mantle, lined with squirrel-skins, was to be worn with it. A blue satin hood completed this rather showy costume. A wadded calico wrapper, for morning wear; a hoop petticoat wider than Rhoda had ever worn before; the white dress stipulated by Molly; small lace head-dresses, instead of the old-fashioned commode; aprons of various colours, silk and satin; muslin and lace ruffles; a blue camlet riding-habit, laced with silver (ladies rode at this time dressed exactly like gentlemen, with the addition of a long skirt); and an evening dress of cinnamon-colour, brocaded with large green leaves and silver stems, with a white and gold petticoat under it--were the chief items of Rhoda's wardrobe. A new set of body-linen was also added, made of striped muslin. Since our fair ancestresses made their night-dresses of "muslin," it would appear that they extended the term to some stouter material than the thin and flimsy manufacture to which we restrict it. Rhoda's boots were of white kid, goloshed with black velvet. There were also "jessamy" gloves--namely, kid gloves perfumed with jessamine; a black velvet mask; a superb painted fan; a box of patches, another of violet powder, another of rouge, and a fourth of pomatum; one of the India scarves before alluded to; a stomacher set with garnet, a pearl necklace, and a silver box full of cachou and can-away comfits, to be taken to church for amusement during long sermons. The enamelled picture on the lid Rhoda would have done well to lay to heart, as it represented Cupid fishing for human beings, with a golden guinea on his hook. Rhoda was determined to be the finest dressed girl at Delawarr Court, and Madam had allowed her to order very much what she pleased. Phoebe's quiet mourning, new though it was, looked very mean in comparison--in her cousin's eyes.
No definite time was fixed for Rhoda's return home. She was to stay as long as Lady Delawarr wished to keep her.
"Phoebe, my dear!" said Madam.
"Madam?" responded Phoebe, with a courtesy.
"Come into my chamber; I would have a few words with you."
Phoebe followed, her heart feeling as if it would jump into her mouth. Madam shut the door, and took her seat on the cushioned settle which stretched along the foot of her bed.
"Child," she said to Phoebe, who stood modestly before her, "I think myself obliged to tell you that I expect Rhoda to settle in life on the occasion of this visit. I apprehend that she will meet with divers young gentlemen, with any of whom she might make a good match; and she can then make selection of him that will be most agreeable to her."
Phoebe privately wondered how the gentleman whom Rhoda selected was to be induced to select Rhoda.
"Then," pursued Madam, "when she returns, she will tell me her design; and if on seeing the young man, and making inquiries of such as are acquainted with him, I approve of the match myself, I shall endeavour the favour of his friends, and doubt not to obtain it. Rhoda will have an excellent fortune, and she is of an agreeable turn enough. Now, my dear, at the same time, I wish you to look round you, and see if you can light on some decent man, fit for your station, that would not be disagreeable to you. I have apprised myself that Sir Richard's chaplain hath entered into no engagements, and if he were to your taste, I would do my best to settle you in that quarter, I cannot think he would prove uneasy to me, should I do him the honour; at the same time, if you find him unpleasant to you, I do not press the affair. But 'tis high time you should look out, for you have no fortune but yourself, and what I may choose to give with you: and if you order yourself after my wish, I engage myself to undertake for you--in reason, my dear, of course. The chaplain is very well paid, for Sir Richard finds him in board and a horse, and gives him beside thirty-five pound by the year, which is more than many have. He is, I learn, a good, easy man, that would not be likely to give his wife any trouble. Not very smart, but that can well be got over; and of good family, but indigent--otherwise it may well be reckoned he would not be a chaplain. So I bid you consider him well, my dear, and let me know your thoughts when you return hither."
Phoebe's thoughts just then were chasing each other in wild confusion: the principal one being that she was a victim led to the sacrifice with a rope round her neck.
"I ask your pardon, Madam; but--" "Well, my dear, if you have something you wish to say, I am ready to listen to it," said Madam, with an air of extreme benignity.
Phoebe felt her position the more difficult because of her grandmother's graciousness. She so evidently thought herself conferring a favour on a portionless and unattractive girl, that it became hard to say an opposing word.
"If you please, Madam, and asking your pardon, must I be married?"
"Must you be married, child!" repeated Madam in astonished tones, "Why, of course you must. The woman is created for the man. You would not die a maid?"
"I would rather, if you would allow me, Madam," faltered Phoebe.
"But, my dear, I cannot allow it. I should not be doing my duty by you if I did. The woman is made for the man," repeated Madam, sententiously.
"But--was every woman made for some man, if you please, Madam?" asked poor Phoebe, struggling against destiny in the person of her grandmother.
"Of course, child--no doubt of it," said Madam.
"Then, if you please, Madam, might I not wait till I find the man I was made for?" entreated Phoebe with unconscious humour.
"When you marry a man, my dear, he is the man you were made for," oracularly replied Madam.
Phoebe was silenced, but not at all convinced, which is a very different thing. She could remember a good many husbands and wives with whom she had met who so far as she could judge, did not appear to have been created for the benefit of one another.
"And I trust you will find him at Delawarr Court. At all events, you will look out. As to waiting, my dear, at your age, and in your station, you cannot afford to wait. One or two years is no matter for Rhoda; but 'twill not serve for you. I was married before I was your age, Phoebe."
Phoebe sighed, but did not venture to speak. She felt more than ever as if she were being led to the slaughter. There was just this uncomfortable difference, that the sacrificed sheep or goat did not feel anything when once it was over, and the parallel would not hold good there. She felt utterly helpless. Phoebe knew her mother too well to venture on any appeal to her, even had she fondly imagined that representations from Mrs Latrobe would have weight with Madam. Mrs Latrobe would have been totally unable to comprehend her. So Phoebe did what was better,--carried her trial and perplexity to her Father in Heaven, and asked Him to undertake for her. Naturally shy and timid, it was a terrible idea to Phoebe that she was to be handed over bodily in this style to some stranger. Rhoda would not have cared; a change was always welcome to her, and she thought a great deal about the superior position of a matron. But in Phoebe's eyes the position presented superior responsibility, a thing she dreaded; and superior notoriety, a thing she detested. She was a violet, born to blush unseen, yet believing that perfume shed upon the desert air is not necessarily wasted.
"Here you are, old Rattle-trap!" cried Molly, from the head of the stairs, as Rhoda and Phoebe were mounting them. "Brought that white rag? We're going. Mum says so. Turn your toes out,--here's Betty."
Rhoda's hand was clasped, and her cheek kissed, by a pleasant-spoken, rather good-looking girl, very little scarred from her recent illness.
"Phoebe Latrobe?" said Betty, turning kindly to her. "I know your name, you see. I trust you will be happy here. Your chamber is this way, Rhoda."
It was a long, narrow room, with a low whitewashed ceiling, across which ran two beams. A pot-pourri stood on the little table in the centre, and there were two beds, one single and one double.
"Who's to be here beside me?" inquired Rhoda.
"Oh, Mother would have given you and Phoebe a chamber to yourselves," replied Betty, "but we are so full of company, she felt herself obliged to put in some one, so Gatty is coming to you."
"Can't it be Molly?" rather uncivilly suggested Rhoda.
Phoebe privately hoped it could not.
"Will, I think not," answered Betty, smiling. "Lady Diana Middleham wants Molly. She's in great request."
"Who is,--me?" demanded Molly, appearing as if by magic in the doorway. "Of course. I'm not going to sleep with you, Pug-nose. Not going to sleep at all. Spend the night in tickling the people I like, and running pins into those I don't. Fair warning!"
"I wonder whether it is better to be one you like, Molly, or one you don't like," said Rhoda, laughing.
"I hope you don't like me in that regard," said Betty, laughing too.
"Well, I don't particularly," was Molly's frank answer, "so you'll get the pins. Right about face! Stand--at--ease! Here comes Mum."
A very gorgeously dressed woman, all flounces and feathers as it seemed to Phoebe, sailed into the room, kissed Rhoda, told her that she was welcome, in a languishing voice, desired Betty to see her made comfortable, informed Molly that her hair was out of curl, took no notice of Phoebe, and sailed away again.
"I'm off!" Molly announced to the world. "There's Mr What-do-you-call-him downstairs. Go and have some fun with him." And Molly vanished accordingly.
Then Rhoda's unpacking had to be seen to by herself and Phoebe; that is to say, Phoebe did it, and Rhoda sat and watched her, Betty flitted about, talking to Rhoda, and helping Phoebe, till her name was called from below, and away she went to respond to it. Phoebe, at least, missed her, and thought her pleasant company. Whatever else she might be, she was good-natured. When the unpacking was finished to her satisfaction, Rhoda declared that she was perishing for hunger, and must have something before she could dress. Before she could make up her mind what to do, a rap came on the door, and a neat maid-servant entered with a tray.
"An't please you, Madam, Mrs Betty bade me bring you a dish of tea," said she; "for she said 'twas yet two good hours ere supper, and you should be the better of a snack after your journey. Here is both tea and chocolate, bread and butter, and shortcake." And setting down the tray, she left them to enjoy its contents.
"Long life to Betty!" said Rhoda. "Here, Phoebe! pour me a dish of chocolate. I never get any at home. Madam has a notion it makes people fat."
"But does she not like you to take it?" asked Phoebe, pausing, with the silver chocolatiere in her hand.
"Oh, pother! go on!" exclaimed Rhoda. "Give it me, if your tender conscience won't let you. I say, Phoebe, you'll be a regular prig and prude, if you don't mind."
"I don't know what those are," replied Phoebe, furtively engaged in rubbing her hand where Rhoda had pinched it as she seized the handle of the chocolate pot.
"Oh, don't you?" answered Rhoda. "I do, for I've got you to look at. A prig is a stuck-up silly creature, and a prude is always thinking everything wicked. And that's what you are."
Phoebe wisely made no reply. Tea finished, Rhoda condescended to be dressed and have her hair curled and powdered, gave Phoebe very few minutes for changing her own dress, and then, followed by her cousin and handmaid, she descended to the drawing-room. To Phoebe's consternation, it seemed full of young ladies and gentlemen, in fashionable array; and the consternation was not relieved by a glimpse of Mr Marcus Welles, radiant in blue and gold, through a vista of plumes, lace lappets, and fans. Betty was there, making herself generally useful and agreeable; and Molly, making herself the reverse of both. Phoebe scanned the brilliant crowd earnestly for Gatty. But Gatty was nowhere to be seen.
Rhoda went forward, and plunged into the crowd, kissing and courtesying to all the girls she recognised. She was soon the gayest of the gay among them. No one noticed Phoebe but Betty, and she gave her a kindly nod in passing, and said, "Pray divert yourself." Phoebe's diversion was to retire into a corner, and from her "loop-hole of retreat, to peep at such a world."
A very young world it was, whose oldest inhabitant at that moment was under twenty-five. But the boys and girls--for they were little more-- put on the most courtier-like and grown-up airs. The ladies sat round the room, fluttering their fans, or laughing behind them: in some cases gliding about with long trains sweeping the waxed oak floor. The gentlemen stood before them, paying compliments, cracking jokes, and uttering airy nothings. Both parties took occasional pinches of snuff. For a few minutes the scene struck Phoebe as pretty and amusing; but this impression was quickly followed by a sensation of sadness. A number of rational and immortal beings were gathered together, and all they could find to do was to look pretty and be amusing. Why, a bird, a dog, or a monkey, could have done as much, and more.
And a few words came into Phoebe's mind, practically denied by the mass of mankind then as now, "Thou hast created all things, and _for Thy pleasure_ they are."
How apt man is to think that every creature and thing around him was created for _his_ pleasure! or, at least, for his use and benefit. The natural result is, that he considers himself at liberty to use them just as he pleases, quite regardless of their feelings, especially when any particular advantage may be expected to accrue to himself.
But "the Lord hath made all things for Himself," and "He cometh to judge the earth."
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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8
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RHODA IS TAKEN IN THE TRAP.
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"That busy hive, the world, And all its thousand stings."
Phoebe sat still for a while in her corner, watching the various members of the party as they flitted in and out: for the scene was now becoming diversified by the addition of elder persons. Ere long, two gentlemen in evening costume, engaged in conversation, came and stood close by her. One of them, as she soon discovered, was Sir Richard Delawarr. " 'Tis really true, then," demanded the other--a round-faced man, with brilliant eyes, who was attired as a dignitary of the Church--"'tis really true, Sir, that the Queen did forbid the visit of the Elector?" " _I_ had it from an excellent hand, I assure you," returned Sir Richard. "Nor only that, but the Princess Sophia so laid it to heart, that 'twas the main cause of her sudden death."
"It really was so?"
"Upon honour, my Lord; my Lady Delawarr had it from Mrs Rosamond Harley."
"Ha! then 'tis like to be true. You heard, I doubt not, Sir, of D'Urfey's jest on the Princess Sophia? --ha, ha, ha!" and the Bishop laughed, as if the recollection amused him exceedingly.
"No, I scarce think I did, my Lord."
"Not? Ah, then, give me leave to tell it you. I hear it gave the Queen extreme diversion. " `The crown is too weighty For shoulders of eighty-- She could not sustain such a trophy: Her hand, too, already Has grown so unsteady, She can't hold a sceptre: So Providence kept her Away--poor old dowager Sophy!'"
Sir Richard threw his head back, and indulged in unfeigned merriment. Phoebe, in her corner, felt rather indignant. Why should the Princess Sophia, or any other woman, be laughed at solely for growing old?
"Capital good jest!" said the Baronet, his amusement over. "I heard from a friend that I met at the Bath, that the Queen is looking vastly well this summer--quite rid of her gout."
"So do I hear," returned the Bishop. "What think you of the price set on the Pretender's head?"
Sir Richard whistled.
"The Queen's own sole act, without any concurrence of her Ministers," continued the Bishop.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Five thousand, I was told?"
"Five thousand. An excellent notion, I take it."
"Well--I--don't--know!" slowly answered Sir Richard. "I cannot but feel very doubtful of the mischievous consequence that may ensue. A price on the head of the Prince of Wales! Sounds bad, my Lord--sounds bad! Though, indeed, he be not truly the Queen's brother, yet 'tis unnatural for his sister to set a price on his head."
By which remark it will be seen that Sir Richard's intellect was not of the first order. The intellect of Bishop Atterbury was: and a slightly contemptuous smile played on his lips for a moment. " `The Prince of Wales!'" repeated he. "Surely, Sir, you have more wit than to credit that baseless tale? Why not set a price on the Pretender?"
Be it known to the reader, though it was not to Sir Richard, that on that very morning Bishop Atterbury had forwarded a long letter to the Palace of Saint Germain, in which he addressed the aforesaid Pretender as "your Majesty," and assured him of his entire devotion to his interests.
"Oh, come, I leave the whys and wherefores to yon gentlemen of the black robe!" answered Sir Richard, laughing. "By the way, talking of prices, have you heard the prodigious price Sir Nathaniel Fowler hath given for his seat in the Commons? Six thousand pounds, 'pon my honour!"
"Surely, Sir, you have been misinformed. Six thousand! 'Tis amazing."
"Your Lordship may well say so. Why, I gave but eight hundred for mine. By the way, there is another point I intended to acquaint you of, my Lord. Did you hear, ever, that there should be a little ill-humour with my Lord Oxford, on account of--you know?"
"On account? Oh!" and the Bishop's right hand was elevated to his lips, in the attitude of a person drinking. "Yes, yes. Well, I cannot say I am entirely ignorant of that affair. Sir Jeremy's lady assured me she knew, beyond contradiction, that my Lord Oxford once waited on her, somewhat foxed."
Of course, "she" was the Queen. But why a fox, usually as sober a beast as others, should have been compelled to lend its name to the vocabulary of intoxication, is not so apparent.
"Absolutely drunk, I heard," responded Sir Richard; "and she was prodigiously angered. Said to my Lady Masham, that if it were ever repeated, she would take his stick from him that moment. Odd, if the ministry were to fall for such a nothing as that."
"Well, 'twas not altogether reverential to the sovereign," said the Bishop; "and the Queen is extreme nice, you know."
The threat of taking the stick from a minister was less figurative in Queen Anne's days than now. The white wand of office was carried before every Cabinet Minister, not only in his public life, but even in private.
At this point a third gentleman joined the others, and they moved away, leaving Phoebe in her corner.
Phoebe sat meditating, for nobody had spoken to her, when she felt a soft gloved hand laid upon her arm. She turned, suddenly, to look up into a face which she thought at first was the face of a stranger. Then, in a moment, she knew Gatty Delawarr.
The small-pox had changed her terribly--far more than her sister. No one could think of setting her up for a beauty now. The soft, peach-like complexion, which had been Gatty's best point, was replaced by a sickly white, pitifully seamed with the scars of the dread disease.
"You did not know me at first," said Gatty, quietly, as if stating a fact, not making an inquiry.
"I do now," answered Phoebe, returning Gatty's smile.
"Well, you see the Lord made a way for me. But it is rather a rough one, Phoebe."
"I am afraid you must have suffered _very_ much, Mrs Gatty."
"Won't you drop the Mistress? I would rather. Well, yes, I suffered, Phoebe; but it was worse since than just then."
Phoebe's face, not her tongue, said, "In what manner?" " 'Tis not very pleasant, Phoebe, to have everybody bewailing you, and telling all their neighbours how cruelly you are changed, but I could have stood that. Nor is it delightful to have Molly for ever at one's elbow, calling one Mrs Baboon, and my Lady Venus, and such like; but I could have stood that, though I don't like it. But 'tis hard to be told I have disappointed my mother's dearest hopes, and that she will never take any more pleasure in me; that she would to Heaven I had died in my cradle. That stings sometimes. Then, to know that if one makes the least slip, it will be directly, `Oh, your saints are no better than other folks!' Phoebe, I wish sometimes that I had not recovered."
"Oh, but you must not do that, Mrs Gatty! --well, Gatty, then, as you are so kind. The Lord wanted you for something, I suppose."
"I wonder for what!" said Gatty.
"Well, we can't tell yet, you see," replied Phoebe, simply. "I suppose you will find out by and bye."
"I wish I could find out," said Gatty, sighing.
"I think He will show you, when He is ready," said Phoebe. "Father used to say that it took a good deal longer to make a fine microscope than it did to make a common chisel or hammer; and he thought it was the same with us. I mean, you know, that if the Lord intends us to do very nice work, He will be nice in getting us ready for it, and it may take a good while. And father used to say that we seldom know what God is doing with us while He does it, but only when He has finished."
"Nice," at that time, had not the sense of pleasant, but only that of delicately particular.
"I am glad you have told me that, Phoebe. I wish your father had been living now."
"Oh!" very deep-drawn, from Phoebe, echoed the wish.
"Phoebe, I want you to tell me where you get your patience?"
"My patience!" repeated astonished Phoebe.
"Yes; I think you are the most patient maid I know."
"I can't tell you, I am sure!" answered Phoebe, in a rather puzzled tone. "I didn't know I was patient. I don't think I have often asked for that, specially. Very often, I ask God to give me what He sees I need; and if that be as you say, I suppose He saw I wanted it, and gave it me."
The admiring look in Gatty's eyes was happily unintelligible to Phoebe.
"Now then!" said Molly's not particularly welcome voice, close by them. "Here's old Edmundson. Clasp your hands in ecstasy, Phoebe. Mum says you and he have got to fall in love and marry one another; so make haste about it. He's not an ill piece, only you'll find he won't get up before noon unless you squirt water in his face. Now then, fall to, and say some pretty things to one another!"
Of course Molly had taken the most effectual way possible to prevent any such occurrence. Phoebe did not dare to lift her eyes; and the chaplain was, if possible, the shyer of the two, and had been dragged there against his will by invincible Molly. Neither would have known what to do, if Gatty had not kindly come to the rescue.
"Pray sit down, Mr Edmundson," she said, in a quiet, natural way, as if nothing had happened. "I thought I had seen you riding forth, half an hour ago; I suppose it must have been some one else."
"I--ah--yes--no, I have not been riding to-day," stammered the perturbed divine.
"Twas a very pleasant morning for a ride," said mediating Gatty.
"Very pleasant, Madam," answered the chaplain.
"Have you quite lost your catarrh, Mr Edmundson?"
"Quite, I thank you, Madam."
"I believe my mother wishes to talk with you of Jack Flint, Mr Edmundson."
"Yes, Madam?"
"The lad hath been well spoken of to her for the under-gardener's boy's place. I think she wished to have your opinion of him."
"Yes, Madam."
"Is the boy of a choleric disposition?"
"Possibly, Madam."
"But what think you, Mr Edmundson?"
"Madam, I--ah--I cannot say, Madam."
"I think I see Mr Lamb beckoning to you," observed Gatty, wishful to relieve the poor _gauche_ chaplain from his uncomfortable position.
"Madam, I thank you--ah--very much, Madam." And Mr Edmundson made a dive into the throng, and disappeared behind a quantity of silk brocade and Brussels lace. Phoebe ventured to steal a glance at him as he departed. She found that the person to whom she had been so unceremoniously handed over, alike by Madam, Lady Delawarr, and Molly, was a thickset man of fifty years, partially bald, with small, expressionless features. He was not more fascinating to look at than to talk to, and Phoebe could only entertain a faint hope that his preaching might be an improvement upon both looks and conversation.
A little later in the evening, as Phoebe sat alone in her corner, looking on, "I say!" came from behind her. Her heart fluttered, for the voice was Molly's.
"I say!" repeated Molly. "You look here. I'm not all bad, you know. I didn't want old Edmundson to have you. And I knew the way to keep him from it was to tell him he must. I think 'tis a burning shame to treat a maid like that. They were all set on it--the old woman, and Mum, and everybody. He's an old block of firewood. You're fit for something better. I tease folks, but I'm not quite a black witch. Ta-ta. _He'll_ not tease you now."
And Molly disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. There was no opportunity for Phoebe to edge in a word. But, for once in her life, she felt obliged to Molly.
The next invader of Phoebe's peace was Lady Delawarr herself. She sat down on an ottoman, fanned herself languidly, and hoped dear Mrs Rhoda was enjoying herself.
Phoebe innocently replied that she hoped so too. " 'Twill be a pretty sight, all the young maids in white, to meet the Queen at Berkeley," resumed Lady Delawarr. "There are fourteen going from this house. My three daughters, of course, and Lady Diana--she is to hand the nosegay--and Mrs Rhoda, and Mrs Kitty Mainwaring, and Mrs Sophia Rich, and several more. Those that do not go must have some little pleasure to engage them whilst the others are away. I thought they might drink a dish of chocolate in yon little ivy-covered tower in the park, and have the young gentlemen to wait on them and divert them. The four gentlemen of the best families and fortunes will wait on the gentlewomen to Berkeley: that is, Mr Otway, Mr Seymour, my nephew Mr George Merton, and Mr Welles. I shall charge Mr Derwent yonder to wait specially on you, Mrs Phoebe, while Mrs Rhoda is away."
Phoebe perceived that she was not one of the fourteen favoured ones. A little flutter of anxiety disturbed her anticipations. What would go on with Rhoda and Mr Welles?
Lady Delawarr sat for a few minutes, talking of nothing in particular, and then rose and sailed away. It was evident that the main object of her coming had been to give Phoebe a hint that she must not expect to join the expedition to Berkeley.
As Phoebe went upstairs that evening, feeling rather heavy-hearted, she saw something gleam and fall, and discovered, on investigation, that a tassel had dropped from Rhoda's purse, which that young lady had desired her to carry up for her. She set to work to hunt for it, but for some seconds in vain. She had almost given up the search in despair, when a strange voice said behind her, "Le voici, Mademoiselle."
Phoebe turned and faced her countrywoman--for so she considered her-- with an exclamation of delight.
"Ah! you speak French, Mademoiselle?" said the girl. "It is a pleasure, a pleasure, to hear it!"
"I am French," responded Phoebe, warmly. "My father was a Frenchman. My name is Phoebe Latrobe: what is yours?"
"Louise Dupret. I am Lady Delawarr's woman. I have been here two long, long years; and nobody speaks French but Madame and Mesdemoiselles her daughters. And Mademoiselle Marie will not, though she can. She will talk to me in English, and laughs at me when I understand her not. Ah, it is dreadful!"
"From what part of France do you come?"
"From the mountains of the Cevennes. And you?"
"The same. Then you are of the religion?"
This was the Huguenot form of inquiry whether a stranger belonged to them. Louise's eyes lighted up.
"We are daughters of the Church of the Desert," she said. "And we are sisters in Jesus Christ."
From that hour Phoebe was not quite friendless at Delawarr Court. It was well for her: since the preparations for Berkeley absorbed Gatty, and of Rhoda she saw nothing except during the processes of dressing and undressing. Very elaborate processes they became, for Lady Delawarr kept a private hair-dresser, who came round every morning to curl, friz, puff, and powder each young lady in turn; and the unfortunate maiden who kept him waiting an instant was relegated to the last, and certain to be late for breakfast. Following in the footsteps of his superiors, he did not notice Phoebe, nor count her as one of the group; but after the meeting on the stairs, as soon as Lady Delawarr released her, Louise was at hand with a beaming face, entreating permission to arrange Mademoiselle, and she sent her downstairs looking very fresh and stylish, almost enough to provoke the envy of Rhoda.
"Ah, Mademoiselle! --if you were but a rich, rich lady, and I might be your maid!" sighed Louise. "This is a dreary world; and a dreary country, this England; and a dreary house, this Cour de la Warre! Madame is--is--ah, well, she is my mistress, and it is not right to chatter all one thinks. Still one cannot help thinking. Mademoiselle Betti--if she were in my country, we should call her Elise, which is pretty--it is ugly, Betti! --well, Mademoiselle Betti is very good-natured--very, indeed; and Mademoiselle Henriette--ah, this droll country! her name is Henriette, and they call her Gatti! --she is very good, very good and pleasant Mademoiselle Henriette. And since she had the small-pox she is nicer than before. It had spoiled her face to beautify her heart. Ah, that poor demoiselle, how she suffers! Perhaps, Mademoiselle, it is not right that I should tell you, even you; but she suffers so much, this good demoiselle, and she is so patient! But for Mademoiselle Marie--ah, there again the droll name, Molli! --does not Mademoiselle think this a strange, very strange, country?"
The great expedition was ready to set out at last. All the girls were dressed exactly alike, in white, and all the gentlemen in blue turned up with white. They were to travel in two coaches to Bristol, where all were to sleep at the house of Mrs Merton, sister-in-law to Lady Delawarr; the next day the bouquet was to be presented at Berkeley, and on the third day they were to return. By way of chaperone, the housekeeper at the Court was to travel with them to and from Bristol, out Mrs Merton herself undertook to conduct them to Berkeley.
Rhoda was in the highest spirits, and Phoebe saw her assisted into the coach by Mr Marcus Welles with no little misgiving. Molly, as she brushed past Phoebe, allowed the point of a steel scissors-sheath to peep from her pocket for an instant, accompanying it with the mysterious intimation--"You'll see!"
"What will she see, Molly?" asked Lady Diana, who was close beside her.
"How to use a pair of scissors," said Molly. "What's to be cut, Molly?" Sophia Rich wished to know.
"A dash!" said Molly, significantly. And away rolled the coaches towards Bristol. Phoebe turned back into the house with a rather desolate feeling. For three days everybody would be gone. Those who were left behind were all strangers to her except Mr Edmundson, and she wanted to get as far from him as she could. True, there was Louise; but Louise could hardly be a companion for her, even had her work for Lady Delawarr allowed it, for she was not her equal in education. The other girls were engaged, as usual, in idle chatter, and fluttering of fans. Lady Delawarr, passing through the room, saw Phoebe sitting rather disconsolately in a corner.
"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, come and help me to make things ready for to-morrow," she said, good-naturedly; and Phoebe followed her very willingly.
The picnic was a success. The weather was beautiful, and the young people in good temper--two important points. Lady Delawarr herself, in the absence of her housekeeper, superintended the packing of the light van which carried the provisions to the old tower. There was to be a gipsy fire to boil the kettle, with three poles tied together over it, from which the kettle was slung in the orthodox manner. Phoebe, who was trying to make herself useful, stretched out her hand for the kettle, when Lady Delawarr's voice said behind her, "My dear Mrs Phoebe, you may be relieved of that task. Mr Osmund Derwent--Mrs Phoebe Latrobe. Mrs Latrobe--Mr Derwent."
There was one advantage, now lost, in this double introduction; if the name were not distinctly heard in the first instance, it might be caught in the second.
Phoebe looked up, and saw a rather good-looking young man, whose good looks, however, lay more in a pleasant expression than in any special beauty of feature. A little shy, yet without being awkward; and a little grave and silent, but not at all morose, he was one with whom Phoebe felt readily at home. His shyness, which arose from diffidence, not pride, wore off when the first strangeness was over. It was evident that Lady Delawarr had given him, as she had said, a hint to wait on Phoebe.
The peculiarity of Lady Delawarr's conduct rather puzzled Phoebe. At times she was particularly gracious, whilst at others she utterly neglected her. Simple, unworldly Phoebe did not guess that while Rhoda Peveril and Phoebe Latrobe were of no consequence in the eyes of her hostess, the future possessor of White-Ladies was of very much. Lady Delawarr never felt quite certain who that was to be. She expected it to be Rhoda; yet at times the conviction smote her that, after all, there was no certainty that it might not be Phoebe. Madam was impulsive; she had already surprised people by taking up with Phoebe at all; and Rhoda might displease her. In consequence of these reflections, though Phoebe was generally left unnoticed, yet occasionally Lady Delawarr warmed into affability, and cultivated the girl who might, after all, come to be the heiress of Madam's untold wealth. For Lady Delawarr's mind was essentially of the earth, earthy; gold had for her a value far beyond goodness, and pleasantness of disposition or purity of mind were not for a moment to be set in comparison with a suite of pearls.
Mr Derwent took upon himself the responsibility of the kettle, and chatted pleasantly enough with Phoebe, to whom the other damsels were only too glad to leave all trouble. He walked home with her, insisting with playful persistence upon carrying her scarf and the little basket which she had brought for wild flowers; talked to her about his mother and sisters, his own future prospects as a younger son who must make his way in the world for himself, and took pains to make himself generally agreeable and interesting. Under his kindly notice Phoebe opened like a flower to the sun. It was something new to her to find a sensible, grown-up person who really seemed to take pleasure in talking with her-- except Mrs Dorothy Jennings, and she and Phoebe were not on a level. In conversation with Mrs Dorothy she felt herself being taught and counselled; in conversation with Mr Derwent she was entertained and gratified.
Judging from his conduct, Mr Derwent was as much pleased with Phoebe as she was with him. During the whole time she remained at Delawarr Court, he constituted himself her cavalier. He was always at hand when she wanted anything, at times supplying the need even before she had discovered its existence. Phoebe tasted, for the first time in her life, the flattering ease of being waited on, instead of waiting on others; the delicate pleasure of being listened to, instead of snubbed and disregarded; the intellectual treat of finding one who was willing to exchange ideas with her, rather than only to impart ideas to her. Was it any wonder if Osmund Derwent began to form a nucleus in her thoughts, round which gathered a floating island of fair fancies and golden visions, all the more beautiful because they were vague?
And all the while, Phoebe never realised what was happening to her. She let herself drift onwards in a pleasant dream, and never thought of pausing to analyse her sensations.
The absentees returned home in the afternoon of the third day. And beyond the roll of the coaches, and the noise and bustle inseparable from the arrival of eighteen persons, the first intimation of it which was given in the drawing-room was caused by the entrance of Molly, who swept into the room with tragi-comic dignity, and mounting a chair, cleared her voice, and held forth, as if it had been a sceptre, a minute bow of black gauze ribbon.
"Ladies and gentlewomen!" said Molly with solemnity. " (The gentlemen don't count.) Ladies and gentlewomen! I engaged myself, before leaving the Court, to bring back to you in triumph a snip from the Queen's gown. Behold it! (Never mind how I got it,--here it is.) Upon honour, as sure as my name is Mary--('tisn't,--I was christened Maria)--but, as sure as there is one rent and two spots of mud on this white gown which decorates my charming person,--the places whereof are best known to myself,--this bow of gauze, on which all your eyes are fixed,--now there's a shame! Sophy Rich isn't looking a bit--this bow was on the gown of Her Majesty Queen Anne yesterday morning! _Plaudite vobis_!"
And down came Miss Molly.
"If I might be excused, Mrs Maria," hesitatingly began Mr Edmundson, who seemed almost afraid of the sound of his own voice, "_vobis_ is, as I cannot but be sensible, not precisely the--ah--not quite the word-- ah--" "You shut up, old Bandbox," said Molly, dropping her heroics. "None of your business. Can't you but be sensible? First time you ever were!"
"I ask your pardon, Mrs Maria. I trust, indeed,--ah--I am not--ah-- insensible, to the many--ah--many things which--" The youthful company were convulsed with laughter. They were all aware that Molly was intentionally talking at cross purposes with her pastor; and that while he clung to the old signification of sensible, namely, to be aware of, or sensitive to, a thing, she was using it in the new, now universally accepted, sense of sagacious. The fun, of course, was enhanced by the fact that poor Mr Edmundson was totally unacquainted with the change of meaning.
"I don't believe she cut it off a bit!" whispered Kitty Mainwaring. "She gave a guinea to some orange-girl who was cousin to some other maid in the Queen's laundry,--some stuff of that sort. Cut it off! --how could she? Just tell me that."
Before the last word was well out of Kitty's lips, Molly's small, bright scissors were snapped within an inch of Kitty's nose.
"Perhaps you would have the goodness to say that again, Mrs Catherine Mainwaring!" observed that young person, in decidedly menacing tones.
"Thank you, no, I don't care to do," replied Kitty, laughing, but shrinking back from the scissors.
"When I say I will do a thing, I will do it, Madam!" retorted Molly.
"If you can, I suppose," said Kitty, defending herself from another threatening snap.
"Say I can't, at your peril!"
And Molly and her scissors marched away in dudgeon.
"You are very tired, I fear, Mrs Gatty," said Phoebe, when Gatty came up to the room they shared, for the night.
"Rather," answered Gatty, with a sad smile on her white face.
But she did not tell Phoebe what had tired her. It was not the journey, nor the ceremony, but her mother's greeting.
"Why, Betty, you are quite blooming!" Lady Delawarr had said. "It hath done you good, child. And Molly, too, as sprightly as ever! Child, did you get touched?"
"I did, Madam," answered Molly, with an extravagant courtesy.
"Ah!" said her mother, in a tone of great satisfaction. "Then we need apprehend no further trouble from the evil. I am extreme glad. O Gatty! you poor, scarred, wretched creature! Really, had it not been that the absence of one of my daughters would be remarked on, I vow I wish you had not gone! 'Tis such a sight to show, that dreadful face of yours. You will never give me any more comfort--that is certain."
"Pos. !" echoed Molly, exactly in the same tone.
"I would not mind, Gatty!" was Betty's kindly remark.
"Thank you," said Gatty, meekly. "I wish I did not!"
Gatty did not repeat this to Phoebe. But Phoebe saw there was something wrong.
Rhoda came rustling in before much more could be said. She was full of details of the journey. What the Queen looked like,--a tall, stout woman, with such blooming cheeks that Rhoda felt absolutely certain she wore rouge,--how she was dressed,--all in black, with a black calash, or high, loose hood, and adorned with diamonds--how she had been received,--with ringing cheers from the Tory part of the population, but ominous silence, or very faint applause, from such as were known to be Whigs: how Sophia Rich had told Rhoda that all the Whig ladies of mark had made up their minds to attend no drawing-rooms the next season: how it was beginning to be dimly suspected that Lord Mar was coquetting with the exiled members of the royal family, and more than suspected that the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough were no longer all powerful with Queen Anne, as they had once been: how the Queen always dined at three p.m., never drank French wine, held drawing-rooms on Sundays after service, would not allow any gentleman to enter her presence without a full-bottomed periwig: all these bits of information Rhoda dilated on, passing from one to another with little regard to method, and wound up with an account of the presentation of the bouquet, and how the Queen had received it from Lady Diana with a smile, and, "I thank you all, young gentlewomen," in that silver voice which was Anne's pre-eminent charm.
But half an hour later, when Gatty was asleep, Rhoda said to Phoebe,-- "I have made up my mind, Phoebe."
"Have you?" responded Phoebe. "What about?"
"I mean to marry Marcus Welles."
"Has he asked you?" said Phoebe, rather drily.
"Yes," was Rhoda's short answer.
Phoebe lay silent.
"Well?" said Rhoda, rather sharply.
"I think, Cousin, I had better be quiet," answered Phoebe; "for I am afraid I can't say what you want me."
"What I want you!" echoed Rhoda, more sharply than ever. "What do I want you to say, Mrs Prude, if you please?"
"Well, I suppose you would like me to say I was glad: and I am not: so I can't."
"I don't suppose it signifies to us whether you are glad or sorry," snapped Rhoda. "But why aren't you glad? --you never thought he'd marry you, surely?"
Phoebe said "No" with a little laugh, as she thought how very far she was from any such expectation, and how very much farther from any wish for it. But Rhoda was not satisfied.
"Well, then, what's the matter?" said she.
"Do you want me to say, Cousin?"
"Of course I do! Should I have asked you if I didn't?"
"I am afraid he does not love you."
Rhoda sat up on her elbow, with an ejaculation of amazement.
"If I ever heard such nonsense? What do you know about it, you poor little white-faced thing?"
"I dare say I don't know much about it," said Phoebe, calmly; "but I know that if a man really loves one woman with all his heart, he won't laugh and whisper and play with the fan of another, or else he is not worth anybody's love. And I am afraid what Mr Welles wants is just your money and not you. I beg your pardon, Cousin Rhoda."
It was time. Rhoda was in a towering passion. What could Phoebe mean, she demanded with terrible emphasis, by telling such lies as those? Did she suppose that Rhoda was going to believe them? Did Phoebe know what the Bible said about speaking ill of your neighbour? Wasn't she completely ashamed of herself?
"And I'll tell you what, Phoebe Latrobe," concluded Rhoda, "I don't believe it, and I won't! I'm not going to believe it,--not if you go down on your knees and swear it! 'Tis all silly, wicked, abominable nonsense! --and you know it!"
"Well, if you won't believe it, there's an end," said Phoebe, quietly. "And I think, if you please, Cousin, we had better go to sleep."
"Pugh! Sleep if you can, you false-hearted crocodile!" said Rhoda, poetically, in distant imitation of the flowers of rhetoric of her friend Molly. "I shan't sleep to-night. Not likely!"
Yet Rhoda was asleep the first.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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9
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SOMETHING ALTERS EVERYTHING.
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"To-night we sit together here, To-morrow night shall come--ah, where?"
_Robert Lord Lytton_.
"There! Didn't I tell you, now?" ejaculated Mrs Jane Talbot.
"I am sure I don't know, Jane," responded her sister, in querulous tones. "You are always talking about something. I never can tell how you manage to keep continually talking, in the way you do. I could not bear it. I never was a talker; I haven't breath for it, with my poor chest,--such a perpetual rattle,--I don't know how you stand it, I'm sure. And to think what a beautiful singer I was once! Young Sir Samuel Dennis once said I entranced him, when he had heard my singing to Mrs Lucy's spinnet--positively entranced him! And Lord James Morehurst--" "An unmitigated donkey!" slid in Mrs Jane.
"Jane, how you do talk! One can't get in a word for you. What was I saying, Clarissa?"
"You were speaking of Lord James Morehurst, dear Marcella. 'Tis all very well for Jane to run him down," said Mrs Vane in a languishing style, fanning herself as she spoke, "but I am sure he was the most charming black man I ever saw. He once paid me such a compliment on my fine eyes!"
"More jackanapes he!" came from Mrs Jane.
"Well, I don't believe he ever paid you such an one," said Mrs Clarissa, pettishly.
"He'd have got his ears boxed if he had," returned Mrs Jane. "The impudence of some of those fellows!"
"Poor dear Jane! she never had any taste," sighed Mrs Marcella. "I protest, Clarissa, I am quite pleased to hear this news. As much pleased, you know, as a poor suffering creature like me can be. But I think Mrs Rhoda has done extreme well. Mr Welles is of a good stock and an easy fortune, and he has the sweetest taste in dress."
"Birds of a feather!" muttered Mrs Jane. "Ay, I knew what Mark-Me-Well was after. Told you so from the first. I marked him, be sure."
"I suppose he has three thousand a year?" inquired Mrs Clarissa.
"Guineas--very like. Not brains--trust me!" said Mrs Jane.
"And an estate?" pursued Mrs Clarissa, with languid interest.
"Oh dear, yes!" chimed in the invalid; "I would have told you about it, if Jane could ever hold her tongue. Such a--" "I've done," observed Mrs Jane, marching off.
"Oh, my dear Clarissa, you can have no conception of what I suffer!" resumed Mrs Marcella, sinking down to a confidential tone. "I love quiet above all things, and Jane's tongue is never still. Ah! if I could go to the wedding, as I used to do! I was at all the grand weddings in the county when I was a young maid. I couldn't tell you how many times I was bridesmaid. When Sir Samuel was married--and really, after all the fine things he had said, and the way he used to ogle me through his glass, I _did_ think! --but, however, that's neither here nor there. The creature he married had plenty of money, but absolutely no complexion, and she painted--oh, how she did paint! and a turn-up nose,--the ugliest thing you ever saw. And with all that, the airs she used to give herself! It really was disgusting."
"O, my dear! I can't bear people that give themselves airs," observed Mrs Clarissa, with a toss of her head, and "grounding" her fan.
"No, nor I," echoed Mrs Marcella, quite as unconscious as her friend of the covert satire in her words. "I wonder what Mrs Rhoda will be married in. I always used to say I would be married in white and silver. And really, if my wretched health had not stood in the way, I might have been, my dear, ever so many times. I am sure it would have come to something, that evening when Lord James and I were sitting in the balcony, after I had been singing,--and there, that stupid Jane must needs come in the way! I always liked a pretty wedding. I should think it would be white and silver. And what do you suppose Madam will give her?"
"Oh, a set of pearls, I should say, if not diamonds," answered Mrs Clarissa.
"She will do something handsome, of course."
"Suppose you do something handsome, and swallow your medicine without a lozenge," suggested Mrs Jane, walking in and presenting a glass to her sister. " 'Tis time."
"I am sure it can't be, Jane! You are always making me swallow some nasty stuff. And as to taking it without a lozenge, I couldn't do such a thing!"
"Stuff! You could, if you did," said Mrs Jane. "Come, then,--here it is. I shouldn't want one."
"Oh, you! --you have not my fine feelings!" responded Mrs Marcella, sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at its reddish-brown contents.
"Come, sup it up, and get it over," said her sister. "O Jane! --you unfeeling creature!" " 'Twill be no better five minutes hence, I'm sure."
"You see what I suffer, Clarissa!" wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping down the medicine, and pulling a terrible face. "Jane has no feeling for me. She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for. Well, I suppose I must bear it. 'Tis my fate. But what I ever did to be afflicted in this way! Oh, the world's a hard place, and life's a very, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!"
Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at the Maidens' Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when Mrs Marcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took her leave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in the style of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with a slow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She had left her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last.
"Just in time for a dish of tea, child!" said little Mrs Dorothy, with a beaming smile. "Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and I will have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have you enjoyed your visit? You look tired, child."
"Yes, I feel tired," answered Phoebe. "I scarce know how I enjoyed the visit, Mrs Dorothy--there were things I liked, and there were things I didn't like."
"That is generally the case, my dear."
"Yes," said Phoebe, abstractedly. "Mrs Dorothy, did you know Mrs Marcella Talbot when she was young?"
"A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now."
"Was she always as discontented as she is now?"
"That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe," said Mrs Dorothy, gravely.
Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it," she replied. "But I should not wish to be like Mrs Marcella."
"I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy disposition is not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of our neighbours without we praise them."
"Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madam sent me down to tell all of you."
"She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what she expected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good."
"Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieve over. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when the prodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking after the manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisen and have gone to his father."
"Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can find peace, Mrs Dorothy?" " `Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I am afraid, yes."
"I am so sorry," said Phoebe.
"Dear child, the last thing the prodigal will do is to arise and go to the Father. He will try every sort of swine's husks first. He doth not value the delicates of the Father's house--he hath no taste for them. The husks are better, to his palate. What wonder, then, if he tarry yet in the far country?"
"But how are you to get him to change his taste, Mrs Dorothy?"
"Neither you nor he can do that, my dear. Most times, either the husks run short, or he gets cloyed with them. That is, if he ever go back to the Father. For some never do, Phoebe--they stay on in the far country, and find the husks sweet to the end."
"That must be saddest of all," said Phoebe, sorrowfully.
"It is saddest of all. Ah, child! --thank thy Father, if He have made thy husks taste bitter."
"But all things are not husks, Mrs Dorothy!"
"Certainly not, my dear. Delight in the Lord's works in nature, or in the pleasures of the intellect such things as these are right enough in their place, Phoebe. The danger is of putting them into God's place."
"Mrs Dolly," asked Phoebe, gravely, "do you think that when we care very much for a person or a thing, we put it into God's place?"
"If you care more for it than you do for Him. Not otherwise."
"How is one to know that?"
"Ask your own heart how you would feel if God demanded it from you."
"How ought I to feel?"
"Sorry, perhaps; but not resentful. Not as though the Lord had no right to ask this at your hands. Grief is allowed; 'tis murmuring that displeases Him."
When Mrs Dorothy said this, Phoebe felt conscious of a dim conviction, buried somewhere very deep down, that there was something which she hoped God would not demand from her. She did not know herself what it was. It was not exactly that she would refuse to give it up; but rather that she hoped she would never be called upon to do it--that if she were it would be a very hard thing to do.
Phoebe left the Maidens' Lodge, and walked slowly across the Park to White-Ladies. She was feeling for the unknown cause of this sentiment of vague soreness at her heart. She had not found it, when a voice broke in upon her meditations.
"Mrs Latrobe?"
Phoebe came to a sudden stop, and with her heart heating wildly, looked up into the face of Osmund Derwent.
"I am too happy to have met with you," said he. "I was on my way to White-Ladies. May I presume to ask your good offices, Mrs Phoebe, to favour me so far as to present me to Madam Furnival!"
Phoebe courtesied her assent.
"Mrs Rhoda, I trust, is well?"
"She is very well, I thank you."
"I am rejoiced to hear it. You will not, I apprehend, Mrs Phoebe, suffer any surprise, if I tell you of my hopes with regard to Mrs Rhoda. You must, surely, have seen, when at Delawarr Court, what was my ambition. Think you there is any chance for me with Madam Furnival?"
It was well for Osmund Derwent that he had not the faintest idea of what was going on beneath the still, white face of the girl who walked beside him so quietly. She understood now. She knew, revealed as by a flash of lightning, what it was which it would be hard work to resign at God's call.
It was Rhoda for whom he cared--not Phoebe. Phoebe was interesting to him, simply as being in his mind associated with Rhoda. And Rhoda did not want him: and Phoebe had to tell him so.
So she told him. "I am sure Madam would receive you with a welcome," she said. "But as for Mrs Rhoda, 'tis best you should know she stands promised already."
Mr Derwent thought Phoebe particularly unsympathising. People often do think so of those whose "hands are clasped above a hidden pain," and who have to speak with forced calmness, as the only way in which they dare speak at all. He felt a little hurt; he had thought Phoebe so friendly at Delawarr Court.
"To whom?" he asked, almost angrily.
"Mr Marcus Welles."
"That painted fop!" cried Derwent.
Phoebe was silent.
"You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?"
"She is promised to him."
Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she were in a dream: all these events which were passing around her never could be real. She heard Osmund Derwent's bitter comments, as though she heard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future--to be left alone with God.
Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expected much more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, in the moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe did not understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She had never loved anybody--that was plain!
And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her, taxed all Phoebe's powers to her uttermost.
She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house, where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade of a clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one of them.
It was a lovely, cloudless day. Through the bright feathery green of a Syrian cypress she looked up into the clear blue sky above. Her love for Osmund Derwent--for she gave it the right name now--was a hopeless thing. His heart was gone from her beyond recall.
"But Thou remainest!"
The words flashed on her, accompanied by the well-remembered tones of her father's voice. She recollected that they had formed the text of the last sermon he had preached. She heard him say again, as he had said to her on his death-bed, "Dear little Phoebe, remember always, there is no way out of any sin or sorrow except Christ." The tears came now. There was relief and healing in them.
"But Thou remainest!"
"Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for earth?"
Phoebe's face showed no sign, when she reached home, of the tempest which had swept over her heart.
"Phoebe, I desire you would wait a moment," said Madam that evening after prayers, when Phoebe, candle in hand, was about to follow Rhoda.
"Yes, Madam." Phoebe put down the candle, and stood waiting.
Madam did not continue till the last of the servants had left the room. Then she said, "Child, I have writ a letter to your mother."
"I thank you, Madam," replied Phoebe.
"And I have sent her ten guineas."
"I thank you very much, Madam."
"I will not disguise from you, my dear, that I cannot but be sensible of the propriety and discretion of your conduct since you came. I think myself obliged to tell you, child, that 'tis on your account I have done so much as this."
"I am sure, Madam, I am infinitely grateful to you."
"And now for another matter. Child, I wish to know your opinion of Mr Edmundson."
"If you please, Madam, I did not like him," said Phoebe, honestly; "nor I think he did not me."
"That would not much matter, my dear," observed Madam, referring to the last clause. "But 'tis a pity you do not like him, for while I would be sorry to force your inclinations, yet you cannot hope to do better."
"If you would allow me to say so, Madam," answered Phoebe, modestly, yet decidedly, "I cannot but think I should do better to be as I am."
Madam shook her head, but did not answer in words. She occupied herself for a little while in settling her mittens to her satisfaction, though she was just going to pull them off. Then she said, "'Tis pity. Well! go to bed, child; we must talk more of it to-morrow. Bid Betty come to me at once, as you pass; I am drowsy to-night."
"I say, Fib," said Rhoda, who had adopted (from Molly) this not very complimentary diminutive for her cousin's name, but only used it when she was in a good humour--"I say, Fib, what did Madam want of you?"
"To know what I thought of Mr Edmundson."
"What fun! Well, what did you?"
"Why, I hoped his sermons would be better than himself: and they weren't."
"Did you tell Madam that?" inquired Rhoda, convulsed with laughter.
"No, not exactly that; I said--" "O Fib, I wish you had! She thinks it tip-top impertinence in any woman to presume to have an opinion about a sermon. My word! wouldn't you have caught it!"
"Well, I simply told her the truth," replied Phoebe; "that I didn't like him, and I didn't think he liked me."
Rhoda went off into another convulsion.
"O Fib, you are good--nobody better! What did she say to that?"
"She said his not fancying me wouldn't signify. But I think it would signify a good deal to me, if I had to be his wife."
"Well, she wouldn't think so, not a bit," said Rhoda, still laughing. "She'd just be thunderstruck if Mr Edmundson, or anybody else in his place, refused the honour of marrying anybody related to her. Shouldn't I like to see him do it! It would take her down a peg, I reckon."
This last elegant expression was caught from Molly.
"Well, I am sure I would rather be refused than taken unwillingly."
"Where did you get your notions. Fib? They are not the mode at all. You were born on the wrong side of fifty, I do think."
"Which is the wrong side of fifty?" suggestively asked Phoebe.
"I wish you wouldn't murder me with laughing," said Rhoda. "Look here now: what shall I be married in?"
"White and silver, Mrs Marcella said, this morning."
("This morning!" Phoebe's words came back no her. Was it only this morning?)
"Thank you! nothing so insipid for me. I think I'll have pink and dove-colour. What do you say?"
"I don't think I would have pink," said Phoebe, mentally comparing that colour with Rhoda's red and white complexion. "Blue would suit you better."
"Well, blue does become me," answered Rhoda, contemplating herself in the glass. "But then, would blue and dove-colour do? I think it should be blue and cold. Or blue and silver? What do you think, Phoebe? I say!" --and suddenly Rhoda turned round and faced Phoebe--"what does Madam mean by having Mr Dawson here? Betty says he was here twice while we were visiting, and he is coming again to-morrow. What can it mean? Is she altering her will, do you suppose?"
"I am sure I don't know, Cousin," said Phoebe.
"I shouldn't wonder if she is. I dare say she'll leave you one or two hundred pounds," said Rhoda, with extreme benignity. "Really, I wish she would. You're a good little thing, Fib, for all your whims."
"Thank you, Cousin," said Phoebe, meekly.
And the cousins went to sleep with amiable feelings towards each other.
The dawn was just creeping over the earth when something awoke Phoebe. Something like the faint tingle of a bell seemed to linger in her ears.
"Rhoda! --did you hear that?" she asked.
"Hear what?" demanded Rhoda, in a very sleepy voice.
"I fancied I heard a bell," said Phoebe, trying to listen.
"Oh, nonsense!" answered Rhoda, rather more awake. "Go to sleep. You've been dreaming."
And Phoebe, accepting the solution, took the advice. She was scarcely asleep again, as it seemed to her, when the door was softly opened, and Betty came in.
"Mrs Rhoda, my dear, you'd better get up."
"What time is it?" sleepily murmured Rhoda.
"You'd better get up," repeated Betty. "Never mind the time."
"Betty, is there something the matter?"
Betty ignored Phoebe's question.
"Come, my dear, jump up!" she said, still addressing Rhoda. "You'll be wanted by-and-bye."
"Who wants me?" inquired Rhoda, making no effort to rise.
"Well, Mr Dawson, the lawyer, is coming presently, and you'll have to see him."
"I!" Rhoda's eyes opened pretty wide. "Why should I see him? 'Tis Madam wants him, not me."
To the astonishment of both the girls, Betty burst out crying.
"Betty, I am sure something has happened," said Phoebe, springing up. "What is the matter?"
"O, my dear, Madam's gone!" sobbed Betty. "Poor dear gentlewoman! She'll never see anybody again. Mrs Rhoda, she's died in the night."
There was a moment of silent horror, as the eyes of the cousins met. Then Phoebe said under her breath-- "That bell!"
"Yes, poor dear Madam, she rang her bell," said Betty; "but she could not speak when I got to her. I don't think she was above ten minutes after. I've sent off sharp for Dr Saunders, and Mr Dawson too; but 'tis too late--eh, poor dear gentlewoman!"
"Did you send for Mr Leighton?" asked Rhoda, in an awe-struck voice.
"Oh dear, yes, I sent for him too; but la! what can he do?" answered Betty, wiping her eyes.
They all came in due order: Dr Saunders to pronounce that Madam had been dead three hours--"of a cardial malady," said he, in a professionally mysterious manner; Mr Leighton, the Vicar of Tewkesbury, to murmur a few platitudes about the virtues and charity to the poor which had distinguished the deceased lady, and to express his firm conviction that so exalted a character would be at once enrolled among the angelic host, even though she had not been so happy as to receive the Holy Sacrament. Mr Dawson came last, and his concern appeared to be awakened rather for the living than the dead.
"Sad business this!" said he, as he entered the parlour, where the cousins sat, close together, drawn to one another by the fellowship of suffering, in a manner they had never been before. "Sad business! Was to have seen me to-day--important matter. Humph!"
The girls looked at him, but neither spoke.
"Do you know," he pursued, apparently addressing himself to both, "how your grandmother had arranged her affairs?"
"No," said Rhoda and Phoebe together.
"Humph! Pity! Been a good deal better for you, my dear young gentlewoman, if she had lived another four-and-twenty hours."
Neither said "Which?" for both thought they knew.
"Poor Phoebe!" said Rhoda, pressing her hand. "But never mind, dear; I'll give it you, just right, what she meant you to have. We'll see about it before I'm married. Oh dear! --that will have to be put off, I suppose."
"You are going to be married?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes," said Rhoda, bridling.
"Humph! --good thing for you."
Mr Dawson marched to the window, with his hands in his pockets, and stood there softly whistling for some seconds.
"Got any money?" he abruptly inquired.
"I? No," said Rhoda.
"No, no; your intended."
"Oh! Yes--three thousand a year."
"Humph!" Mr Dawson whistled again. Then, making as if he meant to leave the room, he suddenly brought up before Phoebe.
"Are _you_ going to be married?"
"No, Sir," said Phoebe, blushing.
"Humph!" ejaculated the lawyer, once again.
Silence followed for a few seconds.
"Funeral on Sunday, I suppose? Read the will on Monday morning--eh?"
"Yes, if you please," said Rhoda, who was very much subdued.
"Good. Well! --good morning! Poor girl!" The last words were in an undertone.
"I am so sorry for it, Phoebe, dear," said Rhoda, who was always at her best under the pressure of trial. "But never you mind--you shall have it. I'll make it up to you."
Rhoda now naturally assumed the responsibility of mistress, and gave orders that no visitor should be admitted excepting the Vicar and Mr Welles. The evening brought the latter gentleman, who had apparently spent the interval in arraying himself in faultless mourning.
"I am so grieved, my charmer!" exclaimed Mr Marcus Welles, dropping on one knee, and lifting Rhoda's hand to his lips. "Words cannot paint my distress on hearing of your sorrow. Had I been a bird, I would have flown to offer you consolation. Pray do not dim your bright eyes, my fair. 'Tis but what happens to all, and specially in old age. Old folks must die, you know, dearest Madam; and, after all, did they not, young folks would find them very often troublesome. But you have now no one over you, and you see your slave at your feet."
And with a most unexceptionable bow, Mr Marcus gently possessed himself of Rhoda's fan, wherewith he began fanning her in the most approved manner. It occurred to Phoebe that if the gentleman's grief had been really genuine, it was doubtful whether his periods would have been quite so polished. Rhoda's sorrow, while it might prove evanescent, was honest while it lasted: and had been much increased by the extreme suddenness of the calamity.
"I thank you, Sir," she said quietly. "And I am sure you will be grieved to hear that my grandmother died just too soon to make that provision she intended for my cousin. So the lawyer has told us this morning. You will not, I cannot but think, oppose my wish to give her what it was meant that she should have."
"Dearest Madam!" and Mr Welles' hand went to his heart, "you cannot have so little confidence in me as to account it possible that I could oppose any wish of yours!"
Engaged persons did not, at that time, call each other by the Christian name. It would have been considered indecorous.
"I was sure, Sir, you would say no less," answered Rhoda.
|
{
"id": "21235"
}
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10
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MR. WELLES DOES IT BEAUTIFULLY.
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"Thy virtues lost, thou would'st not look Me in thy chains to hold? Know, friend, thou verily hast lost Thy chiefest virtue--gold."
Nine o'clock on the Monday morning was the hour appointed for reading Madam's will. When Rhoda and Phoebe, in their deep mourning, entered the parlour, they were startled to find the number of persons already assembled. Not only all the household and outdoor servants, but all the inmates of the Maidens' Lodge, excepting Mrs Marcella, and several others, stood up to receive the young ladies as they passed on to the place reserved for them.
Mr Dawson handed the girls to their places, and then seated himself at the table, and proceeded to unfold a large parchment.
"It will be well that I should remark," said he, looking up over his spectacles, "that the late Madam Furnival had intended, at the time of her death, to execute a fresh will. I am sorry to say it was not signed. This, therefore, is her last will, as duly executed. It bears date the fourteenth of November, in the year 1691--" An ejaculation of dismay, though under her breath, came from Rhoda, the lawyer went on:-- "--When Mrs Catherine Peveril, mother of Mrs Rhoda here, was just married, and before the marriage of Mrs Anne Furnival, mother to Mrs Phoebe Latrobe, who is also present. The intended will would have made provision for both of these young gentlewomen, grand-daughters to Madam Furnival. By the provisions of the present one, one of them is worsened, and the other bettered."
Rhoda's alarm was over. The last sentence reassured her.
Mr Dawson cleared his voice, and began to read. The will commenced with the preamble then usual, in which the testatrix declared her religious views as a member of the Church of England; and went on to state that she wished to be buried with her ancestors, in the family vault, in the nave of Tewkesbury Abbey. One hundred pounds was bequeathed to the Vicar of Tewkesbury, for the time being; twenty pounds and a suit of mourning to every servant who should have been in her employ for five years at the date of her death; six months' wages to those who should have been with her for a shorter time; a piece of black satin sufficient to make a gown, mantua, and hood, and forty pounds in money, to each inmate of the Maidens' Lodge. Mourning rings were left to the Maidens, the Vicar. Dr Saunders, Mr Dawson, and several friends mentioned by name, of whom Sir Richard Delawarr was one. Then the testatrix gave, devised, and bequeathed to her "dear daughter Catherine, wife of Francis Peveril, Esquire, with remainder to the heirs of her body, the sum of two thousand pounds of lawful money."
Rhoda's face grew eager, as she listened for the next sentence.
"Lastly, I give, devise, and bequeath the Abbey of Cressingham, commonly called White-Ladies, and all other my real and personal estate whatsoever, not hereinbefore excepted, to my dear daughter Anne Furnival, her heirs, assigns, administrators, and executors for ever."
The effect was crushing. That one sentence had changed everything. Not Rhoda, but Phoebe, was the heiress of White-Ladies.
Mr Dawson calmly finished reading the signatures and attestation clause, and then folded up the will, and once more looked over his spectacles.
"Mrs Phoebe, as your mother's representative, give me leave to wish you joy. Shall you wish to write to her? I must, of course. The letters could go together."
Phoebe looked up, half-bewildered.
"I scarcely understand," she said. "There is something left to Mother, is there not?"
"My dear young gentlewoman, there is everything left to her. She is the lady of the manor."
"Just what is there for Rhoda?" gasped Phoebe, apparently not at all elated by her change of position.
"A poor, beggarly two thousand pounds!" burst out Rhoda. " 'Tis a shame! And I always thought I was to have White-Ladies! I shall just be nobody now! Nobody will respect me, and I can never cut any figure. Well! I'm glad I am engaged to be married. That's safe, at any rate."
The elevation of Mr Dawson's eyebrows, and the pursing of his lips, might have implied a query on that score.
"I'm so sorry, dear!" said Phoebe, gently. "For you, of course, I mean. I could not be sorry that there was something for Mother, because she is not well off; but I am very sorry you are disappointed."
"You can't help it!" was Rhoda's rather repelling answer. Still, through all her anger, she remembered to be just.
"Certainly not, my dear Mrs Phoebe," said the lawyer. " 'Tis nobody's fault--not even Madam Furnival's, for the new will would have given White-Ladies to Mrs Rhoda, and five thousand pounds to Mrs Anne Latrobe. Undoubtedly she intended, Mrs Rhoda, you should have it."
"Then why can't I?" demanded Rhoda, fiercely.
Mr Dawson shook his head, with a pitying smile. "The law knows nothing of intentions," said he: "only of deeds fully performed. Still, it may be a comfort in your disappointment, to remember that this was meant for you."
"Thank you for your comfort!" said Rhoda, bitterly. "Why, it makes it all the worse."
"I wish--" but Phoebe stopped short.
"Oh, I don't blame you," said Rhoda, impetuously. " 'Tis no fault of yours. If she'd done it now, lately, I might have thought so. But a will that was made before either you or me was born--" Rhoda's grammar always suffered from her excitement--"can't be your fault, nor anybody else's. But 'tis a shame, for all that. She'd no business to let me go on all these years, expecting to have everything, and knew all the while her will wasn't right made. 'Tis too bad! My Lady Betty! --Mrs Dorothy! --don't you think so?"
"My dear," said Lady Betty, "I am indeed grieved for your disappointment. But there is decorum, my dear Mrs Rhoda--there is decorum!"
"No, my dear," was Mrs Dorothy's answer. "I dare not call anything bad that the Lord doth. Had it been His will you should have White-Ladies, be sure you would have had it."
"Well, you know," said Rhoda, in a subdued tone, and folding one of her black gauze ribbons into minute plaits, "of course, one can't complain of God."
"Ah, child!" sighed Mrs Dorothy, "I wish one could not!"
"O my dear Mrs Rhoda, I feel for you so dreadfully!" accompanied the tragically clasped hands of Mrs Clarissa. "My feelings are so keen, and run away with me so--" "Then let 'em!" said Mrs Jane Talbot's voice behind. "Mine won't. My dears, I'm sorry you've lost Madam. But as to the money and that, I'll wait ten years, and then I'll tell you which I'm sorry for."
"Well, I'm sorry for both of you," added Mrs Eleanor Darcy. "I don't think, Mrs Phoebe, my dear, you'll lie on roses."
No one was more certain of that than Phoebe herself.
She wrote a few lines to her mother, which went inside Mr Dawson's letter. Mrs Latrobe was in service near Reading. Her daughter felt sure that she would lose no time in taking possession. The event proved that she was right. The special messenger whom Mr Dawson sent with the letters returned with an answer to each. Phoebe's mother wrote to her thus:-- "Child,--Mr Dawson hath advertized me of the deth of Madam Furnivall, my mother. I would have you, on rect of this, to lett your cousen know that shee need not lieve the house afore I come, wich will be as soon as euer I can winde all upp and bee wth you. I would like to make aquaintance wth her ere anything be settled. I here from the layer [by which Mrs Latrobe meant _lawyer_] that she is to be maried, and it will be soe much ye better for you. I trust you may now make a good match yrself. But I shal see to all yt when I com.
"Yr mother, A. Latrobe."
Phoebe studied every word of this letter, and the more she studied it, the less she liked it. First, it looked as if Mrs Latrobe did mean Rhoda to leave the house, though she graciously intimated her intention of making acquaintance with her before she did so. Secondly, she was evidently in a hurry to come. Thirdly, she congratulated herself on Rhoda's approaching marriage, because it would get rid of her, and leave the way open for Phoebe. And lastly, she threatened Phoebe with "a good match." Phoebe thought, with a sigh, that "the time was out of joint," and heartily wished that the stars would go back into their courses.
Mrs Latrobe managed to wind all up in a surprisingly short time. She reached her early home in the cool of a summer evening, Rhoda having sent the family coach to meet her at Tewkesbury. Phoebe had said nothing to her cousin of any approaching change, which she thought it best to leave to her mother; so she contented herself by saying that Mrs Latrobe wished to make the acquaintance of her niece. Lady Betty kindly came up to help the inexperienced girls in making due preparation for the arrival of the lady of the manor. When the coach rolled up to the front door, Phoebe was standing on the steps, Lady Betty and Rhoda further back in the hall.
Mrs Latrobe was attired in new and stylish mourning.
"Ah, child, here you are!" was her first greeting to Phoebe. "The old place is grown greyer. Those trees come too near the windows; I shall cut some of them down. Where is your cousin?"
Rhoda heard the inquiry, and she stepped forward.
"Let us look at you, child," said Mrs Latrobe, turning to her. "Ah, you are like Kitty--not so good-looking, though."
"Mother," said Phoebe, gently, "this is my Lady Betty Morehurst. She was so kind as to help us in getting ready for you."
Mrs Latrobe appraised Lady Betty by means of one rapid glance. Then she thanked her with an amount of effulgence which betrayed either subservience or contempt. Lady Betty received her thanks with a quiet dignity which refused to be ruffled, kissed Rhoda and Phoebe, and took her leave, declining to remain even for the customary dish of tea. Mrs Latrobe drew off her gloves, sat down in Madam's cushioned chair, and desired Phoebe to give her some tea.
"Let me see, child!" she said, looking at Rhoda. "You are near one-and-twenty, I suppose?"
Rhoda admitted the fact.
"And what do you think of doing?"
Rhoda looked blankly first at her aunt, then at her cousin. Phoebe came hastily to the rescue.
"She is shortly to be married, Mother; did you forget?"
"Ah!" said Mrs Latrobe, still contemplating Rhoda. "Well--if it hold-- you may as well be married from hence, I suppose. Is the day fixed?"
"No, Aunt Anne."
"I think, my dear," remarked Mrs Latrobe, sipping her tea, "'twould be better if you said Madam. --Why, Phoebe, what old-fashioned china! Sure it cannot have been new these forty years. I shall sweep away all that rubbish. --Whom are you going to marry? Is he well off? --Phoebe, those shoe-buckles of yours are quite shabby. I cannot have you wear such trumpery. You must remember what is due to you. --Well, my dear?"
Rhoda had much less practice in the school of patience than Phoebe, and she found the virtue difficult just then. But she restrained herself as well as she could.
"I am engaged in marriage with Mr Marcus Welles; and he has an estate, and spends three thousand pounds by the year."
"Welles! A Welles of Buckinghamshire?"
"His estate is in this shire," said Rhoda.
"Three thousand! That's not much. Could you have done no better? He expected you would have White-Ladies, I suppose?"
"I suppose so. I did," said Rhoda, shortly.
"My dear, you have some bad habits," said Mrs Latrobe, "which Phoebe should have broken you of before I came. 'Tis very rude to answer without giving a name."
"You told me not to give you one, Aunt Anne."
"You are slow at catching meanings, my dear," replied Mrs Latrobe, with that calm nonchalance so provoking to an angry person. "I desired you to call me Madam, as 'tis proper you should."
"Phoebe doesn't," burst from Rhoda.
"Then she ought," answered Mrs Latrobe, coolly examining the crest on a tea-spoon.
"Oh, I will, Rhoda, if Mother wishes it," put in Phoebe, anxious above all things to keep the peace.
Rhoda vouchsafed no reply to either.
"Well!" said the lady of the manor, rising, "you will carry me to my chamber, child," addressing Rhoda. "You can stay here, Phoebe. Your cousin will wait on me."
It was something new for Rhoda to wait on anyone. She swallowed her pride with the best grace she could, and turned to open the door.
"I suppose you have had the best room made ready for me?" inquired Mrs Latrobe, as she passed out.
"Madam's chamber," replied Rhoda.
"Oh, but--not the one in which she died?"
"Yes," answered Rhoda; adding, after a momentary struggle with herself, "Madam."
"Oh, but that will never do!" said Mrs Latrobe, hastily. "I couldn't sleep there! A room in which someone died scarce a month ago! Where is my woman? Call her. I must have that changed."
Rhoda summoned Betty, who came, courtesying. Her mistress was too much preoccupied in mind to notice the civility.
"Why, what could you all be thinking of, to put me in this chamber? I must have another. This is the best, I know; but I cannot think of sleeping here. Show me the next best--that long one in the south wing."
"That is the young gentlewomen's chamber, Madam," objected Betty.
"Well, what does that matter?" demanded Mrs Latrobe, sharply. "Can't they have another? I suppose I come first!"
"Yes, of course, Madam," said subdued Betty.
Rhoda looked dismayed, but kept silence. She was learning her lesson. Mrs Latrobe looked into the girls' room, rapidly decided on it, and ordered it to be got ready for her.
"Then which must the young gentlewomen have, Madam?" inquired Betty.
"Oh, any," said Mrs Latrobe, carelessly. "There are enough."
"Which would you like, Mrs Rhoda?" incautiously asked Betty.
Before Rhoda could reply, her aunt said quickly,-- "Ask Mrs Phoebe, if you please."
And Betty remembered that the cousins had changed places. It was a very bitter pill to Rhoda; and it was not like Rhoda to say--yet she said it, as soon as she had the opportunity-- "Phoebe, Aunt Anne means you to choose our room: please don't have a little stuffy one."
"Dear Rhoda, which would you like?" responded Phoebe at once.
A little sob escaped Rhoda.
"Oh, Phoebe, you are going to be the only one who is good to me! I should like that other long one in the north wing, that matches ours; but don't choose it if you don't like it."
"We will have that," said Phoebe, reassuringly; "at least, if Mother leaves it to me."
Thus early it was made evident that the old nature in Anne Latrobe was scotched, not killed. Sorrow seemed to have laid merely a repressive hand upon her bad qualities, and to have uprooted none but good ones. The brilliance and playfulness of her early days were gone. The _coeur leger_ had turned to careless self-love, the impetuosity had become peevish obstinacy.
"Old Madam never spoke to me in that way!" said Betty. "She liked to have her way, poor dear gentlewoman, as well as anybody; and she wouldn't take a bit of impudence like so much barley-sugar, I'll not say she would; but she was a gentlewoman, every inch of her, that she was. And that's more than you can say for some folks!"
The next morning, all the Maidens--the invalid, as usual, excepted--came trooping up one after another, to pay their respects to the new lady of the manor.
Lady Betty came first; then Mrs Dorothy and Mrs Eleanor, together; after a little while, Mrs Clarissa; and lastly, Mrs Jane.
"My dear Mrs Anne, I remember you well, though perhaps you can scarce recollect me," said Mrs Dorothy, "for you were but nine years old the last time that I saw you. May the Lord bless you, my dear, and make you a blessing!"
"Oh, I don't doubt I shall do my duty," was the response of Mrs Latrobe, which very much satisfied herself and greatly dissatisfied Mrs Dorothy. " 'Tis delightful to see you back, dear Madam Latrobe!" said Mrs Clarissa, gushingly. "How touching must it be to return to the home of your youth, after so many years of banishment!"
Mrs Latrobe had not felt in the least touched, and hardly knew how to reply. "Oh, to be sure!" she said. "Glad to see you," said Mrs Jane. "Great loss we've had in Madam. Hope you'll be as good as she was. My sister desired me to make her compliments. Can't stir off the sofa. Fine morning!"
When the Maidens left the Abbey--which they did together--they compared notes on the new reign.
Lady Betty's sense of decorum was very much shocked. Mrs Latrobe had not spoken a word of her late mother, and had hinted at changes in matters which had existed at White-Ladies from time immemorial.
Mrs Clarissa was charmed with the new lady's manners and mourning, both which she thought faultless.
Mrs Eleanor thought "she was a bit shy, poor thing! We must make allowances, my dear friends--we must make allowances!"
"Make fiddlestrings!" growled Mrs Jane. "She's Anne Furnival still, and she'll be Anne Furnival to the end of the chapter. As if I didn't know Nancy! Ever drive a jibbing horse?"
Mrs Clarissa, who was thus suddenly appealed to, declared in a shocked tone that she never drove a horse of any description since she was born.
"Ah, well! I have," resumed Mrs Jane, ignoring the scandalised tone of her sister Maiden: "and that's just Nancy Furnival. She's as sleek in the coat as ever a Barbary mare. But you'll not get her along the road to Tewkesbury, without you make her think you want to drive her to Gloucester. I heard plenty of folks pitying Madam when she bolted. My word! --but I pitied somebody else a vast deal more, and that was Charles Latrobe. I wouldn't have married her, if she'd been stuck all over with diamonds."
"I fancy she drove him," said Mrs Eleanor with a smile.
"Like enough, poor soul!" responded Mrs Jane. "Only chance he had of any peace. He was a decent fellow enough, too,--if only he had kept clear of Nancy."
"What made him marry her?" thoughtfully asked Mrs Eleanor.
"Deary me!" exclaimed Mrs Jane. "When did you ever see a man that could fathom a woman? Good, simple soul that he was! --she made him think black was white with holding up a finger. She glistened bravely, and he thought she was gold. Well! --_we_ shan't have much peace now,-- take my word for it. Eh, this world! --'tis a queer place as ever I saw."
"True, my dear," replied Mrs Dorothy: "let us therefore be thankful there is a better."
But her opinion of Mrs Latrobe was not given.
The same evening, as Phoebe sat in the parlour with her mother, Betty came in with a courtesy.
"Mr Marcus Welles, to speak with Madam."
"With Mrs Rhoda?" asked Phoebe, rising. "I will go seek her."
"No, if you please, Mrs Phoebe: Mr Welles said, Madam or yourself."
"Phoebe, my dear, do not be such a fid-fad!" entreated Mrs Latrobe. "If Rhoda is wanted, she can be sought. --Good evening, Sir! I am truly delighted to have the pleasure of seeing you, and I trust we shall be better acquainted."
Mr Welles bowed low over Mrs Latrobe's extended hand.
"Madam, the delight is mine, and the honour. Mrs Phoebe, your servant,--your most humble servant."
It was the first time that Mr Welles had ever addressed Phoebe with more than a careless "good evening."
"Ready to serve you, Sir," said she, courtesying. "Shall I seek my cousin? She has wanted your company, I think."
This was a very audacious speech for Phoebe: but she thought it so extraordinary that Mr Welles had not paid one visit to his betrothed since the funeral, that she took the liberty of reminding him of it.
"Madam," said Mr Welles, with a complacent smile, toying with his gold chatelaine, "I really could not have visited you sooner, under the circumstances in which I found myself."
"Phoebe! have you lost your senses?" inquired Mrs Latrobe, sharply.
"I am sure," resumed Mr Marcus Welles, with an extremely graceful wave of his hand towards Mrs Latrobe, "that Madam will fully enter into my much lacerated feelings, and see how very distressing 'twould have been both to myself and her, had I forced my company on Mrs Rhoda, as matters stand at present."
Phoebe sat listening with a face of utter bewilderment. By what means had Mr Welles' feelings been lacerated? --and why should it be more distressing for him to meet Rhoda now than before? --But she kept silence, and Mrs Latrobe said,-- "I think, Sir, I have the honour to understand you."
"Madam!" replied Mr Marcus Welles, with his courtliest bow, "I am sure that a gentlewoman of your parts and discretion can do no less, I cannot but be infinitely sensible of the severe and cruel loss I am about to sustain: still, to my small estate, any other dealing would be of such mischievous consequence, that I think myself obliged to resign the views I proposed to myself."
Phoebe tried to understand him, and found it impossible.
"This being the case," continued he, "you will understand, dear Madam, that I thought myself engaged to wait until I might be honoured by some discourse with you: and meanwhile to abstain from any commerce of discourse in other quarters, till I had permission to acquaint you of the affair. I have indeed been in pain until I was able to wait upon you. I shall now be something eased. You, I am certain, dearest Madam, will contrive the business far better than my disordered mind would allow me; and I doubt not 'twould be more agreeable to all parties to communicate by that canal."
"If you wish it, Sir, it shall certainly be so," answered Mrs Latrobe, who seemed to be under no doubt concerning Mr Welles' meaning. "I am yours to serve you in the matter."
"Dearest Madam, you are an angel of mercy! The sooner I retire, then, the better."
He kissed Mrs Latrobe's hand, and came round to Phoebe.
"Mr Welles, you have not seen Rhoda yet. I do not understand!" said Phoebe blankly, as he bowed iver her hand.
"Madam, I have but just now engaged myself--" "Phoebe, don't be a goose!" burst from her mother. "You must be a baby if you do not understand. Cannot you see that Mr Welles, in a most honourable manner, which does him infinite credit, withdraws all pretensions to your cousin's hand, leaving her free to engage herself elsewhere? Really, I should have thought you had sense enough for that."
For a moment Phoebe looked, with a bewildered air, from her mother to Mr Welles. Then shyness, fear and reserve gave way before indignation. She did understand now.
"You mean to desert Rhoda, because she has lost the paltry money that you expected she would have?"
For once in his life, Mr Marcus Welles seemed startled and taken at a disadvantage.
"I was afraid you wanted her chiefly for her money, but I did not believe you capable of this! So you do not care for her at all? And you run away, afraid to face the pangs you have created, and to meet the eyes of the maid you have so foully wronged. Shame on you!"
"Phoebe, you must be mad!" exclaimed Mrs Latrobe, rising. "Don't listen to her, dear Mr Welles; 'tis a most distressing scene for you to bear. I am infinitely concerned my daughter should have so far forgotten herself as to address you with such vulgar abuse. I can only excuse her on the ground--" "Dearest Madam, there is every excuse," said Mr Welles, with the sweetest magnanimity. "Sweet Mrs Phoebe is a woodland bird, untrammelled as yet by those fetters which we men and women of the world must needs bear. 'Tis truly delightful to see the charming generosity and the admirable fire with which she plays the knight-errant. Indeed, Madam, such disinterested warmth and fervour of heart are seen but too seldom in this worn old world. Suffer me to entreat you not to chide Mrs Phoebe for her charming simplicity and high spirit."
"Since Mr Welles condescends to intercede for you, Phoebe, notwithstanding your shocking behaviour, I am willing to overlook it this time; but I warn you I shall not prove thus easy another time."
"I am sure I hope there will never be another time!" cried Phoebe, her eyes flashing.
"Phoebe, go to your chamber, and don't let me hear one word more," said Mrs Latrobe, severely.
And Phoebe obeyed, rushing upstairs with feet that seemed to keep pace with the whirlwind in her heart.
"Phoebe, I wonder whether of these ribbons, the silk or the gauze, would go best with-- Why, whatever in the world is the matter?" said Rhoda, breaking off.
"You may well ask, my dear," answered the voice of Mrs Latrobe, behind Phoebe. "Your cousin has been conducting herself in a most improper manner--offering gross insults to my guests in my house."
"Phoebe!" cried Rhoda, as if she could not believe her ears.
"Yes, Phoebe. She really has. I can only fear--indeed, I had almost said hope--that her wits are something impaired. What think you of her telling a gentleman who had acted in a most noble and honourable manner--exactly as a gentleman should do--that she could not have believed him capable of such baseness? and she cried shame on him!"
"Not Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda again, looking from one to the other very much as Phoebe had done. "Why, Phoebe, what does all this mean?"
"Oh, Rhoda, I can't tell you!" said Phoebe, sobbing, for the reaction had come. "Mother, you will have to tell her. I can't."
"Of course I shall tell her," calmly answered Mrs Latrobe. "I came for that very thing. Rhoda, my dear, I am sure you are a maid of sense and discretion."
"I hope so, Madam."
"So do I, child: and therefore you will hear me calmly, and not fly into passions like that silly maid yonder. My dear, you must have remembered, I am certain, that when you promised yourself to Mr Welles, you were in a very different situation from now."
Rhoda only bowed. Perhaps, on that subject, she was afraid to trust her voice.
"And, of course, it has also occurred to you, my dear, that this being the case, you could not in honour hold Mr Welles bound to you any longer, if he wished to be free?"
"But we don't wish to be free," said Rhoda, in a puzzled tone.
"You are mistaken, my dear, so far as one of you is concerned. Perhaps it had been yet more graceful had you been the one to loose the bond: yet Mr Welles has done it with so infinite a grace and spirit that I can scarce regret your omission. My dear, you are now entirely free. He sets you completely at liberty, and has retired from all pretension to you."
"But what, Aunt Anne--I do not understand you!" exclaimed Rhoda, in accents of bewildered amazement, which had a ring of agony beneath, as though she was struggling against the comprehension of a grief she was reluctant to face.
"Surely, my dear, you must have understood me," said Mrs Latrobe. "Mr Welles resigns his suit to you."
"He has given me up?" bursts from Rhoda's lips.
"He has entirely given you up. You cannot have really expected anything else?"
"I thought _he_ was true!" said Rhoda through her set teeth. "Are you sure you understood him? Phoebe, you tell me,--did he mean that?"
"O Rhoda! poor Rhoda! I am afraid he did!" said Phoebe, as distinctly as tears would let her.
"But, my dear," interposed Mrs Latrobe, remonstratingly, "surely you cannot be surprised? When Mr Welles engaged himself to you, it was (as he thought) to the heiress of a large estate. You could not expect him to encumber himself with a wife who brought him less than one year's income of his own. 'Tis not reasonable, child. No man in his senses would do such a thing. We live in the world, my dear,--not in Utopia."
"We live in a hard, cold, wicked, miserable world, and the sooner we are out of it the better!" came in a constrained voice from Rhoda.
"I beg, my dear," answered Mrs Latrobe, "you will not make extravagant speeches. There might be not another man in the world, that you should go into such a frenzy. We shall yet find you a husband, never fear."
"Not one like him, I hope!" murmured Phoebe. "And I don't think Rhoda wants anybody else."
"Phoebe," said her mother, "I am extreme concerned at the coarseness of your speeches. I had hoped you were a gentlewoman."
"Well, Mother," said Phoebe, firing up again, "if Mr Welles be a gentleman, I almost hope not!"
"My dear," said Mrs Latrobe, "Mr Welles is a gentleman. The style in which he announced his desire to withdraw from his suit to your cousin, was perfect. A prince could not have done it better."
"I should hope a prince would not have done it at all!" was the blunt response from Phoebe.
"You are not a woman of the world, my dear, but a very foolish, ignorant child, that does not know properly what she is saying. 'Tis so near bed-time you need not descend again. You will get over your disappointment, Rhoda, when you have slept, and I shall talk with you presently. Good-night, my dears."
And Mrs Latrobe closed the door, and left the cousins together.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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11
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PHOEBE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
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"We mend broken china, torn lace we repair; But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair."
"Did _she_ ever love anybody?" came in a low voice from Rhoda, when Mrs Latrobe had withdrawn, "Oh, I don't know!" sobbed Phoebe, who was crying violently, and might have seemed to a surface observer the more unhappy of the two.
"Don't weep so," said Rhoda. "I'm sure you don't need. Aunt Anne will never be angry long--she does not care enough about anything to keep it up."
"Oh, it is not for myself, Rhoda--poor Rhoda!"
"For me? Surely not, Phoebe. I have never been so good to you as to warrant that."
"I don't know whether you have been good to me or you have not, Cousin; but I am so sorry for you!"
Phoebe was kneeling beside the bed. Rhoda came over to her, and kissed her forehead, and said--what was very much for Rhoda to say--"I scarce think I deserve you should weep for me, Phoebe."
"But I can't help it!" said Phoebe.
"Well! I reckon I should have known it," said Rhoda, in a rather hard tone. "I suppose that is what all men are like. But I did think he was true--I did!"
"I never did," responded Phoebe.
"Well!" sighed Rhoda again. "Let it pass. Perhaps Mrs Dorothy is right--'tis best to trust none of them."
"I don't think Mrs Dorothy said that," replied Phoebe, heaving a long sigh, as she sat up and pushed back her ruffled hair. "I do hope I wasn't rude to Mother."
"Nothing she'll care about," said Rhoda. "I wondered he did not come, Phoebe."
"So did I, and I told him as much. But--Rhoda, I think perhaps we shall forgive him sooner if we don't talk about it."
"Ah! I have not come to forgiving yet," was Rhoda's answer. "Perhaps I shall some time. Well! I shall be an old maid now, Phoebe, like Mrs Dorothy, I suppose you'll be the one to marry."
"Thank you, I'd rather not!" said Phoebe, quickly. "I am not sure I should like it at all; and I am quite sure I don't want to be married for my money, or for what people expect me to have."
"Oh, there's nothing else in this world!" answered Rhoda, with an air of immense experience. "Don't you expect it. Every man you come across is an avaricious, designing creature. Oh dear! 'tis a weary weary world, and 'tis no good living!"
"Yes, Rhoda dear, there is one good in living, and 'tis always left to us, whatever we may lose," said Phoebe, earnestly. "Don't you remember what the Lord Jesus said to His disciples--`My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me?' There is always that, Rhoda."
"Ah, that is something I don't know anything about," said Rhoda, wearily. "And I always think 'tis right down shabby of people to turn religious, just because they have lost the world, and are disappointed and tired. And I was never cut out for a saint, Phoebe--'tis no use!"
"Rhoda, dear, when people give all their days to Satan, and then turn religious, as you say, just at last, when they are going to die, or think they are--don't you think that right down shabby? The longer you keep away from God, the less you have to give Him when you come. And as--" "I thought you Puritans always said we hadn't anything to give to God, but He gave everything to us," objected Rhoda, pettishly.
Phoebe passed the tone by, and answered the words, "I think there are two things we can give to God, Cousin: our sins, that He may cast them into the depths of the sea; and ourselves, that He may save and train us. And the longer you stay away, the more sin you will have to bring; and the less time there will be for loving and serving Him. You will be sorry, when you do come, that you were not sooner."
"How do you know I shall? I tell you, I wasn't cut out for a saint."
"I think you will, Cousin, because I have asked Him to bring you," said Phoebe, simply; "and it must be His will to hear that; because He willeth not the death of a sinner."
"So you count me a sinner! I am sure I'm very much obliged to you!" said Rhoda, more in her old style than before.
"Yes, dear Cousin, I count you a sinner; and so do I myself, and every body else," said Phoebe, gently.
"Oh, well, I suppose we are all sinners," admitted Rhoda. "Don't I keep telling you I am not made for a saint?"
"But you were, Rhoda; God made you for Himself," said Phoebe.
"Oh, well 'tis no use talking!" and Rhoda got up, and began to pull down her elaborately-dressed hair, with hasty, uncareful fingers. "We'd better go to bed."
"Perhaps it isn't much use talking," said Phoebe, as she rose to help her. "But it is sure to be some praying, so I shall go on."
It was a few days later, and Phoebe was crossing the Park on her way to the Maidens' Lodge, carrying a basket of fruit sent by Mrs Latrobe to Lady Betty. From all the Maidens, except Lady Betty, Mrs Latrobe held aloof. Mrs Jane was too sharp for her, Mrs Marcella too querulous, and Mrs Dorothy too dull. Mrs Clarissa she denounced as "poor vain flirt that could not see her time was passed," and Mrs Eleanor, she declared, gave her the horrors only to look at. But Lady Betty she diligently cultivated. How much of her regard was due to her Ladyship's title, Mrs Latrobe did not explain.
Phoebe was nearing the Maidens' Lodge, and had just entered the last glade on her way thither, when--very much to her disapprobation and dismay--from a belt of trees on her left hand, Mr Marcus Welles stepped out and stood before her.
"Your most humble servant, Mrs Phoebe! I was very desirous to have the honour of waiting on you this fine morning; and thinking that I saw you at a little distance, I took the great liberty of accosting you."
If Phoebe had said just what she thought, she would have informed Mr Welles that he had taken a wholly unwarrantable liberty in so doing; for while she sagely counselled Rhoda to forgive the offender, she had by no means forgiven him herself. But being mindful of conventionalities, Phoebe courtesied stiffly, and left Mr Welles to explain himself at his leisure. Now, Mr Welles had come to that glade in the Park for the special purpose of making a communication, which he felt rather an awkward one to make with that amount of grace which beseemed him: nevertheless, being a very adroit young man, and much given to turning corners in a rapid and elegant manner, he determined to go through with the matter. If it had only been anyone but Phoebe!
"Mrs Phoebe," he began, "I cannot but flatter myself that you are not wholly ignorant of the high esteem I have long had for your deep merit."
"Cannot you, Sir?" responded Phoebe, by no means in a promising manner.
Mr Welles felt the manner. He thought his web was scarcely fine-spun enough. He must begin again.
"I trust that Madam is in good health, Mrs Phoebe?"
"My mother is very well, I thank you, Sir."
"You are yourself in good health, I venture to hope, Madam?"
"I am, Sir, I thank you."
The task which Mr Welles had set himself, as he perceived with chagrin, was proving harder than he had anticipated. Phoebe evidently intended to waste no more time on him than she could help.
"The state of affairs at White-Ladies is of infinite concern to me, Madam."
"Is it, Sir?"
"Undoubtedly, Madam. Your health and happiness--all of you--are extreme dear to me."
"Really, Sir!"
"Especially _yours_, Madam."
Phoebe made no answer to this. Her silence encouraged Mr Welles to proceed. He thought his tactics had succeeded, and the creature was coming round by degrees. The only point now requiring care was not to startle her away again.
"Allow me to assure you, Madam, that your welfare is in my eyes a matter of infinite concern."
"So you said, Sir," was Phoebe's cool reply, Mr Welles was very uncomfortable. Had he made any mistake? Was it possible that, after all, the creature was not coming round in an orthodox manner?
"Madam, give me leave to assure you, moreover, that I am infinitely attached to you, and desire no higher happiness than to be permitted to offer you my service."
It was an instant before Phoebe recognised that Mr Marcus Welles was actually making her an offer. When she did, her answer was immediate and unmistakable.
"Don't you, Mr Welles?" said Phoebe. "Then I do!"
"Madam, have you misapprehended me?" demanded her suitor, to whom the idea of any woman refusing him was an impossibility not to be entertained for a moment.
"I should be glad if I had," said Phoebe.
"You must be labouring under some mistake, Madam. I have an estate which brings me in three thousand a year, and I am my own master. 'Tis not an opportunity a maid can look to meet with every day, nor is it every gentlewoman that I would ask to be my wife."
"No--only a golden one!" said Phoebe.
"Madam!"
Phoebe turned, and their eyes met.
"Mr Welles, give me leave to tell you the truth: you do not hear it often. You do not wish to marry me. You wish to obtain White-Ladies. 'Tis of no consequence to you whether the woman that must needs come with it be Phoebe Latrobe or Rhoda Peveril. My cousin would please you better than I; but you really care not a straw for either of us. You only want the estate. Allow me in my turn to assure you that, so far as I am concerned, you will not get it. The man who could use my cousin as you have done may keep away from endeavouring my favour. I wish you a very good morning, Mr Welles."
"I beg, Madam, that you will permit me to explain--" stammered Mr Welles, whose grace and tactics alike forsook him under the treatment to which he was subjected by Phoebe.
"Sir, there is nothing to explain."
And with a courtesy which could be construed into nothing but final dismissal, Phoebe left her astonished suitor to stand and look after her with the air of a beaten general, while she turned the corner of the Maidens' Lodge, and made her way to Lady Betty's door.
Lady Betty was at that moment giving an "at home" on the very minute scale permitted by the diminutive appointments of the Maidens' Lodge. Mrs Jane Talbot and Mrs Dorothy Jennings were seated at her little tea-table.
"Why, my dear Mrs Phoebe! what an unlooked-for pleasure!" exclaimed Lady Betty, coming forward cordially.
If her cordiality had been a shade more distinct since Phoebe became heiress of Cressingham--well, she was only human. The other ladies present had sustained no such change.
"The Lord bless thee, dear child!" was the warm greeting of Mrs Dolly; but it had been quite as warm long before.
"Evening!" said Mrs Jane, with a sarcastic grin. "Got it over, has he? Saw you through the side window. Bless you, child, I know all about it--I expected that all along. Hope you let him catch it--the jackanapes!"
"I did not let him catch me, Mrs Jane," answered Phoebe, with some dignity.
"That's right!" said Mrs Jane, decidedly. "That bundle of velvet and braid would never have made any way with me, when I was your age, my dear. Why, any mantua-maker could cut him out of snips, and have some stuff left over."
"He is of very good family, my dear Mrs Jane," observed Lady Betty; "at least, if I take you rightly in supposing you allude to Mr Welles."
"More pity for the family!" answered Mrs Jane. "Glad I'm not his mother. Ruin me to keep, him in order. Cost a fortune in whip-leather. How's Mrs Rhoda?"
"She is very well, I thank you, Madam."
"Is she crying out her eyes over that piece of fiddle-faddle?"
"I think she has finished for the present," replied Phoebe, rather drily.
"Just you tell her he's been making up to you. Best thing you can do. Cure her sooner than anything else."
"Mrs Phoebe, my dear, may I beg of you to do me the favour to let Madam know that my niece, my Lady Delawarr, is much disordered in her health?"
"Certainly, my Lady Betty; I am grieved to hear it."
"Very much so, as 'tis feared; and Sir Richard hath asked me thither to visit her, and see after matters a little while she is laid by. I purpose to go thither this next week, but I would not do so without paying my respects to Madam, for which honour I trust to wait on her to-morrow. Indeed, my dear--and if you will mention it to Madam, you will do me a service--Sir Richard's letter is not without some importunity that should my niece be laid aside for any time, as her physician fears, I would remove altogether, and make my home with them."
"Indeed, Madam, I will tell my mother all about it."
"I thank you, my dear; 'twill be a kindness. Of course, I would not like to leave without Madam's concurrence."
"That you will have," quietly said Mrs Dorothy.
"Indeed, so I hope," returned Lady Betty. "I dare say Mrs Phoebe here at least does not know that when my nephew Sir Richard was young, after his mother died--my poor sister Penelope--he was bred up wholly in my care, so that he looks on me rather as his mother than his aunt, and 'tis but natural that his thoughts should turn to me in this trouble."
"You must have been a young aunt, my Lady Betty," remarked Mrs Dorothy.
"Truly, but twelve years elder than my nephew," said Lady Betty, with a smile.
"Clarissa would have told us that, without waiting to be asked," laughed Mrs Jane. "How are the girls, my Lady Betty?"
"Very well, as I hear. You know, I guess, that Betty is engaged in marriage?"
"So we heard. To Sir Charles Rich, is it not?"
"The same. But maybe you have not heard of Molly's conquest?" asked Lady Betty, with an amused little laugh.
"What, is Mrs Molly in any body's chains?"
"Indeed, I guess not, Mrs Jane," replied Lady Betty, still laughing. "I expect my friend Mr Thomas Mainwaring is in Molly's chains, if chains there be."
"Eh, she'll lead him a weary life!" said Mrs Jane.
"Let us hope she will sober down," answered Lady Betty. "I am not unwilling to allow there hath of late been room for improvement. Yet is there some good in Molly, as I think."
Phoebe remembered Molly's assistance in the matter of Mr Edmundson, and thought it might be so.
"Well, and what of Mrs Gatty?"
"Ah, poor maid! She, at least, can scarce hope to be happy, her disfigurement is so unfortunate."
"I must needs ask your pardon, my Lady Betty, but I trust that is not the case," said Mrs Dorothy, with a gentle smile. "Sure, happiness doth not depend on face nor figure?"
"The world mostly reckons so, I believe," answered Lady Betty, with a responsive smile. "Maybe, we pick up such words, and use them, in something too heedless a manner."
"I am mightily mistaken if Mrs Gatty do not prove the happiest of the three," was Mrs Dorothy's reply.
Mrs Dorothy rose to go home, and Phoebe took leave at the same time. She felt tired and harassed, and longed for the rest of a little quiet talk with her old friend.
"And how doth Mrs Rhoda take this, my dear?" was the old lady's first question, when Phoebe had poured out her story.
"She seemed very much troubled at first, and angry; but I fancy she is getting over it now."
"Which most? --troubled or angry?"
"I think--after a few minutes, at least--more angry."
"Then she will quickly recover. I do not think she loved him, Phoebe. She liked him, I have no doubt: and she flattered herself that he loved her; but if she be more angry than hurt, that shows that her pride suffers rather than her love. At least," said Mrs Dorothy, correcting herself, "I mean it looks so. Who am I, that I should judge her?"
"I wanted it to do her some good, Mrs Dolly. It seems hard to have the suffering, and not get the good." " 'Tis not easy for men to tell what does good, and when. We cannot as concerns ourselves; how then shall we judge for others?"
"I wonder what Rhoda will do now?" suggested Phoebe, after a minute's silence.
She looked up, and saw an expression, which was the mixture of pity and amusement, on Mrs Dorothy's lips. The amusement died away, but the pity remained and grew deeper.
"Can you guess, Mrs Dolly?" " `Lord, and what shall this man do?' You know the answer, Phoebe."
"Yes, I know: but-- Mrs Dorothy, would you not like to know the future?"
"Certainly not, dear child. I am very thankful for the mist which my Father hath cast as a veil over my eyes."
"But if you could see what would come, is it not very likely that there would not be some things which you would be glad and relieved to find absent?"
"Very likely. The things of which we stand especially in fear often fail to come at all. But there would be other things, which I should be very sorry to find, and much astonished too."
"I wonder sometimes, what will be in my life," said Phoebe, dreamily.
"That which thou needest," was the quiet answer.
"What do I need?" asked Phoebe.
"To have thy will moulded after God's will."
"Do you think I don't wish God's will to be done, Mrs Dorothy?"
Mrs Dorothy smiled. "I quite believe, dear child, thou art willing He should have His way with respect to all the things thou dost not care about."
"Mrs Dorothy!"
"My dear, that is what most folks call being resigned to the will of God."
"Mrs Dolly, why do people always talk as though God's will must be something dreadful? If somebody die, or if some accident happen, they say, `Ah, 'tis God's will, and we must submit.' But when something pleasant comes, they never say it then. Don't you think the pleasant things are God's will, as well as the disagreeable ones?"
"More so, Phoebe. `In all our affliction, He is afflicted.' `He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.' Pleasant things are what He loves to give us; bitter things, what He needs must."
"Then why do people talk so?" repeated Phoebe.
"Ah, why do they?" said Mrs Dorothy. "Man is always wronging God. Not one of us all is so cruelly misunderstood of his fellows as all of us misunderstand Him."
"Yet He forgives," said Phoebe softly: "and sometimes we don't."
"He is always forgiving, Phoebe. The inscription is graven not less over the throne in Heaven than over the cross on earth,--`This Man receiveth sinners.'"
There was a pause of some minutes; and as Phoebe rose to go, Mrs Dorothy said,-- "I will tell you one thing I have noted, child, as I have gone through life. Very often there has been something looming, as it were, before me that I had to do, or thought I should have to bear,--and in the distance and the darkness it took a dread shape, and I looked forward to it with terror. And when it has come at last, it has often--I say not always, but often--proved to be at times a light and easy cross, even at times an absolute pleasure. Again, there hath often been something in the future that I have looked forward to as a great good and delight, which on its coming hath turned out a positive pain and evil. 'Tis better we should not know the future, dear Phoebe. Our Father knows every step of the way: is not that enough? Our Elder Brother hath trodden every step, and will go with us through the wilderness. Perfect wisdom and perfect love have prepared all things. Ah, child, thy fathers were wise men to sing as they sang-- "`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"
"But, Mrs Dolly-- I suppose it can't be so, yet--it does seem as if there were some things in life which the Lord Jesus did not go through."
"What things, my dear?"
"Well, we never read of His having any kind of sickness for one thing."
"Are you sure of that? `Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses,' looks very like the opposite. You and I have no idea, Phoebe, how He spent thirty out of thirty-three years of His mortal life. He may--mind, I don't say it was so, for I don't know--but He may have spent much of them in a sick chamber. He was `in _all_ points tempted like as we are.' My father used to tell me that the word there rendered `tempted' signifies not only temptations of Satan, but trials sent of God."
"But--He was never a woman, Mrs Dolly."
"And therefore cannot feel for a woman as though He had been,--is that thy meaning, dear? Nay, Phoebe, I believe He was the only creature that ever dwelt on earth in whom were the essential elements both of man and woman. He took His flesh of the woman only. The best part of each was in Him,--the strength and intelligence of the man, the love and tenderness of the woman. 'Tis modish to say women are tender, Phoebe; more modish than true. Many are soft, but few are tender. But He was tenderness itself."
"I don't think women always are tender," said Phoebe.
"My dear," said Mrs Dorothy, "you may laugh at me, but I am very much out of conceit with my own sex. A good woman is a very precious thing, Phoebe; the rather since 'tis so rare. But an empty, foolish, frivolous woman is a sad, sad sight to see. Methinks I could scarce bear with such, but for four words that I see, as it were, graven on their brows,--`For whom Christ died.'"
"Very good!" said Mrs Latrobe. "I will not conceal from you, Phoebe, that I am extreme gratified with this decision of Lady Betty. I trust she will carry it out."
Phoebe felt a good deal surprised. Lady Betty had been the only inmate of the Lodge whose society her mother had apparently cared to cultivate, and yet she expressed herself much pleased to hear of her probable departure. She remembered, too, that Mrs Dorothy had expected Mrs Latrobe's assent. To herself it was a mystery.
Mrs Latrobe gave no explanation at the time. She went at once to another part of the subject, informing Phoebe that she had asked Betty and Molly Delawarr on a visit. Gatty had been invited also, but had declined to leave her mother in her present condition. Phoebe received this news with some trepidation. Had it been Betty alone, she would not have minded; for she thought her very good-natured, and could not understand Rhoda's expressed dislike to her. But Molly! --Phoebe tried to remember that Molly had done one kind action, and hoped she would be on her best behaviour at White-Ladies. Mrs Latrobe went on to say that she wished Phoebe to share her room with Betty, and would put Rhoda and Molly in another. But when Phoebe ventured to ask if Rhoda might not retain the room which she knew her to prefer, and Phoebe herself be the one to change, Mrs Latrobe refused to entertain the proposition.
"No, my dear, certainly not. You forget your station, Phoebe. You are the daughter of this house, not your cousin. You must not be thinking of how things were. They have changed. I could not think of allowing Rhoda to have the best chamber. Besides, she has got to come down, and she had best know it at once."
"What do you mean, Madam, if you please?"
"What do I mean? Why, surely you have some sense of what is proper. You don't fancy she could continue to live here, do you? If she had married Mr Welles, I should have said nothing against her staying here till her marriage--of course, if it were a reasonable time; but now that is all over. She must go."
"Go!" gasped Phoebe. "Go whither, Madam?"
"I shall offer her the choice of two things, my clear. She can either go to service, in which case I will not refuse to take the trouble to look out a service for her--I am wishful to let her down gently, and be very good to her; or, if she prefer that, she may have my Lady Betty's house as soon as she is gone. Have you any idea which she will choose?"
"Service! The Maidens' Lodge! Rhoda!"
"My dear Phoebe, how very absurd you are. What do you mean by such foolish ejaculations? Rhoda will be uncommonly well off. You forget she has the interest of her money, and she has some good jewellery; she may make a decent match yet, if she is wise. But in the meantime, she must live somehow. Of course I could not keep her here--it would spoil your prospects, simpleton! She has a better figure than you, and she has more to say for herself. You must not expect any body to look at you while she is here."
"Oh, never mind that!" came from the depth of Phoebe's heart.
"But, my dear, I do mind it. I must mind it. You do not understand these things, Phoebe. Why, I do believe, with a very little encouragement--which I mean him to have--Mr Welles himself would offer for you."
"That is over, Madam."
"What is over? Phoebe! what do you mean? Has Mr Welles really spoken to you?"
"Yes, Madam."
"When, my dear?" asked Mrs Latrobe, in a tone of deep interest.
"This afternoon, Madam!"
"That is right! I am so pleased. I was afraid he would want a good deal of management. And you've no more notion how to manage a man than that parrot. I should have to do it all myself."
"I beg your pardon, Madam," said Phoebe, with some dignity; "I gave him an answer."
"Of course, you did, my dear. I am only afraid--sometimes, my dear Phoebe, you let your shyness get the better of you till you seem quite silly--I am afraid, I say, that you would hardly speak with becoming warmth. Still--" "I think, Madam, I was as warm as you would have wished me," said Phoebe, drily.
"Oh, of course, there is a limit, my dear," said Mrs Latrobe, bridling. "Well, I am so glad that it is settled. 'Tis just what I was wishing for you."
"I fear, Madam, you misconceive me," said Phoebe, looking up, "and 'tis settled the other way from what you wished."
"Child, what can you mean?" asked Mrs Latrobe, with sudden sharpness. "You never can have refused such an excellent offer? What did you say to Mr Welles?"
"I sent him away, and told him never to come near me again." Phoebe spoke with warmth enough now.
"Phoebe, you must be a lunatic!" burst from her mother. "I could not have believed you would be guilty of such supreme, unpardonable folly!"
"Sure," said Phoebe, looking up, "you would never have had me marry a man whom I despised in my heart?"
"Despised! I protest, Phoebe, you are worse and worse. What do you mean by saying you despise Mr Welles? A man of excellent manners and faultless taste, of good family, with an estate of three thousand a year, and admirable prospects when his old uncle dies, who is nearly seventy now--why, Phoebe, you must be a perfect fool! I am amazed at you beyond words."
There was a light in Phoebe's eyes which was beyond Mrs Latrobe's comprehension.
"Mother!" came from the girl's lips, with a soft intonation--"Father would not have asked me to do that!"
"Really, my dear, if you expect that I am to rule myself by your father's notions, you expect a great deal too much. He was not a man of the world at all--" "He was not!"
"Not in the least! --and he had not the faintest idea what would be required of you when you came to your present position. Don't quote him, I beg of you! --Well, really, Phoebe--I don't know what to do now. I wish I had known of it! Still I don't see, if he were determined to speak to you, how I could have prevented you from making such a goose of yourself. I do wish he had asked me! I should have accepted him at once for you, and not given you the chance to refuse. What did you say to him? Is it quite hopeless to try and win him back?"
"Quite," said Phoebe, shortly.
"But I want to know exactly what you said."
"I told him I believed he wanted the estate, and not me; and that after behaving to my cousin as he did, he did not need to expect to get either it or me."
"Phoebe! what preposterous folly!" said Mrs Latrobe. "Well, child, you are a fool--that's as plain as a pikestaff; but--" "You're a fool!" came in a screech from the parrot's cage, followed by a burst of laughter.
"But 'tis no use crying over spilt milk. If we have lost Mr Welles, we have lost him; and we must try for some one else. Oh dear, how hot it is! Phoebe, I wonder when you will have any sense. I do beseech you, my dear, never to play the same game with anyone else."
"I hope, Mother," said Phoebe, gravely, "that I shall never have occasion."
"What a lot of geese!" said the parrot.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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12
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ENDS IN THE MAIDENS' LODGE.
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"Mother, Mother, up in Heaven, Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me."
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.
"Before these young gentlewomen come, Rhoda, I want a word with you."
"Yes, Madam."
"I am sure, my dear, that you have too much wit to object to what I am about to say."
Rhoda had learned to dread this beginning, as it was generally the prelude to something disagreeable. But she was learning, also, to submit to disagreeable things. She only said, meekly, "Yes, Madam."
"I suppose, my dear, you will have felt, like a maid of some parts and spirit as you are, that your dwelling any longer with me and Phoebe in this house would not be proper."
"Not be proper!" Rhoda's cheek blanched. She had never recognised anything of the kind. Was she not only to lose her fortune, but to be turned out of her home? When would her calamities come to an end? "Not proper, Aunt Anne! --why not?"
This was not altogether an easy question to answer with any reason but the real one, which last must not be told to Rhoda. Mrs Latrobe put on an air of injured astonishment.
"My dear! --sure, you would not have me tell you that? No, no! --your own good parts, I am certain, must have assured you. Now, Rhoda, I wish, so far as is possible, to spare you all mortification. If you consider that it would be easier to you to support your altered fortunes elsewhere, I am very willing to put myself to some trouble to obtain for you a suitable service; or if, on the other hand, you have not this sensibility, then my Lady Betty's cottage is at your disposal when she leaves it. The time that these young gentlewomen are here will be enough to think over the matter. When they go, I shall expect your answer."
Had Phoebe wished to tell out to Rhoda a recompense of distress equivalent to every annoyance which she had ever received from her, she could have wished for no revenge superior to that of this moment. For her, who had all her life, until lately, looked forward to dispensing her favours as the Queen of Cressingham, to be offered apartments in the Maidens' Lodge as an indigent gentlewoman, was in her eyes about the last insult and degradation which could be inflicted on her. She went white and red by turns; she took up the hem of her apron, and began to plait it in folds, with as much diligence as though it had been a matter of serious importance that there should be a given number of plaits to an inch, and all of the same width to a thread. Still she did not speak.
Mrs Latrobe required no words to inform her of what was passing in Rhoda's mind. But she forestalled any words which might have come, by an affectation of misunderstanding her.
"You see, my dear Rhoda," she said, in a would-be affectionate tone, "I am bound to do all I can for my only sister's only child. I would not do you so much injury as to suppose you insensible to the kindness I have shown you. Indeed, if you had been something younger, and had wished to learn any trade, I would willingly have paid the premium with you. And 'tis no slight matter, I can assure you. Eighty pounds would have been the least for which I could have put you with a milliner or mantua-maker, to learn her trade. But, however, 'tis no good talking of that, for you are a good nine years too old. So there is nothing before you but service, without you marry, or to take my Lady Betty's house. Now, my dear, you may go and divert yourself; we will not talk of this matter again till the young gentlewomen have ended their visit."
And with a nod of dismissal, Mrs Latrobe rose and passed out of the room, evidently considering her duties exceeded by her merits, and leaving Rhoda too stunned for words.
Trade, indeed! If there could be a deeper depth than the Maidens' Lodge, it was trade, in Rhoda's eyes. Domestic service was incomparably more respectable and honourable. As to matrimony, which her aunt had, as it were, flung into the scales as she passed, Rhoda's heart was still too sore to think of it.
An hour later brought Betty and Molly.
"How do you, Rhoda, dear?" inquired the former, kindly.
"Well! --got over it, Red Currants?" interrogated Molly.
"Over what, I beg?" said Rhoda, rather haughtily.
Molly sang her answer:-- "`I lost my looks, I lost my health, I lost my wit--my love kept true; But one fine day I lost my wealth, And, presto! off my lover flew.'
"Isn't that about it, old Tadpole?"
"Your's hasn't," retorted Rhoda, carrying the attack into the enemy's country.
"No; I haven't lost my wealth yet," said Molly, gravely for her.
"Who told you?" whispered Phoebe.
"O Gemini! isn't that a good jest?" responded Molly, not at all in a whisper. " `Who told me?' --just as if three hundred and sixty-five people hadn't told me. Told me more jokes than one, too, Mrs Phoebe Latrobe; told me how _you_ sent off Master Marcus with all the starch washed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry--O Gemini!" and Molly almost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart to powder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted the guineas. --Oh how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see his face! Phoebe, you're tip-top."
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something of her old sharp manner.
"Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer," said Molly. "His heart was broken to bits by losing--your money; so he picked up the pieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing to your cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature! instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what does she but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crush his poor pasted heart into dust. Really--" "Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in his corns?"
"If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which I have come on that subject," replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner, "they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have pretty little ornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashed about once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knows the difference. There isn't much, when 'tis nicely done."
"Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?"
"Not one among 'em, present company excepted."
"Oh, Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still laughing. "I thank you, in the name of present company," added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her eyes which was not mirth.
"Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me," said Molly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don't you let it waste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breaking his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him--you'll never do better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spoken truth this time. --Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguished visitors into the parlour?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you."
"Madam, I thank you for the compliment," and, with a low courtesy, Molly gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.
"Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her cousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of the old hall, once the refectory of the Abbey. "Tell me, did Marcus Welles offer to you?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more. "And you refused him?"
"Why, Rhoda, dear! Yes, of course."
"Not for my sake, I hope. Phoebe, I would not marry him now, if he came with his hat full of diamonds."
"Make your mind easy, dear. I never would have done."
"Do you know, Phoebe, Aunt Anne has offered to put me in the Maidens' Lodge?"
"She talked of it," said Phoebe, pitifully.
"I am not going there," responded Rhoda, in a decisive tone. "I'll go to service first. Perhaps, I can come down so much, away from here; but to do it here, where I thought to be mistress! --no, I could not stand that, Phoebe."
"I am sorry you have to stand any of it, dear Rhoda."
"You are a good little thing, Fib; I could not bear you to pity me if you were not. If Aunt Anne had but half your--" "Phoebe, where are you? Really, my dear, I am quite shocked at your negligence! Carry the young gentlewomen up to their chambers, and let Rhoda wait on them. I take it extreme ill you should have left them so long. Do, my dear, remember your position!"
Remember her position! Phoebe was beginning to wish heartily that she might now and then be permitted to forget it.
The four girls went upstairs together.
"I say, Fib, did you ever shoot a waterfall in a coble?" inquired Molly.
Phoebe felt safe in a negative.
"Because I've heard folks say who have, that 'tis infinitely pleasant, when you come alive out of it; but then, you see, there's a little doubt about that."
"I don't understand you, Mrs Molly."
"No, my dear, very like you don't. Well, you'll find out when you've shot 'em. You're only a passenger; no blame to you if you don't come out alive."
"Who's rowing, Molly?" asked Rhoda.
"Somebody that isn't used to handling the oars," said Molly. "And if she don't get a hole stove in--Glad 'tis no concern of mine!"
"How does Gatty now?" asked Rhoda.
"O she is very well, I thank you," replied Betty.
"Is she promised yet?"
"Dear, no," said Betty, in a pitying tone.
"Rank cruelty, only to think on it," said Molly. "She'll just come in, as pat as vinegar to lettuce, to keep you company in the Maidens' Lodge, my beloved Rhoda."
Rhoda's lip trembled slightly, but she asked, quietly enough-- "Which is the vinegar?"
Molly stood for a moment with her head on one side, contemplating Rhoda.
"Been putting sugar to it, Fib, haven't you? Well, 'tis mighty good stuff to cure a cough."
"Phoebe," said her mother that evening, when prayers were over, "I wish to speak with you in my chamber before you go to yours."
Phoebe obeyed the order with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.
"My dear, I have good news for you. I have chosen your husband."
"Mother!"
"Pray, why not, my dear? 'Tis an ingenious young man, reasonable handsome, and very suitable for age and conditions. I have not yet broke the matter to him, but I cannot doubt of a favourable answer, for he hath no fortune to speak of, and is like to be the more manageable, seeing all the money will come from you. You met with him, I believe, at Delawarr Court. His name is Derwent. I shall not write to him while these young gentlewomen are here, but directly they are gone: yet I wish to give you time to become used to it, and I name it thus early."
Phoebe felt any reply impossible.
"Good-night, my dear. I am sure you will like Mr Dement."
Phoebe went back along the gallery like one walking in a dream. How was this tangled skein ever to be unravelled? Had she any right to speak? had she any to keep silence? And a cry of "Teach me to do _Thy_ will!" went up beyond the stars. "I don't know what is right," said Phoebe, plaintively, to her own heart. "Lord, Thou knowest! Make Thy way plain before my face," It seemed to her that, knowing what she did, there would be one thing more terrible than a refusal from Mr Derwent, and that would be acceptance. It seemed impossible to pray for either. She could only put the case into God's hands, with the entreaty of Hezekiah: "O Lord, I am oppressed: undertake for me."
It did not make the matter any easier that, a few days later, Rhoda said suddenly, when she and Phoebe were alone, "Do you remember that Mr Derwent who was at Delawarr Court?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, and said no more.
"Betty tells me she thought he had a liking for me."
Phoebe was silent. Would the actual question come?
"I wonder if it was true," said Rhoda.
Still Phoebe went on knitting in silence, with downcast eyes.
"I almost begin, Phoebe, to wish it had been, do you know? I liked him very well. And--I want somebody to care for _me_."
"Yes, poor dear," said Phoebe, rising hurriedly. "Excuse me, I must fetch more wool."
And she did not seem to hear Rhoda call after her-- "Why, Phoebe, here's your wool--a whole ball!"
"Pretty kettle of fish!" screamed the parrot.
Betty and Molly had gone home. Mr Onslow had read prayers, the servants were filing out of the room, and Rhoda was lighting the candles.
"Well, my dear," asked Mrs Latrobe, looking up rather suddenly, "is your decision taken?"
"It is, Madam," readily answered her niece.
"So much the better. What is it, my dear?"
"I should prefer to go to service, if you please, Madam."
"You would!" Mrs Latrobe's tone showed surprise. "Very well: I promised you your choice. As lady's woman, I suppose?"
"If you please, Madam."
"Certainly, my dear. It shall be as you wish. Then to-morrow I will begin to look out for you. I should think I shall hear of a place in a week or two."
Rhoda made no answer, but took up her candle, and departed with merely, "Good-night, Madam."
But as Phoebe went upstairs behind her, she noted Rhoda's bowed head, her hand tightly grasping the banisters, her drowning, farewell look at the family portraits, as she passed them on her way up the corridor. At length she paused before three which hung together.
In the midst stood their grandmother, a handsome, haughty figure, taken at about the age of thirty; and on either side a daughter, at about eighteen years of age. Rhoda lifted her light first to Madam's face. She said nothing to indicate her thoughts there, but passed on, and paused for another minute before the pretty, sparkling face of Anne Latrobe. Then she came back, and raised the light, for a longer time than either, to the pale, regular, unexpressive features of Catherine Peveril. Phoebe waited for her to speak. It came at last.
"I never knew her," said Rhoda, in a choked voice. "I wonder if _they_ know what is happening on earth."
"I should not think so," answered Phoebe, softly.
"Well,--I hope not!"
The hand which held the lifted light came down, and Rhoda passed into her own room, and at once knelt down to her prayers. Phoebe stood irresolute, her heart beating like a hammer. An idea had occurred to her which, if it could be carried into effect, would help Rhoda out of all her trouble. But in order to be so, it was necessary that she herself must commit--in her own eyes--an act of unparalleled audacity. Could she do it? The minute seemed an hour. Phoebe heard her mother go upstairs, and shut her door. A rapid prayer went to God for wisdom. Her resolution grew stronger. She took up her candle, stole softly downstairs, found the silver inkstand and the box of perfumed letter-paper. There were only a few words written when Phoebe had done.
"Sir,--If you were now to come hither. I thinke you wou'd win my cosen. A verie few dayes may be too late. Forgive the liberty I take.
"Yours to serve you, Phoebe Latrobe."
The letter was folded and directed to "_Mr_. Osmund Derwent, Esquire." And then, for one minute, human nature had its way, and Phoebe's head was bowed over the folded note. There was no one to see her, and she let her heart relieve itself in tears. Ay, there was One, who took note of the self-abnegation which had been learned from Him. Phoebe knew that Osmund Derwent did not love her. Yet was it the less hard on that account to resign him to Rhoda? For time and circumstances might have shown him the comparatively alloyed metal of the one, and the pure gold of the other. He might have loved Phoebe, even yet, as matters stood now. But Phoebe's love was true. She was ready to secure his happiness at the cost of her own. It was not of that false, selfish kind which seeks merely its own happiness in the beloved one, and will give him leave to be happy only in its own way. Yet, after all, Phoebe was human; and some very sorrowful tears were shed, for a few minutes, over that gift laid on the altar. Though the drops were salt, they would not tarnish the gold.
It was but for a few minutes that Phoebe dared to remain there. She wiped her eyes and forced back her tears. Then she went upstairs and tapped at Betty's door.
"There's that worriting Sue," she heard Betty say inside; and then the door was opened. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, I ask twenty pardons; I thought 'twas that Sukey,--she always comes a-worriting. What can I do for you, my dear?"
"I want you to get that letter off first thing in the morning, Betty."
Betty turned the letter all ways, scanned the address, and inspected the seal.
"Mrs Phoebe, you'll not bear me malice, I hope. You know you're only young, my dear. Are you quite certain you'll never be sorry for this here letter?" " 'Tis not what you think, Betty," said Phoebe with a smile on her pale lips which had a good deal of sadness in it. "You are sorry for my cousin, I know. 'Twill be a kind act towards her, Betty, if you will send that letter."
Betty looked into Phoebe's face so earnestly that she dropped her eyes.
"I see," said Mrs Latrobe's maid. "I'm not quiet a blind bat, Mrs Phoebe. The letter shall go, my dear. Make your mind easy."
Yet Betty did not see all there was to be seen.
"Why, Phoebe!" exclaimed Rhoda, when she got back to the bedroom, "where have you been?"
"Downstairs."
"What had you to go down for? You forgot something, I suppose. But what is the matter with your eyes?"
"They burn a little to-night, dear," said Phoebe, quietly.
The days went on, and there was no reply to Phoebe's audacious note, and there was a reply to Mrs Latrobe's situation-hunting. She announced to Rhoda on the ninth morning at breakfast that she had heard of an excellent place for her. Lady Kitty Mainwaring the mother of Molly Delawarr's future husband, was on the look-out for a "woman." She had three daughters, the eldest of whom was the Kitty who had been at Delawarr Court. Rhoda would have to wait on these young ladies, as well as their mother. It was a most eligible situation. Mrs Latrobe, on Rhoda's behalf, had accepted it at once.
Rhoda sat playing with her tea-spoon, and making careful efforts to balance it on the edge of her cup.
"Do they know who wants it?" she asked, in a husky voice.
"Of course, my dear! You did not look I should make any secret of it, sure?"
Rhoda's colour grew deeper. It was evident that she was engaged in a most severe struggle with herself. She looked up at last.
"Very good, Aunt Anne. I will go to Lady Kitty," she said.
"My dear, I accepted the place. Of course you will go," returned Mrs Latrobe, in a voice of some astonishment.
Rhoda got out of the room at the earliest opportunity, and Phoebe followed her as soon as she could. But she found her kneeling by her bed, and stole away again. Was chastening working the peaceable fruit of righteousness in Rhoda Peveril?
Phoebe wandered out into the park, and bent her steps towards the ruins of the old church. She sat down at the foot of Saint Ursula's image, and tried to disentangle her bewildered thoughts. Had she made a mistake in sending that letter, and did the Lord intend Rhoda to go to Lady Kitty Mainwaring? Phoebe had been trying to lift her cousin out of trouble. Was it God's plan to plunge Rhoda more deeply into it, in order that she might learn her lesson the more thoroughly, and be the more truly happy afterwards? If so, Phoebe had made a stupid blunder. When would she learn that God did not need her bungling help? Yet, poor Rhoda! How miserable she was likely to be! Phoebe buried her face in her hands, and did not see that some one had come in by a ruined window, and was standing close beside her on the grass.
"Mrs Phoebe, I owe you thanks unutterable," said a voice that Phoebe knew only too well.
Phoebe sprang up. "Have you seen her, Mr Derwent?"
"I have seen no one but you," said he, gravely.
They walked up to the house together, but there Phoebe left him and sought refuge in her bed-chamber.
"Phoebe, my dear, are you here?" said Mrs Latrobe, entering the room half an hour later. "Child, did you not hear me call? I could not think where you were, and I wished to have you come down. Why, only think! --all is changed about Rhoda, and she will not go to Lady Kitty. I am a little chagrined, I confess, on your account, my dear; however, it may be all for the best. 'Tis that same Mr Derwent I had heard of, and thought to obtain for you. Well! I am very pleased for Rhoda; 'tis quite as good, or better, than any thing she could expect; and I shall easily meet with something else for you. So now, my dear Phoebe, when she is married, and all settled--for of course, now, I shall let her stay till she marries--then, child, the coast will be clear for you. By the way, you did not care any thing for him, I suppose? --and if you had, you would soon have got over it--all good girls do. Fetch me my knotting, Phoebe--'tis above in my chamber; or, if you meet Rhoda, send her."
It was a subject of congratulation to Phoebe that one of Mrs Latrobe's peculiarities was to ask questions, and assume, without waiting for it, that the answer was according to her wishes. So she escaped a reply.
But there was one thing yet for Phoebe to bear, even worse than this.
"Phoebe, dear, dear Phoebe! I am so happy!" and Rhoda twined her arms round her cousin, and hid her bright face on Phoebe's shoulder. "He says he has loved me ever since we were at Delawarr. And I think I must have loved him, just a little bit, without knowing it, or I could not love him so much all at once now. I was trying very hard to make up my mind to Lady Kitty's service--that seemed to be what God had ordered for me; and I did ask Him, Phoebe, to give me patience, and make me willing to do His will. And only think--all the while He was preparing this for me! And I don't think, Phoebe, I should have cared for that--you know what I mean--but for you--the patient, loving way you bore with me; and I haven't been kind to you, Fib--you know I haven't. Then I dare say the troubles I've had helped a little. And Mr Derwent says he should not have dared to come but for a little letter that you writ him. I owe you all my happiness--my dear, good little Fib!"
Was it all pain she had to bear? Phoebe gave thanks that night.
Ten years had passed since Madam Furnival's death, and over White-Ladies was a cloudless summer day. In the park, under the care of a governess and nurse, half a dozen children were playing; and under a spreading tree on the lawn, with a book in her hand, sat a lady, whose likeness to the children indicated her as their mother. In two of the cottages of the Maidens' Lodge that evening, tea-parties were the order of the day. In Number Four, Mrs Eleanor Darcy was entertaining Mrs Marcella Talbot and Mrs Clarissa Vane.
Mrs Marcella's health had somewhat improved of late, but her disposition had not sustained a corresponding change. She was holding forth now to her two listeners on matters public and private, to the great satisfaction of Mrs Clarissa, but not altogether to that of Mrs Eleanor.
"Well, so far as such a poor creature as I am can take any pleasure in any thing, I am glad to see Mrs Derwent back at White-Ladies. Mrs Phoebe would never have kept up the place properly. She hasn't her poor mother's spirit and working power--not a bit. The place would just have gone to wreck if she had remained mistress there; and I cannot but think she was sensible of it."
"Well, for my part," put in Mrs Clarissa, "I feel absolutely certain something must have come to light about Madam's will, you know--which positively obliged Mrs Phoebe to give up everything to Madam Derwent. 'Tis monstrous to suppose that she would have done any such thing without being obliged. I feel as sure as if I had _seen_ it."
"O my dear!" came in a gently deprecating tone from Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, I am positive!" repeated Mrs Clarissa, whose mind possessed the odd power of forcing conviction on itself by simple familiarity with an idea. "Everything discovers so many symptoms of it. I cannot but be infinitely certain. Down, Pug, down!" as Cupid's successor, which was not a dog, but a very small monkey, endeavoured to jump into her lap.
"Well, till I know the truth is otherwise, I shall give Mrs Phoebe credit for all," observed Mrs Eleanor.
"Indeed, I apprehend Clarissa has guessed rightly," said Mrs Marcella, fanning herself. " 'Tis so unlikely, you know, for any one to do such a thing as this, without it were either an obligation or a trick to win praise. And I can't think _that_,--'tis too much."
"Nay, but surely there is some love and generosity left in the world," urged Mrs Eleanor.
"Oh, if you had had my experience, my dear," returned Mrs Marcella, working her fan more vigorously, "you would know there were no such things to be looked for in _this_ world. I've looked for gratitude, I can assure you, till I am tired."
"Gratitude for what?" inquired Mrs Darcy, rather pertinently.
"Oh, for all the things one does for people, you know. They are never thankful for them--not one bit."
Mrs Darcy felt and looked rather puzzled. During the fifty years of their acquaintance, she never could remember to have seen Marcella Talbot do one disinterested kindness to any mortal being.
"They take all you give them," pursued the last-named lady, "and then they just go and slander you behind your back. Oh, 'tis a miserable world, this! --full of malice, envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness, as the Prayer-Book says."
"The Prayer-Book does not exactly say that, I think," suggested Mrs Eleanor; "it asks that we ourselves may be preserved from such evil passions."
"I am sure I wish people were preserved from them!" ejaculated Mrs Clarissa. "The uncharitableness, and misunderstanding, and unkind words that people will allow themselves to use! 'Tis perfectly heartrending to hear."
"Especially when one hears it of one's self," responded Mrs Eleanor a little drily; adding, for she wished to give a turn to the conversation, "Did you hear the news Dr Saunders was telling yesterday? The Czar of Muscovy offers to treat with King George, but as Elector of Hanover only."
"What, he has come thus far, has he?" replied Mrs Marcella. "Why, 'tis but five or six years since he was ready to marry his daughter to the Pretender, could they but have come to terms. Sure, King George will never accept of such a thing as that?"
"I should think not, indeed!" added Mrs Clarissa. "Well, did he want a bit of sugar, then?"
Pug held out his paw, and very decidedly intimated that he did.
"Mrs Leighton wants Pug; I shall give him to her," observed his mistress. " 'Tis not quite so modish to keep monkeys as it was: I shall have a squirrel."
"A bit more sugar?" asked Mrs Eleanor, addressing the monkey. "Poor Pug!"
Next door but one, in the cottage formerly occupied by Lady Betty Morehurst, were also seated three ladies at tea. Presiding at the table, in mourning dress, sat our old friend Phoebe. There was an expression of placid content upon her lips, and a peaceful light in her eyes, which showed that whatever else she might be, she was not unhappy. On her left sat Mrs Jane Talbot, a little older looking, a little more sharp and angular; and on the right, apparently unchanged beyond a slight increase of infirmity, little Mrs Dorothy Jennings.
"What a pure snug [nice] room have you here!" said Mrs Jane, looking round. " 'Tis very pleasant," said Phoebe, "and just what I like."
"Now, my dear, do you really mean to say you like this--better than White-Ladies?"
"Indeed I do, Mrs Jane. It may seem a strange thing to you, but I could never feel at home at the Abbey. It all seemed too big and grand for a little thing like me."
"Well! I don't know," responded Mrs Jane, in that tone which people use when they make that assertion as the prelude to the declaration of a very decisive opinion,--"_I_ don't know, but I reckon there's a pretty deal about you that's big and grand, my dear; and I'm mightily mistaken if Mr Derwent and Mrs Rhoda don't think the same."
"My dear Jane!" said Mrs Dorothy, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. "Mr and Madam Derwent Furnival, if you please."
"Oh, deary me!" ejaculated Mrs Jane. "Leave that stuff to you. She can call herself Madam Peveril-Plantagenet, if she likes. Make no difference to me. Mrs Rhoda she was, and Mrs Rhoda I shall call her to the end of the chapter. Don't mean any disrespect, you know--quite the contrary. Well, I'm sure I'm very glad to see her at White-Ladies; but, Mrs Phoebe, if it could have been managed, I should have liked you too."
"Thank you, Mrs Jane, but you see it couldn't."
"Well, I don't know. There was no need for you to come down to the Maidens' Lodge, without you liked. Couldn't you have kept rooms in the Abbey for yourself, and still have given all to your cousin?"
"I'd rather have this," said Phoebe, with a smile. "I am more independent, you see; and I have kept what my grandmother meant me to have, so that, please God, I trust I shall never want, and can still help my friends when they need it. I can walk in the park, and enjoy the gardens, just as well as ever; and Rhoda will be glad to see me, I know, any time when I want a chat with her."
"I should think so, indeed!" cried Mrs Jane. "Most thankless woman in the world if she wasn't."
"Oh, don't say that! You know I could not have done anything else, knowing what Madam intended, when things came to me."
"You did the right thing, dear child," said Mrs Dorothy, quietly, "as God's children should. He knew when to put the power in your hands. If Madam Derwent had come to White-Ladies ten years ago, she wouldn't have made as good use of it as she will now. She was not ready for it. And I'm mistaken if you are not happier, Phoebe, in the Maidens' Lodge, than you ever would have been if you had kept White-Ladies."
"I am sure of that," said Phoebe. "Well, but she didn't need have come down thus far!" reiterated Mrs Jane.
"She is the servant of One who came down very far, dear Jane," gently answered Mrs Dorothy, "that we through His poverty might be rich."
"Well, it looks like it," replied Mrs Jane, with a little tell-tale huskiness in her voice. "Mrs Phoebe, my dear, do you remember my saying, when Madam died, to you and Mrs Rhoda, that I'd tell you ten years after, which I was sorry for?" Phoebe smiled an affirmative. "Well, I'm not over sorry for either of you; but, at any rate, not for _you_."
"The light has come back to thine eyes; dear child, and the peace," said old Mrs Dorothy. "Ah, folks don't always know what is the hardest to give up."
And Phoebe, looking up with startled eyes, saw that Mrs Dorothy had guessed her secret. She went to the fire for fresh water from the kettle. Her face was as calm as usual when she returned. Softly she said,-- "`Mon sort n'est pas a plaindre, Il est a desirer; Je n'ai plus rien a craindre, Car Dieu est mon Berger.'"
THE END.
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{
"id": "21235"
}
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1
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: A New Career.
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A party was assembled in a room of an hotel in Calcutta, at the end of the year 1822. It consisted of a gentleman, a lady in deep mourning, a boy of between fourteen and fifteen, and two girls of thirteen and twelve.
"I think you had better accept my offer, Nellie," the gentleman was saying. "You will find it hard work enough to make both ends meet, with these two girls; and Stanley would be a heavy drain on you. The girls cost nothing but their clothes; but he must go to a decent school, and then there would be the trouble of thinking what to do with him, afterwards. If I could have allowed you a couple of hundred a year, it would have been altogether different; but you see I am fighting an uphill fight, myself, and need every penny that I can scrape together. I am getting on; and I can see well enough that, unless something occurs to upset the whole thing, I shall be doing a big trade, one of these days; but every half penny of profit has to go into the business. So, as you know, I cannot help you at present though, by the time the girls grow up, I hope I shall be able to do so, and that to a good extent.
"I feel sure that it would not be a bad thing for Stanley. He will soon get to be useful to me, and in three or four years will be a valuable assistant. Speaking Hindustani as well as he does, he won't be very long in picking up enough of the various dialects in Kathee and Chittagong for our purpose and, by twenty, he will have a share of the business, and be on the highway towards making his fortune. It will be infinitely better than anything he is likely to find in England, and he will be doing a man's work at the age when he would still be a schoolboy in England.
"I have spoken to him about it. Of course, he does not like leaving you, but he says that he should like it a thousand times better than, perhaps, having to go into some humdrum office in England."
"Thank you, Tom," Mrs. Brooke said with a sigh. "It will be very hard to part with him--terribly hard--but I see that it is by far the best thing for him and, as you say, in a monetary way it will be a relief to me. I think I can manage very comfortably on the pension, in some quiet place at home, with the two girls; but Stanley's schooling would be a heavy drain. I might even manage that, for I might earn a little money by painting; but there would be the question of what to do with him when he left school and, without friends or influence, it will be hopeless to get him into any good situation.
"You see, Herbert's parents have both died since he came out here and, though he was distantly related to the Earl of Netherly, he was only a second cousin, or something of that kind, and knew nothing about the family; and of course I could not apply to them."
"Certainly not, Nellie," her brother agreed. "There is nothing so hateful as posing as a poor relation--and that is a connection rather than a relationship. Then you will leave the boy in my hands?"
"I am sure that it will be best," she said, with a tremor in her voice, "and at any rate, I shall have the comfort of knowing that he will be well looked after."
Mrs. Brooke was the widow of a captain in one of the native regiments of the East India Company. He had, six weeks before this, been carried off suddenly by an outbreak of cholera; and she had been waiting at Calcutta, in order to see her brother, before sailing for England. She was the daughter of an English clergyman, who had died some seventeen years before. Nellie, who was then eighteen, being motherless as well as fatherless, had determined to sail for India. A great friend of hers had married and gone out, a year before. Nellie's father was at that time in bad health; and her friend had said to her, at parting: "Now mind, Nellie, I have your promise that, if you should find yourself alone here, you will come out to me in India. I shall be very glad to have you with me, and I don't suppose you will be on my hands very long; pretty girls don't remain single many months, in India."
So, seeing nothing better to do, Nellie had, shortly after her father's death, sailed for Calcutta.
Lieutenant Brooke was also a passenger on board the Ava, and during the long voyage he and Nellie Pearson became engaged; and were married, from her friend's house, a fortnight after their arrival. Nellie was told that she was a foolish girl, for that she ought to have done better; but she was perfectly happy. The pay and allowances of her husband were sufficient for them to live upon in comfort; and though, when the children came, there was little to spare, the addition of pay when he gained the rank of captain was ample for their wants. They had been, in fact, a perfectly happy couple--both had bright and sunny dispositions, and made the best of everything; and she had never had a serious care, until he was suddenly taken away from her.
Stanley had inherited his parents' disposition and, as his sisters, coming so soon after him, occupied the greater portion of his mother's care, he was left a good deal to his own devices; and became a general pet in the regiment, and was equally at home in the men's lines and in the officers' bungalows. The native language came as readily to him as English and, by the time he was ten, he could talk in their own tongue with the men from the three or four different districts from which the regiment had been recruited. His father devoted a couple of hours a day to his studies. He did not attempt to teach him Latin--which would, he thought, be altogether useless to him--but gave him a thorough grounding in English and Indian history, and arithmetic, and insisted upon his spending a certain time each day in reading standard English authors.
Tom Pearson, who was five years younger than his sister, had come out to India four years after her. He was a lad full of life and energy. As soon as he left school, finding himself the master of a hundred pounds--the last remains of the small sum that his father had left behind him--he took a second-class passage to Calcutta. As soon as he had landed, he went round to the various merchants and offices and, finding that he could not, owing to a want of references, obtain a clerkship, he took a place in the store of a Parsee merchant who dealt in English goods. Here he remained for five years, by which time he had mastered two or three native languages, and had obtained a good knowledge of business.
He now determined to start on his own account. He had lived hardly, saving up every rupee not needed for actual necessaries and, at the end of the five years he had, in all, a hundred and fifty pounds. He had, long before this, determined that the best opening for trade was among the tribes on the eastern borders of the British territory; and had specially devoted himself to the study of the languages of Kathee and Chittagong.
Investing the greater portion of his money in goods suitable for the trade, he embarked at Calcutta in a vessel bound for Chittagong. There he took passage in a native craft going up the great river to Sylhet, where he established his headquarters; and thence--leaving the greater portion of his goods in the care of a native merchant, with whom his late employer had had dealings--started with a native, and four donkeys on which his goods were packed, to trade among the wild tribes.
His success fully equalled his anticipations and, gradually, he extended his operations; going as far east as Manipur, and south almost as far as Chittagong. The firm in Calcutta from whom he had, in the first place, purchased his goods, sent him up fresh stores as he required them; and soon, seeing the energy with which he was pushing his business, gave him considerable credit, and he was able to carry on his operations on an increasingly larger scale. Sylhet remained his headquarters; but he had a branch at Chittagong, whither goods could be sent direct from Calcutta, and from this he drew his supplies for his trade in that province.
Much of his business was carried on by means of the waterways, and the very numerous streams that covered the whole country, and enabled him to carry his goods at a far cheaper rate than he could transport them by land; and for this purpose he had a boat specially fitted up with a comfortable cabin. He determined, from the first, to sell none but the best goods in the market; and thus he speedily gained the confidence of the natives, and the arrival of his boats was eagerly hailed by the villagers on the banks of the rivers.
He soon found that money was scarce; and that, to do a good business, he must take native products in barter for his goods; and that in this way he not only did a much larger trade, but obtained a very much better price for his wares than if he had sold only for money; and he soon consigned considerable quantities to the firm in Calcutta and, by so doing, obtained a profit both ways. He himself paid a visit to Calcutta, every six months or so, to choose fresh fashions of goods; and to visit the firm, with whom his dealings, every year, became more extensive. But, though laying the foundations for an extensive business, he was not, as he told his sister, at present in a position to help her; for his increasing trade continually demanded more and more capital, and the whole of his profits were swallowed up by the larger stocks that had to be held at his depots at Sylhet, Chittagong, and at the mouths of the larger rivers.
Twice since he had been out he had met his sister at Calcutta, and when she came down after her husband's death, and heard from Tom's agents that he would probably arrive there in the course of a fortnight, she decided to wait there and meet him. He was greatly grieved at her loss, and especially so as he was unable to offer her a home; for as his whole time was spent in travelling, it was impossible for him to do so; nor indeed, would she have accepted it. Now that her husband was gone, she yearned to be back in England again. It was, too, far better for the girls that she should take them home. But when he now offered to take the boy she felt that, hard as it would be to leave Stanley behind, the offer was a most advantageous one for him.
The boy's knowledge of Indian languages, which would be of immense advantage to him in such a life, would be absolutely useless in England and, from what Tom told her of his business, there could be little doubt that the prospects were excellent. Stanley himself, who now saw his uncle for the first time, was attracted to him by the energy and cheeriness of manner that had rendered him so successful in business; and he was stirred by the enterprise and adventure of the life he proposed for him. More than once, in the little-frequented rivers that stretched into Kathee, his boats had been attacked by wild tribesmen; and he had to fight hard to keep them off. Petty chiefs had, at times, endeavoured to obstruct his trading and, when at Manipur, he had twice been witness of desperate fights between rival claimants for the throne. All this was, to a boy brought up among soldiers, irresistibly fascinating; especially as the alternative seemed to be a seat in a dull counting house in England.
He was, then, delighted when his mother gave her consent to his remaining with his uncle; grieved as he was at being parted from her and his sisters. The thought that he should, in time, be able to be of assistance to her was a pleasant one; and aided him to support the pain of parting when, a week later, she sailed with the girls for England.
"I suppose you have not done any shooting, Stanley?" his uncle asked.
"Not with a gun, but I have practised sometimes with pistols. Father thought that it would be useful."
"Very useful; and you must learn to shoot well with them, and with fowling-piece and rifle. What with river thieves, and dacoits, and wild tribes--to say nothing of wild beasts--a man who travels about, as I do, wants to be able to shoot straight. The straighter you shoot, the less likely you are to have to do so. I have come to be a good shot myself and, whenever we row up a river, I constantly practise--either at floating objects in the water, or at birds or other marks in the trees. I have the best weapons that money can buy. It is my one extravagance, and the result is that, to my boatmen and the men about me, my shooting seems to be marvellous; they tell others of it, and the result is that I am regarded with great respect. I have no doubt, whatever, that it has saved me from much trouble; for the natives have almost got to believe that I only have to point my gun, and the man I wish to kill falls dead, however far distant."
Two days after the departure of Mrs. Brooke, her brother and Stanley started down the Hoogly in a native trader.
"She is a curious-looking craft, uncle."
"Yes; she would not be called handsome in home waters, but she is uncommonly fast; and I find her much more convenient, in many ways, than a British merchantman."
"Is she yours, uncle?"
"No, she is not mine, and I do not exactly charter her; but she works principally for me. You see, the wages are so low that they can work a craft like this for next to nothing. Why, the captain and his eight men, together, don't get higher pay than the boatswain of an English trader.
"The captain owns the vessel. He is quite content if he gets a few rupees a month, in addition to what he considers his own rate of pay. His wife and his two children live on board. If the craft can earn twenty rupees a week, he considers that he is doing splendidly. At the outside, he would not pay his men more than four rupees a month, each, and I suppose that he would put down his services at eight; so that would leave him forty rupees a month as the profit earned by the ship.
"In point of fact, I keep him going pretty steadily. He makes trips backwards and forwards between the different depots; carries me up the rivers for a considerable distance; does a little trade on his own account--not in goods such as I sell, you know, but purely native stores--takes a little freight when he can get it, and generally a few native passengers. I pay him fifteen rupees a week, and I suppose he earns from five to ten in addition; so that the arrangement suits us both, admirably.
"I keep the stern cabin for myself. As you see, she has four little brass guns, which I picked up for a song at Calcutta; and there are twenty-four muskets aft. It is an arrangement that the crew are to practise shooting once a week, so they have all come to be pretty fair shots; and the captain, himself, can send a two-pound shot from those little guns uncommonly straight.
"You will be amused when you see us practising for action. The captain's wife and the two boys load the guns, and do it very quickly, too. He runs round from gun to gun, takes aim, and fires. The crew shout, and yell, and bang away with their muskets. I take the command, and give a few pice among them, if the firing has been accurate.
"We have been attacked, once or twice, in the upper waters; but have always managed to beat the robbers off, without much difficulty. The captain fires away, till they get pretty close; and I pepper them with my rifles--I have three of them. When they get within fifty yards, the crew open fire and, as they have three muskets each, they can make it very hot for the pirates. I have a store of hand grenades and, if they push on, I throw two or three on board when they get within ten yards; and that has always finished the matter. They don't understand the things bursting in the middle of them. I don't mean to say that my armament would be of much use, if we were trading along the coast of the Malay Peninsula or among the Islands, but it is quite enough to deal with the petty robbers of these rivers."
"But I thought that you had a boat that you went up the rivers in, uncle?"
"Yes; we tow a rowboat and a store boat up, behind this craft, as far as she can go; that is, as long as she has wind enough to make against the sluggish stream. When she can go no further, I take to the rowboat. It has eight rowers, carries a gun--it is a twelve-pounder howitzer--that I have had cut short, so that it is only about a foot long. Of course it won't carry far, but that is not necessary. Its charge is a pound of powder and a ten-pound bag of bullets and, at a couple of hundred yards, the balls scatter enough to sweep two or three canoes coming abreast and, as we can charge and fire the little thing three times in a minute, it is all that we require, for practical purposes.
"It is only on a few of the rivers we go up that there is any fear of trouble. On the river from Sylhet to the east and its branches in Kathee or, as it is sometimes called, Kasi, the country is comparatively settled. The Goomtee beyond Oudypore is well enough, until it gets into Kaayn, which is what they call independent. That is to say, it owns no authority; and some villages are peaceable and well disposed, while others are savage. The same may be said of the Munnoo and Fenny rivers.
"For the last two years I have done a good deal of trade in Assam, up the Brahmaputra river. As far as Rungpoor there are a great many villages on the banks, and the people are quiet and peaceable."
"Then you don't go further south than Chittagong, uncle?"
"No. The Burmese hold Aracan on the south and, indeed, for some distance north of it there is no very clearly-defined border. You see, the great river runs from Rangoon very nearly due north, though with a little east in it; and extends along at the back of the districts I trade with; so that the Burmese are not very far from Manipur which, indeed, stands on a branch of the Irrawaddy, of which another branch runs nearly up to Rungpoor.
"We shall have big trouble with them, one of these days; indeed, we have had troubles already. You see, the Burmese are a great and increasing power, and have so easily conquered all their neighbours that they regard themselves as invincible. Until the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Burmese were masters of Pegu; then the people of that country, with the help of the Dutch and Portuguese, threw off their yoke. But the Burmese were not long kept down for, in 1753, Alompra--a hunter--gathered a force round him and, after keeping up an irregular warfare for some time, was joined by so many of his countrymen that he attacked and captured Ava, conquered the whole of Pegu and, in 1759, the English trading colony at Negrais were massacred.
"This, however, was not the act of Alompra, but of the treachery of a Frenchman named Levine, and of an Armenian; who incited the Burmese of the district to exterminate the English--hoping, no doubt, thus to retrieve, in a new quarter, the fortunes of France, which in India were being extinguished by the genius of Clive. The English were, at the time, far too occupied with the desperate struggle they were having, in India, to attempt to revenge the massacre of their countrymen at Negrais.
"Very rapidly the Burman power spread. They captured the valuable Tenasserim coast, from Siam; repulsed a formidable invasion from China; annexed Aracan, and dominated Manipur, and thus became masters of the whole tract of country lying between China and Hindustan. As they now bordered upon our territory, a mission was sent in 1794 to them from India, with a proposal for the settlement of boundaries, and for the arrangement of trade between the two countries. Nothing came of it, for the Burmese had already proposed, to themselves, the conquest of India; and considered the mission as a proof of the terror that their advance had inspired among us.
"After the conquest by them of Aracan, in 1784, there had been a constant irritation felt against us by the Burmese; owing to the fact that a great number of fugitives from that country had taken refuge in the swamps and islands of Chittagong; from which they, from time to time, issued and made raids against the Burmese. In 1811 these fugitives, in alliance with some predatory chiefs, invaded Aracan in force and, being joined by the subject population there, expelled the Burmese. These, however, soon reconquered the province. The affair was, nevertheless, unfortunate, since the Burmese naturally considered that, as the insurrection had begun with an invasion by the fugitives in Chittagong, it had been fomented by us.
"This was in no way the fact. We had no force there capable of keeping the masses of fugitives in order; but we did our best, and arrested many of the leaders, when they returned after their defeat. This, however, was far from satisfying the Burmese. A mission was sent, to Ava, to assure them of our friendly intentions; and that we had had nothing whatever to do with the invasion, and would do all we could to prevent its recurrence. The Burmese government declined to receive the mission.
"We, ourselves, had much trouble with the insurgents for, fearful of re-entering Burma after their defeat, they now carried on a series of raids in our territory; and it was not until 1816 that these were finally suppressed. Nevertheless, the court of Ava remained dissatisfied; and a fresh demand was raised for the surrender of the chiefs who had been captured, and of the whole of the fugitives living in the government of Chittagong. The Marquis of Hastings replied that the British government could not, without a violation of the principles of justice, deliver up those who had sought its protection; that tranquillity now existed, and there was no probability of a renewal of the disturbances; but that the greatest vigilance should be used, to prevent and punish the authors of any raid that might be attempted against Aracan.
"A year later a second letter was received, demanding on the part of the king the cession of Ramoo, Chittagong, Moorshedabad, and Dacca; that is to say, of the whole British possessions east of the Ganges. Lord Hastings simply replied that if it was possible to suppose that the demand had been dictated by the King of Ava, the British government would be justified in regarding it as a declaration of war. To this the Burmese made no reply. Doubtless they had heard of the successes we had gained in Central India, and had learned that our whole force was disposable against them.
"Three years ago the old king died, and a more warlike monarch succeeded him. Since 1810 they have been mixed up in the troubles that have been going on in Assam, where a civil war had been raging. One party or other has sought their assistance, and fighting has been going on there nearly incessantly and, two months ago, the Burmese settled the question by themselves taking possession of the whole country.
"This has, of course, been a serious blow to me. Although disorder has reigned, it has not interfered with my trading along the banks of the river; but now that the Burmese have set up their authority, I shall, for a time anyhow, be obliged to give up my operations there; for they have evinced considerable hostility to us--have made raids near Rungpoor, on our side of the river, and have pulled down a British flag on an island in the Brahmaputra. We have taken, in consequence, the principality of Cachar under our protection--indeed its two princes, seeing that the Burmese were beginning to invade their country, invited us to take this step--and we thus occupy the passes from Manipur into the low country of Sylhet."
"I wonder that you have been able to trade in Manipur, uncle, as the Burmese have been masters there."
"I am not trading with the capital itself, and the Burmese have been too occupied with their affairs in Assam to exercise much authority in the country. Besides, you see, there has not been war between the two countries. Our merchants at Rangoon still carry on their trade up the Irrawaddy; and in Assam, this spring, the only trouble I had was that I had to pay somewhat higher tolls than I had done before. However, now that Cachar is under our protection, I hope that I shall make up for my loss of trade, in Assam, by doing better than before in that province."
"I thought you called it Kathee, uncle?"
"So it is generally named but, as it is spoken of as Cachar in the proclamation assuming the protectorate, I suppose it will be called so in future; but all these names, out here, are spelt pretty much according to fancy."
While this conversation had been going on, the boat had been running fast down the river, passing several European vessels almost as if they had been standing still.
"I should not have thought that a boat like this would pass these large ships," Stanley said.
"We have a good deal to learn in the art of sailing, yet," his uncle replied. "A great many of these Indian dhows can run away from a square-rigged ship, in light weather. I don't know whether it is the lines of their hulls or the cut of the sails, but there is no doubt about their speed. They seem to skim over the water, while our bluff-bowed craft shove their way through it. I suppose, some day, we shall adopt these long sharp bows; when we do, it will make a wonderful difference in our rate of sailing. Then, too, these craft have a very light draft of water but, on the other hand, they have a deep keel, which helps them to lie close to the wind; and that long, overhanging bow renders them capital craft in heavy weather for, as they meet the sea, they rise over it gradually; instead of its hitting them full on the bow, as it does our ships. We have much to learn, yet, in the way of ship building."
The trader had his own servant with him, and the man now came up and said that a meal was ready, and they at once entered the cabin. It was roomy and comfortable, and was, like the rest of the boat, of varnished teak. There were large windows in the stern; it had a table, with two fixed benches; and there were broad, low sofas on each side. Above these the muskets were disposed, in racks; while at the end by the door were Tom Pearson's own rifles, four brace of pistols, and a couple of swords. Ten long spears were suspended from the roof of the cabin, in leather slings. The floor, like the rest of the cabin, was varnished.
"It looks very comfortable, uncle."
"Yes; you see, I live quite half my time on board, the rest being spent in the boat. My man is a capital cook. He comes from Chittagong, and is a Mug."
"What are Mugs, uncle?"
"They are the original inhabitants of Aracan. He was one of those who remained there, after the Burmese had conquered it, and speaks their language as well as his own. I recommend you to begin it with him, at once. If things settle down in Assam, it will be very useful for you in arranging with the Burmese officials. You won't find it very easy, though of course your knowledge of three or four Indian tongues will help you. It is said to be a mixture of the old Tali, Sanscrit, Tartar, and Chinese. The Tartar and Chinese words will, of course, be quite new to you; the other two elements will resemble those that you are familiar with.
"I talk to the man in Hindustani. He picked up a little of it at Chittagong, and has learned a good deal more, during the two years that he has been with me; and through that you will be able to learn Burmese."
A week later the dhow entered the harbour. Stanley had passed most of his time in conversation with Khyen, Tom's servant. The facility his tongue had acquired in the Indian languages was of great benefit to him, and he speedily picked up a good many Burmese sentences.
For the next six months he continued, with his uncle, the work the latter had carried on; and enjoyed it much. They sailed up the sluggish rivers, with their low, flat shores, in the dhow; towing the rowboat and the store boat behind them. The crews of these boats lived on board the dhow until their services were required, helping in its navigation and aiding the crew when the wind dropped and sweeps were got out.
The villages along the banks were for the most part small, but were very numerous. At each of these the dhow brought up. There was, in almost all cases, sufficient water to allow of her being moored alongside the banks and, as soon as she did so, the natives came on board to make their purchases and dispose of their produce. In addition to the European and Indian goods carried, the dhow was laden with rice, for which there was a considerable demand at most of the villages.
As soon as he had learned the price of the various goods, and their equivalent in the products of the country, Stanley did much of the bartering; while his uncle went ashore and talked with the head men of the village, with all of whom he made a point of keeping on good terms, and so securing a great portion of the trade that might, otherwise, have been carried by native craft.
Three times during the six months the dhow had gone back to Calcutta, to fetch fresh supplies of goods and to take in another cargo of rice; while the trader proceeded higher up the river, in his own boats. While on the voyage, Stanley always had the rifle and fowling piece that his uncle had handed over, for his special use, leaning against the bulwark, close at hand; and frequently shot waterfowl, which were so abundant that he was able to keep not only their own table supplied, but to furnish the crew and boatmen with a considerable quantity of food. They had had no trouble with river pirates, for these had suffered so heavily, in previous attacks upon the dhow, that they shunned any repetition of their loss. At the same time every precaution was taken, for, owing to the intestine troubles in Cachar and Assam, fugitives belonging to the party that happened, for the time, to be worsted, were driven to take refuge in the jungles near the rivers; and to subsist largely on plunder, the local authorities being too feeble to root them out. The boats, therefore, were always anchored in the middle of the stream at night and two men were kept on watch.
To the south as well as in the north, the trading operations were more restricted; for the Burmese became more and more aggressive. Elephant hunters, in the hills that formed the boundary of the British territory to the east, were seized and carried off; twenty-three in one place being captured, and six in another--all being ill treated and imprisoned, and the remonstrances of the Indian government treated with contempt by the Rajah of Aracan. It was evident that the object of the Burmese was to possess themselves of this hill country in order that they might, if they chose, pour down at any time into the cultivated country round the town of Ramoo.
"There is no doubt, Stanley," said his uncle one day, "we shall very shortly have a big war with the Burmese. The fact that these constant acts of aggression are met only by remonstrances, on our part, increases their arrogance; and they are convinced that we are in mortal terror of them. They say that in Assam their leaders are openly boasting that, ere long, they will drive us completely from India; and one of their generals has confidently declared that, after taking India, they intend to conquer England. With such ignorant people, there is but one argument understood--namely, force; and sooner or later we shall have to give them such a hearty thrashing that they will be quiet for some time.
"Still, I grant that the difficulties are great. Their country is a tremendous size, the beggars are brave, and the climate, at any rate near the sea coast, is horribly unhealthy. Altogether it will be a big job; but it will have to be done, or in a very short time we shall see them marching against Calcutta."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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2
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: The Outbreak of War.
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On the last day of September, 1823--just a year after Stanley had joined his uncle--the dhow sailed into Chittagong; which had now taken the place of Sylhet as the traders' chief depot, the latter place being too near the Burmese, in Assam, for him to care about keeping a large stock of his goods there. He went ashore as soon as the dhow cast anchor, Stanley remaining on board.
"The fat is all in the fire, Stanley," Tom Pearson said, when he returned. "The Burmese have attacked and killed some of our troops, and it is certain that the government cannot put up with that."
"Where was it, uncle?"
"Down at the mouth of the Naaf. As you know, that is the southern boundary of the province, and there was a row there in January. One of our native boats laden with rice was coming up the river, on our side of the channel, when an armed Burmese boat came across and demanded duty. Of course, our fellows said they were in their own waters, whereupon the Burmese fired upon them and killed the steersman. There were reports, then, that bodies of Burmese troops were moving about on their side of the river, and that it was feared they would cross over and burn some of our villages. Accordingly, our guard at the mouth of the river was increased to fifty men, and a few of these were posted on the island of Shapuree.
"This island lies close to our shore and, indeed, the channel between can be forded at low water. It has always formed part of the province of Chittagong, and there has never been any question raised by the Burmese as to this. However, the Viceroy of Aracan called upon our resident here to withdraw the guard, asserting the right of the King of Ava to the island.
"Since then letters have passed to and fro, but I hear that the Burmese have settled the question by landing on Shapuree. One night last week they attacked our post there, killed and wounded four of the sepoys, and drove the rest off the island. The Indian government have put up with a great deal, rather than engage in so costly and difficult an operation as a war with Burma, but it is impossible that we can stand this."
The Indian government, however, used every endeavour to avert the necessity for war; although the Rajah of Aracan lost no time in writing a letter to the government of Calcutta, stating that he had occupied the island of Shapuree, and that unless they submitted quietly to this act of justice, the cities of Dacca and Moorshedabad would be forcibly seized. In order, however, to postpone, at any rate, the outbreak of war, the government of Bengal resolved to give the court of Ava an opportunity to withdraw from the position taken up. They therefore acted as if the attack on the guard at Shapuree had been the action of the Viceroy of Aracan alone, and addressed a declaration to the Burmese government, recapitulating the facts of the case, pointing out that Shapuree had always been acknowledged by Burma as forming part of the province of Chittagong, and calling upon the government to disavow the action of the local authorities. The Burmese considered this, as it was in fact, a proof that the government of India was reluctant to enter upon a contest with them; and confirmed Burma in its confident expectation of annexing the eastern portions of Bengal, if not of expelling the English altogether.
In the meantime, Shapuree had been reoccupied by us. The Burmese--after driving out the little garrison--had retired and, two months after the attack, two companies of the 20th Native Infantry arrived by sea, from Calcutta, and landed there. A stockade was built, and two six-pounders placed in position. Another company was stationed on the mainland, and the Planet and three gunboats, each carrying a twelve-pounder, were stationed in the river.
The Burmese at once collected large bodies of troops, both in Aracan and Assam. The government of Bengal made preparations to defend our frontier, and especially the position in the north, as an advance of the Burmese in this direction would not only threaten the important towns of Dacca and Moorshedabad, but would place the invaders in dangerous proximity to Calcutta. Accordingly, a portion of the 10th and 23rd Native Infantry, and four companies of the Rungpoor local force, were marched to Sylhet; and outposts thrown forward to the frontier.
Seeing that the Burmese operations would probably commence in the north, Tom Pearson had, after completing his arrangements at Chittagong, sailed north to remove his depots from Sylhet, and other places that would be exposed to an attack from that direction. They reached Sylhet the first week in January. By this time Stanley, from his constant conversation with his uncle's servant, had come to speak Burmese as fluently as the Indian languages. He was now nearly sixteen, tall for his age, and active but, owing to the hot climate and the absence of vigorous exercise, he was less broad and muscular than most English lads of his age.
They found on landing that news had arrived, two days before, that a powerful army of Burmese had entered Cachar, from Manipur, and had defeated the troops of Jambhir Sing; that 4000 Burmese and Assamese had advanced from Assam into Cachar, and had begun to stockade themselves at Bickrampore, at the foot of the Bhortoka Pass; and that the third division was crossing into the district of Jyntea, immediately to the north of Sylhet. There was a complete panic in the town, and the ryots were flocking in from all the surrounding country, with their families and belongings; and were making their way down the country, in boats, to Dacca.
"I am afraid, Stanley, there is an end of trade, for the present. What we see here is, doubtless, taking place all over Cachar; and it would be just as bad down at Chittagong. It is a heavy blow, for I have done remarkably well this year, and was building up the foundations for a good business. No doubt, when this trouble is over. I shall be able to take it up again; and it may be, if we thrash the Burmese heartily, which we are sure to do in the long run, it may even prove a benefit. Still, there is no doubt that it is a very bad business for me. However as, just at present, there is nothing whatever to be done, I propose, as soon as the goods are all on board, to take a holiday, and go out and have a look at the fighting."
"You will take me with you, uncle?" Stanley asked eagerly.
"Certainly, lad. We don't mean to do any fighting ourselves, but only to look on; and it may be that, after it is over, you may be able to make yourself useful, if they want to ask questions of any Burmese prisoners."
"You think that there is no chance of their beating us?"
"I should think not, though of course there is no saying; still, I don't think these fellows will be able to stand against our troops. Of course, they have no idea, whatever, of our style of fighting, and have never met any really formidable foes; so that I imagine we shall make pretty short work of them. However, as we shall be mounted--for I will hire a couple of horses, there have been plenty of them driven into the town--we shall be able to make a bolt of it, if necessary. Of course, we will take our rifles and pistols with us."
The goods were not placed on board the dhow, but in what was called the store boat; as the trader had determined to take up his abode in his rowboat, which could move about much faster than the dhow; and to allow the captain of that craft to make a good thing of it, by taking down to Dacca as many of the fugitives as she would hold.
Finding that the Burmese division that had entered Jyntea was intrenching itself, at a few miles' distance, Major Newton, the officer commanding on the Sylhet frontier, concentrated his force at Jatrapur, a village five miles beyond the Sylhet boundary. Tom Pearson had introduced himself to Major Newton, and asked permission to accompany his force; saying that his nephew would be able, if necessary, to communicate with the Burmese either before or after the action, and that both would willingly act as aides-de-camp. The offer was accepted with thanks, and they rode out with him, on the evening of the 16th of January, 1824, to Jatrapur.
At one o'clock in the morning the troops were roused, and marched an hour later. At daybreak they came in sight of the stockade, and a few shots were at once fired upon the advanced guard by the Burmese. A portion of their force was lying in a village hard by.
Major Newton at once divided his command into two bodies. One of these was led by Captain Johnston against the front of the stockade. The other, under Captain Rowe, attacked the village adjoining. The Burmese stationed there gave way, after a very faint resistance. They were accustomed to rely always on stockades; and this attack upon them, when not so protected, shook them at once. Those in the stockade, however, made a resolute resistance.
Captain Rowe, after gaining possession of the village, and seeing the occupants in full flight, moved his force to aid the other division; and the Burmese, dispirited by the defeat of their countrymen, and finding themselves attacked on two sides, gave way and fled, leaving a hundred dead behind them; while on the British side but six sepoys were killed.
The Burmese fled to the hills, at a speed that rendered pursuit hopeless by the more heavily-armed troops; and the fugitives soon rallied, and effected their junction with the division advancing from Manipur. After the action Major Newton returned to Sylhet, and a few days later Mr. Scott, who had been appointed commissioner, arrived there and, advancing to Bhadrapur, opened communications with the Burmese. As, however, it became evident that the latter were only negotiating in order to gain time to intrench themselves near Jatrapur, to which they had returned, he again placed the matter in the hands of the military commanders.
The Burmese force amounted to about six thousand men. They had erected strong stockades on each bank of the river Surma, and had thrown a bridge across to connect them. Captain Johnston advanced with a wing of the 10th Native Infantry, a company of the 23rd Native Infantry, and a small party of men of a local corps. Small as was this force, he divided it into two parties. One of these, under Captain Rowe, crossed the river; and then both moved against the enemy. The Burmese opened fire as they advanced, but the sepoys marched gallantly forward, and drove the enemy out of their unfinished intrenchments at the point of the bayonet. The Assam division retreated hastily to the Bhortoka Pass, while the Manipur force stockaded itself at Doodpatnee.
The Assam division was first attacked, and the stockade carried at the point of the bayonet. Lieutenant Colonel Bowen, who now commanded, then moved against the position at Doodpatnee. This was very strong. Steep hills covered the rear; while the other faces of the intrenchments were defended by a deep ditch, fourteen feet wide, with a chevaux de frise of pointed bamboos on its outer edge. Although the position was attacked with great gallantry, it was too strong to be captured by so small a force; and they were obliged to withdraw to Jatrapur, with the loss of one officer killed and four wounded, and about one hundred and fifty sepoys killed and wounded.
However, their bravery had not been without effect, for the Burmese evacuated their stockade and retreated to Manipur, leaving Cachar free from its invaders. Thus, in less than three weeks, the Burmese invasion of the northern provinces had been hurled back by a British force of less than a tenth of that of the invaders.
Stanley and his uncle had been present at all these engagements and, in the absence of any cavalry, had done good service in conveying messages and despatches; and the lad had several times acted as interpreter between the officers and Burmese prisoners. Both received letters from the commissioner, thanking them for the assistance that they had rendered.
"That last affair was unfortunate, Stanley; and it is evident that these stockades of theirs are nasty places to attack, and that they ought to be breached by guns before the men are sent forward to storm them. However, as the Burmese have gone, our repulse does not matter much.
"Well, I felt sure that we should thrash them, but I certainly gave them credit for having a great deal more pluck than they have shown. As it is, if there is nothing fresh takes place here, the natives and little traders will soon be coming back from Dacca, and business will be better than before; for the Burmese have been talking so big, for the last three years, that no one has bought more than would just carry him on; while now they will be more inclined to lay in good stocks of goods.
"Tomorrow we will start for Chittagong. You see, I have a considerable store there; and there is a chance of much more serious fighting, in that quarter, than this little affair we have seen. The Governor of Aracan has, all along, been the source of troubles; and we may expect that he will cross into the province at the head of a large force, and may do an immense deal of damage, before we can get enough troops there to oppose him."
Descending the river they coasted along until they arrived, early in March, at Chittagong. They found that great alarm reigned there. In January, Bandoola, the greatest military leader of the Burmese, who was known to have been one of the most strenuous supporters of the war policy at the court of Ava, had arrived at Aracan and taken the command of the troops collected there, and had brought with him considerable reinforcements.
A wanton outrage that had been committed by the Burmese showed how intent they were upon hostilities. Owing to the unhealthiness of the islet of Shapuree, the sepoys stationed there had been withdrawn; and the Company's pilot vessel, Sophia, was ordered to join the gunboats off that island. Four deputies from the Burmese court arrived at Mungdoo, on the opposite shore; and these invited the commander of the Sophia to come on shore, in order that they might talk over with him, in a friendly way, the situation of affairs. He unsuspectingly accepted their invitation and landed, accompanied by an officer and some native seamen. The party were at once seized and sent prisoners to Aracan, where they were detained for a month, and then sent back to Mungdoo.
This wanton insult was followed by a formal declaration of war, by the government of India; and a similar document was issued by the court of Ava. The force at Sylhet was reinforced, and that in Chittagong increased. It consisted of a wing of the 13th and of the 20th Native Regiments, and a battalion of the 23rd, with a local levy, amounting in all to some 3000 men. Of these a wing of the 23rd, with two guns, and a portion of the native levies were posted at Ramoo, which was the point most threatened by an invasion from Aracan.
It was in the north that hostilities first commenced, a force moving into Assam and driving the Burmese before them. Several sharp blows were dealt the enemy and, had it not been for the setting in of the wet season, they would have been driven entirely out of Assam.
"I think, Stanley," his uncle said, after he had been a short time at Chittagong, "you had better go up to Ramoo, and see about matters there. Of course, until the Burmese move we cannot say what their game is likely to be; but it will be as well to get the stores ready for embarkation, in case they should advance in that direction. If they do so, get everything on board at once; and you can then be guided by circumstances. As the dhow came in yesterday, I can spare both our boats; and shall, of course, ship the goods here on board the big craft. Even if the Burmese come this way, I have no fear of their taking the town; and shall, of course, lend a hand in the defence, if they attempt it. You can do the same at Ramoo, if you like.
"I was chatting with Colonel Shatland yesterday. He tells me that a large fleet has been collected, and that an expedition will be sent to capture Rangoon so, in that case, it is likely that Bandoola and his force will march off in that direction.
"I think government are wrong. It will be impossible for the troops to move, when the wet season once sets in; and they will lose a tremendous lot of men from sickness, if they are cooped up in Rangoon. They had very much better have sent a few thousand men down here, to act on the defensive and repel any attempted invasion, until the rains are over; when they could have been shipped again, and join the expedition against Rangoon. It seems to me a mad-headed thing, to begin at the present time of the year. We have put up with the insults of the Burmese for so long that we might just as well have waited for the favourable season, before we began our operations in earnest."
Accordingly, on the following day Stanley started south for Ramoo and, on arriving there, took charge of the trading operations. Shortly after, meeting Captain Noton--who commanded there--in the street, he recognized him as an officer who had been stationed at the same cantonment as his father; and whom he had, four years previously, known well.
"You don't recognize me, Captain Noton," he said. "I am the son of Captain Brooke, of the 33rd."
"I certainly did not recognize you," the officer said, "but I am glad to meet you again. Let me think; yes, your name is Stanley, and a regular young pickle you used to be. What on earth are you doing here? Of course, I heard of your poor father's death, and was grieved, indeed, at his loss. Where is your mother? She is well, I hope."
"She went back to England with my sisters, two months after my father's death. I joined my uncle, her brother. He is a trader, and carries on business in the district between here and Sylhet, trading principally on the rivers; but of course the war has put a stop to that, for the present. We saw the fighting up in the north, and then came down to this district. He has remained at Chittagong, and I am in charge of goods here. I speak Burmese fairly now and, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be very glad to be so. There is not much business here; and the Parsee clerk, who is generally in charge, can look after it very well. I acted as interpreter with the troops in the north, and have a letter from Mr. Scott, the commissioner, thanking me for my services."
"I remember you used to be able to talk four or five of the native languages, but how did you come to pick up Burmese?"
"From a servant of my uncle's. We thought that there would be sure to be war, sooner or later; and that, after it was over, there would be a good chance of profitable trade on the Burmese rivers. I had no great difficulty in learning it from my uncle's man, who was a native of Aracan."
"I have no doubt you will find it very useful. What a big fellow you have grown, Stanley; at least, as far as height is concerned. Let me see. How old are you, now?"
"I am past sixteen," Stanley replied. "I have had several touches of fever--caught, I suppose, from the damp on the rivers--but I think that I am pretty well acclimatized, now. I know I don't look very strong, but I have not had much active exercise and, of course, the climate is against me."
"Very much so. I wonder that you have kept your health as well as you have, in this steamy climate.
"I am going to the mess room, now. You had better come and lunch with me, and I will introduce you to the other officers. We are very strong in comparison to the force for, counting the assistant surgeon, there are ten of us."
"I shall be very glad, sir," Stanley said. "I have certainly been feeling rather lonely here; for I know no one, and there is very little to do. During the last year, I have often gone up one of the rivers by myself; but there has always been occupation while, at present, things are at a standstill."
"I tell you what, Brooke, if you would like it, I can appoint you interpreter. There is not one of us who speaks this Mug language--which is, you know, almost the same as Burmese--and the officers in charge of the native levy would be delighted to have some one with them who could make the fellows understand. I can appoint you a first-class interpreter. The pay is not very high, you know; but you might just as well be earning it as doing nothing, and it would give you a sort of official position and, as the son of a British officer, and my friend, you would be one of us."
"Thank you very much, Captain Noton. I should like it immensely. Should I have to get a uniform?"
"There will be no absolute necessity for it; but if you get a white patrol jacket, like this, and a white cap cover, it will establish you in the eyes of the natives as an officer, and give you more authority. Oh, by the way, you need not get them, for one of our lieutenants died, the other day, of fever. His effects have not been sold, yet; but you may as well have his patrol jackets and belts. We can settle what you are to pay for them, afterwards. It will only be a matter of a few rupees, anyhow."
They now arrived at the house that had been taken for the use of the officers. On entering, Captain Noton introduced him to the others and, as several of these had at various times met his father, in cantonments or on service, he was heartily welcomed by them and, at luncheon, they listened with great interest to his accounts of the fighting, in Cachar, with the Burmese.
"I fancy we shall find them more formidable, here, if they come," Captain Noton said. "Bandoola has a great reputation, and is immensely popular with them. From what you say, a considerable proportion of the fellows you met up there were Assamese levies, raised by the Burmese. I grant that the Burmese, themselves, do not seem to have done much better; but they would never have conquered all the peoples they have come across, and built up a great empire, if there had not been good fighting stuff in them. I have no doubt that we shall thrash them, but I don't think we shall do it as easily as our troops did in the north."
The time now passed pleasantly with Stanley. He had, after thinking it over, declined to accept payment for his services; for this would have hindered his freedom of action, and prevented his obeying any instructions that his uncle might send him. He therefore joined as a volunteer interpreter, and was made a member of the officers' mess. He was specially attached to the native levy and, soon acquiring their words of command, assisted its officers in drilling it into something like order.
Early in May a Burmese division, 8000 strong, crossed the Naaf and established itself at Rutnapullung, fourteen miles south of Ramoo. As soon as Captain Noton learned that the Burmese had crossed the river, he sent news of the fact to Chittagong, with a request that reinforcements should be at once sent to him; and then moved out with his force from Ramoo, to ascertain the strength of the enemy. The Burmese were seen upon some hills, where they were constructing stockades. The small British force advanced against them, drove them off the hills and, following them, prepared to attack them in the plain beyond. The guns, however, had not come up; partly owing to the cowardice of the elephant drivers, and partly to the fact that it was found that several of the essential parts of the guns had been left behind.
Without their assistance to clear the way, Captain Noton felt that it would be imprudent to attack so great a force; and therefore fell back to Ramoo. Here he was joined by three companies of the 20th Native Infantry, bringing up his force to close upon a thousand; of whom about half were sepoys, and the rest native levies. Had any energy, whatever, been shown by the officer in command of Chittagong, in sending up reinforcements--which he could well have spared, now that the point of attack by the Burmese had been made clear--Captain Noton might have taken the offensive, in which case serious disaster would have been avoided, and the Burmese would have been driven back across the Naaf. None, however, came and, on the morning of the 13th of May, the enemy appeared on the hill east of Ramoo, being separated from the British force by the river of the same name.
There was some difference of opinion, among the officers, as to whether it would be better to maintain a position outside the town, or to retreat at once; but the belief that reinforcements might arrive, at any hour, caused Captain Noton to determine to keep in the open, and so to cover the town as long as possible.
On the evening of the 14th, the Burmese came down to the river as if to cross it; but retired when the two six-pounder guns opened fire upon them. That two small guns should produce such an effect confirmed the British officers in their opinion that the Burmese, although they might defend stockades well, were of little use in the open. The next morning, however, the enemy effected the passage of the river farther away and then, advancing, took possession of a large tank surrounded by a high embankment.
Captain Noton placed his force in an enclosure, with a bank three feet high. His right flank was protected by the river; and a small tank, some sixty paces in front, was occupied by a strong picket. On his left, somewhat to the rear, was another tank, and at this the native levies were placed. The main position was held by the sepoys, with the two six-pounders. As the Burmese advanced, a sharp fire was opened upon them; but they availed themselves of every irregularity of the ground, and of cover of all kinds, and threw up shelter banks with such rapidity that the fire was, by no means, so effective as had been expected.
During the day news came that the left wing of the 23rd Native Infantry had left Chittagong on the 13th and, as it should arrive the next day, Captain Noton determined to hold his ground; though the Burmese continued to press forward, and a good many men, as well as two or three officers, had been wounded by their fire. At nightfall, a consultation was held. The reinforcements were expected in the morning and, although the native levies had shown signs of insubordination, and evidently could not be relied upon to make a stand, if the Burmese attacked in earnest, it was resolved to retain the position.
During the night, the Burmese pushed forward their trenches. A heavy fire was maintained on both sides during the day, but it was with considerable difficulty that the officers in command of the levies kept the men from bolting.
"Things look very black," Captain Pringle said to Stanley, when the firing died away, at nightfall. "Reinforcements should have been here, today. It is scandalous that they should not have been pushed forward, at once, when we asked for them. Still more so that, when they once started, they should not have come on with the greatest possible speed. I doubt whether we shall be able to hold these cowardly curs together till tomorrow. If they bolt, the sepoys will be sure to do so, too; in fact, their position would be altogether untenable, for the Burmese could march round this flank and take them in rear.
"I wish to Heaven we had two or three companies of white troops, to cover a retreat. There would be no fear of the sepoys yielding to a panic, if they had British troops with them; but when they are outnumbered, as they are now, one can hardly blame them if they lose heart, when the enemy are ten times their strength, and will be twenty to one against them, if our fellows here bolt."
The next morning, the Burmese had pushed up their trenches to within twelve paces of the British lines, and a tremendous fire was opened. At nine o' clock, in spite of the efforts of their officers to keep them steady, the native levies bolted; and the officers with them dashed across the intervening ground towards the main body. One of them fell dead, and two others were wounded. Stanley was running, when he fell headlong, without a moment's thought or consciousness.
The Burmese occupied the tank as soon as the levies had abandoned it, and their fire at once took the defenders of the main position in flank. A retreat was now necessary, and the sepoys drew off in good order but, as the exulting Burmans pressed hotly upon them, and their cavalry cut off and killed every man who fell wounded from their ranks, they became seized with a panic. In vain their officers exhorted them to keep steady. Reaching a rivulet, the men threw down their rifles and accoutrements as they crossed it, and took to headlong flight.
The little group of officers gathered together, and fought to the end. Captains Noton, Truman, and Pringle; Lieutenant Grigg, Ensign Bennet, and Maismore the doctor were killed. Three officers, only, made their escape; of these, two were wounded.
The fugitives, both natives and sepoys, continued their flight; and when, two or three days later, they straggled into Chittagong, it was found that the total loss in killed and missing amounted to about two hundred and fifty. Those taken prisoners numbered only about twenty. All these were more or less severely wounded, for no quarter had been given. They had, in the pursuit, been passed over as dead; and when, after this was over, they were found to be alive, they were spared from no feeling of humanity, but that they might be sent to Ava, as proofs of the victory obtained over the British. The number actually found alive was greater, but only those were spared that were capable of travelling.
Among these was Stanley Brooke. He had remained insensible, until the pursuit had been discontinued. A violent kick roused him to consciousness and, sitting up, he found that half a dozen Burmese were standing round him. His first action, on recovering his senses, was to discover where he was wounded. Seeing no signs of blood on his white clothes, he took off his cap and passed his hand over his head; and found that the blood was flowing from a wound just on the top, where a bullet had cut away the hair and scalp, and made a wound nearly three inches long, at the bottom of which he could feel the bone.
Looking up at the Burmese, he said, in their own language: "That was a pretty close shave, wasn't it?"
Two or three of them laughed, and all looked amused. Two of them then helped him to his feet; and the group, among whom there were some officers, then took him some distance to the rear, where he was ordered to sit down with three wounded sepoys who had been brought in.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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3
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: A Prisoner.
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The little group of prisoners received several additions, until the number mounted up to twenty. The spot where they were placed was close to the bank of the river and, as all were suffering severely from thirst, Stanley asked and obtained permission from the guard to fetch some water. He first knelt down and took a long drink; then he bathed his head and, soaking his handkerchief with water, made it into a pad, placed it on the wound, and put his cap on over it. Then he filled a flask that he carried, and joined his companions. These were permitted to go down, one by one, to the river to drink and bathe their wounds.
Stanley had already learned, from them, all they knew of what had happened after he had been stunned by the bullet. Two of them had crossed the rivulet, before being wounded; and these said that they believed all the white officers had been killed, but that they thought most of the troops had got away.
"It is more than they deserved," Stanley said indignantly. "I don't say much about the Mugs. They had very little drill or discipline and, naturally, were afraid of the Burmese, who had long been their masters; but if the sepoys had kept together under their officers, they might all have escaped, for the Burmese would never have been able to break their ranks."
"Some of the officers had been killed, and most of them wounded, before the retreat began, sahib," one of the sepoys said apologetically, "and they were ten to one against us."
"Yes, I know that; but you who had fought before should have known well enough that, as long as you kept together, you could have beaten them off; and they would have been glad enough to have given up the pursuit, at last. No doubt they all wanted to have a share in the plunder of Ramoo."
"What do you think that they are going to do with us, sahib?"
"From what they said as they brought me here, I think that we shall be sent to Ava, or Amarapura. They lie close together, and the court is sometimes at one place and sometimes at the other. What they will do with us when we get there, I don't know. They may cut off our heads, they may put us in prison; anyhow, you may be sure that we shall not have a pleasant time of it.
"All we have to hope for is that the capture of Rangoon, by our fleet, may lower their pride and bring them to treat for terms. It sailed nearly six weeks ago from Calcutta, and was to have been joined by one from Madras and, allowing for delays, it ought to have been at Rangoon a fortnight since, and would certainly capture the place without any difficulty. So possibly by the time we reach Ava we shall find that peace has been made.
"Still, the Burmese may not consider the loss of Rangoon to be important, and may even try to recapture it--which you may be sure they won't do, for I heard at Chittagong that there were some twenty thousand troops coming; which would be quite enough, if there were but good roads and plenty of transport for them, to march through Burma from end to end."
In the evening food was brought to the prisoners and, talking with some of the Burmese who came up to look at them, Stanley learned that Bandoola himself had not accompanied the force across the Naaf, and that it was commanded by the rajahs who ruled the four provinces of Aracan. Upon the following morning the prisoners were marched away, under a strong guard. Six days later they reached the camp of Bandoola. They were drawn up at a distance from the great man's tent. He came down, accompanied by a party of officers, to look at them. He beckoned to Stanley.
Stanley is brought before Bandoola, the Burmese general.
"Ask him if he is an officer," he said to an interpreter, standing by his side.
The man put the question in Hindustani. Stanley replied, in Burmese: "I am an officer, your lordship, but a temporary one, only. I served in the Mug levy, and was appointed for my knowledge of their tongue."
"How is it that you come to speak our language?" Bandoola asked, in surprise.
"I am a trader, your lordship, but when our trade was put an end to, by the outbreak of the war, I entered the army to serve until peace was made. I learned the language from a servant in the service of my uncle, whose assistant I was."
The Burmese general was capable of acts of great cruelty, when he considered it necessary; but at other times was kindly and good natured.
"He is but a lad," he said to one of his officers, "and he seems a bold young fellow. He would be useful as an interpreter to me, for we shall want to question his countrymen when we make them all prisoners. However, we must send him with the others to Ava, as he is the only officer that we have taken; but I will send a message to some of my friends, at the court, asking them to represent that I consider he will be useful to me; and praying that he may be kept for a time and treated well, and may be forwarded to me, again, when I make my next move against the English."
The following day the prisoners started under the escort of twenty soldiers, commanded by an officer of some rank, who was specially charged to take them safely to Ava. It was a fortnight's march to the Irrawaddy. Until they neared the river the country was very thinly populated but, when they approached its banks, the villages were comparatively thick, standing for the most part in clearings in a great forest. On the march the Burmese officer frequently talked with Stanley, asked many questions about England and India; and was evidently surprised, and somewhat sceptical, as to the account the lad gave him of the fighting strength of the country. He treated him with considerable indulgence, and sent him dishes from his own table.
When not talking with him, Stanley marched at the head of the little party of prisoners--all of whom were sepoys, no quarter having been given to the native levies. Of an evening, Stanley endeavoured to keep up the sepoys' spirits by telling them that probably, by this time, the British expedition had arrived at Rangoon, and captured it; and that peace would most likely follow, and they might be exchanged for any Burmese who fell into the hands of the English.
When they reached a village on the banks of the river the population, on seeing them, came round and would have maltreated them; had not the officer interfered, and said he had Bandoola's orders to carry them safely to the court, and that anyone interfering with them would be severely punished. The head man of the village bent low, on hearing the general's name.
"I ask your pardon, my lord. The prisoners shall not be touched. But have you heard the news?"
"I have heard no news," the officer said.
"It arrived here yesterday, my lord. The barbarians have had the audacity to sail up, with a great fleet of ships, to Rangoon. They had vessels of war with them and, though our forts fired upon them, they had so many cannon that we could not resist them, and they have captured the town. This happened a fortnight since."
The officer stood thunderstruck at what appeared, to him, to be an act of audacious insolence. However, after a moment's pause, he said wrathfully: "It is of little matter. The town was weak, and in no position for defence; but a force will soon go down to sweep these barbarians away. Now, get ready your war galley, as soon as possible."
Each village on the river was compelled, by law, to furnish a war galley for the king's service whenever it might be required. These carried from fifty to a hundred men, and some three hundred of these boats were always available for service, and constituted one of the strongest divisions of the fighting force of the Burman empire. The village was a large one, and in half an hour the crew of the galley were on board and, rowing forty oars, started up the river.
"What think you of this news?" the officer said, beckoning to Stanley to take his place in front of him. "These men must be mad, to tempt the anger of the Lord of the Golden Stool, the mighty Emperor. Had you heard aught of this?"
"I heard but a vague rumour that a fleet had been collected, but I heard nothing for certain as to its destination."
"It is madness," the officer repeated. "We shall sweep them into the sea. How many of them are there, do you think?"
"As to that I can say little, my lord. I only heard a report that some ships and troops were to sail--some from Madras and some from Calcutta--but of the number of the men and ships, I know nothing for certain."
"They have taken evil council," the officer said, gravely. "I have heard that they gained some slight advantage, in Cachar; but there they had but irregular troops to meet, largely Assamese, who are but poor cowards. This little success must have turned their heads. They will now have our regular forces to deal with, and these will number a hundred thousand--or twice as many, if necessary. Think you that the handful that would be transported in ships can stand against such a host?"
"There may be more than you think, my lord. Many of the ships will be very big, much bigger than those that trade with Rangoon; and some of them will carry as many as five hundred men."
"Even so," the officer said scornfully; "if there were twenty-five such ships, or even fifty, the force would be as nothing to us. They will have to take to their vessels, as soon as our army approaches."
"It may be so, sir; but I think that they will scarce go without fighting. I would represent to you that, although much fewer in numbers than your army which attacked us, at Ramoo, the troops made a stout fight of it; and that they fought steadily, until the Mugs ran away. After that, from what I hear, I admit that they fled shamefully. But the troops that come to Rangoon will be better than those were, for there will be white regiments among them; and though these may, as you say, be overpowered with numbers and destroyed, I do not think that you will see them running away."
"And you think that they will really venture to withstand us?
"I think that they will endeavour to do so."
"Why, there will scarce be an occasion for fighting," the officer said, disdainfully. "They were mad to come; they are madder, still, to come now. The rainy season is just at hand. In another week it will be upon us. The rivers will spread, the flat country will be a marsh. Even we, who are accustomed to it, suffer. In places like Rangoon fever and disease will sweep them away and, when the dry season comes and our troops assemble to fight them, there will be none left. They will die off like flies. We shall scarce capture enough to send as prisoners to the emperor."
Stanley felt that, in this respect, the Burman's prophecies were but too likely to be fulfilled. He knew how deadly were the swamp fevers to white men; and that in spite of his comfortable home on board the dhow and boat, he had himself suffered although, during the wet season, his uncle made a point of sailing along the coast, and of ascending only rivers that flowed between high banks and through a country free from swamps. He remembered that his uncle had spoken, very strongly, of the folly of the expedition being timed to arrive on the coast of Burma at the beginning of the wet season; and had said that they would suffer terribly from fever before they could advance up the country, unless it was intended to confine the operations to the coast towns, until the dry season set in.
It would indeed have been impossible to have chosen a worse time for the expedition but, doubtless, the government of India thought chiefly of the necessity for forcing the Burmese to stand on the defensive, and of so preventing the invasion of India by a vast army. Unquestionably, too, they believed that the occupation of Rangoon, and the stoppage of all trade, would show the court of Ava that they had embarked in a struggle with no contemptible foe; and would be glad to abate their pretensions, and to agree to fair terms of peace.
The Bengal force that had been embarked consisted of two British regiments--the 13th and 38th--a battalion of native infantry, and two batteries of European artillery, amounting in all to 2175 men. The Madras force--of which one division was sent on at once, the other was to follow shortly--consisted of the 41st and 89th Regiments, the Madras European regiment, seven battalions of native infantry, and four batteries of artillery, amounting to 9300 men; making a total of 11475 fighting men, of whom nearly five thousand were Europeans. In addition to the transports, the Bengal force was accompanied by a flotilla of twenty gun-brigs and as many row-boats, each armed with an eighteen-pounder; the Larne and Sophia sloop, belonging to the Royal Navy; several of the Company's cruisers; and the steamboat Diana. General Sir A. Campbell was appointed to the chief command, and Colonel M'Bean, with the rank of Brigadier General, commanded the Madras force.
The Bengal squadron sailed from Saugur in the middle of April; and reached the rendezvous, Port Cornwallis, in the Andaman Islands, at the end of the month. The Madras first division sailed at the same time, and joined them a few days later; and the whole force, under the escort of H. M. frigate Liffey and the Slaney, sloop of war, left Port Cornwallis on the 5th of May, and arrived on the 9th at the mouth of the Irrawaddy.
Forces were detached for the capture of the islands of Chuduba and Negrais. On the 10th the fleet entered the river and anchored within the bar and, on the following morning, proceeded with the flood tide up to Rangoon, the Liffey and the Larne leading the way. A few shots were fired as they went up the river; but the Burmese were taken wholly by surprise, the idea that the English would venture to invade them never having entered their minds.
There was considerable disappointment on board the fleet, when Rangoon came into sight. It was situated on the north bank of the main branch of the river, thirty miles from the sea. It extended about nine hundred yards along the bank, and was six or seven hundred yards wide, at its broadest part. Beyond the town were some suburbs, outside the palisade that inclosed it. The palisades were ten or twelve feet high, strengthened by embankments of earth thrown up against them, on the inner side. One face of the defences ran along the river bank, while the others were protected by a shallow creek communicating with the river. The town itself consisted, for the most part, of miserable and dirty hovels; and of a few official buildings of larger size.
At twelve o'clock the Liffey anchored abreast of the principal battery, close to the water gate; the transports being ranged in a line in rear of her. A proclamation had been sent on shore, on the previous day, giving assurances of protection to the people at large, and to all who should offer no resistance.
When the guns of the fleet were loaded, a pause ensued. The town was evidently incapable of offering resistance, and it was hoped that it would capitulate. The Burmese were seen standing at their guns, but they also remained inactive, apparently paralysed at the appearance of this great fleet of vessels--of a size hitherto undreamt of by them--and the threatening guns pointed towards them. However, they were at last goaded, by the orders and threats of their officers, to open fire upon the ships.
The frigate at once replied with a broadside. In a very few minutes, every gun on shore was silenced, and the Burmese fled in confusion from their works. As soon as they did so, the signal for disembarkation was made. The troops crowded into the boats, which rowed for the shore; and the soldiers entered the town without resistance, and found it completely deserted.
The whole of the population had been driven out by the governor on the previous day and, according to Burmese custom, the men had all been formed into a levy, while the women and children were held under guard, as hostages for their husbands and fathers--their lives being forfeited in case of desertion, or cowardice, by their male relations.
The foreigners in the town had all been seized. They were few in number, consisting of some eight or ten British traders and American missionaries. These, after being fettered, were taken to the Custom House prison. They were brought up and tried, early on the morning of the attack, and were accused of having arranged the assault on the town. They naturally urged that, if they had had the least knowledge that it was going to be made, they would have left the place in time. But the Burmese at once condemned them to death, and they were taken back to the prison to be executed.
The sentence was not carried out. The Burmese had intended to execute them on the walls, in sight of their countrymen; and the authorities had all assembled at the prison for the purpose when, fortunately, a shot from the first broadside fired passed through the building, causing an instant stampede. The chiefs at once left the city; and the prisoners, heavily chained, were marched some distance into the country. A party of British troops were, however, pushed forward in advance of the town, as soon as it was occupied; and the guard, in alarm for their own safety, placed the prisoners in a house and made off; and a patrol found them there, on the following morning, and brought them into the town.
The great pagoda, standing two miles and a half from the town, was at once occupied as an advanced position by the British. It stood upon a conical hill, rising seventy-five feet above the plain. The area on the top was somewhat over two acres; and in the centre rose the pagoda, three hundred and thirty-eight feet high.
Every boat on the river was found to have been removed. In spite of proclamations promising good treatment, none of the inhabitants returned to the town, being prevented from doing so by the Burmese authorities and troops. No stores whatever had been found and, till the end of the wet season, the army had to depend entirely upon the fleet for provisions; and remained cooped up in the wretched and unhealthy town, suffering severely from fever and malaria.
The boat in which Stanley and the other prisoners were conveyed was changed at every village going up the river, as the officer was carrying the despatches from Bandoola to the court. A flag was hoisted as the boat came in sight of a village. This was the signal that another was required and, within two or three minutes of their arrival, the prisoners, their guard and officer were on their way again.
Thus they proceeded, night and day and, in four days, arrived at Ava. Leaving the prisoners in charge of the guard, the officer at once proceeded to the palace. In an hour guns were fired, drums beat, and the bells of the pagodas rung, to give notice to the population that a great victory had been won over the English, and their army annihilated, by Bandoola and his valiant troops. This obliterated the impression produced by the news that had arrived, a few days previously, of the landing at Rangoon; and there were great rejoicings among the population.
An officer from the palace presently came down to the boat, and the prisoners were marched through the streets to a jail, amid the jeers of the mob. Stanley was surprised at the meanness of the town; the great majority of the houses being built of bamboo, and thatched with grass, and having a very poor appearance. The public buildings and the houses of the great officers were constructed of planks, and tiled; but were heavy and tasteless, and it was only upon the innumerable pagodas, in and around the town, that any care seemed to have been bestowed.
He had wondered much at the numerous pagodas that they had seen, near every town and village, as they passed up; but the officer had informed him that these were all private property, and that it was considered the most meritorious of actions to erect one; consequently every man who had means to do so built a pagoda, large or small in proportion to the sum that he could bestow upon it. On Stanley's remarking upon the great number that were in ruins, the officer replied that it was considered so much more meritorious an action to build a pagoda than to repair one that, after the death of the founder, they were generally suffered to fall into decay.
For some days the prisoners were taken out, every day, and marched about the town for some time, so as to afford the population ocular proof of the victory gained by Bandoola. The place in which they were confined was small and filthy but, at the end of a week, Stanley was taken out and placed in a room by himself; and here the officer who had had charge of him paid him a visit, an hour or two later.
"I have expressed to the court," he said, "the wishes of the general, and have had permission accorded for you to receive different treatment from the others; partly because you are an officer, but principally because the general thinks that you may be made useful to him. I have informed the officer of the prison that you are to be at liberty to walk about in the city, when you please; but that to protect you from violence, an officer and two soldiers are to accompany you, so long as you may think such a precaution necessary. I have ordered a dress of our fashion to be brought to you as, otherwise, you could not go into the streets without being mobbed."
Stanley expressed his gratitude to the officer for obtaining these indulgences, and the latter replied: "I acted upon the orders of the general, but it has been a pleasure to me; for I see that you are a young man of merit, and I have learned much from you about your people during the journey; and have seen that, foolish as they have been to undertake to match themselves against us, there are yet some things that might be learned from them; and that, if they had remained in their island, many months' journey away from here, they might have been worthy of our friendship."
A short time after the officer had left, a soldier brought up some food of a very much better nature than that with which Stanley had been hitherto supplied. Half an hour later, the dress arrived. It was that of a Burmese officer of inferior grade; and consisted of a tunic of thick cloth, coming down to the knees; leathern sword belt; a sort of tippet resembling that of an English coachman, with three layers of cloth thickly quilted; and a leathern helmet going up to a point in the centre, with a flap to protect the neck and ears. With it were worn tight-fitting stockings of cloth, and low shoes.
Presently an officer came in.
"I am ordered to go out with you, once a day, at whatever hour you may desire. I am a relative of the officer who brought you here, and he has requested me to look after your safety."
"I am much obliged to you, sir," Stanley said, "and shall be glad, indeed, to go out to see the city. Your kinsman has kindly sent me a dress; but if I am not to be noticed, it will be necessary for me to stain my face and hands, somewhat."
"That I have thought of," the officer said, "and have brought with me some dye which will darken your skin. It would be worse than useless for you to dress as a Burman, unless you did so; for it would seem even more singular, to the people in the streets, that a white man should be seen walking about dressed as an officer, than that a white prisoner should be taken through the streets under a guard.
"I am ready to go out with you now, if you wish it."
"I shall be ready in a few minutes," Stanley replied and, on being left alone, at once changed his attire and stained his face and hands.
He had just finished when the officer returned. He smiled and said: "There is no fear of your being suspected, now; and you might really go about safely without a guard, unless you were to enter into conversation with anyone. You speak the language very well, but your accent is not quite the same as ours, here, though in Aracan it would pass unremarked."
As they went out from the prison, the officer told two soldiers who were waiting there to follow, at a distance.
"Do not approach us," he said, "unless I call you up."
The houses were not constructed in continuous rows, but were very scattered, each house having its inclosure or garden. The population was very small, in comparison to the area occupied by the town. This was divided into two parts--the inner and outer town. The whole was surrounded by a brick wall, five miles and a half in circumference, some sixteen feet high and ten feet in thickness, strengthened on the inside by a great bank of earth. The inner town was inclosed by a separate wall, with a deep ditch on two sides, the river Irrawaddy on the third, and a tributary river on the fourth.
A considerable portion of the inclosed area was occupied by the royal quarter; containing the palace, the court of justice, the council chamber, arsenal, and the houses of the ministers and chief officials. This was cut off from the rest by a strong and well-built wall, twenty feet high, outside which was a stockade of the same height. The total population of Ava was but 25,000.
The officer did not take Stanley to the royal quarter, observing that it was better not to go there as, although he had leave to walk in the town, it might give offence were he to show himself near the palace; but after going through the wall, they visited two or three of the markets, of which there were eleven in the town.
The markets consisted of thatched huts and sheds, and were well supplied with the products of the country. Here were rice, maize, wheat, and various other grains; sticks of sugar cane, tobacco, cotton, and indigo; mangoes, oranges, pineapples, custard apples, and plantains were in abundance; also peacocks, jungle fowl, pigeons, partridges, geese, ducks, and snipes--but little meat was on sale, as the Burman religion forbids the killing of animals for food. Venison was the only meat allowed to be sold in the markets; but there were lizards, iguanas, and snakes, which were exposed freely for sale; and there were large quantities of turtle and tortoise eggs, which had been brought up from the delta.
Stanley saw that there had really been no great occasion for him to stain his skin, as the people were, for the most part, lighter in colour than the Hindoos. Many of the men had, however, stained their faces to a darker colour; and all were tattooed, more or less. Men, women, and children were all smoking; and frequently, when both hands were required for any purpose, thrust their cigars into the large holes bored in the lobes of their ears. Both men and women were somewhat short in stature, but squarely built and muscular and, in the majority of cases, inclined to be fat.
The men wore a sort of kilt, consisting of a double piece of cloth, wrapped round the body and falling to the knee. Over this was a loose tunic, with sleeves open in front. The headdress was a scanty white turban.
The dress of the women was somewhat similar to that of the Hindoos, consisting of a single garment like a sheet wrapped round the body, fastening under the arms and falling to the ankles. Those of the upper classes were more elaborate. The rank among the women was distinguished, so Stanley's guide pointed out to him, by the manner in which the hair was plaited and twisted, and by the ornaments in it.
The men, like the women, wore their hair long but, while the men wore theirs in a knot at the top of the head, the women gathered it in at the back. Their faces were broad at the cheekbones, but narrowed in sharply, both at the forehead and chin. The narrow and oblique eyes showed the relationship between the Burmese and their Chinese neighbours. They seemed to Stanley a light-hearted, merry people, going about their business with much chatter and laughter; and the sound of musical instruments could often be heard, inside the houses. Several men, in bright yellow garments, mingled with the crowds in the market. These were priests, the officer told him; and it would be a mortal act of sacrilege, were anyone else to wear that colour.
Stanley remarked upon seeing so few soldiers, and the officer told him that there was no regular army in Burma. Every man capable of carrying arms was obliged to serve in case of war but, with the exception of the king's bodyguard, and a very small body of men who were police, rather than soldiers, there was no force permanently kept up. Every man was expected to know something of military duty, and all were able to build stockades. From the fact that the flesh of wild fowl formed one of the principal articles of food, the peasantry throughout the country were all accustomed to the use of the gun, and were fair marksmen.
"But you yourself are an officer," Stanley said.
"At present, yes; but tomorrow I may return to my land. It is the same with the highest minister. One day he may be a trader but, if recommended to the king as one possessing ability, straightway he is chosen to be a high official. If he does not please the king, or fails in his duties, then the next day he may be selling cloth in the bazaar again.
"Everything is at the will of the king. Nobody is born with fortune or rank, for everything belongs to the king and, at a man's death, all goes back to him. Thus everyone in the land has an equal chance. In war the bravest becomes a general, in peace the cleverest is chosen as a councillor."
Walking about, Stanley soon found that there were a great variety of dialects talked in the streets, and that the language of the Burmese of the coast, of the natives of Pegu and the central province, and of those from districts bordering on the Shan states or the frontiers of China, differed as widely as those of the most remote parts of Great Britain did from each other. This being so, he was convinced that there would be no difficulty, whatever, in passing as a native, without attracting any observation or inquiry, so far as the language went.
His features and, still more, the shape of his face might, however, be noticed by the first comer, in the daytime. He thought, indeed, that a little tinge of colour in the corner of the eyes, so as to lengthen their appearance and give an oblique cast to them, would make a difference. The general shape of the head was unalterable, but the Burmese nose and mouth did not differ very greatly from the European; except that the nostrils were smaller and, in shape, were round rather than oval.
For three weeks he continued the same life, and then the Burmese officer, with whom he had now become very friendly, said when he entered one morning: "You must not go out today. There is news that your people have made two forward marches. The first was against a stockade, which they took, and killed many of our men; the other time they marched out four or five miles, had a fight with our troops, and again killed many. These things have angered the king and the people. Of course it is nothing, for our troops are only beginning to assemble; but it is considered insolent in the extreme, and the king's face is darkened against your countrymen. Four of the prisoners have been taken out this morning and publicly executed and, if the news of another defeat comes, I fear that it will be very dangerous, even for you."
"What had I best do, my friend?"
"I would fain save you, for we have come to know each other; and I see that there is much good in your ways, though they differ greatly from ours. Were I to take you out, as usual, you might be killed in the streets; were you to slip away and escape, I should assuredly be put to death; but if in any way I can help you, I would fain do so. My relation who brought you up here left, a fortnight since, to rejoin Bandoola; so his influence cannot serve you.
"I do not say that you might not escape from this prison--since you are not, like the others, confined in a dungeon--but I see not what you could do, or where you could go. Were you to disappear, orders would be sent down the river to every village, and every passing craft would be examined, and you would be sure to be detected; while it would be well-nigh impossible to travel the country on foot, for it is but thinly inhabited. There are often very long distances between the villages, and much of the country is swamp and forest, without paths; for the village trade goes by the river, and they have little communication with each other.
"I know that, from what you say, you think that your troops will beat ours, even when we assemble in large numbers. Were this so, I fear that there would be little chance of your life being spared. Were it not for that, I should say that, Bandoola having recommended you, you would be in no danger here, and had better remain until peace is made.
"What think you, yourself?"
"It is very difficult to reply, at once," Stanley said, "but I thank you greatly for your offer to befriend me, in any way you can. I do not say that I had not thought of escape, for I have of course done so. But it seemed to me a thing in the distance; and that, at any rate until the rains were over and the rivers had sunk, it would be useless to attempt it. I see, now, that it will be safest for me to try without delay. If you will come in again, this afternoon, I will tell you what I have thought of."
"I will do so; and I, myself, will try to think how best the matter can be managed. We must remember that the great thing is for you to find concealment, for the present. After the search for you has been made for some time, it will die away; and it will then be the easiest plan for you to make your way down the river."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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4
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: A Ruined Temple.
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After the officer left him, Stanley sat thinking for a long time. He himself inclined strongly towards the river; but he saw that, at present, the difficulties would be very great. The war boats were passing up and down, and bodies of troops were being carried down in large craft. In every village the men, he knew, were assembling and drilling. Even in Ava he could see the difference in the population, the proportion of men to women having markedly decreased since his arrival.
As to the journey by land, it appeared to him impossible. He was, too, altogether without money and, whether by water or land, it would be necessary to go into the villages to buy provisions. Indeed, money would have been almost useless, for there was no coined money in Burma; payments being made in lead, for small amounts, or in silver for large ones--the quantity necessary being cut off from small sticks or bars, or paid in filings.
It seemed to him that the best thing would be to take to the forest, for a time; and endeavour to subsist upon wild fruits or, if these were not to be found there, to go out into the fields and orchards at night, and so manage to hold on for a few weeks. His friend told him that, in the forests along the principal lines of route to the capital, were many bad characters--persons who had committed crime and fled from justice. Some were cultivators who, having been unable to pay their taxes, had deserted their land and taken to the woods. All committed depredations, and traders coming into the town from the Shan states, or from the country where rubies and emeralds were found, always travelled in caravans for mutual protection. At times levies were called out, and many of these marauders were killed.
Stanley, then, had hit upon nothing definite when the officer returned in the afternoon and, in reply to the latter's question, he acknowledged at once that the only thing he could see was to take to the forest, until the active search for him had ceased.
"You would find it difficult to maintain yourself. I have thought of a better way than that. I am acquainted with a Phongee, who lives in a temple in a lonely spot, four miles away. He is a good man, though somewhat strange in his habits; and I feel sure that, on my recommendation, he would take you in. There would be little chance of your being discovered there. You could not go dressed as you are, but must disguise yourself as a peasant; though it might be well to retain your present attire, which may be useful to you, afterwards. I fear that you will fare badly with him, in the way of food; there will be enough to eat, but it will be of the simplest."
"So that there is enough to keep life together, it matters little what it is."
"Then that is settled.
"Now, about making your escape from here. Your door is closely barred, at night; and there is no window save those four little holes, high up in the wall, which scarce a bird could get through."
"I could cut through the thatch above," Stanley said, "if I had but something that I could stand upon to do so. There are some bamboos lying just at the bottom of the steps. With these and some cord I might make a sort of ladder, and should then be able to get at the thatch."
"I will bring you some cord, tomorrow, for that and to let yourself down to the ground. Then I will arrange where to meet you, and will guide you out of the town and take you to the priest. I will bring a disguise for you, and some stain for your body and arms for, as a peasant, you would be naked to the waist. I can think of nothing better."
"I thank you most heartily," Stanley said, "and trust that you may get into no trouble for the kindness that you have shown me."
"There is no fear of that, my friend. No one will know that I have been away from the town. I am greatly afraid that this will be all that I shall be able to do for you; for I am told that I am to go down the river with the next batch of troops, which will start in three days. I have only been informed of it since I saw you this morning. Had it not been for you I should have been glad; for it is in war time, only, that one can obtain honour and promotion."
"I am sorry that you are going, sir. I shall miss your kindness, sorely; but I can understand your desire to go to the front. It is the same with us; when there is a war, every officer and soldier hopes that his regiment will be sent there. However, I shall see you again.
"Has Bandoola's army moved yet?"
"No; nor do I think that it will do so. It is a long march down to Rangoon from Ramoo; and I believe that he will remain where he is, until he sees how matters go at Rangoon. As soon as your people are driven out, he will be joined by a great army, and will march to Dacca. There our troops from the north will join him; and then he will go to India, we think."
"I fancy," Stanley said with a smile, "if he waits until we are turned out from Rangoon, his stay at Ramoo will be a long one."
The next day the officer brought several yards of strong cloth, such as was worn by the peasants; a piece of muslin to make the circular band that was worn by the lower class, instead of a complete turban; and a lot of horse hair to be worn on the top of the head.
"Now," he said, "strip to the waist, and I will dye your body. I have dyes of two colours here; one for the skin, and the other to draw lines on the face, so as to make you look older; and with this I can also imitate tattoo marks on your chest and shoulders. Here is a long knife, such as everyone wears, and here is the cord.
"As soon as it is getting dark you must carry up two of the bamboo poles, taking care that no one observes you do so. There is seldom anyone in the courtyard. I have had the knife sharpened, and it will cut through the thatch, easily enough. When you get away, walk straight to the market that lies nearest to us. I will be at its entrance. It will take you, I suppose, two hours to make your ladder and get out. You cannot begin until the guard closes your door. You tell me he never comes in."
"No, he brings the last meal an hour before sunset. I generally sit on the top of the steps, till he comes up to lock the door, which is about nine o'clock; and I do not see him again until he unbars the door in the morning. I should not think that it will take as long as two hours to make the ladder, and cut the thatch; at any rate, by eleven I ought to join you.
"I suppose the gates are open."
"Oh, yes! They are never closed, though of course they would be, if an enemy were near. There is no guard anywhere."
After staining Stanley's skin, the officer waited a quarter of an hour for it to dry thoroughly; and then proceeded to draw lines on his face, across the forehead, and from the corners of his eyes; and then spent nearly an hour in executing rough tattoo marks on his body and arms.
"This dye is very good, and will last for weeks before it begins to fade. I will bring with me another bottle, tonight, so that you can at least re-dye your skin.
"Here is some wax. You must turn your hair up from the neck, and plaster it in its place with it. The turban will prevent anyone seeing how short the hair is. Here is a little bottle of black dye, with which you had better colour it, before fixing it with the wax."
Stanley's hair had not been cut for some time before he had been captured by the Burmese and, in the two months that had since elapsed, it had grown very long; and could therefore be turned up as the officer suggested. Putting on his usual garments, he sat at his place, at the door of the cell, until the guard brought up his evening meal. Having eaten this, he dyed his hair and, half an hour later, turned it up, plastering it with wax, and tied a bit of fibre round where the turban would come.
By this time it was getting dusk. He sat at the door at the top of the steps, until he saw that the courtyard was deserted; the guard at the gate having gone outside, to enjoy the coolness of the air. Then he ran down the steps, took two bamboo poles about ten feet in length, and two short pieces of the same wood no thicker than his finger and, hurrying up the steps with them, laid them down against the side of the room. Then he went to the steps again, and sat there until he saw the guard coming across to fasten his door; when he went in and, as soon as he heard the bars put up, began his preparations.
First he lashed the short pieces across the ends of the two bamboos, so as to keep them a foot apart; then he put ratlines across, and soon had the ladder completed. He made up his clothes into a bundle, wrapped the rough cloth round his waist, adjusted the knot of horse hair on the top of his head, and fastened it there with wax. He wound the turban round below, and his disguise was complete.
Fixing the ladder against the wall he climbed it, and it was not long before he cut a hole through the thatch of sufficient size to pass out. The work had taken him longer than he had expected, for it had to be done in absolute darkness; however, he was sure that he was well within his time. Fastening the end of the rope to one of the bamboo rafters, he descended the ladder and picked up his bundle; then climbed up again, got halfway out of the hole, and listened intently. Everything was quiet in the street and, in another minute, he stood on the ground.
When he turned into the principal street, there were still many people about. Sounds of music and singing came from the windows, for the Burmese are very fond of music, and often pass the whole night in playing and singing. There was no risk whatever of detection now, and he stepped briskly along until he came to the open space, with its rows of little thatched huts. Here he paused for a minute, and the officer stepped out from behind a house and joined him.
"I was not sure at first that it was you," he said. "Your disguise is excellent. You had better follow me, now, until we get beyond the busy streets."
Keeping some twenty yards behind his guide, Stanley went on until, after nearly half an hour's walking, they passed through a gate in the city walls. He now closed up to the officer and, after another half-hour's walk across a cultivated country, they entered a forest. The ground now rose steadily and, after keeping on for two miles, they emerged from the trees at the top of a hill. The space had been cleared of timber, but it was nearly covered with bushes and young trees. In the centre were the ruins of a temple, that had evidently existed long before the Burmese dynasty occupied the country, and had been erected by some older race. It was roofless; the walls had, in places, fallen; and the ruins were covered with vegetation.
The Burman ascended some broken steps, entered the temple, and crossed to one of the opposite corners. A dim light was burning in a small apartment, which had been roofed with thatch. A man was lying, dressed, on a heap of leaves at one side. He started up as the officer entered.
"Who is it who comes here at this hour?" he asked.
"Thekyn," the officer answered.
"I am glad to see you," the Phongee said, "whatever may bring you here. You have not fallen into trouble, I hope?"
"In no way, good priest. I am starting, in two days, down the river to fight the barbarians; but before I go, I want you to do me a favour."
The Phongee smiled.
"Beyond naming you in my prayers, Thekyn, there is but little that a hermit can do for any man."
"Not so, in this case," the officer said. "I have one here with me who needs rest, and concealment. I would rather that you did not ask who he is. He has done no crime, and yet he is in danger; and for a month, maybe, he needs a shelter. Will you give it him, for my sake?"
"Assuredly I will," the priest said. "Your father was one of my dearest friends, in the days when I dwelt in the city. I would gladly do all in my power for his son, and this is but a small thing that you ask. Let him enter."
Stanley went in. The priest took down the little lamp, from a shelf on which it stood, and held it near the lad's face. Then he turned, with a smile, to Thekyn: "The painting is but clumsily done," he said, "though maybe it would pass without close examination. He is a stranger, and comes of a race unknown to me but, as you said, it matters not to me who he is; suffice that he is a friend of yours. He is welcome to a share of my shelter, and my food; though the shelter is rough, and the food somewhat scanty. Of late few, indeed, have sought me for, as I hear, most of the men have gone down to the war."
"I have brought you some food," the officer said; for Stanley had observed that he also carried a bundle, a larger one than his own. "Here is a supply of rice, that will last for some time; and this, with your offerings, will suffice to keep things going. My friend is not, like you, bound by his religion not to take life; and I know that snakes are very plentiful round here."
Snakes had formed a frequent article of his diet, since he had been captured; and Stanley had lost the repugnance to them that he at first felt, so the prospect of their forming the staple of his food was not disagreeable to him. It would also afford him some employment to search for and kill them.
"I shall be well content," he said, "with anything that I can get, and trust that I shall be no burden upon you."
"You will assuredly be none," the priest replied. "Here must be at least thirty pounds of rice which, alone, would keep two men alive for a month. As regards the snakes, though I may not kill them, I may eat them when killed; and indeed, there are few things better. In truth, I should not be sorry to have some of the creatures out of the way; for they swarm round here so thickly that I have to pay great heed, when I walk, lest I step upon them."
"Have you been troubled with robbers, of late, father?" Thekyn asked.
"They trouble me not at all," the priest said. "Men come, sometimes. They may be robbers, or they may not. I ask no questions. They sometimes bring fruit and other offerings, and I know that I need not fear them. I have nought to lose, save my life; and he would be indeed an evil man who would dare to lift his finger against a priest--one who harms not anyone, and is ready to share what food he has with any man who comes to him hungry."
"Well, father, I will say goodbye. I must be back to the city before men are about, as I would not that my absence should be discovered."
"Peace be with you, my son. May you come back safe from the wars. My prayers will be said for you, night and morning.
"Be in no uneasiness as to your friend. If any should ask me about my companion, I shall reply that he is one who has undertaken to rid me of some of the snakes, who dispute the possession of this place with me."
Thekyn motioned to Stanley to come outside the hut with him and, when he did so, handed to him a small but heavy bag.
"This is lead," he said. "You will need it, when you start on your journey down the country. There are eight pounds of it and, from what you have seen in the market, you will know how much food can be got for a small amount of lead. I would that I could do more for you, and assist your flight."
"You have done much indeed, very much and, should I regain my friends, I will endeavour to do as much by one of your countrymen, for your sake. I hope that, when this war is over, I may meet you again."
"I hope so," the Burman said warmly. "I cannot but think that you will succeed in getting away."
"My son," the old priest said, when Stanley returned to his cell, "I am going to my prayers. I always rise at this hour, and pray till morning; therefore you may as well lay yourself down on these leaves. There is another cell, like this, in the opposite corner of the temple. In the morning you can cut boughs, and roof it like this; and make your bed there. There is no room for another, here; and it will doubtless be more pleasant for you to have a place to yourself, where you can go and come as you like; for in the day women come up to consult me, and ask for my prayers--but mind how you enter it for the first time as, like as not, there will be snakes sheltering there."
Stanley lay awake for a time, listening to the monotonous voice of the priest as he repeated his prayers; but his senses soon wandered, and he slept soundly till daybreak.
His first step was to cut a stout stick, and he then proceeded to the other cell, which was partially blocked up with stone from the fallen roof. It took him two hours to carry this stuff out, and he killed no less than nine snakes that he disturbed in his work. The prospect of sleeping in a place so frequented was not a pleasant one, especially as the cell had no door to it; and he resolved at once to erect some sort of bed place, where he might be beyond their reach. For this purpose he cut two poles, each three or four inches longer than the cell. One end of each he sharpened, and drove in between the interstices of the stone, at a distance of some two feet and a half apart and four feet from the ground. The other ends he hammered with a heavy stone against the opposite wall, until they would go down no farther. Then he split up some more wood and lashed strips, almost touching each other, underneath the two poles, by the aid of some strong creepers. Then he filled up the bed place, between the poles, with dry leaves.
One end of the bed was some inches higher than the other. This was immaterial, and he felt satisfied that even the craftiest snake could not reach him.
As to the roof, he was by no means particular about it. In this part of Burma the rainfall is very small, the inundations being the effect of heavy rains in the distant hill country which, as they come down, raise the level of the rivers, in some cases, as much as eighteen feet, and overflow the low-lying country.
Before beginning to construct the bed, he had carried the snakes into the Phongee; after first cutting off their heads which, as he knew, the Burmans never touch.
"This is good, indeed, my son," the priest said. "Here we have our breakfast and dinner. I will boil some rice, and fry four of them for breakfast."
The bed was but half completed, when he heard the priest sound a bell. It was doubtless used as a call to prayer. However, Stanley rightly conjectured that, in this case, it was a summons to a meal; and was soon seated on the ground by the side of the priest. Little was said at breakfast, which Stanley enjoyed heartily.
"So my friend Thekyn is starting for the wars. What think you of it, my son? Shall we easily overpower these barbarians? We have never met them in war before and, doubtless, their methods of fighting are different from ours."
"Quite different. Their men are trained as soldiers. They act as one man, while the Burmese fight each for himself. Then they have cannon with them, which they can drag about quickly, and use with great effect. Although they are few, in comparison with the armies going down to attack them, the latter will find it very difficult work to turn them out of Rangoon."
"Do you think that they will beat us, then?"
"That I cannot say, but I should not be surprised if it were to prove so."
"The Burmese have never been beaten yet," the priest said. "They have been victorious over all their enemies."
"The Burmese are very brave," Stanley agreed, "but, hitherto, they have only fought against people less warlike than themselves. Now they have to deal with a nation that has made war a study, and which always keeps up a large army of men who are trained to fight, and who spend all their time in military exercises. It is not that they are stronger than the Burmese, for the Burmese are very strong men; but only that men who are trained to act together must, necessarily, possess a great advantage over those who have had no such training--who simply take up arms for the occasion and, when the trouble is over, return to their homes and lay them by, until called out to fight again.
"Besides, their weapons are better than yours; and they have many cannon which, by practice, they can load and fire very quickly; and each of which, when the armies are near each other, can fire fifty or sixty bullets at once."
"I have heard a strange story that the barbarians have a ship without sails, with a great chimney that pours out quantities of black smoke, and a wheel on each side and, as the wheels move round, the vessel can go straight up the river against the tide, even if the wind is blowing strongly down."
"It is true, father, there are many such ships; but only two or three that have made the long voyage across stormy seas to India."
"It is wonderful how these men can force fire to be their servant, and how it can make the wheels of the ship to move round."
"That I cannot tell you, father. I have never seen one of these vessels, though I have heard of them."
The priest said no more, but evidently fell into a profound meditation; and Stanley, getting quietly up, returned to his work. The priest came in, just as he had completed his bed.
"That is well," he said, looking at it approvingly. "I myself, although I know that, until my time has come, no creature can harm me, cannot resist a shudder when I hear one rustling amid the leaves of my bed; for they come in, although some of my friends have had a door placed to exclude their entry at night. I wander but little from my cell, and always close the door after me; but they enter, sometimes, when I am meditating, and forgetful of earthly matters, and the first I know of their presence is the rustling of the leaves in the bed, at night. Were I as strong in faith as I should be, I would heed it not. I tell myself so; but my fear is stronger than my will, and I am forced to rise, turn up the leaves with a stick until I find them, and then I open the door and eject them, with as much gentleness as may be."
"I should get no sleep at all," Stanley said. "I don't think that even a door would make me feel any safer, for I might forget to shut it, sometimes. Tomorrow, father, I will wage war with them, and see if I cannot decrease their numbers considerably."
Stanley's first task was to clear the bushes away from the court of the temple; and this, after several days' hard work, he carried out; although he soon saw that by so doing he would not diminish the number of the snakes, for the greater portion of the area was covered with blocks of fallen stone, among which the reptiles found an impenetrable shelter. The clearance effected, however, was so far useful that, while the creatures were before altogether hidden from sight by the bushes, they could now be killed when they came out to bask in the sun on the uncovered stones; and he could, every day, destroy a dozen or more without the slightest difficulty.
Ten days after he had finished the work, he heard the sound of men's voices and, peeping out, saw a Burmese officer with a party of eight armed men going to the Phongee's cell. It was possible that they might have come on other business, but it was more probable they had come in search of him. Some of the women who had come up to the hermit had seen him at work; and might have mentioned, on their return, that the priest had a man at work clearing away the bushes. The matter might have come to the ears of some officer anxious to distinguish himself, and the idea that this was the prisoner for whom a search was being made occurred to him.
Stanley shrank back into his cell, took up the bundle of clothes that served as his pillow, got on to the bed and, standing on it, was able to get his fingers on to the top of the wall. He hoisted himself up, made his way through the boughs of the roof, and dropped on to the ground outside. Then he went round by the back of the temple, until he stood outside the priest's cell, and could hear the voices within without difficulty.
"Then you know nothing whatever of this man?"
"Nothing whatever," he replied. "As I have told you, he came to me and asked for shelter. I gave him such poor assistance as I could, as I should give it to anyone who asked me. He has been no burden upon me, for he has killed enough snakes for my food and his own."
"You know not of what part he is a native?"
"Not at all; I asked him no questions. It was no business of mine."
"Could you form any idea from his speech?"
"His speech was ours. It seemed to me that it was that of a native of the lower provinces."
"Where is he now?"
"I know not."
"You say that, at present, he is away."
"Not seeing him in front, I thought he had gone out; for he comes and goes as he pleases. He is not a hired servant, but a guest. He cut down the bushes here, in order that he might more easily kill the snakes; for which, indeed, I am thankful to him, not only for the food that they afford, but because they were in such abundance, and so fearless, that they often came in here, knowing that they had naught to fear from me."
"Then you think that he will return soon?"
"As he told me not of his intention of going out at all, I cannot say. He is away, sometimes, for hours in the forest."
"Well, in any case, we shall watch here until his return. It may be that he is some idle fellow, who prefers killing snakes to honest work; but it may also be that he is the escaped prisoner of whom we are in search."
"I hear little of what passes in the town," the priest said, quietly. "News would disturb my meditations, and I never question those who come here to ask for my prayers. I have heard of the escape of no prisoner."
"It was a young English officer who got away. There has been a great stir about it. Every house in the town has been searched, and every guard boat on the river has been warned to allow no boat to pass, without assuring themselves that he is not on board."
"This was a brown man, like ourselves, clad only in a petticoat of rough cloth, like other peasants."
"He may have dyed his skin," the officer said. "At any rate, we will stay until he returns, and question him. Two of my men shall take their places just inside the entrance, and seize him as he enters. Has he arms?"
"None, save his knife and the stick with which he kills the snakes. It may be that he has seen you coming hither and, if he has committed any crime, he would flee, and not return here at all."
"If he does not come back before it is the hour when I must return to the town, I shall leave four men to watch for him; and they will wait here, if it is for a week, until he comes back again."
"You can do as you please," the priest said, "only I pray you withdraw your men from the neighbourhood of this cell. I would not that my meditations were disturbed by their talk. I have come hither for peace and quietness, and to be apart from the world and its distractions."
"You shall not be disturbed," the officer said respectfully, and Stanley heard a movement of feet, and then the closing of the door.
Thinking it probable that the officer might make a search round the temple, he at once made off into the wood behind the temple. As soon as he was well among the trees, he exchanged his cloth for the disguise he had worn in the town and, folding it up to be used as a blanket at night, he went further into the wood, sat down, and proceeded to think what his next step had best be. It was evident that he could not return to the temple for the present; and it was clear, also, that the search for him was still maintained, and that it would not be safe to attempt to descend the river. He regretted that he had been obliged to leave the place without saying goodbye to the priest, and again thanking him for the shelter that he had given him; but he was sure that, when he did not return, the old man would guess that he had caught sight of the officer and his party entering the temple, and had at once fled. Had he not known that the guard would remain there, he would have waited until they returned to the town, and would then have gone in and seen the priest; but as they would remain there for some days, he thought it was as well to abandon all idea of returning, as the suspicions that he might be the man sought for would be heightened by his continued absence, and the watch might be continued for a long time, on the chance of his coming back.
He concluded that, at any rate, his best course would be to endeavour to make his way for a considerable distance down the country; and then to try and get a boat. He knew that the country near the river was comparatively thickly populated, and that the distances between the villages were not great, so that he would find no great difficulty in purchasing provisions. The dress he had brought with him was not altogether unfavourable for such a purpose, as he could easily pass as a sub-officer, whose duty it was to inquire whether the villages had each sent all their able-bodied men to the war. The only drawback to it would be that, if instructions for his arrest had been sent down to the villages along the road, as well as those by the river, they would have probably been directed to specially look for one clad in such attire. However, it would be open to him, at any moment, to take to his peasant's disguise again.
He at last determined to make a start and, by nightfall, had traversed several miles through the great forest stretching along by the side of the Panlaung river. He had asked many questions of his friend the officer, as they went up to the temple, as to the roads. He was told that there was one running almost due south to Ramuthayn, by which he could travel down to Rangoon, by way of Tannoo. This, however, would take him a long distance from the main river, and he decided that he would presently strike the road that ran about halfway between the hills and the Irrawaddy. He would follow that for a time, and would try and strike the river somewhere between Meloun and Keow-Uan.
Below this point there was a network of rivers, and but few villages, and the country was swampy and unhealthy. He infinitely preferred the risks of the descent by the river to those by road; and it seemed to him that, if he could but obtain possession of one of the small native fishing boats, he could drop down at night, unnoticed, as the width of the river at Ava was upwards of a thousand yards and, below that town, often considerably exceeded that breadth.
When it became too dark to proceed further, he sat down at the foot of a tree. He regretted that he had no means of lighting a fire; and determined that, at any risk, he would obtain the means of doing so at the first village that he came to--for he knew that there were both tigers and leopards in the jungles. He thought, however, that they were not likely to be numerous, so near the capital; and the old priest had never alluded to them as a source of danger though, indeed, it had never occurred to him to ask.
In the morning he continued his way. He had gone but a mile when he heard a sudden scream in the wood, a short distance to his left. Feeling sure that it was a human being, in great fear or pain, he drew his knife and ran, at the top of his speed, in the direction of the cry; thinking that it might be some man, or woman, attacked by the robbers of the forest.
Suddenly he came upon a small open space, some twenty yards in diameter. He hesitated, when his eyes fell on a group in the centre. Two men were lying on the ground, and a leopard stood with a paw on each of them. They had guns lying beside them, and a fire was burning close by. He guessed that the animal had sprung from a tree, one of whose boughs extended almost as far as the centre of the opening. Probably it had killed one of the men in its spring for, at the moment when he saw the animal, it was licking the blood from the shoulder of the man on whom its right paw rested. The other was, as far as Stanley could see, unhurt.
Illustration: Stanley gave a sudden spring, and buried his knife in the leopard.
His tread in the light Burmese shoes had been almost noiseless; and the leopard, which was keeping up a low growling, and whose back was towards him, had apparently not noticed it. He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to endeavour to save the man who was still alive. Creeping up stealthily, he gave a sudden spring upon the leopard, and buried his knife to the hilt in its body, just behind the shoulder.
With a terrible roar, it rolled over for a moment, and then struggled to its feet. The time had been sufficient for Stanley to pick up and cock one of the guns and, as the leopard turned to spring at him, he aimed between its eyes and fired. Again the beast rolled over, and Stanley caught up the other gun, thrust the muzzle within a foot of its head, and fired. The leopard gave a convulsive quiver, and lay dead.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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5
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: With Brigands.
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Stanley uttered an involuntary hurrah as the leopard expired; and at the sound the Burman, who had been lying motionless, leapt to his feet. He looked at the leopard, and then at his rescuer, and exclaimed in a tone of astonishment: "You have slain the beast alone, and with no weapon but your knife!"
"No," Stanley replied; "I began the fight with my knife, only; but caught up one of those guns when I wounded him, and fired as he charged me. Then I finished him with the other."
"Comrade," the Burman said, "you have done a great deed, with courage. I, who am esteemed no coward, would never even have thought of attacking that great leopard with but a knife, and that to save the life of a stranger."
"I saw the guns lying on the ground. Had it not been for that, I should not have dared to attack the leopard, for it would have been certain death."
"Certain death, indeed. But tell me, first, how you did it. It seems to me well nigh a miracle."
"I was passing along, not far distant, when I heard your cry," Stanley said. "Thinking that it was some person in distress, I ran hither, and saw you both lying, with the leopard's forepaws upon you. The beast's back was turned to me and, as it was growling, it had not heard my approach. Seeing the guns lying there--and having no doubt that they were loaded--I stole up, sprang suddenly on the leopard, and drove my knife into it behind the shoulder. The blow rolled it over, and gave me time to pick up the gun. The rest was easy."
The man, without a word, examined the body of the leopard.
"It is as you say," he said. "It was well struck, and would probably have been fatal; but the animal would have torn you in pieces before he died, but for the guns.
"Well, comrade, you have saved my life; and I am your servant, so long as I live. I thought all was over with me. The leopard, as it sprang, threw its full weight on my comrade, here. We had just risen to our feet; and the blow struck me, also, to the ground. I raised that cry as I fell. I lay there, immovable. I felt the leopard's paw between my shoulders, and heard its angry growlings; and I held my breath, expecting every moment to feel its teeth in my neck.
"I had but one hope, namely, that the beast would carry off my comrade--who, I was well assured, was dead--to the jungle to devour him, and would then come back to fetch me. I managed to breathe once, very quietly, when I felt a movement of the leopard and, hearing a low sound, guessed that he was licking my comrade's blood; but slightly as I moved, the leopard noticed it, and stood straight up again over me. I dared not breathe again, but the time had come when I felt that I must do so, though I was sure that it would be the signal for my death.
"Then I knew not what had happened. There was a sharp pain as the leopard's claws contracted, and then there was a loud roar, and its weight was removed from me. Then I heard it snarl, as if about to spring. Then came the sound of a gun, a fall, and a struggle; and then the sound of another gun. Then I heard your shout, and knew the beast was dead.
"Now, sir, what can I do for you? Shall I first skin the leopard?"
"I care not for the skin," Stanley said. "It would be of no use to me."
"Then, with your permission, I will take it off, and keep it as long as I live, as a remembrance of the narrowest escape that I ever had."
"Is your comrade dead?"
"Yes," the man replied. "The leopard struck him between the shoulders as you see; and the force of the blow, and the weight of the spring, must have killed him instantaneously."
"Then I will take his sword, gun, and cartridges."
So Stanley undid the sword belt, and buckled it round him; put the bandolier of cartridges over his shoulders; and took up the gun and reloaded it, while the man was at work skinning the leopard. This operation the man performed with great speed. It was evidently one that he had done before. As soon as the beast was flayed, he rolled up the skin and placed it on his shoulder.
"You are an officer, sir?" he asked.
"No; I am a fugitive."
While he had been watching the man, Stanley had debated over whether he should confide in him; and thought that, after the service he had rendered him, he could do so with safety.
"I am an Englishman--I was captured by Bandoola, at Ramoo, and sent a prisoner to Ava. I have escaped, and want to make my way down to Rangoon; but I heard that orders had been sent along the river to arrest me, and I do not, at present, know how to make my way down."
"Come with me," the man said. "I have friends in the forest, some distance from here. They will receive you gladly, when I tell them what you have done for me; and you will be safe until you choose to go. We are outlaws but, at present, we are masters of the forest. The government has its hands full, and there is no fear of their disturbing us."
Stanley thought over the matter, for a minute or two. Doubtless it was a robber band that he was asked to join, but the offer seemed to promise safety, for a time.
"I agree," he said, "so that you do not ask me to take part in any deeds of violence."
"About that, you shall do as you like," the man said; "but I can tell you that we make good hauls, sometimes. Our difficulty is not to capture booty, but to dispose of it.
"Have you a turban? For that helmet of yours is out of place, in the woods. The rest of your dress has nothing peculiar about it, and would attract no attention."
"I have a turban. I have been, lately, in the dress of a peasant. The cloth I wore lies fifty yards away; I dropped it as I ran. It will be useful to cover me at night, if for nothing else."
Stanley exchanged the helmet for the turban that he had before worn, and fetched the cloth.
"Will you bury your companion?" he said.
"It would be useless. He will sleep above ground, as well as below and, if we are to reach my comrades tonight, it is time for us to be moving."
They at once set out. After five hours' walking, they came upon the river Myitnge, the tributary that falls into the Irrawaddy at Ava. It was some four hundred yards across. The Burman walked along its banks for a short distance, and then pulled from a clump of bushes a small boat, that was just capable of carrying two. He put it in the water. They took their seats, and paddled across to the other side; where he carefully concealed it, as before.
"That is our ferry boat," he said. "It is not often used, for our headquarters are in the great forest we shall presently come to; but it is as well when, occasionally, parties are sent out to hunt us, to have the means of crossing to the other side."
Another two hours' walking, through cultivated fields, brought them to the edge of the forest.
"Here you are as safe as if you were in Rangoon," the Burman said. "In another hour we shall reach my comrades. As a rule, we change our headquarters frequently. At present there is no question of our being disturbed; so we have settled ourselves, for a time."
"Why were you and your comrade on the other side of the river?
"His village lies five miles beyond that forest," the man said. "At ordinary times, he dared not venture there; but he thought that, at present, most of the able men would be away, and so he could pay a visit to his friends. He asked me to accompany him and, as I had nothing better to do, I agreed to go. A convoy of traders, too strong to be attacked, had passed down from the hill country the morning before we started. There was not much probability that anyone would come again, for a few days."
"They bring down rubies from there, do they not?"
"The mines are the property of the emperor," the man said, "and the gems are sent down, once every two months, under a strong guard; but for all that, many of the traders bring rubies down from there--of course, secretly. The men who work the mines often conceal stones that they come upon, and sell them for a small sum to the traders; besides, sometimes the peasants pick them up elsewhere--and these, too, make haste to sell them for anything that they can get. We do not care for them much, for it is a risky business going down to Ava to sell them; and the traders there, knowing that, at a word from them, we should be arrested and most likely executed, will give us next to nothing for them. We prefer silver and lead for money; and garments, arms, and set jewels.
"Each man takes his share of what is captured and, when we have enough, we go home to our villages. A pound of silver, or two or three pounds of lead, are generally quite enough to buy the goodwill of the head man of the village. We give out that we have been working on the river, or in Ava, since we left; and everyone knows better than to ask questions."
In another hour, they reached the encampment. It was now dusk, and some five-and-twenty men were sitting round a great fire. A number of leafy arbours had been constructed in a circle beyond them.
"What, returned so soon!" one of the men said, as Stanley's guide came near enough for the firelight to fall on his face; "but where is Ranji, and whom have you brought here--a new recruit?"
"Not exactly, Parnik, but one to whom I have promised shelter, for a while. Ranji is dead. I should have been dead, too, and eaten; had it not been for my comrade, here. Here is the skin of the beast who slew Ranji and, when I tell you that the leopard stood with one paw on me, you may guess that my escape was a narrow one."
"The brute was a large one," one of the other men said, as Meinik--for such was the name of Stanley's companion--unrolled and held the skin up. "I see it had a bullet between the eyes, and another just behind the ear; and there is a knife cut behind the shoulder. It must have been hot work, when it came to knives, with a beast of that size."
"Give us some food, and cocoa; we have eaten nothing today, and have walked far. When we have fed, I will tell you my story."
The Burman's recital of the adventure with the leopard excited great applause, and admiration, from his comrades. " 'Tis wonderful," one said, "not so much that our new comrade should have killed the leopard, though that was a great feat; but that, armed only with a knife, he should attack a beast like this, to save the life of a stranger. Truly I never heard of such a thing. Has he all his senses?"
Meinik nodded. He had received permission from Stanley to say who he was. Stanley had consented with some reluctance, but the man assured him that he could trust his companions, as well as himself; and that it was much better to tell the truth, as it would soon be seen that his features differed altogether from their own and that, therefore, he was some strange person in disguise.
"He is in his senses," he said, "but he does not see things as we do. He is one of those English barbarians who have taken Rangoon, and against whom our armies are marching. He was captured at Ramoo; and sent by Bandoola, as a prisoner, to Ava. He has made his escape and will, in a short time, go down the river; but at present the search is too hot for him. So you see that he is, like ourselves, a fugitive."
"What is his age?" one of the men asked, after a silence, during which they all gazed at the newcomer.
"He is but a lad, being as he tells me between sixteen and seventeen; but you see his skin is stained, and his face marked, so as to give him the appearance of age."
"If the men of his race are as brave as he is, Meinik, our troops will truly have harder work than they think to drive them into the sea. Does he speak our tongue?"
"Yes," Stanley answered for himself. "I have been more than two years in the province of Chittagong, and learned it from one who was in our service."
"And would many of your people risk their lives in the way you did, for a stranger?"
"Certainly. Many men constantly run risks as great to save others."
"One life is all a man has," the Burman said. "Why should he give it for a stranger?"
"I don't think that we stop to think of that," Stanley said. "It seems to us natural that if we see another in danger of his life, we should try to save it; whether it is a man or woman, whether it be from fire or from any other fate."
"You must be a strange people," the Burman said gravely, "and I should scarce have credited it, had I not heard that you had done it, yourself. But it is wonderful; and you, too, a lad who has not yet come to his full strength.
"We should be glad to have such a man for our comrade, my friends. Whether he be Burman or English matters little. He has risked his life for one of us; and he is our brother as long as he likes to stay with us."
There was a warm exclamation of assent, round the circle; and Stanley felt that he had no cause for uneasiness, as long as he remained with them. In the evening the men sang many songs and, at their request, Stanley sang some English ones, choosing some with lively airs. The Burmese were much pleased and surprised at these, and joined merrily in the chorus.
Half a dozen of them then set to work with their knives, cut down some saplings and boughs, and constructed for Stanley an arbour similar to the others; and he lay down well satisfied with the results of his adventure, and feeling that he could remain with these merry fellows, criminals though they might be, until it would be safe to make his way down the river.
In the morning the men started early, leaving him in charge of the fire. They went off in parties of four or five, to watch the various roads leading to the capital; two or three of them, dressed as peasants, going to towns where travellers would halt, so as to gain information as to any party coming down. When they gathered again, at dusk, one party only had had any success. They had met six merchants coming down with horses laden with spices, indigo, and cotton. These had offered no resistance, and they had taken as much as they could carry, and then allowed them to go on with the rest of their goods. There was a general feeling of regret that the party had not been more numerous; and some expressions of anger, at the spies on the road by which the traders had come, for not letting them know beforehand, so that they could have placed their whole force there and carried away all the goods.
"These are the things that suit us best," Meinik said to Stanley. "You see, one can go down with a parcel of cinnamon or pepper, or a bag of dyes, or fifty pounds of cotton into the town; and sell it in the market, at a fair and proper price. Of course, one dresses one's self as a small cultivator; and there is no suspicion, whatever, that all is not right.
"We shall keep a sharp lookout for the men, as they come back again, and relieve them of the silver or goods they may have taken in exchange; that is, if they come by the same road--but it is more likely that, after their adventure today, they will choose some other, or take a guide and travel by village tracks. No doubt they think that they have got off easily, for they have not lost more than a quarter of their goods. It is war time now, and there is no fear of a force being sent against us; but usually we do not take so much as a quarter of the merchandise. Were they to lose everything, they would make complaints; and then we should have a force sent up against us, and be obliged to move away, for a time. But as it is, they are so pleased with getting the greater part of their goods safe to market that they do not care to make a fuss about it; for they might have to pay the court officials, and others, more than the value of the goods lost."
"They do not often resist, then?"
"Not often. If a man loses his goods, he can gather more again; but when his life has gone, everything has gone. Besides, as a rule we take care that we are so strong that they see, at once, that resistance would be hopeless. Sometimes they bring armed guards with them. These are men who make it their business to convoy traders down, when the times are troubled. Sometimes we have fights with these but, as a rule, we seldom attack them unless we are so strong that they do not dare to oppose us. Still, we do have fights sometimes, for these Shan guards are brave fellows. Their convoys are generally rich ones, for it would not pay small traders to hire men to protect them.
"In times of peace, we seldom stop long in one neighbourhood for, when it once becomes known what road we are lying near, they come along in parties too strong to be attacked and, as it matters little to us where we live, we move away perhaps a hundred miles, and then settle on another line of traffic. We have not been here long; we were last down by Tannoo, and did well for a long time there; until at last the governor raised all the villagers, and hunted the woods, and we found that we had to leave. I expect we shall stay here some time, now. There is no fear of troops being sent out, and we can afford not to press too hardly on travellers; for we have done so well, of late, that we could separate and return to our homes, each with a good store of booty. Half our number did leave, when we came up from the south; and more of us would go, if it were not for this order that everyone shall join the army. It is much pleasanter to live here, free to do as we like, than to be driven down like a herd of beasts, to fight. Besides, we have no quarrel with your people. It was the officials at Aracan who began it; let them fight, if they like."
Stanley remained a fortnight with the band. At the end of that time, they heard that a party of thirty traders were coming down together, and that they had with them ten armed guards. This, they no doubt supposed, was ample protection for, as the band generally worked in such small parties, it was believed that there were but a few outlaws in the forest. All the band went out, and returned in the evening, laden with spoil. Two or three of them were wounded, but not severely.
"So you had resistance today, Meinik."
"It lasted only for a minute," the man said. "As soon as they saw how strong we were, the guard were glad enough to put up their swords and let us bind them hand and foot, while we searched the merchants. As you see, we have made a good capture, though we have not seized more than a fifth of what they brought down with them; but it will take them some time to pack their bales again, for we searched everything thoroughly, and made all the merchants strip, and searched their clothes and their hair."
"What did you do that for?"
"Well, it was this way. I said to my comrades, as we went along this morning: "'The Englishman is going to leave us, in a day or two. I have not forgotten what I owe him, and should like to make him a present. I propose that we search all the party thoroughly, today. From what we heard, some of them come from the ruby country, and are pretty sure to have gems concealed about them, or in their baggage. I propose that all the stones we find we will give to our friend.'
"They all agreed at once for, as you know, they all like you; and rubies, as I told you, are of little use to us, for we cannot dispose of them without great risk. So they did as I proposed, and had good fortune. Twelve out of the number had gems hidden about them, and some of them a good lot. You need not hesitate to take them, for you may be sure that they bought them, for next to nothing, from poor fellows who had risked their lives to hide them.
"There they are. We have not looked at them, but just emptied the parcels into this bag, as we found them. Of course, they are all rough stones. You must take them as a present, from all of us; and as a proof that a Burman, even if he is but a robber, is grateful for such a service as that you rendered him."
Stanley felt that he could not refuse a gift so offered, even though the goods were stolen. As Meinik said, the gems were of little use to the robbers, since they were afraid to try and dispose of them; and their owners had themselves broken the law in having purchased them, and had doubtless given sums bearing no proportion to their real value. Therefore he thanked Meinik very heartily; and also, after they had had their meal, the rest of the band, who made very light of the matter.
The things were useless to them, they said. If it had been silver, or even lead, it would have been different; but to endeavour to sell rubies they had to risk their lives. The goods that they had got that day would fetch them far more money than the rubies, and could be sold without difficulty and, as soon as the war was over and they could go down to their villages, the band would break up. They had enough silver and lead hidden away to keep them for years, even if they never did any work, whatever.
"What do you do with it, when you get back?"
"We hide it. It would never do to enter a village with ten or twelve pounds' weight of silver, and three or four times as much lead, for the headman might take it into his head to have us searched. So we generally dig a hole at the foot of a tree, in some quiet spot; and take, perhaps, a pound of silver and two or three of lead with us. A gift of half that silver is enough to convince the headman that we are honest fellows, who have been working hard since we went away; and from time to time we can go to our store and get what we want from it, and can build a house and marry, and take up a field or two, and perhaps become headmen ourselves, before very long."
"Well, I am sure I wish you all well," Stanley said. "You have all been very kind to me, since I joined you; and I shall be glad to think of you all as settled quietly down in your villages, rather than as remaining here when, some day or other, you might all be captured and harm come to you."
The next morning Stanley started with Meinik, who was a native of a small village on the river, some forty miles below Ava, and who had resolved to accompany him down to Rangoon.
"I shall be able to get a boat and some nets, for a pound or two of lead. If we are hailed, I can do the talking; and can land and buy provisions, if wanted. I have arranged with my comrades to take my share of the silver and lead we have stored up, at once; for it is likely that they will also have gone to their homes before I shall have returned, and we have changed everything into money, except what we took yesterday."
Before starting Stanley was again dyed, and the tattoo marks imitated--far more carefully than before, three or four of the men operating upon him, at once. His face was almost entirely covered with these marks. Some liquid was applied that extracted the colour from his eyebrows, and left them snow white. Some of his hair was similarly treated and, looking at himself in a pool of water, Stanley did not in the slightest degree recognize himself; and felt certain that no one would suspect him of being the young English captive.
Resuming his peasant's cloth, he took a hearty farewell of the band and started with Meinik. The latter carried a bundle, slung on his gun. It contained some clothes, and did not look heavy; but in the centre were two parcels that weighed some forty pounds. Stanley carried a bundle with his other clothes, and several pounds of rice.
Two days' walking took them to Meinik's village. Once out of the forest they travelled at night, and reached the village just as the people were astir. The place consisted of ten or twelve huts, and Meinik created quite an excitement among the few people who inhabited it. These consisted of two or three old men, some women, and children.
"Where have you been for the last year and half, Meinik, if I may ask?"
"Working near Ava," he said; "but as I should have to go to war if I had remained there, I thought that I would come back, and see how you all were. I have saved a little money, and may settle down; but whether here or elsewhere I have not yet made up my mind."
"You will have to go to the war," one of the old men said. "There is scarce a day that one of the war canoes does not stop here, to see if there are any able-bodied men. They have taken eight, and they will assuredly take you."
"Then I shall get a boat," he said, "and take to fishing. The war cannot last long, and I shall do my best to keep out of the way of the war canoes, until it is over. If any of you have a boat to sell, I will buy it."
"I will sell you mine," the old man said. "Both of my sons have been taken to the war, and I am too old to work it myself. It is a good one; my sons made it only last year.
"Whom have you with you?"
Stanley had remained a short distance off, while Meinik was talking to his friends.
"He is an old man I joined along the road," he said. "He is a skilful fisherman; and he has agreed to go with me, if I can get a boat.
"Is there an empty hut?"
"Yes, six of them. Of course, when the men were taken they carried off the wives and children, as usual, as hostages for their conduct."
Meinik nodded. He felt no surprise, as it was the custom in Burma to hold the women and children of all the men going to the war, as guarantees that their husbands would not desert or show cowardice in battle. In either event their relatives would be, at once, put to death.
"My companion is tired," he said. "We walked all night, so we will cook some food and he will sleep."
They at once took possession of one of the empty huts, which was just as it was left by its proprietor. One of the women brought a brand or two from her hearth. An earthen cooking pot was filled with water and placed above it, and a few handfuls of rice dropped in. Two or three snakes, cut up into small pieces, and some pepper pods were added; and then Meinik went out, talked to his acquaintances, and arranged for the purchase of the boat. Stanley watched the fire.
In an hour, Meinik returned.
"The boat is a good one," he said, "and the nets in fair order. I have bought them for two pounds of lead; and have promised that, when the war is over and the man's sons return, it is to be free to them to buy it back, at the same price."
After eating their meal, they both lay down and slept until late in the afternoon. Then Meinik bought an earthenware pot, and a flat slab of the same material for making a fire on; some peppers and capsicums, and a little cinnamon and nutmeg; a basket of mangoes, and some tobacco. As soon as it became dusk, they took their places in the boat, Meinik carrying down two or three faggots of wood.
The boat was a canoe, hewn out of a pine log. It would have carried four people comfortably, and there was plenty of room for them both to lie down at full length. It was very light, the wood having been cut away until it was little thicker than cardboard. This was the almost universal method of construction: even the war canoes, that would carry sixty paddlers--sitting two by two on a bench--and thirty soldiers, being hewn from great single logs of teak. The nets were stowed one, at each end. In the middle was the fireplace, on which the brands of the fire had already been laid. Near it were the faggots and stores.
Meinik and Stanley sat on the nets, each with a paddle. The former had hidden the greater portion of his store of money in the ground, before entering the village. As soon as they had fairly started, Stanley said: "Had we not better get rid of the fire, Meinik? Its light would draw attention to us."
"That matters little," the Burman replied. "There are not likely to be war canoes about at night, and I expect that most of them will have gone down the river. People fish either by night or by day and, even if a war canoe came along, they would not trouble about it for, of course, many men too old to go to the war remain here, and go on fishing. People cannot starve because there is fighting. The old men and women must cultivate the fields and fish, or both they and the people of the towns would starve.
"Many even of the young men do not go. They keep away from their villages during the day, and work in the fields; and the headmen shut their eyes, for they know that if the fields are not cultivated, the people cannot pay their share of the taxes.
"Still, it is as well to be on the safe side. When the fire has burnt low we will lay a cloth over the top of the boat, so that the glow of the embers will not be seen."
They kept their course near the middle of the river; partly because the current there was stronger, partly because any war canoes that might be coming up would keep close to one bank or the other. They kept on their way until there was a faint gleam of light in the sky; and then paddled into the shore, chose a spot where some bushes drooped down into the water and, forcing the canoe in behind these, so as to be entirely concealed from the sight of any passing boat, cooked some food and, having eaten their breakfast, lay down and slept until evening.
Illustration: They forced the canoe behind bushes, so as to be entirely concealed.
Night after night the journey was continued. Their supply of food was ample to last them; and there was, therefore, no occasion to stop at any village to purchase more. The river, at the point where they started, was about two miles wide; but at some points it was double that width, while at others it contracted to little over a mile. Its level was much lower, now, than it had been when Stanley ascended it, two months before. Sometimes at night they towed one of their nets behind them, and obtained an ample supply of fish for their wants.
Each night they made, as Stanley calculated, about forty miles and, after ten days' travel, they came to the point where the great river divided, one small arm running down to Rangoon; another descending to Bassein, and then falling into the sea at Cape Negrais; while a large proportion of the water found its way down by innumerable branches between the Rangoon and Bassein rivers.
For the last two or three days they had been obliged to observe great caution for, below Prome, there were numbers of boats all going down the river laden with men and stores. These, however, only travelled by day; and the canoe was always, at that time, either floating in the shelter of bushes, or hauled up on the bank at spots where it could be concealed from view by thick growths of rushes.
"We shall never be able to get down to Rangoon by water," said Meinik. "The river will be crowded with rowboats near the town; and there will be no chance, whatever, of making our way through them. At the next village we come to, I will go in and learn the news. Your countrymen may have been driven out by this time and, in that case, there will be nothing to do but to travel north on foot, until we reach Chittagong."
"I have no fear that we shall be driven out, Meinik."
This conversation had occurred on the night when they had passed the point of division of the two arms of the river. They had caught a larger supply of fish than usual and, as soon as the boat was laid up, Meinik started along the bank, with a number of them, for the nearest village. He returned in two hours.
"It is well I landed," he said, "for the point where the greater portion of our people are gathered is Henzawaddy, only some fifteen miles further on.
"You were right; your people have not been driven out. A large number of our troops are down near Rangoon but, in the fighting that has taken place, we have gained no advantage. Your people marched out at the end of May, carried a stockade; and advanced to Joazoang, and attacked some villages defended by stockades and carried them, after having killed a hundred of our men. Then a great stockade on a hill near the river, three miles from Rangoon--which our people thought could not be taken, so strongly was it protected--was attacked. The guns of your people made a great gap in a stockade a mile in front of it. Two hundred men were killed, and also the commander.
"Then your people marched on to the great stockade at Kemmendine. Your troops, when they got there, saw how strong it was and were afraid to attack it. They lay down all night, close to it; and we thought we should destroy them, all when they attacked in the morning; but their ships that had come up with them opened fire, at daybreak. As the stockades were hidden from the sight of those on the river, we had thought that the ships could do nothing; but they shot great balls up into the air, and they came down inside the stockade, where they burst with an explosion like the noise of a big gun; and killed so many that the troops could not remain under so terrible a fire, and went away, leaving it to your people to enter the stockade, without fighting."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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6
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: Among Friends.
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"It certainly seems to me," Stanley said, when he heard the Burman's account of the state of things below, "that it will not be possible for us to go any further, by water."
"It would be very dangerous," Meinik said. "It is certain that all the men in this part of the country have been obliged to go with the army and, even were we both natives, and had no special reason for avoiding being questioned, we should be liable to be seized and executed at once, for having disregarded the orders to join the army. Assuredly we cannot pass down farther in our boat, but must take to the land. I should say that we had best get spears and shields, and join some newly-arrived party."
"But you forget that, though my disguise as a native is good enough to mislead anyone passing us on the road, or in the dusk after sunset, I should certainly attract attention if travelling with them, by day."
"I forgot that. I have grown so accustomed to seeing you that I forget that, to other people, your face would seem strange; as it at first did to me, in the forest. Indeed you look to me now like one of ourselves; but were we to join a band, someone would be sure to ask questions concerning you, ere long. What, then, do you think we had best do?"
"From what I heard of the country from one of your comrades, who is a native of this province, it would be impossible for us, after crossing the river, to make our way down on the opposite side, since the whole country is swampy and cut up by branches of the Irrawaddy. On this side there are few obstacles of that kind but, on the other hand, we shall find the country full of troops going down towards Rangoon. Your comrade told me that the hills that we saw to the east, from the forest at Ava, extended right down into Tenasserim; and were very high, and could not be traversed, for that no food could be obtained, and that tigers and wild animals and other beasts abounded. But he said that the smaller hills that we crossed on the way to your village--which he called the Pegu Yoma hills--some of whose swells come down to the bank, extend all the way down to the sea between the Irrawaddy and the Sittang rivers; and that, from them, streams flowed to one river or the other. Therefore, if we could gain that range, we should avoid the swamp country, altogether.
"A few miles back we passed a river coming in from the east and, if we follow that up as far as there is water, we shall be among the hills. He said that there were no mountains at all, there; but just rounded hills, with many villages and much cultivated ground, so there ought to be no difficulty in making our way along. We shall be able to gather food in the fields; or can go into villages and purchase some, for the men will all be away. Besides, we can get spears and shields, and can say that having been away from home on a journey--when the men were all ordered to war, we returned too late to go with the rest of the villagers, and are making our way down to join them. Many others must be doing the same, and the story will be likely enough.
"In that way we can get down till we are close to the troops round Rangoon, and must then take our chance of getting through them."
"That seems better than the other way," Meinik said. "There is such a river as you speak of, above Sarawa. We can paddle back tonight, and hide near the town; then I can go there in the morning, and buy a couple of spears and shields, and get some more rice and other things. We have plenty of ammunition for our guns; which we may want, if we meet any wild beasts."
"You don't think that there will be any danger in your going in there, Meinik? Of course, there is no absolute occasion for us to have spears and shields, as we have guns."
"We ought to have shields," Meinik replied, "and it were better to have spears too, and also for us to carry axes--everyone carries an axe in war time, for we always erect stockades and, though a very poor man may only have his knife, everyone who can afford it takes an axe. Most people have such a thing, for it is wanted for cutting firewood, for clearing the ground, for building houses, and for many other things; and a Burman must be poor, indeed, who does not own one."
"By all means, then, get them for us, Meinik; besides, we may find them useful for ourselves."
They now lay down and slept until evening; and then started up the river again, keeping close in under shadow of the bank and, two hours before daylight, concealed the canoe as usual, at a spot two miles above Sarawa. Meinik started at daybreak, and returned three hours later with two axes, spears, and shields.
That night they turned into the river running to the east and, for four nights, paddled up it. The country was now assuming a different character, and the stream was running in a valley with rising ground--from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet high--on each side, and was narrowing very fast. Towards morning on the fifth day the river had become a small stream, of but two or three feet deep; and they decided to leave the boat, as it was evident that they would be able to go but a short distance further.
"We may as well hide her carefully," Stanley said. "It is certainly not likely that we shall want her again, but there is never any saying and, at any rate, there is no great trouble in doing it."
They cooked a meal and then started at once, so as to do a few hours' walking before the sun became high. They determined to keep on eastward, until they reached the highest point of the dividing ridge between the two main rivers, and then to follow it southward. The country was now well cultivated, and they had some trouble in avoiding the small villages dotted thickly about, as the course they were following was not the one they would take if making straight to join the army. They slept for three or four hours in the heat of the day; and then, pushing on, found themselves before sunset on what seemed to them the highest point of the divide. To the right they could see the flat country stretching towards the Irrawaddy, to the left the ground was more sharply undulating. Two miles away was a stream of fair size, which they judged to be the river that runs down to Pegu, and afterwards joins the Rangoon river below the town.
Stanley thought that the hill on which they stood was some five hundred feet above the low country they had left. A great part of the hills was covered with trees although, at the point where they had made their way up, the hillside was bare. They went on until they entered the forest, and there set to work to chop firewood. Meinik carried a tinderbox, and soon had a fire blazing, and by its side they piled a great stock of wood.
"I do not know that there are any leopards so far south as this," he said, "but at any rate it will be safer to keep a big fire blazing. I never used to think much about leopards but, ever since I had that great beast's foot upon my back, I have had a horror of them."
The next morning they continued their journey south, going along boldly and passing through several villages.
"You are late for the war," an old man said, as they went through one of them.
"I know we are," Meinik replied, "but we were away with a caravan of traders when the order came; and so, instead of going down the river, we have had to journey on foot. But we shall be there in time. From what we have heard, there has not been much fighting, yet."
"No; the white barbarians are all shut up in Rangoon. We have not attacked them in earnest, but we shall soon do so and, moreover, they will soon be all starved, for the country has been swept clear of all cattle for twenty miles round, the villages deserted, and everything laid waste; and we hear that half their number are laid up with sickness, and that a great number have died. I wish that I were younger, that I, too, could help to destroy the insolent foes who have dared to set foot on our sacred soil."
There was no need for haste, now, and they travelled by easy stages until, by the smoke rising from different parts of the forest, they knew that they were approaching the spot where the Burmese forces lay around Rangoon and, indeed, could see the great pagoda rising above the surrounding country. They had heard, at the last villages through which they had passed, that there had been an attack made upon the pagoda on the 1st of July. On that day the Burmese, in great force, had moved down in a line parallel to the road between the pagoda and the town, along which a considerable number of our troops were encamped. They had advanced until within half a mile of Rangoon, then had changed front and attacked the British position near the town. They occupied a hill near our line, and opened fire from there with jingals and small cannon; but two British guns firing grape soon silenced their guns, and a Madras regiment charged the hill and recaptured it.
This entirely upset the plan of the Wongee in command of the Burmese. The signal for the whole of the army to attack was to have been given, as soon as their left had broken through the British line, and had thus cut off all the troops on the road leading to the pagoda from the town. Seeing that this movement had failed, the general did not give the signal for the general attack, but ordered the troops to fall back. He had been recalled in disgrace to Ava; and a senior officer, who arrived just after the battle, assumed the command. He at once set to work to make a very strong stockade at Kummeroot, five miles from the great pagoda; and also fortified a point on the river above Kemmendine--the stockade that had been captured by the British--and intended from this point to send down fire rafts to destroy the British shipping and, at the same time, made continuous attacks at night on the British lines.
The rains at this time were falling incessantly, and the Burmese did not think that the British would be able to move out against them. The position on the river was connected with that at Kummeroot by strong stockades; and the Burmese general was convinced that, if an attack was made, it could be easily defeated. However, eight days after the repulse of the Burmese first attack, the vessels came up the river, while a land column moved against Kummeroot.
The position was a strong one. The river was here divided into two branches and, on the point of land between these, the principal stockade was erected and was well provided with artillery; while on the opposite banks of both rivers other stockades with guns were erected, so that any attack by water would be met by the direct fire from the great stockade, and a cross fire from those on the banks.
Four ships came up, and the Burmese guns opened upon them, but the heavy fire from the men-of-war was not long in silencing them; and then a number of boats full of troops had landed, and stormed the stockade, and driven out the Burmese. The land column had been unable to take guns with them, owing to the impossibility of dragging them along the rain-sodden paths; and the Burmese chiefs, confident in the strength of their principal post--which was defended by three lines of strong stockades, one above another--and in their immensely superior force, treated with absolute contempt the advance of the little British column--of which they were informed, as soon as it started, by their scouts thickly scattered through the woods.
The general, Soomba Wongee, was just sitting down to dinner when he was told that the column had nearly reached the first stockade. He directed his chiefs to proceed to their posts and "drive the audacious strangers away," and continued his meal until the heavy and rapid musketry of the assailants convinced him that the matter was more serious than he had expected. As a rule, the Burmese generals do not take any active part in their battles; but Soomba Wongee left his tent and at once went towards the point attacked. He found his troops already retreating, and that the two outer stockades had been carried by the enemy. He rallied his men, and himself led the way to the attack; but the steady and continuous fire of the British rendered it impossible for him to restore order, and the Burmese remained crowded together, in hopeless confusion. However, he managed to gather together a body of officers and troops and, with them, charged desperately upon the British soldiers. He, with several other leaders of rank, was killed; and the Burmese were scattered through the jungle, leaving eight hundred dead behind them.
The fact that ten stockades, provided with thirty pieces of artillery, should have been captured in one day by the British, had created a deep impression among the villagers of the neighbourhood--from whom the truth could not be concealed--and indeed, all the villages, for many miles round the scene of action, were crowded with wounded. They told Meinik that the army was, for a time, profoundly depressed. Many had deserted, and the fact that stockades they had thought impregnable were of no avail, whatever, against the enemy, whose regular and combined action was irresistible, as against their own isolated and individual method of fighting, had shaken their hitherto profound belief in their own superiority to any people with whom they might come in contact.
Since that time no serious fighting had taken place. Occasional night attacks had been made, and all efforts on the part of the invaders to obtain food, by foraging parties, had proved unsuccessful. The boats of the fleet had gone up the Puzendown river, that joined the Rangoon river some distance below the town, and had captured a large number of boats that had been lying there, waiting until Rangoon was taken before going up the river with their cargoes of rice and salt fish; but they had gained no other advantage for, although the villages were crowded with fugitives from the town, these were driven into the jungle by the troops stationed there for the purpose, as soon as the boats were seen coming up the river.
In some cases, however, the boats had arrived so suddenly that there had not been time to do this; and the fugitives had been taken to Rangoon, where it was said they had been very well treated.
Great reinforcements had now come down from the upper provinces. Two of the king's brothers had arrived, to take command of the army; one had established himself at Donabew, the other at Pegu. They had brought with them numbers of astrologers, to fix upon a propitious time for an attack; and the king's Invulnerables, several thousands strong--a special corps, whom neither shot nor steel could injure--were with them.
About the 6th of August a strong position that had been taken up, by a force sent by the prince at Pegu, in the old Portuguese fort of Syriam had been attacked; with orders that the channel of the Rangoon river should be blocked, so that none of the strangers should escape the fate that awaited them. The position was a very strong one. The trees and brushwood round the fort had been cleared away; wherever there were gaps in the old wall stockades had been erected; and great beams suspended from the parapet in order that, if an attack was made, the ropes could be cut and the beams fall upon the heads of the assailants.
The British had, however, thrown a bridge across a deep creek, pushed on against the place, and carried it in a few minutes; the garrison flying, as soon as the assailants gained the ramparts, to a pagoda standing on a very steep hill, defended by guns, and assailable only by a very steep flight of steps. The troops, however, pressed up these fearlessly; and the garrison, discouraged and shaken by the reports of the fugitives from the lower fort, had fled as soon as the British arrived at the top of the steps.
Notwithstanding this and other, as successful, attacks upon their stockades, the Burmese troops now felt confident that, with their numerous forces, they would be victorious whenever the astrologers decided that the favourable moment had arrived.
Meinik had ascertained, from the villagers, the name of the leader and the locality to which the corps belonged that was posted nearest to Rangoon. As soon as it was dark, he and Stanley entered the forest. The smoke had served as a guide, to them, as to the position of the different corps; and they were able to make their way between these without being questioned. Presently, however, they came upon a strong picket.
"Where are you going?" the officer in command asked.
"To join the corps of the Woondock Snodee," Meinik replied. "We were away at Bhanno when the order came, and the rest had gone down the river before we got to Mew; so we came on by ourselves, not wishing to fail in our duty."
"You are just in time," the officer said. "The Woondock is a quarter of a mile away, on the left."
They moved off in that direction; but soon left the track and, avoiding the camp, kept away until they reached the edge of the forest. Then they crept forward through the jungle and brushwood, pausing to listen from time to time and, three times, changing their course to avoid parties of the Burmese acting as outposts.
On issuing from the jungle they crawled forward for three or four hundred yards, so as to be beyond musket shot of the outposts; and then remained quiet until morning broke. Then they could perceive red coats moving about, in a small village before which a breastwork had been thrown up, some four hundred yards away from them and, getting up to their feet, ran towards it. Several shots were fired at them, from the jungle behind; and some soldiers at once appeared at the breastwork. Supposing that the two figures approaching were Burmese deserters, they did not fire; and Stanley and his companion were soon among them.
They were soldiers of one of the Bengal regiments; and Stanley, to their surprise, addressed them in their own language.
"I am an Englishman," he said. "I am one of the prisoners whom they took, at Ramoo, and have escaped from their hands. Are there any of your officers in the village?"
"I will take you to them," a native sub-officer said; and Stanley, in a minute or two, entered a cottage in which four English officers were just taking their early breakfast, preparatory to turning out on duty.
"Whom have you got here, jemadar?" one of them asked, in Bengalee.
Stanley answered for himself.
"I am an Englishman, sir, and have just escaped from Ava."
The officer uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Well, sir," the senior of them said, as he held out his hand to Stanley, "I congratulate you on having got away, whoever you are; but I am bound to say that, if it were not for your speech, I should not have believed you; for I have never seen anyone look less like an Englishman than you do."
"My name is Stanley Brooke, sir. I am the son of the late Captain Brooke, of the 15th Native Regiment."
"Then I should know you," one of the other officers said, "for I knew your father; and I remember seeing your name in the list of officers killed, at Ramoo, and wondered if it could be the lad I knew five or six years ago."
"I recollect you, Captain Cooke," Stanley said. "Your regiment was at Agra, when we were there."
"Right you are; and I am heartily glad that the news of your death was false," and he shook hands cordially with Stanley.
"And who is your companion?" the major asked. "Is he an Englishman, also?"
"No, sir; he is a native. He is a most faithful fellow. He has acted as my guide, all the way down from the point we started from, twenty miles from Ava. I could never have accomplished it without his aid for, although I speak Burmese well enough to pass anywhere, my face is so different in shape from theirs that, if I were looked at closely in the daylight, I should be suspected at once. I could never have got here without his aid."
"How was it that he came to help you, sir?" Major Pemberton asked. "As far as we can see, the Burmese hate us like poison. Even when they are wounded to death, they will take a last shot at any soldiers marching past them."
"I happened to save his life from a leopard," Stanley said, "and, truly, he has shown his gratitude."
"Jemadar," the major said, "take that man away with you. See that he is well treated. Give him some food, of course. He will presently go with this officer to the general."
Stanley said a few words in Burmese to Meinik, telling him that he was to have food, and would afterwards go with him to the general; and he then, at the invitation of the officers, sat down with them to breakfast. While eating it, Stanley told them something of his adventures. After the meal was over, the major said: "You had better go with Mr. Brooke to the general, Captain Cooke. I cannot well leave the regiment.
"We can let you have an outfit, Mr. Brooke; though we are, most of us, reduced pretty well to our last garments. What with the jungle and what with the damp, we have nearly all arrived at the last state of dilapidation; but I am sure the general would like to see you in your present disguise."
"It makes no difference to me, sir," Stanley said, with a laugh. "I am so accustomed to this black petticoat, now, that I should almost feel strange in anything else. I am afraid this dye will be a long time before it wears itself out. It is nearly three weeks since I was dyed last, and it has faded very little, yet."
"You need not take your arms, anyhow," Captain Cooke said. "You will attract less attention going without them, for it will only be supposed that you are one of the natives who have been brought in by the boats."
Meinik was sitting on the ground, contentedly, outside the cottage, the jemadar standing beside him.
"Have you had any food, Meinik?" Stanley asked.
The man nodded.
"Good food," he said.
"That is all right. Now, come along with us. You can leave your weapons here--they won't be wanted."
Meinik rose and followed Stanley and Captain Cooke. There were houses scattered all along the roadside. These were now all occupied by officers and troops, and there were so many of them that it had not been necessary to place any of the men under canvas--an important consideration, during the almost continuous rain of the last three months.
"Why, Cooke, I did not know that you talked Burmese," an officer standing at one of the doors remarked, as the officer came along, chatting with Stanley.
"You don't know all my accomplishments, Phillipson," the captain laughed, for the idea that there existed such a thing as a Burmese peasant who could talk English had not occurred to the other. "I am taking him to the chief, to show off my powers;" and passed on, leaving the officer looking after him, with a puzzled expression on his face.
On their arrival at Sir Archibald Campbell's headquarters, Captain Cooke sent in his name and, as the general was not at the moment engaged, he was at once shown in; followed by Stanley, Meinik remaining without.
"Good morning, sir. I see you have brought in a deserter," the general said.
"He is not a deserter, sir. He is an escaped prisoner, who has made his way down from Ava through the enemy's lines.
"This is Mr. Brooke. He was serving as an officer with the native levy, at Ramoo, and was reported as killed. However, he was fortunately only stunned and, being the only officer found alive, was sent by Bandoola as a prisoner to Ava. I may say that he is a son of the late Captain Brooke, of the 15th Native Infantry."
"You are certainly wonderfully disguised," the general said; "and I congratulate you heartily on your escape. I should have passed you by as a native without a second glance though, now that I am told that you are an Englishman, I can see that you have not the wide cheekbones and flat face of a Burman. How did you manage to make your way down?"
"I travelled almost entirely by night, sir; and I had with me a faithful guide. He is outside. I don't think that I should ever have got down without him, though I speak Burmese well enough to pass--especially as the language differs so much, in the different districts."
"Is he a Burman?"
"Yes, general."
"Have you arranged with him for any particular sum for his services? If so, it will of course be paid."
"No, sir; he came down simply in gratitude for a service I rendered him. I do not know whether he intends to go back; but I hope that he will remain here, with me."
"I have brought Mr. Brooke here, sir," Captain Cooke said, "at the request of the major; thinking that you might like to ask him some questions as to the state of things in the interior."
"I should like to have a long talk with Mr. Brooke," the general said; "but unless he has any certain news of the date they intend to attack us, I will not detain him now. The first thing will be for him to get into civilized clothes again.
"By the way, poor young Hitchcock's effects are to be sold this morning. I should think that they would fit Mr. Brooke very well.
"Let me see. Of course, your pay has been running on, since you were taken prisoner, Mr. Brooke."
"I am afraid, sir, that there is no pay due," Stanley said. "I happened to be at Ramoo at the time, looking after some goods of my uncle, who carries on a considerable trade on the coast; and as I talk the language, and there were very few who did so, I volunteered to act as an officer with the native levy. I preferred to act as a volunteer, in order that I might be free to leave, at any time, if I received an order from my uncle to join him at Chittagong.
"I could give an order on him, but I do not know where he is to be found. I have with me some uncut rubies; though I have no idea what they are worth, for I have not even looked at them yet; but they should certainly be good security for 50 pounds."
"We can settle that presently, Mr. Brooke. I will write an order on the paymaster for 500 rupees; and we can talk the matter over, afterwards. I am afraid that you will have to pay rather high for the clothes, for almost everyone here has worn out his kit; and Mr. Hitchcock only joined us a fortnight before his death, so that his are in very good condition. Of course, they are all uniform--he was on my staff--but that will not matter. You could hardly be going about in civilian clothes, here.
"I shall be very glad if you will dine with me, at six o'clock this evening. Have a talk with your man before that, and see what he wants to do. If he is a sharp fellow, he might be very useful to us."
The general wrote the order on the paymaster, and Captain Cooke took Stanley across to the office and obtained the cash for it. Making inquiry, he found that the sale was to come off in a quarter of an hour.
"I will do the bidding for you, if you like, Brooke," Captain Cooke said. "I dare say you would rather not be introduced, generally, in your present rig."
"Much rather not, and I shall be much obliged by your doing it."
"All right. I will make your money go as far as I can. Of course, the poor fellow brought no full-dress uniform with him, or anything of that sort."
"You will find me here with my Burman," Stanley said. "We will stroll round the place for half an hour, and then come back here again."
There was very little to see in the town. Meinik was astonished, when they mounted the river bank and had a view of the ships lying at anchor. For a time he was too surprised to speak, never having seen anything larger than the clumsy cargo boats which made a voyage, once a year, up the river.
"It is wonderful!" he said at last. "Who would have thought of such great ships? If the emperor could but see them, I think that he would make peace. It is easy to see that you know many things more than we do. Could one go on board of them?"
"Not as I am, at present, Meinik; but when I get English clothes on again, and rid myself from some of this stain, I have no doubt I shall be able to take you on board one of the ships-of-war.
"And now, will you let me know what you are thinking of doing? I told the general what service you had rendered me, and he asked me what you were going to do. I told him that, as yet, I did not know whether you were going to stay here, or go back again."
"Are you going to stay here?"
"I think so--at any rate, for a time. I do not know where the uncle I have told you about is, at present. At any rate, while this war is going on he can do very little trade, and can manage very well without me."
"As long as you stay here, I shall stay," the Burman said. "If I went back, I should have to fight against your people; and I don't want to do that. I have no quarrel with them and, from what I see, I am not so sure as I was that we shall drive you into the sea. You have beaten us, whenever you have fought; and I would rather stay with you, than be obliged to fight against you.
"Not many men want to fight. We heard that in the villages, and that those who have not got wives and children held, as hostages for them, get away from the army and hide in the woods.
"You will be a great man now and, if you will let me stop, I will be your servant."
"I will gladly keep you with me, Meinik, if you are willing to stay; and I am sure that you will be better off, here, than out in the woods, and a good deal safer. At any rate, stay until after your people make their next attack. You will see then how useless it is for them to fight against us. When we can attack them in their stockades, although they are ten to one against us, and drive them out after a quarter of an hour's fighting; you may be sure that in the open ground, without defences, they will have no chance whatever.
"I hope they will soon get tired of fighting, and that the court will make peace. We did not want to fight with them--it was they who attacked us but, now that we have had all the expense of coming here, we shall go on fighting till the emperor agrees to make peace; but I don't think that we shall ever go out of Rangoon, again, and believe that we shall also hold the ports in Tenasserim that we have captured."
"The emperor will never agree to that," Meinik said, shaking his head positively.
"Then if he does not, he will see that we shall go up the river to Ava and, in the end, if he goes on fighting we shall capture the whole country; and rule over it, just as we have done the greater part of India."
"I think that would be good for us," the man said philosophically. "It would not matter much to us to whom we paid our taxes--and you would not tax us more heavily than we are now--for as we came down you saw many villages deserted, and the land uncultivated, because the people could not pay the heavy exactions. It is not the king--he does not get much of it--but he gives a province, or a district, or a dozen villages to someone at court; and says, 'you must pay me so much, and all that you can get out of it, besides, is for yourself;' so they heap on the taxes, and the people are always in great poverty and, when they find that they cannot pay what is demanded and live, then they all go away to some other place, where the lord is not so harsh."
"I am sure that it would be a good thing for them, Meinik. The people of India are a great deal better off, under us, than they were under their native rulers. There is a fixed tax, and no one is allowed to charge more, or to oppress the people in any way.
"But now we must be going. I said that I would be back at the place we started from, in half an hour."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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7
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: On The Staff.
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Captain Cooke had done his best, previous to the beginning of the auction, to disarm opposition; by going about among the officers who dropped in, with the intention of bidding, telling them something of Stanley's capture, adventures, and escape; and saying that the general had, himself, advised him to obtain an outfit by buying a considerable portion of the young officer's kit.
"I have no doubt that he will put him on his staff," he said. "From his knowledge of the country, and the fact that he speaks the language well, he would be very useful and, as he has gone through all this from serving as a volunteer, without pay, I hope you fellows won't run up the prices, except for things that you really want."
His story had the desired effect; and when Captain Cooke met Stanley, he was able to tell him that he had bought for him the greater portion of the kit, including everything that was absolutely necessary.
"Are there any plain clothes?" Stanley asked, after thanking him warmly for the trouble he had taken.
"No. Of course, he left everything of that sort at Calcutta. No one in his senses would think of bringing mufti out with him, especially to such a country as this."
"Then I shall have to go in uniform to the general's," Stanley said, in a tone of consternation. "It seems to me that it would be an awfully impudent thing, to go in staff uniform to dine with the general, when I have no right whatever to wear it."
"Well, as the general advised you himself to buy the things, he cannot blame you for wearing them; and I have not the least doubt that he is going to offer you a staff appointment of some sort."
"I should like it very much, as long as the war lasted, Captain Cooke; but I don't think that I should care about staying in the army, permanently. You see, my uncle is working up a very good business. He has been at it, now, seven or eight years; and he was saying the last time that I was with him that, as soon as these troubles were over, and trade began again, he should give me a fourth share of it; and make it a third share, when I got to twenty-one."
"Then you would be a great fool to give it up," Captain Cooke said, heartily. "A man who has got a good business, out here, would have an income as much as all the officers of a regiment, together. He is his own master, and can retire when he likes, and enjoy his money in England.
"Still, as trade is at a standstill at present, I think that it would be wise of you to accept any offer that the general might make to you. It might even be to your advantage, afterwards. To have served on Campbell's staff will be an introduction to every officers' mess in the country; and you may be sure that, not only shall we hold Rangoon in future, but there will be a good many more British stations between Assam and here than there now are; and it would be a pull for you, even in the way of trade, to stand on a good footing everywhere."
"I quite see that," Stanley agreed, "and if the general is good enough to offer me an appointment, I shall certainly take it."
"You have almost a right to one, Brooke. In the Peninsula lots of men got their commissions by serving for a time as volunteers; and having been wounded at Ramoo, and being one of the few survivors of that fight; and having gone through a captivity, at no small risk of being put to death the first time that the king was out of temper, your claim is a very strong one, indeed. Besides, there is hardly a man here who speaks Burmese, and your services will be very valuable.
"Here are fifty rupees," he went on, handing the money to Stanley. "It is not much change out of five hundred; but I can assure you that you have got the things at a bargain, for you would have had to pay more than that for them, in England; and I fancy most of the things are in very good condition, for Hitchcock only came out about four months ago. Of course the clothes are nothing like new but, at any rate, they are in a very much better state than those of anyone who came here three months ago.
"I have ordered them all to be sent to my quarters where, of course, you will take up your abode till something is settled about you; which will probably be this evening. In that case, you will have quarters allotted to you, tomorrow."
"Thank you very much. I shall devote the best portion of this afternoon to trying to get rid of as much of this stain as I can, at least off my face and hands. The rest does not matter, one way or the other, and will wear off gradually; but I should like to get my face decent."
"Well, you are rather an object, Stanley," he said. "It would not matter so much about the colour, but all those tattoo marks are, to say the least of it, singular. Of course they don't look so rum, now, in that native undress; but when you get your uniform on, the effect will be startling.
"We will have a chat with the doctor. He may have something in his medicine chest that will at least soften them down a bit. Of course, if they were real tattoo marks there would be nothing for it; but as they are only dye, or paint of some sort, they must wear themselves out before very long."
"I will try anything that he will give me. I don't care if it takes the skin off."
On returning to the quarters of Captain Cooke, Stanley was introduced to the other officers of the regiment; among them the doctor, to whom he at once applied for some means of taking off the dye.
"Have you asked the man you brought down with you?" the surgeon said. "You say that he put it on, and he may know of something that will take it off again."
"No; I have asked him, and he knows of nothing. He used some of the dye stuffs of the country, but he said he never heard of anyone wanting to take the dye out of things that had been coloured."
"If it were only cotton or cloth," the doctor said, "I have no doubt a very strong solution of soda would take out the greater portion of the dye; but the human skin won't stand boiling water. However, I should say that if you have water as hot as you can bear it, with plenty of soda and soap, it will do something for you. No doubt, if you were to take a handful or two of very fine sand, it would help a great deal; but if you use that, I should not put any soda with the water, or you will practically take all the skin off, and leave your face like a raw beef steak; which will be worse than the stain and, indeed, in so hot a sun as we have, might be dangerous, and bring on erysipelas. So you must be very careful; and it will be far better for you to put up with being somewhat singular in your appearance, for a bit, than to lay yourself up by taking any strong measures to get rid of it."
After an hour spent in vigorous washing, and aided by several rubs with very fine sand, Stanley succeeded, to his great satisfaction, in almost getting rid of the tattoo marks on his face. The general dye had faded a little, though not much; but that with which the marks had been made was evidently of a less stable character, and yielded to soap and friction.
Before he had concluded the work two trunks arrived and, finding that his face was now beginning to smart a good deal, he abstained for the time from further efforts; and turned to inspect his purchases, with a good deal of interest. The uniforms consisted of two undress suits; one with trousers, the other with breeches and high boots, for riding. There was also a suit of mess jacket, waistcoat, and trousers; three suits of white drill; half a dozen white shirts for mess, and as many of thin flannel; and a good stock of general underclothes, a pair of thick boots, and a light pair for mess. There was also the sword, belt, and other equipments; in fact, all the necessaries he would require for a campaign.
Before beginning to dress, he began to free his hair from the wax with which it had been plastered up. He had obtained from the doctor some spirits of turpentine and, with the aid of this, he found the task a less difficult one than he had expected and, the regimental barber being sent for by Captain Cooke, his hair was soon shortened to the ordinary length.
"You will do very well, now," the major said, as he went down into the general room. "You have certainly succeeded a great deal better than I thought you would. Of course you look very brown, but there are a good many others nearly as dark as you are; for between the rain showers the sun has tremendous power, and some of the men's faces are almost skinned, while others have browned wonderfully. I am sure that many of them are quite as dark as yours. So you will pass muster very well."
Before beginning to wash and change, Stanley had given Meinik the clothes he had carried down with him; and when he went out to take a short look round before tiffin--for which the servants were already laying the cloth--he found the man, now looking like a respectable Burman, standing near the door. He walked slowly past him, but the man did not move--not recognizing him, in the slightest degree, in his present attire.
Then Stanley turned and faced him.
"So you don't know me, Meinik."
The Burman gave a start of surprise.
"Certainly I did not know you, my lord," he said. "Who could have known you? Before you were a poor Burmese peasant, now you are an English lord."
"Not a lord at all, Meinik. I am simply an English officer, and dressed very much the same as I was when your people knocked me on the head, at Ramoo."
"I know your voice," Meinik said; "but even now that I know it is you, I hardly recognize your face. Of course, the tattoo marks made a great difference, but that is not all."
"I think it is the hair that has made most difference, Meinik. You see, it was all pulled off the brow and neck, before; and it will be some time before it will grow naturally again. I had great trouble to get it to lie down, even when it was wet; and it will certainly have a tendency to stick up, for a long time.
"The dress has made a good deal of alteration in you, too."
"They are very good clothes," Meinik said. "I have never had such good ones on before. I have had money enough to buy them; but people would have asked where I got it from, and it never does to make a show of being better off than one's neighbour. A man is sure to be fleeced, if he does.
"What can I do for my lord?"
"Nothing, at present, Meinik. I am going to lunch with the officers here, and to dine with the general, and sleep here. Tomorrow I daresay I shall move into quarters of my own.
"You had better buy what you want, for today, in the market. I don't know whether it is well supplied but, as we saw some of your people about, there must be food to be obtained."
"They gave me plenty to eat when I came in," he said, "but I will buy something for supper.
"No, I do not want money, I have plenty of lead left."
"You had better take a couple of rupees, anyhow. There are sure to be some traders from India who have opened shops here, and they won't care to take lead in payment. You must get some fresh muslin for your turban; and you had better close it up at the top, this time. It will go better with your clothes."
Meinik grinned.
"I shall look quite like a person of importance. I shall be taken for, at least, the headman of a large village."
He took the two rupees and walked off towards the town, while Stanley went in to luncheon. There were a good many remarks as to his altered appearance.
"Do you know, Brooke," one of the young lieutenants said, "I did not feel at all sure that Cooke was not humbugging us, when he introduced you to us, and that you were not really a Burman who had travelled, and had somehow learned to speak English extraordinarily well."
"Clothes and soap and water make a wonderful difference," Stanley laughed, "but I shall be a good many shades lighter, when the rest of the dye wears off. At any rate, I can go about, now, without anyone staring at me."
After tiffin, Stanley had to tell his story again, at a very much greater length than before.
"You certainly have gone through some queer adventures," the major said, when he had finished his relation; "and there is no doubt that you have had wonderful luck. In the first place, if that bullet had gone half an inch lower, you would not have been one of the four white survivors of that ugly business at Ramoo; then you were lucky that they did not chop off your head, either when they first took you, or when they got you to Ava. Then again, it was lucky that Bandoola sent a special message that he wanted you kept as an interpreter for himself, and that the official in charge of you turned out a decent fellow, and aided you to make your escape.
"As to your obtaining the services of the man you brought down with you, I do not regard that as a question of luck. You saved the man's life, by an act of the greatest bravery--one that not one man in ten would perform, or try to perform, for the life of a total stranger. I hope that I should have made the effort, had I been in your place; but I say frankly that I am by no means sure that I should have done so.
"The betting was a good twenty to one against its being done successfully. If the brute had heard your footstep, it would have been certain death and, even when you reached him, the chances were strongly against your being able to strike a blow at the animal that would, for a moment, disable him; and so give you time to snatch up one of the guns--which might not, after all, have been loaded.
"It was a wonderfully gallant action, lad. You did not tell us very much about it yourself but, while you were getting the dye off, I got hold of one of the traders here, who happened to be passing, and who understood their language; and with his assistance I questioned your fellow, and got all the particulars from him. I say again, it was as plucky a thing as I have ever heard of."
A few minutes later an orderly came in with a note from the general, asking the major and Captain Cooke also to dine with him that evening. Stanley was very pleased that the two officers were going with him, as it took away the feeling of shyness he felt, at the thought of presenting himself in staff uniform at the general's.
Sir Archibald Campbell put him at ease, at once, by the kindness with which he received him. Stanley began to apologize for his dress, but the general stopped him, at once.
"I intended, of course, that you should wear it, Mr. Brooke. I am sure that you would not find a dress suit in the camp. However, we will make matters all right, tomorrow. Judging from what you said that, as you cannot join your uncle at present, you would be willing to remain here, your name will appear in orders, tomorrow morning, as being granted a commission in the 89th, pending the arrival of confirmation from home; which of course, in such a case, is a mere form. You will also appear in the orders as being appointed my aide-de-camp, in place of Mr. Hitchcock, with extra pay as interpreter.
"No, do not thank me. Having served as a volunteer, taken part in a severe action, and having been wounded and imprisoned, you had almost a right to a commission. After dinner, I hope that you will give us all a full account of your adventures; it was but a very slight sketch that I heard from you, this morning."
The general then introduced Stanley to the other members of his staff.
"If you had seen him as I saw him, this morning," he said, with a smile, "you certainly would not recognize him now. He was naked to the waist, and had nothing on but the usual peasant attire of a piece of black cloth, reaching to his knees. I knew, of course, that the question of costume would soon be got over; but I own that I did not think that I should be able to employ him, for some little time. Not only was his stain a great deal darker than it is now, but he was thickly tattooed up to the eyes, and one could hardly be sending messages by an aide-de-camp so singular in appearance; but I see that, somehow, he has entirely got rid of the tattoo marks; and his skin is now very little, if at all, darker than that of many of us, so that I shall be able to put him in harness at once."
After dinner was over and cigars lighted, Stanley told his story as before, passing over lightly the manner in which he had gained the friendship of the Burman. When he had finished, however, Major Pemberton said: "With your permission, general, I will supplement the story a little. Mr. Brooke has told me somewhat more than he has told you, but I gained the whole facts from his guide's own lips."
"No, major, please," Stanley said colouring, even under his dye. "The matter is not worth telling."
"You must permit us to be a judge of that, Mr. Brooke," the general said, with a smile at the young fellow's interruption of his superior officer.
"I beg your pardon, Major Pemberton," Stanley stammered in some confusion. "Only--" "Only you would rather that I did not tell about your struggle with the leopard. I think it ought to be told, and I am pretty sure Sir Archibald Campbell will agree with me," and Major Pemberton then gave a full account of the adventure in the forest.
"Thank you, major. You were certainly quite right in telling the story, for it is one that ought to be told and, if Mr. Brooke will forgive my saying so, is one of those cases in which it is a mistake for a man to try to hide his light under a bushel.
"You see, it cannot but make a difference in the estimation in which we hold you. Most young fellows would, as you did, have joined their countrymen when threatened by a greatly superior enemy and, again, most would, if prisoners, have taken any opportunity that offered to effect their escape. Therefore, in the brief account that you gave me, this morning, it appeared to me that you had behaved pluckily and shrewdly, and had well earned a commission, especially as you have a knowledge of the language. You simply told me that you had been able to render some service to the Burman who travelled down with you, but such service might have been merely that you assisted him when he was in want, bound up a wound, or any other small matter.
"Now we find that you performed an act of singular courage, an act that even the oldest shikaree would have reason to be proud of. Such an act--performed, too, for a stranger, and that stranger an enemy--would, of itself, give any man a title to the esteem and regard of any among whom he might be thrown, and would lead them to regard him in an entirely different light to that in which they would otherwise have held him.
"I think that you will all agree with me, gentlemen."
"Certainly."
There was a chorus of assent from the circle of officers. His narrative had, as the general said, shown that the young fellow was possessed of coolness, steadiness, and pluck; but this feat was altogether out of the common and, as performed by a mere lad, seemed little short of marvellous.
"You will, of course, have Hitchcock's quarters," the quartermaster general said to Stanley, as the party broke up. "It is a small room, but it has the advantage of being water tight, which is more than one can say of most of our quarters. It is a room in the upper storey of the next house. I fancy the poor fellow's card is on the door still. The commissariat offices are in the lower part of the house, and they occupy all the other rooms upstairs; but we kept this for one of the aides-de-camp, so that the general could send a message at once, night or day."
"Of course I shall want a horse, sir."
"Yes, you must have a horse. I will think over what we can do for you, in that way. There is no buying one here, unless a field officer is killed, or dies.
"By the way, Hitchcock's horses are not sold, yet. They were not put up, yesterday. I have no doubt that some arrangement can be made about them, and the saddlery."
"That would be excellent, sir. As I told the general this morning, I have some rubies and other stones. I have no idea what they are worth. They were given me by those men I was with, in the forest. They said that they were very difficult to dispose of, as the mines are monopolies of government so, when my man Meinik proposed it, they acceded at once to his request, and handed a number of them over to me.
"I have not even looked at them. There may be someone, here, who could tell me what they are worth."
"Yes, I have no doubt some of those Parsee merchants, who have lately set up stores, could tell you. I should only take down two or three stones to them, if I were you. If they are really valuable, you might be robbed of them; but I am rather afraid that you will not find that they are so. Brigand fellows will hardly have been likely to give you anything very valuable."
"I don't think that they looked at them, themselves; they were the proceeds of one day's attack on a number of merchants. They found them concealed on them, and they were so well satisfied with the loot they got, in merchandise that they could dispose of, that I doubt whether they even opened the little packages of what they considered the most dangerous goods to keep; for if they were captured, and gems found upon them, it would be sufficient to condemn them, at once."
"Do you speak Hindustani? If not, I will send one of the clerks with you."
"Yes, sir; and three or four other of the Indian languages."
"Ah! Then you can manage for yourself.
"When you have seen one of these Parsees, come round to my office. I shall have seen the paymaster by that time, and have talked over with him how we can arrange about the horses. I should think that the best way would be to have a committee of three officers to value them, and the saddlery; and then you might authorize him to receive your extra pay as interpreter, and to place it to Hitchcock's account. You will find your own staff pay more than ample, here; as there are no expenses, whatever, except your share of the mess."
"Thank you very much, indeed, Colonel."
In the morning, Stanley took one of the little parcels from the bag and opened it. It contained thirty stones, of which twenty were rubies, six sapphires, and four emeralds. They seemed to him of a good size but, as they were in the rough state, he had no idea what size they would be, when cut.
There were three of the Parsee merchants. The first he went to said, at once, that he did not deal in gems. The next he called on examined the stones carefully.
"It is impossible to say, for certain," he said, "how much they are worth until they are cut, for there may be flaws in them that cannot be detected. Now, if I were to buy them like this, I could not give more than a hundred rupees each. If they are all flawless, they would be worth much more; but it would be a pure speculation, and I will not go beyond that sum."
Stanley then visited the third store. The trader here inspected them a little more carefully than the last had done, examined them with a magnifying glass, held them up to the light; then he weighed each stone and jotted down some figures. At last, he said: "The stones are worth five thousand rupees. If they are flawless, they would be worth double that. I will give you five thousand myself or, if you like, I will send them to a friend of mine, at Madras. He is one of the best judges of gems in India. He shall say what he will give for them, and you shall pay me five percent commission. He is an honest trader; you can ask any of the officers from Madras."
"I will accept that offer, if you will make me an advance of fifteen hundred rupees upon them; and will pay you, at the rate of ten percent per annum, interest till you receive the money for them."
The Parsee again took the gems, and examined them carefully.
"Do you agree to take the jeweller's offer, whatever it is?"
"Yes; that is to say, if it is over the five thousand. If it is under the five thousand, I will sell them to you at that sum."
"I agree to that," the man said. "But do not fear; if the two largest stones are without a flaw, they alone are worth five thousand."
"Let us draw up the agreement, at once," Stanley said.
And, accordingly, the terms were drawn up, in Hindustani, and were signed by both parties. The Parsee then went to a safe, unlocked it, and counted out the rupees, to the value of 150 pounds. These he placed in a bag, and handed them to Stanley who, delighted at the sum that he had obtained for but a small portion of the gems, went to the quartermaster general's office.
"We have just finished your business," Colonel Adair said, as he entered. "Major Moultrie, the paymaster, Colonel Watt, and myself have examined the horses. I know that Hitchcock paid sixty pounds apiece for them, at Calcutta. They are both Arabs, and good ones, and were not dear at the money. Our opinion is that, if they were put up to auction here, they would fetch 40 pounds apiece; and that the saddle and bridle, holsters, and accoutrements would fetch another 20 pounds. There are also a pair of well-finished pistols in the holsters. They were overlooked, or they would have been put up in the sale yesterday. They value them at 8 pounds the brace; in all, 108 pounds.
"Will that suit you? The major will, as I proposed, stop the money from your pay as a first-class interpreter--that is, two hundred and fifty rupees a month--so that, in four months and a half, you will have cleared it off."
"I am very much obliged to you, Colonel; but I have just received an advance of fifteen hundred rupees, on some of my gems which the Parsee is going to send to a jeweller, of the name of Burragee, at Madras."
"I congratulate you, for I hardly hoped that they would turn out to be worth so much. Burragee is a first-rate man, and you can rely upon getting a fair price from him. Well, that obviates all difficulty.
"By the way, I should recommend you to get a light bedstead and bed, and a couple of blankets, at one of the Parsee stores. Of course, you did not think of it, yesterday, or you might have bought Hitchcock's. However, I noticed in one of the Parsees' shops a number of light bamboo bedsteads; which are the coolest and best in a climate like this. If you lay a couple of blankets on the bamboos, you will find that you don't want a mattress."
"I don't know what my duties are, sir, or whether the general will be wanting me."
"He will not want you, today. Anyhow, he will know that you will be making your arrangements, and moving into your quarters.
"By the way, Hitchcock brought a syce with him. You must have a man for your horses, and I have no doubt he will be glad to stay on with you."
Two hours later Stanley was installed in his quarters--a room some twelve feet long by eight wide. A bed stood in one corner. There was a table for writing on, two light bamboo chairs, and an Indian lounging chair. In the corner was a small bamboo table, on which was a large brass basin; while a great earthenware jar for water stood beside it, and a piece of Indian matting covered the floor.
He learned that the staff messed together, in a large room in the next house; and that he would there get a cup of coffee and a biscuit, at six in the morning, breakfast at half-past eight, lunch and dinner; so that he would not have to do any cooking, whatever, for himself. He had given Meinik a small sum to lay out in cooking pots and necessaries for his own use.
The syce had gladly entered his employ. Stanley had inspected the horses which, although light to the eye, would be well capable of bearing his weight through a long day's work. They were picketed, with those of the general and staff, in a line behind the house devoted to the headquarters. After lunch he went into the general's, and reported himself as ready for duty.
"I shall not want you this afternoon, Mr. Brooke. Here is a plan showing the position of the different corps. You had better get it by heart. When it gets cooler, this afternoon, I should advise you to ride out and examine the position and the roads; so that even at night you can, if necessary, carry a message to any of the regiments. The Burmese are constantly creeping up and stabbing our sentries, and sometimes they attack in considerable force. When anything like heavy firing begins, it will be your duty to find out at once what is going on; and bring me word, as it may be necessary to send up reinforcements.
"In the morning it will be your duty to examine any prisoners who have been taken during the night, and also natives who have made their way into the town; in order to ascertain whether any date has been fixed for their next attack, and what forces are likely to take part in it. You can make your man useful at this work.
"By the way, I will tell Colonel Adair to put him down on the list of the quartermaster's native followers. He need not do anything else but this. But it is likely that the natives will speak more freely to him than they would to a white officer, and he may as well be earning thirty rupees a month, and drawing rations, as hanging about all day, doing nothing."
Thanking the general, Stanley took the plan and, going back to his quarters, studied it attentively. He told Meinik of the arrangement that had been made for him, with which the Burman was much pleased. Thirty rupees a month seemed a large sum to him, and he was glad that he should not be costing Stanley money for his food.
Three hours later one of his horses was brought round, and he started on his ride through the camp. There were two roads leading through the town to the great pagoda. Both were thickly bordered by religious houses and pagodas--the latter, for the most part, being in a state of dilapidation. Houses and pagodas alike had been turned into quarters for the troops, and had been invaluable during the wet season.
The terrace of the great pagoda was occupied by the 89th Regiment and the Madras Artillery. This was the most advanced position, and was the key of the defence. Leaving his horse in charge of his syce, at the foot of the pagoda hill, Stanley went up to the terrace and soon entered into conversation with some of the British officers; who at once recognized him as having been, that morning, put in orders as the general's aide-de-camp. As he was unknown to everyone, and no ship had come in for some days, there was naturally much curiosity felt as to who the stranger was who had been appointed to a commission, and to the coveted post of aide-de-camp, in one day.
After chatting for two or three minutes, they conducted Stanley to the colonel's quarters, a small building at the foot of the pagoda.
"This is Mr. Brooke, Colonel, the gentleman who was gazetted to us, this morning."
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Brooke; but I should be more glad, still, if you had been coming to join, for we have lost several officers from sickness, and there are others unfit for duty. When did you arrive?"
"I arrived only yesterday morning, sir. I came here in disguise, having made my way down from Ava."
"Oh, indeed! We heard a report that a white man had arrived, in disguise, at the lines of the 45th Native Infantry; but we have had no particulars, beyond that."
"I was captured at Ramoo, sir, while I was acting as an officer of the native levy. Fortunately I was stunned by the graze of a musket ball and, being supposed dead, was not killed; as were all the other officers who fell into the hands of the Burmese. Their fury had abated by the time I came to myself, and I was carried up to Ava with some twenty sepoy prisoners. After a time I made my escape from prison, and took to the forest; where I remained some weeks, till the search for me had abated somewhat. Then I made my way down the country, for the most part in a fishing boat, journeying only at night, and so succeeded in getting in here. Fortunately I speak the Mug dialect, which is very closely akin to the Burmese."
"Well," the colonel said, "I hope that you will consider the regiment your home; though I suppose that, until the campaign is at an end, you will only be able to pay us an occasional visit. You are lucky in getting the staff appointment. No doubt your being able to talk Burmese has a great deal to do with it."
"Everything, I think, sir. The general had no one on his staff who could speak the language and, unless he happened to have with him one of the very few men here who can do so, often had to wait some time before a prisoner could be questioned."
He remained chatting for half an hour, and then rode back to the town; taking the other road to that which he had before traversed.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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8
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: The Pagoda.
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Two days later a prisoner was captured, when endeavouring to crawl up the pagoda hill--having slipped past the outposts--and was sent into headquarters. Stanley questioned him closely; but could obtain no information, whatever, from him. Telling him to sit down by the house, he placed a British sentry over him.
"Keep your eye," he said, "on the door of the next house. You will see a Burman come out. You are to let him talk with the prisoner, but let no one else speak to him. Don't look as if you had any orders about him, but stand carelessly by. The fellow will tell us nothing, but it is likely enough that he will speak to one of his own countrymen."
"I understand, sir."
Stanley went into his house and told Meinik what he was wanted to do.
"I will find out," Meinik said confidently and, a minute or two later, went out and strolled along past the prisoner. As he did so he gave him a little nod and, returning again shortly, saluted him in Burmese. The third time he passed he looked inquiringly at the sentry, as if to ask whether he might speak to the prisoner. The soldier, however, appeared to pay no attention to him; but stood with grounded musket, leaning against the wall, and Meinik went up to the man.
"You are in bad luck," he said. "How did you manage to fall into the hands of these people?"
"It matters not to you," the Burman said indignantly, "since you have gone over to them."
"Not at all, not at all," Meinik replied. "Do you not know that there are many here who, like myself, have come in as fugitives, with instructions what to do when our people attack? I am expecting news as to when the soothsayers declare the day to be a fortunate one. Then we shall all be in readiness to do our share, as soon as the firing begins."
"It will be on the fourth day from this," the Burman said. "We do not know whether it will be the night before, or the night after. The soothsayers say both will be fortunate nights; and the Invulnerables will then assault the pagoda, and sweep the barbarians away. The princes and woongees will celebrate the great annual festival there, two days later."
"That is good!" Meinik said. "We shall be on the lookout, never fear."
"What are they going to do to me. Will they cut off my head?"
"No, you need not be afraid of that. These white men never kill prisoners. After they are once taken, they are safe. You will be kept for a time and, when our countrymen have destroyed the barbarians and taken the town, they will free you from prison.
"There are some of the white officers coming. I must get away, or they will be asking questions."
As he walked away, the sentry put his musket to his shoulder and began to march briskly up and down. A moment later the general stepped up to him.
"What are you doing, my man? Who put you on guard over that prisoner?"
"I don't know his name, sir," the sentry said, standing at attention. "He was a young staff officer. He came to the guard tent and called for a sentry and, as I was next on duty, the sergeant sent me with him. He put me to watch this man."
"All right; keep a sharp lookout over him.
"I wonder what Brooke left the fellow here for, instead of sending him to prison," the general said to Colonel Adair. "We examined him, but could get nothing out of him, even when I threatened to hang him."
"I will just run up to his quarters and ask him, sir."
Just as he entered the house, Stanley was coming down the stairs.
"The general wants to know, Mr. Brooke, why you placed a prisoner under a guard by his house; instead of sending him to the prison, as usual?"
"I was just coming to tell him, sir."
"Ah, well, he is outside; so you can tell us both together."
"Well, Mr. Brooke, what made you put a sentry over the man, and leave him here? The men are hard enough worked, without having unnecessary sentry duty."
"Yes, sir; I only left him for a few minutes. I was convinced the man knew something, by his demeanour when I questioned him; and I thought I might as well try if my man could not get more out of him than I could. So I put a sentry over him, and gave him instructions that he was to let a Burman, who would come out of this house, speak to the prisoner; but that no one else was to approach him.
"Then I instructed my man as to the part that he was to play. He passed two or three times, making a sign of friendship to the prisoner. Then, as the sentry had apparently no objection to his speaking to him, he came up. At first the man would say nothing to him, but Meinik told him that he was one of those who had been sent to Rangoon to aid, when the assault took place; and that he was anxiously waiting for news when the favourable day would be declared by the astrologers, so that he and those with him would be ready to begin their work, as soon as the attack commenced. The prisoner fell into the snare, and told him that it would be made either on the night before or on the night of the fourth day from this; when the Invulnerables had undertaken to storm the pagoda. It seems that the date was fixed partly because it was a fortunate one, and also in order that the princes and head officials might properly celebrate the great annual festival of the pagoda; which falls, it seems, on the sixth day from now."
"Excellent indeed, Mr. Brooke. It is a great relief to me to know when the assault is going to take place, and from what point it will be delivered. But what made you think of the story that the Burman was one of a party that had come in to do something?"
"It was what Colonel Adair mentioned at dinner, last evening, sir. He was saying how awkward it would be if some of these natives who have come in were to fire the town, just as a strong attack was going on, and most of the troops engaged with the enemy. It was not unlikely that, if such a plan had been formed, the prisoner would know of it; and that he might very well believe what my man said, that some men had been sent into the town, with that or some similar intention."
"True enough. The idea was a capital one, Mr. Brooke; and we shall be ready for them, whichever night they come.
"Will you please go across to the guard tent, and tell the sergeant to send a corporal across to the man on sentry, with orders to take the prisoner to the jail, and hand him over to the officer in command there? When you have done that, will you ride out to the pagoda and inform your colonel what you have discovered? It will be a relief to him, and to the men for, as the date of the attack has been uncertain, he has been obliged to largely increase his patrols, and to keep a portion of his force, all night, under arms. He will be able to decrease the number, and let the men have as much sleep as they can, for the next two nights.
"The clouds are banking up, and I am very much afraid that the rain is going to set in again. They say that we shall have another two months of it."
After seeing the prisoner marched away, Stanley rode to the pagoda and, saying that he had come with a message from the general, was at once shown into the colonel's quarters.
"Any news, Mr. Brooke?"
"Yes, Colonel; the general has requested me to inform you, at once, of the news that I have obtained from a prisoner; namely that, either on the night of the 30th or 31st, your position will be attacked, by the men who are called the Invulnerables."
"We will give them a chance of proving whether their title is justified," the colonel said, cheerfully. "That is very good news. The men are getting thoroughly worn out with the extra night duty caused by this uncertainty. You think that there is no doubt that the news is correct?"
"None whatever, sir. I could do nothing with the prisoner; but my Burman pretended to have a mission here, to kick up a row in the town when the attack began; and the man, believing his story, at once told him that the attack will be made on the pagoda, by the Invulnerables, on the early morning of the fourth day from this--or on the next night--the astrologers having declared that the time would be propitious, and also because they were very anxious to have the pagoda in their hands, in order that the princes might celebrate the great annual festival that is held, it seems, two days after."
The colonel laughed.
"I am afraid that they will have to put it off for another year. The general gave no special orders, I suppose?"
"No, sir; he had only just received the news, and ordered me to ride over at once to you, as he was sure that you would be glad to know that it would not be necessary to keep so many men on night duty, for the next two days."
"Thank you, Mr. Brooke. Will you kindly tell the general that I am very pleased at the news? No doubt he will be up here, himself, this afternoon or tomorrow."
Stanley rode back fast, and was just in time to escape a tremendous downpour of rain, which began a few minutes after he returned. He went in at once to the general's, but was told that he was engaged with the quartermaster and adjutant generals. He therefore went into the anteroom where Tollemache, his fellow aide-de-camp, was standing at the window, looking out at the rain.
"This is a beastly climate," he grumbled. "It is awful to think that we are likely to get another two months of it; and shall then have to wait at least another, before the country is dry enough to make a move. You were lucky in getting in, just now, before it began."
"I was indeed," Stanley agreed, "for I had ridden off without my cloak, and should have been drenched, had it begun two minutes earlier."
"I saw you gallop past, and wondered what you were in such a hurry about. Was it like this when you were out in the woods?"
"Not in the least. There is very little rain near Ava; though the country is a good deal flooded, where it is flat, from the rivers being swollen by the rains in the hills. We had lovely weather, all the time."
"I should like to see a little lovely weather here. The last week has been almost worse than the rain--the steamy heat is like being in a vapour bath. If it were not that I am on duty, I should like to strip, and go out and enjoy a shower bath for half an hour."
Stanley laughed.
"It really would be pleasant," he said. "I don't think that I gained much by hurrying back, for the gallop has thrown me into such a perspiration that I might almost as well be drenched by the rain, except that my clothes won't suffer so much."
"Ah, it is all very well for you," the other grumbled. "Of course, after once having wandered about in the forest, painted up like a nigger, you feel cheerful under almost any circumstances; but for us who have been cooped up, doing nothing, in this beastly place, it is impossible to look at things cheerfully."
"Have you heard that the enemy are going to attack, on Tuesday or Wednesday night?"
"No!" the other exclaimed, with a sudden animation. "The general only came in a quarter of an hour ago and, as he had the two bigwigs with him, of course I did not speak to him. Is it certain? How did you hear it?"
"It is quite certain--that is, unless the Burmese change their mind, which is not likely. The princes want to celebrate the great annual festival at the pagoda, on Friday; and so the Invulnerables are going, as they think, to capture it either on Tuesday or Wednesday night. I have just been up there to tell the colonel.
"As to your other question--how did I learn it--I got it, or rather my Burman did, from that prisoner we were questioning this morning. He would not say anything then; but my man got round him and, believing that he was a spy, or something of that kind, the prisoner told him all about it."
"Are they only going to attack at the pagoda?"
"That I cannot say; that is the only point that the man mentioned. I should say that it would only be there."
"Why should it only be there?"
"Because I should imagine that even the Burmese must be beginning to doubt whether they could defeat our whole force and, as they particularly wish to occupy the pagoda on Friday, they would hardly risk an attack on other points, which might end in disaster while, what with the propitious nature of the day, and the fact that the Invulnerables have undertaken to capture the pagoda, no doubt they look upon that as certain."
"I suppose that you are right, Brooke. Well, I do hope that the general will let us go up to see the fun."
"What, even if it is raining?"
"Of course," the other said, indignantly. "What does one care for rain, when there is something to do? Why, I believe that, if it was coming down in a sheet, and the men had to wade through the swamps waist deep, they would all march in the highest spirits, if there was the chance of a fight with the Burmans at the end of the day.
"However, I am afraid that there is no chance of our getting off, unless the chief goes, himself. There may be attacks in other places. As you say, it is not likely; but it is possible. Therefore, of course, we should have to be at hand, to carry orders. Of course, if he takes his post at the pagoda it will be all right; though the betting is that we shall have to gallop off, just at the most interesting moment."
Presently the two officers left the general. The latter's bell rang, and Stanley went in.
"You saw the colonel, Mr. Brooke?"
"Yes, sir; and he begged me to say that he was extremely glad to get the news, and much obliged to you for sending it so promptly."
"There is no occasion for you and Mr. Tollemache to stay here any longer, now; but at five o'clock I shall ride out to the pagoda. At any rate, should I want you before then, I shall know where to send for you."
This was the general order, for in the afternoon there was, when things were quiet, a hush for two or three hours. The work of the aides-de-camp was, indeed, generally very light for, as there were no movements of troops, no useless parades, and very few military orders to be carried, they had a great deal of time on their hands; and usually took it by turns to be on duty for the day, the one off duty being free to pay visits to acquaintances in the various camps, or on board ship. During the rainy season, however, very few officers or men went beyond shelter, unless obliged to do so and, from two till four or five, no small proportion passed the time in sleep.
Stanley had intended to pay a visit to the Larne; as Captain Marryat, who had dined at the staff mess on the previous evening, had invited him to go on board, whenever it might be convenient to him. The Larne had performed good service, in the operations against the stockades; and her boats had been particularly active and successful. Her captain was one of the most popular, as well as one of the most energetic officers in the service; and was to become as popular, with future generations, as the brightest of all writers of sea stories.
However, the day was not favourable for an excursion on the water. Stanley therefore went back to his room where, divesting himself of his jacket, he sat down at the open window, and read up a batch of the last newspapers, from England, that had been lent him by Colonel Adair.
At five o'clock Meinik came in, to say that his horse was at the general's door. Stanley hastily put on his jacket and cloak, and sallied out. The general came down in a few minutes, followed by Tollemache and, mounting, they rode to the pagoda.
Here Sir Archibald had a talk with the colonel of the 89th, and the officer commanding the battery of the Madras Artillery. Both were of opinion that their force was amply sufficient to resist any attack. The only approach to it from the forest was a long road between two swamps which, a short distance away, had become lakes since the wet weather set in.
"Had they taken us by surprise," the colonel said, "some of them might have got across, before we were quite ready for them, and might have given us some trouble but, as we shall be prepared, I don't think that any of them will reach the foot of this hill and, if they did, none of them would reach this terrace. If an attack were made from the other side, it would of course be a good deal more serious, as the ground is firm and they could attack all along the foot of the hill; but as they cannot get there, until they have defeated the rest of the army, I consider that, even without the assistance of the guns, we could hold the hill with musket and bayonet against any force that they are likely to bring against us."
"Very well, then; I shall not reinforce you, Colonel. Of course, we shall keep a considerable number of troops under arms, in case they should attack all along the line, at the same time that they make their principal effort here.
"I rather hope that the rain will keep on, until this affair is over."
The colonel looked surprised.
"I am much more afraid," the general went on, "of fire in the town, than I am of an attack without. The number of natives there is constantly increasing. No doubt the greater number of those who come in are natives of the place, who have managed, since we cleared out their war galleys from some of the creeks and channels, to escape from the authorities and to make their way in, either on foot or in fishermen's boats; but some of them may be sent in as spies, or to do us harm. I have been having a long talk over it with Colonel Adair, this afternoon, and he quite agrees with me that we must reckon on the probability of an attempt to fire the town. It would be a terrible blow to us if they succeeded, for the loss of our stores would completely cripple us. They would naturally choose the occasion of an attack upon our lines for the attempt for, in the first place, most of the troops will be under arms and drawn up outside the town; and in the second place the sight of the place on fire would cause much confusion, would inspirit our assailants, and necessitate a considerable force being withdrawn from the field, to fight the fire.
"If the rains continue we need feel no uneasiness, whatever, for there would be no getting anything to burn; whereas in dry weather, a man with a torch might light the thatch as fast as he could run along, and a whole street would be in a blaze in two or three minutes and, if a wind happened to be blowing, it might make a sweep of the whole place, in spite of all our efforts."
"I see that, sir. I own that I had never given it a thought, before."
"I shall come up here, Colonel, unless we obtain sure news, before the time arrives, that the attack is going to be a general one; indeed, it is in any case the best place to post myself, for I can see over the whole country, and send orders to any point where the enemy may be making progress, or where our men can advance with advantage. The line of fire flashes will be as good a guide, at night, as the smoke by day."
"I will get a cot rigged up for you, General, as we don't know which night it is to be."
"Thank you. Yes, I may just as well turn in, all standing, as the sailors say, and get a few hours' sleep; for in this climate one cannot keep at it, night and day, as we had to do in Spain."
The two aides-de-camp were kept in suspense as to what the general's intentions were, and it was not until the morning of Tuesday that he said to them: "I am going up to the pagoda this evening, Mr. Tollemache; and you had better, therefore, put some provisions and a bottle of brandy into your holsters."
At nine in the evening they rode off. The rain had ceased; the moon was shining through the clouds.
"It will be down by twelve o'clock," Tollemache said. "I should think, most likely, they will wait for that. They will think that we shall not be able to take aim at them, in the darkness; and that they will manage to get to the foot of the hill, without loss."
When they reached the platform in front of the pagoda, their syces took their horses. Meinik had begged Stanley to let him take his groom's place on this occasion and, laying aside the dress he ordinarily wore, assumed the light attire of an Indian syce, and had run behind the horses with the others. He had a strong desire to see the fighting, but his principal motive in asking to be allowed to accompany Stanley was that, although greatly impressed with what he had seen of the drill and discipline of the white and native regiments, he could not shake off his faith in the Invulnerables; and had a conviction that the pagoda would be captured, and therefore wished to be at hand, to bring up Stanley's horse at the critical moment, and to aid him to escape from the assailants.
Fires were burning, as usual, at several points on the terrace. Two companies were under arms, and were standing well back from the edge of the platform, so as to be out of sight of those in the forest. The rest of the men were sitting round the fires. Their muskets were piled in lines hard by.
When he alighted, the general proceeded to the battery.
"Have you everything in readiness, Major?" he asked the officer in command.
"Yes, sir. The guns are all loaded with grape and, as it will be very dark when the moon has set, I have pegged a white tape along, just under each gun; so that they can be trained upon the causeway, however dark it may be."
"That is a very good idea," the general said. "There is nothing more difficult than laying guns accurately in the dark."
The colonel now arrived, a soldier having brought the news to him, as soon as the general reached the platform.
"I see that you are well prepared to give them a hot reception, Colonel."
"I hope so, sir. I have a strong patrol out beyond the causeway. My orders are that they are to resist strongly, for a minute or two, so as to give us time to have the whole of our force in readiness here. Then they are to retreat at the double to the foot of the hill; and then to open fire again, so that we may know that they are out of the way, and that we can begin when we like. We have been making some port fires this afternoon, and I have a dozen men halfway down the hill and, directly the outposts are safely across, they are to light the port fires, which will enable us to take aim. These white tapes will be guide enough for the artillery; but my men would make very poor shooting, if they could not make out the muzzles of their guns. Anyhow, I don't think that it is likely that the enemy will get across the causeway, however numerous they may be."
"I don't think they will, Colonel. Certainly, so far, they have shown themselves contemptible in attack; and have never made a successful stand, even for a minute, when we once entered their stockades, though they defend them pluckily enough until we have once got a footing inside.
"Still, these fellows ought to fight well tonight for, if they are beaten, it will be a death blow to their reputation among their countrymen. Besides, many of them do believe in the power they claim and, as we have found before now, in India, fanatics are always formidable."
After taking a look round with the colonel, the general accompanied him to his quarters; while the two aides-de-camp remained on the terrace, chatting with the officers; and then, after a time, went with some of them to the mess tent, where they sat smoking and talking until midnight, when all went out.
The troops were formed up under arms, and all listened impatiently for something that would show that the long-delayed assault would take place that night. At half-past twelve there was the sound of a shot, which sent an electrical thrill through the troops. It was followed almost immediately by others. The troops were at once marched forward to the edge of the platform. A babel of wild shouts went up at the sound of the first shots, followed by a burst of firing.
The two aides-de-camp had taken their places close to the general, who was standing in the gap between the infantry and the guns; and was looking intently, through his night glasses, at the forest.
"They are in a dense mass," he said. "I cannot see whether they are in any regular order, but they are certainly packed a great deal closer than I have ever before seen them. Those in front have got lanterns. They are coming along fast."
As yet the enemy were half a mile away, but the lanterns and the flash of their guns showed their exact position, while the fire of the outposts was kept up steadily. As the latter fell back along the causeway, the interval between the two forces decreased; and then the fire of the outposts ceased as, in accordance with their orders, they broke into the double.
Illustration: The Burmese make a great effort to capture Pagoda Hill.
The uproar of the advancing crowd was prodigious. Every man was yelling, at the top of his voice, imprecations upon the defenders of the pagoda; who were standing in absolute silence, waiting eagerly for the word of command. Suddenly the firing broke out again at the foot of the hill and, immediately, a bright light shot up from its face.
The edge of the dense mass of Burmese was now but some fifty yards from the wall that surrounded the foot of the hill, and the causeway behind was occupied by a solid mass of men. Then came the sharp order to the artillerymen, and gun after gun poured its charge of grape into the crowd while, at the same moment, the infantry began to fire, by companies, in steady volleys. For an instant the din of the assailants was silenced, then their shouts rose again and, after a moment's hesitation, they continued their advance.
But not for long. None but the most disciplined soldiers could have advanced under that storm of grape and bullets and, in ten minutes, they fled in wild confusion, leaving the causeway thickly covered with the dead. Again and again the British cheers rose, loud and triumphant; then the infantry were told to fall out, but the guns continued their fire, until the fugitives were well in the forest.
Between the shots the general listened attentively, and examined the country towards the town through his glasses.
"Everything is quiet," he said. "It is probable that, if those fellows had carried the hill, they would have made a signal, and there might have been a general attack. As it is, the affair is over for the night; and the Invulnerables will have some difficulty in accounting for their failure, and loss.
"Now, gentlemen, we may as well have up the horses, and ride back. We hardly expected to get away as soon as this."
"Well, Meinik, what do you think of your Invulnerables, now?" Stanley said, as the Burman, after picketing his horse, came up to his room to see if he wanted anything, before lying down on his bed in the passage.
"I don't know," the Burman replied, gravely. "They may be holy men; and proof, perhaps, against native weapons; but they are no good against your cannon and muskets. I understand, now, how it is that you beat us so easily. Your men all stood quiet, and in order; one only heard the voices of the officers, and the crash as they fired together.
"Then, your guns are terrible. I have seen ours firing but, though our pieces are smaller than yours, your men fire five shots to our one. I stood by while they were loading. It was wonderful. Nobody talked, and nobody gave orders. Each man knew what he had to do--one did something and, directly, another did something and, almost before the smoke of the last shot was out of the gun, it was ready to be fired again.
"It is clear to me that we have not learnt how to fight, and that your way of having only a few men, well taught and knowing exactly what they have to do, is better than ours of having great numbers, and letting everyone fight as he pleases. It is bad, every way. The brave men get to the front, and are killed; and then the others run away.
"You were right. We shall never turn you out of Rangoon, till Bandoola comes. He has all our best troops with him, and he has never been beaten. All the troops know him, and will fight for him as they will not fight for these princes--who know nothing of war, and are chosen only because they are the king's brothers. When he comes, you will see."
"No doubt we shall, Meinik; and you will see that, although they may make a better fight of it than they have done tonight, it will be just the same, in the end."
For the next two months the time passed slowly. No attacks were made by the enemy, after the defeat of the assault upon the pagoda. Peasants and deserters who came in reported that there was profound depression among the Burmese troops. Great numbers had left the colours, and there was no talk of another attack.
The troops being, therefore, relieved of much of their arduous night duty, the English took the offensive. The stockades on the Dalla river, and those upon the Panlang branch--the principal passage into the main stream of the Irrawaddy--were attacked and carried, the enemy suffering heavily, and many pieces of artillery being captured.
The rains continued almost unceasingly, and the troops suffered terribly in health. Scarce three thousand remained fit for duty, and the greater portion of these were so emaciated and exhausted, by the effects of the climate, that they were altogether unfit for active operations.
Three weeks after the fight at the pagoda a vessel came up the river, with a letter from the officer in command of the troops assembled to bar the advance of Bandoola against Chittagong, saying that the Burmese army had mysteriously disappeared. It had gone off at night, so quietly and silently that our outposts, which were but a short distance from it, heard no sign or movement, whatever. The Burmese had taken with them their sick, tents, and stores; and nothing but a large quantity of grain had been found in their deserted stockades.
The news was received with satisfaction by the troops. There was little doubt that the court of Ava--finding that their generals had all failed in making the slightest impression upon our lines, and had lost vast numbers of men--had at last turned to the leader who had conquered province after province for it, and had sent him orders to march, with his whole army, to bring the struggle to a close. The soldiers rejoiced at the thought that they were at last to meet a real Burmese army. Hitherto they had generally stood on the defensive, and had to fight the climate rather than the foe; and it seemed to them that the campaign was likely to be interminable.
The march of the Burmese from Ramoo to Sembeughewn, the nearest point of the river to the former town, must have been a terrible one. The distance was over two hundred miles, the rains were ceaseless, and the country covered with jungles and marshes, and intersected by rivers. No other army could have accomplished such a feat. The Burmans, however, accustomed to the unhealthy climate, lightly clad, and carrying no weight save their arms and sixteen days' supply of rice, passed rapidly over it.
Every man was accustomed to the use of an axe and to the formation of rafts and, in an incredibly short time, rivers were crossed, deep swamps traversed on roads made by closely-packed faggots and, but a few days after hearing that Bandoola had started, the general learned, from peasants, that the news had come down that he and a portion of his army had arrived at Sembeughewn.
Almost at the same time, other parties who travelled down along the coast reached Donabew, a town on the Irrawaddy, some forty miles in direct line from Rangoon. This had been named as the rendezvous of the new army, and to this a considerable proportion of Bandoola's force made their way direct from Ramoo; it being the custom of the Burmese to move, when on a march through a country where no opposition was to be looked for, in separate detachments, each under its own leader, choosing its own way, and making for a general rendezvous. Travelling in this manner, they performed the journey far more rapidly than they could have done moving in one body, and could better find shelter and food.
Other forces from Prome, Tannoo, and other quarters were known to be marching towards Donabew. It was soon reported that the dejected forces around Rangoon had gained courage and confidence, at the news that Bandoola and his army were coming to their aid, and that the deserters were returning in large numbers from their villages. The British sick were sent away in the shipping to Mergy and Tavoy, two coast towns of which we had taken possession, and both of which were healthily situated.
The change had a marvellous effect, and men who would have speedily succumbed to the poisonous exhalations of the swamps round Rangoon rapidly regained their strength, in their new quarters.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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9
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: Victories.
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In the meantime, negotiations had been going on with Siam, between which state and Burma there was the bitterest enmity. It had been thought that Siam would have willingly grasped the opportunity to revenge itself for the many losses of territory that it had suffered at the hands of Burma. This there was no doubt that it would have been glad to do, but our occupation of several points on the coast of Tenasserim roused the fears of Siam, and inclined it to the belief that we might prove an even more dangerous neighbour than Burma.
The court of Ava had, on its part, also sent urgent messages to the King of Siam--when misfortunes had, to some extent, lowered its pride--calling upon him to make common cause with Burma, and to join it in repelling an enemy who would doubtless be as dangerous to him as to Burma.
Siam, however, determined to steer a middle course. An army was assembled, in readiness for any contingency; but Siam believed as little as Burma, itself, that the British could possibly be victorious over that power; and feared its vengeance, if she were to ally herself with us while, upon the other hand, Siam had a long sea coast, and feared the injury our fleet might inflict upon it, were it to join Burma. The king, therefore, gave both powers an assurance of his friendship; and marched his army down to the frontier of the province of Martaban, which bordered on the great Salween river on the Tenasserim coast, and lay some two hundred miles from Rangoon, across the gulf of Martaban.
The intentions of the king being so doubtful, the advance of the Siamese army in this direction could not be regarded with indifference by the British. The town of Martaban was the centre of the Burmese military power in Tenasserim, and the advance towards it of the Siamese army would place it in direct communication with that of Burma. On the 13th of October, therefore, a force, consisting of a wing of the 41st Regiment and the 3rd Madras Infantry, sailed from Rangoon against the town. The expedition was delayed by light winds and, when it arrived at the mouth of the river, found that every preparation had been made for an obstinate defence. They learned, from a peasant, that strong works had been erected on every eminence round the town; and that the road from the coast had been cut, and stockaded.
Approach by this route was impossible, for there were twenty miles of country to be traversed; and much of this was under water from the inundations. It was, therefore, determined to go up the river, although this was so shallow and full of shoals that the navigation was extremely difficult. At last, after great labour--incurred by the ships constantly getting ashore--they succeeded in making their way up to Martaban, and anchored off the town.
A heavy cannonade was carried on, for some time, between the ships and the enemy's works. Then the troops were embarked in boats, which rowed for the shore under a very heavy fire from the enemy. As soon as they landed, and advanced to attack the stockades, the Burmese lost heart and hastily retreated; while the inhabitants received the troops as they entered with the warmest welcome--for they were, for the most part, natives of Pegu, and still entertained a deep hatred for the Burmese, because of the long oppression that they had suffered at their hands.
Throughout the rest of Tenasserim, however; and indeed, throughout the whole country traversed by the troops later on, the inhabitants appeared to have entirely forgotten their ancient nationality, and the conquest of their country by the Burmans; and to have become completely absorbed by them. Throughout the whole time that we occupied Martaban, the people gave no trouble whatever and, indeed, offered to raise a force for service with us, if we wished it.
At the end of October the rain ceased--to the intense delight of the troops--and the cold season set in. November was, however, an exceptionally deadly month--the occasional days of fine weather drawing up the exhalations from the swamps--and the number of deaths was greater than they had been at any previous time. There was, too, no prospect of a forward movement, at present. The expedition had come unprovided with boats or other means of transport, making sure that an abundant supply would be obtained, in a country where the whole trade was carried on by the rivers. The promptness with which the native authorities had, on the first appearance of the fleet, sent every boat away, had disappointed this anticipation and, although the opening of some of the other rivers had enabled the local fishermen to bring their boats to Rangoon, where fish were eagerly purchased, the British troops were still, up to the end of November, without the means of sending a hundred men up the river, save in the boats of the fleet.
The Indian authorities--believing that, when the Burmese found themselves impotent to turn us out of Rangoon, the court of Ava would be glad to negotiate--had not, until the autumn was drawing to a close, thought of making any preparations to supply the army with water carriage. They now, however, began to bestir themselves. Five hundred boatmen were sent from Chittagong, bringing many boats down with them, and building others at Rangoon. Transports with draft cattle sailed from Bengal, and a considerable reinforcement of troops was on its way to join, at the end of December--for all the natives agreed that no movement could be made, by land, until the end of January.
In November, even Bandoola's army was obliged to make its approach by water. Early in that month it was learned that the Burmese general had given orders for the advance, and preparations were at once begun to meet what none doubted would be a very serious attack. The reinforcements had not yet arrived, and the greatly diminished force was far too small for the length of the line that had to be defended. Redoubts were therefore thrown up, pagodas and other buildings were fortified; and two complete lines of works constructed, from the great pagoda to the city, one facing east and the other west.
The post at Kemmendine was strengthened, and was supported by H. M. sloop Sophie, a company's cruiser, and a strong division of gunboats. The retention of this post was of great importance, as it barred the river approach to Rangoon, and prevented the enemy sending down a huge fleet of war galleys and fire rafts to attack the town, and set fire to the merchant shipping lying off it.
In the last week of November, smoke was seen to rise from many points in the forest. Many fugitives came in from their villages, and reported that Bandoola's army were all on their way down the river; and by the end of the month some sixty thousand men, with a large train of artillery and a body of cavalry, were assembled round our position. Of this force, thirty thousand were armed with muskets. They had with them, too, a great number of jingals. These little guns carried ball of from six to twelve ounces, and were mounted on a light carriage, which two men could wheel with ease. The cannon were carried to the scene of action on elephants. The cavalry were seven hundred strong, drawn from the borders of Manipur.
The rest of the army were armed with swords and spears, and carried implements for stockading and entrenching. The force was accompanied by a number of astrologers; and by the Invulnerables--who had, doubtless, satisfactorily explained their failure to capture the pagoda.
A great semicircle of light smoke, rising from the trees, showed that the position taken up by Bandoola extended from the river above Kemmendine to the neighbourhood of Rangoon. On the night of the 31st, the troops at the pagoda heard a loud and continuous stir in the forest. It gradually approached and, by morning, great masses of troops had gathered at the edge of the jungle, within musket shot of the post. The garrison there were drawn up in readiness to repel a sudden rush but, just as the sun rose, a din made by thousands of men engaged in cutting down the trees began, and it was evident that the Burmese were going to adopt their usual plan of entrenching themselves behind stockades.
During the time that had elapsed between the repulse of the Invulnerables and the arrival of Bandoola's army, Stanley's work was light, and the life dull and monotonous. An hour was spent, every morning, in examining the fugitives who had, by the retreat of the Burmese, been enabled to make their way back to the town; and of women who had escaped from the vigilance of the Burmese police, and had come in from the villages where they had been held as hostages for their husbands. Once or twice a week, he went off with the general to the hospital ship, to inquire into the state of the sick and to pay a visit to the long line of cots along the main and lower deck. Almost every day he rode, in spite of the weather, to one or other of the regimental camps; and soon came to know most of the officers of the force. His previous experience on the rivers had done much to acclimatise him, and his health continued good.
On the evening of the 30th he had, at the general's order, ridden up to the pagoda. It was considered likely that the attack would be delivered there in the first place and, at three o'clock in the morning, when it became evident that a large body of men were approaching through the forest, he galloped back to Rangoon with the news and, at five, rode out again with Sir A. Campbell.
Among the garrison there was much disappointment when the sound of wood chopping announced that the Burmese did not intend to attack; but the general, who had been watching the edge of the jungle through his glasses, lowered them and put them into their case with an expression of satisfaction.
"I don't want them to attack, Colonel," he said. "If they do, and we beat them off, we are no nearer the end than before. That sort of thing might be carried on for months; as long, in fact, as there remains a man to bring up. What we want is to inflict such a heavy blow upon them, that even the court at Ava may become convinced that they cannot hope to drive us out of Rangoon; in which case they may consent to negotiate, and we may bring the war to an end.
"Heaven knows that we have suffered enough loss, at present; and I don't want to have to undertake such a difficult operation as an advance against Ava. I am glad to see that they have begun to construct stockades. I do not intend to interfere until they have completely finished their work, and gained sufficient confidence to make a general attack on us. Then we shall be able to give them a heavy lesson.
"Ah, there they are, at work!"
As he spoke, a roar of musketry and artillery broke out suddenly from Kemmendine, and all eyes were turned in that direction. The spot was two miles distant, but the forest shut out, alike, the view of the river and of the works held by us. The exact position, however, was indicated by the masts of the two war vessels, rising above the trees.
Soon great wreaths of heavy white smoke rose above the forest, in and around Kemmendine, shutting out all view. The fire continued without abatement, and it was evident that the attack was a hot and determined one. Confident as all felt that the little fort would be able to defend itself successfully, the great smoke clouds were watched with some feeling of anxiety; for the garrison was, after all, but a handful. In momentary intervals of the firing, the yells and shouts of the natives could be distinctly heard and, once or twice, after a heavy broadside from the ships of war, the cheers of the British sailors could be plainly recognized.
After two hours' fighting the din gradually ceased. The clouds of smoke rolled away, and the masts of the ships became visible, and the garrison of the pagoda raised three hearty cheers, to tell the defenders that their successful defence had been watched and welcomed.
Presently some heavy columns of the enemy issued from the forest, on the other side of the river; and marched across the plain to Dalla, which faced Rangoon. They moved with great regularity and order, led by their chiefs on horseback, their gilded umbrellas glittering in the rays of the sun. On reaching the bank of the river opposite Rangoon, they began entrenching themselves and throwing up stockades and batteries; with the evident intention of opening fire on the shipping. Soon afterwards large bodies of men issued from the forest facing the pagoda and, marching along a slight ridge, that extended from that point to the creek below Rangoon, took up their position there, and began entrenching themselves all along the line. Thus the British position was now completely surrounded; there was, however, no doubt that the main body of the enemy was still facing the pagoda.
"We must see what they are doing," the general said. "This is too important a point for us to allow them to erect a strongly fortified position, close at hand."
Accordingly, Tollemache was sent down with an order to the 18th Madras Infantry--supported by a detachment of the 13th Regiment, under Major Sale--to advance against the enemy in the jungle. The movements of this force were eagerly watched from the terrace of the pagoda. At a rapid pace they crossed the intervening ground, and a rattle of musketry broke out from the jungle as they approached. The British made no response; but charged, with a cheer, and were soon lost to sight in the trees. Their regular volleys could be heard, at short intervals, above the scattered rattle of the Burmese musketeers; and their cheers frequently rose, loud and triumphant. In half an hour the red line emerged again from the jungle, having destroyed the stockades the Burmese had erected; captured several guns, a quantity of muskets, and entrenching tools thrown away by the Burmese; and killed a large number of the enemy.
During the day the enemy made repeated efforts to send fire rafts down the river from above Kemmendine. These rafts were constructed of bamboos, upon which were placed great numbers of earthenware pots, filled with petroleum. These rafts were skilfully constructed, and made in sections so that, when they drifted against an anchor chain, they would divide--those on each side swinging round, so as to envelop the ship on both sides with fire.
The sailors from the sloops and gunboats rowed up to meet the rafts and, although a heavy fire was kept up by the enemy, from the jungles lining the banks, they succeeded in towing most of them safely to shore; while the rest grounded on a projecting spit, off Kemmendine.
So diligently did the Burmese work at all points throughout the day that, by the afternoon, their whole line of circumvallation was covered with earthworks; behind which they lay, entirely hidden from sight.
"If they could fight as well as they dig, and build stockades," Sir A. Campbell remarked, "they would be one of the most formidable enemies in the world. No European army ever accomplished the work of entrenching themselves so speedily as they have done. Their arrangements have been admirable. Everything has been done without confusion, and each body has taken up the position allotted to it; as is evident by the fact that there is no gap in their lines.
"As to Bandoola's tactics, I cannot say so much for them. In the first place, he has divided his force into two parts, separated by a river, and incapable of helping each other. In the next place, great as are his numbers, his lines are far too extended.
"Well, we will let them go on for a time; and then show them the mistake that they have committed."
Major Sale's reports of the entrenchments were that they consisted of a long line of holes, each capable of containing two men. The earth was dug out on one side so as to form a sort of cave. In this was a bed of straw or brushwood, on which one man could sleep, while the other watched. Each hole contained a sufficient supply of rice, water, and even fuel for its inmates. One line of these holes had been completed, and another was being dug a short distance in advance.
The Burmese do not relieve their men in the trenches. Those who occupy the line first made remain there. Fresh men dig and occupy the next line, and so the advance is continued, until close to the work to be attacked. The system has the great advantage that a shell falling into one of these holes only kills its two occupants; instead of destroying many, as it might do if it fell in a continuous trench.
In the afternoon the general returned to Rangoon, leaving Stanley at the pagoda, with orders to ride down should there be any change of importance. In the evening a considerable force of Burmese issued from the jungle, and prepared to entrench themselves near the northeast angle of the pagoda hill. Major Piper therefore took two companies of the 38th and, descending the hill, drove the Burmese, in confusion, back to the jungle.
In the morning it was found that the enemy had entrenched themselves upon some high and open ground, within musket shot of the north gate of the pagoda. It was separated from the gate by a large tank; but as their jingals and musketry were able, from the point they occupied, to sweep the plateau and the huts occupied by the troops, a party of the 38th and the 28th Madras Infantry went out, and drove them off. As soon, however, as our troops fell back the Burmese reoccupied the position and, for the next few days, a constant skirmishing went on at this point; while an artillery fire was maintained, by the assailants and defenders, along the whole line down to Rangoon, and the enemy's batteries at Dalla kept up an incessant fire on the shipping. Kemmendine was attacked time after time, and many attempts made to launch fire rafts down the river.
The work was very harassing for the troops. Night and day they were expecting an attack in force; and there was a general feeling of delight when, on the evening of the 4th, orders were issued for a general movement against the enemy.
The latter had, by this time, brought the greater portion of their guns up from the jungle, and placed them in their entrenchments; and it was therefore in the power of the British to strike a heavy blow. A division of the flotilla of gunboats was ordered up the creek by the town. These opened a heavy fire upon the enemy's flank, thus attracting their attention to that point and, after the cannonade had continued for some little time, the two columns of attack--the one eight hundred strong, under Major Sale; the other five hundred, under Major Walker of the Madras army--issued out. The latter was to attack the enemy facing the town, the former to force his way through the centre of their position. He had with him a troop of horse, that had landed only the previous day.
Major Walker's force was the first to encounter the enemy. Their resistance was, for a time, obstinate. Major Walker and several other officers fell, in the attack on the first line of entrenchments; but the soldiers carried it at the point of the bayonet and, as the enemy broke and retreated, followed them so hotly that the works in the rear fell into their hands with but slight opposition.
Major Sale's column now began its attack on the enemy's centre. Here the resistance was more feeble and, bursting through the enemy's lines, the British drove them before them in headlong flight. Then, turning, they swept along the line of entrenchments; carrying all before them until they effected a junction with the other column, which was advancing to meet them. They then drove the Burmese from every part of their works into the jungle, leaving the ground behind them covered with dead and wounded.
Except at the point first attacked by Major Walker, the resistance of the Burmese was very feeble, and the British loss inconsiderable; and a large number of guns, entrenching tools, and muskets fell into the hands of the victors. The next day Bandoola rallied the troops that had been driven from the plain, and gathered the greatest part of his force in the forest round the pagoda, where they continued to push forward their works with unabated energy.
The British had a day of rest given them and, on the 7th, prepared to attack the enemy at this point. Four columns of attack were formed, composed of detachments drawn from all the corps of the army. In the morning a heavy cannonade was opened upon the jungle; the artillery being assisted by several heavy guns which had, with great labour, been brought up by the sailors from the ships to the pagoda. The enemy returned it with a steady fire of light artillery, jingals, and musketry.
While the firing was still going on, the four columns were already in motion. One had entered the jungle on the enemy's left, and another on the right. One of the central columns advanced from the foot of the pagoda hill, while the 38th Regiment descended the stairs from the north gate and advanced, one wing on each side of the tank, against the enemy's entrenchments on the high ground. As the four columns approached the enemy, our artillery fire ceased.
The Burmese appeared, for a moment, bewildered at the sight of their foes advancing against them from so many directions, but they soon opened a very heavy fire upon the assailants; and kept it up with undiminished steadiness until our troops, advancing at the charge, dashed into their entrenchments and drove them headlong before them into the thick forest behind--where pursuit, which would at any time have been difficult, was now impossible; the troops, exhausted by their seven days' and nights' watching, being wholly incapable of following their active and lightly-armed enemies.
There now remained but the force at Dalla to cope with and, in the evening, a force composed of the 89th and 43rd Madras Infantry, under Colonel Parlby, embarked in boats. The night was dark, and the troops crossed unobserved. The alarm was not given until the British actually entered the entrenchments, and opened fire upon the enemy; who were sitting, unsuspicious of danger, round their fires. Scarcely any opposition was encountered, and the whole of the works, with the guns and the stores, were soon in our hands; while the enemy were flying towards the forest.
In the actions during these three days, the Burmese lost some 5000 men, 240 pieces of artillery of every kind, and a great number of muskets and vast supplies of ammunition; while the British had but 50 killed and 300 wounded. Great numbers of Bandoola's men never rejoined the army, and the whole force was dispersed through the country.
Bandoola himself was retiring towards Donabew, with but a remnant of his army, when he met considerable reinforcements on their way to join him. During his operations he had left a reserve corps at the village of Kokein, four miles from the pagoda; and these had been busily entrenching the position, which commanded the road leading from Rangoon to Donabew. The ground was elevated and, on his arrival there, Bandoola set his troops--now some 25,000 in number--to aid in the work. In a marvellously short time the heights were completely stockaded with trunks of trees; and with a broad, deep ditch in front. Beyond this were lines of felled trees, their heads pointing outwards and each branch sharpened--forming a very formidable abattis--and, believing this to be impregnable, Bandoola awaited the attack of the British.
As soon as his army had been dispersed, great numbers of deserters, and of the inhabitants of the villages, poured into Rangoon. With the deserters were mingled a good many of the troops sent in by Bandoola, himself, with instructions to fire the town. In order to lull the suspicions of the British, he caused a report to be spread that an imperial commissioner from the court of Ava would arrive, in the course of a few days, to treat for terms of peace.
The general, however, determined to attack Bandoola before the commissioner could arrive; as it was evident that better terms could be obtained, after the total dispersion of the Burmese, than if their famous general remained, with 25,000 men, in a formidable position close at hand. He was uneasy at the presence of so large a number of natives in the town, and the precautions that had been taken against fire, some time before, were now redoubled. Were one to break out, not only might the whole of the stores collected for the advance of the army be destroyed but, if Bandoola had his force gathered in readiness at the edge of the jungle, he might take advantage of the confusion that would be caused by the fire, and rush forward to the attack of the town.
Numbers of troops, and of sailors from the fleet, patrolled the streets in every direction at night but, in spite of their efforts, a week after the retreat of Bandoola the dreaded cry of fire was raised. At a dozen points, on the windward side of the town, fires had been lighted by incendiaries and, as there was a brisk wind blowing, the danger was extreme. The drums beat to arms along the whole of the British lines. Orders had already been issued as to what was to be done in such an emergency and, while a portion of the troops lined the trenches, the rest were marched at once to the town, and formed up between it and the jungle, to repel any attack that might be made there; leaving the troops quartered in the town, and the sailors of the fleet to battle with the flames.
For a time it seemed as if the whole place would be swept away but, by levelling lines of huts, and beating out the flames at the barrier so formed, their progress was at length checked; but not until more than half the town had been destroyed. Fortunately this was the half farthest from the river and--with the exception of the commissariat stores for the supply of the troops of the Madras Presidency--the buildings containing the food, ammunition, and necessaries for the army escaped unharmed.
What had happened once might, however, happen again, in spite of all precautions. The general therefore determined to attack Bandoola at once as, were his force once scattered, the motive for these incendiary fires would cease to operate.
The difficulties were formidable. One or two light field pieces could, at the most, be taken with the column. They would have to march by a narrow and winding footpath, through a thick forest, exposed at any moment to a desperate attack by the enemy. Moreover, it would be necessary to leave a strong force for the defence of Rangoon, as Bandoola would be sure to learn, from his spies, of the intended movement and, having with him men intimately acquainted with every forest track, could make a rush down upon the town during the absence of so many of its defenders.
The general felt it imperative, however, to attack without delay and, early on the morning of the 15th, he moved out with a force of 1500 men against Kokein. They marched without molestation through the forest and, on reaching its confines, could see the truly formidable nature of the works that they were to attack. The moment they issued from the forest, a dropping fire was opened upon them by parties of the enemy, in flank and rear; and no time was lost in preparing for the assault.
The 13th Light Infantry and the 18th Madras, with 60 cavalry, under Brigadier General Cotton, were ordered to move round the stockade and assault it on the left rear; while the rest of the troops, some 800 strong, with 100 cavalry under the general himself, were to attack in front. The enemy's works consisted of a central entrenchment, connected with two large entrenched stockades on its flank, but somewhat advanced in front of it.
As soon as the force under General Cotton had gained its position in the rear of the enemy, a gun was fired, and the whole force moved forward to the assault. . The Burmans regarded the attack by so insignificant a force upon their works with such contempt that they did not, for some time, fire a shot; but continued chanting a war song, swaying themselves to its cadence, stamping and beating time with their hands on their breasts.
This delay proved fatal to them. When they opened fire, their assailants were already close to the ditch and, leaping down into this, were sheltered from the fire of the defenders. Scaling ladders were speedily placed and the troops, running up them, leaped down into the entrenchment. Astounded at this sudden entry into the works they had deemed impregnable, the Burmese hesitated; and the assailants, being joined by their comrades from behind, rushed impetuously upon the enemy.
The column in the rear had greater difficulty--for they had several strong stockades to carry before they reached the central work--and lost four officers and eight men killed, and forty-nine officers and men wounded, in the 13th Regiment alone. Fifteen minutes after the first shot was fired, the whole of the works were in our possession and the Burmese, who gathered in a confused mass, had been decimated by our volleys. They were now in full flight, many being cut down by the cavalry before they reached the shelter of the woods. The British troops marched back to Rangoon; while the Burmese retreated to Donabew, leaving strong posts on the two rivers leading in that direction.
Their retirement left it free to the country people to return to Rangoon, and very large numbers came in, including very many of the villagers who had been forced to fight against us. All had alike suffered from famine and hardship. Even the women had been compelled to labour in the work of stockading, and the sufferings of all had been terrible. The work of rebuilding the town began at once, and the wooden huts sprang up with great rapidity; markets were opened and, in a short time, supplies of fish, fruit, game, and vegetables poured in; sufficient not only for the native population, but to effect a most welcome change in the diet of the troops.
As most of the natives were accustomed to the construction and management of boats, the work of preparing the flotilla by which the troops were to proceed up the rivers went on rapidly; and numbers of men were hired as servants and drivers for the commissariat--with which the force was very insufficiently supplied, as the natives of India of that class for the most part refused, on account of their caste prejudices, to engage themselves for service across the sea. Reinforcements arrived; and Rangoon, which but six weeks before presented a miserable and deserted appearance was, towards the beginning of January, a cheerful and bustling town.
Preparations were being made in other quarters to assume the offensive. Some 3000 men were driving the Burmese out of Assam; and a force 7000 strong was marching from Sylhet, to expel them from Cachar and capture Manipur; while 11,000 men were assembled at Chittagong, and were advancing into Aracan with the intention of driving the Burmese from that province--and they meant, if possible, to cross the mountains and effect a junction with Sir Archibald Campbell's force. The first part of the operations were conducted with complete success, and Aracan wrested from Burma; but it was found impossible to perform the terrible journey across mountain and swamp, or to afford any aid to the main expedition.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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10
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: The Advance.
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But while the preparations for the advance were being made, the general's aides-de-camp had been kept at work from morning until night. There were constant communications between the military and naval authorities, for the expedition was to be a mixed one. Transports were daily arriving with troops and stores; innumerable matters connected with the organization, both of the land and water transport, required to be arranged; and the general himself was indefatigable in superintending every detail of the work. It had been settled that the advance could not take place until the second week in February, as the roads would be impassable until that time, and the 11th was fixed for the commencement of operations.
Upon the day after his arrival at Rangoon, Stanley had written a letter to his uncle; giving him a brief account of his adventures, and stating that he had been appointed one of the general's aides-de-camp. He said that he should, of course, be guided by his uncle's wishes; but that now that he had entered on the campaign as an officer, he should certainly like to remain till the end, when he would at once resign his commission and rejoin him.
He sent this to his uncle's agent at Calcutta, but received no answer until the end of December. After expressing his delight at hearing that Stanley had not, as he had supposed, been killed at Ramoo, but was now safe and well in the British camp, he went on: "I only received your letter this morning, for I have been moving about from point to point and, owing to the falling off of trade, had no occasion to go to Calcutta, until now; and was, indeed, astounded at finding your letter lying for me here, as they had not forwarded it, having no idea where I was, and knowing that the chance of any letter sent on reaching me was extremely small.
"By all means, lad, stop where you are. Trade is improving again for, now that Bandoola's army has marched away from Ramoo, the scare among the natives has pretty well subsided. Still, I can manage very well without you, and it will certainly be a great advantage to you to serve for a year in the army; and to have been one of Campbell's aides-de-camp will be a feather in your cap, and will give you a good position at all the military stations.
"I am very glad, now, that I abstained from writing to your mother after the battle at Ramoo. I thought it over and over, and concluded that it was just as well to leave the matter alone for a time; not that I had the slightest idea, or even a hope, that you were alive, but because I thought that the cessation of letters from you would, to some extent, prepare her mind for the blow, when it came. It would be very improbable that she would see the gazette, with the list of killed and wounded at Ramoo and, even if she did so, she would not associate the death of Ensign Brooke in any way with you. When we have been trading up country, there have been, once or twice, no means of sending off a letter for a couple of months and, therefore, she could not have begun to feel seriously anxious about you before she received your letter from Rangoon.
"Everyone says that you will not be able to advance until February; so that, no doubt, this letter will reach you long before you leave. I hear the losses have been very heavy, from fever; but I am not anxious about you on that score, for I think that you are thoroughly acclimatised. I am trying to get a contract for the supply of a couple of thousand bullocks, for the use of the army; and as I know all the country so well, from Chittagong to Sylhet, and can buy below Indian prices, I think that I shall not only get the contract, but make a very good thing of it, and it may lead to other matters."
After this, Stanley was hardly surprised when, in the last week of January, his uncle walked into his quarters. After the first pleasure of meeting was over, Stanley said: "I suppose you have got the contract, uncle?"
"I have, lad. I have come down from Ramgur with six dhows, packed full. I have brought a thousand head down and, directly I land them, am going back for the remainder; which will be ready for me by the time I get there.
"I have got hold of an uncommonly good fellow. He was established as a small trader at Chittagong. His business was ruined there, and he was glad to accept my offer of a berth; and he has turned out a very energetic and pushing fellow. He will come down with the next consignment.
"I myself am going to work my way up along the edge of the Tipperah forest; and shall pick up another thousand head, by the time that I get to the Goomtee, and shall send them by water up to Sylhet; and then go up by land, picking up more on the way. I have a contract for five thousand to be sent in, a thousand a month, for the force that is to move against Manipur; while Johnson is to send another two thousand down here. So you see, for the present the store business can wait. It is a good line that I have got into. I shall make a big profit out of it, and have hopes that it will be, to some extent, permanent; for I can get the cattle so cheap in the interior, on the rivers we know, that I can ship them to Calcutta at lower terms than they can buy them in India; and I was as much as told that, if I carried out my present contracts satisfactorily, I should get the supply of the troops there. Of course, that would not be a very great thing of itself but, as I could work it without trouble in connection with my own business, it would make a handsome addition to the profits."
"But how about money, uncle?"
"That is all right, lad. I had no difficulty, whatever, in getting an advance at Calcutta, on the strength of my contract and upon the guarantee of my agents; so that I am all right, in that respect."
"I asked, uncle, because I can let you have eighteen hundred pounds, if you want them."
Tom Pearson looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, what on earth have you been doing--robbing the treasury of the King of Ava?"
"No, uncle. I had a bag of gems given me, by some Burmese bandits. When I got down here, I took a few of them to a merchant. He advanced fifteen hundred rupees on them, and sent them to Burragee, the jeweller at Madras and, six weeks afterwards, he paid me another three thousand five hundred. I sent up another batch and, last week, I got an order from the jewellers for fifteen hundred pounds; so that I have more than eighteen hundred in hand now, and I don't think that I have sent more than a third of the gems away."
"Well, that is a piece of luck, Stanley! Why on earth did the brigands give you the gems?"
"Well, uncle, they are things that, from what they told me, there is great difficulty and risk in trying to dispose of. They are a royal monopoly, and nobody dare buy them or, if they do, will give next to nothing for them; because of the risk of the transaction, and because they know that the vendors are in a fix, and must sell. Besides, there is a strong chance of their handing over anyone who offers such things to the authorities. That was one reason why they gave them to me. Then, too, they had made a good haul of merchandise which was, to them, a great deal more valuable, as there was no difficulty in disposing of it. Lastly, they had taken a fancy to me, because I saved one of their comrade's lives--the man who showed you up here."
"Well, lad, you shall tell me all about it, this evening. I must be going down to the commissariat yard, to arrange the landing of my beasts. I came straight to see you, directly I landed. We dropped anchor here at daybreak."
"I will go with you, uncle. I will run in and see the chief, first, and get leave off for the day. I have earned a holiday, for I have been at work pretty well morning, noon, and night for the last two months. You see, I have not only the duties of aide-de-camp, but of interpreter; and have helped both the quartermaster's department and the commissariat in making their arrangements with the natives. I daresay I shall be able to help to hurry your business on, quicker than you would be able to get it done, alone."
The general at once granted Stanley leave, and he went with his uncle down to the commissariat office, and introduced him to the senior officer.
"We shall be glad to do all in our power to help you, Mr. Pearson," the officer said. "We have been expecting your arrival for the last week. Of course, we heard from Calcutta that you had the contract for two thousand head; at least half of these were to be delivered by the tenth of February. We were getting rather anxious about it. The force will probably want to start, before that time; and we shall have to victual both the land and water columns. Of course, I did not know that you were a relation of Mr. Brooke, or I should have mentioned to him that you were likely to come."
"I should like to get off as soon as possible," Tom Pearson said; "for by the time that I get back to Ramgur, the rest of the cattle will be in readiness for me."
"I will write you an order for four large boats, at once. If you had come three weeks sooner, you might have been kept waiting some days; but such a number of native craft have, of late, come down the rivers that we are enabled to get sufficient for our work."
The officer gave him a note to the one in charge of the landing arrangements.
"It is lucky that you have come just at this moment," the latter said. "We have just made our last trip with the baggage of the 47th, and I have six boats disengaged. You may as well take them all."
The craft in question were some of those that had been captured--unwieldy craft, that took fish and salt up the river. They were almost as large as the dhows in which the cattle had been brought down, but drew very much less water. They were towed off to the dhows, one by one, by two captured war canoes, each having thirty rowers. One was taken to each dhow, and the work of transhipping the cattle began at once. These were in good condition for, although closely packed, they had been well supplied with food and water on the way down; and a herdsman with four men under him had been sent, in each boat, to take care of them, as Tom Pearson was very anxious that his first consignment should be reported upon favourably. The animals were all landed in the course of the afternoon and, with the acknowledgment of their receipt, in excellent order, in his pocket, the contractor went off again, with Stanley, to his own dhow.
"I have told them to have everything in readiness to drop down the river with the tide, tomorrow morning. It will turn just about sunrise. That is a rare bit of business, Stanley; and I doubt if a contractor ever got his work through so quickly, before. Of course, it is principally due to you. They would never have pushed things through so quickly, had you not gone with me. I thought that very likely I might be detained here a week, before I could get all the cattle on shore--and by that time, if all goes well, I shall be at Ramgur again.
"Now we can have a comfortable evening's talk, which is very much better than my going to dine with you at mess; for there is a great deal to hear about, and I daresay that I can give you as good a dinner as we should have had, on shore."
"A good deal better," Stanley said. "Things have improved immensely, during the last month; still our mess cook is certainly not so good as your man and, at any rate, the quiet of your cabin makes a very pleasant change, after always sitting down with a large party."
After dinner was over, Stanley gave a full account of his adventures, from the time that he was taken prisoner.
"You have done wonderfully well for yourself, lad; wonderfully well. Certainly when you picked up Burmese from my man, we had no idea that it was ever likely to turn out so useful. I thought that it would have been an assistance among the Mugs on the coast; and I had, too, some idea that the war might lead to the opening of a trade up the Irrawaddy; but it has turned out infinitely more useful than that. If you could not have spoken Burmese, Bandoola would never have thought of asking for you to be spared as an interpreter and, if he had not done so, you would have had your head chopped off, at Ava.
"Of course that leopard business was the turning point of your fortunes but, though it has turned out so well, I must say that I hardly think that you were justified in risking your life in such a desperate act for a native; who might, for aught you know, be already dead. Of course, it was a most gallant action; but the betting was ten to one against your succeeding. However, as it turned out, it was a fortunate business, altogether. I don't say that you might not have made your way down to Rangoon, unaided; but the odds would have been very heavily against it. However, these rubies were a windfall, indeed."
"Will you take the rest of them, uncle, and sell them at Calcutta--or shall I send them to Madras, or home to England?"
"I will take them with me to Calcutta, if you like, Stanley. I don't say that there are better men there than the one you sent to, at Madras; but I think some of them do a larger business up-country with the native princes, who don't care what they give for good gems. At any rate, I will take them there and get them valued by an expert; and then try two or three of the leading firms, and get their offers. If these are as high as the value put on them by the expert, I would send them to England, through my agents, who would do the best they could for you."
"For us, uncle. Of course, it is all in the partnership business. You have just got some contracts that will pay well and, while you have been doing that, I have been getting hold of these rubies."
"I don't think that that is fair, Stanley," his uncle said, gravely.
"It seems to me perfectly fair; and besides, the money put into the business will make a lot of difference, and will certainly pay me a great deal better than it would in any other way. I sent home 100 pounds for my mother, directly the money came from Calcutta; and told her that I hoped to be able to send home at least as much, every year."
"A good deal more, lad, if you like. I calculate these contracts that I have got will bring in a pound a head so that, by the time that the war is over, I hope to have cleared 8000 pounds, which will be about what you will make by your rubies; and when trade begins again, we shall be in a position to do it on a big scale. But I still think that it will not be fair to take that money."
"Well, uncle, if you won't take it, I certainly won't have anything to do with the money that you make, while I am away; so please don't let us say anything more about it. Shall I give you that eighteen hundred now; or will you have an order upon the paymaster, in Calcutta?"
"That would be the best way, if you will have it so, lad. I have left money with Johnson, at Ramgur, for the next herd that is to come down here; and have orders from my agent on their agents, at Dalla, for those that I am going to buy for the Manipur column. So I don't want the money now and, suppose the dhow were to be lost going up, the cash might go with it. So, do you get the order. You had better send it straight to Bothron; and tell him to collect it, and credit it to my account.
"How long do you think that this business is going to last?"
"It depends how far we have to go before the Burmese decide that they have had enough of it. At present, the general hope is that, as soon as we arrive at Prome, they will give in. If they don't we may have to go up to Ava and, in that case, we may not finish it until this time next year; for I suppose operations will have to come to a stop, when the wet season begins again, and we could hardly reach Ava before that."
"I expect, some day, we shall have to take the whole country, Stanley. You may frighten the court into submission, when you approach the capital; but I fancy they will never keep to the terms that we shall insist upon, and that there will have to be another expedition. That is generally our way--it was so at Mysore, it has been so in a dozen other places. When we have done all the work, and have got them at our mercy, we give them comparatively easy terms. As soon as they recover from the effects of their defeat, they set to work again to prepare for another tussle; and then we have all the expense and loss of life to incur, again, and then end by annexing their territory, which we might just as well have done in the first place. It may be all very well to be lenient, when one is dealing with a European enemy; but magnanimity does not pay when you have to do with Orientals, who don't care a rap for treaty engagements, and who always regard concessions as being simply a proof of weakness.
"There would not be half the difficulty in annexing Burma that there would be, in the case of a large province in India; for all the towns, and most even of their villages, lie on rivers, and a couple of dozen gunboats would suffice to keep the whole country in order. You will see that that is what we shall have to do, some day; but it will cost us two or three expeditions to do what might just as well be done, now."
"Well, uncle, it is nearly twelve o'clock and, as I shall be on duty at six, I think I had better be going. I wish that you could have stayed for another two or three days, and paid a visit to the pagoda and camps. I am very glad that I have had a sight of you again, though it's a very short one."
"I should be glad to stay another day or two, Stanley; but it is really of importance for me to get down to Ramgur, as soon as I can, and send Johnson off with the cattle; for I want to set about buying the herds for the other column, as quickly as possible. I think I have left myself a fair margin of time, but there is nothing like promptitude in delivery, and I want to get a good name, for future business; and if this affair here is going to last another twelve-month, regular supplies must be sent up for, as beef is forbidden by the Burmese religion, they keep no cattle except for draught purposes, and the army must get their bullocks by sea."
Five minutes later Stanley was rowed ashore. The next morning he accompanied the general, and went down to inspect the newly-arrived cattle.
"They are a capital lot," he said to Stanley, "decidedly the best that we have had, yet. You see, it is a good deal shorter voyage, from Ramgur, than from either Calcutta or Madras; and the animals probably had a much shorter land journey before they were shipped. Then, too, as your uncle came down himself they were, no doubt, much better looked after than usual on the voyage. However, I will take care to mention, when I write next to Calcutta, that the cattle are far above the average; and I shall be glad if they will arrange for such further supplies as we may require from the same source."
"Thank you, sir; that will be a great help to my uncle. Hitherto he has had very uphill work of it; though he was beginning to get on very well, when the war put a stop to trade. He knows the whole country so thoroughly that he can certainly buy up cattle at many places where no European trader, save himself, has ever penetrated."
"No doubt, Brooke; and I hope, for your sake, that he will succeed well in this contracting business. He has certainly made an excellent start and, as he is first in the field in the country between Assam and Ramgur, he ought to make a good thing of this opportunity that has fallen in his way. I know that it takes a long time to build up a business but, when the foundation is laid, and a man is quick in taking advantage of an opportunity, he can do as much in a year as he might do in twenty, without it.
"Now, I am going over to the lines of the 47th, to see how they have shaken down into them."
This regiment had brought out tents for, as every building was already occupied, it was necessary that they should be put under canvas. The general found that everything was arranged in order, and the encampment certainly presented a pleasing contrast to the irregular, and often crowded quarters of the troops who had passed the wet season there. The colonel and three of his officers dined with the general, that evening; the party being made up of the military staff, including the two aides-de-camp.
Two days later Stanley, with some of the other members of the staff, dined at the 47th mess. Stanley was introduced to several of the officers; and these were specially desirous of making his acquaintance, as they had learned that he had been a prisoner at Ava, and could therefore tell them much more than they had hitherto learned of the country into which they were about to advance.
Among them was a young lieutenant, also of the name of Brooke. Stanley had, three weeks before, attained the same rank. At the time that he was appointed to the 83rd, there were already several death vacancies in the regiment, and disease and fighting had carried off six more officers. The whole of the ensigns had consequently obtained their step. At dinner he found himself placed next to his namesake.
"It is curious, our having the same name," the other remarked, as he sat down. "It is not a very common one."
"No, I have not met anyone of the same name, before," Stanley said. "Indeed, until the affair at Ramoo I was nearly three years trading with an uncle of mine, up the rivers; and was not much in the way of falling in with white men. But, before that, I had been with my father in a good many stations in India; but I do not, as far as I can remember, recollect meeting anyone of the same name."
"Then your father was in the service, too?"
"Yes. He was a captain in the 15th Native Infantry."
"Indeed," the other said in surprise, "then we are connections. But I had no idea that Captain Brooke was ever married."
"He was married just after he came out to India," Stanley said; "so it is likely enough that you would never have heard of it. He died three years ago, and my mother and sisters are now in England. What is the connection between us? I have never heard my father speak much of his family."
"Your father was a cousin of mine--second cousin, I think. I fancy there was some row between your grandfather and the rest of the family. I don't know anything about the right or wrongs of it; for it was, of course, many years before we were born; and I never heard of your father's existence, until a fortnight before I left England. Then there were some inquiries made about the family, owing to various deaths that took place in it. Do you know that your father was related--distantly of course--to the Earl of Netherly?"
"I do remember his mentioning it, once. I know he said that it was a distant connection; and that he knew nothing, whatever, about the earl or his family."
"Well, curiously enough, it is not so distant, now," the other said. "I was a pretty distant connection of his. He was childless; and the family, generally, don't seem to have been prolific. A good many of them died; and the result was that, the year before I left England, an uncle of mine succeeded to the title. He has no son, and my father was his next brother. My father died, two years ago; and the result is that, to my astonishment, I found that I was next heir to the title. They wanted me to leave the army, when my regiment was ordered out to India; but of course I was not going to do that, for my aunt may die, and my uncle marry again and have children. Besides, I was not going to leave, anyhow, just as the regiment was ordered abroad, and might see service.
"However, there was a great hunting by the lawyers in the genealogical tree; and I know it was decided that, in case anything happened to me, your father would have been the next heir, had he been alive. I don't know whether any further inquiries were made, or whether they ever ascertained that he had married. I don't suppose there were for, of course, as long as I live the matter is of no importance.
"So that, as things stand now, if a Burmese bullet puts an end to my career, you are the next heir to the title."
"You surprise me, indeed," Stanley said. "From the way my father spoke of the matter, I am sure that he had not the slightest idea there was any likelihood, whatever, that he would have any chance of succeeding to the title."
"That I can well imagine, for it was not until a few years ago, when the deaths of several who stood between him and the succession occurred, that my uncle regarded his coming into it as a matter worth thinking about; and of course all our family stood between it and your father. However, as you see we have dwindled away and, if I do not get safely through this business, you are the next heir."
"It is curious news to hear, at a dinner in Burma," Stanley said, thoughtfully. "At any rate, I can assure you honestly that the news gives me no particular satisfaction. I suppose it would be a nice thing, to come in for a peerage; but my prospects out here are good. I have no intention of staying in the army, after the end of the war; and am really in partnership with my uncle, with whom I have been for the last three years in business, which is turning out very well. I like the life, and have every chance of making enough to retire on, with ample means. Certainly, I should not like to come into the title by the death of anyone that I knew."
"That is the fortune of war," the other said, smiling. "We get our steps by death vacancies. We are sorry for the deaths, but the steps are not unwelcome.
"By the way, my name is Harry. I know that yours is Stanley. I vote that we call each other by them. We are cousins, you know, and I suppose that as you are my heir, you must be my nearest male relation, at present; so I vote that we call each other by our Christian names, instead of Brookeing each other, always."
"I shall be very glad to do so," Stanley said, cordially. "I hope that we shall be close friends, as well as distant relations."
Then, as there was a momentary lull in the conversation, Harry raised his voice and said to the colonel: "A very curious thing has just happened, Colonel. Brooke and myself have just discovered that we are cousins and, what is still more curious, that if anything happens to me, he takes my place as next heir to my uncle, a fact of which he was entirely ignorant."
"That is certainly a very curious coincidence, Brooke; very singular. Then you have not met before?"
"I did not even know of his existence, Colonel; and had, indeed, no idea that Captain Brooke, his father, had been married. The cousinship is a distant one; but there is no question, whatever, as to his being next in succession to myself to the peerage."
The discovery excited general interest; and quite turned the conversation, for the time, from the subject of the war and of their approaching advance. After dinner was finished, many of the officers gathered round Stanley, asking him questions about the nature of the country, and his experiences as a captive in the hands of the Burmese. Presently Colonel Adair, who had also dined at the mess, joined the group.
"I suppose, Mr. Brooke," he said, "your newly-found cousin has told you about his adventure with the leopard?"
"No, Colonel, he has not said anything about a leopard."
"He is grievously afflicted with modesty," the colonel went on; "and so I will tell it for him, for I think you ought to know that he is not only able to speak half a dozen languages, but that he is capable of doing deeds of exceptional gallantry.
"You can go and chat with the colonel, Brooke. He is anxious to hear your report as to the country, and I will be your trumpeter here."
Stanley gladly moved away, and entered into conversation with the colonel of the 47th; while Colonel Adair related his adventures with the leopard to his cousin, and the officers standing round.
"By Jove, that was a plucky thing!" Harry Brooke said, admiringly.
"It was, indeed!" the colonel agreed, as similar exclamations went round the circle. "I don't think one man in a hundred would have attacked a leopard with no weapon but a knife, except to save the life of a comrade; even then, it would be a most desperate action. I have done a good deal of big-game shooting, in India; but I am certain that nothing but a strong affection, for a comrade in the grasp of a leopard, would induce me to risk almost certain death in the way your cousin did. We should never have heard of it, if we had not got the details from the man he saved, and who has since attached himself to him as a servant; and is the man who, as I daresay he did tell you, served as his companion and guide in making his way down here. At any rate you see, Brooke, your cousin is an uncommonly fine young fellow, and you have reason to be proud of the relationship."
"I feel so, Colonel; and it is really a pleasure to know that, if one does go down, a thoroughly good fellow will benefit by it, instead of some unknown person who might be a very objectionable representative of the family."
For the next three or four days, the bustle of preparations went on and, on the fifth, a detachment was sent up, with a sloop and gunboats, to attack an advanced position of the enemy on the Lyne river. Although the 3000 Burmese, who were posted in a strong stockade, were supported by thirty-six guns; the works were carried by storm, with little loss.
The two branches of the Pellang (or Rangoon) river, by which the force were to advance against Donabew were, on the following day, reconnoitred for some distance. A number of fire rafts were destroyed, but the Burmese were too disheartened to offer any resistance.
To the disappointment of the troops, the general was able to take with him only a limited force; for the difficulties of carriage were enormous and, as experience had shown that the country was likely to be deserted, and devastated, on their approach; it was, therefore, impossible for the bulk of the army to be taken on, by land. There were other points, however, where the troops left behind could be profitably employed. The capture of the important town of Bassein, on the main branch of the Irrawaddy, would open the river to the passage of our ships, and put an entire stop to the trade of Ava.
The force told off for the advance against Donabew was divided into two columns. The first, 2400 strong--consisting of the 38th, 41st, and 47th Regiments, three native battalions, the troop of bodyguard; a battery of Bengal horse artillery, and part of the rocket company--was to march by land.
The second column, which was to proceed by water, was 1169 strong; and it consisted of the 89th Regiment, the 10th Madras Europeans, and 250 of the 18th Native Infantry; a body of dismounted artillery, and the rest of the rocket company. This force was commanded by Brigadier General Cotton. It was to be carried in a flotilla of sixty-two boats, each armed with one or two guns; and the boats of all the ships of war at Rangoon, under the command of Captain Alexander, R. N. Major Sale was, at the same time, to advance against Bassein; with 600 men of the 13th Regiment, and the 12th Madras Native infantry, with some artillery. After occupying the town, he was to cross the country lying between the two main arms of the Irrawaddy, and to join the general's force near Donabew.
The rest of the force--nearly 4000 men, chiefly native regiments and Europeans who had not, as yet, recovered sufficient strength to take part in field operations--was to remain at Rangoon, under Brigadier General M'Creigh; who was to form a reserve column, in readiness to move as directed, as soon as sufficient transport was collected.
It was to the water force that the capture of Donabew was intrusted, as it lay upon the opposite bank of the Irrawaddy; while the general's force was directed against Tharawa, at the junction of the two main branches of the river. Here they were to be joined by General Cotton's force, after the capture of Donabew; then, unless the court of Ava sued for peace, a united advance was to be made on the important town of Prome.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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11
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: Donabew.
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Stanley Brooke did not accompany the land column, as the general said to him, two days before: "I have been speaking with General Cotton, and he said that he should be glad if I would attach you to his staff, until the force unites again. Not one of his staff officers speaks Burmese and, although he has two or three interpreters with him, it will be better, if Bandoola sends in an officer offering to surrender, that he should be met by a British officer.
"In the next place, it may be necessary for him to communicate with me and, assuredly, with your experience of the country, you would be able to get through better than anyone else. I do not apprehend that there would be any great danger, for we know that every available fighting man has been impressed, by Bandoola; and the passage of our column will completely cow the villagers lying between us and the river.
"I suppose," he said, with a smile, "that you have no objection, since it will save you a long and, I have no doubt, a very unpleasant march; and you will also obtain a view of the affairs at the stockades at Pellang and Donabew."
The land column started on the 13th of February, the water column on the 16th, and the detachment for Bassein sailed on the following day. Stanley was delighted at being appointed to accompany the boat column. The march through the country would present no novelty to him, and it was probable that the land column would encounter no serious resistance until, after being joined by General Cotton's force, it advanced against Prome. His horses went, with those of General Cotton and his staff, under charge of the syce and Meinik.
The one steamboat kept, at the start, in rear of the great flotilla of boats so that, in case of any of them striking on a sandbank, it could at once move to her assistance, and pull her off. The scene was a very bright one as, in all, upwards of a hundred craft, of various sizes, proceeded together. In front were half a dozen gunboats; next to these came the two sloops of war; followed by the rest of the boats, proceeding in irregular order. There was very little stream, for the rivers were now quite low and, although the flat country was still little more than a swamp, the rains in the hills that supplied the main body of water to them had long since ceased. The ships' boats were, of course, rowed by the blue-jackets. The other craft were, for the most part, manned by natives; though the soldiers on board occasionally lent a hand.
Two days after starting, the boats destroyed three newly-erected stockades, that were found unoccupied; and on the 19th reached Pellang, where three very strong stockades had been erected. A battery was thrown up next day from which, as well as from the steamboat and sloops of war, shells were thrown into the stockade; with such effect that two of the enemy's works were evacuated, as soon as the troops took the offensive, and the main Pellang stockade was also abandoned, without resistance. The two smaller works were destroyed, and a portion of the 18th Madras Infantry was left here, to maintain communication with Rangoon.
On the 27th the flotilla entered the main stream and, the next day, the advance came in sight of Donabew. It was another five days before the whole force was in position, for several of the most heavily laden craft stuck fast on the sandbanks at the fork of the river. The next day Donabew was summoned to surrender. Bandoola, who was at the head of 15,000 men, returned a refusal; which was given in courteous terms, differing very widely from the haughty and peremptory language in which all previous communications had been couched.
The next day a party of the 89th landed on the low-lying ground between the main stockade and the river and, in spite of the heavy fire, succeeded in ascertaining the strength and nature of the defences. The main work was in the form of a parallelogram, about a mile long, and stood on ground rising above the general level; and fifty pieces of cannon, of various sizes, were in position on the river face. Two outworks, constructed of square beams of timber, with an outer ditch and a thick abbatis, defended the southern face against an attack from an enemy landing below it.
It was necessary to leave a strong guard on board the flotilla, lest an attack should be made by war canoes and fire rafts. The general, therefore, had not more than 600 men available for the assault. As the enemy's guns completely commanded the river, it was necessary to land below it; and on the morning of the 7th the troops were disembarked, with two six-pounder guns and a rocket detachment. Forming in two columns, they advanced against the lower of the two covering stockades and, after an exchange of fire with the enemy, rushed forward and forced an entrance into it; although the enemy resisted with more resolution than they had, for some time, shown. 280 prisoners were taken, and the rest of the defenders fled to the second work.
Two more guns and four mortars were landed and placed in position and, after the stockades had been shelled for a short time, a storming party--under Captain Rose--advanced to the assault. So heavy a fire was opened upon them that the little column was brought to a standstill, and forced to fall back; with the loss of its commander, and of Captain Cannon of the 89th, while most of the seamen with the storming party were either killed or wounded.
This want of success, against a mere outwork, showed General Cotton that--with the small force at his disposal--it would be worse than useless to renew the attack for, were the outwork carried, the loss would be so great that it would be hopeless to think of attacking Bandoola's main position. He therefore determined to abstain from further attack, until reinforced.
"Now, Mr. Brooke," he said, as soon as the troops had been taken on board the boats again, "I must bring your services into requisition. This is just the contingency that we thought might possibly occur. I cannot advance up the river until Donabew is taken, and I cannot attack the place with the force at my command. Therefore I will at once write a despatch to General Campbell, for you to carry. You will be accompanied by the two men of the bodyguard, who have come with me as orderlies. I shall have no use for them, here; and three of you, together, need not fear any molestation from the few people remaining in their villages, and may be able to cut your way through any of the bands of deserters, or beaten troops, dispersed over the country."
"Very well, General. I shall also take my Burman, on my second charger. He may be useful in getting news as to roads from the natives; who will, as likely as not, fly into the jungle when they see us approaching. However, there is not much fear of our losing our way, as it will be along the river, as far as Tharawa."
A boat was at once sent off to the craft carrying the two orderlies and the horses of the staff. As soon as the despatch was written, Stanley, after shaking hands with his companions, was also rowed to the horse barge. This was, at a signal of the general, taken in tow by the steamer, and piloted to the opposite bank. A boat, sounding ahead, presently found a spot where there was enough water for the barge to get alongside the bank. The horses were led ashore; and Stanley, the two troopers, and Meinik mounted.
The Burmese are poor riders but, during the wet season, Stanley had often taken Meinik, on his spare horse, when riding about in the camp; partly because he could trust him to look after the horses carefully, and in the second place to accustom him to ride on horseback so as to act, if required, as an orderly. Meinik was quite of opinion that there would be no risk, whatever, in passing through villages; but thought it probable that they might fall in with disbanded troops, as it was known that the land column had, soon after starting, captured the fort of Mophi; and that its garrison, between two and three thousand strong, had taken to the jungle and dispersed.
"Still, master," he said, "I don't think it likely that they will attack us. They will be expecting no one, and we shall come upon them by surprise; then they will run into the bushes, thinking that you must have many more troops behind you. No, it is not likely that they will have many guns; they would throw them away when they fled, partly to run faster through the forest, partly because most of them will be making off to the villages, hoping to lie concealed until the war is over; while if they had guns in their hands, it would be known that they were deserters, and they might be seized and sent across the river to Bandoola, or up to Prome."
They rode some fifteen miles before dark, and then took up their quarters in a village. The few old men, women, and children inhabiting it fled, at their approach; but when Meinik went to the edge of the jungle, and shouted out loudly that they need not fear, for that no harm would be done to any of them, and good prices would be given for food, two or three returned and, finding the statements to be true, one of them went into the jungle again, and brought the others back. Fowls and eggs were brought into the hut that Stanley occupied, and a good supply of grain for the horses was also purchased. Thus, Stanley was able to avoid breaking into the small stock of provisions they had brought with them.
The inhabitants of this part of Burma were a tribe known as Carians. They were the tillers of the soil, and were an industrious and hardy race. The country was so rich that they not only raised sufficient for their own wants, but sent large supplies of grain and rice to Ava. They were very heavily taxed but, as a rule, were exempt from conscription. Nevertheless they had, on the present occasion, been forced to labour at the stockades, and in transporting food for the troops.
Their forest villages were small. They consisted of little huts, erected either in trees shorn of their branches, or upon very strong poles. These abodes were only accessible by rough ladders, formed by nailing pieces of wood across the trees or poles. This was absolutely necessary, on account of the number of tigers that infested the forest. The village where they had halted was, however, built upon the ground; but was surrounded by a strong stockade. The people assured Stanley that none of the fugitives from Mophi had come that way.
There had, they said, been many, after Bandoola's defeat; but they had seen none, of late. They declared that they had far greater fear of these than they had of the English; for that they plundered wherever they went and, if they could not obtain enough to satisfy their expectations, burnt the houses, and often killed many of the inhabitants. The villagers volunteered to keep watch all night, at the gate of the stockade; although they said that there was no fear of anyone approaching, as strangers could not find their way through the forest, in the dark and, even could they do so, the fear of tigers would prevent them from making the attempt. Stanley agreed to pay some of them to watch, but also stationed one of his own men as sentry, relieving him every three hours.
An hour after they reached the village, they saw one of the war boats rowing rapidly up the stream; and had no doubt that it was bearing a message from Bandoola, saying that he had repulsed the attack of the British. Beyond hearing the howling of tigers in the forest, Stanley passed the night undisturbed, except when he went to change the sentry. Meinik took his share of watching; and Stanley, himself, relieved him an hour before daybreak.
By the time the sun rose, the horses had been fed and breakfast taken. After riding some miles, the country became more open. Cultivated fields succeeded the dense forest. The ground was higher, and little groups of huts could be seen, wherever a small elevation rose above the general level. The change was very welcome, for they were able to travel faster, and there was less chance of their coming suddenly upon a party of the disbanded troops.
Presently, just as they reached a larger village than usual, by the river bank, a thick smoke arose from one of the houses, and they could hear female screams.
"Come on!" Stanley shouted, to the three men riding behind him. "See that your pistols are ready to hand, and draw your swords."
Illustration: Stanley cut down the man who was about to fire the hut.
This village was not, like the last, stockaded; being some miles away from the forest. As they dashed into it, they saw some twenty Burmese. Two women lay dead, in front of one house; and one of the men, with a torch, was about to fire another. Absorbed in their own doings, the Burmese did not notice the coming of the horsemen until the latter were close to them. Then, with a cry of consternation, they turned to fly; but it was too late. Stanley cut down the man who was about to fire the hut, and he and the others then fell upon the Burmans, with sword and pistol. Six of them were killed. The rest were pursued but, dashing down to the river, they plunged in, pistol shots being sent after them.
Stanley remained on the bank, until he saw that they had fairly started to cross the river, then he re-entered the village. Two or three frightened people came out from their hiding places, when Meinik shouted to them that all was safe.
"They have all gone," he said, "you need not fear being disturbed by them again. See, there are six guns lying in the road; and you will find plenty of ammunition on those fellows that have fallen. There are some spears and swords, too. Of course, you can do nothing if a number of these fellows come; but if there are only two or three, you and the women ought to be able to dispose of them. Now we must ride on."
On the third day they arrived at Tharawa, and found that Sir A. Campbell, who had been assured by the natives that Bandoola had retreated, had continued his march the day before. The place was so large that Stanley thought it unsafe for them to sleep there, and they rode on to a little village, two miles away. Here they were received with great deference, the passage of the troops the day before having profoundly impressed the villagers. After waiting three hours to rest the horses, they again mounted and, riding all night, arrived in the morning at Yuadit--a village twenty-six miles from Tharawa--and found the force on the point of starting.
"No bad news, I hope, Mr. Brooke?" the general said, as he rode up to him.
"I am sorry to say, sir, that my news is not good. Here is the brigadier's despatch."
"This is unfortunate, indeed," the general said, when he had run his eye over the document.
"Mr. Tollemache, please to ride along the line, and say that the column is not to get into motion until further orders."
Colonel Adair and the other officers of the staff had been on the point of mounting, when Stanley rode up. The general called two or three of the senior officers to him.
"Cotton can neither take Donabew, nor get past it," he said. "Here is his despatch. You see, he has lost several officers and a good many men; and that in the assault on an outlying work, only. I am afraid that there is nothing for us to do, but go back to his assistance."
"I am afraid not, sir," Colonel Adair said. "Our supplies are running short already and, you see, we decided upon filling up all the carts at Tharawa, where we made sure that we should be met by the boats. The country round here has been completely stripped, and it would be a very serious matter to endeavour to advance to Prome, without supplies. Moreover, we might expect a much more serious resistance than we have bargained for. The news that Bandoola has repulsed his assailants--and you may be sure that this has been exaggerated into a great victory--will restore the spirit of the Burmese. It is evident that we must turn back, and finish off with Bandoola before we advance further."
Orders were accordingly sent, to the officers commanding the various corps, that the column was to retrace its steps and, while they passed through the village, Stanley related, in much greater detail than had been given in the despatch, the events of the attack, and the nature of the defences at Donabew.
The troops marched along with a cheerful mien. It was, of course, an annoyance to have to plod back along the road they had before traversed but, upon the other hand, there was a general satisfaction that they were, after all, to take part in the capture of Bandoola's last stronghold.
Colonel Adair rode on with the little troop of cavalry. He was to push forward to Tharawa, and was to offer rewards to the natives there for every boat brought in. There was little doubt that many of the fishermen had hauled up their craft into clumps of bushes and brush wood, to prevent their being requisitioned by Bandoola and, although it was not likely that a large number would now be obtained, yet even if but a dozen were found, it would be of assistance.
The rest of the force reached Tharawa on the following evening, with the exception of a party left to protect the slow-moving waggons. They found that nine canoes had been obtained, and that a considerable portion of the scanty population had been, all day, employed in cutting bamboos and timber for rafts.
The next morning the troops were all engaged on the same work, and in the construction of rafts; and at nightfall three hundred men of the 49th were taken across the river to the town of Henzada, in case Bandoola, on hearing of the preparations for crossing, should send a force to oppose the passage. It took four days' continuous labour to get the little army across, as it was necessary to make large timber rafts to carry the carts, horses and bullocks, guns and stores.
Hearing that a force was posted, some fifteen miles away, to intercept the detachment that was marching from Bassein; Colonel Godwin, with a party, was sent off that night to endeavour to surprise it. The Burmese, however, took the alarm before they were attacked; and scattered in all directions, without firing a shot. The army marched along the right bank, and arrived before Donabew on the 25th of March. Communications were opened with General Cotton's force, below the town; and both divisions set to work to erect batteries.
The Burmese made several sorties to interrupt the work, and one of these was accompanied by Bandoola's seventeen elephants. The troop of cavalry, horse artillery, and the rocket company charged close up to the elephants; and opened fire upon the howdahs, filled with troops, that they carried. In a short time most of these and the drivers were killed; and the elephants--many of which also had received wounds--dashed off into the jungle, while the infantry fled back into the stockade, into which a discharge of shells and rockets was maintained, all day.
The next morning--the 1st of April--the mortar batteries were completed; and these, and others armed with light guns, kept up a continuous fire into the enemy's camp. At daybreak on the 2nd, the heavy guns of the breaching batteries also opened fire and, in a very short time, the enemy were seen pouring out in the rear of their works, and making their way into the jungle. As there had been no idea that they would so speedily evacuate the stockade, no preparations had been made for cutting them off; and the garrison, therefore, effected their escape with but little loss.
The troops at once occupied the work, and found large stores of grain and ammunition there, as well as a great number of guns. From some of the wounded Burmans, it was ascertained that the evacuation of the fort was due to the death of Bandoola; who had been killed, by the explosion of a shell, while watching the operations from a lookout that had been erected for him, at the top of a lofty tree. His death had caused the most profound depression among the garrison. Their leaders in vain endeavoured to reanimate their courage. The opening of the fire with the heavy guns completed their discomfiture, and they fled without thought of resistance. Indeed, the greater part had stolen away during the night.
A portion of the fleet had already passed up beyond the fort, under a heavy fire; and the rest now came up. The supplies of grain were renewed and, a guard being left to hold the works, which would now serve as a base, the army again started up the river--the water column proceeding to Tharawa, the land force marching back to Henzada, whence they were carried across the river in the boats. Here the force was joined by the reserve column from Rangoon, consisting of several companies of the Royals and the 28th Native Infantry, with a supply of elephants and carriage cattle which had arrived from Calcutta.
On the 14th, Yuadit was again reached. No opposition, whatever, was encountered; indeed, the whole country was deserted, the inhabitants having been ordered away by the Burmese authorities, as soon as the fall of Donabew was known. When within four days' march of Prome, two native officials came in, with a communication to the effect that the Burmese were ready to treat for peace. As it was known, however, that reinforcements were on their way down from Ava, it was evident that this was merely a pretext to gain time; and the general sent word that, when he arrived at Prome, he would be ready to open negotiations for peace.
The country through which the army was now passing was very beautiful. In the far distance on the left, the mountains of Aracan could be seen; while on the right the country was undulating, richly cultivated, and broken by clumps of timber, with a background of the range of hills running along near the Pegu river. On the 24th the heights of Prome, eight miles away, were visible; and the flotilla could be seen, lying at anchor a short distance below the town. Messengers came out that afternoon, to endeavour to induce the general not to enter it; but a reply was sent that this was out of the question, that no harm would befall the inhabitants, and that--as soon as he entered--the general would be ready to receive any persons qualified to treat for peace.
Some hours before daybreak the army marched forward and, by sunrise, were close to the town. The position was found to be extremely strong. Every hill commanding the place had been fortified, to the very summit. Strong stockades ran in every direction, and it was evident that a great number of men must have been engaged, for a long time, in attempting to render the place impregnable.
Not a soldier, however, was to be found. A native of the place presently met them, with the news that the governor and troops had evacuated it, with the exception of a small party who were firing the town. This story was corroborated by wreaths of smoke, rising at various points.
The troops pressed forward at the top of their speed. On entering the town, they found that the native population had all been forced to leave and, piling their arms, they set to work to extinguish the flames; which they did not, however, succeed in doing until nearly half the town was destroyed. Fortunately the fire was checked before it reached the great magazines of grain, and other stores, for the army.
The belief that the negotiations had been only pretexts to arrest the advance of the troops against the town, until the expected reinforcements arrived, was confirmed by the natives; who presently came in from hiding places where they had taken refuge, until their army retired. They said that, as soon as the news came of the fall of Donabew, fresh levies were ordered to be collected in every part of Upper Burma; while the whole population of the province had been employed in adding to the defences of the town, which had been already very strongly stockaded.
It was a disappointment to the force, which had hoped that the occupation of Prome would bring about the submission of the court of Ava; and enable them to be taken down the river in boats, and embark, before the rainy season again set in. Nevertheless, the prospect of passing that season at Prome was vastly more pleasant than if it had to be spent at Rangoon. They were now inland, beyond the point where the rains were continuous. The town was situated on high ground, and the country round was open and healthy. Although for some little distance round the cattle had been driven off, and the villages destroyed; it was certain that flying columns would be able to bring in any amount of cattle, before the wet season began.
For a short time, it was thought that the occupation of Prome would show the king and court that it was useless to continue the struggle, any longer; but these hopes were dissipated when it was known that a further levy of 30,000 men had been called out. The court, however, was apparently conscious that its commands would no longer be obeyed with the alacrity before manifested. The early levies had obeyed the call with cheerfulness; believing in their invincibility, and confident that they would return home laden with spoil after driving, without difficulty, the audacious strangers into the sea. Things, however, had not turned out so. The troops that had left Ava in high spirits had been routed, with very heavy losses. Their great general, Bandoola, had been killed; and fugitives from the army were scattered over the land, bearing with them reports of the extraordinary fighting powers of these white enemies, and of the hopelessness of attempting to resist them. The consequence was that in issuing the order for the new levy a bounty of twenty pounds, which to the Burmans was a very large sum, was offered to each man who obeyed the call.
The first step, on the part of the British general, was to send proclamations through the country; guaranteeing protection to all, and inviting the population to return to their towns and villages. The troops were employed in erecting, with the assistance of as much native labour as could be procured, comfortable huts outside the town; so that the natives, on returning should find their homes unoccupied and untouched. It was not long before this excellent policy had its due effect. As soon as those who first returned sent the news to their friends, the fugitives came out from their hiding places in the forests, in great numbers, and returned to the city. Those whose homes were still standing settled down in them and resumed their ordinary avocations, just as if their native rulers were still in authority; while those whose houses had been burned set to work, with a cheerfulness characteristic of their race, to re-erect their light wooden dwellings.
So favourable were the reports spread through the country of our conduct that, in a short time, the population of Prome was considerably larger than it had been before the advance of our army. Similar results were speedily manifest throughout the whole district below the town. From the great forest that covered more than half of it, the villagers poured out, driving before them herds of cattle and, in two or three months, the country that had appeared a desert became filled with an industrious population. Order was established. The local civil officers were again appointed to their former posts, but their powers of oppression and intimidation were abrogated, by the order that no punishment beyond a short term of imprisonment was to be inflicted on any person, whatever, until the case had been brought before the British authorities; and soon the only fear entertained by the people of the rich district of the lower Irrawaddy was that the British troops would march away, and leave them again to the oppression and tyranny of their former masters.
The markets of Prome were abundantly supplied with food of all sorts and, as everything was liberally paid for, any number of bullocks were obtainable for, although the Burmese are forbidden by their religion to kill cattle, and therefore keep them only for draught purposes, they had no objection to our killing them; or indeed, to eat the meat, when they could obtain it. Labour of all kinds was abundant, and great numbers of canoes were constructed for the purpose of bringing up supplies from the villages on the river, and for the advance of the force at the end of the wet season. Until this set in in earnest, small bodies of troops marched through the forests; driving out the bands that infested them, and plundered and killed the country people without mercy.
The general's aides-de-camp had a busy time of it, being constantly employed in carrying orders to the towns and villages, in hearing complaints and, in Stanley's case, entering into agreements for the purchase of cattle and grain. When in Prome, he spent a good deal of his spare time with his cousin who, having bought a horse, frequently obtained leave to accompany him on his excursions on duty. A warm friendship had sprung up between them. Harry was two years older than Stanley, and had been at Eton up to the time that he entered the army. He was, however, in manner no older than his cousin; whose work, for the three years previous to the outbreak of the war, had rendered him graver and more manly than a life spent among lads of his own age could have done.
Meinik always accompanied Stanley, wherever he went. He had now, to the latter's quiet amusement, modified his Burmese costume; making it look like that of some of the whites and, indeed, he would have passed without notice as one of the Goa-Portuguese mess waiters, in his suit of white nankeen. When riding, or on any service away from the headquarter camp, he was dressed in a suit of tough brown khaki which he had obtained from one of the traders at Rangoon. The coat differed but little from that of the suit Stanley had handed over to him; except that it was somewhat shorter and without the small shoulder cape and, in fact, resembled closely the modern regimental tunic. Below he wore knee breeches of the same material; with putties, or long bands of cloth, wound round and round the leg, and which possessed many advantages over gaiters. He still clung to the turban but, instead of being white, it was of the same colour as his clothes, and was much larger than the Burmese turban.
"Burmese are great fools," he often said to Stanley. "They think they know a great deal; they know nothing at all. They think they are great fighters; they are no good at fighting, for one Englishman beats ten of them. Their government is no good--it keeps everyone very poor and miserable. You come here; you know nothing of the country, and yet you make everyone comfortable. We ride through the villages; we see everyone rejoicing that they are governed by the English, and hoping that the English will never go away again.
"What do you think, sir--will you stay here always? You have had much trouble to take the country. A great many people have been ill; a great many died. Now you have got it, why should you go away again?"
"It is quite certain that we shall not give it all up, Meinik. It has been, as you say, a troublesome and very expensive business; and the farther the king obliges us to go up, before he makes peace, the more he will have to pay, either in money or territory. Of course, I cannot say what the terms of peace will be; but I should think that, very likely, we shall hold the country from the sea up to here, with Aracan and a strip along the sea coast of Tenasserim."
"That will be good," Meinik said. "I shall never go outside the English land, again. There will be plenty to do, and a great trade on the river; everyone will be happy and contented. I should be a fool to go back to Upper Burma; where they would chop off my head, if they knew that I had been down to Rangoon when the English were there."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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12
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: Harry Carried Off.
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Early in September, Stanley was sent to purchase cattle from some of the villages near the foot of the hills and, at the same time, to make inquiries as to the movements of a large band of marauders who had been making raids in that neighbourhood. He had with him four troopers of the bodyguard. Harry Brooke accompanied him. Although from the healthier situation of Prome, the amount of illness during the wet season did not approach that which had been suffered at Rangoon, a great many men were in hospital, and there were many deaths. Harry had had a sharp attack of fever and, as he had now recovered, to a certain extent, the medical officer of his regiment strongly recommended that he should have a change; and he therefore, without difficulty, obtained his colonel's leave to accompany Stanley, as the ground would be much higher than that on the river, and the mere fact of getting away from a camp where so many deaths took place every day would, in itself, be of great value.
Stanley's daily journeys were not likely to be long ones, as he had instructions to stop at all villages; and to see how things were going on, and whether the people had any complaints to make of oppression and exaction by their local authorities.
"It is a tremendous pull, your being able to speak the language, Stanley," Harry said. "If it hadn't been for that, you would have been stuck at Prome, like the rest of us. Instead of that, you are always about; and you look as fresh and healthy as if you were at a hill station, in India."
"Yes, it has been an immense advantage to me, in all ways. Of course, I should never have got my staff appointment if it had not been for that.
"By the way, I have not told you that, while you were down with the fever, the gazette containing the confirmation of my appointment by the general, and the notice of my commission, dated on the day of my appointment, came out. I had quite a lump sum to draw for although, I have been paid as interpreter all along, the paymaster made a difficulty about my pay as a subaltern, until I was gazetted regularly; so I have quite a large sum coming to me, on my pay and allowances. I don't know how you stand for cash but, if you are short at all, I can let you have anything that you want."
"I have got really more than I know what to do with, Stanley. I bought an uncommonly good native horse, as you know, six weeks ago; and I am going to ride him for the first time now but, really, that is almost the first penny that I have spent since we left Rangoon. There is nothing to buy here except food and, of course, that is a mess business. I had an idea that this was a rich country but, so far, one has seen nothing in the way of rich dress materials, or shawls, or carpets, or jewelry that one could send home as presents. Why, in India I was always being tempted; but here it is certainly the useful, rather than the ornamental, that meets the eye."
"I saw some nice things at Ava but, of course, all the upper classes bolted as we came up the country; and the traders in rich goods did the same. Are you going to take a servant with you, Harry? I don't think that there is any occasion to do so, for Meinik can look after us both, well enough."
"Yes, I am thinking of taking my native, the man I hired just after I got here. He is a very good fellow, and made himself very useful, while I was ill. I picked up a tat for him, yesterday, for a few rupees. I know that your man would do very well for us both but, sometimes, when you make a village your headquarters and ride to visit others from it, I may not feel well enough to go with you; and then he would come in very handy, for he has picked up a good many words of English. Your man is getting on very well, that way."
"Yes; he was some time before he began for, of course, he had no occasion for it; but now that he has taken to what he considers an English costume, and has made up his mind that he will never settle down again under a Burmese government, he has been trying hard to pick up the language. I found that it was rather a nuisance at first when, instead of telling him what was wanted in his own language, I had to tell him in English, and then translate it for him. However, he does understand a good deal now and, whenever he has nothing else to do, he is talking with the soldiers. Of course, from his riding about so much with me, he is pretty well known, now; and as he is a good-tempered, merry fellow, he makes himself at home with them and, if the campaign lasts another six months, I think he will speak very fair English."
"I fancy that you will have to make up your mind that he is a permanency, Stanley. I am sure he intends to follow you, wherever you go; whether it is to England, India, or anywhere else."
"I sha'n't be sorry for that, Harry; certainly not as long as I am out here. In the first place, he is really a very handy fellow, and ready to make himself useful, in any way; then there is no doubt that he is greatly attached to me, and would go through fire and water for me. A man of that sort is invaluable to anyone knocking about as I shall be, when the war is over and I take up trading again. His only fault is that he is really too anxious to do things for me. Of course, when I am on duty there is nothing much he can do; but if I am sitting in a room, he will squat for hours in the corner and watch me. If my cheroot gets low, there he is with a fresh one and a light, in a moment. If I drop my handkerchief, or a pen, there he is with it, before I have time to stoop. Sometimes I have really to invent errands to send him on, so as to give him something to do for me. I own that I have not contemplated what position he would occupy, if I go trading; but I quite recognize that he will go with me, and that he would become a portion of my establishment, even if that establishment consisted only of himself.
"Will you be ready to start at four in the morning? The sun is tremendously hot now, on the days between the rain; at any rate, it will be much better for you, till you get your strength, to travel in the cool of the morning, or in the evening."
"I shall be ready. I will be round here, with my servant, by that hour. By the way, what shall I bring with me?"
"Nothing at all. I shall take a couple of chickens, and some bread and coffee and sugar, and a bottle of brandy for emergencies; but we shall have no difficulty in getting food in the villages. The troopers will only carry their day's rations with them. After that I always act as mess caterer, and charge expenses when I get back here."
Accordingly, the next morning they started at four o'clock. Stanley insisted that Harry should ride his second horse, for the present; as his own, having been six weeks without exercise, and fed very much better than it had been accustomed to, was in much too high spirits to be pleasant for an invalid. Meinik, therefore, took Harry's; and the latter rode beside his cousin, whose horse had had abundant exercise, and was well content to canter quietly along by the side of his companion.
By the end of ten days, Harry had picked up some of his strength. They now reached a village which Stanley decided to use as his headquarters, for a few days, while he made excursions to other places within a day's ride. It was a good place for a halt; standing as it did at some height on the hills, where the air was much cooler at night than in the flat country. It was surrounded by a clearing of about a hundred acres in extent; planted with cacao trees, pepper, and many kinds of vegetables.
"This is delightful!" Harry said, as they sat in front of the hut that had been cleared for them, and looked over the plain. "It must be twenty degrees cooler, here, than it was at Prome. I think I shall do nothing tomorrow, Stanley, but just sit here and enjoy myself. I know it is very lazy, for I am feeling quite myself again; still, after ten days' riding, I do think that it will be pleasant to have a day's rest."
"Do, by all means," Stanley said. "I think you had better stay here for the three days that we shall remain. Your man is a very good cook, and there is no lack of food. Those chickens we had just now were excellent, and the people have promised to bring in some game, tomorrow. There are plenty of snakes, too; and you lose a good deal, I can assure you, by turning up your nose at them. They are just as good as eels, as Meinik cooks them--stewed with a blade of cinnamon, and some hot peppers. I cannot see that they can be a bit more objectionable to eat than eels; indeed, for anything one knows, the eel may have been feasting on a drowned man, the day before he was caught; while the snakes only take a meal once a week or so, and then only a small bird of some kind."
"I dare say that you are quite right, Stanley, and I own that the dishes your man turns out look tempting; but I cannot bring myself to try, at any rate as long as I can get anything else to eat. If I knew that it was a case of snake, or nothing, I would try it; but till then, I prefer sticking to birds and beasts."
The next morning Stanley rode off, with two of his escort and Meinik, who declined altogether to be left behind.
"No, master," he said, "there is never any saying when you may want me; and what should I ever say to myself if misfortune were to come to you, and I were not to be there?"
Stanley had a long day's work. As a rule, the villagers had few complaints to make but, at the place he went to on this occasion, the headman had been behaving as in the old times; and Stanley had to listen to a long series of complaints on behalf of the villagers. The case was fully proved, both as to extortion and ill treatment. Stanley at once deprived the man of his office, and called upon the villagers to assemble and elect another in his place.
"If you are not satisfied," he said to the fellow, "you can go to Prome, and appeal to the general there; but I warn you that, if you do, you must give notice to the villagers of your intention so that they may, if they choose, send two or three of their number to repeat the evidence that they have given me. I have noted this fully down, and I can tell you that the general, when he reads it, will be much more likely to order you a sound flogging, than to reinstate you in your office."
It was dusk when Stanley arrived within two miles of the village where he had left Harry. Meinik, who was riding just behind him, brought his horse up alongside.
"Do you see that, sir? There is a light in the sky. It is just over where the village is. I am afraid there is a fire there."
"You are right, Meinik. I hope nothing has gone wrong."
He touched his horse with his heel, and rode on at a gallop. He became more and more anxious, as he approached the village. No flames could be seen leaping up, but there was a dull glow in the sky. As he rode into the clearing, he reined up his horse in dismay. A number of glowing embers, alone, marked the place where the village had stood; and no figures were to be seen moving about.
"There has been foul play, Meinik.
"Get ready for action, men," he said to the two troopers, and they dashed forward at a gallop.
Two or three little groups of people were sitting, in an attitude of deep dejection, by the remains of their houses.
"What has happened?" Stanley shouted, as he rode up.
"The robbers have been here, and have slain many, and burned the village."
"Where is my friend?"
"They have carried him off, my lord; or at least, we cannot find his body. His servant and one of the soldiers are lying dead; but of the other soldier, and the officer, there are no signs."
"This is terrible!" Stanley exclaimed. "Tell me exactly how it happened."
"It was four hours ago, my lord. The robbers came suddenly out from the plantation, and fell upon the people. Many they killed at once; but many also have escaped as we did, by running in among the plantations, and so into the forest. We heard the firing of guns, for a little time; then everything was silent, and we knew that the robbers were searching the houses. Half an hour later, smoke rose in many places, and then flames; then after a time, all was quiet. A boy crept up among the bushes, and came back with the news that they had all gone.
"Then we came out again. Twenty-three of our people had been killed, and eight carried off; at least, we cannot find the bodies. The white officer and one of his soldiers have gone, also."
"Which way did they go?"
"The tracks show that they went up the hill. Most likely they will have gone to Toungoo, if they have gone to any town at all; but indeed, we think they have taken the prisoners to get a reward for them."
Stanley had thrown himself off his horse, as he rode up; and he stood for some time, silently leaning against it. Then he said to Meinik: "Picket the horses, and then come and have a talk with me."
Then he turned to the two troopers: "There is nothing to be done now," he said. "You had better look about, and see what you can find in the way of food; and then get a grave dug for your comrade, and another for Mr. Brooke's servant."
The two Mahommedan troopers saluted, and led their horses away. Meinik, after picketing the animals, returned to Stanley but, seeing that the latter was pacing up and down, and evidently not disposed to speak, he went away.
There were a good many fowls walking about, in a bewildered way, near the huts. They had been away, as usual, searching for food in the plantations and fields when the robber band arrived and, on their return home at dusk, had found everything changed. A boy at once caught and killed two of these, plucked them and brought them to Meinik who, getting some embers from the fires, cut the fowls in two and put them on to roast. A few minutes sufficed to cook them. As soon as they were ready, Meinik took them to Stanley.
"You must eat, master," he said. "You have had nothing since we started, this morning; and sorrow, alone, makes a poor supper. You will want to do something, I know; and will need all your strength."
"You are right, Meinik. Yes, give me one of them, and take the other one yourself and, while we eat, we can talk. Of course, I must make an effort to rescue my cousin from the hands of this band."
"Yes, master, I knew that you would do that."
"Did you ask how many there were of them, Meinik?"
"Some say forty, some say sixty."
"If we knew where they are now, and could come up to them, we might manage to get them off while the robbers were asleep."
Meinik shook his head.
"They are sure to keep a strict guard, over a white officer," he said; "but if we rushed in and shouted, and fired pistols, they might all run away."
"I am afraid not, Meinik. There might be a scare for a minute but, directly they saw that there were only two of us, they would turn and kill us. Your people are brave enough. They may feel that they cannot stand against our troops, owing to our discipline; but they fight bravely hand-to-hand. However, we don't know exactly which way they have gone; and it would be hopeless to search for them in the forest, during the darkness.
"What should they go to Toungoo for?"
"I have been thinking it over, master; and it seems to me that many of them may belong there, or to the villages near. They may not dare return to their homes, because they are afraid that they would be punished for having left the army, and would certainly be sent off again to it. Now they may think that, if they go back with a white officer and soldier, and tell some story of having beaten a great many English, they will be rewarded; and may even be able to remain some time in their homes, before they are sent off; or they may be ordered to march with their prisoners to Ava, where they would get still more reward. I can see no other reason for their carrying off the officer."
"I think very likely that is so, Meinik. Anyhow, we are more likely to rescue my cousin, at Toungoo, than we should be while on the road. It would be next to impossible to find them among all the hills and trees and, even if we did come upon them at night, and could creep into the midst of them, we might find that my cousin is too severely wounded to travel for, as there was a fight, it is almost certain he must have been wounded before he was captured. Therefore, I think it is best to make straight for Toungoo.
"How many miles is it from here, do you think?"
Meinik went over to the natives and asked the question. "About forty-five miles, they say; very bad travelling; all mountains, but ten miles to the north is a road that runs straight there."
"Then we had better follow that, Meinik. In this broken country, and forest, we should be losing our way continually."
"How will you go, master? On horse or foot?"
"We will go on horseback, as far as we can; we are not likely to meet people travelling along the road, at present. Another thing is that, if we can get the horses as near the town as possible, they would be very useful for, if Mr. Brooke has been wounded badly, he may not be able to walk far.
"You do not know whether the country near the town is open, or whether the forests approach it closely?"
The natives were again applied to.
"It is a rich country there, they say; and well cultivated, for five or six miles round the town."
"I will go and have a talk with them, presently. It will, of course, be necessary for me to disguise myself again."
Meinik nodded.
"Yes, you must do that, master."
"Do you think that we can get two or three men to go with us, from here?"
"If you will pay them, master, no doubt they will be ready to go. They are well content with the white rulers. They find that they are not oppressed, and everything is paid for; and that the white officers treat them kindly and well. They have lost many things, in this affair today, and would be glad to earn a little money.
"How many would you like to have?"
"Four or five, Meinik. I don't exactly know, at present, what there would be for them to do; but they could help to make fires, and keep watch, while we are doing something. At any rate, they may be useful.
"Of course, I shall get the trooper out, too, if I can. Very likely they will be confined together and, if we rescue one, we can of course rescue the other.
"Now I must do some writing. Get me a torch of some sort, and I will do it while you are speaking to the natives."
Stanley always carried a notebook and pen and ink, to take down statements and complaints, as he rode about. He now sat down and wrote an account of what had taken place during his absence.
"We had no previous news of the existence of the band," he went on, "and the natives, themselves, had certainly no fear of any attack being imminent. Had I thought that there was the slightest risk, I should not have made the village my headquarters; or have left Mr. Brooke there, with only his servant and two troopers. I regret the matter, most deeply; and am about to set off to Toungoo, with my man. I shall, of course, go in disguise; and shall make every endeavour to free my cousin.
"I trust, General, that you will grant me leave for this purpose. I am, of course, unable to say how long it may take me but, however long, I shall persevere until I learn that my cousin is dead, or until I am, myself, killed. I trust that in starting at once, on the assumption that you will grant me leave, I am not committing a breach of duty. But if so, and you feel that you cannot, under the circumstances in which you are placed, grant leave to an officer to be absent on private business, I inclose a formal resignation of my commission, stating why I feel myself constrained, even in the presence of the enemy, to endeavour to rescue my cousin from the band that has carried him off. At any rate, it could not be said that I resigned in order to shirk danger.
"I sent off two days ago, by one of the natives here, a report of my proceedings up to that date; and have now the honour to inclose the notes I took of my investigations, today, into the conduct of the headman of Pilboora, and my reasons for depriving him of his office. I shall leave the two troopers of my escort here, with orders to remain until either I return, or they receive instructions from Prome. I am taking a few of the villagers with me. Should anything occur to me, at Toungoo, they will bring back the news to the troopers; and I shall leave instructions with them to carry it, at once, to you. If I find that Mr. Brooke has been sent on to Ava I shall, of course, follow and endeavour to effect his rescue on the road.
"As it is possible, General, that I may not have another opportunity of thanking you for the many kindnesses that you have shown me, allow me to do so, most heartily, now."
When Stanley had concluded the letter, and written the paper offering his resignation, and giving his reasons for so doing, he called Meinik to him.
"Well, Meinik, have you found men willing to go with us?"
"Yes, master, I have got five men; two of them know Toungoo well. All are stout fellows. I offered them the terms that you mentioned--fifty ounces of silver, to each man, if you succeeded by their aid in rescuing the officer. They were delighted at the offer, which would enable them to replace everything that they have lost.
"I told them, of course, that if it were necessary to fight, they would have to do so; and that, as many of their countrymen were enlisted, as gun lascars and in other occupations, with the English; and are, of course, exposed to the attacks of their countrymen, they would only be doing what others have been willing to do.
"They said that they were ready enough to fight. You were the government, now; and you were a good government, and they would fight for you and, besides, as the officer was carried off from their village, it was their duty to help to get him back.
"One of them said, 'These men who attacked us are Burmese soldiers. As they attack us, there is no reason why we should not attack them.'
"So I think, master, that you can count upon them. The Burmese have always been fond of fighting, because fighting means booty. The troops don't want to fight any more, because they get no booty, and a number of them are killed. But, now that the villagers have been forced to go to the war against their will; and have been plundered, and many killed, by Burmese soldiers, they are quite ready to take sides with you. Three of them have had wives or children killed, today; and that makes them full of fight."
"Well, you had better tell them to cook, at once, food for two or three days. At four o'clock they are to start, through the forest, to the road you spoke of. We will set out at the same time, on horseback; but we shall have to make a detour, so they will be on the road before we are. Tell them when they get there to stop, until we come up."
"Yes, master. It is a good thing that I rode your second horse, yesterday, instead of Mr. Brooke's animal."
"Yes, he is worth a good deal more than the other, Meinik, and I should certainly have been sorry to lose him."
"One of the men who is going with us says that he knows of the ruins of an old temple, eight or nine miles this side of Toungoo; and that this would be a good place for us to leave our horses. It is very, very old; one of those built by the people who lived in the land before we came to it, and the Burmans do not like to go near it; so that there would be no fear of our being disturbed, there. Even these men do not much like going there; but I told them that no evil spirits would come, where white men were."
"It is rather far off, Meinik; but as you say the country is cultivated, for some distance round the town, we shall certainly have to leave our horses some six or seven miles away; and two or three miles will not make much difference. We can put on our disguises there.
"You had better take a couple of boys to look after the horses, while we are away."
"They would not sleep there, at night," Meinik said, doubtfully. "I don't think the men would, either, if you were not there."
"That would not matter, Meinik, if as you say, there is no fear of anyone else going there."
"Certainly, no one else will go there at night, master."
"At any rate, if you can get two boys to go, we may as well take them. They might go there in the day, and feed and water the horses; and sleep some distance away, at night."
Meinik found two boys, sixteen years old, who said that they would go with them and, at the hour agreed on, Stanley and Meinik started on horseback. They descended the hill to the plain at its foot and, turning to the right, rode for some ten or twelve miles; when they struck into the road and, following this at an easy pace they came, in the course of another hour, upon the party of villagers sitting by the roadside.
The sun was just rising, and they travelled for three hours without meeting anyone; then they drew off into the wood, at a point where a small stream crossed the road and, after eating a meal, and giving a good feed to the horses, lay down to sleep till the heat of the day abated--the natives, who were all armed with spears and swords, keeping watch by turns.
At four o'clock they started again and, at ten, approached the spot where, in the depth of the wood, lay the temple. The man who knew its position declared, however, that he could not find it, at night. Stanley had no doubt that he was really afraid to go there but, as he did not wish to press them against their will, he said carelessly that it made no difference if they halted there, or close by the road, and a fire being speedily lit, they bivouacked round it.
Meinik had procured the necessary dyes from a village, and Stanley was again stained, and covered with tattoo marks, as before.
"What am I to do about your hair, master?" he asked. "It will never do for you to go, like this."
Stanley had not thought of this point and, for a time, was completely at a loss. His own hair was now short, and could not possibly be turned up.
"The only thing that I can see," he said, after a long pause, "is for you and the men each to cut off a lock of hair from the top of your heads, where it will not show. The six locks would be ample; but I don't see how you are to fasten it, below the turban."
"There are berries we can get wax from," Meinik said. "We boil them in water, and the wax floats at the top. With that, master, we could fasten the hair in among yours, so that it would look all right."
The men had all laughed at the proposal, but willingly consented to part with a portion of their hair. Meinik therefore proceeded to stain Stanley's close crop black and, the first thing in the morning, the boys went out, soon returning with a quantity of berries. Some water was poured over them, in an earthenware pot, and placed over the fire and, in half an hour, a thick scum of oil gathered on the surface. Meinik skimmed it off, as fast as it formed and, as it cooled, it solidified into a tenacious mass, somewhat resembling cobblers' wax. The six locks of hair had already been cut off, and the ends were smeared with the wax, and worked in among Stanley's own hair; then a little of the hot wax was rubbed in, and the men all declared that no one would notice anything peculiar in his appearance. The long tresses were curled round, at the top of the head, and a ring of muslin tied round. The Burmans were immensely amused at the transformation that had been wrought in Stanley's appearance; and followed him through the wood, to the temple, without any signs of nervousness.
The ruins were extensive. A considerable portion of the building had been hewn out of the face of a precipitous rock, in the manner of some Hindoo temples; and it was evident that it had been the work of a people more closely allied to the Indian race than to the Tartar or Chinese people, from whom the Burmese sprung. Uncouth figures were sculptured on the walls. At these the Burmese looked with some awe but, as Stanley laughed and joked over them, they soon recovered their usual demeanour.
"I am a great deal more afraid of tigers than of ghosts," Stanley said; "a deserted place like this is just the sort of spot they would be likely to be in. At any rate, if these caves do not go any further into the hill--and there are no signs of their doing so--it may be hoped that the tigers have their superstitions about it, too. At any rate, it will be a good thing to pile a great quantity of firewood at the entrance; and I think one of you had better stay here, with the boys. They and the horses would be a great deal safer here, with a fire burning; than they would be in the woods, where a tiger might pounce upon them, at any moment. As to this folly about spirits, it is only old women's chatter."
The Burmese talked among themselves, and one of the men finally agreed to stay with the boys. An hour was spent in gathering a pile of brushwood and logs, and the man said that he and the two boys would gather plenty more, during the day. They were, at four o'clock, to take the horses down to the river, a mile distant, and let them drink their fill. They had brought with them a large bag of grain--which had been carried by the men--a quantity of plantains, and some fowls. Therefore, the party that were to remain would be well provided.
Moreover, in collecting the wood a score of snakes had been killed. Some of these and a chicken had been cooking while they were at work and, as soon as this was eaten, they started for the town. When they came within a mile of it, Stanley entered a plantation of fruit trees, and Meinik and the four men went on.
They returned, in two hours, with the news that a party of ten men had arrived in the town, on the previous day, with two prisoners. One, a coloured man, had been able to walk. The other, a white man, had been carried in on a litter. They had both been lodged in the jail.
By this time, the conduct of the English towards the natives, at Rangoon and the territory they occupied, had had one good effect. Signally as they had been defeated by them, the Burmese had lost their individual hatred of the strangers. They knew that their wounded and prisoners always received kind treatment at their hands and, although the court of Ava remained as arrogant and bigoted as ever, the people in lower Burma had learned to respect their invaders, and the few prisoners they had taken received much better treatment than those who had been captured at the commencement of the war.
As soon as it was dusk, Stanley went with Meinik into the town. It was a place of considerable size, with buildings at least equal to those at Prome. Toungoo had formed part of the kingdom of Pegu, before it had been subdued by the Burmese. The peculiar and characteristic facial outline of the latter was, here, much less strongly marked and, in many cases, entirely absent; so Stanley felt that, even in daylight, he would pass without attracting any attention.
The prison was surrounded by a strong and high bamboo fence, and in the space inclosed by this were eight or ten dwellings of the usual wooden construction. A dozen armed men were seated by a fire in the yard, and two sentries were carelessly leaning against the gate.
"There should be no difficulty in getting in there with two rope ladders--one to climb up with, and one to drop on the other side," Stanley said. "You may be sure that most of the guard go to sleep, at night. The first thing to ascertain is which house the prisoners are kept in and, in the second place, how my cousin is going on. We can do nothing until he is able to walk for a short distance.
"Let us move round to the other side of the inclosure. It may be that a sentry is posted at their door."
On getting to the other side, and looking through the crevices between the bamboos, they could make out two figures squatted by the door of one of the houses; and had no doubt that this was the one in which Harry Brooke was confined.
"Now, Meinik, the first thing is for you to go and buy a rope. When the place gets quite quiet, we will make a loop and throw it over the top of the palisade, behind that hut; then I will climb up and let myself down, inside, and then crawl up to the hut and see what is going on there. If my cousin is alone, I will endeavour to speak to him; but of course there may be a guard inside, as well as at the door. If he is very ill, there will probably be a light."
"Let me go, master!"
"No, Meinik, I would rather go myself. I shall be able to judge how he is, if I can catch a sight of him."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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13
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: Preparing A Rescue.
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Stanley remained where he was until Meinik returned, in half an hour, with the rope. Stanley made a loop at one end; and then knotted it, at distances of about a foot apart, to enable him to climb it more easily. Then they waited until the guard fire burnt down low, and most of the men went off into a hut a few yards distant, three only remaining talking before the fire. Then Stanley moved round to the other side of the palisade and, choosing a spot immediately behind the hut where the sentries were posted, threw up the rope. It needed many attempts before the loop caught at the top of one of the bamboos. As soon as it did so, he climbed up.
He found that the position was an exceedingly unpleasant one. The bamboos were all so cut that each of them terminated in three spikes, and so impossible was it to cross this that he had to slip down the rope again. On telling Meinik what was the matter, the latter at once took off his garment and folded it up into a roll, two feet long.
"If you lay that on the top, master, you will be able to cross."
This time Stanley had little difficulty. On reaching the top, he laid the roll on the bamboo spikes; and was able to raise himself on to it and sit there, while he pulled up the rope and dropped it on the inside. Descending, he at once began to crawl towards the hut. As he had seen before climbing, a light was burning within, and the window was at the back of the house. This was but some twenty yards from the palisade and, when he reached it, he stood up and cautiously looked in.
The Indian trooper was seated in a chair, asleep, without his tunic. One arm was bandaged, and a blood-stained cloth was wrapped round his head. On a bamboo pallet, with a dark rug thrown over it, was another figure. The lamp on the wall gave too feeble a light for Stanley to be able to make out whether the figure lying there was Harry, but he had no doubt that it was so.
In a low tone he said, in Hindustani, "Wake up, man!"
The soldier moved a little. Stanley repeated the words in a somewhat louder tone, and the trooper sprang to his feet, and looked round in a bewildered way.
"Come to the window," Stanley said. "It is I, your officer."
The man's glance turned to the window but, surprised at seeing a Burmese peasant--as he supposed--instead of the officer, he stood hesitating.
"Come on," Stanley said. "I am Lieutenant Brooke."
The soldier recognized the voice, drew himself up, made the military salute, and then stepped to the window.
"I have come," Stanley said, "to try and rescue Lieutenant Brooke, and yourself. I have some friends without. How is he?"
"He is very ill, sir. He is badly wounded, and is unconscious. Sometimes he lies for hours without moving; sometimes he talks to himself but, as I cannot understand the language, I know not what he says; but sometimes he certainly calls upon you. He uses your name often.
"I do what I can for him, but it is very little. I bathe his forehead with water, and pour it between his lips. Of course he can eat nothing, but I keep the water my rice is boiled in and, when it is cool, give it him to drink. There is some strength in it."
"Then nothing can be done, at present," Stanley said. "Tomorrow night I will bring some fruit. You can squeeze the juice of some limes into a little water, and give it to him. There is nothing better for fever. As soon as he is well enough for us to get him through the palisades, we will have a litter ready for him, and carry him off; but nothing can be done until then.
"How are you treated?"
"They give me plenty of rice, sahib, and I am at liberty to go out into the courtyard in the daytime and, now that I know that you are near, I shall have no fear. I have been expecting that they would send me to Ava where, no doubt, they would kill me; but I have thought most that, if they were to send me away from here, and there was no one to look after the sahib, he would surely die."
At this moment Stanley felt a hand roughly placed on his shoulder. Turning round, he struck out with all his strength, full in a man's face, and he fell like a log.
"If they ask you who was here," he said hastily to the trooper, "say that you know not who it was. A Burmese came and spoke to you, but of course you thought that he was one of the guard."
Then he ran to the rope, climbed up and, as he got over, pulled it up and threw it down to Meinik--as he thought that there might be some difficulty in shaking it off from the bamboo--then he dropped to the ground, bringing down the pad with him.
"Did you kill him, master?" Meinik asked, as they hurried away. "I was watching the window, and saw you talking to someone inside; then I saw a man suddenly come into the light and put his hand upon you, and saw you turn round, and he fell without a sound being heard."
"There is no fear of his being killed, Meinik. I simply hit him hard; and he went down, I have no doubt, stunned. It is unfortunate but, though they may set extra guards for a time, I think they will not believe the man's story; or at any rate, will suppose that it was only one of the guard who, not being able to sleep, wandered round there and looked into the hut from behind. The worst of it is that I am afraid that there is no chance of my being able to take my cousin some limes and other fruit, tomorrow night, as I said I would. He is very ill, and quite unconscious."
"That is very bad, master. I will try and take him in some fruit, tomorrow. If they won't let me in, I will watch outside the gates and, when one of the guard comes out, will take him aside; and I have no doubt that, for a small bribe, he will carry in the fruit and give it to the trooper. I wonder that they put them into that hut with the window at the back."
"I don't suppose they would have done so, if my cousin had not been so ill that it was evident that he could not, for some time, attempt to escape."
They joined the villagers outside the town and, telling them that there was nothing to do that night, returned to the temple. They found the man and the two boys, sitting by a great fire, but shivering with terror.
"What is the matter?" Stanley asked.
"The spirits have been making all sorts of noises outside, and there are other noises at the end of the cave, close to the horses."
Stanley took a brand and went over to them. They were both munching their grain quietly.
"Well, you see the horses are not frightened; so you may be sure that whatever were the noises you heard, there was nothing unnatural about them. What were they like?"
The question was not answered for, at that moment, a sound like a loud deep sigh was heard overhead. The natives started back; and even Stanley felt, for a moment, uncomfortable.
"It is only the wind," he said. "There must be some opening above there; and the wind makes a noise in it, just as it does in a chimney. We will see all about it, in the morning.
"Now, as to the noises outside."
"They were wailing cries," the man said.
"Pooh! They must have been tigers or leopards, or perhaps only wild cats. No doubt they smelt you and the horses, but were too much afraid of the fire to come any nearer. Why, you must have heard tigers often enough to know their cries."
"I thought myself that they were tigers," the man said, rather shamefacedly, "but the boys said they were certain that they were not; and I was not sure, myself, one way or the other."
Sitting down by the fire, Stanley told the men the exact position of the prisoners; and said that he feared it would be altogether impossible to get Harry out, for the present.
"I would give anything to have him here," he said; "but it would be impossible to get him over the palisade."
"We might cut through it, master," Meinik said. "With a sharp saw we could cut a hole big enough, in an hour, to carry his litter out. The only thing is, we could not get his bed through that window."
"We might get over that, by making a narrow litter," Stanley said, "and lifting him from the bed on to it. The difficulty would be, what to do with him when we got him out? As to carrying him any distance, in his present state it would be out of the question; besides, the guard are sure to be vigilant, for some considerable time. I think that the best plan would be for you all to go back to your village, tomorrow, taking the horses with you; and for one of you to come over, every other day, for orders. Then there would be no occasion for anyone to watch the horses. They certainly will be of no use to us, at present, for it will be weeks before my cousin is strong enough to ride.
"Meinik and I will take up our abode close to the edge of the forest, for that will save us some four or five miles' walk, each day. The first thing in the morning, you shall go with me and choose a spot; so that you may both know where to find us. Two of you have got axes, and we will make a shelter in a tree; so as to be able to sleep without fear of tigers when we go out there, though I dare say that we shall generally sleep near the town. However, one or other of us will always be at the spot, at midday, on the days when you are to meet us.
"Now that I think of it, two of you may as well stay at the shelter, for the present, while the other three and the two boys go home. Then there will be no occasion to take the long journey so often. When we do get my cousin out, we shall have to take up our abode, for a time, either here or in the forest, until he is well enough to bear the journey."
In the morning Stanley closely examined the roof of the cave, but could see no opening to account for the noise that he had heard. He had, however, no doubt that one existed somewhere. He left a man with the two boys in charge of the horses, and went with the others until they approached the edge of the forest. They kept along within the trees for half a mile, so that any fire they might light would be unseen by people travelling along the road. The men considered this precaution needless, as they declared that no one would venture to pass along it after nightfall; partly owing to the fear of tigers, and partly to the vicinity of the temple.
A suitable tree was soon fixed on; and the Burmese, now in their element, ascended it by driving in pegs at distances of two feet apart. Once among the high branches, they lopped off all small boughs that would be in the way and then, descending, cut a number of poles, and many lengths of tough creeper and, with these, they constructed a platform among the higher branches; and on it erected a sort of arbour, amply sufficient to hold four or five people, lying down. This arbour would hardly be noticed, even by persons searching; as it was, to a great extent, hidden by the foliage beneath it. Stanley told Meinik that they had better buy some rope for a ladder, and take out the pegs; as these might catch the eye of a passer-by, and cause him to make a close search above.
As soon as the work was finished, two of the men went back to the temple, to start at once for home with their companion, the boys, and the horses. Stanley had brought with him his pistols, the two horse blankets, and other things that might be useful and, when these were stored above he, with Meinik and the two men, went towards the town. He stopped, as before, a short distance outside. Just as it was dusk, the men returned carrying the rope that Meinik had bought, and a store of food. With these they were sent to the shelter, and Stanley entered the town, where he met Meinik.
"I have sent in the fruit," the latter said. "I had no difficulty about it. I told the first soldier who came out, after I had bought it, that I came from the village where the white officer had been captured by the bandits. He had been very kind to us all and, as we knew that he had been carried off badly wounded, I had come over to get some fruit for him; but I found that they would not let me in at the gate. I said I would give an ounce of silver to him, if he would hand the things to the prisoner for me.
"He said, at once, that he would do so. He had heard that the whites always treated their wounded prisoners very well; and that there would be no difficulty about it, for that there was a window at the back of the hut where he was lying, and he could easily pass things in there without anyone noticing it. If the prisoner was, as I said, a good man, it was only right that he should be helped.
"I told him that I should look out for him, and might want him to do the same, another day. I think that he was an honest fellow, and might have passed the fruit in, even without a reward. Still, everyone is glad to earn a little money.
"He told me that a strange thing had happened, last night. One of his comrades had declared that he had found a giant, standing at the window where the prisoner was. He put his hand upon him, when he was struck down by lightning. No one would have believed his tale at all, if it had not been that his nose was broken. The other prisoner had been questioned but, as he did not understand Burmese, they could learn nothing from him. Two guards were, in future, to be placed at the back of the house, as well as in the front."
"That part of the business is bad, Meinik."
"I dare say we shall be able to bribe them, master. You may be sure that most of them are eager to get back to their own villages and, for a few ounces of silver, they would be glad enough to help us, and then to make their escape and go off to their homes. The man I saw today might find one among them ready to do so, with him; especially if their homes happened to be on the other side of the hills, and there would then be no chance of their being seized, and sent back again, by their headman. The sentry would only have to let us know what night he would arrange for them both to be on guard, together, behind the hut; then we should be able to manage it well."
"It would be a capital plan that, Meinik, if it could be arranged.
"Well, it is a great comfort to know that the fruit has got in safely. The limes, especially, will be a great help to my cousin. Next time you see the man, you must try and get him to find out how he is going on."
For a fortnight, Stanley remained in the forest. Meinik met the soldier every other day, and sent in fruit and, at the end of the ten days, he heard that the prisoner had recovered his senses. It was said that, as soon as he was well enough to move, he was to be sent to Ava.
"Now you had better begin to sound the man, as to his willingness to aid him to escape."
"I have very little doubt about it, master, for I have already learned that his home is on the other side of the hills. He went down with Bandoola; and returned after his defeat, with a number of others, travelling up the bank of the Pegu river. If they had not had their military chief with them, they would have started straight for home. But they were marched here, and have been kept on duty in the town, ever since. He has heard how well off the people are on the other side of the hills, under English rule; so I feel sure that he will be glad to escape, if he sees a chance of getting off."
"That is good. In the first place, let him know that the other English officer, who was at the village with the one they captured, had said that he would be ready to pay well anyone who would aid in his escape. If he says that he would willingly do so, if he also could get away, tell him that one man would be of no use but that, if he could get another to join him, so that they could both go on guard together behind the house, it could be managed.
"But say that, in the first place, I must myself speak to the white officer, and learn exactly how he is, and whether he can endure a journey as far as this tree, or the temple--whichever we may decide upon as best. When I have seen him, I will send for the other men from the village. I am in no hurry to get him away, for the longer he stays quiet, the better. But at any moment the governor may decide that he is sufficiently recovered to be carried, and may send him off to Ava, under a strong escort. Therefore, although we will put off moving him as long as possible, we must not run the risk of his being sent away."
Four days later, Meinik said that the man had arranged with another to join him, and that both would be on duty behind the hut, that evening, between nine and midnight. Accordingly, at ten o'clock Stanley arrived, with Meinik and the two villagers, at the palisade. Meinik had insisted upon accompanying him to the hut.
"I believe that the man is to be trusted, master; indeed I am sure he is, but I do not know the second man. He may have pretended to accept the offer, only on purpose to betray his comrade, and to obtain honour and reward for preventing the escape of the white man. Therefore, I must be with you, in case you are attacked. Our other two men may be useful, to give the alarm, if a party is sent round to cut us off."
Stanley, who had brought a horse blanket with him to lay on the top of the palisade, was the first to drop into the inclosure. Meinik followed him closely. Nothing had been said to the guard as to the white officer, of whom Meinik had spoken, being himself of the party; and Stanley had purposely left his pistols behind him, lest he should be tempted to use them. In case he was attacked, he carried a spear and a long Burmese knife.
Meinik had begged to be allowed to go forward first, while Stanley remained by the rope. He pointed out that some change might possibly have been made, and that other men might have been placed on sentry.
"I know you, master," he said; "if you got there, and found two strangers, and they attacked you, you would fight; then they would give the alarm, and others would come up before you could cross the palisade. I shall steal up. When I am close, I shall make a noise like the hiss of a snake. If my men are both there, they will repeat the sound. If they are not, and one comes forward to look for and kill the snake, I shall slay him before he has time to utter a sound. If the other runs forward at the sound of his fall, I shall kill him, also.
"If no alarm is given, you can come forward and speak to your cousin. If there is an alarm, you must climb the rope. They will not know which way I have run, and I shall have plenty of time to get over the palisade and pull up the rope; then they will think that the guards have been killed by some of their comrades."
"I hope no such misfortune will happen," Stanley said, gravely, "for there would then be no chance, whatever, of our getting him away. He would probably be moved to some other place, and our one hope would be that we might rescue him on the road; which would be a difficult matter, indeed, if he were sent, as he certainly would be, under a strong escort. However, your plan is no doubt the best for, if I were killed or captured, there would be an end of any chance of his being rescued."
Meinik crawled forward and, in a minute or two, Stanley heard a low hissing sound, followed by two others. He walked forward a step or two to meet Meinik, as he came back.
"It is all right, master; you can go on fearlessly."
Meinik returned with him to the window, and posted himself outside, standing in the shadow; while Stanley stepped in through the open casement which, indeed, was provided only with a shutter outside. This would ordinarily have been closed but, owing to the illness of the prisoner, and the strong desire of the governor that he should live to be sent to Ava, it had been opened to allow a free passage of air.
The trooper sprung from his couch, as Stanley made a slight sound before attempting to enter; but Stanley said, in Hindustani: "Silence! It is I, Mr. Brooke."
The trooper stared doubtfully at the dark, tattooed, half-naked figure.
"It is I, Runkoor, but I am disguised. I was like this when I spoke to you through the window a fortnight since, but you could not then see my figure.
"Are you awake, Harry?" he asked in English, as he approached the pallet.
"Yes, I am awake; at least I think so. Is it really you, Stanley?"
"It is I, sure enough, man," Stanley replied, as he pressed the thin hands of the invalid. "Did not Runkoor tell you that I had been here before?"
But Harry had broken down, altogether. The surprise and delight was too much for him, in his weak state.
"Of course," Stanley went on quietly, "I knew that he could not speak English, but I thought that he might make signs."
"He did make a sign. Each time he gave me fruit, he said 'Sahib Brooke,' pointed outside, and waved his arms about; but I could not make head or tail of what he meant. Why he should keep on repeating my name, each time he gave me the fruit, was a complete puzzle for me. As to the signs that he made, it seemed to me that he had gone off his head. I have been too weak to think it over, so I gave up worrying about it; and it never once struck me that it was you who sent me the fruit.
"What an awful figure you are!"
"Never mind about that, Harry. I have come in to see how strong you are. I have bribed the two guards stationed behind."
"I can just sit up in bed to take my food, Stanley, that is all. I could not walk a step to save my life."
"I did not expect you to walk. What I want to know is whether you are strong enough to be carried a few miles, on a litter. I have five men from the village where we were, and they can cut through the palisading behind the hut. I want to give you as long a time as possible; but I am afraid that, any day, the governor may have you taken out and sent in a litter to Ava, under a strong escort."
"I could bear being carried out, no doubt; but if I could not, I should think it would do me no harm, so long as my wounds do not break out afresh. I suppose the worst that could happen to me would be that I should faint, before I got to the end of the journey.
"Are you sure, old man, that this is not a dream?"
"Quite certain; if you were well enough, I would give you a sharp pinch. If you are willing to venture, I will make my preparations at once. I have to send to the village; but in three days I shall be ready and, the first night after that the men manage to be on guard together behind, we shall be here. It may be a week, it may be more but, at any rate, don't worry about it if they take you away suddenly. I shall try to get you out of their hands, somehow."
"My dear Stanley," Harry said, with a feeble laugh, "do you know that you are spoiling your chance of an earldom?"
"You may take it that if you don't succeed to the title, old fellow, I sha'n't; for if you go under, I shall, too.
"Now goodbye; it would be fatal were I to be caught here. Try to get yourself as strong as you can, but don't let them notice that you are doing so."
Without giving Harry time to reply, Stanley pressed his hand and left his bedside. He paused for a minute, to inform the trooper of the plans for the escape, and then he got through the window. Meinik joined him at once and, without a word being spoken, they crossed the palisade, threw down the rope and blankets, and dropped after them to the ground.
On their way back to their tree, Stanley told the two men that the officer was better; and that the next morning, at daybreak, one of them must start for the village to fetch their three comrades. The boys were also to come back with him, as they were big fellows and carried spears; and might, as Stanley thought, be useful either in a fight or in assisting to carry Harry.
On the following morning, after the man had started, Stanley went with Meinik to examine the temple more closely than he had done before. He thought that it would be a far better hiding place than their hut in the tree. There would certainly be a hot pursuit, and the next day they might be discovered, whether in the temple or in the tree; but in the latter they would be powerless to defend themselves, for the Burmese, with their axes, would be able to fell it in a few minutes; whereas in the temple a stout defence might be made for a time. Moreover, the rock chambers would be far cooler, in the middle of the day, than the hut.
His chief object in visiting the temple was to find a chamber with a narrow entrance, that could be held by half a dozen men against a number of foes; and it was desirable, if possible, to find one so situated that they might, in case of necessity, retreat into another chamber, or into the open air. Meinik was so confident, in the white man's power to combat even evil spirits, that he approached the temple with Stanley without betraying any nervousness. They had provided themselves with some torches of resinous wood, and Meinik carried a couple of brands from their fire.
The chamber they had before been in was apparently the largest in the temple, but there were several other openings in the rock.
"That is the entrance we will try first," Stanley said, pointing to one some ten feet from the ground. "You see there were once some steps leading up to it. No doubt, where we are standing there was a temple built against the face of that rock; and probably that doorway led into one of the priests' chambers."
It was necessary to pile three or four blocks of stone on the top of the two steps that alone remained intact, in order to enable them to reach the entrance.
"Let me light the torches before you go in," Meinik said. "There may be snakes."
"That is hardly likely, Meinik. You see, the face of the rock has been chiselled flat, and I don't think any snake could climb up to that entrance."
"Perhaps not, master, but it is best to be ready for them."
They lighted two torches, and passed through the doorway. There was an angry hiss, some distance away.
"That is a snake, sure enough, Meinik. I wonder how it got here."
Holding their torches above their heads, they saw that the chamber was some fourteen feet wide and twenty long. In the corner to the left something was lying and, above it, a dark object was moving backwards and forwards.
"It is a big boa," Meinik said. "Now, master, do you take the two torches in one hand, and have your knife ready in the other. If it coils round you, cut through it at once. This is a good place for fighting it, for there is nothing here for it to get its tail round; and a boa cannot squeeze very hard, unless he does that."
Stanley, feeling that in a combat of this sort the Burman would be perfectly at home, while he himself knew nothing about it, did as he was told; determining to rush in, should it attack his follower.
"You can advance straight towards him, master. I will steal round. He will be watching you, and I may get a cut at him, before he notices me."
Illustration: The great snake moved his head higher and higher, hissing angrily.
Stanley moved slowly forward. As he did so, the great snake moved its head higher and higher, hissing angrily, with its eyes fixed on the torches. Stanley did not take his gaze from it; but advanced, grasping his knife. He knew that the boa's bite was harmless, and that it was only its embrace that was to be feared.
He was within some eight feet of the reptile, when there was a spring. The snake's head disappeared and, in a moment, it was writhing, twisting, and lashing its tail so quickly that his eyes could hardly follow its contortions.
"Stand back, master," Meinik shouted. "If its tail strikes you, it might do you an injury. It is harmless, otherwise. I have cut its head off."
Stanley stepped back a pace or two, and stood gazing in awe at the tremendous writhing of the headless snake.
"It is a monster, Meinik," he said.
"It is a big snake, master. Indeed, I should say that it must be about forty feet long, and it is as thick as my body. It would be more than a match for a tiger."
"Well, I hope there are not many more of them about, Meinik."
"That depends, master. It may have its mate, but it is more likely there will be no other. It would eat any smaller ones of its own kind, of course; but there may be some small poisonous ones about."
As the writhing of the snake ceased, Stanley looked round and saw a narrow doorway, in the corner opposite that in which it had been lying.
"Here is a passage, Meinik. Let us see where it goes to."
Meinik had, by this time, lighted two more torches.
"The more light the better," he said, "when you are looking for snakes," and, holding them in one hand and his knife in the other, he passed through the doorway, which was about four feet high.
Stanley followed him. The apartment was similar to the last, but narrower; and was lighted by an opening not more than a foot square.
"See, Meinik, there is a staircase, in the corner facing us."
The steps were very narrow, but in perfect preservation. Without staying to examine the room, Meinik led the way up; examining every step carefully, and holding the knife in readiness to strike. They mounted some forty steps, and then entered a room about ten feet square. Except a window, some eighteen inches by three feet, there was no apparent exit from the chamber.
"I should think that there must be some way out of this place, Meinik. Why should they have taken the trouble to cut that long flight of steps through the rock, just to reach this miserable little chamber?"
Meinik shook his head. The ways of these ancient builders were beyond him.
"There must be an outlet somewhere, if we could but find it. Besides, we have not found where the snake came in, yet."
"He could have come in at the door, master. A small snake could not have climbed up, but that big fellow could rear his head up and come in, quite easily. We have found no little snakes at all."
"Well, that may be so, but I still think that there must be some way out from here. Why should men go to the labour of cutting this long stair, and excavating this chamber here, without any reason whatever? Let us look through the window, Meinik."
It was a passage, rather than a window; for the rock face had been left four feet in thickness. Crawling out, Stanley saw that he was fifty feet above the foot of the cliff. A yard below him was a ledge of rock, some two feet wide. It was level, and had deep grooves cut, at regular intervals, across it. He had no doubt that the roof of the outside temple had started from this point; and that the grooves were made for the ends of massive rafters, of teak or stone. At that time the passage to the chamber that he had left was, doubtless, used for an exit on to the flat roof.
Stepping on to the ledge, he called Meinik to him.
"Now, Meinik," he said, "we will follow this ledge. There may be some way up from it."
Walking with a good deal of care, Stanley made his way along to a point where the ledge stopped, abruptly. Looking down, he saw the remains of a wall of solid masonry, and perceived that he had been correct in his surmise as to the purpose of the ledge. Then they turned, and went back to the other end of the ledge. A few feet before they reached this, Meinik--who was now leading the way--stopped.
"Here is a passage, master."
The entrance was about the same size as that through which they had stepped out on to the ledge but, instead of going straight in, it started upwards.
"Another flight of steps, Meinik. I am beginning to hope that we shall find some way out, at the top. If we can do so, it will make us safe. We could defend those stairs and the entrance for a long time and, when we wanted to get away, we could make quietly off, without anyone knowing that we had left."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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14
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: In The Temple.
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They went up the flight of steps for a considerable distance, then they found the passage blocked by a number of great stones. Stanley uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"It has fallen in," he said. "No doubt we are near the top of the rock. Either the staircase was roofed in, or there was a building erected over the entrance; and either the roof or building, whichever it was, has fallen in. That is very unlucky. When we go down, we will climb up the hill and see if we can discover anything about it.
"With plenty of food and water," he went on, as they descended into the lowest chamber, "one could hold this place for any time."
"Yes, master, one could store away the food; but where should we store the water? We might bring skins in that would last us for a week, perhaps two weeks, but after that?"
"After that we should make our way off, somehow, Meinik," Stanley said, confidently. "Well, there is no doubt that this is the place to shelter in. They are less likely to find us here than anywhere and, if they do find us, we can defend ourselves stoutly. I should say, too, that if we think it over, we ought to be able to hit upon some plan for making noises that would frighten them. You know how scared the man and the two boys were, at that sighing sound in the other chamber. We certainly could make more alarming noises than that."
Meinik nodded.
"That we could, master. With some reeds of different sizes I could make noises, some as deep as the roar of a tiger, and others like the singing of a bird."
"Then we will certainly bring some reeds in here with us, Meinik. I don't suppose they will mind, in the daytime, what sounds they hear; but at night I don't think even their officers would care to move about here, if we can but make a few noises they do not understand.
"Well, for the present we have done our work here; and you had best go off with the Burman to buy food, to serve in case of a siege. You had better go to some of the cultivators' houses, near the edge of the wood, for rice and fruit. If you can get the food there, you will be able to make two or three journeys a day, instead of one.
"But, before we start back, we will climb round to the top of the hill, and see what has happened to shut up the staircase."
It took them a quarter of an hour's climbing, through the forest and undergrowth, before they reached the upper edge of the rock wall in which the chambers had been excavated. It had evidently, in the first place, been a natural cliff for, when on the ledge, Stanley had noticed that while below that point the rock was as smooth as a built wall, above it was rough, and evidently untouched by the hand of man. Following the edge of the cliff, until standing as nearly as they could guess above the entrance to the steps, they walked back among the trees. At a distance of some thirty yards, they came upon a ruin. It was built of massive stones, like those which strewed the ground where the temple had stood. A great tree rose on one side, and it was evident that its growth had, in the first place, overthrown the wall at this point. Climbers and shrubs had thrust their roots in between the blocks that had been but slightly moved, by the growth of the tree; and had, in time, forced them asunder; and so, gradually, the whole building had collapsed.
"This tree must be a very old one," Stanley said, looking up at it, "for it is evident that this wall was thrown down a great many years ago."
"Very old, master. It is one of our hardest woods, and such trees live, they say, five or six hundred years. There are some which are known to be even older than that."
"Well, it is clear that the staircase came up here; but we have no means of knowing how far the point we reached is below this. I should say that the stones we saw are the remains of the pavement and roof, for you see these great blocks that formed the walls don't go as far as the middle, where there is a great depression. Still, of course, the steps may have come up on one side or the other, and not just in the middle of this little temple--for, no doubt, it was a temple.
"Now, you see, the reason for the steps up to that little square room are explained. Probably those three chambers were the apartments of the principal priests, and from them they could either go out on to the roof of the temple; or could, by taking the upper staircase to this point, leave or enter without observation.
"Now, let us be off."
On arriving at their tree shelter, they found that the Burman had got a meal ready and, after partaking of this, Meinik, with the man, started to buy provisions. It was fortunate that Stanley had, before starting from Prome, drawn some twenty pounds' worth of silver from the paymaster. He had expected to be away for three or four weeks and, during that time, would have had to buy provisions for himself, Harry, and the four troopers; and might possibly have occasion for money for other matters. He had not paid the men from the village, for he knew that one of these would willingly accompany him to Prome, to receive payment for them all.
A very small amount of silver sufficed for the purchase of a considerable quantity of food in Burma. Fruit, of which many kinds grew wild in the woods, was extremely cheap; as was rice and grain. Therefore as yet, with the exception of the small sum expended in Toungoo, his money was virtually untouched.
The two Burmans made three journeys before nightfall and returned, each time, with large baskets of fruit, grain, and rice. On the following morning, they went into the town and bought six of the largest sized water skins--such as are carried for the use of the troops in India, one on each side of a bullock. As soon as they returned with these, they started for the temple. At a stream about a hundred yards from the entrance they partially filled one of the skins and, placing a strong bamboo through the straps sewn on it for the purpose, Meinik and the Burmans carried it to the temple and, with Stanley's assistance, lifted it into the lower chamber. The others were, one by one, placed beside it; then water was carried in the smaller skins and poured in, until they were all as full as they could hold.
"There is water enough to last us for a month, if needs be," Stanley said as, after securely tying up the mouths, they laid the skins down, side by side.
The smaller mussucks were then filled and placed with the large skins; and then, having done a long day's work, they returned to their tree just as the sun was setting. The four men and two boys were already there, they having done the sixty miles from the village without a halt. They had already cooked some rice and some slices of venison--which Meinik had brought, with the water skins, from the town that morning--and were now lying smoking their cigars with placid contentment.
For the next six days Meinik went to the town every afternoon. On his return on the last evening, he said that the guard had told him that the governor had paid a visit to the prison, that day, and had seen the white captive; and had decided that he was now well enough to travel, and that in two days' time he was to start for Ava, the court having sent down an urgent order that he should be carried there as soon as he was well enough to bear the fatigue.
"Then tomorrow we must get him out," Stanley said. "Will our two men be on duty?"
"Yes, master, they have not been on since the last night we were there. They will form the second watch, and will go on guard at midnight. I have bought two very sharp saws, and have cut two strong bamboos for the litter."
This was constructed the next day. It was very simple, being formed by sewing a blanket strongly to the two bamboos. Two slighter bamboos, each four feet long, were tied loosely to the main poles. These were to be lashed across, as soon as they had got beyond the palisade, so as to keep the poles three feet apart--which, as the blanket was four feet, from pole to pole, would allow it to bag comfortably. The cross pieces could not be attached until they were beyond the palisade; for the window was but two feet wide, and it was therefore proposed to make the gap through the palisade the same width, only.
Late in the evening they entered the town, and sat down in a deserted corner until the time came for them to begin their work. At last Meinik said that, by the stars, it was already past midnight; and they then proceeded to the spot where they had before climbed the palisade. Here they at once set to work. The saws were well oiled and, in a very few minutes, five bamboos were cut away, at the level of the ground and six feet above it. As the stockade was bound together by cross pieces, behind, the other portions of the bamboos remained in their places.
Meinik and Stanley went first, followed by three of the Burmans, one of whom carried the litter. The other two Burmans with the boys, remained on guard at the opening. All were barefooted, except that Stanley wore a pair of the lightest leather sandals. They went noiselessly up to the window; the guard, as before, responding to Meinik's hiss. Without a word, one after another entered the chamber. The trooper had been sitting at the table, evidently anxiously expecting their arrival.
Stanley went up to the bed.
"Are you better, Harry?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Better, but still weak."
Everything had been arranged beforehand. The litter was laid down on the ground, with the poles as far apart as possible. Then Stanley made a sign, to the trooper, to take one end of the rug on which Harry was lying; while he took the other. The Burmans ranged themselves on each side; and the blanket was lifted up, with the occupant and the pillow composed of his clothes, and laid quietly on to the blanket of the litter. Then two Burmans went outside, while the other four men lifted the poles and carried one end to the window.
The Burmans outside held the ends well above their heads, Stanley and the trooper raising their hands similarly. The other Burmans then crawled, under it, out of the window. As the litter was moved forward through the window, they took the places of Stanley and the trooper at the poles, and silently moved on towards the palisade. Stanley and Meinik followed, joined by the two Burmese guards.
Not the slightest sound was made, as the eight men crossed the short distance to the palisade and passed through the opening where the others, spear in hand, were awaiting them; ready to rush in and take part in the fray, should an alarm be given. Stanley breathed a great sigh of relief, as they passed out. A few paces further they halted, and the cross pieces were lashed to the poles.
"Thank God that you are out, Harry!" Stanley said, as soon as they did this. "Has it hurt you much?"
"Nothing to speak of," Harry replied. "You managed it marvellously. Am I really outside the place altogether?"
"Yes, fairly out. You will be more comfortable when we have lashed these cross pieces. You will not be lying, then, at the bottom of a bag; as you are now."
When the work was completed, they proceeded at a rapid pace; for Harry's weight, reduced by fever as he had been, was a trifle to his bearers. The others followed close behind and, in a quarter of an hour, they were well beyond the town. Stanley spoke to Harry once or twice, but received no answer; so he had no doubt that his cousin had dozed quietly off to sleep. The gentle motion of the litter would be likely to have that effect; especially as Harry had probably been lying awake, for the last night or two, listening for the friends who might arrive at any time.
When they reached the confines of the forest the torches, which had been carried by the boys, were all lit; and each carried two--with the exception of the bearers, who had but one each--while all kept close together round the litter. They waved their torches as they went and, although they heard the cries of several tigers in the forest, they had no fear of being attacked; as so many waving lights would deter the most hungry beast from venturing near.
Once in the chamber at the temple, the litter was laid down on a pile of reeds and leaves that had been gathered the day before, together with a great store of brushwood and logs. Harry still sleeping quietly. In a short time a bright fire was blazing and, with this and the light of the torches, the chamber assumed quite a cheerful appearance. On the way, Stanley had spoken to the two guards, thanked them for their service, and assured them that they would receive the reward promised by Meinik.
"I am the British officer," he said, "who was at the village with my friend, though I was absent when he was carried off. As you see, I am disguised."
Both had shown signs of uneasiness, when they approached the temple; but Meinik had assured them that the spirits would not venture to approach a party having a white man with them, and that a night had already been passed in the temple, without any harm coming of it. A meal, consisting of slices of venison, was at once prepared and, when this was eaten, and the whole party had lighted cigars, their spirits rose at the success of the enterprise. The soldiers, however, had been disappointed at hearing that there was going to be a stay for some little time there, to enable the wounded man to gain strength.
"We may not stop long," Stanley said; "but, you see, with the litter we could not travel fast; and you may be sure by this time the alarm has been given for, when they came to relieve you at the end of three hours, it would be found that you were missing; and then they would, at once, discover that the captives had gone, too. By daybreak the whole garrison will be out. How many are there of them?"
"There are three thousand men, in the town," the guard said. "After a party of your soldiers came within a short distance of it, two months ago, fifteen hundred men were added to the garrison."
"Well, you see, with three thousand men they could scour all the woods and, if they overtook us, we should be unable to make any defence. Here, we may hope that they will not discover us; but if they do we can make a desperate resistance for, as only one man can enter that door at a time, it would be next to impossible for them to force their way in. You have your guns, and I have a brace of pistols and, as all the others have spears, it will be as much as the three thousand men could do, to get in through that door. If they did, there is a still narrower door in the corner to defend; and beyond that there is a long, narrow, steep flight of stairs, that one man could hold against a host.
"The first thing in the morning, we will carry our stores to the upper chamber. We have water and rice enough to last us for a month, if we are careful; so that, although I hope they won't find us, I shall not be at all afraid of our beating them off, if they do so."
As soon as it was daylight, the stones that had been added to the steps at the doorway were flung down; and then, by their united efforts, the two remaining steps were removed. Then they helped each other up, the last man being aided by two of his comrades, above.
"There," Stanley said; "if they do come to search for us, they are not likely to suspect that we have got a badly wounded man up here. They may search the big chamber that we were in, before, and any others there may be on the same level; but this narrow entrance, ten feet above them, is scarcely likely to attract their attention. If it does, as I said, we must fight it out; but it will be a wonderfully hard nut for them to crack."
He then ordered the men to carry all the stores to the upper chamber. Just as they began the work, there was a slight movement on the bed. Stanley at once went up to it. Harry was looking round, in a bewildered way.
"Well, Harry, how are you feeling? You have had a capital sleep."
"Oh, is it you, Stanley? I was not quite sure but that I was dreaming. Where am I? I must have gone off to sleep, directly we started; for I don't remember anything, after you spoke to me when they were making the hammock more comfortable."
"You are in a temple--some four or five thousand years old, I should say--and this is a rock chamber. The temple itself is in ruins. We are ten miles from Toungoo, and shall wait here till the pursuit for you has slackened. In another week, you will be more fit to move than you are, at present. I should not like to carry you far, as you are now. Besides, if we had pushed on, they would have been sure to overtake us; for these fellows can run like hares."
"But why should not they find us here, Stanley?"
"Well, of course they may do so, but the entrance to this chamber is ten feet above the ground; and another thing is, they have all sorts of superstitions about the place. Nothing would induce them to approach it, after nightfall; and even in the daytime, they don't like coming near it. Lastly, if they do find us, it will take them all their time to force their way in. I have five men, and two young fellows quite capable of fighting; then there are your two guards, Meinik, the trooper, and myself. So you see, we muster twelve. We have two guns, and a brace of pistols, and spears for us all; and if we cannot defend that narrow passage, against any number of Burmans, we shall deserve our fate.
"Besides, there is another, and even narrower door, in the corner behind you. They would have to force that; and in the chamber beyond there is a narrow, straight staircase, some forty feet high, which a man with an axe ought to be able to hold against an army. They are taking the stores up there, now. We have got provisions and water for a month. When everything is straight, there we shall carry you up and, unless they sit down in front of this place and regularly starve us out, we are as safe as if we were in Prome."
"I wish to goodness you had that hideous dye off you, Stanley. I know it is you by your voice but, what with the colour, and all that tattooing, and your extraordinary hair, I don't know you in the least."
"I am in just the same disguise as that in which I made my way down from Ava," Stanley laughed. "I felt very uncomfortable, at first, with nothing on but this short petticoat thing; but I have got accustomed to it, now, and I am bound to say that it is cool and comfortable.
"Now, tell me about your wounds."
"They are not very serious, Stanley. I had a lick across the head with a sword--that was the one that brought me down--and a slice taken out of my arm from the elbow, nearly up to the shoulder. Also a spear-wound in the side; but that was a trifle, as it glanced off the ribs. If I had been left as I fell, and somebody had bound up my wounds at once, I should have been all right by this time. The fellows did bandage them up, to some extent; but the movement of the litter set them off bleeding again, and I fancy that I lost pretty nearly all the blood in my body. I think that it was pure weakness, rather than fever, that kept me unconscious so long; for I gather, from the pantomime of the trooper, that I must have been nearly a fortnight unconscious."
"Yes, you were certainly so when I came the first time, Harry; but I think, perhaps, on the whole, it is lucky that you were. You would probably have had a great deal more fever, if you had not been so very weak; and if you had escaped that, and had gone on well, you might have been sent off to Ava before I could get all the arrangements made for your escape."
"Tell me all about it," Harry said. "It seems to me wonderful how you managed it."
Stanley told him the whole story. By the time that he had finished, the stores had all been taken upstairs; and the fire most carefully extinguished, as the smoke would at once have betrayed them. The cross pieces of the litter had been taken off, to allow Harry to be carried in through the door, and he was now lifted. Two of the men took off their cloths, and wrapped the materials of the bed into these, carrying them up at once. As soon as they had gone on, Harry was slowly and carefully taken to the upper chamber, and laid down again on the bed. Stanley took his place beside him, and the rest of the party went down to the lower room; having received the strictest orders not to show themselves near the entrance, and not to smoke until well assured that their pursuers must have passed on ahead.
The bamboos of the litter were converted into a rough ladder and, on this, Meinik took his post at the little window in the second of the lower rooms. Owing to the immense thickness of the rock wall, he did not get an extensive view, but he could see the path by which anyone coming up through the forest would approach the temple. It was now about half-past seven and, by this time, the pursuers might be at hand; in ten minutes, indeed, distant shouts could be heard, and Stanley at once went down and joined the men below.
He placed himself in the line of the doorway. As the wall here was four feet thick, the room was in semi-darkness and, standing well back, he was certain that his figure could not be perceived by anyone standing in the glare of sunshine outside. The sounds grew louder and louder; and in a minute or two an officer, followed by some twenty men, emerged from the trees. All paused, when they saw the temple. The men would have drawn back at once; but the officer shouted to them to advance, although showing small inclination to do so, himself.
They were still standing, irresolute, when a superior officer on horseback, followed by some fifty footmen, came up the path. He shouted orders for them to search the temple and, as the fear of him was even greater than their dread of the spirits, the whole of the men made their way over the fallen stones, and up to the face of the rock. They first entered the chamber where the horses had been stabled. The officer who had first arrived went in with his men and, coming out, reported to his senior that there had been a fire made, and that some horses had also been there; but that three weeks, or a month, must have passed since then.
"Are you sure of that?"
"Quite certain, my lord. It is extraordinary that anyone should have dared to enter there, still less to stable horses when, as everyone knows, the temple is haunted by evil spirits."
"I care nothing for spirits," the officer said. "It is men we are in search of. Go and look into any other chambers there may be."
At this moment a deep, mournful sound was heard. Louder and louder it rose, and then gradually died away. The soldiers stood as if paralysed. Even the high official--who had been obliged to leave his horse, and make his way across the fallen blocks on foot--stepped back a pace, with an expression of awe. He soon recovered himself, and shouted angrily to the men to go on. But again the dirge-like noise rose, louder and louder. It swelled, and then as gradually died away; but this time with a quavering modulation.
The men looked up, and round. Some gazed at the upper part of the rock, some straight ahead, while others turned round and faced the forest.
"Search!" the officer shouted, furiously. "Evil spirits or no evil spirits, not a man shall stir from here, until the place is searched."
Then rose a shrill, vibrating sound, as if of eerie laughter. Not even the officer's authority, or the fear of punishment, could restrain the soldiers. With cries of alarm, they rushed across the ruins and plunged into the forest; followed, at a rate which he tried in vain to make dignified, by the officer who, as soon as he reached his horse, leapt upon it and galloped away.
The Burmese keenly appreciate a joke and, as soon as the troops had fled, the villagers and guards inside the temple threw themselves down on the ground, and roared with laughter. Stanley at once made his way into the upper room.
"Splendidly done, Meinik! It was like the note of an organ. Although I knew what you were going to do, I felt almost startled, myself, when that deep note rose. No wonder they were frightened."
"Well, at any rate, master, we are safe for the present."
"For the present, no doubt, Meinik; but I question if we sha'n't hear of them, again. That officer was a determined-looking fellow and, though he was scared, too, he stuck to it like a man."
"That is the governor of the town, master. I saw him carried through the streets in his chair. Everyone was bending to the ground, as he passed. He was a famous general, at one time; and they say that he is likely to command a part of the army, again, when fighting begins."
"Well, I think that we shall hear of them again, Meinik. I don't suppose that he really thought that we were here for, certainly, no Burman would take up his abode in this place, even to save his life. They will push on the chase through the woods all day and, by that time, they will feel sure that they would have overtaken us, had we gone straight on. Then I should not be at all surprised if he tries here, again."
"Perhaps he will, master. Like enough, he will chop off the heads of some of the men that ran away, and pick out some of his best troops for the search. Still, I hope he won't think of it."
Stanley shook his head.
"I hope so, too, Meinik. There is one thing about which I feel certain--if he does find us here, he will stay here or, at any rate, leave some troops here, until he gets us. He would know that he would get into trouble, at Ava, for letting the prisoners escape; and it would be all important for him to recapture them.
"Now we are up here, Meinik, we will go and have a look at that upper staircase, again. If we are besieged, that is our only hope of safety."
They again went along the ledge, and up the staircase. Stanley examined the stones that blocked the passage, for some time, and at last exclaimed: "There, Meinik, look along by the side of this stone. I can see a ray of light. Yes, and some leaves. I don't think they are more than thirty feet above us!"
Meinik applied his eye to the crevice.
"I see them, master. Yes, I don't think those leaves are more than that distance away."
"That is what I came to look for," Stanley said. "It was evident that this rubbish could only be the stones of the root, and pavement over the depression in the middle of the ruin; and that these could not block up this staircase very far. The question is, will it be possible to clear them away? Evidently it will be frightfully dangerous work. One might manage to get one stone out, at a time, in safety. But at any moment, the loosening of one stone might bring a number of others down, with a run; and anyone on this narrow staircase would be swept away like a straw."
Meinik agreed as to the danger.
"Well, we need not think it over now, Meinik; but if we are really besieged, it is by this way that we must escape, if at all. We must hope that we sha'n't be beset; but if we are, we must try here. I would rather be killed, at once, by the fall of a stone on my head, than tortured to death."
Meinik nodded, and they descended the stairs, put out the torches that they had used there, and returned along the ledge to the chamber where Harry was lying.
"So Meinik scared them away," the latter said, as Stanley sat down beside him. "I could not think what he was going to do when he came up here with that long reed, as thick as my leg. He showed it to me, and I saw that it had a sort of mouthpiece fixed into it; and he made signs that he was going to blow down it. When he did, it was tremendous and, as it got louder and louder, I put my hands to my ears. Everything seemed to quiver. The other row--that diabolical laughing noise--he made with a smaller one. It was frightful; but the big note was more like a trombone, only twenty times louder.
"Well, do you think that we have done with them?"
"I hope so, Harry. At any rate, you can be assured that they will never fight their way up here and, long before our provisions are finished, I have no doubt that I shall be able to hit on some plan of escape."
The day passed quietly. The woods were as silent as usual. The Burmans were all in high spirits at the success of Meinik's horn. When it became dark, they hung a blanket before the entrance, placed one of the lads on watch just outside it, and then lighted a fire. Stanley took a couple of torches and went up to Harry, taking the precaution to hang a cloth before the window.
"I have not said much about thanking you, old fellow," Harry said, "but you must know how I feel."
"You had better say nothing about it, Harry. I have only done what you would have done, had you been in my place. Had you been in charge of that party, and I had been carried off, I know you would have done all in your power to rescue me. You might not have succeeded quite so well, because you do not know their language; but I know that you would have tried. After all, I have not run anything like so much risk as I did when I rescued Meinik from the leopard. And he, of course, was an absolute stranger to me.
"Besides, you are not rescued, yet; and we won't holloa until we are out of the wood."
"It is very cool and pleasant here," Harry said, after lying without speaking for a few minutes. "It was dreadfully hot in that hut, in the middle of the day; and I used to feel that I lost almost as much strength, in the day, as I picked up at night. I am wonderfully better this evening. Of course, that long sleep had something to do with it, and the pleasure of being free and with you had still more; but certainly the coolness, and the air blowing through that opening, have counted for something."
"Well, we shall feed you up as long as you are here, Harry; and I hope, in a fortnight, to see you pretty firm on your legs again; and then, if there is nothing to prevent it, we will carry you off triumphantly."
Meinik here came in, with two bowls of broth; for they had bought a few earthenware utensils on one of the visits to Toungoo.
"That is first rate!" Harry said, as he finished his first one. "What is it made of?"
"I never ask questions," Stanley replied--who tried, successfully, to keep down a smile. "Meinik is a capital cook, and turns out all sorts of nice little dishes. Here comes his step again.
"What have you there, Meinik?" he asked, as the Burman entered, with two plates.
"A slice of mutton done on sticks over the fire, master, and some rice with it."
"That is first rate!" Harry said heartily, when he had finished. "They did not give me meat, in prison. I suppose they thought that I was not strong enough for it."
"They eat very little meat themselves, Harry. Now I fancy your dinner is done, except some fruit. We have got plenty of that."
There were, however, some fried bananas, and Harry declared that he had feasted like a king.
"If this goes on, Stanley, I will wager that I shall be about in a week; and shall be offering to run a race with you, in a fortnight."
"You will be a good deal longer than that, before you are fit to walk any distance. Still, with a good appetite--which you are sure to have, after your illness--plenty of food, and the cool air in these caves, I do expect that you will pick up fast."
The next day passed quietly.
"I shall be glad when tomorrow is over," Stanley said to Meinik, the last thing before going up to Harry's cell. "Today I expect they are all marching back again and, if they pay us another visit, it will be early tomorrow morning. Be sure that two men are on watch. They can relieve each other, every hour; and I shall come down myself, occasionally, to see that all is right; but I don't think that even the governor could get his men to come near this place, after dark."
"We will keep good watch, master, but I have no fear of their coming."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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15
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: The Attack.
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Stanley got up several times during the night, and went below to the watches; as he felt sure they would be nervous for, though they had now, to a large extent, got over their superstitious fears, they would still be timid at night. They reported that everything was still round the temple, but that they had heard distant sounds in the woods; and on the first of these occasions he had, after returning to the room above, gone out on to the ledge; and from that height could see the reflection, in the sky, of a number of fires extending in a semicircle, at a distance of a mile or so from the temple. From this he felt convinced that the governor was determined to have a thorough search made in the morning.
As soon as it was daylight, the sound of the blowing of horns and the beating of drums was heard in the forest and, half an hour later, a large body of men poured out from the trees, headed by the governor, himself.
"Now," he shouted, "this place is to be searched, in every hole and corner.
"As to the evil spirits, there is no fear of them, either by day or night. Did you ever hear of their attacking a large body of men? They may strangle a single traveller, who ventures into their haunts; but no one ever heard of a Burmese army being attacked by them. Now, every man has to do his duty; and the first who wavers, his head is to be struck off, at once.
"Forward!"
The troops rushed impetuously across the ruins, penetrated into the various chambers in the rock and, in a few minutes, all these were reported to be empty.
"There are chambers higher up," the governor said. "We will search them, and--look at that door up there, it must lead to somewhere. Bring stones, and make a stair up to it."
It was evident now that there was no longer any hope of concealment, and Stanley stepped to the entrance.
"My Lord Governor," he shouted, "there is a strong force here, and all your army could not gain an entrance. We do not wish to take the lives of brave men; but if we are attacked we must defend ourselves, and I pray you to withdraw with them, and not to throw away life."
This address from an apparent peasant excited the wrath of the governor, who shouted: "Shoot him, men!"
But before the order could be obeyed, Stanley had stepped back into the chamber, where he had already ordered the men to stand out of the line of the door. A number of muskets were fired, and several bullets struck the back wall of the chamber. The firing continued, and Stanley said: "Keep where you are, men, until they have finished; then approach the door for, directly they begin the attack, the men behind must stop firing. They will be some minutes, yet."
He ran quickly up to Harry's room.
"They are attacking us," Harry exclaimed; "oh, how I wish I could come down and help!"
"They can never get in, Harry. British soldiers might do it, but not these fellows. They can only enter two abreast and, with a dozen spear points facing them, what can they do? I thought that I would just come up and tell you it was all right. It will take them five minutes, at least, to pile up stones level with the doorway."
Stanley again joined those below. Meinik, the trooper, and one of the Burmese were to form the first line; the four other Burmese were to stand behind, with their spears, between the men in front; the two guards with their muskets, and the boys were to act as a reserve. Stanley had armed himself with one of the axes, and was to stand by the side of the entrance so that, if the spearmen were pressed back, and any of the assailants succeeded in passing the entrance, he would strike them down.
Presently, there was a silence outside.
"Keep well back," he said. "They have laid their stones, and we shall have a rush, directly; but they will most likely pour in a volley, first."
The pause lasted for a minute or two. Then a drum was beaten, and a hundred muskets were fired. A rain of bullets flew into the cave.
"Now," Stanley shouted, "form up."
Illustration: In vain the Burmese tried to force their way into the chamber.
A wild yell was raised by the Burmese. Now they knew that they were fighting human foes, their courage returned, and there was a rush of men up the pile of stones to the entrance; but in vain they tried to force their way into the chamber. Those in front fell pierced by the spears and, while the defenders could see their figures against the light, the assailants, coming out from the sunshine, could see nothing in the chamber, which was now darkened by their filling up the entrance. Not once was it necessary for Stanley to strike. The Burmans' spears did their work thoroughly and, in two or three minutes, the entrance was nigh choked up with dead bodies, adding to the difficulty of the assailants.
Pressed on by those behind, the foremost fell over these obstacles, and were instantly pierced by the spears; until it was no longer possible to get through the outer entrance, much less make their way into the chamber. Again and again the attack was repeated and, as often, repulsed. Before advancing the Burmese, each time, endeavoured to clear the passage by drawing out the bodies of their comrades; but the two guards now posted themselves in front, and shot man after man who made the attempt. At last the Burmese drew off, but not till some fifty or sixty had been killed.
The governor was seen gesticulating furiously to a party of officers and, presently, a final attack was made, led by several officers of rank. This was as unsuccessful as the others. The bodies, indeed, of the killed now forming a well-nigh impassable barrier and, after several of the officers and many of the bravest men had fallen, the remainder withdrew suddenly. The governor appeared to recognize that the task was an impossible one; and two or three hundred men were at once set to work felling trees and, by nightfall, a high stockade had been erected round the open ground in front of the temple.
"They are going to try to starve us out," Stanley said. "There is no more chance of fighting, tonight."
As soon as the stockade was finished, musketeers took their place behind it and opened a dropping fire at the entrance, while the woodcutters continued to fell trees.
"We must get rid of these dead bodies, if we can," Stanley said, "or the place will be uninhabitable, in a day or two.
"Get those two bamboos we had for the litter, Meinik. We will push the bodies out, one by one, beginning with those on the top of the heap. We can keep down behind the shelter of the pile, till we have got most of them out. After that, we must take our chance of a shot."
It took them some hours' work but, at last, the passage was cleared, and the bodies all thrown outside. The fire was lighted in the next room; and Stanley, bidding two men listen attentively for any movement, went up again to Harry--to whom he had paid a flying visit, as soon as the Burmese drew off.
"We cannot risk having a light here, Harry," he said. "I don't want them to have any idea that this chamber, which is nearly fifty feet above the entrance, is in any way connected with the rooms below. If such an idea struck them, they might lower men from above by ropes, and so take us in the rear."
"Did you say that we are regularly shut up, in front, by that stockade?"
"Yes; there is certainly no getting out, that way. Behind, you know, it is a sheer wall of rock; and the only possibility, that I can see, is that we may clear a staircase which runs up through the rock, from a ledge on the level of this room, to the ruins of a building above. At present, the upper part is entirely choked up with blocks of stone and rubbish, and it will be a very awkward job to get through it; but so far, it seems to me, it is that or nothing."
"What are they going on chopping down trees for?"
"I believe their general is doing it to bring large numbers of his troops close up to the stockade; partly perhaps to keep up the spirits of the front line, by their company; partly to render impossible any attempt, on our part, to make our way out by a sudden rush. Of course, they don't know what our strength is; but they have had so sharp a lesson, today, that they will take every precaution, in future.
"Well, what is it, Meinik?"
"We have been talking together, master; and we think that, if we were to call out that they might take the bodies away, without any interference by us, they would do so. Several officers of rank have fallen there, and it is our custom always to carry off the dead, when it is possible."
"It would be worth trying the experiment, anyhow, Meinik. But we must all stand to arms, while they are doing it; as they might make a sudden rush. However, we would risk that, for those bodies have been worrying me very much, and I would give anything to have them taken away. I will go down with you."
Meinik accordingly went down to the entrance, and shouted out: "Peace, peace! I am ordered, by the English officer, to say that he would wish those who have fought so bravely to be honoured, after death; and that no shot shall be fired, and no interference made, with those who come to carry away the dead."
There was silence for two or three minutes, and then a voice called back: "It is well; for two hours there shall be peace between us."
"I have no doubt the governor is as glad to do this as we are. It is considered a disgrace, if the dead are not carried off the ground to burial; and if he sends despatches to Ava, he will be glad to be able to put in that the brave men who fell have all been buried, with due honours. Besides, Meinik, it would not be encouraging to his troops for them to have that pile of dead bodies before them and, indeed, would be enough to cause a pestilence, in a few days."
The men were formed up again, round the entrance. The Burmese did their work silently. Occasionally a slight movement was heard, but no one could have imagined that a hundred men were busy outside. A number of them carried torches, and all worked steadily and in good order, under the direction of two or three officers. One of the posts of the stockade had been pulled up and through this the bodies were carried. It was less than two hours before a horn sounded, and there was a loud call of: "The peace is over; all is done."
Beyond the stockade great fires blazed among the trees. The work of chopping down the forest continued, and by the morning the ground had been cleared for a distance of thirty or forty yards from the paling. Then the Burmese raised another stockade forty feet behind the first, so that, if by carelessness or treachery the besieged should manage to pass through the first line, there would yet be another in front of them.
"I expect, master," Meinik said as, standing well back, he watched the men at work, "the general is building this second line, not because he thinks that there is a chance of our getting through the first, but to keep the men at work, so as to prevent them from thinking anything about the spirits. Now that they have passed one night there, they will have got somewhat over their fear and, of course, every day that passes, without ill befalling them, they will think less and less about the evil ones."
"Do you believe in them, Meinik?"
Meinik hesitated.
"Everyone knows, master, that evil spirits guard the treasures of the people that lived in the land long, long ago. No one can doubt that people who have rashly sought the treasures have been found dead, with staring eyes and swollen bodies; but as, at present, they must know well that neither we nor those outside are searching for treasure, they may not interfere."
"Then you think that there are treasures buried here, somewhere?"
"I cannot say, master; everyone says so. The story has been handed down that this was once the greatest of the temples of the old people; and that, when they were defeated by tribes from the east--I know not whether it was us, or some people before us--the priests from all the other temples came here. The remains of their army came here, too, and fought outside the temple until all were killed.
"When the conquerors entered, they found the priests all lying, in regular lines, on the pavements. All were dead. One story is that they had stabbed themselves; another, that they had taken poison. At any rate, no treasures were found; although it was known that the riches of the temple were great, and that all the other priests that had come here had brought the treasures from their temples with them. That was the beginning of the destruction of the place; for the pavement was torn up, and the walls in some places levelled, and the images of the gods broken up in search for the treasures.
"The work of the guardian spirits had already begun. They say that all who took part in the search died, of a terrible pestilence that broke out. Since that time, the place has been accursed. Once or twice, kings have sent bodies of troops to search; and they say that some could never find the temple, but wandered about the forest for days, searching in vain for it. Others found so thick a darkness, like the blackest of smoke, filling the forest, that even the bravest dare not enter. I say not that those things were so; I only say that these are the stories that have come down to us."
"Well, Meinik, we are not going to search for the treasure; and it is evident that the spirits bear us no ill will; indeed, I feel obliged to them, for it is likely enough that the soldiers will put down their misfortune to their influence, and that even the governor may feel that it would be useless to try to get them to renew the assault. This evening we will go up, and have another look at the stairs; and see how we can best set to work to clear them. There is no great hurry about it, but the sooner we set to work, the better."
All day long a dropping fire was maintained on the entrance, by the troops behind the first stockade; but as, with the exception of three men kept always on watch, the defenders were stationed in the next chamber, the bullets pattered harmlessly against the wall. During the night the accumulated dust of ages had been swept up from the floor; and this had been strewn, three inches deep, in the passage between the outer air and the chamber, so as to cover the blood that had been shed there.
As soon as it was quite dark, Stanley, Meinik, and three of the villagers went out on to the ledge in front of the upper opening, made their way along it to the entrance of the stairs, and mounted. They carried with them two or three glowing brands from the fire, in one of the earthenware cooking pots, which was covered with a cloth to prevent the slightest glow being noticed by the enemy. The men, by Stanley's order, brought with them the bamboos of the litter, the saw they had used at the stockade, a hatchet, and some blocks of firewood.
When they got to the point where the steps were choked up, they lighted the two torches--the men who brought up the rear of the party holding up a rug, to prevent any reflection from the torches being seen outside. When Stanley and Meinik had again examined the obstacle, the latter retired; and the Burmans, one by one, came up and looked at it.
"What do you think of it?" Stanley asked them.
"It would be dangerous to touch it, my lord," one of them said. "If only one stone moved out from its place, it would be death to us all. They are firm now, quite firm; but if two or three were disturbed, the whole might come down at once."
"I quite see that," Stanley said. "Can any of you suggest a plan by which we could get out, without much risk of setting them in motion?"
The Burmese were silent, "I will tell you my scheme then. I propose to cut the bamboos into lengths that will just reach across the passage. It is the lower stones that one is most afraid of. So long as these remain fixed, there is no fear of any general movement but, if they went, the whole mass might come down. This passage is less than three feet wide, and the bamboos are twelve feet long; so that each would make four, the width of the passage. I propose to drive them tightly in, and fix them firmly with wedges. They must be put in so that they will actually touch the stones, so as to prevent their making the slightest downward movement. If they began to slide, no doubt they would carry away the bamboos; but if these were fixed firmly, by wedges, they ought to be sufficient to prevent any movement from taking place--especially as there would be enough of them almost to touch each other, extending from this lowest step, on which the rocks rest, some five feet upwards--that is, to within some two feet of the roof, which would be sufficient for us to crawl through, and the bamboos would serve as a ladder. Then I propose that we should work our way along the top, passing the small stones and rubbish backwards, after filling up all the cracks and crevices below us.
"I see, of course, that we should meet with many obstacles. Great stones may be sticking up, perhaps jammed against the roof; these would have to be broken off, or chipped in pieces. No doubt the work will take time but, at any rate, there is plenty of food for three weeks and, working by turns night and day, we ought to be able to burrow our way out. As we get on, we may not find the stones so tightly pressed together as they are, here. At any rate, as we saw the light above us, only some thirty feet up, there ought not to be above twenty feet of closely-packed stuff to get through.
"No doubt the work will be dangerous, as well as hard but, as we know that if we do not succeed all our lives are forfeited, we can face the danger. Everyone of us will take his share in turn; I shall do so, myself, and shall direct the work in general. What do you think of the plan?"
"I think that it is possible, master," Meinik said. "At any rate, we must try it; since it is the only way that offers us any chance of life."
The Burmese all agreed, and they at once set to work. The bamboos were first cut into lengths; and then, by means of the axe and wedges, were jammed so firmly, from side to side, that it would have required great force to dislodge them. These supports were somewhat irregularly placed, as it was necessary that they should absolutely touch the stones. As they proceeded with the work, the spaces behind the bamboos were filled tightly up with rubble, so as to solidify the whole.
When the last support was in its place, Stanley said: "Now, Meinik, do you with these three work, tonight; four others will take your place, before dawn. Mind, at first I don't want you to attempt to move any fixed stones; but simply to clear away all small stones, and rubble. You can stow a good deal behind the two upper bamboos. The rest you must put on the stairs. I will see, tonight, what we can manage in the way of tools for chipping away the big stones that cannot be moved. You had better relieve each other very often. The three who are not at work should sit down on the ledge, outside, so that any stone accidentally dislodged will not fall on anyone. Every ten minutes, one will come up to take the place of the man at work. Be sure that each, as he passes up or down, replaces the blanket carefully."
They had, indeed, before beginning to saw up the bamboos, fastened the blanket to one of the cross pieces of the stretcher and, cutting this to the width of the passage, had jammed it close up to the roof; so that the curtain, hanging down, effectually shut off the light.
Stanley then descended the steps, and rejoined Harry below. Before going down further, Stanley, who had during the day informed Harry of his plan, told him of the start that they had made.
"Of course, it all depends upon what stones you meet with," Harry said. "If you come to a big solid block, I don't see how you are going to get through it."
"We have the hatchets, and can whittle it away; and perhaps we can make some chisels, from the ramrods of your guards' guns. A lot can be done, with patience and plenty of hands."
Stanley then went down below, and explained to the others the plan proposed. The news gave them great satisfaction; for although Meinik had told them there was a staircase above blocked with stones, it had seemed so impossible, to him, to clear it that he had placed no stress upon the fact; and the preparations made by the enemy to cut off any possible retreat had greatly depressed them.
Stanley took one of the iron ramrods and, raking some of the embers from the fire, placed it in them, about a foot from one end; then he directed the others to fan the embers, until they raised them almost to white heat. Taking the ramrod out, he laid the edge of one of their knives upon it and, striking its back with a stone, soon cut through the glowing rod. He repeated the operation and had, then, three short rods of equal length. He now heated one end of each and, laying it on an axe on the ground, hammered it into chisel shape with the back of a light hatchet; repeating this several times, until it had the required shape and sharpness; then he plunged this into a pot of water. He did the same with the other two; and had, now, three chisels with which he hoped to be able to chip away the stones. The other ramrod he left intact, except that he sharpened one end.
Then, going up to Harry's room, he lay down and slept for some hours; putting the two boys on watch, and bidding the trooper look after them. The two Burmans, with one of the guards, were to go to work with him. Several times he woke. The last time, on looking out, he thought that there was a faint light in the sky and, going down, called up the three men and, bidding them bring up the two heavy axes, a light hatchet, and the three short chisels, he led them up the steps to the working party.
"How have you got on, Meinik?"
"We have cleared four feet, master; but there is a big stone sticking up, now, and we can do nothing with it."
"We will have a try, and do you all go down, at once.
"Take off your cloth, one of you, and fill it with this rubbish on the steps. Do it as quickly as you can. The day will be breaking, in a few minutes."
Stanley now climbed up, and investigated the passage. The bottom was level. Every crack and crevice between the stones being filled up with rubbish. The obstacle Meinik had spoken of evidently formed part of a flat slab. It reached within an inch of the roof and, at one side, touched the rock wall; at the other there was an interval, of some four or five inches, and the earth and rubbish had already been scraped out from behind it. Putting his hand in, he found that the block was some four inches in thickness.
He thought that if he could but get a fair blow at it, with the back of one of the heavy axes, he might break it off; but this was impossible. The total width of the passage did not exceed three feet; and as the men had, as they went, worked down somewhat, there was now about thirty inches between the bed of earth and rubbish, on which he was lying, and the roof. Taking the handle of the axe in both hands, he used the head as a battering ram; but without any success. He then called up the slightest of the three men, and told him to crawl in beside him and, with their united strength, they pounded the stone for some time. Finding that nothing could be done this way, Stanley sent the man back again; and then, taking one of the three chisels and a small hatchet, he proceeded to mark a line along the bottom of the stone; and then, for ten minutes, worked away on it with the chisel and hammer. Then he called up one of the others, and showed him what he was to do. All day they worked by turns and, though progress was very slow, by nightfall the groove was half an inch deep.
Stanley and the strongest Burman then went in together and, lying on their backs again, tried the effect of the heavy axe; but still without success. Then Stanley told the man to get down and take out the wedge, at the top of the axe; and to cut away the wood below the head, so that the latter would slip down, four or five inches; then to take off the head of the other heavy axe and put it on above it, and replace the wedge. In a few minutes, the man rejoined him.
"We must strike it as near the roof as we can," Stanley said. Both grasped the handle firmly. "We will sway it backwards and forwards three times and, the third time, strike.
"One, two, three--hooray!"
As the two-headed axe, driven with their united force, struck the stone, there was a sharp crack.
"That has done it," Stanley said, turning over.
There was a dark line along the groove, and the top of the stone inclined back, two inches from the perpendicular; being kept in its place by the rubbish behind it. Stanley put his hand into the hole, and got his fingers behind the stone; while the Burmese put the chisel into the crack, and used it as a lever. In two or three minutes the stone was moved out of its position, taken out of the hole, and laid down on the steps.
Half an hour later Meinik came up, with a trooper, another guard, and one of the boys; and was delighted to find that the obstacle, which had seemed to him fatal to their hopes, had been removed. Stanley showed how they had carried out the work; and then, with his party, went down into the rock chambers.
"It was pretty tiring work, Harry," he said, "though we were only at it about a quarter of an hour, at a time. My wrists and arms and shoulders are aching, as if I had been beaten with sticks. Tomorrow I will take up a good supply of firewood. The chisels got blunted before we had worked an hour; and we should get on a deal faster, if we could sharpen them frequently."
"Is the stone hard?"
"No; it is a sort of marble, I think. We had the underpart of the slab on our side, and I did not think of looking when we took it down. Anyhow, it was not very hard and, with a good strong chisel and a short, heavy hammer, I am sure we could have done it in an hour.
"Anyhow, it is a comfort that nothing came down on top of us. I examined the pile carefully, and there had not been the slightest movement among the lower stones; so that part of the difficulty seems to have been got over.
"Now, I must go down and get something to eat, and then I will go in for a good sleep. You are feeling all right, I hope?"
"Could not be doing better, Stanley. I have eaten three solid meals, today; and have been sitting up on the edge of my bed, for some time. I tried standing, but it was no go; still, I do think that, in a day or two, I shall manage it."
For six days the work continued. One party watched, another slept, and the third worked, by turns. Some of the stones gave much greater trouble than the first they had met with; but having the fire close by proved a great assistance, as the chisels could be frequently sharpened. The men became more accustomed to the work, and the steady progress they made greatly excited their hopes.
At the end of the week, but one stone barred the way. This, however, was much the most formidable that they had encountered. It seemed to have been a pillar, or a huge gate post; and was square, measuring some twenty inches on each face. The obstacle was all the more formidable, as the upper end was inclined towards them, greatly increasing the difficulty in using the chisel. Beyond this, as far as they could see, there was merely a mass of smaller stones.
The party who had been working upon this block were much disheartened, when Stanley went up to relieve them. Owing to the inclination of the stone, their chisels could get but little bite and, though they had been working for six hours at it, they had scarcely made any impression; indeed, at only one point had they so far broken the face that the chisel would cut. Meinik had come down two hours before, to report to Stanley the nature of the obstacle and, when he went up, he took with him the second ramrod, which had not hitherto been used.
He saw at once that, as Meinik had told him, it would be impossible to get through this block by the same means as before for, as the groove deepened, the labour would become greater and greater and, from the inclination of the stone, they would in time arrive at a point where the axe could no longer be used to strike the chisel.
The point at which the slight indentation had been made was nearly at the corner of the stone. This was gradually enlarged, by hammering upon it with the head of the axe and, after an hour's work, the surface had been so far pounded that the chisel could get a flat hold upon it. Then Stanley and one of the Burmans lay down, and placed the cutting end of the long ramrod against it; and the others, by turns, struck the end with the back of a light hatchet, those holding the rod turning it, slightly, after each blow. Every half hour the edge of the chisel was resharpened and, by the time the next party relieved them, a hole of half an inch in diameter, and two inches deep, had been drilled in the stone. Stanley remained with the newcomers for half an hour, instructing them in the work, and then went below.
"Well, Stanley, what are you going to do with this monstrous stone Meinik tells me of?"
"There is only one thing to do with it, Harry; that is, to blast it. The block is so inclined that one can do nothing with the chisels, and we are now drilling a hole. I don't know that I shall succeed but, at any rate, I am going to have a try. If it fails, I must hit on some other way. The provisions are holding out all right; and Meinik calculates that, with a little stinginess, we could manage for another three weeks. We have drilled the hole in two inches today and, as we get more accustomed to the work, I dare say we could do three inches in each shift. The block is twenty inches through on the straight, and may be two feet on the line that we follow; so that in four days we shall be nearly through it.
"In three weeks we shall have made five holes, which will weaken it so that we may be able to break it off. However, I hope we shall find one hole sufficient. I shall make it fifteen inches deep, and then charge it with the contents of a dozen cartridges. I think that ought to do it."
In two days and a half, the hole was of the required depth. Harry had progressed so rapidly that he was able, that morning, to walk across his room.
"We must try the shot, at once," Stanley said, "because if it fails, we must go on working. If it succeeds we can, if we like, wait for another week before we make off. By that time you will be strong enough to be got through that low passage, and walk for a little distance; when we can cut some poles, and rig up that hammock again.
"Do you know anything about mining, for I know nothing? I only had an idea how to drill the hole from seeing some engineers at work at Agra, years ago; but I am sure I don't know how they fired the shot, or prepared it."
"I can tell you a little about it, Stanley; for I have been down a coal mine once or twice, and watched the men doing it. They first of all put in the charge; then they put in a wooden rod, just the thickness of the fuse they use; then they dropped in a little dry dust round it, which they pressed down very carefully, with a small wooden rod; then they damped some dust, and hammered that down hard. After putting in about half an inch of this, they used dust slightly moistened, beating it down as before. When it was quite full, they pulled out the centre stick, and put the fuse into the hole that it left."
"We have not got any fuse," Stanley said, "but I think that if we take a narrow strip of cloth, moisten it, and rub gunpowder into it; let it dry, and then roll it up, it would be all right. Then we could lay a train of damp powder to it, set the end alight, and bolt."
"I should think that that would do," Harry agreed, "but you would have to bolt very sharp for, if it went off before you got to the bottom of the steps, it might be very awkward."
"I don't think the effect of the shock will be as great as that, Harry. It may crack the stone, but I should hardly think it would send anything flying out of the hole."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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16
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: Rejoining.
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Every day, since the siege had begun, the defenders had fired an occasional shot at the stockade; not with any idea of doing any damage, but in order that the assailants should know that they were still in the cavern. That evening, when the hole had got to the proper depth, Stanley, having prepared his fuse, went up with twenty cartridges in his pocket, accompanied by Meinik. The hole was charged and tamped, and the fuse inserted. This took a considerable time. The fuse had been cut so that an inch of it projected outside the hole. The other eight cartridges were then broken up, and the powder moistened; and a train some two feet long laid, from the fuse towards the entrance of the hole. Then a piece of rag was wrapped round one end of the ramrod; and this, again, was tied to a long rod that had, the night before, been cut by one of the boys, who had slipped out noiselessly from the entrance. The rag had been moistened, and rubbed with gunpowder.
"Now, Meinik," Stanley said, "everything is ready. This rod is sixteen feet long, so that, lying down, my feet will be just at the edge of the hole; and I shall be able to drop down, as soon as I have lighted the train, and bolt. I shall fix a torch, a foot or so from the train; then I shall only have to lift the rod to it, light the rag, set fire to the train, and then slide down and bolt.
"Now, you must go down first."
"No, master," Meinik said firmly; "I will light the train. I do not think that there is any danger but, whether there is or not, I shall undertake it. If I am killed, it does not matter; while if you were killed all would be lost for, if the explosion did not burst the stone, I am sure that we should never be able to get through it, without you to direct us. No, master, if you stay, I stay; and that would only lessen our chances of running down the steps in time."
Stanley argued, and even ordered, but Meinik was obstinate and, seeing that the faithful Burman was not to be moved, he reluctantly left the matter in his hands, and went downstairs. He moved a short distance along the ledge, and waited. The time seemed an age to him, so that he gave an exclamation of delight when Meinik suddenly came into sight, and took his place beside him.
"I have lit the train, master. The powder fizzed up, but did not seem to burn very fast."
It was, indeed, another two minutes before a deep muffled roar was heard. There was no further noise, but they heard shouts from the Burmans, behind the stockades.
"They will be wondering what the sound is," Stanley said, "but they will not be able to tell from what direction it came; for I expect they were pretty nearly all sound asleep. Now, let us go up and see the result."
They made their way up the steps, which were now in entire darkness. The curtain still hung in its place, some ten feet below the obstacle. They lit a torch, from the embers in the pan; and then Stanley climbed up into the passage, and hastily crawled along.
He gave a cry of satisfaction, as he approached the end. The explosion had been completely successful--the end of the block lay on the ground. Whether the whole of it had been blown off, or not, he could not see; but he felt sure that the greater portion must have split off. It was evident that it would take a considerable amount of time, and would require the strength of several men, to get the block out. They therefore descended, at once, to gladden the hearts of those below; with the news that the way out was now available to them, whenever they chose to leave.
Harry manifested no surprise, whatever, at the news.
"I made sure that you would succeed, Stanley. After getting me off, as you did; and making your own escape, before, it seems to me that you have got hold of the 'open sesame' of Ali Baba, and have only to use the cabalistic words to walk in and out, wherever you want to go."
"I don't feel, by any means, so certain of my own powers as you seem to be, Harry; and I can assure you I was very doubtful whether that shot would succeed. I hoped, at any rate, that it would blow a good bit of the stone out and, in that case, we could have got the chisels to work again. It was the slanting position of the block that beat us. However, thank goodness, the work is done now; and you have only to get a bit stronger, and we will be off."
"I am quite ready to start now, Stanley. I think it is absurd waiting any longer, for there is never any saying what might take place. That Burmese general, who seems to be an obstinate beggar, might take it into his head to place a guard on the top of the hill; and then all your labour will have been thrown away."
"That is true enough, Harry; and as I really don't think that travelling now would be likely to do you any serious harm, I will decide on tomorrow. At any rate, I will take some men up, at once, and get that stone out."
The task was a difficult one. The block of stone was so nearly the size of the passage that they could not get a rope round behind it and, after trying for two hours, in vain, they determined that the only course was to push it before them. They soon found, however, that this was impossible; and that a part, at least, of the stone was remaining in its place. Finally, they succeeded in pushing a loop in the rope over the top of the block; and then, by main force, eight of them pulled it out of the hole, and lowered it on to the top step.
By the time that they had done this, dawn was approaching; and they therefore returned, at once, to the chambers below.
The men were all much pleased, when Stanley told them that they would leave that night. Confident as they felt that the Burmese could not force their way in, a new feeling of nervousness seized them, now that the way was open, lest some unforeseen circumstances might occur to prevent their going. The rice that remained was made up into three or four packages. The meat had long before been finished.
Stanley had a discussion, with Meinik, as to how Harry had best be taken through the passage. He could, they agreed, walk along the ledge, with one before and one behind to steady him; and could then be carried up the steps, in a blanket, by four men. He must, of course, be lifted into the passage, and dragged through it to the end; after that, it would be easy enough. Six men could carry him, in a blanket, until far enough away for them to chop poles, without the sound of the axes being heard by the Burmese.
From the time they began their work, every pains had been taken to deaden sounds. The blanket hung across the passage had acted as a muffler, to some extent; but a piece of cloth had always been tied over the hammer heads of the axes, to prevent the sharp clinking sounds of the blows on the chisels, or stone, being heard.
As soon as it was dark enough for them to pass along the ledge, Meinik went with Stanley to examine the ground. Fortunately, the portion of stone that remained above the level, and prevented the rock from being rolled back, was but small; and they were able to break it up in half an hour, with the axes. Then, making their way along without difficulty for another four feet, they found themselves standing upright in the depression in the centre of the ruin. Mounting six more steps, they were among the bushes that covered the site of the temple.
They now carefully cleared away every fragment of stone from the floor of the passage and, returning, Stanley gave orders for the start to be made. Two or three shots were fired, from the lower entrance, to show the enemy that they were there and on the watch; and then all went up to Harry's room. He had been dressed, for the first time, and was ready for the start. Two of the strongest of the Burmans went on first.
"Now, Harry, you are to put your hands on my shoulders. Meinik will follow close behind you, and will keep his arms round you, in case you need help. Of course, we shall go along very slowly."
"I don't think that all these precautions are necessary," Harry said. "I am sure that I can walk that distance, easily enough. Why, you say the stair is only about forty feet."
"I dare say you could, Harry; but we don't want to run any risks. Your head is not very strong, at present; and you might turn giddy, or you might stumble. So, at present, you will have just to do as you are told.
"Let us start."
Harry did not find it as easy as he had expected, getting out through the lower opening; and he was by no means sorry to have the support of Stanley and Meinik, as he proceeded along the ledge. They moved very carefully, and slowly; and all were greatly relieved when he sat down, on a blanket laid on the steps.
"Now lie back, Harry. We shall have no difficulty in getting you up here."
Two Burmans took the upper end of the blanket, Stanley and Meinik the lower, and they were soon at the top of the steps.
"You are not very heavy now, Harry; but you are a good deal heavier than you were, when we brought you in below.
"Now, the next is the most difficult part of the work--once we get you through this passage, it will be plain sailing. You see, you will have to be dragged. The place is only two feet high, so that it would be impossible to lift you at all. We have made the floor as smooth as we can, but I am afraid that there are a good many projecting corners, that will try you a good deal."
"It cannot be helped, Stanley. Fire away, as soon as you like."
The rest of the party were now all gathered, on the steps below; and Meinik and Stanley, getting up first into the hole, received Harry as the others lifted him and, with the aid of two of the Burmans, laid him on his blanket in the passage.
"Now," Stanley said, to the two men who took the other end of the blanket, "keep it as tight as you can and, when I say 'lift,' we will all lift together, and move him forward a few inches. Do not hurry over it--we have plenty of time before us."
They were packed so closely that they had each but one arm available. Little by little they moved him along, gaining some six inches, each time; then all had to move, so as to place themselves for the next effort. However, in five or six minutes they had him through, and carried him up into the open air. The rest of the party at once joined them and, with three of the natives on each side of the blanket, they were soon beyond the circle of ruins, and making at a brisk pace through the forest. After going for a quarter of a mile they stopped, cut some poles for the hammock and, in a short time, were on their way again; having placed in it one of the bags of rice, as a pillow for Harry.
They travelled for some hours, and then halted to cook some rice. All had slept a good deal during the day so that, after resting for an hour, they proceeded on their way again. They had no fear, whatever, of pursuit; and the only danger that they could incur was from meeting with a band, similar to that which had carried Harry off. When they rigged up the hammock, they had cut wood for torches, to protect themselves from tigers. These were thrown away, as soon as daylight broke.
At midday they halted again, for another hour; and then, continuing their journey, arrived at the village before nightfall. They were received with great joy, the villagers setting up a shout of welcome--the friends of the men and boys being especially exuberant in their joy, for they had become extremely anxious at their long absence. The two troopers were still there; and these saluted Stanley, with less than the usual stiff formality of the Mohammedan soldier.
He himself laughed.
"I don't look much like a British officer, at present," he said, in their language. "Well, has everything been quiet here?"
"Yes, sahib. A sowar brought us orders, from the general, to remain here; and to send at once, if we heard any news of you. We sent off one of the villagers, when the man came back to fetch the others, and said that you had good hopes of getting Lieutenant Brooke sahib out of the hands of the Burmese."
"I will write a note," Stanley said. "Get your horse saddled, at once. Directly we have made Mr. Brooke comfortable, I will give you the letter."
During the time that Stanley had been absent, the houses had been re-erected, and the village had assumed its general appearance. A hut was at once handed over to them, and Harry laid on a bamboo pallet. He had not slept, most of the way down.
"You see I was quite right, Stanley. I told you that the journey would be nothing."
"Fortunately, it has turned out so. Meinik has already killed a chicken, and will make it into broth for you. It will be a change, for you, after your diet of rice. The cooking was excellent, for the first three or four days; but it fell off sadly. That was one of the reasons why I gave way to your wish to start at once. You have done wonderfully well, but a constant diet of rice is not quite the thing for building up a sick man.
"Now, I am going to write a few lines to the general to say that you have got safely down, but will need at least another week before you are able to sit on a horse. Of course, you can be carried on; but I think that the air here is a great deal more healthy, and bracing, than it is at Prome and, the longer you stay here, the better."
Stanley's note was a short one. It merely said that he had succeeded in getting his cousin, and the trooper who was carried off at the same time, from the hands of the Burmese, but that Harry was still very weak; and that, if he himself could be spared, he would stay with him at the village for another week or ten days, at the end of which time he would ride, by easy stages, to Prome.
Three days later, the trooper returned with a note from the general.
"I congratulate you most heartily on having rescued your cousin," he wrote. "By all means, stay where you are until he is quite strong again. This place is not at all healthy, at present. We shall not be moving forward for another three weeks."
Stanley remained at the village for another fortnight and, at the end of that time, Harry had so far recovered that he was quite capable of making a short day's journey on horseback. Two of the men who had aided in the rescue had gone to Prome, with an order from Stanley on the staff paymaster, for the rewards that had been promised to the villagers and the two Burmese soldiers. They returned with the money, and the men were all highly delighted at the result of the expedition.
Stanley retained the services of the two soldiers, as long as he remained in the village. He had no fear, whatever, of the same band returning that had, before, visited the village; and he learned that no others had been heard of in the neighbourhood but, at the same time, he thought it as well that a man should be on guard, night and day, at each end of the village. The peasants agreed to watch at one end, while the two Burmese soldiers and the troopers took charge of the other end. The bulk of the villagers were engaged in forming a strong stockade round, it to defend themselves in case of further attack; and Stanley promised to send them down twenty muskets, and a supply of ammunition, as soon as he got to Prome.
There was real regret, on the part of the Burmese, when the time came for the party to start. It had been something altogether new to them to have officials among them who paid for everything. These Englishmen had treated them kindly, and were pleased and contented with everything. The money that the five men and two boys had earned had enriched the village, and had enabled them to more than replace their losses by the recent raid and, if Stanley had accepted all the presents of fruit, fowls, and eggs they would have given him, he would have needed a couple of extra horses to convey them. A strong pony had been purchased for Meinik and, after taking a hearty leave of the villagers, the party rode off.
"I wish we had such a good cook as your man is, Stanley," Harry said, as they journeyed along at a walk. "I never tasted better soup than he serves up. I must really get him to teach our mess cook how to make it."
"Do you know what it is, Harry?"
"I have not the least idea; it might be anything. I think that it tasted, to me, more like stewed eels than anything else."
"You are not very far out. It is made of the creatures you turned up your nose at--snakes."
"Nonsense, Stanley!"
"It is, I can assure you. I would not tell you before, because it might have set you against it. That soup you had in the cave was made from snake flesh. The recesses in parts of the caves swarmed with them, and the men laid in quite a store of them, before we were besieged. Unfortunately they would not keep well, even in these cool chambers, so we had to fall back on rice. You liked it so much that, though there was no occasion to have gone on with snake soup, after we got to the village, I continued to give it to you; for it is very nourishing."
"Well, I am glad you did not tell me, at the time; but I must own that it was excellent, and I think that, in future, I shall have no objection to snake in that form."
"They are just as good, in other ways," Stanley replied. "The Burmans are no fools, and I consider that snake and lizards are very much better eating than their mutton; which is tasteless stuff, at the best."
"We shall have to have a big settlement, when we get back, Stanley. Of course, all those men you paid, and the guards you bribed, are entirely my account; to say nothing of my share of the general expenditure."
"The general expenses are practically nothing, Harry. I invited you to come with me and, of course, you were my guest. As to the other matter, that also is my business. I would not say so, if I had not plenty of funds, but what with my pay as interpreter, and the year of back pay that I got when the Gazette came out, I have plenty out of my income to pay for it, without breaking in upon the amount I told you I had got for those rubies."
"I should pay you, Stanley, if you were rolling in money. Not that I should mind taking money from you, if I wanted it, but my expenses since I landed here have not been anything approaching my pay and allowances; and I have besides, as I told you, an income of 500 pounds a year of my own. You have risked your life for me, and I am not going to let you pay the piper, as well."
"All right, if it pleases you, Harry. I am delighted at having been able to save you and, just at present, money does not seem an important matter one way or the other; so if it really would be a satisfaction to you to pay, I will certainly not deprive you of it."
Although they only travelled ten miles the first day, Harry acknowledged that he was as tired as a dog when he dismounted; and was so stiff, the next morning, that he had to be helped on to his horse. However, this gradually wore off and, on the evening of the fourth day, they arrived at Prome. Leaving Harry at his regimental camp, Stanley rode to the headquarters, and there dismounted. Meinik had led the second horse, after Harry dismounted; and now took them both across to the lines, with the air of a man who has only been away a few hours. Stanley at once went up to the general.
"Welcome back, lad!" Sir Archibald said. "You have been longer away than we expected, when you started. I am glad, indeed, that you succeeded in rescuing your cousin; and we are all burning to hear about it. I wrote that note to you in a hurry, for I was on the point of going on a round of inspection of the camp, when your sowar arrived. I intended to question him concerning you, on my return; for I had no idea that, after making such a long journey, he would start back at once, but I found that he had ridden straight off, directly the note was handed to him. You must dine with me, today, and tell me all the story. I see, from the colour of your skin, that you have been in disguise again."
"Yes, sir. There were materials for dyeing the skin in the village, but nothing that availed to take it off. It is gradually going and, as I shall be now able to get some strong alkali, from the doctor, I hope I shall be presentable by tomorrow."
"They are honourable marks," the general said, with a smile. "I don't think any of us would mind being so coloured, for a bit, if we had done such good work as you have; but I won't detain you now, for dinner will be ready in half an hour."
Stanley hurried to his room, took a bath, donned his mess uniform, and was ready by the time the bugle sounded. Three or four of the staff were, as usual, members of the party. After the meal was over, he was requested to narrate his adventures, at full length. The story was necessarily a long one and, when he concluded, all joined the general in hearty commendation for the manner in which he had carried out the adventure.
"Your last story was a stirring one, Mr. Brooke," the general said; "but this is even more so. When I received your first note, I thought it next door to madness for you to try to get your cousin, badly wounded as you knew him to be, from the hands of the Burmese. It is not an easy thing to get any man out of prison but, when the man was unable to help himself, it seemed well-nigh impossible; and I was greatly afraid that, instead of saving his life, you would lose your own. Of course, the fact that you had successfully traversed the country before was strongly in your favour; but then you were unencumbered, and the two things were, therefore, not to be compared with each other. I shall, of course, put you in orders tomorrow as having performed a singularly gallant action, in rescuing Lieutenant Brooke of the 47th and a sowar from their captivity, by the Burmese, in a prison at Toungoo.
"You have arrived just in time for, after endeavouring to fool us for the past three months, by negotiations never meant to come to anything, the enemy are now advancing in great force, and are within a few miles of the town. So we are likely to have hot work of it for from all accounts, they have got nearly as large an army together as Bandoola had. I don't know whether they have learned anything from his misfortunes, but I am bound to say that the court does not seem to have taken the lesson, in the slightest degree, to heart; and their arrogance is just as insufferable as it was before a shot was fired."
Stanley learnt that there had already been one fight. The enemy were advancing in three columns. Their right--consisting of 15,000 men, commanded by Sudda Woon--had crossed the Irrawaddy, and was marching down the other bank; with the apparent object of recrossing, below Prome, and cutting the British line of communication. The centre--from 25,000 to 30,000 strong, commanded by the Kee Wongee--was coming down the left bank of the river, accompanied by a great fleet of war boats. The left division--15,000 strong, led by an old and experienced general, Maha Nemiow--was moving parallel with the others, about ten miles distant from the centre, but separated from it by a thick and impenetrable forest. A reserve of 10,000 men, commanded by the king's half-brother, occupied a strongly fortified post at Melloon. In addition to these, a large force was gathered near Pegu, and threatened an attack upon Rangoon.
On the 10th of November, a fortnight before Stanley's return, two brigades of native infantry--under Colonel M'Dowall--had marched out to dislodge Maha Nemiow; whose division threatened to turn the British right, and to move round to its rear. The force was divided into three columns; one moving directly towards the enemy's position, the others--marching by circuitous routes, so arranged as to arrive at the point of attack at the same time--were to attack in flank and rear, while the main body assailed the enemy in front. The Burmese had, however, obtained information from spies of the intended movement and, advancing boldly, met the British columns half way; skirmishing with them hotly in the woods, and threatening an attack by large bodies of horse.
The centre drove the Burmese before them, and reached their stockaded position. Colonel M'Dowall, while reconnoitring it, was killed by a ball from a musket and, as the two flanking columns did not arrive as expected, the force was compelled to fall back. The retreat was conducted in good order, but the loss was heavy, as the Burmese pressed hotly upon them for several miles.
Since this unfortunate affair, the enemy had steadily advanced. Maha Nemiow had moved directly upon Prome; advancing slowly, and constantly stockading himself. The centre had also advanced; and was now fortifying some heights above the river five miles away, within sight of Prome. Sudda Woon was intrenching himself on the opposite bank. All these divisions were working, day and night; advancing steadily but slowly, and erecting formidable lines of intrenchments as they went; and it seemed to be the intention of the Burmese general to proceed in that manner, until the whole of his troops were gathered within a very short distance of the town, and then to rush upon it from all sides.
In the morning, Stanley went to the lines of the 47th. Harry had, of course, told his story on his arrival; and the tale had circulated generally through the regiment and, as he rode in, the men ran out from their huts and cheered him heartily. No less warm a greeting did he receive from the officers, in spite of his protest that there had really been no great difficulty or danger in the affair.
"What I specially admire," one of the officers said, laughing, "is that any man should have run all this risk, on purpose, to prevent himself from coming into an earldom. You had only to leave the matter alone, and there you were--heir to title and estates."
"I should have been haunted by Harry's ghost," Stanley laughed. "It would have been as bad as Banquo and Macbeth; he would have sat at my table, and stood at the head of my bed. No, no; that would have been a much more serious affair, to face, than a party of Burmese. The title and estates would have been too dear, at the price."
"Well, you behaved like a brick, anyhow," the colonel said, "and there is not a man in the regiment who would not have been proud, indeed, if he had accomplished such a feat. Half my subalterns were talking, at dinner last night, of learning the language so that, if the chance fell in their way, they might emulate your doings."
"It is rather a tough language to master," Stanley replied. "It gave me more trouble than the four or five Indian languages I speak. I am afraid the campaign will be over, a long time, before any of your officers learn to talk Burmese well enough to pass as natives."
After the failure of the expedition of the 10th, no further effort had been made against the enemy. Indeed, the troops had been withdrawn from their outlying positions; and there had even been a feint made of embarking stores, as if with the intention of retiring down the river, in hopes of tempting the Burmese to make an attack.
The season had now come when operations could again be carried on, and the general was anxious to strike a decisive blow at the enemy, and then to set forward on the march towards Ava. As to the result of the fight, no one entertained the slightest doubt; although the disparity in numbers was very great for, while the Burmese commander had nearly 70,000 men at his disposal, Sir Archibald Campbell had no more than 6,000, of whom about one half were British.
It was determined that the main attack should be made on the division of Maha Nemiow. This was now some six or seven miles away and, beyond the fact that it was very strongly intrenched in the jungle, no information whatever could be gained; for the most vigilant watch was kept up by them, and all efforts to pass native spies into their lines failed. But it was known that among his division were 8,000 Shans, from Upper Burma and, as these men had not hitherto come in contact with us, it was expected that they would fight with more courage and resolution than those who had become acquainted with our power.
A large number of princes and nobles were with the force; and great reliance was placed, by the Burmese, upon three young ladies of high rank; who were believed by them to be endowed with supernatural gifts, and to have the power of rendering the missiles of the English innocuous. These young women, dressed in warlike costume, constantly rode among the troops; animating them by their presence, and exhorting them to deeds of courage. The English had received vague rumours of the doings of these Burmese Joans of Arc, and thought it probable that the enemy would fight better than usual.
On November 30th, arrangements were made for attacking the enemy on the following morning. The flotilla were to open a furious cannonade upon their works, on both sides of the river. A body of native infantry were to drive in the advance posts of the centre; while the main force was to attack their left in two columns, one moving directly against it, while the other was to attack on the right flank--thus preventing the enemy from retreating in the direction of the centre. Four regiments of native infantry were left in Prome.
General Cotton commanded the main attack and, soon after the column moved out from the camp, a tremendous cannonade showed that the flotilla was engaged with the Burmese, on both sides of the river. The column, which was composed of the 41st and 89th Regiments, with two battalions of native infantry, proceeded some distance before becoming engaged with the enemy's outposts; as the Burmese had been deceived by the cannonade, and believed that the attack was entirely upon the centre. The troops therefore reached their main position, around two native villages, without serious opposition.
Illustration: The old Burmese general was carried from point to point in a litter.
As they issued from the jungle into the cleared space in front of the stockade they rapidly formed up, under a tremendous fire, and rushed forward to the attack. The old Burmese general--who was too infirm to walk--could be seen, carried from point to point in a litter, cheering on his men, while the three Amazons exposed themselves fearlessly to the fire. The ladder parties, however, rushed forward unchecked and, in spite of the opposition of the enemy, scaled the stockade at one point, and won a footing on the rampart of earth behind it. Others pressed after them and, soon, a destructive fire was opened upon the crowded mass, pent up between the outer stockade and the next. The Burmese method of forming stockade behind stockade was useful, against a foe of no greater dash and energy than themselves; but was absolutely fatal when opposed to English troops, who gave them no time to fall back through the narrow openings in the palings. These were soon blocked by the dying and dead.
Some of the Shans, led by their chiefs, fought with desperate courage; but were unable to stand the advance of the British, whose steady volleys, poured in at distances of a few yards, swept them away. Wounded horses, rushing wildly about in the throng, added to the terrible confusion. Groups of men endeavoured to cut a way through the stockades behind, others strove to climb over. Maha Nemiow was killed, while bravely exhorting his men to stand their ground, and one of the heroic Amazons was shot. As soon as the troops reached the spot where she fell, and saw that she was a woman, she was carried into a cottage; and there died, a few hours afterwards. Stockade after stockade was carried, until the whole position fell into our hands.
In the meantime the other column, commanded by General Campbell himself, and consisting of the 13th, 38th, 47th, and 87th Regiments, and the 38th Madras Infantry, had moved down on the other side of the Nawine river; and taken up a position to command the ford there, by which the fugitives from the stockade must cross, on their way to join the centre. As the crowd of frightened men issued from the jungle, and poured across the ford, the artillery opened upon them with shrapnel, and completed their discomfiture. All thought of joining the centre was abandoned and, re-entering the jungle, they scattered; and the greater portion of them started for their homes, intent only on avoiding another contest with their foes. Another of the Burmese heroines was killed, at the ford.
Three hundred men had been killed, at the storming of the stockade; but a far greater loss took place in the retreat--very few of the Shans ever regaining their country; the greater portion perishing from starvation, in the great forests through which they travelled in order to escape the Burmese authorities, who would have forced them to rejoin the army.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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17
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: The Pride Of Burma Humbled.
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As soon as the victory was completed, the troops piled arms; and were allowed two hours' rest. Then they marched back, to the point where General Campbell's division had forded the Nawine river in the morning. From this point, a path led towards the enemy's centre; this it was determined to attack, at daybreak on the following morning, before the news of the defeat of its left could reach it.
The day had been a long and fatiguing one, and it was late before the troops all reached their halting place. A meal was served out, and then all lay down to rest. A messenger was sent to Prome, to announce the success that had been gained; and to request the commander of the flotilla to open fire, in the morning, as soon as the foe was seen to issue from the jungle in front of the Wongee's main position at Napadee.
Long before daylight, the troops were in motion. General Campbell's division led the way, along the narrow track leading towards the river; while General Cotton, who followed, was ordered to break off at any path which led towards the Burmese division, to make his way through the forest, and to attack the stockades directly he reached them. The main division would attack, as soon as they heard his guns.
After a two hours' march, the first division came out on open ground by the river side, signalled their arrival to the flotilla, and formed up in front of the stockaded heights of Napadee. The position was an extremely strong one. The enemy occupied three ranges of hills, rising one behind the other, and each commanding the one in front of it. One flank of these hills was protected by the river, the other by the almost impenetrable forest. The hills were all covered with stockades and, as they moved forward, the troops were exposed to so heavy a fire from an enemy entrenched at the edge of the jungle on the right that, before they could advance further, it was necessary to first drive them from this position. Six companies of the 87th were sent back into the forest and, making their way through this, came down in the rear of the stockades, speedily cleared them of their defenders, and compelled the advance force of the enemy to join their main body.
The troops then moved forward to the foot of the first hill, where two strong redoubts had been erected by the enemy. The fleet opened fire; but the column was halted, for a time, awaiting the sound of firing that should tell them General Cotton's column was engaged. No sound, however, was heard, for this force had been unable to make its way through the dense forest; and General Campbell, at last, gave the order for the attack.
It was commenced by the 47th and 38th Native Infantry, under Colonel Elvington; who pushed through the jungle and forest, until they reached some of the flanking outworks on the hill. These they attacked with such dash and determination that they speedily obtained possession of them, and thus produced a favourable diversion for the main attack.
This, consisting of the 13th, 38th, and 87th Regiments, advanced steadily, without returning a shot to the incessant fire from the enemy's various entrenchments; captured the two redoubts at the bottom of the hill; and then pressed upwards, carrying position after position at the point of the bayonet, till they arrived at the summit of the first hill.
The Burmese fugitives, as they fled to the next line of defence, shook the courage of the troops there; and the British, pushing forward hotly on the rear of the flying crowd, carried work after work until, in the course of an hour, the whole position, nearly three miles in extent, was entirely in their possession. Between forty and fifty guns were captured, and the enemy's loss in killed and wounded was very great while, by desertion alone, the Wongee lost a third of his army. While the attack had been going on, the flotilla had passed the works protecting the river face of the hills, and had captured all the boats and stores, filled with supplies for the use of the Burmese army.
Thus, two of the three Burmese divisions had now been completely routed; and there remained only that of Sudda Woon, on the other side of the river. The troops were allowed two days' rest and, on the morning of the 5th, a force advanced on board the flotilla. Their passage across the river was covered by the fire of a rocket brigade and a mortar battery--which had on the previous night been established on an island--and they landed at some distance above the enemy's stockades. They then marched round and attacked these in flank and rear, while the batteries and boats of the flotilla cannonaded them in front.
The enemy's troops were already disheartened, by the defeat they had seen inflicted upon the Wongee's army and, after a feeble resistance, fled to a second line of stockades in the jungle to their rear. The troops, however, pressed so hotly upon them that they were unable to make any effectual opposition here. Numbers fell, while endeavouring to pass through the narrow entrances of the work; and the rest fled, in terror, into the woods.
These extensive operations had been carried out with the loss of six officers, and some seventy or eighty men, only.
It was known that the enemy had very strongly fortified several positions, in and around Meaday; and it was determined to push forward, at once, on the long march of three hundred miles to Ava, before the enemy could rally from their defeat, and gather for the defence of these positions. On the 9th the first division, under General Campbell himself, started from Prome. The roads were extremely bad, and they were able to move but slowly.
Their course was first directed inland; as it was intended to turn the enemy's position at Meaday, by following a road several miles from the river, and thus forcing them to fall back as we advanced. On the next day the force reached the spot where Colonel M'Dowall had been killed, in the unsuccessful attack upon Maha Nemiow; and it then turned north, and followed the road parallel to the river.
On the 12th tremendous rains, for some hours, converted the road into a morass and, although the march was but five miles long, the greater portion of the column failed to reach its destination. This, however, was not the worst. Cholera broke out at once, and carried off a large number of victims--two of the British regiments being rendered almost unfit for service by its ravages.
On the 14th the division encamped on dry ground, on a ridge of wooded hills, and waited for a couple of days to allow the baggage train to come up. The change greatly benefited the health of the troops, and amusement was afforded by the partridges, jungle fowl, and deer which abounded in the neighbourhood of the camp.
Up to this point, no single native had been seen. The villages were all destroyed, and the country was completely deserted. On the 16th a strong Burmese fortification was taken, it being unoccupied save by a small picket, which retired on our advance. This had evidently been erected for the purpose of preventing the river fortifications from being turned, and its abandonment proved that the object of the land march had been gained; and that the enemy had abandoned the positions they had, with so much care, prepared for the defence of the river.
On the 18th they joined General Cotton's column and, the next day, entered Meaday. Here a terrible spectacle was met with. The town and the ground within the stockades was strewn with dead and dying; some from wounds, others from cholera--for the ravages of this plague had been as great, among the Burmese, as in the British force. A number of men were found crucified on gibbets, doubtless as a punishment for attempting to desert. The air was pestilent; and the force was glad, indeed, to march on the next morning from the locality.
They gained something, but not much, from the change. For the next fifty miles, dead bodies were met with at very short intervals and, each day before camping, many corpses had to be removed before the tents could be fixed.
It was now known that the Burmese army, in its retreat, had been concentrated at Melloon, where the reserve of 10,000 men had been posted. On the 27th, the division encamped within four miles of that town. They had now marched a hundred and forty miles, from Prome, without meeting a single inhabitant of the country, or being enabled to obtain any cattle, whatever, for the supply of the troops, so effectually had the enemy wasted the country as they retired.
Melloon stood on the opposite bank of the Irrawaddy; and letters had arrived from that town saying that a commissioner had arrived, from Ava, with full powers from the king to conclude a treaty of peace. Colonel Adair and Stanley, accordingly, were sent off the next morning to Melloon, to arrange for an immediate meeting for the commissioners. However, they could come to no arrangement, the Burmese leaders insisting that so important a business could only be carried on when a favourable day arrived; and that no time could, at present, be stated. Seeing that the principal object of the Burmese was to gain time, the colonel informed them through Stanley that, as no arrangements had been made, the troops would recommence their advance as soon as he returned to the camp and, accordingly, the next morning the division moved forward to a town immediately opposite Melloon.
That place stood on the face of a sloping hill and, as the Irrawaddy was here but 600 yards broad, a good view was obtained of the fortifications. The principal stockade was in the form of a square, about a mile on each face, mounting a considerable number of guns--especially on the side facing the river; and a succession of stockades extended for a mile farther along the banks. The great work was crowded with men. In front of the town lay a large fleet of war boats, and larger craft with stores.
A short time after the troops reached the spot, a great noise of gongs, drums, and other warlike instruments arose on the other side, and crowds of boatmen were seen running down to the vessels. These were soon manned, and oars got out, and they began to row up the river. As, owing to the intricacy of the channel, the steamboat and flotilla had not yet arrived, a few shots were fired at the boats by the field guns. This had the desired effect, many of the boatmen jumping overboard, leaving their craft to drift down the river; while the great bulk hastily turned their vessels about, and anchored in their former position.
As soon as the steamer with the flotilla came up, two war boats pushed off from shore, saluted the steamer, and rowed alongside of her until she and the flotilla were safely anchored above the town. This was so evidently a mark of a real desire for the suspension of hostilities that the two officers were again sent across the river. A truce was agreed upon, and an arrangement made for the meeting of the negotiators, upon the following day.
Four meetings were held, between the two commissioners and those appointed by the British general, the meetings taking place on boats moored in the centre of the river. At length the treaty was accepted and signed, by the Burmese, and fifteen days' truce allowed for the ratification of the treaty by the king. As the end of that period approached, the Burmese protested that they had not yet received an answer, and asked for further time; which was refused, unless on the condition that Melloon was evacuated, and the Burmese army fell back until the ratification of the treaty reached them. As had been for some time strongly suspected, the negotiations were simply a device to arrest our advance; and the treaty was afterwards found in the Burmese camp, it never having been forwarded to Ava.
At midnight on the 18th, when the armistice came to a conclusion, the troops began throwing up earthworks, the heavy guns were landed from the flotilla and, at ten o'clock the next morning, twenty-eight guns were in position ready to open fire. In spite of remonstrances that had been made, the Burmese had, night after night during the armistice, continued to work surreptitiously at their entrenchments. It was hoped for a moment that, when they saw the speed with which our batteries had been thrown up and armed, they would offer no farther resistance. As, however, they were evidently preparing for action, our guns opened fire at eleven o'clock.
This was kept up for two hours. While it was going on, the troops intended for the assault were embarked in boats, some distance up the river, so as to ensure their not being carried by the force of the stream across the face of the Burmese works, and exposed to the concentrated fire of the enemy. They were divided into four brigades; the first of which--consisting of the 13th and 38th Regiments, under Lieutenant Colonel Sale--were to land below the stockade, and to attack its south-western angle; while the other three brigades were to land above it, to carry some outworks there, and to attack the northern face.
A strong northerly wind, and the violent current, prevented the assaults being made simultaneously. The first brigade was carried too far across and, as it passed the stockade, was exposed to the fire of the guns and musketry of the river defences; while the three other brigades were unable, for some time, to reach their intended landing places. Colonel Sale was among those wounded by the Burmese fire but, directly the first brigade reached the shore, they formed up under the partial cover of a shelving bank and, led by Lieutenant Colonel Frith, moved forward to the assault in admirable order. When within a short distance there was a forward rush, in spite of the storm of shot. The ladder party gained the foot of the stockade and, placing the ladders, climbed up, and leapt down among the surging crowd of the enemy. Others followed and, soon, a firm footing was obtained in the works. Then the men of the two regiments--whose total strength did not exceed five hundred--advanced steadily, drove before them some 10,000 armed men, and expelled them from the works that the Burmese had deemed impregnable.
While this was going on, the other three brigades had landed above the stockade and, now falling upon the enemy as they poured out from their works, completed their defeat. All the stockades were carried, and the whole of the artillery and stores fell into our possession.
Four days later, the army again began its advance. They were met by four Englishmen, who had been taken prisoners; and an American, who had also been held in confinement. These had been sent to assure the English general that the king was in earnest in his desire for peace. It was but too evident, however, that no confidence could be placed in Burmese negotiations; and it was, moreover, known that another army was being assembled, in the greatest haste, to bar the advance.
On the 14th of February the British reached Pakang-Yay, having passed Sembeughewn on the opposite shore. This was the point where the road from Aracan reached the Irrawaddy, and it had been arranged that the force that had been operating in Aracan should, if possible, effect a junction with Sir Archibald Campbell here. A message brought down by a native was, however, received; stating that the force had suffered very severely from fever and cholera, and that the natural obstacles were found to be too great to be overcome by troops debilitated by disease--that the attempt had, therefore, been abandoned. Fortunately, the English general was well able to do without this addition to his strength. He had already proved that his command was perfectly capable of defeating any Burmese force that could be brought against him, and an addition would only have increased the difficulty of transport.
On the 9th of March the British force which, owing to the necessity for leaving strong bodies to hold Melloon and other points that had been captured, now mustered less than 2,000 fighting men, advanced to attack the enemy, whose numbers were estimated at 16,000.
The new commander of the Burmese adopted other tactics than his predecessors. His stockaded position was in front of the town of Pagahn, but he occupied the jungle in great force, and attacked our advance guard, five miles from the town. As the enemy occupied the hills on both sides of the main road, Sir A. Campbell divided his force and led half of it through the jungle on the right, while General Cotton led the other half through the woods on the left.
The Burmese fought with considerable obstinacy. General Campbell and his staff, with thirty-eight troopers and fifty men of the 13th, were somewhat in advance of the column; when the enemy closed in on both flanks, and even got in their rear. These were, however, dispersed by the rest of the 13th and, driving back the Burmese on the flanks, the advance was continued. Presently, however, as the British issued from the jungle, a mass of the enemy's horse charged down, drove back the skirmishers and, for a time, the position of the general and his staff was one of great peril. His little body of troopers, however, dashed boldly at the assailants and held them in check, until the guns that had followed the staff were brought forward from the jungle. Then the troopers divided and rode right and left; and the guns, opening fire, checked the assailants until the infantry came up.
The Burmese army was now seen, drawn up in the form of a semicircle, in the open. The two British columns were united and, together, moved forward to attack the centre of the crescent, disregarding the fire from its wings. When within charging distance, they went forward with a rush and, cheering lustily, fell upon the Burmese; and broke their centre, thus isolating the two wings. The Burmese at once retreated, with the greatest haste, to the stockaded position in their rear. As usual, the narrow entrances to the stockades caused great delay; and the British were upon them before they were, in any way, prepared to resist the assault.
Heralding their advance by sweeping volleys, they fell upon the Burmese with the bayonet, and drove them out of their works. The enemy made an attempt to rally, behind the walls and in the pagodas of the town, but the effort was vain. They were driven out with great slaughter, hundreds were drowned in endeavouring to swim the river, and the army was finally dispersed in all directions.
The effect of this victory was at once apparent. The country people--who had, on the advance of the British force from Prome, been cleared out from the villages along the whole line of route--being now freed from the restraint of their troops, came flocking back in great numbers--some by the roads and some in boats--and it was evident that they regarded the struggle as definitely terminated. There was, indeed, no possibility of further resistance; as the armies of Burma, raised with immense difficulty and by heavy bounties and the promises of great reward, were hopelessly scattered, and Ava lay open to the British advance.
In other directions their position was equally desperate. Aracan had been wholly rescued from their grasp. A British force in Pegu had marched up the river Sitang and, after the repulse of a party of a hundred and fifty men, imprudently sent to attack Sitang itself, captured the place after a sharp fight and, receiving reinforcements from Rangoon, continued their way up the river and captured Toungoo; while the northern force had driven the Burmese out of Manipur, and had reached the river Ningti by the 2nd of February, and were in a position to advance direct upon Ava.
After a halt of two days, General Campbell advanced on the 12th of February. Mr. Price, the American who had been sent down after the capture of Melloon, went forward to Ava with the treaty that had been drawn up before the capture of that place; and the king had no longer any hesitation in complying with its terms--and was, indeed, delighted to find that the recent victory of the invaders had not increased their demands. He at once sent down to accept them but, as no official ratification was sent, the march continued; while Mr. Price again returned to Ava. When the force was within four days' march of the capital, the latter returned with the Burmese commissioners and other high functionaries, with the ratified treaty, and the first instalment of the money that was to be paid.
It was a disappointment to the army that, after their long march and many sufferings, they were not to be allowed to enter the enemy's capital in triumph. Undoubtedly, however, the course taken was the wisest. Ava was regarded as a sacred city, and it was to save it from the humiliation of being occupied by the invaders that the king had brought himself to accept the terms of the treaty. Had the English general insisted upon entering the capital, and signing the treaty there, he would have found no one to meet him. The population would have been driven out, the king and court would have retired farther up the country, and the war might have continued for an indefinite time.
Already its cost had been enormous, exceeding 5,000,000 pounds sterling. During the first eleven months after landing at Rangoon, nearly half of the Europeans died and, from the time they advanced from that town with fresh reinforcements from India, to the arrival near Ava, a similarly heavy loss was sustained. Four percent of the number engaged was killed in action. The climate of Aracan was still more deadly, as three-fourths of the white troops employed there died, and very few of the survivors were ever fit for service afterwards. The sepoys suffered less in Aracan, losing only ten percent of their number, though nearly half the force were in hospital for some time.
According to agreement the Burmese, as soon as peace was concluded, sent down a large number of boats for the conveyance of the troops down the river. As they descended it, the garrisons left at Melloon and other places were withdrawn. One of the native regiments, with some elephants and guns, left the force at Sembeughewn; and marched thence to Aracan, for the purpose of investigating the country, and proving whether it was practicable for the passage of troops in case another advance upon Ava should ever be necessary. They found the road unexpectedly good, and met with no resistance whatever, except in the passage of some passes over the mountains.
At Melloon, Stanley was very glad to meet his cousin again, for the 47th had been left in garrison there. Harry had been down again, with a sharp attack of fever, but was now recovering.
"So it is all over, Stanley, and your chances of an earldom have nearly slipped through your fingers."
"I am glad, indeed, that it is so," Stanley laughed, "in the first place, because I could only have succeeded to it at your death; and in the second place, because I have no ambition, whatever, for a title. I am not nineteen yet, and should greatly prefer to make my own way, than to find myself with nothing whatever to do, except to spend money as it dropped into my lap.
"Now that everything is settled, and that Aracan has become English, and we have the seaports on the Tenasserim coast, trade will increase tremendously. You may be sure that the Burmese will be only too glad to flock into our provinces, and to live under a fair rule, to escape the tyranny of their own officials; and my uncle is just the man to take advantage of the new openings. I don't say that I want to live out here all my life. At any rate, I hope by the time that I am thirty, to be able to come home for a year's holiday; and it is just possible that, by then, we may have grown into such a big firm that we may establish headquarters in London, instead of getting all our goods from Calcutta.
"There is certain to be a very big trade here, in teak alone. The price in Pegu is a great deal below that in India and, if we had a house in London, we should avoid having to pay commissions, and perhaps get better prices for our wood. Of course, my uncle may by that time think of retiring himself and, in that case, I might have to stay somewhat longer out here; but I know that he likes the climate, and I have heard him say that, as he has very few acquaintances in England, he thinks that he should prefer a life in Calcutta to one in London."
"I should not wonder if I go home, very shortly," Harry said. "My last letter told me that my uncle was in failing health, and that he would like to have me at home with him. If the next letter confirms that, I am afraid I shall have either to resign my commission, or exchange into a regiment at home. Of course, at his death I should have to leave the army, anyhow. It would be ridiculous for a subaltern to be an earl; besides, there are things one would have to do. I suppose there are estates to be looked after, and all sorts of nuisances.
"Anyhow, I shall always be glad I have had my share in this expedition. I have learned what campaigning is; and I must say that, under such circumstances as we have gone through, it is not quite so pleasurable as I had expected. Half one's friends are dead or invalided home; and one never knows, when one wakes in the morning, whether one may not be down with cholera before night. The fighting is all well enough but, after all, that takes up but a very small portion of one's time; and marching and, I may say, living generally in this hot, sweltering climate, with its six months of rain, is not enviable work. However, I have gone through one regular campaign, and that as severe a one as British troops have ever performed; and above all, old man, I have met you, and we have come to be great friends, and I have learned what one fellow will do for another."
"I am sure I am very glad to have gone through it, too. I have been fortunate, indeed, in never having been laid up for a single day; and there is no doubt that having served on the staff will be of great advantage to me, even as a trader. I own that I should like to have retired a captain. Of course, promotion has been tremendously fast, owing to the death vacancies, but I have still two lieutenants over me."
"You are sure to get the step, Stanley. You have been in general orders twice, besides that notice you got for my rescue. Also, the doctors say that a number of the men who have been sent down to the coast are not likely to live many weeks and, as five of your seniors have been invalided, you may get your step, in the natural course of things, at any moment.
"If I were you, I should ask for three months' leave before rejoining your regiment. There will be no difficulty about that, after you have been upwards of two years in constant work; and the general will certainly not refuse. Before the end of that time you will have seen your uncle, and talked matters over. Then, if you choose to resign your commission, you can of course do so but, as you are pretty sure to get your step, by death, before the end of the three months; and as the general's despatches strongly recommend your services, you may get your brevet majority before your resignation reaches England. A man who has been mentioned two or three times in despatches, and is specially recommended for honours, is sure to get his brevet majority directly he gets his company."
On reaching Rangoon, Stanley learned that two of the invalids had died, either on the way down or before they could be put on board a ship; and that one of the majors, who had been sent to India for change, four months before, had also succumbed; so that he had already obtained his company--a promotion which would have been, at any other time, extraordinary; but which, in a campaign where half those engaged were carried off, was nothing remarkable. Being still on the headquarter staff, he embarked with Sir Archibald Campbell.
"You still hold firm to your determination to leave the service, Captain Brooke?" the general said, in the course of the passage to Calcutta.
"Yes, sir. I am sure that it is best for me."
"I think it is, Brooke. Of course, you have been exceptionally fortunate in getting such rapid promotion. Still, a good business is a great deal better than soldiering. I wrote very strongly in your favour, when I sent off my despatches the day we came down to the coast; and you are certain of your brevet. Still, it is just as well that the news of your resignation should not get home before the Gazette comes out, with your name in it. I think the best thing that I can do is to give you leave, for a time, as soon as we get to Calcutta. I am sure that you deserve a rest, for your work has been terribly heavy."
"Thank you, sir; that was just the favour that I was going to ask you. I shall find out, as soon as I get there, where my uncle is; and join him. My own mind is quite made up, but he has certainly a right to be consulted, before I take any final step."
"Quite right. I feel no doubt that his opinion will agree with yours; and I think that you are showing a good deal more wisdom than most fellows would do, to give up the service when you have distinguished yourself, and have a much better chance than falls to the lot of one man in a hundred. Still, there can be no real doubt that a man in a good business, out here, can retire early and go home with a fortune; while in the army you are liable at any time, after you get to the rank of colonel, to be laid on the shelf for years.
"Besides, you will be your own master, which is more than anyone in the army can say. You can go home when you like, either for a stay or for a permanency; and you are not liable to have to run the risk of another campaign such as this has been."
"If one was sure of campaigns, I don't think that I could possibly bring myself to leave the service; but it is the probability of being kept, for three or four years at a time, doing nothing at Calcutta or Madras that decided me."
The general nodded.
"You are quite right, Brooke; on active service a soldier's life is, indeed, a stirring one; but there is nothing more dull and monotonous than garrison life, in peace time."
Accordingly, as soon as they landed in Calcutta, Stanley was put in orders for absence on leave, for three months. He learned, from his uncle's agent, that they had heard from him only a few days before, at Chittagong; and that he was then on the point of leaving for Aracan, whither he had ordered a large consignment of goods to be forwarded to him, by the next ship.
Three days later, Stanley started to join him, leaving his address at Aracan with Sir Archibald Campbell, in case there should be need to recall him before the three months' leave expired. The vessel in which he was sailing carried the consignment of goods to his uncle; and he had, therefore, no fear of finding that the latter had left Aracan before his arrival. Meinik was still with him. He had left the army after the last battle had been fought, and had travelled to the spot where he had buried his money before embarking with Stanley in the canoe and, after an absence of three days, rejoined the force. On the way down to Rangoon, Stanley had a long talk with him as to his future plans.
"I have only one plan, master, and that is to stay with you, as long as I live."
"But you will have plenty to live comfortably upon now, Meinik. For, after all that you have done for me, of course I shall arrange for you to have a sum that will keep you in comfort."
Meinik shook his head.
"Burma is a bad country, master. After living with the English, I would not go back to live under the king's officers, in any case. Any money that I had would be squeezed out of me, before long. No, master, I will go with you, unless you drive me from you; if you do, I will go to Chittagong, and live there, but I do not think that you will do that."
"Certainly not, Meinik. As long as you are willing to remain with me, I shall be very glad, indeed, to have you; but if, at any time, you wish to marry and settle down on land of your own, I shall give you five hundred pounds--which is only a small portion of the sum those rubies, which you got your band to give me, brought me in."
"I daresay I shall marry," Meinik said, "but that will make no difference. As long as I live, I shall stay with you."
Meinik had been astounded at Calcutta; which presented a strong contrast, indeed, to the city which, as a Burman, he had regarded as the most important place in the world.
"The Burmese are fools, master. They should have sent two or three men here, before they made up their minds to go to war. If they had been truly told what Calcutta was like, they would never have ventured to make war with the English."
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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18
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: In Business Again.
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When the vessel arrived at the mouth of the Aracan river, a canoe was seen coming out from Akyah--a town situated at the entrance to the principal of the several channels by which the river makes its way, through a number of sand banks and islands, into the sea. As it approached, Stanley recognized his uncle sitting in the stern.
"Well, uncle, how are you?" he called out, as the boat approached the side.
"What, is it you, Stanley? I am glad, indeed, to see you. I have watched the papers anxiously, to see if your name appeared among those who have been killed or have died; not seeing it, I hoped that you were all right. Of course we heard, from the Madras regiment that came across from Sembeughewn, that it was all over; and that all the troops would be shipped off, as soon as they went down to Rangoon; but I have not seen any papers lately, and so have not had a chance of learning any news of you. I fancied, though, that you would be back at Calcutta by this time; and thought that I might get a letter from you, by this ship."
By this time he was on deck, and after a hearty shaking of hands, Stanley asked what he was doing here.
"I did not expect to see you until we got to Aracan."
"I have been up there, lad. It is a decaying old place, and the stream is in many places shallow; so that it would be very difficult to take up a ship of any size. I foresee, therefore, that this is going to be the chief port of the province--timber will be floated down here, and rice brought down in native boats--so I shall make my headquarters here, as far as this district is concerned, and put Johnson in charge. I doubt whether, for a time, we shall do as much trade as we shall higher up the coast; but everyone expects a great Burmese immigration, and a large trade is likely to spring up, in time.
"I have not quite determined on my next move, and it is not improbable that I shall go down in this ship and establish myself, for a time, at Martaban; and open a trade in Tenasserim. If I decide on that, I shall only get on shore a portion of my goods, and take the rest on with me there.
"Now, what are you going to do, Stanley?"
"Just what you think best, uncle. I should have thought that, as I speak the language, it would be better for me to go on to Martaban; and for you to work Chittagong, and the district up to Assam."
"Then you are going to stay with me, lad!" his uncle exclaimed, in a tone of much satisfaction. "I was afraid that you would have got so fond of soldiering that you would have thrown this over, altogether."
"Not a bit of it, uncle. I am on three months' leave at present and, at the end of that time, I shall resign. You know I am a captain, now--that is to say, that I have got my rank by death vacancies, though until the Gazette comes out from England, I can hardly be said to be a pucka captain; and, what is more, the general himself assured me that, after being mentioned in despatches two or three times, and at his strong commendation of my services, I was sure of the brevet rank of major."
His uncle took off his hat, gravely.
"I must apologize to you," he said, "for addressing you as 'lad.' I had no idea that you were a full-grown captain, still less that you might soon be a major."
"I don't care a snap for the title, uncle," Stanley said, laughing, "except that it may be an advantage to me, in places where there are garrisons; and indeed, generally where there are white officials."
"A very great advantage, Stanley.
"Well, lad, I have been coining money, since I saw you at Rangoon. I have been sending a consignment of bullocks down there, every week; and have done almost as much with the Manipur force. I have also got the contract regularly, now, for the supply of the troops at Calcutta. Other trade has, of course, been at a standstill. Now that everything has quieted down, there will be a perfect rush; and I have been sorely troubled, in my mind, whether it would be best to stay up here and take advantage of it, or to be one of the first to open trade at these new ports. Of course, if you are ready to take Martaban, that will decide me; and I shall take passage in the first ship going up to Chittagong. My own boat and the dhow are both there, and I shall at once work up all the rivers, and set things going again.
"I have a capital fellow, a native, who is carrying on the cattle business for me and, at Chittagong, I shall try and get hold of three or four more trustworthy fellows, to take charge of depots. I see a big future before us, and that before long. I did well with those gems of yours--they fetched 3500 pounds, which I used, besides what you handed over to me--for there was no buying up the cattle without cash and, as I generally have to wait two months after they are shipped, before I get paid, ready money was invaluable and, indeed, I could not have gone into the thing on anything like the same scale, if it had not been for your money. The Calcutta people would have helped me, to a certain point; but they would never have ventured upon such advances as I required. Your 5000 pounds has doubled itself since I met you at Rangoon. I calculate that our stores at the different depots are worth 4000 pounds so that, at the present moment, the firm of Pearson & Brooke have at their command a capital of 14,000 pounds."
A portion of the cargo was landed at Akyah. Stanley went down with the rest to Martaban, and his uncle sailed for Chittagong. A few months later, a store was opened at Rangoon. Parsee store-keepers were sent from Calcutta, by Tom Pearson; and these were placed in control of the stores there, and at Martaban--Stanley being in charge of these two stations, and Akyah; and having a native craft of his own, and a boat for river work similar to that of his uncle.
A year later he received a letter from Harry, saying that his uncle had died, a month after his return to England; and that he was now established as one of the pillars of the state.
"As I went through London, on my arrival," he said, "I looked up your mother at the address you gave me, at Dulwich. I found her very well, and very comfortable. She was full of your praises and, as I was equally so, your ears ought to have tingled while we were together. Of course they wanted to hear all about you, and most of it was new to them; for you had said nothing of your adventure with that leopard, and only a few lines about the rescue of your humble servant; though you had told them that I stood in your way of the earldom. Your mother said that she was prouder of you than if you were an earl, only that she would have liked to have you at home. I told her that you and your uncle were shaking the pagoda tree, and that you would come home as yellow as a guinea and as rich as a nabob, in the course of a few years.
"Your sisters are older than I expected to find them. Of course, you always spoke of them as when you saw them last. They are both growing into very pretty girls, the elder especially. I made your mother promise to bring them down to stay with me, for a bit, when I came into the title; which I knew could not be long, for I had called that morning on my uncle's solicitors, and they told me that he was not expected to live many weeks. As it is only a month since he died, I suppose I ought not to have visitors, just yet; but in a few weeks I shall go up to town, and bring them down with me. I cannot help thinking that it is a little selfish for, when they see this place, they would not be human if they did not feel that it would have been yours, if it had not been for your getting me out of the hands of those Burmese.
"I see that you are gazetted captain, this week. I suppose, long before this, you have settled down to your old work of going up sluggish streams; and trying to stir up the equally sluggish native to a sense of the advantages of British goods. At present, I am quite content to do nothing particular--to ride and drive about, return calls, and so on--but I expect, before very long, I shall get restless, and want to be doing something. However, there is the Continent open to one, and decent hotels to stop at. No fevers there, and no Burmese brigands."
A month later he had a letter from his mother, which had been written before that of Harry, but had been sent to Calcutta and thence to Akyah; and had there lain until his return, two months later, from a boat journey up to Pegu. She said how kind it was of his cousin to come in, to give them news of him, the very day he arrived in London.
"Of course, we were delighted with all that he told us about you; but it made us anxious to think of your running into so many dangers. We like him very much. We could not help laughing, because he seemed quite concerned that you should not have the peerage, instead of him. He seems likely to come into it soon, for he tells us that the earl is very ill. He says that we must come down and pay him a visit, as soon as he is master there; but I don't know whether that can be. Of course it would be a nice change, and I believe that it is a very fine place. I said that it would seem strange our going there, when there are no ladies, and that bachelors did not generally entertain; but he said that, in the first place he should have his sisters there, who were about the same age as my girls; and that as we were his nearest relations, and you were at present his heir, it would be quite the right and proper thing for us to come down. He seemed quite in earnest about it, and I should not be surprised if we go."
Three months later, Stanley heard that the visit had been paid, and that they had stayed a fortnight there.
"It feels quite funny, settling down here again after being in that big house, with all those servants and grandeur; not that there is any grandeur about Harry. He insists, being relations, that we shall call him by his Christian name. Everything was delightful. Every afternoon we used to go driving and, of a morning, he generally rode with the girls. He had a very pretty, gentle horse for Agnes; and a gray pony, a beauty, for Kate. I have a strong suspicion that he had bought them both, on purpose. I should not be surprised--but no, I won't say anything about it."
Stanley puzzled over this sentence, which was followed by: "His sisters are very nice girls."
"It is evidently something about Harry," he said to himself; "possibly she has taken the idea into her head that he may fall in love with Agnes. That, certainly, would be a very nice thing; but I don't suppose it is anything more than an idea of mother's."
However, four months later he received a letter from Harry, announcing his engagement.
"I told your mother that she must let me write by the mail, before she did; as it was only right that I should have the pleasure of telling you the news, myself. It is splendid, old man; upon my word, I don't know which I ought to feel most grateful to you--for saving my life, or for getting me to know your sister. It seems to me a regular dispensation of Providence. You did everything you could to prevent yourself from coming into a title; and now your sister is going to take it, and me. It is quite right that we should come to be brothers-in-law, for we are quite like brothers, already.
"We are to be married in the spring. How I wish you could be with us. Your absence will be the only thing wanting, to make everything perfect. I do hope you don't mean to stay, grilling out there, many years. It seems to me monstrous that I should be having estates and a big income, and all that sort of thing, when I have done nothing to deserve it; and that you should be toiling in that beastly climate. If I thought that there was the least chance of your rushing home, when you get this letter, I declare that I would put off the marriage for a month or so, so that you should be here in time; but as I feel sure that you won't do anything of the sort, it will be of no use for me to make such a noble sacrifice."
Stanley had received the news that he was gazetted brevet-major, a month after he was promoted to the rank of captain, and two months before his name appeared as having retired from the army. He derived, as he expected, much benefit from his connection with the army in his position at his three receiving ports, as it placed him on a very pleasant footing with the military and civil officials; and it rendered his occasional visits to Calcutta and Madras exceedingly pleasant, for in both towns he found many officers whose acquaintance he had made, during the expedition. He was always made an honorary member of the messes and clubs, during his stays there.
The business grew rapidly. The work of the earlier years had so well paved the way for larger operations that they were able to more than hold their own against other traders who, after the troubles were at an end, sought to establish themselves at various points on the western coast of the peninsula; and after six more years of hard and continuous work, the business came to be a very large and important one.
"I think it more than probable," Stanley wrote to his mother, "that before very long I shall be returning home. My uncle spoke about it, the last time that I saw him; and said that we were outgrowing Calcutta, and ought to establish ourselves in London. " 'We can hold on a bit longer,' he said, 'but we must come to that, sooner or later and, when it does, you must be the one to go to England and take charge. I may go home before that for a few months, but I have no wish or desire to stop there. We have now got a good staff; and I shall probably fix myself, permanently, at Calcutta.'"
Two years later Tom Pearson, on his return from England, brought back a wife with him, and established himself at Calcutta. Stanley joined him there, three weeks after his return. They had a long talk together, that evening.
"I see, Stanley," his uncle said, "that things have gone on improving, since I have been away; and that our turnover last year was 150,000 pounds, and the profits close upon 15,000 pounds. I think, now, that it is high time we opened a place in London. We have almost a monopoly of the teak trade, in Burma; and it would be much more advantageous for us to make our purchases in England, instead of here. We should save in carriage and in trans-shipment, besides the profits that the people here make out of their sales to us. I have made a great many inquiries, at home, as to the prices for cash in Manchester and Birmingham; and find that we should get goods there some fifteen percent cheaper than we pay at Calcutta, even after putting on the freights. So you see, it is an important matter. Besides, there would be a better choice of goods, and you know exactly the sort of thing that we require, and the quantities that we can get rid of; and would be able, therefore, to send consignments each month, without waiting for advices from me; and so we should get the things just as readily as we do now, from here.
"I will give you the names of some of the firms that I have visited, and with whom I have already paved the way for opening extensive transactions. During the eighteen months that I have been away, you have learned all about the banking business; and will find no more difficulty in managing, in London, than here. Your brother-in-law Netherly went with me to the Bank of England, and introduced me to one of the directors. I told him that we intended to open a house in London, and that as soon as we did so, we should open an account with them by paying in 30,000 pounds; and that we should, of course, require some facilities, but probably not to a large extent, as our payments for teak there would fairly balance our exports from England; and that I reckoned our trade to be, as a minimum, 50,000 pounds, each way.
"The matter was made extremely easy by Netherly saying, to my astonishment: "'You can let them draw what they like, Mr. Townshend, for I will give my personal guarantee, up to 50,000 pounds.'
"I remonstrated, but he would not hear anything said. " 'Ridiculous,' he exclaimed, hotly; 'Stanley is my brother-in-law. He risked his life for me, and you don't suppose that I should mind risking 50,000 pounds for him. " 'Not,' he went on, turning to the director, 'that there is any risk in the matter. I know all about the business they do in India, and that there is not a shadow of risk in it. I know that my guarantee will be a mere form but, as it may put them on a better footing with you, to begin with, I shall be very pleased to do it.'
"Of course, we know that there will be no risk in it. The greater portion of our business is a ready-money one and although, of late, we have been dealing more with native local firms instead of selling direct from our own stores, the amounts are never large and, so far, we have never lost a penny. Of course, I shall let you know, by every mail, how things are going on at all our depots; and you will then be able to form an estimate as to the amount of goods you will have to despatch to each--sending them direct, of course, if there happens to be a ship going.
"But all these things, of course, we shall go into, at length, before you start for England."
"Did you go down to Harry's place?"
"Yes, I stopped there a week. Your sister seems perfectly happy, and plays the part of queen of the county admirably. The four youngsters are jolly little things. As to your mother, you will find very little change in her. I really don't think that she looks a day older than when we saw her off, at Calcutta, something like ten years ago. Of course, then she was cut up with her loss; but quiet and comfort have agreed with her, and the climate is a good deal less trying than it is out here. At any rate, I should not take her for a day over forty, and she is something like five years older than that."
Three months later, Stanley sailed for England. There was the same argument between him and Meinik that there had been when Stanley first left Rangoon, but this time it terminated differently.
"You would be out of your element in England, Meinik. Of course, my life there will be very different from what it is here. I shall go away from home to business, every morning, and not get back until perhaps seven o' clock in the evening. As a consequence, there would be nothing for you to do for me, and we should see very little of each other. You know I should like to have you with me, and would do all that I could to make you comfortable; but I am sure that you would not like the life. Here you have always been on the move, and there is always something for you to do, and think of.
"I have spoken to my uncle about you, and he will be glad to appoint you to the position of purchaser, for our house, of teak and other native products in these provinces. Besides being buyer, you would go up the country, and see to the felling and getting the timber down to the coast, as you have often done before. He knows how absolutely I trust you, and how much you have done for me, and he said that he should be very glad to have you in charge of the buying side of the work, here. Besides, you know you have now a wife and children and, even if you could make yourself comfortable in England, they would never be able to do so; and the bitter cold that we sometimes have, in winter, would try them terribly, and might even carry them all off."
To these arguments Meinik had reluctantly yielded. He was somewhat proud of the position that he occupied, as one of some authority in the establishment of the principal merchants on the coast. He was fond of his wife and little children; and felt that to be established among strangers, of different habits and race, would be very terrible for them. Stanley bought him a nice house at Rangoon and, as his rate of pay, which had been gradually increased, was now sufficient to cause him to rank high among the native population, he himself came to feel that he had done wisely in accepting Stanley's advice.
The voyage to England was an uneventful one; and to Stanley, after the active life he had had for ten years, the five months spent at sea seemed almost interminable.
"I should not have known you, in the least," his mother said, after the first joyful greetings were over. "How much you have gone through, since we parted at Calcutta."
"I had a pretty rough time of it for two years, mother, during the war but, with that exception, my life has been a very pleasant one; and I have had nothing, whatever, to grumble about.
"This is a pretty house that you have chosen, mother, and the garden is charming. How I have longed, sometimes, for the sight of an English garden. Of course I have never seen one before, but I have heard you talk of them, and thought how delightful the green grass must be. Of course we had flowers in Burma--plenty of them--and shrubs; but it was not green, like this. It is charming."
"Yes, it is a pretty house, Stanley. We moved in here five years ago--thanks to you, dear boy--and it has been a very quiet, happy time. We have a good many friends now, among our neighbours; and have quite as much society as I care for.
"I suppose you have not yet decided whether you will live here, with us," she said, a little anxiously, "or set up an establishment of your own."
"Of course I shall stay here, mother. I never thought of anything else. I see that you have some stables. I shall get a couple of horses, and drive into town, in the mornings. I have got out of the way of walking, altogether.
"And where is Kate?"
"You will see her presently. She will be here to dinner, with Agnes and Harry. I sent her off, because I wanted to have you all to myself, for the first hour. The others came up to town, three days ago, on purpose to be here when you arrived. Of course, we heard when your ship called at Plymouth. We had been looking for her, for your last letter told us the name of the vessel that you were coming by; so I wrote to them, and they came up at once. They wanted us to go and dine with them, but I would not hear of it. I was sure that you would much rather dine quietly, here, than in state in Portman Square, with three or four footmen behind our chairs."
"Ever so much better, mother. I suppose I shall hardly know Agnes, but Harry cannot have altered much; besides, I have seen him four years later than her."
Harry's greeting was of the heartiest kind. Stanley's sisters felt, at first, a little strange with this brother of whom they had but a faint remembrance.
"It does not seem to me, Harry, that your dignities have tamed you down much."
"No, indeed," Harry laughed. "I find it, sometimes, very difficult to act up to my position. I never quite feel that I am an earl, except on the rare occasions when I go to the House of Lords--which I only do when my vote is wanted, on an important division.
"The gloom of that place is enough to sober anyone. I can assure you that, when I heard of the fire, I felt absolutely pleased. Of course, they will build another one, perhaps grander than the last, and as gloomy but, thank goodness, it must be years before it can be finished and, until then, we shall have to put up with temporary premises.
"Your chances of an earldom are getting more and more remote, Stanley. There are three boys barring the way, already. I had proposed to myself not to marry--in which case you or a son of yours would have followed me--but your sister overpersuaded me."
Agnes tossed her head, as she said: "At any rate, Harry, if you made that resolution, it was not worth much, as you gave it up at the first opportunity. I was the first girl you met, when you arrived in England; and I doubt whether you had seen another, before we came down to stay at Netherly. I had not been there two days before you began to make love to me."
"The temptation would excuse anything, my dear," Harry laughed. "Besides, you see, I saw at once that it was but fair and right to Stanley that, if he could not get the peerage himself, he might some day have the satisfaction of being uncle to an earl.
"And so you are home for good, old fellow?"
"Yes, and just at present I feel very much at sea as to how to get to work, as Tom Pearson arranged nothing except as to the banking account. Everything else he has left to me. I know nothing of London, and have no idea of the situation where I should look for offices."
"I will put you up to all that, Stanley. I don't know anything about it myself, as you may suppose; but if you will go with me to my solicitors, tomorrow, they will be able to tell you. But I do know that Leadenhall Street is the centre of the Indian trade, and it's somewhere about there that you will have to fix yourself.
"Of course, when you have taken a place, you will have to get hold of some clerks. If you put an advertisement in the paper, you will get any number of applicants; or possibly my men may, through their connection with merchants, be able to hear of some to suit you. Anyhow, I am sure that you will find no difficulty."
Thanks to Harry's introductions, Stanley was established in a handsome suite of offices, with three clerks, with much greater ease than he had anticipated. Being thoroughly versed in business, he was not long before he was at home in his new life.
Three years after his return, he married Harry's youngest sister. The firm flourished greatly, and became one of the leading houses in the Eastern trade. At the age of sixty, Stanley retired from business with a large fortune. He could do this comfortably, as his eldest son and a nephew had become active partners in the firm. He still lives, at the age of eighty-six, in a noble mansion near Staines; and retains all the faculties, even at advanced age.
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{
"id": "21242"
}
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Dr Martin wore a close-fitting black silk cap.
Why?
Well, the answer to the old riddle, "Why does a miller wear a white hat?" is, "To keep his head warm."
That answer would do for a reply to the question why this grey, anxious-looking Dr Martin wore a close-fitting black silk cap as he sat poring over an old book opposite Phil Carleton, who also bent over a book; but he was not reading, for he had a pencil in his fingers and a sheet of paper covering one page, upon which sheet he was making notes.
Not a single one, for Phil was not far enough advanced for such work as that. He was drawing, after a fashion, and very busily, when the old Doctor, his tutor, suddenly looked up.
"Now, my dear boy," he said, "can you say that declension?"
Phil started and shut up the book suddenly, turning very red the while.
"Don't you know it yet?" said the Doctor, gravely.
The boy shook his head and looked terribly confused.
"Then you cannot have been studying it. What have you there?"
The Doctor spoke like a Frenchman, and said _dere_.
"Ah," he continued, reaching out his hand and drawing out the paper. "I see, drawing-soldiers, eh?"
Phil nodded.
"Vairy fonnee soldiers, my boy. I should not know but for this sword. And is this a gun?"
Phil nodded again.
"Ah," said the old French-Canadian, "it is a pity you think so much of soldiers. You should learn your lesson."
"I'm going to be a soldier--some day," said Phil.
"Ah, yes, some day. Like my dear old friend, your father," said the Doctor, with a sigh.
"Yes," cried the boy, eagerly. "Is he coming to see me, Dr Martin?"
"Why do you ask? Are you not happy here?"
"Not very," said the boy, sadly.
"Ah, I am sorry. What is the reason? There, speak out."
The boy hesitated for a few moments, and then burst out with, "It's because of the Latin, and what Pierre said."
"Ah, the Latin is hard, my child; but if you work hard it will grow easy. But tell me; what does Pierre say?"
"He says the French are going to fight the English and drive them out of the country, and my father is sure to be killed."
"Pierre is a bad, cruel boy to speak to you like that. He deserves the stick."
"Then there is not going to be any fighting, Dr Martin?"
The old man shook his head.
"I am afraid," he said, sadly. "Perhaps you ought to know, my child. The English troops are advancing against the city yonder, and I am very anxious. I am hoping every day to obtain some news from your father--a letter or a message, to tell me what to do. It is unfortunate that we should be staying here among my people and war to begin."
"Then there is going to be fighting?" cried the boy.
"I fear so, my boy."
"Then I know."
"You know what, Phil?"
"My father will come and fetch me." The old man shook his head.
"He is with his regiment, my child, and could not come away."
The old man stopped short, for the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, heavy-looking boy of seventeen or eighteen came hurriedly in.
"Some one wants you, Uncle Martin," he cried.
"Yes, quite right," came in a sharp, short, military tone. "That will do, my young friend. Thanks."
The speaker, a tall bronzed personage in plain clothes, strode into the room, held the door open, and signed to the big lad to pass out, which he did slowly and unwillingly, but not before he had heard Phil utter the one word, "Father!" as he sprang forward to fling his arms round the visitor's waist.
"My boy!" was the response. Then to the Doctor, "That's unlucky! But that boy does not understand English?"
The Doctor shook his head.
"I am afraid he does, quite well enough to grasp who you are."
"Tut! tut! tut!" ejaculated the visitor. "But tell me; are there any troops near here?"
"Many, a few miles away," said the Doctor.
"But he is not likely to go and tell them that there is an Englishman here?"
"I hope not. Oh, no; I will see that he does not. Then there is risk in your coming here, my friend?"
"I'm afraid so; but I was obliged to come, Martin."
"But, father, why have you not come in your uniform?"
"Quiet, boy," was the reply; "I have no time to explain. Look here, Martin, old friend; when I agreed that Phil here should come on this long visit with you I had no idea that matters would turn out like this. But there is no time to waste. You must get out of the country as fast as you can."
"With your son?"
"Of course. Get south, beyond the English lines. You understand?"
"Yes. Quite."
"Then now get me something; bread and meat or bread and water--I am nearly starved."
"You'll have dinner with us, father?" cried Phil.
"No, my boy; I must be off at once."
"Oh, father, take me with you," cried Phil, piteously.
"I cannot, my boy. I must get back to my regiment, and at once."
"So soon?" said the old Doctor, sadly.
"Yes, so soon. If it got about that I was here I should be seized and shot for a spy."
"Father!" cried Phil, clinging to him.
"But I am not going to be caught, nor shot neither, my boy," cried the Captain, raising him on a chair so that they stood face to face.
"And you'll take me with you, father?"
"Impossible, boy. Come, be a man. You shall join me soon, but I cannot take you with me. Dr Martin will bring you."
"But, father--" "Phil, what have I always taught you?" cried the Captain.
"To--to--be obedient."
"That's right. Now, do you want to help me?"
"Yes, father. So much."
"Then listen to all I say. Now, Doctor," continued the Captain, "I have ventured into the enemy's camp--not as a spy, but to see you and my boy. I dare not stay ten minutes before I hurry back to join our people."
"Then the English forces are near?" said the old Doctor, excitedly.
"That is not for you to know or question me upon. It is enough if I tell you that this is no place for my son, and if things go against us you will take him back to England. You promise that?"
"I have promised it, Carleton. I have all your old instructions, and come what may I will deliver him safely into the hands of your relatives and friends."
"I am satisfied, Doctor," said the Captain, huskily, "and I shall go back to my regiment in peace. Now then, the bread and meat I asked for--quick! And you will see that the lad who showed me in does not leave the place till I have been an hour upon my road? I must have that start, for my poor horse is pretty well done up."
The Doctor made no reply, but hurried out of the room, leaving father and son together, when the Captain laid his hands upon his son's shoulders.
"That was all very brave and well done, my boy," he said. "Now I am going away quite at rest about you, for I know that you will do as you have promised."
"Yes, father. But--" "But what, Phil?"
"Oh, do, pray--pray, take me with you!"
Captain Carleton winced, and his hands tightened upon the boy's shoulders, while his voice sounded husky as he spoke.
"Phil," he said, "do you know what I am?"
"Yes, a soldier; one of the King's captains, father."
"Right, boy; and didn't I tell you that a soldier must always do his duty?"
"Yes, father."
"And that boys must always do theirs? Well, sir, the King says I must march with the army at once, and I say you must do your duty too."
"Yes, father," said Phil, in a choking voice, "and I will."
"Spoken like a man."
At that moment the door was re-opened hurriedly.
"Ah, Martin," cried the Captain, sharply, "you have bad news?"
"Yes--that lad Pierre has gone across the fields towards the town."
"Where the French soldiers are stationed?"
"Yes."
"Then I have no time to lose. The bread--the meat!"
"I--I--" faltered the old man.
"Thought only of my safety," said the Captain. "Here, stop! Phil! Where are you going?"
But the boy dashed through the open door, which swung to behind him.
"Call him back," cried the Captain, excitedly. "I must say good-bye, for we may never meet again. Stop; I am weak enough without that. I ought not to have come. Martin, old friend, remember. I trust you, and if fate makes him an orphan--" "You have known me all these years, Carleton, and I have grown to love him as if he was my own. Trust me still, and--" There was a quick footstep, the door was kicked open, and Phil rushed in, panting and flushed, with a large loaf under one arm and a basket in his hand, out of which the crisp brown legs of a roast chicken were sticking.
"Here, father!" he cried.
"Bravo! Good forager," cried the Captain, snatching the provisions from the boy to throw on the table before clasping Phil to his breast in one quick, tight embrace.
The next minute he had thrust the little fellow into the Doctor's arms.
"Remember!" he cried aloud, and catching up basket and loaf, he bounded out of the open window and ran across the garden to the yard, where he had left his horse tethered to a post.
It seemed directly after that Phil was standing on the window-sill waving his hand and shouting, "Good-bye--good-bye, father!"
But his words were not heard by the Captain, who was urging his tired horse into a gallop.
It was none too soon, for a body of soldiers were coming at the double from the direction of the town, and with a cry of rage the boy whispered through his teeth: "Look, there's Pierre running to show them the way!"
"Hush! Quick, Phil; we must go."
"After father?" cried the boy, joyously.
"No; we must make for the woods."
The old man hurried out by the back door, and then keeping under the shelter of fence and hedge, they made for a patch of woodland, which hid them from the Captain's pursuers.
"Let's wait here for a few moments to get breath," panted the old man.
As he spoke there was the report of a musket, followed by a scattered series of shots.
"What's that?" whispered Phil, excitedly. "I know; but they can't hit father, he's riding away too fast. Do you think they'll shoot after us? I wish I had a gun."
"Why?" said the Doctor, smiling.
"Because I feel as if I should like to shoot at Pierre."
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{
"id": "21380"
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The patch of woodland in which Dr Martin and his pupil were hiding was not large, and before long they had reached the farther side and stopped short to crouch down among the bushes, fearing to go out in the open country.
"They'd see us directly," said Phil. "There's another shot. I say, doesn't that show the soldiers haven't been able to hit my father?"
"Of course," said the Doctor, cheerfully; and then after listening while the firing kept on, sounding more and more distant till it stopped altogether, he held his breath in dread lest the boy should notice this and ask him whether the silence might mean that the French soldiers had at last hit either man or horse. But to the old man's great relief Phil took the silence to mean that the Captain had escaped, and was in a high state of excitement and showed his delight.
"They'll come after us now," he said, "but I don't care now father has got away."
"Then you wouldn't mind being taken a prisoner, Phil?" said the Doctor.
"Oh, yes, I should. It would be dreadful for you."
"And for you, my boy."
"Oh, I don't think I should mind much, Dr Martin. It would be good fun too."
"Good fun?"
"Yes," said the boy, with a merry grin upon his frank young face. "We should have no books, and there'd be no lessons."
"I could teach you without books, Phil," said the Doctor, gravely.
"Yes, I forgot that," said the boy. "Oh, what a lot you know!"
"Very little, my dear boy; but we cannot think about lessons now--we have to escape. We must not let the soldiers take us."
"Of course not; but, I say, Dr Martin, I don't think I understand it a bit. Why are the French and English going to fight?"
"I'm afraid it is because they consider themselves natural enemies, my boy. Your people have a great part of North America and my people have Canada. War has been declared, and King George's soldiers have come to take Canada from the French King."
"And that means fighting, of course," said Phil. "My father has come with his men to fight against the Marquis--Marquis--What did you say his name is?"
"Montcalm. The Marquis de Montcalm," replied the Doctor, "who is at Quebec."
"And my father's men are going to take Quebec away from him for the King of England."
"Your father's leader is General Wolfe," said the Doctor, smiling.
"Oh, yes, I know--General Wolfe," said Phil, eagerly. "But, I say, Dr Martin, shan't we be able to go back to the house--I'm getting so hungry?"
"No; I'm afraid we must not go back to the house again."
"But all our things are there."
"Yes, all our clothes, and my books."
"But what about dinner?" cried Phil.
"Ah, to be sure," said the old man, smiling, "what about dinner! You see, Phil," he continued, as he looked about in all directions over the open country, "your father said we were to get right away from the fighting, and after it was over he would come and join us."
"Yes, I know," said the boy.
"Well, we should have had to start to-night, or to-morrow, so it only means that we have come away in a hurry and meet him all the sooner."
"To be sure," said the boy, eagerly.
"You won't mind going without your dinner?"
"Of course not," cried Phil, stoutly.
"And if we have to sleep in a barn or shed somewhere to-night instead of a comfortable bed, you won't mind that either, will you?"
"Not a bit," cried Phil. "Let's sleep in the forest, and cut down boughs and pick leaves for a bed. It would be fun. I should like it."
"To be sure you would."
"Wouldn't you, Dr Martin?"
"That I should, my boy," cried the Doctor, who was still eagerly searching the fields and meadows broken up by patches of forest. "Look here, Phil; we want to get away, as your father wishes, from all this terrible war, so we'll put all lessons aside and think of nothing but making this a holiday excursion amongst the fields and woods; and when we get tired we'll sit down on a tree trunk and rest, and if the sun is too hot we will have a nap in the shade. Sometimes we shall be thirsty."
"And then we'll lie down on the bank of a river and drink," cried Phil, clapping his hands.
"To be sure--drink the beautiful clear water. We can sleep, too, in the fir woods. The soft fir needles make a beautiful aromatic bed."
"What's aromatic?" said Phil, with his eyes sparkling.
"Sweet-scented and spicy."
"I shall like that," cried the boy; "only won't the fir needles prick when we undress?"
"But we shan't undress, my boy."
"What fun! Father will laugh when I tell him by and by. But you don't say a word about what we are to eat, Dr Martin?"
"Oh, we shall find something to eat. Why, we might catch some fish perhaps in the streams."
"Yes," cried Phil, excitedly.
"And make a fire and bake them in the hot ashes."
"To be sure," cried Phil, clapping his hands again.
"Sometimes, too, we may be able to dig up a few potatoes."
"And roast them."
"Of course. You'll like making a fire."
"I shall," cried the boy, with emphasis.
"Then we can call at a farm sometimes and buy some bread and milk and--" "I say, Dr Martin, this _is_ going to be a holiday. Which way are we going?"
"Straight away yonder, my boy--south, towards the British possessions."
"Make haste then. Take hold of my hand and let's run like father calls double. Let's get to that river we drove to in the car months ago."
"Yes, we might go that way," said the Doctor, thoughtfully. "But why did you choose that route?"
"Because I want to catch some fish for dinner."
"Without hook or line?"
"I shall go into the shallow, where we can see them, and splash them out with my hands."
"To be sure, or perhaps spear one with a long, sharp stick."
"Yes, I'll try that. Oh, do let's go on at once. I want to begin."
"Very well," said the Doctor, after a long, anxious look round. "You go first, and I'll follow."
"Let's walk fast," said Phil.
"Yes, let's walk fast," replied the Doctor.
And they started off along by the wood side, then by hedges and ditches, and on and on, keeping to the open country and avoiding every farm, Phil trudging away manfully, while whenever he showed his weariness, the Doctor picked out some beautiful flowery prairie, or the side of a pine wood, that they might rest.
But the way was rough and long, and when Phil's enthusiasm had lasted till far in the afternoon, the sun seemed to beat down hot, and the poor boy's feet dragged heavily, while much talking had made the Doctor's voice sound husky, and a great thirst troubled both.
"Getting tired, Phil?"
The little fellow turned--his weary, troubled eyes towards his questioner, and was about to say, "Oh, so tired and so hungry!" But he forced himself to say: "Yes, just a little."
"Ah, and so am I," said the old man, cheerily; "but look yonder!"
"Soldiers!" cried Phil, excitedly.
"No, no, no, my boy; we are free and safe, and out in the open country. I mean, look at that dark fir wood yonder, and the gleam of sunshine on water! Let's get there and rest and bathe our feet; and then what do you say to a nap?"
"Shall we find the fish and make the fire, Dr Martin?" said the boy, anxiously.
"I hope so," was the reply. "Let's try. Come along. Hang on to my hand; or, look here, Phil, what do you say to a pig-a-back?"
"Yes," cried the little fellow, holding out his hands eagerly. "No, I won't. I'm not quite tired, and I'm getting so heavy now. It isn't far, is it?"
"Not very," said the Doctor, rather faintly, and they trudged on and reached a little stream, which cut its way through the sandy land just at the very edge of a pine wood, to sink at once upon the bank.
There were no fish visible, but the clear water was delicious, and they drank long and deeply, before bathing their weary and sore feet.
"What fun!" cried Phil, reviving a little as he buried his feet in the soft, warm, dry sand and let it trickle between his toes.
But a cloud came over his face directly after, for it was many hours since anything had passed his lips. There was abundance of dead wood low down about the trunks of the fir-trees, but no flint and steel or tinder-box to obtain fire, and the evening was very near.
The Doctor looked far and near, but no farmhouse or settlement was in sight, and when after a long rest he proposed that they should make a fresh start and Phil replaced his socks and shoes, he limped when he stood up, and in spite of a brave effort the tears would come to his eyes.
"Let's rest a little longer," said the Doctor, tenderly, and he led the way a short distance into what proved to be a vast pine forest, where the needles that had fallen for ages lay in a thick dry bed. "Let's try here," he said, as he raked a hollow beneath the great far-spreading boughs, which were thick enough to form a shelter from any wind or rain that might come.
"Lie down, my boy," said the old man, gently, and the little fellow glanced at him piteously and obeyed.
"Oh, don't look at me so reproachfully, my child," sighed the Doctor to himself, as the weary boy's eyes looked large and dark in the shade; but only for a few moments before they grew dull, and then the lids fell and he was sleeping so soundly that he did not stir when the Doctor raked the soft sweet-scented pine needles round him till he lay as if it were in a nest.
And only a few minutes after the Doctor had sunk lower and lower, drooping over his charge to keep watch, but only to leave that to the great bright stars which came out one by one, peering down among the pine boughs at the dark spot where the travellers, old and young, were sleeping soundly.
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{
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Phil was the first to wake in the soft grey morning, to lie listening to a regular sharp tapping made by a busy woodpecker somewhere among the ancient pines; and he wondered some time what it meant and where he was. But a soft deep breath close to his ear made him start round so suddenly that he awoke Dr Martin, who started up looking as surprised as his bed-fellow.
"I couldn't recollect where I was," said Phil, "Oh, I am so hungry."
"And no wonder, my poor boy. There, come and bathe your face with me, and at all costs we must get to some farmhouse and buy or beg our breakfast."
The bathing was soon at an end, and though disposed to limp a little, Phil stepped out bravely in the direction the Doctor chose, and with such good effect that before long the chimneys of a farmhouse were seen, for which they made at once.
"Cows," said Phil, eagerly, "and a man milking."
It was as the little fellow said, for half a dozen cows were dreamily munching grass, while a sour-looking man was seated upon a stool. Dr Martin walked up at once, the man being so intent upon the milking that he did not raise his head till the Doctor spoke, when he started so violently that he nearly overset the pail.
"Who are you? What is it?" he cried.
"We are travellers, and hungry," replied the Doctor, in French. "Will you sell us some--" He got no farther.
"Here, I know you, sir. You are the English spy, old Martin's friend, who came to live with him, and that is the boy. I know you and what you have done. You have brought the English here to take the place."
"Indeed you wrong me, sir," cried the Doctor, humbly. "It is a mistake."
"A mistake," cried the man, furiously. "You'll soon find out that it is, for you and the English cub. Our soldiers were here looking for you last night. I know where they are now."
"I cannot help it," said the Doctor, sadly. "The poor boy is starving; he has eaten nothing since breakfast yesterday. I will pay you well, sir, for all you sell me."
"I sell to a spy? Never a bit nor a drop."
He shouted his words in the Canadian-French _patois_, opening a big knife in a threatening manner.
"Indeed you are mistaken, sir. Pray sell us bread and milk, for the poor boy's sake. He is starving."
"Let him starve in prison then. Off with you--off!"
He advanced upon them with so fierce a gesture that the Doctor caught Phil's arm, thrust him behind so as to screen him from danger, and then backed away.
"My poor boy," he groaned, pressing Phil closer to him. "It is like being in an enemy's land--and one of my own countrymen too."
"He must be a friend of Pierre," said Phil. "Oh, Dr Martin, this is not like a holiday. What shall we do?"
"Pray, boy, that all Frenchmen are not so stony-hearted. There, there, be brave; we shall find others yet who will not treat you so, and--" "Hist! --Stop!" came from a clump of trees on their right.
"Who spoke?" said Phil, with a wondering look.
"I. Come here, out of sight of the house," and the next minute the wanderers were gazing excitedly at a ruddy-cheeked girl, who stood before them with a big jug in one hand, a basket in the other.
"Who are you?" said the Doctor, eagerly.
"His girl," was the hurried reply. "Father is so angry with the English. He wants to go and fight them. Here, boy, bread and milk. Take them, and go right away. Father must not know. He would beat me."
"Bless you for your goodness," cried the Doctor, with the tears rising to his eyes.
"It was not for you," said the girl, angrily. "I hate you for bringing the English here. It was for him. I could not bear to see him hungry and in want. I could not have eaten my own breakfast if I had. Will you kiss me, dear?" she said, softly, as she bent down, and thrust the basket and pitcher in Phil's hands. "I had a little brother once so like you. He is dead though, and--" She uttered a sob, and the tears that ran down her cheeks remained on Phil's face as he raised his lips to hers. The next minute she was running in and out amongst the trees back towards the farm, leaving Phil's eyes wet as well, as he stood looking after her till she was out of sight.
"Come, boy," said the Doctor, huskily, "drink--drink heartily. Let me open the basket. What is in it! Hot bread-cakes. She must have been up early to have made these. Come, Phil, boy; be brave. We must meet with sharp stones in every path; but there are flowers too. Drink and eat. It is going to be a grand holiday after all."
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{
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There were more sharp stones in their way that day than flowers. The Doctor and his charge tramped steadily on that morning, till in the distance they suddenly saw stretched out before them a long line of something which kept on glittering in the sunlight.
"Soldiers," cried Phil, excitedly. "I know. I can see the bayonets on their guns. It must be my father's men."
"In blue coats, Phil?" said the Doctor, sadly.
The boy was silent for a few moments, as he stood with his brow knit, before saying slowly: "No; their coats are red, and they have white leggings."
There was nothing for it but to turn back and then strike off in another direction, which they followed till evening, when the bread was eaten, the milk having been finished at noon, and the basket and pitcher placed together in a tree.
"I should like to come and find them again some day and take them back to her," said Phil. "We may come here again, mayn't we?"
"Perhaps," said the Doctor, with a sigh; and then, "Phil, my child, are you very, very tired?"
"Not so tired as I was last night. Why do you ask?"
"Because we must not sleep in a wood to-night; we must walk on till we come to some farm and ask for a lodging there."
"No, no," cried the boy, quickly, "the man will drive us away. I would rather sleep under the trees."
"We must risk being driven away, boy." And just at dusk, where all was strange to them both, they approached another lonely cottage-like place, with barn and sheds and cattle near, Phil shrinking but taking heart as he found that a woman was the only person in sight.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she said, scanning them suspiciously.
"Travellers," replied the Doctor, "trying to get where there is no war."
"Ah!" cried the woman, quickly. "Yes. It is too dreadful; and you with that brave little man tramping like that. Soldiers--hundreds, thousands, have been by here to-day."
"French or English?" cried Phil, excitedly.
"I could not tell," said the woman, smiling, and patting the little fellow's cheek. "Yours?" she added, to the Doctor, "or are you his grandfather?"
"No; he is my little pupil. I am his teacher."
"And you are going away from the war because of him?"
"Yes," said the Doctor, simply. "Will you give us a bed to sleep in, or clean straw in one of your sheds, with supper? I will pay you."
"Pay me!" said the woman, angrily. "What would my good man say if I took money for doing that?"
"Your husband?"
"Yes; he had to leave me to go and fight."
Phil drew a deep breath, for the woman's words seemed to go through him. She spoke in French, and he expected that she would look upon them directly as enemies and drive them from the door. The next minute he felt that the time had come, for she turned to him and said: "But you do not speak like one of us, little one. You are not French?"
Phil drew himself up, and his face looked white and then flushed deeply red, as he gazed bravely in the woman's face, the Doctor watching him the while with his forehead wrinkled, as if he had grown ten years older as he stood.
"What will my pupil say?" he muttered to himself.
It was bravely spoken.
"No, I am English," he said.
"Ah!" said the woman, softly. "Why are you here? Who are your people-- your father?"
It was hard, but Phil felt that he must speak out; and he did it bravely, suffering agony as soon as he had spoken, for the woman looked at him in silence.
A few minutes later Phil was sitting back watching the woman blowing up the fire to heat some of the evening's milk and fry fresh eggs for her visitors, joining them in a hearty meal and laughing, too, the end, as after struggling hard to keep his eyes open, Phil let his head sink slowly down upon the table--fast asleep, too much worn out to feel when the Doctor lifted him out to follow their hostess into the next room, where a clean bed was given up to them. For when the Doctor declined and said he was sure it was the woman's, she told him it was her own and that she would do with it as she pleased.
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{
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The sun was high when Phil woke next morning, to find the weary Doctor sleeping still; but he started up at a touch, and hearing them about, their hostess came and tapped at the door to say that breakfast was ready, and later on when they stepped out she looked sadly at them, for she had news.
"I woke at daylight," she said. "There were guns firing, and the fighting has been going on ever since. Quick! Come and eat your breakfast and go. It is not safe for that little fellow to be staying here."
Phil had no appetite to finish that breakfast. Before it was half done he had started to his feet, to run to the door, full of dread for his father, for one after the other came the reports of heavy guns in the distance, and from much nearer the rattle of musketry, telling that instead of leaving the terrible encounters far behind, either they had marched right amongst it or the opposing armies had suddenly turned in their direction.
There was no time to waste. The Doctor pressed money upon their kind hostess, but she refused it angrily, and hurried them from the house.
"Go that way!" she said, pointing towards where the sky looked light and clear, for away behind the house clouds were rising like to those in a storm; but they were clouds of smoke slowly gathering above a city miles away, and the gloom increased.
But Phil's hostess had not let him go away empty-handed.
"You'll want something to eat by and by," she said, and then the little fellow looked at her wonderingly, her parting word sounded to his English ears so strange, for she said "adieu" and not "good-bye."
"Walk fast, boy," said the Doctor, almost harshly; "we must rest by and by."
They hurried on for quite two hours, and then, hot and weary, the old man suffering as hardly as the boy, they slackened their pace, and once more making for a patch of woodland, rested for a while in the shade. But not for long.
"I can't hear the guns now," whispered Phil, after a long silence.
"No," said the Doctor, "I have not heard a sound for quite half-an-hour."
"But where are we going now?"
The Doctor smiled sadly and shook his head.
"Where fate leads us, Phil," he said; "anywhere to be out of this terrible work."
He had hardly spoken before the crash of many guns made them start to their feet, Phil beginning to run out in the open in his sudden alarm, but only to turn back directly and catch at the Doctor's hand.
"Ah!" cried the old man, drawing him in amongst the trees; "that was running into fresh danger. Look!"
Phil was already looking at a line of men who seemed to have suddenly started out of the ground a hundred yards away.
At the same moment the Doctor threw himself down amongst the thick growth, dragging his companion with him.
"Lie close," he whispered, and it was well that they were both lying flat, for there was a flash of light, a long line of smoke, and in response to a sharp pattering sound a little shower of twigs and leaves came dropping around.
This was answered by firing evidently from the other side of the wood again and again, the reports each time sounding more and more distant, while as Phil lay flat upon his face he could hear trampling and the sounds of men hurrying among the trees right past them, two coming so near that the boy wondered that they were not seen.
"Don't speak, my boy," whispered the Doctor, as he held Phil's hand, though the words were not needed, for the boy's attention was so taken up by the exciting events that surrounded him that he was all eyes and ears for the next thing that should happen.
For the soldiers that passed on, firing as they went, seemed to receive a check, and were driven back, filling the wood with smoke, which hung low and seemed to cling to the lower branches of the trees. But the men recovered their ground and passed on once more, the firing growing more distant.
"Now," said the Doctor, at last, "let's try again, boy."
A sharp volley from another direction was followed by the pattering down of more twigs and leaves, and the Doctor uttered a groan and laid his hand upon Phil's head to press it closer to the ground.
"Are you hurt, Dr Martin?" whispered the boy, raising himself suddenly in the fear that he now felt for the first time.
"No, no, my child. Lie still. We must not stir yet."
It was not till nightfall that they could venture to leave the wood, and it was by guesswork, for the stars were clouded over, that the Doctor made for what he believed to be the south, but not to go far in the darkness, on account of the twinkling fires which shone out here and there as if all around them. That night they slept in another pine wood, to keep on starting up from time to time during the night, awakened now by a shot, and twice over by the sound of a bugle, which came from the direction of the watch fires.
There was no further engagement during the next day, but every attempt to get out of the wood in which they sheltered was in vain; for they were surrounded by the troops dotted here and there, as if watching for the next attack.
They had not come away empty-handed, but the food given to them by their French hostess had come to an end, and at a word from the Doctor, as evening fell, Phil sprang to his feet.
"Yes," he cried, "they won't see us now. Oh, how I wish I was different, Dr Martin! But I can't help it."
"Different?" said the old man, pressing his shoulder. "In what way? Why?"
"I keep on getting so hungry and wanting to eat, when I know I ought to be patient and wait."
"Poor boy," said the Doctor, with a little laugh. "How strange that you should be perfectly natural, Phil, eh? There, we'll make a brave effort to get right away now, and perhaps we shall find another French friend whose husband is away in the fight."
"And then we could sleep in a bed once more," said Phil after a long silence, during which they had been pressing on, with the bushes through which they passed rustling loudly.
"Yes, after a splendid supper," replied the Doctor, in French.
"Oui!" cried Phil, joyously, and then his heart seemed to stand still, for from just in front, where all looked dark, there was the rattle of muskets and a voice shouted in plain English: "Halt! Who goes there?"
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{
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"Stop! For pity's sake," cried the Doctor. "Don't fire!"
There was a rush and they were surrounded. Phil was seized roughly by two soldiers, while two more dragged the Doctor to his knees.
"I've got a monster, sergeant," cried one of the men. "Hold still, you wriggling little worm."
"Let me go," cried Phil, angrily.
"Now then, who are you?" cried a harsh voice out of the darkness. "Spies from the French camp, sergeant; that's certain," said another voice.
"Silence in the ranks!" roared the sergeant. "Now then, sir, what are you?"
"Travellers going south to escape from the war," said the Doctor, huskily.
"Won't do," said the sergeant. "Bad attempt at English. Why, you were speaking in French just now."
"Yes; I am a French teacher--the tutor to my little pupil here, the son of an English officer."
"Bah!" cried the sergeant. "What a lame tale. You talked French or some other lingo, and I heard the boy say `Oui!'"
"Yes, sir; we talk in French sometimes so that the boy may learn."
"Oh, indeed! Well, you're prisoners now, and he shall be taught to speak English. Bring them along."
"Pardon, sir. You belong to the English force?"
"I rather think we do, mounseer. Search them, my lads. No, wait till we get them to headquarters. What papers have you?"
"Papers, sir?"
"Yes, despatches. Letters."
"Only my pocket-book," said the Doctor.
"Got it, sergeant," said one of the men.
"Nothing else?"
"No, sergeant; not that I can find."
"Perhaps they're hidden upon the boy. Like enough."
Phil soon found that it was vain to resist, and he had to suffer being roughly searched.
"Eh? What's that?" said the sergeant.
"Says he wants to be taken to his father."
"Yes, I want to go to my father, to tell him Dr Martin has been taken prisoner by English soldiers."
"Then you can't go," growled the sergeant. "Here, who is your father, young shaver?"
"Captain Carleton, of the 200th Regiment, sir," said Phil, stoutly.
"The 200th Regiment, eh? I don't know any Captain Carleton. But bring them along."
The prisoners were marched off at once through the darkness towards where the fires were burning brightly, and after being challenged again and again, the sergeant led them to the front of a tent, out of which a couple of officers, evidently high in command, came quickly, and were about to hurry away, but stopped for a few moments to listen to the sergeant's report.
"You are sure they have no despatch upon them?"
"Certain, sir. They have been searched twice."
"Let them be detained," said the officer, sharply.
The sergeant marched them off to a large tent, and into this the two prisoners were ushered, to find themselves in company with some half a dozen French soldiers, one of whom lay wounded and in pain upon a truss of straw at the side, the dim light from a lanthorn swinging from the tent pole striking strangely upon the man's pallid face.
"There you are," said the sergeant, cheerfully, "and I just give you both warning; there are about a dozen men on duty about this tent with orders to shoot down anyone who tries to escape. Eh, what say?"
"We shall not try to escape; sir," said the Doctor, quietly; "but that boy--he has been tramping about for hours without food, and is nearly starved."
"Eh? Poor little chap! Hungry?"
"Yes, sir, dreadfully, and so is Dr Martin."
"Well, we English don't starve our prisoners, even if they are French. Wait a bit and I'll see what I can do," said the sergeant, with gruff good nature, and he went off, leaving the other prisoners to stare gloomily at the new-comers for a few minutes and then turn their backs to begin talking together, while the Doctor pressed close to his charge and tried to cheer him up.
"It will all come right," he whispered. "We shall soon be able to send a message to the Captain, and he will have us sent safely away. Are you very hungry now, Phil?"
"Dreadfully," was the reply. "Do you think the sergeant will be very long?"
"Oh no! He seemed too friendly."
But the sergeant seemed to Phil as if he had forgotten all about the prisoners, for the time glided slowly on, while weariness began to deaden poor Phil's hunger pains, and he grew drowsy, nodding off twice, but starting up again when the French prisoners spoke more loudly or a sharp challenge was heard outside.
But the sergeant was a man of his word, and just as Phil was dozing off again, and the lanthorn seemed to be dying out, he suddenly entered the tent with a loaf under his arm and a piece of cold boiled bacon and a knife.
"There you are," he said, gruffly, "and a nice job I've had to get it. Eat away, youngster, and thank your stars you haven't swallowed musket balls for sugar-plums as you came here. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, old man," he continued, turning to the Doctor, "for bringing a boy like that amongst all this gunpowder, treason and plot. No, no; I don't want to hear you talk. Eat your supper. I've something else to do."
Dr Martin sighed as the sergeant swung out of the tent.
"Wait till father comes," said Phil, "and I'll tell him all that the sergeant said. I suppose he can't help being so stupid as to think we are spies and wanted to come here."
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{
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It was not till weeks had passed, during which Phil and Dr Martin were shifted from place to place, always strictly guarded, their place being in the misery and discomfort of the baggage train, that the day came when, dirty, ragged, and weary, Phil sat by the side of the Doctor in one of the waggons, watching the marching by of a strong detachment of the little brigade. Dr Martin had tried in vain to send messages, written and by word of mouth, to the Captain, but no one would act as bearer.
Phil, too, had tried his best, but he could hear no news of his father, and there were times when he questioned the Doctor as to whether he thought he had failed to escape on that terrible day when Pierre gave information to the French troops and the long-continued firing of the pursuers had been heard. And so it was for a time that when Phil was tired out after one of the weary marches and no rations were served out, his heart sank and the tears came to his eyes as he believed that he should never see his father again. But, on the other hand, when the sun shone brightly and he was rested and refreshed by the rations that had been served out, he chatted away cheerfully to the Doctor about how he would tell all their adventures to the Captain when he came.
And then that happy day dawned when he sat in the baggage waggon watching the powder-blackened soldiers urging on the horses drawing the heavy guns, followed by a mud-stained tattered regiment, which stepped out smartly, every man looking ready and willing to commence the attack to which he was bound. These passed on and another regiment followed, the sight of the brave fellows sending a thrill through the boy, making him lean out from beneath the waggon tilt to take off his cap and cry hurrah.
The sound of that bright shrill voice cheering the men on made them turn to look whence it came, and at the sight of the waving cap and its excited owner a laugh ran along the ranks and the men cheered again.
The next minute, as the cheer died out and the regular throbbing beat, beat of five hundred marching men went on in regular pulsation, Phil caught sight of an officer riding at the rear of one of the companies, and his voice rang out shrill and clear: "Dr Martin, here he is at last! Father! Father! Stop!"
The next minute he had leaped down from the side of the waggon and was running towards the passing regiment, the men cheering madly with excitement as they saw their newly-promoted Major draw rein, and the next moment seize the little hands extended to him to be swung up on to the saddle and then cling to the excited officer's neck. The cheer which had rung out before was as nothing to that which rose again and again as the men saw the little fellow kissing the bearded and convulsed face of their leader as wildly as if there was not a soul in sight; but those cheers drowned the Major's hoarsely-uttered words: "Oh, my boy! My boy! What are you doing here?"
"I'm a prisoner, father. That sergeant wouldn't believe. But it's all right now. Oh, I am so glad!"
"But Dr Martin?"
"He's in that waggon," cried Phil, giving his head a backward jerk, for he was too much excited to look back. "He's a prisoner too because he's French. Oh, I do like this. Let me ride here, father. May I hold the reins?"
The Major was silent for a few moments, feeling quite taken aback by the boy's request.
"May I, father--please?"
"Yes, for a little while," came the Major's hoarse words at last; "for a little while, Phil, till I can pull myself together and think what to do. Forward, my lads!" he shouted, as he resumed his place, with the men cheering more wildly than ever as Phil rode with flushed face and sparkling eyes, in happy ignorance of the fact that he, a child in years, was in the ranks of the regiment that a few hours later was to head the advance in the great attack upon Quebec, in which the gallant British General who won Canada for the British Crown gloriously breathed his last.
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{
"id": "21380"
}
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8
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None
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"I wish all this fighting would finish, Dr Martin," said Phil one day, with a sigh. "It seems very dreadful, and my father is always away. But," he added, "it's very nice being near him."
"In the midst of all this horrible excitement?"
"Yes; I don't mind that much, only seeing the poor men brought here wounded. I say, how they like me to go and talk to them when their wounds have been tied up! Look here!"
"What have you got there?" said the Doctor, as the boy pulled something from his breast.
"Letter," said Phil, shortly. "This makes six I'm to take care of and send when we go away."
"Six letters?"
"Yes; they're only written with pencil, and I don't remember the men now who gave them to me, but they were all wounded, and they said I was to send them home."
"Poor fellows," said the Doctor, with a sigh.
"Yes," said Phil. "I mean to show them to father some day and ask him to help me to send them. Ah! Here he is!"
For at that minute the Major hurried into the tent.
"Just to say good-bye to you, Phil, my boy."
"Oh, father," cried the little fellow, with his face clouding over; "don't go away and leave me! You're always saying good-bye."
"Phil!" sternly.
"I forgot," cried the boy. "Yes. I know. You're going on duty. But you'll not be long, father?"
"Not a minute longer than I can help, my boy. Now go. I want to speak to Dr Martin."
"Yes, father," and Phil ran to the opening of the tent door.
"You are not hurt?" cried Dr Martin, anxiously.
"Not even scratched, Doctor, but the great moment is near, and I was obliged to see my boy once more. I dare not send you both away, for it would only be into the hands of the enemy--perhaps amongst their savage camp followers. You have given up practising for years, but you are a certificated physician and surgeon, and the doctors here will receive you and my boy, glad of your help. While if matters go wrong with the General in a desperate venture, you will be where the wounded are being collected, and the French will respect you."
"Yes," said the Doctor. "Then you wish me to join the field hospital-- when?"
"As soon as I am gone. You understand?"
"Yes. You may trust me."
"I know that. Heaven protect you both. Now I can feel at rest. Phil!"
The boy dashed back, to spring upon his knee.
"Now, quick, my boy," cried the Major, kissing him. "Say good-bye like a soldier's son."
"Yes, father; but when--" "Phil!"
"I know, father," cried the boy, hastily drawing himself up. "Good-bye. So glad to see you back."
"I know, my boy. There, we've kissed as women do; now shake hands like a man."
Father and son stood for a few moments hand clasped in hand, and then without trusting himself to look back, the Major walked quickly through the tent door, just as a heavy boom announced that a fresh attack was near.
"Gone!" cried Phil, with a piteous cry and outstretched hands, but the next moment he drew himself up stiffly and marched to the Doctor's side.
"Bravely done, my boy," cried the old man, patting his shoulder. "Now then, your cap."
"We're not going away?" cried Phil, in dismay.
"Yes, directly."
"But father won't know where to find us again."
"Yes, he will, for he says we are to join the doctors with the wounded men."
"Then he will know? Yes, I shall like that. They are always so thirsty. May I take them some water to drink?"
"Indeed you shall, Phil."
Their journey was not long, but it was difficult, for the little army was advancing, and the old Doctor and his pupil were hardly settled in their new canvas and waggon quarters before the attack was in full progress and the bearers were coming in with the wounded, the dying, and, those whom the doctors pronounced already dead.
It was a terrible time--hours of horror, during which, heedless of the roar of cannon and the crash of musketry, the busy surgeons toiled on, till the lines of bandaged sufferers lay increasing fast in the one calm, comparatively silent spot at the back of the fortifications that were being attacked.
There was a tent or two as well where the surgeons worked at their terrible task, and it happened towards the height of the terrible conflict, when the British soldiers were struggling and gaining their way step by step, every foot being desperately contested by the brave army of the French General Montcalm, that Phil was busy in a wide sheltered spot beneath the enemy's lines, tin cup in one hand, holding on to the iron handle of a bucket with the other, the bucket pretty full of water, and swinging between him and a drummer boy.
Those two went steadily on, to stop whenever a beseeching face was turned to them. Then the pail was set down, Phil dipped the cup and went down on one knee to hold it to some poor sufferer's lips, always receiving for his thanks the reverently uttered words, "God bless you, boy."
The blessings called down upon the little fellow's head came in hundreds that day, in English and in French, and somehow in the excitement Phil, after the first few minutes, never saw the horrors by which he was surrounded; but the boy noted only that hands were raised to him for water, and he and the drummer filled and emptied that swinging bucket again and again.
It was during the height of the attack upon the fortifications that the bearers carried one who seemed to be an officer inside the surgeon's tent, and he was not carried out again, but laid up on a roughly-folded waggon-cloth, suffering and patient, for the surgeons could do no more. And from time to time an officer rushed up, to enter the tent, say a few words, receive a reply, and rush out again to hurry away into the smoke where the soldiers were still fighting on.
It happened, too, that with the bucket freshly filled from the water-cart, Phil and his comrade had just reached the end of a line of wounded men when one of the doctors came to the door of the tent, saw them and shouted: "Here, boys! Water!"
They trotted up together, entered the tent, and the next minute Phil was down on one knee holding the cup to the wounded officer's lips, while he drank with avidity, draining the cup, and sighing deeply as he noted how young was the face of his attendant waiting to give him more.
"Brave boy," he said, gently, and he laid his hand upon Phil's arm; "but this is no place for you."
At that moment the roar of battle outside seemed to roll towards the place where the wounded man lay, increasing to a wild burst of cheers.
A flash of excitement darted from the officer's eyes, and he tried to rise upon one arm.
"What's that?" he cried.
"They run! They run!" came in answer from many throats.
"Who run?" panted the wounded man.
"The French, sir," shouted an officer, hoarsely, as he dashed up to the wounded one's side. " _I thank God, and die contented_," history says the General sighed.
It was then that Phil, who had stood unnoticed by the bearer of the victorious news, now kneeling by his great leader's side, pressed forward to touch his arm, making him start round and cry in his astonishment: "Phil, my boy! You here!"
For he realised that it was his little son who had just raised the water cup to the dying lips of the British hero--General Wolfe.
As for Phil Carleton's career, little need be said, for the war was over with the defeat of the French, and in a few weeks he and Dr Martin were in the same ship with the Major and his regiment, homeward bound.
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{
"id": "21380"
}
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1
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IN SEARCH OF THE "BARBARA."
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"What's the name of the craft you want to get aboard, sir?" asked old Bob, the one-legged boatman, whose wherry I had hired to carry me out to Spithead.
"The _Barbara_," I answered, trying to look more at my ease than I felt; for the old fellow, besides having but one leg, had a black patch over the place where his right eye should have been, while his left arm was partially crippled; and his crew consisted of a mite of a boy whose activity and intelligence could scarcely make up for his want of size and strength. The ebb tide, too, was making strong out of Portsmouth Harbour, and a fresh breeze was blowing in, creating a tumbling, bubbling sea at the mouth; and vessels and boats of all sizes and rigs were dashing here and there, madly and without purpose it seemed to me, but at all events very likely to run down the low narrow craft in which I had ventured to embark. Now and then a man-of-war's boat, with half-a-dozen reckless midshipmen in her, who looked as if they would not have the slightest scruple in sailing over us, would pass within a few inches of the wherry; now a ship's launch with a party of marines, pulling with uncertain strokes like a huge maimed centipede, would come right across our course and receive old Bob's no very complimentary remarks; next a boatful of men-of-war's men, liberty men returning from leave. There was no use saying anything to them, for there wasn't one, old Bob informed me, but what was "three sheets in the wind," or "half seas over,"--in other words, very drunk; still, they managed to find their way and not to upset themselves, in a manner which surprised me. Scarcely were we clear of them when several lumbering dockyard lighters would come dashing by, going out with stores or powder to the fleet at Spithead.
Those were indeed busy times. Numerous ships of war were fitting out alongside the quays, their huge yards being swayed up, and guns and stores hoisted on board, gruff shouts, and cries, and whistles, and other strange sounds proceeding from them as we passed near. Others lay in the middle of the harbour ready for sea, but waiting for their crews to be collected by the press-gangs on shore, and to be made up with captured smugglers, liberated gaol-birds, and broken-down persons from every grade of society. Altogether, what with transports, merchantmen, lighters, and other craft, it was no easy matter to beat out without getting athwart hawse of those at anchor, or being run down by the still greater number of small craft under way. Still it was an animated and exciting scene, and all told of active warfare.
On shore the bustle was yet more apparent. Everybody was in movement. Yellow post-chaises conveying young captains of dashing frigates, or admirals' private secretaries, came whirling through the streets as if the fate of the nation depended on their speed. Officers of all grades, from post-captains with glittering epaulets to midshipmen with white patches on their collars and simple cockades in their hats, were hurrying, with looks of importance, through the streets. Large placards were everywhere posted up announcing the names of the ships requiring men, and the advantages to be obtained by joining them: plenty of prize money and abundance of fighting, with consequent speedy promotion; while first lieutenants, and a choice band of old hands, were near by to win by persuasion those who were protected from being pressed. Jack tars, many with pig-tails, and earrings in their ears, were rolling about the streets, their wives or sweethearts hanging at their elbows, dressed in the brightest of colours, huge bonnets decked with flaunting ribbons on their heads, and glittering brass chains, and other ornaments of glass, on their necks and arms. As I drove down the High Street I had met a crowd surrounding a ship's gig on wheels. Some fifty seamen or more were dragging it along at a rapid rate, leaping and careering, laughing and cheering. In the stern sheets sat a well-known eccentric post-captain with the yoke lines in his hands, while he kept bending forward to give the time to his crew, who were arranged before him with oars outstretched, making believe to row, and grinning all the time in high glee from ear to ear. It was said that he was on his way to the Admiralty in London, the Lords Commissioners having for some irregularity prohibited him from leaving his ship except in his gig on duty. Whether he ever got to London I do not know.
On arriving at Portsmouth, I had gone to the Blue Posts, an inn of old renown, recommended by my brother Harry, who was then a midshipman, and who had lately sailed for the East India station. It was an inn more patronised by midshipmen and young lieutenants than by post-captains and admirals. I had there expected to meet Captain Hassall, the commander of the _Barbara_, but was told that, as he was the master of a merchantman, he was more likely to have gone to the Keppel's Head, at Portsea. Thither I repaired, and found a note from him telling me to come off at once, and saying that he had had to return on board in a hurry, as he found that several of his men had no protection, and were very likely to be pressed, one man having already been taken by a press-gang, and that he was certain to inform against the others. Thus it was that I came to embark at the Common Hard at Portsea, and had to beat down the harbour.
"Do you think as how you'd know your ship when you sees her, sir?" asked old Bob, with a twinkle in his one eye, for he had discovered my very limited amount of nautical knowledge, I suspect. "It will be a tough job to find her, you see, among so many."
Now I had been on board very often as she lay alongside the quay in the Thames. I had seen all her cargo stowed, knew every bale and package and case; I had attended to the fitting-up of my own cabin, and was indeed intimately acquainted with every part of her interior. But her outside--that was a very different matter, I began to suspect. I saw floating on the sea, far out in the distance, the misty outlines of a hundred or more big ships; indeed, the whole space between Portsmouth and the little fishing village of Ryde seemed covered with shipping, and my heart sank within me at the thought of having to pick out the _Barbara_ among them.
The evening was drawing on, and the weather did not look pleasant; still I must make the attempt. The convoy was expected to sail immediately, and the interests of my employers, Garrard, Janrin and Company, would be sacrificed should the sailing of the ship be delayed by my neglect. These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind and made me reply boldly, "We must go on, at all events. Time enough to find her out when we get there."
We were at that time near the mouth of the harbour, with Haslar Hospital seen over a low sandbank, and some odd-looking sea-marks on one side, and Southsea beach and the fortifications of Portsmouth, with a church tower and the houses of the town beyond. A line of redoubts and Southsea Castle appeared, extending farther southward, while the smooth chalk-formed heights of Portsdown rose in the distance. As a person suddenly deprived of sight recollects with especial clearness the last objects he has beheld, so this scene was indelibly impressed on my mind, as it was the last near view I was destined to have of old England for many a long day. For the same reason I took a greater interest in old Bob and his boy Jerry than I might otherwise have done. They formed the last human link of the chain which connected me with my native land. Bob had agreed to take my letters back, announcing my safe arrival on board--that is to say, should I ever get there. My firm reply, added to the promise of another five shillings for the trouble he might have, raised me again in his opinion, and he became very communicative.
We tacked close to a buoy off Southsea beach. "Ay, sir, there was a pretty blaze just here not many years ago," he remarked. "Now I mind it was in '95--that's the year my poor girl Betty died--the mother of Jerry there. You've heard talk of the _Boyne_--a fine ship she was, of ninety-eight guns. While she, with the rest of the fleet, was at anchor at Spithead, one morning a fire broke out in the admiral's cabin, and though officers and men did their best to extinguish it, somehow or other it got the upper hand of them all; but the boats from the other ships took most of them off, though some ten poor fellows perished, they say. One bad part of the business was, that the guns were all loaded and shotted, and as the fire got to them they went off, some of the shots reaching Stokes Bay, out there beyond Haslar, and others falling among the shipping. Two poor fellows aboard the _Queen Charlotte_ were killed, and another wounded, though she and the other ships got under way to escape mischief. At about half-past one she burnt from her cables, and came slowly drifting in here till she took the ground. She burnt on till near six in the morning, when the fire reached the magazine, and up she blew with an awful explosion. We knew well enough that the moment would come, and it was a curious feeling we had waiting for it. Up went the blazing masts and beams and planks, and came scattering down far and wide, hissing into the water; and when we looked again after all was over, not a timber was to be seen."
Bob also pointed out the spot where nearly a century before the _Edgar_ had blown up, and every soul in her had perished, and also where the _Royal George_ and the brave Admiral Kempenfeldt, with eight hundred men, had gone down several years before the destruction of the _Boyne_. "Ay, sir, to my mind it's sad to think that the sea should swallow up so many fine fellows as she does every year, and yet we couldn't very well do without her, so I suppose it's all right. Mind your head-sheets, Jerry, or she'll not come about in this bobble," he observed, as we were about to tack round the buoy.
Having kept well to the eastward, we were now laying up to windward of the fleet. There were line-of-battle ships, and frigates, and corvettes, and huge Indiamen as big-looking as many line-of-battle ships, and large transports, and numberless merchantmen--ships and barques, and brigs and schooners; but as to what the _Barbara_ was like I had not an idea. I fixed on one of the largest of the Indiamen, but when I told old Bob the tonnage of the _Barbara_ he laughed, and said she wasn't half the size of the ship I pointed out.
It was getting darkish and coming on to blow pretty fresh, and how to find my ship among the hundred or more at anchor I could not possibly tell.
"Well, I thought from your look and the way you hailed me that you was a sea-faring gentleman, and on course you'd ha' known your own ship," said old Bob, with a wink of his one eye. "Howsomever, we can beat about among the fleet till it's dark, and then back to Portsmouth; and then, do ye see, sir, we can come out to-morrow morning by daylight and try again. Maybe we shall have better luck. The convoy is sure not to sail in the night, and the tide won't serve till ten o'clock at earliest."
"This comes of dressing in nautical style, and assuming airs foreign to me," I thought to myself, though I could not help fancying that there was some quiet irony in the old man's tone. His plan did not at all suit my notions. I was already beginning to feel very uncomfortable, bobbing and tossing about among the ships; and I expected to be completely upset, unless I could speedily put my foot on something more stable than the cockleshell, or rather bean-pod, of a boat in which I sat. I began to be conscious, indeed, that I must be looking like anything but "a sea-faring gentleman."
"But we _must_ find her," I exclaimed, with some little impetuosity; "it will never do to be going back, and I know she's here."
"So the old woman said as was looking for her needle in the bundle of hay," observed old Bob, with provoking placidity. "On course she is, and we is looking for her: but it's quite a different thing whether we finds her or not, 'specially when it gets dark; and if, as I suspects, it comes on to blow freshish there'll be a pretty bobble of a sea here at the turn of the tide. To be sure, we may stand over to Ryde and haul the boat up there for the night. There's a pretty decentish public on the beach, the Pilot's Home, where you may get a bed, and Jerry and I always sleeps under the wherry. That's the only other thing for you to do, sir, that I sees on."
Though very unwilling to forego the comforts of my cabin and the society of Captain Hassall, I agreed to old Bob's proposal, provided the _Barbara_ was not soon to be found. We sailed about among the fleet for some time, hailing one ship after another, but mine could not be found. I began to suspect at last that old Bob did not wish to find her, but had his eye on another day's work, and pay in proportion, as he might certainly consider that he had me in his power, and could demand what he chose. I was on the point of giving up the search, when, as we were near one of the large Indiamen I have mentioned, a vessel running past compelled us to go close alongside. An officer was standing on the accommodation-ladder, assisting up some passengers. He hailed one of the people in the boat, about some luggage. I knew the voice, and, looking more narrowly, I recognised, I thought, my old schoolfellow, Jack Newall. I called him by name. "Who's that?" he exclaimed. "What, Braithwaite, my fine fellow, what brings you out here?"
When I told him, "It is ten chances to one that you pick her out to-night," he answered. "But come aboard; I can find you a berth, and to-morrow morning you can continue your search. Depend on it your ship forms one of our convoy, so that she will not sail without you."
I was too glad to accept Jack Newall's offer. Old Bob looked rather disappointed at finding me snatched from his grasp, and volunteered to come back early in the morning, and take me on board the _Barbara_, promising in the meantime to find her out.
The sudden change from the little boat tumbling about in the dark to the Indiaman's well-lighted cuddy, glittering with plate and glass, into which my friend introduced me--filled, moreover, as it was, with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen--was very startling. She was the well-known _Cuffnells_, a ship of twelve hundred tons, one of the finest of her class, and, curiously enough, was the very one which, two voyages before, had carried my brother Frederick out to India.
I had never before been on board an Indiaman. Everything about her seemed grand and ponderous, and gave me the idea of strength and stability. If she was to meet with any disaster, it would not be for want of being well found. The captain remembered my brother, and was very civil to me; and several other people knew my family, so that I spent a most pleasant evening on board, in the society of the nabobs and military officers, and the ladies who had husbands and those who had not, but fully expected to get them at the end of the voyage, and the young cadets and writers, and others who usually formed the complement of an Indiaman's passengers in those days. Everything seemed done in princely style on board her. She had a crew of a hundred men, a captain, and four officers, mates, a surgeon, and purser; besides midshipmen, a boatswain, carpenter, and other petty officers. I was invited to come on board whenever there was an opportunity during the voyage.
"We are not cramped, you see," observed Newall, casting his eye over the spacious decks, "so you will not crowd us; and if you cannot bring us news, we can exchange ideas."
True to his word, old Bob came alongside the next morning, and told me that he had found out the _Barbara_, and would put me on board in good time for breakfast.
I found Captain Hassall very anxious at my non-appearance, and on the point of sending the second officer on shore to look for me, as it was expected that the convoy would sail at noon; indeed, the _Active_ frigate, which was to convoy us, had Blue Peter flying at her mast-head, as had all the merchantmen.
"You'd have time to take a cruise about the fleet, and I'll spin you no end of yarns if you like to come, sir," said old Bob, with a twinkle in his eye, as his wherry was see-sawing alongside in a manner most uncomfortable to a landsman.
"No, thank you, Bob; I must hear the end of your yarns when I come back again to old England; I'll not forget you, depend on it."
Captain Hassall had not recovered his equanimity of temper, which had been sorely ruffled at having had two of his best men taken off by a press-gang. He had arrived on board in time to save two more who would otherwise also have been taken. He inveighed strongly against the system, and declared that if it was continued he would give up England and go over to the United States. It certainly created a very bad feeling both among officers and men in the merchant service. While we were talking, the frigate which was to convoy us loosed her topsails and fired a gun, followed soon after by another, as a signal to way. The merchantmen at once began to make sail, not so quick an operation as on board the man-of-war. The pipe played cheerily, round went the capstan, and in short time we, with fully fifty other vessels, many of them first-class Indiamen, with a fair breeze, were standing down Channel; the sky bright, the sea blue, while their white sails, towering upwards to the heavens, shone in the sunbeams like pillars of snow.
The _Barbara_ proved herself a fast sailer, and could easily keep up with our _Active_ protector, which kept sailing round the majestic-looking but slow-moving Indiamen, as if to urge them on, as the shepherd's dog does his flock. We hove-to off Falmouth, that other vessels might join company. Altogether, we formed a numerous convoy-- some bound to the Cape of Good Hope, others to different parts of India--two or three to our lately-established settlements in New South Wales, and several more to China.
I will not dwell on my feelings as we took our departure from the land, the Lizard lights bearing north half east. I had a good many friends to care for me, and one for whom I had more than friendship. We had magnificent weather and plenty of time to get the ship into order; indeed I, with others who had never been to sea, began to entertain the notion that we were to glide on as smoothly as we were then doing during the whole voyage. We were to be disagreeably undeceived. A gale sprang up with little warning about midnight, and hove us almost on our beam-ends; and though we righted with the loss only of a spar or two, we were tumbled about in a manner subversive of all comfort, to say the least of it.
When morning broke, the hitherto trim and well-behaved fleet were scattered in all directions, and several within sight received some damage or other. The wind fell as quickly as it had risen, and during the day the vessels kept returning to their proper stations in the convoy. When night came on several were still absent, but were seen approaching in the distance. Our third mate had been aloft for some time, and when he came into the cabin he remarked that he had counted more sail in the horizon than there were missing vessels. Some of the party were inclined to laugh at him, and inquired what sort of craft he supposed they were, phantom ships or enemy's cruisers.
"I'll tell you what, gentlemen,--I think that they are very probably the latter," said the captain. "I have known strange things happen; vessels cut out at night from the midst of a large convoy, others pillaged and the crews and passengers murdered, thrown overboard, or carried off. We shall be on our guard, and have our guns loaded, and if any gentry of this sort attempt to play their tricks on us they will find that they have caught a tartar."
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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2
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THE FIGHT.
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I may as well here give an account of the _Barbara_, and how I came to be on board her. Deprived of my father, who was killed in battle just as I was going up to the University, and left with very limited means, I was offered a situation as clerk in the counting-house of a distant relative, Mr Janrin. I had no disinclination to mercantile pursuits. I looked on them, if carried out in a proper spirit, as worthy of a man of intellect, and I therefore gladly accepted the offer. As my mother lived in the country, my kind cousin invited me to come and reside with him, an advantage I highly appreciated. Everything was conducted in his house with clock-work regularity. If the weather was rainy, his coach drew up to the door at the exact hour; if the weather was fine, the servant stood ready with his master's spencer, and hat, and gloves, and gold-headed cane, without which Mr Janrin never went abroad. Not that he required it to support his steps, but it was the mark of a gentleman. It had superseded the sword which he had worn in his youth. I soon got to like these regular ways, and found them far pleasanter than the irregularity of some houses where I had visited. I always accompanied Mr Janrin when he walked, and derived great benefit from his conversation, and though he offered me a seat in the coach in bad weather, I saw that he was better pleased when I went on foot. "Young men require exercise, and should not pamper themselves," he observed; "but, James, I say, put a dry pair of shoes in your pocket--therein is wisdom; and don't sit in your wet ones all day."
Thus it will be seen that I was treated by my worthy principal from the first as a relative, and a true friend he was to me. But I was introduced into the mysteries of mercantile affairs by Mr Gregory Thursby, the head clerk. He lived over the counting-house, and on my first appearance in it, before any of the other clerks had arrived, he was there to receive me. He took me round to the different desks, and explained the business transacted at each of them. "And there, Mr James, look there," he said, pointing to a line of ponderous folios on a shelf within easy distance of where he himself sat: "see, we have Swift's works, a handsome edition too, eh!" and he chuckled as he spoke.
"Why, I fancied that they were ledgers," said I. "Ha! ha! ha! so they are, and yet Swift's works, for all that, those of my worthy predecessor, Jeremiah Swift, every line in them written by his own hand, in his best style; so I call them Swift's works. You are not the first person by a great many I have taken in. Ha! ha! ha!"
This was one of the worthy man's harmless conceits. He never lost an opportunity of indulging in the joke to his own amusement; and I remarked that he laughed as heartily the last time he uttered it as the first.
I set to work diligently at once on the tasks given me, and was rewarded by the approving remarks of Mr Janrin and Mr Thursby. Mr Garrard had long ago left, not only the business but this world; the "Co." was his nephew, Mr Luttridge, who was absent on account of ill-health, and thus the whole weight of the business rested on the shoulders of Mr Janrin. But, as Thursby remarked, "He can well support it, Mr James. He's an Atlas. It's my belief that he would manage the financial affairs of this kingdom better than any Chancellor of the Exchequer, or other minister of State, past or present; and that had he been at the head of affairs we should not have lost our North American Colonies, or have got plunged over head and ears in debt as we are, alack! already; and now, with war raging and all the world in arms against us, getting deeper and deeper into the mire." Without holding my worthy principal in such deep admiration as our head clerk evidently did, I had a most sincere regard and respect for him.
Our dinner hour was at one o'clock, in a room over the office. Mr Janrin himself presided, and all the clerks, from the highest to the lowest, sat at the board. Here, however, on certain occasions, handsome dinners were given at a more fashionable hour to any friends or correspondents of the house who might be in London. Mr Thursby took the foot of the table, and I was always expected to be present. At length I completed two years of servitude in the house, and by that time was thoroughly up to all the details of business. I had been very diligent. I had never taken a holiday, and never had cause to absent myself from business on account of ill-health. On the very day I speak of we had one of the dinners mentioned. The guests were chiefly merchants or planters from the West Indies, with a foreign consul or two, and generally a few masters of merchantmen. The guests as they arrived were announced by Mr Janrin's own servant, Peter Klopps, who always waited on these occasions. Peter was himself a character. He was a Dutchman. Mr Janrin had engaged his services many years before during a visit to Holland. He had picked Peter out of a canal, or Peter had picked him out, on a dark night--I never could understand which had rendered the service to the other; at all events, it had united them ever afterwards, and Peter had afterwards nursed his master through a long illness, and saved his life. The most important secrets of State might have been discussed freely in Peter's presence. First, he did not understand a word that was said, and then he was far too honest and discreet to have revealed it if he had.
Several people had been announced. Ten minutes generally brought the whole together. I caught the name of one--Captain Hassall. He was a stranger, a strongly-built man with a sunburnt countenance and bushy whiskers; nothing remarkable about him, except, perhaps, the determined expression of his eye and mouth. His brow was good, and altogether I liked his looks, and was glad to find myself seated next to him. He had been to all parts of the world, and had spent some time in the India and China seas. He gave me graphic accounts of the strange people of those regions; and fights with Chinese and Malay pirates, battles of a more regular order with French and Spanish privateers, hurricanes or typhoons. Shipwrecks and exciting adventures of all sorts seemed matters of everyday occurrence. A scar on his cheek and another across his hand, showed that he had been, at close quarters, too, on some occasion, with the enemy.
Mr Janrin and Mr Thursby both paid him much attention during dinner. Allusions were made by him to a trading voyage he had performed in the service of the firm, and it struck me from some remarks he let drop that he was about to undertake another of a similar character. I was not mistaken. After dinner, when the rest of the guests were gone, he remained behind to discuss particulars, and Mr Janrin desired me to join the conclave. I was much interested in all I heard. A large new ship, the _Barbara_, had been purchased, of which Captain Hassall had become part owner. She was now in dock fitting for sea. She mounted ten carriage guns and four swivels, and was to be supplied with a proportionate quantity of small arms, and to be well manned. A letter of marque was to be obtained for her, though she was not to fight except in case of necessity; while her cargo was to be assorted and suited to various localities. She was to visit several places to the East of the Cape of Good Hope, and to proceed on to the Indian Islands and China.
"And how do you like the enterprise, James?" asked Mr Janrin, after the captain had gone.
"I have not considered the details sufficiently to give an opinion, sir," I answered. "If all turns out as the captain expects, it must be very profitable, but there are difficulties to be overcome, and dangers encountered, and much loss may be incurred."
I saw Mr Janrin and the head clerk exchange glances, and nod to each other. I fancy that they were nods of approval at what I had said.
"Then, James, you would not wish to engage in it in any capacity?" said Mr Janrin. "You would rather not encounter the dangers and difficulties of such a voyage?"
"That is a very different matter, sir," I answered. "I should very much like to visit the countries you speak of, and the difficulties I cannot help seeing would enhance the interest of the voyage."
Again the principal and clerk exchanged glances and nodded.
"What do you say, then, James, to taking charge of the venture as supercargo? My belief is that you will act with discretion and judgment as to its disposal, and that we shall have every reason to be satisfied with you. Mr Thursby agrees with me, do you not, Thursby?"
"I feel sure that Mr James will bring no discredit on the firm, sir," answered Mr Thursby, smiling at me. "On the contrary, sir, no young man I am acquainted with is so likely to conduce to the success of the enterprise."
I was highly gratified by the kind remarks of my friends, and expressed my thanks accordingly, at the same time that I begged I might be allowed two days for consideration. I desired, of course, to consult my mother, and was anxious also to know what another would have to say to the subject. She, like a sensible girl, agreed with me that it would be wise to endure the separation for the sake of securing, as I hoped to do, ultimate comfort and independence. I knew from the way that she gave this advice that she did not love me less than I desired. I need say no more than that her confidence was a powerful stimulus to exertion and perseverance in the career I had chosen. My mother was far more doubtful about the matter. Not till the morning after I had mentioned it to her did she say, "Go, my son; may God protect you and bless your enterprise!"
I was from this time forward actively engaged in the preparations for the voyage. My personal outfit was speedily ready, but I considered it necessary to examine all the cases of merchandise put on board, that I might be properly acquainted with all the articles in which I was going to trade. "It's just what I expected of him," I heard Mr Janrin remark to Mr Thursby, when one evening I returned late from my daily duties. "Ay, sir, there is the ring of the true metal in the lad," observed the head clerk.
Captain Hassall was as active in his department as I was in mine, and we soon had the _Barbara_ ready for sea with a tolerably good crew. In those stirring days of warfare it was no easy thing to man a merchantman well, but Captain Hassall had found several men who had sailed with him on previous voyages, and they without difficulty persuaded others to ship on board the _Barbara_.
Our first officer, Mr Randolph, was a gentleman in the main, and a very pleasant companion, though he had at first sight, in his everyday working suit, that scarecrow look which tall gaunt men, who have been somewhat battered by wind and weather, are apt to get. Our second mate, Ben, or rather "Benjie" Stubbs, as he was usually called, was nearly as broad as he was long, with puffed-out brown cheeks wearing an invincible smile. He was a man of one idea: he was satisfied with being a thorough seaman, and was nothing else. As to history, or science, or the interior of countries, he was profoundly ignorant. As to the land, it was all very well in its way to grow trees and form harbours, but the sea was undoubtedly the proper element for people to live on; and he seemed to look with supreme contempt on all those who had the misfortune to be occupied on shore. The third mate, Henry Irby, had very little the appearance of a sailor, though he was a very good one. He was slight in figure, and refined in his manners, and seemed, I fancied, born to a higher position than that which he held. He had served for two years before the mast, but his rough associates during that time had not been able in any way to alter him. Our surgeon, David Gwynne, was, I need scarcely say, a Welshman. He had not had much professional experience, but he was an intelligent young man, and had several of the peculiarities which are considered characteristic of his people; but I hoped, from what I saw of him when he first came on board, that he would prove an agreeable companion. Curious as it may seem, there were two men among the crew who by birth were superior to any of us. I may, perhaps, have to say more about them by-and-bye. We mustered, officers and men, forty hands all told.
I will pass over the leave-takings with all the dear ones at home. I knew and felt that true prayers, as well as kind wishes, would follow me wherever I might go.
"James," said my kind employer as I parted from him, "I trust you thoroughly as I would my own son if I had one. I shall not blame you if the enterprise does not succeed; so do not take it to heart, for I know that you will do your best, and no man can do more." Mr Thursby considered that it was incumbent on him to take a dignified farewell of me, and to impress on me all the duties and responsibilities of my office; but he broke down, and a tear stood in his eye as he wrung my hand, and said in a husky voice, "You know all about it, my dear boy; you'll do well, and we shall have you back here, hearty and strong, with information successfully to guide Garrard, Janrin and Company in many an important speculation; and, moreover, I hope, to lay the foundation of your own fortune. Good-bye, good-bye; heaven bless you, my boy!"
I certainly could not have commenced my undertaking under better auspices. Having obtained the necessary permission of the Honourable East India Company to trade in their territories, the _Barbara_ proceeded to Spithead, and I ran down to pay a flying visit to my friends, which was the cause of my joining the ship at Spithead in the way I have described, and where I left my readers to give these necessary explanations.
The convoy was standing on under easy sail to allow the scattered vessels to come up, and as long as there was a ray of daylight they were seen taking up their places. Now and then, after dark, I could see a phantom form gliding by; some tall Indiaman, or heavy store-ship, or perhaps some lighter craft, to part with us after crossing the line, bound round Cape Horn. The heat was considerable, and as I felt no inclination to turn in, I continued pacing the deck till it had struck six bells in the first watch. [Note 1.] Mr Randolph, the senior mate, had charge of the deck. He, I found, was not always inclined to agree with some of the opinions held by our captain.
"He's a fine fellow, our skipper, but full of fancies, as you'll find; but there isn't a better seaman out of the port of London," he observed, as he took a few turns alongside me. "I have a notion that he believes in the yarns of the _Flying Dutchman_, and of old Boody, the Portsmouth chandler, and in many other such bits of nonsense, but as I was saying--" "What, don't you?" I asked, interrupting him; "I thought all sailors believed in those tales."
The captain had been narrating some of them to us a few evenings before.
"No, I do not," answered the first mate, somewhat sharply. "I believe that God made this water beneath our feet, and that He sends the wind which sometimes covers it over with sparkling ripples, and at others stirs it up into foaming seas, but I don't think He lets spirits or ghosts of any sort wander about doing no good to any one. That's my philosophy. I don't intend to belief in the stuff till I see one of the gentlemen; and then I shall look pretty sharply into his character before I take my hat off to him."
"You are right, Mr Randolph, and I do not suppose that the captain differs much from you. He only wishes to guard against mortal enemies, and he has shown that he is in earnest in thinking that there is some danger, by having come on deck every half-hour or oftener during the night. There he is again."
Captain Hassall stood before us: "Cast loose and load the guns, Mr Randolph, and send a quartermaster to serve out the small arms to the watch," he said quietly; "there has been a sail on our quarter for some minutes past, which may possibly be one of the convoy, but she may not. Though she carries but little canvas she is creeping up to us."
The mate and I while talking had not observed the vessel the captain pointed out. "The skipper has sharp eyes," said the first mate, as he parted from me to obey the orders he had received. Our crew had been frequently exercised at the guns. Having loaded and run them out, the watch came tumbling aft to the arm-chest. Cutlasses were buckled on and pistols quickly loaded, and boarding-pikes placed along the bulwarks ready for use. The men did not exactly understand what all this preparation was for, but that was nothing to them. It signified fighting, and most British seamen are ready for that at any time. The captain now joined me in my walk. "It is better to be prepared, though nothing come of it, than to be taken unawares," he observed. "It is the principle I have gone on, and as it is a sound one, I intend to continue it as long as I live." I agreed with him. We walked the deck together for twenty minutes or more, engaged in conversation. His eye was constantly during the time looking over our starboard quarter. Even I could at length distinguish the dim outline of a vessel in that direction. Gradually the sails of a ship with taut raking masts became visible.
"That craft is not one of our convoy, and I doubt that she comes among us for any good purpose," exclaimed the captain. "I should like to bring the frigate down upon the fellow, but we should lose our share of the work, and I think that we can manage him ourselves. Call the starboard watch, Mr Stubbs."
The men soon came tumbling up from below, rather astonished at being so soon called. The other officers were also soon on deck Mr Randolph agreed that the stranger, which hung on our quarter like some ill-omened bird of prey, had an exceedingly suspicious appearance, and that we were only acting with ordinary prudence in being prepared for him.
"The fellow won't fire, as he would bring the frigate down upon him if he did," observed the first mate; "he will therefore either run alongside in the hopes of surprising us, and taking us by boarding before we have time to fire a pistol, which would attract notice, or, should the wind fall light, he may hope to cut us out with his boats."
Eight bells struck. We could hear the sound borne faintly over the waters from two of the Indiamen to windward of us, but no echo came from the deck of the stranger. The men were ordered to lie down under the bulwarks till wanted. Had Captain Hassall thought fit, he might, by making sail, have got out of danger, but he had hopes that instead of being taken by the stranger he might take him. It struck me that we might be running an unwarrantable risk of getting the vessel or cargo injured by allowing ourselves to be attacked.
"Not in the least," answered the captain; "we serve as a bait to the fellow, and shall benefit directly by catching him. If we were to give the alarm he would be off like a shot, and depend on it he has a fast pair of heels, or he would not venture in among us, so that the frigate would have little chance of catching him."
The truth is, Captain Hassall had made up his mind to do something to boast of. Orders were now given to the men to remain perfectly silent; the stranger was drawing closer and closer; grapnels had been got ready to heave on board him, and to hold him fast should it be found advisable. It was, however, possible that his crew might so greatly outnumber ours that this would prove a dangerous proceeding. As to our men, they knew when they shipped that they might have to fight, and they all now seemed in good heart, so that we had no fear on the score of their failing us. Our officers were one and all full of fight, though each exhibited his feelings in a different way. The surgeon's only fear seemed to be that the stranger would prove a friend instead of a foe, and that there would be no skirmish after all.
"She's some craft one of the other vessels has fallen in with, and she has just joined company for protection," he observed. "For my part I shall turn in, as I am not likely to be wanted, either to fight or to dress wounds."
The wind, which had much fallen, had just freshened up again. "Whatever he is, friend or foe, here he comes," exclaimed Mr Randolph. "Steady, lads!" cried the captain, "don't move till I give the word."
As he spoke the stranger glided up, her dark sails appearing to tower high above ours. We kept on our course as if she was not perceived. With one sheer she was alongside, there was a crash as her yards locked with ours, and at the same moment numerous dark forms appeared in her rigging and nettings about to leap on to our deck. "Now give it them!" cried our captain. Our men sprang to their feet and fired a broadside through the bulwarks of the enemy. The cries and shrieks which were echoed back showed the havoc which had been caused. Shouts and blows, the clash of cutlasses, the flash of pistols, immediately followed. I felt a stinging sensation in my shoulder, but was too excited to think anything of it as I stood, cutlass in hand, ready to repel our assailants. Many of those who were about to board us must have sprung back, or fallen into the water; a few only reached our deck, who were at once cut down by our people. One man sprang close to where I stood. I was about to fire my pistol at him, when I saw that he was unarmed, so I dragged him across the deck out of harm's way. The next instant the vessels parted.
"Give it them, my lads! Load and fire as fast as you can, or they will escape us," cried the captain in an excited tone.
"Wing them! wing them! knock away their spars, lads!" He next ordered the helm to be put down, the tacks hauled aboard, and chase to be made after our flying foe, while a blue light was burned to show our locality, and to prevent the frigate from firing into us when she followed, as we hoped she would.
We had no doubt that the enemy, when he met with the warm reception we had given him, took us for a man-of-war corvette, and on this came to the conclusion that prudence was the best part of valour. There could be little doubt, however, that he would soon discover that our guns were of no great size; and then possibly he might turn on us, and give us more of his quality than would be desirable. Still we kept on peppering away at him as fast as we could, in the hopes of bringing down one of his masts, and enabling the frigate to come up. The lights of the convoy were, however, by this time almost lost sight of. In vain we looked out for a signal of the approach of the frigate. No gun was heard, no light was seen. We were afraid of losing the convoy altogether, and certainly it would have been against the spirit of our instructions to have attempted to deal single-handed with our opponent. Giving the enemy a parting shot most reluctantly, Captain Hassall therefore ordered the helm to be put up, and we ran back in the direction in which we expected to find the convoy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. This ordinary watch consists of four hours, and the bell is struck every half-hour. As the first watch commences at eight, it was then eleven. There are two dog-watches from four to six and from six to eight p.m., in order that the same men may not be on duty at the same hours each day.
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{
"id": "21386"
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3
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"GOOD-BYE" TO THE CONVOY.
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"Hillo! who have we here?" I heard one of the mates exclaim, as I was taking a last look of our receding antagonist. "Is this a dead man?"
"No, not entirely, as yet," said a voice which proceeded, I found, from a person lying on the deck.
I remembered my prisoner, and ran to lift him up. He recognised my voice. "If it hadn't been for you I should have been dead enough by this time," he said, getting on his feet.
"Who are you?" I asked, "a friend or a foe?"
"A friend; or I wouldn't be here at all," he answered, in a tone which made me feel certain that he spoke the truth.
"Well, come into the cabin, and tell me all about the matter," I said; for though he spoke broad Irish, I saw by his manner that he was above the rank of a common seaman. His appearance when he came into the light justified me in my opinion.
"It's just this; I was first mate of a fine brig, the _Kathleen_. We had been down in the eastern seas, and away into the Pacific, over to America, trading for some time with the natives, and bringing hides, seal-skins, and sandal-wood to the Chinamen; and at last, having made a successful voyage, we were on our homeward passage, when yonder piratical craft fell in with us. Each man had been promised a share of the profits, so that we had something to fight for. Fight our poor fellows did, till there was scarcely one of them left unhurt. We none of us thought of striking, though; but at last the rascally pirates ran us aboard, and as they swarmed along our decks cut down every man who still stood on his legs. How I escaped without a hurt I don't know. I soon had other troubles; for, being uninjured, I was at once carried aboard our captor, but before the Frenchmen could secure their prize, she blew up, with every soul on board, and there was I left a prisoner alone. I almost envied the fate of our crew. The loss of the prize, which had cost them so many lives and so much trouble, made the Frenchmen very savage, especially their captain, who is about as daring a villain as ever ploughed salt water. This determined him, when he fell in with your convoy, to try and cut one of them out. He fixed on you because you were of a size which he thought he could tackle easily, and he hoped to take you by surprise. Why he did not kill me outright I do not know, for he treated me like a brute from the moment he got me in his power; and when we ran you alongside he made me get into the rigging that I might be shot at; and I thought to myself, The safest plan is to jump aboard, and if I escape a knock on the head I may stow myself away before any one sees me. Such is the end of my history at present."
The name of the vessel which had attacked us was the _Mignonne_, privateer, of twenty guns and eighty men, Captain Jules La Roche, of the port of Brest, we learned from the stranger. "And your own name, my friend?" I asked, not feeling very sure that the truth had been told us. "Dennis O'Carroll. My name will tell you where I hail from, and you may look at me as a specimen of one of the most unfortunate men in the world," he answered. If O'Carroll's account of the size of our antagonist was correct, we had good reason to be thankful that we had escaped so easily. Our chief anxiety was now about finding the fleet. We had no business to have separated from them; for though we might easily have run out to the East without encountering an enemy, yet, should any accident have happened to us, our insurers might have considered our charter invalidated, and Garrard, Janrin and Company would have been the sufferers.
We were much relieved by seeing a blue light suddenly burst forth in the darkness. It came from the deck of the frigate, which had stood after us to ascertain the cause of the firing. Our adventure had the effect of keeping the convoy much closer together; for no one could tell when Captain La Roche would take it into his head to pounce down upon us and pick up a stray bird, should the frigate be at a distance. He would have had no chance, however, with the Indiamen, whose officers were in a very combative mood. Not long before a very gallant action had been performed by a squadron of them in the Eastern seas--indeed, no country ever possessed a body of officers in her mercantile marine equal to those of the Honourable East India Company.
I heard all about the action on board the _Cuffnells_. One morning, when I went on deck, I found that there was what might well be called a calm; the sails of the ships hung up and down the masts without moving, except every now and then, as they slowly rolled from side to side to give a loud thundering clap, and once more to subside into sullen silence. The sea, smooth as a mirror, shone like burnished silver, its surface ever and anon broken by the fin of some monster of the deep, or by a covey of flying fish, which would dart through the air till, their wings dried by the sun, they fell helpless again into their native element.
Looking round I recognised the _Cuffnells_ not far off, and, remembering my promise, asked for a boat to go on board. I was received in the most friendly manner, and was asked to stop to tiffin and to dinner, if I could remain as long.
"Yes, sir, he richly deserved it; every rupee he got--that's my opinion," observed a yellow-faced gentleman in nankeens and white waistcoat, sitting at the other end of the table. "I was on board the _Earl Camden_ on my way home, and I know that, including public and private investments, the cargoes of our ships could not have been of less value than eight millions of pounds sterling. We had fifteen Indiamen and a dozen country ships, with a Portuguese craft and a brig, the _Ganges_; Captain Dance, our captain, was commodore. This fleet sailed from Canton on the 31st January, 1804. After sighting Pulo Auro, near the Straits of Malacca, the _Royal George_, one of the Indiamen, made the signal for four strange sail in the south-west. On this the commodore directed four of the Indiamen to go down and examine them. Lieutenant Fowler, of the navy, who was a passenger on board the _Earl Camden_, offered to go also in the _Ganges_ to inspect the strangers more nearly. It was a time of no small anxiety, you may be sure. The _Ganges_ was a fast sailer, and before long Lieutenant Fowler came back, with the information that the squadron in sight was French, and consisted of a line-of-battle ship, three frigates, and a brig. The question was now, Should we fight or not? If we attempted to make our escape the enemy would pursue us, and very likely pick us off in detail. Our safest plan was to put a bold face on the matter, and show that we were prepared for fighting. This was our gallant commodore's opinion, and all the other captains agreed with him, especially Captain Timins, of the _Royal George_, who acted as his second in command. The look-out ships were now recalled by signal, and the line of battle formed in close order. As soon as the enemy could fetch in our wake they put about, and we kept on our course under easy sail. At near sunset they were close up with our rear, which it seemed as if they were about to attack. On seeing this Captain Dance prepared with other ships to hasten to the assistance of that part of our line. Just as the day was closing, however, the French, not liking our looks, and unwilling to risk a night engagement, hauled their wind. Lieutenant Fowler was now sent in the _Ganges_ to station the country ships on our lee bow, by which means we were between them and the enemy. He brought back some volunteers, whose assistance was acceptable. We lay to all night--our men at their quarters. At daybreak of the 15th we saw the enemy also lying to, and so, hoisting our colours, we offered them battle if they chose to come down. At nine, finding that they would not accept our challenge, we formed the order of sailing, and steered our course under easy sail. The enemy on this filled their sails and edged down towards us. Now was the time that the mettle of our merchant skippers was to be tried. Did they, flinch? --Not a bit of it! The commodore, finding that the enemy proposed to attack and cut off our rear, made the signal for the fleet to tack and bear down on him, and engage in succession--the _Royal George_ being the leading ship, the _Ganges_ next, and then the _Earl Camden_. This manoeuvre was beautifully performed, and we stood towards the Frenchmen under a press of sail. The enemy then formed in a very close line and opened fire on the headmost ships, which was not returned till they got much closer. What do you think of it? Two merchantmen and a brig engaging a line-of-battle ship, two frigates, and two other ships of war--for the rest of the fleet had not yet got up. The _Royal George_ bore the brunt of the action, for Captain Timins took his ship as close to the enemy as they would let him, and the _Ganges_ and _Earl Camden_ opened their fire as soon as their guns could take effect. Before, however, any of the other ships could get into action the Frenchmen hauled their wind and stood away to the eastward, under all the sail they could set. On this, at about two p.m., the signal was made for a general chase, and away went the fleet of merchantmen after the men-of-war. We pursued them for two hours, when the commodore, fearing that we might be led too far from the mouth of the straits, made the signal to tack, and in the evening we anchored ready to pass through the straits in the morning. We afterwards found that the squadron we had engaged was that of Admiral Linois, consisting of the _Marengo_, 84 guns, the _Belle Poule_ and _Semillante_, heavy frigates, a corvette of 28 guns, and a Batavian brig of 18 guns. That the Frenchmen either took some of our big ships for men-of-war, or fancied that some men-of-war were near at hand and ready to come to our assistance, is very probable, but that does not detract from the gallantry of the action. The Patriotic Fund voted swords and plate to Captain Dance and other officers, and the East India Company presented him with 2,000 guineas and a piece of plate worth 500, and Captain Timins 1,000 guineas and a piece of plate, and all the other captains and officers and men rewards in plate or money, the whole amounting to not less than 50,000. But they deserved it, sir--they deserved it; and I suspect that Admiral Linois and his officers must have pulled out the best part of their hair when they discovered the prize they had lost. Besides the reward I have mentioned, Commodore Dance was very properly knighted. In its result," continued the speaker, "the action was most important."
"But it was scarcely so annoying to the enemy as another in which some Indiamen were engaged in 1800," observed a military officer, laying down his knife and fork, and wiping his moustache. "I was on my passage out on board the _Exeter_, one of the Indiamen of 1,200 tons, commanded by Captain Meriton. We had in company the _Bombay Castle, Coutts_, and _Neptune_, of the same tonnage, besides other ships under the convoy of the _Belligeux_, of 64 guns, Captain Bulteel. A French squadron of three large frigates, it appeared, after committing a good deal of mischief on the coast of Africa, had crossed over to Rio de la Plata to refit, and had just again put to sea, when, early in the morning, they made out a part, and some of the lighter ships, probably, of our convoy. Hoping to pick up some prizes, the Frenchmen stood towards us, and we, quite ready for the encounter, bore down towards them. No sooner, however, did the Frenchmen see our big China ships, with their two tiers of ports and warlike look, than they bore up under a press of sail, and by signal separated. While the _Belligeux_ steered for the largest of the French ships, she signalled to the Indiamen I have mentioned to proceed in chase of the others, we and the _Bombay Castle_ of one of them, the _Medee_, and the other two of the _Franchise_. We, at the time, were nearer the _Medee_ than was the _Bombay Castle_, and we also sailed better. The chase was a long one, but we kept the enemy in sight, and it was near midnight before we came up with her. The _Bombay Castle_ was a long way astern, and the frigate might have handled us very severely, if not knocked us to pieces, before she could have come up to our assistance. Captain Meriton was not a man to be daunted. With the decks lighted and all our ports up, he ran alongside the Frenchman--`Strike, monsieur, to a superior force, to his Britannic Majesty's ship _Thunderaboo_' he shouted out. `Strike, I say, or--' We did not know whether the Frenchman would reply with a broadside, which would have greatly staggered us. Instead of that the Frenchman politely replied that he yielded to the fortune of war. `Come aboard immediately,' was the order our bold captain next gave. Not to be surpassed by the Frenchman, we had a guard ready to assist the captain up our high side. With the profoundest of bows he delivered his sword, and he was then asked into the cabin. Immediately we had him safe, keeping the frigate under our guns, we sent armed boats on board, and brought away part of her people. When the _Bombay Castle_ came up she received the remainder, and we then placed a prize crew on board. Meantime the suspicions of the French captain had been aroused. He had observed the small size of our guns. The appearance of the Indiaman's cuddy and the gentlemen and lady passengers--not that there were many of the latter--must have raised curious doubts in his mind. Suddenly he jumped up and asked to what ship he had struck. " `To the Honourable East India Company's ship _Exeter_,' answered Captain Meriton, with a bow which beat the Frenchman's. " `What, to a merchantman?' exclaimed the Frenchman, with a look of dismay. " `Yes, monsieur, to a merchantman,' said Captain Meriton, with a gentle smile, which it would have been difficult to repress. " `It is not fair; it is vile! it is a cheat!' exclaimed the Frenchman, beginning to stalk up and down the cabin, to grind his teeth, and to pull out his hair. `I say it is a cheat; give me back my ship, send on board my men, and I will fight you bravely. You will soon see if you take me again.' " `I am ready to acknowledge that you would very likely take me, as I should certainly deserve to be taken for my folly in agreeing to your proposal. You will excuse me if I therefore decline it,' was the answer. Though we pitied the feelings of the poor man, it was very difficult to keep our countenance as he uttered his expressions of indignation and anger. He did not recover his spirits till his frigate was out of sight."
This anecdote was followed by several others. Those were pleasant hours I spent on board the old Indiaman. My visits to her were indeed an agreeable change from the sea-life routine of my own ship. I was amused by the progress in intimacy made among themselves by the younger portion of the passengers since I first went aboard at Spithead. The captain confided to me the fact that it cost him much more trouble to maintain discipline in the cuddy than among his crew. "What with my young ladies and my chronometers, it is as much as an elderly gentleman can well accomplish to keep all things straight," he observed, glancing at several young couples who were pacing the deck, the gentlemen being cadets or writers. "The friends of those girls now--nice young creatures they are too,--have sent them out fully expecting that they would marry nabobs or colonels at least, and in spite of all my precautions, they have gone and engaged themselves to those young fellows who have only just got their feet on the ratlines. Small blame to the gentlemen, however, for a more charming consignment I never had, only the more charming the more difficult to manage."
While the calms lasted, I paid daily visits to my friends, but at length a breeze springing up we proceeded on our voyage, as I must with my narrative, or I may chance not to get to the end of it. We called off the beautiful island of Madeira, with its picturesque town of Funchal-- more attractive on the outside than within; we procured, however, a welcome supply of fresh meat, vegetables, and fruits. On our crossing the line, Neptune and his Tritons came on board and played their usual pranks. Jack little thinks that on such occasions he is performing a very ancient ceremony, practised by those bold voyagers, the Carthaginians; to them there is little doubt that the secret of the mariner's compass was known. On sailing between the Pillars of Hercules into the wide Atlantic they were visited, not by Hercules himself, but by his representative priests, to whom they were wont to deliver certain votive offerings that the propitiated divinity might protect them on their perilous voyage. The custom of performing ceremonies of a like description was continued to later times by the mariners of the Levant, Greece, and Italy, long after the temple of Hercules was in ruins. When they, and those northern seamen who had learned the scientific parts of navigation from them, extended their voyages across the line, they continued the practices, substituting Neptune for Hercules, and adding a few caricatures to suit their own more barbarous taste.
Having crossed the line, and there being no longer much risk of our meeting the cruisers of the enemy, Captain Hassall, who had long fumed at being kept back by the slow sailing of our companions, determined to part company. We accordingly hoisted our colours, gave a salute of nine guns in acknowledgment of the civilities we had received, and under all sail soon ran the dignified moving convoy out of sight. Light and contrary winds and calms kept us so long under the sun of the tropics that the seams of our decks began to open, and, to get them caulked and other repairs executed, we bore up for Saint Salvador on the coast of Brazil, belonging to Portugal. We saluted the fort on entering, and paid every necessary respect to the authorities; but we soon found that they either suspected our character, or were not inclined, for some other reason, to treat us in a friendly spirit. A guard was put on board, and we were told that neither officers nor crew must leave the ship.
We were still ignorant of the cause of this treatment, when the master of an English whaler came alongside with his men armed to the teeth. He told us that he had a letter of marque, and that on the strength of it, having fallen in with a Spanish merchantman some way to the south-west, he had chased and captured her, and found a large number of dollars on board. Having come into Saint Salvador he found there no less than seven other Spanish vessels, the masters and crews of which were favoured by the Portuguese, and he heard that they threatened to follow him out and capture him and his prize. Our arrival had turned the scales in his favour, and he offered to remain if we would accompany him out when we were ready. This Captain Hassall readily promised to do. As the whaler was strongly manned, a good-sized crew had been put on board the prize, and thus our three vessels were somewhat of a match for the Spaniards, we hoped. At length the Governor of the place ordered the officers of the ship to appear before him. Accordingly Captain Hassall, the first mate, and I, accompanied by Dennis O'Carroll, who seemed to be able to speak every language under the sun except pure English, as interpreter, went on shore under an escort. The Governor, a fat, swarthy personage in the full dress uniform of a general, received us in a haughty manner, and cross-questioned us in the most minute and tedious manner. Dennis somewhat puzzled him by the style of his answers, which were anything but literal translations of what Captain Hassall said. The result, however, was favourable, and we were allowed to go wherever we chose about the city, and to get the necessary repairs of our ships executed, and to obtain all the stores and provisions we required.
Much relieved, we made our bows, and then took a turn through the place before going on board. I was much struck with the number of churches, of priests and monks, and black slaves, the latter habited in the most scanty garments, and the former perambulating the streets in parties, dressed up in the richest attire of coloured silks and gold, with banners and crosses, and statues of saints, or representations of events mentioned in the Scriptures, the figures as large as life. A large number of friars in black, or brown, or grey gowns of coarse cloth, with ropes round their waists, were going about two and two, with small figures of saints on money boxes. The figures they literally thrust into the faces of the passers-by to be kissed. We saw no one refuse to drop a coin into the box.
"These must be a very religiously disposed people," I observed to Dennis.
"If you knew what I do you wouldn't say that," he answered. "They're fond of sinning, and they are ready to pay for it. The reason that all these priests and monks flourish is this--they have succeeded in teaching the people that they can buy pardon for all the sins they commit. The only scrap of real religion the poor people are allowed to possess is the knowledge that sin must be punished if not forgiven. Instead, however, of showing them how forgiveness can alone be obtained, they make them believe that money can buy it through the prayers of the saints; but when they've got the money in their own pockets, it's very little trouble they give the saints about the matter at all."
"How did you learn all this, Mr O'Carroll?" I asked.
"Just because I believed it all myself," he answered quickly. "I'll tell you some day how I came to find out that I had been sailing on a wrong tack; but you think me now a harum-scarum Irishman, and I'm afraid to talk about the matter."
On our way we passed through the dockyard, where a fifty-gun ship was building, and several smaller vessels of war. We were looking at one repairing alongside the quay, when I saw O'Carroll start, and look eagerly at the people on board.
"That's her, I'm certain of it!" he exclaimed. "She has got into trouble since she parted from you, or you may have done her more harm than you thought for, and she has put in here with false papers and under false colours to repair damages."
"What vessel do you mean?" I asked.
"Why, the _Mignonne_ to be sure, or by what other name she may go," he answered. "Probably she is now the _San Domingo_, or some other saint under Spanish colours, and hailing from some port on the other side of the Horn. Our friend, Captain Brown, of the whaler, had better make haste, or she will be after him and his prize."
"Why not after us then?" I asked.
"Because Captain La Roche has had enough of your quality, I suspect," he replied. "He is a fellow who only fights when he is sure of booty, and though I daresay that he would like to send you to the bottom, he would not go out of his way either for revenge or glory."
To satisfy ourselves we examined the stranger as narrowly as we could, and O'Carroll was thoroughly convinced that he was right in his suspicions. While thus employed a man appeared at the companion watch.
"Why, there is La Roche himself!" he cried out. Scarcely had he spoken than a bullet whizzed by his head. "That settles the matter," he said, quite coolly. "Let us be out of this, or he will be following up this compliment." We hurried out of the dockyard. I proposed making a complaint to the authorities.
"And be detained here several weeks and gain nothing in the end," he answered, shaking his head. "My advice is, get ready for sea as fast as you can, and if you wish to serve Captain Brown see him safe out of sight of land before the _Mignonne_ can follow. We'll keep a watch on him in the meantime, or he'll play us some trick or other. Above all things, don't be on shore after dark. La Roche has plenty of friends here, depend on that, and he will find means to pick us off if he thinks that we are likely to inconvenience him."
Following O'Carroll's suggestions I immediately returned on board. Captain Hassall at first scarcely credited the account we gave him-- indeed, he did not, I saw, put thorough confidence in O'Carroll. However, he agreed that we ought to warn Captain Brown, and that it would be well for us also to sail before the supposed privateer was ready for sea.
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{
"id": "21386"
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4
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THE "BARBARA" ON FIRE.
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We had got our decks caulked, our rigging set up, and other repairs finished, when, one forenoon, O'Carroll, who had at length ventured on shore, returned in a great hurry with the information that there was much bustle on board the _Mignonne_, and that her people were evidently hurrying to the utmost to get ready for sea. Had Captain Hassall followed his own inclinations, he would have given the piratical Frenchman the opportunity of trying his strength with the _Barbara_; but as that would have been decidedly objected to by Garrard, Janrin and Company, we, with the whaler and her prize, and another English vessel, cleared out as secretly as we could, and, with a fair breeze, put to sea. We had to lay to for the other vessels, and after they had joined us Captain Brown hailed us, to say that the look-out from his main-topgallant mast-head had seen a large ship coming out of the harbour under all sail, and that he thought it possible she might be the _Mignonne_. As, however, a mist had soon afterwards arisen, she was concealed from sight. We promised, however, to stand to the northward with Captain Brown during the night, and in the morning, should no enemy be in sight, let him and his consorts proceed on their voyage homewards, while we kept on our course for the Cape of Good Hope. Nothing could have given our people greater satisfaction than to have found the Frenchman close to us at daybreak. I spent most of the night in writing letters home, to send by the whaler. When morning dawned, not a sail, except our own little squadron, was to be seen. We kept company till noon, and then, with mutual good wishes, stood away on our respective courses. We hoped that the _Mignonne_ would follow the _Barbara_ rather than our friends, should she really have sailed in chase of any of us. The possibility of our being pursued created much excitement on board. At early dawn, till the evening threw its mantle over the ocean, we had volunteers at the mastheads looking out for a strange sail. At the end of four or five days all expectation of again meeting with the _Mignonne_ ceased, somewhat to the disappointment of most of the crew, who were wonderfully full of fight. Having beaten the Frenchman once, they were very sure that they could beat him again. We had other good reasons for having our eyes about us--first, to avoid in time any foe too big to tackle; and then, as we had the right to capture any Spanish vessels we might fall in with, to keep a look-out for them. However, the ocean is very broad, and though we chased several vessels, they all proved to be Portuguese. After sighting the little rocky and then uninhabited island of Tristan da Cunha, we made the Cape of Good Hope, and, entering Table Bay, dropped our anchor off Capetown.
The colony had lately been recaptured from the Dutch by Sir David Baird and Sir Home Popham, with a well-appointed force of 5,000 men. The two armies met on the plain at the foot of Table Mountain; but scarcely had the action been commenced by General Ferguson, at the head of the Highland brigade, than the wise Hollanders, considering that the English were likely to prove as good masters as the French, retreated, and soon after offered to capitulate, which they were allowed to do with all the honours of war. The Dutch, French, and English were now living on very friendly terms with each other. The Cape colony, with its clean, well-laid-out English capital, its Table Mountain and Table Cloth, its vineyards, its industrious and sturdy Boers, its Hottentot slaves, and its warlike Kaffirs, is too well-known to require a description. I did a good deal of trading--a matter of private interest to Garrard, Janrin and Company, so I will not speak of it. The ship was put to rights, we enjoyed ourselves very much on shore, and were once more at sea. Strong easterly winds drove us again into the Atlantic, and when we had succeeded in beating back to the latitude of Capetown, the weather, instead of improving, looked more threatening than ever. I had heard of the peculiar swell off the Cape, but I had formed no conception of the immense undulations I now beheld. They came rolling on slow and majestically, solid-looking, like mountains of malachite, heaving up our stout ship as if she were a mere chip of deal cast on the face of the ocean. We were alone on the waste of waters, no other objects in sight besides these huge green masses, which, as the clouds gathered, were every instant becoming of a darker and more leaden hue.
"We shall get a breeze soon, and I hope that it will be from the right quarter for us," I remarked to Benjie Stubbs, the second mate, who had charge of the deck.
"We shall have a breeze, and more than we want, Pusser," (intended for Purser, a name Benjie always persisted in giving me), he answered, glancing round the horizon. "You've not seen anything like this before, eh? A man must come to sea to know what's what. There are strange sights on the ocean."
"So I have always heard," I remarked.
"Yes, you'd have said so if you had been on deck last night in the middle watch," he observed, in a low tone.
"How so? what happened?" I asked.
"Why, just this," he answered. "There was not more wind than there is now, and the sky was clear, with a slice of a moon shining brightly, when, just as I was looking along its wake, what did I see but a full-rigged, old-fashioned ship, under all sail, bearing down towards us at a tremendous rate. When she got within a couple of hundred fathoms of us she hove-to and lowered a boat. I guessed well enough what she was, so, running forward, I cast loose one of the guns and pointed at the boat. They aboard the stranger knew what I was after; the boat was hoisted in again, and away she went right in the teeth of the wind."
"Did you see this last night?" I asked, looking the mate in the face. "I should like to speak to some of the men who saw it at the same time."
"I don't say all saw it. You may ask those who did, and you won't get a different story from what I've told you," he replied.
"And what think you was the ship you saw?" I asked.
"The _Flying Dutchman_, of course, and no manner of doubt about the matter," he answered promptly. [Note 1.] "If you had been on the look-out you would have seen him as clearly as I did. Remember, Pusser, if you ever fall in with him, don't let him come aboard, that's all. He'll send you to the bottom as surely as if a red-hot shot was to be dropped into the hold."
"Who is this _Flying Dutchman_?" I asked, wishing to humour Benjie by pretending to believe his story.
"Why, as to that, there are two opinions," he answered, as if he was speaking of authenticated facts. "Some say that he was an honest trader, that he was bound in for Table Bay, when he was ordered off by the authorities, and that, putting to sea, he was lost; others say that he was a piratical gentleman, and that on one occasion, when short of provisions, being driven off the land by contrary winds, he swore a great oath that he would beat about till the day of doom, but that get in he would. He and all his crew died of starvation, but the oath has been kept; and when gales are threatening, or mischief of any kind brewing, he is to be met with, trying in vain to accomplish his vow."
I smiled at Benjie's account, whereat he pretended to look very indignant, as if I had doubted his veracity. I afterwards made inquiries among the seamen. Two or three asserted that they had witnessed an extraordinary sight during the night, but they all differed considerably in their accounts. It may be supposed that they were trying to practise on the credulity of a greenhorn. My belief is that they really fancied that they had seen what they described.
The clouds grew thicker and thicker till they got as black as ink. The sea became of a dark leaden hue, and the swell increased in height, so that when we sank down into the intermediate valley, we could not see from the deck beyond the watery heights on either side of us.
"Ah, the skipper is right; we shall have it before long, hot and furious."
This remark, made by Benjie Stubbs, followed the captain's order to send down all our lighter spars, and to make everything secure on deck, as well as below. The ship was scarcely made snug before the tempest broke on us. The high, smooth rollers were now torn and wrenched asunder as it were, their summits wreathed with masses of foam, which curled over as they advanced against the wind, and breaking into fragments, blew off in masses of snowy whiteness to leeward. I scarcely thought that a fabric formed by human hands could have sustained the rude shocks we encountered till the ship was got on her course, and we were able to scud before the gale. Often the sea rose up like a dead wall, and seemed as if it must fall over our deck and send us to the bottom. The scene was trying in the daytime, but still more so when darkness covered the face of the deep, and it needed confidence in the qualities of our ship, and yet greater in God's protecting power, not to feel overcome with dread. There was a grandeur in the spectacle which kept me on deck, and it was not till after the steward had frequently summoned me to supper that I could tear myself from it. Curious was the change to the well-lighted, handsome cabin, with the supper things securely placed between fiddles and puddings [Note 1.] on the swing table. The first mate had charge of the deck. Stubbs was busily employed fortifying his nerves. "You now know, Pusser, what a gale off the Cape is," he observed, looking up with his mouth half full of beef and biscuit.
"Yes, indeed," said I. "Fine weather, too, for your friend the _Dutchman_ to be cruising."
"Ay, and likely enough we shall see him, too," he answered. "It was just such a night as this, some five years back, that we fell in with him off here; and our consort, as sound a ship as ever left the Thames, with all hands, was lost. It's my belief that he put a boat aboard her by one of his tricks." I saw Captain Hassall and Irby exchange glances. Stubbs was getting on his favourite subject.
"Well, now, I've doubled this Cape a dozen times or more, and have never yet once set eyes on this Dutch friend of yours, Benjie," exclaimed O'Carroll. "Mind you call me if we sight his craft; I should like to `ya, ya' a little with him, and just ask him where he comes from, and what he's about, and maybe if I put the question in a civil way I'll get a civil answer." By-the-bye, Captain Hassall and I had been so well pleased with O'Carroll, and so satisfied as to his thorough knowledge of the regions we were about to visit and the language of the people, that we had retained him on board as supernumerary mate.
"Don't you go and speak to him now, if you value the safety of the ship, or our lives," exclaimed Stubbs, in a tone of alarm. "You don't know what trick he'll play you if you do. Let such gentry alone, say I." We all laughed at the second mate's earnestness, though I cannot say that all the rest of those present disbelieved in the existence of the condemned _Dutchman_. The state of the atmosphere, the strange, wild, awful look of the ocean, prepared our minds for the appearance of anything supernatural. The captain told me that I looked ill and tired from having been on deck so many hours, and insisted on my turning in, which I at length unwillingly did.
In spite of the upheaving motion of the ship, and the peculiar sensation as she rushed down the watery declivity into the deep valley between the seas, I fell asleep. The creaking of the bulkheads, the whistling of the wind in the rigging, the roaring of the seas, and their constant dash against the sides, were never out of my ears, and oftentimes I fancied that I was on deck witnessing the tumult of the ocean--now that the _Flying Dutchman_ was in sight, now that our own good ship was sinking down overwhelmed by the raging seas.
"Mr Stubbs wants you on deck, sir; she's in sight, sir, he says, she's in sight," I heard a voice say, while I felt my elbow shaken. The speaker was Jerry Nott, our cabin-boy. I slipped on my clothes, scarcely knowing what I was about.
"What o'clock is it?" I asked. "Gone two bells in the morning watch," he answered. I sprang on deck. The dawn had broke. The wind blew as hard as ever. The sky and sea were of a leaden grey hue, the only spots of white were the foaming crests of the seas and our closely-reefed foretop sails. "There, there! Do you see her now?" asked Stubbs, pointing ahead. As we rose to the top of a giant sea I could just discover in the far distance, dimly seen amid the driving spray, the masts of a ship, with more canvas set than I should have supposed would have been shown to such a gale. While I was looking I saw another ship not far beyond the first. We were clearly nearing them.
"What do you think of that?" asked Stubbs.
"That there are two ships making very bad weather of it, Mr Stubbs," answered the captain, who at that moment had come on deck. He took a look through his glass.
"She is a large ship--a line-of-battle ship, I suspect," he observed.
"Looks like one," said Stubbs. "She'll look like something else by-and-by."
The rest of the officers had now joined us except Mr Randolph, who had the middle watch. We were all watching the strangers together. Now, as we sank down into the hollow, the masses of spray which blew off from the huge sea uprising between us and them, hid them from our sight. Some differed with the captain as to the size of the largest ship. One or two thought that she was an Indiaman. However, she was still so distant, and in the grey dawn so misty-looking and indistinct, that it was difficult to decide the question. The captain himself was not certain. "However, we shall soon be able to settle the matter," he observed, as the _Barbara_, now on the summit of a mountain billow, was about to glide down the steep incline. Down, down, we went--it seemed that we should never be able to climb the opposite height. We were all looking out for the strangers, expecting to settle the disputed point. "Where are they?" burst from the lips of all of us. "Where, where?" We looked, we rubbed our eyes--no sail was in sight. "I knew it would be so," said Stubbs, in a tone in which I perceived a thrill of horror. O'Carroll asserted that he had caught sight of the masts of a ship as if sinking beneath the waves.
"Very likely," observed Stubbs, "that was of the ship he was sending to the bottom,--the other was the _Dutchman_, and you don't see her now."
"No, no, they were craft carrying human beings, and they have foundered without a chance of one man out of the many hundreds on board being saved!" exclaimed the captain.
Stubbs shook his head as if he doubted it. We careered on towards the spot where the ships had gone down, for that real ships had been there no doubt could be entertained. A strict look-out was kept for anything that might still be floating to prove that we had not been deceived by some phantom forms. Those on the look-out forward reported an object ahead. "A boat! a boat!" shouted one of them. "No boat could live in such a sea," observed the captain. He was right. As we approached, we saw a grating, to which a human being was clinging. It was, when first seen, on the starboard bow, and it was, alas! evident that we should leave him at too great a distance even to heave a rope to which he might clutch. By his dress he appeared to be a seaman. He must have observed our approach; but he knew well enough that we could make no attempt to save him. He gazed at us steadily as we glided by--his countenance seemed calm--he uttered no cry--still he clung to his frail raft. He could not make up his mind to yield to death. It was truly a painful sight. We anxiously watched him till we left the raft to which he still clung far astern. No other person was seen, but other objects were seen--floating spars, planks, gratings--to prove that we were near a spot where a tall ship had gone down. "It is better so," observed the captain; "unless the sea had cast them on our deck we could not have saved one of them." We rushed on up and down the watery heights, Stubbs as firmly convinced as ever that the _Flying Dutchman_ had produced the fearful catastrophe we had witnessed. On we went--the gale in no way abating. I watched the mountain seas till I grew weary of looking at them; still I learned to feel perfectly secure--a sensation I was at first very far from experiencing. Yet much, if not everything, depended on the soundness of our spars and rigging: a flaw in the wood or rope might be the cause of our destruction. I went below at meal-time, but I hurried again on deck, fascinated by the scene, though I would gladly have shut it out from my sight. At length, towards night, literally wearied with the exertion of keeping my feet and watching those giant seas, I went below and turned in. I slept, but the huge white-crested waves were still rolling before me, and big ships were foundering, and phantom vessels were sailing in the wind's eye, and I heard the bulkheads creaking, the wind whistling, and the waves roaring, as loudly as if I was awake; only I often assigned a wrong sign to the uproar. Hour after hour this continued, when, as I had at last gone off more soundly, a crash echoed in my ears, followed by shrieks and cries. It did not, however, awake me. It seemed a part of the strange dreams in which I was indulging. I thought that the ship had struck on a rock, that I escaped to the shore, had climbed up a lofty cliff, on the summit of which I found a wood fire surrounded by savages. They dragged me to it--I had the most fearful forebodings of what they were about to do. Then I heard the cry, "Fire! fire!" That was a reality--the smell of fire was in my nostrils--I started up--I was alone in the cabin. The ship was plunging about in an awful manner. I hurried on my clothes and rushed on deck. Daylight had broke. The ship lately so trim seemed a perfect wreck. The foremast had been carried away, shivered to the deck, and hung over the bows, from which part of the crew were endeavouring to clear it. The main and mizen-topmasts had likewise been carried away. Smoke was coming up the fore hatchway, down which the rest of the people were pouring buckets of water. I went forward to render assistance. The foremast had been struck by lightning, and the electric fluid, after shattering it, had descended into the hold and set the ship on fire. We worked with the desperation of despair. Should the fire once gain the mastery, no human power could save us. The sea was running as high as ever; it was with difficulty that the ship could be kept before it. I exchanged but a few words with my companions; a bucket was put into my hands, and I at once saw what I had to do. The smoke after a time had decreased, for as yet no flames had burst forth. "Now, lads, follow me," cried Randolph, the first officer, leaping below with his bucket and an axe in his hand. Irby and four men sprang after him. With his axe the mate cut a way to get at the heart of the fire. We handed down buckets to his companions, who kept emptying them round where he was working. The smoke was still stifling. Those below could scarcely be seen as they worked amidst it. The bulkhead was cut through. The seat of the mischief was discovered. Flames were bursting forth, but wet blankets were thrown on them. The buckets were passed rapidly down. The smoke was decreasing. "Hurrah, lads! we shall have it under!" cried the first mate, in an encouraging tone. We breathed more freely. The fire was subdued. The peril had indeed been great. We had now to clear the wreck of the mast, which threatened to stave in the bows. "The gale is breaking," cried the captain, after looking round the horizon; "cheer up, my lads, and we shall do well!" Encouraged by the captain the men laboured on, though from the violent working of the ship it was not without great difficulty and danger that the mass of spars, ropes, and canvas could be hauled on board or cast adrift. As a landsman my assistance was not of much value, though I stood by clinging to the bulwarks, to lend a hand in case I should be required. While glancing to windward, as I did every now and then, in hopes of seeing signs of the abatement of the gale, I caught sight of what seemed the wing of an albatross, skimming the summit of a tossing sea. I looked again and again. There it still was as at first. I pointed it out to the captain. "A sail running down towards us," he observed; "it is to be hoped that she is a friend, for we are in a sorry plight to meet with a foe." The captain's remark made me feel not a little anxious as to the character of the approaching stranger. After a time it became evident that the wind was really falling. The wreck of the mast was at last cleared away, but a calm sea would be required before we could attempt to get up a jury-mast. We had watched the approach of the stranger: she was steering directly for us. As she drew nearer I saw O'Carroll examining her narrowly through the glass. "Here comes the _Flying Dutchman_ again," I observed to Stubbs.
"Not at all certain that she isn't," he answered, quite in a serious tone.
"No, she's not that, but she's ten times worse," exclaimed O'Carroll; "she is the _Mignonne_, as I am a seaman, and will be bothering us pretty considerably, depend on that."
We heartily hoped that he was mistaken, but certainly she was very like the craft we had seen at Saint Salvador. She passed us as near as the heavy sea still running would allow her to do without danger to herself. A man was standing in the mizen rigging. I caught sight of his face through my telescope. I thought that I distinguished a look of satisfaction in his countenance as he gazed at us. "That's La Roche; I know the villain!" cried O'Carroll; "I thought from what I heard that he was bound out here. He'll work us ill, depend on that." We now wished that the sea had continued to run as high as it had hitherto been doing, when it would have been impossible for the privateer to have boarded us. It was now, however, rapidly going down, though as yet it was too rough to allow her to attempt to run alongside. It was possible that she might pass us. No! After running on a short distance her yards were braced sharp up, and she stood back, with the evident intention of attacking our helpless craft.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Contrivances to prevent articles falling off a table at sea.
Note 2. We never hear of the _Flying Dutchman_ now-a-days. The fact is that he had the monopoly of sailing or going along rather in the teeth of the wind. Now steamers have cut him out, and he is fain to hide his diminished head.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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5
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A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER.
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O'Carroll's alarm increased as he saw the privateer approaching. "We shall all have our throats cut to a certainty," he cried out. "They will not leave one of us alive to go home to our disconsolate widows to tell them all that has happened. I know them too well, the villains! Arrah! it was an unfortunate moment that ever I was brought to tumble twice into the hands of such gentry."
"We are not in their hands yet, and if we make a good fight of it, maybe we never shall," exclaimed Captain Hassall. "My lads, if you'll stand by me, I'll hold out as long as the craft can float. We beat off this same fellow once before--let's try if we can't beat him off again."
This brief address inspirited our crew, and, almost worn out with fatigue as they were, they promised to defend themselves to the last. My sensations, as we saw the enemy approach, were not altogether pleasant. We might beat him off in the end; but even that, in our present condition, was not likely; and how many of our number might not be struck down in the struggle! In the meantime, the men armed themselves with pistols and cutlasses, powder and shot were got up, and every preparation made for the fight. The enemy approached, but as he had run to leeward, it was some time before he could work up to pass us to windward. We had carried a stay from the mainmast to the bowsprit, and on this we managed to set a sail, so that the ship was tolerably under control. When the enemy, therefore, at last passed under our stern, we were able to luff up and avoid the raking fire he poured in. No damage was done to any of our people, but a shot struck the mainmast, and wounded it so badly that it was evident that, with any additional strain, it would be carried away altogether. Putting up the helm, we again ran off before the wind. The enemy was soon after us, but though he came up abeam in the heavy sea still running, his aim was of necessity uncertain, and for some time not a shot struck us, while several of ours struck him. This encouraged our men, who gave vent to their satisfaction whenever he was hulled, or a shot went through his sails. Our hopes of success were, however, soon brought to an end, for, as we were compelled to luff up suddenly, to avoid being raked, as he was about to cross our bows, the heavy strain on our wounded mast carried it away, and with it the mizen-topmast, and there we lay a helpless wreck in the trough of the sea, at the mercy of the enemy. Still, as we could work our guns we would not give in, but hoisting our flag on the mizen-mast we continued firing as long as we could bring our guns to bear. A loud cheer burst from the throats of our crew; the Frenchman was standing away. This exultation was rather too precipitate. As soon as he got out of range of our guns, he hove-to and began firing away from a long gun, the shot from which occasionally hit us. One poor fellow was killed and two wounded. It was clear that the privateer was merely waiting till the sea should go down, when he would run alongside and capture us without difficulty.
Captain Hassall at last, seeing what must inevitably occur, called the officers round him, and proposed surrendering. "The villains will cut all our throats if we do, that's all," observed O'Carroll. "I would rather hold out to the last and sell our lives dearly." Most of us were of O'Carroll's opinion.
"Very well, gentlemen, so let it be," said the captain. "I have done my duty in offering to surrender, when I consider that successful resistance is hopeless; still I agree with you that it would be better to die fighting than to be murdered in cold blood."
When our guns became useless, the crew had been set to work to clear the wreck of the mainmast, and to prepare sheers for a jury foremast. "And this is to be the termination of our enterprise," I thought. I must own I gave way to some bitter reflection. While all hands were busily employed, I turned my eyes westward, and there, in the very place where the _Mignonne_ had appeared, I saw another white sail. I pointed her out to the captain. "She may be a friend, and turn the tables," he observed. "If a foe we shall not be worse off than at present."
It soon became known that a sail was in sight. The crew came to the conclusion that she was a friend. The Frenchmen at last saw her. Whatever opinion they formed, they judged that it would be wise to finish the fight and take possession of us. Once more the enemy drew near. The firing became hotter than ever. I turned many an anxious glance at the approaching sail. I felt sure that, in spite of the staunchness of our men, we must inevitably be overpowered. The stranger was getting closer and closer.
"She is a frigate!" cried the captain. "She shows English colours! hurrah! hurrah!" The enemy saw that the chance of capturing us was gone. Sweeping round us, with diabolical malice he gave a parting broadside, which killed one man and wounded another, and then under all the sail he could set ran off before the wind. The frigate had now also made more sail and closed as rapidly. She came close to us. "Are you in a sinking state?" asked a voice from the frigate. "I hope not," answered Captain Hassall. "Then hold on and we'll come back to you," said the voice, which we took to be that of the captain. As I was watching the frigate through my glass, as she rushed by us, who should I see standing in the main rigging but my own midshipman brother William! I waved heartily to him, but he did not make me out. From my usual sedate manners, my shipmates seeing my gestures thought that I had gone mad, and was waving to be taken on board the frigate. "She is the _Phoebe_ frigate," I exclaimed, jumping out of the rigging on deck. "No fear that we shall be deserted now!" I then explained how I came to know the name of the frigate. All hands were now set to work to get the ship to rights. The chase, meantime, became very exciting. "The captain does not know what a fast pair of heels that privateering scoundrel possesses, or he would not have much hopes of catching him," observed Captain Hassall, as he watched the two vessels. The topsails of the Frenchman soon disappeared beneath the horizon, and the shades of evening at length closing down, we were left alone on the world of waters, into which the heavy swell made us roll our sides till we almost dipped our bulwarks under--each time showers of spray being sent dripping off them. The enemy had made several shot-holes in our sides, and those were now, we found, taking in the water faster than was altogether agreeable. The carpenter and his mates had indeed hard work to stop them. I have heard of people's hair turning white in a single night. I felt as if mine would, for it became doubtful if after all the ship would swim, from the quantity of water she was taking in. We, indeed, had reason to regret that we had allowed the frigate to leave us. At last the morning broke. We eagerly looked round the horizon. No sail was in sight. Would the ship float another day? The shot-holes had been stopped, but should bad weather again come on it would be impossible to say what would be the effect on the vessel. Noon came, but no sail was in sight. We were afraid that the cunning privateer had led the frigate a long chase, perhaps among shoals and reefs, and that she had got on shore, and that we might not see the frigate again.
"More likely that she was only the _Flying Dutchman_, taking a longer cruise than usual," muttered Stubbs. "There's no saying what tricks that fellow is not up to."
"What, not got the _Dutchman_ out of your head yet, Stubbs?" said Randolph. "Why, Biddulph saw his brother on board, and two or three of our people know the _Phoebe_, and recognised her."
"Yes, I know that's what often happens. The _Dutchman_ can make his ship look like any vessel he chooses," persisted Stubbs; "naturally-- that is to say as she generally appears--she is a curious old-fashioned rigged craft--you may depend on that."
While we were speaking--taking a breath between our labours, for all hands had been working hard--"A sail, a sail!" was shouted by one of the seamen. We all looked in the direction in which he pointed, and there appeared the upper sails of a ship. Our hopes made us believe that it was the frigate. "As likely the Frenchman come to finish us off, or maybe only the _Flying Dutchman_ again," said Stubbs. I thought that I detected a gleam of humour in his eye, as if he was not quite so credulous as he pretended to be. As the stranger approached, the belief that she was the _Phoebe_ gained ground. At length those who knew her best said that there was no doubt about the matter. They were right. Before dark she hove-to close to us, and a boat with a midshipman in her boarded us. The midshipman was my brother William. He almost tumbled back with surprise at seeing me, for he did not even know that I was coming out.
"Why, James, where have you sprung from?" he exclaimed. "I am thankful to see you unhurt, for we have been anxious about you all day. Couldn't tell how much damage the rascal might have done you. Well, he escaped after all. He has a fast pair of heels, indeed, and he led us a pretty chase, till he got in among some reefs, on which we were nearly leaving our bones. We saw our danger, however, and by the time we were clear he was out of sight."
The boat's crew were directed to remain on board to put the ship to rights. When, however, Captain Young found that this would occupy some time, he offered to take us in tow. A hawser was accordingly passed on board, and away we went in the wake of the frigate. Our course was for the Isle of Bourbon, lately captured from the French. At the end of a week we anchored in the Bay of Saint Paul in that island. On our way there we had done our best to get the ship in order. Our crew were now set to work in earnest, aided by some of the men of the _Phoebe_, who were kindly spared to us by her captain. I took the opportunity of seeing something of the island. My brother William and some of the other midshipmen of the _Phoebe_ got leave to accompany me, and merry parties we had.
Bourbon is about one hundred and fifty miles in circumference, and rises rapidly from the sea, forming one huge blunt-topped mountain in the centre; indeed, the whole island is not unlike a big tea-cup in the middle of the ocean, with some rather large cracks, however, in it. It is generally fertile, coffee and cotton being grown on it. On the south side, a few miles from the sea, there is a volcano, which grumbled and growled, but seldom did more than send forth a little smoke. The inhabitants did not appear to be at all soured at having been placed under British rule.
Probably, indeed, it was a matter of indifference to them, for they have themselves sprung from a mixture of half the races under the sun. Many of the inhabitants are descended from some of those English pirates whose headquarters were, for nearly a hundred years, on the island of Madagascar, but who, about the middle of the seventeenth century, growing weary of their lawless calling, settled here. As their wives were mostly from Madagascar, they are somewhat darkish, but not bad-looking. They are a lively, merry race, fond of dancing, and their climate is delightful. The names of some of the families belonging to the island are derived from the English, as are those of several places. I remember a bay in Madagascar, Antongil Bay, which clearly takes its name from the well-known pirate-leader, Antony Gill, who robbed and murdered on the high seas early in the seventeenth century.
A squadron and troops were collecting here, the latter under General Abercrombie, for an expedition to the Mauritius. We were greatly disappointed, I must own, that our ship was not in a condition to proceed to sea, or we should have been chartered to convey troops and been witnesses of the triumphs we hoped they would achieve. My object is, however, to describe my own adventures in the pursuit of pacific commerce. I will thus only briefly say that the expedition arrived speedily off the Mauritius, the troops were landed, and that after some sharp fighting, by which we lost one hundred and fifty men killed and wounded, the French General, De Caen, capitulated. We had several sepoy regiments, and the French general, in order to inspire the colonial troops with contempt for them, publicly promised that whoever should capture a sepoy should have him for a slave; but the militia appear to have thought that by so doing they might possibly catch a Tartar, for not a sepoy was made prisoner.
I made some satisfactory sales at Bourbon, and as soon as the ship was repaired she followed the men-of-war to the Isle of France. The island is about thirty-five miles long, and one hundred and fifteen in circumference, with a surface greatly diversified by hill and plain, wood and plantation, with several considerable mountains, the chief of which, Le Pouce and Pieter Botte, in the neighbourhood of Port Louis, are well-known. The harbour was a complete forest of masts, filled with vessels of all sorts and sizes, from the huge line-of-battle ship to the humble canoe, not unlike a butcher's tray, scooped out of a single log. The British flag waved triumphantly on all the batteries; and Indiamen, transport prizes, merchant craft of all descriptions, displayed English colours, in most cases flying over the French. Numerous boats, too, were plying to and fro filled with naval and military officers, captains of Indiamen, sailors, lascars, negroes, and Frenchmen, some on business, some on pleasure, but all seeming to be in a hurry. I looked out with no little curiosity for any craft which might answer the description of our late antagonist, the _Mignonne_. If she had entered the harbour, she had again escaped before the capture of the place, for she was nowhere to be seen. It would have been satisfactory to have seen our friend caged, but it was too probable that he was still roving over the ocean, on the watch to plunder any English craft he could venture to attack.
The scene on shore was even more animated than on the water. The streets were crowded with people of many nations: naval and military officers, English and French Government civilians, merchants and other traders, Asiatics and negroes, almost naked slaves dragging along horse-loads in carts, with mongrels of every shade of colour. The town, though in a bustle, was perfectly orderly; the shops were all open, and their owners seemed to be driving a thriving trade, as were also the keepers of taverns, which were full of visitors from fleet and camp. We fortunately had several articles among the cargo of the _Barbara_, of which our countrymen were much in want, not to be found in the stores of the place. They were, however, quickly disposed of, and I was then at leisure to amuse myself as I thought fit. I made several excursions on shore with my brother when he could get leave, and I had thus an opportunity of learning the productions of the island. The chief food of the lower orders and slaves is yams and the _jatropha_, or cassada, of which there are two species commonly known, the _jatropha janipha_, and the _jatropha manihot_. The former contains a strong vegetable poison, which is destroyed by boiling; the latter is merely slightly narcotic in its effects, and both are easily converted into wholesome food. The root, after being well washed and dried in the sun, is usually scraped into a coarse powder, from which the juice is expressed: it is then dried a second time and formed into thin cakes, very similar in appearance to Scotch barley-cakes. The bread thus made is called manioc. Tapioca is also a preparation of the root. Plantains, bananas, melons, and mangoes abound, and the last are especially fine. The climate is healthy, but the Mauritius is occasionally visited by terrific hurricanes, which commit great damage both afloat and on shore. We soon made friends among the French residents, and one of them, with whom I had had some transactions, invited William and me, and a military acquaintance, Captain Mason, to his house in the country. We were most hospitably entertained by our worthy host. The house was large and airy, with a verandah running round it on one side sufficiently broad to enable us to sit out and enjoy the cool breeze, while we sipped our coffee. We had proposed returning that evening, but the wind got up, it rained heavily, and became very dark. Our host pressed us to stay, and as William's leave extended to the next morning we accepted his invitation, he undertaking to put my brother on board in time. Our companion, Captain Mason, was a quiet, amiable man. He was married and as he expected to remain on the island, he had, he told us, sent for his wife from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had left her. I cannot now describe the incidents of our visit.
The next morning, soon after daybreak, having taken an early breakfast of a lighter character than suited our English appetites, we drove back to Port Louis. The weather had grown worse instead of improving, and as we drew near the town we saw in the distance two vessels with English colours approaching the harbour. William had to hurry on board his ship, but Mason and I drove on to a spot where we could see them enter. One gained an anchorage in safety, but the other still continued outside, steering wildly, as if uncertain what course to take. It was soon evident that she was in great danger. While we were looking on, Captain Hassall joined us. There were a number of naval officers, masters of merchantmen, and others collected on the shore. "She is said to have a pilot on board, and an ignorant fellow he must be, or he would have anchored outside ere this if he could not get in," observed Captain Hassall. While he was speaking, the vessel got into the swell of the sea which was dashing on the rocks close at hand. Rapidly she came drifting towards them. Probably the master then asserted his authority, for two anchors were let go. The fate of the ship, and probably of all on board, depended on the anchors holding. With deep anxiety we watched her as the huge swells came rolling in towards the rocks. A cry arose from the collected crowd--"The cables have parted--the cables have parted!" The hapless craft was lifted by the next surge, and hurried on amid the foaming breakers towards the rocks. At that instant the foresail was set, in the hopes of its helping to force her over them. It was useless; down she came with a tremendous crash on the black rocks. For a few minutes she continued beating on them, rocking to and fro in the wildest agitation; then a huge surge, which appeared to have been for some time collecting its strength, struck her on the side, and rolled her over, as if she had been merely a child's plaything, towards the shore, to all appearance overwhelmed, so as never to rise again. The wild breakers dashed triumphantly over her, but she was not conquered, though it seemed a wonder that wood and iron should hold together under the tremendous shocks she was receiving. Once more she rose to an erect position, and it was seen that her dauntless crew were endeavouring to cut away her masts. "It is the only thing they can do to save their lives," observed Hassall, watching them through his glass. "And see,--yes--there is a woman on board--a lady by her dress. She is clinging to the windlass--probably secured to it." As he was speaking, the mizen-mast came down, followed quickly by the mainmast, which happily fell towards the shore. Again a surge covered the vessel. We feared that all on board would be swept from the decks; but when again the surge receded, the people were seen clinging fast as before. A boat from one of the men-of-war now approached the wreck, but the officer in command soon saw that he should only throw away his own life and the lives of those with him if he should attempt to go near enough to receive any one on board. The foremast now fell, and still the stout ship hung together. Other boats came up and got as near as it was possible to go. That those on board thought she would not hold together much longer was evident by the efforts they began to make to escape.
First we observed a man descend the foremast as if with the intention of swimming ashore. His courage, however, forsook him; he paused and returned. Again he climbed along the mast, but hesitated--it was indeed a desperate undertaking. At length he cast himself into the water: immediately he was overwhelmed. Would he ever again reach the surface? "Yes! yes! there he is," cried out several. For a moment he was seen struggling bravely. A groan escaped from the spectators: "He's gone! he's gone!" "No, no, he is still floating," many shouted out. So he was; but whirled here and there, blinded and confused, he was unable to guide himself. He was seen, happily, from one of the boats: she dashed forward, and he was hauled on board without apparently having struck a rock. All this time the people on the wreck had been watching him with intense anxiety, especially the poor lady: "If a strong and bold swimmer could scarcely be saved, what chance had she?" Hassall made the remark. "Not one would have a prospect of being saved if trusting only to his own strength; but there is a Ruler above," said Captain Mason, who had hitherto been watching the wreck without speaking; "He may save that poor woman on the wreck as easily as the strongest seaman." I have often since thought of my friend's remark. It is not our own right arm, but God in heaven, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, who preserves us in many dangers. Captain Mason begged for the use of Hassall's glass, and looked steadfastly through it at the wreck. "It is impossible, yet the figure is like--I cannot make it out," I heard him say. The success of the first man induced another to attempt reaching the shore. He hurried along to the end of the mast and threw himself into the water. The boiling surges whirled him round and round--now he was concealed by the foam--now he appeared struggling onward--still it seemed scarcely possible that he could escape from the boiling cauldron--just then a broken spar floated near him. Had the end struck him he must have been lost, but it came on so that he could clutch the middle. Tightly he grasped it till like his shipmate he was floated near one of the boats and taken on board. Two other men, encouraged by the success of the first, attempted to reach the boats by the same means, but scarcely had they committed themselves to the water when a huge roller came roaring on, dashing over the ship, and as it receded swept them off far away to sea; for a moment their forms were seen struggling amidst the foam, and then they were hid for ever from human eye. The lives of the remainder on board seemed more than ever in danger. Should the storm increase, of which there seemed every probability, the ship must go to pieces, even if they were not first washed off the deck, and then what effort could save them? I was more than ever interested in their fate, when suddenly the idea occurred to me that the lady on board might be the wife of my friend Mason. I thought that he had the same idea, though he would not allow himself to entertain it, by the agitation he exhibited, and which he in vain tried to control. As yet the men who had been saved had not been brought on shore. More boats were coming down the harbour. At length a fine whale-boat was brought down not far from where we were standing. A naval officer, whose name I regret that I did not note, volunteered to take the command, and to go alongside the wreck, if volunteers could be found to man her. Hassall at once offered his services, as did several other masters of merchantmen standing by, and they were accepted. Mason and I also volunteered. "Not unless you are seamen," was the answer. "This work requires firm nerves and skilful hands." I must observe here that I have ever found the officers of the mercantile marine ready to go forth, in spite of all dangers, to save the lives of their fellow-creatures. Though there are exceptions, the greater number are as gallant fellows as any of those who have fought the battles of our country.
The boat was manned and ready to go off, but it became a question whether it would be wise to wait on the prospect of the sea going down, or to risk all and to go off at once on the possibility of the gale increasing. The men who had been rescued were brought on shore. Mason hurried to them, and eagerly inquired who was the woman on board. They were common seamen, and did not know her name. She was a lady, and had come on board at Cape Town just as the ship was sailing. That was all they knew. The naval officer had earnestly been watching the huge rollers as they came tumbling on towards the shore. Suddenly he cried out, "Now, gentlemen, we'll be off." Away went the boat amid the foaming seas towards the hapless wreck.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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6
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IN TROUBLED WATERS.
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Hassall had left me his telescope. I could see the people on board the wreck stretching out their hands towards the boat as she left the shore on her errand of mercy. Mason every now and then asked for the glass and looked towards the wreck. He seemed more and more convinced that the lady on board was his wife. Yet could he do nothing? Yes, he could. Though he could not exert his body I saw that he was doing all that man in his utmost extremity can do. His lips were moving, his head was bent forward, his eyes glancing at times at the boat and the ship, his hands were clasped tightly in prayer, forgetful of the crowds surrounding him. The boat, impelled by lusty strokes, darted on. She reached the wreck. The lady was lifted in. No one seemed inclined to follow. The danger was fearful. Not before, since she struck, had one of the huge rollers failed at much shorter intervals to dash over and over the ship. Should one of them overtake the boat her fate would be sealed. On came the boat towards the beach. A number of seamen rushed down into the surf to receive her and haul her up as soon as she should touch the sand. The excitement among the crowd was tremendous. Far off I saw one of these huge billows rushing onwards. If it broke before the boat could reach the beach it would overwhelm her. The least excited of the crowd, to all appearance, was my friend Captain Mason. He advanced slowly towards the spot which it seemed probable the boat would reach, then he stopped for a moment. On she came, her keel grated on the sand, sturdy shoulders bore her along upwards, and ere the coming roller burst she was safe beyond its reach. The lady lay almost overcome in the stern sheets. Mason uttered his wife's name, she looked up, and in another moment she was placed in his arms. A communication was afterwards established between the wreck and the shore, and most of the crew landed before the gale again came down with redoubled fury. By the morning scarce a vestige of the ship remained. I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs Mason completely recovered two days afterwards, and thankful for her providential escape.
My brother William got leave of absence for three or four days, and he was anxious to spend the time in a cruise along the coast, and to get me to accompany him. I had wound up my mercantile business at the place, but as the _Barbara_ would be detained a few days longer to complete her repairs, in a weak moment I consented to his proposal, as if we had not enough knocking about on salt water in the pursuit of our professional duties. It is difficult to put old heads on young shoulders. We did not remember that it was still the stormy season, and that the natives might not be so inclined to be civil to us, their late conquerors, coming in a half-decked boat with fowling-pieces, as they would had we appeared under the protection of the frigate's guns.
We agreed that it would be as well to have companions. I asked O'Carroll, who was very ready to come, and William brought a friend, whom he introduced as "My messmate, Toby Trundle." His name was a curious one--at first I did not suppose that it was anything but a nickname--and he himself was one of the oddest little fellows I ever met. From the first glance I had of him, I fancied that he was rather a young companion for my brother, but a second look showed me that he was fully his age. We had hired a craft, a schooner-rigged, half-decked boat, about five-and-twenty feet long, with a well aft, in which we could sit comfortably enough. She was not a bad boat for smooth water, but if caught in a heavy sea, very likely to drown all on board.
Our crew consisted of a Frenchman, Paul Jacotot, the owner of the _Dore_, as our craft was called, his son Auguste, a boy of thirteen, and Jack Nobs, a boy I brought from the _Barbara_. The Frenchman was to act as pilot and cook. The boys were to scrape the potatoes--or rather prepare the yams, for we had none of the former root--and tend the head-sheets. A boatswain's mate, Sam Kelson, who had been in hospital, had been allowed to accompany the midshipmen before returning on board. The two midshipmen were to act as officers. O'Carroll, whom they did not know was a sailor, and I, were to be passengers, and the rest of the party were rated as crew. We had laid in all sorts of provisions, an ample supply for the few days we were to be away. Port Louis, it must be remembered, is on the north side of the island, and we had agreed to make our cruise to the eastward, where there are some small islands-- Gunners Coin and Flat Island. If the wind should prove favourable we hoped to circumnavigate the island. With a fair breeze off the land, and Le Pouce seen standing up astern beyond the town, we sailed out of the harbour, the weather being as fine as heart could desire. William and Toby Trundle took it by turns to steer, Jacotot pointing out the dangers to be avoided, for we kept close in shore for the sake of the scenery. Toby Trundle sat aft steering, looking, in a broad-brimmed straw hat, a white jacket and trowsers, contrasting with his sunburnt complexion, more like a monkey than a midshipman. Jacotot, when not engaged in any culinary matter below, was jabbering away at a rapid rate to us, if we would listen; if not, he was addressing his son, whom he kept constantly on the move, now scolding, now praising with terms of tender endearment.
We enjoyed ourselves, and lunched and dined with great contentment, voting Jacotot a first-rate _chef_, which he undoubtedly was. He was, however, a better cook than seaman we before long discovered.
"The next prize we take I hope that we shall find some cooks on board; we must secure one for our mess," observed Toby, helping himself to one of the dishes Jacotot had sent aft. I had not been long on board before I found out, what seemed to have escaped the midshipmen's observation when they hired the boat, that the rigging was sadly rotten, and that she herself was in a somewhat leaky condition. They, however, only laughed at the leaking. "It will keep the boat sweet, and give Jack Nobs and Auguste something to do," observed Master Trundle, cocking his eye at me. Notwithstanding this, we stood on, the breeze shifting conveniently in our favour till nightfall, when we put into a small harbour, the entrance to which our pilot for a wonder knew. The next day we continued our course, landing in a bay, up which we ran to have a look at the country, and to get some goat's milk and fruit. We found a small farm, the only white people being an old-fashioned Frenchman, with a somewhat dingy wife, and two grown-up daughters. All the rest of the people were either brown Orientals or black Africans. The old Frenchman was very civil, merely shrugged his shoulders when he saw our flag, and observed that it was the fortune of war, and that, as we were the most numerous, France had lost no honour, though she lost the dependency. He supplied us for a trifle with a bottle of goat's milk, and as many melons, pines, and mangoes as we could manage to eat. He politely assisted in taking them down to the boat. As he did so he looked round the horizon seaward, and up at the sky. "Messieurs will do well to remain at anchor for a few hours longer," he observed. "We are going to have a change of weather. It may be slight, or it may be very great, and you will be more content on shore than at sea." We thanked him for his advice, but the midshipmen asserting that if we stopped they might not be able to rejoin their ship at the right time, it was disregarded. On standing out again, however, we saw that the hope of getting round the island was vain, and that our surest course would be to return by the way we had come. The weather soon changed; ugly clouds collected and came sweeping up from the west and south, though as yet but little wind filled our sails.
"I am afraid that we are going to have a storm," I observed.
"Oh, no fear; I don't think that there will be anything in it," answered Toby Trundle.
"I think that there'll be a great deal in it, and I would advise you gentlemen to make the best of your way back to the bay we have just left," said O'Carroll.
The midshipmen looked at him as much as to say, What do you know about the matter? Jacotot was too busy cooking an omelette to attend to the weather, or he should have warned us. The question was settled by a sudden gust which came off the land, and laid the boat on her beam-ends. I thought we were going to capsize, and so we should, but crack away went both our masts, and the boat righted, one-third full of water. We all looked at each other for a moment aghast. It was a mercy that no one was washed overboard. A second and stronger gust followed the first, and on drove the boat helplessly before it. "You'll pump and bale out the water, and get on board the wreck of the masts," said O'Carroll, quietly.
We followed his advice as best we could. Jacotot, who was attending to his little stove below when the squall struck us, popped up his head with his white nightcap on, and his countenance so ludicrously expressive of dismay that, in spite of the danger we were in, Trundle burst into a fit of laughter. The Frenchman had not time to get out before the vessel righted. He now emerged completely, and frantically seizing his cap, tore it off his head and threw it into the boiling water. He then joined in hauling on board the wreck of the rigging.
"If we are to save our lives we must forthwith rig a jury-mast, so as to keep the boat before the gale," observed O'Carroll.
With the aid of a wood-axe we knocked out the stump of the foremast, and making a fresh heel to the broken spar, managed, in spite of the rolling of the boat, to slip it into its place. This was done not a moment too soon. The wind increased so rapidly, and blew with such fearful violence, that we should have been unable to accomplish the task, though as yet there was not much sea.
O'Carroll showed that he was a man for an emergency. "This will be more than a gale," he observed; "it will be a regular hurricane! we may expect that. But still, if we manage properly, we may save our lives."
Close-reefing the foresail, we got it ready to hoist as a square sail; the rest of the spars we lashed fore and aft on either side, while we cut up the mainsail and raised the gunwale a foot or more all round to help keep out the water. We also, as far as we could, covered in the after-part of the little craft. While we were thus engaged the boys were pumping and baling. This task was scarcely accomplished before the wind had blown us helplessly so far off the land that we became exposed to the full violence of the sea, which had rapidly risen. The water was leaping on every side tumultuously--the foam flying in thick masses off it--each sea, as it rose high above our heads, threatening to overwhelm us.
We gazed wistfully at the land which we had so unwisely left, but we had no power of returning there. Our only prospect of passing amidst the heavy seas now rolling around us was to hoist our sail and scud before the wind.
O'Carroll now took the helm. "I have had more experience in these seas than you, young gentlemen, and the slightest want of care may send such a craft as this to the bottom!" he observed.
Without a word, they set to work to pump and bale. Even Trundle grew serious. Jacotot every now and then stopped pumping or baling, or whatever he was about, and pulled his hair, and made a hideous face, scolded Auguste, telling him to _depechez vites_, and then set to work himself harder than ever. The English seamen worked away without saying a word beyond what was absolutely necessary. Jack Nobs behaved very well, but cried in sympathy when Auguste was scolded. The latter always blubbered on till his father ceased speaking. I could not help remarking what I have described, notwithstanding the fearful danger we were running. The sky was of an almost inky hue, while the sea was of the colour of lead, frosted over with the driving spray torn off from the summits of the tossing seas by the fury of the wind. Our stump of a mast, as well as our sail, had been well secured, though I dreaded every instant to see the ring-bolts, to which the ropes had been made fast, dragged out of the sides, and the rotten boat torn to pieces.
Thus on we flew, right into the Indian Ocean, though in what direction we could only guess, for our compass, like everything belonging to the craft, was defective. Intending only to make a coasting trip, we had no chart, except one of the island from which we were now being driven rapidly away. To be in a gale of wind on board a stout ship in the open sea, is a fine thing once in one's life, but to have to sit in a rotten boat, with a hurricane driving her, one knows not where, across the ocean, is a very different matter. Our only prospect of saving our lives, humanly speaking, was to keep the boat dead before the wind; a moment's careless steering might have caused our destruction.
We were all so busy in pumping or baling that we had no time to watch each other's countenances, or we might have seen alarm and anxiety depicted on them as the rising seas came following up astern, threatening to engulf us. I felt for the young brother who was with me, so lighthearted and merry, and yet so little prepared for the eternity into which any moment we might be plunged. After fervent inward prayer, my own mind was comforted, so much so that I was able to speak earnest words, not only to my young brother, but to the others. Trundle and Jack looked very serious, but rather bewildered, as if they could not comprehend what was said.
Such is, I fear, too often the case under such circumstances. I remembered how, a few days before, I had seen Mason praying at a time of the utmost extremity, and I urged my companions to pray for themselves. Jacotot was the only person who seemed averse to listen to the word of truth. Though he had raged and pulled his hair with grief at the injury done to his vessel, he could not bring himself to care for anything beyond the passing moment. But while the rest grew calm and resigned, he became more and more agitated and alarmed. In each sea which rolled up after us in the distance he saw the messenger which was to summon him to destruction. Poor little Auguste could only cry with fear of the undefined. He had never been taught to believe in anything, and thus he could not even believe in the reality of death till he was in its grasp.
Under the circumstances in which we were placed, people can talk but little, though the thoughts crowd through the mind with frightful rapidity. Unless when occupied, we for most of the time sat silent, watching the ocean. Night was coming on, and the fury of the tempest had in no way decreased. It was difficult to steer in the daytime--it was doubly difficult and dangerous at night. After O'Carroll had been steering for some time, Trundle begged that he might again take the helm.
"Trust me," he said, "I have been in a gale of wind in an open boat before now, and know how to steer carefully."
"But you've not steered in a hurricane in the Indian seas, Mr Trundle," answered O'Carroll. "Any moment the wind may shift round, and if we were to be taken aback, it would be all over with us. As long as I can keep my eyes open I'll stay where I am, if you please." And O'Carroll was as good as his word; hour after hour he sat there, as we rushed on up and down the watery hills through the pitchy darkness--it was indeed a long, long night. Though we had eaten nothing since the hurricane came on, we were all of us rather weary than hungry. As for sleepiness, that was very far from any one. When compelled to rest, we could employ our thoughts in little else than wishing for daylight, and hoping that the storm would soon cease. It was a relief to be called on to pump or bale, for the increasing leaks required three of us at a time to be actively engaged in both operations. But I am wrong in saying that I could think of nothing except my own fearful peril. Frequently I thought of my dear mother and other loved ones at home. The thought gave me comfort and courage, and cheered me up through the horrors of the night. Daylight came at last, and revealed the tumultuous ocean on every side, but not a speck of land was visible. Trundle was the first to exclaim that he was hungry; but to light a fire was almost impossible, and even Jacotot could not have cooked by it had it been lighted. We managed, however, to serve out some bread and the old Frenchman's fruit to all hands, and then we had to turn to and clear the craft of water, which was finding its way in through every seam. It seemed scarcely possible that she could float much longer, should the hurricane continue, with the violent working to which we were exposed. Had we been stationary, the tempest would have passed over us; but driven along with it, we had for a much longer time to endure its fury. It seemed, indeed, surprising that the boat should have floated so long. As far as we depended, indeed, on our own exertions, the most careful steering could alone have saved us. We had been longing for daylight; now that it had come, the dangers of our condition appeared more evident, and we almost wished again for night. We could not calculate, either, in what direction we were being driven, but we feared it might be where rocks and coral banks and islets abound, and that at any moment we might be hurled on one of them. O'Carroll still sat at his post. I asked if he did not feel tired. "Maybe, but till the gale is over, here I'll stick!" he answered. "And sure it's as pretty a sample of a hurricane as any of you'll be after wishing to see for many a day to come."
At length, towards noon, the wind began to fall, and in a very short time, though it still blew hard, and the sea ran almost as high as before, and was consequently as dangerous, it was evident that the hurricane was over. Our hopes revived. Still, we were obliged to run on before the wind; and to avoid the danger of being pooped by the quickly-following sea, we had to hoist more of our sail: indeed, we now dreaded not having wind enough to avoid the sea. Thus passed the day, and before nightfall we were rolling on a tolerably smooth swell with a moderate breeze. Still we had to exert ourselves as before to keep the boat afloat. The moment, however, that one of us was relieved at the pump or baling bucket, he dropped off to sleep. I was even afraid, at first, that we should all go to sleep together. Nothing, indeed, for some hours could rouse up the two boys. My young brother and Trundle were, however, after a short snooze, as lively as ever, and as merry too. Midshipmen-like, they did not seem to trouble themselves about the future. I, however, still felt very anxious about it. The Southern Cross and many another bright constellation not long familiar to my eyes were shining forth in the clear sky. Had we known our position, even though we had no compass, we might have shaped a course for the Mauritius. We calculated that we had been driven two hundred miles away from it in the direction of the equator. Should we steer south we were as likely to miss as to find it. We proposed, therefore, to steer to the west, knowing that we must thus reach some part of the coast of Madagascar, where the English had at that time a fort and a garrison. "But we must have our craft rigged before we talk of the course we'll steer," observed O'Carroll, who at that moment awoke from a long sleep. With the morning light we set to work to fit a mainmast, and to rig the boat as best we could. There was a light breeze, but as it was from the west we lay without any canvas set.
While all hands were busily employed fitting the rigging, I looked up and saw a brig under all sail approaching us at no great distance. Beyond her was another vessel, a ship--I pointed her out. O'Carroll took the telescope.
"She's an English vessel chased by an enemy," he observed. "She'll not stop to help us, so the closer we lie the better." He kept after this continually taking up the glass for some time, when suddenly he exclaimed, "As I'm an Irishman, it's that villain La Roche again!"
His countenance fell as he spoke. He handed me the glass--I took a steady look at the ship, and had little doubt that it was our old antagonist the _Mignonne_ in sight.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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7
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"BREAKERS AHEAD!"
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Our chief hope of escaping an unpleasant examination by the pirate existed in the possibility that we had not been observed from her deck. Had we had any sail set we could not fail to have been so. Not, we knew, that so small a craft as ours would be considered worth overhauling; but in case we might give information of the pirate's whereabouts, it might be thought expedient to put us out of the way. So we feared. We therefore watched the progress of the _Mignonne_ and the brig with intense interest, earnestly hoping that the latter would lead the pirate a long chase before she was captured, if she could not escape altogether, which of course we hoped she would. La Roche had certainly managed to inspire O'Carroll with an extraordinary dread and hatred of him, for brave and calm in danger as our friend had lately shown himself to be, he was now completely unnerved, and I saw him crouching down in the boat as if, even had she been seen, he could have been distinguished. On sailed the brig; gradually her sails began to disappear below the horizon. The pirate still continued the chase. For some time no one in the boat thought of working. We were roused up by finding that the water was rapidly gaining on us, and we all had to turn to and pump and bale harder than ever. We were in hopes that after all the brig might escape, when the boom of a gun came over the water, followed by another and another. It was too probable that the pirate had got her within range. Both vessels had now disappeared below the horizon, at the same time the wind where we were had completely died away. As far as the pirate was concerned, we began to breathe more freely; it was not likely that he would again pass near us. But the sun shone forth from the clear sky with intense heat, roasting our heads and the brains within them, and making whatever pitch remained between the planks of our deck bubble up as if it had been boiling. There we lay, our boat rolling from side to side, without a particle of shade to shelter us. Our little cabin was like an oven. When we were to rest it became simply a question whether in making the attempt we should be roasted on deck or baked below. We had not much time for idleness yet: though we worked very hard, it was not till nightfall that our rigging was set up sufficiently to enable us to make sail.
When the sun set there was not a breath of air, while the surface of the ocean was as smooth as a sheet of glass, though every now and then a swell rose under the boat's keel, making her roll for ten minutes afterwards, while it glided slowly away in the distance. The only sounds were the clank of the pump and the dash of water from the scuppers or buckets, and an occasional snort of some huge fish, or the splash it made when plunging down into its liquid home. Thus the hours of the night passed away. We were so weary and sleepy that the instant we were relieved from the pump we lay down and were lost in forgetfulness. The day broke, the sun rose higher and higher, and beat hotter and hotter, and all around us was the same smooth, glassy ocean. Now and then the surface was broken by a flight of flying fish as they rose out of it and darted along through the air, glittering bright in the sunbeams, like a covey of silver birds.
"Ah, now! if some of you would just have the goodness to come aboard here, you would serve us nicely for breakfast," exclaimed Trundle, as he observed them.
He had scarcely spoken when upwards of a dozen out of a large shoal leaped, or flew rather, right in among us, while as many more passed clean over the boat. It was a curious coincidence, and at all events afforded us not only a substantial, but a very delicious meal, cooked by the skilful hands of Monsieur Jacotot. It put us all in good spirits, and we began to look at the future in a tolerably hopeful spirit, till my midshipman brother exclaimed-- "I say, if this sun lasts much longer, what shall we do for grub? The sea-pie we have brought has gone bad, and I am afraid that the beef and pork won't keep good many hours out of the brine."
"You may put them in the past instead of the future tense, my boy," observed Trundle, who had been examining the lockers; "I doubt if any stomach with less powers than a shark's could swallow a bit of the meat we have got on board."
"Then on what have we got to exist till we can reach the shore?" I asked, with a feeling of serious anxiety.
"Why," answered William, "we have biscuits and half a cheese--at least we had half when we sailed, but it is rather gone--and a few mangoes, and bananas, and plantains, and a melon or two, and some tea and coffee, and sugar. I am afraid we haven't much else, except a cask of water, and that was rather leaky, like this craft."
"Then let us look to the cask, gentlemen," said O'Carroll. "And don't throw the meat away, putrid though it may be. The Frenchman may cook it so as to make it go down, and we don't know how hard we may be pressed for food."
The water-cask was examined, happily not altogether too late, but a third of the precious liquid had run out. I said nothing, but sad forebodings filled my mind. Even with a compass to steer by and a good breeze to carry us along, we might be several days reaching Port Louis, or, indeed, any habitable coast we could make. We might be kept out much longer, and then how could we exist? We could scarcely hope that another covey of flying fish would come on board, though we might catch some others if we could manufacture hooks, for I was afraid we had none on board. This calm might continue for a week, and then we might have another gale, for we were in the hurricane season. I advised that we should at once go on an allowance of food and water, a suggestion which was, of course, adopted. We had no fishing lines or hooks on board; a bit of an old file was, however, discovered, and with it and a hammer Jacotot undertook to make some hooks, while Kelson spun some fine yarn for lines.
"I shall have plenty of time," observed the Frenchman, with a wan smile and a shrug of the shoulders, "for without the fish I shall have nothing to cook."
Two days passed, and though the hooks were in use we caught nothing, and some of the party began to wish that the pirate had picked us up. Two days more passed: matters had become very serious. Hunger was gnawing at our insides, and what seemed even worse, thirst was parching our lips and throats. With the intense heat we were enduring, gallons of water would scarcely have satisfied us, and we each had but a small wineglass full three times a day. When that was gone, as long as our fuel lasted we could get a little water by condensing the steam from our kettle. Our thirst became intolerable; yet the few drops, we did get kept us, I believe, alive. I do not wish to dwell on that time. My own sufferings were great, but they were increased by seeing those of my young brother and his lighthearted companion, both of them about, as I feared, to pass away from the world they had found so enjoyable. The sun rose, and set, and rose again, and each day it appeared to send down its heat with an increased intensity of strength as we grew weaker and weaker. A new danger threatened us: we could even now scarcely keep the boat clear of water; should our strength fail altogether, as seemed but too probable, she would sink below us. Our lot was that which many poor seamen have endured, but that did not make it more supportable to us.
Our last particle of food had been eaten, the last drop of water nearly exhausted. The strongest might endure for a day or two, the weakest ones must sink within a few hours. Even O'Carroll, strong as he seemed, was giving way. He sat dull and unconscious, his eyes meaningless, only arousing himself by a great effort. My brother's head rested on my arm, and I was moistening his lips with the few drops obtained from the cask. Suddenly Kelson, who had been gazing round the horizon, started up, crying out, "A breeze! a breeze! I see it coming over the water!"
I turned my eyes to the west, the direction to which he pointed. There I saw a dark-blue line quickly advancing towards us. Even already, on either side, cat's-paws were to be seen just touching the surface, then vanishing again, once more to appear in a different direction as the light currents of air, precursors of the main body of the wind, touched the surface. The effect on our fainting party was magical; even the poor boys tried to lift up their languid eyes to look around. Another shout from Kelson a few minutes afterwards roused us all still more. "A sail! a sail! She's standing this way too!"
Even Jacotot, who had completely given way to despair, started to his feet at the sound, and, weak though he was, performed such strange antics expressive of his joy on the little deck that I thought he would have gone overboard.
"If you've got all that life in you, Mounseer, just turn to at the pump again and make some use of it, instead of jigging away like an overgrown jackanapes!" growled out Kelson, who held the poor Frenchman in great contempt for having knocked under, as he called it, so soon.
Jacotot gave another skip or two, and then, seizing the pump-handle, or break, as it is called, burst into tears. The two midshipmen and boys soon relapsed into their former state, while O'Carroll seemed to forget that relief was approaching, till on a sudden the idea seized him that the stranger which was now rapidly nearing us was no other than the _Mignonne_, though she had been last seen in an opposite direction, and there had been a dead calm ever since. "Arrah! we'll all be murdered entirely by that thief of the world, La Roche, bad luck to him!" he cried out, wringing his hands. "It was an unlucky day that I ever cast eyes on his ugly face for the first time, and now he's after coming back again to pick me up in the middle of the Indian Ocean, just as a big black crow does a worm out of a turnip-field!"
In vain I tried to argue him out of the absurdity of his notion. He turned sharply round on me.
"It's desaving me now ye are, and that isn't the part of a true friend, Mr James Braithwaite!" he exclaimed. "Just try how he'll treat you, and then tell me how you like his company."
I saw that there was not the slightest use reasoning with him, but that it would be necessary to watch him, lest in his frenzy he should jump overboard. As the dreadful idea came on me that he might do so, I saw the black fin of the seaman's sworn foe, a shark, gliding toward us, and a pair of sharp eyes looking wistfully up towards me, so I fancied, as if the creature considered the leaky boat and its contents a dainty dish prepared for his benefit. It made me set to work to bale with all the strength I could muster. Seeing me so employed, O'Carroll for a moment forgot his mad idea, and followed my example. Often and often I turned my gaze towards the approaching ship. It seemed even still open to doubt whether she would pass near enough to observe us.
At length the breeze reached us, and hoisting our sails as well as our strength would allow, we stood in a direction to come across the course the stranger was steering. I told Kelson, in a whisper, to assist me in keeping a watch on O'Carroll, for as we drew nearer the stranger, so did his uneasiness increase, and he was evidently still under the impression that she was the dreaded _Mignonne_. William and Trundle looked at her with lack-lustre eyes. I asked Kelson what he thought she was. "A small Chinaman, or a store-ship, maybe, sir," he answered. "She's English, certainly, by the cut of her sails."
"You hear what he says," I observed to O'Carroll. "I think the same myself. We shall be treated as friends when we get on board."
"Ye are after desaving me, I know ye are," cried the poor fellow, turning round and giving a reproachful glance at me. "Don't ye see the ugly villain La Roche himself standing on the cathead ready to order his crew of imps to fire as soon as we get within range of their guns?"
This notion so tickled Kelson's fancy that he fairly burst into a fit of laughter, in which I and the rest of the party faintly joined, from very weakness, for most of them had not heard what was said. Even O'Carroll himself imitated us. Suddenly he stopped. "It's no laughing matter, though, let me tell you," he observed gravely, after some time had elapsed, and the stranger had neared us so that we could see the people on deck. "But where's La Roche? Oh, I see, he's aft there, grinning at us as usual." He pointed to a most respectable-looking old gentleman, who was, I supposed, the master of the ship.
"You are mistaken in that," said I, feeling the importance of keeping him quiet till he could be got on board. "If that is the _Mignonne_, she has been captured, and is in possession of a British crew. You'll see that I am right directly."
The ship was shortening sail as I spoke. We were soon alongside. Even at a distance our pitiable condition had been observed. We were one after the other hoisted on deck, for even Kelson could scarcely get up without help. I gave a hint to the doctor to look after O'Carroll. "I am right," I remarked to my friend. "If La Roche is on board, he is safe under hatches; so the best thing you can do is to turn in, and go to sleep. You want rest more than any of us."
Led by the surgeon, he went quietly below, and I hoped with soothing medicine and sleep would be soon all to rights again.
The ship proved to be, not what Kelson had supposed, but a vessel with free emigrants bound out to the rising town of Sydney, in New South Wales--a colony generally called Botany Bay, established some few years before, by Captain Phillips of the navy, chiefly with convicts and the necessary soldiers to look after them. We had just told our tale, and the passengers had expressed their sympathy for us, when I heard Jacotot give a loud cry of dismay. On looking over the side the cause was explained--the masts of our unhappy little craft were just disappearing under the surface. This was the natural consequence of our neglecting to pump her out, and the ship, which was going ahead, dragging her through the water, when of course it rushed in through her open seams with redoubled speed. Poor Jacotot tore his hair and wrung his hands, and wept tears of grief for his wretched craft; but he did not gain as much sympathy as would have been shown him had he been more quiet, though our new friends congratulated us the more warmly in having got out of her before she met her fate. Food and rest quickly set most of us to rights, and the following day William and Trundle and I were able to take our places at the cabin table with the rest of the passengers. O'Carroll was kept in bed with fever, though he had got over his idea that La Roche was on board. The old gentleman he had mistaken for him proved to be a minister of the gospel, who had been invited to accompany a party of the emigrants.
We found that things were not going on in at all a satisfactory way on board. The master had died before the ship reached the Cape: the first officer, Mr Gregson, who had now charge, was obstinate and self-opinionated when sober, and he was very frequently intoxicated; the second was a stupid fellow and no navigator; and both were jealous of the third, who was a superior, intelligent young man, and in numerous ways they did their utmost to annoy him. This accounted for the good ship, the _Kangaroo_, being very much out of her proper course, which was far to the southward of where she picked us up. Most disastrous consequences were to occur. William and Trundle told me that they had been making their observations; that they wondered how the ship had got thus far, and that they should be much surprised if she got much farther. A very large proportion of the ships cast away and lives sacrificed are so in consequence of the habitual intoxication of the masters and their officers. I venture to make this distinct assertion from the very numerous instances I have known and heard of. We did not wish to alarm the passengers, none of whom had been at sea before, and were not aware of the danger they were running. Had our schooner still floated, I should have proposed taking her to the first island we could make and there repairing her. We asked Mr Gregson if he would undertake to land us at Port Louis, offering him at the same time payment if he would do so; but he positively refused, declaring that nothing should induce him to go out of his course, and that we must stick to the ship and work our passage till she reached her destination.
Believing that, as he was short-handed, his object in detaining us was to get more hands to work the ship, this we positively refused to do. "Very well, then, we'll see who is master on board the _Kangaroo_," he replied, with an oath. "You tell me that three of you belong to a man-of-war; but I find you in a French boat, and how do I know that you are not deserters or convicts? and I'll treat you as such if you don't look out." This conduct was so unexpected, and so different from the kind way in which we had been treated by the passengers, that we did not know what to say. We agreed to wait till we could consult O'Carroll; and Trundle undertook to get a look at the chart the captain was using, and to try and find out where he had placed the ship. The wind had hitherto continued very light, so that we had made but little way since we came on board. The day following the unpleasant conversation I have described, O'Carroll was so much recovered that he was able to come on deck. Though Irishmen have not the character in general of being good seamen, I considered from what I had seen of him that he was an exception to the general rule. I told him what we had remarked.
"When the time comes I'll see what I can do," he answered; "but it is ticklish work interfering with such fellows as the present master of this ship, unless one advises the very thing one does not want done."
"We may soon require the exercise of your skill," I remarked. "It appears to me that there will speedily be a change in the weather."
"Little doubt about that, and we shall have it hot and strong again soon," he answered, looking round the horizon.
"Not another hurricane, I hope," said I. "Not quite sure about that," he answered. "Were I master of this ship I should make all snug for it; but if I were to advise Gregson to do so, he'd only crack on more sail to show his superior seamanship. I've had a talk with the surgeon, McDow, a very decent sort of young fellow, and so I know the man we have to deal with."
An hour or two after this, the wind had increased to half a gale, and the _Kangaroo_ was tearing away through the sea with a great deal more sail than a prudent seaman would have carried. Unfortunately William or Trundle had remarked that it was much more important to shorten sail on the appearance of bad weather on board a short-handed merchantman, than on board a man-of-war with a strong crew. I saw O'Carroll looking anxiously aloft, and then again to windward. At last he could stand it no longer.
"You'll let the wind take the topmasts out of the ship if you don't look out, Captain Gregson," he remarked.
"What business have you to come aboard this ship and to pretend to teach me?" answered the master, who was more than half drunk. "If you do, take care. I'll turn you out of her, and let you find your own way ashore."
While he was speaking a loud crack was heard, and the mizen-topmast was carried over the side. This made him order the crew aloft to shorten sail. "You go too, you lazy youngsters!" he exclaimed, seeing William and Trundle on deck.
They sprung up the rigging without a word of reply. I watched them with great anxiety, for the masts bent like whips, and I was afraid every moment to see the main share the fate of the mizen-mast, to the destruction of all on the yards. Still the master, as if indifferent to what might happen, was not even looking aloft. The two midshipmen had just reached the top, and were about to lie along the yard, when O'Carroll shouted: "Down, all of you; down, for your lives!"
His voice arrested their progress, and two of the men already on the yards sprang back into the top; but the warning came too late for the rest. A tremendous squall struck the ship. Over she heeled, till the lee bulwarks were under water. A loud crash followed. Away went the main-topmast, and yard, and struggling sail, carrying six human beings with it. Five were hurled off into the now foaming sea. We saw them for an instant stretching out their arms, as if imploring that help which it was beyond our power to give. The ship dashed onward, leaving them far astern. One still clung to the rigging towing with the spar alongside. The ship still lay almost on her beam-ends.
O'Carroll saw the possibility of saving the poor fellow. Calling out to me to lay hold of a rope, one end of which he fastened round his waist, he plunged overboard. I could scarcely have held it, had not William and Trundle with Kelson come to my assistance. O'Carroll grasped the man. "Haul away!" he shouted. In another instant he was on board again, with the man in his arms. The helm was put up, the ship righted, the man had got off the foreyard, and away the ship new, with the fore-topsail wildly bulging out right before the wind. In a few minutes it was blown from the bolt-ropes in strips, twisted and knotted together. The mainsail, not without difficulty, was handed, and we continued to run on under the foresail, the only other sail which remained entire, and it seemed very probable that that would soon be blown away.
All this time the terror of the unfortunate passengers was very great-- the more so that it was undefined. They saw the captain, however, every now and then come into the cabin and toss off a tumbler of strong rum-and-water, and then return on deck, and shout out with oaths often contradictory orders. The gale all this time was increasing, until it threatened to become as violent as the hurricane from which we had escaped. I could not help wishing that we had not left our leaky little schooner. We might have reached some land in her. Now we did not know where we were going, except towards a region of rocks and sandbanks on which any moment the ship might be hurled. For ourselves it would be bad enough; but hard indeed for the poor women and children, of whom there were a dozen or more on board, several of them helpless infants.
As I looked on the man who was thus perilling the lives of his fellow-creatures by his senseless brutality, I could not help thinking what a load of guilt rested on his head. His face was flushed, his features distorted, his eyes rolling wildly, as he walked with irregular steps up and down the deck, or ever and anon descended to the cabin to gaze stupidly at his chart, which was utterly useless, and to take a fresh draught of the liquor which had brought him to that state. Yet he was a fine, good-looking fellow, and pleasant-mannered enough when sober and not opposed. I have known several such, who have for years deceived their owners and others on shore, led by outward appearance, till some fearful catastrophe has been the result of their pernicious habits.
Night came. The ship continued her mad career through the darkness; the wind howling and whistling, the loose ropes lashing furiously against the masts, and the sea roaring around. Below all was confusion. Numerous articles had broken adrift and were rolling about, the passengers crouched huddled together in the cabin endeavouring to avoid them. Mothers pressed their children to their bosoms; the men were asking each other what was next to happen. The answer came with fearful import. "Breakers ahead! Breakers ahead!" There was a tremendous crash, every timber in the ship shook. She was on the rocks.
James Braithwaite, the Supercargo--by W.H.G. Kingston
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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8
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A COMPLETE WRECK.
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"Cut away the masts--the shrouds first! Be smart, my men!" cried a voice.
"Who dares give that order?" shrieked out the captain; "she'll be over this in no time."
"I dare obey it!" exclaimed one of the seamen. "Come, lads, it's the best chance of saving our lives."
The men listened to the advice of their messmate, and, knowing where to find the axes, quickly severed the shrouds of the mizen-mast, and some attacked it, while others went to the mainmast, in spite of the mad cries of the captain to "hold fast." Their object was thus to force the ship over the reef--if it was a reef we were on--head first, or closer to the shore if we were on an island. The seas came thundering against our sides, often dashing over the decks, so that with difficulty any of us could save ourselves from being carried away by them. Several poor people were thus swept away soon after the ship struck, and their despairing shrieks rang in our ears as they were borne away or hurled on the rocks amid the foaming breakers. We could see nothing beyond the ship except the troubled waters. Our chief hope rested on her not being wedged in the rocks. Now she lifted and drove on her bottom, grinding over the coral; now down she came again, and rocked to and fro in the surges. Directly the after masts were cleared away, her head paid off, and we drove on stern first. It was pitiable to hear the cries which rose from the terrorstricken passengers, but as we could as yet give them no comfort, I refrained from going below. William and Trundle, O'Carroll and I, stood together holding on to the stump of the mainmast; the Frenchman and his son had gone below at the commencement of the gale. I hoped that they were still there. The ship continued alternately grinding and bumping along, but still evidently progressing over the reef. She must have been new and well built, or she would have gone to pieces with the treatment she was receiving. Our anxiety was thus prolonged, for it was impossible to say, supposing the ship should drive over the reef, whether we should find land, and if not whether she would float. It seemed as if each blow she received must be knocking a hole through her planks. Oh! how we longed for daylight, at all events to see and face the dangers which beset us! In the dark we could do nothing but hold on for our lives and pray to be preserved from destruction.
At length the ship was lifted by a huge wave. On she drove. It seemed that the next time she came down on the hard rocks it must be to her destruction. On, on she went; the waters roared and hissed around her. Instead of the expected catastrophe, suddenly she appeared to be floating with comparative calmness; she had been forced over the reef, but the furious wind was still driving her before it.
"We should anchor this instant!" said O'Carroll; but neither the master nor his mates were on deck to give the necessary orders. "Stand by to anchor!" cried O'Carroll.
The two midshipmen, with Kelson and several of the crew, hurried to carry out the order. Some delay occurred in consequence of the darkness. At length the anchor was let go, but as the ship's stern swung round it struck heavily on a rock. Again cries of terror came up from the passengers in the cabins; I therefore, as I could be of no use on deck, went below in the hopes of tranquillising their minds. They clung round me as I appeared, entreating to be told the truth. I assured them that there was no immediate danger, and that, though the ship had again struck on the rocks, there was so much less sea inside the reef than what she had already gone through, I hoped she might continue to hold together. In all probability we were not far off land. Some, on hearing this, especially those who had been most overcome with terror, expressed their joy in all sorts of extravagant ways, and seemed to consider that there was no longer any danger to be apprehended; others, again, would scarcely credit what I told them, and inquired what the captain thought on the subject.
"The captain! What does he know about anything?" exclaimed a young man, who appeared to be superior in education to most of the passengers. "If the ship is lost, and our lives sacrificed, on him will rest the blame. Look there!"
He threw open the door of the captain's cabin, where he and the first mate sat, both far too tipsy to move, yet still trying to pour spirits down their throats.
"What's that you say?" growled out the captain, with an indistinct utterance; "I'll have no mutiny aboard this ship."
He endeavoured to rise, but fell forward across the table, upsetting the bottle and tumblers. The mate was too far gone even to attempt to rise. He gazed at us with an idiotic glance for a minute or two, then his head dropped down on the little table at which he was sitting. It must be understood that all this time the ship was far from quiet; she was still grinding and striking heavily against the rocks, though the sea had not sufficient force to lift her over them. I hurried again on deck; my fear was that the ship would fill with water and drop off the rocks and sink. After hunting about we found the carpenter, and with his help sounded the well; already there were six feet of water in the hold. After waiting a short time we found that the water was increasing, the pumps must be set to work. Some of the crew said it was of no use, and refused; others came to our summons; and to help us we called up all the men passengers, while we set the example by labouring as hard as we could. Thus the night passed. It was indeed better for everybody that we had something to do. Dawn came at last. We eagerly looked out for the prospect which daylight was to reveal, whether we were to find ourselves amidst reefs just rising from the water, or near a mere sandbank, or on an inhabited shore. At first we could only see, as before, the white foam dancing up, then dark rocks and yellow sand, and beyond it brown hills and a few trees. As the light still further increased we discovered that the country was in a state of nature; in vain we looked for traces of inhabitants.
The passengers, hearing that we were close to land, came crowding on deck, all eager to get on shore. It was, however, no easy matter to do so. The sea came rushing round the ship, between which and the dry rocks the distance was considerable, so that anybody attempting to swim to them would have been swept away. One small boat alone remained, the rest had been knocked to pieces. In this only two rowers could sit, and a couple of passengers at the most. As far, however, as we could see on either side the surf broke too furiously to allow her to land, so that she could, we feared, be of no use.
At length my brother cried out, "We'll go in her; there is one place just inside the ship where we can jump on shore with a line. If we can do that we'll carry a hawser to the rocks, and all the people may land."
The two mids and Kelson agreed to go in the boat, towing a light line. We watched them anxiously. The water tossed and foamed around them, and they had hard work to contend with the reflux of the sea. Earnestly I prayed that they might be protected and succeed, both for their sakes and ours. A shout of joy and thankfulness burst from the lookers-on as Kelson leaped on the rock, followed by the two midshipmen, who instantly hauled the boat up out of harm's way. A hawser had been prepared, which they at once hauled on shore and secured. A cradle was next fitted to it by the seamen, under O'Carroll's directions. It was a question who was to go forth to prove it. At that moment Jacotot made his appearance on deck. He was told that he must go on shore. He was secured forthwith to the cradle. In vain he struggled and protested: he was quickly drawn across. His son and Jack followed. Two men then went to assist in hauling the passengers across. They were placed, one after the other, in the cradle and landed in safety. I was thankful when they were all on shore. There they stood, grouped together, gazing helplessly at the ship, not knowing what to do. There was no one to guide them. Those wretches, the master and his mate, still remained utterly helpless in the cabin. Half the crew of the ship had been lost, and the young mate, who might have exercised some authority. From what I saw of the remainder of the crew I was afraid that they were mostly a very bad set. I dreaded their breaking into the spirit-room--which seamen often do under such circumstances. To prevent this it was necessary to keep them amply employed; we urged them, therefore, to land all the provisions that could be got out of the hold.
To expedite this proceeding we got another hawser carried on shore. Our lives might depend on the amount of provisions we could save. All day we worked on, till towards evening the water had risen so much in the hold that nothing more could be got out. The heat was intense, but so important was the work that we scarcely stopped even to take food. No one had thought all this time of the captain and mate, the real cause of their misfortunes. Suddenly I recollected that they had been left in a side-cabin asleep. I hurried down. I was but just in time; the water was up to their heads, and in another minute would have washed over their faces and drowned them as they lay sleeping off their debauch. I shouted out their names, and called them to come on deck. They started up, their countenances exhibiting their horror and alarm, as they believed that the ship was sinking beneath them. Out into the water they tumbled. The mate slipped, and caught hold of the captain to save himself. Over they went, struggling together. I fancy that they thought themselves overboard; right under the water they dragged each other, once more to get their heads out, spluttering and shouting, and swearing most fearfully. At last, fearing that they might after all be drowned, I seized the mate, who was the smaller man of the two, and dragged him on deck, calling out to O'Carroll to assist in getting up the captain. He came to my assistance, and we hauled both the men on deck. Their sea bath and the struggle had brought them to their senses; but when, after staring around for some time, they saw that the ship was a hopeless wreck, cast away on an apparently barren island, they very nearly lost them again. To find fault with them at such a moment would have been folly. "Come, I advise you to go on shore, for very likely the ship will go to pieces during the night, if the wind rise again," I said quietly. They were far from disposed to thank me for my advice, though, after looking about for a few minutes, they took it, and were hauled on shore. After collecting everything of value to be found in the cabin, compass, charts, and some nautical books, I followed. O'Carroll was the last man to leave the ship. William and his messmate had been very active on shore, and got a tent rigged for the poor women and children, and some food cooked for them by Jacotot.
No sooner was a fire lighted than the Frenchman was himself again, hurrying about in search of the utensils necessary for his calling. He had cooked a capital supper for them, and he now offered to cook one for us. On collecting all the sails we had landed, we were able to form a shelter for ourselves, as well as for the seamen; and at length, weary with our exertions, we lay down to rest. The captain and mate were very silent, and I hoped ashamed of themselves. During the night there was a good deal of wind and sea. I was thankful that we were on shore, and when I looked out I almost expected to find that the ship had gone to pieces. There, however, she was, still holding fast together. Seeing this, the captain declared that he would get her off, and that if trees could be found in the island suitable for new spars, he could proceed on his voyage.
"If he knew of the bumping she got he wouldn't say so," observed O'Carroll. "That ship will never float again, and, strong as she is, another gale such as we had last night will break her to pieces."
As there was nothing more to be done, we started to explore the island. It seemed to be the chief of a group of rocky islets, being about six miles long and half as broad. Though we made diligent search as we walked on, we could find no water. A few small casks of the precious liquid had been landed, but sufficient only for another day or two.
"And what shall we do when that is gone?" asked William. It was a serious question.
"We must trust in God, for vain is the help of man in such a case," I answered; "at all events, we must use what we have got with the greatest economy."
On returning to the camp and reporting our want of success in finding water, what was our dismay to find that every drop in the casks had been consumed! All the poor people could say was that they were so thirsty, and the children were so constantly crying out for water, that they could not help giving it to them. We were ourselves already suffering greatly from thirst after our ramble, yet not a drop of water did we obtain. Our lips were parched, our tongues dry: without water we could not eat, we loathed food, supperless we lay down to sleep. All night long I was dreaming of sparkling fountains and running brooks. As soon as it was daylight we again set out with a spade and pickaxe, prepared, if we could find no running stream, to dig wherever verdure showed that moisture was at hand. We walked on and on, searching in every direction round the shore, but no sign of a stream emptying itself into the sea could we discover, and when we dug we soon met the hard rock. Faint and weary we turned to the camp. We found a fire blazing, and Jacotot with several men standing round it: two were working a rough pair of bellows, others hammers and tongs. All were employed under his directions, while he was engaged in riveting a pipe into a large copper vessel.
"Why you trouble to look for water?" he asked. "There is salt water, there is wood to make fire, then we have plenty of fresh water. We make steam, steam come out and leave the salt in de kettle, and then find a cold piece of iron and drop, drop, down into this tub all fresh and good for drink." He told us that he had seen a French doctor obtain fresh water from salt in that manner.
"Most men have their merits, if we could but discover them and put them in their right places," I thought to myself. "We were inclined to laugh at Jacotot, but if he can produce fresh water out of salt, he may be the means of saving all our lives."
We watched him anxiously, all eager to help him, but he would not be hurried. At length the machine was finished, and we hastened to fill it with salt water. It was placed on the fire, and slowly the drops of fresh water were distilled from it. How eagerly were they sought for by the poor creatures who stood round with lack-lustre eyes and parched lips. Jacotot insisted that the youngest should be served first. I think he was influenced by the wish to get his boy Auguste an early draught. That was but natural. Some of the crew grumbled, and so did the captain and mate, who were, in consequence of their late debauch, suffering fearfully from thirst; but O'Carroll, William, Trundle, Kelson, and two or three of the passengers formed a body-guard round the Frenchman, to enable him to do as he thought right. Only half a little liqueur glass of the precious fluid was served out to each person. It was pleasant to see the eyes of the poor children brighten as the pure water touched their lips. The younger ones, however, directly their allowance was gone, cried out for more. Several times we had to stop till more water was distilled.
While we were thus engaged, the wind had again got up, and the sea, dashing over the reef, began to burst with violence against the shore. The effect produced on the wreck was soon apparent. The remaining upper works began to give way. As the sea rolled in with increasing violence, plank after plank was torn off, then larger portions were wrenched from the hull, the deck burst up, and was soon dashed into pieces against the rocks. As soon as we had swallowed enough water somewhat to slake our burning thirst, we hastened to the beach to save what we could from the wreck. We hauled on shore all the planks and timber we could get hold of, with the vague idea that we might be able to build a raft of some sort, in which to make our escape. At all events the wood would be useful to construct huts for the women, or to burn. As darkness set in, a large portion of the wreck had disappeared, and even the captain was convinced that her keel would never leave its present position, except to be cast up in fragments on the rocks. He and the mate had been very quiet and low-spirited. They were craving for their accustomed stimulants, and several times I heard them grumbling at us for not having landed any liquor for them. Neither they nor the larger portion of their crew had exerted themselves in the slightest degree to assist us in our labours. Most of them sauntered along the beach with their hands in their pockets, or sat coolly watching us. Fatigued with our exertions, we at last returned to the camp, where Jacotot was able to give us a glass of water, and we then, thankful even for that small supply, lay down to rest.
It was not till late that any of us awoke; we then found that the captain and mate, and several of their men, had withdrawn themselves to a distance from the camp. We were glad to be rid of their company, though why they had gone away so suddenly we could not tell. We could not help suspecting, however, that they had done so with the intention of hatching mischief. When I speak of _we_, I mean our party from the _Dore_, for we of necessity kept very much together. I have not particularly described the emigrants, for there was nothing very remarkable about them. Two or three were intelligent, enterprising men, who had made themselves acquainted with the character of the country to which they were going, and had tolerably definite plans for the employment of their capitals. The rest had mostly failed in England, and were rather driven by want into exile than attracted by the advantages the new colony had to offer. They were all married men with families, and this made them associate with each other for mutual assistance. The steerage passengers were generally small tradesmen, and had emigrated for much the same reason as the others. Three gentlemen of the first-class, who were bachelors, had begged leave to join our mess. One of them had already been in New South Wales, and was able to give us much interesting information about it. So much taken was I, indeed, with what I heard, that I resolved, should I be unable to find the _Barbara_, to visit the colony before returning home. We thus, as I have explained, formed three chief messes. We were not as yet either very badly off. We had saved provisions from the wreck sufficient, with economy, to last us a couple of months or more; and now that we could obtain fresh water, though but in small quantities, we were not afraid of dying of thirst. We were in hopes, too, of finding turtles and turtles' eggs, and perhaps wild fowl, and we might also catch fish to add to our stock of provisions. Could we only find water, and some sort of vegetables, we might be able, we thought, to support existence for any length of time; and as far, indeed, as we could judge we might not have an opportunity of escaping from the island for months, or it might be for years. This was not, however, a subject pleasant to contemplate. I thought of my merchandise, William of his promotion, and of the opportunities he might lose of distinguishing himself, while Jacotot, though not idle, was unable to make money where he was. Toby Trundle, however, took things very easily. He laughed and joked as much as ever, and declared that he never was more jolly in his life. He used to say the same thing in the midshipmen's berth; he had said it on board the boat, and I believe he would have said it under nearly any circumstances in which he could have been placed. The poor emigrants, on the contrary, were very far from content. Most of them had lost all they possessed in the world, and knew that, should they even ultimately arrive at their destination, they must land as beggars, dependent on the bounty of others. They were therefore naturally very loud in their complaints of the captain and his mate, while they were continually bewailing their own hard lot. Those persons had, as I observed, removed themselves to a distance from the rest of our shipwrecked band.
We had retired to tents for the night, and had lain down to sleep, when after some time I was awoke by sounds of shouting and laughter, followed by shrieks and cries, which seemed to come up from the beach where the captain and his associates had taken up their quarters. The noises increased, and O'Carroll awoke. He got up, and we went together to the entrance of our tent. The night was very calm. The stars shone forth from the dark sky with a brilliancy I have never seen surpassed; even the restless sea was quiet, and met the shore with an almost noiseless kiss; all nature seemed tranquil and at rest. A shot was heard, and then another, and another, followed by shouts and execrations. "There will be bloodshed among those madmen," exclaimed O'Carroll. "They have got hold of some liquor unknown to us, and are fighting with each other: we must try and separate them." Calling my brother and the rest of the party to come to our assistance, we hurried off in the direction whence the sounds proceeded.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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9
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LIFE ON THE ISLAND.
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When we got sufficiently near the beach to distinguish objects, we saw the captain standing with a pistol in his hand, which was pointed at the mate, who held a long knife in his hand, with which he was about, it seemed, to make a rush at his opponent, while three or four men had arranged themselves on either side, and were nourishing various weapons. The shots we heard told us that they had already fired at each other several times, but were too tipsy to take a steady aim. One man, however, lay wounded on the ground, and from the gestures of the mate, he would in another instant plunge his knife in the bosom of the captain, unless stopped by the latter's bullet.
"You knock up the skipper's arm, while I seize the other fellow," exclaimed O'Carroll to me, springing forward.
I did as he bid me; he ran a great risk of being shot. The mate turned on O'Carroll with an oath, and the captain snapped his pistol at me, but fortunately he had already discharged it, and in another instant I brought him, as he attempted to grapple with me, to the ground. O'Carroll had mastered the mate, and the other men stood staring at us, but offering no opposition. "Is this the way for men to behave who have just been saved from death, to make yourselves worse than the brute beasts? This--this is the cause of it!" exclaimed O'Carroll, kicking a cask from which a stream of spirit was even then running out. "It would have been no loss to us if you had killed each other, but we could not see our fellow-creatures perish without trying to save them."
The bold and determined tone in which O'Carroll spoke, aided by the arrival of the rest of our friends, had such an effect on the seamen, that those who were still able to move slunk away to a distance, while the captain and his mate, when we let them go, sat down helplessly on the sand, forgetting entirely their quarrel and its cause. There they sat, laughing stupidly at each other, as if the affair had been a good joke. While O'Carroll was emptying the rum cask, which it appeared had been washed on shore and secreted by the captain, his men went to the wounded man. He did not speak: he seemed scarcely to breathe. I took his hand: it was already cold. All this time he had been bleeding to death: an artery had been shot through. We did our best in the dark to bind up the wound and stop the bleeding; the spirit which might have kept his heart beating till nature, in her laboratory, had formed more blood, was gone; indeed, probably in his then condition it would not have had its due effect. The wretched man's breath came fainter and fainter. There was no restorative that we could think of to be procured. We lifted him up to carry him to the camp, but before we had gone many paces, we found that we were bearing a corpse.
"That man has been murdered," exclaimed O'Carroll, turning to the captain. "By whose hand the shot was fired which killed him I know not, but I do know that his blood is on the head of the man who ought to have set a good example to his inferiors, and prevented them from broaching the cask they had found."
Whether this address had any good effect we could not tell, but hoping that the men would remain quiet and sleep off the effect of their debauch, we returned to our tent, leaving the body on the ground. The next morning we returned to the beach. The captain and his drunken companions still lay on the sand asleep. They were out of the reach of the sea, but the hot rays of the rapidly rising sun, which were striking down on their unprotected heads, would, I saw, soon give them brain fever or kill them outright, if they were to be left long exposed to their influence. I therefore proposed that we should rouse them up, and advise them to go and lie down in the shade of some shrubs and rocks at a little distance.
"Before we do so, we'll take away their weapons, and at all events make it more difficult for them to do mischief to us or to themselves," said O'Carroll. Some of the men grumbled on being disturbed, as we turned them round to take away their knives. We left the unloaded pistols, which, as they had no powder, could do little harm. Having taken their arms to our tents, we returned and awoke them, not without difficulty, by shaking them and shouting in their ears. One after the other they got up, lazily rubbing their eyes and stretching themselves, and staring stupidly about them. The captain was one of the last to come to his senses. He started when he saw the dead body of his companion.
"Who killed that man?" he exclaimed, in an anxious tone.
"You did, most probably," answered O'Carroll. "We heard shots fired and found the man dead."
The captain felt in his pocket, and drew out a pistol with the hammer down: it had been discharged. "Then I am a murderer!" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror, his countenance expressing his feelings. "It wanted but that to make up the measure of my crimes."
"It is but too true, I fear," said O'Carroll.
"Yes, too true, too true!" cried the captain, rushing off towards the sea, into which he would have thrown himself, had not O'Carroll, William, and I held him back. It was some time before we could calm him sufficiently to leave him alone. He then went and sat down in the shade at a little distance from his companions, who looked on at him with dull apathy, while he gave way to the feelings which the prickings of his awakened conscience had produced. How he and the mate had got possessed of the pistols we could not guess, till we found the chest of one of the emigrants, a young man, broken open, and from this they had helped themselves. One of them soon after came for a spade which had been landed, and we saw them hurriedly bury the corpse, as if eager to get the silent witness of their crime out of sight. For the remainder of the day they were perfectly quiet, the mate coming humbly when the provisions were served out to ask for their share; still we could not trust them, as we knew that if they could get at more liquor, they would very quickly again be drunk. In the evening, indeed, they were seen walking along the beach, evidently watching for the chance of another cask being washed on shore. They did not find one, however, and the next morning were excessively sulky, keeping together and evidently plotting mischief. They, with the rest of us, were aroused, however, soon after breakfast by the appearance of a sail in the offing. The more sanguine at once declared that she was standing towards us, and that our fears regarding a prolonged stay on the island were groundless; others thought that she would pass by and leave us to our fate. Every spyglass was in requisition, and numerous were the surmises as to the character and nationality of the stranger.
"What if she is an enemy?" observed William.
"She will not find much plunder, at all events," answered Trundle. "There is nothing like being at the bottom of the hill, so that you cannot be kicked lower."
"Even an enemy would respect our condition," remarked O'Carroll; "we have nothing to fear from one, I should hope."
"No, but an enemy would leave us where we are: a friend would carry us away, or send us assistance," said I. It was dinner-time, and Jacotot had prepared our messes with his usual skill; but so eager were the people watching the approaching stranger, that the food was scarcely touched, except by the children, who of course little knew how much depended on her character. At length there was no doubt that she was standing for the island, and the exhibitions of joy and satisfaction became general among the unfortunate emigrants. They would now be able to leave the island and reach their land of promise; every countenance beamed brightly except O'Carroll's. After some time I saw his fall. It gained a more and more anxious look. He scarcely withdrew the glass from his eye.
"What do you make her out to be, O'Carroll?" I asked.
"Braithwaite, as I am a living man, she's the _Mignonne_," he answered, in a hoarse voice, his countenance still further showing the agitation of his mind: "if that villain La Roche gets hold of me again, he'll not let me escape with my life. And these poor emigrants to have his lawless crew come among them,--it will be terrible; better rather that they had all gone to the bottom in their ill-fated ship with their drunken captain."
Notwithstanding O'Carroll's opinion, I doubted whether the stranger was the _Mignonne_, for she was still too far off, I thought, for him to be certain on the subject. I therefore tried to tranquillise his mind, wondering that a man so brave, and cool, and collected, as he generally was, should have such a dread of the French captain.
"I tell you yonder vessel is the _Mignonne_, and if you had been treated as I was, and had witnessed the scenes I saw enacted on board, you would not have a less horror of La Roche and his scoundrel crew than I have. My reason does not help me; I cannot think of that man without trembling."
I understood him, for I have myself been affected in the same way with regard to one or two people who have done me some injury, or would, I have had reason to believe, do me one should they have the opportunity.
"The only way to escape the pirates is to remain concealed while they are passing," he observed. "As there is no harbour here, and there are no signs of them having been here, they will, in all probability, go to the other side of the island, and we may escape them."
As I still further examined the stranger I began to fear that O'Carroll was right in his conjectures, and I therefore agreed to assist him in trying to persuade the rest of the people to hide themselves till the privateer was out of sight. The emigrants, frightened out of their wits by the account O'Carroll gave of the privateer's men, were ready enough to do as he advised, and began running here and there, not knowing where to hide themselves. We advised them simply to pull down the tent, to put out the fire, and to sit quiet among the rocks and shrubs till the ship had passed.
We then went on to see the captain and his men. As we got in sight of where they were, we saw that they had already got up a spar, which had been washed on shore, and were in the act of hoisting a man's shirt to the top of it in order to attract the attention of the stranger. On this O'Carroll shouted out to them in no very gentle tones, "Fools! idiots! what are you about? would you bring an enemy on shore to murder us?" I then told them the character of the vessel in sight. "What's that to us?" answered one of the men. "All masters are much the same to us; they'll use us while they want us, and cast us adrift when they've done with us. Whether French or Spaniards, they'll not harm us. They'll have liquor aboard, and that is what we shan't have as long as we remain here."
It was useless attempting to argue with such men. I turned to the captain. He had lost all authority over his people, who treated him as an equal, or rather as an inferior. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away without speaking. I saw that it was time, therefore, to interfere, and William and I, rushing forward, hauled down the signal, which one of the men was on the point of hoisting. "If you are willing to become slaves, we are not!" I exclaimed, in a determined tone, seizing the halliards and hauling down the signal. The men threatened, but as they had no arms, and we were firm, they did not attempt to prevent us from carrying off the spar.
The ship approached, and as she passed along the coast so that we had a broadside view of her, I had no longer any doubt that she was the _Mignonne_. I observed that even the seamen, notwithstanding their bravado, kept so far among the rocks, that unless the privateer's men had been especially examining the shore there was not much probability of our being discovered. We watched the vessel from the highest point of ground we could reach, and we conjectured that she must have touched at the other side of the island, concealed by an intervening ridge of elevated land. "If we are careful we shall escape all molestation from the privateer's men," I remarked, addressing the emigrants. "They are not likely to come to our part of the island."
It was curious to observe the change which had come over O'Carroll. He was no longer the bold and sagacious seaman, but an anxious, nervous, timid man. At night I frequently heard him crying out in his sleep, thinking that the dreaded La Roche was on him, and was about to carry him on board the privateer. As we could not do without a fire to obtain fresh water, we were compelled to light one, though we thus ran the risk, should any of the privateer's men wander into the country, of being discovered. Still that was a risk which must be run. It was curious, also, to observe the humble way in which, after a few hours, the seamen came to beg for a draught of the pure liquid. I was very glad of this, as I saw that it would enable us to exert an influence over them and to keep them in order. The wretched captain held out for some time, but at last came, with parched lips and bloodshot eyes, entreating even for a few drops of the precious fluid to cool the tip of his tongue. It raised our pity to see how the wretched man suffered, physically and mentally, and all the time without hope. In vain I urged him to seek for mercy as a penitent. "Impossible! impossible!" he exclaimed, with a wild laugh. "You do not know what I have done, what I am doomed to do." And tearing himself away from me, he rushed off, and was hid from sight among the rocks and bushes. Day after day passed by, and we kept anxiously hoping that the privateer would take her departure. It was suggested that if she came to the island to refit, the Frenchman might possibly have a storehouse, with boats, perhaps, or means of building one, and that we might thus be assisted to make our escape. At last, so long a time had elapsed since her arrival, that we began to fancy that she had gone out of harbour during a moonlight night, and reached the offing without our perceiving her. To settle the point, William and Trundle volunteered to reconnoitre, and I, afraid that they might venture too far, resolved to go with them. We fixed on that very afternoon to start, our intention being to get as close to the harbour as we could before dark, and then to rest till the moon rose and afforded us light.
"I hope that you'll have success, but it is a dangerous work you are going on, young gentlemen," observed one of the emigrants, a Mr Peter Lacy, or Lazy, as he was generally called, for it was most difficult to arouse him to any exertion.
"Never fear, Mr Lazy, danger is a sweet nut we midshipmen are fond of cracking to get at the kernel--honour. We shall be back all safe before morning, and able to give a satisfactory report."
In good spirits we set off, for a considerable part of the distance keeping along the shore, to avoid the tangled bush and rocks of the interior. As, however, we approached the harbour, or rather the place where we supposed the harbour to be, we left the beach and kept a more inland course, taking advantage of all the cover we could find to conceal ourselves. At last the sun went down and it quickly grew dark, so we called a halt, and ate some of our provisions with a good appetite. We listened attentively, but could hear no sound, so we agreed to push on directly the moon got up. As we did not speak above a whisper, a very soporiferous proceeding, I was not surprised that both Toby and William fell asleep. It was more necessary, therefore, that I should keep my eyes and ears open. At last I saw what looked like the illuminated dome of some vast cathedral slowly emerge from the dark line of the horizon; up it rose, till it assumed a globe-like form, and appeared to decrease in size, while it cast a bright silvery light over the hitherto obscured landscape. I roused up the two midshipmen, who were sleeping as soundly as if they had been in their hammocks. We worked our way onward among tangled underwood, not without sundry scratches and inconvenient rents in our clothing, till we reached a hill, up which we climbed. From the top we looked down, as we had expected to do, on the harbour. Below us lay the _Mignonne_, or a ship very like her; her sails were loose and bulging out with the land breeze, while from the sounds which reached us it was evident that her crew were heaving up the anchor preparatory to sailing; boats were moving backwards and forwards over the surface of the calm water of the harbour, on which the moon shone with a refulgence which enabled us to see all that was taking place. The anchor was shipped, the sails were sheeted home, and the privateer slowly glided out of the harbour on her errand of mischief; two, if not more, boats returned to the shore fully manned. Farther up the harbour lay three large hulks, with their lower masts only standing; they were high out of the water, showing that they had no cargoes in them. There were also several smaller craft, but all were dismantled, and looked as if they had been there for some time. The French, then, had a settlement on the island. The inhabitants were sure to be armed, and probably were as numerous as our party. If so, it would be unwise to attempt gaining anything by force, though of course we might surprise them. We waited till the people in the boats had had time to turn in and go to sleep, and then descended to reconnoitre the place more nearly. We crept cautiously on till we reached several scattered cottages, or huts rather, built, without any regularity, as the nature of the ground seemed most suitable. There were also two or three storehouses close to the water; indeed, we saw enough to show us that there was a regular settlement made by the French for the purpose of refitting their ships. The barking of several poodles in the cottages made us afraid of moving about much, lest their inmates should look out and discover us. We therefore retraced our steps to the hill.
"A magnificent idea," exclaimed Trundle, as soon as we called a halt. "We'll surprise and capture the place and hold it for the King of England. You'll be made governor, Braithwaite, to a certainty."
"To be turned out by the first French privateer which enters the harbour--to be thrown into prison and perhaps shot. Thank you," said I, "I would rather not."
"This establishment solves a mystery," observed William. "We have often been puzzled to know what has become of vessels which have disappeared, and which, from the fineness of the weather, and for other reasons, we did not suppose had been lost. We should do good service if we could get away without being discovered, and send some of our cruisers to watch in the neighbourhood."
I agreed with William; at the same time the idea of capturing the place was very attractive. If we should make the attempt and succeed, however, we should find liquor there, and the seamen would certainly get drunk and mutinous. No object would be gained, either, unless we could immediately send a vessel to sea, to give notice at the Mauritius of our success and obtain assistance. Discussions on these points occupied us till daylight, when we recommenced our journey to the tents. The news we brought was so far satisfactory to our companions, that we were not likely to be starved to death, and as peace would come some day or other, we might then hope to make our escape. No one, however, seemed at all desirous of attacking the French settlement; the risk was considerable, the gain problematical. It was finally agreed that we should remain quiet where we were, and only in case of extremity make ourselves known to our foreign neighbours. The more energetic of the party became, as may be supposed, very impatient of the inactive life we were compelled to lead. We could do little else than fish all day, and make expeditions in search of water. In this we were at last successful; the spring was more than a mile away, and it became a question whether we should move our camp there, the objection to our so doing being that it was so much nearer the French settlement. The next morning, on going near the spot where the captain and his companions had erected their tent, I saw no one moving. I called to them. There was no reply. I went to the tent. It was empty! It was supposed that they had gone to the newly-discovered spring, but those who had gone to bring water from it told us that they were not there. While we were wondering what had become of the men, as William happened to be sweeping the horizon with his telescope, he cried out that he saw a sail in the offing. In a short time afterwards another was descried, her topsails gradually rising out of the water. She was pronounced to be larger than the first which had appeared.
"It is that scoundrel La Roche again!" exclaimed O'Carroll, after eyeing the nearest stranger for some time. "I knew that it would not be long before he would be back again, and there he comes with a big prize, depend on it."
"But suppose, instead of the big ship being his prize, he has been captured by one of our cruisers, and has been sent in first to show the way?" I suggested.
"No, no, the headmost craft is the _Mignonne_, and the big one is an Indiaman, her prize, depend on that," said O'Carroll.
There seemed every probability that he was right, but this did not increase our satisfaction. The only thing that could be said was that we should now have companions in our misfortune. As may be supposed, however, we watched the approach of the two ships with the greatest interest, feeling assured that in some way or other they would have a considerable influence on our fate.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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10
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AN ANXIOUS TIME.
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Our anxiety to ascertain the fate of those on board the ship which the _Mignonne_ had brought in as a prize induced me, with my brother William and Trundle, to make another expedition to the French settlement. We ventured much nearer during daylight than we had done the first time, as we were certain that the people would be watching the arrival of the privateer and her prize. We were able, indeed, to reach a spot overlooking the harbour, where, among some thick bushes, we concealed ourselves before the ships came to an anchor. William had brought his telescope, and we could almost see the countenances of the people on the decks of the ships. The large one was, we saw at once, an Indiaman outward bound. We knew that by the number of young men and the young ladies on board, and their clear ruddy complexions. Had she been homeward bound, there would be old yellow-faced generals and judges, black nurses, sickly ladies, and little children.
We anxiously watched the proceedings of those on board. The passengers were walking up and down in a very disconsolate mood: the crew were clustered forward. By their looks and gestures as they cast their eyes towards the privateer, we thought that even then they were about to attack the Frenchman, and attempt to regain their liberty.
"I hope they will. I should like to help them," exclaimed William and Trundle, starting up simultaneously.
I drew them back. "Nonsense! we could not help them, and they will not make the attempt," I said. "See, the Frenchmen are going on board armed. They know what they are about."
Two large boats with armed men were pulling from the privateer to the Indiaman to strengthen her prize crew, while Captain La Roche was going on board her in his gig. He was soon up her side, and began bowing and scraping away most politely to the passengers, especially to the ladies. We could almost fancy that we heard him apologising to them for the inconvenience and disappointment he was causing them, with a spice of mockery in his tone, suggesting that it was the fortune of war, and that another day their turn might come uppermost. The crew of the Indiaman were then sent down the side, and rowed off to one of the hulks, while the passengers were conveyed to another.
"Then those hulks are prison ships after all," observed William, when the operation was concluded. "We may get on board them and let out the prisoners some day."
In this I partly agreed with him, though I could not help seeing the difficulties in the way. Even this hope was likely to be frustrated, for as we watched the Frenchmen who came on shore, we saw that they were joined by several men whom we had little difficulty in recognising as the crew of the wrecked ship, the very people who had lately deserted us. The mate was with them, but we did not see the captain. Perhaps, drunkard as he was, he was ashamed to go over to the enemy. All the party now entered a drinking-house together, being evidently on the most friendly terms.
We had therefore no longer any doubt that our existence would be made known to the privateer's men, and that the difficulty of surprising them would consequently be much greater than we had calculated on. We found that it was time to retrace our steps, all we had gained from our expedition being the knowledge that many of our countrymen and countrywomen were in even a worse condition than we were. Our report when we got back to the tents put our companions very much out of spirits. What were we to do? was the question. Some proposed that we should go at once and deliver ourselves up to the French, petitioning for their clemency. O'Carroll strongly opposed this.
"We are at liberty now, boys: if we once get into the hands of these French they will be our masters, and make us do what they like," he observed; and his influence, supported as he was by us, carried the point.
We wondered that Jacotot did not betake himself to his countrymen; but he laughed and said that he was now an English subject, that he should then be only one among many, that he was with us not only the principal cook, but the only man worthy to be called a cook; indeed, that he was perfectly content to continue to share our fortunes.
As several days passed and we received no visit from the Frenchmen, we began to hope that the seamen had not betrayed us. So far that was satisfactory, but had they remained faithful, I think that there is little doubt that we should have attempted the rescue of the prisoners. At last once more we saw the _Mignonne_ put to sea; and immediately on this, with O'Carroll and Sam Kelson in company, after watching for some time without seeing anything of the English sailors, we therefore conjectured that either they had quarrelled with the French and been put in prison, or had gone on board the privateer--too probably the latter. After a consultation, we agreed that we would, at all events, pay a visit to the passengers of the Indiaman. The French could scarcely think it necessary to keep guards constantly watching them, and we might therefore easily accomplish the undertaking. We accordingly set off to move round the harbour, intending to conceal ourselves in some spot near the Indiaman, that we might watch our opportunity for getting on board. We had gone on for some distance, and were approaching the spot, concealing ourselves carefully as we advanced, when sounds of laughter reached our ears--honest English laughter. We stole on, very much inclined to join in it, considering that we had not had a good laugh for some time, when from some rocks up which we climbed we saw below us a large party of ladies and gentlemen engaged in discussing a dinner in picnic fashion on the grass. They all seemed remarkably merry and happy. The younger gentlemen were running about helping the ladies, and doing the polite in the most approved fashion.
Trundle smacked his lips so loudly at the sight that some of the party turned a hasty glance in the direction where we lay hidden, supposing probably that the noise was made by some bird in the foliage above their heads. In a short time one of the young gentlemen was called on for a song. He without hesitation complied. I forget the strain. It was a right merry one. Another followed him, and then another.
"I say, Braithwaite," whispered Toby Trundle, "just let me go down and introduce myself, and then you know I can introduce you all, and I'm sure that they will be glad to make your acquaintance."
I nodded to Toby, and in an instant he slid down the rock, and was in the very midst of the party before any one observed where he had come from. Their looks of astonishment at finding an English midshipman among them were amusing.
"Why, where have you dropped from, youngster?" exclaimed a civilian, a judge returning from--what was more unusual in those days than at present--a visit to England. "The clouds?"
"Not exactly; 'tis but from up there, where I have a number of friends who would be glad to make your acquaintance," answered Toby promptly. "May I introduce them?"
"By all means--very happy to see them," answered the nabob, as all civil servants of the Company were called in those days if they were well up the tree, and had made money. "Bring them down at once."
"I have not a gun, sir, or I might do it; but I'll hail them, which will answer the purpose," answered Master Toby, with a twinkle in his eye.
We scarcely waited for his call, but tumbling down one after the other, we stood before the assembled company, to whom Toby, looking as grave as a judge, introduced us formally by name, finishing off with "Sam Kelson, boatswain's mate of his Britannic Majesty's frigate _Phoebe_."
"The very ship we spoke the day before we were captured," observed our friend the judge. "She was on the look-out for Captain La Roche and his merry men, and if she falls in with them, they will have a hard matter to escape; but sit down, gentlemen, we are very glad to make your acquaintance. We are companions in misfortune, though in some respects you have the advantage over us, by being at liberty."
We found that the passengers were allowed to live as before on board the Indiaman, and were under no sort of restraint, they having given their word not to attempt to escape from the island while the French had possession of it. We were treated in the most friendly manner by all the party, Sam Kelson finding a companion in a corporal, the servant of a military officer going out to rejoin his regiment Trundle soon let out to our new friends the intention we had entertained of trying to release them. They thanked us, but said that the attempt would have been useless, as the mouth of the harbour was strongly guarded. There were a good many other people on board the ships, while the officers and seamen remained strictly guarded, and were not allowed to visit the shore, except when the _Mignonne_ or some other privateer ship of war was in the harbour. Their only fear was that they might run short of provisions before they were released, or that at all events they should have to live on very coarse and scanty food. They advised us to keep out of the Frenchmen's sight, lest we should be pounced on and treated as seamen and belligerents; this we very readily promised to do. Altogether we had a very pleasant and merry meeting, and were sorry when our friends told us that the hour for their return on board had arrived. It was arranged that they should have another picnic party in the same spot in three days, and they kindly invited us to join them. On our way back we had, as may be supposed, plenty of subjects for conversation.
"That Miss Mary Mason," said Toby, "is a sweetly pretty girl. I would go through fire and water to serve her."
"And Julia Arundel is one of the most lively, animated girls I have met for a long time," remarked William, with a sigh. I had observed O'Carroll in conversation with a lady who seemed to be a former acquaintance. He told me that he had known her in her younger and happier days, that she had married an officer in India, had come home with three children, who had all died, and that she was now on her way to rejoin her husband.
"Her case is a very hard one," he remarked.
"So I suspect we shall find are the cases of many," I answered. "Sad indeed are the effects of war! The non-combatants suffer more even than the combatants. That is to say, a far greater number of people suffer who have nothing to do with the fighting than those who actually carry on the murderous work. Oh, when will war cease throughout the world?"
"Not until the depraved heart of man is changed, and Satan himself is chained, unable further to hurt the human race," answered O'Carroll. "What has always struck me, besides the wickedness of war, is its utter folly. Who ever heard of a war in which both sides did not come off losers? The gain in a war can never make amends for the losses, the men slain, the physical suffering, the grief: the victorious side feel that only in a less degree than the losers."
I cordially agreed with him. Yet how many hundreds were daily falling at that time in warfare--how many thousands and tens of thousands were yet to fall, to gratify the insane ambition of a single man, permitted to be the fearful scourge that he was to the human race? We said as little about our expedition as we could, for the emigrants, as soon as they heard of so many of their countrymen being in the neighbourhood, were eager to set out to see them. We, however, persuaded them to remain where they were, for a visit of so large a party would not fail to be discovered by the French, and greatly increase the annoyances of our position. We, however, paid our second visit to the passengers of the Indiaman, and found them on shore at the place where we had first met them. Their spirits, however, had already begun to flag; their guards had been less courteous than at first, sickness had attacked two or three, gloomy apprehensions were troubling the minds of many. Still we had a pleasant dinner, and the song and the jest went round as before. The two midshipmen were the merriest of the party, and paid, as may be supposed, the most devoted attention to the two young ladies whom they thought fit to admire. Their happiness was, however, disagreeably interrupted by the appearance in our midst of half-a-dozen armed Frenchmen. They nodded familiarly at us. "Bien, messieurs; you have saved us the trouble of going to fetch you," said one of them, in a sarcastic tone. "You will not leave this, but as you are seamen, you will accompany us to the prison ship."
We soon found that they had been made acquainted by the seamen of the _Kangaroo_ of our being on the island, and had only waited for leisure to go and bring us to the settlement. Another party had already been dispatched to bring in the emigrants, and from the rough unmannerly way in which these treated our new friends, we could not but feel the gravest apprehensions as to the indignities to which they might be subjected. Our own existence in the hands of lawless ruffians would be very different from what it had hitherto been. The appearance of these unwelcome visitors completely broke up the picnic party, and while our friends returned to their ship, we were marched off towards one of the hulks. We soon had evidence of the bad disposition of our captors towards us, for Toby Trundle, who was very indignant at being thus caught, beginning to saunter along as if he had no intention of hurrying himself to please them, one of them threatened to give him a prog with his bayonet. As we were walking along as slowly as Trundle could contrive to go, the sound of a shot reached our ears. It came from the sea. Our guards started and talked rapidly to each other. Several other shots followed in succession, some close together.
"There are two at it, of that I am sure," exclaimed O'Carroll.
The Frenchmen continued their gesticulations with increased animation. They were evidently eager to get to the mouth of the harbour, whence they could look seaward.
"They think that there is something in the wind, depend on that," observed Trundle.
Presently the firing became more and more rapid, seeming to our ears to come nearer and nearer. The Frenchmen could no longer restrain their eagerness to learn the cause of the firing, and totally disregarding, probably indeed forgetting us, off they set running towards the shore as fast as their legs could carry them. We waited for a few minutes to let them have a fair start, and then followed in their wake for some distance, turning off, however, after a time, to the right, so that, should they come back to look for us, we might not so easily be found. We in a short time reached a high rocky mound, whence we got a view of the sea spread out before us. Within a mile and a half of the land were two ships, both with topgallant sails set, standing in close-hauled towards the harbour. The wind was somewhat off the land, but yet, if it continued steady, it was possible that they might fetch the harbour-mouth. Such, it appeared evident, was the object of the one, while to prevent her so doing was the aim of the other, which was the larger and nearer to us. As soon as the two midshipmen set eyes on the latter, they clapped their hands like children with delight, exclaiming at the top of their voices, "The _Phoebe_! the _Phoebe_! hurrah! hurrah!" O'Carroll took a more steady glance at the other ship, and then shouted, with no less delight, "And that's the _Mignonne_, and La Roche's day has come at last."
"I should hope so, indeed," cried Trundle; "depend on it the _Phoebe_ won't have done with him till she has made him eat a big dish of humble pie."
The frigate kept firing rapidly her foremost guns at the Frenchman, who replied to them in a spirited manner with his aftermost ones, as they could be brought to bear. He was all the time luffing up, trying to eat into the wind, as it were; but as that was scant, it gave the _Phoebe_, which was well to windward, a great advantage, and she was now rapidly coming up with him. As she did so, she every now and then luffed up for an instant, and let fly her whole broadside, doing considerable execution. We eagerly watched the effect of the shot. The Frenchman's sails were soon riddled, and several of his spars seemed to be wounded, many of his ropes, too, hanging in festoons. At last, directly after another broadside, down came his spanker gaff, shot away in the jaws, while the mizen topsail braces shared the same fate. In vain the crew ran aloft to repair the damage; the ship rapidly fell off, and all prospect of her fetching up to the harbour was lost, unless by a miracle the wind should suddenly shift round. The instant the sail came down, the midshipmen gave vent to their feelings of exultation in a loud "Hip, hip, hurrah!" in which we could not help joining them, and the crew of the _Phoebe_, whom we could fancy at the moment doing the same thing.
"Don't be too sure that the _Mignonne_ is taken, however," cried O'Carroll. "I never saw a faster craft, and see, she is keeping away, and going to try what her heels can do for her, dead before the wind."
The _Mignonne_, however, could not keep away without being raked by the _Phoebe_, whose shot, now delivered low, must have told with fearful effect along her decks. This done, the _Phoebe_ instantly bore up in chase, and not having lost a spar, though her sails had several shot-holes through them, rapidly gained on her. The Frenchmen, to give themselves every chance of escape, were now busily employed in getting out studden-sail booms, in spite of the shot which went whizzing after them. In a marvellously short space of time a wide spread of canvas was exhibited on either side, showing that, though many of her men had fallen, she had a numerous and well-trained crew.
"They are smart fellows, indeed," I remarked. "Many of them fight with halters round their necks."
"That makes fellows smart in more senses than one," answered O'Carroll.
The _Phoebe_, of course, had to set her studden-sails, and away the two ships glided before the freshening breeze. We watched them with breathless interest. Their speed at first seemed so equal that the chased had still, it seemed, a chance of escaping.
"Trust to our captain, he'll stick to her till he has made her strike, or he will chase her round the world," said the two midshipmen, in the same breath.
The _Mignonne_ was firing away all the time with her stern chasers, while the frigate was replying from those at her bows. They were both firing at each other's spars, the one hoping, by crippling her opponent, to escape, the other to prevent her doing so. What had become of our guards all this time we had not for a moment thought, while we hoped that they had equally forgotten us. The chase, indeed, probably absorbed their attention as it did ours. Few of us doubted that the English frigate would ultimately capture the Frenchman; but should she do so would she of necessity come back with her prize to our island, or would she sail away, and, perhaps ignorant of our existence, leave us to our fate? One thing was evident, that we ought to guard ourselves against the insolence of the French garrison. The men were evidently the scum of society, and should they find themselves without restraint, it was impossible to say what atrocities they might not commit. Anxious as we were to know the result of the chase, we agreed at once to go back to our friends to give them warning, and to consult with them what steps to adopt. Before leaving our look-out place we took one more anxious glance at the two ships. Both O'Carroll and the midshipmen declared that the _Phoebe_ was positively overhauling the _Mignonne_, and that in a short time we should see the latter haul down her flag. I doubted it.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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11
|
ATTACKED BY THE FRENCH FLEET.
|
Our friends on board the Indiaman were thrown into high spirits on hearing of the prospect of being released. They advised us, however, to get on shore again as fast as we could, and hide ourselves, lest the soldiers, hoping to be ultimately successful, should ill-treat us for having run away from them. We told them that our intention had been to release all the English prisoners, and to overpower the Frenchmen.
"Blood will be shed if you do, to no purpose," observed the judge; "should the frigate be successful and come back here, as I have no doubt she will, we shall be released; if the _Mignonne_ escapes and returns, her crew would quickly again overpower us and obtain what they wish, a good excuse for ill-treating us, of which they will not fail to avail themselves."
The judge's opinion carried the day, and we hurried on shore, and returned by a circuitous route to the spot whence we had witnessed the engagement between the two vessels. William eagerly swept the dark well-defined line of the horizon with his telescope.
"Hurrah! there is one--yes, there are two sails! Here, O'Carroll, see what you can make out of them," he exclaimed, handing him the glass.
It was some time before O'Carroll would pronounce an opinion. He then declared positively that there were two ships, and that they were approaching the land. There was a strong breeze. We sat down on the ground, watching anxiously. They came nearer and nearer. We had no longer any doubt that the _Phoebe_ had captured the privateer. The midshipmen declared positively that the largest was their ship.
"We ought to know her, though, to be sure, it is more of the inside than the out we see of her," observed Toby.
All our doubts were set at rest at length, when the British ensign was seen flying proudly over that of the French.
Three cheers burst almost involuntarily from our throats, which could hardly have failed to have shown our whereabouts to the French soldiers; but if they guessed the cause, they thought it prudent to take no notice of our proceedings, but, as we supposed, hurried back to their abodes, to conceal any property of value which they might possess. William and Trundle meantime were unable to resist the temptation of going on board the Indiaman, to give our new friends the joyful news. They said that they should be back in plenty of time to see the ships enter the harbour. O'Carroll and I preferred waiting to watch proceedings. At length the frigate and privateer got close in with the land, when both hove-to. What was now to happen? Boats were seen passing between the two vessels, and then the _Mignonne's_ head came slowly round towards the mouth of the harbour, and on she glided towards it. The flags remained as they were, and men, we saw, were stationed at the guns. Some opposition was probably expected. There was a fort at the entrance of the harbour--not a very formidable-looking affair--with five ship's guns mounted in it. Round them we saw the greater part of the mongrel garrison clustering as if they were going to show fight, but if so, they thought better of it, for, after a short consultation, they sneaked away, leaving the fort to take care of itself. The _Mignonne_ came gliding on, bearing evident traces in her masts and rigging of the punishment she had received, and of the obstinacy--or what would have been valour in a better cause--with which she had been defended. We met the midshipmen running down towards the landing-place, and jumping into the first boat we could find, we got alongside her directly she dropped anchor.
"Why, Braithwaite, Trundle! where have you come from?" exclaimed several voices, as the midshipmen clambered up the side.
They soon gave an account of themselves, and I need scarcely say that we were heartily welcomed by the officers of the _Phoebe_ in charge of the prize, who were in high spirits at having captured a vessel which had proved one of the greatest pests to British commerce in the Eastern seas. The Frenchmen had not yielded till more than a third of their number lay dead or desperately wounded on her decks. Among them were several of the seamen of the unfortunate _Kangaroo_, including her wretched captain and mate. The survivors of the Englishmen declared that they had been forced on board and compelled to fight. We declined to express any opinion on the subject. All we could say was that we had missed them from the encampment, and had every reason to suppose that they had fallen into the hands of the French. They thus escaped hanging, which I certainly believe they deserved. The chief offenders had already paid the penalty of their crimes. I need scarcely describe the delight of the passengers of the Indiaman on finding that they could now proceed on their voyage, or of the prisoners who were released from the different hulks. They were the officers and seamen taken in different prizes by the _Mignonne_. The excuse the Frenchmen gave for treating them thus barbarously was that the French taken by English cruisers were shut up on board hulks in English harbours without good food or any exercise. They pretended not to understand that, in one instance, the prisoners would inevitably have escaped had they been left at liberty, while in the present they had had no opportunity of escaping. The mouth of the harbour having been surveyed, the frigate came in the next day, that her crew might assist in repairing the _Mignonne_ and getting the Indiaman and the other vessels ready for sea. I was curious to ascertain what O'Carroll would say to finding La Roche at length a prisoner. I asked him if he would go on board the frigate with me to see the French captain.
"I would not do so to triumph over a fallen foe, but perhaps if I was to set eyes on him again for a few times I might get over the intense dislike--even more, the dread, I feel for him," he answered. "I have reason to feel dislike. He ruined my prospects, he killed my companions, and he treated me with every indignity and cruelty he could devise while I remained on board his ship. He made me serve him as a menial--wait behind his chair, clean his shoes, arrange his cabin, and if I displeased him he ordered his men to flog me. Ay! I never told you that before, I was ashamed to do so. He well-nigh broke my spirit. Had I remained much longer with him he would have done so, or I should have gone mad and jumped overboard. Still I will see him."
We went on board the frigate and enquired for the privateer captain. Having already, it appeared, broken his parole in England when he had once before been taken, Captain Young had refused to receive it, and he was therefore confined below in a cabin, with a sentry placed over him. It was naturally supposed that he would otherwise take some opportunity of getting on shore, and, knowing the locality, might remain concealed till he could escape from the island altogether. Accompanied by the master-at-arms, we entered the cabin. La Roche was seated in an easy-chair reading a book when the door opened. He did not rise, but, looking up, nodded to O'Carroll, whom he seemed instantly to recognise.
"Ah, mon ami! it's the fortune of war, you see. Once I had you in my power, now your countrymen have me," he said, in a cool, unconcerned manner. "It is pleasant, is it not? --pleasanter for you than for me. However, my turn may come next, and then--" "I hope not. I hope while I live that I may never again be in your hands!" exclaimed O'Carroll, interrupting him. "You remember how you treated me?"
"Oh, well! and it is in your power to inform the captain of this frigate, and probably he will treat me in the same way."
"No, indeed! Englishmen never treat their prisoners as you treated me," answered O'Carroll; "Monsieur knows that well enough. I did not come here to insult you; I did not come to triumph over you. You had inspired me with a horror I could not get over. I came here to be cured. I am so, thoroughly. You have done much injury to the commerce of my country, and the only ill I wish you is that you may be kept a close prisoner till the termination of the war, and never again be able to do an injury to Englishmen."
La Roche shrugged his shoulders at this address, and smiled. "Well, you Irishmen are indeed curious. I should have thought that you would have liked to see me hung up to the yard-arm," he observed, in the same cool tone as before. "However, your moderate wishes may be gratified, or I may make my escape; and if I do, and ever capture you again, I promise you that I will remember your moderation, and treat you to the best of everything I have on board."
We soon after this brought our interview with the famous privateer captain to an end, and O'Carroll assured me that all his unpleasant monomaniacal feelings with regard to him had been, as he hoped, completely dissipated. As we were about to leave the ship Captain Young politely invited us to remain and dine with him. He showed much interest in O'Carroll's account of his misfortunes, and finally arranged that he should take the command of one of the vessels in the harbour to convey the emigrants to New South Wales. I, of course, received no direct communication from Captain Hassall, but from the information Captain Young gave me I had great hopes that the _Barbara_, instead of sailing immediately for the east, had gone to the coast of Madagascar, in which direction the _Phoebe_ herself was bound. Captain Young offered me a passage should I wish to rejoin my ship. The Indiaman being refitted for sea by the united exertions of all the crews, we all sailed out of the harbour in succession, the _Phoebe_ leading. The _Mignonne_, with her prize crew and some of the prisoners on board, was bound for the Mauritius, to give information of the capture of the island; the emigrant ship was bound for New South Wales, the Indiaman for Calcutta, we for Madagascar. I went on board the _Argo_, the ship commanded by O'Carroll. I found him well satisfied with his change of circumstances. There was only one thing about which he was concerned. La Roche, though still a captive, was alive, and might soon regain his liberty.
"If he does I'm sure that he will cause me trouble again," he observed. "I don't know what causes it, but I even now cannot think of the venomous little man without a feeling of dread--a creeping sensation, Braithwaite. Do you know what it is?"
"Not exactly," said I. "But the remedy I suggest is not to think of him. Whenever his image appears banish him with a kick. Or, let me be serious, O'Carroll. Is it not our own fault if we go on living in fear of death all our life long! Put your trust in God, and fear not what man can do to you."
"You are right! you are right!" exclaimed O'Carroll, warmly; "it is just the want of doing that has made me--no coward, as you know--constantly tremble at unseen dangers. Henceforward I will try to follow your advice."
"Do," said I; "and depend on it your dread of the little Frenchman will completely and for ever vanish."
I parted from O'Carroll--as honest a man as ever broke a biscuit--with the sincere hope that we should meet again. The crews of our respective ships gave three hearty cheers as we separated on our respective courses. We accompanied the _Mignonne_ for some distance towards the Mauritius, when several sails were reported in sight from the mast-head.
"I hope that they are enemies!" I heard Trundle thoughtlessly exclaim. "Glorious fun to have a fight. We, too, should soon give a good account of them."
Both ships were speedily got ready for action, for in those days it was difficult to sail far without meeting an enemy. It might be one to be captured--snapped up in an instant; it might be one of equal or not of vastly superior size, to be fought bravely, and taken in the end; or, mayhap, one so much larger that it would be necessary to make all sail and run away, a proceeding not very often practised in those days by British naval commanders. It was rather doubtful, however, from the number and size of the ships in sight, whether we should not find it necessary to have recourse to the last expedient. We continued, however, steering as before, and rapidly nearing the strangers, when, to the relief of the less pugnaciously disposed, first one and then the others made their number, and we discovered, as we got sufficiently near to exchange telegraph signals, that they were three frigates--the _Galatea, Racehorse_, and _Astrea_--on their way to the coast of Madagascar to look after a French squadron, which, having been driven away from the Mauritius, had gone in that direction. We should now be a fair match for the Frenchmen whenever we should meet them. Having put most of our prisoners well guarded on board the _Mignonne_, we parted from her, she to continue her passage to the Mauritius, we to accompany our consorts in search of the enemy.
A bright look-out was now kept for the enemy, and from sunrise to its setting the mastheads were adorned with eager watchers, each wishing to be the first one to espy the Frenchmen. However, the lofty mountain ridges of Madagascar hove in sight before any of them were seen. I had become very anxious about the fate of the _Barbara_. Had she prosecuted her voyage to this coast, and fallen in with the enemy? If so, she must have been captured, and too probably sent away to one of the settlements. In spite of my advice to O'Carroll, this idea took complete possession of my mind, and I felt convinced that the voyage from which so much had been expected would come to nought.
Night closed in on us, and the usual answer was given to the watch below by those who had come off deck, "Not a sign of a sail in sight." The next morning the sun arose out of his ocean bed brighter even than is his wont in that bright clime, first lighting up the topmost heights of the mountains with a roseate tinge, while a purple hue still lay spread over the calm ocean. As usual, officers and men were going aloft, with telescopes over their shoulders, to take a look round for the enemy, when, as the sun rose higher, a shout of satisfaction burst from many a throat, for there lay, well in with the land, their white canvas shining brightly in his beams, the French frigates of which we were in search. The wind came off the land, and we were far to leeward. They thus had greatly the advantage of us. We did our utmost, however, to beat up to them. Every sail that could draw was set, and we continued to tack and tack hour after hour, hoping to reach them, and that some fortunate shift of wind would give us the weather gauge and enable us to choose our own time for action. As I went along the decks I was struck by the bold and determined appearance of the men as they stood at their quarters, stripped to the waist, and mostly with handkerchiefs of many colours tied round their heads. The costume was appropriate, for the heat was excessive, besides which, sailors know well that the suffering is much less, should they be wounded, if no pieces of cloth are carried into the body with the shot. They were chatting and laughing, and many of them were cutting all sorts of jokes. I had volunteered to serve as the captain's aide-de-camp, to carry messages for him to any part of the ship, or to assist the surgeons in the cockpit.
"You would do good service on deck, and I respect your feeling in offering to be there," he answered; "but you are a non-combatant. You have nothing to gain by exposing your life. You will therefore oblige me by performing the far more painful task of assisting the surgeons."
I bowed with a feeling of disappointment at my heart, which I probably exhibited.
He smiled and said, "It is possible, after all, that there may be very little employment for your talents."
There was a shout on the upper deck, taken speedily up by the men on the main deck. The enemy were seen bearing down on us. On they came, nearer and nearer. Where we lay it had fallen a perfect calm, and our sails kept flapping against the masts. Still the breeze favoured them. I felt very queer, I confess. I had no intention of going below till I was wanted, and it did not occur to me that I might be turned into a patient myself. The delight of the sailors at seeing the French thus boldly approaching was excessive, nor did they fail to praise them for their courage.
"Bravo! Johnny Crapaud. That's more than I thought of you. Come along! Don't leave us again. We won't hurt ye more than we can help. You are brave fellows, that you are; we always thought so. Now you show it. Bear a hand, though."
I heard such and similar expressions from most of the men as I passed along the decks. Suddenly there was a gloom from one end of the ship to the other. The breeze which had been bringing the Frenchmen along suddenly dropped. It had served, them, however, well enough to bring them pretty close up to us.
"Now," I thought to myself, "I shall see what a regular stand-up sea-fight is like."
Still I could not help feeling all the time that my vocation was one of peace, and that I had no business to be where I was. That is not a pleasant sensation. The great thing for a man to feel in time of danger is that he is at his post and doing his duty. As I was in for it, I determined to do my best to be of me, and to trust to the God of mercy for protection. The enemy soon showed us that they had no intention of being idle. A shot came whistling over our heads, and fell a considerable distance on the other side of us. This showed them that we were within gunshot range of each other, and immediately they opened fire in earnest. Some of the shot flew over our heads, others on one side or the other, but hitherto none had struck us. I had a hope that, after all, there would be no bloodshed. We meantime had commenced firing, but either the Frenchmen's powder was better or their guns longer, for our shot mostly appeared to fall short, greatly to the vexation of our crew. The enemy also having had the last of the wind, while we were becalmed, were able to take up a better position than we had, and continued warmly engaging us, we often being scarcely able to return a shot.
As I had nothing to do below, I remained on deck. More than once, however, I could not help ducking my head as a shot whistled above it. Possibly it might have been too high to have struck me. However, I soon got accustomed to that, and as no one had as yet been hurt, I began to fancy that after all a sea-fight was not so terrible an affair as I had supposed, and that possibly we and the Frenchmen might part without doing much harm to each other. I had been standing near a fine young fellow, Jem Martin by name, captain of a gun, who had for some time past been cutting, with more than ordinary humour, numbers of jokes on the enemy. I was struck by his bold attitude and thoroughly sailor-like look. His bright blue eye beamed with life and animation. I had turned my head away from him when a shot whistled by, and I heard a piercing shriek, such as a strong man utters but once, wrung from his bosom by mortal agony. I looked round, and on the deck lay the shattered body of a human being. There were a few spasmodic movements of the limbs, and all that remained of Jem Martin was the mangled corpse at my feet. I shuddered, for I could not help feeling that such as he was I might now have been.
The event seemed to affect his shipmates but little; another seaman took his place, and the gun was loaded, run out, and fired. The fact was that they had no time just then for thought or the indulgence of feeling. The enemy's shot now came thicker and thicker; many went through the sails, others wounded the masts and spars and cut away the rigging, and several more of our men were hit. As soon as they were carried below, I followed, to assist the surgeon in attending to their wounds. I had long before this forgotten all about the danger to which I was myself exposed, but I could not forget that I had a young brother on board who might any moment be numbered among the killed or wounded. It seemed to me, indeed, that we were getting so much the worst of it, that I began to dread that the flag of England might have to strike to that of France. The idea was not a pleasant one; it was not, however, shared in by others on board.
After we had received a pretty severe battering for the space of two hours, the breeze got up, and the Frenchmen hauled off to repair damages. On seeing this the rage of our men became very great, and they cried out to the officers that they might be allowed to go after them. As the enemy were to windward this was not easily to be done, and we had to wait patiently in the hope that the enemy would choose to renew the fight, while in the meantime our top-men were knotting and splicing rigging, and the carpenter's crew were strengthening the wounded yards and stopping shot-holes. At length the breeze reached us, and as it filled our sails the crew cheered in anticipation of being able soon to get to closer quarters with the enemy. After making numerous tacks, two of our squadron got up to two of the French ships, which seemed in no way disposed to refuse battle. While our gallant commodore closed with the _Renomme_ we engaged the _Clorinde_. The fight soon gave work for our surgeons, and I went below, as I had undertaken to do, to help them. As I left the deck I cast a glance at my young brother, who had charge of a division of the guns, and was standing on the deck cheering on the men, full of life and animation. The shots were thickly flying about his head; any moment one might lay him low. I could but offer up a prayer for his safety.
The surgeon and his mates were already at work. I hung up my coat and tucked up my sleeves, prepared to assist them. I will not describe the scene of suffering I witnessed. Most of the poor fellows bore their agony with wonderful fortitude. Two officers had been brought below wounded. I kept looking up anxiously every time I saw the feet of men descending the ladder, dreading that they might be bringing down my young brother. Still I kept praying for his safety while I followed the surgeons' directions. A young seaman had been brought down fearfully wounded. I had remarked him on several occasions among the most active and zealous of the crew. The surgeon examined him. He did not groan-- indeed, he did not appear to suffer much pain.
The surgeon shook his head. "I can do nothing for him," he whispered to me. "You may be able, perhaps, to speak a word of comfort, and there is nothing just now for you to do."
I was rather surprised at the surgeon saying even thus much. Perhaps the light of the lantern, which at that moment fell on my countenance, revealed my thoughts, for he added, "I was asked to look after the lad, whose mother is a widow, and, God help me! I have done little for him, and now it is too late."
The young seaman was placed on a hammock opened out on the deck of the cockpit. I knelt down by his side, and, after repeating such passages out of the Word of life as occurred to me, I engaged in prayer. He followed me in a low voice. Suddenly he was silent. I looked toward him; the immortal spirit had taken its flight from his frail body. Still the battle raged; more of our poor fellows were brought down, and I once more was called on to assist the surgeons in their painful task.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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12
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A GLORIOUS VICTORY.
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I began seriously to fear that we were getting the worst of it. Shot after shot came crashing on board, and several more men were brought down. I expressed my fears aloud to the surgeon. A poor fellow already on the table about to undergo amputation overheard me. "Don't think of that, sir," he exclaimed; "they are tough ones, those mounseers, but we'll go down with our colours flying sooner than strike them."
At that instant our ears were saluted by loud cheers, which burst from the crew on deck. Still the firing was kept up, and it was evident that our ship continued in action. At last, another wounded man being brought down, we heard that the _Renomme_, the French commodore's frigate, had struck.
In a few minutes another cheer was heard, the firing ceased, and we had the satisfaction of finding that the _Clorinde_ had also struck her colours to us. My heart felt intense relief when I found that the action was over, and that my young brother had escaped without a wound. Then I recollected that those who had been killed had not been brought below. I wondered that he had not come below to relieve my anxiety. Those of whom I inquired could not tell me what officers had been killed. The instant, therefore, I could leave the poor suffering fellows I had undertaken to assist, I hurried on deck. When I went below the frigate had presented a trim and orderly appearance. Now her sails were torn and full of shot-holes, her running rigging hung in loose festoons, with blocks swaying here and there, her bulwarks were shattered, her lately clean deck ploughed up with round shot covered with blood and gore, and blackened by powder. The thickening shades of evening threw a peculiar gloom over the whole scene. I looked anxiously round for William. I could not see him. My heart sank within me. Could he be among the slain? A midshipman hurried past me.
"Where is Braithwaite, my brother?" I asked, in a trembling voice.
"There; don't you see him on the forecastle?"
I looked in the direction to which he pointed. My heart bounded up again as I saw him directing the men engaged in bending a fresh foresail, which had before concealed him from my sight. My voice trembled with emotion as I ran forward, and, shaking him by the hand, congratulated him on our victory and his safety. He seemed scarcely to understand my agitation.
"Yes, I am thankful to say we have thrashed the enemy, and I wish there were a few more to treat in the same way. There is one fellow making off, and I am afraid the _Astrea_ will not be able to work up to bring her to action."
I looked out as he spoke. One of our frigates, to which he pointed, was a long way to leeward, while a French frigate was standing under all sail to the north-west. Our two antagonists appeared fearfully shattered, both the French commodore's ship and the _Clorinde_, which was even in a worse condition than we were. All our boats had been so injured by shot that we were unable to send one to take possession of our prize, and as the night was now rapidly coming on, we could not hope to do much to repair damages till the morning. As long, however, as the men could work, the carpenter's crew continued putting the ship to rights. The rest of the already overworked crew were then piped below, that they might be able to renew their labours on the morrow. I had plenty to do in assisting the surgeons in attending on the wounded, till at last, well wearied out, I turned into my hammock, thankful that my dear brother and I had escaped the perils of the fight, and sincerely hoping that, as it was my first battle, so it might be the last in which I should be engaged. Before going below I took a look towards our prize, whose light I saw burning brightly at no great distance from us. I had now time to think of my own affairs, and of course was not a little anxious about the fate of the _Barbara_, for it was too probable that she had fallen into the hands of the Frenchmen. If so, they would probably have sent her to France, as she was well provisioned for a long voyage, or to one of their settlements, where she could be disposed of to advantage. My sleep was sadly disturbed with these thoughts and with the scenes of pain and suffering I had witnessed. I awoke soon after it was light, and dressing quickly went on deck. It was to find everybody there in a state of no small anger and vexation.
"She is off, gone clean out of sight," I heard people saying.
I inquired what was the matter.
"Why, it is enough to vex a man, Mr Braithwaite," observed the first lieutenant. "As we could not send on board last night to take possession of our prize, she has managed to slip away during the darkness. She left a light burning astern on a cask to deceive us. If we ever come up with her we'll make her pay dearly. The other fellow, too, has got clear away; however, we will find him out, wherever he has hid himself."
Soon after this the commodore signalled to us to send our boats to assist in removing the prisoners from the _Renomme_. Thanks to the exertions of the carpenter and his crew, three were already made capable of floating. I asked to take an oar, as I wished to go on board the prize. No sooner did I step on board than I regretted having come. Terrible was the scene of slaughter I witnessed. The frigate had been crowded with troops, nearly one-half of whom had been cut down by the _Galatea's_ shot, which she had poured into the Frenchman's hull. The crew were only now beginning to throw the dead bodies of their shipmates overboard. The French commodore, a gallant officer, and many others, were killed. But the wounded nearly doubled the killed, and they chiefly excited our sympathy. Their own surgeons were already almost worn out with attending to them, and of course we could not spare any of ours to render them assistance. The more of the effects of war I saw, even on this small scale, the more I longed for the time when wars are to cease and nations to live at peace with each other. It was not, however, the fashion to speak on that subject in those days, nor do the nations of the world, alas! appear more inclined now than then to bring about that happy state of things!
When taking some of the prisoners on board the _Galatea_, I found she had also suffered severely, though not at all in proportion to the _Renomme_. Captain Schomberg ordered us, as soon as our damages were repaired, to make sail for the port of Tamatave, on the east coast of Madagascar, where he suspected the other French frigate had taken refuge, her captain supposing probably that we should return at once with our prizes to the Mauritius. The _Astrea_ coming up, her crew went on board the _Renomme_, to put her to rights, and this being done, all four frigates made sail together for Tamatave. It is merely a reef-formed harbour, and by no means a secure or good one. The English had sent a force of about fifty men there after the reduction of the Mauritius, and they had, we understood, built a fort, or taken possession of an old one. It was a question whether they had been able to hold it against the French, or had been compelled to surrender. As we approached the coast, all our glasses were in requisition, to ascertain whether any ships were at anchor off the place. There were two, certainly, one larger than the other. The wind was light, but we at length got in close enough to see that the French flag flew at their mastheads, as also over the fort, and that there were several smaller vessels. I thought that there would be more fighting, but instead of proceeding to that extremity, the commodore sent in a boat with a flag of truce, pointing out the overpowering force he had under him, and demanding the instant surrender of the ships and fort.
We anxiously watched for the return of the boat, for if the demand were not acceded to we should have, it was understood, to go in and cut out the ships with our boats. Many liked the thought of such an exploit, in spite of its dangerous character. It was very possible that the French captain might hope, with the support of the fort, to be able to beat off the boats, and to hold out until the squadron should be driven off by a storm. At last the boat was seen returning. The frigate was the one which had escaped from us. Her captain wisely agreed to yield to the fortune of war, and to give her up with all her prizes, and the fort into the bargain.
"And what is the name of the other ship?" I asked.
"The _Barbara_ merchantman," answered the lieutenant. "She was on the point of sailing with a French crew when we appeared, so that her owners have had a narrow chance of losing their property."
This was, indeed, satisfactory news. I was, of course, very eager to go on board and hear from Captain Hassall what he intended doing. The account brought off as to the state of the English garrison was melancholy. The fort was built in an especially unhealthy spot, with marshy undrained land close round it. The consequence was, that of the fifty men who had been sent there, when the French appeared not a dozen were alive, and that sad remainder were scarcely able to lift their muskets. They had therefore at once yielded to the enemy. Several others had since died, but the sickly season being now over, it was hoped that the remainder would live on till the next year, when in all probability during the same season they would share the fate of their comrades. I got a passage in one of the next boats which pulled in. Captain Hassall had been allowed by the French to return to his ship, and he was taking a turn on deck when I went alongside. He looked at me curiously two or three times when I stepped on deck, and, raising his hat, inquired what I wanted. Suddenly he stopped when he got close up to me, exclaiming, "What! James Braithwaite, my dear boy, is it really you? I am delighted to see you, for to say the truth, I had given you up as lost. I never supposed that cockleshell of a boat in which you left the ship would have survived the hurricane which came on directly afterwards."
There was one question above all others I wished to ask him, "Have you written home to tell my friends of my loss?"
"No," he answered; "I have so often found people turn up whom I thought had been lost, that I am very unwilling to send home bad news till it is absolutely necessary, and as I did not require your signature, I was able to avoid mentioning that you were not on board."
This answer greatly relieved my mind, and I was in a short time able to talk over our arrangements for the future. The capture of the _Barbara_ would, of course, be a heavy expense to the owners; but if the voyage should prove as successful as we still hoped it would, a handsome profit might yet be realised. To that object we had now to bend all our energies. We were therefore anxious as soon as we could to proceed on our voyage. I had heard from the captain of the _Phoebe_ that an expedition was fitting out in India for the capture of Batavia, the chief town in Java, of which the French now held possession; and we had great hopes, if we could reach it soon after the English had gained the place, which of course we expected they would do, that we should sell a large portion of our cargo to great advantage. Before sailing, however, we determined to see what trade could be carried on with the natives. Fortunately, the French had not touched our cargo for that purpose. Though they had made frequent attempts to form settlements in Madagascar, they had never succeeded in gaining the confidence and goodwill of the natives. Had the plans of the Count Benyowsky been carried out when he offered his services to France, they might possibly have obtained a powerful influence in the affairs of the country, if not entire possession of it. His plans were, however, completely defeated by the governor of the Mauritius, who, looking on Madagascar as a dependency of that island, was jealous of his--the Count's--proceedings, and finally drove him to make common cause with the natives against the French Government. I heard some details of the life of that extraordinary adventurer. The Count Benyowsky was a Polish nobleman, who for some political reason was banished by the Russian Government to one of its settlements in the extreme eastern part of Siberia, whence it seemed impossible for him ever to find his way back to Europe. The governor of the town in which the Count was compelled to reside had a daughter, young and lovely, who had conceived a warm affection for him, which appears to have been fully returned. Through the means of this young lady he was able to gain information as to everything which was taking place. He heard, among other things, that two large Russian ships were expected at the neighbouring port. He had long been looking out for the means of making his escape from Siberia.
Here was an opportunity. None but a man of great boldness and energy would, however, have considered it one. He was a prisoner in a fortified town; it contained a considerable number of his countrymen, but they were prisoners strictly watched. Still he was determined to make the attempt. He set to work and gained over a hundred men to assist in his dangerous undertaking. By some means they were able to provide themselves with arms. The governor's fair daughter undertook to obtain the keys of the fortress, provided her father's life was spared. The adventurers found it impossible to make their escape without first mastering the garrison. The conspirators were mustered, and were ready for the enterprise. The young lady brought her lover the keys. Her last words were, "Do not injure my father."
"Of course not, if he makes no resistance," was the Count's answer.
The gates were opened; the conspirators rushed in. The old governor was, however, not a man to yield without a struggle. Putting himself at the head of some of his men, he endeavoured to keep back the assailants. Again and again he charged them, calling on the troops to rally round him. It was evident to the Count and his companions that if he were allowed to live their undertaking would fail. He therefore, pressed on by numbers, was killed, with all who stood by him.
The adventurers, now putting all who opposed them to the sword, became complete masters of the place, and without difficulty obtained possession also of the two ships which had just arrived. A sufficient number of officers and seamen were found to navigate the ships, and, having provisioned them for a long voyage, the Count, taking the daughter of the governor with him, went on board them, with a hundred companions, and made sail to the southward. The Count had taken precautions against pursuit; indeed, there were probably no Russian men-of-war in those waters at the time, and thus he made good his escape. He touched at a variety of places. He reached Canton in safety. Here he wisely sold his ships, as, had he fallen in with any Russian men-of-war, his destruction would have been certain. At Canton he and his companions embarked on board two French vessels, in which they proceeded to the Isle of France. Here he announced his intention of forming a colony in Madagascar, or perhaps of conquering the country for France.
His plans, as I have said, excited the jealousy of the governor of the Mauritius, and of other people of authority in that island, who determined to oppose him. Notwithstanding, he proceeded to France, where he so completely gained the good opinion of the French minister that he was appointed to take command of an expedition to found the proposed settlement, with the title of governor-general. He had married the daughter of the Russian governor, and she accompanied him in all his travels, but what was her ultimate fate I do not remember having heard. After returning to the Isle of France, where the governor still kept up his hostility, and opposed him by every means in his power, he set sail with about three hundred men for Madagascar. He landed at Antongil Bay, where he was well received by the chiefs, but he at first was subject to a good deal of opposition from the natives generally. He did his best to conciliate them, but as he had often to employ force, and to keep up a strict military rule at the same time, it must have been difficult to persuade them that his intentions were pacific and philanthropic. He seems to have met with heroic courage all the innumerable difficulties by which he was beset. He lost many of his officers and men by sickness, as the position where he attempted to found his first settlement, from being surrounded by marshes, was very unhealthy. Among others, his only boy lost his life by fever. He was left without the necessary supplies he expected from the Isle of France, the governor purposely neglecting to send them. The natives also were incited by emissaries of the governor to oppose him, while, of the officers sent to him, some were incapable, and others came with the express purpose of betraying him. Notwithstanding all these difficulties, by the middle of 1775 the settlers had built a fort in a more healthy situation, which was called Fort Louis, had constructed all the necessary buildings for the town of Louisbourg, and had formed a road twenty-one miles in length and twenty-four feet in breadth. The Count had also done something towards civilising the people, and among other important measures had persuaded the women to give up their practice of infanticide, which had been terribly prevalent. They, however, refused to ratify the engagement without the presence of the Count's wife, who was residing at the Isle of France. She was accordingly sent for, and on her arrival the women of the different provinces, assembling before her, bound themselves by an oath never to sacrifice any of their children. They agreed that any who should break this oath should be made slaves, while they were to send all deformed children to an institution which had been founded by the Count in the settlement for that purpose.
He had by this time formed alliances with many of the surrounding chiefs, who ever afterwards remained faithful to him. In other parts of the island combinations were formed against him. He accordingly mustered his forces, and marching against his enemies, who had brought forty thousand men into the field, put them to flight. Those who fell into his hands he treated with so much leniency and kindness that he ultimately attached them to his cause. A curious superstition of the natives was the cause of his being at length raised to the dignity of the principal chief of the island. It appears that the hereditary successor to the title was missing, when some of the natives took it into their heads that the Count Benyowsky was the lost heir. The idea gained ground at the very time that the affairs of the Count were in a very precarious condition. His own health was failing, the more faithful among his European officers were dead, his enemies in the Mauritius had succeeded in prejudicing the minds of the members of the French Government against him, and two, if not more, vessels bringing out supplies had been lost. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that he should have accepted the proffered dignity, which shortly led to his being recognised as the principal chief and supreme ruler of the whole island.
Commissioners had been sent out from France to investigate the affairs of the settlement. While they were there he took the opportunity of giving up the command of the settlement to another officer, and entirely dissolved his connection with it and with France, though he at the same time, with the other chiefs, expressed his desire to live on friendly terms with the inhabitants, and to support the settlement to the best of his ability. He employed some time after this in consolidating his power and in improving the condition of the people. He also drew up a constitution, which for those days was of the most liberal character. Having done all he could to civilise the people, he resolved to go to Europe to establish mercantile relations with different countries for the improvement of the commerce of his adopted country.
In France, though he had some friends who welcomed him cordially, he was coldly received by those in power, though his course was supported by the celebrated Dr Franklin, who was at that time in Paris. At length, quitting the country, he went to England; but though he offered to place the country under the protection of the English Government, no encouragement was afforded him. All his hopes in Europe having failed, he set sail for the United States, in the vessel he chartered with a cargo of goods suited to the markets of Madagascar. After remaining for some time in the United States and obtaining another ship and cargo, he reached Antongil Bay in July 1785. He was here cordially welcomed by the chiefs, but instead of going into the interior and assuming the reins of government, he remained on the coast for the purpose of establishing trading-posts where his goods might be disposed of. He had captured one port from the French, and was engaged in repairing a fort built by them, when a body of troops landing from a French frigate attacked him. He retired with some few Europeans and natives into the fort, where he attempted to defend himself. The French advanced, he was shot through the body, and being ignominiously dragged out, directly afterwards expired. Poor Count Benyowsky! I could not help feeling sorrow when I heard of his sad fate.
The climate of the low lands near the seashore was, from what we heard, _very_ unhealthy, but in the hill country of the interior it is as healthy as any part of the world. We heard a good deal of the English and French pirates, who had formed, a century before, some flourishing settlements on the northern coasts. The name of a bay we visited (Antongil) was derived from one of the most celebrated, Anthony Gill. Several other places also obtained their names from members of the fraternity of freebooters. While the pirates continued their depredations on the ocean, they in general behaved well to the natives, but when being hotly pressed by the men-of-war of the people they had been accustomed to rob, they entered upon the most nefarious of all traffics, that of slaves, and to obtain them instigated the people of one tribe to make war on those of another. This traffic has ever since been carried on, greatly contributing to retard the progress of civilisation.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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13
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ARRIVAL AT JAVA.
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I was very sorry to have to part from my brother William, and not a little so from that merriest of merry midshipmen, Toby Trundle.
"We shall meet again one of these days, Trundle," I said, as I warmly shook hands with him. "I hope it will be in smooth water, too; we have had enough of the rough together."
I did my best to express to the captain and officers of the _Phoebe_ my sense of the kindness with which they had treated me from the first moment I had stepped on board their frigate to the last. We all sailed together, the men-of-war and their prize, to proceed to the Mauritius, then to refit and get ready for the expedition to Java. We also were bound for Java, but intended first to visit Antongil Bay for the purpose of trading with the natives. I was pleased to find myself among my old shipmates again. They had had no sickness on board, and not a man had been lost. The officers were the same in character, while their individual peculiarities seemed to stand out more prominently than before.
We found the natives at Antongil Bay very honourable in their dealings. Many of the chiefs spoke French perfectly well, and looked like Frenchmen. They were, we found, indeed, descendants of some of the Count Benyowsky's followers, who had married native women. The children of such marriages were generally highly esteemed by the natives, who had raised them to the rank of chiefs. From what I saw of all classes of the natives of Madagascar, but especially of the upper ranks, I should say that they were capable of a high state of civilisation, and I see no reason why they should not some day take their place among the civilised nations of the east. When that time will come it is impossible to say. Neither adventurers, like the brave and talented Benyowsky, nor French settlements, will bring it about. One thing, indeed, only can produce it--that is, the spread and the firm establishment of true Christianity among the people.
Some days after our departure we had a distant view of the island of Rodriguez. In about a fortnight afterwards we were glad to put on warm clothing instead of the light dress suitable to the tropics; yet we were only in the same parallel of latitude as Madeira. It showed us how much keener is the air of the southern hemisphere than that of the northern. We soon after fell in with the monsoon, or trade wind, which sent us flying along at a good rate; till early in August, on a bright morning, the look-out at the mast-head shouted at the top of his voice, "Land ho! Land ahead!" It was the north-west cape of New Holland, or Australia, a region then, as even to the present day, almost a _terra incognita_ to Europeans. As we neared it, we curiously looked out with our glasses for some signs of the habitations of men, but nothing could be seen to lead us to suppose that human beings were to be found there. The shore was low, sandy, and desolate, without the least intermixture of trees or verdure. A chain of rocks, over which the sea broke furiously, lined the coast. We continued in sight of this most inhospitable-looking land till the next morning. I could not help thinking of the vast extent of country which intervened between the shore at which we were gazing and the British settlement at Port Jackson, of which we had lately heard such flattering accounts. Was it a region flowing with milk and honey? one of lakes and streams, or of lofty mountains? did it contain one vast inland sea, or was it a sandy desert of burning sands, impassable for man?
This was a problem some of my emigrant friends had been discussing, and which I longed to see solved. After losing sight of the coast of New Holland, we had to keep a bright look-out, as we were in the supposed neighbourhood of certain islands which some navigators, it was reported, had seen, but no land appeared. One clear night we found ourselves suddenly, it seemed, floating in an ocean of milk, or more properly, perhaps, a thick solution of chalk in water. The surface was quite unruffled, nor was there the slightest mixture of that phosphoric appearance often seen on a dark night when the sea is agitated. The air was still, though it was not quite a calm, and the sky was perfectly clear. It took us some hours to slip through it. We drew up some in buckets, and found it to contain a small, scarcely perceptible, portion of a fine filamentous substance, quite transparent, such as I have occasionally seen where seaweed is abundant. Whether this was the cause of the milky appearance of the sea or not we could not determine. We were now sailing almost due north, for the Straits of Bally, as the passage is called between that small island and the east end of the magnificent island of Java. About the middle of August, early in the morning, again land was seen from the mast-head, and in a few hours we entered the Straits I have just mentioned. We could see the shores on both sides, that of Bally somewhat abrupt, while the Java shore, agreeably diversified by clumps of cocoa-nut trees and hills clothed with verdure, looked green and smiling, contrasting agreeably with that of New Holland, which we had so lately left. A large number of small boats or canoes were moving about in all directions, those under sail going at great speed. They were painted white, had one sail, and were fitted with outriggers. We had to keep a bright look-out lest we should run suddenly into the jaws of any French or Dutch man-of-war, which, escaping from our cruisers, might be pleased to snap up a richly-laden merchantman like the _Barbara_. We could not tell at the time whether the proposed expedition had arrived, or, if it had, whether it had been successful.
As we were coasting along, a hill appeared in sight, early in the morning, the summit thickly surrounded by clouds. As this nightcap of vapours cleared away, a remarkable cone was exposed to view, the base covered with the richest vegetation. Soon after this we got so entangled among clusters of rocky islands and coral reefs that we were very much afraid we should be unable to extricate ourselves, and that our ship would get on shore. Though there was not much risk of our losing our lives, the dread of having our ship and cargo destroyed was enough to make us anxious. Fortunately the wind fell, and by keeping look-outs at each fore-yard-arm and at the mast-head, we were able to perceive the dangers with which we were surrounded before we ran on any of them. At length we got into seemingly more clear water, but there being still several reefs and islands outside of us, Captain Hassall thought it prudent to anchor for the night. The shore off which we lay was lined with cocoa-nut and other palm-trees, rivulets were seen flowing down the sides of the hills, which were clothed with spice-bearing and other shrubs, the whole landscape presenting a scene of great tropical beauty.
"If I ever had to cast anchor anywhere on shore, that's the sort of country I should choose, now," observed Benjie Stubbs, our second officer, who had been examining the coast for some time through his glass.
"I wouldn't change one half-acre of any part of our principality for a thousand of its richest acres," said David Gwynne, our surgeon, to whom he spoke. "Poets talk of the spicy gales of these islands; in most cases they come laden with miasma-bearing fevers and agues on their wings; while it a fellow has to live on shore he gets roasted by day, with a good chance of a sunstroke, and he is stewed at night, and bitten by mosquitoes and other winged and crawling things, and wakes to find a cobra de capella or green snake gliding over his face."
"Oh, a man would soon get accustomed to those trifling inconveniences, as the natives must do; and money goes a long way in these regions for all the necessaries of life," answered Stubbs.
I must confess that, lovely as I had heard are many parts of those eastern isles, I was inclined to agree with the surgeon.
It was discovered this evening that in consequence of the heat, or from careless coopering, our water-casks had let out their contents, and that we had scarcely any fresh water in the ship. At Batavia it was very bad, and it might be some days before we should get there, or we could not tell when, should the expedition not have succeeded. It was therefore necessary to get water without delay, and as a river was marked on the chart near to where we lay, we agreed the next morning to go up, and, should we see no fort, to run in and obtain water and any fresh provisions we might require. Accordingly we weighed by sunrise, and, standing in, ran along the coast till we arrived off the mouth of the river we hoped to find. Some native houses were seen, but no fortifications and no buildings of an European character. We therefore thought that we should be perfectly safe in going ashore. On dropping our anchor, several canoes came off laden with turtles, ducks, fowls, cockatoos, monkeys, and other small animals and birds; besides sweet potatoes, yams, and other vegetables, grown by the natives for the supply of the ships passing along the coast. They found plenty of customers among our men, and the ship was soon turned into a perfect menagerie. We without difficulty made the people in the canoes understand that we wanted to replenish our water-casks, and we understood them to say that they would gladly help us. Two boats were therefore lowered and filled with casks; Stubbs took charge of one of them, and I went in the other, accompanied by little Jack Nobs, intending to exchange a few articles which I took with me suitable to the taste of the natives for some of the productions of their country. As we pulled up the river we saw the low shores on either side lined with houses built on high piles, by which they were raised a considerable distance above the ground, some, I should think, fully twenty feet. The only means of entering them was by a ladder, which we found it was the custom of the inhabitants to lift up at night to prevent the intrusion of strangers, but more especially, I should think, of wild beasts. The chief object, however, of their being built in this way is to raise them above the miasma of the marshy ground, which often rises only two or three feet. They were all on one floor, but had numerous partitions or rooms. The roofs, which were covered with palm leaves, projected some distance beyond the walls, so as to form a wide balcony all round. The ground beneath was also in many instances railed in, and thus served for the habitation of ducks, poultry, and cattle.
At the landing-place some way up a number of natives were collected, who received us in a very friendly way. We saw no Dutchmen nor other Europeans. As we could not make ourselves understood by the natives, we were unable to ascertain what had occurred at the other end of the island. The men in the canoes had for clothing only a cloth round their waists, but the people who now received us were habited in a much more complete fashion. They wore the _sarong_, a piece of coloured cloth about eight feet long and four wide, part of which was thrown over the shoulder like a Highlander's plaid, the rest bound round the waist serving as a kilt. They all had on drawers secured by a sash, and several wore a short frock coat with buttons in front, called a _baju_. All had daggers, and several, who were evidently people of some consequence, had two in copper or silver sheaths. The latter had their teeth blackened, which was evidently looked on as a mark of gentility. They also wore turbans, while the lower orders only had little caps on their heads. The watering-place was some little way up the river, and while the mates proceeded there with the boats, I landed at the village or town. I had not proceeded far when I was given to understand that a chief or some person of consequence wished to see me, for the purpose, I supposed, of trading. His habitation was pointed out to me on the summit of some high ground at a distance from the river. It appeared to be far larger than the houses of the village. Without hesitation I set off, followed by Jack, and accompanied by several of my first acquaintance, towards it. I now more than ever regretted having lost O'Carroll, for understanding as he did the languages of the people of the Archipelago, he would greatly have facilitated our proceedings.
The house or palace of the great man was surrounded, as are all the island habitations of every degree which I saw in Java, with gardens. We entered on the north side into a large square court, on either side of which were rows of Indian fig-trees, with two large fig-trees nearly in the centre. Passing through this we found ourselves in a smaller court, surrounded by pillars, and covered in by a light roof. Here most of my companions remained, but I was conducted up a flight of steps to a handsome terrace in front of a building of considerable size, in the centre of which was a spacious hall, the roof richly painted with red and gold. This hall of audience was on the top of the hill; steps from it led down to other houses which composed the dwelling of the chief and his family.
As I looked down from the terrace, I could see the tops of the houses of the poorer class of people, which surrounded the palace of the chief. They were all in the midst of gardens, and had walls round them. I found, indeed, that I was in the centre of a town, or large village, though in coming along I had scarcely seen any habitations, so completely shut in were they by trees and shrubs. I had thus an example of the fertility of Java, and of the industry of its inhabitants. With regard to the habitations of the barbarians whose lands I visited, I must observe that, though there were exceptions to the rule, they were generally far superior in respect to the wants of the occupants than are the dwellings of a large number of the poorer classes in Scotland, and especially in Ireland, and in some districts even in England. They are in good condition, clean, sufficiently furnished, and well ventilated. Granted that the materials of which they are built are cheap, that from the fertility of the land a man by labouring three days in the week can supply all his wants for the remaining four, and has time to repair his house and furniture, and that he has no rates and taxes to pay, still I cannot help believing that there is something wrong somewhere, that God never intended it to be so, and that it is a matter it behoves us to look to more than we have done. Though distance seemed to increase my love for Old England, it did not blind me to her faults, and I often blushed when I found myself among heathen savages, and saw the superiority of some of their ways to ours. These or similar thoughts occupied me while I stood on the terrace gazing on the fine prospect around, and waiting for the appearance of the chief.
After some time the chief appeared at the entrance of the hall of audience, with a gay coloured umbrella borne over his head, a slave carrying the indispensable betel-box by his side, a handsome turban on his head, and his sash stuck full of jewel-hilted daggers with golden scabbards, while all his attendants stood round with their bodies bent forward and their eyes cast to the ground, as a sign of reverence. I thus knew that I was in the presence of a very important person. I was rather puzzled to discover who he took me for, that he treated me with so much state. How we were to understand each other, and I was to ascertain the truth, I could not tell. I think I mentioned that I learned a little Dutch, which I had practised occasionally with Peter Klopps, my old cousin's butler.
I tried the chief with some complimentary phrases in that language, but he shook his head; I then tried him with French. He shook his head still more vehemently, and, from the signs he made, I thought that he was annoyed that I had not brought an interpreter with me. After a time, however, finding that he could get nothing out of me, he said something to one of his attendants, who, raising his hands with his palms closed till his thumbs touched his nose in rather a curious fashion, uttered a few words in reply, and then hurried off by the way I had come. I was after this conducted into the hall, where on a raised platform the chief took his seat, making signs to me to sit near him, his attendants having done the same. Slaves then brought in some basins of water, in one of which the chief washed his hands, I following his example. Trays were then brought in, with meat and rice and fish, and certain vegetables cut up into small fragments. There were no knives, or forks, or spoons. The chief set an example, which I was obliged to follow, of dipping his fingers into the mess before him, and, as it were, clawing up a mouthful and transferring it to his mouth. Had his hands not first been washed, I certainly should not have liked the proceeding, but as I was by this time very hungry, and the dishes were pleasant tasted and well cooked, I did ample justice to the repast.
The chief and his attendants having eaten as much as they well could, my young attendant Jack, who sat somewhat behind me, having done the same, water was again brought in, that everybody might wash their hands.
I heard Jack Nobs in a low tone give rough colloquial expressions of his satisfaction.
"They don't seem much given to talking, though," he added to himself. "I wonder whether it is that they think we don't understand their lingo, or that they don't understand ours; I'll just try them, though."
Whereon in a half whisper he addressed the person sitting next to him, who bowed and salaamed very politely in return, but made no reply.
"What I axes you, mounseer, is, whether you feels comfortable after your dinner," continued Jack, in a loud whisper. "And, I say, will you tell us who the gentleman in the fine clothes is, for I can't make out nohow? Does he know that my master here is a great merchant, and that if he wishes to do a bit of trade, he is the man to do it with him?"
The same dumb show on the part of the Javanese went on as before. Jack's attempt at opening up a conversation was put a stop to by the return of the servant with dishes containing a variety of vegetables and fruits, which were as welcome, probably, to him as to me. One dish contained a sweet potato cooked. It must have weighed from twelve to fifteen pounds. I have heard of one weighing thirty pounds. The natives appeared very fond of it. We had peas and artichokes and a dish of sago, the mode of obtaining which I afterwards saw, and will describe presently. I heard Jack cry out when he saw one of the dishes of fruit. It was, I found, the _durian_, a fruit of which the natives are very fond, and which I got to like, though its peculiarly offensive odour at first gave me a dislike to it. It is nearly of the size of a man's head, and is of a spherical form. It consists of five cells, each containing from one to four large seeds enveloped in a rich white pulp, itself covered with a thin pellicle, which prevents the seed from adhering to it. This pulp is the edible portion of the fruit. However, a dish of _mangostine_ was more to my taste. It is one of the most exquisite of Indian fruits. It is mildly acid, and has an extreme delicacy of flavour without being luscious or cloying. In external appearance it resembles a ripe pomegranate, but is smaller and more completely globular. A rather tough rind, brown without, and of a deep crimson within, encloses three or four black seeds surrounded by a soft, semi-transparent, snow-white pulp, having occasionally a very slight crimson plush. The pulp is eaten. We had also the well-known Jack-fruit, a great favourite with the natives; and the _champadak_, a much smaller fruit, of more slender form and more oblong shape. It has a slightly farinaceous consistency, and has a very delicate and sweet flavour. I remember several other fruits; indeed, the chief seemed anxious to show to me, a stranger, the various productions of his country. There were mangoes, shaddocks, and pine-apples in profusion, and several other small fruits, some too luscious for my palate, but others having an agreeable sub-acid taste.
We sat and sat on, waiting for the return of the messenger. I observed that whereas a calabash of water stood near the guests, from which they drank sparingly, a jug was placed close to the chief, and that as he continued to sip from it his eyes began to roll and his head to turn from side to side in a curious manner. Suddenly, as if seized with a generous impulse, or rather having overcome a selfish one, he passed the jug with a sigh over to me, and made signs that if I was so inclined I was to drink from it. I did so without hesitation, but my breath was almost taken away. It was the strongest arrack. I could not ascertain how the chief, who was a Mohammedan, could allow himself to do what is so contrary to the law of the prophet. I observed that his attendants looked away when he drank, as they did when I put the cup to my lips; so I conclude that they knew well enough that it was not quite the right thing to do. All the inhabitants of Java are nominally Mohammedans, but, in the interior especially, a number of gross and idolatrous practices are mixed up with the performance of its ceremonies, while the upper orders especially are very lax in their principles. Most of them, in spite of the law of their prophet prohibiting the use of wine and spirits, drink them whenever they can be procured. The rich have as many wives as they can support, but the poor are obliged to content themselves with one. I should say that my host, when I returned him the jar of arrack, deprived of very little of its contents, gave a grunt of satisfaction, from which I inferred that his supply had run short, and that he was thankful that I had not taken more. I kept anxiously waiting all the time for the arrival of an interpreter, for whom I was convinced the chief had sent. After we lost Captain O'Carroll we returned to our original intention of procuring one at Batavia. This must account for my being at present without one. I had come on shore in the hope that I might make myself sufficiently understood to carry on a trade by means of signs, as I knew was often done. As, however, my new friends would not make the attempt to talk by signs or in any other way, I had to wait patiently till somebody should arrive to help us out of our dilemma.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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14
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A PRISONER OF WAR.
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I at length lost all patience at the non-arrival of the expected interpreter, and, rising, made a profound salaam to the chief, which was, I saw, accurately imitated by Jack, who was at my side with a comical expression of countenance not indicative of much respect for the great man. The chief said something which I understood to mean that he hoped I would remain longer, but as I really was anxious to return on board, I only bowed again lower than before, and pointed towards the harbour, continuing to move in the direction of the entrance. He did not attempt to stop me, and the people who had come with me were, I saw, prepared to accompany me back.
I had just reached the outside, when I saw approaching an individual dressed in the native shirt and _sarong_, or kilt, whom I naturally took to be a Javanese.
He stopped and looked at me attentively, saying in Dutch, "I was sent for by the chief to come and interpret for a French gentleman who has arrived here on some diplomatic business of importance. I shall be happy to do my best, but you are aware that some of the troops of your countrymen will be here soon, and that then there will be no lack of people better able to interpret for you than I am. You of course know that the English attempted to make a landing, but have been defeated, and it is thought probable that they will make another attempt in this direction." He appeared to say this in a very significant manner. The information he gave might or might not be correct, but there was a friendliness in his look and tone which led me to suppose that he knew I was English, and that he wished to warn me of my danger. I was doubtful what to say in return, but quickly resolved to hurry down to the watering party to advise them to return on board and to warn Captain Hassall, that he might be ready immediately to get under way. I turned to the seeming native, whom I now discovered to be a Dutchman, and thanked him for what he had told me, remarking that our business was of no consequence, and that as it was possible the wind might change, I proposed returning on board at once. He smiled, and said he thought it was the best thing I could do. This convinced me of his good feeling, and that he knew I was English. Just at that moment a guard of soldiers emerged from the palace, and their officer, addressing the Dutchman, made signs to me that I was forthwith to return.
"I am sorry," observed the Dutchman to me in English; "we must attend the summons, but your boy need not, and you may send him to let your companions know."
I took the advice and ordered Jack to find his way down to the boats, and to tell the mates to hurry on board with or without water, and to advise Captain Hassall to get under way immediately. I added, "Tell him to stand off and on for a couple of hours. If I am at liberty I will put off in a native boat, but if I am detained, tell him to save the ship and cargo, and that I hope before long to make my escape."
Jack fully understood my message, but I must say, to his credit, that he seemed very unwilling to leave me to my fate.
"I am in no danger," I remarked; "I may possibly be detained a few days, but I am not likely to suffer any other inconvenience. Now, quick, my lad, or the ship and all hands may be caught in a trap."
Jack gave me a nod, and was off like a shot. I scarcely expected, however, that he would be allowed to go free; but no one, I suppose, had received orders to stop him, and so he pursued his way unmolested. The officers of the guard had, in the meantime, been speaking to the Dutchman, who told me that I must return forthwith, as the chief was waiting to receive me. I of course could do nothing else than face about, and with my new friend accompany the guard. The men were armed with formidable long spears and daggers, but the officer carried a musket, which looked more like an ensign of authority than a weapon to be used. As I returned through the courtyard I considered what I should say to the chief. "Tell the truth and be not afraid," said conscience. I determined to do so.
When I re-entered the hall of audience, the chief was seated on his divan, and evidently intended to receive me in greater state. Some of the assemblage sat down cross-legged on cushions in front of the divan, while others stood with their bodies bent forward on either side, the guards who remained turning their backs on the great man. The Dutchman and I took our seats on cushions directly below the divan. I found afterwards that among the Javanese a sitting posture is considered more respectful than an upright one. The chief, through the Dutch interpreter, now asked me a number of questions, which, according to my previous determination, I answered correctly. The great man, I thought, looked somewhat surprised at finding that I was not so important a person as he had at first supposed.
Occasionally my Dutch friend remarked that I had better not reply to some of the questions put to me, but I answered that I was perfectly ready to stand by the consequences of anything I might say. Such has been my practice through life--I might say, more modestly, my endeavour--to do right on all occasions, to avow whatever I have done, and to take the consequences, whatever they may be. I do not say that such a mode of proceeding may not occasionally get a man seemingly into trouble, but I do say that it is the only right course, and that he is equally certain to get out of it again; whereas an opposite course must lead him into difficulties, and involve him more and more as he tries to extricate himself by prevarication, subterfuge, or falsehood. I therefore told the chief that I had come on shore hoping to open up a trade with him, under the belief that the country was no longer either in possession of the Dutch or French, but that it was now under the rule of England. If I was mistaken I was ready to undergo the penalty, and must run the risk of being treated as a prisoner of war should I fall into the hands of the French, but that as the English were the friends of the rulers and people of Java, I expected to be treated by him as a friend.
This answer, which I had reason to believe the Dutchman faithfully interpreted, seemed to please the chief. However, he made no direct reply to me, but spoke for some time aside to his companions, whom I took to be officially counsellors or advisers. One made a remark, then another, and at last one said something at which I thought my friend the Dutchman looked rather blank. A good deal of discussion took place, when I heard the chief issue some orders to the officers of the guards. Immediately on this two of the counsellors got up, and with the officer and several other persons, and part of the guard, left the hall.
The movement seemed to give great satisfaction to the counsellors, especially to the gentleman who had made the suggestion, as I fancied, which led to it, while a pleased smile played over the countenance of the chief. All the time the honest Dutchman looked very much annoyed. At length I asked him what it was all about.
"I suppose that I shall not be found fault with for telling you," he answered. "And I assure you that I would much rather not have to give you such unpleasant information. Do not look surprised or annoyed, and no harm can come of it. The fact is that the chief here, the governor of this district, Mulock Ben Azel, is not a bright genius, and though he had made up his mind to detain you, it had not occurred to him to detain your vessel. The idea, however, was suggested to him just now by one of these cunning gentlemen, and he has sent a party to stop her. The Javanese are rather daring fellows, so that the captain must be smart if he would get away from them."
This was indeed a disagreeable announcement. I congratulated myself, however, at having sent off Jack to warn Captain Hassall, and I had great hopes that he would have followed my advice and got the _Barbara_ under way before the Javanese could reach her. I thanked the Dutchman for his sympathy and kindness.
"I have a warm regard for the English," he answered: "I have received much kindness at the hands of your countrymen, and am glad of an opportunity of proving my gratitude. As far as you are concerned I may be of service, but if these gentry get hold of your vessel, I am afraid that they will not let her go till they have cleaned out her hold."
I, of course, on hearing all this became very impatient to go and see whether the _Barbara_ was leaving the harbour, but as far as I could I concealed my feelings, and desired my Dutch friend to inquire of Mulock Ben Azel whether he desired my presence any longer; and if not, I begged leave to go forth into the open air that I might gaze on the beautiful scenery amidst which he had the happiness of dwelling and I had the happiness of finding myself. I fancy that the interpreter gave my request a more oriental turn. The chief was at all events pleased to comply with it, and directed some of his attendants and my Dutch friend to accompany me. I made a profound salaam, as if I was highly pleased at all that had occurred. The act was somewhat hypocritical, I must confess, but, at all events, I was heartily glad to get over the audience, which was becoming very tedious. As soon as I got out on the terrace I have before described as affording a magnificent view of the surrounding country, I eagerly looked seaward in search of the _Barbara_. I almost gave a shout of satisfaction as I saw her with a strong breeze off shore, standing away under all the canvas she could carry. She had good reason to make the best use of her heels, for a whole fleet of boats, some of considerable size and full of men, were in hot chase after her. I stood with my companions eagerly watching the chase, though the objects of our interest were very different. I was anxious that the _Barbara_ should escape, they that she should be caught. I knew for one, though, that if good seamanship would enable him to get away, Captain Hassall would give his pursuers the slip. I knew too that he would not be taken, even if the boats should catch him up, without a fight. My earnest hope was therefore that the breeze might continue. In that climate, however, the land wind often falls towards the evening, and if it should do so, it would give the Javanese a great advantage. I found my new friend by my side, and I glanced at him.
"Your vessel sails well, and I am glad of it," he observed. "The orders were to bring her in at all risks; at the same time, if her captain shows a bold front I do not think the natives will dare to attack him at a distance from the land."
My hopes and fears alternately rose and fell as I watched the chase. Sometimes the boats seemed to be gaining on her. At other times she appeared to be obtaining the advantage. She continued to increase her canvas till every stitch she could carry was set on her, studding sails on either side, royals, and even still lighter sails above them, which we used to call skyscrapers. I now observed that although there were several large boats engaged in the chase, they were but slow sailers, and that the small ones were drawing ahead of them. These of course would be more easily dealt with by the _Barbara's_ crew than the larger craft.
The latter were vessels of about forty tons, carrying fifty or sixty persons. The hulls of those I had seen on landing were neatly built, with round heads and sterns; and over the hulls were light small houses, composed of bamboos, and divided into three or four cabins. The sides were formed of split bamboos about four feet high, with windows in them to open and shut at pleasure; the roofs were almost flat, and thatched with palm leaves. The oars are worked by the crew standing at the fore and after-part of the vessel. I thought that probably the boats now in chase of the _Barbara_ were modifications of this sort of craft, and more adapted to warlike purposes than they were. The natives became at length even more excited than I was as the breeze occasionally fell and gave their boats an advantage. They knew also that the land breeze would soon set in, which I did not. They probably fancied that when it did the vessel would be caught in a trap, not knowing that she could haul her wind and still keep ahead of them.
I stood watching the various circumstances of the chase, till at length, greatly to my relief, I saw the boats, as if by signal, begin to return together towards the shore, while the _Barbara_ continued standing off shore till she met the sea-breeze, when she hauled her wind and stood away to the northward. My Dutch friend congratulated me on her escape.
"And as it appears that you are not to be detained as a prisoner, the sooner you get out of this place the better," he observed. "I will gladly welcome you to my abode, where you can remain till we gain further information as to the result of the British expedition against Batavia. If it is ultimately successful, your ship will put in at that place, and you can rejoin her."
I gladly accepted his offer. As we passed through the large entrance court he pointed out two large Indian-fig-trees, and told me that under them was the place where criminals were executed. On each side of the court was a row of the same description of tree. We descended the hill towards the harbour. On approaching it I heard the shrill voice of a boy crying out loudly amid the shouts and chattering of a number of natives. I soon recognised the voice of Jack Nobs, who had, I had hoped, made his escape in the boats. The people, seeing me accompanied by guards, made way for Jack, who ran towards me, crying out-- "Oh, save me, Mr Braithwaite! save me, sir! These savinges are a-going to cut off my head, or to hang me up and cook and eat me. They eat people in these parts, and they look as if they would make nothing of devouring me."
In vain I tried to pacify him. He seemed to fear that the natives were going to treat me in the same way he thought that they were about to treat him.
"But what made you come back, Jack?" I asked. "I thought that you had gone off to the ship."
"What, leave you all alone among the savinges!" he answered, looking up reproachfully at me. "No, no, sir. After you have been so kind to me, and always took me with you wherever you've been, and we was nearly all drowned together! No, no, if harm is to come of it, I says to myself, I'll go shares with Mr Braithwaite, whatever happens; so, when the boats shoved off, I scud away, and when the men called me to come along with them, and not to mind you, for that I could do you no good, I wouldn't go back, but kept beckoning them to be off; so away they went, and I ran up in shore and hid myself. The savinges, howsomdever, found me out at last, and as long as they thought that they should get hold of the ship they treated me civil enough, as they might a pet monkey; but when they found that they could not catch her, they turned their rage on me, and what they're going to do with us I'm sure I don't know. Oh dear! oh dear!"
Jack's fears were very natural, for the dark-skinned, half-naked Javanese, with their glittering kreeses or daggers in their hands, which they flourished about while they vociferated loudly, were very ferocious-looking fellows.
"They are disappointed," said the Dutchman, "at the escape of your ship, and they accuse the boy of being the cause of the boats going off and giving her warning. Let him, however, keep close to me, and I will do my best to protect him."
My new friend, who, by-the-bye, told me his name was Peter Van Deck, now addressed the people and told them that the boy was not to blame; whatever he had done was in consequence of the orders he had received, and that he had no intention of offending them. I had slipped a few small pieces of coin, which I had fortunately in my pocket, into his hand, and on his distributing these among the most influential of the assemblage, public opinion was turned completely in our favour, and we were allowed to proceed without further molestation. A small sum bestowed on the officer of the guard had a like beneficial effect, and after receiving an assurance from Mynheer Van Deck that we would not run away, and would be found at his house if wanted, he and his men, very much to my relief, took their departure, while the Dutchman, Jack, and I set off in an opposite direction.
The island of Java, it must be remembered, runs about due east and west. Our course was towards the west, or in the direction of Batavia. There was, however, not far off--about twenty miles I understood--a town and fort, garrisoned by French troops, called Cheribon. The scenery was very fine, heightened by the luxuriance of tropical vegetation. On our left rose a succession of heights, beyond which appeared the summits of the ridge of lofty mountains which runs down the centre of the island, dividing it longitudinally into two parts, of which, however, the northern is the largest, most fertile, and best known. My Dutch friend was very communicative respecting the productions of the country, and the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I noted down, therefore, the information I received from him, which I give in as concise a form as I can.
The climate is certainly hot, as might be expected from being so near the equator, but it is much more endurable than I had expected to find it, and on the sides of the mountains it is often quite cool, so that thick clothing is necessary. As also the nights are nearly the same length as the days, there is time for the air to cool while the sun is below the horizon. The bad or unhealthy monsoon blows from the west, from the end of November to the beginning of March. This is the rainy season. After it the easterly winds blow for some time. The breaking up of the monsoon is the most unhealthy season of all. There are no navigable rivers, but numerous streams descend from the mountains and irrigate the land. One of the chief productions of this country is pepper. It is produced from a plant of the vine kind, _Piper nigrum_, which twines its tendrils round poles or trees, like ivy or hops. The pepper-corns grow in bunches close to each other. They are first green, but afterwards turn black. When dried they are separated from the dust and partly from the outward membranous coat by means of a kind of winnow, and are then laid up in warehouses. The white pepper is the same production as the black. It undergoes a process to change its colour, being laid in lime, which takes off the outer black coat and leaves it white.
Rice is also produced in large quantities. It grows chiefly in low fenny ground. After it has been sown, and has shot up about half a foot from the ground, it is transplanted by little bundles of one or more plants in rows; then, by damming up the many rivulets which abound in this country, the rice is inundated in the rainy season, and kept under water till the stalks have attained sufficient strength, when the land is drained by opening the dams, and it is soon dried by the great heat of the sun. At the time of the rice harvest the fields have much the same appearance as our wheat and barley fields, and indeed are uniformly covered with a still more brilliantly golden hue. The sickle is not used in reaping the rice, but instead of it a small knife, with which the stalk is cut about a foot under the ear; this is done one by one, and the ears are then bound in sheaves, the tenth of which is the pay of the mower. The _paddee_, which is the name given to the rice while in the husk, does not grow, like wheat and barley, in compact ears, but, like oats, in loose spikes. It is not threshed to separate it from the husks, but pounded in large wooden blocks hollowed out, and the more it is pounded the whiter it becomes when boiled. Rice, with fish or a little meat chopped up, constitute the chief food of the inhabitants. Sugar, coffee, and indigo are also largely produced.
For the purposes of agriculture buffaloes are used instead of horses. They are very large animals, bigger and heavier than our largest oxen, furnished with great ears, and horns which project straight forward and bend inwards. A hole is bored through the cartilage of the nose, and these huge animals are guided by a cord which is passed through it. They have little eyes, and their colour is generally ashy grey. They are so accustomed to be led three times a day into the water to cool themselves, that they cannot without doing so be brought to work. The people themselves, by-the-bye, are great bathers, both men and women, the children, who seldom wear clothes till they are seven or eight, being constantly in the water. That said custom must be a great saving of expense to the parents of a large family. The people are generally of a light brown colour, of the middle height, and well proportioned, with a broad forehead and a flattish nose, which has a slight curve downward at the tip. Their hair is black, and is always kept smooth and shining with cocoa-nut oil. The dress of the women consists of a piece of cotton cloth wrapped round the body and covering the bosom, under which it is secured; it then hangs down to the knees, and sometimes to the ankles, while the shoulders and part of the back remain uncovered. The hair of their head, which they wear very long, is turned up and twisted round like a fillet, fastened with long bodkins of different sorts of wood, tortoiseshell, silver, or gold, according to the rank of the lady. It is often adorned with a variety of flowers. The Javanese are nominally Mohammedans, but in the interior especially a number of idolatrous practices are still kept up.
Pleasantly conversing we at length reached the residence of Mynheer Van Deck. It was built in the best style of native architecture, that is to say, on a raised platform of stone or brick; the outer walls were of brick, with a verandah of bamboo, all round which the partitions, as was most of the furniture, were of bamboo, which had a very cool appearance, and was sufficient for a hot climate. My host was a bachelor, not from choice, he assured me, but from necessity, on account of the scarcity of European ladies in the island.
"Those who are born here are so ill-educated, and so indolent, that a man is better without their society," he remarked.
In spite of this drawback he received me very hospitably and kindly, and though I was vexed at having again been separated from my ship, I confessed to myself that I had very little cause to complain of my lot. I was leaning back on an easy bamboo chair and gazing out through a vista of palm-trees on the deep blue sea, when the clatter of horses' feet coming along the road caught our ears. As they drew near the clank of sabres was heard at the same time. The voice of an officer crying "Halt" was next heard, and soon afterwards we saw him approaching the house. My host, with a look of considerable annoyance, rose to receive him. He was a young and pleasant-looking man.
"Ah, Mynheer Van Deck, bon jour," he said. "You have in your house, I am given to understand, a foreigner, supposed to be an English spy. I am come to demand him from you."
"I am the person to whom you allude, monsieur," I said, rising from my seat and going forward. "You are, however, wrongly informed. I am an Englishman, but not a spy. I landed, not knowing that this part of the island was in possession of the French, and had I not been detained I should have returned to my ship."
"I am not here to dispute the point, monsieur," he said, bowing politely. "I must perform my duty, and that is to convey you with me to Cheribon, where my superior officers will investigate the matter. You have supped, I conclude; we will therefore take advantage of the cool of the evening, and make good as much of our journey as the waning day will allow us to perform."
My Dutch friend shrugged his shoulders. There was not much time for consideration. I saw that I had no resource but to obey, though I must own that I did so with a very bad grace.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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15
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PIRATES.
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My host, in spite of his annoyance, did not forget the duties of hospitality, and warmly pressed our unwelcome visitor to take some refreshment. The young officer, however, declined, on the plea that the day was already far spent, and that he had no time to spare. On going round to the front of the house, I found two led horses under the charge of a soldier. They were absurdly small for cavalry, and would have been quickly ridden over by any one of our heavy regiments.
I was about to bid Mynheer Van Deck farewell.
"No, not yet, my friend," he answered. "I purpose accompanying you to Cheribon, that I may render you any service in my power. I have a horse, and will follow immediately."
The officer made a sign of impatience, so I mounted one of the steeds, and Jack sprang on the back of the other, where he sat very much as a big monkey would have done, fully resolved, it seemed, to enjoy any fun which might be forthcoming. As the French soldiers treated him kindly, and spoke in a good-natured tone to him, though he could not understand what they said, his fears quickly vanished, and he was speedily "hail fellow well met" with them all.
The officer I found a very gentlemanly young man. He rode up alongside me after we had proceeded a little way, and seemed eager enough to talk about La Belle France and Paris; but when I endeavoured to draw any information from him respecting the proceedings at the west end of the island, he closed his mouth, or gave only vague answers. From this I argued that affairs had not gone with the French in quite as satisfactory a manner as they wished. I asked him at last whether he thought that I should be detained or be otherwise inconvenienced by the commandant at Cheribon.
"We shoot spies," he answered laconically, at the same time shrugging his shoulders as a Frenchman only can do. "C'est la fortune de la guerre."
"But, my dear sir, I am no spy," I answered. "The governor, or native chief, purposed to seize my vessel, and I was left on shore while she made her escape. I am but a supercargo anxious to sell the goods entrusted to me."
The young officer gave a smile of incredulity, yet with an air of so much politeness that I really could not be angry with him; indeed it would have done me no good if I were. We were in a short time joined by Mynheer Van Deck, who came galloping up on a much finer horse than any possessed by the French soldiers. I found from my captor that the journey would be far longer than I had expected, as we had to make a considerable _detour_ to visit a native chief, or prince, to whom he had a message. My belief was that he was beating up for native recruits to oppose the British force, which, if not arrived, must have been hourly expected. We had several natives with us, armed with long spears and daggers, a few only having firelocks. Van Deck told me that we should soon have to pass a river, rather a dangerous spot, on account of the number of tigers which came there to drink, and which had already carried off several natives.
"But surely they would not venture to attack so large a body of men as this," I remarked.
"Not if we could keep together, unless they happen to be very hungry," he answered. "Unfortunately, however, the path in some places is so narrow that we have to proceed in single file, and as there are fallen trees and other impediments in the way, travellers are apt to get separated, when, of course, they are more liable to be picked off. I always keep my pistol cocked in my hand, that I may have a chance of shooting my assailant."
"But I came on shore unarmed, and have no pistols," I answered.
"Then keep ahead of me, and if I see a tiger spring at you I will fire at him, and do my best to save you."
"But the poor boy who is with me--he has a poor chance, I am afraid," I observed, after I had thanked my friend for his offer.
"Oh, he is safe enough if he keeps close to the soldiers; the clatter of their arms frightens the beasts."
While the Dutchman was speaking we came in sight of the river. It was fordable, though rather deep, and as the leading men on their small horses plunged in the water was up to their saddle-girths. I naturally looked out on either side for our expected enemies. Three or four large animals sprang off just as the leading horses reached the opposite bank. I thought they were tigers.
"Oh, no, they are only wild cats," said Van Deck. "Rather unpleasant to be caught by one of them asleep, but they are easily frightened."
I thought to myself, If those creatures are Java wild cats, what must Java tigers be like? We all passed across the stream without any accident, a small body of half-clad natives bringing up the rear. They were climbing up the somewhat steep bank, when a fearful shriek, followed by loud shouts and cries, made me turn my head, and I caught sight of a monster bounding along the bank, with the writhing, struggling body of a human being between his huge jaws. The poor wretch's _sarong_, or plaid, had become loose, and dragged after him. Already several natives were setting off in chase, while others were discharging their firearms at the animal, though at the risk of killing the man. The French officer called out to them to desist, and seizing a lance from one of the people, gallantly dashed after the tiger. I naturally wished to join in the chase, but Van Deck entreated me to stop, telling me that I should very likely, if I went, be picked off by another tiger on my return. As it would have been folly to disregard his advice, we pushed on as fast as we could to get out of the narrow defile. We could for several minutes hear the shouts of the natives still in pursuit of the tiger. After some time they rejoined us, but they had not saved the poor man, and had, moreover, lost another of their number, who had been carried off by a tiger just as the first leaped over a cliff fifty feet above the valley, with the man still in its mouth. It was followed triumphantly by its companion.
"This is not the country I should choose to travel in, still less to live in," I said.
"It cannot be helped," observed the Dutchman. "I am well off here, a great man among small people. I should be a beggar elsewhere. This is not, however, the country in which a man of education and mind would choose to pitch his tent."
Torches were lit for the latter part of our journey. It will be remembered that so nearly under the equator as we were the days and nights are of equal length all the year round; we therefore did not enjoy the delightful twilight of a northern clime.
Notice had been given of our proposed visit to the chief, or prince, who was, I was told, of Malay descent. Preparations were therefore made for our reception, and very handsome they were. Though a prisoner, I was treated like the rest of the guests. The house was much in the style of those I have before described. But I was not prepared to find a table elegantly set out and spread with fine linen and beautiful silver plate. It was lighted by four large wax flambeaux in massive silver candlesticks. The provisions were dressed in the Malay fashion, many of the dishes being very palatable, and toasts were drunk with three times three, the Malays of inferior rank, who sat round the room on the ground against the walls to the number of thirty, joining in the huzzas. It was altogether a curious scene of barbaric splendour. The prince escorted us to our rooms, where we found capital beds, beautiful linen, and very fine mosquito-nets, ornamented with fringe. The Malay servants slept under the beds on mats, or in the corners of the rooms, to be in readiness if required. Breakfast was prepared at daybreak, that we might continue our journey in the cool of the morning.
We rested under the shade of some trees during the day, the soldiers keeping up a fearful din to scare away any wild beast who might chance to be prowling about in search of a dinner. The young officer had fortunately a French cook among his men, who very soon contrived to place before us a capital dinner, though of what it was composed I could not discover. I rather think that hashed monkey formed one of the dishes. As, towards night, we approached Cheribon, my kind Dutch friend did his best to keep up my spirits, assuring me that he would spare no pains to prove that I was not a spy. He was not quite sure that the accounts received of the defeat of the English were correct; and the French commandant would scarcely venture to hang me without very strong proofs of my guilt, and with the possibility of being made a prisoner himself by my countrymen ere long, should they have been victorious. Still it was with no very pleasant feelings that I was formally conducted into the fort as a prisoner.
The forts of Cheribon had been allowed to fall into decay by the Dutch, but since the French occupation of the island had been repaired and considerably strengthened. I was told that the commandant boasted that he could hold out against any force likely to be sent against him, even should my countrymen gain the day. I was taken at once before him and examined, but though he had no evidence to prove me guilty, as I was accused of being a spy he would not take my parole. I was by his orders accordingly locked up in a cell with iron bars to the windows, a three-legged stool, and a heap of straw in a corner for a bed. Mr Van Deck had not entered the fort. In a little time Jack was thrust into the cell with very little ceremony. He brought me a message from my Dutch friend, saying that there had been a battle, and he suspected that the French had been defeated. I heartily hoped that he was correct. I had reason to believe that my prison, bad as it was, was the best in the fort, for Jack told me that he had seen guards going round with messes of food which they had put into wretched dark holes, and in one, as he was led along, he saw a miserable gaunt man, with long matted hair, put out a lean yellow hand to take the food. This information made me hope more than ever than Van Deck was right in his suspicions, for I had no fancy to be shut up in a dark cell for months in such a climate, with the possibility of being taken out and shot as a spy. Had I been a naval or military man I should not have been thus treated. Several very unpleasant days and nights passed by, a scanty allowance of coarse food only being brought to me and my young companion.
At length, one day the sergeant threw open my prison door, and Van Deck appearing, took me by the hand and led me out of my noisome dungeon, followed by Jack, who gave a shout of joy as he found himself in the open air.
"I sent to Batavia, where your ship has arrived, and where your statement was fully corroborated, and the commandant had therefore no further excuse for keeping you a prisoner," said my friend. "But there is another reason why he would not venture to do so much longer. Look there!"
He pointed seaward where several large ships were seen approaching the land. He handed me a glass. I examined them eagerly; they were frigates, with the flag of Old England flying at their peaks. Jack, when he heard this, gave a loud huzza, and threw up his cap with delight, jumping and clapping his hands, and committing other extravagances, till I ordered him to be quiet lest the French soldiers should put a sudden stop to the exhibition of his feelings.
The frigates approached till they had got just within long gunshot range of the fort, when after some time a boat put off from one of them and approached the fort, bearing a flag of truce. That was, at all events, pleasant. There was a chance of a battle being avoided, yet the commandant had so loudly sworn that nothing should make him yield to the English that I was afraid he might be obstinate and insist on holding out. We were on the point of hurrying down to meet the boat, when a sergeant with a guard stopped us and told us politely enough that we must stay where we were, or that Jack and I must go back to prison.
"We must obey orders," observed Van Deck. "The fact is, that the commandant is aware that you are acquainted with the weak points of the fort, that the gun-carriages are rotten, and many of the guns are themselves honeycombed or dismounted."
We were conducted out of the way when the officer with the flag of truce entered the fort. Looking from the ramparts, however, we could see the boat and the people in her through Van Deck's glass, and a young middy was amusing himself, so it appeared to me, by daring some little Dutch, or rather native boys to come off and fight him, which they seemed in no way disposed to do, for whenever he held up his fists they ran off at a great rate. Of one thing I was very sure, that if the French commandant did not yield with a good grace he would be very soon compelled to do so. That squadron of frigates had not come merely to give a civil message and to sail away again. We walked up and down, impatiently waiting to hear what was to be done.
At length, after an hour's delay, the officer who had brought the message--Captain Warren, of the _President_--issued from the commandant's house with his coxswain bearing a flag under his arm. Down came the tricolour of France, and up went the glorious flag of England. Jack was beside himself on seeing this, and I could scarcely refrain from joining in his "Hurra! hurra!" as I hurried forward to meet the English captain, whose acquaintance I had made at the Mauritius. The French commandant intimated, on this, that I was at liberty; but as I felt it would be ungrateful to leave my friend Van Deck abruptly, I resolved to remain on shore for the present with him.
In a very short time the marines came on shore to secure the thus easily acquired possession, but scarcely had they formed on the beach than it was ascertained that a large body of the enemy had entered the town. The order was given to charge through them, and, taken by surprise, the French and Dutchmen threw down their arms, and several officers and others were taken prisoners. Among them was General Jumel, second in command to General Janssen, and Colonel Knotzer, aide-de-camp to the latter, who with others were at once carried off to the ships.
Cheribon I found to be a much larger place than I at first supposed; the streets are narrow but numerous, and in the outskirts especially the houses of the natives are so completely surrounded by trees and bushes that it is impossible to calculate their number. I heard that the _Phoebe_ was one of the squadron, and soon had the satisfaction of shaking hands with my brother William, Toby Trundle, and other officers belonging to her. From them I heard a full account of the engagement which had given the greater part of the magnificent island of Java to the English. I was the more interested as my military brother had taken part in it, and distinguished himself. I hoped to meet him when I got to Batavia.
The army which was commanded by Sir Samuel Auchmuty, consisting of 11,000 men, half being Europeans, disembarked on the evening of the 5th of August at the village of Chillingchin, twelve miles north of Batavia. Colonel Gillespie advanced on the city of Batavia, of which he took possession, and beat off the enemy, who attempted to retake it. A general engagement took place on the 10th at Welteureden, when the French were defeated and compelled to retire to the strongly entrenched camp of Cornells. It was supposed to contain 250 pieces of cannon. Here General Janssen commanded in person, with General Jumel, a Frenchman, under him, with an army of 13,000 men. Notwithstanding this, the forts were stormed and taken, and the greater number of the officers captured. The commander-in-chief, with General Jumel, escaped--the latter, as I have mentioned, to fall very soon afterwards into our hands.
An expedition, consisting of marines and bluejackets, was now organised to meet a body of the fugitive army said to be marching from Cornells. As William was of the party, I got leave to accompany it. That we might move the faster, horses had been obtained, and both marines and bluejackets were mounted--that is to say, they had horses given them to ride, but as the animals, though small, were frisky and untrained, they were sent very frequently sprawling into the dust, and were much oftener on their feet than in their saddles. Our force, as we advanced, certainly presented a very unmilitary appearance, though we made clatter enough for a dozen regiments of dragoons. We were in search of the military chest said to be with the fugitives. We fell in with a large party, who, however, having had fighting enough, sent forward a flag of truce and capitulated. We got possession, however, of some waggon-loads of ingots, but they were ingots of copper, and were said to be of so little value in the country as to have been fired as grape-shot from Cornells. The moon shone brightly forth for the first part of the march, but no sooner did it become obscured than a considerable number of the marines were seized with a temporary defective vision very common within the tropics, called, "Nyctalopia," or night blindness. The attack was sudden; the vision seldom became totally obscured, but so indistinct that the shape of objects could not be distinguished. While in this state the sufferers had to be led by their comrades. With some it lasted more than an hour, with others not more than twenty minutes, and on the approach of day all traces of it had disappeared.
On our march, during the heat of the day, we passed through a wood, every tree in which seemed to have been blasted by lightning. Not a branch nor leaf remained to afford us shelter from the scorching rays of the sun. Had I not known that the story of the noxious effects produced by the upas-tree was a fiction, I might have supposed that the destruction had been caused by a blast passing amid the boughs of one of those so-called death-dealing trees in the neighbourhood. Probably the forest had been destroyed partly by lightning and partly by the conflagration it had caused.
On returning to Cheribon, I found that my friend Van Deck was anxious to proceed to Batavia, and I was fortunate in being able to procure him a passage on board the _Phoebe_, which was going there at once.
"Well, Braithwaite, I shall never despair of your turning up safe!" exclaimed Captain Hassall, shaking my hand warmly as I stepped on the deck of the _Barbara_. "You saved the ship and cargo by your promptness, for had I not got your message by young Jack there I should have been captured to a certainty. Garrard, Janrin and Company have reason to be grateful to you, and I have no doubt that they will be so."
Everybody knows that Batavia is a large Dutch town built in the tropics--that is to say, it has broad streets, with rows of trees in them, and canals in the centre of stagnant water, full of filth, and surrounded by miasma-exuding marshes. But the neighbourhood is healthy, and the merchants and officials mostly only come into the town in the daytime, and return to their country houses at night. Some seasons are worse than others, nobody knows why. Captain Cook was there on his first voyage round the world during a very bad one, and, in spite of all his care, lost a number of people. We were more fortunate, but did not escape without some sickness.
Captain Hassall had disposed of most of that portion of our cargo suited for the Batavian market, so that I soon got rid of the rest. I then made arrangements for the purchase of sugar, tea, coffee, spices, and several other commodities which I believed would sell well at Sydney, to which place we proposed to proceed, touching at a few other points perhaps on our way.
The articles had, however, first to be collected, as the army had consumed the greater portion in store at Batavia. Part of the purchase I made from a brother of my friend Van Deck. He was on the point of sailing in a brig he owned along the coast to collect produce, and invited me to accompany him. I gladly accepted his offer, as the _Barbara_ could not sail till his return.
In those days, as well, indeed, as from the memory of man, these seas swarmed with pirates, many of whom had their headquarters on the coast of Borneo. Among them was a chief, or rajah, named Raga, notorious for the boldness and success of his undertakings. We, however, believed that with so many British men-of-war about he would seek some more distant field for his operations. The harbour was full of native craft of all sorts. Of the native prahus alone there are many varieties, some built after European models, and carrying sails similar to those of our English luggers. Others are of native construction, with lateen sails; and many, built with high stems and sterns, have the square mat-sail, such as impels the Batavian fishing prahus. Of course, among so many craft a pirate chief could easily find spies ready to give him information of all that was going forward. However, we troubled our heads very little about the pirates.
By-the-bye, I have not said anything about the alligators of Java, which are, I believe, larger than in any other part of the world. The Government will not allow those in the harbour of Batavia to be disturbed, as they act the part of scavengers by eating up the garbage which floats on the water, and might otherwise produce a pestilence. I often passed them floating on the surface, and snapping at the morsels which came in their way, quite indifferent to the boats going to and fro close to them. Captain Beaver, of the _Nisus_ frigate, described to me one he saw in another part of the island when on an exploring expedition. It was first discovered basking on a mud-bank, and neither he nor the officers with him would believe that it was an animal, but thought at first that it was the huge trunk of a tree. At the lowest computation it was forty feet in length. The circumference of the thickest part of the body seemed nearly that of a bullock, and this continued for about double the length. The extent of the jaws was calculated to be at least eight feet. The eyes glistened like two large emeralds, but with a lustre which nothing inanimate could express. The officers examined it through their glasses, and came to the conclusion that it was asleep, but the native guides assured them that it was not. To prove this, one of them fearlessly leaped on shore and approached the creature, when it glided into the water, creating a commotion like that produced by the launch of a small vessel.
I bade farewell to William and my friends of the _Phoebe_, not without some sadness at my heart. In those time of active warfare it might be we should never meet again. Of my soldier brother I got but a hurried glimpse before he embarked on an expedition which was sent to capture Sourabaya, at the other end of the island. A few words of greeting, and inquiries and remarks, a warm long grasp of hands, and we parted. Directly I stepped on board Van Deck's brig the _Theodora_, the anchor was weighed, and we stood out of the harbour with a strong land breeze. The easterly monsoon which prevailed was in our teeth, so that we were only able to progress by taking advantage of the land and sea-breezes. The land breeze commenced about midnight, and as it blew directly from the shore, we were able to steer our course the greater part of the night; but after sunrise the wind always drew round to the eastward, and we were consequently forced off the shore. The anchor was then dropped till towards noon, when the sea-breeze set in. Again we weighed, and stood towards the shore, as near as possible to which we anchored, and waited for the land breeze at night.
We had thus slowly proceeded for three or four days, having called off two estates for cargo, when, as we lay at anchor, a fleet of five or six prahus was seen standing towards us with the sea-breeze, which had not yet filled our sails. Van Deck, after examining them through his glass, said that he did not at all like their appearance, and that he feared they intended us no good. On they came, still directly for us. We got up all the arms on deck and distributed them to the crew, who, to the number of thirty, promised to fight to the last. Then we weighed anchor and made sail, ready for the breeze. It came at last, but not till the prahus were close up to us. Under sail we were more likely to beat them off than at anchor. They soon swarmed round us, but their courage was damped by the sight of our muskets and guns. Of their character, however, we had not a shadow of doubt. After a short time of most painful suspense to us they lowered their sails and allowed us to sail on towards the shore. Here we anchored, as usual, to wait for the land breeze. Had there been a harbour, we would gladly have taken shelter within it, for the merchant, the elder Van Deck, said that he knew the pirates too well, and that they might still be waiting for an opportunity to attack us. There was, however, no harbour, and so we had to wait in our exposed situation, in the full belief that the pirates were still in the offing, and might any moment pounce down upon us. The Van Decks agreed that we might beat them off, but that if they should gain the upper hand they would murder every one on board the vessel. "We might abandon the vessel and so escape any risk," observed the merchant--not in a tone as if he intended to do so. "You, at all events, Mr Braithwaite, can be landed, and you can easily get back to Batavia." Against this proposal of course my manhood rebelled, though I had a presentiment, if I may use the expression, that we should be attacked. "No, no! I will stay by you and share your fate, whatever that may be," I replied. Night came on, and darkness hid all distant objects from view.
We were in the handsome, well-fitted-up cabin, enjoying our evening meal, when the mate, a Javanese, put his head down the skylight and said some words in his native tongue, which made the Dutchmen start from their seats, and, seizing their pistols and swords, rush on deck. I had no difficulty, when I followed them, in interpreting what had been said. The pirate prahus were close upon us.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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16
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MUTINY ON BOARD THE "BARBARA."
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We have learned from the sad experience of centuries that nominal Christianity, which men call religion, is utterly powerless to stop warfare; it may, in a few instances, have lessened some of its horrors, but only a few. The annals of the wars which have taken place for the last three hundred years since the world has improved in civilisation, show that nations rush into war as eagerly as ever, and that cruelties and abominations of all sorts, such as the fiercest savages cannot surpass, are committed by men who profess to be Christians. Read the accounts of the wars of the Duke of Alva and his successors in the Netherlands, the civil wars of France, the foreign wars of Napoleon, the deeds of horror done at the storming and capture of towns during the war in the Peninsula, not only by Frenchmen and Spaniards, but by the British soldiers, and indeed the accounts of all the wars in the pages of history, and we shall learn what a fearful and dreadful thing war is, and strive to assist the spread of the true principles of the Gospel as the only means of putting a stop to it.
Such thoughts as these had been occupying my mind on board the brig, on the morning of that eventful day of which I have just been speaking. Here was I, a peace-loving man, engaged in a peaceable occupation, and yet finding myself continually in the midst of fighting, and now there was every probability of my having to engage in a desperate battle, the termination of which it was impossible to foretell. As I reached the deck I could see a number of dark phantom-looking objects gliding slowly over the water towards us almost noiselessly, the only sound heard being that produced by their oars as they dipped into the water. The pirates, for such we were still certain they must be, expected, perhaps, to find us asleep. The guns were loaded and run out as before. The men stood with their muskets in their hands, and pikes and cutlasses ready for use. The strangers drew closer and closer. They still hoped, we concluded, to catch us unprepared. We, however, did not wish to begin the combat unless they gave us indubitable signs of their intentions.
The elder Van Deck, who had, I found, been a naval man, took the command, and everybody on board looked up to him. We were not left long in doubt that the strangers were pirates, and purposed to destroy us. Not, however, till they were close to us with the evident intention of boarding did our chief give the order to fire. The effect was to make them sheer off, but only for a moment. Directly afterwards they arranged themselves on our starboard bow and quarter, and commenced a fire with gingalls, matchlocks, and guns of various sorts, sending missiles of all shapes and sizes on board us. Our men kept firing away bravely, but in a short time, so rapid was the fire kept up on us, that three or four were killed and several wounded. I was standing near the brave Dutchman when a dart shot from a gun struck him, and he fell to the deck. I ran to raise him up, but he had ceased to breathe. His death soon becoming known among the crew, their fire visibly slackened. The pirates probably perceived this, and with fearful cries came dashing alongside. The Javanese are brave fellows, and though they knew that death awaited them, they drew their swords and daggers and met the enemy as they sprang upon our deck. On came the pirates in overwhelming numbers, their sharp kreeses making fearful havoc among our poor fellows. I saw that all was lost. I was still unwounded. Rather than fall alive into the hands of the pirates, as with the survivors of the crew I was driven across the deck, I determined to leap overboard, and endeavour to swim to land. That was not a moment for considering the distance or the dangers to be encountered. Death was certain if I remained in the ship. Unnoticed by the enemy, I threw myself overboard, and struck out in the direction, as I believed, of the shore. I was a good swimmer, but light as were my clothes, I was not aware of the impediment they would prove to me. Already I was beginning to grow tired, and to feel that I could not reach the shore. Yet life was sweet, very sweet, in prospect I prayed for strength, and resolved to struggle on as long as I could move an arm. I threw myself on my back to float. I could see the brig, at no great distance, surrounded by the prahus. All sounds of strife had ceased. Only the confused murmurs of many tongues moving at once reached my ears. Now that I had ceased for a few minutes to exert myself, two fearful ideas occurred to me: one, that I might be swimming from the land, the other, that at any moment a shark might seize me and carry me to the depths below. Had I allowed my mind to dwell on these ideas, I should speedily have lost courage, but instead I had recourse to the only means by which, under similar trials and dangers, a man can hope to be supported. I turned my thoughts upwards, and prayed earnestly for protection and deliverance.
I was striking out gently with my feet to keep myself moving through the water when my head struck something floating on the surface. I turned round, and found that it was one of the long bamboo buoys employed by the native fishermen on the coast to mark where their nets, or fish traps, are placed. They are very long and buoyant, and capable of supporting more than one man with ease. I threw my arms over the one I had found, and was grateful that I had thus found an object by means of which my life might possibly be preserved.
I looked round me; the prahus and brig were still to be seen, but after watching them for some time, they appeared to be drifting away with the faint land breeze from the spot where I lay. Thus was the danger of being seen by them at daylight lessened. Hitherto I had feared, among other things, should I be unable to swim on shore, that when the pirates discovered me in the morning they would send a boat and give me a quieting knock on the head. Still my position was a very dreadful one. Any moment a passing shark might seize hold of me; that I escaped was owing, I think, humanly speaking, to my having on dark clothes, and my having kept constantly splashing with my legs. I was afraid of resting, also, lest I should lose consciousness, and, letting go my hold of the bamboo, be swept away by the tide.
At length, when my legs became weary of moving about, I thought that I would try the effect of my voice in keeping the sharks at a distance. I first ascertained that the pirate prahus had drifted to such a distance that I was not likely to be heard by them, then I began shouting away at the top of my voice.
What was my surprise, as soon as I stopped, to hear an answer! For a moment I fancied that it must be some mockery of my imagination; then again I heard the voice say, "What, Braithwaite! is that you?"
It must be, I knew, my friend Van Deck who spoke, yet the voice sounded hollow and strange, very unlike his.
I can scarcely describe the relief I felt at discovering, in the first place that my friend had escaped, and then on finding that a civilised human being was near me. I could not tell whether he knew that his brother was killed. I did not allude to the subject. We did our best to encourage each other. We would gladly have got nearer together to talk with more ease, but were afraid of letting go our hold of the support, frail though it seemed, to which we clung. Van Deck encouraged me by the assurance that it would soon be daylight, and that at early dawn the fishermen would come off to examine the nets.
"They bear the Dutch, I am sorry to say, no good will," he observed. "We are accused too justly of laying the produce of their industry under tribute; but they will respect you as an Englishman, and for your sake save the lives of both of us. Till I found that you had escaped I was very anxious on that score."
As I have said, we talked continually, for silence was painful, as I could not tell when my companion's voice was silent whether he had been drawn down suddenly by a shark, or had sunk overcome by fatigue. Even with conversation kept up in this way the time passed very slowly by. How much worse off I should have been alone! At length Van Deck exclaimed that he saw the dawn breaking in the sky. Rapidly after this objects became more and more distinct; the tall bamboo buoys, with their tufts of dry grass at the top, floating on the glassy water; then I could distinguish my companion's head and shoulders just above the surface; and the land about two miles off, on which, however, a surf broke which would have made landing difficult, if not dangerous. The tall trees and the mountains, range above range, seemed to rise directly out of it.
Soon the fishermen's voices, as they pulled out, singing in chorus, towards their buoys, greeted our ears. Two boats came close to us. The fishermen exhibited much surprise at finding us, but instead of at once coming up and taking us on board, they lay on their oars, and appeared to be consulting what they should do with the strangers. How the discussion might have terminated seemed doubtful, had not Van Deck told them that I was an Englishman, whose countrymen had just conquered the island; that he was my friend; and that if any harm happened to us my people would come and cut off all the people in the district, whereas if we were well treated they would be munificently rewarded. This address, which, taken in its oriental meaning, was literally true, had the desired effect; one of the boats approached me. Immediately that I was in the boat I fainted, and I believe that my friend was much in the same condition. He, however, quickly recovered, and by the promise of an increased reward induced the fishermen to return at once to the shore. I did not return to consciousness till I found myself being lifted out of the boat and placed on a litter of wicker-work. Van Deck was carried in the same way, as he was too weak to walk. We were thus conveyed to the house of a chief, who resided not far from the shore, built on the summit of a rising ground overlooking the sea.
The chief, who was every inch a gentleman, received us with the greatest hospitality, and, seeing what we most required, had us both put into clean, comfortable beds in a large airy room, where, after we had taken a few cups of hot coffee, we fell asleep, and did not awake again till the evening. Our host had then a sumptuous repast ready for us, of which by that time we were pretty well capable of partaking. Poor Van Deck was naturally very much out of spirits at the loss of his brother, but the necessity of interpreting for me kept him from dwelling on his own grief.
At the time of which I have hitherto been speaking, when I was in the east, the spot on which Singapore, with its streets of stone palaces, its superb public edifices and rich warehouses, now stands, was a sandy flat, with a few straggling huts inhabited by fishermen or pirates. I am about to give a piece of history posterior to my voyage as a supercargo. After the peace of 1814, when Java and its dependencies were given up to the Dutch, their first act was to impose restrictions on British commerce in the Archipelago. They were enabled to effect this object from the position of their settlements, those in the Straits of Malacca and Sunda commanding all the western entrances to the China and Java seas, and it therefore became evident that, without some effort to destroy their monopolies, the sale of British manufactures in the eastern islands would soon cease. Sir Stamford Raffles, who was at that time Governor of Bencoolen, represented the case so strongly to the Supreme Government at Bengal that the governor-general gave him the permission he asked to make a settlement near the north-east entrance of the Straits of Malacca. He accordingly, in the year 1819, fixed on Singapore, which stands on the south side of an island, about sixty miles in circumference, separated by a narrow strait from the Malay peninsula. Of course the establishment was opposed by the Dutch, who so strenuously remonstrated with the British Government that the latter declined having anything to do with it, and threw the whole responsibility on Sir Stamford Raffles. It was not until it had been established for three years--in the last of which the trade was already estimated at several millions of dollars--that Singapore was recognised by Great Britain.
After a rest of a couple of days, poor Van Deck and I were sufficiently recovered to commence our journey back to Batavia. He was anxious to be there that he might take charge of his late brother's affairs--I, that I might report the loss of the brig, and make fresh arrangements for securing a cargo for Sydney. We met with no adventures worthy of note on our journey.
On our return to Batavia much sympathy was excited for my friend Van Deck among the merchants at the loss of his brother, and the naval commander-in-chief, returning soon after from Sourabaya, dispatched two frigates and a brig of war in search of the pirates. They were supposed to belong to some place on the coast of Borneo, which has for many years abounded with nests of these desperadoes. The fleet in question was supposed to belong to a famous chief, the very idol of his followers on account of the success of his expeditions. His title was the Rajah Raga, and he was brother to the Sultan Coti, a potentate of Borneo. The Raja Raga had subsequently some wonderful escapes, for he probably got due notice that an English squadron was looking after him, and took good care to keep out of their way. He was afterwards cruising with three large prahus, when he fell in with an English sloop-of-war, which he was compelled to engage. Two of his prahus, by placing themselves between him and the enemy, held her in check a sufficient time to enable him to escape, and were themselves then sent to the bottom; indeed, they must have expected no other fate.
On another occasion the rajah remained on shore, but sent his own prahu, which carried upwards of a hundred and fifty men and several large guns, on a cruise, under the command of his favourite panglima, or captain. Falling in after some time with a brig merchantman, as he supposed, and wishing to distinguish himself by her capture, he fired into her, and made preparations to board. Great was his dismay when he saw a line of ports open in the side of his expected prize, and he found himself under the guns of a British man-of-war. The panglima hailed, and with many apologies tried to make it appear that he had acted under a misapprehension, but his subterfuge was of no avail; a broadside from the man-of-war sent his vessel at once to the bottom, and he and all his crew perished, with the exception of two or three who, clinging to a piece of the wreck, were picked up by a native craft, and carried an account of the disaster to their chief.
Piracy had been the bane of these seas for years.
We were fortunate in obtaining the full amount of the goods we required without having to wait much longer at Batavia. There is an old proverb, "It is an ill wind that blows no one good." The vessel for which they were intended had lost her master and both mates by sickness, and the merchant therefore sold them to me. We had not altogether escaped, and several of our men who were perfectly healthy when we entered the harbour fell victims to the fever engendered by the pestiferous climate. We were compelled to fill up their places with others, who afterwards gave us much trouble.
It was with sincere regret I parted from my friend Van Deck. I was glad, however, to find that he was likely to obtain employment suited to his talents under the English Government. The most direct course for New South Wales would have been through Torres Straits, but the east trade wind still blowing, compelled us to take the longer route round the south of New Holland, and through Bass's Straits, not many years before discovered, between that vast island and the smaller one of Van Diemen's Land. A northerly breeze at length coming on, enabled us to sight the south-west point of New Holland, and thence we sailed along the coast, occasionally seeing tall columns of smoke ascending from the wood, showing the presence of natives.
On approaching Bass's Straits, the captain was one day expressing his regret to me that we had not time to anchor off one of the islands in it to catch seals, great numbers of which animals frequented the place in those days. He had known, he remarked, considerable sums made in that way in a very short time. Our conversation, it appeared, was overheard by one of the men we had shipped at Batavia. We had had a good deal of insubordination among the crew since we left that place, and we traced it all to that man, Miles Badham, as he called himself. He was about thirty, very plausible and insinuating in his manner, a regular sea-lawyer, a character very dangerous on board ship, and greatly disliked by most captains. He had managed to gain a considerable influence over the crew, especially the younger portion. His appearance was in his favour, and in spite of the qualities I have mentioned, I would not have supposed him capable of the acts of atrocity which were with good reason laid to his charge. Ben Stubbs, the second mate, had charge of the deck one night, and, unable to sleep, I was taking a turn with him, when Mr Gwynne, the surgeon, came up to us.
"There is something wrong going on among the people below," he whispered. "I cannot make out what it is exactly, but if we do not look out we may possibly all have our throats cut before morning."
"You must have been dreaming, Gwynne," answered Stubbs; "there isn't a man in the ship would dare do such a thing."
"I am not certain of that," I observed; "at all events, let us be on the right side. Forewarned, forearmed. We will let the captain know, and I trust that we may thus defeat the plot, whatever it is."
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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17
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HOME AGAIN!
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I went down into the captain's cabin, and, awakening him, told him what the surgeon had said.
"Mutiny!" he exclaimed, as he dressed himself with the usual rapidity of a seaman. "We will soon settle that matter." He stuck his pistols into a belt he put on for the purpose, and took a cutlass in his hand. "Here, Braithwaite, arm yourself," he said. "Tell the officers to do so likewise. We will soon see which of the two, that sea-lawyer or I, is to command the _Barbara_."
Telling Gwynne and Toby to guard the arm-chest, and Randolph to rally round him the most trustworthy men on deck, he desired Stubbs and me to follow him forward. Without a word of warning he suddenly appeared among the men, who were supposed to be in their berths asleep. Going directly up to the berth Badham occupied, he seized hold of him and dragged him on deck, with a pistol pointed at his head, exclaiming at the same time, "Shoot any one who offers to interfere!"
The captain was very confident that he had the ringleader, and that the rest would not move without him. "Now!" he exclaimed, when he had got him on the quarterdeck. "Confess who are your accomplices, and what you intended to do! Remember, no falsehood! I shall cross-question the others. If you are obstinate, overboard you go."
Badham, surprised by the sudden seizure, and confused, was completely cowed. In an abject tone he whined out, "Spare my life, sir, and I will tell you all."
"Out with it then!" answered the captain. "We have no time to spare."
"Well, sir, then I will tell you all. We didn't intend to injure any one, that we didn't, believe me, sir; but some of us didn't want to go back to Sydney, so we agreed that we would just wreck the ship, and as there are plenty of seals to be got hereabouts, go sealing on our own account, and sell the oil and skins to the ships passing through the straits, and, when we should get tired of the work, go home in one of them."
"And so, for the sake of gaining a few hundred dollars for yourself, you deliberately planned the destruction of this fine ship, and very likely of all on board. Now, understand, you will be put in irons, and if I find the slightest attempt among the crew to rescue you, up you go to the yard-arm, and the leader of the party will keep you company on the other."
Badham, in his whining tone, acknowledged that he understood clearly what the captain said, and hoped never again to offend. On this he was led by two of the mates to one of the after store-rooms, where he could be under their sight, when irons were put on him, and he was left to his meditations, the door being locked on him. The next morning the crew went about their work as usual, Badham's dupes or accomplices being easily distinguished by their downcast, cowed looks, and by the unusual promptness with which they obeyed all orders. The officers and I continued to wear our pistols and side-arms as a precautionary measure, though we might safely have dispensed with them.
A short time before this, in 1802, a settlement had been formed in Van Diemen's Land, and lately Hobart Town, the capital, had been commenced. It was, however, a convict station, and no ships were allowed to land cargoes there except those which came from England direct with stores or were sent from Sydney,--in consequence of which restriction the colonists were several times nearly on the point of starvation.
The heads of Port Jackson at length hove in sight, and we entered that magnificent harbour, the entrance of which Cook saw and named. Wanting in his usual sagacity, he took it for a small boat harbour, and passed by without further exploring it. Having first brought up in Neutral Bay, that we might be reported to the governor, we proceeded some miles up to Sydney Cove, where we anchored in excellent holding ground about half-pistol-shot from the shore. Sydney had already begun to assume the appearance of a town of some consideration, and contained fully 5,000 inhabitants, though still called the camp by some of the old settlers. It is divided into two parts by a river which runs into the cove, and affords it unrivalled advantages of water communication. Several settlements in the country had already been established, among the chief of which were Paramatta and Hawkesbury. The latter settlement was about six miles long, and about forty miles from Sydney; vessels of two hundred tons could ascend by the river up it a distance of at least forty miles. The town, such as it then was, covered about a mile of ground from one end to the other, and already gave promise of becoming a place of considerable extent. A wise and active governor, Lieutenant-Colonel Lachlan Macquarie, had ruled the settlement for about a year, during which period it had made rapid progress. The previous governor was the notorious Captain Bligh, whose tyrannical conduct when in command of the _Bounty_ produced the disastrous mutiny which took place on board that ship. The same style of conduct when governor of New South Wales, especially in his treatment of Mr John McArthur, the father, as he was called, of the settlement, induced the colonists to depose him. The officers and men of the New South Wales corps marched up to the Government House, and, after hunting for him for some time, found him concealed under a bed. His person and property were, however, carefully protected, and he was shortly afterwards put on board the _Porpoise_ sloop-of-war, and sent off to England. The settlement, however, quickly recovered from the mismanagement of this unhappy man, and was at the time of my visit in a flourishing condition.
I was fortunate in disposing of the larger part of the cargo under my charge at good prices. Hassall and I agreed, however, that more might be done for our owners, and we proposed, therefore, visiting some of the islands in the Pacific, and either returning home the way we had come, or continuing on round Cape Horn. We had not been long in harbour before O'Carroll made his appearance on board. He had brought the ship of which he had taken charge in safety into harbour, when the emigrants presented him with so handsome a testimonial that he resolved to settle in the colony and lay it out to advantage. The governor had made him a grant of a large extent of farm land, and assigned him some twenty convict servants, land in those days being given away to free settlers, and labour of the nature I have described found them gratis.
"Altogether I am in a fair way of some day becoming a rich man," he observed, "the which I should never have been had I continued ploughing the salt ocean. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "how do I know, if I did, that I should not some day fall into the clutches of that fearful little monster La Roche? and if I did, I know that he would not spare me. Do you know that even to this day I cannot altogether get over my old feelings, and often congratulate myself as I ride through the bush that I am far out of his reach."
O'Carroll kept to his resolution, and became a very successful and wealthy settler. I frequently received letters from him after my return home. In one of them he told me that he had had a surprise. The governor asked him one day, as he could speak French, whether he would like to have some French convicts assigned to him. He had no objection, as he thought that he could manage them easily. What was his astonishment, when the party arrived at the farm, to recognise among them, in a little wizened-looking old man, his once dreaded enemy La Roche! He determined to try and melt the man's stony heart by kindness. At first he was almost hopeless in the matter, but he succeeded at last. La Roche confessed that he had placed himself within the power of the British laws in consequence of a visit he paid to England after the war, for the purpose of carrying out a speculation which ended unfortunately. It was satisfactory to hear that he lived to become a changed man, truly repenting of his misspent life, and thankful that he had been spared to repent.
I have not spoken of the would-be mutineer, Badham. It must be remembered that he had committed no overt act of mutiny, and though Captain Hassall was perfectly right in putting him in irons, he could not have been brought to trial on shore. The day before we reached Sydney he pleaded so hard to be forgiven, and so vehemently promised amendment in all respects, that the captain resolved to give him a trial. It must be confessed that he was not altogether disinterested in this, as it would have been impossible to get fresh hands at Sydney, the temptation to settle in the country having by that time become very great, so that it was with difficulty we could keep several of our people who had come from England.
Once more we were at sea. We touched at Norfolk Island, to which convicts from New South Wales were sent. It seemed a pity that so fertile a spot, so perfect a little paradise, should be given up for such a purpose. We obtained here a supply of vegetables and pork, which were not to be got at that time at any price at Sydney. After a rapid voyage from this lovely little island we anchored in Matavai Bay, in the island of Otaheite. It was at an interesting time of the history of the island and its king, Otoo, who since the death of his father had taken the name of Pomarre. For many years the band of zealous missionaries who had come out in the ship _Duff_ had laboured on among the people, but though they taught the king, the young prince Otoo, and some of their people, to read and write, they confessed that they had not made one satisfactory convert. In 1808 the greater number of the missionaries retired from Otaheite to the island of Huahine, and the following year all the married ones left that island for New South Wales, in consequence of the wars in which the king was constantly engaged, the destruction of all their property, the risk they ran of losing their lives, and the seeming hopelessness of introducing Christianity among such a people. After an absence of between two and three years, several of them, having wished to make a fresh attempt to carry out the work, sailed from Sydney for Tahiti, but stopped at the neighbouring island of Kimeo, where the king was residing, as Tahiti was still in a state of rebellion. They taught the people as before, and now some began to listen to them gladly. They still seemed to have considered the king as a hopeless heathen; but misfortune had humbled him, he felt his own nothingness and sinfulness, and the utter inability of the faith of his fathers to give him relief. After the missionaries had lived in the island about a year, the king came to them and offered himself as a candidate for baptism, declaring that it was his fixed determination to worship Jehovah, the true God, and expressing his desire to be further instructed in the principles of religion. The king proved his sincerity, and ever after remained a true and earnest Christian. He still resided at Kimeo, but a considerable number of people in Tahiti had by this time been converted, and the old heathen gods were falling into disrepute.
So devastating had been the character of the late wars in Tahiti, that we found it impossible to obtain supplies, and we therefore sailed for Ulitea, the largest of the Georgian group, where we were informed that we should probably be more successful. No sooner had we dropped anchor within the coral bed which surrounds the island than the king and queen came off to pay us a visit. They were very polite, but not disinterested, as their object was to collect as many gifts as we were disposed to bestow. This island was the chief seat of the idolatry of the Society Islands. It was looked upon as a sacred isle by the inhabitants of the other islands of the group, and more idols existed and more human sacrifices were offered up there than in all the others. We were so completely deceived by the plausible manners of the king and queen and those who accompanied them, that the captain and I, the surgeon, and two of the mates, went on shore to visit them in return, accompanied by several of the crew, leaving the ship in charge of Mr Randolph, the first mate. We fortunately carried our arms, though deeming it an unnecessary measure of precaution. The king had an entertainment ready for us, and afterwards we were allowed to roam about the island wherever we pleased. I observed the people at length pressing round us, and not liking their looks, advised Captain Hassall to order our men to keep together, and to be prepared for an attack. Whether or not they saw that we were suspicious of them we could not tell, but from this time their conduct changed, and they would only allow us to proceed in the direction they chose. At length, however, we got down to the landing-place. As we approached the boats we saw a band of armed natives making for them. We rushed down to the beach, and reaching the boats just before they did, we jumped in and shoved off. These savages, though savage as ever, were also more formidable enemies than formerly, as many of them had firearms, and all had sharp daggers or swords.
On reaching the ship we found that Badham and his associates had, soon after we left, seized a boat, and, in spite of all Mr Randolph could say or do, had taken all their clothes and other property with them, and gone on shore. Although by this conduct Badham showed that he could no longer be trusted, and therefore that we were well rid of him, it was important that we should get back the other men, and we agreed to go on shore the next morning to recover them. Accordingly, the chief mate and I went on shore as we proposed, with eight well-armed men, and demanded an interview with the king. He did not come himself, but sent his prime minister, who agreed, for six hatchets and a piece of cloth, to deliver them up. We waited for some hours, but the deserters were not forthcoming, and at last the minister and another chief appeared, and declared that as the men were likely to fight for their liberty, it would be necessary that we should lend them our arms.
"Very likely, indeed, gentlemen," answered Mr Randolph, at once detecting the palpable trick to get us into their power.
"I say, Braithwaite, what say you to seizing these fellows and carrying them on board as hostages? It could easily be done."
"Cook lost his life in making a similar attempt, and we might lose ours," I answered. "I would rather lose the men than run any such risk."
In vain we endeavoured by diplomacy to recover the men, and at last we returned on board, the minister losing the hatchets and piece of cloth. A feeling of anxiety prevented me from turning in, and I walked the deck for some time with Benjie Stubbs, the officer of the watch. At length I went below and threw myself on my bed, all standing, as sailors say when they keep their clothes on. I had scarcely dropped asleep when I was awoke by hearing Stubbs order the lead to be hove. I was on deck in a moment, followed by the captain and the other officers.
"We are on shore to a certainty," exclaimed Stubbs, in an agitated tone.
"Impossible!" observed the captain, "the anchors are holding."
"We'll haul in on the cables and see, sir," answered Stubbs, calling some of the crew to his assistance. The cables immediately came on board. They had been cut through. Still there was a perceptible motion of the ship towards the shore. Another anchor with an iron stock was immediately cleared away, but some time was lost in stocking it, and before it could be let go we felt the ship strike against a coral reef with considerable force. Happily there was no wind, or she would speedily have gone to pieces. At last we carried the anchors out, and hauled her off but not without unusual difficulty. Suddenly the captain jumped into a boat and pulled round the ship.
"I thought so!" he exclaimed; "the villains have fastened a rope to her rudder, and were towing us on the rocks." He cut the rope as he spoke, and with comparative ease we got the ship out of her perilous position. Still she was so near the high cliffs which almost surrounded us that we might be seriously annoyed, not only by musketry but by stones and darts. It was evident, also, that should a breeze set in from the sea, the single anchor would not hold, and that we must be driven back again on the coral rocks.
We were not left long in doubt as to the intention of the savages and the deserters, their instigators. Suddenly fearful shouts burst from the cliffs above us, and we were assailed by a fire of musketry and by darts and stones hurled on our deck. To return it would have been useless, for we could not see our enemies. Meantime we kept the men under cover as much as possible, and got another anchor stocked and ready to carry out ahead. The savages must have seen the boat, for as soon as she was clear of the ship they opened fire on her, and it was not without difficulty that the anchor was carried out to the required distance, and the crew of the boat hurriedly returned on board.
Owing to Badham's machinations, some of the crew had at first been disaffected, but a common danger now united them, as they saw full well the treatment they might expect should the savages get possession of the ship. Besides the ship's guns we had four swivels, thirty muskets, and several blunderbusses and braces of pistols. These were all loaded and placed ready for use, with a number of boarding-pikes, for we thought that at any moment the savages would come off in their canoes and attempt to board us. The whole night long they kept us on the alert, howling and shrieking in the most fearful manner. Soon after day broke their numbers increased, and as they could now take aim with their firearms our danger became greater. Fortunately they were very bad marksmen, or they would have picked us all off. Strange as it may seem, no one was hit, though our rigging and boats received much damage. After the crew had breakfasted we sent two boats out ahead to tow off the ship, but the bullets and other missiles flew so thickly about them that they returned, the men declaring that the work was too dangerous. However, Benjie Stubbs, jumping into one of the boats, persuaded them to go again, while we opened a fire from the deck of the ship. As soon as the savages saw us ready to fire, they dodged behind the rocks, so that none of them were wounded. Still we hoped that by this means the boats would be allowed to tow ahead without molestation. We were mistaken, for the savages shifted their ground, and once more drove the boats on board. We clearly distinguished Badham and the rest of the deserters among the savages, and several times they were seen to fire at us. Happily they also were wretched shots, and their muskets thoroughly bad also. That they should venture to fire showed that they had no doubt of getting us into their power, for should we escape and inform against them, they would run a great chance of being captured and hanged. Later in the day, Jack and I again made attempts to tow out the ship from her perilous position.
The savages all the day continued howling and shrieking and working themselves into what seemed an ungovernable fury, while they were, however, biding their time, knowing that probably a strong sea-breeze would soon spring up and cast the ship helpless into their power. Thus another night closed on us. Ere long great was our joy to feel a light air blowing off the shore. The pawls of the windlass were muffled, and not a word was spoken. The anchors were lifted, the topsails were suddenly let drop, and slowly we glided off from the land. The weather becoming very thick and dark, we were compelled again to anchor, lest we might have run on one of the many reefs surrounding the island. Here we remained on our guard till daylight, when we could see the natives dancing and gesticulating with rage at finding that we had escaped them. The favourable breeze continuing, we were soon able to get far out of their reach, I for one deeply thankful that we had not only escaped without loss ourselves, but without killing any of the unhappy savages. The treatment we received was such as at that time might have been expected from the inhabitants of nearly all the islands of the Pacific, including those of New Zealand, and numberless were the instances of ships' companies and boats' crews cut off by them.
A very few years after our visit, this same island was brought under missionary influence, the idols were overthrown, heathenism and all its abominable practices disappeared, and the inhabitants became a thoroughly well-ordered, God-fearing, and law-obeying Christian community. The same account may be given of the larger number of the islands which stud the wide Pacific, and ships may now sail from north to south, and east to west, without the slightest danger from the inhabitants of by far the greater portion of them.
But it is time that I should bring my narrative to a conclusion. This adventure at Ulitea was amongst my last. Finding that our trading expedition to the Pacific Islands was not likely to prove of advantage to our owners, Captain Hassall and I resolved to proceed home at once round Cape Horn.
We happily accomplished our voyage without accident and without any further occurrence worthy of note. Our path was no longer beset by hostile cruisers, for there was a lull in the affairs of Europe. After the many excitements of the past few months, the days seemed long and tedious as I had never known them before; and it was with a sense of relief, as well as of real pleasure, that I again saw in the early morning light the shores of old England looming clear in the distance. I need not dwell on all the happy circumstances of my return, or on the special satisfaction with which I looked again on one familiar face. Suffice it to say that I had the gratification of receiving the commendation of my kind friend Mr Janrin for the way in which I had carried out his instructions and performed my duties as Supercargo; and that this voyage prepared the way for more substantial proofs of his favour.
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{
"id": "21386"
}
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1
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THE TRADER IN ZULULAND.
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Zululand is a wild region of mountain ranges, deep valleys and gorges, roaring torrents, rapidly flowing rivers, plains covered with mimosa bushes, meadows where cattle pasture and grow fat, and level plateaux extending for many miles across it, several hundred feet above the level of the ocean; while scattered here and there, in some parts pretty thickly, are to be seen the kraals or villages and the mealy grounds of the natives. Wild as is the country, and although roads, properly speaking, there are none, it is sufficiently practicable for waggons in various directions.
Some few years back, one of these vehicles, drawn by a span of twelve oxen, was seen slowly wending its way to the south-west, in the direction of Natal. It was a loosely yet strongly built machine on four wheels, fourteen feet long and four wide, formed of well-seasoned stink wood, the joints and bolts working all ways, so that, as occasionally happened, as it slowly rumbled and bumped onward, when the front wheel sank into a deep hole, the others remained perfectly upright. It was tilted over with thick canvas impervious to rain, the goods or passengers inside being thus well sheltered from the hardest showers, and even from the hot rays of the sun.
The oxen pulled steadily together, as became animals long accustomed to work in company. On a board in front stood a Hottentot driver, his black visage surmounted by a broad-brimmed straw hat ornamented by a few ostrich feathers twined round the crown, while his hand held a whip of Brobdignagian proportions, the stock being fully fourteen feet, and the lash upwards of twenty-four feet in length, with which he occasionally urged on the leaders, or drew blood from the animals beneath his feet, as well as from those intermediate in the span, whenever a rise in the ground or its unusual roughness required an additional exertion of their strength.
Several black men, of tall sinewy forms and Kaffir features, each carrying a gun at his back, and a long pole in his hand, accompanied the waggon on foot. At some little distance ahead rode a florid, good-looking man, above the middle height, and of strongly built figure, dressed in a grey suit, with a broad-brimmed hat on his head. He also carried a gun at his back and a brace of pistols in a broad belt which he wore round his waist. Though his hair and beard were slightly grizzled, yet, by the expression of his countenance and his easy movements, he appeared to have lost none of the activity of youth, while his firm-set mouth and bright blue eyes betokened courage and energy. Some horses followed the waggon, secured by thongs of a length sufficient to enable them to pick their way. A glance into the interior of the waggon would have shown that it was fully loaded, the chief contents being the skins of wild animals, the huge tusks of elephants, and other spoils of the chase, with which the proprietor was returning after a hunt of many months' duration, to dispose of them at Maritzburg or D'Urban.
The horseman was apparently one of those enterprising traders and hunters who roam over the southern parts of the dark continent to barter European goods for cattle, skins, ivory, and other produce of the country. As he was the owner of the waggon and the master of the men attending it, we will for the present designate him as the Trader. He generally rode on in silence, amusing himself with his own thoughts, but occasionally he turned to address a tall Kaffir by his side, whose leopard-skin robe and head-dress, the long rifle at his back, and the independent air with which he walked, betokened him to be a leading hunter, and the familiar way in which he was addressed and replied, showed that he was held in high esteem by his employer.
"We must look out for a camping-place before long, Umgolo," said the trader. "The beasts have had a rough journey, and will require plenty of time for feeding. Do you go on ahead, and select a spot where grass and water are to be found, and where we may watch them, and defend ourselves, should any of the people hereabouts take a fancy to the beasts or to the contents of our waggon."
"The master shall be obeyed," answered the Kaffir. "It may be as well, as he has said, to be on our guard, for the Zulus in these parts are arrant thieves, and will not scruple to steal if they have the chance."
The Kaffir, who had of course spoken in his native tongue, hurried ahead of the team. In a short time the waggon overtook him at a spot which he had chosen on the slope of a hill forming one side of a valley through which ran a sparkling stream, the ground in the neighbourhood of its banks being covered with rich grass. No more favourable spot could have been selected for the camp, as the stream served as a boundary on one side, and the hill on the other, so that a man stationed at either end could effectually prevent the cattle from straying.
Another valley opened into that along which the waggon was travelling, and on a level space some considerable way from the bottom could be distinguished in the distance a circular palisade forming a kraal, the dome-roofed huts just appearing above the enclosure. It was so far off, however, that the inhabitants were not likely to have discovered the waggon as it passed along.
At that period, it should be understood, the Zulus and their white neighbours were on tolerably good terms, though some of the former might occasionally have carried off a few horses or head of cattle belonging to the settlers, when they could do so without the risk of being caught. Sportsmen and traders therefore penetrated fearlessly into the country, the traders carrying cotton goods, blankets, cutlery, and not unfrequently firearms and powder and shot, which they exchanged for skins and oxen.
However, we will return to our friends. At a short distance from the spot selected by Umgolo for the camp was a wood from which fuel for the fires could be obtained, and which would have afforded materials for throwing up a fortification, had such been considered necessary. But the sturdy owner of the waggon, with his band of expert marksmen, believed himself well able to cope with any natives who might venture to interfere with him.
Having outspanned, or in other words the oxen being unyoked, they hurried of their own accord down to the stream to drink, attended by two of the men, with their guns in hand, in case any lion or other savage beast should be lurking in the neighbourhood. The water was too shallow for crocodiles, which in many parts have to be guarded against. The rest of the men were engaged in collecting fuel for the fire, and cutting stakes and poles to form a temporary enclosure in which the oxen might be penned during the dark hours of night.
Meantime the trader, attended by Umgolo, set off in search of a springboc or a pallah, called also the rooyaboc, or a wild boar or a water-buck, whose flesh might serve the party for supper and breakfast. There was no fear of starving in a country where numberless varieties of animals abounded. They made their way towards a thicket which extended from some distance up the hill, across the valley, almost down to the river. Game of some sort was sure to be found within it, while at the same time they themselves would be concealed by the thick bushes, and be enabled to get sufficiently close to an animal to shoot it with certainty.
It was only, however, in some places that the thicket could be penetrated; for below the large mimosa trees there grew thorny creepers and bushes, among which it was impossible to force a passage without the certainty of having to emerge with garments torn to shreds, and legs bleeding from lacerations innumerable. Here in wild profusion grew the creeper known as the "wait-a-bit," because its hooked thorns will catch the clothes of any person brushing by it, and compel him to wait a bit until he has released himself by drawing them out one by one. The natives give it the still more honourable title of "catch tiger," as they affirm that even that savage creature, who may unwarily leap into it, will find itself trapped in a way from which there is no escape. Then there was the cactus with spikes three inches in length, and the "Come and I'll kiss you," a bush armed with almost equally formidable thorns, and huge nettles, and numerous other vegetable productions, offering impracticable impediments to the progress, not only of human beings, but of every species of animal, with the exception of elephants and rhinoceroses, which might attempt to force a way through them.
The hunters had not gone far, when, as they were skirting the thicket, they came on a small herd of water-buck. The trader, raising his rifle, fired, and one of the graceful animals lay struggling on the grass. The rest bounded off like lightning, to escape the shot which the native discharged. Both hurrying forward, soon put the deer out of its misery. To follow the rest would have been useless, as they were away far out of range of their firearms. They therefore at once applied themselves to the task of cutting up the dead animal, so that they might carry back the best portions of the meat to the camp.
While they were thus employed, a crashing sound was heard coming from the thicket at no great distance, when springing to their feet they saw before them a black rhinoceros, the most formidable inhabitant of those wild regions. It is more dangerous to encounter than even the lion or the elephant, because the only one which will deliberately chase a human being whenever it catches sight of him, and will never give up the pursuit, unless its intended victim can obtain concealment, or it is itself compelled to bite the dust. Its sight is, however, far from keen; so that if there are bushes or rocks near at hand, it can be easily avoided.
Such was, fortunately for the hunters, the case in the present instance. As on it came thundering over the ground, uttering a roar of displeasure, the Kaffir, shouting to his master, sprang behind a bush, near which the deer had fallen. The trader, however, stood firm, his weapon in his hand, ready to fire, although knowing full well that, should he miss, the next instant the savage brute would be upon him, and either gore or trample him to death.
Flight was out of the question with such a pursuer at his heels, while even should he now attempt to take refuge behind a bush, the rhinoceros, close as it was, would probably see him. Notwithstanding this, he remained motionless; not a limb shook, not a nerve quivered. As the ferocious monster, with its formidable horn lowered, came rushing on, the trader, raising his rifle, fired, and then, before the smoke had cleared off, with an agility which could scarcely have been expected in a man of his proportions, sprang on one side. Almost at the same moment a crack was heard from Umgolo's rifle, and the rhinoceros sank to the ground, uttering a loud scream indicative of pain and also of anger at finding itself foiled in its onslaught.
In vain the brute attempted to rise. Umgolo sprang forward and plunged his assegai into its breast. The hunters' sharp knives soon cut through the tough skin, and several slices of the flesh were added to the store of meat with which they set off on their return to the camp. It was the leader's intention to send some of his people to bring in the horn and a further portion of the flesh, should it not in the meantime have been devoured by jackals, hyenas, and other scavengers of the wilds. Their arrival was greeted with a shout of satisfaction by the people. While some eagerly set to work to cook the meat brought to them, others went out to bring in a further supply. On their return, each man loaded with as much as he could carry, they reported that they had been only just in time to drive off a pack of wolves which would soon have left them the bare bones alone for their share.
Although they had performed a long and rough day's journey, they sat up round the fire late into the night, cooking and eating the rhinoceros and water-buck flesh, and relating to each other their oft-told adventures. As soon as darkness came on, the cattle were driven in and secured close to the waggon, and sentries, with muskets in their hands, were placed to watch them, as well as to serve as guards to the rest of the camp.
The trader's accustomed sleeping-place was inside his waggon, where, by the light of a lantern hung from the roof, he could sit and read or write when so disposed. After allowing his followers sufficient time to amuse themselves, he shouted to them to cease their noise and go to sleep. To hear with his well-disciplined hunters and drivers was to obey, and at once rolling themselves up in their blankets or karosses they lay down round the fire, which had previously been made up, so as to last some hours without additional fuel. He then, before turning in himself, took a turn round the camp, stopping occasionally to listen for any sounds which might indicate that a lion was prowling in the neighbourhood. He was just about to return to the waggon, when he observed emerging from behind a clump of trees in the valley below him numerous dark figures moving slowly over the ground. He watched them attentively, and was convinced that they were a party of Zulus bent on a warlike expedition. Others followed, until a large number had assembled in the open. Whether or not their object was to attack his camp he could not tell; but he resolved, should they do so, to defend his property to the last. He at once called up Umgolo, and in a low voice ordered him to arouse his companions, but on no account to allow them to show themselves or to make the slightest noise. These orders were obeyed, and the trader retired to the shade of his waggon, where he could watch what was going forward without himself being seen. The fire, from which a few flames occasionally flickered up, must, he knew, have shown the Zulus the position of the camp.
Though he took these precautions for prudence' sake, he did not consider it likely that the Zulus, who had hitherto been friendly, would venture to attack him. His followers, however, appeared not to be so well satisfied on that point as he was; for each man, as he lay on the ground, examined his arms to be sure that they were ready for instant action.
The dark figures moved slowly on, then halted.
"They are considering whether they shall venture to come against us," whispered Umgolo. "If they do, we will give them a warmer welcome than they expect."
Such might have been the interpretation of his remarks.
"I still doubt whether they will attack us," answered his master. "They know too well the power of the white man's powder and lead."
At that time comparatively few firearms had been introduced among the Zulus, and they had but an imperfect knowledge of their use.
Again the black figures began to move, but instead of drawing nearer the camp, apparently supposing that they had not been observed, they directed their course towards the kraal which had been observed by the travellers on the hillside just before they unspanned.
"They are about to work no good to yonder kraal, or they would not be moving thus silently at this time of night," observed Umgolo. "Before morning dawns, not a man, woman, or child will be left alive, and not a hoof remain inside."
"I would then that we could give the inhabitants notice of their impending doom, or save the unhappy wretches by some means or other," said the trader, more to himself than his follower, well aware that Umgolo would scarcely enter into his feelings on the subject.
"It cannot be done," remarked Umgolo. "Any one approaching the kraal would be discovered by the warriors, and put to death to a certainty."
"Why do you think that the kraal is to be attacked?" asked his master.
"This I know, that yonder kraal is the abode of the brave young chief Mangaleesu, who possesses numerous head of cattle, and has under him a band of devoted followers. Perhaps Panda, the king of the Zulus, or some other great chief, covets Mangaleesu's cattle, or fears his power, and this expedition has been sent out to destroy him and all his people. It may be that one of Panda's wives has been ill, and the doctor, not knowing what else to say, having declared that she was bewitched, was ordered to go and smell out the culprit; the cunning rogue knowing full well how best to please the king; or, as I remarked, some other enemy of Mangaleesu has fixed on him."
"How do you know, Umgolo, that such is the case?" inquired his master.
"I guess it," answered Umgolo. "Perhaps I am wrong. The young chief may be an enemy of Cetchwayo, and he it is who has sent the army to destroy him. He knows the bravery and cleverness of Mangaleesu, who, had he gained an inkling of what is intended, would have made his escape into Natal. There may be some other cause for the intended attack, but I am not far wrong, master, you may depend upon that."
"I fear, indeed, that you are right in your conjectures," said the trader. "I am satisfied that the Zulus do not intend to attack us. Tell the people that they may again go to sleep, and that they will be summoned if they are required."
While Umgolo went to execute this order, the trader stood leaning on his gun at a spot a short distance from the camp, to which he had made his way the better to watch the proceedings of the Zulu force. He was considering how he could manage to reach the kraal before the Zulu warriors had surrounded it, and were ready to commence their work of slaughter. He might, by following a different direction, and moving more rapidly over the ground, get to the rear of the kraal, and warn the doomed inhabitants to flee while there was yet time. Too probably, however, they would be seen escaping, and would be pursued and slaughtered before they had time to get to any distance. Still his generous feelings prompted him to make the attempt. There would be a considerable amount of risk to himself, though the Zulus at that time held white men in respect, and himself especially as he had so frequently traversed their country, and was known to many of them. Notwithstanding this, if found interfering with their proceedings, they might, in a sudden fit of anger, put him to death. Leaving the camp, therefore, he proceeded with rapid steps along the side of the hill, in the direction the Zulus had taken. Though the kraal was concealed from view by the shades of night, and no lights issued from it, he well knew its position. He soon gained a spot whence in daylight he could clearly have perceived it, when to his grief he saw what might have been mistaken for a dark shadow creeping over the ground and already ascending the hill on which the kraal stood. He was now convinced of the impossibility of getting to it in time to warn the inhabitants of their impending fate. Perfect stillness reigned around, broken occasionally by the distant mutterings of a lion, or the melancholy cry of some beast or bird of prey. Unable to tear himself away from the spot, he waited, moved by a painful curiosity to learn what would happen, as he knew that the dusky warriors must have reached the kraal, though he was unable to see their movements. Still no cry reached his ear. Had the inhabitants got warning of the intended attack, and beaten a timely retreat? He hoped that such might have been the case.
A crescent moon and the bright stars shed a faint light over the scene. He could look far up and down the valley, but the part where the kraal stood was shrouded in gloom. Presently the silence was broken by a chorus of shouts and yells, borne by the night wind from the direction of the kraal, followed by shrieks and cries which continued without intermission for some minutes, and then he saw lights glimmering here and there, increasing in intensity, until a circle of flame burst forth, rising rapidly as the fire caught hold of the combustible material of which the kraal was composed. By this time all sounds had ceased, and he knew that the last of the unhappy inhabitants had been killed.
Wishing to avoid the risk of meeting any of the savage warriors, should they cross the hill, he hastened back to the camp. He found Umgolo, who had discovered his absence, looking out, wondering what had become of him.
The Kaffir had heard the yells and shrieks of the savages as they attacked the kraal, and fearing that his master might have been tempted to interfere, was proportionally glad to see him return safe.
They were still standing just outside the camp, when the sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears.
"Here come some of the savage Zulus. We must drive them back, if they intend to molest us," said the trader.
"No fear of that," replied the Kaffir. "There are but two pair of feet. See! there they come up the hill."
The next instant the figure of a young warrior, with assegais in hand, supporting with his left arm a slight girl, came in sight. The flames from the fire lighted up their figures. Blood streamed from the side and right arm of the man. Both were panting for breath.
"Mangaleesu claims your protection, white chief, for her he loves, and for himself, that he may avenge the death of those he has lost. You will not refuse it?"
"I will gladly conceal you, and afford you all the help I can," answered the trader. "Come on: there is not a moment to be lost. Your wife can get into the waggon, and you can lie in the hammock beneath it, where, even if your enemies come, they will not think of looking for you."
This was said as the young chief and the girl were being conducted to the waggon. All was done so rapidly and silently, that none of the sleeping servants were awakened, and only those who had charge of the cattle could have observed what had happened, while the curtain which closed the front of the waggon was allowed to remain open, so as not to excite the suspicion of the Zulus, should they come to the camp.
The trader and Umgolo slowly paced up and down with their rifles in their hands, waiting the arrival of their pursuers. At length they began to hope that Mangaleesu had evaded them, and that they had gone off in a different direction. So satisfied were they that this was the case, that the trader returned to the waggon to see what assistance he could render to the wounded chief. Mangaleesu, however, made light of his hurts, although they were such as any white man would have considered very serious.
He told his white friend that his wife was uninjured, notwithstanding the many assegais thrust at her.
"Have any more of your people escaped from your enemies?" asked the trader.
"No; few even fought for their lives," answered the Zulu chief. "When I was first awakened out of sleep by the shouting around my kraal, I knew well what was about to happen; but I resolved for Kalinda's sake, as well as my own, to struggle for life. To fight my way out and to save my wife, I knew was impossible, had I dashed out boldly as I at first thought of doing; but she whispered to me, `Let us make a figure; our enemies will stab at that, and we meantime may perchance get clear.' The idea struck me as good. She brought me a mat, and we rolled it up round a thick stick. We then fastened a shield to it, and on the top a bundle of assegais, as if held in the hand of a warrior. It was much too dark for our enemies to discover the deceit. When all was ready, I held the figure in one hand, while I grasped my weapons in the other, Kalinda keeping close behind me. I then opened the door, and thrust out the figure in the midst of those standing near, thirsting for my blood. They instantly, as I knew they would, gathered round it, piercing it with their assegais. While they were thus employed, I sprang out, still holding the figure, and in a few bounds reached the inside of the outer fence, against which I placed my back, and kept my assailants at bay. As they drew away from the door to attack me, Kalinda rushed out; and our enemies, who had supposed that there was only one person in the hut, seeing another appear, fancied that there might be more, and became confused, not knowing how to act; for many of them had already felt the point of my assegai. Kalinda, getting close to me without a wound, threw the figure over the fence, among those guarding the outside. They instantly rushed at it, leaving the gate for a few seconds unguarded. This was all I required. Sheltering my wife with my shield, as she clung to my arm, I sprang with her through the opening, over the bodies of my slaughtered followers, and before our enemies knew we had gone we were running like springbocs down the hill. We knew that if our flight should be discovered we should be pursued, but we hoped that we had not been seen at the moment we were rushing out of the kraal. I had been out hunting until late in the evening, and had discovered the tracks of your waggon. I guessed therefore whereabouts you would camp, and determined to place my wife under your protection, knowing that while with you our pursuers would not molest her. For myself, I intended to follow up my enemies, and revenge myself by trying to kill some of them. When morning breaks, and they do not find my dead body, they'll know that I have made my escape."
"You have acted a brave part," said the trader; "but I would advise you to let your enemies go their own way. You have saved your young wife and your own life. You will, I hope, be able to reach Natal in safety, where you will be free from danger. If you attempt to kill your enemies, you will very likely be killed yourself, and there will be no one to protect your wife. You are also now weak from loss of blood, and although your heart is courageous, your strength may fail you."
One of the servants had in the meantime been employed, by command of his master, in making some broth over the fire, which he now brought to the young chief, who notwithstanding his boasting was very glad to obtain it, being much exhausted from the exertions he had made.
The trader then took some to Kalinda, who lay trembling in the waggon, expecting every moment the arrival of their pursuers to kill her and her husband. The trader did his best to soothe her fears by promising that he would not deliver them up to their enemies, even though it should be discovered where they had taken refuge.
The remainder of the night passed quietly by. The glare from the burning kraal could be seen in the distance for some time, but it gradually died out, and all was dark in that direction. No sounds were brought down by the night wind to show whether the Zulus were still surrounding it; but Umgolo, knowing their habits, gave it as his opinion that they had departed as silently as they had come, after executing their fell purpose; and that if they had discovered the flight of the chief and his wife, a party had gone in pursuit of them in the direction it was supposed they had taken. One thing was certain, it could not have been suspected that the fugitives had taken refuge in the camp, or some of their enemies would have arrived before now to demand them.
The trader had previously determined to spend a day where he was now encamped, in order to rest his cattle from their rough journey, and he thought it prudent to adhere to his intention the better to deceive the Zulus, who would be less likely to suspect that he was sheltering the fugitives should he remain stationary, than were he to be found hurrying away from the neighbourhood.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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2
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THE FOUNDLING OF THE KRAAL.
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The trader having selected three of his men to keep watch, lay down, wrapped in a mantle of skin, under his waggon, having given up his usual sleeping-place to his guests.
No one was seen however, nor were any sounds heard to indicate that any persons were approaching the camp, and dawn at length broke.
Rising from his bed under the waggon, the trader walked a few paces beyond the camp, to take a look over the country around, for the purpose of ascertaining as far as his eye could help him, whether any of the Zulus were still in the neighbourhood. The air was deliciously fresh and balmy, the atmosphere was bright and clear, so that the outlines of the distant hills were clearly defined against the sky. There were a few soft, white, fleecy clouds of mist floating here and there, which the breeze, as the sun rose, quickly dispersed; while below, winding through the valley, could be seen the sheen of the river between the clumps of the trees bordering its banks.
It was difficult to believe that a terrible tragedy had been enacted a few short hours before in the midst of so lovely a scene. He proceeded on along the hill to a place whence he could see the spot where the kraal had existed. Looking through his telescope, he could clearly distinguish a large black circle of ashes marking the spot where the habitations of the slaughtered people had lately stood. He could see no human beings moving about in the neighbourhood, though he turned his glass in every direction. He feared the worst.
"Perhaps some of the poor people may have escaped death from the assegais of their enemies, and may be lying hid in the bushes or plantations around," he said to himself; "though I fear those savages do their work too surely to give much hope of that."
He hastened back to the camp, and having taken a hurried breakfast, and advised his guests to remain quiet in their places of concealment, he set out, accompanied by Umgolo, towards the kraal.
The stream was easily forded. As the morning was fresh, he and his companion walked briskly on. They were thus not long in reaching the neighbourhood of the kraal. A dreadful sight met their eyes. Everywhere the ground was strewed with the dead bodies of its late inhabitants. As he had supposed, the assegais of the avengers had been used too well to allow any of them to escape with life. Some lay outside, others within the two circles of ashes where the huts had stood. Still it was possible that some might have crept to a distance. He and his companion searched, however, all round, and although every bush was examined, no one was discovered, nor did they perceive any traces of blood which might have indicated that some wounded person had got thus far from the scene of slaughter.
They were about to return to the camp, when, looking towards the kraal, the trader fancied that he saw some object move in the centre among several dead oxen, which had probably been wounded by the assegais of the attacking party, and had returned there to die. He accordingly made his way towards the spot, followed by Umgolo, over the still warm ashes. He preferred the risk of burning his boots to going round through the entrance, where the bodies of the slaughtered people lay so thickly that he could scarcely pass without treading upon them.
"Who can this be?" he exclaimed as he got near where the dead oxen lay. "If my eyes do not deceive me, here's a young white boy. Who are you? What brought you here, my child?" he asked in a kind tone.
But the boy did not reply. He had been lying between two of the cattle, partly under one of them, and having apparently been asleep, and just awakened, was endeavouring to get up. Round his waist was a robe of monkey skins, and a cloak of wild cat skins hung over his shoulders. Both were stained with blood, but whether it came from a wound he had received, or was that of the animals whose bodies had sheltered him, it was difficult to say. When the trader lifted him up, he evinced no fear, though he still did not speak.
"Are you English or Dutch?" asked the trader. "A Zulu you cannot be, though dressed like one."
There was no reply. The boy, who seemed to be about eight or nine years old, looked round with an astonished gaze at the circle of ashes to which the kraal had been reduced.
"Why, the poor child is wounded, I fear," said the trader, examining his arm. "Terror probably has deprived him of his wits."
As he said this, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it round the injured limb, so as to staunch the flow of blood.
"The sooner we get him to the camp the better: he wants both food and water. Although he cannot say anything about himself, I have no doubt that Mangaleesu will be able to give an account of him."
Saying this, the trader, giving his gun to Umgolo to carry, lifted the boy up in his arms, and hurried with him down the hill towards the camp. Had the boy been a Zulu, Umgolo would probably have recommended that he should be left to shift for himself, but observing his white skin he did not venture to interfere.
The child, evidently satisfied that he had found a friend, lay quietly in the strong arms of the trader, who walked on with rapid steps, carrying him as if he had been an infant.
The camp was soon reached, and the trader, placing the boy on some skins in the shade of the waggon, ordered one of his Kaffirs who acted as cook to get some broth ready, while he sent off another to obtain fresh water from the spring.
This done, he examined the wound in the boy's arm, more carefully than he had before been able to do. He first got out of the waggon a salve and some lint, with some linen bandages; for he was too experienced a hunter to travel without articles which might occasionally be of the greatest necessity.
Having taken off the handkerchief and carefully washed the wound in warm water, he dressed it with the skill of a surgeon. The boy looked up gratefully in his new friend's face, but still did not speak. The trader having in vain endeavoured to obtain an answer when addressing him in English or Dutch, he at last spoke to him in Kaffir.
The boy at once said, "I thank you, white stranger, for what you have done for me. I thought at first that you belonged to those who had killed our people, and that you were going to kill me. Now I know that you are my friend."
"You are right, my boy; I wish to be so," said the trader. "But tell me, how comes it that you who are white, cannot speak your native tongue?"
"I have been so long with the Zulus that I have forgotten it," answered the boy. "I once could speak it, and I well remember the white people I lived amongst. For a long time I remembered my native language; but as I always, since I could speak, knew some Kaffir, I soon understood what was said to me. I had a black nurse, but she was assegaid, and I was torn from her arms by the Zulus who carried me off. More than that I cannot tell."
The kind-hearted trader was obliged to be content with this information. He was unwilling indeed, till the poor boy had regained his strength, further to question him, and he hoped to learn more of his history from Mangaleesu and Kalinda, who he had no doubt would be able to afford it.
Having given the boy some of the broth which was now ready, and placed a blanket under his head to serve as a pillow, he left Umgolo to watch over him. He then went and sat down by the side of Mangaleesu, who still lay in the hammock under the waggon, not yet recovered from the exertions he had made on the previous night, and the loss of blood from his wounds.
"I have recovered one of your people, and have brought him to the camp," said the trader.
"Who is he?" asked Mangaleesu eagerly. "I thought that all had been killed."
"Although he has a white skin, he seems by his dress and language to be a Zulu," answered the trader.
"Then he must be little Unozingli," said the chief. "I am glad he has escaped, for he was a favourite with us, and will some day, if he lives, become a great warrior."
"By what chance did he happen to be living among you? Although he is dressed like a Zulu, and speaks the Kaffir tongue alone, he is evidently the child of white parents."
"He was brought to my kraal by a tribe from a distant part of the country, who afterwards joined my people," answered the chief. "They had taken him, they said, from a black woman who had been killed; but the child being white, they had been unwilling to destroy him, and had carried him off with them. He was at once adopted into the tribe, and has lived with us ever since, learning our customs and language, and we gave him the name of Unozingli."
From this answer it was evident that no further satisfactory information could be obtained from Mangaleesu respecting the boy. This was a disappointment to the trader. He had hoped, after rescuing the little fellow, to have had the satisfaction of discovering his parents or friends, and restoring him to them. He was satisfied that the child was either English or Dutch, and from his features he was inclined to think he was the former.
"I don't fancy calling him by his Kaffir name," he said to himself. "I must get one more suited to him." As he looked at the thick auburn hair which hung in curls over the boy's head, his freckled, though otherwise fair countenance, his large blue eyes, and broad, open countenance, he exclaimed, "I have it! I'll call him Lionel; for a young lion he looks, and will, I hope, some day bring down many of the brutes of the forest."
Unwilling to leave the camp himself, lest their enemies might come in search of the young chief and his bride, towards evening the trader sent out Umgolo and another man in search of game to supply his followers with meat, for in that climate what is killed one day is scarcely eatable the next.
He also despatched two others in different directions to ascertain if any of the Zulus were in the neighbourhood, apparently searching for Mangaleesu, as he intended in that case to keep the chief and his bride more carefully concealed until he had carried them safely across the border.
The hunters were the first to return, loaded with the flesh of a couple of antelopes. Soon afterwards, while they were busily employed in cutting up the animals and preparing them for supper, the scouts came in, bringing the information that they had seen a large party who seemed to them coming from the south-west, but who were too far off to enable them to ascertain who they were. As--the intermediate ground being uneven--it would have taken them a long time to get nearer, they deemed it wise to return at once with their report.
"Whether friends or foes, we are ready for them," said the trader. "In case they should be foes, we must keep our guests concealed; but from the direction they come, I think it more likely that they are friends, and we will have some food ready for them."
The cooks therefore spitted according to camp fashion an additional supply of meat to roast, while the trader walked on a short distance in the direction he expected the strangers to appear. He was not mistaken in his surmise. After some time he saw through his glass a waggon very similar to his own, accompanied by two persons on horseback and several on foot. On this, returning to the camp, he ordered his horse to be saddled, and went out to meet them. As he was seen approaching, the two mounted strangers rode forward.
"What, Hendricks the Hunter!" exclaimed the elder, a tall, gaunt man, with a weather-beaten countenance, whose grey twinkling eyes, the form of his features, and his rich brogue showed him to be an Irishman. "Mighty glad to fall in with you, old friend!" and the gentlemen shook hands warmly.
"I'm equally well pleased to meet you, Maloney," answered Mr Hendricks. "You can give me news of the civilised world, of which I have heard nothing for many a long month."
"Faith! as to that, it wags much as usual. Skins are fetching fair prices, which is good news for you; but the Kathlamba bushmen are again becoming troublesome, and have lately carried off several head of cattle and horses from the settlers in that direction, which is a bad matter for them, while the new arrivals are grumbling and complaining as usual because they do not find the colony the Eldorado they expected, before they have had time to dig a spade into the ground or run a plough over it. For my part, I'm mighty glad to get out of their company and find myself in the wilderness."
"So am I generally, after I have been a short time at home, I confess, though I have many friends in Maritzburg, with whom I am glad now and again to spend a few days," replied Hendricks. "Had you, however, waited a little longer, I intended to propose that we should join forces and travel together. I thought it possible indeed that I might fall in with you, although as I did not expect to do so for several days to come I was in hopes that you would be induced to wait for me till I was ready to make a fresh start."
"I would willingly have delayed my journey or waited for you, had we met closer to the Natal border," answered Mr Maloney; "but as you know, it would not be prudent to remain longer than possible in this part of the country, and even now, as I shall spend some time trading and hunting to the south of the Drakensberg, you will probably overtake me before I get over the mountains."
"It will be from no fault of mine if I do not," said Hendricks. "I shall not be long in transacting my business at Maritzburg. However, we'll talk of that presently; and now come along to my camp, for supper will be ready by the time we get there. By the bye, who is the lad with you? He looks somewhat tired from his journey."
"He is my son Denis, a chip of the old block," answered Mr Maloney. "To say the truth, however, he is just now somewhat sick, and I'd rather see him safe at Maritzburg than travelling with me into the wilderness. I have a favour to ask--it is that you will take charge of him and let him accompany you back to the town. I shall be mighty thankful to you if you will."
"I will do as you wish," said Hendricks, "though the lad, I suspect, would rather be hunting with you than kicking his heels in town with nothing to do."
"He has been too well-trained to dispute my authority," observed Mr Maloney. "I took him from the office of his uncle, my worthy brother-in-law, and he must go back for a few months until I return and am ready to make my next trip. By that time he'll have more muscle and stamina, and be better able to stand the fatigue and hard life we hunters have to endure."
"I'll carry out your wishes with all my heart, and will look after the lad while I remain in the colony," said Hendricks.
This conversation took place while the two leaders were riding on towards the camp, the lad following a short distance behind them.
Mr Hendricks briefly related to his companion the attack on the kraal, and the way in which the Zulu chief, his bride and the little boy had been rescued. "I intend to take the child with me, to leave him in charge of my good sister, Susannah Jansen," he added. "We may some day discover to whom he belongs, but I will, in the meantime, act the part of a guardian to him."
"It is a kind act of yours, but faith! I suppose I should be after doing the same sort of thing myself, though I find one son as much as I can manage. To be sure, all boys are not like Denis here, who boasts that he shot a springboc before he was ten years old, and that he has since killed a lion and a wild boar, his great ambition being now to bring an elephant to the ground."
As his father was speaking, Denis, who had hitherto kept in the rear, hearing his name mentioned rode up.
"I have asked Mr Hendricks to take you back with him to Maritzburg, where you must wait with all the patience you can muster till my next trip," said Mr Maloney. "You are not strong enough for the work before us; and if you knock up, the object of my expedition will be defeated, for I shall have to nurse you instead of being able to hunt or carry on trade."
"I am much obliged to Mr Hendricks, but I don't intend to knock up," said Denis, not looking very well pleased at his father's proposal. "I'm a little sick now, but I shall be all to rights in a day or two, and will be able to continue the journey."
His looks, however, belied his assertion, though he was evidently doing his utmost to appear at his ease.
"Well, well, we'll see about it, my boy; but for your own sake, as well as mine, I wish you to go back. I took you somewhat against my better judgment, in the hopes that the journey would strengthen you, instead of which you look worse than when we started."
Denis still begged to be allowed to go on, until his father, losing patience, told him to say no more about the matter; that he should decide what was best to be done, and should act accordingly.
Hearing his father say this, Denis, not venturing to make any further appeal, again dropped behind.
"You see the boy has a will of his own," observed Mr Maloney. "Though so tall and full of spirit, he is scarcely twelve years of age, and has in truth outgrown his strength. Since he lost his mother he has only had his uncle, Tom Lumly, to look after him when I have been away, and my good brother-in-law being much taken up with business has had little time to attend to him, so that he has been allowed to run rather wild. However, as he is now well able to make himself useful, Tom will give him work to do, and that will help to keep him out of harm's way."
"You are right, my friend; there's nothing like plenty of work to help keep a person out of mischief; but, after all, he must have steadiness and good principles. They alone are to be depended on, and I hope your son has got those as ballast."
The two gentlemen, followed by Denis, soon arrived at the camp. They found the promised repast spread out under the shade cast by the waggon as the sun sank towards the western hills.
The two ciders did ample justice to the venison steaks and other African luxuries placed before them; but though Denis managed to eat a little, he had to acknowledge that he was somewhat off his feed.
Umgolo, who ranked as a chief amongst his followers, and shared his master's board, ate considerably more than the two white men together. Mangaleesu and Kalinda, who had been invited, at first hung back, but overcoming their bashfulness at length came and joined the party, and did ample justice to the food offered them. At last, little Unozingli, the white boy, or Lionel, as his protector determined to call him, crept out from the corner of the waggon, and, tempted by the smell of the viands, came and placed himself by the side of the Zulu chief, of whom he showed no fear.
"The child has been well treated, or he would keep away from our dark-skinned friend there," observed Mr Maloney. "It's mighty curious that he's unable to utter a word of English; but he'll find his tongue soon, when he has stowed away a little food."
The little fellow, unlike the Zulus, ate moderately, and after taking a draught of cold water declared that he was satisfied. His wounded arm, which Hendricks had placed in a sling, did not appear to cause him much pain; at all events, he did not complain as most boys more delicately nurtured than he had been would have done.
The Zulu chief now addressed him in a kind tone. He at once answered, and was soon chattering away either with him or Kalinda, with whom he appeared to be a favourite. After this, as he had recovered his spirits, Hendricks called him to come and sit by his side, and speaking in the Zulu language, questioned him as to his early recollections, when his answers fully confirmed the account given by Mangaleesu.
"Do you wish to return to your white friends?" asked Hendricks.
The boy's countenance brightened. "I am fond of the chief and Kalinda, but I should greatly like to see the white lady who often used to talk to me, and whom I called mother, and a man with hair like mine, who sometimes carried me on his back or in his arms, and let me ride on his knee. Then there was the black woman, but I shall never see her, for I remember well how the Zulus pierced her with their assegais. She fell into the river and was swept away, while one of the warriors carried me off."
"We will try and find your parents if they are still alive, and until they are found I will be a father to you," said Hendricks. "Will you trust me?"
"Indeed I will, for I like your face," answered the boy frankly.
"I suspect the little fellow is the child of some Dutch boers, slaughtered by the Zulus, while travelling in search of a location," observed Hendricks to his guest. "So many of the unfortunate settlers have thus lost their lives, that it is very improbable I shall ever discover to whom he belongs. If not, I will adopt him as my son, as he seems to have been committed to my charge by Providence."
Meantime Mr Maloney's waggon had arrived, and had been drawn up close to that of his friend, in such a position that in case of necessity it might serve to afford additional strength to the camp. Their respective Kaffir and Hottentot servants had assembled round a large fire a little distance off, the necessary guards only remaining to watch the cattle.
As the night was drawing on, and young Denis looked very sleepy, his father ordered him off to his berth in the waggon, which, though pretty well loaded with goods for traffic, had space enough for a couple of sleeping-places.
The lad got up, and wishing his father and Hendricks "good-night," sauntered away to the waggon, while the hunters remained seated near the fire, discussing their plans for the future. The Irishman intended to push forward through Zululand to a region some distance to the northward, where elephants, rhinoceroses, and hippopotami abounded, so that he might obtain a supply of ivory as well as of skins and any other valuable products of the country which he might discover.
Hendricks proposed, after remaining at Maritzburg two or three months, again to set out northward with the same object in view. He however relied less on trading than his own skill as a hunter to load up his waggon.
"If you find my boy well enough, and think fit to bring him along with you, do so; though don't tell him of your intention until the time for starting has arrived, or he will not settle down to his work in the town," said Maloney.
His friend promised to carry out his wishes, and at last, their various plans being arranged, they gave the word to their followers to go to sleep, while they themselves retired to their respective waggons.
A resting-place had been constructed for the young chief and his wife under the waggon, and little Lionel, who did not occupy much space, crept into his corner on the top of the cargo beneath the tilt.
Before lying down Hendricks took a turn round the camp to ascertain that the guards were properly posted and on the watch. This precaution his friend did not appear to have considered necessary, a single Hottentot alone being left to watch the cattle. The night was calm and clear, enabling him to see a considerable distance both up and down the valley.
No sounds broke the silence, and if there were lions or other wild animals in the neighbourhood, they did not make themselves audible. Satisfied that all was right, he at length got into his usual berth, and was soon fast asleep.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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3
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LOST AND FOUND.
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Hendricks was awakened by the voice of Maloney shouting-- "Do you know what has become of my son Denis? The boy is not in his berth, and none of my people can tell where he has gone. They all declare that they did not see him leave the camp, and though I have been shouting to him for the last ten minutes, he has not replied to me."
The hunter, springing out of the waggon, answered-- "As I have been fast asleep I cannot tell you, but the chances are that he has taken his gun to show his skill as a sportsman, and hopes to bring back a pallah or springboc for breakfast. We must ascertain in what direction he has gone. Perhaps some of my Hottentots who went down with the oxen to the stream may have seen him."
Neither of the Hottentots, however, could give any account of the missing boy. The men who had been on guard were also questioned, but none of them had seen him, and from the answers they gave it seemed more than probable that they had been nodding at their posts. One of them at last acknowledged that he had caught sight of a figure, just before daybreak, some little distance from the camp, going to the northward.
Further search was made, and Denis not appearing, his father and Hendricks determined to set off in quest of him, in the direction he was supposed to have gone, leaving orders with their followers to get breakfast ready and to prepare for inspanning directly they returned.
"I fancy that my first suspicions are correct, and that your boy wants to prove how able he is to accompany you," observed the latter. "If he appears loaded with venison, it will be difficult to persuade him to the contrary."
"Faith! the young rascal has spirit enough, but his strength is not equal to it," answered Maloney. "If I take him with me, he'll be getting into mischief; whether, therefore, he appears loaded with venison or empty handed, nolens volens, I'll send him back with you."
While they were speaking, the sound of footsteps was heard coming up behind them. They both turned expecting to see Master Denis; but instead, little Unozingli the white boy, or Lionel, as Hendricks called him, came running up to them.
"What brings you after us, boy?" asked Hendricks in Zulu.
"To help the masters find my white brother," answered the boy. "I know the way he has taken, for I saw his footsteps on the grass, though the master may not have discovered them. We shall find him in time, but he may already be some distance away."
"I will trust you, boy, and am glad you came," said Hendricks. "But how is it you are so confident of finding him?"
"Because I have often gone out with my Zulu masters to search for game, and sometimes to follow their enemies, and I know the signs on the ground which guided them. Here the grass pressed, there a twig broken off, or a stone moved, or the mark of feet on the sand or soft earth."
"You understand what is wanted, I see. Come with us," said Hendricks. Then turning to his companion, he added, "The boy's wits have been sharpened by his life with the blacks. I have always noted that when a white man has the same necessity for acquiring knowledge as savages, he always surpasses them. In course of time, had that boy continued with the Zulus, he would have become a great chief among them, and would probably have made himself a terror to the settlers, had any cause of quarrel arisen. It's an ill wind that blows no one good, and it's fortunate for him as well as for the settlers, that the kraal was destroyed and that he was liberated."
The boy, on obtaining permission to accompany his new friends, immediately took the lead, with his eyes fixed on the ground, at a pace with which they found it somewhat difficult at times to keep up. The trail, or as the Dutch call it, the spoor, when an animal is being tracked, must have been remarkably clear to the eyes of the little fellow; for he did not hesitate a moment, though the white men, with all their experience as hunters, were unable to distinguish any of the marks by which he was guided. Several animals were seen as they went along. Now a buffalo would dash out of a thicket, and go rushing at a rapid rate across their path. Now a herd of peewas were caught sight of, making their way towards the stream to take their morning draught. Presently a flock of Guinea fowl would rise from the tangled underwood, and fly hither and thither, filling the air with their discordant notes. Then suddenly a white rhinoceros would appear strolling along, until, seeing the strangers, he would break into a gallop similar to that of a well-bred horse; notwithstanding his heavy body, showing a splendid action, with his head well up, and moving at a pace few horses could rival. But these occurrences did not for a moment draw off the boy's attention. The heat as the sun rose became excessive, beating down with a force which only those accustomed to the wilds of Africa could have borne without complaining.
After going a considerable distance the boy stopped and examined the ground. What was the horror of Hendricks and Maloney to see the grass stained with blood! It was too probably that of Denis.
"The poor boy must have been struck down by a lion, and has been carried off into the thicket," exclaimed his father.
"I am not so sure of that," answered Hendricks. "What is it, Unozingli?"
"The white boy shot a pallah, which galloped off away out there, and he followed," answered the little fellow, pointing to the north. "We shall find him before long. He thought to get another shot, but he had little chance of that."
Scarcely had he spoken when a roar was heard coming from the direction towards which he pointed. He looked anxious; it was the voice, undoubtedly, of a lion.
"Come on!" he said; "but be ready to fire."
Presently another roar was heard, but this time there were the voices of two lions--the sound, however, came from a considerable distance. The hunters pressed on. They were too well accustomed to encounter the monarch of the wilds under ordinary circumstances to have any feeling of alarm for themselves, but they became intensely anxious about Denis; still it was not likely that the lions would be roaring had they seized him. They hurried on even faster than before, though they had several times to turn aside to avoid the thorny thickets in their path, through which even their young guide did not attempt to make his way. The sounds grew louder and louder. They were approaching the spot where the lions would be discovered. For their own safety it was necessary to be cautious. Their great hope was that Denis had turned aside, and that the beasts were roaring over the body of the wounded pallah which they had brought down. Still Lionel, though he slackened his pace, did not hesitate, but went on, his eyes peering about in every direction. He seemed to place perfect reliance on the power of his companions' firearms. For some time the roaring ceased. Could the brutes have gone off, or were they watching the approach of the strangers? Suddenly three lion cubs burst out from a thicket. Maloney was instinctively about to fire, but Hendricks stopped him. "Take care! the old ones are not far off. Those little brutes were sent out by the lion and lioness to watch us."
As he said this, the cubs, turning round, galloped off to the left up the hill. Cautiously the hunters advanced. It was well they did so, for scarcely had they gone fifty paces more when a lion and lioness suddenly bounded out with rapid strides, their heads and tails up.
"You take the lioness, I'll take the lion," said Hendricks calmly, while the boy, showing no signs of fear, stepped behind his friends. All at once the lion stopped, then gazing a moment at the intruders, galloped off after the cubs, but the lioness still came bounding on. Hendricks on this refrained from pulling his trigger. Maloney fired, the ball struck the savage animal in the neck, but notwithstanding on she came towards him, and in another instant would probably have laid him low on the ground with a blow from her powerful paw. It was fortunate that Hendricks had not thrown his shot away. He stood as firm as a rock, and raising his rifle aimed at the lioness's chest. She made one bound into the air, and fell close to his feet. She was still not dead, and he, grasping the boy by the arm, sprang to a distance on one side while Maloney leapt to the other. She made several efforts to reach them, crawling along for some distance on the ground, but in vain attempted to rise, and after giving a few convulsive struggles, she fell over on her side dead.
"My poor boy, my poor boy! If he has encountered those brutes, what chance of escape can he have had?" exclaimed Maloney.
"We'll hope for the best. Come on," was the answer. And not stopping, as they would otherwise have done, to skin the lioness, they hurried forward, led by their young guide.
"He's not far off, he has not been killed," he said, in answer to a question Hendricks put to him.
Presently a shout reached their ears, and looking up, there, to their intense relief, they saw Master Denis seated amidst the branches of a tree, well out of reach of the lions. Below it lay his gun.
"Have you settled the brutes?" he shouted out. "I'm glad you have come, for I'm desperately hungry. They seemed inclined to keep me here all day. If I hadn't had to leave my gun on the ground, I should soon have driven them away. I saw the brutes just in time to scramble up here."
"You may thank heaven that you were not torn to pieces by them," said Hendricks.
"Come down, Denis," cried his father, thankful that he had escaped, and too glad to find fault with him just then.
The boy made his way down, but would have fallen on reaching the ground, had not his father caught him. He looked paler even than on the previous evening, but that was not surprising, considering the alarm he had been in, and that he had had no breakfast. It was important that they should get back to the camp as soon as possible, and the two hunters, each taking an arm, helped him along, for by himself it was very evident that he would have been unable to walk even a short distance.
"You have given us a pretty fright, Denis," said his father. "What made you take it into your head to start off alone from the camp, without letting any one know where you were going?"
"Faith! for the sake of showing you what I could do," answered Denis. "Besides, I just honestly confess that I thought you would have inspanned and come along this way, when I hoped you would not have refused to take me with you."
"I thought as much, but you've gained nothing by the move," observed his father. "You have shown me more clearly than before that you are utterly unfit to go through the fatigues of a hunter's life. You'll just take advantage of the kind offer of our friend here, and go back with him to Maritzburg."
Poor Denis looked very crestfallen, but said nothing, for he did not feel just then well able to enter into a controversy with any one. Indeed, he was growing weaker and weaker, and it seemed more than probable that he would be unable to get back to the camp unless he was carried. Little Lionel had picked up his gun, and was staggering ahead with it over his shoulders. He kept his eyes looking about him as if on the watch for something or other. Presently he cried out in Zulu, "Be on your guard, white chief. See, see! there they come!" and Hendricks caught sight of the lion, followed at a distance by the cubs, stealing down the hill towards the spot where the lioness had been shot. He kept his eye on the animal, to watch its movements. Both he and Maloney had loaded with ball, and they now halted until the lion came within range of their weapons.
The brute moved slowly on, and then suddenly sitting up on its haunches, surveyed them at a distance.
"The lion has no stomach for a fight. We may go on," said Hendricks. They walked on supporting Denis, while the boy kept close to their side until they had passed the body of the lioness, the lion all the time retaining its position, conscious probably that its duties were to protect its cubs. They went on and on until they got out of sight of the lion, which, when they last saw it, had not moved from its post. Very frequently, however, Hendricks looked back to ascertain whether the animal was following them. "After all, they are cowardly brutes," he observed. "They will seldom attack a man when they see he is prepared for them, unless hard pressed by hunger. I have never found them otherwise."
A rhinoceros, a panther, and several deer were seen, but they had no further interruptions to their progress, and at length the camp was reached. They found breakfast ready for them. From the appearance of Denis, who scarcely ate a morsel, it was more than ever evident that he would be unable to accompany his father. It was doubtful indeed whether he would be able to start with Hendricks the following morning, unless room could be found for him in the waggon. In the meantime a bed was made up for him in the shade beneath it, consisting of a blanket and kaross, the latter being a robe composed of jackal skins sewn together. Hendricks, although anxious to get to Maritzburg, agreed to wait until the following morning, when it was hoped that Denis would be able to sit his horse, and benefit by the fresh air of the early day.
His father was very grateful to their friend for his kindness.
"Don't talk about it," answered the sturdy hunter. "Our oxen will benefit by having another day's rest and good feeding, which neither yours nor mine are likely to obtain for some time to come; for when once I inspan, I shall let nothing stop me until I get to the end of my journey, and you, of course, will have to traverse the barren country I lately passed over."
The young chief, however, showed great impatience at the delay. He evidently feared that his countrymen would discover him and drag him from the protection of the English. He expressed this idea to Hendricks.
"They will have to fight pretty hard to do that, and you must not be slow to defend yourselves," observed the hunter.
The black chief flourished his assegai with a fierce look. "Mangaleesu has shown what he can do, and he will not yield while life lasts," he exclaimed.
"Those who are ready to fight for themselves merit assistance," observed the hunter. "Rest assured, we will not deliver you up."
During the hot hours of the day the Kaffir and Hottentot servants lay about in whatever shade could be found, some smoking, others spinning interminable yarns, but the larger number passing the time fast asleep, stretched on the ground with a few boughs or pieces of blanket over their heads. Occasionally the Hottentots were roused up to take then turn in watching the cattle, on which, even during the day, it was necessary to keep a bright look-out lest a lion might pounce down upon them, or a black rhinoceros charge into their midst and put them to flight. At length Hendricks called out the hunters, and sent them in search of game. While they took one direction, he himself, with Maloney, accompanied by Umgolo, proceeded higher up the mountain-side, his object being to discover if there was any more practicable route than the one by which the latter had come, as also to ascertain if there were any native kraals in the neighbourhood. The summit of the hill was soon reached.
"It is as I thought," said Maloney, after they had surveyed the country. "You'll not find a better road to the east or west, bad as it is; if you make the attempt, you'll very likely get out of the frying-pan into the fire."
On either side were seen a succession of tree-covered heights, through which no waggon could force its way, unless preceded by a party of pioneers to cut down the trees and bridge the ravines. In the far distance were a few kraals with open spaces marking the mealy grounds of the inhabitants, but in other respects the whole country was a perfect wilderness.
As they were descending they caught sight of a graceful animal which at that moment had leapt on a rock not far from them. In colour and appearance it resembled the common roe, but was considerably smaller. On seeing the strangers, it was on the point of turning to escape, when Hendricks, raising his gun in a moment to his shoulder, fired, and the little klipspringer fell from the projecting rock on which it was standing, down on the smooth side of the hill, where it lay motionless. The klipspringer is one of the most active of antelopes, differing from others of its species in having small hoofs and somewhat short legs for its size, thus adapting it to its roaming mountainous life, while the hair is so loose in the skin, that even in the short distance the animal just shot had fallen, a considerable part had been knocked off. Umgolo at once shouldered it, and without difficulty carried it off to the camp. Had it been a load of any other description, he would have declined to demean himself by lifting it on his shoulders. On their way back, the hunters shot several dassi, or rock rabbits, which thus paid the penalty of their curiosity as they came out of their holes to look at the passers-by. Their flesh, although not so highly flavoured, was more likely to prove tender than that of larger game, and they were thus an acceptable addition to the store of meat.
Poor Denis made his appearance at supper-time, somewhat revived by a long sleep. Although he tried to be cheerful, and declared that he was fit for anything, it was still very evident that he would be unable to accompany his father.
Except that there was a continual serenade of hyenas and jackals, with the occasional low mutterings of lions in the distance, the night passed quietly by. Before dawn the next morning both camps were astir. After a hurried breakfast the oxen were inspanned, and Denis was placed in the homeward-bound waggon. His father having taken leave of him, and parted from Hendricks with a hearty shake of the hand, the two vehicles commenced their journeys in opposite directions. Mangaleesu and Kalinda walked together close to the waggon, and it had been arranged that should any natives appear, she was to get inside, while the young chief, who had put off the insignia of his rank, and was dressed like one of the other natives, would then, it was hoped, pass without discovery. Little Lionel, whose wound was slighter than at first supposed, and who seemed to look upon it as a mere scratch, some times trotted alongside them, and at others clambered up by the side of the driver, to whom he took an especial fancy. Denis frequently called him to sit in the corner at the other end of the waggon, and amused himself by trying to teach him English, which the boy acquired with wonderful rapidity, it being scarcely ever necessary to tell him twice the name of a thing.
"I'm sure the little chap is English," said Denis to Hendricks, when they outspanned for the night. "Had his parents been Dutch, he would not have recollected the names of things so uncommonly fast as he does. When I put my hand to my head, and said head, he immediately repeated the word after me, and when I asked him again ten minutes afterwards he had not forgotten it. When I touched my cap, without telling him the name, he at once said `cap.' If he goes on at that rate, he'll be able to talk English before we get to Maritzburg, and I shouldn't be surprised if he will then be able to give us a more clear account of himself than he has hitherto done."
"That's right, Denis; go on and try to make him talk as much as you can. I have got some books, and you may be able to teach him his letters, and perhaps even to read before the journey is over," said Hendricks. "He is a sharp little fellow, no doubt about that, and will do credit to your instruction."
Denis looked well pleased at this remark. He was flattered at the confidence placed in him, and was thus reconciled to sitting quietly in the waggon all day, instead of mounting his horse. He was really unfit for hard exercise, though, had he not found this employment, he would probably have been restless and discontented, and would have insisted on mounting his horse, and exposing himself to the hot sun.
Day after day the waggon moved on, generally only ten miles were accomplished, frequently even less, and seldom much more, except when the ground was level and hard. Occasionally the men had to put their shoulders to the wheels to help on the oxen where the ground was unusually steep. On these occasions the young chief made himself useful, not disdaining to labour with the other men. He appeared desirous, indeed, of showing his gratitude to Hendricks for the protection afforded him. He still, however, did not seem to be at his ease. Whenever a height was reached, his eye ranged anxiously over the country, as if he expected his enemies to be coming in search of him. Hendricks inquired one day who he supposed was the leader of the attack against the kraal. Was it Cetchwayo? he asked. "No, but Mapeetu, another chief, a great friend of his. He had seen Kalinda, and wished to make her his wife, but she ran from him because she loved me, and she became mine. He knew that he could not get her back, because I kept too strict a watch over her, and would never allow her to go out of the kraal without going myself, with a strong party; so in revenge, when one of the king's wives fell ill, he bribed the doctor to declare that I had bewitched her. I heard of this, and so, when the king sent for me, knowing that I should be murdered on the way, I refused to go. Mapeetu was cunning, and appeared to have forgotten all about the matter. This threw me off my guard, or I should have moved with my people and cattle, as soon as our crops had been gathered in, to another part of the country. Thinking that all was secure, I kept no watch at the kraal that night, but the moment I heard the sounds outside, I knew what was about to happen, and resolved to fight, not so much to preserve my own life, as to prevent Kalinda from falling into the power of Mapeetu. Had she been killed, I would have sought him out, and followed him through the country until I had satisfied my revenge."
"I am glad that you both escaped. And now tell me; how are you going to support yourself in Natal?" asked Hendricks.
"Where game is abundant one need never be anxious on that score," answered Mangaleesu. "When I have provided for my wife, I intend to return to Zululand and punish Mapeetu for the slaughter of my people. Cetchwayo will not dare to kill me, for it will be acknowledged that a chief so brave as I have proved myself could not have been guilty of witchcraft. Then, when I have gathered some people round me, and have built another kraal, I will go back for my Kalinda."
Hendricks, though suspecting that the young chief would probably lose his life in endeavouring to carry out his plan, was well aware that to attempt dissuading him from it would be useless; he therefore simply observed, "You have a good many things to do first, and perhaps you will not find it as easy as you suppose to obtain a livelihood in Natal."
The chief looked somewhat disconcerted at this remark, but the next moment drawing himself up proudly, he answered-- "Mangaleesu's strong arm and rifle will supply him and his wife with all their wants. The Zulus are not like you white men, they can live where you would starve."
"You are a brave young man, but you have no rifle and ammunition to begin with," said Hendricks. "However, I will supply you, and will purchase the skins you bring me at a fair price. In that way, if you hunt diligently, you will be able to support yourself and your wife."
The chief appeared well pleased with this arrangement, and did not for the remainder of the journey again talk of returning to Zululand to revenge himself on his enemies. When the waggon was passing in the neighbourhood of kraals, the natives on several occasions paid Hendricks a visit, supposing that he had come to trade with them; but, as his goods were exhausted, and his waggon already fully loaded, he told them that he could do no business, and they soon again took their departure. None of them appeared to recognise Mangaleesu, and as Kalinda always cautiously crept inside she was not seen. It was therefore hoped that Mapeetu had no suspicion of how the young chief and his bride had escaped, and that the party ran no risk of being molested. Several not very important adventures were met with. Game, which was everywhere abundant, was killed to supply the travellers with food, and at length descending from the high ground they reached the colony. They had a considerable distance to travel, but all danger from hostile Zulus was over. A journey of about ten days brought them in sight of the high black hills, devoid of a single tree, which bound Maritzburg on the north and north-west. Soon afterwards the town itself appeared, situated on a large knoll or plateau, rising out of a natural basin, and almost surrounded by "little Bushmans" river. Crossing the stream, the waggon passed along a broad road bounded by green hedges of pomegranate, enclosing nicely kept gardens, in which stood neat little whitewashed cottages with verandahs in front, round whose posts were twined beautiful and luxurious creepers. By the side of the water-courses by which the gardens were irrigated, coming from the main stream, grew weeping willows and lilac trees, with several other water-loving and rapidly growing shrubs. The streets of the town were at right angles; the houses uniformly white, few of them being of more than one story, but all looking very neat and clean, as did the streets themselves, with channels of clear water flowing on either side, affording the inhabitants an abundant supply for all their wants. Indeed, it could not but be acknowledged that the site of Pieter Maritzburg had been admirably chosen for a colonial town.
Hendricks having outspanned in an open place at the entrance of the town, left Umgolo to look after the waggon, and took Denis and Lionel to dispose of them as he had arranged. Denis was kindly received by his uncle, who, thanking Hendricks for having brought him back, promised to give him employment until his father should come or send for him. Denis seemed very sorry to part from Lionel, who had been so long his pupil.
"Don't you be after forgetting all I have taught you, Lionel," he said.
"No fear, me no forget," answered Lionel, laughing. "Soon talkee English well as Den 'self."
The little fellow, as he walked alongside his tall friend, gazed with astonishment at all he saw, and when he came near the public buildings-- which though unpretending edifices enough, were of gigantic size compared with any structures he had seen--he opened his eyes and inquired how men could ever manage to put them together.
Mr Hendricks led him through the town, until they reached a neat little cottage standing in a nicely kept garden surrounded by a pomegranate hedge, and full of gay flowers. In front of the house was a porch, round the posts of which were trained several luxuriant creepers, so as to hang in festoons from the roof. The floor was paved with Dutch tiles, kept as polished and clean as a dinner-table.
As they entered through the wicket gate, a fair, portly-looking dame, of a comely and cheerful countenance, her white cap concealing her smooth light hair, appeared at the door.
"What, do my eyes deceive me? or do I really see my dear brother safe and sound in limb and body?" she exclaimed, sticking her knitting-needles and balls of cotton into one of her ample pockets, ready for the affectionate embrace she was prepared to give and receive.
"Yes, indeed, you see me as strong and hearty as ever, and richer than I have been since I first started off from home as a younker, with a pack at my back and a rifle in my hand. Never have I made a more successful trip; for I have returned with the waggon so loaded that I sometimes feared the stout wheels would give way under the weight they carried."
"What young stranger have you brought here?" asked the dame, after the first salutations were over. "A fine little child, by my troth!"
Hendricks briefly described how Lionel had come into his hands. "And I want you, my good sister, to take charge of him, and bring him up, until by some means we may discover his parents. He will repay your trouble if I judge rightly of his disposition; and although he has no large amount of English at his command at present, he will soon chatter away fast enough to afford you plenty of amusement."
Kind Mistress Jansen, taking the boy by the hand, and drawing him towards her, answered, "That I'll do with all my heart, and we shall be good friends at once, shall we not, my boy?"
The little fellow did not answer, but looked up at Hendricks as if asking him to reply. The hunter spoke a few words in Zulu, on hearing which the child's eye brightened.
"I have told him that you will be a mother to him Susannah, and he seems well pleased at the thought."
That matter being settled, the hunter having taken a cup of tea with his good sister, and enjoyed a little further conversation, left his young _protege_ with her, and returned to where his waggon and followers were encamped to make arrangements for the disposal of his cargo. Finding, however, that it would be well worth his while to proceed to D'Urban, he the following day set off for that town, to dispose of the produce of his hunting, and to procure fresh goods for his next journey. According to his promise, he made a present of a good rifle and stock of ammunition to the young chief Mangaleesu, giving him authority to procure a further supply of powder and shot when that was exhausted.
Lionel was soon perfectly at home with Mistress Jansen. He showed an amiable disposition, and willingly obeyed her, but at the same time she discovered that he had several savage habits and customs to be cured of. Young as he was, he showed a fearless and independent spirit, but she endeavoured by kind and judicious treatment to keep him in good order. He paid almost a daily visit to Denis Maloney to be taught his lessons; but Mistress Jansen took upon herself to give him instruction in religious truth, of which very naturally he was totally ignorant. He had no idea that there was a God in heaven, or how the world had been formed, or of a future state, and it was some time before he could comprehend the plan of salvation, while he exhibited a woeful ignorance of what was right and wrong. Had he been older, the task of instructing him would have been more difficult, but as it was, his mind in most respects was a perfect blank. He was ready enough, however, to receive the impression his kind instructress endeavoured to make. As he gained knowledge himself, he felt very anxious to impart it to Mangaleesu, who had built a hut on the nearest piece of wild land he could find to the town. Here he lived with the independence of a Zulu chief and gentleman, his wife attending to household affairs of a very primitive description, while he, gun in hand, hunted through the neighbourhood, and never failed to obtain an ample supply of food. The agent of Hendricks also was always ready to make advances on the skins of the animals and the feathers of the birds he shot, which afforded him and his wife all the other necessaries of life. Though he listened to what Lionel had to say, he had always a ready answer to excuse himself for not following his advice. At the same time he assured the boy that he should be very glad to see him whenever he would come to pay him a visit. By this means Lionel kept up his knowledge of the Zulu language, which there would have been a risk of his forgetting while he was acquiring that of English.
When his guardian returned from D'Urban, he was greatly surprised at his proficiency, not only in speaking, but in general knowledge.
"If you continue as you have begun, Lionel, you will soon be able to accompany me on my journeys, and make yourself very useful in a variety of ways," he said.
"Then I'll make great haste," answered Lionel. "I'll go with you as soon as you will take me, and learn how to shoot lions and elephants, and Zulus too, if they try to treat us as they did the people in Mangaleesu's kraal."
Lionel had still need of further religious instruction, as his last remark showed, and good Mistress Jansen endeavoured to give it by teaching him "to love our enemies, to bless them that curse us, to do good to them that hate us, and to pray for them which despitefully use and persecute us."
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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4
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A JOURNEY NORTHWARD.
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What the camel is in Northern Africa--the ship of the desert--so may be considered the waggon in the southern part of the dark continent. It may be likened indeed to a huge, deeply laden merchantman, steadily making her way amid the rolling waves of the ocean.
Some time had passed, not reckoned by months only, but by years, since the events narrated in the previous chapters occurred, when one of those lumbering vehicles, dragged by a span of fourteen sturdy oxen, was rolling along through the eastern part of Natal towards the Zulu border.
A short distance ahead rode our old friend Hendricks the hunter, scarcely changed since we first knew him, except that his beard might have become slightly more grizzled, and that here and there a wrinkle had deepened on his open countenance. Occasionally a shade of melancholy passed over it, as he spoke to a companion who rode at his side on a light, active little horse.
"It was His will who rules all things, Lionel, to take her; but I would rather you had remained some time longer under her fostering care, instead of commencing the rough life you will have to lead with me. But she has done you justice. You are better fitted morally and physically for what you may have to go through, than I might have ventured to hope. You will be of great service to me, as I can rely on you in a way I cannot even on Umgolo, or certainly on the rest of our Kaffir and Hottentot servants."
"Thank you, uncle, for your good opinion of me," answered Lionel, who had learnt to call his kind protectress, Mrs Jansen, by the name of aunt, and very naturally in consequence addressed her brother, the hunter, as uncle. "I will do my best to show my gratitude to you, and to Aunt Susannah for all her kindness to me. Though I shall never see her again, I cannot help fancying that she will know what I am about. It was a sad day when she was taken from us so suddenly, and I thought I should have broken my heart if you had not arrived. I was so happy with her, that I never wished to be away, though I used to like going out with Mangaleesu, and shooting with the little fowling-piece you gave me, as long as he lived in the neighbourhood. Did you know that a short time ago he and his wife disappeared without saying where they were going? When I last went to see them, what was my dismay to find their hut burnt to the ground! At first I was afraid that they had been murdered; but Denis Maloney, who accompanied me the next morning, and I could discover no remains of anything belonging to them, and he is of opinion that they had some reason for going off. If they hadn't been in a desperate hurry, they would, I am sure, have come to bid us good-bye."
"I have no doubt that Mangaleesu was summoned by a superior chief to whom he owes allegiance for some special object--probably to take part in an attack on another chief. We shall hear about it when we get into Zululand," replied Hendricks. "You were speaking just now of young Maloney. I am glad to hear so good an account of him; he appears to have acted the part of a true friend to you."
"Indeed he has, and I am much obliged to him. It was fortunate for me that he remained in Maritzburg so long, for he taught me a great many of the things I know. Still he declares that he hates books, and would a hundred times rather be shooting elephants and lions than studying. Poor fellow! he has become very anxious about his father. Still he does not give him up, though everybody else in the town thinks he is dead."
"I do not agree with them, though I confess that I am very anxious about my old friend," answered Hendricks; "I still hope that he pushed, as I know he intended doing, far away to the northward, and that though he may probably have got into difficulties, he has escaped with his life. I think it very likely, however, that he has lost his waggon and servants, or he would have managed to communicate with me during my last long trip. I made every possible inquiry, and sent out messengers in all directions; but could hear nothing of him. It is strange that he should have so totally disappeared, without leaving any trace to show the direction he took. I am inclined to believe that he was entrapped by some treacherous chief or by some rebel boers who have often vowed that they would allow no Englishman to come near the territory they claim."
While Hendricks was speaking, Denis Maloney, now a well-grown lad, rode up. He had previously been forming one of a party of three following the waggon at a little distance. All traces of sickness had disappeared, his muscles were well knit, and his countenance bronzed by the heat of the sun to which he had been exposed during a trading expedition dispatched by his uncle into Zululand. He had gone in the capacity of clerk or accountant to the leader of the expedition, his duties being similar to those of a supercargo on board ship. He had acquitted himself in the most satisfactory manner, and had thus gained experience both as a hunter and a trader. His uncle was so much pleased that he promised before long to fit him out with a waggon and team on his own account, that he might try his fortune in trading, chiefly for cattle, among the Zulus.
"Mr Crawford and young Broderick asked me to come on and inquire when we are likely to outspan, for they complain that they are both hungry and tired, as they are not well accustomed to our style of travelling," he said, addressing their leader.
"Tell them we shall camp in an hour or in less time perhaps; and if they can't hold out, do you get some biscuits from a box in the hinder part of the waggon," answered Hendricks.
Young Lionel was inclined to feel something like contempt for those so much older than himself, who were not ashamed to acknowledge that they were hungry and tired after travelling somewhat under twenty miles in a broiling sun. Denis, who had, it must be confessed, spoken one word for them and two for himself, soon got out the biscuits, and keeping a portion, distributed the rest between his two companions. One of them, Percy Broderick, was a lad about his own age, fair and good-looking, and well-grown, not having the appearance, however, of a person particularly well fitted for a life in the wilderness. The other, Harry Crawford, though much older, looked at the first glance still less fitted for roughing it. Not that he wanted breadth of shoulders, strong muscles, or stout limbs; but that his countenance betokened intellect and refinement, rather than firmness, resolution, and the other qualities requisite for a person who has to go through the hardships of a settler's existence.
"Faith! I wonder what brought you two fellows out here, and I doubt much whether you'll like the country now you have come. It's a mighty fine one, there's no doubt about that, for those who have a fancy for a wild life, and shooting rhinoceroses and buffaloes, not to speak of elephants and lions," exclaimed Denis. He had as yet had but little conversation with his fellow-travellers, they having only that morning joined the waggon party from a farm at which they had been staying. All Denis knew was that they had come out together from England, and were now bound in the same direction.
"As to that, I was born in the colony, and have only come back to my native land," answered Percy. "Haven't you heard of my father, Captain Broderick, who is settled at Falls Farm on the borders of the Transvaal country? I suppose I can endure what my father and mother, and my brothers and sisters have to go through, and I shall soon get accustomed to it. I can't say I know much about it at present, as I was sent to school in the old country, when I was a very little chap under the charge of an uncle, with whom I spent my holidays, and who looked after me all the time I was in England; but he died some months ago, and as my father could not send money to pay for my schooling, I was shipped off to return home, and Mr Piatt, the owner of the Cloof Farm, where we were staying, was good enough to ask your friend Mr Hendricks to let us accompany him as far as we were going, as he said that he expected to pass close to my father's house."
"You are very fortunate to find so good a man to travel with," said Denis. "He is the most noted hunter in the whole colony, and a capital fellow besides."
"I was much pleased with him," remarked Crawford, "and should greatly like to accompany him throughout the whole of the expedition; but as I came out to farm, I must lose no time in endeavouring to learn. Half a year ago I had no notion of doing such a thing. I was at Oxford, intending to become a barrister; but the small fortune I expected to inherit disappeared, and as it might be several years before I could obtain a brief, I thought the wisest thing I could do with the remainder of my possessions was to come out to this country, of which I had heard glowing accounts. I cannot say exactly that I am disappointed; but were I to purchase a farm, and attempt to commence operations by myself, I should feel remarkably like a fish out of water, for I confess I have not the slightest idea what I should do."
"Faith! there are a good many young gentlemen like you, Mr Crawford," observed Denis, "only they haven't the wisdom to keep their money in a bank while they are learning something about the business they wish to engage in. In most instances they are so eager to begin, that they buy land, and very soon find all their money gone, long before their crops have grown, or what they have laid out in other ways has given them any return. When I was in the office of my uncle, Mr Walker, in Maritzburg, numbers of young gentlemen used to come and ask for employment, just for their food and lodging. Those who have friends at home who can pay their passage money return, others have to turn their hands to digging and delving, or road making, though a few occasionally get to the surface. Now if they, as I was saying, had kept their money, and begun by working on a farm, either for wages or even for nothing, they would have been able in time to set up for themselves."
"As to that, I must not boast too much of my wisdom," answered Crawford. "My capital hasn't yet been sent out to the colony, so that I could not invest it even if I wished to do so. Percy assures me that I shall receive a warm welcome from his family, and that I may besides have an opportunity of seeing how farming operations are carried on. He tells me also that I shall obtain an easy introduction to every description of wild beast: elephants, rhinoceroses, lions, gnus, black and brindled, blessbocs, hartebeests, reitbocs, not to speak of others of smaller size, and birds innumerable."
"Faith! you'll not find any want of them, but you'll remember it's not always pleasant to meet a lion or a black rhinoceros in a morning's ramble, and you will have reason to be thankful if you don't, for I can assure you that they're rather troublesome acquaintances. I came to that opinion not many years ago, when I had to spend some hours up a tree, waiting for my breakfast, while a couple of lions and their cubs were watching below, eager to breakfast off me;" and Denis told, with much _naivete_, his adventure on his first journey with his father.
Besides the white persons who have been mentioned, the waggon party consisted of three Hottentots, whose duty was to drive and attend especially to the cattle; and six Kaffir hunters, among whom Umgolo was the chief. Hendricks intended to obtain others who had before served under him on the way. There were three spare horses, which followed the waggon, fastened by riems or thongs of hide, the general substitute for rope in the colony. Five dogs may also be counted as forming part of the expedition, rejoicing in the names of Spout, Growl, Pincher, Fangs, and Raff. The latter belonged to Denis, who so called the animal after the name of a countryman, Paddy Rafferty, who had given it to him. The "baste," he boasted, did credit to the "ould counthry:" for although no beauty, he was the cleverest and bravest of all the dogs, and much attached to him.
Each of the fourteen oxen had a Dutch name, to which it answered, well knowing when the driver shouted out, that if it did not exert itself, it would presently feel the effects of his long whip on its hide.
Travelling in Africa needs the exercise of a large amount of patience. Even when the ground is level, the huge machine moves leisurely along; but when rough hills have to be surmounted, the progress is still slower.
The "trek," as the day's journey is called, had been far from a pleasant one. A dry scorching wind blew in the faces of the travellers, while the country presented a vast stony plain, burned and arid, with here and there a few small round hills breaking the line of the horizon. Harry Crawford and Percy looked about them with dismay.
"I hope the country ahead is not all to be like this," said the former.
"No fear of that," answered Denis. "We shall have, to be sure, a few stony mountains to climb over, and now and then, in parts, it's hard to find a tree, but that's only here and there; for there are forests, and grassy meadows, and streams, and beautiful valleys, such as are to be found in no other part of the world, or, at all events, none superior to them, in my opinion. Look out there ahead, you'll see, just rising above the plain, what I daresay you took to be a cloud, but it is a range of mountains; when we get over them, we shall have fine scenery enough to satisfy you. We shall then meet also with what you fellows from the old country call adventures, but which we out here are so accustomed to that we do not think much about them."
Dreary as was the scenery in other respects, it was enlivened by numberless gorgeous flowers, the beauty of which Harry Crawford was well able to appreciate, although ignorant of the names of most of them.
"We should value these in our hot-houses at home," he said.
"For my part I'd sooner have plenty of green grass," observed Denis, "and so would the cattle, I've a notion. To say the truth, I've seen so many of these things that I no longer pay any attention to them, although they are mighty fine, I'll acknowledge, now that I come to examine them more particularly."
Percy, who admired the flowers as much as his friend did, every now and then got off his horse to pick some of them, until he had collected a large bouquet, greatly to the amusement of Denis.
"Take care, my boy, not to catch hold of the tail of a puff adder," he exclaimed, as Percy again dismounted. "They are pretty numerous hereabouts, and you may chance to put your hand close to one of their holes while you are picking those flowers."
Percy, without making any remark, threw himself into his saddle again, satisfied with the collection he had already made.
As they advanced the country improved. They passed the ruins of several farms, the owners of which had "trekked" to the Transvaal republic.
Hour after hour the waggon proceeded on through the same monotonous style of country, until towards evening, no other more convenient spot being found, a halt was called near one of the mounds which have been described, and close by which ran a small "spruit," or stream, affording the weary oxen sufficient water to quench their thirst. As no trees or shrubs grew near, a quantity of dry dung was collected to serve as fuel. This, when once lighted, threw out an intense heat, quickly boiling all the pots placed over it; but as it produced little or no flame, it was not so well calculated to serve as a watch fire to scare away wild beasts as one formed of wood. It was necessary, therefore, to keep a stricter watch than usual at night, lest a lion might visit the camp with the intention of making a feast off one of the oxen or horses.
While the party were seated at supper, Denis amused himself by telling all sorts of terrible tales of the way a lion had occasionally leapt into a camp and carried off a man before his companions had time to rescue him.
"Come, Denis, don't be trying to frighten our young friends with your wonderful stories, and to make them wish that they were out of the country again," said Hendricks. "The lion is not so very formidable a beast, after all. I've never been troubled by one in my camp, although I have not unfrequently had half a dozen roaring round it at night; but then I have always kept up a good fire, and had men on the watch, ready to shoot the brutes, should they come near; so their instinct, I fancy, has told them that it would be prudent to keep at a distance."
The horses had been knee-haltered, the usual way of securing them from straying, and had been turned out with the cattle to pick up as much sustenance as they could obtain from the withered grass, with one of the Hottentot boys, old Dos, to watch them. The Hottentots, like postilions, are always boys to the end of their days. Dos, though near sixty, was so small and wiry, that at a little distance he might have been mistaken for a boy.
As Hendricks intended to start at daylight, he ordered all hands to lie down at an early hour, and obtain as much rest as they could, with the hard ground for their beds, and the starry heavens overhead. A piece of canvas let down from the side of the waggon served somewhat to screen the young Englishmen--who were supposed to be more luxuriously inclined than the rest of the party--from the chilly night air, while the mound also contributed to protect the camp.
Denis and Lionel did not disdain to creep in beside them, while Hendricks occupied his usual berth inside his waggon. In a few minutes all voices were hushed, but though Crawford and Percy did not speak, the strangeness of the scene prevented them from going to sleep. Some time had passed, and they were at length beginning to get a little drowsy, when they were startled by a terrific roar, which seemed to come almost from above them. Starting up, and knocking their heads against the bottom of the waggon as they did so, in a very unpleasant fashion, they scrambled out from their sleeping-place, their impulse being to meet the danger, whatever it might be, on their feet, and to look about them. They were followed by Denis and Lionel, who had naturally been awakened by the roaring.
"What is it? Where is it?" asked Percy Broderick.
"Look there," answered Denis, pointing to the top of the mound, where, in the dim light, the outlines could be seen clearly defined against the sky, of two lions. The monsters, placing their heads to the ground, again sent forth a roar, which sounded fearfully loud in the silent night air. The hideous uproar they made at length aroused Hendricks, who, turning out of his berth, seized his gun, ever ready at hand, and stepped a few paces from the camp towards them. The rest of the men in camp had sprung to their feet, and held their rifles ready for instant action, while the dogs, rushing to the front, continued barking in varied tones, though they showed no inclination to venture beyond the protection of their masters. The lions, however, did not advance, but continued standing in the position in which they had at first been seen, contenting themselves with uttering an occasional roar, as if to terrify the occupants before making a final rush into their midst. The hunters, however, were too well accustomed to encounters with lions to be alarmed, let them roar ever so loudly; still a fight with a couple at night would not be free of danger, should either of them be wounded and not killed outright. It would indeed be no easy matter to bring them down at the distance they were off.
"We must send these brutes away, or they'll give us no time for sleep," said Hendricks, and he summoned Umgolo and another experienced hunter to his side. Ordering the other men to keep back the dogs, he slowly advanced with his two companions towards the foot of the mound. Denis and Lionel, who was well able to use the small rifle his friend had procured for him, with Percy and Crawford, kept behind as a reserve, but Hendricks had ordered them on no account to fire, unless by chance the lions should break through and come down upon them.
Slowly the hunters advanced up the mound: the lions, however, not appearing to have noticed them, continued roaring as loudly as before, till suddenly they seemed to become aware that enemies were at hand, when, instead of springing boldly forward, Percy and his companions, to their astonishment, saw them retiring as cowardly dogs are apt to do after barking, then finally turning round, they trotted off until they were lost to sight at the other side of the mound.
"The brutes often prove poltroons, if courageously met, and so these have shown themselves," exclaimed Denis. "We shall not be troubled again to-night by their sweet voices, though we may hear them in the distance growling and muttering over their disappointment."
In a short time the camp was again quiet, and Denis and Lionel, accustomed to such adventures, quickly went to sleep, but Percy and Crawford could not, as before, close their eyes. Every now and then, as they listened, they heard a low muttering sound coming from a distance.
"What can that curious noise be?" asked Crawford. "I should fancy it was made by deer; I have heard something like it in England."
"I don't fancy any deer would remain in the neighbourhood with a couple of hungry lions roaming about," answered Percy. "Perhaps it is made by monkeys. I'll ask Denis. He was awake a few minutes ago. I say, Denis, what creatures are making those curious sounds? Just listen for a minute." Denis was asleep, but on hearing himself called, awoke in an instant, fancying that something was the matter.
"What curious sounds?" he asked. "Sure I only hear a couple of lions muttering away as the beasts have a fancy for doing at night when they want their suppers, and haven't yet found anything to eat. There now go to sleep, and don't be bothering a fellow by waking him out of his first nap; you'll soon get accustomed to stranger noises than those." And Denis covered his head up again with his blanket.
The rest of the night passed quietly by, but at early dawn there was a great hubbub among the Hottentots and Kaffirs. The horses had disappeared; either the lions had put them to flight in spite of their being knee-haltered, or they had gone in search of greener pastures. Old Dos had not seen them go. He had been herding the cattle, and had taken little note of them, thinking that they could take care of themselves. The consequence was, he and another Hottentot boy, Tan, were sent off in search of them as soon as daylight had increased sufficiently to enable their spoor to be seen. The party had therefore to remain encamped until they were brought back.
"I should have preferred more picturesque scenery to spend the day in. I wonder our leader takes the matter so coolly," observed Crawford.
"It's just this, that he's accustomed to it," answered Denis. "A man who travels in this country must have a vast amount of patience. He must not value time as you do in the old country."
Hendricks, however, did not let his people remain idle. They were employed in repairing or strengthening the harness, cutting thongs, collecting fuel, and doing other odd jobs, while he and Umgolo went out with their guns in search of a pallah or other game. Crawford and his younger companions amused themselves in camp, for the heat was too great to enjoy exercise. Before noon the horses were brought back, and the hunters returning with a springboc, no time was lost in inspanning, and the waggon proceeded on at a faster pace than usual, to make up for lost time. A drift or stream was forded, the waggon sticking as it reached the opposite bank, and much more time was lost in dragging it up, as the oxen obstinately refused to pull all together. In vain the Hottentot boys rushed in among them, endeavouring by soft blandishments to induce them to move. The Kaffirs swore in strange-sounding tones, and Denis flew here and there, poking one, lashing another, hauling at the head of a third, his example being followed by the other Englishmen. Their leader rode forward, merely observing-- "You must make haste, boys, for we have a worse bit than this to cross, and cross it we must, before we outspan for the night."
Scarcely had he disappeared in the distance than the oxen, suddenly pulling together, hauled the waggon out. Denis uttered a loud shout of triumph, and away it went rumbling after them.
The promise of their leader was soon fulfilled. After moving on for three miles or so, the foot of a hill was reached. The driver knowing what was before him urged on the oxen, hoping that by pulling together as they were then doing, he might urge the waggon up without a stop. For the first two-thirds of the way they did very well, but at last coming to a steep pitch, suddenly the whole span stopped, and refused to budge an inch farther. Frantically the driver lashed and lashed, and cracked his whip, the reports resounding like a sharp fire of musketry amid the hills. It was of no avail, and had not two of the men rushed up with two huge masses of rock, which they placed behind the wheels, the waggon would have gone backwards, and dragged the animals after it to the bottom of the hill. In vain the driver shouted and yelled; forward they would not go; but began twisting and turning round in their yokes, some facing one way, some another; some dropping down on their knees, others rolling over with the risk of being strangled by the riems which secured them to the yoke. To Crawford's eye they appeared in a state of confusion, from which it would be impossible to extricate them. The Hottentots shouted, the driver leapt from his box, and with the other boys rushed here and there, uttering yells, shouts, and execrations while they plied their tough waggon whips with a vehemence which brought blood at every stroke from the backs of the obstinate brutes. Now they seized the animals' tails, twisting them round and round, some actually seizing them with their teeth, while they endeavoured to get them back into line, all the time shouting "Juk! juk!" to make them start, or "Om! om!" whenever they wanted them to turn round, generally at the same time hitting them on their noses with the butt ends of their whips. Crawford and Percy could do nothing, but Denis and Lionel exerted themselves fearlessly. At last old Dos, dragging at the leading oxen with a riem, the whole span "trekked" at the same moment, and in a few moments the waggon was again moving forward at a slow pace.
"All our difficulties are not over yet," observed Hendricks to Crawford, as they were walking ahead, leading their horses. "See, there's an ugly spot yonder, which it will require all the skill of old Dos to surmount. I'll leave the drivers, however, to their own resources. If I interfered, they would simply follow my directions, throwing the responsibility upon me, and take no further trouble about the matter. If they get into a fix, I try and get them out of it."
The ugly spot was reached. The path was sufficiently broad for the waggon to pass, but it sloped down to the edge of a steep precipice, not however quite perpendicular, as the tops of tall trees could be seen rising out of its side, but sufficiently steep to cause a waggon to turn over and over, and of a depth which would ensure its being crushed or smashed to fragments when it reached the bottom. The Hottentots gazed at it with uneasy glances. They first examined the harness, to see that all was secure, they then fastened four riems of stout buffalo hide to the side of the waggon opposite to the precipice. The whole of the party were next summoned to lay hold of the other ends of the riems, and the driver fixing himself on his box with his whip ready for action, Dos went ahead, and the waggon started. The ground was of clay, excessively slippery, and the party holding on to the riems and running alongside the waggon, found it no easy matter to keep their feet. Every moment it appeared that the waggon must slip down the steep incline. Lionel and Denis worked as hard as any one, although their united weight did not do much to keep back the heavy vehicle. All the party were slipping, hauling, scrambling along, shouting at the top of their voices, now and then one of them coming down in the mud, but still holding on to the riems. The fear was that the oxen would come to a standstill. So long as they kept moving, the danger was not so great; but there appeared every probability, should the waggon once fetch way, that not only it and the oxen, but the whole party, would be dragged over the precipice. Hendricks, assisted by Crawford, had taken charge of the horses, and rode on ahead, too well accustomed to similar adventures to feel especially anxious about the matter.
"The waggon will get over it," he remarked; "if it does not, it will be provoking; but I always make up my mind for an occasional accident, although on the present occasion I should regret it very much, as it would delay the search for my friend Maloney: for in spite of what others think, I have hopes that he is still alive."
"Denis thinks so too, and frequently alludes to the subject. He could not be as merry as he is if he believed that his father was really lost," remarked Crawford.
Meantime old Dos and the other Hottentots were shouting and shrieking in shrill tones, the Kaffirs roaring in deeper bass, while Denis, Percy, and Lionel were halloing and laughing as they tugged away at the thongs. The oxen, encouraged by the voices of their drivers, were doing their part. The difficult spot, which the Dutch settlers called a squint path, was passed, and the waggon gained the top of the height, when at some distance a broad river was seen flowing to the southward.
"There is the Tugela; we must cross that to-morrow morning, to get into Zululand," said Hendricks to Crawford. "To-night we must encamp midway between it and the foot of the hill."
The waggon at once began its descent, as there was but little time to spare before darkness came on. The riems were now secured to the hinder part to prevent its slipping down too rapidly in the steeper places. The scenery from the top of the hill was wild and picturesque. Beyond the river lay several cloofs or valleys, containing numerous fine timber trees, and rich in the variety of their foliage and gorgeous flowers. A carpet of green clothed the side and foot of the berg, as well as the borders of the broad river, although the intermediate space was dry and parched by the summer heat.
The waggon reached the bottom of the mountain in safety, and soon afterwards the travellers camped by the side of a small stream flowing down from the berg they had crossed, a thick wood near at hand affording them abundance of fuel.
While the camp was being formed, Hendricks and Umgolo, according to their usual custom, hastened out with their guns, and each before long returned with a klipspringer, which were forthwith cut up and prepared for supper. The abundance of good meat restored the spirits of the Kaffirs and Hottentots, which the toils of the day had somewhat depressed. The night passed without any unusual incident. Lions might have been heard roaring or muttering in the distance, and occasionally the camp was surrounded by musically-inclined jackals or hyenas, but the brutes did not venture near enough to disturb the slumbers of the travellers, and at daylight every one was on foot ready to commence the trek which was to carry them into Zululand.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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5
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CROSSING THE TUGELA.
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The bank of the river was reached. The stream was broad and rapid. Crawford and Percy looked at it with dismay.
"By what means are we to get across?" exclaimed the former.
"I'm sure I can't tell," said Percy. "There's not a ford here, at all events."
"We'll soon show you," said Denis.
The oxen were outspanned, and while the Hottentots began unloading the waggon, the Kaffirs, headed by their leader, went along the river, and cut down a number of poles of a soft buoyant wood. These they immediately began to form into a couple of rafts. The waggon being unloaded, was next rapidly taken to pieces, and the wheels lashed together, while the upper sides and pole being removed, the rest of the vehicle formed a strong and substantial raft. Long poles and paddles having been procured, a portion of the goods were placed on it and the other rafts. Four of the Kaffirs then stepped on the smallest two, having long poles and two paddles, and commenced the passage, shouting loudly as they did so, the paddlers splashing the water.
"What do they make all that noise for?" asked Crawford.
"Sure to frighten away the crocodiles," answered Denis. "The beasts would otherwise be running their snouts against the raft, wanting to see what it is, or they would be catching hold of the horses or oxen as they swim across."
The first raft having reached the opposite bank in safety, the passage of the waggon, of which Hendricks himself took charge, was commenced. This, being heavier, required a larger crew, but even then it was some time in getting across. The cargo from the first raft being landed, it returned for a further freight, bringing back some of the men who had crossed in the waggon, while the rest, under the direction of Hendricks, began putting the vehicle together. The second raft began to cross, the people in charge of it shouting and shrieking as before. All this time the Hottentots had remained with the oxen and horses, as they were to cross last, while Crawford and Percy, with Denis and Lionel, employed themselves in loading the rafts. It had been arranged that they should cross on the smallest raft after the cattle had swam over.
While they were thus employed, three of the horses, whose legs had been left free, discovering that they would have to cross the river, and apparently not liking the undertaking, took it into their heads to gallop off. When the Hottentots ran after them, the cattle began to scatter in a way which threatened a general stampede; they were therefore obliged to return in order to keep the animals together, "This won't do!" cried Denis. "Come along, Lionel; we must manage to catch the brutes. If we don't look sharp, they will be away back to Maritzburg."
Percy, seeing them start off, also followed. While Denis went on one side, Lionel took the other, accompanied by the young Englishman. Fortunately the horses stopped to graze at a tempting spot of grass which they found on their way. This, after a long run, enabled the lads to get to the south of them. They then crept up slowly, and Denis, who was the most active of the party, caught one which had a long halter trailing from its head. Instead of hauling at it, he allowed the horse to continue feeding until his two companions had seized the others. They were, however, at this time, at a considerable distance from the river, and when they got back they found the remaining horses and oxen swimming over, with the Hottentots and several Kaffirs holding on to their tails, shouting, shrieking, and splashing the water, to keep the crocodiles at a distance.
"I vote we cross on horseback," said Denis. "It will be half an hour or more before the raft can come for us, and I'm getting desperately hungry. We can get over just as easily as those Kaffir fellows. We can either sit on the horses' backs, or hold on to their tails, while they tow us over. See, that's how the Kaffirs are crossing."
"I'm ready, at all events," said Lionel. "I think I'll ride my horse."
"Mind if you do, give him his head, and don't on any account pull at the halter," said Denis. "What way are you going to cross, Percy?"
Percy did not quite like the undertaking, not being accustomed to this sort of thing. But he was ashamed to refuse; at the same time, being an excellent swimmer, he was not afraid of the water, but more apprehensive of crocodiles, which he thought after the noise had ceased might come swimming up to the spot. At last, however, after seeing Denis and Lionel mount, they having secured their outer clothing to the heads of their horses, he imitated their example, and all three plunged into the river together, the horses now, with riders on their backs, taking to the water willingly enough. Denis led the way, keeping on the left or up stream. Percy followed closely a little farther down. Lionel was on his right. For some distance the river was sufficiently shallow for the horses to wade, with the water only half-way up their backs. Presently Denis's horse began to swim.
"I'll try the Kaffir fashion, and I'd advise you to do the same," cried Denis. "Lionel may stick on his horse's back if he likes."
Saying this he slipped off, and grasping hold of his horse's tail, was towed across, while he laughed and shouted to Percy to imitate his example. Neither Percy nor Lionel felt willing to make the attempt.
"Just try it," cried Denis again; "you'll find that your animal swims twice as fast. He can't kick, if he were to try."
They had already got more than half-way over, when, gaining courage, Percy slipped off, and had just got hold of his horse's tail when Lionel, who was, as has been said, a short distance off, uttered a cry of alarm. What was Percy's horror to see his horse frantically beating the water with his fore-legs and making no progress! The dreadful thought instantly occurred to him, that a crocodile had caught hold of the animal's legs, and that the boy, who had acknowledged a short time before that he was not much of a swimmer, would either be seized by the monster, or be drowned. Percy, though quiet and unassuming in his manners, possessed more courage and resolution than he was aware of. Another crocodile might seize him even while swimming behind his horse, but he did not think of that risk. He could not bear to see his young companion perish without an effort to save him.
"Throw yourself off, and swim towards me," he shouted.
Lionel did as he was advised, narrowly escaping being struck by the horse's hoofs. On this, Percy, letting go his horse's tail, and exerting all his strength, swam to meet Lionel, who, although supporting himself in the water, was evidently unable to reach the bank towards which they had been directing their course.
"Keep up, keep up until I come to you," cried Percy, and in a few seconds he was up to Lionel. "Now place your hand on my back, and strike out with the other and your feet at the same time. Don't attempt to clutch me, and we will, please heaven, gain the bank."
Lionel, who kept his presence of mind, did as he was bid. At first Percy was in hopes of regaining his horse's tail, but the animal had got too far ahead, and was now abreast of Denis's horse. Denis himself was too much ahead to see what had happened, and not until Percy's horse had got up to him was he aware of the danger of his two companions. His first impulse was to let go and swim to their assistance, but his next thought was that his powers were insufficient for the task.
As he looked round he saw them both swimming on steadily, while Lionel's unfortunate horse was gradually sinking beneath the surface, although its fore-feet were still striking out in the vain attempt to escape from the jaws of its captor.
"Shall I come and help you?" he shouted out. "I'll try to do so if you want me."
"No, no," answered Percy. "If you are not a good swimmer, you'll do no good. Get to shore as fast as you can, and send off a raft to us, for they don't appear to be looking at us."
Owing to the oxen and horses having just landed, what had occurred had not been perceived from the shore. Crawford, who had gone across on the last raft, was the first to discover that there were only two horses. He then saw the heads of Percy and Lionel close together.
Shouting out to Hendricks, who was at some distance, attending to the waggon, he leaped on to one of the rafts, making signs to the nearest Kaffir, to whom he could not otherwise communicate his wishes, to come off with him.
Fortunately Hendricks heard his voice, and rushing down, sprang on to the raft. In the meantime Percy had a hard matter to keep up. The stream was carrying him and Lionel farther and farther down; and as they got away from the noise made by the cattle, he well knew that the risk of being seized by another crocodile was greatly increased.
Still, though he might easily have gained the shore by himself, nothing would induce him to quit his young charge.
"Hold up, Lionel," he cried. "Kick about with your feet, and shout as loud as you can. Those brutes of crocodiles won't hurt us while they've got the horse to eat. Hurrah! we are seen from the shore; your father and Crawford are on it. They are stopping to pick up Denis, they'll be up to us soon. Now stop and tread water, it will give me a rest. It won't matter if we are floated a little lower down. Shout and shriek as loud as you like."
All this Percy said at the top of his voice, for he did not feel quite as confident as he tried to make Lionel suppose, that another crocodile would not make its appearance. Still his hopes of escape rose as he saw the raft urged on by poles and paddles approaching. He kept looking round him, however, to watch whether one of the dreaded monsters was rising to the surface, not that, should it approach, he would be able to do much to make his escape. Lionel all the time showed not the slightest fear. He did exactly as he was told. Had his skill as a swimmer equalled that of Percy, he would rather have trusted to his own powers, than have hindered his companion from reaching the shore. The raft was still some way off, although they could distinguish the features of their friends. When, as they were treading water, holding each other's hands, Lionel, casting a glance down the stream, exclaimed, "O Percy, can that brute be coming this way?" Percy looked in the same direction, and there sure enough he saw the head of a huge crocodile, with its snout directed towards them.
"We won't stop here to be gobbled up, at all events," cried Percy. "Put your hand as before on my back, and we'll swim towards the raft. We may be in time to get on to it before the creature reaches us."
Though he said this, he felt very faint hopes of success; still, like a brave fellow, he kept up, shouting and splashing as much as he could without stopping on his way. Once he glanced over his shoulder. The dreaded monster came swimming on. In another minute, before they could possibly reach the raft, it would be up to them, though Hendricks and his companions were exerting their utmost strength to urge it on. Just then a man was seen running along the bank. He stopped, and raised a rifle to his shoulder. Percy fancied he could hear the bullet whistle through the air, and the thud as it struck the crocodile's head. The monster sank from sight. Denis and Crawford raised a loud cheer, and in a few seconds they were hauling Percy and Lionel, both almost exhausted, on to the raft.
"Bravo! Percy, you did it well," cried Denis; "and Lionel showed himself to be a brave little chap, or he would not have enabled you to save him as you have done."
Hendricks was less demonstrative, but equally grateful to Percy, although he had no time just then to show his feelings. Placing the two boys on the centre of the raft, he, with the rest who had come on it, had to exert themselves to pull back to the shore, where they found Umgolo waiting to receive them.
"You saved the boys' lives, my friend," said Hendricks, addressing him and taking his hand. "You have rendered me many services; this is not the least of them."
Of course he spoke in Kaffir, and Umgolo replied in the same language, that he was always ready to serve his young master, and that he was very glad to have prevented the crocodile from destroying the two boys. No time was lost in conveying them up to the spot where the camp was to be fixed. Here a fire was immediately lighted to dry their clothes and to cook some provisions, while they sat close to it, wrapped up in blankets. They both speedily recovered, the proof of which was that they ate heartily of the viands prepared for them.
"It's the last time I'll endeavour to cross a river at the tail of a horse, when crocodiles are likely to be swimming about," exclaimed Denis. "I'm mighty glad that you escaped from the brute, Lionel; had you been swimming as I was, it would have had you to a certainty."
The circumstance which had occurred tended greatly to draw the lads together, while Percy rose much in the estimation of all his companions.
"I only wish that I could see a hungry lion rush out on you, or a party of Zulus coming out of a kraal to cut off your head; I'd show both the one and the other what I could do with my rifle," exclaimed Lionel. "I'd fight until I was killed, and should not care if you made your escape."
"Thank you!" answered Percy. "I hope we shall not come to that extremity, but I am very sure that you will do your best to help me out of any danger I happen to get into."
The night passed with the usual chorus from hyenas and jackals. At dawn the travellers were on the move. For a considerable distance few inhabitants were met with, the king not approving of his subjects living near the border, lest, when he should require them, they should get across it, and escape from his paternal care.
After moving on for some days, another steep hill rose before them. They encamped at the foot, that the oxen might the better be able to drag up the waggon in the morning. The ascent was no easy one, and the Hottentots had to exert their arms and voices.
"I hope the descent will not be so difficult, or the waggon may chance to be capsized," said Crawford, as he and Denis were following behind, ready to put big stones under the wheels, and prevent the vehicle slipping back.
"No fear of that, for we shall not have to descend at all," answered Denis.
He was right. On the summit being reached, the travellers found themselves on the edge of a vast plateau, extending to the north and south. Some parts were covered with fine timber trees, others with scattered mimosa bushes, and here and there a hillock rose above the plain. Deer of various species were seen bounding along in unrestrained freedom, chiefly small animals; now and then a herd of pallah or koodoo would make their appearance, sorely tempting the hunters to go in chase. Hendricks, however, was anxious to proceed as fast as he could through the country, until he could reach a region where elephants and other more valuable animals abounded.
Although the sun was intensely hot during the day, the air was pure and exhilarating, especially in the early morning. Day after day the party travelled on, occasionally passing near kraals, but Hendricks generally avoided them, unless he wished to do a stroke of trade with the inhabitants. The country as they advanced became wilder and rougher, and game of all sorts abounded, so that after outspanning in the afternoon, the hunters who went out with their guns never failed to bring back an ample supply of meat for the camp. When there was time, and there was more than was required for immediate consumption, the flesh, whether of deer, or quagga, or gnu, was cut up into long strips, and after being slightly salted, was strung up, either outside the waggon, or on a rope fastened from it to a tree, where it quickly dried in the warm air. The meat thus prepared is called beltong, and requires no further cooking to suit the palate of the hunter. It is to be sure somewhat hard, but not bad tasted. Even the flesh of the quagga, which few white men would eat willingly, becomes, when thus prepared, tolerably palatable.
Occasionally it was necessary to give the oxen a rest, when they might regain, on an abundant pasture, their strength, exhausted by the toils they had encountered.
Next time they stopped, Denis, Percy, and Lionel agreed that they would go hunting together, so that they might have all the glory to themselves; for, should they accompany Hendricks and Umgolo, or even Crawford, who had become a good shot and a daring hunter by this time, they would, as Denis observed, "not have a chance of shooting anything."
Two days after this, having arrived at a suitable spot, away from any kraal, where there was an abundance of grass, and a stream of bright water flowing at the bottom of the valley; their leader calling a halt, the oxen were outspanned and the camp formed. As there was sure to be plenty of game in the neighbourhood, the three lads at once made arrangements for their trip. As their steeds had merely followed quietly behind the waggon, they were perfectly fresh, and it was settled that they should ride them. They agreed also to take with them a Kaffir servant, Gozo, who, though not equal to Umgolo, was considered an experienced hunter. Hendricks did not object to the boys accompanying him, though he gave him strict charge to keep them out of harm's way. They turned in early, that they might be off at daybreak, as Hendricks wisely insisted that they should return before nightfall.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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6
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A HUNTING EXPEDITION.
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The three lads, accompanied by old Gozo the Kaffir, set off in high spirits at daylight, expecting to have a magnificent day's hunting. Denis, from having more experience than his companions, took the lead. Lionel, who, though much younger, had spirits enough to carry him through anything, kept up with him; but Percy, although he did his best, being less inured to the heat of the climate, soon began to feel fatigue, and expressed his fears that he should have to turn back.
"Don't say that; come along, come along," cried Denis. "You won't mind the heat or feel tired, directly we get sight of the game. Gozo says that about five miles farther on there's a broad stream, running through a wide valley or rather a plain, and that at the ford to which he will conduct us we shall be certain to meet with large animals, elephant and rhinoceroses, quaggas and pallahs, and other deer."
Percy, thus encouraged, pulled himself together, and tried to forget the heat. They rode on, however, for several miles, without meeting with a living creature. Nothing was to be seen on either hand but wild mountain-sides and arid plains dotted here and there with gigantic ant-hills and occasional groves of tall trees.
At length, having surmounted a low ridge, they came suddenly in sight of a herd of wildebeests or gnus, grazing quietly about a mile from them. Denis was about to dash forward, when Gozo called to him and advised him to make a circuit so as to come upon the herd on the lee side. Turning their horses' heads, therefore, they descended the hill they had just mounted, and keeping under its shelter, made their way northward. They were thus able to get round until they found themselves within a few hundred yards of the herd, in which there could not have been less than sixty or eighty animals. Suddenly, however, the leader of the herd, a fine old fellow with a flowing mane, and a beard descending down his breast, perceived them, and off they dashed at a slashing pace, a cloud of dust marking their course, while the young hunters pursued. Denis led the way, Lionel keeping close after him. Gozo galloped off to the right, intending apparently to get ahead of the herd, and turn them, so as to drive them back and enable the lads with more ease to shoot one or two down. The chase was exciting in the extreme. The wildebeests at first ran well ahead of their pursuers.
"We shall soon be up to them!" cried Denis. "They'll not keep at that pace long together, you'll see."
He was right, for after a run of a couple of miles the animals began to slacken their speed, and at length Gozo was seen far away in the distance, and well ahead, gradually nearing them.
"We'll stop here," cried Denis, as they came to some thick bushes. "We can conceal ourselves, and the wildebeests won't mind the horses, even if they see them."
He and Lionel dismounted, placing their horses behind the bushes, with their reins on the ground, a sign to the well-trained animals that they were not to move from the spot. Percy soon came up, and followed their example. They then knelt down so as to be completely concealed. The herd, now turned by Gozo, came galloping back, not apparently frightened, and in no hurry, for Gozo having accomplished his object, had pulled in his rein so as to allow them to move at a moderate rate. On the animals came, lashing their sides with their flowing tails. Sometimes their leader would break away from the ranks, paw the ground, apparently determined to make a headlong charge, should an enemy appear; then suddenly he would face about and rejoin the herd. Then the whole, which had stopped for a short time, would again dash off in wild confusion, enveloping themselves in a cloud of dust which almost completely hid them from view. The young hunters waited with no little anxiety, lest they should take another direction, but on they came towards the bush, which they were about to pass when Denis whispered to Lionel to fire at the second, while he would take the leader.
"Percy, do you aim at the third; I feel sure you'll hit him in the breast."
Percy could not help smiling, for he felt far from sure of doing anything of the sort, anxious as he was to succeed. The lads held their breath. Denis was the first to fire, and a loud thud told him that his shot had taken effect. Directly afterwards Lionel and Percy pulled their triggers, but with what effect they could not tell, for the herd, frightened by the report, began kicking up the dust, as they scampered off, in a way nearly to conceal them from view. All that could be seen was a confused mass of prancing heels, whisking tails, and occasionally a few heads.
"Hurrah!" cried Denis; "my fellow is down." Not far from them, where the leader had been seen when Denis fired, it now lay struggling on the ground.
Denis reloaded, and another shot quickly put it out of its misery. Whether any of the others were hit could not be ascertained, as they all went scampering off together; but Gozo was seen pursuing them, and the report of his rifle showed that he, at all events, considered himself within range of one of them.
Denis at once set to work to skin the animal. Neither Percy nor Lionel could render him much assistance, and he was very glad when Gozo made his appearance. The Kaffir had shot a wildebeest, he said, but he had come to assist them in disposing of theirs. It was agreed that the parts of the flesh which were worth preserving should be left in the bush, covered up with branches, so as to prevent the hyenas and jackals from getting at it until their return.
It took them some time, and their task accomplished, they sat down to enjoy some of the food they had brought in their holsters. Although they might without shame have returned to camp, satisfied with their morning's sport, they had a wish to secure some larger and more valuable game. Their patient horses stood all the time cropping the leaves and herbage near them; for grass, properly speaking, there was none.
Their lunch over and their thirst quenched with some water which they had brought, although there was none for the horses, they again mounted, and continued in the direction they were before going.
They had applied so frequently to the water bottles, that their stock was soon exhausted; but supposing that they should speedily arrive at the river, they did not trouble themselves much about the matter, until they began to feel the unpleasant sensations of extreme thirst. Percy, less accustomed to the climate than his companions, suffered greatly.
"When shall we reach the river?" he exclaimed at last. "My throat feels like a dust bin. I shall choke if I can't pour some liquid down before long."
"Never fear," answered Denis; "just try not to think about it. I'll ask Gozo how far the river is off. It cannot be more than half a mile now, I should think."
The Kaffir, however, did not give a satisfactory answer. It was some time since he had been in that direction, and it might be farther than he supposed.
"Then the faster we push on the better," cried Denis. "Whollop-ahoo-ahoo! on we go;" but although he whipped his unfortunate steed, the animal refused to move at a quicker pace. All the horses showed signs of suffering. They opened their mouths, turned up their nostrils, and the foam was seen gathering on their lips. They were riding on when, as they were approaching a thicket, a sound, as if a battle was going on between some of the brute creation, reached their ears--roarings, snortings, and bellowings.
"What can produce that tremendous uproar?" cried Percy.
"Gozo says it is a lion belching," answered Lionel; "but there's some other animal, and we must be ready to fire or get out of its way."
They again cautiously rode on.
"A lion! a lion!" cried the Kaffir, and looking over some bushes, they saw in an open space a large buffalo cow engaged in battle with the monarch of the wilds. Not far off lay the body of a buffalo calf, which at once explained to them the cause of the battle. The lion had taken up a position not far from some trees and thick bushes, whose branches were elevated but a short distance from the ground. The buffalo stood with her horns ready to receive her antagonist. Suddenly the lion bounded forward, fixing his powerful claws on the face and neck of the buffalo, when instantly, in spite of his weight, she turned, and rushing at the boughs, in a moment the lion was thrown off, and lay on his back with his claws in the air. Furiously the buffalo charged at him, pounding away with her horns in a manner which made it seem impossible that any life would be left in him. While the buffalo was retreating to make another charge, the lion, managing to roll himself over, recovered his feet. The buffalo received him as before, on her head. He in vain endeavoured to reach her hinder quarters, and once more she bore him into the brushwood. In an instant he was knocked off with a crash which it seemed must have broken every bone in his body; but he was soon again on his feet. This was more than the lion could stand, and, coward as he was at heart, finding himself thus defeated in his object, he took to flight, pursued by the buffalo, who went dashing away after him through the bush.
Gozo immediately dismounted, and stealing forward, dragged the calf into the bush.
"Gozo is determined that the lion shan't benefit, even if he escapes the buffalo's horns," observed Denis. "Let's keep out of the way, and we shall see what will next happen." Presently the buffalo came back, looking about everywhere for her calf; but not observing it, naturally supposed that the lion had carried it off, and consequently away she dashed again in pursuit of the still fugitive king of the wilds.
"The big cowardly cat! I wish that she may overtake him, and give him a pounding which will knock the breath out of his body entirely!" cried Denis.
"What! do you call the lion a cat?" exclaimed Percy.
"To be sure I do. What is he but `Felis leo'? which means the cat lion, as you know, in Latin. He is more cowardly, too, than most cats, for he'll never attack either a man or a beast unless he thinks he has a good chance of coming off the victor. I have not forgotten an unpleasant morning I spent once up a tree, with a couple of lions and their cubs rampaging round me; and if it had not been for my father and Hendricks, I should have been there still, at all events my bones would, for nothing would have induced me to come down and be torn to pieces by the brutes. It was a day or two after Hendricks found you, Lionel, and our friends Mangaleesu and Kalinda made a wonderful escape from their enemies which you have heard of."
"What do you mean by finding Lionel? I thought he was the son of Hendricks," said Percy.
"So I am his adopted son," answered Lionel. "At first Hendricks thought that my parents might be Dutch boers; when Denis however tried to teach me English, I remembered so many English words that he was convinced they were English people; but although he has endeavoured to discover them for my sake rather than for his own, he has never yet succeeded in finding even the slightest clue as to who they could be."
"How very curious!" said Percy. "When I get home to my father and mother, I must tell them all about it. They will be much interested, and I hope, Lionel, that you will come and see them."
"I should like to do so very much, if Hendricks will let me," said Lionel. "But he wants me to accompany him on this expedition, that I may become as great a hunter as he is, and that is just what I should like to be. I am sure, therefore, that he will not allow me to stay with your family longer than the one night we shall outspan at the farm, as we have had so many delays that he is in a hurry to push on."
The conversation was interrupted by a loud crashing of the underwood, and the lion was seen bleeding from numerous wounds, springing on over all impediments, with the buffalo in the distance, still pursuing him.
He took no notice of the party on horseback, except to turn slightly aside as he came near them. He was too far beyond range to enable either Denis or Gozo to hit him. Although the buffalo came much nearer, Denis would not injure the noble brute; but the Kaffir would have tried to kill her, had not he and Lionel shouted out to him not to fire. The lion had not made many bounds forward when he fell. He managed, however, again to get himself on his feet, and was once more going on when the buffalo got up to him, and striking his hinder quarters with her horns, sent him flying, heels over head; then dashing forward, she struck him again and again before he had time to bring his claws into play.
"Hurrah! she's done for him!" cried Denis, as the brave animal was seen butting and then trampling on the carcase of the lion. "We had better let her enjoy her victory without interference; for probably, being in a combative mood, she may run a muck at us, and we shall be under the painful necessity of shooting her."
Just as he was speaking, Lionel shouted-- "Look out! look out!" and the brave buffalo, catching sight of the horses, and probably fancying that they were fresh enemies, came dashing through the underwood towards them. Denis had only just time to throw himself from his horse, Gozo having already dismounted, when the enraged animal was close upon them. Percy galloped off on one side and Lionel on the other. Denis fired, aiming at the buffalo, as did Gozo immediately afterwards, but Denis's bullet flattened against her hard skull, and although Gozo wounded her in the neck, she came on. Denis fully expected to be tossed into the air or trampled to death, when Lionel's horse standing stock still, he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the buffalo, and must have entered her heart, for she at that instant fell so close to Denis, that he narrowly escaped an awkward prong from her horns directed towards him.
"Bravo, Lionel! you did that well, and many thanks to you for it," he exclaimed. "Hendricks will be as delighted to hear of it, as I am that you took so true an aim."
"I am very glad I brought the beast down," said Lionel, "though I would rather she had shown her discretion by keeping clear of us. Poor brute, she deserved a better fate."
Gozo, however, who was influenced by no such feelings, immediately set to work to cut up the buffalo, and to preserve some of the more valuable parts of the meat, but Denis suggested that in consequence of the state of irritation the creature had been in, it could not be wholesome.
The Kaffir, however, laughed at this notion, and declared that it would make no difference. Denis begged that he would be quick about it, as Percy especially was suffering from thirst.
The Kaffir suggested that he should drink some of the blood, but Percy naturally shuddered at the idea, and declared that the very thought of it made him feel less thirsty.
"A proof that you are not dying of thirst," observed Denis. "However, you are perfectly right. The chances are, had you followed Gozo's advice, you would have been made very ill."
The Kaffir having secured a portion of the meat in a tree, and covered it over with part of the hide, some boughs being placed on the top of all, they rode on as fast as their tired horses could go in the direction of the stream. They carried some of the meat, both of the buffalo and wildebeest, with them, but to eat it would have been impossible until they had quenched their thirst.
At last Gozo shouted out, "See, see! there is the water!" and they caught sight below them of a stream glittering in the sun as it wound its way through the broad valley. Their horses appeared to have seen it also, for they moved forward with more alacrity than heretofore. Presently, as they rounded a thicket, up sprang just before them a herd of waterbok.
"Whollop-a-hoo!" cried Denis, his usual hunting cry, and he dashed forward. "Venison will be better than tough wildebeest or heated buffalo meat."
Reining in, as he was close to the animals, he fired, and brought one of them down.
"Hurrah!" cried his companions.
"We must have another!" he exclaimed. "Lionel, see what you can do. Gozo, stop and look after the beast I have shot;" and he rode forward, loading as he went.
Lionel got ahead of him, and also pulling up fired, and stopped the career of another of the herd.
"Capital!" cried Denis. "If we kill nothing else to-day, we shall have done very well."
There was certainly no chance of their catching the rest of the waterbok, which, dashing down to the river, swam across, and were half-way up the opposite bank before the horsemen had reached the brink. A little higher up was a ford, and they might have crossed at once, but neither they nor their horses were inclined to do so without drinking. Their steeds rushing in, soon had their noses in the refreshing liquid. They all three dismounted, although they had to step into the water; but as the bottom was hard, no mud was raised, and they lapped up the liquid in their palms. They were soon joined by Gozo, who had thrown the second waterbok killed by Lionel across his horse. As he had no shoes, and his legs were bare, he walked farther across the ford, and he and his horse followed their example. Presently he shouted out in Kaffir, and Lionel exclaimed-- "He says that he sees a crocodile, and there may be more near. We had better get out of the water as fast as we can, or one of us or a horse may be caught hold of."
Percy, who, although as brave as any fellow, had a great horror of the voracious creatures, quickly led his horse out of the water.
"Come away, come away!" he shouted. "I see one of the brutes on the opposite side eyeing us, and he'll be making a dash in this direction presently, if we don't get on shore."
Lionel and Denis laughed, and deliberately led their unwilling steeds to the shore.
"Tell Gozo to make haste. The crocodile is moving--it is coming towards him. I'm sure it is!" cried Percy.
Gozo, looking round, seemed to think the same, for throwing himself on horseback, he urged on his animal to the bank. He was only just in time, for the crocodile came on rapidly.
"Shout, shout!" cried Denis, and they all shouted together.
He took also still more effectual means of stopping the animal by firing at its head; with what effect he could not tell, except that the creature swerved from its course, and away it went swimming down the stream, probably frightened as much by the shouts as by the tap of the bullet on its skull.
"Now I vote we have some dinner," cried Denis. "We have plenty of food, that's a good thing to be thankful for; but we will be prudent, and not pitch our camp close to the stream, or one of those gentlemen may take a fancy to interrupt us while we enjoy our meal, and make a meal of us."
Matches having been introduced in those days, and there being an abundance of dry wood about, a fire was quickly lighted, a couple of hundred yards or so from the bank, on a stony spot where there was no risk of igniting the herbage. The horses were knee-haltered and turned loose, and the young hunters set themselves diligently to work to cook their venison and warm up some mealy cakes which they had brought in their saddle-bags; a small kettle was put on to boil, and tea was made. Pepper and salt were not wanting, and although they had no milk, they agreed that they could very well dispense with that luxury, especially as they had plenty of sugar.
"Well, this is what I call jolly," cried Percy. "Although my throat now feels as if a flowing stream had run down it, pleasanter than being like a dust bin, I'll trouble you, Denis, for another cup of tea."
They were too hungry to wait until their meat was cooked, so they nibbled their cakes and sipped their tea while waiting, till Denis pronounced the venison fit for the table. It was very juicy, and certainly not overdone. Gozo had in the meantime disposed of a couple of slices before they were well warmed through.
"I say," said Percy, "we must not spend much time here, if we are to get back before dark. I had no idea how fast time had gone by; it is two o'clock already. Fortunately we have more game than we can carry home on our horses, and we need not be ashamed of ourselves."
"I should like first to knock over another wildebeest, or an elephant, if one were to come in our way," said Denis. "The tusks would be of more value than all the meat we have obtained, as I have no doubt Hendricks will have brought in more than we shall."
As he spoke, he leant back to enjoy that rest which a hunter can best appreciate.
"Still I advise that we should not delay," said Percy. "Hendricks told us to get back before dark, and we promised to do so. It would be no valid excuse to say that we were tempted to stop longer than we intended, for the sake of hunting even the most valuable game."
"Your are right," answered Denis. "Just hand me another cup of tea, there's a good fellow. I don't feel I have had quite enough liquid to supply the amount evaporated during the morning."
"That was a curious story you were telling me of yourself, Lionel," observed Percy; "I am more interested than you may suppose. Should you like to find your real father and mother?"
"Indeed, I should," answered Lionel; "for young as I was, I fancy I remember my mother. I have often in my sleep seen her standing by my bedside and watching over me. I was very fond of Aunt Susannah. Still I never looked upon her as my mother. She was very different to the lady I remember."
"Then you think your mother was a lady?" asked Percy.
"I am certain of it," answered Lionel; "and a very charming lady, too. I am as sure of that as I am of my own existence."
While they were speaking, Gozo, who had been looking about him, cried out in a low voice, pointing to the river, "See, see!"
As they sat up, they observed a troop of elephants approaching the ford from the opposite side.
"We must try and get a shot at one of those fellows," exclaimed Denis, looking round to ascertain where the horses were feeding. Satisfied that they were well away from the track the elephants were likely to take, he began creeping along towards some bushes close to the river, at no great distance from the ford.
"The young master knows what he is about," whispered Gozo to Lionel, as they followed behind Percy, who had kept close to Denis.
They reached the bush without the elephants having observed them. The animals came on, and arranged themselves along the bank, some going into the ford, while others kept on dry ground, near enough to dip their trunks into the water. Having satisfied their thirst, they commenced squirting the water over their backs, so as to give themselves a pleasant shower bath that hot day, appearing to be in no hurry to proceed. The party in ambush began to fear that they would move back the way they had come, and that there would be no chance of getting a shot at them.
"The time is passing, and we ought to be on our way to camp," whispered Percy. "Would it not be better to give up the chance of killing an elephant to-day? We could not carry home the tusks, and it would be a long distance to send for them."
"Hendricks won't mind that. We might carry them between us part of the way, and they are too valuable to be lost," answered Denis; "but see, what is that fellow about?"
He pointed to one of the elephants who had gone farther into the ford than the rest. He was slowly moving across; now he stopped and looked back at his companions, then he went on again: from the way he lifted his legs it was evident that he was dragging something attached to one of them. Another elephant followed the first, the largest in the herd. As the former got into the more shallow water, near the bank where the young hunters lay concealed, what was their astonishment to perceive that he had a huge crocodile clinging to his leg, just below the knee! The saurian seemed to have fixed its sharp teeth so securely in the tough skin of the elephant that it could not withdraw them. At all events, it made no attempt to get free. Perhaps it held on under the idea that it would be able to bring the elephant to the ground and feast off its body. If so, it was greatly mistaken. The elephant seemed in no way alarmed, but went on dragging the creature along with it. When it reached the bank, it uttered a peculiar cry and stood still. On this the largest elephant came hurrying up, and winding his trunk round the body of the crocodile, which he pressed against his tusks--he dragged it by main force from the leg of his companion, then lifting it in the air, walked with stately pace--the creature vainly struggling to free itself--till he reached a stiff forked, thorny tree of moderate height, and without more ado, raising the crocodile as high as he could, he brought its body down with a tremendous crash on the pointed branches, where he left it impaled, struggling, but ineffectually, to free itself. Its escape was as hopeless as a poor cockchafer pinned by a cruel boy to a board.
The elephants regarded its struggles with evident satisfaction. They were little aware of the danger they themselves were in from the bullets of the hunters. The leader at length gave vent to a triumphant trumpeting, and moved on, followed by his companions, at a leisurely pace; but instead of coming near the bush where the hunters lay concealed, they turned in the opposite direction. To fire would have been utterly useless. The tough hide of an elephant will turn a bullet, unless discharged at a short distance, and even then it can only penetrate at certain parts with any chance of killing. The hunters waited still hoping that one of the hindermost elephants might turn aside and come nearer to them. But the last went by, following the footsteps of the leader, and all chance of getting a shot was over, unless they were to start up, and by going ahead of the herd, have time to conceal themselves in another ambush until the animals came past them.
Denis wanted to do this, but Percy reminded him that they were already late, and that after all they might miss the elephants.
"I suppose you are right," answered Denis, reluctantly; "but I vote, before we start, that we take another slice of venison. I have scarcely had enough, and it may be a long time before we get any food in these wild regions. It is always better to eat when we can, in case we should have nothing to put into our mouths later. You will see that Gozo follows my principle."
The fire had kept burning, and probably caused the elephants to turn aside away from it. As there was no necessity for further concealment, the party returned to their camp. Gozo proved that Denis was right, by cutting off some huge slices, which in spite of the quantity he had before eaten, he quickly stowed away in his inside. The horses were feeding at no great distance off, so that they could keep watch over them. They had hitherto been perfectly quiet, notwithstanding the proximity of the elephants, cropping such tufts of grass as they could find here and there, or the tender shoots of trees. Suddenly they began to move about uneasily. First one lifted up its head and gazed around, then another and another did the same Gozo observing them looked anxious and said something to Denis. At that instant, before they could rise to their feet, a dozen Zulus, who had crept up unperceived, suddenly sprang up as if from the ground, holding their assegais poised in their hands, and completely surrounded them.
Lionel, who was rapid in all his movements, lifted his rifle to fire.
"Don't do that!" cried Denis, in time to stop him; "it would be the signal to them to kill us. We are in for it, and must try to make friends with them."
Percy, who was looking towards the horses, cried out,--"They have got hold of them all."
Several Zulus had in the meantime caught the animals, and were now leading them up towards the camp.
It was evident that an attempt to escape would be useless, so the young hunters sat still, as did Gozo, who looked very much astonished, not being able to make out why the Zulus had captured them. They were fierce-looking fellows, some of them being apparently chiefs, for they wore kilts of monkey or cat skins round their waists. Their breasts and backs were covered with ox-tails, while their heads were adorned with caps of monkey skins, in which were stuck tall plumes composed of ostrich and crane feathers. The rest of the men had very little clothing beyond a small kilt of skins round their waists. They all carried shields on their arms and a bundle of assegais in their hands. Denis was the first to recover from his astonishment, and turning toward one who appeared to be their leader, he asked in as quiet a tone as he could command-- "Why have you thus come suddenly upon us, while we were enjoying our repast? Such is not the way the Zulus behave towards their friends the English."
"We knew not whether you were English or boers, and we found you hunting in our territory," answered the chief.
"The English have never been prevented from hunting wherever they choose throughout Zululand," answered Denis.
"That matters not at present," said the chief. "You are our prisoners; you must accompany us to our king, and beware that you make no resistance or attempt to escape."
Denis interpreted what the chief said to Percy, who was naturally anxious to know the result of the conversation.
"We must put the best face we can on the matter," he added, "and I only hope that they'll let us keep our guns."
This seemed very doubtful, for from their looks the Zulus certainly did not regard their prisoners with any affectionate feeling. Lionel had not hitherto spoken, and as they found that Percy was unacquainted with their language, they supposed that he was so likewise.
"Don't speak to them, Lionel," said Denis. "I'll act as interpreter, and then you may be able to find out why they have taken us prisoners, and what they intend to do to us."
"It will be wise to do so," answered Lionel; "and if I am able to get away, I will let Uncle Hendricks know what has happened, and he will very soon be down upon these gentlemen, and rescue you."
"A good idea, and I hope that you may succeed," said Denis. "In the meantime the best thing we can do is to pretend to be as much at our ease as possible. I don't think the fellows intend to kill us, or to do us any harm."
"They look fierce enough," said Percy. "I only hope, Lionel, that you'll be able to carry out your plan; but you must run no unnecessary risk. I should think that Hendricks is sure to search for us, when he finds that we do not return; whereas, should they find you trying to run away, they might, in very wantonness, send an assegai through you."
"If I try to run, it will be at night, when there will be very little chance of being discovered," answered Lionel; "I hear the men saying that they are about to carry us off. Should we be separated, we must keep up our courage, remember that."
As he spoke, two Kaffirs seized each of the lads somewhat roughly by the arms, to make them get up, and at the same time snatched their rifles out of their hands. This done, the chiefs, squatting down, appropriated the remainder of the venison, which they quickly ate up, while their followers stood holding their prisoners at a little distance. The chiefs then rising, ordered the men who had charge of the horses to bring them up, and mounting, rode forward, while the rest of the party, holding fast the young Englishmen, followed behind.
They first ascended the hill, down which Denis and his companions had come, but they soon altered their course, and proceeded first to the south, and then turning due west continued their march.
"I can't say that I quite like the way they are treating us," said Denis. "It shows that they are not animated by any friendly spirit, or they would not have ridden our horses while they make us walk. It puzzles me to say to what party they can belong. I am nearly certain that King Panda and his son Cetchwayo would not treat us in this fashion, as they have always shown a tolerably friendly feeling towards the English."
"I have been trying to listen to what the men have been saying, but I cannot make out what they intend to do with us," observed Lionel.
"At all events, it is a comfort that we are allowed to keep together," said Percy. "It strikes me that perhaps their object is to hold us as hostages for some purpose or other, but what purpose that is I can't even guess."
Poor Gozo looked very crestfallen, as he was led along at some distance from his young masters; he, apparently, fully expecting to be put to death.
They proceeded for some way at a rapid rate, which, active as the three friends were, they found it very difficult to keep up with. Occasionally the chiefs looked back to see that they were coming, and Denis thought he saw them laughing and casting scornful looks at him and his companions. They went on without stopping to rest or take any food; sometimes up hill, sometimes down, across valleys, and over rocky ground, until, as evening was approaching, the hum of human voices was heard. Some little distance ahead a kraal was seen on the side of a hill, while in the valley below were assembled a large concourse of men employed in various ways; some formed into regiments were marching here and there, others collected round fires were engaged in cooking, while a considerable number were employed in putting up huts.
"Who can they be?" asked Percy.
"I suppose that they must be Cetchwayo's followers, and if so we shall find him there. He, at all events, is not likely to do us any harm, if, as is generally supposed, he wishes to be friends with the English. I know that he sometimes holds a sort of court by himself, away from the king, although he is said to have almost as much power in the country as his fat old father," answered Denis. "I'll try and find out from our guards."
When Denis, however, put the question to the Zulus, they, not understanding, or not wishing to give him information, made him no answer.
"Never fear, it will be all right," said Denis. "When Cetchwayo finds that we belong to Hendricks, whom he knows well, he will set us at liberty, and soundly rate our captors for carrying us off."
They were still, however, left in doubt as to how they were to be treated. The chiefs on horseback proceeded down the hill, and directed their course towards one end of the valley, where a large hut had been put up, before which was seated a tall, rather stout personage, with several chiefs standing near him.
"That must be Cetchwayo," said Denis, pointing him out to Percy. "I never saw the black prince, but he answers his description."
On reaching the neighbourhood of the hut, the chiefs dismounted, and giving their horses to some attendants, advanced on foot. After going through the usual ceremonies, they stood on one side, and their leader making a sign to his followers to come forward with their prisoners, the prince cast a frowning glance at them; perhaps it was habitual to his countenance.
"Can either of you speak the Zulu tongue?" he inquired in a gruff voice.
"I can," answered Denis in the same language, stepping forward. "What does the Prince require of us?"
"To whom do you belong?" was the next question.
"To Hendricks the hunter and trader. He is well known to you," answered Denis.
"I care not for your relatives or friends. Whom do you hold to be the chief person in Zululand?"
"Surely who else but King Panda and his son Cetchwayo?" replied Denis, in a confident tone.
"In that respect you have not answered wisely. Panda is king it is true; but Cetchwayo, who is he?"
"I thought that you were Cetchwayo," said Denis.
"In that you are mistaken, young Englishman; I am Umbulazi, a better man than Cetchwayo, and have more right to be the prince than he has."
"I beg your pardon," answered Denis, in no way abashed.
"Understand, Prince, that we are travellers through the country, that we have come to trade and to hunt, but we do not pretend to have more affection for one ruler than another. We were on a hunting expedition to obtain some meat for our camp when your followers seized us and brought us here. All we now ask is to be set at liberty, and to be allowed to return to our friends who are anxiously waiting us."
"Such cannot be allowed," answered Umbulazi. "You will carry information of what you have seen to Cetchwayo, who will then be induced to attack us before we are ready for him."
"We promise to give no information which will in any way injure you," said Denis.
"I shall take very good care of that," answered Umbulazi. "Whether the English intend to be friends to me or not, it matters little. I have many followers, some of whom you see here, and many more will join me ere long; so that we shall soon drive Cetchwayo out of the country, and Umbulazi will some day be king of Zululand."
Denis had heard that a son of King Panda, Umbulazi, had been supplanted by a younger son, Cetchwayo, and that, being destitute of talents and ability, he was not likely to attempt to interfere in the affairs of state, but to remain quietly at his kraal, attending to his herds, and cultivating his mealy grounds. It was now evident that he was in open rebellion, and it was very important not to offend him; for, like other Zulu chiefs, he was utterly regardless of human life. Denis therefore feared that should he say anything to excite his anger, he might order his guards to cut him and his companions to pieces, or might give them leave to amuse themselves by throwing their assegais at them. He therefore assumed as humble a manner as he could, and replied, "When Umbulazi is king, all Englishmen who come into this country will pay him reverence, and abide by his laws, as I and my friends now wish to do. Again I ask that we may have permission to proceed on our way, as our leader, Hendricks, the great hunter, is waiting for us; and as we shall in a short time pass the borders of Zululand, we cannot trouble Umbulazi by our presence."
The prince said something not very complimentary to the speaker, signifying that he was talking nonsense. He then ordered some of his attendants to carry the three prisoners to a hut close by, and to place a guard over them until he had determined how they should be disposed of.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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7
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IN THE HANDS OF THE ZULUS.
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The three lads found themselves the sole occupants of a hut about seven feet in diameter, and of a height scarcely sufficient to enable them to stand upright, except in the centre. There was but one opening, through which they had been compelled to creep, and this was closed by one of their guards sitting down before it, with his knees drawn up to his chin, the only light and air they enjoyed being admitted through the small space above his shoulders.
"It isn't altogether pleasant to be shut up like rats in a trap," said Denis, as he surveyed the hut; "but it might have been worse if a party of Kaffirs had slept in it last night. As far as I can judge it hasn't been occupied before."
"If it had, there would have been mats and bundles of grass," observed Lionel; "whereas we shall have nothing but the bare ground to lie on."
"As the ground appears to be perfectly dry, we need not complain of that," observed Percy, "I only hope that the chief will let us go in the morning."
"There's very little chance of that," said Denis. "He intends that we should be of some use to him, or he would not have sent his people to capture us. I wonder whether he will send us some food."
"I can't say I feel very hungry," observed Percy. "It is fortunate that we took a good dinner."
They waited and waited, expecting that Umbulazi would think of them, but no food was brought. At last Denis spoke to their Kaffir guard, saying that they were very hungry, and would be much obliged if he would obtain some provisions; but no answer was returned to his request.
"I believe the fellow is asleep," said Lionel. "Yes! listen, I can hear him snoring. I see his head nodding through the opening. If that's the way he keeps guard, I think I can play him a trick; and the chances are the rest of the fellows are asleep also. It is now nearly dark outside. In a little time the whole camp will have lain down. We could easily make a hole under the wall of the hut, large enough for me to creep through, and once outside, if the guards don't catch me, I could find my way to where the horses are feeding."
"A capital idea," said Denis. "I don't think there will be much difficulty in carrying it out."
"But you would run a fearful risk of having an assegai sent through you if you were discovered," exclaimed Percy. "For your own sake I had much rather you did not make the attempt."
"I am not afraid of that," answered Lionel. "I'll take good care not to be caught. I know the ways of the people, where they are likely to be sleeping, and where their guards are posted. The chances are they will be asleep in a short time, like that fellow who is acting as doorkeeper to us. If I can manage to reach our camp, Hendricks will soon come and set you free."
"But suppose you were to meet a lion or leopard, as you have no rifle, how would you defend yourself?"
"I would keep out of his way, and shout and shriek at the top of my voice, you may depend upon that," he answered.
Percy was at last induced, though not very willingly, to consent to Lionel's making the attempt he proposed.
They all three sat down on the ground to talk over the matter, and agreed that it would not be wise to commence operations until later on in the night.
Fortunately Percy had a match-box, for the Zulus had not rifled their pockets, and striking a light, he ascertained that it was about eleven o'clock.
"We cannot have a better time," said Denis, "so we'll set to work immediately; but I say, we must keep talking, lest that black guard of ours should open his ears and suspect something."
They accordingly all three began talking as if holding some exciting discussion, Denis every now and then giving way to a hearty laugh.
Percy tried to imitate him, but did not succeed very well, for he was exceedingly anxious about Lionel's undertaking, which he thought more dangerous than it really was. Having no tools except their knives, the operation was a long one. They cut through the lower part of the twigs, and had to scrape away the earth with their hands. Only two could work at a time, and they took it by turns, the third sitting near the door to hide his companions or give notice, should the guard awake and look in.
"We shall be through in another minute!" exclaimed Lionel. "Hurrah, it is done now!" he cried out soon afterwards. "I can be through in a moment. What is the old fellow at the door about?"
"He is still snoring away," answered Percy.
"Well, then, do you and Denis keep talking and laughing, and I'll slip out."
"But do come back if you find any difficulty in making your way to the horses," said Percy. "It would be far better that we should submit to whatever the prince intends than that you should run the risk of being killed."
"No fear," answered Lionel, as he shook hands with his companions. "Depend upon it, I shall be safe with Hendricks before the morning. Good-bye!" and he began to crawl through the opening. He stopped, however, before he was quite through, and backing in said, "Remember to close the hole, Denis, before the morning, so that, if possible, the Zulus might not discover how I got out."
"I'll do my best," said Denis, and Lionel again crawled through the opening. Not the slightest noise was made, so that the guards at the entrance of the hut, even if they had not been asleep, would not have heard him. Denis, as soon as he had gone, lay down with his head to the opening to listen. No sound reached his ears. He then crept partly through, but could see nothing. Not a person was stirring, not even a dog barked. "Lionel will get clear, I hope," he said, as he drew back into the hut. "He is a wonderfully sharp, clever little fellow. As he lived so long among the Zulus, he knows all their ways. Even if he meets any one, he will be able to pretend to be a young Zulu, provided it is still dark, though of course his dress would betray him in daylight. I almost wish that we had gone too," said Denis. "If he succeed, so might we."
"Not so sure of that," observed Percy. "Three objects moving along the ground would be more likely to be discovered than one; and if I were addressed, I, at all events, could not pretend to be a Zulu boy, whatever you might do. Still, it would have been satisfactory had we all got free; but then, what would have become of poor Gozo? They would have assegaid him in revenge. Depend upon it, we were wiser to remain. Perhaps, after all, Lionel is hiding, and may find it necessary to come back."
They waited anxiously, almost fearing to hear Lionel's voice. Time went on, but he did not make his appearance. At last Denis thought that he might venture to stop up the opening; so he began shovelling in the earth and replacing the twigs; he knew, however, should any one examine the outside, it must be discovered that a hole had been made; but it was just possible that it might not be observed, and he amused himself by thinking that if so how puzzled the Zulus would be to account for the disappearance of Lionel.
"I'll pretend not to know what has become of him, and to be as much astonished as they are," he said, laughing. "I'll suggest that he might have vanished through the roof, or that he was not put in at all, or that he has evaporated, although, to be sure, they won't know what that means, and I don't know how I could well explain it, as the Kaffir tongue has nothing equivalent to the term. However, I'll do my best to mystify them."
"I would rather not make the attempt. I always hold that we ought to tell the truth and stand the consequences," said Percy. "He had a perfect right to run away, and he exercised that right. I would rather you said what had happened, and that he had gone only for our sakes, to let our friends know what has become of us."
"Well, we'll see how things turn out," said Denis. "Are you not beginning to feel hungry?"
"Indeed I am, and sleepy too," answered Percy. "I would rather have something to eat; but as we cannot get that, the best thing we can do is to go to sleep. I'll try, although our couches are not of the most luxurious description."
Percy lay down, as did Denis. They felt various creatures crawling over them; but they knew that they must bear such annoyances patiently. Their eyes in a short time closed, and they went fast asleep. They were aroused at early dawn by the shouts and cries of hundreds of voices. The Zulu gaoler no longer stopped up the doorway by his black body. They concluded that he was not afraid they would attempt to escape during daylight, as they would certainly be seen.
Denis therefore crawled out of the hut to look about him. The sun was just rising over the hills to the eastward. The whole valley, at the farther end of which they were, was filled with warriors formed into regiments of four or five hundred men each. Some little distance off, in front of his hut, stood the chief, Umbulazi, surrounded by his counsellors and other wise men.
Suddenly all the men commenced performing the most extraordinary antics, leaping, and whirling, and twisting, and turning, at the same time uttering the loudest shrieks and cries at the top of their voices.
"What are they about?" asked Percy, who had crept out after Denis.
"They are simply dancing a war dance in honour of their chief. We shall have an opportunity of witnessing their performance."
The chief and his attendants were so busily employed in watching the troops, that they did not observe the young Englishmen standing outside their prison.
Presently the leading regiment began to move forward, the men still leaping, twisting, and turning, shaking their shields, quivering their assegais, and shouting all the time until they approached to where the chief stood, when halting for an instant they redoubled their efforts, and then passed on (it cannot be said they marched) to give room for another party who went through the same style of performance.
When the whole had passed in review, they dispersed in different directions, some to bring in wood, and others to slaughter some oxen which had been driven into the camp for the purpose.
So occupied had Umbulazi been with this extraordinary review of his troops, that he had apparently forgotten all about his prisoners, who meantime stood watching the proceedings, much interested with the curious spectacle. Denis at length proposed that they should make off, catch their horses, and gallop away. Percy was opposed to this, as it was nearly certain they would be seen and followed.
"I'm afraid you are right," said Denis; "and there's another strong argument in favour of staying--I'm so desperately hungry, that I don't think I could ride far without food; and as these fellows will soon be having breakfast, I conclude that they will have the grace to offer us some. If they don't, I shall make bold to go and take it, for they won't object, even though they may intend to assegai us directly afterwards."
They waited until the review was over. Denis then advised Percy to go back into the hut, while he set off on a foraging expedition.
"If we two were to go together, they would wonder what had become of Lionel, but if I alone appear, they will suppose that you are both inside the hut," he said. "The chances are, they don't put in their heads to find out; for everybody is so busily employed that they won't trouble themselves about us."
Percy agreed to the proposal, and creeping in, sat down to wait the return of Denis.
"There's nothing like putting a bold face upon the matter," thought Denis; and seeing Umbulazi standing in front of his hut, he walked boldly up to him. " _Unigane_!" he said, saluting him in the Kaffir fashion. " _Saka bona_," answered the chief, equivalent to good morning. "What is it you want, my friend?"
"My companions and I were made prisoners by your people, but I conclude that you do not wish to starve us, and we want some breakfast," answered Denis.
"You should have remained inside the hut where you were placed, and it would have been brought to you," said the chief, apparently just recollecting all about his captives. "How dare you come out?"
"To obtain some fresh air, and to see you review your magnificent army," answered Denis.
"And you think that my soldiers are fine fellows?" said the chief, evidently well pleased. "They will be able to drive Cetchwayo and all his followers out of the country, so that none will be left to oppose me."
"I have not seen Cetchwayo's army, so that I cannot reply to that remark," answered Denis. "What is in the future no man can tell."
"Ah! but I have engaged a famous enchantress who knows all things that are going to happen. She is to come to me this morning, having spent the night in looking into the future, and will tell me what is to be my fate, whether I shall be defeated or gain the victory and become king of the Zulus."
"If you become king of the country, you will wish to be friends with the English, as Panda is. Now it strikes me, the best way to show your friendly intentions is to treat well those who fall into your power. I hope therefore, after we have had some breakfast, that you will restore us our rifles and horses, and allow us to return to those who are waiting for us."
"Go back to your hut, and wait until I send for you!" answered Umbulazi, making a grimace from which Denis drew no favourable augury. He thought it wise to obey.
"What news?" asked Percy, as he entered.
"One certain piece of news is that Lionel got off safe; but what the chief intends doing with us is more than I can say. I hope he will send us some breakfast; if not, we must forage for ourselves. The fellows down there will soon have their meat cooked and their mealy cakes baked. Before they have eaten them all up I will go down to one of the fires and claim a portion."
They waited for some time.
"I can stand this no longer!" cried Denis at last, and he got up intending to proceed to the nearest fire, when just as he crawled through the opening a Kaffir woman appeared carrying a basket on her head.
"The chief has sent you this," she said; "you are to eat it and be thankful; but he bids me tell you that if you attempt to run away you will be killed."
"We are much obliged to the chief," said Denis, as the girl placed the basket on the ground. "Tell him that we wish to remain friends, and that when he gives us permission we will bid him good-bye."
Denis, however, was too hungry to say more, and taking up the basket entered the hut. It contained a gourd of whey, some mealy cakes and cooked buffalo flesh.
"This isn't bad, after all," observed Denis as they fell to. "We have got Lionel's share as well as our own; however, we may stow that away in case we want it."
They had just finished their meal when their attention was attracted by a loud hubbub outside.
Denis crept out to ascertain the cause of the noise. Percy followed him, when they saw the whole Zulu army collected in two long lines, extending to the farther end of the valley. In the distance appeared one of the strangest figures imaginable. It was that, as the dress betokened, of a woman. Slowly she advanced up the centre, between the two lines of warriors, followed by a dozen men or more, carrying large shields, against which they beat with their clubs, making a sound like that of drums. As she drew near it was seen that she was bedecked in the most curious fashion. Her nose was painted white, as was one of her eyelids, while the other was dyed with red earth. Her long hair was plastered together by a mixture of grease and clay blackened with charcoal. Round her neck were suspended coils of the entrails of animals stuffed with fat, while her hair was stuck over in all directions with the gall bladders of animals. Several dried snakes, a human skull, and the heads and claws of birds, hung suspended from her shoulders, besides which she wore a necklace made of human finger bones, and rings of the same description round her ankles, her only actual garment being a short kilt hanging from her waist. In her left hand she held a wand with long tails at its end, which she flourished vigorously above her head as she advanced with prancing steps up the valley. In her right she carried her magic rattle, which she shook violently, now on one side, now on the other. The men drew aside to let her pass and to avoid being struck either by her wand or rattle, evidently holding her in great awe. On she came, however, disregarding their terror, and showing no inclination to denounce any of them as evil-doers, the service wizards and enchantresses are generally employed in rendering to the governing powers. As she got near to Umbulazi, she increased the rapidity of her movements, springing forward in the most wonderful manner, now turning to one side, now to the other, and bounding high in the air, while the charms she wore rattled and bumped against her body. Umbulazi and the chiefs round him watched these proceedings with intense eagerness, wondering what she would next do. Presently her eye fell on Denis and Percy.
"I think we should be wise to get into our hut," exclaimed Percy. "I don't like the look of that hideous creature."
Before, however, they could do so she was up to them, and flourishing her magical wand she struck them both on the shoulders. Although the blows did not hurt them, the effects were likely to prove disastrous. In another instant she had bounded away, and was apparently about to retire between the lines of soldiers. She had not gone far, however, before Umbulazi shouted to her to return.
Almost directly she had delivered the blows, several of the Zulu warriors, chiefs and others, rushed with threatening gestures towards the two captives. Denis, who was well acquainted with the customs of the Zulus, fully expected that a cruel death was instantly to be their lot; but mustering all his courage, he put on as determined a look as he could assume.
"We're in for it, Percy," he said, "so you must be prepared for the worst; but I'll try what I can do with these abominable savages."
Then looking boldly at the surrounding chiefs he addressed them in an undaunted tone.
"What are ye about to do, my friends?" he asked. "Because that strange woman struck us, are we to be treated as if we had committed some crime or were your sworn enemies?"
But no reply was deigned; all the expostulations he could offer were without the slightest effect. He and Percy were dragged up to the hut of the chief, before whom the woman was standing. He had just put the important question for her to answer--whether if he went to war he should obtain success over his enemies.
"Success will attend those who are the bravest and most numerous. See yonder host spread out before you. Can you doubt, O Prince, that victory will be yours?" she replied, in a loud chanting tone.
Umbulazi looked highly pleased at this answer.
"You hear what the wise woman says?" he exclaimed, turning to his chiefs.
"We will fight, we will gain the victory," they shouted.
Denis and Percy were all this time watching the proceedings with the greatest anxiety, wondering what would happen to them.
"What would you have me do with these white boys?" asked the chief.
"They have come as spies into your camp. They are the sons of those who have often tried to dispossess you of your lands. Let them, before the sun sets, be pierced through with assegais, and become as the dust of the earth."
"What does she say?" asked Percy, observing the expression of Denis's countenance.
"Something not very pleasant to us. She advises these fellows to kill us. But she has made a mistake, and not for the first time in her life; for she declares that we came into the camp to act as spies. Now the prince and the rest of the chiefs know perfectly well that we were brought in prisoners, and I should think they will have wit enough to see that she knows nothing about the matter."
From the remarks made by the chiefs, and the fierce glances they cast at him and Percy, Denis however felt anything but sure that they would do so.
"I'm very thankful that Lionel escaped," said Percy. "He will tell Hendricks where we are, and if we do not return, he will know what has become of us. Still I can scarcely fancy that these fellows will really put us to death."
"I don't think they would if they were left to themselves," said Denis; "but that dreadful old woman has so wonderful an influence on their superstitious minds, that she can induce them to do anything she likes. Now I suspect that she is in the interest of the other party, and she thinks that if these fellows can be induced to kill us, they will make our countrymen their enemies."
"If they are to die, the sooner they are put to death the better," exclaimed Umbulazi. "We will then, my brave warriors, set forth, sure of victory, to fight our foes."
Just at this juncture a large band of warriors was seen approaching the camp, led by a chief, who could be distinguished as such by the plumes in his head-dress, his cloak, and kilt of skins, and the ornaments on his oblong shield. He hastened on with his followers towards where Umbulazi was standing. As he drew near, Denis exclaimed-- "I am much mistaken if that young chief is not Mangaleesu, who was for so long living near Maritzburg. He was always a great friend of Lionel's and mine, and I'm sure he would not see us massacred without trying to save us." Denis however waited until the fresh arrivals had paid their respects in the usual fashion to the prince. He then shouted out in English, "Mangaleesu, Mangaleesu! come and save us. These people accuse us of being spies, and threaten to kill us, although the prince himself knows we were brought into the camp against our wills, and that our only object is to get back to Hendricks, with whom we are travelling."
Mangaleesu, on hearing his name called, came up to them, and at once addressing their captors, inquired what crime they had committed.
No one could at first answer him, but at last one of them observed that the great enchantress declared that they had come into the camp as spies.
"But you all know that they were brought into the camp, and I will answer for it that they have no evil intentions against the prince or any one else. If we were to kill them, we should make all the white men in Natal our enemies," answered Mangaleesu.
His arguments appeared to be prevailing, when the savage old hag, fearing that her influence would be lost, should her orders not be obeyed, shouted out in a croaking voice-- "Kill them! kill them! If they are allowed to live, you cannot gain the victory."
"If they are killed," cried Mangaleesu, "neither I nor my followers can unite with those who allow so cruel an act. The English have always been my friends, and I will not see them ill-treated, notwithstanding what that old woman says. It was not long since that she was seen paying a visit to Cetchwayo, and who can tell that she has not been sent by him to betray us?"
The hag, who heard all that was said, began to move uneasily, and gradually drew back from the crowd, until she joined the men who had accompanied her into the camp. So deeply steeped in superstition were the minds of the Zulus, that they could not divest themselves of the idea that her predictions would be fulfilled, in spite of all Mangaleesu had said. Denis and Percy were therefore kept strictly guarded in their midst.
They could see the old witch at some distance gesticulating violently, waving her arms about, occasionally leaping from side to side in the most extraordinary fashion. Now and then she pointed to them in a way which made them fear that she was still urging the chiefs to put them to death. Mangaleesu was the only one who held out. Had he not arrived, it seemed very probable that the savages would have plunged their assegais in their bodies. Even now their lives hung in the balance. For some time she was seen talking to several men, among whom were those who had been their guards during the night. Presently she advanced, and as she waved her wand, and pointed towards them, Denis heard her exclaim-- "There were three of them! Where is the third? Without him the number is incomplete."
The prince, who seemed to have forgotten this fact, on hearing her speak, exclaimed-- "You are right, most sagacious prophetess. There were three. Bring him forth, that he may suffer the doom of the others."
Instantly several of the young chiefs rushed to the hut, and were seen, one after the other, crawling in.
"They'll be mighty puzzled when they find that he's not there," said Denis. "I'm doubly thankful that he got off if we are to be killed, and there seems a great chance of that."
"Do you think they'll have the barbarity to put us to death?" asked Percy. "What object can they have in doing so?"
"Those fellows think no more of killing a man than we do of snuffing out a candle. If Mangaleesu cannot persuade them to let us go, we'll have a poor chance indeed of escape."
It seemed that Denis was right in his conjectures. The dreadful old witch was evidently bent on their destruction. Still, while there's life there's hope, and Percy did not give way to despair. They both maintained as calm a manner as they could command.
Again Mangaleesu addressed the prince with a boldness which astonished the other chiefs, who regarded the dreadful old impostor with the most profound awe; but he was again out-talked, both by her and the other chiefs. Presently the men who had gone into the hut to look for Lionel returned with the astonishing announcement that he was not to be found, declaring that they could not account for his disappearance.
"What has become of your companion?" asked Umbulazi.
"We were not set to watch him, and if he's not there, it's clear that he's gone," answered Denis, adding in English, "and I hope you are much the wiser for the information."
"How did he go?" asked the prince.
"If he walked, he went on two legs," answered Denis.
"But how did he get out of the hut?" inquired the Prince.
"The guards who had us in charge should answer that question," said Denis, in the same tone as before.
"Where are the guards? Send them here!" cried Umbulazi, in an angry tone.
Denis feared that the poor fellows would lose their lives, and unwilling to have them put to death, he cried out-- "They are not to blame. He is but a small boy, so he crept out by a hole, through which a large man could not have forced his way. He is with our friends long ago, I hope, so you need not trouble yourselves about him."
This answer, however, did not save the unfortunate guards, who soon approached, looking very downcast.
"I gave three prisoners into your charge; here are two, but where is the third?" asked the prince.
The three guards could not reply. At last one of them asked permission to go and search the hut. The prince told them that they might do so, but must come back and be killed, if they did not find the boy.
As may be supposed, they were a long time in making the search, and although the Zulus are very indifferent to death, yet they were naturally unwilling to go back and be killed. Denis earnestly hoped that they would try and make their escape, for he justly feared that should the prince once see blood flowing, like the savage tiger, he would be even more ready than before to shed theirs.
At last the prince, growing impatient, ordered some men to go to the hut and bring out the guards, either with or without the prisoner. The unhappy wretches were quickly dragged forward.
"Where is the boy?" asked the prince.
No answer was given.
"Kill them!" he exclaimed; and in an instant some heavy clubs descended on their heads, and each man lay in his blood, pierced by a dozen assegais.
"It will be our turn next!" cried Denis. "Are you ready, Percy?"
"As much as I can be. How thankful I am that Lionel escaped!" As he spoke, a dozen warriors with their assegais uplifted, still dripping with the blood of their former victims, approached; but at that moment there was a cry that some white men were coming, one of them waving a flag.
"Hold!" exclaimed Umbulazi. "It will not be wise to kill the prisoners just as their countrymen are coming. I would rather have them as friends than enemies."
Denis, who heard him speak, felt his heart bound.
"I don't think we shall die just yet," he said to Percy, "for here come Hendricks and Crawford and Umgolo, with a dozen armed men close behind them."
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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8
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THE ESCAPE.
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Denis and Percy, taking advantage of the excitement which the arrival of Hendricks and his party caused among the Zulu warriors, rushed out from their midst, and before any one could stop them, they darted away in the direction their friends were coming. Lionel, who was among the first to see them, uttering a shout of joy, galloped forward, followed by Crawford.
"Jump up behind me," he cried to Denis, stretching out his hand. "We possibly may have to run for it, if Hendricks and Umbulazi don't agree."
Percy at the same moment sprang up behind Crawford, while Hendricks, ordering his party to halt, rode forward alone towards the prince, keeping however his horse well in hand, and his rifle ready for instant use.
"I come to salute you, Umbulazi, and to ask you why you detained my young companions; but as they have been restored to me I will not enter into that subject," he said, drawing up at such a distance that he might, without difficulty extricate himself should it be necessary.
"Do you come as a friend or a foe?" asked the prince.
"I come as a friend, for such I am to all the Zulu people," answered Hendricks.
"Well, as a friend I invite you to dismount and partake of a feast which will speedily be prepared to do you honour," said the prince.
"I cannot at present delay my journey," answered Hendricks, who, his keen eye having observed the expression on the countenances of several of the chiefs, greatly doubted the sincerity of the prince. He also recollected the treacherous way in which a large body of boers had been massacred a few years before by a relative of this very man, having been beguiled by a similar invitation.
Again, however, the prince pressed him, assuming so courteous an air, that he was almost persuaded to yield, when the old prophetess, disappointed at not seeing the boys put to death, came whirling up, shaking her rattle and waving her wand, and crying out to her countrymen, "Beware of the strangers! Beware of the people with pale faces! They are no friends of the Zulus. Now you have them in your power, kill them! kill them all!"
Mangaleesu on hearing this cried out to Umbulazi, "Be not deceived by her. The white men wish to be friends with the Zulus. Harm them not. If injury is done them, the Zulus will be the sufferers."
Hendricks, who of course understood all that was said, saw that it would be the height of folly to put himself in the power of Umbulazi and his followers, and therefore, thanking Mangaleesu, whom he now recognised, for his good intentions, replied to the prince's invitation, that his mission being accomplished, he and his party must take their departure.
He was anxious for another reason to get clear of them as soon as possible; for, knowing the jealousy which existed between Umbulazi and Cetchwayo, he felt convinced that the former was about to make war on his more favoured brother, and would very likely try to detain him and his people for the purpose of compelling them to fight on his side. He therefore, uttering an "Usaleke," the usual Kaffir salutation at leaving, turned his horse's head and rode back to his companions.
"Keep ready for a start," he said; "for although we have one friend among them, I cannot depend upon the rest. Show no hurry until I give the word."
They rode on slowly, Hendricks ordering the rest of the party to go on ahead, while he brought up the rear. He had got to a short distance when Mangaleesu was heard shouting-- "Go on, go on! they try kill! No time lose!"
These words, spoken in English, were mixed up with Kaffir expressions, hurling abuse at their heads, evidently for the purpose of deceiving his countrymen.
Hendricks inwardly thanked Mangaleesu for the warning he had given; still he knew that it was important not to exhibit the slightest alarm, as by so doing he should only the more speedily tempt the Kaffirs to follow. The old witch, now finding that her intended victims were likely to escape her, or rather, that her traitorous plan for committing Umbulazi with the English--for such there can be no doubt she entertained--was a failure, shrieked out to the warriors-- "What! are you going to let the dogs escape? Come on! come on! we shall be even now in time to overtake them. Never mind what Umbulazi says. He will thank you for destroying his enemies."
At this time she was some distance from the prince, so that her remarks were not heard by him, and no one would have ventured to repeat them. Several of the chiefs had already been influenced by her, and a large number of the men, excited by her denunciations against the hunter and his party, uttering loud shouts, rushed forward with their assegais quivering in their hands, bent on their destruction.
Hendricks, who had been carefully noting what was occurring among the people, even before they made an onward movement, knew what was about to happen. He now saw that not a moment was to be lost.
"On, on, my lads!" he shouted; "keep straight ahead up the hill."
Crawford, who had gone ahead, with Denis behind him, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. Lionel and Percy followed close to him. The rest of the party were not far behind. Hendricks brought up the rear, keeping his rifle ready to shoot down any warrior with a fast pair of heels who should come near enough to hurl his assegai. When once he had got a good start, he had no doubt about keeping well ahead. But the hill had to be surmounted, when the men on foot would have the advantage of the horses. He turned for a moment to take a glance at his pursuers. Excited to fury by the howls and shrieks of the old hag, they were exerting every muscle of their lithe bodies to spring over the ground, and were coming on at a rapid rate. The well-trained steeds bravely pressed up the hill, as if they were perfectly aware of the threatened danger. Several of the Zulus had already got up to within fifty yards of the fugitives. A couple of assegais came whistling through the air, but they fell short of Hendricks, who now urging on his horse, made the animal spring ahead. The rest of the party were by this time almost on level ground. A few more bounds, and they were on the brow. There was now no probability that the Zulus would overtake them. Hendricks might have punished their pursuers by shooting down one or more, but he had no desire to kill any one, and the extreme danger passed he rode on to the head of his party. Still he could not venture to slacken his speed, for before them was another valley with a good deal of rough ground, and some of the more active Zulus might even now approach near enough to hurl their assegais. The desire he felt to avoid bloodshed made him still more anxious to keep ahead; for he and his companions might otherwise, by halting, have received their pursuers with a fire which would effectually have stopped their career. It was satisfactory to know that the Zulus had no horses, for none had been observed in or about the camp, so that when once they had got well ahead there was no risk of being overtaken.
What all this time had become of Gozo? Denis and Percy had not seen him during the morning, nor had he made his appearance after Hendricks' arrival at the camp. It was hoped therefore that he had escaped, although it was too possible that he had been put to death by the Zulus.
As the party gained the brow of the slope which led down to the next valley, they saw below a herd of cattle, among which were several horses feeding, attended by a few Zulus.
"The chances are our horses are among them," cried Denis, as they rode down the slope; "yes, yes, I see them! I am sure they are ours; and, hurrah, there too is old Gozo safe and sound. He has caught sight of us, and, depend on it, is planning how he can best get clear of those fellows near him."
"You are right," said Hendricks, and he shouted his follower's name.
The herdsmen, thinking the strangers were about to make a raid on their cattle, began to drive them off, on which Gozo, throwing himself on the back of one of the horses, caught the two others, and galloped on to join his friends. Some of the herdsmen, seeing what he was doing, hurled their assegais at him; but, experienced hunter as he was, he avoided them by bending down over the neck of his horse, and escaped. He was quickly up to his friends.
"Hurrah! here he comes," said Denis. "I will relieve you, Crawford, and mount my animal."
"But he has no saddle," said Crawford.
"Oh, never mind that; I've ridden many a mile without one; and your horse will go all the faster for not having my weight on his back," answered Denis, as he threw himself off and quickly mounted one of the horses Gozo brought up.
No time was lost in asking Gozo questions. Lionel, who was as well accustomed to ride without a saddle as was Denis, at once climbed up on the back of his own horse.
Again the party set off, allowing the herdsmen to escape with their cattle; and looking back, they saw the Zulus in considerable numbers on the top of the hill they had just crossed; but the slope on the opposite side was not very steep, and pushing on they gained the summit before their pursuers had reached the bottom of the valley. Waving an ironical farewell, they galloped forward. Still it was prudent not to pull rein as yet, and on they went at a rate which soon carried them far out of reach of their enemies.
"I wish that Mangaleesu had not joined Umbulazi; for though the prince fancies he will succeed, there is every probability that he will be defeated, as, besides being supported by the king, Cetchwayo has by far the larger number of people with him," said Hendricks, addressing Crawford. "Had I found an opportunity, I would have spoken to Mangaleesu on the subject, and urged him to retreat while there was time."
While the two elders of the party were conversing as they rode on together, the three boys were galloping alongside each other and exchanging remarks in somewhat disjointed sentences, as people are wont to do when going at a fast rate on horseback, especially if their steeds are without saddles, as was the case in the present instance with two of the lads.
"I cannot tell you how glad I was to see you come back with Hendricks, for I was much afraid that you had been caught by the Zulus and killed," said Percy, turning to Lionel. "How did you manage to escape?"
"It was not so difficult as you might have supposed," answered Lionel. "When I got out of the hut, I crept along, keeping as much as possible under the shadow of bushes and rocks. If I heard the slightest sound, I stopped and lay flat on the ground, just as the Zulus do when approaching an enemy or trying to escape. The guards were off guard, supposing, I fancy, that none of Cetchwayo's people were near enough to reach the camp. I saw two or three in the distance, but none came in my way. My chief fear was that I might fall in with a prowling lion or leopard, or encounter a snake of some sort crawling along. I did not, however, allow myself to be troubled about such matters, I only thought how I had best act should I meet with either of them. On and on I went; but it was somewhat fatiguing work, as I could never venture to stand upright, and had generally to make my way on all-fours, although sometimes I ran on my feet, bending low down; but even in that position I could not run fast. I at last reached the side of the hill up which I had to climb. There were several open parts, where, had the Zulus been keeping a bright look-out, I must have been seen, although they might have taken me for a jackal or a lion. I crawled along as fast as I could, not stopping even to look behind me, until I reached the brow of the hill. On getting to the other side I saw a number of cattle, with several horses among them, cropping the grass. Before I could venture on I had to try and ascertain whereabouts the men herding the cattle had posted themselves. I was pretty sure that they would be under shelter somewhere, and as the night wind was chilly, they would be either seated beneath the rocks, or would have built themselves huts of boughs. I feared that if by chance I should creep near one of them, I might be seen, when the fellow would to a certainty hurl his assegai at me, as he would take me for a wild beast of some sort. At last, unable to discover any one, I crawled down the hill, prepared at any moment to take to my heels, should I be discovered. No sound reached my ears, and I at length found myself close to several horses. As they were not alarmed, I guessed that they were our own, which the Zulus had taken from us. I knew that my beast would come to me, as I had taught him to do, could I venture to call him. I whistled low. I saw one of the horses lift his head. I could just distinguish him against the sky. As I lay on the ground, I whistled again, and he began to move towards me. The third time I whistled louder than the first, when, to my infinite satisfaction, he trotted up. He had the rope bridle still round his neck. Slipping it into his mouth, so as to be able to guide him, I grasped his mane and leapt upon his back. Just as I reached it and found myself firmly seated, I heard a shout, and looking round, caught sight of a Zulu rushing out from beneath a thick bush, where he had ensconced himself. I did not stop to inquire what he wanted, but urging on my animal with my voice and heels, I galloped off across the country. I was breasting the opposite hill when several other Zulus joined the first. Whether, even then, they had made out that there was anybody on the back of the horse, I was not certain. I think they did not; for, as I bent low down, they might have supposed that the animal had been suddenly seized with a desire to return to its former companions, and that the others would probably follow, which of course they wished to prevent them from doing. When once I was on the top of the hill, I knew that there was little chance of the Zulus overtaking me. I galloped forward, soon getting beyond the sound of their voices, while I knew that they could not distinguish even the clatter of my horse's hoofs at the distance I was already from them. I had a long ride before me; but as my horse was fresh, and had had a good feed, I had no doubt that I could accomplish it. I guessed, more or less, the direction of our camp, and hoped that I was steering a straight course by the stars, which shone brightly. My steed fortunately could see his way better than I could, or I should often have been greatly puzzled. At last the moon rose. Although it dimmed the stars, it afforded more light, and enabled me to see the outline of the hills, by which I knew that I was going right. I was galloping along, when my horse started and began to tremble. Presently a loud roar saluted my ears. Looking ahead, I saw, to my dismay, a lion just emerging from a thicket. Had I had my rifle, I would have tried to shoot the brute. To gallop either to the one side or the other would have been madness, as the lion would have been up to me in a few bounds; for, heavy as the creature looks, he can, I assure you, move for a short distance faster than the fleetest horse. Could I have induced my steed to move forward, I would have ridden at the lion, taking care, you may be sure, not to get within range of his paws; but the poor animal, trembling with fear, stood stock still. At first I was not quite certain that the lion was looking at me. Presently, however, he roared again. In return I shouted at the top of my voice. This seemed to encourage my horse, and patting him on the neck, I tried to soothe him and get him to advance a few paces. I was in a very dangerous predicament, I knew, but I did not despair. Presently I saw a pack of jackals run by, with a lioness at their heels, when the lion turned and joined her. From this I knew that he must have killed a deer, or some other large animal, and had been calling to his mate, and that his roaring was to keep the jackals away. People often declare that the jackals are the lion's providers; but such is all nonsense. I did not stop, you may be sure, to see how either the lions or jackals were employed, but rode on as fast as I could out of their way. I was not certain of the distance I had gone, and was very doubtful whether I should hit the camp. I was afraid that I had passed it, and should suddenly find myself in front of some kraal, whose inhabitants might not be amiably disposed. Still it would not do to stand still. It at last appeared to me that my horse had a strong inclination to move to the right, and on reaching the summit of a hill I caught sight of two fires in the distance. I rode towards them, feeling sure that they were at our camp. As I approached, I shouted at the top of my voice. In an instant all the dogs came out barking, followed immediately, to my great satisfaction, by Hendricks himself on horseback. " `I was just setting off to look for you boys, for I feared some accident had happened,' he exclaimed. `Where are the rest?'
"I told him. " `You must have some food while I make arrangements for our expedition,' he observed.
"Very glad I was, I can tell you, to get something to eat. Meantime he sent for Umgolo, and directed him to order as many men as could be spared to get ready. He wanted me to stay behind, but I begged to accompany him, though I asked for a fresh horse, which was likely to carry me better than my own after his hard gallop."
By the time Lionel had finished his account, the party had come in sight of the camp, where they were welcomed by the men in charge, who, having heard reports of the approach of Umbulazi's forces to attack Cetchwayo, feared that they might have been detained if not cut off. The fires were made up, and the remainder of a buffalo killed in the morning was quickly cooked to satisfy the hunger of the party Hendricks had taken with him, as they had had nothing to eat since they left the camp in the morning. They had, unfortunately, no other meat; and it was necessary, before they could proceed to any distance, to obtain a further supply. Still Hendricks was anxious, as quickly as possible, to get out from between the two contending forces, one of which was on his right hand and the other on his left.
As soon as the meal was over, sentries being placed round the camp, and careful watches, to keep a look-out on the oxen, the rest of the party lay down with their arms by their sides, ready to start in the morning, as soon as there was sufficient daylight to enable them to see their way clearly. Scarcely had Lionel, with his young companions, placed their heads on the saddles or rolls of cloth which served them as pillows, than they were fast asleep, dreaming of the antics they had seen played by Umbulazi's dusky warriors on the previous day. Even the howls of the hyenas and jackals failed to disturb them, nor did the roaring of a lion, which came up close to the camp, and made most of the Kaffir servants start to their feet.
Before daylight, Hendricks, whom no exertion could fatigue, was on foot, when he quickly aroused his followers. Being in a hurry to set off, he did not wait for breakfast, but ordered the horses to be saddled and the oxen to be inspanned, and the men taking their accustomed places on each side of the waggon, the journey was commenced, just as the first streaks of day appeared over the distant hills. The road was well known, or it would have been difficult to find it in the gloom of morning; but as soon as the sun rose, there was light enough and to spare, as well as more heat than was pleasant, especially in the opinion of the young English travellers. Moving on for some miles, they came to the edge of the plateau, or rather to a broad valley which ran across it. As they gazed down from their elevated position, it appeared sprinkled with clumps of mimosa of various sizes, springing up from a sward of soft green grass.
"That will be delightful for a gallop!" exclaimed Crawford, as they halted for a short time to secure the drags to the waggon wheels.
"Wait until we get down to it," observed Hendricks, laughing. "We shall find that seeming sward a tangled network of long coarse grass, as high as our waists."
Such indeed was proved to be the case, although the oxen managed to tramp through it.
"Look out for snakes!" cried Denis. "I saw a big fellow wriggling through the grass just now. He seemed more afraid of us than we need be of him; only remember, Crawford, that you don't step upon one, if you can help it."
No accident, however, happened, and the waggon in a short time was ascending the opposite height. Some further distance had to be traversed before water was reached, when the travellers outspanned for their morning meal, as also to afford the oxen rest after the toils they had gone through.
The travellers had but meagre fare, as no meat had as yet been obtained, but mealy cakes and bowls of tea were sufficient to satisfy their hunger for the present. Scarcely had they begun breakfast, however, when Umgolo, who had gone to the top of a slight elevation in the neighbourhood, came hurrying back with the report that he had seen in the far distance a herd of buffaloes, and he proposed setting out immediately to shoot some. The meal was therefore hurried over, and Hendricks and Umgolo, with two other Kaffir hunters, accompanied by Crawford and the three lads, set off on foot, hoping to bring back a sufficient supply of meat, not only for present consumption, but to turn into beltong. The party first made for the hill, that they might take a look over the country, and observe the direction in which the buffaloes were moving, as also the quarter from whence the wind was blowing, so as to approach the herd on the lee side, and thus avoid being discovered by the keen-scented animals.
Far off to the right was a wood, towards which the herd was travelling for shade and rest; but as the wind blew from where the hunters then were towards the wood, it was necessary to make a long circuit before they could approach from the desired quarter. So bright and pure was the atmosphere, that distances seemed almost as nothing. The buffaloes, which were in reality miles away, appeared so near that Crawford and Percy, who were less accustomed to the country than the rest of the party, fancied that they should be up to them in a quarter of an hour or less. As it was, they had a weary tramp, the sun beating down on their heads with intense force until they reached a wooded part of the country, where they enjoyed some shade; but owing to the tangled roots and creepers, they were compelled to make even slower progress than before.
"Silence now, lads," said Hendricks, "no talking: we must creep up, and not let our footfalls be heard. I bring you for the sake of giving you a lesson. Remember, none of you are to fire until Umgolo and I have brought down a beast, but then you can exercise your skill."
Saying this, he and Umgolo set off, followed by the rest of the party, who imitated their example, stepping cautiously, and stooping down when they had to cross an open space where they were exposed to view. They could catch glimpses of the buffaloes moving slowly along, cropping the grass as they went, an old bull acting as their leader and guardian. At length a spot which afforded shelter and concealment was reached inside the wood. Hendricks and Umgolo searched round carefully, lest it should prove that a lion or some other savage animal had made its lair thereabouts, and might spring out upon them.
Satisfied on that point, directed by Hendricks, they took up their positions, and then commenced creeping forward as noiselessly as mice. Presently Hendricks pointed in front, and made a signal to prepare for instant action. By moving aside some of the boughs with the greatest caution, the whole herd was seen, magnificent-looking fellows, some standing, others lying down, and several snoring away, enjoying their noonday siesta. The old bull, the leader of the herd, stood, however, looking out, as if suspecting danger, yet perhaps not sufficiently satisfied that it was near to warn his companions. Hendricks had got within ten or a dozen yards of him; Umgolo had crept up to about the same distance from another fine-looking brute. The younger hunters had each selected an animal, but, obeying orders, refrained from firing. Presently Hendricks, who was kneeling, raised his rifle, and a loud report was heard. Almost at the same instant Umgolo fired, when the rest of the party, deeming themselves at liberty to act as they thought fit, discharged their rifles. As soon as the smoke had cleared away, three fine animals were seen on the ground, while the rest of the herd were scampering off in full flight across the plain. One fell before they had got far, showing that two of the younger hunters had fired with effect; but which had been the successful shot, neither of them could be very certain, though each claimed the honour.
Umgolo, followed by the other Kaffirs, sprang forward, eager to cut up the carcases. Hendricks had ordered two of the men left in camp to bring up the horses by a direct path to carry back the meat. They soon arrived, and the animals being loaded with the more valuable portions of the slain buffaloes, the whole party set off to return in triumph with the spoils of the chase. They were scarcely out of the wood, when suddenly, from behind the bushes and tall grass, a hundred Kaffirs, with assegais in hand, which they shook as if about to hurl them at the hunters, sprang up, and almost completely surrounded them.
"We're in a fearful predicament," exclaimed Percy, as looking round he saw no means of escape. "Good-bye, Lionel, good-bye, Denis. I suppose these black fellows will run us through with their ugly-looking spears before many minutes are over."
"Sure, I hope they'll not be after doing anything of the sort," said Denis; "they're only quivering them just now to frighten us."
"I don't like their looks," said Lionel; "but I hope, as many of them know Hendricks, they don't intend to kill us."
"What means this?" exclaimed Hendricks, advancing towards the nearest. "We are friends of the Zulus, and desire to traverse their country in peace. You know me; I have often been among you."
"Yes, we know you well," said a chief, stepping forward.
"We have no desire to injure you or your companions; but you must accompany us to our Prince Cetchwayo, who desires to see you. It is known that you have been at the camp of Umbulazi, and he wishes to know the object which took you there."
"I went there from necessity, to rescue some of my followers who had been made prisoners. I succeeded, and carried them off, tarrying not a moment longer with Umbulazi than I was compelled to do."
"The prince will hear what you have to say, and will act according to his judgment," said the chief. "Yield yourselves as prisoners."
"If you insist on our going, we have no choice in the matter," said Hendricks, looking round at the large band of savage warriors which had surprised them. "But perhaps the assurance I give, that we are friends to Cetchwayo, and are simply travelling through his country, will satisfy him."
"The prince wishes to see the great hunter face to face," answered the chief; "and he and his followers, with his waggon and cattle, will accompany us forthwith. The word has been spoken. The order must be obeyed."
"We must submit to these fellows," said Hendricks, turning to his English companions. "But load your rifles, and be prepared to act as I may direct you, though there is, I fear, but little chance of making our escape."
The Zulus had now gathered closely round their prisoners, whom, however, they did not ill-treat, but allowed them to walk as they liked.
"I fear that my people in the camp, when they see you coming, will take to flight," said Hendricks to the chief. "Let me go on first, and I will tell them that you come as friends. Will you trust me?"
The chief looked at him. "Yes," he said, "I know that I can trust the word of a white chief, and you may go forward."
"Halt here, then, for a few minutes, to give me time to get ahead of you," said Hendricks, "and I will trust you also with my people, that you will not injure them."
The chief, on this, ordered his followers to halt, while Hendricks went on with rapid strides towards the camp. On his arrival, he found his people in a state of great consternation, they having just caught sight of the Zulus, and they confessed that in another minute they would have fled, believing that he and those with him had been killed.
He managed, however, to quell their fears by the assurance that Cetchwayo would not injure them, though he might delay their journey. This was of greater consequence to him than to them. In a short time the Zulus were seen advancing. On their arrival, the chief told Hendricks that he must at once inspan and proceed towards Cetchwayo's camp, which was much nearer than had been supposed. On Hendricks, however, representing to him that he and his people had been without meat the whole day, the chief consented to their waiting until some had been cooked, observing that he would take charge of the remainder. He did so, by dividing it among his followers, who forthwith lighted several fires, and cooking it after their barbarous fashion, quickly ate the whole of it up, scarcely leaving a few scraps for the hungry dogs. This was not a little provoking to the hunters, but it allowed them some time to rest and recover from the fatigue they all felt.
As soon as the feast was over, Hendricks gave the word to inspan. The chief somewhat demurred on seeing his prisoners preparing to mount their horses, naturally fearing that they would try to make their escape, but on Hendricks assuring him that they would accompany him to Cetchwayo's camp, he consented to their riding, though he took good care so to place his people on either side, that they would have found it a difficult matter to get off, even had they been so disposed.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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9
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KING PANDA.
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The band of Zulus, with the captives in their midst, were compelled to move at a slow pace; for the Hottentot drivers of the waggon, uncertain of the reception they might meet with at the end of their journey, would not hasten on the oxen even when the ground was level, and it was frequently rough, with steep hills to ascend or descend, so that a quicker pace was impossible. The warriors belonged to a regiment of unmarried men or boys, as could be seen from their heads wanting the ring at the top, which is the mark of those who have been allowed by the king to take to themselves wives. As they marched along they shouted and sang songs descriptive of the deeds they had performed, or of those they intended to do, referring sometimes to their prowess in having captured a party of white men, who had not ventured to strike a blow for freedom; while they boasted especially of the way they intended to annihilate Umbulazi and his followers. Some gave way to their exuberant spirits by leaping and dancing in a fashion which offered a curious contrast to the march of a regiment of life guards. They shrieked, they quivered their assegais, and clashed their shields together, until Crawford, who had never before seen an exhibition of the sort, began to fear that they might take it into their heads to kill him and his companions.
"I think we should be prepared for an attack from these savages," he said to Denis, gravely. "For my part, I hope that we shall sell our lives dearly, if they attempt to take them."
"No fear of that for the present," answered Denis; "they are only in somewhat high spirits at the thought of having soon to engage in battle. You see Hendricks rides on as composedly as ever, so does Lionel, who perfectly understands what they are saying. They don't intend us any harm. However, I confess that it is possible their mood may change, and it would be as well not to do anything to offend them. Hendricks knows them better than most people, and will take care to keep them in good humour. I shall be very glad when we are out of their company notwithstanding."
"So say I," exclaimed Crawford. "I confess that had I known what savages they are, I should not have been so eager to come into their country."
"As to that, I do not suppose they are worse than other tribes," said Denis; "they are certainly more intelligent and brave. My chief regret is that we shall have further delay in going in search of my father. I wish that you were to accompany us instead of stopping with Captain Broderick, although I daresay Percy will be very glad of your company; and he has some sisters, who won't be ill pleased to have an English gentleman to talk to, as they must lead a somewhat monotonous life in that out-of-the-way spot, with only an occasional visit from a Dutch boer and his frau, or, when the weather is not too hot, a gallop through the wilds."
"I am half inclined to ask Hendricks to let me accompany him on his expedition into the interior," said Crawford. "I am afraid I should get tired of the sort of life you describe. However, I shall be able to judge better when I have seen the place."
"Or the young ladies, eh?" observed Denis; "I fancy something will depend upon that, won't it?"
Crawford made no reply.
This conversation caused the journey to appear shorter than might otherwise have been the case. Lionel and Percy, who generally kept together, amused themselves by talking away in a lively fashion, while Hendricks rode ahead, thinking over his plans for the future, and considering how he could best get free from King Panda and his son, the Prince Regent, for such was the rank held by Cetchwayo at that time. At length a kraal was seen on the slope of a hill, rising gradually from the plain. It was at present the habitation of Panda. The warriors raised a shout, intended as a compliment to the king, and again beating their shields and shaking their assegais, they made signals to the drivers to urge on the waggon at a faster speed than heretofore. The Hottentots, observing their threatening gestures, obeyed, and the ground being even, the oxen pulled away, incited by the lash of the drivers, which came down with incessant whisks on their flanks.
Hendricks, knowing the customs of the country, put his horse into a trot, Crawford and Denis and the two boys imitating him, and thus the warriors and their captives appeared to be rushing forward eagerly towards the palace of the king. The chief who had captured them hurried on first to announce the success of his expedition. Just before he reached the kraal he was met by a tall stout chief, evidently a person of much consideration, for as he approached he bowed again and again, and then crouched down to the ground, apparently not daring to look up at his face. The tall chief wore, like the others, a cap stuck full of ostrich and crane feathers, with lappets of monkey skins, a kilt of the same skins round his waist, and a sort of cloak hanging over his shoulders, fastened in front by numerous white ox-tails. His features were handsome for a Kaffir; in height he towered above those surrounding him; and though still young, he was remarkably stout. He was evidently also a powerful man, and he possessed the supposed attributes of high birth--wonderfully small hands and feet for a person of his size.
"Who can he be?" asked Crawford.
"A whopping big fellow, at all events," answered Denis; "I'll ask Hendricks."
"That is no other than Cetchwayo, the real ruler of Zululand," said Hendricks; "he has come here probably on a visit to his father, and he it was who ordered our seizure. I have always been on good terms with him, and must try and induce him not to detain us. It will not do, however, to approach him on horseback. We must show him some respect, though we need not bow and cringe as that fellow is doing."
When the party had approached to about a hundred yards or so from the prince, a halt was called, when Hendricks, dismounting, summoned Umgolo, and leaving the horses in charge of the other attendants, they proceeded together towards the prince.
Hendricks saluted him in Kaffir fashion, and having paid the usual compliments, begged to inquire why he and his party had been summoned. The prince replied that he wished to see him face to face. That no harm was intended him, but that he required his services for an important object. Hendricks asked what that object was, saying at the same time, that he should be always ready to do anything to serve him.
"That is well!" answered Cetchwayo; "but you are equally ready to do anything to serve Umbulazi, to whose camp I find you have paid a visit."
Hendricks replied that he had been compelled to visit the camp for the purpose of rescuing some of his followers who had been made prisoners, and that he had neither promised his assistance nor expressed his approbation of the proceedings of Umbulazi.
"You must show which side you espouse by joining me, and assisting in defeating the traitor who is planning to deprive me of my father's favour, and to rule the country in my stead," said Cetchwayo.
In vain Hendricks pleaded that although friendly to Cetchwayo, he was anxious to proceed on his journey for an important object, and that it was not becoming in white men to interfere in the quarrels of the natives, with all of whom they wished to be at peace.
Cetchwayo smiled grimly, remarking, "That whether Hendricks and his followers fought or not, they must accompany him to see the way in which he would punish his enemies."
When he pleaded still more earnestly, the prince began to grow angry, and hinted that if his white friend did not accompany him willingly he should be compelled to use more powerful arguments.
Hendricks, seeing that it would be imprudent to press the point further, had at length to submit, and Cetchwayo then told him that he might camp where his waggon stood, and that wood, water, and food would be sent to him.
The oxen were accordingly offspanned, the horses were knee-haltered, and the other usual preparations made. In a short time a party of boys appeared bringing firewood, which they deposited near the waggon. They were followed by the same number of girls, who came along laughing and singing, bringing some large calabashes of water on their heads. Finding that no meat appeared, Hendricks did up a packet of blankets and other articles, and bidding one of his men accompany him, proceeded to the chief kraal. Percy and Lionel followed at a short distance, as they said to each other, to see the fun. As they got near the kraal, they observed a number of half-naked blacks dragging at what looked like a huge gun carriage, but which proved to be a hand-waggon, very similar to a big chest on wheels. In it was seated an immensely fat man. As he approached, the people who were standing outside immediately went down on their hands and knees, shouting out, "Bayete, bayete!" or King of all other kings; "Zulu-lion, Monarch of the world," and similar complimentary cries.
"Why, who is that fat old fellow?" asked Percy.
"Who should he be but King Panda, to be sure?" answered Denis. "He is too fat for his legs to support him, so he has to be dragged about in that fashion."
The king looked about him in a complaisant manner, and gave some order, when half a dozen of the courtiers darted off as fast as their legs could carry them, eager to obey it. On seeing Hendricks, he desired him to approach. The hunter advanced without considering it necessary to make a salute in the style the black king's subjects adopted; but taking the bundle of blankets from his attendant, he offered it, saying that he had brought a present which he hoped his Majesty would deign to accept.
The king, on seeing the blankets, which were ornamented with gay-coloured borders, expressed his great satisfaction, and without referring to the way in which the hunter and his party had been taken prisoners, inquired the news from Natal, the price of cattle, and talked about other similar subjects.
Hendricks, knowing that it would be useless to plead with Panda against Cetchwayo's decision, having answered his questions, simply expressed his pleasure at seeing the king look so well.
The old fellow grimly smiled, and stroked his stomach as if he considered himself still capable of swallowing an unlimited quantity of beef and mealy cakes. Yet this mountain of flesh had unlimited power over the lives of his subjects, which he showed before the day was over by ordering one of his courtiers, who had offended him somehow or other, to be put to death. Some thirty of those standing round darted off with their assegais in their hands. Just at that instant the unhappy offender appeared, coming to ask pardon of the king, and to explain the reason of his apparent negligence. He was met by the executioners of the king's pleasure, and before he could open his mouth he was pierced through and through by a score of assegais. When his dead body was dragged up to the waggon, the king simply nodded his approval of the act. The body was then dragged off again to be buried. None of the man's relatives or friends dared to utter a word of complaint. Soon after Hendricks and his companions had reached the waggon, an ox was driven towards them by some of the attendants of the king, who had sent it as a return for the presents he had received. It was at once slaughtered, and the meat was spitted, and placed before the fire to cook, greatly to the satisfaction of the Kaffir and Hottentot servants, who had begun loudly to complain of being starved. Hendricks had still some hopes that Cetchwayo would allow him to continue his journey the next morning; but the prince sent word that he must remain another day, as he was not prepared to commence his march.
This was a further trial of temper to Hendricks, and by the way he bore it he set a good example to his young followers. Guards were placed round the camp by Cetchwayo's orders, so that no one could leave it without permission. It was thus very evident that he intended to adhere to his first intention, of compelling the white men to accompany him on his expedition against his brother. There was no help for it. The whole party turned in to sleep, satisfied, at all events, that they were not likely to be disturbed by a lion or rhinoceros, or any other wild beast, making an inroad into the camp.
Next day a messenger from the king made his appearance, and presented an invitation to the great white hunter to dine with His Majesty, and to bring his young white companions.
Hendricks groaned. "I know what that means," he observed to Crawford. "We shall have to drink beer and eat beef until we are ready to die of repletion. I would thankfully avoid the honour if we could possibly do so; but if we were to refuse, the king might grow angry, and perhaps confiscate our goods, if he did not order us all to be put to death."
"Let us go by all means," said Crawford. "It will be great fun, and we shall, at all events, be able to boast that we dined with the king of Zululand."
"We must go, I fear, but I doubt if you or any of us will find it much fun," answered Hendricks.
He then turned to the messenger, who, of course, had no conception of the remarks which had been made, and begged him to inform the great king that his white friends would do themselves the immense honour of obeying his commands.
At the appointed time Hendricks and his four companions set off, leaving the waggon under the charge of Umgolo, with directions to keep a strict watch upon it, lest any of Cetchwayo's brave soldiers should take it into their heads to appropriate the contents. They then proceeded towards the kraal at the side of the hill. The heat was excessive, the sun beat down with intense force upon their heads, so that they were not inclined to move very fast. Having arrived at the kraal, they were ushered into the outer circle, where, in a hut considerably larger than those inhabited by the common people, they found the king seated on a pile of mats, he being utterly unable to squat down in the fashion of his less obese subjects. Hendricks saluted him in due form, and Crawford and Percy imitated their leader as well as they could. They then arranged themselves so as to form part of a circle on one side of His Majesty.
Panda looked at Lionel. "That boy knows how to behave," he remarked, observing the proper Kaffir salutation which he made on entering.
"Yes, O King! I have long lived in Zululand, and I know good manners," answered Lionel, with perfect gravity, while Denis turned away his head to indulge in a quiet laugh, to which he could not openly venture to give way.
Presently several girls appeared, each carrying a bowl holding about a gallon of beer, one of which they set down before each of the guests. Others then brought in wooden platters, huge pieces of beef, large masses of which an attendant cut off with an assegai, and handed to the king, who munched away at them with infinite satisfaction. The guests were desired to help themselves with their knives which they carried in their belts. There were, in addition, baskets of mealy cakes, which Percy declared were more to the purpose than the tough half-roasted beef. The king every now and then looked round the circle, exclaiming, "Eat! eat!" The guests did their utmost, but were very soon satisfied.
"Pray tell him that I can do no more," said Crawford. "This hot day I should prefer some cold lamb and a salad, but this coarse beef beats me."
Hendricks apologised as best he could.
"Tell them to drink, then," said the king, "if they cannot eat. The beer will slip down without any difficulty. Don't you like beer?" asked the king, when he saw that after taking a few mouthfuls they stopped.
"Pray tell him that we like beer in moderation, but shall never be able to finish off one of these bowls," exclaimed Crawford.
Hendricks assured the king that his young companions were anxious to please him; but that Englishmen's insides were not of the same magnificent capacity as His Majesty's, and that therefore it would be impossible for them to do as he desired.
A frown gathered on the king's brow. "Drink, I say, drink! They must drink," he exclaimed.
"Tell the king that I'll see him at Jericho first," said Denis; an observation which set Percy off laughing.
"Command yourselves, lads," said Hendricks, turning to them. "This may become no laughing matter. Although you cannot drink, and I don't wish you to do so, you must show the king that you desire to please him."
"Sure I'll do that," said Denis, putting the bowl to his mouth, and pretending to swallow a huge draught, and then placed it on the ground and gasped for breath. "Please tell His Majesty, that unless he wishes to kill me, he'll let me off this time," cried the irrepressible young Irishman. "Poor Percy and Lionel will burst outright if they have to swallow this stuff."
"That I shall," exclaimed Percy. "I'll not swallow another drop to please him or all the nigger kings in Africa."
Lionel did not venture to make any remark, but looked as resolute as the rest not to turn himself into a beer barrel.
Hendricks began to wish heartily that he had left his companions in the camp, but had now to get out of the difficulty in the best way he could. He therefore reminded Panda that they were very young, and that English manners were not like Zulu manners, but he hoped the next time they visited the country, should the king give them the honour of an invitation, that they would behave themselves better.
Both Hendricks and Crawford had already swallowed more of the beer than they liked. Although its intoxicating qualities were very weak, the latter declared he felt its effects in his head, and that should he take much more, he could not answer for himself.
At last Hendricks thought of an expedient which might possibly prove successful in enabling his companions to escape from a further infliction of the king's hospitable intentions. "The Lion of Africa" (such was one of the titles the obese old savage delighted to be addressed by) "was inquiring about affairs in Natal," he observed. "Not long ago, there lived in England,--which, as your Majesty is aware of, is a long way off,--a man named Jones. He was a worthy man, and had he been born in Zululand, he might have become a great warrior. But Jones was a man of peace. He had a family of ten children, six boys and four girls, very like him in all respects. Jones had a brother, and Jones's brother had twelve children, they were equally divided between boys and girls. As there was every prospect of there being a good many more little Jones's born, they agreed that the country might not be large enough to hold them, and they therefore determined to come out to Natal. Jones's brother came in a ship called the _Swan_, while Jones himself embarked in one named the _Duck_. They sailed almost at the same time. When the sea was smooth, the little Jones's were tolerably well, but when it grew rough, they became very sick, and wished that they had not come."
Hendricks, while he was speaking, kept his eye on the king, who, before he had got thus far, began to nod. He continued, therefore, in a low voice, giving the history of the Jones's, which, as it would be uninteresting to most readers, was especially so to the king, who, therefore, before the hunter had got much farther, fell fast asleep.
"Now my lads," said Hendricks, turning to his young companions, "you may take the opportunity of slipping off. Make a bow to the king as you leave the hut, more to please his attendants than His Majesty, who will certainly not see it, and I will follow."
His directions were obeyed, and they all breathed more freely when they found themselves in the open air. They guessed that the courtiers would not let the king discover that any beer had been left in the bowls, by drinking it up themselves, and they therefore were not troubled on that account.
"It is the first time I ever dined with a king, and it's the last, I hope, ever to have that honour--at least with a black one," exclaimed Denis, as they strolled back towards the waggon. "I wish we could send Cetchwayo to sleep as easily as Hendricks has done his fat old father, and then we might at once continue our journey."
Cetchwayo, however, was not a man to be sent asleep by any amount of Kaffir beer, whatever might have been the effect of half a dozen of London stout. He visited the camp in the evening, to have a talk, as he said, with his friend the great hunter.
He intended, he said, to commence his march at daylight the next morning, to attack Umbulazi, and he should depend upon his friends to afford him the assistance of their rifles.
"Do you wish, O Prince, to destroy me and my companions?" exclaimed Hendricks. "Know you not that I am subject to the laws of my country? Those laws forbid me to kill my fellow-creatures, except in self-defence, or in such warfare as is sanctioned by my government. If I were to kill any of Umbulazi's people, who have not attacked me, and who are at peace with my country, I should make myself liable to the penalty of death. Remember, O Prince, that although your warriors are brave and numerous, yet Umbulazi has a strong force, and should the fortune of war turn against you, your women and children would be exposed to great danger. Now if you will place them under my charge, I will undertake to defend them, and will fight to the last, rather than allow them to be killed."
To this proposal Cetchwayo would not consent, but at last he agreed that Hendricks and his men should remain in the reserve, and that in the event of any of his regiments being defeated, they should afford them protection, and enable them to rally, so as to renew the attack.
Very unwillingly Hendricks was compelled to consent to this arrangement, for he feared being drawn into the conflict, which he especially desired to avoid. Next morning, at daybreak, the army began its march. The main body advanced so slowly, that the waggon was able to keep up with it; but active scouts were sent ahead, to feel every inch of the way, while the rest kept themselves concealed, so that there was no possibility of their being taken by surprise. For three days they advanced, when it was supposed that they were approaching their enemies; but the scouts brought in word that they had retreated to a position nearer the border. This showed that Umbulazi was not so confident of victory as he had appeared to be--possibly he had discovered that his forces were far outnumbered by those of his brother.
On receiving this information, Cetchwayo ordered his whole army to advance. Hendricks was in hopes of being allowed to remain behind, but the prince would not hear of it.
"I will grant you this favour," he answered. "I will leave two of your people, and six of my own, who are sick, to assist in taking care of the waggon; but you and the rest must accompany me on horseback, and view the battle, even if you do not take a part in it. I want to show you how we Zulus fight, and how we treat our enemies when we gain the victory."
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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10
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A BATTLE IN ZULULAND.
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Cetchwayo's army, like a devouring host of locusts, advanced across the country in an extended line, burning the kraals belonging to the chiefs who had sided with Umbulazi, or were supposed to have sided with him, trampling down their mealy fields, and destroying their crops. Old men, women, and children were indiscriminately put to death when found within the huts. The greater number had fled to die in the woods of hunger, or to be devoured by wild beasts. No mercy was shown to those who were captured. The warriors believed victory was certain, for the prophetess had declared that all the auguries were favourable. One more preliminary performance had to be gone through--a grand war dance of the whole army, to excite their enthusiasm, and to warm up their courage to the highest pitch. The scouts had brought the information that the enemy were still some distance in advance, and that there was no fear of the performance being interrupted. The army had been drawn in on purpose, and were assembled on a level plain backed by a hill to the eastward, which they had just crossed. On either side were woods, while a stream ran in front. On the slope of the hill, Cetchwayo took his stand, with Hendricks and his other prisoners--for such they were compelled to consider themselves--near him.
The regiments, headed by their respective chiefs, or colonels, as they really were, advanced from the woods on either side in due order; the tall plumes of the chiefs, their skin cloaks, and ox-tail adornments, fluttering in the breeze. They advanced, singing a monotonous chant, describing the heroic deeds they were about to perform, till each regiment in turn came in front of Cetchwayo, when halting, the men formed a semi-circle, and began slowly moving their feet and arms. As they grew more excited, their action increased in energy and fierceness, and their songs became louder, until at length there was a perfect storm of singing, yelling, and stamping. At the same time the utmost regularity was kept up; their feet, for they did not move from their positions, leaving deep dents in the ground. Notwithstanding the turmoil and apparent disorder which prevailed, they kept perfect time with their voices, arms, and feet. At length, when well-nigh exhausted from their exertions, having received the approval of their general, they moved on to give place to another regiment, which performed precisely the same manoeuvres, except that the men endeavoured to outdo their predecessors in loudness of voice and vehemence of action.
Ten regiments were thus passed in review, forming a force of as many thousand men.
"I suspect poor Umbulazi will have very little chance against these fellows, if they once come up with him," observed Denis to Crawford. "His best chance will be to escape across the border, where I do not suppose that Cetchwayo will venture to follow him."
"From your account, he and his followers are perfect savages, and these fellows are much of the same description," answered Crawford. "For my part, I wish we were out of the country. I am surprised that Captain Broderick should have ventured to settle in the neighbourhood of such people. I had formed a very different notion of them before I came out."
"Of course they are very much like other Kaffirs," said Denis. "They have no more regard for human life than they have for that of the animals they chase. They have become formidable from the way they have been trained by a succession of clever chiefs like Cetchwayo, though I don't suppose that old Panda has ever done much to maintain good discipline in his army. However, as Cetchwayo is well disposed towards the English, he will not give much trouble to the colony."
"Not as long as he considers it to his advantage to keep friends with the English," remarked Crawford. "But suppose they offend him, how will he act?"
"A few red coats and our colonial militia would soon keep him in order, should he show any inclination to quarrel," said Denis.
The conversation was interrupted by a loud shout from Cetchwayo ordering the army to advance, when they spread out as before, forming one vast semi-circle, that is, the wings were in advance of the main body, so that should an enemy be encountered, they might close in and surround him. In this order they advanced until dark, when they halted, each man carrying his provisions, so that there was no necessity for forming a camp or lighting a fire, which would have shown their position to the enemy. Our friends, who had also brought some food in their holsters, lay down on the ground near Cetchwayo.
The night passed quietly, with only an occasional alarm from wild beasts, who however speedily decamped on finding themselves in the neighbourhood of so vast a concourse of people, and at early dawn the army again advanced. In a short time much excitement was caused among the ranks, for scouts came continually hurrying back with information respecting the movements of the enemy.
A line of hills of no great elevation rose in front, extending north and south for a considerable distance. These had to be surmounted, when Cetchwayo told Hendricks that he expected to find Umbulazi's force on the other side. Not a word was spoken along the whole line; for although the warriors themselves could not have been heard by the main body of the enemy, the scouts might have discovered their advance.
Cetchwayo now told Hendricks and his companions to dismount and lead on their horses, keeping a short distance in the rear of the army.
The Zulu warriors advanced in the same order as before, as fast as the nature of the ground would allow, concealing themselves as much as possible, by taking advantage of the trees and bushes and tufts of tall grass, so that a person standing on the summit of the hill, if he had perceived them at all, would have had no conception of their numbers. Whenever shelter was wanting, they stooped down, and very often crawled along the ground like snakes amid the grass.
The two wings could now be seen creeping up the hillside. Shortly afterwards the main body reached the bottom, and also began to ascend. Occasionally a herd of deer or smaller game, driven out of their coverts, started off, some making for the hill, others darting to the one side or the other, probably to fall victims to the noiseless assegais of the warriors.
Hendricks, although as resolved as ever not to engage in the fight, was still compelled to move forward. The hill covered with trees afforded as much shelter as the lower ground had done. On gaining the summit, in the rear of the troops, he was able to obtain a view over the country beyond. It was a comparatively level region, with a broad river running across it. On the nearer side of the river, and at no great distance from the bottom of the slope, could be seen the forces of Umbulazi. It was tolerably evident from the movement among them that they had just obtained information of the approach of Cetchwayo's army. The chiefs were marshalling their men, some facing the hill, some preparing for the assault on either side, but it appeared to Hendricks that they were uncertain in what direction they might be attacked.
Slowly, and still keeping themselves concealed, Cetchwayo's warriors descended the hillside. Nearer and nearer they drew to the foe, the wings being gradually extended, and at the same time closing in towards each other.
Thus, even before the attack had commenced, Umbulazi's force was almost entirely surrounded. It had probably been Cetchwayo's intention completely to hem in his enemies; but before there was time to do so, they had discovered his right wing, and apparently supposing it to be the main body, advanced to meet it. On this he gave the signal to his whole force to commence the attack, and in an instant, from the hitherto silent woods and thickets, hideous shrieks and yells arose, and the warriors, no longer taking pains to conceal themselves, rushed on at headlong speed, clashing their shields and quivering their assegais.
The rear of Umbulazi's force was completely taken by surprise. To fly was impossible, either to the right hand or to the left; their own people engaged with the enemy in front, preventing them from moving in that direction. Their only resource was to face about and endeavour to drive back their assailants, or to defend themselves to the last. Now the main body appearing rushed down on what had been their right flank, and the slaughter commenced.
Vastly outnumbered and completely surrounded, they fought with the energy of despair. Some few of the younger men, seeing relatives and friends among their assailants, pleaded for mercy, but they pleaded with those to whom mercy was unknown. The sharp assegais of Cetchwayo's warriors did their death work rapidly and surely. His victorious bands pressed forward, closing in on their victims.
Hendricks stood observing the battle through his telescope, which he occasionally handed to Crawford and Denis. The scene enacted on the ground near the foot of the hill could be clearly observed with the naked eye, but through the glass alone could be distinguished what was taking place in the distance.
One path leading towards the river alone remained open, and towards it a few who had been posted in that direction were seen endeavouring to make their escape. The greater number were pursued and overtaken; but one warrior, who had exhibited wonderful activity, kept those chasing him at bay, and hurling his assegais with unerring aim, brought one after the other to the ground; then once more resuming his flight, he gained the river, and, plunging in, was no more seen.
"Well, I'm glad that poor fellow got off," exclaimed Denis, who had been watching him anxiously. "I hope he'll make his escape; for he must be very brave, or he would not have turned round and fought his enemies in the way he did. It is dreadful to see what is going on below us."
The battle-field had now become a scene of indiscriminate slaughter. Here and there a few groups could be discerned standing amidst their fallen comrades, supporting one of their chiefs, and hurling back the assegais aimed at them, which they had caught on their shields, and which had fallen at their sides; but the numbers in these groups were rapidly diminishing: first one man fell, then another, then another, until several were seen to fall together, and at last their enemies, rushing on with triumphant shrieks, and hurling their assegais, brought the remainder to the ground, finishing those who had fallen with repeated thrusts of their sharp weapons. At length but one group remained in the midst of the corpse-strewn field. They gazed fiercely round them, well knowing that ere long they must be like those lying dead at their feet. Still they fought on, keeping their assailants at bay. In their midst was a chief, known by his tall plume and stalwart figure, a very Ajax in appearance. Cetchwayo, seeing the determined resistance offered, and that numbers of his men were falling, summoned a company of his own regiment, and led them on to the attack. The struggle was fierce, but of short duration. Scarcely a minute elapsed before he was seen to sweep over the spot, trampling on the bodies of the slain, into which his followers were fiercely plunging their weapons. Of the adherents of Umbulazi, who in all the pride of manhood had a short hour before occupied that now blood-stained field, not a man remained alive.
"Now is our time to make our escape from this fearful scene of slaughter," exclaimed Hendricks. "The savages will be too much engaged in rejoicing over their victory to think of us, and we are not bound to remain here longer than we choose."
Their guards, it should have been said, excited beyond all control at the scene of bloodshed, had rushed down to join in the work of slaughter. Not a moment was to be lost. Tightening their saddle-girths, the party mounted. "You go ahead, Denis, and lead, and I will bring up the rear," said Hendricks. "We shall gain the waggon, and be able to push on towards the border, before Cetchwayo sends in pursuit of us, if he thinks it worth while to do so. Having gained a victory, he will be in an especially good humour; but if we remain now, he will perhaps take it into his head to detain us for the purpose of compelling us to witness his triumph."
This was said as the party were preparing to mount. They had retained their arms, and as their horses had moved only at a slow pace, and had had plenty of time to feed, they were prepared for a long ride.
Hendricks gave the word, and Denis leading, off they started. They were soon down the hill and across the plain which they had before traversed, making a direct course for the spot where the waggon and its guards had been left. Hendricks occasionally turned his head to ascertain if they were pursued; but as no one was to be seen, he felt satisfied that Cetchwayo had not discovered their flight, and the probability was that he would not do so for many hours to come. As much of the ground was level, they did not spare their steeds until they reached the waggon, some hours before sundown.
The Hottentot and Kaffir servants welcomed them with every sign of joy. Not aware of the superiority of Cetchwayo's army over that of his rival, they had feared that he might have been defeated, and that the pursuing enemy had attacked them in revenge for their being associated with him.
Hendricks instantly gave the order to inspan, and bestowing presents on the Zulus who had been left to assist in guarding the waggon, he advised them immediately to return home.
They, without demur, took their departure, well satisfied with the presents they had received, and the oxen were urged on at as rapid a rate as they could be got to move. The ground was fortunately level, so that good progress was made, and several miles were got over before sunset.
They camped in a hollow, the ground round which was covered with trees, so that the light of their fire could not be seen to any distance.
The chirrup of the cricket on the hearth is not more familiar to the inhabitants of an old country house in England, than is the roar of the lion to the ears of the traveller in Africa. Our friends had become so accustomed to the low mutterings, as well as to the loud roars of the king of beasts, that, provided the sounds came from a distance, they scarcely interrupted their slumbers. Occasionally, however, when a brute more savage and hungry than usual, ventured up to the camp, evidently on a foraging expedition, it was not only difficult but impossible for any one to sleep; indeed, common prudence required that all should be on the watch, with their weapons ready to defend themselves or the cattle, should they be attacked.
As there was still nearly an hour of daylight to spare, Hendricks, with Lionel and Denis, who were always ready to start on a hunting expedition, went off in search of game, accompanied by the dogs, who, although they have not often been mentioned, had always faithfully done their duty in giving due notice of the approach of strangers or any animals.
They had not got far from the camp when Hendricks shot an antelope, and to save the necessity of returning at once, it was hoisted up on to the branch of a tree to prevent its being eaten by the jackals and hyenas which would quickly have found it out. They went on for some distance farther, when Lionel, looking ahead, exclaimed-- "See, see! the grass is moving; there is some beast within." And scarcely had he spoken, than out sprang a lion, which, however, instead of coming towards them, made its way in the direction of the camp.
"It's as well we secured our game, or the brute would have had it," observed Denis, as they followed the lion. "I only hope our friends in camp will be on the look-out, or that brute will be among them and do some mischief."
As soon as the lion had turned tail, the three dogs set off in pursuit, Hendricks and his companions following. The lion at first went along leisurely; but when he heard the barking of the dogs and the shouts of the hunters, who wanted him to turn so that they might get a shot at him, he increased his speed.
In a short time Fangs got ahead of the other two dogs, and at length almost reached the heels of the lion. This showed his courage more than his discretion; for had the lion turned suddenly, he would have paid dearly for his boldness; but probably the lion was scarcely aware how close his pursuer was to him. On coming to the antelope in the tree, he stopped and evinced a strong inclination to try and pull it down. He saw, however, that it was beyond his reach, and again went on, until he was in sight of the waggon and oxen; but fortunately he was seen, and the Hottentots and Kaffirs began shrieking and shouting to drive him off, while Crawford and Percy seized their guns, ready to fire as soon as he should come near enough.
Fangs had kept all this time close after the chase, but well knew that one kick from those powerful hind-paws would send him flying into the air with a cracked skull.
Still, carried away by the excitement of the chase, he was on the point of springing forward to throw himself on the lion's quarters, when the latter became aware of his being so near, and making a bound forward, stopped, turned, and crouched. Fangs saw his danger, and turned to flee, barely in time to escape the claws of the lion who sprang after him. Away Fangs went, however, fleet as the wind, followed by the lion, with his mane flowing, his ears pricked forward, and his tail erect. The dog took the direction in which his master was coming; but the lion apparently did not perceive the hunters until he was within range of their rifles.
"Now, my lads, show what you can do!" cried Hendricks. "I will reserve my fire in case you should miss, you couldn't have a finer opportunity. Denis, do you fire first."
Denis, highly pleased, raised his rifle and fired. His bullet merely grazed the back of the lion, which at that instant, taking alarm, turned aside and bounded off up the hill. The dogs made chase after him; but Hendricks, fearing that they would perhaps encounter the lioness and come to grief, called them back. Unwillingly they obeyed, and although even Fangs, the bravest, would not have ventured to encounter the lion face to face, they were all eager to go in chase of him when turning tail.
Getting down the antelope, they now returned to camp. As it was very probable that the lion would come back as soon as darkness set in, an additional fire was lighted. The horses were secured to the waggon wheels, and the oxen were brought in and also made fast. The antelope flesh was cooked, and eaten with good appetites by the travellers. Scarcely was supper concluded when several roars were heard, some on one side at a short distance, some on the other, close to the camp. Directly afterwards the horrid chorus was increased by the howl of hyenas and the crying of jackals, more numerous than at any previous occasion during the journey. There was no necessity to order the Hottentots and Kaffirs to be on the watch; for they all well knew the risk they ran of an attack from the lions. Even the animals seemed aware of their danger. The men replied to the roars by shrieks and cries, every now and then firing off a rifle in the direction from which the sounds proceeded. Hendricks, however, considering that three of the party were sufficient to keep watch, ordered the remainder to lie down, either under or close to the waggon, and thus the first part of the night passed unpleasantly by.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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11
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A SUCCESSION OF DISASTERS.
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In spite of the wild uproar made by the savage brutes encircling the camp, some of the guards began to doze after they had been on the watch two or three hours. Crawford had undertaken to keep watch while Hendricks turned in. Now that he was getting accustomed to the country, he was anxious to take a more active part than he had hitherto done. With rifle in hand, he continued walking up and down, keeping inside the fires and watching to see that all had sufficient fuel to cause the flames to burn up brightly. Both the horses and oxen were naturally restless while within sound of their dreaded enemies.
He had stopped to look out, when, at the end of the waggon farthest from that to which the horses were secured, he heard the tramp of feet, and looking round, by the light of the fire, he saw one of them loose and trotting away. He instantly called to some of the men to secure the animal, but they either did not hear, or did not understand him, and it was some time before any of them were on their feet, when the horse had disappeared in the darkness.
"You must go and bring it back," he shouted, and was himself about to set off in chase of the horse, when Umgolo, who had been awakened, stopped him, and gave him to understand by signs and such few English words as he could speak, that he would run a great risk of being attacked himself, and would to a certainty not recover the animal that night.
"If he escapes the lions, he may come back, or we may find him in the morning," said the Kaffir.
Crawford, acknowledging the wisdom of this advice, remained in the camp, looking out occasionally, however, in the hopes of seeing the horse return. After some minutes Umgolo touched him on the arm.
"Hark! do you hear that sound?" he asked.
Some suppressed growls reached their ears.
"The horse is dead, and the lions are gnawing his bones. They are growling at the hyenas and jackals who have gathered round to join in the feast, but the lions won't let them until they have eaten their fill."
Presently to the growls of the lions was added the howling, shrieking, chattering, and barking of the hyenas, mingled with the cries of the jackals, producing a most unearthly chorus.
"Come, let us try and kill the brutes," said Denis, and he and Crawford walked out a few yards from the camp; but, although they fired several shots, no effect was produced; and Umgolo calling to them to come back, lest a lion should pounce upon them, they returned to the camp. The sound of the shots had awakened Hendricks, which the howlings of the wild beasts had failed to do. He rated Denis and Crawford for their folly in leaving the camp.
"In spite of your firearms, you might have been seized in the darkness by one of those savage brutes, who would not dare to face you in daylight," he observed. "Never, if you can help it in these wilds, be away at night from the light of a fire."
It was found in the morning that Crawford's horse was missing. On searching round the camp, two leg bones and a few pieces of skin were discovered, the sole remains of the unfortunate animal, the rest had been carried off by beasts of prey. As soon as the oxen had been watered and had had time to pick up some grass, the party inspanned and proceeded on their journey.
Fortunately Hendricks had a couple of spare horses, one of which he lent Crawford, who would otherwise have had to march on foot, or have been indebted to his friends, who would undoubtedly have insisted on his getting into their saddles while they walked. For three days they travelled on as fast as the oxen could move. Hendricks, being as anxious to get as far as possible from Cetchwayo and his warriors, instead of taking a circuitous route, as he had at first intended, through a fertile and thickly inhabited district, proceeded on a direct line across a wild and barren region with which he was but little acquainted. It abounded, however, he knew, in game, and he hoped that water, sufficient for the wants of the oxen and horses, would be found. Scarcely half an hour passed, that a herd of grotesque gnus, with the heads of bisons and horns of oxen, or of graceful quaggas, swift blesbocs, or light and elegant springbocs, did not pass in sight, in hundreds, or rather in thousands, across the plain. Although it was no easy matter to get up with them, still Hendricks was too experienced a hunter to be baffled, and he never failed, when he went out for the purpose, to bring back an ample supply of meat for the party. Water, however, was becoming scarce. The supply which had been brought for the use of the men was well-nigh exhausted, while the holes in which it was expected there would be enough for the animals, were found to be dry. The country they were traversing was level, thinly scattered over with trees and small bushes, and there was abundance of grass; so that cattle and horses were able to obtain food, and such moisture as the grass afforded, but had had for two days not a drop of water; still, as the only hope of obtaining any was to push forward, they moved on as fast as the animals could drag the waggon. Hendricks, the Kaffirs and Hottentots, accustomed to privations of all sorts, uttered no complaints, but the younger members of the party began to suffer greatly from thirst.
"I'd give a guinea, if I had it, for a thimbleful of water," exclaimed Denis, "for I feel as if I could drink the Liffy dry."
Night came on, and they were compelled at length to outspan, when the poor oxen lay down overcome with fatigue. To move during the night was impossible, and the whole party sat round their fires in no happy mood. They attempted to take supper, but few could swallow a particle of food. The fires had been lit to keep off the lions heard roaring in the distance, but some time passed before any came near enough to cause disquietude to the oxen, which invariably show their dread of the savage brutes. A vigilant watch was kept, but the night became very dark, and the fires, which for want of fuel had sunk low, scarcely shed their light far enough to show the oxen lying down a short distance off. Most of the party had turned in; but Hendricks himself, with Percy, who had offered to assist him, were keeping the first watch.
"How soon do you think we shall reach Falls Farm?" asked Percy.
"In five or six days, possibly, if we are fortunate enough to find water," answered Hendricks; "but I fear that the cattle will become so weak, they will scarcely be able to drag on the waggon. If we don't discover any to-morrow, we must set off to search for it in different directions. I propose letting Denis and you explore to the north-west, while I ride ahead with Lionel, and Umgolo, with Crawford, if he choose to accompany him, can go off more to the north-east. We shall thus, I hope, fall in before long with what we so much require. The waggon can in the meantime proceed onwards as fast as the poor oxen can drag it."
"We can't fail in that way, I hope, to find water," observed Percy. "So I suppose that I may count on getting home in the time you speak of."
"Are you tired of the journey?" asked Hendricks.
"Oh, no, on the contrary," answered Percy. "But I think my father and mother will be growing anxious at our not appearing so much longer after the time they expected us; otherwise I should like to accompany you through the whole of your expedition into the interior. I like the life much better than I fancy I shall being planted down on a farm, and not seeing any one for months together, except my family, though I am sure I shall be very happy with them."
Just then one of the oxen bellowed loudly.
"Get a lantern from the waggon, Percy; we must see what is the matter," said Hendricks.
Percy quickly brought the lantern, and they advanced towards the spot; but scarcely had they got half a dozen paces, when a rushing, trampling sound as of many feet was heard, and three of the oxen dashed into the camp, almost through the fire, others apparently taking an opposite direction. At the same time stifled groans reached their ears.
"One of the oxen must be hurt," observed Percy.
"Yes, but those groans are not made by the poor beast. They are the sounds produced by the lion as he devours his prey, and I must try to interrupt him," said Hendricks.
As he spoke, he advanced a few paces farther. At that moment Percy caught sight of an animal, certainly not an ox, springing by. Hendricks fired, and the next instant every one in the camp had jumped up, asking what was the matter.
"The matter is, that a lion has killed one of the oxen, and he may destroy several others if we don't stop his career," answered Hendricks, rapidly reloading.
He now led the way to where the oxen had been lying down, while the Hottentots secured the three which had come into camp. None of the other oxen were to be seen, except one, which lay motionless on the ground, with its neck broken. In their eagerness to overtake them, the men, in spite of the darkness, would have set off in pursuit, had not Hendricks called them back.
"It would be useless in the dark, and you would run a great risk of being caught by the lion," he observed. "You must wait till morning, when we will go in search of them; and we may, perchance, find water at the same time, as they will probably head towards it, if they escape from the lion."
This was the most severe disaster which had yet occurred to the travellers; for in that wild district it would be impossible to replace the oxen, should they not be found.
The men, on being summoned, returned to the camp, but none of them were inclined again to go to sleep, for all were suffering greatly from thirst, and at any moment another lion might pay them a visit.
Morning at length dawned. The body of the ox killed by the lion was discovered about a hundred yards from the camp, a part of the hind-quarters only eaten, the brute having evidently been frightened away by the shot Hendricks fired, though whether it was wounded or not it was impossible to say.
Although they had gone supperless to bed, so parched were their throats that they were unable to take any breakfast. The horses had been secured to the waggon, or they to a certainty would have gone off with the oxen. Most of them, however, were too much knocked up to exert themselves. To recover the cattle was of the first importance. Hendricks therefore found it necessary to alter his plan. The rest of the party undertaking to go on foot in search of water, he selected the only two horses fit for travelling, and rode away with one of the Hottentots to look for the missing cattle, while Crawford and Umgolo, as had been arranged, proceeded in a north-easterly direction. It had been decided, as soon as the oxen were recovered, should they be able to travel, that the waggon was to continue on due north, that they might have no difficulty in again finding it.
The morning was fresh, almost cold, and the air pure; so that had not Denis and Percy, who, accompanied by Gozo and two dogs, were the first to start, been suffering from thirst, and very much from hunger also, they would have been able to march merrily along. As it was, by chewing some grass which they plucked as they went on, they somewhat lessened their sufferings. They kept their eyes about them for any signs which might indicate water. Though here and there shrubs, and even trees of some size, grew out of the sandy soil, yet no moisture could be discovered. Fewer animals than usual were seen, but occasionally a herd of gnus or antelopes bounded across their path, but too far off for a shot.
As the sun rose the heat increased, but that made them still more anxious to discover water. The poor dogs suffered even more than they did, as they followed at their heels; for even the sight of game did not induce them to scamper off as they would have done on other occasions.
"It will never do to give in," said Denis, as Percy proposed sitting down under the shade of a tree to rest, where the dogs had already sought shelter.
"I don't wish to give in; but if we cannot find water soon, I fear that it will be impossible to get on," answered Percy.
"Look at poor Gozo, he seems to be suffering even more than we are, though I should have supposed that he would have held out the longest."
The old Kaffir threw himself down in the shade, and lay on his back gasping. "I shall die, masters, I shall die!" he said; "I cannot go farther."
"Don't be saying that, Gozo; you'll get up after a little rest, and we'll find water before long; if not, we may fall in with some juicy roots: I have heard that such grow in some parts of the country where the soil is sandy, and so we are likely to discover them here."
"It won't do to stop here long," said Denis. "We must up and away; the sooner we set off, the sooner we shall find water. Come along, rouse up, Gozo; you will be better moving along than lying still."
The Kaffir thus incited to exertion got on his feet. The party set off, the dogs dragging themselves after their masters, for their instinct told them that there would be no safety for them alone. On and on they went, Denis and Percy doing their best to keep up each other's spirits. Poor Gozo, however, complained more and more. He had drawn his hunger belt tighter and tighter round his waist, until it looked as if it would cut him in two. His throat, he said, felt as if a hot iron had been run down it; yet, encouraged by Denis, he staggered on. It was too evident that he was growing weaker and weaker, and he declared a last that he could not carry his gun.
"But without it you will not be able to defend yourself, should we be attacked by a lion or lioness," said Denis.
"No matter: I must die then," answered Gozo.
"Well, if I carry your gun, will you come on?" asked Denis.
"I'll try, master, I'll try," answered the black as Denis took the gun.
"I must help you to carry it," said Percy. "I cannot do much to assist the fellow along, but I hope that his weakness is more fanciful than real, and that now he is relieved from the weight of his gun he will move on more briskly."
For a short distance Gozo staggered on faster than he had done for some time previously, but again his feet moved slower and slower, until coming to a tree he begged that he might lie down under it in the shade and rest.
"But rest means delay, and every minute we are becoming more and more thirsty," said Denis.
Still Gozo insisted on lying down, and Denis and Percy had to agree to his doing so. As they could not leave him, they sat down by his side.
After remaining a few minutes, however, Denis started up. "Come, this will never do," he exclaimed; "push on we must; we shall be as exhausted as he is, if we do not soon find water, and we shall not find it by sitting here."
"I am ready," said Percy; but when they tried to induce Gozo to rise, he declared that he was utterly unable to move.
"Leave me here, masters," he groaned out. "If you find water in a short time, come back, but if not go on, for it will be useless to return, as I shall be dead."
Again and again they endeavoured to induce him to get up, but in vain were all their efforts. At last Denis said, "We must leave him, I fear, though he runs a great risk of being destroyed by some wild beast."
He then turned to the unhappy native. "We will do as you wish. We will leave you your musket to defend yourself, but I would urge you not to give in; and if you feel yourself stronger, follow us. You will easily distinguish our spoor, and we will fire off our pieces to show you our whereabouts, should we find water," he said.
With much regret they left poor Gozo, having strong doubts whether they should find him alive on their return. They set off slightly refreshed by their rest. They had not gone far when they caught sight of a single wildebeest, or gnu, scampering along at a great rate, and going almost in the direction they were pursuing.
"Perhaps that animal is making its way towards water," observed Percy.
"I fear not," answered Denis. "If so, it would not be alone. It has been separated from the herd; and see, there are some creatures chasing it. They are wild dogs; you can just distinguish their heads moving along the grass in single file; the leader is close at the heels of the poor wildebeest."
As the dogs came nearer, a whole line amounting to several score could be seen, following exactly one behind the other. Presently the leader took a leap, and alighted on the haunches of the affrighted gnu. Another and another followed, until, borne down by numbers, the gnu was dragged to the ground.
By this time Denis and Percy were near enough to fire with effect. Denis knocked over one of the dogs, and the rest, frightened by the report, turned tail and scampered off. The lads rushed forward, eager to obtain some of the flesh of the gnu. The animal was already dead, so they were saved the trouble of shooting it. They at once cut off some slices, while the two dogs, who had refused to remain with Gozo, ate a hearty meal.
"We must take some of this back to the poor fellow we left under the tree," said Denis.
Percy agreed; and much revived themselves, they set off by the way they had come. They hurried on, hoping to find Gozo still alive. As they approached they shouted out to give him notice that they were coming. The dogs on this ran forward; but as they got near to the spot, stopped and gazed towards it, and then came back.
"What can have happened?" asked Percy. "Surely Gozo cannot have died during the short time we have been absent, yet otherwise the dogs would have remained."
They hurried on to find Gozo lying at full length where they had left him. His eyes were open, but staring meaninglessly. Denis called him by name. He made no reply. He lifted his hand, it felt cold and clammy, and fell as he let it go; his heart had ceased to beat. Notwithstanding this, he pressed some of the juice from the flesh they had brought, into his mouth. They lifted up his head, they rubbed his feet, but all in vain. They saw with sorrow that they had been too late to save him. To remain longer would be useless, and already the journey back had occupied some time.
"We must hurry on to save our own lives," said Denis; "if we don't find water in an hour or two, we shall be badly off indeed."
They therefore left the body of the Kaffir where it lay, his rifle by his side, but they wisely carried off his ammunition, in case their own should run short. Sometimes they thought they saw shrubs which could only grow near water, but on getting up to them they were disappointed at not finding the slightest signs of moisture. Although the flesh of the gnu had greatly revived them, still in a short time their thirst returned. They pressed onward as before, the dogs ranging on either side, apparently aware of what they were in search of, or prompted by instinct to look out for themselves. Still there were no signs of water. They went on for fully an hour more, during which time they could have got over only between two or three miles, for they could not walk very fast.
They had gone some way farther when Percy caught sight of some objects moving over the plain, now stopping, now going on again.
"They are small animals of some sort," said Denis, to whom he pointed them out. "We must try and get near them without putting them to flight. Depend upon it they are not likely to be far from water."
There were some bushes at a little distance, to which the lads made their way, in order to get near the creatures without being seen.
"Why, I believe they are baboons!" cried Denis; "the Kaffirs call the creature the chacma. They are hunting for babiana root, which is always full of water. We can drive them off just as they have begun to dig, and before they have got hold of the roots we shall secure as many as we want for ourselves. Had we seen them only a few hours ago, poor Gozo's life might have been saved."
They were now getting near to the bushes, and the baboons, being very busy, had fortunately not perceived them. They crept on cautiously until they had got within fifty yards of the animals. There were a couple of dozen at least. Some had got hold of roots which they were eagerly eating, others were busily digging away in the sand. The lads had some difficulty in keeping back the dogs; for as soon as they saw the baboons they made efforts to rush at them, and very probably would have suffered severely in consequence.
"Now," whispered Denis, "I see three or four have been digging away not far off, evidently expecting to find roots. In a few seconds we'll fire, then shout, and let slip the dogs."
They did as he proposed. The baboons, frightened at the unusual sounds, and seeing the unknown creatures coming towards them, scampered off as hard as they could go. Denis and Percy rushed forward to the holes which the baboons had made, and digging eagerly with their hands, each of them soon came to a root, and rubbing off the sand which adhered to the outsides, put them to their mouths. Perfectly refreshing and cool was the pulpy substance, full of the purest water. The dogs eagerly gobbled up the portions they threw away. They went to another and another hole, in each of which a root was found. The effect was almost instantaneous; they at once felt refreshed and strengthened. Having satisfied their own thirst, they found two more roots, which they gave to the dogs; but the baboons had already extracted the roots from the other holes, and after searching for some time they could find no more. Although they themselves felt revived, they did not forget the object of their expedition, and resolved to continue on; but it occurred to Denis that as the baboons had come to the place to obtain roots, it was not likely that they would find any water in the neighbourhood.
"That makes it more important that we should push on as fast as possible," said Percy; "but I say, Denis, do you think there's any chance of our getting back to the waggon to-night? It is already late."
Denis looked at the sun, which was sinking towards the west.
"Faith! I was not thinking how time was passing," he answered; "and, to say the truth, I'm pretty sure we shan't get back, and we must make up our minds to camp out. If we keep up a good fire to scare away the lions and other savage beasts, there will be no danger and no great hardship."
Percy, who did not like the thought of passing the night in the wilderness, proposed that they should strike away to the right, or about due east, in the expectation of falling in with the track of the waggon, which he hoped might have been able to move on. Denis was of opinion that there was no chance of their getting as far before nightfall, and that it was very possible the oxen might not have been found, or if they had been found, that they would have been able to make much progress towards the north.
"We shall be wiser if we continue our search for water, and look out for some food; for now--thanks to the roots--my thirst is quenched, and I am getting very peckish," he added.
"So am I," said Percy; "but I am too anxious to get back to the waggon to think much about my hunger."
"You'll not be so indifferent about food before long, let me tell you," observed Denis. "You'll then feel that you'd rather bring down a springboc, or gnu, or any other animal we may come across, than see the waggon moving ever so merrily along. I know what it is to be starving, and to feel that one's life depends on bringing down the game one is chasing. Come, move on! we will keep our eyes about us on the chance of finding something to shoot. When the sun gets lower, we will look out for a clump of trees or bushes which will shelter our camp from the night wind, and give us fuel for our fire."
"I would rather find a stream or water hole," said Percy.
"So would I, provided we could afterwards get something to eat and fuel to cook it; but if not, we must make the best of circumstances. Many people have been in a worse situation than we are, so don't let us begin to complain yet," said Denis.
His indomitable spirits encouraged Percy, and they trudged on in the direction they were before going, looking eagerly about them, both for signs of water and for any animal which might appear near enough to give them a chance of shooting it. Denis was sure that Hendricks, should he find water, would at once set off on horseback in search of them in the direction he had desired them to take, and by his experience would quickly come upon their spoor and follow them up, or if he could not come himself, that he would send Umgolo. They were, of course, very sorry for the loss of poor Gozo, who would have been of great assistance both in obtaining food and searching for water, if any existed in the neighbourhood. Meantime the sun was sinking lower and lower, but neither game nor signs of water had they discovered. In vain Raff and Fangs ranged widely on either side of them, as eager as they were to find it.
Some way to the left there appeared a wood. The trees were not very high, but they would afford them the shelter and fuel they required, and Denis proposed that they should make towards them.
"It cannot be helped; we shall have to go without our suppers, I fear; but we must hope to find something for breakfast," said Denis.
Percy groaned. He had become, as Denis guessed he would, very hungry, and the lower limb of the sun had almost reached the horizon. They knew that soon after it had set darkness would come on, when it would be difficult to select a suitable spot for camping, or obtain time for collecting fuel. They had not gone far when Percy exclaimed, "Hallo, what's that? What an enormous bird!" And Denis, looking to the right, in which direction Percy pointed, saw an ostrich scampering away across the plain.
Both the dogs instantly started off in chase, but the ostrich quickly outstripped them; and Denis, fearing that they might lose themselves or get exhausted to no purpose, called them back.
"Did you mark the spot it started from?" he asked eagerly. "We must try to find it. The chances are it was sitting on its eggs, and if they are tolerably fresh, they will serve us for food and liquid too."
"I think I can calculate the whereabouts of the place it rose from," said Percy; and they hastened on, keeping a little apart, that they might be able to examine a wider extent of ground than if they had been together. Denis could see nothing like a nest, and he began to fear that the ostrich had been merely resting after being chased, and that their hunt would be fruitless.
"It can't be helped; we must make for the wood, or we shall not be able to see our way," he shouted to Percy.
Just then the latter exclaimed, "Hurrah! hurrah! five magnificent eggs!" and he held up one of them with both hands.
Denis hurried to the spot. There, sure enough, resting in the centre of a clump of dry grass, with otherwise very little protection, were four large white eggs besides the one Percy had in his hand, each large enough to afford a good meal to them both.
Their hunger would have prompted them then and there to sit down and eat the contents raw, but Denis wisely advised that they should restrain their appetites and hasten on to the clump of trees. They accordingly each secured two in their handkerchiefs and Percy carried the fifth in his hand.
Although the sun had sunk by the time they got close to the wood, there was still light sufficient to enable them to collect a supply of broken branches and leaves for their fuel.
"Take care that you do not catch hold of a snake, fancying you are about to pick up a stick," cried Denis. "I nearly did so just now. Fortunately the creature wriggled off more frightened at me than I was at it."
"You may trust me for that," said Percy; "but what do you say, instead of sleeping on the ground, to climbing up into a tree? I see one with the branches sufficiently low to enable us to get into it without difficulty. We should at least be out of the reach of lions."
"Yes, I agree with you it will be the safest place, although not the most comfortable, and we must remember to carry our guns with us, or we may chance to be besieged there as I once was," answered Denis, coming along with a bundle of sticks. "We'll light our fire first, and cook an egg. If that is the tree you propose, let us pitch our camp beneath it;" and he threw down the sticks, while Percy hastened to bring those he had collected and left at a little distance.
"Holloa! I saw one of the branches move in a curious fashion," he exclaimed, looking up at the tree in which they proposed to form their resting-place for the night.
"A branch! why that's a boa or snake of some sort, big enough to eat us both up, if so disposed," cried Denis.
They had fortunately not gone sufficiently close to enable the creature to spring down upon them, or the consequences might have been serious.
"We must dislodge that fellow, if we are to get up the tree," said Denis, raising his rifle. "I can see his head." And he fired.
The huge snake gave some convulsive struggles, trying to coil itself round and round the branch, but its folds speedily relaxed, and its head hung down towards the ground, still it clung on by its tail, the folds of its huge body twisting and writhing in a manner truly terrific as seen in the dim light beneath the deep foliage of the tree.
"We must put a stop to that fellow's performances, or he may be doing us some mischief still," cried Percy; and raising his rifle he fired. In a few seconds down fell the big snake to the ground; its tail, however, still kept moving, and Denis, who had reloaded his rifle with small shot, stepping forward, discharged it at the tail end of the body. The effect was instantaneous--its struggles ceased--the huge snake lay dead.
"I only hope there may not be more up the tree. You see we might have been in as much danger among the branches as on the ground," said Denis.
They both looked up, going round and round the tree, but could discover nothing moving, so they came to the conclusion that the boa had been its only occupant.
"It won't be pleasant to have this fellow close under us, as the hyenas and jackals will to a certainty collect to feast off him before long," said Denis. "We must drag him off as far as we can. To be sure, if we hadn't found the ostrich eggs, we should have been thankful to get some steaks off him; as it is, we may as well cut a few for ourselves, in case the eggs should not be as fresh as we might desire; while Raff and Fangs will have no objection to as many as we like to give them."
"You don't mean to say that we may have to eat some of that horrible snake!" cried Percy.
"I mean to say it is possible that we may be very glad to eat a good junk of it," answered Denis. "We may fancy all the time that we are banqueting on a magnificent sturgeon."
"Oh, do let us get the fire lighted first, and cook an egg," cried Percy. "Without food I am sure I could not drag that snake a dozen feet."
To this Denis agreed. Having match-boxes in their pouches, they quickly lighted their fire, but they had to wait till some ashes were formed before they could begin to cook one of the eggs. In the meantime Denis cut some slices from the thicker part of the snake's body, and some hunches which the hungry dogs very speedily disposed of. He then began to drag it away, but alone he could scarcely move it, so that Percy, in spite of his hunger, was obliged to assist him. They did not get far, however, but hurried back, pretty well exhausted, to cook the eggs they were longing for. Denis performed the operation in a scientific manner, by making a small hole at one end, and then putting in some pepper and salt which they had brought with them, and stirring the inside about with a stick till the egg was cooked. It was soon done in this fashion; and greatly to the satisfaction of Percy, who dreaded having to sup off the snake's flesh, it was found to be perfectly sweet. Although they had no water, they were able from the liquid nature of the egg to eat a small portion of the biscuit they had in their pouches. The meal greatly restored their strength, as well as Percy's spirits.
Having made up the fire to give them light, they dragged the body of the snake still farther from the camp. Denis was inclined to remain under the tree, where he could stretch himself at full length on the ground. Percy entreated him to come up into the branches.
"But supposing we were both to go to sleep, and the fire was to go out, and a lion was to come prowling this way, what would become of us?" asked Denis. At last he agreed to do as Percy wished, and making up the fire so as to give them plenty of light, they climbed into the tree with their guns and four ostrich eggs.
"We must get up the dogs also, or some wild beast or other may carry them off," said Denis. "Come along, Raff, old fellow, catch hold of this;" and Denis, leaning down from the lowest branch, held out his handkerchief, which Raff, clearly understanding what he was to do, caught hold of, and was quickly hauled up. Nothing however would induce Fangs to follow his example, and at last they were compelled to abandon the attempt to get him up, he having evidently made up his mind to pass the night at the foot of the tree--probably that he might enjoy at his leisure a further meal off the snake. Greedy Fangs, like many human beings, influenced by sinister motives, he was doomed to suffer severely for his folly.
They soon selected for themselves and Raff three tolerably secure places among the forked branches, where they hoped to be able to pass the night, if not in a very comfortable manner, at all events without the risk of being pounced upon by a hungry lion.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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12
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IN SEARCH OF WATER.
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After the fatigue and anxiety they had gone through, it was not long before Denis and Percy began to feel excessively drowsy.
"Take care you don't fall off, Percy," said Denis; "or let your gun drop either. I've fastened mine to my neckerchief, and I'd advise you to do the same."
"I have jammed myself and my gun between two branches, so that there is no chance of falling," answered Percy; "but I'll make fast my ostrich eggs, for I would not lose them on any account, lest we should have to breakfast off that horrible snake."
"Little chance of that," murmured Denis. "By to-morrow morning there won't be a scrap of it left."
Denis said this in a very drowsy tone. His eyes were fixed on the fire, which seemed to him sometimes to flare up with unusual brightness, then to flit about, then totally to disappear, for the best of reasons, his eyes were closed. Percy was also just going off, when his ears were assailed by a hideous uproar of shrieks and howls and barks.
Looking out from his leafy covert, he could see a number of creatures moving about in the direction of the spot to which the body of the snake had been dragged. He guessed what they were, and was very thankful that he and his companion were safe up the tree.
"Do you hear those brutes, Denis?" he asked; but there was no answer. He could see the place where he supposed his friend lay, but could not reach him. At first the dreadful idea occurred that he might have fallen off, and he was about to crawl along the branch to feel for him, when the light from the fire flickered on one of his arms, and he knew that he must be fast asleep. He had not the cruelty to awaken him, and indeed after he got accustomed to the hideous chorus raised by the hyenas and jackals, his own eyes began to close. He could just make out Fangs by the light of the fire, crouching down close to the trunk, and every now and then giving vent by a low growl to his anger as he watched the savage creatures devouring the snake on which he had intended to breakfast.
Percy had scarcely shut his eyes, when he was startled by hearing a terrific roar, and looking towards where the hyenas and jackals had been holding their revels, he saw them scampering away in every direction, while the glare of the fire fell on the head and shoulders of an enormous lion. The king of brutes, however, looked disappointed at finding only a few scraps of a mangled snake, instead of the repast he expected, and not deigning to touch the leavings of the jackals, he advanced a short distance towards the tree. Afraid to approach nearer the fire, he stopped and began to roar loudly.
"Roar away, old fellow," cried Percy. "You'll not get hold of us."
That was true enough so far as he and Denis and Raff were concerned, but the case was very different with regard to poor Fangs. Between him and the lion there was only a small fire, which the latter might spring over at a single bound. He prudently neither barked nor growled, but shrank closer and closer to the trunk, while the lion stood within a dozen yards of him, every now and then uttering a terrific roar.
To Percy's surprise, Denis slept on in spite of the roaring. He was probably dreaming about it, but it had not the effect of awakening him. Percy thought of shooting the lion and trying to save Fangs, but found that he could not fire without changing his position, and he was afraid, in attempting to do so, that he might fall to the ground, he therefore contented himself with watching the lion. The animal evidently suspected that there was something up the tree, and having roared for some minutes, he began to circle round it, keeping, however, at a respectful distance. Would Fangs escape his scrutiny? Percy could no longer see the dog, for the fire was getting low, and he was concealed by the roots. Presently there was the sound of a rush, of a heavy blow struck, but not a growl nor a cry was heard, and then the lion bounded off with something in his mouth.
No sooner had he gone, than the hyenas and jackals came back, but they too in a short time, having probably finished the snake, also took their departure. Percy had too much reason to fear that poor Fangs had become the prey of the lion; but his thoughts began to wander, and overcome by fatigue, he was soon fast asleep.
The night passed quietly by. Denis was the first to open his eyes. It was broad daylight. On looking up through the branches, he observed that the sky was completely obscured.
"Hallo! we must have had a long snooze," he exclaimed. "Are you all right, Percy?"
"Somewhat stiff and sore, but I shall feel better when I have stretched my legs, I daresay," answered Percy. "Dear me! the fire has gone out."
"Then the sooner we get down and light it the better," said Denis.
They descended from their roosting places, Denis carefully handing down the guns to Percy, who went first. They then helped Raff to reach the ground.
"Take care! I saw a lion close to the tree, just before I went to sleep, and he may perhaps be in the neighbourhood," observed Percy.
"You dreamed about one probably, as I did," said Denis, "and a fearful roaring I fancied he made."
Percy assured him that he had seen a real lion, and described it so minutely, and the visit of the jackals and hyenas, that Denis was almost convinced. He was thoroughly so when, on looking towards the spot where the snake had been, he saw that not a particle of it remained.
"Hallo! what has become of Fangs?" he exclaimed.
"The lion, I fear, has carried him off," answered Percy.
Of this there could be no doubt, for no trace of the poor dog could be discovered, except a few drops of blood close to the base of the tree where he had been lying down.
"The chances are, the lion has gone to a distance, and won't come back at all events until we have lighted a fire," observed Denis, as they set to work to collect fuel, when without loss of time they cooked another ostrich egg for breakfast. They then started on their tramp, fancying that, although there was no sun to guide them, they could easily make their way by continuing the same course as they had followed on the previous day.
After going a short distance, still unsuccessful in their search for water, Percy again suggested that they should keep to the right, so as to fall in with the waggon. To this Denis agreed, and they accordingly turned, as they supposed, to the east. As, however, there was no wind, they could not be certain that they were keeping in a direct line. Had there been any prominent objects by which they could steer, their minds would have been more comfortable on the subject. After going some distance, Percy declared that he thought they must be up to the course the waggon was to take. Seeing a tall tree a little distance ahead, they made towards it, and agreed to climb into the topmost branches, that they might take a look-out, hoping that they should see the waggon coming along. Percy, who was well accustomed to climbing, offered to mount the tree, while Denis took charge of his gun and one of the remaining ostrich eggs which he had carried. The tree was more difficult to get up than he had supposed, but he managed at length to reach a high bough, from whence he could obtain a wide view around.
"I can see nothing of the waggon," he shouted. "The country looks everywhere equally arid and barren, except to the northward, and there I see some trees, which from their bright green hue must grow near water."
"Well, then, come down, and we will make towards them," said Denis; and as soon as Percy had descended, they set off in the direction he had indicated.
They were getting very thirsty. Had the sun been shining, they would have suffered even more than they did; but as it was, their throats were parched and dry, and they eagerly pressed forward, in the hope of speedily obtaining water.
Their disappointment was proportionally great when, arriving at the trees towards which they had been directing their course, no stream or pool could be found.
Percy, who had hitherto kept up bravely, threw himself on the ground, almost in despair.
"Oh, I am so thirsty! What shall we do?" he cried.
"I'll tell you what we must do--get up and push along," answered Denis. "I fancy that I see some more trees, much greener than any we have yet passed, and the chances are we shall find water near them."
Percy, thus encouraged, got up. He had no wish to give in as poor Gozo had done. It was very trying, but the lads had stout hearts, and kept up bravely. They reached the trees at last, once more to be disappointed. Accompanied by Raff, who was suffering as much as they were, they ran here and there, attracted by a shrub looking fresher than usual, then by a depression in the ground.
Percy, who had gone some distance, shouted, "Hurrah! here are signs of water."
Denis hurried to the spot. The ground sloped down to where Percy was standing, looking into a deep basin or hollow. The bottom was moist. They both jumped down, digging away with their hands. Though the sand was wet, no actual water could they see. They somewhat allayed their burning thirst by putting the moist sand to their mouths. The appearance of the moisture encouraged them to hope that they might get to good water at last. Still they dug and dug with the same result as before. At length Denis stopped.
"The sand is getting drier instead of moister, and I am very much afraid that this is merely a hole once full of rain, which being low down and sheltered has not been dried up by the sun."
Percy agreed with him, and all they could do was to suck some of the still moist sand, and to place it on the back of their necks, which gave them temporary relief. It was very evident that all their labour had been in vain.
"It cannot be helped," cried Denis. "Forward is the word, and on we must go. Perhaps before long we shall find another hole with water at the bottom, or some more roots, though unless some baboons help us, I don't know how we shall discover them."
"I wish that we could feel a little more certain we are going in the right direction," observed Percy. "If the sun would but come out, I should be more happy in my mind on that score."
The clouds, however, hung as thickly as before from the sky. Had they sent down their contents, the wanderers would have been relieved from the burning thirst from which they were again suffering.
Although there was no sun, the air was hot and oppressive, and they began to feel much fatigued from their long tramp. Still they felt that it would be folly to halt while they had strength left to go on. So they pushed forward mile after mile. Denis declared that he was certain they were going in a north-westerly direction, from the appearance of the bark on the trees, which on that side was dry and perfectly free from moisture, while on the other, whence the rain generally came, here and there a few fungi and a little moss could occasionally be discovered. Percy did not like to express doubt about the correctness of his friend's opinion, but he was not convinced that he was right.
Another night was approaching. Percy, less inured to fatigue than his companion, felt that unless he could obtain water and rest, he could scarcely hope to live through it. Still he struggled on, Denis doing his best to encourage him.
"Lean on my shoulder, and let me carry your gun," he said; "you'll get on better then; and when we camp, and you have had another ostrich egg, you'll find your strength restored."
"If I can manage to eat it," murmured Percy, "but I much doubt whether I can get even that down my throat."
"Never fear; I see some thick bushes, and I fancy some rocks beyond. We'll camp there, if you find yourself unable to go farther; and we shall have plenty of fuel for our fire, and who knows but that we may find water?"
Denis said this in a no very confident tone, for he was almost beginning to despair of discovering what they were so eagerly in search of. Still he hoped that rest and food, and the cooler air of night, might restore Percy, and that they might push on for another day, at all events.
Raff continued creeping after them, the very picture of misery, his tongue hanging out, and his head down. Every now and then he would look up to their faces in the most piteous manner, as if to ask when they were going to find water. The poor dog was suffering from hunger as well as thirst; for although he had licked the ostrich egg shells clean, he had got but little nourishment out of them. At last the bushes seen in the distance were reached, and Percy, sinking on the ground, declared that he could go no farther.
"Well then, we will camp here," said Denis; "and while you rest, I'll collect some wood for our fire."
Raff crouched down by the side of Percy, though his eyes followed his master while he was employed as he proposed. He was not long in collecting a sufficient supply of sticks to commence a fire.
"I'll get more while the egg is cooking," he said, throwing down the bundle. The fire was soon burning up brightly, and an egg was put on. Percy had just strength enough to watch it, while Denis collected some more sticks. He then came and sat down by the side of Percy, to whom he kept talking, while he stirred the egg. "I think it must be done now," he said. "Come, eat away, old fellow, and you'll soon be yourself again."
"It's water I want! it's water I want!" murmured Percy.
"But as we haven't water, the egg is the next best thing you can take," said Denis, helping him.
But poor Percy could scarcely gulp it down. All the time Raff was looking up as much as to say, "I wish you'd give me some of that; I'd eat it fast enough." Denis could not resist the imploring looks of the poor dog, and gave him a portion of his own share.
The usual noises of the African wilds were absent,--not even the note of a bird was heard. Suddenly Denis lifted his head in the attitude of listening.
"Hark, Percy!" he said. "I heard a peculiar murmur. Yes, I am nearly certain it is the sound of falling water. Do you listen."
"I pray Heaven that you are right. I think so," said Percy.
"Well, then, do you stay here by the fire, and I'll go and look for it alone, if you are not able to come with me," said Denis. "Keep your gun on the cock, and your eye about you, in case any brute of a lion or leopard should come near, though I don't suppose there's much chance of that."
Percy tried to rise, but declared his inability to move farther, so Denis set off. The moment Raff saw him going, he crawled after him. Denis had taken both his own and Percy's water bottle. No sooner had he got round the clump of bushes than he saw before him some rocks, beyond which the ground rose, covered with shrubs, extending away to a considerable distance; but no signs of water could he perceive. He stopped and listened. The same sound as before reached his ears. He could not be mistaken. He went on, until, to his unspeakable joy, he saw a spring of bright sparkling water rushing out of the cliff, falling from rock to rock, but instead of forming a rivulet, it was almost immediately lost in the sand, of which the bottom of the gully was composed. There was one part, however, which he could reach by climbing without much difficulty. Poor Raff, who had followed him thus far, was unable to get up to it, and looked wistfully at him, evidently entreating to have some given him without delay. Denis, having quenched his own thirst, filled the water bottles, and then, looking down at poor Raff, he filled his hat also, and brought that to the dog, who quickly lapped up the contents. Losing as little time as possible, he hastened back to Percy.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, as he came in sight of the fire, "I've got some water. You'll soon be all to rights, Percy."
But Percy did not reply; his heart sank. Could anything have happened? He rushed forward. Percy lay gasping on the ground. He lost not a moment in lifting his friend's head, in moistening his lips, and then pouring some water down his throat.
Percy at length opened his eyes, and said, "Thank you, thank you; oh, how delicious!"
Denis gave him another draught of water. "There, now I think you can eat some more egg," he observed. "I propose that we cook the last one. We are sure to fall in with game. If we take plenty of food now, we shall the better be able to go in chase of it."
At last Percy sat up and managed to eat the remainder of the first egg cooked, and some of the other; then he took another draught of water. He felt that he could drink any quantity of that. It was now too late to continue their journey; indeed, Denis had only time to collect a further supply of sticks before darkness came on. They made up the fire in a semi-circle, and lay down as close to it as they could venture to do without risk of burning themselves, hoping thus to be secure from the attacks of wild beasts, while Raff took a post near them, to act as sentinel.
Poor Percy was soon fast asleep. Denis did his utmost to keep watch; but he also, having made up the fire, soon dropped off. He had been asleep some time when he was aroused by hearing Raff growl and bark. He started up and looked about him, but could see nothing. Indeed, the fire had burned so low, that its embers cast but a faint light to a short distance. Fortunately, he had reserved some sticks, which he immediately threw on the fire. As they burned up, he took another look round, when he saw the dim outline of some animal passing by. Whether a lion, leopard, or hyena, he could not make out. Percy was sleeping so soundly, that he did not like to awaken him; but he determined not to go to sleep himself again if he could help it.
Raff had ceased growling, so he concluded that the animal, frightened by the flames, had gone off. He hoped that it would not return. Had he not been aroused at the moment by his faithful dog, he and his companion might have lost their lives, and he felt grateful for their preservation. He husbanded the remaining sticks with care, for he was afraid that they might not hold out until the morning, and he employed himself by stirring up the embers when they grew dim, and raking them together. At length the sticks were exhausted. He dared not move from the camp to collect more; indeed, he would have had to go to some distance, as he had already picked up all those near at hand.
The fire grew dimmer and dimmer, until at last but a faint semi-circle of embers remained. Shortly afterwards, however, he became aware by seeing shrubs and rocks, which he had been hitherto unable to distinguish, that the light of day was returning, but the clouds still hung so densely around the horizon, that he was unable to ascertain the direction of the east. This he had hoped to do, that they might with greater certainty direct their course. At last the light became sufficient to enable them to proceed. He called Percy, who at once got up, saying that he was greatly refreshed and ready to go on as well as ever, though he wished they had another ostrich egg on which to breakfast.
"We can't eat our loaf and have it too," answered Denis, "but I hope we shall have something as good."
They first made their way to the fountain, where they refreshed themselves with a draught of pure water, and having given as much to Raff as he could drink, they filled their water bottles, washed their faces and heads, and then pushed on, their spirits cheered with the hope of soon obtaining some game, and of falling in with the waggon before the day was over.
They trudged on, and although they saw some animals in the distance, they could not get near enough to distinguish what they were. It showed them, however, that there must be water in the neighbourhood, and they hoped therefore before long to come upon it. Percy had for some time been walking with much less elasticity than when they first started. At last he proposed that they should stop and eat the remainder of the biscuit they carried in their pouches. Having a good supply of water, they could now swallow it, which they could not have done on the previous day. They made towards a tree which would afford them shade, and on reaching it sat down and took their frugal breakfast, but poor Raff had to go without any, as Denis knew that it would be folly to give him any of the biscuit, which would not have satisfied his hunger. Again they went on, looking out anxiously for the tracks of the waggon wheels, or other signs which might indicate that their friends had been that way. Denis at last had to confess that he felt somewhat anxious. The day wore on, and though very thirsty, they husbanded their water for fear of not finding any before night.
They were almost in despair of falling in with game, when they caught sight, issuing from behind a wood in the distance, of a troop of pallahs coming in their direction. Looking about eagerly for some cover behind which they could conceal themselves, until the pallahs came near, they observed a thick bush a short distance ahead; they made for it, and got under cover, they hoped, without having been seen. The animals moved slowly along, feeding as they came. When within a hundred yards of the bush, they turned aside, to the bitter disappointment of the young hunters.
"We must be after them," said Denis; "and if we can still find cover, we may get near enough to have a shot. Come, let us put our best feet forward. Stoop down as low as you can. Heel, Raff, heel!" he whispered to his dog, who was too well-trained to disobey him, and kept close behind him.
The pallahs kept moving on, sometimes slowly, at other times much faster. Percy felt but little able to follow, though he did his best. On and on they went. Before them they saw a grove of tall trees, towards which the pallahs were directing their course.
"The chances are there's water not far off, and if the animals go down to drink we shall have a good chance of shooting one," whispered Denis.
The pallahs reached the wood, but stopped to graze outside it. This enabled Denis and Percy to creep up towards it, at a part some distance from where they were feeding. They thus hoped, by making their way through the wood, to be able to get near enough to the animals to obtain a good shot. They had cautiously crept on for some way when Percy stopped, and seizing his companion's arm, pointed up to the branch of a tree under which they were about to pass. There, extended at its full length, ready for a spring, lay an enormous leopard. Its eyes were turned away from them, watching the pallahs. They stepped cautiously back, having no doubt that had they attempted to pass under the bough, the leopard would have been down upon them, and probably killed both, as they were close together. They retreated behind a tree, where they stood watching for what would next occur. Denis well knew that should they wound the leopard, and not kill it, it would become a terrible foe.
The pallahs, unsuspicious of danger, at last moved towards the tree, several entering the wood almost together. One approached the fatal bough. Like a flash of lightning, the leopard sprang upon the unfortunate creature, and in an instant it lay dead, struck down by its powerful claws.
"Now is our time," whispered Denis: "let us fire together; I'll aim at the leopard's head; do you fire at its shoulder, and then, without stopping to see if we have killed it, we'll retreat behind the tree and reload."
The plan was perfectly carried out. Before the smoke cleared away they had sprung back to their places of concealment, and had begun rapidly reloading. The instant Denis was ready, he cautiously stepped out from behind the trunk.
"Hurrah!" he shouted. "We did better than I expected."
There, within twenty yards, lay the leopard and the deer, both dead. Under other circumstances they would have been eager to possess themselves of the leopard's skin, which was of considerable value, but as it was they were far more anxious to obtain a supply of meat. They therefore set to work to cut off as much as they could carry from the pallah, without stopping to skin or disjoint it, while Raff enjoyed an abundant meal from the pieces which his master threw to him. The rest of the pallahs had taken to flight.
"We must remember this spot; and if we find Hendricks before long, he will be glad to send for this skin, supposing it is not torn to pieces in the meantime by the rascally hyenas and jackals."
After the excitement of the chase, they were tempted to stop and take a draught of water, which nearly exhausted their stock. Anxious to obtain a fresh supply, they made their way through the forest in the hope of coming across a stream, towards which they supposed the pallahs had been bending their steps.
"There's the water!" suddenly exclaimed Denis; "I see the animals drinking at it."
The animals were there, but as the young hunters approached they took to flight. Having meat enough, they did not feel justified in firing a shot after them.
On reaching the spot, great was their disappointment to find that although there had been a little water, the pallahs had drunk it almost dry, while the remainder had sunk through the bottom, in which their feet had trampled. Not a drop could they obtain.
The wood formed an oasis in the wilderness; for farther on the country assumed the same barren, arid aspect as before.
"We must either go back to the fountain we left this morning, or push our way over this stony ground as fast as we can," said Denis.
"Let us go on," answered Percy; "we may find water again before long, or may fall in with the waggon."
"Then I vote we fortify ourselves first with some meat," said Denis; and collecting some wood, they speedily had a fire lighted, and some of the venison roasting before it.
Eager to prosecute their journey, after a short rest, they again set off. Night overtook them, however, and they had only just time to reach some bushes, which afforded but slight shelter and a scanty supply of firewood, before darkness came on.
They laboured in collecting sticks as long as the light lasted, and then, having made up their fire, cooked and eaten their supper, and drunk the remainder of their water, they lay down close to it, fatigue preventing them from troubling their minds as to what might happen during the night.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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13
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THE JOURNEY CONTINUED.
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Overcome by fatigue, both the young hunters fell fast asleep. Watched over by a merciful Providence, no savage animals came near them. Not a growl or bark did Raff utter during the night; and when morning broke, Denis, who was the first to awake, was somewhat dismayed to find that the fire had completely gone out. He was not long in scraping the ashes together, and with the remainder of the sticks he had gathered relighted it and put on some venison steaks to cook.
When sufficiently done, he roused up Percy, who was greatly astonished to find that night had passed away. They did not fail to return thanks to God, who had taken care of them during the hours of darkness; for they felt, as any persons with the least sense of religion in them must have done, how utterly helpless they were under such circumstances. "Oh, how I wish I had some water!" poor Percy kept saying, as he tried to get down the meat. They neither of them could eat much, and Raff came in for a larger share than he would otherwise have obtained.
The clouds had cleared away, a bright sun was shining. According to their calculation, they had hitherto succeeded in keeping the course they had intended. The country to the east, however, looked so barren and uninviting, that they agreed to travel northward, where there appeared to be a better prospect of obtaining water, without which they could not hope to get on. As the sun rose in the sky, the heat became more and more excessive. Not a breath of wind cooled the atmosphere, and they consequently suffered more than ever from thirst. As before, poor Raff crawled along at their heels, with his tongue hanging from his mouth. In vain they looked out for trees of sufficient height to afford them shade.
"It won't do to stop here," said Denis, whom no suffering could daunt; "the faster we move, the better chance we shall have of finding water."
Percy agreed with him, and did his best to push on. The same rocky ground, with shrubs growing amidst it, appeared ahead. At last they saw before them a clump of mimosa bushes.
"Oh, do let us rest there for a short time," exclaimed Percy. "I think I shall then be able to get on better. I am keeping you back, I know, but I cannot help it."
"Don't let that trouble you. I feel pretty tired myself," answered Denis; and they directed their course towards the bushes.
Their meat was rather high by this time, but they had no inclination to eat, and were too tired to collect wood for a fire. Percy threw himself on the ground in the shade, where Raff had already lain down. Denis seated himself by his side. He had scarcely been there a moment, when he started up, whispering-- "I hear some animal moving on the other side of the wood. It may be a deer, and I must not lose the chance of killing it."
He stole cautiously among the bushes, endeavouring to discover the animal he fancied he had heard. He had got a hundred and fifty yards or so from his friend, when what was his horror to see rushing towards him a huge black rhinoceros! The creature did not see him, and perhaps would not have observed Percy, had not Raff started up and begun barking furiously. This aroused Percy, who, getting on his feet, thus exposed himself to the view of the rhinoceros. He would have been more prudent had he remained perfectly quiet. The rhinoceros looked at him savagely, when Percy levelled his rifle, but instead of waiting till the animal had got near him, fired; the bullet grazing the creature's head, excited its rage, and on it rushed, with its horn lowered, directly towards the hapless lad. In another instant that fearful weapon would have been plunged into his body. Denis trembled for the safety of his friend; for he knew, should he fire, that his bullet was more likely to wound him than the rhinoceros. Percy's death seemed certain, when at that moment, bursting through the wood, a young Zulu warrior appeared, with rifle in hand, shouting and shrieking to attract the animal's attention. This had the effect of making the savage brute turn its eyes towards him. He fired. The rhinoceros was still rushing on, when its knees bent, its head sank down, and its horn ploughed along the ground. In another instant it would have been up to Percy, had not the Zulu, bounding forward, seized him in his arms, and carried him a few paces from the spot where he had been lying, which the rhinoceros reaching, it fell over on its side, and lay motionless.
"Thank you, whoever you are," said Percy. "You have saved my life; for the animal's horn would have run me through, had you not come to my assistance."
Though the Zulu might not have understood what Percy said, he comprehended by the tone of his voice that he was expressing his gratitude.
Denis in the meantime, dreadfully alarmed, was hurrying on, scarcely expecting to be in time to save Percy, when the Zulu made his appearance. At first he was unable to tell whether he came as a friend or a foe, until he saw him fire, and knock over the rhinoceros.
"Thank heaven, he is safe! But who can that be? What, Mangaleesu!" he exclaimed. "Thank you, my friend, thank you! You have indeed come at the right moment. We feared that you were among those slaughtered by Cetchwayo and his followers."
This was said partly in Zulu, and partly in such English as the young chief understood. Denis had grasped his hand, and pressed it warmly to express his gratitude.
"I had a narrow escape; but I slew six of my pursuers, and got off free," answered Mangaleesu. "I could not, however, make my way directly into Natal, as I had left my wife, when I joined Umbulazi, in a kraal, with some of her relatives in this direction. On reaching it, I hurried her away, for I knew that ere long our enemies would attack it. Scarcely had we concealed ourselves in the woods overlooking the kraal, when a party of Cetchwayo's forces appeared, and burnt it to the ground, destroying all who remained within. We have since been journeying on, but have been compelled to proceed cautiously, for fear of being discovered; for, being known as opposed to Cetchwayo, I might have been captured, and delivered up to him."
"And where is your wife?" asked Denis.
"She is in a cave at no great distance, where I placed her while I came out to hunt; for, as game has been scarce in the country through which we travelled, we have been sorely pressed for food; but now we have this rhinoceros meat, we will at once return to her, as she will be frightened at my long absence."
Saying this, the chief, who had just placed Percy on the ground, commenced cutting through the tough hide of the rhinoceros, and was about to slice off some of the flesh, when, observing how ill Percy looked, he inquired what was the matter with him.
"We want water," answered Denis; "and he will die, I fear, if it cannot soon be obtained."
"I will at once fetch some for him then," said Mangaleesu; and taking the two empty bottles, he started away in the direction of some rocks seen in the distance.
Percy continued murmuring, "Water, water!"
"It will come soon, and you'll be all right, old fellow," said Denis, sitting by his side, and supporting his head while he fanned his face.
Raff was, in the meantime, smelling round and round the rhinoceros, and would evidently have liked to get at the meat, but the tough hide resisted his efforts.
With deep thankfulness Denis observed Mangaleesu returning, this time accompanied by another person, whom he recognised, when they got nearer, as Kalinda. She seemed much concerned at seeing the condition in which poor Percy lay, and placing herself by his side, she fanned his face, while Denis poured the water down his throat. She continued tending him while he went to help Mangaleesu cut into the rhinoceros. A supply of meat was soon obtained, and Denis proposed to light a fire and cook it. To this, however, Mangaleesu objected.
"In this open spot we may be seen, for we cannot tell what enemies there may be in the neighbourhood," he observed. "Let us at once move on to the place where I concealed Kalinda. It will hold us all, and we shall there be safer than we are here, while there is water at hand, and we can light a fire in a hollow, without risk of its being seen in the distance."
It was very evident, however, that poor Percy, although somewhat revived, was utterly unable to walk. "Kalinda and I will carry him then," said Mangaleesu, "while you take his gun."
"But I cannot impose that task on you, for I ought to assist in carrying him myself," said Denis.
"No, no, you are not strong enough; we will easily manage it."
Mangaleesu and his wife set to work to construct a litter, which they quickly formed with some poles, and fastened together by creepers. They then placed Percy on it, and set off, stepping along at a brisk rate, showing that they considered him alight burden. Denis carried his gun; and Raff, to whom he had given some water, as well as an ample supply of meat, trotted after them perfectly revived. Reaching the rocks, they passed through a narrow defile, into which another smaller one opened, and at its farther extremity they came to some thick bushes, which Mangaleesu pulling aside, the mouth of a cavern was discovered.
"Here no one is likely to find us, and if they do we can defend ourselves against greatly superior numbers," said Mangaleesu. "Your friend therefore can remain in safety until he has recovered and is able to proceed on his journey."
The cavern was dry and of considerable height, so that a fire could have been lighted within; but as the smoke would have been annoying, Denis suggested that they should light it outside, as the neighbouring bushes afforded plenty of fuel. This was soon done, and the rhinoceros meat put on to cook.
Mangaleesu and his wife, not being very particular as to its being well done, were soon able to commence supper. Denis preferred waiting a little longer, when he took some in to Percy, who was by this time well able to eat it. They pronounced it rather tough, but remarkably well flavoured; indeed, the rhinoceros being an herbivorous animal, its flesh is not to be despised.
As soon as the meat was cooked, the fire was put out. "We need not keep up one during the night," observed Mangaleesu, "for no wild beast can make its way through the bushes which I will draw in front of the cave, and should any one come near, your dog will give us ample notice."
Among the first inquiries Denis made of Mangaleesu was whether he had seen the waggon, or could in any way calculate how far they were from it. Mangaleesu replied that he had not seen it or fallen in with any tracks to show that it had passed in that direction. On learning whence they had started, he led Denis to suspect that he and Percy had wandered much farther to the north-west than they had supposed, and that they were not likely for several days to meet with the waggon, supposing it had moved on.
"There is, however," he observed, "a white family living on the borders, the only one for many miles round, not more than two days' journey from this. As soon as your friend has recovered his strength, if you start at daybreak, and walk on briskly, you may reach it on the evening of the second day. Kalinda and I will accompany you, and we will then go into Natal, and bid farewell for ever to Zululand."
On telling Percy of the account given by Mangaleesu, he exclaimed, "Why that must be Falls Farm, where my father lives. I thought we were still a long way from it. How delightful! I wish that I could get up and set off immediately. I am sure by to-morrow morning I shall be strong enough."
Denis was as anxious as his friend to start; for Percy had often spoken to him about Falls Farm and its inmates, and he thought that it would be very pleasant to spend a day or two with them. Hendricks, if he had recovered the oxen, was very likely to be there, or would arrive shortly.
Denis and Percy were thankful to be able to rest securely without the risk of being carried off by a lion or leopard, or trampled upon by an elephant or rhinoceros. A hunter in Africa has no easy time of it, either by night or by day. He has treacherous human foes and savage wild animals to contend with.
Although night had not commenced, Denis was glad to lie down by the side of his friend, so as to obtain a longer rest than he had enjoyed for many a night. Next morning Percy declared that he felt better, after he had had another meal off rhinoceros flesh and water. Still Denis saw that he was not at all able to walk far, and certainly not fit to attempt making a long journey. He persuaded him therefore to remain quiet, at all events for another day.
"I wish that we had something better than this rhinoceros meat," said Denis to Mangaleesu.
"You shall have it," was the answer; "but I must be cautious in going out, lest I fall in with any of my enemies. If I am killed, I will trust you to look after my wife. Let her accompany you to the farm, where I am sure the good white chief will take care of her, as he is kind, I am told, to all the people round."
"I promise to do as you desire; but if there is any danger, it would be better not to go out," said Denis. "We can rough it on the rhinoceros meat."
Mangaleesu, however, observing that there would not be enough meat to last them another day, insisted on going out to find a deer or antelope.
Having closed the mouth of the cavern, and charged his companions not to venture forth, he set out. Denis and Percy passed their time mostly in sleep, to make up, as Denis said, "for their want of rest for so many days." Kalinda sat watching them, having nothing else to do. A considerable part of the day had passed, and they began to grow anxious at Mangaleesu's not returning.
Kalinda waited patiently, but she now frequently got up and went close to the mouth of the cavern, where she stood in the attitude of listening. Poor creature, she had long been accustomed to that state of anxiety, but now she had begun to hope that they would soon get across the border. They had taken into the cave a supply of water, and had cooked the remainder of the rhinoceros meat. As Mangaleesu did not return, the pangs of hunger compelled them to eat a portion, although they kept some in case he should come back without having succeeded in obtaining any game.
The day was drawing on when Kalinda, who was standing at the entrance, started and said in a low voice to Denis-- "He is coming!"
Presently the bushes were drawn aside, and Mangaleesu appeared, carrying a small antelope on his back. He looked tired and excited; and throwing the animal down, he hurriedly again closed the bushes, and sank exhausted to the ground.
"We must speak low, lest any one outside may hear us," he whispered. "I have been seen and pursued, but eluded my enemies. They may not discover this retreat, for I pretended to go off in an opposite direction. As I came along I resolved that you, my young friends, should escape as soon as you can. If found with me, you may be killed; but if you are alone, should you be overtaken, and will explain where you are going, you will not be molested." Such, at all events, was the meaning of what Mangaleesu said. "I would advise you to set off before daylight to-morrow morning," he continued. "Make your way to the farm. With the directions I will give you, you will easily find it. You may very likely be seen and pursued: be not alarmed; invite these who overtake you to escort you to the farm."
"But what will you and your wife do?" asked Denis.
"We will remain here in concealment until our enemies have grown weary of searching for us. I will watch them until I see them go away, and then we will set out and get across the border as fast as possible. The country is thinly peopled, so that we shall have no difficulty in escaping notice."
Denis expressed his regret at having to go without his friends, but agreed that the plan would be the best to adopt.
Mangaleesu, before it grew dark, showed them the spring, and the direction they were to follow, and minutely described several points, so that they would run no risk of losing their way. The antelope meat was cut up, and a portion cooked at a fire kindled in the cave, which, though it created more smoke than was pleasant, was easily borne in consideration of the advantage obtained.
Mangaleesu and Kalinda, with the two white lads, sat round the fire, eating their supper of venison, washed down with cold water, and talking over in low voices plans for that future which it was very possible none of them might live to see. Raff, who formed one of the circle, watched them with the greatest gravity, as if he fully understood all that was said. They then lay down to seek the rest the two young travellers at all events so greatly needed.
The night passed quietly; and when they awoke, Percy declared that he was sufficiently strong to undertake a two days' march, and having breakfasted, they set off, followed by Raff, a short time before daybreak.
Mangaleesu accompanied them some distance, to put them in the right way. They felt rather anxious about his getting back in safety to the cave.
"No fear," he answered: "a Zulu can creep unseen where a white man would certainly be observed. Even if my enemies were near, they would not discover me; but they are some way from this, and you will, I hope, be a good distance on your road before they find you, so that they will not guess whence you set out."
They shook the chief warmly by the hand, and again thanked him for the assistance he had rendered them. Scarcely had he left them a minute, when, as they looked round, they could nowhere see him.
They trudged on as fast as they could venture to go in the gloom of morning. When daylight broke, they increased their speed. Percy kept up bravely, and Denis declared that he had never felt in better trim for a long march. As they fell in with no hostile Zulus, they more than ever regretted that Mangaleesu and Kalinda had not accompanied them. From the rate they went they felt sure that they had accomplished half the distance. Having a supply of cooked meat, they agreed that it would be wiser to spend the night in a tree. As darkness approached, they looked about and found one with wide-spreading branches; into this they climbed.
"But I say, we must not run the risk of letting Raff be carried off as poor Fangs was; we must get him with us," said Denis. "I cannot reach him as I did before with my pocket-handkerchief, but we'll fasten our rifle slings together, and he'll easily make his way up."
This was done. Raff caught hold of one end; they hauled away, and he, helping himself up with his claws, was soon seated near them on the forks of a tree.
"But what if a leopard should think of coming up here, like the one we saw the other day!" said Percy.
"Raff will give us due notice," answered Denis. "We'll keep our rifles ready, and send him back again with a shot through his skull."
Their beds were not very comfortable, but notwithstanding, knowing that Raff was keeping watch, they slept soundly till the next morning. Descending the tree, they breakfasted on the remains of their venison, and pushed forward, feeling in as good trim as they had when they started on the previous day.
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{
"id": "21393"
}
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