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11
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FOLDING THE FLOCK.
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After the busiest week known in the island by anybody living there, the Sabbath-day came in, calm and mild. The winters, however stormy, were never severely cold in this sea-beaten spot. It was seldom that ice was seen; and it was never more than half an inch thick. When, as on this Sunday, the wind was lulled and the sky was clear, the climate was as mild as in spring on the mainland. As soon as the aspect of the sunrise showed the experienced that the day would be fair, busy hands moved into the old roofless chapel the pulpit and benches which the pastor had brought with him--the pulpit being a mere desk of unpainted wood, and the benches of the roughest sort. For these the interior space of the old building had been cleared during the week; the floor was trodden hard and even; the walls were so far repaired as to make a complete enclosure; and some rough stones were placed as steps whereby to enter the burying-ground. Some willing hands had done more--had cleared the burying-ground of stones, so that the graves, though sunk, and unmarked by any memorial but a rough and broken headstone here and there, could be distinguished by an eye interested in searching out the dead of a century ago.
Another week, if sufficiently fair, was to see the walls finished and the roof on: and afterwards would be discharged the pious task of enclosing the burying-ground, and preparing room for those whom death would lay to rest in their own island. While the minister remained here, no more of the dead would be carried over the sea to some place where there was a pastor to commit them to the grave. Room was to be secured for the graves of the fifty people who were now living on the island, and for their children after them: and to all the inhabitants the island appeared a better place when this arrangement was made.
In the weak sunlight of that Sunday morning appeared gay groups of people, all excited with the great thought that they were going to the kirk. They were wonderfully cell clad. How such clothes could come out of such dwellings would have been a marvel to any stranger. Festival days were so rare that a holiday dress lasted for many years. The women's cloth coats fitted at any age; and the caps with gay ribbons and bright cotton handkerchiefs did not wear out. On this remarkable day all wore their best, and a pretty sight it was to see the whole fifty people drawing towards the chapel as the pastor, his wife, and two children, issued from their lowly abode to meet the flock for the first time.
Presently the island might have appeared deserted. Far round as the eye could reach not a human being was visible outside the chapel. But something was heard which told that the place was not only inhabited, but Christianised. The slow psalm rose into the still air. Everyone who could speak could sing a psalm. It was a practice lovingly kept up in every house. Some voices were tremulous, and a few failed; but this was from emotion. The strongest was Annie's, for hers was the most practised. It was her wont to sing some of the many psalms she knew on summer days, when she sat at work on the platform of her house, and on winter nights, when Rollo was away. Now that she was once more joining in social worship, her soul was joyful, and she sang strong and clear-- perhaps the more so for the thought of the one absent person, pining in the cavern on the shore, or looking from afar, in desolation of heart, at the little throng who came privileged to worship. Perhaps Annie's voice might unconsciously rise as if to reach the lonely one, and invite her to come to the house of God and seek rest. However this might be, Annie's tones so animated some hearts and strengthened some voices as that the psalm might be, and was, heard a long way off. It reached an unwilling ear, and drew forward reluctant steps. The links of old association, are, however, the strongest of chains, and no charm is so magical as that of religious emotion. Lady Carse was drawn nearer and nearer, in hope of hearing ano, her psalm, till the solemn tones of prayer reached her, and presently she was crouching under the wall outside, weeping like a sinner who dares not knock at the gate of heaven.
Before the service was quite finished, angry voices were heard from without, almost overpowering that of the pastor as he gave the blessing. One of Macdonald's people, who had stepped out to collect the ponies for some of the women and children, had seen the lady, and, after one start back as from the ghost of a drowned woman, had laid hold of her gown, and said she must stay where she could be spoken with by Macdonald on his return from Skye. She struggled to escape, and did break away-- not down the hill, but into the chapel.
The consternation was inexpressible. The people, supposing her drowned, took her for a ghost, though there was no ghostly calm about her; but her eyes were swollen, her hair disordered, her lips quivering with violent emotion. There was a solemnity about her, too; for extreme anguish is always solemn, in proportion as it approaches to despair. She rushed to the front of the pulpit, and held out her hands, exclaiming aloud to Mr Ruthven that she was the most persecuted and tormented of human beings; that she appealed to him against her persecutors; and if he did not see her righted, she warned him that he would be damned deeper than hell. Mrs Ruthven shuddered, and left her seat to place herself by her husband. And now she encountered the poor lady's gaze, and, moreover, had her own grasped as it had never been before.
"Are these children yours?" she was asked.
"Yes," faltered Mrs Ruthven.
"Then you must help me to recover mine. Had you ever,"--and here she turned to the pastor--"had you ever an enemy?" Her voice turned hoarse as she uttered the word.
"No--yes--Oh, yes!" said he. "I have had enemies, as every man has."
"Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase and torment mine--my husband, and Lord Lovat--" "Lord Lovat!" repeated many wondering voices.
"And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and--" As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of Macdonald's people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.
"I will know," cried the lady, "what that fellow said. I will hear what my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there--Eh? what?" she cried, as another man whispered something into the pastor's other ear. "Mad! There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I was mad?"
"He did; and one cannot--really I cannot--" As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her seat, and said, "I know this lady; my son and I know her better than anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad." " _Not_ mad!" Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.
"Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the story, sir, at a fitting time--" "Ay, ay; that will be best," declared Mr Ruthven.
"Let me go home with you," said Lady Carse. "I will go home with you; and--" Mrs Ruthven exchanged a glance with her husband, and then said, in an embarrassed way, while giving a hand to each of the two children who were clinging to her, that their house was very small, extremely small indeed, with too little room for the children, and none whatever left over.
"It is my house," exclaimed Lady Carse, impatiently. "It was built with a view to you; but it was done under my orders, and I have a claim upon it. And what ails the children?" she cried, in a tone which made the younger cry aloud. "What are they afraid of?"
"I don't know, I am sure," said their mother, helping them, however, to hide their faces in her gown. "But--" Again Annie rose and said, "There could be no difficulty about a place for the lady if she would be pleased to do as she did before--live in her cottage. The two dwellings might almost be called one, and if the lady would go home with her--" Gratitude was showered on Annie from all the parties. As the lady moved slowly towards the widow's house, holding Annie's arm, and weeping as she went, and followed by the Ruthvens, the eyes of all the Macdonalds gazed after her, in a sort of doubt whether she were a witch, or a ghost, or really and truly a woman.
As soon as Macdonald's sloop could be discerned on its approach the next day, Mr Ruthven went down, and paced the shore while daylight lasted, though assured that the vessel would not come up till night. As soon as a signal could be made in the morning for the yawl, he passed to the sloop, where he had a conference with Macdonald, the consequence of which was, that as soon as he was set ashore the sloop again stood out to sea.
Mrs Ruthven and Lady Carse saw this, as they stood hand in hand at the door of the new dwelling. They kissed each other at the sight. They had already kissed each other very often, for they called themselves dear and intimate friends who had now one great common object in life-- to avenge Lady Carse's wrongs.
"Well, what news?" they both cried, as Mr Ruthven came towards them, panting from the haste with which he had ascended.
"The tenant is gone back," said he, "he has returned to Sir Alexander to contradict his last news--of your being drowned. By-the-way, I promised to contradict it, too--to the man who is watching for the body every tide."
"Oh, he must have heard the facts from some of the people at the chapel."
"If he had he would not believe them, Macdonald says, on any other authority than his. Nor will he leave his post till he finds the body, or--" "Or sees me," cried Lady Carse, laughing. "Come, let us go and call to him, and tell him he may leave off poking among the weeds. Come; I will show you the way."
And she ran on with the spirits and pace of a girl. Mr and Mrs Ruthven looked at each other with smiles, and Mrs Ruthven exclaimed, "What a charming creature this was, and how shocking it was to think of her cruel fate." Mr Ruthven shook his head and declared that he regarded the conduct of her persecutors with grave moral disapprobation. Meantime Lady Carse looked back, beckoned to them with her hand, and stamped with her foot, because they were stopping to talk.
"What a simple creature she is! So childlike!" exclaimed Mrs Ruthven.
"We must quicken our pace, my dear," replied her husband. "It would not be right to detain the lady when she wishes to proceed."
But now Lady Carse was beckoning to somebody else--to little Kate Ruthven, who, with her brother Adam, was peeping from the door of their new home.
"Come, Katie," said her mother, "don't you see that Lady Carse calls you? Bring Adam, and go with us."
Kate turned very red, but did not come. Lady Carse came laughing back to fetch them; but they bolted into the house, and, when still pursued, scrambled under a bed. When caught, they screamed.
"Well, to be sure," cried their mother; "what behaviour when a lady asks you to go with her! I declare I am quite ashamed."
Papa now came up, and said-- "My dears, I do not approve such behaviour as this."
Kate began to sob, and Adam followed her example.
"There, now, do not cry," said papa; "I cannot permit you to cry. You may go with Lady Carse. Lady Carse is so kind as to wish you to go with her. You will like to go with the lady. Why do you not reply, my dears. You must reply when spoken to. You will like to go with the lady--eh?"
"No," murmured Kate.
"No," whispered Adam.
"I am astonished," papa declared. "I never saw them conduct themselves in this manner before. Did you, my dear?"
"No; but it is an accident, I dare say. Something has put them out."
"I must ascertain the cause, however," papa declared. "Such an incident must not pass uncorrected. Listen to me, my dears, and answer me when I ask you a question. Look at this lady."
Kate slowly lifted her eyes, and Adam then did the same. They seemed on the verge of another scream; and this was not extraordinary; for Lady Carse was not laughing now, but very far from it. There was something in her face that made the children catch at mamma's gown.
"Listen to me, my dears," papa went on; "and reply when I ask you a question. This good lady is going to live with us--" A deeper plunge into the folds of mamma's gown.
"And from this time forwards you must love this lady. You love this lady now, my dears, don't you?"
After as long a pause as they dared make, the children said, "No."
"Well, I never heard--!" exclaimed mamma.
"What can possess them?" inquired papa. "My dears, why do you not love the lady, eh,--Kate?"
"I don't know," said Kate.
"You don't know? --That is foolish. Adam, why do you not love this lady who is to live with us? Do not tell me that you don't know, for that is foolish. Why do you not love the lady?"
"Because I can't."
"Why, that is worse still. How perverse," he said, looking at the ladies, "how perverse is the human heart. My dear, you can, and you must do what is right. You may love me and your mamma first, and next you must love this lady. Say you will try."
"I'll try," said Kate.
Adam whimpered a little longer; but then he also said, "I'll try."
"That is right. That is the least you can say after your extraordinary behaviour. Now you may go with the lady, as she is so kind as to wish it."
Lady Carse moved off in silence; and the children, tightly grasping each other's hands, followed as if going to a funeral.
"Jump, my dears," said papa, when they had reached the down. "Jump about: you may be merry now."
Both looked as if they were immediately going to cry. "What now, Adam?" stooping down that the child might speak confidentially to him, but saying to Lady Carse as he did so, that it was necessary sometimes to condescend to the weakness of children. "Adam, tell me why you are not merry, when I assure you you may."
"I can't," whispered Adam.
"You can't! What a sudden fit of humility this boy has got, that he can't do anything to-day. Unless, however, it be true, well-grounded humility, I fear--" Mamma now tried what she could do. She saw, by Lady Carse's way of walking on by herself, that she was displeased; and, under the inspiration of this grief, Mrs Ruthven so strove to make her children agreeable by causing them to forget everything disagreeable, that they were soon like themselves again. Mamma permitted them to look for hens' eggs among the whins, because they had heard that when she was a little girl she used to look for them among bushes in a field. There was no occasion to tell them at such a critical moment for their spirits that it was mid-winter, or that whins would be found rather prickly by poultry, or that there were no hens in the island but Mrs Macdonald's well sheltered pets. They were told that the first egg they found was to be presented to Lady Carse; and they themselves might divide the next.
Their mother's hope, that if they did not find hens' eggs, they might light upon something else, was not disappointed. Perhaps she took care that it should not. Adam found a barley-cake on the sheltered side of a bush; and it was not long before Kate found one just as good. They were desired to do with these what they would have done with the eggs-- present one to Lady Carse and divide the other. As they were very hungry, they hastened to fulfil the condition of beginning to eat. Again grasping one another's hands, they walked with desperate courage up to Lady Carse, and held out a cake, without yet daring, however, to look up.
"Well, what is that?" she asked sharply.
"A barley-cake."
"Who bade you bring it to me?"
"Mamma."
"You would not have brought it if mamma had not bid you?"
"No."
"Allow me to suggest," observed papa, "that they would not have ventured. It would be a liberty unbecoming their years to--" "Oh, nonsense!" cried Lady Carse; "I hate these put-up manners. No, miss--no, young master--I will not take your cake. I take gifts only from those I love; and if you don't love me, I don't love you--and so there is a Rowland for your Oliver."
The children did not know anything about Rowlands and Olivers; but they saw that the lady was very angry--so angry that they took to their heels, scampered away over the downs, and never stopped till they reached home, and had hidden themselves under the bed.
They were not followed. Punishment for their act of absconding was deferred till Lady Carse's errand should be finished. When once down among the rocks, Lady Carse was eager to show her dear friends all the secrets of her late hiding. As soon as Macdonald's watchman was convinced by the lady that she was not drowned, and by the minister that he might go home--as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the wonders of the caves were revealed to the pastor and his wife. The party were so interested in the anecdotes belonging to Lady Carse's season of retreat, that they did not observe, sheltered as they were in eastern caves, that a storm was coming up from the west--one of the tempests which frequently rise from that quarter in the winter season, and break over the Western Islands.
The children were aware of it before their parents. When they found they were not followed, they soon grew tired of whispering under the bed, and came cautiously forth.
It was very dark, strangely dark, till a glare of lightning came, which was worse than the darkness. But the thunder was worse: it growled fearfully, so as to make them hold their breath. The next clap made them cry. After that cry came help.
The widow heard the wail from next door, and called to the children from her door; and glad enough were they to take refuge with a grown-up person who smiled and spoke cheerfully, in spite of the thunder.
"Are you not afraid of the thunder?" asked Kate, nestling so close to the widow that she was advised to take care lest the sharp bone knitting needles went into her eyes. "But are not you afraid of the thunder?"
"Oh, no!"
"Why?"
"Because I am not afraid of anything."
"What, not of anything at all?"
"Not of anything at all. And there are many things much more harmful than thunder."
"What things?"
"The wind is, perhaps, the most terrible of all."
"How loud it is now!" said Adam, shivering as the rushing storm drowned his voice. When the gust had passed, the widow said, "It was not the wind that made all that noise, it was a dash of hail. Ah! if I do fear anything, it is large hail; not because it will hurt me, but because it may break my window, and let in the wind to blow out my lamp."
"But why do not things hurt you? If the lightning was to kill you--" "That would not hurt me," said the widow, smiling. "I do not call that being hurt, more than dying in any other way that God pleases."
"But if it did not kill you quite, but hurt you--hurt you very much indeed--burned you, or made you blind?"
"Then I should know that it was no hurt, but in some way a blessing, because the lightning comes from God. I always like to see it, because--There!" she said, as a vivid flash illumined the place. "Did you ever see anything so bright as that? How should we ever fancy the brightness of God's throne, if He did not send us a single ray, now and then, in this manner--one single ray, which is as much as we can bear? I dare say you have heard it read in church how all things are God's messengers, without any word being said about their hurting us,--`fire and hail;' here they are!"
When that gust was past, she went on, "`Snow and vapour, stormy winds fulfilling His word.' Here we are in the midst of the fire and the hail and the stormy winds. If we looked out, perhaps we might see the `snow and vapour.'"
The children did not seem to wish it.
"Then again," the widow went on, "we are told that `He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow.' I am sure I can show you that. I am sure the sea must have risen much already, before such a wind as this. Come!" she continued, wrapping her plaid round herself and the children; "keep close to me and you will not be cold. The cold has not come yet: and if we stand under the sheltered side of the house we shall not be blown. Hark! there is the roar of the waves when the thunder stops. Now we shall see how `He causeth His wind to blow and the waters flow.'"
She looked so cheerful and promised them such a sight, that they did not like to beg to stay within. Though the hail came pelting in gusts, there was no rain at present to wet them. The wind almost strangled them at the first moment; but they were under the eastern gable of the cottage in an instant, out of the force of the blast.
There they sat down, all huddled together; and there the children saw more than they had been promised.
The tempest had not yet reached Skye; and they could see, in the intervals of rolling clouds, mountain peaks glittering with snow.
"There is the snow!" said the widow. "And see the vapours! --the tumbling, rolling vapours that we call steam-clouds! Look how the lightning flash darts out of them! and how the sea seems swelling and boiling up to meet the vapours! A little way from the land, the wind catches the spray and carries it up and away. If the wind was now from the east, as it will be in spring, that spray would wash over us, and drench us to the skin in a minute."
"What, up here?"
"Oh, yes, and higher still. There! Adam felt some then." And well he might. The sea was now wrought into such tumult that its waves rolled in upon the rocks with tremendous force, causing the caverns to resound with the thundering shock, and the very summit of the precipices to vibrate. Every projection sent up columns of spray, the sprinklings of which reached the heights, bedewing the window of the cottage, and sending in the party under the gable.
"There now," said the widow, when she had fed her fire, and sat down, "we have seen a fine sight to-day; and there will be more to-morrow."
"Shall we see it to-morrow?"
"Oh, yes; if you like to come to me to-morrow, I think I can promise to show you the shore all black with weed thrown up by the storm, and, perhaps we may get some wood. These storms often cast up wood, sometimes even thick logs. We must not touch the logs; they belong to Sir Alexander Macdonald, but we may take the smaller pieces, those of us who can get down before other people have taken them away. If the minister is not aware of this, we must tell him, and the weeds will be good to manure his kail-bed, if he can find nothing better."
"Will you go to-morrow and pick up some wood?"
"If I can get down alone; but I cannot climb up and down as I used to do. I will show you something prettier than wood or weed that I picked up, after one of these storms, when I was younger." And she took out of her chest three shells, one very large and handsome, which had been cast upon the western shore some years before. Adam thought this so beautiful that he begged to have it; but the widow could not give it away. She told him she must keep it for a particular reason; but he could see it whenever lie liked to come to her for the purpose.
But Adam thought he might pick up such an one himself, if he could go to-morrow to the western shore; and his friend could not say that this was impossible. Oh! then, would she not go and show him the way? Would she not try if he and Kate helped her with all their strength? They were very strong. If she would stand up they would show her how strong they were. She stood up, and they tried to carry her. Their faces were exceedingly red, and they were very near lifting up their friend, and she was laughing and wondering whether they could carry her down the rocks in that way, when the door burst open and Lady Carse appeared.
"The children must come home," said she to Annie; "they have no business here."
"I called them in, my lady, when the thunder frightened them."
"They should not have come. They should have told you that they were under their parents' displeasure."
All now looked grave enough. The children stole away home, skilfully avoiding taking hold of the lady's offered hands. She pulled the door after her in no gentle manner. She did not much care whether the children were fond of her; but it was somehow disagreeable to her that they should be happy with her next-door neighbour.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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12
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THE STEWARD ON HIS ROUNDS.
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The return of Macdonald's boat was a great event; and especially to the inhabitants of the hill-side cottages. Macdonald was accompanied by Sir Alexander's steward, who brought some furniture and finishings for the chapel and the minister's dwelling, and, for the first time, a parcel for Lady Carse.
When the package was brought up from the shore, Lady Carse rushed in to tell Annie the news, and to bid her come and see the unpacking.
The poor lady was sure that by means of Mr Johny, or through some other channel, tidings of her existence and banishment had reached her friends at Edinburgh, and that this parcel contained some warrant of release. With raised colour and sparkling eyes, she talked of her departure the next morning; of how it would be best to travel, when she once set foot on the main; of how soon she could reach Edinburgh, and whether it would not be better to go first to London, to lay her own case and the treason of her enemies before the Prime Minister. Mrs Ruthven agreed to all she said. Mr Ruthven walked to and fro before the door, stopping at every turn to offer his congratulations. Annie looked anxious and eager.
When the package was deposited before the door, and the glee of the party was at the highest, the children capered and shouted. Annie quietly checked this, and kept them by her side; whereupon Lady Carse smiled at Mrs Ruthven, and said she pitied people who were grave when good fortune befell their friends, and who could not bear even to let children sympathise in it.
"You mistake me, madam," said Annie. "If this package was from Edinburgh, I should feel more like dancing myself than stopping the children's dancing; but I sadly fear this comes from no further off than Skye. I know the Skye packages."
"Nonsense!" cried Lady Carse. "I know nobody in Skye. I hate croakers. Some people take a pleasure in spoiling other people's pleasure."
"That is a temper that I do not approve of," observed Mr Ruthven. "This life is to some such a vale of tears that I think it is ungrateful not to pluck the few flowers of innocent pleasure which grow by the wayside. I should think that a Christian temper would be ready to assist the enjoyment. Here, my good men--" "What stupid fellows those men are!" cried Lady Carse. "They are actually going away without helping us to uncord the package."
She called after them; but in answer to her scolding, the men only stared; which made Lady Carse tell them they were idiots. A word or two from Annie in Gaelic brought them back directly, and obtained from them what aid was needed.
"Shall I enquire, madam," asked Annie, "anything that you may wish to know?"
"No," replied Lady Carse, sharply. " _You_ speak Gaelic, I think," she said to Mr Ruthven. "Will you learn from the men all you can about this package, and tell me every word they say?"
Mr Ruthven bowed, cleared his throat, and began to examine the men. Lady Carse meantime said to Mrs Ruthven, in Annie's hearing, that she must wait, and restrain her patience a little while. There was no saying what might be in the package, and they must be by themselves when they opened it.
Mrs Ruthven said she would send the children away; and Annie offered to take them home with her.
"The children!" exclaimed Lady Carse. "Oh, bless them! what harm can they do? Let _them_ stay by all means. I hope there will be nobody to spoil _their_ pleasure."
Annie curtseyed, and withdrew to her own house. As she shut the door and sank into a chair, she thought how bad her rheumatic pains were. Her heart was swelling a little too; but it soon subsided as she said to herself, "A vale of tears, indeed, is this life; or rather a waste and howling wilderness, to that poor lady with her restless mind. God knows I would not reckon hardly with her, or anyone so far from peace of mind. Nor can I wonder, when I pity her so much, that others should also, and forget other things when she is before their eyes. I did think, when I heard the minister was coming--But I had no right to expect anything beyond the blessing of the sabbath, and of burial, and the ordinances. And oh, there is the comfort of the sabbath! The Word is preached, and there is prayer and praise now on sabbath-days for a year to come; or, perhaps, as many years as I shall live. If this was a place for peace of mind before, what can trouble us now?" The closing psalm of last sabbath had never been out of her ears and her heart since. She now began to sing it, softly at first, but louder as her soul warmed to it. She was soon stopped by a louder sound; a shrill cry from the next house, and presently Mrs Ruthven rushed in to know what she was to do. Lady Carse was hysterical. The package had contained no news from her friends, but had brought cruel disappointment. It contained some clothing, a stone of sugar, a pound of tea, six pecks of wheat, and an anker of spirits; and there was a slip of paper to say that the same quantity of these stores would be brought yearly by the steward when he came to collect the heather rent. At this sentence of an abode of years in this place, Lady Carse had given way to despair; had vowed she would choke the steward in his sacks of feathers, that she might be tried for murder on the main; and then she had attempted to scatter the wheat, and to empty out the spirits, but that Mr Ruthven had held her hand, and told her that the anker of spirits was, in fact, her purse--her means of purchasing from Macdonald and others her daily meat and such service as she needed. But now she was in hysterics, and they did not know what to do next. Would Mrs Fleming come?
Annie thought the lady would rather not see her; told Mrs Ruthven how to treat the patient, and begged that the children might be sent to her, if they were in the way.
The children were with Annie all the rest of the day; for their father and mother were exceedingly busy writing letters, to go by the steward.
In the evening the steward paid them a visit, in his round back to the boat. He was very civil, brought with him a girl, the handiest and comeliest he said, that he could engage among Macdonald's people, to wait upon Lady Carse; gave order for the immediate erection of a sort of outhouse for her stores, and desired her to say if there was anything else she was pressingly in want of. She would not say a word to him of one kind or another, but turned him over to the minister. But the minister could not carry his own points. He could not induce the steward to convey a single letter of the several written that day. The steward was sorry: had hoped it was understood that no letter was to leave the island,--no written paper of any kind,--while Lady Carse resided there. He would not take these to Sir Alexander: he would not ask him to yield this point even to the minister. Sir Alexander's orders were positive; and it was clear that in these parts that settled the question.
While the argument was going on, Lady Carse rose from her seat, and passed behind the steward, to leave the room. She caught up the letters unperceived, and unperceived slipped them into the steward's pocket: so that while he bowed himself out, declining to touch the letters, he was actually carrying them with him.
Helsa, Lady Carse's new maid, witnessed this prank; and, not daring to laugh at the moment, made up for this by telling the story to her acquaintance, the widow, when sent for the children at night.
"That will never do," Annie declared. "Harm may come of it, but no good."
And this set her thinking.
The consequence of her meditation was that she roused the family from their beds when even Lady Carse had been an hour asleep. When Mr Ruthven found that there was neither fire nor illness in the case, he declared to Annie his disapprobation of untimely hours; and said that if those who had a lamp to keep burning became in time forgetful of the difference between night and day, they should remember that it was not so with others; and that the afflicted especially, who had griefs and agitations during the day, should be permitted to enjoy undisturbed such rest as might be mercifully sent them.
Annie listened respectfully to all this, and acknowledged the truth of it. It was, however, a hope that Lady Carse might possibly sleep hereafter under the same roof with her children, if this night were not lost, which made her take the liberty of rousing the minister at such an hour.
She was confident that the steward would either bring back the letters, as soon as he put his hand upon them, or destroy them; for such a thing was never heard of as an order of Sir Alexander's being disobeyed. She had thought of a way of sending a note, if the minister could write on a small piece of paper what would alarm the lady's friends. She had now and then, at long intervals, a supply from a relation from Dumfries, of a particular kind of thread which she used to knit into little socks and mittens for sale. This knitting was now too fine for her eyes: but the steward did not know this; and he would no doubt take her order, as he had done before. She believed he would come up to return the letters quite early in the morning. If she had a ball of thread ready, he would take it as a pattern: and this ball might contain a little note;--a very small one indeed, if the minister would write it.
"How would the receiver know there was a note?" asked Mr Ruthven.
"It might be years before the ball was used up," Mrs Ruthven observed: "or it might come back as it went."
"I thought," said Annie, "that I would give the order in this way. I would say that I want four pieces of the thread, all exactly the same length as the one that goes. The steward will set that down in his book; and he always does what we ask him very carefully. Then my relation will unwind the ball to see what the length is, and come upon the note; and then--" "I see. I see it all," declared Mr Ruthven. "Do not you, my dear?"
"Oh yes; I see. It will be delightful, will it not, Lady Carse?"
"That is as it may be," said Lady Carse. "It is a plan which may work two ways."
"I do not see how it can work to any mischief," Annie quietly declared. "I will leave you to consider it. If you think well of the plan, I shall be found ready with my thread. If the steward returns, it will be very early, that he may not lose the tide."
As might be expected, Annie's offer was accepted; for even Lady Carse's prejudiced mind could point out no risk, while the success might be everything. There was something that touched her feelings in the patient care with which the widow sat, in the lamplight, winding the thread over and over the small slip of paper, so as to leave no speck visible, and to make a tight and secure ball.
The slip of paper contained a request that the reader would let Mr Hope, advocate, Edinburgh, know that Lady Carse was not dead, though pretended to be buried, but stolen away from Edinburgh, and now confined to the after-mentioned island of the Hebrides. Then followed Lady Carse's signature and that of the minister, with the date.
"It will do! It will do!" exclaimed Mrs Ruthven. "My dear, dear Lady Carse--" But Lady Carse turned away, and paced the room, "I don't wonder, I am sure," declared Mrs Ruthven, "I don't wonder that you walk up and down. To think what may hang on this night--Now, take my arm,--let me support you."
And she put her arm around the waist of her dear friend. But Lady Carse shook her off, turned weeping to Annie, and sobbed out, "If you save me--If this is all sincere in you, and--" "Sincere!" exclaimed Annie, in such surprise that she almost dropped the ball.
"O yes, yes; it is all right, and you are an angel to me. I--" "What an amiable creature she is!" said Mrs Ruthven to her husband, gazing on Lady Carse. "What noble impulses she has!"
"Very fine impulses," declared the minister. "It is very affecting. I find myself much moved." And he began pacing up and down.
"Sincere!" Annie repeated to herself in the same surprise.
"Oh, dear!" observed Mrs Ruthven, in a whisper, which, however, the widow heard: "how long it takes for some people to know some other people. There is Mrs Fleming, now, all perplexed about the dear creature. Why, she knew her; I mean, she had her with her before we ever saw her, and now we know her--Oh! how well, how thoroughly we know her--we know her to the bottom of her heart."
"A most transparent being, indeed!" declared Mr Ruthven. "As guileless as a child."
"Call me a child; you may," sobbed Lady Carse. "None but children and such as I quarrel with their best friends. She has been to me--" "You reproach yourself too severely, my dear lady," declared the minister. "There are seasons of inequality in us all; not that I intend to justify--" His wife did not wait for the end, but said, "Quarrel, my dear soul? Quarrel with your best friends? You do such a thing! Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us; and we _are_ friends, are we not; you and we? Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us! Ah!"
Annie had finished her work; and she was gone before the long kiss of the new friends was over.
"It is only two days more to the sabbath," thought she. Then she smiled, and said, "Anyone might call me a child, counting the days as if I could not wait for my treat. But, really, I did not know what the comfort of the sabbath would be. The chapel is all weather-tight now; and thank God for sending us a minister!"
As all expected, up came the steward; very early and very angry. Nobody from the minister's house cared to encounter him. He threw the letters down upon the threshold of the door, and shouted out that his bringing them back was more than the writer deserved. If he had read them, and made mischief of their contents, nobody could, under the circumstances, have blamed him. Here they were, however, as a lesson to the family not to lose their time, and waste their precious ink and paper in writing letters that would never leave the island.
As he was turning to go away, the widow opened her door, and asked if he would excuse her for troubling him with one little commission which she had not thought of the day before, and she produced the ball of thread.
Lady Carse was watching through a chink in a shutter. She saw the steward's countenance relax, and heard his voice soften as he spoke to the widow. She perceived that Annie had influence with him, if she would use it faithfully and zealously. Next she observed the care with which he wrote in his note book Annie's directions about her commission, and how he deposited the precious ball in his securest pocket. She felt that this chance of escape, though somewhat precarious, was the best that had yet occurred.
Before the steward was out of sight she opened the shutter, though it creaked perilously, and kissed her hand to the surprised Annie, who was watching her agent down the hill. Annie smiled, but secured caution by immediately going in.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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13
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TRUE SOLITUDE.
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The season advanced, bringing the due tokens of the approach of summer. The gales came from the east instead of the west, and then subsided into mild airs. The mists which had brooded over sea and land melted away, and, as the days lengthened, permitted the purple heights of the rocky Saint Kilda to be seen clear and sharp, as the sun went down behind them. The weed which had blackened the shore of the island at the end of winter was now gone from the silver sands. Some of it was buried in the minister's garden as manure. The minister began to have hopes of his garden. He had done his best to keep off the salt spray by building the wall ten feet high; and it was thought that just under the wall a few cabbages might grow; and in one corner there was an experiment going forward to raise onions. Kate and Adam told the widow, from day to day, the hopes and fears of the household about this garden; and it was then that she knew that her son Rollo was now gardener, as he had been head builder of the wall.
From Rollo himself she heard less and less of his proceedings and interests. Anxious as she was, she abstained from questioning or reproving him on the few occasions when he spent an hour with her. She was aware of his high opinion of himself, and of the point he made of managing his own affairs; and she knew that there were those next door who would certainly engross him if anything passed in his mother's house to make him reluctant to stay there. She therefore mustered all her cheerfulness when he appeared on the threshold, gave him her confidence, made him as comfortable as she could, and never asked him whence he had come, or how long he would stay. She had a strong persuasion that Rollo would discover in time who was his best friend, and was supremely anxious that when that time came there should be nothing to get over in his return to her--no remembrance of painful scenes--no sting of reproach--no shame but such as he must endure from his own heart. Strong as was her confidence in the final issue, the time did seem long to her yearning spirit, lonely as she was. Many a night she listened to the melancholy song of the throstle from the hill-side, and watched the mild twilight without thinking of sleep, till was silent; and was still awake when the lark began its merry greeting to the dawn which was streaking the east. Many a day she sat in the sun watching the pathways by which she hoped her son might come to her; and then perhaps she would hear his laugh from behind the high garden wall, and discover that he had been close at hand all day without having a word to say to her. How many true and impressive things passed through her mind that she thought she would say to him! But they all remained unsaid. When the opportunity came she saw it to be her duty to serve him by waiting and loving, feeling and trusting that rebuke from God was the only shock which would effectually reach this case, and reserving herself as the consoler of the sinner when that hour should arrive.
As for the other parties, they were far too busy--far too much devoted to each other to have any time to spare for her, or any thought, except when the children were wished out of the way, or when the much more ardent desire was indulged that her house could be had for the residence of Lady Carse and her maid. In spite of all the assurances given to Lady Carse that her presence and friendship were an unmixed blessing, the fact remained that the household were sadly crowded in the new dwelling. There was talk, at times, of getting more rooms built: but then there entered in a vague hope that the widow's house might be obtained, which would be everything pleasant and convenient. At those times she was thought of, but more and more as an obstruction--almost an intruder. Now and then, when she startled them by some little act of kindness, they remarked that she was a good creature, they believed, though they considered that there was usually something dangerous about people so very reserved and unsociable.
One day this reserved and unsociable person volunteered a visit to her astonished neighbours. She walked in, in the afternoon, looking rather paler than usual, and somewhat exhausted. Mr Ruthven was outside the door, smoking his pipe after dinner. He came in with the widow, and placed a stool for her. His wife was not in the room. Lady Carse was lying on the settle, flushed and apparently drowsy. She opened her eyes as Annie and the minister entered, and then half-closed them again, without stirring.
"Yes, I have been walking," said the widow, in answer to Mr Ruthven's observation. "But it is not that that has tired me. I have been only as far as Macdonald's. But, sir, I must go further to-night, unless I can interest you to do what must be done without loss of time."
The minister raised his eyebrows, and looked inquiringly. "I have learned, sir, that from this house invitations have been sent to smugglers to begin a trade with these islands, and that it is about to begin; and that this has been done by corrupting my son. I see well enough the object of this. I see that Lady Carse hopes to escape to the main by a smuggling vessel coming to this coast. I can enter into this. I do not wonder at any effort the poor lady makes--" "You insufferable woman!" cried Lady Carse, starting up from her half-sleep with a glowing face and a clenched hand. "Do you dare to pity me?"
"I do, madam: and I ask of you in return--I implore you to pity me. This is the bitterest day to me since that which made my boy fatherless. I have this day discovered that my fatherless boy has been corrupted by those who--" "I do not approve of innuendo," declared Mr Ruthven. "I recommend you to name names."
"Certainly, sir. My son has been made a smuggler by the persuasion and management of Lady Carse; and, as I have reason to believe, sir, with your knowledge."
"Here is treachery!" cried Lady Carse. "We must make our part good. I will--I know how--" She was hastening out, when the minister stopped her at the door. She made some resistance, and Annie heard her say something about a pistol on the top of the bed, and the wonder if her father's daughter did not know how to use it.
Even in the midst of her own grief, Annie could not but remark to herself how the lady's passions seemed to grow more violent, instead of calming down.
"You had better go, Mrs Fleming," said Mr Ruthven. "Make no disturbance here, but go, and I will come in and speak to you."
"How soon?" Annie anxiously enquired.
"As soon as possible--immediately. Go now, for Lady Carse is very angry."
"I will, sir. But I owe it to you to tell you that the adventure is put an end to. I have been to Macdonald's and told him, speaking as Rollo's mother, of the danger my son was in; and Macdonald will take care that no smuggling vessel reaches this coast to-night or in future."
"Go instantly!" exclaimed Mr Ruthven, and, seeing Lady Carse's countenance, Annie was glad to hasten out of her reach.
The widow sat down on the threshold of her cottage awaiting the minister. Her heart throbbed. A blessing might be in store at the end of this weary day. Good might come out of evil. She might now have an opportunity of appealing to her minister--of opening her heart to him about the cares which she needed to share with him, and which should have been his cares as pastor. She trusted she should be enabled to speak freely and calmly.
She prayed that she might; but her body was exhausted, so that she could not overcome to her satisfaction the agitation of her mind. It did not mend the matter that she was kept waiting very long; and when Mr Ruthven came out at his own door, it was with some difficulty that Annie rose to make respectful way for him.
"Be seated," said Mr Ruthven, in a tone of severity; "I have much to say to you."
Both seated themselves. Mr Ruthven cleared his throat, and said-- "It is the most painful part of a pastor's duty to administer reproof, and more especially to members of his flock whose years should have brought them wisdom and self-control."
Annie clasped her hands on her knees, and looked meekly in his face.
"I should have hoped," Mr Ruthven went on, "that a Christian woman of your standing, and one who is blest, as you yourself have been known to acknowledge, with a life of peace, would have had compassion on a most suffering sister, and have rather striven to alleviate her sorrows, and to soften her occasional self-reproach for what she amiably calls her infirmities of sensibility, than have wounded and upbraided her, and treacherously cut off her frail chance of release from a most unjust captivity."
"I! --I wound and upbraid Lady Carse!"
"Now, do not compel me to remind you of what you ought to know full well--the deceitfulness of the human heart. Listen to me."
Again Annie looked gently in his face.
"I left that poor lady, already overwhelmed with misfortune, prostrated anew by your attack of this afternoon. I left her dissolved in tears-- shaken by agitation; and I resolved that my first act of duty should be to remonstrate privately--observe, I say privately--against the heartlessness which could pour in drops of bitterness to make the already brimming cup overflow. Now, what have you to say?"
"I should wish to know, sir, what part of my conduct it is that is wrong. If I knew this, I am sure--" "If you knew! My good woman, this blindness and self-satisfaction appear to show that this life of peace, which you yourself acknowledge yours has been, has gone somewhat too far--has not been altogether blessed to you. If you are really so satisfied with yourself as to be unable to see any sin within you--" "Oh, sir! Do not think me impatient if I make haste to say that I never harboured such a thought. It makes me sink with shame to think of my ever having possibly such a thought. What I asked for, sir, was to know my sin towards Lady Carse, that I might make reparation if I could, and--will it please you, sir, to tell me--" "Tell me, rather, what sin you are conscious of; and we shall then get at the bottom of this last offence. Come, let me hear!"
Annie looked down, hesitated, blushed deeply, and said she supposed it was owing to her not being accustomed to the blessing of having a pastor that she found it so difficult to open her heart now that the blessing was given for which she had so often prayed. She would strive to overcome the difficulty. After a pause she said her chief trouble about her state of mind was that some of her trust and peace seemed to have left her.
"Ah! the moment it is put to the test!" said Mr Ruthven.
"Just so, sir; that is what I said to myself. As long as I lived alone, out of the sound of any voice but Rollo's, I thought my peace was settled, and that I was only waiting for the better peace which is to come hereafter. Then, when Rollo was away, and my mind was searching doubtfully after him, where he might be, and whether safe or killed, I could always find rest, and say to myself that he was in God's hand, to die _now_ or to live to close my eyes. But now, sir, there is a sadness come over me; though I am obliged to your dear children for many cheerful hours--I would not forget that. But as for my own child, when I hear his voice merry from behind your garden wall, when I have been longing for days to see his face--or when your children tell me things that he has said, just while my ear is pining for his voice, I find myself less settled in mind than I was--much less settled, sir, than I think a Christian woman ought to be."
"And this indicates more than you tell me," observed Mr Ruthven. "What can you have done to drive your son from his home and from his mother's side? Some mistake there must be, to say the very least--some fatal mistake, I will call it, for I would not be severe--some awful mistake. Eh?"
"Perhaps so, sir." And she smothered a sigh.
The minister then gave her, at some length, his views on education, insisting much on the duty of making young people happy at home; ending with saying that no young man could, he thought, expect much comfort in the society of a mother who could be so reckless of anybody's peace as she had shewn herself that afternoon. He hoped she would take what he said in good part. It was not pleasant to him to deal rebuke but he must not shrink from it; and he rose to go.
"Certainly, sir," said Annie, rising too, and holding by the bed to steady herself. "But, sir, if you would please to tell me particularly what you think I have done so wrong to-day--Sir, you would not have me let my son be made a smuggler?"
"You should--Nothing can be clearer than that you should--I wonder you need to be told that you should have spoken to me. Instead of which, you went quietly and told Macdonald."
"I am sure, sir, I thought you knew all about it."
"What of that? I am here at hand, to be your adviser--not to be treated with disrespect. I leave you now to think over what I have said. I trust the result will be that you will make what reparation you can to Lady Carse: though it is foolish to talk of reparation; for the mischief done is, I fear, irreparable. I leave you to think of this. Good evening!"
Annie thought of all that had passed; and of a few other things. She thought that while it was clear that a pastor might take a wrong view of the state of mind and conduct of one of his flock, it was a privilege to know, at least, what view he took. He was faithful, as far as plain speaking went: and that was much. And then, it is so rarely that any censure is uttered for which there is absolutely no foundation, that it is usually profitable to receive it. While feeling that "it is a small thing to be judged of man's judgment," it may be a great thing to know a man's unfavourable opinion of us. She would soon recover from this conversation; and then, if she had obtained any wisdom from it, it would be, after all, the marking blessing of this day. She was not aware of another: that Mr Ruthven had been somewhat touched by what she had said of Rollo--his eyes somewhat opened.
Once more her mind rested on the idea now become so prominent with her. "The sabbath is coming round again," she thought. "It pleases God to give us a complete blessing then. It is His word that is spoken then-- His judgment that we are judged by. Nothing comes between us and Him then. There is always the sabbath now to think of."
Tired as she was, or as she thought herself till she found herself enjoying the repose of the moonlight shore, there was one more walk necessary before Annie could try to sleep.
The sea was calm, and there was scarcely any wind. If the smuggling vessel had approached the island in any part, it could hardly have got away again. She had not seen it from her hill-side; but she must be satisfied that it was not on the northern shore. The western was safe enough, from its being overlooked from Macdonald's farm.
Annie had just reached the longest and widest stretch of beach when the large moon rose out of the still waters. There was not even the slightest veil of mist obscuring the horizon; and the fluctuation of the water-line was distinct upon the clear disk of the moon. The gush of quivering light which instantaneously reached from the horizon to her feet illumined Annie's heart no less than the scene around her. The ripple of the little waves which played upon the pebbles was music to her ear. In a tranquil and hopeful spirit she thought of her errand, and looked steadily over the whole expanse of the sea, where, under the broad moonlight, and a sky which had at this season no darkness in it, there was certainly no vessel in sight.
Pursuing her walk northwards, she perceived a small dark object lying on the silvery sands. When she reached it, she found it was a little cask, which the smell declared to contain rum. By the smell, and the cask being light, it was clear that some of the spirit had been spilled. Annie found a small hole, beside which lay a quill. She feared that this told too plainly of the neighbourhood of smugglers, and her heart sunk. She went on, and immediately saw another dark object lying on the beach--a person, as she thought. It was a woman, in the common country clothing, sound asleep. Annie hastened to wake her, thinking it unsafe to sleep under the moon's rays. To her extreme surprise she found it was Lady Carse.
She could imagine the lady to have come down in hope of meeting a smuggling vessel. She would not have wondered to meet her wandering among the coves; but that on such an errand, at such a time, she should be asleep, was surprising.
Annie tried gentle means to rouse her, which would enable her to slip away as the lady awoke, sparing her the pain of her presence. She rattled the pebbles with her foot, coughed, and at last sang--but all without causing the lady to stir. Then the widow was alarmed, and stooped to look closer. The sleeper breathed heavily, her head was hot, and her breath told the secret of her unseasonable drowsiness. Annie shrank back in horror. At first she concluded that much of Lady Carse's violent passion was now accounted for. But she presently considered it more probable that this was a single instance of intemperance, caused by the temptation of finding a leaking cask of spirit on the sands, just in a moment of disappointment, and perhaps of great exhaustion. This thought made Annie clear what to do.
She went back to the cask, made the hole larger with a stone, and poured out all the rum upon the sand. The cask was now so light that she could easily roll it down to the margin of the tide, where she left it, half full of sea-water. Having thus made all safe behind her, she proceeded to the coves, where she found, not any signs of a vessel, but one of Macdonald's men on the watch. From him she learned that Macdonald had gone out to look for the smuggling boat; had seen it, and turned it back; and that the smuggling crew had been obliged to throw overboard some of their cargo to lighten their vessel for flight. Macdonald thought they would hardly venture hither again for some time to come. This was good news; but there was better; Rollo was not with the smugglers. He was out fowling this afternoon. Perhaps by this time he might be at home.
Annie's errand was finished; and she might now return and rest. Macdonald's man spoke of his hope of some goods being washed up by the next tide. Annie told him nothing of the cask, nor of what she had done with the rum. She commended him to his watch, and left him.
Lady Carse was still sleeping, but less heavily. She roused herself when spoken to, started up, and looked about her, somewhat bewildered. "I took the liberty, madam, of speaking to you, to waken you," said Annie; "because the moon is up, and was shining on your head, which is considered bad for the health."
"Really," said Lady Carse, "it is very odd. I don't know how I could think of falling asleep here. I suppose I was very tired."
"You look so now, madam. Better finish your sleep at home. And first, if I may advise you, you will throw some salt water on your head, and drink some fresh at the spring, when we come to it. The people here say that bathing the head takes away the danger from sleeping under the moon's rays."
Lady Carse had no objection to do this, as her head was hot; and now Annie hoped that she would escape detection by the Ruthvens, so that she alone would know the secret. Both drank at the spring, and after that it might be hoped that there would be little more smell of spirits about the one than the other.
When they passed the cask, now beginning to float in the rising tide, Lady Carse started. It was clear that she now remembered what had made her sleep. "There is a cask!" said she, in her hurry.
"Yes, a cask of sea-water," Annie quietly observed. "I emptied out the bad stuff that was in it, and--" "You did! What right had you?"
"It was contraband," said Annie. "Macdonald saw the cargo thrown over: nobody would have claimed it, and plenty would have helped themselves to what is unfit to drink. So I poured it out upon the sand."
"Very free and easy, I must say," observed Lady Carse.
"Very," Annie agreed; "but less of a liberty than some would have taken, if I had left it to tempt them. I threw away only what is some man's unlawful property. Others would have thrown away that which belongs to God, and is very precious in His eyes--the human reason, which he has made but a little lower than the glory of the angels."
Lady Carse spoke no more--not even when they reached their own doors. Whether she was moody or conscience-stricken, Annie could not tell. All the more anxious was she to do her part; and she went in to pray that the suffering lady might be saved from this new peril--the most fearful of the snares of her most perilous life. Annie did not forget to pray that those who had driven the sufferer to such an extremity as that she could not resist even this means of forgetting her woes, might be struck with such a sense of their cruelty as to save their victim before it was too late.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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14
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HELSA'S NEWS.
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One day when Annie was trimming her lamp, she observed Helsa, Lady Carse's maid, watching the process earnestly from the door, where she was looking in. "Come in, Helsa," said the widow, in Gaelic, which was more familiar to the girl than English. "Come in, if you have nothing better to do than to see me trim my lamp."
"I am afraid about that lamp, and that is the truth," replied Helsa. "I had charge of a lamp at Macdonald's once, when my mother went to the main for a week; but then, if it went out, nobody was much the worse. If this one goes out, and anybody drowns in the harbour, and the blame is mine, what shall I do?"
"The blame yours!" said the widow, looking at her.
"Yes; when you live at Macdonald's, and I have to keep the lamp. I am not sure that I can keep awake all the night when winter comes: but they say I must."
Helsa was surprised to find that the widow knew nothing of the plan that Lady Carse now talked of more than anything else: that Annie was to go and live at Macdonald's, that Lady Carse and her maid might have the widow's house, where Helsa was to do all the work in the day, and to keep the lamp at night. The girl declared that the family never sat at meals without talking of the approaching time when they could all have more room and do whatever they pleased. Adam had cried yesterday about the widow going away; but he had been forbidden to cry about what would make Lady Carse so much happier; and when Kate had whispered to him that Lady Carse would no longer live in their house, Adam had presently dried his tears, and began to plan how he would meet the widow sometimes on the western sands, to pick up the fine shells she had told him of. Helsa went on to say that she could have cried longer than the boy, for she was afraid to think of being alone with Lady Carse at times when-- Annie interrupted her by saying, with a smile, "You need not have any dread of living in this house, Helsa. I have no thought of leaving it. There is some mistake."
Helsa was delighted with this assurance. But she proved her point--that the mistake was not hers--that such a plan _was_ daily, almost hourly, spoken of next door as settled. She was going on to tell how her mistress frightened her by her ways: her being sleepy in the afternoons, unless she was very merry or dreadfully passionate, and so low in the mornings that she often did little but cry; but the widow checked this. While at Mrs Ruthven's house Helsa should make no complaints to anybody else; or, if she had serious complaints to make, it should be to Macdonald. Helsa pleaded that Macdonald would then perhaps take away the anker of spirits, as being at the bottom of the mischief; and then Lady Carse would kill her. She had once shown her a pistol; but nobody could find that pistol now. Helsa laughed, and looked us if she could have told where it was. In a moment, however, she was grave enough, hearing herself called by her mistress.
"I shall say I came to learn about the lamp," said she; "and that is true, you know."
"Why do not you speak English, both of you?" demanded Lady Carse from the door. "You both speak English. I will have no mysteries. I will know what you were saying."
Helsa faltered out that she came to see how Widow Fleming managed her lamp.
"Was it about the lamp that you were talking? I will know."
"If we had any objection, madam, to your knowing what we were saying," interposed Annie, "we are by no means bound to tell. But you are quite welcome to it. I have been assuring Helsa that there is some mistake about my leaving this house. Here have I lived, and here I hope to die."
"We must talk that matter over," declared Lady Carse. "We are so crowded next door that we can bear it no longer; and I _must_ live in sight of the harbour, you know."
And she went over all the old arguments, while she sent Helsa to bring in Mr Ruthven, that he might add his pastoral authority to her claims. After having once declared herself immovable, Annie bore all in silence; the pleas that her lamp was so seldom wanted; that it would be well tended for her, while she could sleep all night, and every night; that it had become a passion with Lady Carse to obtain this house, and that anyone was an enemy who denied her the only thing she could enjoy. These pleas Annie listened to in silence, and then to reproaches on her selfishness, her obstinacy, her malice and cruelty. When both her visitors had exhausted their arguments, she turned to Lady Carse, and intimated that now they had all spoken their minds on this subject, she wished to be alone in her own house. Then she turned to Mr Ruthven, and told him that whatever he had to say as her pastor, she would gladly listen to.
"In some other place than this," he declared with severity. "I have tried rebuke and remonstrance here, beside your own hearth, with a perseverance which I fear has lowered the dignity of my office. I have done. I enter this house no more as your pastor."
Annie bowed her head, and remained standing till they were gone; then she sank down, melting into tears.
"This, then," and her heart swelled at the thought; "this, then, is the end of my hope--the brightest hope I ever had since my great earthly hope was extinguished! I thought I could bear anything if there was only a pastor at hand. And now--but there is my duty still; nothing can take that away. And I am forgetting that at this very moment, when I have so little else left! crying in this way when I want better eyes than mine are now for watching the sea. I have shed too many tears in my day; more than a trusting Christian woman should; and now I must keep my eyes dry and my heart firm for my duty. And I cannot see that I have done any wrong in staying by the duty that God gave me, and the house that I must do it in. With this house and God's house--" And her thoughts recurred, as usual, to the blessing of the sabbath. She should still have a pastor in God's house, if not in her own. And thus she cheered her heart while she bathed her eyes that they might serve for her evening gaze over the sea.
She was destined, however, to be overtaken by dismay on the sabbath, and in that holy house where she had supposed her peace could never be disturbed. The pastor read and preached from the passage in the 18th chapter of Matthew, which enjoins remonstrance with sinners, first in private, then in the presence of one or two witnesses, and at last before the church. The passage was read so emphatically that Annie's heart beat thick and fast. But this did not prepare her for what followed. In his sermon the pastor explained that though the scriptural expression was, "If thy brother trespass," the exhortation was equally applicable to any Christian sister who should offend. He declared that if any Christian sister was present who was conscious of having trespassed on the comfort and natural feelings of an afflicted and persecuted personage whom they had the honour to entertain among them, he besought the offending sister to enquire of herself whether she had not been rebuked first alone, then in the presence of a witness--alas! in vain; and whether, therefore, the time had not come for a rebuke before the Church. He would, however, name no one, but leave yet some place for repentance; and so forth.
Annie's natural dismay, terrible as it was, soon yielded before the appeal to her conscience, which the pastor supposed would appal her. She knew that she was right; and in this knowledge she raised her bowed head, and listened more calmly than many others. If there had been any doubt among the small congregation as to who was meant, Lady Carse would have dispersed it. She sat in the front row, with the minister's family. Unable to restrain her vindictive satisfaction, she started up and pointed with her finger, and nodded at Annie. The pitying calm gaze with which Annie returned the insult went to many hearts, and even to Mrs Ruthven's so far so that she pulled the lady by the skirt, and implored her to sit down.
There are many precious things which remain always secrets to those who do not deserve to know them. For instance, tyrants know nothing of the animating and delicious reaction which they cause in the souls of their victims. The cheerfulness, sweetness and joy of their victims has ever been, and will ever be, a perplexity to oppressors. It was so now to Mr Ruthven, after an act of tyranny perpetrated, as most acts of tyranny are, under a mistaken, an ignorant and arrogant sense of duty. Not only did the widow stand up with others for the closing psalm--her voice was the firmest, sweetest, clearest in the assembly--so sweet and clear that it came back even upon her own ear with a sort of surprise. As for others, all were more or less moved. But their emotion had the common effect of making them draw back from the object of it. After the service, nobody spoke to Annie. She heeded this but little, absorbed as she was in thankfulness in finding that the privileges of God's house were not disturbed--that her relation to Him and her rights of worship were not touched by any fallibility in His minister. As she reached the entrance of the churchyard, Macdonald overtook her, and made her use his arm for the descent of the irregular steps. A few words from Helsa had put him in possession of the case. He desired the widow not to think for a moment of leaving her house. Everybody wished to do what could be done to reconcile the stranger lady to her abode in the island; but there was a point beyond which he was sure Sir Alexander would not permit encroachment. His advice was to serve and please her in small affairs, and leave it to Sir Alexander to deal with her in such an important one as her having a house to herself. Annie smiled, and said this was exactly her plan.
That evening was, to the inhabitants of the island, the most memorable one of the year--of the generation--of the century. This was not fully known at the time. The most memorable days often appear just like other days till they are past; and though there was some excitement and bustle this evening, no one on the island saw the full meaning of what was before his eyes.
A little before sunset, the widow plainly saw a larger vessel than often visited those seas approaching from the south-west. It was larger than Macdonald's sloop. She was straining her eyes to see whether it had two masts or three, when she heard the children's voices below. She called them up to her platform for the help of their young eyes; but when they came, they could spare little attention for the distant vessel, so full were they of the news that their mother had run down to the harbour to try to speak to some sailors who had landed from a boat which had come up the harbour while everybody was at church. It was such a pity that their father was gone, just at this time, to visit a sick person at Macdonald's farm! But their mother went directly, as fast as she could run, and Lady Carse and Helsa were to follow her as soon as Helsa had put up a bundle.
To recall Mr Ruthven was the first thing Annie thought of. She did not venture to send the children over for him, lest their hurry and excitement, or any air of mystery, should give the alarm to Macdonald. She set out alone, doubtful as she was how and how soon she could accomplish the walk, and bitterly lamenting that her son was not within call. With her best exertions, her progress was so slow that she met the pastor a quarter of a mile from Macdonald's house.
Breathless as she was, Mr Ruthven would have from her a full, true, and particular account of all she knew, and many declarations that she did not know as much again, before he would walk on. At last, however, he did set forth quickly on the shortest path to the harbour, while Annie turned slowly homewards over the ridge.
She was on the hill-side, not far from home, when she saw the well-known group of neighbours--the pastor's family--coming homewards, slowly and with many delays. She heard loud angry voices; and when she approached, she saw tokens of distress in them all. Mr Ruthven was very pale, and Helsa very red. Mrs Ruthven was in tears, and Lady Carse's clothes and hair were dripping wet. It was clear that she had been in the water.
"Alas! you have missed the boat!" exclaimed Annie.
Lady Carse had just lost the chance of escape, as all believed; and all were now quarrelling as to whose fault it was. Mrs Ruthven was turning back from the shore, breathless from haste and vexation, as Lady Carse and Helsa came down. The boat, with several armed men in it, had pushed off when Mrs Ruthven appeared. They made no reply to her signs, but lay on their oars at a little distance from the beach till Lady Carse and her maid came down. After some delay, and many signals of entreaty from the ladies, the boat again approached, and the man in command of it was told that a lady of quality, wrongfully imprisoned in this island, desired to be carried to the main, and that, once among her friends in Edinburgh, she could give rewards for her escape to any amount. There was a short consultation in the boat, a laugh, and a decisive pull to shore. A sailor jumped out and seized the lady to carry her in. Whether it was the unaccountable shout of triumph that she set up, or something else that startled the sailor, he hastily set down his burden on the rock, looked her in the face, and then spoke to his comrades in the boat. They laughed again, but beckoned him on. He placed her in the boat, but she stumbled, swayed over, caught at the side of the boat as she went over, and very nearly upset it. The men swore at her, declared her to be no lady in distress, but a tipsy gipsy, laid her down on the shore, and rowed away. Mr Ruthven now declared that he could do nothing in such a case. Lady Carse, now sobered from everything but passion, protested that if he had had any sense or presence of mind, he might have detained the strangers till she could produce from her package proof of her rank and quality. If the wranglers could but have known who these strangers were, and whence came the distant vessel to which their boat belonged, all would have joined in thanksgiving for the lady's escape from their hands.
Annie had no more suspicion of the truth than they. She could only attempt to calm them, and make the best of matters by showing that possibly all might not be over yet. It was now nearly dark. If she could light two lamps for this once, it might bring back the boat. If the people on board were familiar with her light and its purpose, the singular circumstance of its being double might attract their curiosity; if strangers, they might attend to the signal from prudence.
Mr Ruthven, being extremely cross, could see nothing but nonsense in this plan. Lady Carse, being offended with her friends, thought it the wisest and most promising scheme conceivable. Mr Ruthven would not hear of spending a night down in the harbour, watching for a boat which would never come. To ask such a thing of him after his sabbath-day's services, and all for a woman's freak, was such a thing as--as he would not describe. He could not think of doing such a thing. Lady Carse said he was no friend of hers if he did not. While Mrs Ruthven trembled and wept, Annie said that if she could only learn where Rollo was, all would be easy. Rollo would watch in the harbour, she was sure.
Mr Ruthven caught at this suggestion for saving his night's rest, and went off to seek Rollo; not so rapidly, however, but that he heard the remark sent after him by Lady Carse, that it was a pretty thing for a man to stand up in his pulpit, where nobody could answer him, and lecture people about Christian duty, and then to be outdone in the first trial by the first of his flock that came into comparison with him. Annie could not bear to hear this. She desired Helsa to assist Lady Carse to bed, that her clothes might be speedily dried, in readiness for any sudden chance of escape.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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15
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ANNIE'S NEWS.
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Dull and sad was the first meal at the Ruthvens' the next morning. Lady Carse could eat nothing, having cried herself ill, and being in feverish expectation still of some news--she did not know what. Mr Ruthven found fault with the children so indefatigably, that they gulped down their porridge and slipped out under Helsa's arm as she opened the door, and away to the next house, where the voice of scolding was never heard. The pastor next began wondering whether Rollo was still playing the watchman in the harbour--tired and hungry; and he was proceeding to wonder how a clever lad like Rollo could let himself be made such a fool of by his mother, when Helsa cut short the soliloquy by telling that Rollo was at home. He had come up just now with the steward.
"The steward," cried Lady Carse, springing to her feet. "I knew it! I see it all!" And she wrung her hands.
"What is it? my dear love, my precious friend,--what _is_ the matter? Compose yourself!" said Mrs Ruthven, soothingly.
But the lady would not hear of being soothed. It was plain now that the distant vessel, the boat, the sailors, were sent by her friends. If Mr Ruthven had only been quick enough to let them know who she was, she should by this time have been safe. How could they suppose that she was Lady Carse, dressed as she was, agitated as she was! A word from Mr Ruthven, the least readiness on his part, would have saved her. And now, here was the steward come to baffle all. Sir Alexander Macdonald had had eyes for her deliverers, though her nearest friends had none. Annie was her best friend after all. It was Annie's ball of thread, no doubt, that had roused her friends, and made them send this vessel; and Annie alone had shown any sense last night.
Mr Ruthven did not understand or approve of very sudden conversions; and this was really a sudden conversion, after pointing at the widow Fleming in church yesterday. He ought to state too that he did not approve of pointing at individuals in church. He should be sorry that his children should learn the habit; and-- "You would?" interrupted Lady Carse. "Then take care I do not point at her next sabbath as the only friend I have on this island."
"My dear creature!" said Mrs Ruthven, "pray do not say such severe things: you will break my heart. You do the greatest injustice to our affection. Only let me show you! If this wicked steward prevents your escape now, I will get away somehow, and tell your story to all the world; and they shall send another vessel for you; and I will come with it, and take you away. I will indeed."
"Nonsense, my dear," said Lady Carse.
"Nonsense, my dear," said the pastor.
Lady Carse laughed at this accord. Mrs Ruthven cried.
"If you get away," said Lady Carse, more gently, "you may be sure you will not leave me behind."
"It is all nonsense, the whole of it, about this vessel and the steward," Mr Ruthven pronounced. "The steward comes, as usual, for the feather-rent."
"It is not the season for the feather-rent," declared Lady Carse.
"The steward comes when it suits his convenience," decided the pastor; "the season is a matter of but secondary regard."
"You are mistaken," said the lady. "I have lived here longer than you; and I know that he comes at the regular seasons, and at no other time."
"Oh, here are the children," observed Mrs Ruthven, hoping to break up the party. "My dears, don't leave the room; I want you to stay beside me. There now, you may each carry your own porridge-bowl into the kitchen, and then you may come back for papa's and mine."
Mr Ruthven stalked out into the garden, to find fault with his cabbages, if they were not growing dutifully. Lady Carse stood by the window, fretted at the thick seamy glass which prevented her seeing anything clearly. Mrs Ruthven sat down to sew.
"Mamma," said Adam, presently, "what is a Pretender?"
"A what, my dear? --a Pretender? I really scarcely know. That is a question that you should ask your papa. A Pretender?"
"No, no, Adam. It is Adventurer. That was what the steward said. I know it, because that is the name of one of papa's books. I will show it you."
"I know that," said Adam. "But Widow Fleming called it Pretender, too."
"What's that?" cried Lady Carse, turning hastily from the window. "What are you talking about?"
The children looked at each other, as they usually did when somebody must answer the lady. "What are you talking about?"
"The steward says the Pretender has come: and we do not know what that means."
"The Pretender come!" cried Mrs Ruthven, letting fall her work. "What shall we do for news? Run, my dears, and ask Widow Fleming all about it. I can't leave Lady Carse, you see."
The children declared they dared not go. Widow Fleming was busy; and she had sent them away. "Then go and tell your father. Ask him to come in." Mr Ruthven was shocked into his usual manners when he saw Lady Carse unable to stand or speak. His assurances that he did not believe her in any personal danger, if the report were ever so true, were thrown away. Her consternation was about a different aspect of the matter. She at once concluded that the cause of the Stuarts would be triumphant. She saw in imagination all her enemies victorious--her husband and Lord Lovat successful in all their plottings, high in power and glory; while she, who could have given timely intimation of their schemes--she who could have saved the throne and kingdom--was confined to this island like an eagle in a cage. For some time she sat paralysed by her emotions; then she rose and went in silence to Annie's dwelling. The steward was just departing, and he seemed in the more haste for the lady's appearance; but Annie stopped him--gravely desired him to remain while she told the lady what it concerned her to know. She then said, "I learn from the steward, madam, that it is known throughout Edinburgh that you are still in life, and that you are confined to some out-of-the-way place, though, the steward believes, the real place is not known."
"It is not known," the steward declared; "and it is anything but kind of you, in my opinion, Mrs Fleming, to delude Lady Carse with any hope of escape. Her escape is, and will always be, impossible."
"I think it my business," said Annie, "to inform the lady of whatever I hear of her affairs. I think she ought to have the comfort of knowing that her friends are alarmed: and I am sure I have no right to conceal it from her."
The steward walked away, while the lady stood lost in reverie. One set of ideas had driven out the other. She had forgotten all about the Jacobite news, and she stood staring with wide open eyes, as the vision of her escape and triumph once more intoxicated her imagination.
Annie gently drew her attention to the facts, telling her that it was clear that the ball of thread had done its duty well. The alarm had begun with Mr Hope, the advocate. He had demanded that the coffin supposed to contain the remains of Lady Carse should be taken up and searched. When he appeared likely to obtain his demand, Lord Carse had avoided the scandal of the proceeding by acknowledging that it had been a sham funeral. Annie believed that now the lady had only to wait as patiently as she could, in the reasonable hope that her friends would not rest until they had rescued her.
At this moment Lady Carse's quick sense was caught by Adam's pulling the widow's gown and asking in a whisper, "What is a Pretender?" and by Annie's soft reply, "Hush, my dear!"
"Hush! do you say?" exclaimed Lady Carse, with a start. "What do you mean by saying `hush'? Is the Pretender come? Answer me. Has the Pretender landed in Scotland?"
"He has not landed, madam. He is in yonder vessel. You had a great deliverance, madam, in not being taken away by his boat last night."
"Deliverance! There is no deliverance for me," said the lady. "Every hope is dashed. There is no kindness in holding out new hopes to me. My enemies will not let me stay here now my friends know where to find me. I shall be carried to Saint Kilda, or some other horrible place; or, if they have not time to take care of me while they are setting up their new king, they will murder me. Oh, I shall never live to see Edinburgh again: and my husband and Lovat will be lording it there, and laughing at me and my vain struggles during all these years, while I lie helpless in my grave, or tossing like a weed in these cruel seas. If God will but grant my prayer, and let me haunt them! Stop, stop: do not go away."
"I must, madam, if you talk so."
"Stop. I want to know about this Pretender. Why did you not tell us sooner? Why not the moment you knew?"
"I considered it was the steward's business to tell what he thought proper: but I have no objection to give all the particulars. I know he whom they call Prince Charlie is in yonder vessel, which carries eighteen guns. It cannot hold many soldiers; and Sir Alexander does not believe that he will be joined by any from his islands. He is thought to have a good many officers with him--" "How many?"
"Some say twenty; some say forty. It is pretty sure that Glengarry will join him--" "Glengarry! Then all is lost."
"Sir Alexander thinks not. He and Macleod have written to the Lord President, that not a man from these islands will join."
"They have written to Duncan Forbes! Now, if they were wise, they would send me to him--You need not look so surprised. He is a friend of mine; and glad enough he would be at this moment to know what I could tell him of the Edinburgh Jacobites. Where is the Lord President at this time?"
"In the north, I think, preparing against the rising."
"Ay; at his own place near Inverness. If I could but get a letter to him--Perhaps he knows already that I am not dead. If I could see Sir Alexander! Oh! there are so many ways opening, if I had but the least help from anybody to use the opportunity! Sir Alexander ought to know that I am a loyal subject of King George; and that my enemies are not."
"True," said Annie. "I will endeavour to speak to the steward again before he sails, and tell him that."
"I will speak to him, myself. Ah! I see your unwillingness; but I have learnt--it would be strange if I had not--to trust nobody with my business. With Prince Charlie so near, there is no saying who is a Jacobite, and who is not. I will see the steward myself."
Annie knew that this would fail; and so it did. The steward's dispositions were not improved by the lady's method of pleading. He told her that Sir Alexander's loyalty to King George had nothing to do with his pledge that Lord Carse should never more be troubled by her. He had pledged his honour that she should cause no more disturbance, and no political difficulties would make him forfeit his word. The steward grew dogged during the interview.
Did her friends in Edinburgh know that she was alive? she demanded. "Perhaps so."
Did they know where she was? "Perhaps so."
Then, should she be carried somewhere else? "Perhaps so."
To some wretched, outlandish place, further in the ocean? "Perhaps so."
Would they murder her rather than yield her up? "Perhaps so."
The steward's heart smote him as he said this, but he forgave himself on the plea that the vixen brought it all upon herself. So, when she asked the further question-- "Is there any chance for the Pretender? --any danger that he may succeed?" the answer still was "Perhaps so."
Mr Ruthven, who was prowling about in search of news, heard these last words, and they produced a great effect upon him.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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16
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TIMELY EVASION.
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Mr Ruthven was walking up and down his garden that afternoon in a disturbed state of mind, when his wife came to him and asked him what he thought Lady Carse could be in want of. She was searching among his books and boxes as if she wanted something. He hastened in.
"Yes," Lady Carse replied, in answer to his question; "I want that pistol that used to be kept on the top of your bed. You need not look so frightened. I am not going to shoot you, nor anybody you ought to care for."
"I should like to understand, however," observed the pastor. "It is unusual for ladies to employ fire-arms, I believe, except in apprehension of the midnight thief: and I am not aware of any danger from burglars in these islands."
"Why no," replied the lady. "We have no great temptation to offer to burglars; and nothing to lose worth the waste of powder and bullet."
"Then, if I may ask--" "O yes; you may ask what I want the pistol for. It strikes me that the boat from yonder vessel may possibly be sent back for me yet. They may think me a prize worth having, if the stupid people carried my story right. I would go with them--I would go joyfully--for the chance of shooting that young gentleman through the head."
"Young gentleman!" repeated Mr Ruthven, aghast.
"Yes, the young Pretender. My father lost his life for shooting a Lord President. His daughter is the one to go beyond him, by getting rid of a Prince Charlie. It would be a tale for history, that he was disposed of among these islands by the bravery of a woman. Why, you look so aghast," she continued, turning from the husband to the wife, "that-- Yes, yes. Oh, ho! I have found you out! --you are Jacobites! I see it in your faces. I see it. There now, don't deny it Jacobites you are-- and henceforth my enemies."
With stammering eagerness, both husband and wife denied the charge. The fact was, they were not Jacobites; neither had they any sustaining loyalty on the other side. They understood very little of the matter, either way; and dreaded, above everything, being pressed to take any part. They thought it very hard to have their lot cast in precisely that corner of the empire where it was first necessary to take some part before knowing what the nation, or the majority, meant to do. First, they prevented the lady's finding the pistol, as the safest proceeding on the whole; next, they wished themselves a thousand miles off, so earnestly and so often, that it occurred to them to consider whether they could not accomplish a part of this desire, and get a hundred miles away, or fifty, or twenty--somewhere, at least, out of sight of the Pretender's privateer.
In a few hours the privateer was out of sight--"Gone about north," the steward declared, "for supplies:" as nobody was willing to give them any help while under the shadow of Macdonald and Macleod. In the evening, little Kate rushed into Annie's cottage, silently threw her arms about the widow's neck, and almost strangled her with a tight hug. Adam followed, and struggled to do the same. When he wanted to speak, he began to cry; and grievously he cried, sobbing out, "What will you do without me? You can't see the boats at sea well now; and soon, perhaps, you will hardly be able to see them at all. And I was to have helped you: and now what will you do?"
"And papa would not let us come sooner," said the weeping Kate, "because we had to pack all our things in such a hurry. He said we need not come to you till he came to bid you good-bye. But I made haste, and then I came."
"But, my dears, when are you going? where are you going?"
"Oh, we are going directly: the steward is in such a hurry! And papa says we are not to cry; and we are not to come back any more. And we shall never get any of those beautiful shells on the long sands, that you promised me; and--" Here Mr Ruthven entered. He had no time to sit down. He told the children that they must not cry; but that they might kiss their friend, and thank her for her kindness to them, and tell her that they should never see her any more. There was so much difficulty with the sobbing children on this last point, that he gave it up for want of time, threatening to see about making them more obedient when he was settled on the mainland. While they clung to Annie, and hid their faces in her gown, he explained to her that his residence in this island had not answered to his expectation; that he did not find it a congenial sphere; that he was a man of peace, to whom neither domestic discord, nor the prospect of war and difficulty without, were agreeable; and that he was, therefore, taking advantage of the steward's vessel to remove himself to some quiet retreat, where the pastoral authority might be exercised without disturbance, and a man like himself might be placed in a more congenial sphere. He was then careful to explain that, in speaking of domestic discord, he was far from referring to Mrs Ruthven, who, he thought he might say, however liable to the failings of humanity, was not particularly open to blame on the ground of conjugal obedience. She was, in fact, an excellent wife; and he should be grieved to cause the most transient impression to the contrary. It was, in truth, another person--a casual inmate of his family--whom he had in his eye; a lady who-- "I understand, sir. If you will allow me to go home with you--" "Permit me to conclude what I was saying, Mrs Fleming. That unhappy lady, in favour of whose temper it is impossible to say anything, has caused us equal uneasiness by another tendency of late--a tendency to indulge--" But Annie did not, at such a moment, stand upon ceremony. She was by this time leading the children home, one in each hand.
"So you are really going away, and immediately?" said she to Mrs Ruthven.
"Immediately," replied the heated, anxious Mrs Ruthven.
"Where is Lady Carse?"
The question again brought tears into Mrs Ruthven's swollen eyes.
"I do not know. Mr Ruthven wishes to be gone before she returns from her walk."
"We leave her the entire house to herself," declared the pastor, now entering. "Will you bear our farewell message to her, and wish her joy from us of being possessor of the whole house; and of--" "Here she comes," said Annie, quietly. "Lady Carse," she said, "this is a remarkable day. Here is another way opening for your deliverance--a way which appears to me so clear that you have only to be patient for a few weeks or months before your best wishes are fulfilled. Mrs Ruthven will now be able to do for you what she has so often longed to do. She is going to the main--perhaps to Edinburgh; she will see Mr Hope, and others of your friends; and tell your story. She will--" "She will not have anything of the sort to do," interrupted Lady Carse. "I shall go and do it myself. I told her, some time since, that whenever she quitted this island I would not be left behind. I shall do my own business myself, if you please."
"That is well," interposed the pastor; "because I promised the steward, passed my solemn word to him, as a condition of my departure, that it should never become known through me or mine that Lady Carse had ever been seen by any of us. I entirely approve of Lady Carse managing her own affairs."
Annie found means to declare solemnly to Mrs Ruthven her conviction that no such promise could be binding on her, and that it was her bounden duty to spare no effort for the poor lady's release.
She was persuaded that Mrs Ruthven thought and felt with her; and that something effectual would at last be done.
The children now most needed her consolations.
"Do not be afraid," she said cheerfully to them. "I shall never forget you. I shall think of you every day. Whenever you see a sea-bird winging over this way, send me your love: and when I see our birds go south, I will send my love to you."
"And whenever," said Helsa, "you see a light over the sea, you will think of Widow Fleming's lamp, won't you?"
"And whenever," said Lady Carse, with a solemnity which froze up the children's tears, and made them look in her face, "whenever, in this world or the next, you see a quiet angel keeping watch over a sinful, unhappy mortal, you may think of Widow Fleming and me. Will you?"
The awe-struck children promised, with a sincerity and warmth which touched Lady Carse with a keen sense of humiliation; not the less keen because she had brought it upon herself by a good impulse.
The pastor and his family were presently gone; and without Lady Carse. The steward guarded against that by bringing Macdonald to fasten her into her house, and guard it, till the boat should be out of reach.
Annie did not intrude upon her unhappy neighbour for the first few hours. She thought it better to wait till she was wished for.
"Our pastor gone!" thought she, as she sat alone. "No more children's voices in this dwelling! No more worship in the church on sabbaths! Thus is our Father always giving and taking away, that we may fix our expectations on Him alone. But He always leaves us enough. He leaves us our duty and our sabbaths, whether the church be open or in ruins. And He has left me also an afflicted neighbour to comfort and strengthen. Now that she thinks she depends on me alone, I may be the better able to lead her to depend on Him."
And she was presently absorbed in meditating how best to do this most needful work.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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17
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THE LAMP BURNS.
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Annie had supposed that her life would be almost as quiet an one as it used to be when the minister and his family were gone. Lady Carse was her neighbour, to be sure; but every day showed more and more that even to such restless beings as Lady Carse, a time of quiet must come. Her health and strength had been wasting for some months, and now a change came over her visibly from week to week. She rarely moved many yards from the house, spending hours of fine weather in lying on the grass looking over the sea; and when confined to the house by the cold, in dozing on the settle.
This happened just when her prison was, as it were, thrown open, or, at least, much less carefully guarded than ever before. Prince Charlie's successes were so great as to engross all minds in this region, and almost throughout the whole of the kingdom. Wherever the Macdonalds and the Macleods had influence, there was activity, day and night. Every man in either clan, every youth capable of bearing arms, was raised and drilled, and held in readiness to march, as soon as arms should be provided by the government.
Annie had many anxieties about Rollo,--many feelings of longing and dread to hear where he was, and what he was doing. The first good news she had was that of the whole population of Skye and the neighbouring islands, not one man had joined the Pretender. The news was carefully spread, in order that it might produce its effect on any waverers, that Sir Alexander Macdonald had written to Lord President Forbes that not one man under him or Macleod had joined the Pretender's army; and that he should soon be ready to march a force of several hundred men, if arms could be sent or provided for them against their arrival at Inverness. Meantime, no day passed without the men being collected in parties, and exercised with batons, in the absence of fire-arms. Rollo came to the very first drill which took place on the island; and great was his mother's relief; and great the satisfaction with which she made haste to equip him, according to her small means, for a march to Inverness.
Here was an object too for Lady Carse. She fretted sadly, but not quite idly, about her strength failing just now when boats came to the island so often that she might have had many chances of escape if she could now have borne night watching, and exposure to weather and fatigue. She complained and wept much; but all the time she worked as hard as Annie to prepare Rollo for military service; for her very best chance now appeared to be his seeing Lord President Forbes, and telling him her story. The widow quite agreed in this; and it became the most earnest desire of the whole party,--Helsa's sympathies being drawn in,--that the summons to march might arrive. Somebody was always looking over towards Skye; and there was so much traffic on these seas at present, that some new excitement was perpetually arising. Now a meal bark arrived, telling of the capture of others by the prince's privateer: and next there was a seizure of fish for the king's service. Now all eyes were engaged, for days together, in watching the man-of-war which hovered round the coasts to prevent the rebels being reinforced by water, and arms being landed from foreign vessels: and then there were rumours, and sometimes visions, of suspicious boats skulking among the islands, or a strange sail being visible on the horizon. Such excitements made the island appear a new place, and changed entirely the life of the inhabitants. The brave enjoyed all this: the timid sickened at it; and Lady Carse wept over it as coming too late for her.
"The lady looks ill," the steward observed to the Widow Fleming, one day when, as often happened now, he came without notice. "She is so shrunk, she is not like the same person."
Annie told how she had lost strength and spirits of late. She had not been down even to the harbour for two months.
"Ay, it is a change," said the steward. "I was saying to Macdonald just now that we have been rather careless of late, having had our heads so full of other matters. I almost wondered that she had not slipped through our fingers in the hurry and bustle: but I see now how that is. However, Macdonald will keep a somewhat stricter watch; for, as I told him, it concerns Sir Alexander's honour all the more that she should not get loose, now that those who committed her to his charge are under suspicion about their politics--Ah! you see the secret is getting out now,--the reason of her punishment. She wanted to ruin them, no doubt, by telling what she knew; and they put her out of the way for safety."
"Is her husband with the Pretender then? And is Lord Lovat on that side? They are the two she is most angry with."
"Lord Carse is safe enough. He is a prudent man. He could not get into favour with the king and the minister:--they knew two much harm of him for that. So he has made himself a courtier of the Prince of Wales. He has no idea of being thrust upon the dangers of rebellion while the event is uncertain; so he attaches himself in a useless way to the reigning family. And if Prince Charlie should succeed, Lord Carse can easily show that he never favoured King George or his minister, or did them any good. --As for Lovat, he is ill and quiet at home."
"Which side is he on?"
"He complains bitterly of his son being disobedient to him, and put upon his disobedience by his Jacobite acquaintance. If the young man joins Prince Charlie, it is thought that his father will stand by King George, that the family estates may be safe whichever way the war ends,--Bless me! what a sigh! One would think--Come now, what's the matter?"
"The wickedness of it!" said Annie.
"Oh! is that all? Lovat's wickedness is nothing new; and what better could you expect from his son? By the same rule, I have great expectations of your son. As you are sound, he will be sound too, and do his king and country good service. You are both on the same side, and not like the master of Lovat and his father."
"We have no estates to corrupt our minds," observed Annie. "We have only our duty to care for."
"Ay, then, you are on the same side."
"Rollo is ready to march with the men of these islands. I am on no side, sir. I do not understand the matter, and I have nothing to do with it. There is no occasion for me to take any side."
"Why yes; as it happens, there is, Mrs Fleming: and that is one of the things that brought me here to-day. Sir Alexander Macdonald desires that you will oblige him by not burning your lamp in the night till the troubles are over."
"I am sorry that there is anything in which I cannot oblige Sir Alexander Macdonald: but I must burn my lamp."
"But hear: you do not know his reasons. There are some suspicious vessels skulking about among these islands; and you ought to show them no favour till they show what they are."
"You do not think, sir, you cannot surely think that anybody on this island is in danger from the enemy. There is nothing to bring them here,--no arms, nor wealth of any kind;--nothing that it would be worth the trouble of coming to take."
"Oh no: you are all safe enough. No enemy would lose their time here. But that is no reason why you should give them help and comfort with your beacon-light."
"You mean, sir, that if a storm drives them hither, or they lose their way, you would have them perish. Yes; that is what you mean, and that I cannot do. I must burn my lamp."
"But my good friend, consider what you are doing. Consider the responsibility if you should succour the king's enemies!"
"I did consider it well, sir, some years ago, and made up my mind. That was when the pirates were on the coast."
"You don't mean that you would have lighted pirates to shore?"
"I could not refuse to save them from drowning: and He who set me my duty blessed the deed."
"I remember hearing something of that. But if the pirates did no mischief, your neighbours owe you nothing for that. You may thank the poverty of the island."
"Perhaps so," said Annie, smiling. "And if so, I am sure we may thank God for the poverty of the island which permits us to save men's lives, instead of letting them drown. And now you see, sir--" "I see you are as wilful on this point as I heard you were. I would not believe it, because I always thought you a superior woman. But now--I wish I could persuade you to see your duty better, Mrs Fleming."
"As my duty appears to me, sir, it is to save people's lives without regard to who they are, and what their business is."
"If the Pretender should come--" "He would go as he came," said Annie, quietly. "He would get nothing here that could hurt the king, while the men of the island are gone to Inverness."
"Well, to be sure, if you would succour and comfort pirates, there is nobody whom you would not help."
"That is true, sir."
"But it is very dangerous, Mrs Fleming. Do you know the consequences of aiding the enemy?"
"I know the consequences of there being no light above the harbour," said Annie, in a low voice.
The steward knew it was useless to say more. He thought it better to put into her hand some newspapers which contained a startling account of the progress of the rebels, embellished with many terrifying fictions of their barbarity, such as were greedily received by the alarmists of the time.
"Here," said he. "You can look these over while I go to speak to Macdonald about removing the lady to some remoter place while we have only women on the island. Pray look over these papers, and then you will see what sort of people you may chance to bring upon your neighbours, if you persist in burning your lamp. But Sir Alexander must put forth his authority--even use force, if necessary. What do you say to that?"
"Some old words," said Annie, smiling, "given to those who are brought before governors. It shall be given me in that same hour what I shall speak."
"I will look in for the papers as I return," said the steward. "You are as wilful on your own points as your neighbour. But you must give way, as you preach that she ought--" "I do not preach that, sir, I assure you. I wish, for her own peace, that she would yield herself to God's disposal; but I would have her, in the strength of law and justice, resist the oppression of man."
The steward smiled, nodded, and left Annie to read the newspapers.
The time was short. Lady Carse was asleep; but Annie woke her, and left one paper with her while she went home to read the other. She was absorbed in the narrative of the march of the rebels southwards, and their intention of proceeding to London, eating children, as the newspaper said, after the manner of Highlanders, all the way as they went, when Lady Carse burst in, trembling from head to foot, and unable to speak. She showed to Annie a short paragraph, which told that a vessel chartered by Mr Hope, advocate, of Edinburgh, and bound to the Western Islands, had put into the Horseshoe harbour in Lorn, to land a lady whom the captain refused to carry to her destination through a quarrel on the ground of difference of political sentiment. The lady, wife of a minister of the kirk, had sought the aid of the resident tenant to be escorted home through the disturbed districts in Argyle, while the vessel proceeded on its way--not unwatched, however, as Mr Hope's attachment to the house of Stuart was no secret, etcetera, etcetera.
The widow was perplexed; but Lady Carse knew that Mr Hope, her lawyer and her friend, was a Jacobite--the only fault he had, she declared. She was persuaded that the lady was Mrs Ruthven, and that the vessel was on its way to rescue her--might arrive at any hour of the day or night.
"But," said Annie, "this lady is loyal to King George, and you reproached the Ruthvens for being on the other side."
"O! I was wrong about her, no doubt. I detest him; but she is a good creature; and I was quite wrong ever to suspect her."
"And you think your loyalty to the king would do you no harm with Mr Hope? You think he would exert himself for you without thinking of your politics?"
"Why, don't you see what is before your eyes?" cried Lady Carse. "Is it not there, as plain as black and white can make it?"
The fact was so, though the lady's reasoning was not good. The vessel, with armed men in it, was sent by Mr Hope to rescue Lady Carse; and Mrs Ruthven was to act as guide. In consequence of a quarrel between the captain and her, she was set ashore at the place where the little town of Oban has since arisen; and the vessel sailed on out of sight. It was an illegal proceeding of Mr Hope's, and resorted to only when his attempts to obtain a warrant from the proper authority to search for and liberate Lady Carse were frustrated by the influence of her husband and his friends.
"He will be coming! Burn the paper!" cried Lady Carse impatiently, looking from the door.
"Better not. Indeed we had better not," said Annie quietly. "They have no suspicion, or they would not have let us see the paper. They do not know that Mr Hope is your agent; and Mrs Ruthven's name is not mentioned. If we do not return both the papers, there will be suspicion; and you will be carried to Saint Kilda. If we quietly return both papers, the danger may pass."
"O! burn it, and say it was accident. How slow you are!"
"I cannot tell a lie," said Annie. "And the steward would only get another copy of the paper, and look over it carefully,--No, we have only to give him back the papers, and thank him, without agitation."
"I cannot do that," exclaimed Lady Carse. "If you will not tell a lie in such a case, I shall act one. I shall go and pretend to be asleep. I could not contain myself to speak to that man, with my deliverers almost within hearing perhaps, and that detestable Saint Kilda within sight."
She commanded herself so far as to appear asleep, when the steward looked in, on his return. Annie remarked on the news of the rebels, and saw him depart evidently unaware of the weighty nature of what he carried in his pocket.
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{
"id": "23115"
}
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18
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OPENINGS.
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The autumn of this year is even now held in memory in the island as the dearest ever known. The men were all gone to Inverness, to act under the orders of President Forbes in defending the king's cause; and the women they left behind pined for news which seldom or never came. As the days grew short and dark, there was none of the activity and mirth within doors which in northern climates usually meet the advances of winter. In the cluster of houses about Macdonald's farm, there was dulness and silence in the evenings, and anxious thoughts about fathers, husbands, and brothers, with dread of the daylight which would bring round the perpetual ineffectual watch for a boat on the waters, bearing news of the brave companies of the Macdonalds and Macleods. Sir Alexander remained in Skye, to watch against treason and danger there, while Macleod had gone with the two companies. Such a thing as murmuring against the chief was never heard of; but there were few of the women who did not silently think, now and then, that Sir Alexander might let them have a little more news--might consider their anxiety, and send a messenger when he had tidings from Inverness. This was unjust to Sir Alexander, who was no better off for news than themselves. The rebels were so far successful that messengers could not carry letters with any security by land or sea. It was only by folding his notes so small as to admit of their being hidden in corners of the dress that the President could get them conveyed to the authorities at Edinburgh; and his correspondence with the Government was managed by sending messengers in open boats to Berwick, whence the garrison officer forwarded the despatches to London. In such a state of things, the inhabitants of remote western islands must bear suspense as well as they could.
No one bore it so well as the Widow Fleming. Her only son was in one of the absent companies; she had no other near relation in the world; and she had on her hands a sinking and heart-sick neighbour, whose pains of suspense were added to her own. Yet Annie was the most cheerful person now on the island. When Helsa was fatigued and dispirited by her attendance on Lady Carse, and was sent home for a day's holiday, she always came back with alacrity, saying that after all, the Macdonalds' side of the island was the most dismal of the two. Nobody there cared to sing, whereas Annie would always sing when asked, and often was heard to do so when alone. And she had such a store of tales about the old sea-kings, and the heroes of these islands, and of Scotch history, that some of the younger women came night after night to listen. As they knitted or spun, or let fall their work, while their eyes were fixed on Annie, they forget the troubles of their own time, and the blasts and rains through which they should have to find their way home.
At the end of these evenings, Lady Carse often declared herself growing better; and she then went to sleep on the imagination that she would soon be restored to Edinburgh life by Mr Hope's means, and be happy at last. In the morning, she always declared herself sinking, and fretted over the hardship of dying just when her release was drawing near. Annie thought she was sinking, and never contradicted her when she said so; but yet she tried to bring some of the cheerfulness of the evenings into the morning. She sympathised in the pain of suspense, and of increasing weakness when life was brightening; but she steadily spoke of hope.
She was sincerely convinced that efforts which could not fail were making for Lady Carse's release, and she thought it likely that the mother and children would meet on earth, though it were only to exchange a hope that they might meet in heaven. Sincerely expecting some great and speedy change in the poor lady's fortunes, she could dwell upon the prospect from day to day with a sympathy which did not disappoint even Lady Carse. Every morning she rose with the feeling that great things might happen before night; and every night she assured her eager neighbour that no doubt somebody had been busy on her behalf during the day. Whether Lady Carse owned it to herself or not, this was certainly the least miserable winter she had passed since she had left Edinburgh.
"I am better, I am sure," she joyfully declared one night: "better in every way. How do I look? Tell me how I look."
"Sadly thin; not so as to do justice to the good food the steward sent you," said Annie, cheerfully. "I should like to see these little hands not quite so thin."
"Ah! that is nothing. Everybody is thin and smoke-dried at the end of a stormy winter," declared Lady Carse. "But I feel so much better! You say it is hope; but you see how well I bear suspense."
"I always have thought," said Annie, "that nothing is so good for us all as happiness and peace. Your happiness in hoping to see your children soon, and in obtaining justice, has done you a great deal of good; and I trust there is much more in store yet."
"O yes; and when I get back to my friends again, I shall be happier than I was. We learn some things as we go on in life. I sometimes think that I should in some respects act differently if I had to live my life over again."
"We all feel that," said Annie.
"You know that feeling? Well, there have been some things in myself which I rather wonder at now; some things that I would not do now. I once struck my husband."
"Once!" thought Annie in amazement.
"And I think I may have been too peremptory with the children. There was nobody then to lead me to discover such things as I do when I am with you; and I believe now that if I were at home again--I hope--I think--" "What will you do if it pleases God to restore you to your home?"
"Why, I _have_ been told that they were afraid of me at home. Heaven knows why! for I should have thought that pompous, heartless, rigid, tyrannical wretch, my husband, was the one to be afraid of; and not a warm-hearted creature like me."
"Perhaps they were afraid of him too."
"O yes, to be sure; and that is why I am here. But they need not have cared for anything I say under an impulse. They might have known that I love people when they do me justice. That, I own, I cannot dispense with. I must have justice. But if people give me my due, I am ready enough to love them."
"And how will you do differently now, if you get home?"
"I think I would be more dignified than I sometimes have been. I would rely more upon myself. I may have encouraged my enemies by letting them see how they could wound my sensitive feelings. I should not have been so ill-treated by the whole world if I had not made some mistake of that kind. I would rely more on myself, and let them see that they could not touch my peace. Would not that be right?"
"Certainly; by your having a peace which they could not touch."
There was a short pause; after which Lady Carse said, in no unamiable tone, "I do not say these things by way of asking your advice. I know my own feelings and circumstances, and the behaviour of my family to me, better than you can do. I may be left to judge for myself; but it is natural, when a summons may come any day, to tell you what I think of the past; and of how I shall act in the time to come."
"I quite understand that," said Annie. "And I like to hear all you like to tell me without judging or advising, unless you ask me."
"Well, I fairly own to you--and you may take the confession for what it is worth--if I had to live the last twenty years over again, I should in some respects act differently, I now believe that I have said and done some things that I had better not. But I was driven to it. I have been most cruelly treated."
"You have."
"And if they had only known how to treat me! Why, you are not afraid of me, are you?"
"Not in the least."
"And you never were?"
"Never."
"Why, there now! But you are a woman of sense."
"I am not afraid of you, and never was," said Annie looking calmly in her face; "but I can understand how some people might be."
"Not people of sense," exclaimed Lady Carse quickly.
"Perhaps not; but we do not expect all that we have dealings with to be people of sense."
"No, indeed! Nobody need ever look for sense in Lord Carse, for one. Well! I am so glad you never were afraid of me; and I am sure, moreover, that you love me: you are so kind to me!"
"I do," said Annie, smiling in reply to the wistful gaze.
Lady Carse's eyes filled with tears.
"Good night! God bless you!" said she.
"She says," thought Annie, "that I may take her confession for what it is worth. How little she knows the worth of that confession! --a confession that any acquaintance she has would blush or mock at, and that any pastor in Scotland would rebuke! but to one who knows her as I do, how precious it is! I like to be called to rejoice with the neighbours when a child is born into the world: but it is a greater thing to sit here alone and rejoice over the birth of a new soul in this poor lady. It is but a feeble thing, this new born soul--born so much too late; it is little better than blind and helpless, and with hard struggles coming on before it has strength to meet them. But still it is breathing with God's breath; and it may come freely to Christ. Christ always spoke to souls; and what were the years of man's life to Him? So I take it as an invitation in such a case as this, when He says, `Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' O may the way be kept clear for this infant soul to come to Him!"
Annie had all the kindly and cheerful instincts which simple hearts have everywhere; and among them the wish to welcome the newly born with music. With the same feeling which make the people of many a heathen island and Christian country pour out their music round the dwelling which is gladdened by a new birth, Annie now sang a cheerful religious welcome to the young conscience which she trusted must henceforth live and grow for ever. Her voice was heard next door, just so as to be favourable to rest. Without knowing the occasion of the song, the lady reposed upon it; and without knowing it, Annie sang her charge to sleep, as she had often done when Rollo was an infant on her knee.
When at daylight she rose to put out her lamp, and observe the weather, she saw what made her dress quickly, instead of going to bed for her needful morning hour of sleep. A boat was making for the harbour through the difficulties of the wintry sea. It rose and was borne on the long swell so fast and so fearfully, that it appeared as if nothing could save it from dashing on the ledges of projecting rock; and then, before it reached them, it sank out of sight, to be lifted up and borne along as before. There were four rowers, a steersman, and two others, muffled in cloaks. Annie watched them till the boat disappeared in the windings of the harbour; and she was out on the hill-side, in the cold February wind, when she saw the whole party ascending from the shore, and taking the road to Macdonald's.
Here was news! There must be news. Better not tell even Helsa till she had heard the news. So the widow made what haste she could by the nearer road; but her best haste could not compare with the ordinary pace of the strangers. They had arrived long before she reached Macdonald's gate.
She walked straight in: and as she did so, one of the gentlemen who was standing before the fire glanced at another who was walking up and down.
"We need no sentinels here, my lord," said the latter in reply to the glance. "There are none but women and children on the island, and they are all loyally disposed."
"This is Sir Alexander Macdonald," said the hostess to Annie. And then she told the chief that this was the Widow Fleming, who had no doubt come to obtain tidings of her son, who had gone with the company under Macleod.
"The Lord President will give you more exact news of the company than I can," said Sir Alexander. "I only know that my people are marched to Aberdeen to protect that city from the insolence of the rebels."
The President, who was sitting by the fire, looked up kindly, and cheerfully told the widow that he had good news to give of the company from these islands. They had not been in any engagement, and were all in good health when they marched for Aberdeen, a fortnight before. "And are they all in their duty, my lord?"
"You remind me, friend, that I ought to have put that before my account of their health and safety. They are in their duty, being proof, so far, against both threat and seduction from the rebels."
"Thus far?"
"Why, yes; I used those words because their loyalty to the king is likely to be tried to the utmost at the present time. The king's cause is in adversity, we will hope only for a short time. The rebels have won a battle at Falkirk, and dispersed the king's troops; and this gentleman, the Earl of Loudon," pointing to the one who was standing by the fire, "and I have had to run away from my house at Culloden, and throw ourselves on the hospitality of Sir Alexander Macdonald."
"And what will become of your house, my lord?"
"I have thrown my house and fortune into the cause, as you have thrown something much more important--your son. If you can wait God's disposal cheerfully, much more should I. I cannot bestow a thought on my house."
"Except," said Sir Alexander, "that you have nothing else to think about here; and nothing to do but to think, for this day, at least. We must remain here. So safe as it is, in comparison with any part of Skye, or even Barra, I should recommend your staying here till we have some assurance of safety elsewhere."
"I will venture to offer something for the Lord President to think of and to do," said the widow, coming forward with an earnestness which fixed everybody's attention at once, and made Sir Alexander stop in his walk. He was about to command silence on Annie's part, but a glance at her face showed him that this would be useless.
"Let me first be sure that I am right," said Annie. "Is the Lord President whom I speak to named Duncan Forbes? And is he a friend of Lord Carse?"
"I am Duncan Forbes, and Lord Carse is an acquaintance of mine."
"Has he ever told you that his unhappy wife is not dead, as he pretended, but living in miserable banishment on this island?"
"On this island! Nonsense!" cried Sir Alexander.
When assured by the hostess and Annie that it was so, he swore at his steward, his tenant, and himself. On first hearing of the alarm being taken by the lady's friends at Edinburgh, he had ordered her removal to Saint Kilda, and had supposed it effected long ago. The troubles of the time, which left no boat or men disposable, had caused the delay; and now, between his rage at any command of his having been disregarded, and his sense of his absurdity in bringing a friend of his prisoner to her very door, he was perfectly exasperated. He muttered curses as he strode up and down.
Meantime the Lord President was quietly preparing himself for a walk. Everybody but Annie entreated him to stay till he had breakfasted, and warmed himself, Lord Loudon adding that the lady would not fly away in the course of the next hour if she had been detained so many years. It did not escape the President's observant eye that these words struck Sir Alexander, and that he made a movement towards the door. There being a boat and rowers at hand, she might be found to have flown within the hour, if he stayed to breakfast.
He approached Sir Alexander, and laid his hand on his arm, saying-- "My good friend, I advise you to yield up this affair into my hands as the first law officer of Scotland. All chance of concealment of this lady's case has been over for some time. Measures have been taken for some months to compel you to resign the charge which you surely cannot wish to retain--" Sir Alexander broke in with curses on himself for having ever been persuaded into involving himself in such a business.
"By the desire, I presume, of Lord Carse, Lord Lovat, Mr Forster, and others, not now particularly distinguished for their loyalty."
"That is the cursed part of it," muttered Sir Alexander. "It was to further their Jacobite plots that they put this vixen out of the way, because she had some secrets in her power, and they laid it all on her temper, which, they told me, caused my lord to go in fear of his reputation and his life."
"There was truth in that, to my knowledge," observed the President; "and there were considerations connected with the daughters--natural considerations, though leading to unnatural cruelty."
"Politics were at the bottom, for all that," said the chief, "And now, as she has been my prisoner for so long, I suppose they will throw the whole responsibility upon me. The rebel leaders hate me for my loyalty as they hate the devil. They hate me--" "As they hate Lord Loudon and myself," interposed the President, "which they do, I take it, much more bitterly than they ever did the devil. But, Sir Alexander, let me point out to you that your course in regard to this lady is now clear. If the rebellion succeeds, let the leaders find that you have taken out of their hands this weapon, which they might otherwise use for your destruction. Let them find you acting with me in restoring the lady to her rights. If, as I anticipate, the rebellion is yet to fail, this is still your only safe course. It will afford you the best chance of impunity--which impunity, however, it is not for me to promise--for the illegality and the guilt of your past conduct to the victim. There is something in our friend's countenance here," he continued, turning to the widow with a smile, "which I should like to understand. I fear I have not her good opinion, as I could wish."
Annie told exactly what she was thinking: that all this reasoning was wrong, because wasteful of the right. Surely it was the shortest and clearest thing to say that, late as it was, it was better for Sir Alexander to begin doing right than persist in the wrong.
"I quite agree with you," said the President, "and if people generally were like you, we should be saved most of the argumentation of our law courts--if, indeed, we should need the courts at all, or, perhaps, even any human law. Come, Sir Alexander, let me beg your company to call on Lady Carse. One needs the countenance of the chief, who is always and everywhere welcome in his own territory, to excuse so early a visit."
Sir Alexander positively declined going. He was, in truth, afraid of the lady's tongue in the presence of a legal functionary, before whom he could neither order nor threaten violence.
It was a great relief to Annie that he did not go. She needed the opportunity of the walk to prepare the President to meet his old acquaintance, and to speak wisely to her.
Even the President, with his habitual self-possession, could not conceal his embarrassment at the change in Lady Carse. The light from the window shone upon her face; yet he glanced at the widow, as in doubt whether this could be the right person, before he made his complaints. In the midst of her agitation at the meeting, Lady Carse said to herself that the good man was losing his memory; and, indeed, it was time; for he must be above sixty. She wondered whether it was a sign that her husband might be losing his faculties too: but she feared Duncan Forbes was a good deal the older of the two.
It would have astonished those who did not know Duncan Forbes to see him now. He was a fugitive from the rebels, who might at the moment be burning his house, and impoverishing his tenants; he had been wandering in the mountains for many days, and had spent the last night upon the sea; his clothes were weather-stained, his periwig damp, and his buckles rusted; he was at the moment weary and aching with cold and hunger; he was in the presence of a lady whom he had for years supposed dead and buried; and he was under the shock of seeing a face once full of health and animation now not only wasted, but alive with misery in every fibre: yet he sat on a bench in this island dwelling--in his eyes a hovel--with his gold-headed cane between his knees, talking with all the courtesy, calmness, and measured cheerfulness, which Edinburgh knew so well. Nothing could be better for Lady Carse than his manner. It actually took away the sense of wonder at their meeting, and meeting thus. While he had stood at the threshold, and she heard whom she was to see, her brain had reeled, and her countenance had become such as it might well dismay him to see; but such was the influence of his composure, and of the associations which his presence revived, that she soon appeared in Annie's eyes a totally altered person. As the two sat at breakfast, Annie saw before her the gentleman and lady complete, in spite of every disguise of dress and circumstance.
At the close of the meal, Annie slipped away to her own house: but it was not long before she was sent for, at the desire, not of Lady Carse, but of the President. He wished her to hear what he had to relate. He told of Mr Hope's exertions in Edinburgh, and of his having at length ventured upon an illegal proceeding for which only the disturbance of the times could be pleaded in excuse. He had sent out a vessel, containing a few armed men, and Mrs Ruthven, who had undertaken to act as guide to Lady Carse's residence. It was understood that the captain had set Mrs Ruthven ashore in Lorn, through some disagreement between them; and that the vessel had proceeded as far as Barra, when the captain was so certainly informed that the lady had been removed to the mainland that he turned back; pleading, further, that there was such evident want of sense in Mrs Ruthven, and such contradictory testimony between her and her husband, that he doubted whether any portion of their story was true. It was next believed that a commission of enquiry would be soon sent to this and other islands: but this could not take place until the public tranquillity should be in some degree restored.
"Before that, I shall be dead," sighed Lady Carse, impatiently.
"There is no need now to wait for the commission," said the President. "Where I am, all violations of the law must cease. Your captivity is now at an end, except in so far as you are subject to ill health, or, like myself, to winter weather and most wintry fortunes."
"The day is come, then," said Annie, through shining tears. "You are now delivered out of the hand of man, and have to wait only God's pleasure."
"What matters it," murmured Lady Carse, "how you call my misfortunes? Here I sit, a shivering exile--" "So far like myself," observed the President, moving nearer the scanty fire.
"You have not been heart-sick for years under insufferable wrongs," declared Lady Carse. "And you have not the grave open at your feet while everything you care for is beckoning to you to come away. You--" "Pardon me, my old friend," said he, mildly. "That is exactly my case. I am old: the grave is open at my feet; and beyond it stands she who, though early lost, has been the constant passion of my life. Perhaps my heart may have pined under the privation of her society as sensibly as yours under afflictions more strange in the eyes of the world. But it is not wise--it does not give strength, but impair it--thus to compare human afflictions. I should prefer cheerfully encouraging each other to wait for release; I see little prospect of any release this day for us exiles; so let me see what my memory is worth in my old age--let me see what I can recall of our Janet. You know I always consider Janet my own by favouritism; and she called me grandfather the last time we met, as she used to do before she was able to spell so long a word."
He told so much of Janet, that Lady Carse changed her opinion about his loss of memory. Again Annie stole home: and there did the President seek her, after a long conversation with her neighbour.
"I wish to know," said he, "whether the great change that I observe in this lady is recent."
"She is greatly changed within a few months," replied the widow: "and I think she has sunk within a few days. I see, sir, that you look for her release soon."
"If the change has been rapid of late," he replied, "it is my opinion that she is dying."
"Is there anything that you would wish done?" asked Annie.
"What can we do? I perceive that she is in possession of what is perhaps the only aid her case admits of--a friend who can at once soothe her earthly life, and feed her heavenly one."
Annie bowed her head, and then said-- "You would not have me conceal her state from herself, I think, sir."
"I would not. I believe she is aware that I think her very ill-- decisively ill."
"I hope she is. I have seen in her of late that which makes me desire for her the happy knowledge that she is going home to a place where she may find more peace than near her enemies in a city of the earth." Fancying that the President shook his head, Annie went on-- "I would not be presumptuous, sir, for another any more than for myself: but when a better life is permitted to begin, ever so feebly, here, surely God sends death, not to put it out, but to remove it to a safer place."
The President smiled kindly, and walked away.
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{
"id": "23115"
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FREE AT LAST!
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Sir Alexander and his guests remained on the island only a few days; but during that time the President gave Lady Carse many hours of his society. Full as his mind was of public and private affairs--charged as he was with the defence of Scotland against the treason of the Pretender and his followers--grieved as he was by the heart-sorrows which attend civil war--and now a fugitive, destitute of means, and in peril of his life--he still had cheerfulness and patience to minister to Lady Carse. From his deliberate and courteous entrance, his air of leisure, his quiet humour in conversation, and his clear remembrance of small incidents relating to the lady's family and acquaintance, anyone would have supposed that he had not a care in the world. For the hour, Lady Carse almost felt as if she had none. She declared herself getting quite well; and she did strive, by a self-command and prudence such as astonished even Annie, to gain such ground as should enable her to leave the island when the President did--that is, as she and others supposed, when the spring should favour the sending an English army to contest the empire once more with the still successful Pretender.
But, in four days, there was a sudden break up. A faithful boatman of Sir Alexander's came over from Skye to give warning of danger. There were no three men in Scotland so hated by the rebels as the three gentlemen now on the island; and no expense or pains were to be spared in capturing them. They must not remain, from any mere hope of secrecy, in a place which contained only women and children. They must go where they could not only hide, but be guarded by fighting men. It was decided to be off that very moment. The President desired one half-hour, that he might see Lady Carse, and assure her of his care and protection, and of relief, as soon as he could command the means. He entered as deliberately as usual, and merely looked at his watch and said that he had ten minutes, and no more.
"You must not go," said she. "We cannot spare you. Oh, you need not fear any danger! We have admirable hiding-places in our rock, where, to my knowledge, you can have good fires, and a soft bed of warm sand. You are better here. You must not go."
Of course the President said he must, and civilly stopped the remonstrance. Then she declared, with a forced quietness, "If you will go, I must go with you. Do not say a word against it. I have your promise, and I will hold you to it. Oh, yes, I am fit to go--fitter than to stay. If I stay, I shall die this night. If I go, I shall live to keep a certain promise of mine--to go and see my Lord Lovat's head fall. I will not detain you; we have five minutes of your ten yet I will be across the threshold before your ten minutes are up. Helsa! Helsa, come with me."
"What is to be done?" asked the President of Annie. "You know her best. What if I compel her to stay? Would there be danger?"
"I think she would probably die to-night, as she says. If she could convince herself of her weakness, that would be best. She cannot walk to the shore. She cannot sit in an open boat in winter weather."
"You are right. I will let her try. She may endure conviction by such means."
"I will go with you to help her home."
"That is well; but you are feeble yourself."
"I am, sir; but I must try what I can do." Lady Carse was over the threshold within the ten minutes, followed by Helsa with a bundle of clothes. She cast a glance of fiery triumph back at the dwelling, and round the whole desolate scene. For a few steps she walked firmly, then she silently accepted the President's arm. Further on, she was glad to have Helsa's on the other side.
"Let me advise you to return," said the President, pausing when the descent became steeper. "By recruiting here till the spring, you--" "I will recruit elsewhere, thank you. When I once get into the boat I shall do very well. It is only this steep descent, and the treacherous footing."
She could not speak further. All her strength was required to keep herself from falling between her two supporters. "You will not do better in the boat. You mistake your condition," said the President. "Plainly, my conviction is, that if you proceed you will die."
"I shall not. I will not. If I stay, I shall not see another day. If I go, I may live to seventy. You do not know me, my lord. You are not entitled to speak of the power of my will."
The President and the widow exchanged glances, and no further opposition was offered.
"We may as well spare your strength, however," said the President. "The boatmen shall carry you. I will call them. Oh! I see. You are afraid I should give you the slip. But you may release my skirts. Your servants will do us the favour to go forward and send us help."
The boatmen looked gloomy about conveying two women--one of them evidently very ill; and Sir Alexander would have refused in any other case whatever. But he had vowed to interfere no more in Lady Carse's affairs, but to consider her wholly the President's charge.
"I see your opinion in your face," said the President to him, "and I entirely agree with you. But she is just about to die, at all events; and if it is an indulgence to her to die in the exercise of a freedom from which she has been debarred so long, I am not disposed to deny it to her. I assume the responsibility."
"My doubt is about the men," observed Sir Alexander; "but I will do what I can."
He did what he could by showing an interest in the embarkation of the lady. He laid the cloaks and plaids for her in the bottom of the boat, and spoke cheerfully to her--almost jokingly--of the uncertainty of their destination. He lifted her in himself, and placed Helsa beside her; and then his men dared not show further unwillingness but by silence.
Lady Carse raised herself and beckoned to Annie. Annie leaned over to her, and said, "Dear Lady Carse, you look very pale. It is not too late to say you will come home with me."
Lady Carse tried to laugh; but it was no laugh, but a convulsion. She struggled to say, "I shall do very well presently, when I feel I am free. It is only the last prison airs that poison me. If we never meet again--" "We shall not meet in life, Lady Carse. I shall pray for you."
"I know you will. And I--I wished to say--but I cannot--" "I know what you would say. Lie down and rest. God be with you!"
All appeared calm and right on board the boat, as long as Annie could watch its course in the harbour. When it disappeared behind a headland, she returned home to look for it again. She saw it soon, and for some time, for it coasted the island to the northernmost point for the chance of being unseen to the last possible moment. It was evidently proceeding steadily on its course, and Annie hoped that the sense of freedom might be acting as a restorative for the hour to the dying woman. Those on board hoped the same; for the lady, when she had covered her face with a handkerchief, lay very still.
"She looks comfortable," whispered the President to Sir Alexander. "Can you suggest anything more that we can do?"
"Better let her sleep while she can, my lord. She appears comfortable at present."
Three more hours passed without anything being observable in Lady Carse, but such slight movements now and then as showed that she was not asleep. She then drew the handkerchief from her face and looked up at Helsa, who exclaimed at the change in the countenance. The President bent over her, and caught her words-- "It is not your fault--but I am dying. But I am sure I should have died on land, and before this. And I have escaped! Tell my husband so."
"I will. Shall I raise you?"
"No; take no notice. I cannot bear to be pitied. I will not be pitied; as this was my own act. But it is hard--" "It _is_ hard: but you have only to pass one other threshold courageously, and then you are free indeed. Man cannot harm you there."
"But, to-day, of all seasons--" "It _is_ hard: but you have done with captivity. No more captivity! My dear Lady Carse, what remains! What is it you would have? You would not wish for vengeance! No! it is pain! --you are in pain. Shall I raise you?"
"No, no: never mind the pain! But I did hope to see my husband again."
"To forgive him. You mean, to forgive him?"
"No: I meant--" "But you mean it now? He had something to pardon in you."
"True. But I cannot--Do not ask me."
"Then you hope that God will. I may tell him that you hope that God will forgive him."
"That is not my affair. Kiss my Janet for me."
"I will; and all your children--What? `Is it growing dark?' Yes, it is, to us as well as to you. What is that she says?" he inquired of Helsa, who had a younger and quicker ear.
"She says the widow is about lighting her lamp. Yes, my lady; but we are too far off to see it."
"Is she wandering?" asked the President.
"No, sir: quite sensible, I think. Did you speak, my lady?"
"My love!"
"To Annie, my lady? I will not forget."
She spoke no more. Sir Alexander contrived to keep from the knowledge of the boatmen for some hours that there was a corpse on board. When they could conceal it no longer, they forgot their fatigue in their superstition, and rowed, as for their lives, to the nearest point of land. This happened, fortunately, to be within the territories of Sir Alexander Macdonald.
In the early dawn the boat touched at Vaternish Point, and there landed the body, which, with Helsa for its attendant, was committed by Sir Alexander to a clansman who was to summon a distant minister, and see the remains interred in the church at Trunban, where they now lie.
When the President returned to his estate at Culloden; in the ensuing spring, on the final overthrow of the Jacobite cause, his first use of the re-established post was to write to Lord Carse, in London, tidings of his wife's death, promising all particulars if he found that his letter reached its destination in safety. The reply he received was this:-- "I most heartily thank you, my dear friend, for the notice you have given me of the death of _that person_. It would be a ridiculous untruth to pretend grief for it; but as it brings to my mind a train of various things for many years back, it gives me concern. Her retaining wit and facetiousness to the last surprises me. These qualities none found in her, no more than common sense or good nature, before she went to those parts; and of the reverse of all which if she had not been irrecoverably possessed, in an extraordinary and insufferable degree, after many years' fruitless endeavours to reclaim her, she had never seen those parts. I long for the particulars of her death, which, you are pleased to tell me, I am to have by next post."
"Hers was a singular death, at last," observed Lord Carse, when he put the President's second letter into the hands of his sister. "I almost wonder that they did not slip the body overboard, rather than expose themselves to danger for the sake of giving Christian burial to such a person."
"Dust to dust," said Lady Rachel, thoughtfully. "Those were the words said over her. I am glad it was so, rather than that one more was added to the tossing billows. For what was she but a billow, driven by the winds and tossed?"
When, some few years after, the steward approached the island on an autumn night, in honour of Rollo's invitation to attend the funeral of the Widow Fleming, his eye unconsciously sought the guiding light on the hill-side.
"Ah!" said he, recollecting himself, "it is gone, and we shall see it no more. Rollo will live on the main, and this side of the island will be deserted. Her light gone! We should almost as soon thought of losing a star. And she herself gone! We shall miss her, as if one of our lofty old rocks had crumbled down into the sea. She was truly, though one would not have dared to tell her so, an anchorage to people feebler than herself. She had a faith which made her spirit, tender as it was, as firm as any rock."
THE END.
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"id": "23115"
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The warm sun of a bright spring day, in the year of grace 1574, shone down on the beautiful city of Leyden, on its spacious squares and streets and its elegant mansions, its imposing churches, and on the smooth canals which meandered among them, fed by the waters of the sluggish Rhine. The busy citizens were engaged in their various occupations, active and industrious as ever; barges and boats lay at the quays loading or unloading, some having come from Rotterdam, Delft, Amsterdam, and other places on the Zuyder Zee, with which her watery roads gave her easy communication. The streets were thronged with citizens of all ranks, some in gay, most in sombre attire, moving hurriedly along, bent rather on business than on pleasure, while scattered here and there were a few soldiers--freebooters as they were called, though steady and reliable--and men of the Burgher Guard, forming part of the garrison of the town. Conspicuous among them might have been seen their dignified and brave burgomaster, Adrian Van der Werf, as he walked with stately pace, his daughter Jaqueline, appropriately called the Lily of Leyden, leaning on his arm. She was fair and graceful as the flower from which she derived her name, her features chiselled in the most delicate mould, her countenance intelligent and animated, though at present graver than usual. After leaving their house in the Broedestrat, the principal street of Leyden, they proceeded towards an elevation in the centre of the city, on the summit of which rose the ancient tower of Hengist, generally so called from the belief that the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of Britain crossed over from Holland. Mynheer Van der Werf and Jaqueline reaching the foot of the mound, slowly ascended by a flight of winding steps, till they gained the battlements on the top of the ancient tower, the highest spot for many miles around. Here they stood for some minutes gazing over the level country, of which they commanded a perfect panoramic view. Below them lay the city, surrounded by a moat of considerable width and stout walls, which had already been proved capable of resisting the attack of foes eager to gain an entrance. Here and there bridges led over the moat, protected by forts of no mean strength. In all directions were silvery threads glittering in the sun, marking the course of the canals which led to Haarlem and Amsterdam on the north, and Delft, Rotterdam, Gouda, and many other towns on the banks of the Yessel and the Meuse on the south, while occasionally wide shining expanses showed the existence of meers or lakes of more or less extent, while westward the blue ocean could be seen, and to the south-west Gravenhague, or The Hague, as the place is more generally called. On every side were smiling villages, blooming gardens, corn-fields, and orchards, betokening the industry and consequent prosperity of the inhabitants. The city at this time bore but few traces of the protracted siege it had endured for a whole year, and which had been raised only three months before, when the Spanish force under Valdez, a lieutenant of the ferocious Alva, had been summoned to the frontier, in consequence of the rumoured approach of a patriot army under Prince Louis of Nassau.
At the period when our story commences, the heroic Prince William of Orange, loyally aided by his brothers, Louis, Henry, and John, and by other noble patriots, had struggled for seven long years to emancipate Holland from the cruel yoke imposed upon her by the bigot Philip of Spain and the sanguinary Duke of Alva. Their success had been varied; though frequently defeated, they had again rallied to carry on the desperate struggle. Several of their most flourishing cities had been besieged by the hated foe, some had fallen, and the inhabitants had been mercilessly slaughtered; others had successfully resisted, and the Spaniards had been compelled to retire from their walls. Count Louis had been defeated in a campaign in Friesland, but had escaped into Germany, where he had lost no time in endeavouring to raise another army. The Prince of Orange himself was then in possession of Rotterdam, Delft, and the intermediate country. Between those two cities was the important fortress of Polderwaert, which secured him in the control of the quadrangle watered on two sides by the Yessel and Maas or Meuse. The Spaniards meantime occupied the coast from the Hague to Vlaardingen, on the bank of the Maas. It should be understood that the country extending northward from the rivers which have been mentioned towards Leyden was generally level, and considerably lower than the ocean, which was kept out by enormous banks or dykes, and that it had been, by the industry of the inhabitants, brought under a perfect state of cultivation. There were certain spots, however, raised slightly above the surrounding flat, on all of which villages had been built. Enormous sluices existed at Rotterdam, Schiedam, and other places, by which the supply of water in the canals could be regulated; over these, as well as the dykes along the banks of the river, the Prince of Orange held perfect control. Besides the small force which enabled him to hold Rotterdam and Delft, he possessed a fleet of broad, flat-bottomed vessels, well suited for the navigation of the shallow waters of Zealand, where, under the brave and able Admiral Boisot, they were able to bid defiance to the ships sent against them by the Spaniards. Their crews consisted of those hardy sons of the ocean who, under the name of "The Beggars of the Sea," had already rendered such good service in the cause of Freedom by the capture of Brill, the first place in Holland where the Prince of Orange was proclaimed Stadtholder, and in many other enterprises, when, according to their rule, no quarter was given to their hated foe. Besides Rotterdam, Delft, and Leyden, many other towns in various parts of Holland were garrisoned by the partisans of the Prince of Orange, and had either, with some exceptions, not been attacked by the Spaniards, or had successfully resisted the forces sent against them. Two, unhappily, had fallen; the fearful cruelties to which their inhabitants had been subjected by their conquerors showed the others what they must expect should they be unable to hold out. Of these, in Naarden, a small city on the coast of the Zuyder Zee, scarcely a man had been left alive, the whole population having been given over to indiscriminate slaughter. Haarlem, after an heroic defence of seven months, had been compelled to capitulate, when, notwithstanding the promises of Don Frederic, Alva's son, a large number of the principal citizens, as well as others of all ranks, and every man who had borne arms, were cruelly put to death, the survivors being treated with the greatest cruelty. The mind shrinks from contemplating such horrors, and the Hollanders might well desire to emancipate themselves from the rule of a sovereign capable of allowing them.
The burgomaster and his daughter had stood for some minutes without speaking, their eyes gazing down on the smiling landscape which has been described, yet the minds of neither of them had been engaged in admiring its beauties.
"Would that I had been more determined in endeavouring to induce our citizens to level those forts and redoubts left by the Spaniards, and had also taken steps to re-victual the city and to strengthen our garrison. I have just received a letter from our noble Stadtholder, urging me to see to these matters, and I must do so without delay." The burgomaster, as he spoke, pointed to several redoubts and forts which in different directions had been thrown up by the Spaniards during their former investment of the place. To the south-east and east were two of especial strength--Zoeterwoude and Lammen, the first about 500 yards from the walls, the latter not more than half that distance. From these forts a bank or causeway ran westward towards the Hague.
"I ought to have exerted all the influence I possessed to get the task accomplished," continued the burgomaster. "By God's merciful providence we were before preserved, but He helps those who, trusting to Him, labour as He would have them. The Spaniards may not return, but it is our duty to be prepared for them, though I trust that we shall soon hear of a glorious victory gained over them by the noble Count Louis."
"Heaven defend him and his brave troops," murmured Jaqueline; and she thought of one who had accompanied the Count to the field and who had from his earliest days engaged in the desperate struggle both at sea and on shore. Again the burgomaster was silent, and Jaqueline's thoughts wandered far away to the army of Count Louis. The chief magistrate had come up, as was his wont, to consider the measures which it might be necessary to take for the benefit of the city over which he presided. Here, under ordinary circumstances, he was not likely to be interrupted by visitors. Jaqueline's thoughts were recalled to the present moment by hearing a light footstep ascending the stairs of the tower. A young boy appeared, whose dress showed that he belonged to the upper orders, his countenance animated and intelligent. "Why, Albert Van der Does, what has brought you here in so great a hurry?" asked Jaqueline, as she cast a glance at the boy's handsome face glowing with the exertion he had made.
"I had gone to your house, and finding that you had come up here, I thought you would give me leave to follow you," he answered.
"You have taken the leave, at all events," she said, smiling; "but what object had you in coming here this morning?"
"A very important one; I want you to accept the remainder of my pigeons; those I before gave you have become so tame and look so happy that I am unwilling to deprive the others of the privilege of belonging to you."
"Is it only affection for your feathered friends that induces you to make me the offer?" she asked, archly.
"I confess that I have another reason," he answered. "I shall no longer have time to attend to my pets; I heard my father say that we shall soon be engaged in more stirring work than we have had since the Spaniards marched to the eastward. As soon as Count Louis forms a junction with the Prince, every person capable of bearing arms should be prepared to engage in the struggle, and I want, therefore, to practice the use of weapons and to learn to be a soldier."
"You will make a brave one, I am sure," said Jaqueline.
"And will you accept my birds?" asked Albert.
"I cannot refuse what you so freely offer, though, if you repent, you shall have them again," said Jaqueline.
"Then may I bring them to you this evening?" asked Albert.
"Thank you, Albert; we are always glad to see you; and if you bring your pigeons, I promise to train and pet them as I have those you before gave me," she answered.
"Then I will come this very evening, with your cousin Berthold, whom I left at his books in my father's study. Fond as he is of his books, he says that he must lay them aside to learn the use of arms with me; for as soon as Count Louis appears, we intend to go out and join him. We have but a short time to prepare, as, before many days are over, the Count and his army will have fought their way to Delft, and we must commence the work of driving the Spaniards out of our country or into the rivers and meers, where they have sent so many of our brave Hollanders."
Jaqueline smiled approvingly, admiring, as she did, the enthusiasm of the gallant boy, so consonant with her own feelings.
"I am much obliged to you for your readiness to accept my birds, and now I must deliver a message I have brought from my father to the burgomaster. My father desires to see him about the fortifications, and as he bade me say that the matter is of importance, I ought to have given it first."
The burgomaster had been so pre-occupied with his own thoughts that he had not observed young Albert Van der Does, and now started as the boy addressed him with that deference due to his age and rank.
"Tell your father that I will at once visit him. Although a man of letters and devoted to study, I know that he possesses, among his other talents, a military genius, which makes me value his opinion; say also that it is the very subject which has been occupying my thoughts."
"My father is more out of spirits than I have ever seen him," said Albert. "It is owing to a letter he lately received from a friend at Utrecht, detailing an extraordinary circumstance which occurred in that city some time ago. It is said that five soldiers of the Burgher Guard were on their midnight watch, when, the rest of the sky being as dark as pitch, they observed, directly over their heads, a clear space, equal in extent to the length of the city, and of several yards in width. Suddenly two armies, in battle array were seen advancing upon each other; one moved rapidly up from the north-west, with banners waving, spears flashing, trumpets sounding, accompanied by heavy artillery and squadrons of cavalry; the other came slowly from the south-east. They at length met and joined in a desperate conflict for a few moments; the shouts of the combatants, the heavy discharge of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the tramp of foot soldiers, the rush of cavalry, were distinctly heard. The very firmament trembled with the shock of the contending hosts, and was lurid with the fire of their artillery. Then the north-western army was beaten back in disorder, but, rallying again, formed into solid column, and once more advanced towards the south-eastern army, which was formed into a closely-serried square, with spears and muskets. Once more the fight raged, and the sounds were heard as distinctly as before; the struggle was but short, the lances of the south-eastern army snapped like hemp-sticks, and their firm columns went down together in mass beneath the onset of their foes. The overthrow was complete. Scarcely had the victors and vanquished vanished, than the clear blue space where they had stood appeared suddenly streaked with broad crimson streams flowing athwart the sky. The five soldiers reported the next day what they had witnessed to the magistrates of Utrecht, who examined them separately, and each swore to what he had seen. My father said that he should not have been inclined to believe the account had not the evidence been so strong in favour of its truth."
"This is strange," observed the burgomaster. "Your father will assuredly show me the letter, and I shall then the better be able to judge how far I can give the account credence. We know that strange portents have appeared in the sky before great events, at the same time these men of the Burgher Guard may have allowed their imaginations to run riot. They knew that a battle was likely ere long to take place should the Spaniards attempt to impede the march of Count Louis, and some passing clouds may have appeared to them to represent the scene they have described. Grant that they beheld something extraordinary, yet they may have been mistaken, and the south-eastern army--for from that direction the Count must be advancing--may prove victorious."
"My father would fain hope as you do, Mynheer Van der Werf, but his friend, one of the magistrates of Utrecht, fully believes in the apparition, and has imbued him with his own desponding spirit."
"Bear to him my regards, and beg him to cheer up," said the burgomaster. "He must not allow his brave spirit to be agitated by a tale which may after all have originated in the heated imaginations of a few ignorant men. Had the whole city witnessed the spectacle it might have been different."
While the burgomaster and Jaqueline were looking out from the summit of Hengist's tower, two gentlemen approached it from opposite directions; the one was of good figure, handsomely dressed in silken doublet and cloak, with a feather in his cap, and a rapier, apparently more for ornament than use, by his side. He walked with no laggard step, looking up ever and anon towards the top of the tower. The other came on at still greater speed, his appearance contrasting greatly with that of the first; a heavy sword hung by his side, and over his shoulders was an orange sash, which partly covered a breastplate showing many a deep dent, while his dress was travel-stained and bespattered with dark red marks, while his frank and open countenance wore an expression of grief and anxiety. The two as they met exchanged salutes, the manner of the latter being hurried, as if he desired not to be stopped.
"Why, what has happened, Captain Van der Elst?" exclaimed the young gallant who has just been introduced.
"I am in search of the burgomaster, and have been told that he was seen going to the Tower of Hengist," said the other, without answering the question.
"I am also bound there, and will gladly accompany you," was the reply.
"Pardon me, Van Arenberg, but the business I am on is of too great importance to brook delay." And Karl Van der Elst sprang on up the ascent at a rate which Baron Van Arenberg, without lowering his dignity, could not venture to imitate. A blush rose for a moment on the Lily's fair cheek as she saw him coming; her countenance, however, the next moment assumed an expression of alarm when she remarked his appearance. He bowed as he approached, gazing at her with a look of sorrow in his dark eyes which did not tend to reassure her, and without offering any other greeting, much as he might have desired it, he addressed himself to the burgomaster, who inquired in an anxious tone, "What news do you bring, Captain Van der Elst? Has Count Louis defeated the Spaniards? Has he yet formed a junction with the Prince?"
The young officer, his feelings almost mastering him, could with difficulty reply, "Count Louis with his brother, Count Henry, the brave Duke Christopher, and the whole army have been annihilated. We met the foe near the village of Mookie, where we were hemmed in; in vain we tried to cut our way through the ranks of the Spaniards. Count Louis, his brother, and Duke Christopher, with four thousand gallant men, fell in the attempt. I had just before been despatched to make a circuit in order to get upon the enemy's flank, which I was ordered to attack. Before I could reach it the day was lost; the victorious cavalry of the Spaniards charged over the field, butchering all they met. Many of our men were suffocated in the marshes or in the river, and others were burnt in the farmhouses where they had taken refuge. Finding that success was hopeless, and that I could do nothing to retrieve the day, I drew off my shattered troop, and I have deemed it my duty to hasten on to warn the inhabitants of Leyden that the enemy are rapidly advancing again to lay siege to their walls." At first the burgomaster seemed inclined to discredit the intelligence.
"Surely all could not have been destroyed, some of the soldiers may have cut their way through, and escaped as you have done?" Karl shook his head.
"I obtained too distinct a view of the fatal field to allow me to indulge in such a hope," he answered. "I would gladly have sought for an honourable death myself among my friends had I not reflected that the safety of my brave band depended on me, and that we might yet render service to our country."
While he was speaking, Baron Van Arenberg joined the party, and, after saluting Jaqueline in a self-confident manner, stood listening with a supercilious air to the young soldier.
"That you have escaped from the field, Captain Van der Elst, is evident; but I fain would doubt that so many brave men would have yielded to the Spaniards," he observed.
"They yielded not to the Spaniards, but to death," answered Captain Van der Elst. "I myself visited the field of slaughter at night, when the Spaniards had withdrawn, in search of my beloved leader. His body, if it was there, lay among the heaps of slain, most of whom had been stripped by rapacious plunderers, and disfigured by the hoofs of the enemy's horses."
"I believe your report, captain," said the burgomaster, stretching out his hand and pressing that of Van der Elst. "Our duty is clear, not a moment is to be lost in preparing for the defence of our city, and the burghers of Leyden must resist to the last. You will remain and aid us with your advice?"
"Would that I could," answered Karl, glancing for a moment at Jaqueline; "but I must hasten to the Prince of Orange, to give him a full account of the events which have taken place, and to receive his orders. Bereaved as he is of his brothers, it is the duty of every true-hearted man to rally round him."
"You are right," said the burgomaster; "but I must beg you to bear a message from me to the Prince, requesting that he will allow you to return, and, if possible, to bring some men-at-arms with you. Lay before him the weak state of our garrison; say that we have but five companies of the Burgher Guard and a small corps of freebooters; but that our walls are strong, the hearts of our citizens staunch, and that they will, I feel assured, fly to arms the instant they receive the summons. Assure him that we will endeavour to imitate the example of the brave citizens of Alkmaar, and hold out till he can send us succour."
"I will faithfully deliver your message, mynheer, and you may rest assured that if it depends on my freedom of action I will gladly return to render you such assistance as I can give," answered Captain Van der Elst, his countenance brightening as he spoke, his eyes once more turning towards Jaqueline, who, with Baron Van der Arenberg and Albert, stood a little distance apart.
"The citizens of Leyden can well dispense with the service of one who, by his own showing, seems to have fled from the scene of battle," whispered Van Arenberg to Jaqueline in too low a tone for Captain Van der Elst to hear him. On hearing this, without replying, she turned away, and moved closer to her father.
"He is as brave a soldier as ever lived," exclaimed Albert, who had overheard the remark, his countenance flushing as he spoke. "My father knows and admires him, and was only the other day speaking of the many gallant deeds he has performed. He was with De la Marck on board the fleet of the `Beggars of the Sea,' when they captured Brill, he was at Flushing when the standard of liberty was raised there, he assisted in the defence of Alkmaar, and I scarcely know how many sea battles he has been engaged in, while he served with Prince Louis during his campaign in Friesland; and I am very sure that it was his good fortune, or rather his courage and discretion, enabled him to escape from the Battle of Mookerheyde."
The Lily's bright eyes sparkled, and she gave Albert an approving look as he was speaking.
"You would make out this young captain a very Amadis," said Van Arenberg, in a sarcastic tone. "Your father must have obtained the report of his heroic deeds from himself I suspect, for I never heard him spoken of in the same laudatory manner."
"Why, Baron, one would suppose, from the way you speak, that you were jealous of him," said Albert, with the boldness of a brave boy who felt that he was defending a maligned friend. "You insinuate that he ran away from Mookerheyde, and I am very sure that he did nothing of the sort. He went back to the field to look for the dead bodies of the Count and his brother, and he could not have done that without running a great risk of being killed or taken prisoner, and it was not till he had assured himself of the sad fact that Count Louis and the rest were dead that he led off his men, and came here to give us warning that we might prepare for the enemy."
The baron, whose features were flushed with annoyance, for Jaqueline overheard all that was said, was about to make an angry reply, when the burgomaster called Albert. "Hasten to your father, my good Albert, break the sad news you have heard, and say that I shall esteem it a favour if he will come forthwith to meet me at the council hall, as I would desire to have some time to speak with him on these matters before the rest of the councillors arrive. I will, on my way, send round to summon them, as we must lose no time in preparing to defend our city."
Albert, with the activity of youth, leaped down the steps, while the burgomaster prepared to descend with greater caution. "Baron Van Arenberg," he said, "I must request you to escort my daughter to her home, while Captain Van der Elst accompanies me to the Stadhuis, as we have matters of importance to discuss on our way. I hope that you will afterwards join us there, and will offer your services to aid in the defence of the place."
Baron Van Arenberg expressed the honour and pleasure he felt at the charge committed to him, although Jaqueline, while bowing her head in acquiescence, showed by her manner that the arrangement afforded her no especial satisfaction. The Lily, as may be conjectured, had many admirers, for not only was she fair and graceful, with a sweet disposition, but it was supposed that she would inherit the wealth of the burgomaster; hitherto, however, as far as was known, her heart was untouched, and she had favoured no one.
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On reaching the foot of the mound the burgomaster and Captain Van der Elst proceeded to the Stadhuis, while Baron Van Arenberg accompanied Jaqueline in the direction of her own house. She walked on, though with graceful step, far more rapidly than her companion wished, looking directly before her without turning her head, unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.
"I am still not altogether satisfied as to the entire truth of the report brought by this young captain regarding the destruction of Count Louis and his army. The Spanish troops are undoubtedly brave and disciplined, but it seems incredible to me that they should have cut to pieces in so short a time the large number of levies the Count is reported to have had with him. If they allowed themselves to be so easily defeated all I can say is, that they deserved their fate. In my opinion it is a pity that we Hollanders should so persistently hold out against the troops of our lawful sovereign; far better by yielding with a good grace to bring the fighting to an end."
"And share the fate of the unhappy inhabitants of Haarlem," answered Jaqueline, for the first time turning her head and glancing at him with a look which betokened as much contempt as her features were capable of exhibiting. "Think of the thousands of our countrymen who have been cruelly butchered because they were determined to hold fast to our Protestant faith rather than confess that of our foreign tyrants. I should say, let every man and woman perish bravely, fighting to the last rather than basely give up their birthrights."
"I will not venture to argue with you on that point, fair Jaqueline," answered Van Arenberg. "I wish as much as any Hollander can do to preserve our birthrights, as well as my castle and broad estates, but I assure you that you underrate the power of the Spaniards. Our cause, the patriot cause, is desperate; it is on account of the deep admiration I feel for you, if I may use no warmer term, that I would save you from the horrors to which others have been exposed."
"I speak the sentiments held by my father and every right-minded man in our city--ay! and woman too," answered Jaqueline, in a firm tone. "We would imitate our sisters in Haarlem and Alkmaar and join the citizens in defending our walls."
"But should the city be again besieged--and it assuredly will be should the report of the total defeat of Count Louis prove correct--how can Leyden hope to hold out against the disciplined and experienced troops of the king? The Prince of Orange has no force sufficient to relieve the city, and be assured that the fate which overtook Haarlem will be that of Leyden, though the inhabitants are not likely to be treated with that measure of forbearance which those of Haarlem received."
"If you speak of the measure of forbearance awarded to Haarlem, that was small indeed," said Jaqueline. "You seem to forget that every citizen of wealth was massacred, that every Hollander who had borne arms in the siege was put to death, while many hundreds of other citizens were afterwards murdered by the savage Spaniards who desired to strike terror into the hearts of the survivors. I should say, rather than submit to so terrible a fate, let us struggle to the last, and then perish amid the ruins of the town."
"You are indeed, lovely Jaqueline, worthy of being a heroine of romance, and already you inspire me with some of the enthusiasm which you feel, though I cannot pretend to believe that the efforts which the citizens of Leyden may make will be crowned with success; yet believe me that I was prompted entirely by my earnest desire to preserve one I prize so highly and her family from impending destruction to give the advice I venture to offer."
"I am well aware of the admiration in which you hold me, Baron Van Arenberg," answered Jaqueline, "but whatever are your motives, even were I certain that our cause is desperate, and I do not believe that it is (for I feel assured that God will prosper the right in the end), I would not by word or act counsel my father and the citizens of Leyden to yield while a single man remains alive to strike a blow for freedom."
Gentle as Jaqueline looked while she spoke, her voice and manner were firm and determined, while she showed that she was anxious to bring the discussion to an end. It might have afforded more encouragement to the baron had she endeavoured to win him over to the opinions she held, but beyond expressing them she made no attempt to do so. The baron, however, fancied that he was too well acquainted with the female heart to despair of success; he was young, good-looking, and wealthy, and as far as was known his moral character was irreproachable. The burgomaster, deceived by his plausible manners, trusted him fully, and considering from his rank and wealth that he would be a suitable husband for his fair daughter, invited him frequently to the house, and had always received him in a cordial manner. The baron had therefore good reason to believe that his suit would be successful.
On reaching her father's house, Jaqueline politely, though somewhat stiffly, thanked him for the service he had rendered in escorting her home, and the door opening, she entered without expressing the slightest wish that he would remain. He lingered, expecting that she would at last remember what he looked upon as her neglect, but she ascended the steps without further notice of him. He stamped impatiently as he walked away, muttering, "It is clear that I have a rival, or the fair Lily would not treat my advances so coldly, supported, as she knows I am, by her father. Instead of feeling honoured, as she ought, at being sought in marriage by a noble, she seems utterly regardless of my rank and personal qualifications. I am very sure that I can make myself as agreeable to women as can most men, and from her beauty alone, independent of her fortune, she is well worth winning, so I must not despair. Still it will never do to have her cooped up in this hapless town should it be again invested by the Spaniards; I have no fancy indeed to stay in it myself, and I must bend all my efforts towards finding the means of carrying her away before the siege commences. There is not a day, however, to be lost. She appears to have no fear herself, but I may work upon the feelings of her father, and induce him, for the sake of preserving her from the horrors of the siege, to entrust her to my care. I must venture upon some warmer expressions of love and devotion than I have hitherto exhibited, and by describing the horrible fate which may be hers should she remain, and the happiness which awaits her if she will consent to accompany me, as my wife, out of the country, I may induce her to yield more willingly than she at present seems inclined to do." Such were the thoughts which occupied the mind of the baron as he proceeded with leisurely step towards the Stadhuis, where he had no great desire to make his appearance, although having been expressly invited by the burgomaster he could not avoid going. He found the chief magistrates, most influential citizens, assembled. The burgomaster had informed them of the sad intelligence he had just received, and Captain Van der Elst, at his desire, had described the battle and its disastrous termination. One circumstance alone afforded satisfaction, it was that Count John, now the Prince's only surviving brother, who had already done so much for the cause, although expecting to participate in the battle, had, at the urgent request of the other leaders, left the army two days before the action, in order to obtain at Cologne money to pay the troops. The young captain had just finished his account. The first point to be settled was the selection of a military chief whom all would be ready to obey.
The burgomaster rose. After expressing his readiness to devote his fortune, his life, and everything he possessed to the cause, he acknowledged that he had no military experience or talents, and urged upon his fellow-citizens the importance of selecting a man who possessed the talents in which he was wanting. "There is one," he said. "John Van der Does, Seigneur of Nordwyck, a gentleman of distinguished family, but still more distinguished for his learning, his poetical genius, his valour and military accomplishments; if we select him, the Prince I am sure will sanction our appointment."
Without a dissentient voice the Seigneur of Nordwyck was elected military commandant. The burgomaster did not conceal from them the dangers and the sufferings which perchance they would have to undergo, but he added, "Remember Naarden, my friends, we cannot too often reflect on the fate of Naarden; although the inhabitants offered no resistance, they were indiscriminately slaughtered, and such may be our lot even if we go humbly forth to sue for pardon from the conquerors of Mookerheyde. Remember Haarlem, which, although defended with the heroism which ought to have inspired respect and consideration in the hearts of the conquerors, was treated with cruelties from the bare contemplation of which the mind shrinks back with horror; then let us think of Alkmaar which so bravely and successfully resisted, and imitate the example of its citizens with the hope and confidence that we shall be equally successful in driving back the hated foe."
Other patriotic magistrates spoke in the same strain, and all were unanimous in their resolution to defend their city to the last, while it was agreed that steps should instantly be taken for that object. Unhappily much precious time had already been lost; the forts and redoubts thrown up by the Spaniards still remained, and at present the defenders of the city had too much to do within the walls to attempt levelling them. The new commandant urged them to strengthen the fortifications, and in the meantime to obtain such stores of provisions from the immediate neighbourhood as could be collected. There were a _few_, however, who, although they did not vote in opposition to the opinions of the majority, yet spoke of the hopelessness of the undertaking in which they were about to engage. Among these was Baron Van Arenberg, although he expressed himself carefully he did his best to persuade the citizens that their wisest course would be to yield before proceeding to extremities.
"I say not that such is what I advise," he observed. "But conciliatory measures might prove successful; if they fail let us by all means endeavour to keep out the enemy as long as we can."
"The Spaniards have already shown us the uselessness of conciliatory measures as well as the utter worthlessness of their guarantees for the safety of those who submit," said the burgomaster. "It would be suicidal madness to trust them; let us put faith in God, who defends the right, in our own resolute courage and power of endurance, in our strong walls, and in the assistance which the Prince of Orange will afford us at our need."
The baron was silent; he was especially anxious not to say anything which might offend the burgomaster by openly differing from him; but his remarks encouraged others connected with certain persons, their relations or friends, recreant Hollanders, who had sided with the Spaniards and professed to have returned to the Faith of Rome. These men were familiarly called Glippers; their object was to induce their countrymen to follow their example. A few holding their opinions remained in the city, either kept there by business or with the intention of creating dissension among the patriots. Although Baron Van Arenberg openly professed to be a patriot, yet from the expressions he let fall many already began to suspect his designs. When those who followed him spoke, their opinions were received with loud expressions of disapprobation. He saw that in the present state of the public mind it would be prudent for the future more carefully to conceal his sentiments than he had hitherto done. "I must bide my time," he said to himself.
Numerous matters of importance were discussed, and the persons supposed best suited for certain duties were selected to superintend the various tasks which had to be performed to prepare the city for the expected siege. One undertook to procure cattle, another fodder, a third corn; others to collect arms and ammunition. The strengthening of the fortifications was allotted to several who had some experience in such matters. The guns and their carriages had to be looked to, such buildings as were suited for storehouses were to be prepared, and hospitals fitted up to receive the sick or wounded; indeed, no point was neglected. All these arrangements having been made, the brave John Van der Does, the newly-elected commandant, rose.
"We have not concealed from ourselves the difficulties and dangers of the task we have undertaken," he said. "But, my friends and fellow-citizens, on God, on your stout arms, and on the energy of our Prince we will rely to defend our city against all the foes who may appear before our walls," he exclaimed, as he drew his sword; and raising it above his head, he added, "Never will I again sheathe this weapon till the hated Spaniard has been driven from our country, and we may henceforth repose in peace."
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Not a moment was lost after the Council broke up in commencing the all-important tasks which each member had undertaken. The burgomaster, however, did not forget the duties of hospitality; taking the arm of Captain Van der Elst, he said-- "Come with me, my friend, and partake of some refreshment, which you must sadly need. You have ridden hard all this morning, and have still a long journey to perform before you can reach Rotterdam, with the risk of encountering marauding parties of Spaniards, who may have ventured forth from Gravenhague. I will give orders in the meantime that you may be provided with the best horse the city affords, for your own steed has scarcely had sufficient time to rest to carry you as rapidly as you desire on your journey."
Karl acknowledged that his horse was wellnigh knocked up, and thankfully accepted the burgomaster's invitation, though he was anxious not to delay a moment longer than was necessary before proceeding on his journey. Directly the burgomaster, accompanied by Van der Elst, arrived at his house, the repast, which had long been ready, was placed on the table, and Jaqueline appeared to preside at it. She received the young captain with less frankness than she might generally have bestowed on her father's friends. There was a slight timidity in her manner, which, in spite of herself, she could not help exhibiting, and a blush rose for a moment to her cheek as she replied to his greeting.
"And are you able to remain and assist us in preparing for the defence of our town?" she asked.
"Would that I were able to remain," he answered. "But I must hurry on as fast as my steed can go to see the Prince and to receive his directions for my future guidance; but I will not fail to suggest to him that I may be of service in assisting in the defence of Leyden, and unless he should require me for important work elsewhere, I hope that he will allow me to return."
"I trust so," murmured Jaqueline, raising her eyes and casting a momentary glance at him.
The meal was soon concluded, for Captain Van der Elst was unwilling to spend a moment longer than was necessary at the table, though he would fain probably have enjoyed a longer conversation with Jaqueline. He had to wait a short time for the arrival of his horse, which enabled him to exchange a few more words with Jaqueline. While they were speaking Berthold and Albert arrived, each laden with a cage containing some beautiful white pigeons, which might easily, from the gracefulness of their form, have been mistaken for doves.
"You see, Vrouw Jaqueline, that I have not forgotten my promise, and I am sure that you will take better care of them than I could do," said Albert. "They each have got their names, and will come when you summon them, besides which, if they are carried to any distance, however great, they will always fly back as fast as their wings can bear them. I have trained them carefully to perform this duty; see here is one I call the Lily, because it is the fairest and most beautiful of all. See how smooth and glossy are its feathers, every one of the most snowy white."
Jaqueline thanked Albert for the birds, and promised to tend them carefully.
"They will be content, however, at present to remain in their cage, so you need not trouble yourself about them," he observed.
Captain Van der Elst did not fail to admire the pigeons. "Should the city be beleaguered they may be of the greatest possible use some day, if you can send them to the head-quarters of the Prince, as beneath their wings they can carry the messages far more securely and rapidly than the fastest runner," he remarked. "At present the country is open, and I shall have to ride hard. I will not ask your permission to carry any of the birds with me, but perhaps in a few days before the Spaniards gather round the city you will allow four of them to be taken to Delft or Rotterdam that they may return with such messages as the Prince may desire to send."
"It did not occur to me when I undertook to tend the pretty birds that they might prove of the service you suggest," said Jaqueline. "You are indeed most welcome to take as many as you can employ. I shall prize them more than ever when they have thus assisted our glorious cause."
Suddenly Berthold, on hearing that Captain Van der Elst was about to set out for Rotterdam, started up. "If my uncle will give me leave may I accompany you?" he exclaimed. "I know all the crossways and cross cuts better probably than you do, or indeed than anybody you can find, and I might be useful in guiding you."
"Will you have my nephew as your companion?" asked the burgomaster.
"I would gladly have his society, but I am unwilling to expose him to the risks I may incur," answered Captain Van der Elst. "The Spaniards are likely to be more vigilant than ever, and their light horse will probably be scouring the country either to forage or to interrupt the communication between the cities."
"That is the very reason why I wish to go with you," said Berthold. "I know the roads thoroughly, for as soon as the Spaniards had retired, feeling like a bird set free I scoured over the whole country, and amused myself in making a plan of them."
"As Berthold knows the country so well, surely it will lessen the risk you would have to run alone if you will take him with you," observed Jaqueline. "I am sure that he will feel it an honour to accompany you, and he can return speedily with any message the Prince may have to send."
Captain Van der Elst's scruples being overcome by these arguments, he no longer hesitated to accept the offer made by Berthold, who hurried out as soon as he had snatched some food to see that his horse was got ready.
"I quite envy you," said Albert to him. "I should like to go also, but I know that my father will require my services, and I must even now hurry back to him."
In a short time, the two steeds being brought to the door, Captain Van der Elst and his young companion, having bid farewell to the burgomaster and Jaqueline, proceeded towards the Cowgate, the southern entrance to the town, leading towards Rotterdam. Jaqueline watched them eagerly as they rode off, undoubtedly a prayer ascended from her heart for their safe arrival. The country was green with the bright grass of early spring, the fruit trees in numerous orchards were covered with bloom, giving fragrance to the air. For the first part of the distance there was but little risk of their encountering enemies, and by the time they had got further on the sun would already be setting, and they would have the advantage of being concealed by the shades of evening. The village of Zoeterwoude, standing on a slight elevation above the surrounding plain, was soon passed, and that of Zuidbrunt, close to a large and shallow meer, was next reached, but they neither of them entered lest a party of Spaniards might have ventured thus far from their head-quarters. They had already passed three enormous dykes running across their road, one beyond the other, built for the purpose of protecting the city from the inroads of the sea. Roads, of course, ran along the top of these, some towards the Hague, others towards Delft, Gouda, and numerous towns and villages to the right and left. Although hitherto not a Spanish soldier had been seen, at any moment some might be encountered. There were no heights or even tall trees from the top of which a view could be obtained of the surrounding country, so that they might know how to avoid their foes. Their anxiety was much relieved when they saw the sun sinking into the not distant ocean. The Prince frequently visited Delft, but Captain Van der Elst believed that he was now to be found at Rotterdam, and although the former city was but slightly out of their course, he proposed avoiding it and riding directly for Rotterdam. More than half the distance had been performed. A short way to the left lay the village of Zoetermeer, raised, like others, slightly above the plain, and they already perceived the green trees and red roofs of the houses peeping up among them, lighted up by the last rays of the setting sun.
"Too much haste the less speed," observed the captain. "It is a true saying, and we must therefore bait our horses and give them a short breathing time, or they may break down before we reach our journey's end."
"Might we not push on without stopping, and trust to the animals to keep up their strength to the last?" asked Berthold. "They are both good nags and sound in wind, and can manage a pretty broad ditch when pressed at it."
"We may have to try their mettle even yet," said the captain. "And they will the better do their work after a feed of corn; besides, we may have to ride back, and we shall probably find no horses to exchange for them in Rotterdam."
"As you think best," said Berthold. And they rode along a causeway which seemed to lead directly for the village. On reaching it they pulled up at the door of a small inn, the only one the place afforded. The landlady hurried out to meet them, and desired to know whether they intended to stop there the night.
"No, friend, we wish only to bait our horses, and must be in the saddle again as soon as they are rested. It may be more prudent than remaining, for we cannot tell at what moment we might receive a visit from those savage hounds the Spaniards."
"Reports have been brought in of several foraging parties being out, who take what they can find without paying a styver in return, besides which they ill-treat the people on all occasions," observed the landlord. "It would be a satisfaction if some of our young fellows were to break their heads, but if they were to make the attempt our village would to a certainty be burnt down, so we must humbly submit to save our skins."
"I cannot advise you for the present to do otherwise," answered Captain Van der Elst. "But the time may shortly arrive when we shall drive our hated foes into the sea."
"Would that it may come soon before they have, like a flock of locusts, eaten up every green thing in the land," exclaimed the landlord.
"The information you give shows me the importance of our being on the road again without delay," said Captain Van der Elst, as he and Berthold accompanied the landlord to the stable, where room was at once made for their horses by turning out a couple of others. The landlord then pressed them to come in and take some refreshment, but they both declined.
"Not even a glass of Rhenish wine? I have some of the best," said mine host. But they refused, considering that their time would be better occupied in rubbing down their steeds, and moistening their lips from a bucket of water, after they had finished their corn.
"You can still render us a service, friend, by sending out to learn if any Spaniards are yet in the neighbourhood," said the captain, "Surely that I will do," answered the landlord, and he summoned a couple of active-looking lads and directed them to run out as far as their legs could carry them in ten minutes, and to try and discover if any cavalry were near at hand. "Foot soldiers are not likely to venture thus far, so we need have no fear of them," he observed.
The lads clearly understood what was required of them, and started together in opposite directions. They had not been gone the allotted time when one of them came hurrying back, covering the ground with long, rapid strides.
"If the mynheers do not wish to be made prisoners, they had better be out of the village as soon as they can saddle up," he said. "I caught sight of a party of horsemen just passing the border of the Meer where the willows grow; there must have been a dozen of them or more; but I only stopped to count thus far and then took to my heels, expecting every moment to have a shot whistle by my ears."
"You have done well, Hans," said the landlord.
"And here is a reward for your service," added Berthold, giving the youth a coin.
"I did it of my own free will," answered Hans. "It is not the first time I have been set to watch the Spaniards, or that they have tried to catch me, and found that they had a Will-o'-the-Wisp to deal with; but this was an easy task, and nothing to boast of." Hans was saying this while he was assisting Berthold to replace the bit in the horse's mouth, and to tighten the girth of his saddle, the landlord rendering the same service to Captain Van der Elst. The next moment they were in the saddle and pushing full speed through the village to the southward. Should they be discovered, they would not only run the risk of being shot at, but would expose the landlord to punishment for having entertained them. Looking back, they could see no one following, and hoped, therefore, that they had escaped observation, while their horses, refreshed, made up for the short delay by getting on at full speed. They soon passed the village of Bleiswijk, between which and the next place ran a broad causeway forming the high road to Rotterdam. Though the gloom of evening was increasing, there was still sufficient light to enable them to see objects at some distance. Berthold, who knew the road best, was leading, when suddenly he reined in his horse, and made a sign with his right hand for his companion to do the same.
"See, just coming from the right, are a score of horsemen; they may be Hollanders, or Free Lances, though from the height of their helmets they look more like Spaniards," he exclaimed. "We had better avoid them."
"How is that to be done?" asked Captain Van der Elst.
"We passed just now on the left a narrow dyke, which runs, I know, in a south-westerly direction; at the farther end is a bridge which leads across the Rotte. If we are pursued, we must leave the road and ride across the country. We can without difficulty swim the river, when the Spaniards, with the heavy trappings of their horses, would not be able to follow."
Scarcely had Berthold said this when they could see against the sky the figures of a large number of horsemen moving along a road to the right.
"We might even now, by dismounting, lead our horses down into the plain, and perhaps escape observation," said Berthold.
"No, no, as we can see them they must have discovered us," said the captain. "Lead the way across the dyke you spoke of; I will follow closely at your heels."
As there was no time for further deliberation, Berthold, turning his horse's head and passing the captain, galloped along the way they had come for a few minutes and then turned off along the top of the dyke he had described. The moment they turned they heard shouts, evidently coming from the horsemen they wished to avoid.
"Those are Spanish voices," said the captain. "I know them well. Push on, Berthold!" But the road along the top of the dyke was much rougher than the one they had left, and it made it necessary for them to keep a careful hand on their reins to prevent their horses from falling. From the way the dyke ran it formed an angle with the high road, and they were soon again brought within sight of the Spanish horsemen, who shouting out to them to stop, fired several shots in rapid succession.
"The fellows are not bad marksmen," said Berthold, "for I heard two or more bullets whistle close to my ears."
Captain Van der Elst continued shouting out, "Ride on! ride on!" more to show that he himself was unhurt than that there was any necessity to urge on Berthold. The Spaniards were evidently unwilling to trust themselves to the low ground for fear of finding that it was a morass, into which their steeds might plunge with little hope of extricating themselves. On seeing that the fugitives had a good chance of escaping, although some of the Spaniards galloped after them along the road, the others continued firing their carbines, though fortunately they missed their aim. The two fugitives were soon beyond the range of the Spanish musketeers, but Captain Van der Elst still cried out to his companion, "Go on! go on!" for, glancing behind him, he saw indistinctly through the gloom the heads of several horsemen following them.
"We shall soon be at the bridge," cried Berthold. "I do not think the Spaniards will attempt to cross it." Just as he had announced that they were close upon it they saw a body of horse who had evidently galloped round to take possession of the post. This discovery was made, however, in time to enable Berthold to ride his horse down the side of the dyke, the captain following his example. "Come along," he cried out, "the ground is somewhat soft, but these horses are accustomed to it, and we may get over it much faster than our pursuers." Having proceeded some distance, they had good reason to hope that they had not been seen.
"We must now make for the river, and a few minutes will carry us safe across it," said Berthold.
The horses as they reached the bank, without hesitation plunged in, and bravely breasted the smooth water. They had got more than halfway across when again they heard the shouts of a number of Spaniards ordering them to return.
"You may shout yourselves hoarse, my men," cried Berthold. "We have no intention of obeying you." Finding that their shouts produced no effect, they fired several bullets from their fire-arms, and the bullets came spattering into the water like a shower of hail, but the gallant steeds bore their riders to the opposite bank unhurt, and soon scrambling up, the captain and Berthold continued their course over the fields.
"Will not the Spaniards cross the bridge and attempt to overtake us?" asked the captain. "We must be prepared for the contingency."
"I think not," answered Berthold. "They might encounter some of the Prince's cavalry, and are not likely to venture further south."
They at length gained another dyke, on the summit of which the road ran directly for Rotterdam. They now galloped forward with less apprehension of meeting an enemy, and at length, about two hours after dark, entered Rotterdam. They immediately inquired the way to the house where the Prince was residing. From the remarks they heard made, they discovered that the news of the disaster at Mookerheyde had already reached the city, for which the captain was thankful, as it would save him from the painful necessity of announcing it to the Prince. They found guards before the door, and several grooms and other servants, to one of whom they committed their horses. Captain Van der Elst at once delivered to a gentleman-in-waiting his name and the object of his visit, and they had no time even to shake off the water which still clung to the lower part of their garments, when they were informed that the Prince desired to see them. They followed their guide into an apartment plainly furnished, with several writing-tables; at one of these sat a tall, dignified man with brown hair, moustachios and beard, a forehead broad and lofty, and eyes bright and full of expression. The captain advancing, bowed, and introduced his young companion as the nephew of the Burgomaster of Leyden. The Prince, who had risen, received them gravely, but at the same time in a cordial manner.
"You bring further intelligence, Captain Van der Elst, from the field of Mookerheyde?" he said. "Of the main particulars I have already been informed by some few who escaped and made their way here."
Captain Van der Elst briefly explained how he himself had escaped, and being well assured that Leyden would again be attacked that he had considered it his duty to ride round to that city in order to prepare the inhabitants for what was likely to occur. He then gave an account of the meeting of the Council, stating that John Van der Does had been elected military commandant, subject to his approval.
"They could not have made a better choice," remarked the Prince. "It shall be confirmed." In a few brief sentences he questioned the captain regarding the battle of Mookerheyde. A tone of melancholy pervaded all he said, but he in no other way showed the deep grief which weighed him down. The Prince sat silently listening, his countenance unmoved, while the captain made his report, and Berthold began to fear that his friend might be blamed for his conduct. He was, therefore, greatly relieved when the Prince remarked, "You have exhibited courage and discretion, Captain Van der Elst, qualities we greatly need in the present emergency. I must send you back with a message to the citizens of Leyden to urge them to maintain the town against the foes of our country to the last gasp. They ought to have destroyed the forts the Spaniards left, to have amply provisioned the city, and to have secured an efficient garrison; but I will not now speak of what is passed. Remind them from me that they are about to contend not for themselves alone, but that the fate of our country of unborn generations may, in all human probability, depend on the issue about to be tried. Eternal glory will be their reward if they manifest the courage worthy of their race, and of the sacred cause of religion and liberty. Say that I implore them to hold out at least three months, and I pledge my word that I will within that time devise the means of delivering them. Advise them immediately to take an account of their provisions of all kinds, including the live stock, and let the strictest economy be employed in their consumption. Stay, I will sign the commission appointing the Seigneur of Nordwyck as Commandant, and write what I deem necessary to confirm the message I verbally send by you. When can you again set out?"
The captain acknowledged that he and his young companion had had no refreshment or rest since they left Leyden, but that he himself was willing to start immediately could a fresh horse be found for him. He, however, considered that he ought to mention having encountered several parties of Spaniards, and that there would be some risk of being captured on the return journey. When he also explained the energetic measures the burgomaster and commandant were already taking, the Prince replied, "Wait, then, till to-morrow, when you may get over the most hazardous part of the distance during the night."
The Prince having spoken a few words of encouragement to Berthold, which he was never likely to forget, signified to them that they might retire, and gave orders to one of the officers to attend to their wants.
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The brave commandant, attended by young Albert, set an example of enduring energy to his fellow-citizens. From morning till night he was to be seen going round and round the fortifications, showing were points might be strengthened with advantage, and to encourage the labourers, often himself taking a spade or pick in hand. Where fresh batteries had to be thrown up, the work was one which greatly taxed the strength of the citizens, but they all knew that their lives depended on their repairing and strengthening their defences before their foes should again attack them. Not only the citizens of all ranks, but their wives and children assisted, many who had never before engaged in manual labour offering their services to carry baskets of earth to the ramparts, and otherwise aiding in the work going forward. In this task the commandant was ably supported by the burgomaster and other magistrates. Jaqueline often accompanied the burgomaster, and set an example to the citizens' wives and daughters by carrying baskets of earth, nor did her father, tenderly cherished though she had always been, attempt to prevent her from performing the task which she considered right. He felt the importance of the example she set to others, for when they saw the fair Lily, the admired of all, engaged in manual labour for the common good, no one, not even the most delicate, could venture to hold back. It would have been well for the citizens if they could have obtained provisions as easily as they could repair their walls, but the country had already been drained by the Spaniards, mounted parties of whom were even now ranging as near as they could venture, to prevent supplies from being sent into Leyden. Barges laden with corn, and carts, however, were constantly arriving at the city, and occasionally a few oxen, while horsemen rode out in various directions to induce the peasantry to send in all the provisions they could spare, reminding them that they would before long fall into the hands of their foes, who would take them without payment. Still the amount of food collected fell far short of what was required. The citizens did not labour with the dull apathy of despair, but with warm enthusiasm, they all being resolved to rival their countrymen at Alkmaar. The men sang at their work, and the girls chatted as if they were engaged in some holiday task. The only person who appeared not in any way to partake of the general enthusiasm was the Baron Von Arenberg, who excused himself on the plea that he was out of health, and that any exertion would be exceedingly injurious to him, though he had no objection to standing still and watching others at work, which he declared ought to afford the labourers ample encouragement. He did not, however, make his appearance in public as often as he had been accustomed to do. He was greatly put out from the circumstance that when calling at the house of the burgomaster he had seldom found him at home, and that Jaqueline had invariably excused herself from seeing him during the absence of her father. He had therefore not known how she was employed. Curiosity had, however, prompted him one bright morning to take a walk round the ramparts, and he arrived at a spot where a new battery was being thrown up. On a high mound stood the burgomaster, and near him a number of men were engaged in the more severe labour of the undertaking, while troops of women, some with full baskets, were bringing up earth from the trench which was being dug, while others were returning with the empty ones. The baron started with astonishment, for at the head of one of the parties appeared the Lily of Leyden carrying with a companion a basket of earth; her dress, though not ungraceful, was suited to her occupation. Me gazed as if at first unable to believe his senses, a flush mantled on his brow.
"Can her father thus allow her to degrade herself?" he exclaimed to one of the eldest and chief citizens who was standing by, whose daughters and grand-daughters were similarly employed, though the baron was not aware of the fact. "The task too is utterly useless; should the Spaniards again lay siege to the town, they will, before two weeks are over, have gained an entrance, and they have already shown the penalties they intend to exact from those who resist their authority."
"Baron Van Arenberg, such I am bound to believe is your honest opinion, but understand that we trust in God, in the true courage which animates the breasts of patriots, and in that aid which our noble Prince will most assuredly send us," answered the old man, in a stern tone. "The task in which the fair Jaqueline is engaged raises her higher than her beauty, her position, or her wealth can do in the eyes of her countrymen. Look at my daughters and grand-children, they feel proud of imitating her; when you communicate with your friends, the `Glippers,' tell them how the matrons and maidens of Leyden are employed, and let them warn the Spaniards of the death which awaits them should they assail our ramparts."
The baron again started, but with a different feeling than before, and declared that he was no "Glipper," though he was not inspired, he confessed, with the same enthusiasm which at present animated the citizens of Leyden.
"It may be that you are not a `Glipper,' but your remarks savour much of the principles which animate them," observed the old citizen, in a dry tone. "Speak them not aloud to others, or you may chance to be looked upon as a traitor and be treated as such."
By a strong effort the baron quelled his rising anger; he could gain no credit by a dispute with the aged and highly esteemed citizen who had thus spoken to him, and turning aside he directed his steps homeward. He fancied that it would be derogatory to his rank to engage in manual labour, and yet he could not stand by and see the fair Jaqueline and other young ladies of position thus employed without offering to assist them, unless he was prepared to be regarded as destitute alike of all chivalric and patriotic feelings. On reaching the handsome mansion he inhabited, after pacing several times across the room, he threw himself into a chair to consider what course he should pursue. The old citizen's remarks had warned him of the danger he would incur should he be supposed to advocate a surrender to the Spaniards, and he would be in still greater danger should it be discovered that he was carrying on a secret correspondence with Valdez through his "Glipper" friends; he was also mortified and annoyed at seeing Jaqueline so degrading herself, as he considered, by labouring like any peasant girl at the fortifications. "How can her father, who dotes on her as the apple of his eye, allow her thus to demean herself?" he exclaimed, "to exhaust her health and strength, to soil her fair hands with the moist and black earth; the very thought is unbearable!" He again rose and paced across the room, half inclined to order his servants to prepare for an instant journey. "If I remain I shall have to share the sufferings these obstinate citizens are preparing to bring down on themselves, or indeed I may lose my life. I would rather sacrifice my property than do that. I may by joining General Valdez at once gain better terms for them, little as they deserve it at my hands, at all events I shall secure my own possessions." He rang a bell to summon an attendant, but no one answered to the call. At length he inquired of the old one-legged porter who had admitted him, when, to his disgust, he found that the whole of his establishment had gone out to labour at the fortifications. "They will soon get tired of the work and return," he said to himself, but the delay gave him further time for reflection. "If I go I must abandon all hope of winning the Lily of Leyden, unless the city is speedily captured and I am able to save her from the terrible danger she would incur during the assault. For her sake I must not allow her to run that risk; no, the only safe course, as far as she is concerned, for me to follow is to remain either to gain her father's consent to our immediate union, or to persuade her to fly with me, while there is yet time, to a place of safety. She might be unwilling to go to the Hague, but I might take her to Delft or Rotterdam, where she would be equally safe; and although she might at first regret having left her father and other friends in this city, a very few weeks will show her what a merciful escape she has had. It may yet be some days before Valdez and his army can reach the neighbourhood, I will remain and employ the time in endeavouring to persuade her to take the only step which can secure her safety. I cannot bear the thought that one so lovely should be doomed to the fearful fate in which she will be involved when the Spaniards capture the city."
Fortunately there were few in Leyden who entertained the baron's opinions. While he remained at home, his mind agitated by conflicting doubts and fears, the rest of the inhabitants were engaged as has been described. The commandant, accompanied by his son Albert, remained chiefly on the ramparts; he had to inspect the firearms as they were repaired or manufactured by the armourers, ceaselessly working day and night, and he had likewise to examine the few recruits who could be collected from the country round to assist in the defence, and especial attention had to be given to the exercising of the men at the great guns placed in the various forts. The burgomaster, among his many other duties, daily visited the storehouses to see the progress made in collecting food, both for man and beast, and he also inspected the pens and sheds in which the cattle were placed as they were driven in, while he made preparation for all the various contingencies which might occur. And, although he desired his daughter to set the example to the women and girls of Leyden, remembering that she was utterly unused to manual work, he, after a time, summoned her home to take the rest and refreshment she required.
"Go, my sweet Jaqueline," said Vrouw Margaret de Munto, the wife of one of the chief magistrates. "You have shown us how the most delicate can work, and we will not be idle during your absence."
Jaqueline, whose arms and shoulders were aching with the unwonted labour, was, it must be confessed, thankful to obey her father's summons to return home. She was rewarded with the consciousness that she had performed her duty, and she hoped to have strength to continue it, but she was more out of spirits than was usual with her. Some days had passed since her young cousin Berthold had accompanied Captain Van der Elst to Rotterdam and they had not again made their appearance. The burgomaster could not account for the delay, but felt sure that the Prince would immediately send them back with despatches confirming John Van der Does in his appointment as Commandant, and stating what plans he proposed for their relief. The Lily cast many a glance over the plain in the hopes of seeing the two horsemen approaching; but though occasionally trains of carts and baggage-horses laden with sacks of corn, and small herds of cattle were seen on the roads, the two absent ones whose safe return would have relieved her anxiety failed to appear. As the foragers brought in word that parties of Spaniards who had come from the direction of the Hague had been met with, some fears were entertained that Captain Van der Elst and Berthold might have fallen into their hands.
"Berthold is too well acquainted with the country to allow himself and his companion easily to be caught," observed the burgomaster. "Perhaps the Prince is waiting to decide on the plan he proposes to adopt for our relief. We shall see them in a day or two; though it is but natural that you should feel as anxious about your cousin Berthold as I do. They will arrive, I feel sure, before the Spaniards approach our walls, as the Prince, who keeps himself well acquainted with the enemy's movements, will not detain them too long, so as to prevent them getting in with safety."
The Lily sighed, for she feared there might be some miscalculation as day after day notice had been brought of the rapid approach of the hated foe, and at any hour it seemed that their advanced guard might appear before the walls. The burgomaster had thrown himself into an armchair the first rest he had sought that day since early dawn, having especially desired his daughter to retire. Scarcely, however, had he taken his pen in hand to sign certain documents which had been brought to him, than the bells of the nearest church struck a peculiar note, which was taken up by the others in different parts of the city in rapid succession. It was the tocsin peal, announcing the approach of an enemy, and summoning the citizens to the ramparts. The burgomaster immediately rose, and sending word to Jaqueline on no account to leave the house, set forth to the Stadhuis, where he knew that the principal magistrates would quickly assemble. As he was leaving the door of his house he was met by young Albert Van der Does.
"The commandant has sent me, Burgomaster, to request your presence on the north-western rampart, where he, with several officers, is waiting your arrival. A body of troops has been seen approaching along the causeway from the direction of the Castle of Valkenburg."
The burgomaster, notwithstanding his fatigue, accompanied young Albert at a rapid pace. From every direction people of all ranks were hastening through the streets, some girding on their swords as they left their doors, while their wives or daughters handed to them their firearms. Many an eye was turned in the direction of the approaching troops.
"They march more quickly than the Spaniards are wont to do," observed the commandant to the burgomaster.
"Can they be troops sent by the Prince to assist in the defence of the city?" asked the latter.
"They would not be coming from that direction," said the commandant. "By their pennons, and the sombre appearance which pervades their ranks, I suspect that they are English."
The foreign troops drew nearer, and no doubt longer remained that they were English, and as far as could be calculated numbered between five and six hundred men.
"They will be a welcome addition to our garrison," observed one of the magistrates. "For those islanders are brave fellows and fight well on all occasions."
"Notwithstanding, unless they bring a written order to me from the Prince to admit them, I will dispense with their services wherever they come from," said the commandant. "The English are trustworthy enough, and fight well if they are well fed and are satisfied with their quarters, but I would not trust them should a famine get within our walls; and should they begin to feel the pinchings of hunger, they would then cry out that we must surrender, and would induce others to follow their evil example. They well know that it is the policy of the Spaniards just now to behave courteously to the English, and these mercenaries would hope that their lives would be spared, though every other man in the place were put to death. No, no; even though our numbers be few let us rather trust to the stubborn hearts of our Hollanders than to such men as those probably are."
The burgomaster and the other magistrates, after a short consideration, fully agreed with the sentiments expressed by the commandant. In a short time the English commander, galloping ahead of his men, rode up to the walls and in the name of William, Prince of Orange, demanded instant admittance.
"Whence do you come, Colonel Chester?" inquired the commandant, who recognised the officer as the commander of a body of English troops in the service of the Prince.
"From Valkenburg," was the answer. "I have been obliged to abandon that fortress, from being assured that it would be hopeless to attempt holding out against the Spaniards, who I hear are advancing with an overwhelming force, and I had neither provisions nor sufficient ammunition to stand a lengthened siege, I therefore judged it prudent to march here to assist you in the defence of your city."
"I regret that I cannot admit you or your men, Colonel Chester," said the commandant. "Our garrison is already of sufficient strength, and we have as many mouths to feed as we can find provisions for."
"But my men and I shall be cut to pieces by the Spaniards, who, if they overtake us in the open country, and we cannot hope to reach any other fortress in which we can defend ourselves, have threatened vengeance against all who side with the Prince of Orange."
"There was one fortress you might have defended, and that you thought fit to abandon, regardless of the interests of the noble prince whom you engaged to serve," answered the commandant, sternly.
In vain the English colonel pleaded that the lives of his whole band would be sacrificed if they were not admitted within, the city. The commandant was firm in his resolution and declined their services, and they at length finding that they pleaded in vain, forming themselves into compact order moved on till they reached the causeway leading to the Hague. At length they were lost to sight in the distance; some few regretted that the commandant had refused the assistance of so many sturdy men-at-arms, but the act inspired the citizens with fresh courage, each man now feeling that on his own bravery and resolution the safety of the city depended.
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Active and intelligent scouts had been sent out to watch the movements of the enemy, and to bring back due notice of their approach to Leyden. The citizens meantime were labouring as before at their fortifications; they well knew that there was no time to spare to complete their work. Van Arenberg, who had still managed to retain the confidence of the burgomaster, was a constant visitor at his house during the short time in the evening that he was at home. The baron, however, was convinced that there was no longer a hope of persuading the stout-hearted magistrate to submit, and yet anxious as he was to get outside and avoid the miseries he saw impending, he could not bring himself to abandon the prospects of winning the fair Lily. He still, therefore, endeavoured to work on her feminine nature by pointing out to her the horrors and sufferings in which she must share with the other inhabitants of the place should she remain.
"You have often spoken to me on this subject, Baron Van Arenberg," she answered, regarding him calmly; "but know that I would rather trust to the pikes and swords of the citizens of Leyden to defend our poor women and children from the clutches of the Spanish soldiery than I would to the tender mercies of their general. It is useless again to speak to me on the subject; but since you fancy that you see so clearly the dreadful doom prepared for those who remain, I advise you to quit the city while there is time."
The baron could say no more, but he muttered as he walked homeward that evening, "I must take other means of carrying out my object."
The next morning Jaqueline had repaired with her father to the ramparts on the south side of the town. They were soon joined by Albert.
"I met Arenberg just now," he said to Jaqueline, "looking as sulky as a bear. He asked where you were gone, as he had not found you at home. I could not tell him, as I did not know, and would not have told him if I had known; but I saw him start off to the north side of the town, so there is no fear of your being troubled by his presence."
"But how do you know his presence troubled me?" asked Jaqueline.
"Because I am very sure you cannot like a man who is a `Glipper' at heart, whatever he may seem to be to people openly; and I have observed the way you always speak to him, and very glad I have been to see it."
Jaqueline was inclined to smile, and she could not chide Albert for his frankness.
"Hulloa! look up there!" he exclaimed, pointing along the road. "I see two men on horseback and another on foot. What if they should prove to be the captain and Berthold with a guide? Perhaps they will bring us good news."
"They do not come on as fast as I should have expected," said Jaqueline, watching them intently. "Yet they seem to be cavaliers, not common horse soldiers. Perhaps they have to wait for their guide."
The two horsemen and their attendant on foot drew near.
"It is Captain Van der Elst and my cousin Berthold!" exclaimed Jaqueline, in a more joyous tone than she had spoken for many a day. "The message they bring from the Prince will, I trust, encourage our citizens."
"Encouragement they will certainly bring if they come from William the Silent, who is very sure to inspire all whom he addresses with the spirit which animates his own dauntless mind. We will go down to the gate to meet them," said the burgomaster.
The captain and Berthold, with their companion, having answered the challenge of the sentries, were forthwith admitted. Perceiving the burgomaster and Jaqueline, they leaped from their steeds, and giving the reins to their companion, advanced towards them.
"We have been a much longer time in reaching the city than the Prince or we ourselves expected," said the captain, after the usual greetings. "We were pursued by a party of Spaniards, and had to take refuge in the fortress of Polderwaert, from which for several days we were unable to make our escape; but the message we bring will, I trust, encourage the citizens and garrison of Leyden to defend the city until the Spaniards are compelled to retire."
"There is little doubt about that," said Berthold. "He has not told you how, after we had taken refuge in the fortress, through his vigilance and courage, the Spaniards, who attempted to surprise it, were driven off, and had he not been charged with the message from the Prince, he would have been detained to assist in its defence should it again be attacked."
"And who is that lanky fellow you brought with you, who is leading on the horses after us?" asked Albert of his friend, as they followed the burgomaster with Jaqueline and the captain.
"A first rate fellow, Hans Bosch, he has done us good service twice already, besides piloting us along last night by paths which I could not have found by myself, though I know the country pretty well; he volunteered to come in order to carry messages from the city, and very useful we are likely to find him."
As it was important at once to communicate the message brought by Captain Van der Elst, the burgomaster summoned the chief inhabitants forthwith to the Stadhuis. The captain having delivered his written despatches, spoke as he had been directed, employing the very words the Prince himself had used, and advancing the most powerful arguments to induce the citizens not to yield to their foes. "He implores you," he continued, "to hold out for at least three months, and he pledges his word that he will within that time devise the means of delivering you from the Spaniards."
"For six months, if necessary, even if we have to eat the grass in our squares, the shoes on our feet, the rats and dogs to be found in the streets," was the reply.
"I will announce your resolution to the Prince, and it will, I am sure, encourage him to continue the efforts he is making for your relief," answered the captain. "Had Prince Louis lived and joined him he would have had an army at his disposal, but the forces he can at present muster are only sufficient for the protection of Rotterdam and Delft."
The address of the Prince was printed and circulated throughout the city. After the meeting broke up, the burgomaster invited the young captain to accompany Berthold to his house.
"And who's your attendant, he appears to be a strange being?"
"There are not many like Hans Bosch," remarked Berthold. "He has twice saved us from falling into the hands of the Spaniards, and, if I mistake not, will still render us good service, he can run like a deer and leap like a young calf. There are few who can dodge the Spaniards as he can, and if we get shut up in the city, he will manage to get out again and slip through their ranks so as to let the Prince know what we are about."
"Berthold does not over-praise Hans Bosch," observed the captain. "I commend him to your care, Burgomaster, while he remains in the city, and he will be ready to make himself useful when his services are required." It was the first evening since preparations for the defence were commenced, that any of the inhabitants were able to take rest. Though labourers were still employed on the works, they were nearly completed, and Jaqueline felt that she might, without neglecting her self-imposed duty, return home and resume her ordinary attire, so that she could preside at her father's table. There were no guests besides Captain Van der Elst and Albert--Berthold always resided with his uncle.
"Can you now remain with us?" asked the burgomaster of Captain Van der Elst.
"Would that I could," answered Karl, his eyes turning for a moment towards Jaqueline. "But our Prince requires my services and directed me to return without delay, he has, as you know, but few officers. His great object is forthwith to raise a force of sufficient strength to drive the Spaniards from your gates; he did not inform me how it was to be done, but it will be no easy task, for he has to garrison Rotterdam and Delft, and to guard the immediate country. Were he to leave those places unprotected, all might be lost."
"We will trust to his sleepless energy and determination, both to devise and carry out a project for our relief," observed the burgomaster.
"An idea has occurred to me, Captain Van der Elst!" exclaimed Albert. "I lately gave four beautiful carrier pigeons to the Vrouw Jaqueline, and if she will consent to make them over to you, you can carry them with you, and by their means inform us what progress the Prince is making in his plans for our relief. Do you consent to give up your pets, Vrouw Jaqueline?"
"Most willingly," she answered, "if Captain Van der Elst will undertake the charge of the birds."
"I will tend them carefully, and trust that they may become the messengers of happy news," he said, a smile for a moment lighting up his countenance.
Albert proposed that they should at once visit the pigeons with Captain Van der Elst, and instruct him how they were to be fed and treated, as it was possible that he might have to depart at an early hour the next morning. As Jaqueline expressed her readiness to do as Albert proposed, the whole party, with the exception of the burgomaster, accompanied her to the tower of the house in which they were kept. In the same tower was situated her boudoir, and hence she could enjoy a wider view over the country than from any other part of the house.
"We must put them into two small cages, so that they may be carried easily on horseback, or by a man on foot, if necessary," said Albert. "Come, Berthold, if your cousin will allow us, we will go and procure such cages. I know where they are to be found, and we will be back in a few minutes." As Jaqueline did not forbid them, they set off.
It was the first time that Jaqueline and Karl Van der Elst had been together. They had never spoken of love, and the present moment seemed most inappropriate. Karl did not conceal from himself the dangers to which he must be exposed in carrying out the projects of the Prince, nor could he shut his eyes to the fearful risk all the inhabitants of Leyden must run, even though relief might soon be brought to them. He, almost against his intentions, spoke a few words to Jaqueline, the meaning of which she could not fail to understand.
"It may be weeks--months--before we meet again, but my feelings, when I have learned once to esteem, are not given to change," she said. The young captain had reason to be content with the look which accompanied her words, even more than with the words themselves. The two lads soon returned with the cages, which were so small that two pigeons could only be pressed into each.
"They will be hurt, poor things," cried Jaqueline.
"Oh, no, no," said Albert, "they will support each other, and travel far more comfortably than if they had more space, and were allowed to tumble about."
As the captain had to start the following morning, Arthur and Berthold undertook to carry the birds to his lodgings that evening.
Captain Van der Elst, accompanied by Hans Bosch, for whom a horse had been provided, and who carried the two cages, set off at an early hour the following morning. Secretly as his departure had been arranged, it was discovered by Baron Van Arenberg, who had that morning risen at an earlier hour than usual and gone out to the ramparts. The baron recognised him, and muttered, as he observed him leaving the gate, "It will be many a long day before he is again within the walls of Leyden, for ere long the Spaniards, if I mistake not, will be in possession of them."
In the evening the burgomaster, accompanied by his daughter and nephew and Albert, had ascended to the top of the Tower of Hengist, when Albert, whose eyes were of the sharpest, exclaimed, pointing over the city to the eastward, "See, see, there come a large body of men; they must be either the troops the Prince has promised to send to our assistance, or the Spaniards."
The rest of the party gazed in the same direction. "They form the advance guard of our foes," said the burgomaster. "Albert and Berthold, hasten and give the information to the commandant; he will take good care that the walls are forthwith manned, though the Spaniards, after a day's march, will be in no mood to make an attack when they know full well that we shall give them as warm a reception as did our friends at Alkmaar."
In a few minutes the bells of all the churches were ringing forth the well-known call to arms, and the citizens, with their weapons in hand, were seen hurrying to man the forts and ramparts. The burgomaster, with Jaqueline, remained some time longer on the top of the tower that he might judge what positions the Spanish general was likely to take. The head of the leading column advanced till it reached a spot just beyond range of the guns in the batteries, then it halted to wait for the arrival of other troops; these quickly followed, the whole force numbering not less than eight thousand men, Walloons and Germans. Some immediately took possession of Leyderdorp, and of the other forts which ought to have been destroyed, while others, armed with pickaxes and spades, without a moment's loss of time began throwing up fresh lines and forts, a third party being employed in pitching the tents and forming a camp just beyond them. All night long a vigilant watch was kept, as it was very possible that the Spaniards might attempt to surprise the city in the hopes of capturing it at once, and saving themselves from the annoyance and sufferings of a protracted siege. Young Albert and Berthold together went the rounds to see that the sentries were at their posts and wide awake, and that no post was left without a sufficient guard. No experienced officers could have been more on the alert. More than once they met the commandant, who, entrusting nothing of importance to others, was himself going the rounds.
He gave the lads some words of approval. "While the young ones show such zeal I feel confident that we shall keep the foe in check till they are compelled ignominiously to retreat," he observed.
For several days the citizens beheld the foreign troops gathering round them, bringing their batteries closer to the walls, till Leyden was invested by no less than sixty-two redoubts, while fresh troops were seen coming in to swell the ranks of the besiegers. The city was now placed on a strict allowance of food, all the provisions having been purchased by the authorities, with an allowance of half a pound of meat, half a pound of bread allotted to each full-grown man, and to the rest in due proportion. At length the soldiers, and even some of the burghers began to murmur at their own inactivity; to give them confidence the commandant allowed a sortie to be made, promising a reward to each man who brought in the head of a Spaniard. The men of Leyden waited till nightfall, having previously carefully surveyed the point it was proposed to attack. All was still in the city, the Spaniards might have supposed that the besieged were sleeping, when suddenly the gate at which the sortie was to be made was thrown open, three hundred men eager for the fray noiselessly rushed out, not a word was spoken, not a shout raised till they were upon their foe. The Spaniards, the work of the day over, had piled their arms, and had scarcely time to fall into their ranks before their enemies were upon them; though a score or more fell yet they were too well disciplined to remain long in a state of confusion, and the officer leading the sortie deemed it prudent to call back his men. They returned without the loss of one of their number, bringing back at least a dozen Spanish heads, such was the savage commencement of the struggle. Night after night similar enterprises were undertaken, not always with the same result, though the Hollanders were invariably successful, so silently and well executed were all their sorties, but several brave men fell, and the commandant, from fear of losing too many of his troops, deemed it necessary to prohibit any from leaving the gates without his express order.
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The inhabitants of Leyden were already fearfully hard pressed for food. Their bread was entirely consumed; they had but a small supply of malt cake, with a few cows--kept as long as possible for their milk--besides these an equal number of horses and sheep; but every day these provisions were becoming more and more scanty, and unless they could speedily be relieved, starvation threatened them. The burgomaster and Council were assembled when a letter which had been sent in from Valdez, with a flag of truce, was received. The burgomaster read it aloud. It offered an amnesty to all Hollanders, except a few mentioned by name, provided they would return to their allegiance; it promised forgiveness, fortified by a Papal Bull which had been issued by Gregory the Thirteenth to those Netherland sinners who duly repented and sought absolution for their sins, even though they sinned more than seven times seven. Besides this public letter were received epistles despatched by the "Glippers" from the camp to their rebellious acquaintances in the city, exhorting them to submission, and imploring them to take pity upon their poor old fathers, their daughters, and their wives.
"What say you, my friends?" exclaimed the burgomaster, who read these letters aloud. "The Spanish general offers us free pardon for defending our hearths and homes as we have hitherto done, and by God's grace we will continue to do. The same plausible offers Don Frederic made to the citizens of Haarlem. And what happened? The slaughter which overtook old and young alike, their city plundered, their homes ruined, can testify as to the value of such offers. Shall we share their fate, or shall we hold out like men until the relief, which assuredly will come, arrives, although we have only malt cake to live upon, and but little of that, and a few cows, horses, goats, and dogs; and as to the remark of these `Glippers,' the best pity we can show our poor old fathers, daughters, and wives is to keep them from the clutches of the Spanish soldiery."
"We will fight to the last! We will fight to the last!" was the unanimous response taken up by all the citizens in the streets. It was agreed that no answer should be sent to the Spanish general; indeed some proposed hanging the herald, who was glad to make his escape with a single line in Latin, on a sheet of paper, handed to him-- "When the trapper seeks to lure his bird, he softly plays his pipe."
Good care was taken that the herald should see nothing going on within the walls, or be able to report a word about the haggard countenances of the defenders. From their frowning looks and taunting expressions he was probably glad to escape with his life. Meantime the condition of the inhabitants became worse and worse.
Jaqueline, with other maidens and matrons of rank, had formed themselves into a band to carry such relief as they could obtain for the sufferers. Day after day they nobly prosecuted their self-imposed duties, and many by their means were aided who might otherwise have perished. Returning one evening to her tower to attend her remaining pigeons, which as yet she had not allowed to be killed in the hopes that they might serve some useful purpose, after feeding them as was her wont, she was seated at the window, inhaling the pure air which the lower part of the city had failed to afford, when she observed a white spot in the sky glittering in the rays of the setting sun. Nearer and nearer it came till she perceived that it was a bird. It soon flew in at the window and alighted in her arms. It was one of her own pigeons; beneath its wing she discovered, securely fastened by a silken thread, a small folded paper. Quickly untieing and releasing her bird, which she placed with its companions, she hurried down with the document to her father. It was, as she hoped, from Captain Van der Elst, written by the directions of the Prince. He assured the citizens that he was already preparing the promised aid, and that he hoped all difficulties would soon be overcome. He again reminded the garrison of Leyden that the fate of their country depended on their holding out. The captain did not say, what was really the case, that the Prince himself was lying ill of a fever at Rotterdam, and that unforeseen delays had occurred. As may be supposed he added a few words of his own to be read only by Jaqueline, who would, he trusted, receive the epistle. The burgomaster lost no time in communicating the contents of the letter to the brave commandant. The despatch served to revive the drooping spirits of the garrison; still there was a further delay. Again the Spaniards attacked the walls and were once more repulsed, but the numbers of the garrison were slowly though surely decreasing, yet neither the burgomaster nor John Van der Does entertained a thought of submission. As only one of the pigeons had returned, Jaqueline hoped that another might soon appear bringing more certain news of relief. She paid, as may be supposed, frequent visits to her tower, gazing in the direction when she hoped her winged messenger would appear. Her numerous duties compelled her frequently to be absent, but each time she returned home she hurried there, as often to be disappointed. She had risen one morning rather later than usual from her couch, when going to the tower she perceived that the number of her pigeons was increased, quickly searching out the new arrival she discovered, as she had expected, a letter below its wing, it was longer than the previous one. As the burgomaster, to whom she carried it, read the news it contained his eyes brightened. It was from the Prince himself; it said that the sluices at Rotterdam and Schiedam had been opened, that the dykes were all pierced, that the water was rising upon the Land-Scheiding, the great outer barrier which separated the city from the sea; that he had a fleet of two-hundred vessels in readiness stored with provisions, under the command of Admiral Boisot, and that as soon as there was sufficient depth of water, the fleet would fight its way to the walls of Leyden and bring the citizens relief.
"This is indeed joyous news!" exclaimed the burgomaster. He at once directed Berthold to summon the city musicians to meet him, with their instruments, in the market-place, to which, accompanied by Jaqueline, he immediately repaired. He knew that many of the chief citizens would soon collect there. Taking the letter, he read it publicly, when the bands of music striking up, marched through the streets playing lively melodies and martial airs. The bells rang out merry tunes, and salvos of cannon were fired not at the foe but at brief intervals, to give indubitable signs that the city was rejoicing.
"These scenes will astonish our enemies, who will at first be unable to comprehend their import, but I've an idea they will soon find out, and may deem it wise to decamp," exclaimed Berthold. Albert proposed making a sortie to attack the Spaniards before they had recovered from their astonishment at hearing the joyful sounds from the city, and seeing the waters flowing over the land.
"No! no!" answered the commandant. "Many valuable lives might be sacrificed, and the ocean will ere long fight for us far more effectually than our swords."
The burgomaster, generally accompanied by Jaqueline, paid frequent visits to Hengist Tower.
Already from its summit the waters could be seen covering spaces which had hitherto been dry land, the canals having in many places risen ten inches and were overflowing their banks, though the great dyke five miles off still prevented the flood from reaching the Spanish camp. The had one evening gone there with Berthold and Albert, who were especially eager in watching the rise of the flood. Already in the far distance the rays of the sun glittered on the rising waters, where hitherto only green fields and orchards had been seen, but between that shining expanse and the city lay about five miles off the Land-Scheiding, a strong dyke which had been spoken of, and within it were also several circumvallations thrown up to defend the city from the encroachments of the ocean. These all had to be passed before the fleet could reach the walls. Though there were canals navigable at all times by vessels of small burden, the Land-Scheiding was still a foot and a half above the water, forming an impassable barrier, besides which in the intermediate space were numerous villages held by the king's troops. While the two lads were standing somewhat apart from the burgomaster and Jaqueline they observed a person approaching the tower. "It is that fellow Van Arenberg," whispered Albert. "I wonder he has ventured to remain so long in the city, he might all this time have been with the Spaniards, whom he is so constantly praising and advising the people to confide in. When the fighting is going on he is never to be seen on the ramparts, and though he receives his rations I suspect that it is only a make-believe, and that he has a secret store of provisions in his own house."
"It would not do to say that to the burgomaster," observed Berthold. "He still believes him to be honest, though wanting in spirit, and would, I suspect, even now let Jaqueline marry him if he were to press his suit and she were to consent."
"That is not very likely to happen," said Albert. "She would be more ready to marry Captain Van der Elst."
"I do not know," answered Berthold. "During our journey he never, that I recollect, once spoke to me about her; but here comes the baron, we had better keep out of his way, for if I meet him I shall be inclined to say something he won't like."
The baron, who certainly seemed to have suffered less than most of the inhabitants of Leyden from scanty food and constant watching, now reaching the top of the tower approached the burgomaster and Jaqueline. Having in his usual courteous and polished manner paid his respects to the Lily and her father, he pointed southward.
"You are looking out there, I conclude, for the appearance of admiral Boisot and his Sea Beggars, but I fear that we shall look in vain; his flotilla may reach the Land-Scheiding, but beyond that no mortal power can enable his ships to advance; even should they pierce it, as the Prince expects, it is impossible that they can pass all those other barriers with the victorious troops of Valdez opposing them and garrisoning every village and fort."
"God can make a way if man cannot," answered the burgomaster.
"But He may not think fit to make one for those daring outlaws to reach Leyden," said the baron. "Would that I could hope that relief was likely to come, but I have long despaired, as you know, of obtaining it, and I have sought you, Burgomaster, to entreat you that even should you consider it your duty to remain you will allow me to escort your fair daughter to some place where she may escape the unspeakable miseries which are gathering round the inhabitants of this unhappy city. I can, through some influential friends, obtain a safe pass from Valdez, and can also through their means arrange for her secret departure from the city, so that whatever happens she will at all events be preserved."
"Even should she wish it, my duty to my fellow-citizens will prevent me from permitting her to go," answered the burgomaster. "Her departure would tend to dishearten those who have already sufficient to try them; but you may ask her."
Jaqueline had, while the baron was speaking to her father, withdrawn from his side, and was about to join her cousin and Albert when the young noble approached her. In carefully measured words he spoke of his love and devotion, and offering his hand and heart, entreated her at once to become his wife that he might be able to rescue her from the dangers by which she was surrounded.
"I have your father's permission," he added, "and whatever opinion he may consider it his duty to express publicly I cannot but believe that his mind will be greatly relieved when he knows that you are beyond the reach of harm."
"It may be that you have my father's permission to speak to me," she answered, "but he would never counsel me to play a dastard's part and dishearten my fellow-citizens, whom I am bound to encourage. Understand, Ernst Van Arenberg, sooner would I remain among those who are stricken down every day by famine and pestilence, and share their fate, if God so wills it, than wed one who traitorously counsels submission to the foe."
As she spoke she fixed her clear blue eyes on him with a look the meaning of which he could not misinterpret, for it showed the scorn his proposal had inspired. He might have seen that his cause was hopeless, yet he could not even now abandon her, and was again about to speak when Berthold and Albert came up with an independent air, the former exclaiming-- "Look out there, Jaqueline! Look out, your eyes are keen enough to see the sun shining on some score of white sails far away to the southward; they form, I doubt not, the vanguard of a relieving fleet, and before long the Spaniards, the `Glippers,' and their friends will be scampering off to escape being overwhelmed by the rising tide."
"It is high time for you, Baron, to go and give the Spaniards warning if you wish to serve them a good turn," said Albert.
The baron frowned at the lad, who looked so unconscious of having said anything disagreeable that he did not venture to reply. At length the burgomaster, addressing Jaqueline, proposed to return home, and desired his nephew and Albert to follow him, but a word from Jaqueline prevented him from inviting the baron, as he might otherwise have done, to his house. Van Arenberg descended the steps close behind them, but receiving no intimation that he might accompany them from Jaqueline or her father, he was compelled to lift his beaver, which he did with a somewhat haughty air, and without taking the slightest notice of the lads, walked away in an opposite direction. The burgomaster, who had overheard some of the boy's remarks, chided them for speaking so rudely to the baron.
"Though the opinion you have formed of him is, I fear, right, it becomes you not thus to address a person so much your senior in age as well as in rank," he said.
Jaqueline, however, interfered, and told her father that she was thankful to them for coming so opportunely to her assistance, and preventing her from uttering expressions which the baron might have deemed far more severe than anything her cousin and Albert could say.
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Jaqueline had welcomed a third of her white-winged birds to her tower. The pigeon bore a letter dictated by Admiral Boisot, though she recognised the handwriting of Captain Van der Elst. It stated that the fleet led by an enormous vessel, the "Ark of Delft," with shot-proof bulwarks, and moved by paddle-wheels turned by a crank, had reached the Land-Scheiding, and that he hoped, ere long, the large dyke would be broken through and that the way would be opened to the very walls of the city. The Prince also sent a message urging the citizens yet longer to hold out, reminding them that with Leyden all Holland must also perish. This letter for a time greatly encouraged the suffering garrison; those who understood the nature of the undertaking were aware that much depended on the direction of the wind. An easterly gale was calculated to blow back the waters and prevent their rising, while one from the south or west would force them on towards the city. The wind was now blowing from the cast and the tides were at their lowest, so that the waters were making but slow progress. Still the loyal-hearted among the population, trusting to their Prince's promises, were assured that if it was in the power of human help they would in time be relieved. The "Glippers," however, who professed to know the country well, ridiculed the desperate project. Those in the town taunted their fellow-citizens, frequently crying out, "Go up to the tower and tell us if you can see the ocean coming over the dry land to our relief." Day after day they did go up, hoping, praying, fearing, and at last almost despairing of relief from God or man. Letters were also daily received from those with Valdez urging the inhabitants to spare themselves further suffering. Young Albert and Berthold had made themselves especially useful by going round the ramparts, not once or twice a day, but many times during the day and night, at all hours, so that they might not only see that the sentinels were keeping a vigilant watch, but that they might be able to discover treachery should any have been attempted. They had one evening gone to the top of Hengist's Tower, a spot they were especially fond of visiting at all hours of the day and night, when they saw the hitherto dark sky to the southward suddenly illumined by bright flashes of light following one another in rapid succession.
"Hark, I can hear the roar of guns," exclaimed Berthold. They listened, there was no doubt about it. The flashes continued, now fires blazed up in various directions. There was more firing, not always in the same place, the tide of battle was evidently moving on. The lads were at length joined by several citizens.
"The Sea Beggars are coming!" shouted Albert, unwittingly, "they are fighting their way towards us."
"We must not be too sanguine," observed one of the citizens. "There may be fighting taking place, but we cannot tell who is gaining the victory. It may be that the Spaniards are driving back our friends."
"I am very sure that they are not," cried Albert. "Admiral Boisot and his gallant followers are victorious--of that I am certain."
"Count Louis and his whole army were cut to pieces not long ago," remarked this citizen, in a melancholy tone. The mystery was not solved that night, and the whole of the next day went by without any information having been received of what had taken place.
The following night the two lads were passing along the top of the wall in the neighbourhood of the Cowgate, looking southward, when they caught sight of the figure of a person close below them who had suddenly come into view.
"Send me down a rope and be quick about it, or I may be caught by the Spaniards, for they are close upon me," he exclaimed.
"They will scarcely venture within range of our guns," said Berthold. "But we will haul you up as soon as we can get a rope."
"I know where to find one not far off," said Albert, and he hurried away, while Berthold summoned two or three of the guard to the assistance of the stranger. Albert quickly returned with a rope of sufficient length and strength. Scarcely was it lowered when the stranger hauled himself up with the agility of a monkey.
"Don't you remember me?" he said, looking at Berthold. "I am Hans Bosch, you know that you can trust me; I have accompanied Captain Van der Elst, and he will be up here before long. I have led the Spanish guard a pretty dance to draw off their attention, that he might the more easily pass by them. I don't think they are likely to have caught him, though if he does not appear soon I must go back again. I know part of his message, which I may give if he does not appear, but I hope that he will deliver it himself."
This news so greatly excited Berthold and Albert that they were much inclined to set out with Hans to look for their friend, but he advised them to do nothing of the sort.
"They might as well try to catch a Will-o'-the-Wisp as me," he said, "but they would trap you in a moment. No, no; if I go, I go alone."
At length, to their great joy, another figure was seen.
"Quick! quick! That's him!" exclaimed Hans. "That's the captain. Quick! quick! The chances are he has a dozen Spaniards at his heels!"
The rope was lowered, and the captain was quickly hauled up to to the top of the wall. He shook Albert and Berthold warmly by the hand.
"I must lose no time," he said, "in reporting to the burgomaster and commandant the steps the Prince has taken for the relief of the city. You are undoubtedly eager to hear, but I must reserve my report for your ciders."
The two lads hastened on with their friend, and fortunately found the burgomaster in consultation with the commandant. The boys stood eagerly listening while the captain delivered his message.
"You heard that the admiral had received directions from the Prince to take possession of the Land-Scheiding. This was done two nights ago. But a few Spaniards were found stationed on the dyke, and they were quickly driven off when we fortified ourselves upon it. In the morning the enemy endeavoured to recover the lost ground, and attacked us in considerable force, but we drove them back, they leaving hundreds of dead on the field. No time was lost in breaking through the dyke in several places. The water rushing on, the fleet sailed through the gaps; but, to our disappointment, we found another dyke, that of the Greenway, three quarters of a mile further on, rising at least a foot above the waters. This had also been left ill-protected, and our admiral promptly attacking it, took possession, and levelling it in many places, brought the flotilla over its ruins. Soon afterwards, however, the further progress of the fleet was arrested by the shallowness of the water; but our admiral, knowing the anxiety you must be feeling, dispatched me to inform you of this, and to assure you that he waits but the rising of the tide and a favourable wind to bring you succour."
The news was thus far satisfactory, and the captain was warmly thanked for bringing it, but that he received his reward when at the burgomaster's invitation he accompanied him home, there could be little doubt.
The wind, however, still blew from the east, and the inhabitants well knew that as long as it came from that quarter they must look in vain for the wished-for ocean to reach their walls.
Day after day the siege continued; the inhabitants were suffering not only from famine, but from pestilence, produced by the scantiness of their food. Hapless infants were starved to death, mothers dropped dead in the streets with their dead children in their arms, and in many a house the watchmen in their rounds found whole families of corpses, father, mother, and children, lying side by side, struck down by pestilence. Bread, malt cake, and horse-flesh had entirely disappeared. A small number of cows had been kept as long as possible for their milk, but a few of these were killed from day to day, and distributed in minute proportions, scarcely, however, sufficient to support life among the famishing population, while their hides chopped and boiled were greedily devoured. Green leaves were stripped from the trees, every living herb was converted into human food; dogs and rats were caught and eaten. Still, although papers offering a free pardon were sent into the city, the inhabitants spurned them, and refused to listen to treacherous promises of the foe.
The commandant was anxious to send a trusty messenger to the Prince, and while pointing out the urgent necessity for relief, promising to resist to the last.
"Will you return, Captain Van der Elst?" he asked of Karl, who was in attendance on him. "I dare not order any man on so desperate an undertaking, for the Spaniards keep a vigilant watch, and will have no mercy on any one whom they capture."
"If it were to certain death, I would go," answered Karl. "And I place my services at your disposal. At the same time the danger is not so great as you suppose. Several of the forts in the lower ground have been flooded, and the trenches filled with water, so that the Spaniards have been compelled to evacuate them, and thus to those who are acquainted with their position the way is far more open than it has been heretofore, while numerous sentries at the outposts have been withdrawn."
"To-night be prepared to set out; a skiff shall be in readiness having served at sea, you know well how to manage her," answered the commandant.
Karl took his leave, and repaired to the house of the burgomaster to receive any message he might desire to send. He might have had another motive. He found the chief magistrate and his daughter seated alone. Though suffering from the severe privation she had undergone in common with the rest of the population, if possible the Lily looked more lovely than ever. She smiled as the young soldier entered, but her lip trembled on hearing of the duty he had undertaken, yet not a word did she utter to dissuade him from it.
"My prayers will be offered that Heaven protect you," she murmured, in a low voice as he approached her, while the burgomaster was writing some brief notes.
"I trust that I may return, perhaps ere many hours are over, on board the fleet to bring you succour," he answered. "You will know of our approach, for our guns will thunder against the fortresses of the enemy when the waters rise sufficiently to enable us to advance."
"The wind still blows from the cast and keeps back the fleet," she observed.
"But the wind may ere long change, and depend upon it our brave admiral and his `Sea Beggars' will not linger the moment there is sufficient water to float their ships," said Karl, in an encouraging tone. When her eyes were lifted towards his countenance, their expression was very different to that with which she had regarded the baron. With natural reluctance Karl, having received his dispatches, at length rose to take leave and prepare for his enterprise. As there were traitors within the gates he kept all his arrangements secret. They were known only to his two young friends and Hans Bosch, who undertook to accompany him. Not till late on the following day was it even known that he had set out when the burgomaster announced that he had despatched another messenger to entreat their friends to hasten to their relief. Desperate as had been the state of matters in the besieged city, they hourly became worse. Leyden, indeed, appeared to be at its last gasp. The noble burgomaster maintained his heroic bearing, ever moving about to encourage the wavering and to revive the drooping spirits of the loyal; but a trial greater than any he had yet had to endure was in store for him.
Jaqueline had from the first employed herself in going among the sick and suffering, and carrying such relief as she was able to afford, and consoling the afflicted ones from that Book in which true comfort alone can be found. In these active duties she found her chief solace. Not only was she enduring physical suffering! but no certain tidings had been received of Captain Van der Elst, and reports were current that he had been captured by the Spaniards, it being well known that if such was the case a cruel death must have been his fate. One evening the Lily was returning to her home from one of her expeditions of mercy, attended by Margaret, an old and faithful servant, who was her constant companion. As darkness was already overspreading the city, she hurried on, unwilling to be out so late at night, when she was accosted by a poor woman, who, with a piteous tale, too likely to be true, entreated that she would visit her perishing family. Without hesitation she desired Margaret to return home and obtain such scanty provisions as remained, while she accompanied the suppliant. Margaret, having collected a small amount of food, hurried back to rejoin her mistress at the address given by the woman who had spoken to her, but no living beings were in the house; three corpses alone lay on the floor. Margaret, without a moment's loss of time, went to all the neighbouring houses, inquiring for the Vrouw Jaqueline, but no one had seen her. Almost frantic she hurried through the streets of the city, but her search was fruitless. At last she went back with the overwhelming intelligence, which she entreated Berthold to break to his uncle. The burgomaster, who had hitherto held out so bravely, for a moment seemed stunned, but quickly recovering himself he directed Berthold to send all the servants of the house to him, but no one was able to afford the slightest information to account for Jaqueline's disappearance.
"I would lay my life that the Baron Van Arenberg has had something to do with it," exclaimed Berthold. "If you will let me I will get Albert and we will go to his house. We shall soon judge by the way he receives the intelligence whether he knows anything about the matter." Berthold received the leave he requested, while the burgomaster himself forthwith sent a band of watchmen round in all directions through the town in search of Jaqueline, while he called at numerous houses and visited all the friends on whom he could rely to obtain their assistance in the search. The first to make their appearance at his house were Albert and Berthold.
"We were right," they exclaimed. "The baron's servants know nothing of him; he left home at an early hour this afternoon, and has not since returned. Most of his domestics, who were `Glippers,' have long ago made their escape. The watchmen in the course of the night came in with equally unsatisfactory reports--not a trace of the Vrouw Jaqueline had been discovered."
"May God protect my child," exclaimed the burgomaster, bowing his head. "She is beyond human aid."
No one would have believed from his appearance the next morning, when he left his home to attend to his magisterial duties, that a deep domestic sorrow had overtaken him. He started as he quitted his door, for there, on the very threshold, lay a dead body, thus placed as if to reproach him for his stern determination in holding out.
"We shall all soon be like him who lies there," cried many voices.
"It were better to have yielded than have been compelled to endure such suffering," shouted others.
Unheeding them, the burgomaster proceeded to a triangular space in the centre of the town, into which many of the principal streets opened, and in which stood the church of Saint Pancras, two ancient lime trees growing on either side of the entrance now stripped bare of leaves by the famishing people. Ascending the steps, Adrian Van der Werf stopped while he regarded the numberless angry faces turned towards him. For a moment he stood there, his figure tall and imposing, his visage dark and haggard, his eye yet tranquil and commanding, and then waving his broad-brimmed hat for silence, he exclaimed, "What would you, my friends? Why do you murmur that we do not break our vows and surrender our city to the Spaniards, a fate more horrible than the agony which she now endures? I tell you I have made a vow to hold the city, and may God give me strength to keep it. I can die but once, whether by your hands, by the enemy's, or by the hand of God. My own fate is indifferent to me, not so that of the city entrusted to our care. I know that we shall soon starve, but starvation is preferable to the dishonoured death which is the only alternative. Your menaces move me not. My life is at your disposal. Here is my sword, plunge it into my breast and divide my flesh among you, take my body to appease your hunger, but expect no surrender as long as I remain alive."
The words of the brave burgomaster inspired a new courage in the hearts of those who heard him. Shouts of applause and defiance rose from the famishing, but enthusiastic crowd, they hurried to the ramparts to hurl renewed defiance at the enemy.
"Ye call us rat-eaters and dog-eaters," they cried; "so long as ye hear a dog bark or a cat mew within the walls ye may know that the city holds out; when the last hour has come, we will with our own hands set fire to the houses and perish in the flames rather than suffer our homes to be polluted and our liberties to be crushed."
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{
"id": "23189"
}
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8
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None
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Truly it has been said that Leyden was sublime in its despair. Day after day went by and yet no relief came, but the wind, which had long blown steadily from the cast, suddenly changed to the westward. At length Albert and Berthold, who had regularly visited Jaqueline's tower, discovered the fourth pigeon. They eagerly examined its wing, beneath it was a letter which came from the admiral. The fleet had reached North Aa, and in a few days at furthest he expected to reach the gates of the city. The burgomaster read the letter as before in the market-place, and the bells rang out a joyous peal. Once more, however, the wind shifted, and the hopes of the garrison of Leyden sank to the lowest ebb.
We must now return to the evening when Jaqueline, having sent her attendant Margaret to obtain provisions for the suffering family, accompanied the woman who had supplicated her. Suddenly, as she was passing close to a canal, she found herself lifted from her feet, while a thick cloak was thrown over her. In vain she attempted to shriek for help, in another instant she heard the splash of oars.
"Do not fear, you are in the safe keeping of one who desires to save you from horrible suffering and death," whispered a voice in her ear. Notwithstanding these assurances, Jaqueline entreated that she might be placed on shore, and endeavoured by her cries to attract the attention of any who might be passing. Vain were her efforts, the thick folds of the cloak prevented her voice being heard, while a heavy mist, together with the shades of night, shrouded the canal as the boat glided forward. Jaqueline knew that the canal extended out beneath the city walls, and she hoped that the boat would be challenged as it passed under them and be compelled to put to shore. Keeping silent, she resolved to take the opportunity of making another effort to escape from her captors; as the spot was approached, however, she felt a hand pressed on her mouth. In vain she struggled to free herself, she heard the sign and counter-sign given, and the boat impelled by four sturdy rowers soon left the city walls behind. Strange as it might seem, thinking more of the safety of her townsmen than of herself, the idea occurred to her that if persons could thus, undiscovered, leave the city, an armed force might be introduced by the gates, and disastrous might be the consequences. She was, she had reason to fear, being carried to the Spanish camp, but who could have been guilty of so treacherous an act? She was not left long in doubt, the person who had before addressed her in a subdued tone now raised his voice, and she recognised it as that of Van Arenberg. For some time she could not sufficiently command herself to speak, at length, however, she said in a calm tone, "I will not pretend to be ignorant that it is you who have committed this unwarrantable act of violence, and I insist that you carry me back to the city and restore me to my father, his mental anxiety already so overwhelming, when he finds that I am lost, may bring him to the grave."
"I have but acted, my beloved Jaqueline, as you would secretly wish, to save you from that destruction which must, ere many days have passed, descend on the city. My object is to carry you to a place of safety, all I ask being your hand and love."
"The former I will not give, the other I cannot bestow," answered Jaqueline, firmly. "Had I before been willing in obedience to my father's wishes to try and love you, the outrage you have committed would have changed my sentiments, and I again insist that you return with me to the city."
"To do so is utterly impossible," answered Van Arenberg. "The sentries, as we passed beneath the fortress of Zoeterwoude, nearly detected the boat, and we should certainly be captured were we to make the attempt. We will now, therefore, proceed towards Delft, where you will be among friends, and safe from the foes you dread."
Jaqueline greatly doubted that the baron spoke the truth. Again and again she insisted, notwithstanding all the risks they might run, that they should return to the city. She saw at length that all expostulation was useless, the darkness of night prevented her from observing the direction they were taking. Suddenly the sound of heavy guns broke on her ear, followed by the rattle of musketry. Looking southward she saw bright flashes glancing over the water in rapid succession; she thought, too, that she could even hear the shouts of the combatants, the clashing of swords and battle-axes. It was evident that a fierce fight was raging in that direction. The rowers, who had hitherto been exerting themselves to the utmost, paused, and exchanged a few hurried words. It appeared to her that they had lost their way, for many new channels, deepened by the inflowing waters, branched off on every hand.
Van Arenberg ordered them to row on.
"In what direction shall we go?" asked one of the men. "We may chance to run our noses into the lion's den. See, fires are blazing on all sides, and friends and foes are likely to treat us in the same fashion." Van Arenberg, anxious for Jaqueline's safety, and perhaps for his own, urged his crew to row away from the point where the engagement appeared to be raging most furiously. Already round shot and bullets came flying across the water, and a stray one might chance to hit the boat. The men appeared undecided which way to go, when one of them cried out, "There's a boat astern! She may, perchance, be that of an enemy, and if so we shall to a certainty be knocked on the head."
"Row then for your lives!" cried Van Arenberg, for he had equally to fear the Hollanders and Spaniards; the latter, not aware of his treachery, might, before he could show his pass, shoot him down or run him through with their pikes, while his own countrymen would treat him as a hated renegade. The crew, needing no second bidding, bent to their oars with all the strength they possessed. Their flight was, however, discovered by the boat they had seen, which immediately gave chase. Jaqueline believed that their pursuers were Spaniards, and was as eager to escape as the baron, but sturdily as the crew of the villagers whom he had hired plied their oars, the others came on faster. The night was so dark that it was impossible to distinguish objects ahead. At any moment they might find themselves stranded on the shore, or stopped by some impassable shallow. The baron now urged the men to be cautious, now to row with might and main.
Ever and anon the glare from the burning villages, and from fires on the dykes, showed that the boat in chase was gaining on them.
"It were far better to stop and fight," cried the chief man of the crew. "As to escaping, there is no chance of that in the end, for the fellows astern have a much lighter boat than ours."
"Fifty guilders if you beat them off," cried the baron. "Lady, you must lie down at the bottom of the boat, or you may chance to be struck by a shot, or injured by the pikes of our pursuers, should they overtake us."
"I fear less the weapons of our foes than I do your designs," answered Jaqueline, with a tone of scorn, retaining her seat. There was little time to hold parley on the subject. In another moment the boat was alongside, and a voice in Dutch shouted, "Yield! inform us whither you are bound."
"Treachery! treachery!" cried the baron. "They are Spaniards; we may yet escape them."
But Jaqueline recognised the voice. "Karl," she exclaimed, "save me, save me!" and she sprang towards the boat.
Van Arenberg would have prevented her reaching it, but his sword whirled from his hand, the next instant he was driven overboard by a thrust from a pike through his breast. A despairing cry was heard, and before the people could clutch his clothes he was swept away by the current. In a few words Jaqueline told of the outrage to which she had been subjected. Captain Van der Elst accounted for the circumstance of his having so providentially rescued her by saying that he had been sent to reconnoitre the enemy's position, and supposing that the boat was manned by Spaniards he had given chase. She entreated that he would proceed in his duty.
"No harm can come to me while I am by your side," she said, scarcely thinking of the interpretation which might be put upon the words she uttered. He pressed her hand. Having ordered the villagers' boat to follow at a distance, warning them of the punishment they would receive should they attempt to escape, he continued on till he had performed the duty on which he had been despatched. Morning was approaching when he returned to the fleet, which had just broken through the second great dyke and destroyed the villages of Zoetermeer and Benthuyzen, and now borne on by the rising waters was advancing towards Leyden. Karl conveyed Jaqueline on board the admiral's ship, manned by a savage-looking crew, the wild Beggars of the Sea. Ferocious, however, as they were to their foes, to her they were civil and courteous. Eight hundred of them, mostly Zealanders, manned the fleet. The greater number were scarred, hacked, and even maimed in the unceasing conflicts in which their lives had been passed, while they were renowned far and wide as much for their nautical skill as their ferocity. Their appearance was both eccentric and terrific; they wore crescents in their caps with the inscription, "Rather Turkish than Popish." They were known never to give nor take quarter; they went to mortal combat only. They had sworn to spare neither noble nor simple, neither King, Kaiser, nor Pope, should they fall into their power. Each ship carried ten guns, and was propelled, the smaller by ten, the larger by eighteen oars, the whole fleet having on board 2,500 veterans, experienced both on land and water. Jaqueline was conducted to the admiral's cabin; it boasted neither of magnificence nor elegance; indeed, very little of comfort, for the vessels had been fitted out for rough work, and no ladies had been expected on board. The stout old admiral welcomed his guest.
"You may rest here in security, my pretty maiden," he said; "and I trust ere many days are over to restore you to the arms of your brave father."
Not long afterwards the order was issued for the fleet once more to advance, and Jaqueline's heart beat high with hope, for the second dyke was attacked. The Spaniards, scarcely stopping to encounter the enemy, flung away their arms as they saw the dreaded sea rovers approaching. The barrier was quickly broken, and again the fleet pushed forward over the submerged country till it reached North Aa. Scarcely, however, had the ships arrived there than once more the easterly wind began to blow, driving the waters away from the city. Lower and lower they sank, until the ships grounded, and further progress became impossible. The delay sorely tried the patience of the eager crews, and many leaping into the water, attempted to lift their ships over the shallows, but their strength was unequal to the task. There they lay stranded, with scarcely nine inches of water round them. Jaqueline's anguish of mind was increased from knowing too well the consequences of the delay to the starving inhabitants of the beleaguered city. Though confident of the resolution of her father and the commandant, she was aware of the direful effect which starvation had already produced among the inhabitants. Would they continue to hold out? Ten thousand Spaniards still surrounded the walls, and at any moment might break in, and massacre and rapine would sweep over her native city. Night and day she prayed that the dreaded catastrophe might be averted, yet day after day passed, and the fleet lay in sight of the walls, but too far distant for their cannon to reach the enemy. Even Admiral Boisot was in despair. He despatched a letter to the Prince, stating his belief that if the spring tides, soon to be expected, should not, together with the strong south-westerly wind, come immediately to their relief, he should be compelled to abandon the expedition. Not many hours after the letter had been despatched a large boat was seen rowing swiftly towards the fleet from the southward. She soon came alongside the admiral's ship. A cry, "It is the Prince! our noble Prince," burst from the throats of the sea rovers as they welcomed him on board, though they observed with sorrow that his commanding figure was fearfully emaciated, his noble face pale as death. He had, indeed, only just risen from a bed of sickness, and few knew how near to death's door he had been, his disease aggravated by a report which had reached him that Leyden had fallen, yet all the time he had been directing the plans for bringing the fleet across the land. His countenance assumed a cheerful aspect as he spoke to the almost despairing admiral and his officers.
"I know the people of Leyden," he said, "they will hold out till you can reach them. Ere long the sea will rise. Already the water is deeper than when I came on board."
The Prince was right, he had observed clouds gathering in the south-western horizon, and ere long a strong wind from that quarter began to blow, the tide flowed in, the water swept over the dykes, cheers rose from the throats of the seamen. Once more their ships were afloat, sails were spread, the oars run out, and now they went gliding on led by the "Ark of Delft," until Zoetermeer was reached. Here a desperate effort was made by the Spaniards to stop their progress, but that village and others in the neighbourhood were attacked, the enemy driven out, and they were set on fire. The blaze lighted up the midnight sky, announcing to the fainting garrison that relief was approaching. Barrier after barrier was passed, and for many an hour in the midst of the howling storm and pitchy darkness a fierce battle raged. The victorious Hollanders pushed further on, but still two forts of great strength, those of Zoeterwoude and Lammen, lay between them and the city, garrisoned by the enemy's best troops and armed with heavy artillery. They must be captured before the city could be gained. Stout as were the rovers' hearts, their vessels, though large, were slightly built, and, except the "Ark of Delft," were incapable of standing the heavy shot which would be hurled against them. The Spanish vessels, hitherto kept in reserve, advanced to the fight, but were quickly sunk, their crews miserably perishing, and ere a shot was fired against Zoeterwoude the Spaniards were seen in full flight along the top of the dyke leading towards the Hague. The rovers followed, leaping from their vessels and slaying all whom they could overtake, many of the fugitives perishing in the fast advancing waves as the dykes crumbled beneath their feet. But yet another fort, that of Lammen, the strongest of all, remained, held by the main body of the enemy. The fleet approached, but the admiral dared not expose his ships to the storms of shot hurled towards them, and therefore waited for the return of night, resolving either to make a desperate assault--though he almost despaired of success--or, should the waters rise, to carry his ships round by a circuitous way to the opposite side; but this as yet the depth of water would not allow.
That day was one of the deepest anxiety, although the rain and wind which came from the south-west were undoubtedly causing the waters to rise. As evening drew on the storm increased, the night became darker and darker. Loud crashes were heard, lights were seen flitting across the black face of the waters proceeding from the direction of the fort, but no one could account for the cause of these sounds and appearances. At length a fearful report ran through the fleet that the enemy had burst into the city, and thus that all the efforts they had made were in vain. Still the strange lights appeared and vanished in the darkness; what they portended no one could say. At dawn the admiral issued the order to assault the fortress; the eager crews sprang into their boats fully expecting a desperate encounter, but no shot saluted them, all was silent within. Had the Spaniards really then, at the last moment, captured the city? The fleet pushed on, though it was believed that some fearful treachery was intended and that they might suddenly be attacked by an overwhelming force.
As soon as the ships got near enough, Captain Van der Elst, who had undertaken to lead the assault, plunging into the waters waded towards the fort. As he was striding on a voice from the summit hailed him and he saw young Albert Van der Does who, having crossed from the city and climbed to the top of the embankment, was waving his cap and loudly cheering. Karl soon joined him, and they were in time to see the rearguard of the Spaniards escaping towards the Hague. Albert's shouts quickly attracted the attention of the inhabitants of Leyden and gave them the first intimation that the enemy had fled. In a few minutes, led by Albert, Karl was in the presence of the burgomaster, and had assured him both of the success of their enterprise and of his daughter's safety.
"God be praised, for He has fought for us," exclaimed the burgomaster. "Had not the Spaniards fled when they did, what earthly powers could have prevented them from entering our city?" And he pointed to a large portion of the wall which had fallen during the night and left a breach through which the foe might have poured into the streets. The fleet now sailed up through the canals, the famishing people who lined the quays stretching out their hands to receive the food bestowed on them by the rough Sea Beggars, many of whom dashed aside their tears as they beheld the emaciated forms of the citizens, the corpse-like look of the women and children, and heard their plaintive cries for food. The first act of the brave admiral and his crew was to repair to the great church, accompanied by the commandant, the chief magistrate, and other citizens, to return thanks for their success, then a hymn arose which was abruptly terminated by the sounds of weeping though the tears were those of joy and gratitude. Among the first to land, escorted by the brave Captain Van der Elst, who had returned on board for the purpose of conducting her to the shore, was the Lily of Leyden; he had the happiness of restoring her to her father's arms. The burgomaster, who had hitherto sternly refused to yield to the foe, melted into tears as he embraced his daughter, then turning to Captain Van der Elst, he said-- "You have proved yourself worthy of the fairest in the land; I can no longer refuse to bestow my daughter's hand on one who will, I am sure, in these times of danger protect her with his life."
Thus was Leyden saved after enduring a siege of five months, having experienced sufferings never surpassed by any recorded on the page of history. The Prince was the first to acknowledge the deep debt of gratitude Holland owed to the heroic fortitude of the noble burgomaster and his fellow-citizens. The people of Holland and Zealand, to show how much they were indebted to the citizens, established that university which, thus founded at the darkest period of their country's struggle, was in after times to become so celebrated. Imposing as were the ceremonies which took place on its establishment, the following winter they were, in the opinion of many, surpassed by the magnificence of the entertainment given on the occasion of the marriage of Captain Van der Elst and the fair Lily of Leyden.
THE END.
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{
"id": "23189"
}
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1
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THE WOLF TRAP.
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That Oowikapun was unhappy, strangely so, was evident to all in the Indian village. New thoughts deeply affecting him had in some way or other entered into his mind, and he could not but show that they were producing a great change in him.
The simple, quiet, monotonous life of the young Indian hunter was curiously broken in upon, and he could never be the same again. There had come a decided awakening; the circle of his vision had suddenly enlarged, and he had become aware of the fact that he was something more than he imagined. While, in his simple faith, he had paddled along the beautiful rivers, or wandered through the wild forests of his country, catching the fish or hunting the game, where at times he had heard the thunder's crash and seen the majestic tree riven by the lightning's power, and perhaps in these seasons of nature's wild commotion had "seen God in cloud and heard him in the wind," yet until very lately he had never heard of anything which had caused him to imagine that he was in any way allied to that Great Spirit, or was in any way responsible to him.
What was the cause of this mental disquietude, of these long hours of absorbing thought?
To answer these inquiries we must go back a little, and accompany him on a hunting trip which he made in the forest months ago.
Hearing from some other hunters of a place where grey wolves were numerous, and being ambitious to kill some of these fierce brutes, that he might adorn his wigwam with their warm skins, he took his traps and camping outfit and set out for that region of country, although it was more than two hundred miles away. Here he found tracks in abundance, and so before he made his little hunting lodge in the midst of a spruce grove, he set his traps for the fierce wolves in a spot which seemed to be a rallying place of theirs. As they are very suspicious and clever, he carefully placed two traps close together and sprinkled them over with snow, leaving visible only the dead rabbits which served as bait. Then scattering more snow over his own tracks as he moved away, in order to leave as little evidence of his having been there as possible, he returned to his little tentlike lodge and prepared and ate his supper, smoked his pipe, and then wrapping himself up in his blanket was soon fast asleep. Very early next morning he was up and off to visit his traps. His axe was slipped in his belt, and his gun, well loaded, was carried ready for use if necessary. When he had got within a few hundred yards of the place where he had set his heavy traps, he heard the rattling of the chains which were attached to them, each fastened to a heavy log. This sound, while it made his heart jump, was very welcome, for it meant that he had been successful. When he drew near the spot where he had set the traps, he found that a fierce old wolf, in trying to get the rabbit from one of them without springing it, had got caught in the other, and although both of his hind legs were held by the sharp teeth of the trap, he had managed to drag it and the heavy log fastened to it to quite a distance.
When Oowikapun drew near, the wolf made the most desperate efforts to escape; but the strong trap held him securely, and the heavy log on the chain made it impossible for him to get far away.
Oowikapun could easily have shot him, but ammunition was dear and the bullet hole in the skin would be a blemish, and the sound of the gun might scare away the game that might be near; so he resolved to kill the wolf with the back of his axe. Better would it have been for him if he had shot him at once. So putting down his gun he took his axe out of his belt and cautiously approached the treacherous brute. The sight of the man so near seemed to fill him with fury, and, unable to escape, he made the most desperate efforts to reach him. His appearance, was demoniacal, and his howls and snarls would have terrified almost anybody else than an experienced, cool-headed hunter.
Oowikapun, seeing what an ugly customer he had to deal with, very cautiously kept just beyond the limits of the fearful plunges which the chain would allow the wolf to make, and keenly watched for an opportunity to strike him on the head. So wary and quick was the wolf that some blows received only maddened without disabling him.
Oowikapun at length, becoming annoyed that he should have any difficulty in killing an entrapped wolf, resolved to end the conflict at once with a decisive blow; and so with upraised axe he placed himself as near as he thought safe, and waited for the infuriated brute to spring at him. But so much force did the entrapped brute put into that spring that it carried the log attached to the chain along with him, and his sharp, glittering fang-like teeth snapped together within a few inches of Oowikapun's throat, and such was the force of the concussion that he was hurled backward, and ere he could assume the aggressive, the sharp teeth of the wolf had seized his left arm, which he threw up for defence, and seemed to cut down to the very bone, causing intense pain. But Oowikapun was a brave man and cool-headed, so a few blows from the keen edge of the axe in his right hand finished his foe, whose only weapons were his sharp teeth, and he was soon lying dead in the snow; but his beautiful skin was about worthless as a robe on account of the many gashes it had received, much to the annoyance of Oowikapun, who had not dreamed of having so severe a battle.
The traps were soon reset and Oowikapun, with the heavy wolf on his back, set out for his camp. As he had set some smaller traps for minks and martens in a different direction, he turned aside to visit them. This would cause him to return to his camp by another trail. While moving along under his heavy load he was surprised to come across the snowshoe tracks of another hunter. He examined them carefully, and decided that they were made by some person who must have passed along there that very morning, early as it was.
As the trail of this stranger, whoever it could be, was in the direction of the traps which Oowikapun wished to visit, he followed them up. When he reached his traps he found that a mink had been caught in one of them, but the stranger had taken it out and hung it up in plain sight above the trap on the branch of a tree. Then the stranger, putting on fresh bait, had reset the trap. Of course Oowikapun was pleased with this, and delighted that the stranger, whoever he was, had acted so honestly and kindly toward him.
Fastening the mink in his belt he hurried on to his camp as fast as he could under his heavy load, for his wounded arm had begun to swell and was causing him intense pain. His stoical Indian nature would have caused him to withstand the pain with indifference, but when he remembered how the wolf, maddened by his capture, had wrought himself up into such a frenzy that his mouth was all foaming with madness when he made that last desperate spring and succeeded in fastening his fangs in his arm, he feared that perhaps some of the froth might have got into his arm, and unless some remedies were quickly obtained, madness might come to him, to be followed by a most dreadful death.
But what could he do? He was several days' journey from his own village, and many miles from any hunter of his acquaintance. He had, in his vanity, come alone on this hunting expedition, and now alone in the woods, far away from his friends, here he is in his little hunting lodge, a dangerously wounded man.
Fortunately he had taken the precaution of sucking as many of the wounds as he could reach with his mouth, and then had bound a deerskin thong on his arm above the wound as tightly as he could draw it.
Very few, comparatively, were the diseases among the aboriginal tribes of America before the advent of the white man. Their vocation as hunters, however, rendered them liable to many accidents.
Possessing no firearms, and thus necessarily obliged to come in close contact with the savage beasts in their conflict with them, they were often severely wounded.
Fortunate was it for the injured one if he had companions near when the bone was fractured or the flesh torn. If, when accidents occur, the injuries are not considered very desperate, a little camp is improvised and with a day or two of rest, with some simple remedies from nature's great storehouse--the forest--a cure is quickly effected. If a leg or arm is broken, a stretcher of young saplings is skillfully prepared, interwoven with broad bands of soft bark, and on this elastic, easy couch the wounded man is rapidly carried to his distant wigwam by his companions.
When there are but two persons, and an accident happens to one of them, two young trees that are tough and elastic are used. Then tops of small branches are allowed to remain, and very much diminish the jolting caused by the inequalities of the ground. No carriage spring ever more successfully accomplished its purpose. A couple of cross bars preserve the saplings in position, and the bark of some varieties of shrubs or trees cut into bands and joined to either side forms a comfortable couch. In this way an injured man has often been dragged many miles by his companion, and in some instances it has been found on his arrival at his forest home that the fractured bones were uniting, and soon the limb was whole again.
With these healthy, simple children of the forest wounds heal with great rapidity and fractured bones soon unite. This reparative power of the Indians when injured is only paralleled by the wonderful stoicism with which they bear injuries, and at times inflict upon themselves the severest torture. With flints as substitutes for lances, they will cut open the largest abscesses to the very bone. They will amputate limbs with their hunting knives, checking the haemorrhage with red-hot stones as was done long years ago by the surgeons of Europe.
With marvellous nerve many a wounded hunter or warrior has been known to amputate his own limb, or sew up with sinew the gaping wounds received in conflict with the hostile foe or savage beast. They were cognisant of the value, and extensively used warm fomentations. If rheumatism or other kindred diseases assailed them, the Turkish bath in a very simple form was often used. Sometimes a close tent of deerskins served the purpose. The patient was put in a little tent where, in a hollow under him, heated stones were placed, over which water was thrown until the confined air was heated to the required temperature and saturated with the steam.
Oowikapun had fortunately broken no bones in his battle with the savage wolf, but he knew that his wounds were dangerous. Some of them were so situated in his arm that he could not reach them with his mouth in order that he might suck out the poisonous saliva of the wolf that he feared might be in them, and it now being in the depth of winter, he could not obtain the medicinal herbs which the Indians use as poultices for dangerous wounds of this description.
While brooding over his misfortune he suddenly remembered the snowshoe tracks of the stranger, and at once resolved to try and find his lodge, and secure help. To decide was to act. The few preparations necessary were soon made, and taking the most direct route to the spot where he had last seen the trail of the stranger he was soon in it. He was uncertain at first whether to go backward or forward on it in order to reach the wigwam, for he had not the remotest idea whether these tracks led to it or from it. But his native shrewdness came into play to solve the question. First he noticed from the way the shoes sunk in the snow that the man was carrying a heavy load; next he observed that the tracks were not like those of a hunter going out from his home, moving about cautiously locking for game, but were rather those of a man well loaded from a successful hunt, and pushing on straight for home with his burden. Quickly had he read these things and arrived at his conclusions; so he resolved to go on with the trail, and he was not disappointed. He had travelled only a few miles, ere in a pleasant grove of balsam trees, on the borders of a little ice-covered lake, he discovered, by the ascending smoke from the top, the wigwam of his unknown friend.
Without hesitancy he marched up to it, and lifting the large moose skin which served as its only door, he stooped down and entered in. A pleasant fire was burning on the ground in the centre, and partly circled around it was the Indian family. As though Oowikapun had been long looked for as an expected, honoured guest, he was cordially welcomed in quiet Indian style and directed to a comfortable place in the circle, the seat of the stranger. The pipe of peace was handed to him, and but few words were spoken until he had finished it.
Indian eyes are sharp, even if at times words are few; and it was not many minutes before the owner of the wigwam saw that something was wrong, and so he drew from him the story of the killing of the wolf and his fears that perhaps all the froth from his teeth had not been rubbed off by the leather shirt and other covering through which they had passed as they pierced into his arm.
If Oowikapun had travelled a thousand miles he could not have been more fortunate than he was in the man to whom he had gone; for this man was Memotas, the best Indian doctor in all that vast country, who, when his hunting seasons were over, spent his time in studying the medicinal qualities of the roots and herbs of the country which the Good Spirit had created for some good purpose, and then in being a benediction and a blessing to the afflicted ones by their use among them, with but very little fee or reward, as a general thing, in return.
Quickly did Memotas apply his remedies, both external and internal, for he knew the risks the man was running; and he gently insisted on his remaining in his wigwam as his guest for several days until he was recovered from his wounds. He would not even hear of his going to visit his traps, for fear of his heating his blood by the vigorous exercise, and thus aggravating the wounds. So Memotas himself looked after them, and several times returned with rich spoils of fur-bearing animals, which he gladly handed over to the grateful man.
These great kindnesses completely won the heart of Oowikapun, who considered himself very fortunate in finding so kind a friend in his hours of need. The kind-hearted wife of Memotas was also interested in Oowikapun, and did all she could to add to his comfort and hasten his recovery. The injured man had been surprised at the kindness and respect which Memotas constantly manifested toward her, and was amazed that he often asked her advice. He did not, as the married men with whom Oowikapun was acquainted, treat her unkindly, nor even consider her as much inferior to himself.
While Memotas's wife, whose Indian name was Meyooachimoowin, was very industrious, and kept her wigwam and her children tidy and clean, yet she was never considered as merely a drudge and a slave and left to do all the heavy work. Strange to say, she was not allowed to cut the wood in the forest and then drag it home. Neither did she carry the heavy buckets of water up from the lake, as other Indian women were accustomed to do. Nor did she go out into the woods, perhaps miles away, and carry home on her back the deer which her husband had shot. Memotas never would allow her to do anything of the kind. He did all this himself, and seemed even anxious to save her from fatigue and toil. Then when the meals were prepared she was not gruffly sent away to wait until the men had eaten, but with them and the children she sat down on terms of perfect equality.
Then, as regards the children, a boy and girl, whom they called Meyookesik and Sagastao, he noticed that the girl was just as much loved and petted as the boy, and even as kindly treated. This was a state of affairs entirely unknown in the wigwams of the pagan Indians. There the boys are petted and spoiled and early taught to be proud and haughty, and to consider that all girls and women, even their own sisters and mother, are much inferior to them, and only worthy of their kicks and contempt. The boys get the best of everything and are allowed to eat with the men first; while the poor women and girls have to wait until they are finished, and then be content with what is left, often not much; and even then they have to struggle with the dogs for the fragments. The result is they are often half starved.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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2
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A CONTRAST.
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Oowikapun was bewildered at the marvellous contrast between what he had been accustomed to witness in the wretched wigwams and lives of his own people and what he here saw in this bright little tent of Memotas. It was all so new and strange to him. Everybody seemed so happy. There were no rude words said by the boy to his mother and no tyrannising over his sister. With equal affection Memotas treated Meyookesik and Sagastao, and great indeed was his kindness and attention to his wife. At first Oowikapun's old prejudices and defective education as regards women almost made him believe that Memotas was lacking in brave, manly qualities to allow his wife and daughter to be on such loving terms of equality with himself and his son. But when he became better acquainted with him, he found that this was not the case.
Oowikapun could not then solve this question, neither did he until in after years he became a Christian.
There was one custom observed in the wigwam of Memotas that gave Oowikapun more surprise than any of these to which we have referred, for it was something which he had never heard of nor seen before. It was that in the morning and evening Memotas would take out of a bag a little book printed in strange characters, and read from it while his wife and children reverently and quietly sat around him and listened to the strange words. Then they would sing in a manner so different from the wild, droning, monotonous songs of the conjurers, that Oowikapun was filled with a strange feeling of awe, which was much increased when they all knelt down reverently on the ground and Memotas seemed to talk with the Great Spirit and call him his Father. Then he thanked him for all their blessings, and asked his forgiveness for everything they had done that was wrong, and he asked his blessing upon his family and everybody else, even upon his enemies, if he had any. Then he besought the Great Spirit to bless Oowikapun, and not only heal his wounds, but take the darkness from his mind and make him his child. He always ended his prayers by asking the Great Spirit to do all these things for the sake of his Son Jesus.
All this was very strange and even startling to Oowikapun. He had lived all his life in a land dark with superstition and paganism. The Gospel had as yet never been proclaimed there. The name of Jesus had never been heard in that wild north-land, and so as none of the blessedness of religion had entered into the hearts of the people, so none of its sweet, losing, elevating influences had begun to ennoble and bless their lives and improve their habits. So he pondered over what he witnessed and heard, and was thankful when the day's hunting was over, and Memotas would talk to him as they sat there on their robes around the fire, often for hours at a time. From him he learned how it was that they had so changed in many of their ways. Memotas told him of the coming to Norway House of the first missionary, the Reverend James Evans, with the book of heaven, the words of the Good Spirit to his children. He told him many of the wonderful things it speaks about, and that it showed how man was to love and worship God, and thus secure his blessing and favour. The little book which Memotas had was composed of the four gospels only. These Mr Evans had had printed at the village in Indian letters, which he had invented and called "syllabic characters." They are so easily learned by the Indians, that in a few weeks those who were diligent in their studies were able to read fluently those portions of the word of God already translated for them, as well as a number of beautiful hymns. Oowikapun had never heard of such things, and was so amazed and confounded that he could hardly believe that he was in his right mind, especially when Memotas, to try and give him some idea of the syllabic characters in which his little book was printed, made little sentences with a piece of coal on birch bark, and then handed them to his wife and children, who easily read out what had been written. That birch bark could talk, as he expressed it, was a mystery indeed.
When the time came for Oowikapun to return to his home Memotas went with him quite a distance. He had become very much interested in him, and being a happy Christian himself, he was anxious that this man, who had come to him and been benefited physically, should hear about his soul's need, and the great Physician who could heal all its diseases. Lovingly and faithfully he talked to him and urged him to accept of this great salvation. Then he asked him to kneel down with him, and there, alone with him and God, Memotas prayed earnestly that this dark pagan brother might yet come into the light of the blessed Gospel. Then he kissed him, and they parted, not to meet again for years.
Happy would it have been for Oowikapun if he had responded to Memotas's entreaties and become a Christian, but the heart is hard and blinded as well as deceitful, and the devil is cunning. So long, sad years passed by ere Oowikapun, after trying, as we shall see, other ways to find peace and soul comfort, humbled himself at the cross, and found peace in believing on the Lord Jesus Christ.
Oowikapun returned to his little lodge, rekindled the fire, and tried to enter upon his hunting life where he had left off when wounded by the wolf. He stretched the furs already secured, and then early next morning visited his traps and spent the rest of the day hunting for deer. His success was not very great; the fact is, what he had heard and witnessed during the days of his sojourn in the wigwam of Memotas had given him so much food for thought that he was not concentrating his mind on his work in a manner that would bring success. He would sometimes get into a reverie so absorbing that he would stop in the trail and strive to think over and over again what he had heard about the good book and its teachings. Very suddenly one day was he roused out of one of these reveries. He had gone out to visit some traps which he had set in a place where he had noticed the tracks of wild cats. While going along through a dense forest with his gun strapped on his back he got so lost in thought that his naturally shrewd instincts as a hunter, sharpened by practice, seemed to have deserted him, and he nearly stumbled over a huge, old she bear and a couple of young cubs. With a growl of rage at being thus disturbed the fierce brute rushed at him, and quickly broke up his reverie and brought him back to a sense of present danger. To unstrap his gun in time for its successful use was impossible, but the ever-ready sharp pointed knife was available, and so Oowikapun, accustomed to such battles, although never before taken so unexpectedly, sprang back to the nearest tree, which fortunately for him was close at hand. With a large tree at his back, and a good knife in his hand, an experienced Indian has the advantage on his side and can generally kill his savage antagonist without receiving a wound, but if attacked by a black bear in the open plain, when armed with only a knife, the hunter very rarely kills his enemy without receiving a fearful hug or some dangerous wounds.
One of the first bits of advice which an old, experienced Indian hunter gives to a young hunter, be he white or Indian, who goes out anxious to kill a bear, or who may possibly while hunting for other game be attacked by one, is to get his back up against a tree so large that if the bear is not killed by the bullet of his gun, he may be in the best possible position to fight him with his knife. It will be no child's play, for a wounded, maddened bear is a fierce foe. The black bear's method of trying to kill his human antagonist is quite different from that of the grizzly bear of the Rocky Mountains. The grizzly strikes out with his dreadful claws with such force that he can tear a man to pieces and is able to crush down a horse under his powerful blows, but the black bear tries to get the hunter in his long, strong, armlike fore legs, and then crush him to death. The hug of a bear, as some hunters know to their cost, is a warm, close embrace. Some who, by the quick, skillful use of their knives, or by the prompt arrival of a rescue party, have been rescued from the almost deathly hug, have told me how their ribs have been broken and their breastbones almost crushed in by the terrible embrace. I know of several who have been in such conflict, and although they managed to escape death by driving their knives into some vital spot, yet they had suffered so much from broken ribs and other injuries received, that they were never as strong and vigorous afterward. But with a good tree at his back, his trusty knife in his hand, and his brain cool, the advantage is all on the side of the hunter.
Among the many stories told of such conflicts, there is one by a Canadian Indian which shows that even the women know how to successfully conquer in these encounters. This hunter was out looking for game, and had succeeded in killing a deer, which he left in the woods with his wife, skinning it, while he returned to his wigwam for his sled on which to drag it home, as it was a large one. It was in the spring of the year and there was still snow on the ground. A great, hungry bear that had just left his den after his long winter's sleep of months, while prowling about looking for food, got on the scent of the blood of the newly killed deer, and following it up soon reached the spot where the Indian woman was skinning the animal. She had just time to spring up with the knife in her hand and back up against a tree before the half-famished brute sprang on the partly skinned animal and began devouring it. Seeing the woman so close, he seemed to think it best to get rid of her before eating his meat, so with a growl he rushed at her. He raised himself up on his hind legs and tried to get his fore paws around her, and thus crush her to death. She was a brave woman and knew what to do. Holding the knife firmly in her hand, she waited until his hot breath was in her face and he was trying to crowd his paws in between her back and the tree against which she was pressing herself with all her might, then with all her force she plunged the sharp pointed knife into his body in the region of his heart and gave it a quick, sharp turn. So thoroughly and well did she do her work that the great, fierce brute could only throw up his paws and fall over dead. The brave squaw had killed him without receiving a scratch herself, and when her husband returned with his sled he found that, not only had his wife skinned the deer, but also a big black bear.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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3
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OOWIKAPUN'S VISION.
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So Oowikapun, though taken off his guard for once, was soon himself again, and ere the infuriated brute could get her paws around him, one quick, vigorous thrust of his knife was sufficient; and his antagonist; armed only with teeth and claws, lay dead before him. So sudden had been the attack, and so quickly had come the deliverance, that for the first time in his life Oowikapun offered up as well as he could words of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit for his escape. In his own crude way and with the Indian's naturally religious instinct and traditions, he had believed in the existence of a Good Spirit, which he called Kissa-Manito; and also in the existence of a bad spirit, whose name was Muche-Manito; but in what little worship he had engaged heretofore he had endeavoured to propitiate and turn away the malice of the evil spirit, rather than to worship the Good Spirit, in whom all Indians believe, but about whom he had very vague ideas until his visit to the Christian hunter's wigwam. Now, however, even before he skinned the bear, as the result of that visit, he prayed to that Good Spirit, the giver of all his blessings, and was grateful for his deliverance. Would that he had continued trying to pray, even if he had received as yet but little instruction in the right way!
He was glad to get the meat and skin of the bear and also the two little cubs, which he easily captured alive. Bending down some small trees, he tied the greater portion of the meat in the tops and then let them swing up again, as he could not carry much back with him in addition to the skin and the two frisky little bears. This plan of _caching_ supplies in the tops of small trees, as the Indians call it, is almost the only way that things can be safely left in the woods where so many wild animals are prowling about. If the meat were put up in the branches of a large tree, the wolverines or wild cats would soon get on the scent of it, and being able to climb the trees, would quickly make short work of it. If buried in the ground, these animals, or perhaps the grey wolves, would soon get it; but bury it in the tops of the small trees which the animals cannot climb, and which they have not wit enough to cut down with their teeth, the _cache_ is safe until the owner comes for it.
Thus Oowikapun hunted until the season was almost ended; and then making a long light sled, he packed on it his furs and camping outfit, and the two little bears, which had become quite tame, and started out on his return journey to his far-away northern home. Loaded as he was, he saw it would take him several days to make the journey, and so he resolved to go a little out of his way and visit a village of Indians, at the meeting place of three rivers, and spend a little time with them, as they were of the same tribe as his own people, and some of them were distant relatives. Unfortunately for him they were in the midst of one of their superstitious dances. The dances and sacrifices of dogs were a kind of propitiatory offering to the Muche-Manito, the devil, to put him in good humour, so that he would not interfere with them and prevent their having great success in the coming spring hunt. Of course Oowikapun was invited to join in the dance, but much to their surprise he at first refused. This they could not understand, as in previous visits he had been eager to spring into the magic circle and display his agility and powers of endurance. When questioned as to his reasons for declining, he told them of his visit to the camp of Memotas and what he had heard and witnessed. They gathered around him and, Indianlike, patiently listened in silence until he had told them his story. Unfortunately it was not only received with incredulity, but with scorn. The men were astounded, and indignantly exclaimed: "So he lets his wife eat with him, does he? and cuts the wood himself, and carries the water and prays to the Kissa-Manito to bless his enemies, instead of trying to poison or shoot them! That is the white man's religion, is it? which that Memotas has accepted. Well, let him keep it. It is not what we want. As our fathers lived and died so will we. Don't be a fool, Oowikapun. You will be wanting one of our daughters one of these days to be your wife; then if you treat her like Memotas treats his, she will be coming back and telling our women all about it, and there will be a pretty fuss. O no; this will never do. You have had bad medicine thrown into your eyes, and you do not see straight."
Thus they answered him; and day after day they bantered him, until at length the poor fellow--anxious to follow the entreaties of Memotas, but as yet unconscious of the divine power which he might have had if only he had asked for it, and so lacking the strength to resist the entreaties of his heathen friends, especially when he heard from lying conjurers that even the black-eyed maidens were talking about his strange unwillingness to join in the religious ceremonies for success in the hunt--yielded to the tempter's power, and sprang into the circle, and with wild _abandon_ engaged in the dance. Madly and recklessly he danced to the monotonous drummings of the wicked old conjurers and medicine-men, who had been fearful that they were about to lose their grip upon him. A wild frenzy seemed to have entered into him, and so he danced on and on until even his hardened, stalwart frame could stand it no longer, and suddenly he fell upon the ground in a state of unconsciousness, and had to be carried away to a little wigwam, where on a bed of spruce branches he was left to recover consciousness when he might.
Such occurrences among the Indians in their wild state when celebrating some of their religious ceremonies, such as this devil worship or their sun or ghost dances, were not at all uncommon. Wrought up to a state of frenzy, some of these devotees ceased not their wild dancings day or night, sometimes for three days continuously; and then when utterly exhausted fell into a deathly swoon, which often continued for many hours. In this sad plight was poor Oowikapun.
For hours he remained more like a corpse than a living being, in a state of absolute unconsciousness, and without an apparent movement of either muscle or limb. After a time the mind began to act, and strange and distorted dreams and visions flitted through his disordered mind and troubled him. At first all was confusion and discord. Then there came to him something more like a vision than a dream, and so vividly was it impressed upon him that it was never forgotten.
Here it is as told me years after. Oowikapun dreamed that he was one of a large company of his people who were on a long journey, which all had to take. It led them over high mountains and trackless plains, along swift rivers and across stormy lakes, through great forests, where fierce wild beasts were ever ready to spring upon them, and where quaking bogs were in the way to swallow up those who were for a moment off their guard. The company was constantly diminishing as they journeyed on, for the dangers were so many that death in various forms was constantly cutting them off. The survivors, full of sadness, and hurried on by some irresistible impulse, could not stop long in the way. All they could do was to give those who had fallen a hasty burial and then join in the onward march.
Darker and darker became the sky, and worse and worse seemed the way; still they were impelled on and on. They had to cross the wide, stormy lakes, and in every one of them some of the party were lost. In every rough portage some fell fainting by the way, and sank down to rise no more. The crouching panther and the fierce wolves in the dense forests were ever on the alert, and many a man and woman, and even some of the little children, fell victims to these savage beasts. A feeling of sadness and despair seemed to take possession of all. Vainly they called upon the conjurers and medicine-men to get help from their Manitos to make the ways easier and their sorrows less, and to find out for them why they were travelling on this trail, and the place to which it led.
Very unsatisfactory were the answers which they received. They had no information to give about the trail; yet some said that they had heard from their forefathers that there was a place called the happy hunting grounds beyond the high mountains; but the way was long and dark, and they had no guide to lead them in the gloom, none to tell them how they could find the passes in the mountains. While thus almost broken-hearted in the way, the thought came to Oowikapun in his dream or vision that surely there must be a better trail than this rough one, wherein so many of the people were perishing so sadly. With this thought in his mind he resolved, if possible, to break away from the company, and try to find a safer path. If he failed in his efforts and perished miserably in his search, why, what did it matter? They were dying off very rapidly where they were, and things could not be worse.
Then if he succeeded in finding a better road, where the skies were bright, and the storms came not, and the portages were short and easily passed, and the breezes on the lakes only wafted them on their way, and no savage beasts lurked along the trail, and he could find some one who had been over the way, or could tell him that it ended well, and if he could succeed in getting his people in this better path, how rejoiced he and they would be!
Then it seemed in his dream that he made the effort to break away; but he told no one of what was in his heart or of his resolves, for he was afraid of being ridiculed by his comrades if he should try and then fail in his efforts. He found it very hard at first to get out from the old trail; but he persevered and succeeded, although but slowly at first. He found the way become smoother, and in some way which he could not understand help was being given him several times just when he needed it. Cheering words and sweet songs at times fell upon his ears, and made him forget that he was alone and footsore in this trying work; and once when his way led him over a great lake, and he was in a little boat in which it seemed impossible for him to reach the farther shore, and he was about to give up in despair, a strong, firm hand took the little helm, and soon he was safe at his landing place.
From this place the travelling was very much easier, and he journeyed on, ever looking for the safer trail for his people. Seeing before him a pleasant hill, he hurried to its summit, and there before him in the valley, stretching away in the distance on and on until lost in a golden cloud of brightness, like the sunlight on the waters, he saw a broad trail, smooth and beautiful, with a great company of happy people walking in it. As he observed more carefully, he saw that some were Indians, some white people, and some of other colours; but all seemed so happy, bright, and joyous, that Oowikapun wept as he thought of the unhappy condition of his own people in the other trail.
Wearied by his long journey, and charmed by the sight before him, he tarried there for hours, and then he thought he fell asleep; and while in this condition a man with a covered face came to him and gently aroused him, and seeing that he had been weeping, asked in gentle, sympathetic tones why he should weep while before him there was so much joy and gladness.
Touched by the kindly manner of the stranger, Oowikapun forgot his usual reserve, and told him all that was in his heart. While he talked the visitor listened in silence until he had told his sad story, and then heaving a sigh, that seemed full of sorrow, he said to Oowikapun: "Has not the Great Spirit pitied you and tried to help you? Did he not send you to the wigwam of one of his followers to give you some directions about getting in the better way? Is he not waiting and watching to see how you are using what knowledge you have secured? Why have you so soon forgotten your first lesson?" Then he quickly moved to go, and as he turned away the covering for an instant dropped from his face, and Oowikapun had a glimpse of it, and it vividly reminded him of Memotas.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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4
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A STRANGE BENEFACTOR.
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With a start Oowikapun awoke from his long sleep, confused and bewildered. So vivid had been his dream that it was some time before he could grasp his surroundings and come back to life's realities.
It was a night of intense darkness. Fierce, cold winds came shrieking out of the dense forest, and shook the little bark tent into which he had been thrown, and whistled through its many chinks, and made him shiver. No cheerful fire burned in the centre, and there was not a person in the wigwam to offer aid. Every bone and muscle in his body seemed to ache, and his mind was so distracted and his nerves unstrung that he was thoroughly miserable. He was nearly destitute of clothing, for he had been carried out from the circle just as he had danced and fallen, and now here he was nearly naked and shivering with the cold. Vainly he felt about for his fire bag, in which he carried his flint and steel, that he might strike a light; but in the inky darkness nothing could be found. Only a visitor in the village, he felt, with Indian reserve, that it would be a great breach of decorum and a sign of great weakness if he were to call out for help, and so, in spite of his aches and shiverings, he resolved that he would at least be a "brave," and patiently endure until the morning brought him light and friends.
Very long indeed to Oowikapun seemed that cold, dark night. The reaction had come, and physically and mentally he was to be pitied. His dance had carried him very near to the verge of the dance of death. And then owing to his vivid dream, although as yet he could not interpret much of it, there was the vague idea, as a haunting fear, that it had come to chide him for his cowardice in falling back and taking part in the devil dance, after having heard of the other way. Thus filled with sorrow there he sat on his rude bed of boughs, hour after hour, with his locked hands clasping his knees, and his head bowed down upon his breast.
The few sounds which broke the stillness of those hours or interrupted the sighing of the winds were not pleasant. A great owl ensconced in a tree not far away began and maintained for a long time its monotonous "hoot-a-hoot a-hoo," while away in the distant forest gloom, rising at times shrill and distinct above the fitful wind, he heard the wail of the catamount or panther, the saddest and most mournful sound that ever broke the solitude of forest gloom. A sound at times so like the shrieking wail of a child in mortal agony, that heard close at hand it has caused the face of many a brave wife of the backwoods settler, even when all her loved ones were safe with her within the strong walls of the log house, to blanch with terror and to cry out with fear. Its despairing wail seemed to poor Oowikapun as the echo of the feeling of his saddened heart.
But the longest night has an end, and to the patient watchers day dawn comes again. As the first rays of light began to enter through the cracks and crevices of the wigwam Oowikapun rejoiced greatly, and then fell into a heavy sleep.
When he awoke the camp fire was burning brightly on the ground before him, a warm blanket was over his shoulders, and food warm and inviting was ready for him near the fire.
It was very evident that some one had had compassion on him. Oowikapun rubbed his eyes, rose up and shook himself, and wondered whether this was a vision or a reality. His keen appetite, sharpened by long fasting, came to his help and naturally aided in the settling of the question; so he vigourously attacked the food, and, eating, was refreshed and comforted.
Just as he was finishing his meal, the deerskin door of his lodge was partially but noiselessly pulled aside, and his outer garments and Indian finery, including his prized fire bag, all of which he had thrown off at the beginning of the dance, were quickly placed inside the door. The thing was done so speedily and quietly that it nearly escaped his notice, sharp and quick as he was; but a draught of air coming in through the partly opened door caused him to turn and look, but he was only in time to see a hand and shapely arm, on which was a beautifully wrought bracelet of Indian beadwork, draw close again the curtainlike door.
It would have been considered a great breach of decorum if he had manifested any curiosity or had arisen to see who the person was to whom he was indebted for this kindness. So curbing all curiosity he finished his breakfast and put on his apparel, and strange to say, seemed anxious to be as presentable as possible. Then going out, he was soon greeted by his friends, who all began urging him to accept of their hospitalities and go and eat with them. When Oowikapun stated that he had eaten already a hearty meal, they were all astonished and amazed, and doubly so, when he told them of what had been done for him in the wigwam while he slept. Their heartless custom had ever been to leave the unconscious dancer alone and uncared for until he emerged from the tent, and then offer him their hospitalities; but here had been a strange innovation, and the question was immediately raised, Who has done this? But in spite of many inquiries, everybody seemed to be in ignorance.
Oowikapun's curiosity was now aroused, and he became exceedingly desirous of finding out who his benefactor was and expressing his gratitude. Among other plans that were suggested to his mind was to endeavour to find out who had taken charge of his clothing and fire bag while he was dancing in the tent. But even here, he failed to get any clue. Everybody seemed to have become so absorbed in the ceremonies of the dance, or in watching the endurance of the dancers, that all minor things were forgotten.
When the conjurers and medicine-men came to congratulate Oowikapun on his efforts, and called his dances "good medicine," a sudden feeling of abhorrence and repulsion came into his heart toward these men; and as quickly as he dared he turned from them in disgust, and resolved to get out of the village and away from their influence as soon as possible.
His few preparations were soon completed, and saying, "What cheer?" the Indian farewell, to his relatives, he securely fastened his little bears with his furs upon his sled, and throwing the strap over his shoulder, resumed the trail that led to his still distant home. Soon he was out of the village and in the forest. Snares and traps abounded on each side of the path, for the game was plentiful. Especially were the rabbits and white partridges, the beautiful ptarmigan, very abundant that winter and spring, and hundreds were caught in snares by the boys and women and girls; and so for a time he had the well-beaten trail over which these people travelled as they daily visited their snares.
On pushed Oowikapun until nearly every snowshoe track of these hunters had disappeared, and but few were seen, and the sense of being alone again in the forest, or nearly so, returned to him with depressing results. Rapidly and vividly did there pass through his memory the events of the last few days spent in the village just left behind; and especially did his singular dream come up before him, and a feeling of remorse filled his heart that he had yielded to the importunities of his pagan friends and had been persuaded to take any part in the dance. Then his thoughts went farther back, and he was with Memotas again, and the memory of their last walk came up so distinctly, and especially the loving words about the true way; and then as he recalled the spot where with him he had bowed in prayer, and then put up his hand on his brow where the good man's kiss had been imprinted, the very spot seemed to burn, and Oowikapun could have wept, only he was indignant at his cowardice.
Thus moodily he strode along on the trail, now nearly destitute of all evidences of having been used by the hunters, when he was startled and amazed by an unexpected sound that seemed strangely out of place. It was a woman's voice he heard; and although the tones were low and plaintive, yet he could easily make out the words of the song, for he had heard them over and over again in the wigwam of Memotas. They were: "Jesus net it a ye-moo-win, Is pe-mek ka ke it oo-tate, Weya pi-ko ne mah-me-sin, Nesta a-we itoo ta-yan."
To our readers who may not be posted in the Cree language of the far North, we give the English translation of the verse: "Jesus, my all, to heaven is gone, He whom I fix my hopes upon; His track I see, and I'll pursue The narrow way, till him I view."
This hymn was the first translated into Cree. It is a general favourite, and is frequently heard not only in the public religious services and at the family devotions, but often the forest's stillness is broken by its hopeful, cheering notes, as at his lonely toil the Christian hunter strides along. Mr Evans printed his first copies of it in syllabic characters on birch bark.
But how did it get here? and who was the sweet singer? These were questions now in the mind of Oowikapun as he stood still, uncertain what to do, but strangely thrilled by the song, which had so quickly carried him back to the tent of the loving Christian Memotas.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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5
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THE MAIDEN'S STORY.
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Not long had Oowikapun to wait, for soon emerged from among the young balsam trees a fair Indian maiden with a number of snow-white ptarmigan and a few rabbits, which had rewarded her skill and enterprise as a successful huntress in coming so far from the village to set her snares. She was taller than most Indian maidens, and her eyes were bright and fearless. She stepped into the trail and turned her face homeward, but gave a sudden start, as, lifting up her eyes, she found herself almost face to face with Oowikapun. Quickly regaining her composure, she threw her game over her back, in the Indian woman's style of carrying loads; and with the natural Indian womanly modesty seemed anxious to at once go on. In all probability not a word would have passed between them. As it happened, however, just at the moment when the maiden swung her load of game over her pack, the shawl she was wearing fell back for an instant from her arm, and on it Oowikapun's quick eye detected the beautiful bracelet that he had seen that morning on the arm that had closed the door of his little lodge.
This discovery filled him with curiosity, and he resolved to find out who she was, and why she had shown him, a stranger, so much kindness. But the difficulty was how to begin. His Indian training told him it would be a breach of decorum to speak to her; but so great was his anxiety to find the solution of what was a mystery even to the villagers themselves, that he felt he must not let the opportunity pass by. Man's bluntness is his own poor substitute for woman's superior tact, and so as she was about to pass he said: "Have I not seen that beautiful bracelet before?"
He tried to speak kindly, but he was excited and fearful that she would be gone, and so his voice sounded harsh and stern, and it startled her, and her face flushed a little; yet she quickly regained her composure, and then quietly said: "It was made years ago, so you have seen it before."
"Was it not on the arm of the friend who made the fire and prepared the food and brought the clothing for the poor, foolish stranger?" he asked.
She raised her piercing black eyes to his, as though she would look into his soul, and said, without hesitancy: "Yes, it was; and Oowikapun was indeed foolish, if not worse."
Startled and confounded at this reply, given in such decided tones by this maiden, Oowikapun, in spite of all his efforts to appear unmoved, felt abashed before her, and his eyes fell under her searching gaze.
Recovering himself as well as he could, he said: "Will the fair maiden please tell me what she means?"
"Yes," she answered. "What she means is that she is very much surprised that a man who for days has been a guest in the wigwam of Memotas and Meyooachimoowin, and who has heard their songs and prayers to the Good Spirit, should again be found in the circle of the devil dance."
"How do you know I was with Memotas?" he replied.
"From your own lips," she answered. "I was with the maidens, with only a deerskin partition dividing us from the place where you told the men of your battle with the wolf, and of Memotas's love and words about the book of heaven and the Good Spirit to you. And yet," she added, and there was a tinge of sorrow in her voice, "after having heard all that, you went to the old bad way again."
Stung by her words so full of reproof, he retorted with some bitterness: "And you and the other maidens goaded me on to the dance."
With flashing eyes she drew herself up proudly, and said: "Never! I would have died first. It was a lie of the conjurers, if they said anything of the kind."
A feeling of admiration, followed by one of almost envy, came over him as he listened to the decided words, uttered with such spirit, and he heartily wished some of it had been his when tempted to join in the dance of sin. With the consciousness of weakness and with his proud spirit quelled, he said: "Why are you of this mind? How is it that you know so much about the white man's way? Did I not see you in the wigwam of Kistayimoowin, the chief, whose brother is the great medicine man of the tribe? How is it that you, the chief's daughter and the conjurer's niece, should have such different thoughts about these things?"
Her answer, which was a little bit of her family history, was as follows: "While I am the niece of Koosapatum, the conjurer and medicine man, whom I hate, I am not the daughter, but the niece of Kistayimoowin, the chief. My father was another brother of theirs. He was a great hunter, and years ago, when I was a little child, he left the home of his tribe and, taking my mother and me, he went far away to Lake Athabasca, where he was told there was abundance of game and fish. In a great storm they were both drowned. I was left a poor orphan child about six years of age among the pagan Indians, who cared but little for me. They said they had enough to do in looking after their own children, so often I was half starved. Fortunately for me the great missionary, with his wonderful canoe of tin, which the people called the `Island of Light,' came along that way on one of his journeys. He had those skillful canoe men--Henry Budd and Hasselton. While stopping among the people and teaching them the true way, the missionary heard of me and of the danger I was in of perishing, and so he took me in the canoe and carried me all the way to Norway House. It was long ago, but well do I remember how they carried me across the rough portages when I got tired out, and gave me to eat the best pieces of ducks and geese or other game which they shot for food. At night they gathered old hay from the beavers' meadows, or cut down a young balsam tree, and with its branches made me a little bed for the night.
"When we reached Norway House Mission, I was adopted into the family of the missionary. They and Miss Adams, the teacher, were very kind to me. I joined the Indian children in the school, and went regularly to the little church. I well remember Memotas and Big Tom and Murtagon and Papanekis and many others. I learned some of the hymns, and can distinctly remember seeing the missionary and Mr Steinhav printing the hymns in the characters on the bark and on paper. It was the happiest year of my life.
"O that I had been wise, and tried to gather up and fix in my memory all that was said to me of the Great Spirit, and his son Jesus, and about the good way! But I was a happy, thoughtless girl, and more fond of play with the little Indian girls and the fun-loving, happy boys than of listening to the lessons and learning them.
"A year after my Uncle Kistayimoowin came down to the fort with his furs, and took me away home with him; and here, so far away, I have lived ever since. In his way he is not unkind to me, but my Uncle Koosapatum hates me because I know these things; and as all are in dread of his poisons, even Kistayimoowin does not wish me to speak about what I heard that year, or sing what I remember except when I am far out in the forest. Because I do not want to have my uncle, the chief, poisoned, I kept quiet sometimes; but most of the women have heard all I know, and they are longing to hear more. So our hearts got full of hoping when, as we waited on the chief with his dinner a few days ago, we heard him talking with some others who were eating with him that you had come, and had been cured of your wounds by a Christian Indian, by the name of Memotas, and were going to give a talk about what had happened to you, and what you had heard. When I heard him mention the name of Memotas, I thought I would have dropped the birch roggin of roasted bears' paws which I was holding, for I could still remember that good man so well. Gladly I gathered some of the women together behind the partition to listen and learn more of the good way, if we could, from you.
"We drank in every word you said, and when they mocked we were very angry at them; but we dare not say a word for fear of a beating. While you stood firm and refused to join in that wicked dance we rejoiced. When you yielded our hearts became sad, and we silently got away. I went out into the woods and wept. When I returned the women had shut themselves up in their tents, and the men were all off to the big dance house. I found your clothes and fire bag just where you had thrown them off, in danger of being dragged away or torn to pieces by the foolish young dogs. So, unseen by anybody, I gathered them up and put them away.
"During the days and nights you danced I was angry and miserable, and at times could not keep from weeping that a man who had known Memotas, and for days had been with him, and had heard so much about the good way, should then go back to the old dark way which gives no comfort to anyone.
"When you fell senseless in the circle, I watched where they carried you. I visited the tent in the night, and I heard your sad moans, and I knew you were unhappy. At daybreak, as you had fallen into a deep sleep, I built the fire and prepared the food, and carried you your clothing; and if it had not been for the breeze which swept through the door, when I last opened it, you would never have known anything about me."
Her story greatly interested Oowikapun; and as he listened to her thus talking as he had never heard an Indian woman speak before, he saw the benefit which had come as the result of a year spent among Christians, even though it were only a year in childhood. When she finished he said: "I am glad I have met you and heard your story."
"Why should you be glad?" she replied. "I am sure you must be offended that a woman should have dared to speak so plainly to you."
"I deserve all that you have said, and more too," he added after a pause.
"In which trail are you in the future going to walk?" she asked. This straight, searching question brought vividly before his vision the dream, and the two ways which there he saw, and he felt that a crisis in his life had come; and he said, after a pause: "I should like to walk in the way marked out by the book of heaven."
"And so would I," she replied, with intense earnestness; "but it seems hard to do so, placed as I am. You think me brave here thus reproving you, but I am a coward in the village. I have called it love for my uncle's life that has kept me back from defying the conjurers, and telling everybody I want to go in the way the Good Spirit has given us; but it is cowardice, and I am ashamed of myself, and then I know so little. O, that we had a missionary among us with the book of heaven, as they have at Norway House and elsewhere, that we might learn more about the way, and be brave and courageous all the time!"
This despairing cry is the voice of millions dissatisfied with the devil dances and worship of idols. The call is for those who can tell them where soul comfort can be found, and a sweet assurance brought into their hearts that they are in the right way.
Hardly knowing what answer to make, but now interested in the woman as never in one before, he asked: "What name does your uncle call you?" Wishing to find out her name he put it this way, as it is considered the height of rudeness to ask a person her name. When several persons are together, and the name of one is desired by one of the company, the plan is always to ask some third person for the desired information. "Astumastao," she replied. And then feeling with her keen womanly instincts that the time had come when the long interview should end, she quickly threw her game, which had been dropped on the ground, over her shoulder again, and gliding by him, soon disappeared in the forest trail.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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6
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HUNTING WILD GEESE.
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To Oowikapun this interview was of great value, and while he could not but feel a certain amount of humiliation at the cowardice he had been forced to admit, and felt also that it was a new experience to be thus talked to by a woman, yet his conscience told him that she was right and he deserved the reproofs she had given. So with something more to think about, he resumed his onward journey, and ere he stopped that night and made his little camp he was many miles nearer his home.
As he sat there by his cheery fire, while all around him stretched the great wild forest, he tried to think over some of the new and strange adventures through which he had passed. With starring vividness they came before him, and above all the brave words of the maiden Astumastao seemed to ring in his ears. Then the consciousness that he who had been trying to make himself and others believe that he was so brave was really so cowardly took hold of him, and so depressed him that he could only sit with bowed head and burdened heart, and say within himself that he was very weak and foolish.
The stars shone out in that brilliant northern sky, and the aurora danced and blazed and scintillated, meteors flashed across the heavens with wondrous brightness, but Oowikapun saw them not. The problem of life here and hereafter had come to him as never before. He found out that he had a soul, and that there was a God to fear and love, who cared for men and women, and that there was reward for right doing and punishment for sin. So with the little light he had, he pondered and thought, and the more he did the worse he got; for he had not yet found the way of simple faith and trust, and he became so saddened and terrified that there was but little sleep that night for him. As there he sat longing for help, he remembered the words of Astumastao: "O, that we had a missionary among us, with the book of heaven, that we might learn more about the way, and be brave and courageous all the time!"
In this frame of mind he watched and waited until the first blush of morn; then after a hasty meal prepared on his camp fire, he started off, and in due time reached his home in the distant village in the wilderness, and in the depressing mood in which we here first met him he lived for many a day.
The change in him was noticed by all, and many conjectured as to the cause, but Oowikapun unburdened not his heart, for he knew there was none among his people who could understand, and with bitter memories of his cowardice, he thought in his blindness that the better way to escape ridicule and even persecution would be to keep all he had learned about the Good Spirit and the book of heaven locked up in his heart.
Oowikapun was one of the best hunters in his village, and as his father was dead and he was the oldest son, and now about twenty-five years of age, he was looked up to as the head of the wigwam. In his Indian way he was neither unkind to his mother nor to the younger members of the family. To his little brothers he gave the two young bears, and they soon taught them a number of tricks. They quickly learned the use of their fore legs, and it was very amusing to see them wrestling with and throwing the young Indian dogs, with whom they soon became great friends.
Oowikapun, to divert attention from himself, and to keep from being questioned about the change in his conduct, which was so evident to all, devoted himself with unflagging energy to the chase. Spring having now opened, the wild geese came in great flocks from their southern homes to those northern lands, looking for the rich feeding grounds and safe places where they could hatch their young. These times when the geese are flying over are as a general thing profitable to the hunters. I have known an old Indian, with only two old flintlock guns, kill seventy-five large grey geese in one day. That was however an exceptional case. The hunters considered themselves fortunate if each night they returned with from seven to twelve of these birds.
Oowikapun, having selected a spot at the edge of a great marsh from which the snow had melted, and where the goose grass was abundant, and the flocks were flying over in great numbers, hastily prepared what the hunters call their nest. This is made out of marsh hay and branches of trees, and is really what its name implies, a nest so large that at least a couple of men can hide themselves in it. When ready to begin goose hunting they put on a white coat and a cap of similar colour; for these observant Indians have learned that if they are dressed in white they can call the geese much nearer to them than if their garments are of any other hue. Another requisite for a successful hunt is to have a number of decoy geese carved out of wood, and placed in the grass near the nest, as though busily engaged in eating.
Oowikapun's first day at the hunt was fortunately a very good one. The sun was shining brightly, and aided by a southern breeze many flocks of geese came in sight in their usual way of flying, either in straight lines or in triangles. Oowikapun was gifted with the ability to imitate their call, and he succeeded in bringing so many of them in range of his gun that ere the day ended he had bagged almost a score.
In after years when I visited that land it used to interest me much, and added a pleasurable excitement to my trip, to don a white garment over my winter clothing, for the weather was still cold, and join one of these clever hunters in his little nest and take my chance at a shot at these noble birds. I felt quite proud of my powers when I brought down my first grey goose, even if I did only break a wing with my ball.
Quickly unloosing Cuffy, one of my favourite Newfoundland dogs, I sent her after the bird, which had lit down on a great ice field about five hundred yards away. But although disabled, the bird could still fight, and so when my spirited dog tried to close in upon her and seize her by the neck, the brave goose gave her such a blow over the head with the uninjured wing that it turned her completely over and made her howl with pain and vexation. Witnessing the discomfiture of my dog, I could easily understand what I had been frequently told by the Indians, of foxes having been killed by the old geese when trying to capture young goslings from the flocks.
In these annual goose hunts all the Indians who can handle a gun take part. The news of the arrival of the first goose fills a whole village with excitement, and nothing can keep the people from rushing off to the different points, which they each claim year after year, where they hastily build their nests and set their decoys.
I well remember how quickly I was deserted by a whole company of Salteaux Indians one spring, on their hearing the long-expected call of a solitary goose that came flying along on the south wind. I had succeeded, after a good deal of persuasion, in getting them to work with me in cutting down trees and preparing the soil for seed sowing, when in the midst of our toil, at about ten o'clock in the forenoon, the distant "aunk! aunk! aunk!" of an old grey goose was heard, the outskirmisher of the oncoming crowds. Such was the effect of that sound upon my good hunters, but poor farmers, that the axes and hoes were hastily dropped, and with a rush they were all off to their wigwams for their guns and ammunition, and I did not see them again for a month.
Success in the goose hunt seems to elate the Indian more than in anything else. Why, I could never find out. It may be because it is the first spring hunting after the long, dreary winter, and there is the natural gladness that the pleasant springtime has come again. Whatever it may be, I noticed for years more noisy mirth and earnest congratulations on success in the goose hunt than in anything else.
Loaded down with his game, Oowikapun returned to his wigwam, and instead of cheerily responding to the congratulations of the inmates on account of his success, he threw himself down on his bed, silent and gloomy, and refused the proffered meal, and even the lighted pipe which his mother brought him.
They were all surprised at his conduct, which was so contrary to his old ways. He had never been known to act like this before. Just the reverse. He had come to be considered the brightest young man in the village; he had more than once been called the young hunter of the cheery voice and the laughing eyes. Then in his serious hours, in times when the affairs of the tribe were being discussed at the council fires, so good was his judgment, and wise and thoughtful beyond his years were his words considered, that even the old men, who seldom did anything but sneer at the words of the young men, gave respectful attention to what fell from the lips of Oowikapun. Well was it remembered how, only last year, at the great council fire of the whole tribe, when the runners brought the news of the aggressions of the whites on some of the southern tribes with whom they had been, in the years past, on friendly alliance, and the old men spake with bitterness and talked of the old glories of the red men, ere the paleface came with his firearms, and what was worse with his firewater, and hunted down and poisoned many of their forefathers, and drove back the rest of them toward the setting sun or northward to the regions of the bitter cold and frost, and how much better it would have been, they said, if their forefathers had listened to the fiery eloquence and burning words of Tecumseh and his brother the prophet, and joined in a great Indian confederacy, when they were numerous and strong to drive the white man back into the sea. Then it was, when eyes flashed and the Indians were wild enough with excitement to cause great trouble, that Oowikapun arose and spoke kindly words, and wise beyond his years.
In his address he urged that the time for successful war was passed, that Tecumseh himself fell before the power of the paleface, that his wampum and magic pipe had disappeared, and his tomahawk had been buried in a peace ceremony between his survivors and the paleface; and bitter as might be some of the memories of the past, yet to all it must be clear that as many of the white men were really their friends, it was for their interest and happiness to act patiently and honourably toward them, and strive to live as the Great Spirit would have them, as loving brothers.
Thus talked Oowikapun last year. Why is it, they said, that he who gave such promise of being a great orator, as well as a successful hunter, should act so strangely now? Some said he was losing his reason and becoming crazy. The young folks said he was in love with some bright-eyed maiden, whom they knew not, but many of the dark-eyed maidens hoped she was the fortunate one. And so they wondered why he did not let it be known. As he still delayed, they said, it is because he has had so many to support that he is poor, and is fearful that what he has to offer in payment for his bride might not be considered sufficient, and he would be humiliated to be refused.
Even some of the older women, not born in beauty's hand basket, when they could, get away from their exacting husbands, would sit down together under the bank where the canoes were drawn up, and in imitation of the men around the council fires, would gravely exchange opinions, and perhaps, like white folks, would gossip a little in reference to conduct so extraordinary.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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7
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MOOKOOMIS AND HIS LEGENDS.
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The old conjurers and medicine-men who were at length consulted said, after long drumming and powwowing and the consuming of much tea and tobacco, at the expense of his relatives, that the spirits of the forests and rivers were calling to him to fast and suffer, and prepare to become a great medicine man; that nature would then reveal her secrets and give him power and influence over the people and make him "good medicine," if he obeyed her voice.
Oowikapun heard of the surmisings and mutterings of the people about him, and at first was very much annoyed. Then no peace coming to him, for he was afraid to pray to the Good Spirit since he had taken part in the devil dance, he decided to consult one of the old men of the village, who had a reputation among the people for wisdom and also as being well posted in old Indian traditions and legends. The young man was cordially welcomed to the wigwam of the old man, but Oowikapun had not been there very long in conversation with him before he found out that he was a great hater of the whites. On Oowikapun expressing some surprise at this, and asking his reason for having such bitterness in his breast toward the palefaces, the old man told him the following story.
One winter many years ago when he was a great hunter, he had been very successful in the chase and had caught quite a number of black and silver foxes, as well as many otters and other valuable fur-bearing animals. Thinking he could do better in selling his furs by going down the rivers and across many portages far away to a place where he had heard that white men had come, who wished to trade with the Indians, and who had sent word that they would give a good price for rich furs, he set off for that place. He took his wife along with him to help him paddle his canoe and to carry the loads across the portages, which were very many. They reached the place after many days' journey; and the white men when they saw their bales of rich furs seemed very friendly, and said as they had come so far they must be very weary; and so they gave him their fire water to drink, and told him that it would make him forget that his hands were sore with long paddling his canoe, and that his feet were weary with the hard walking in the portages. So because they professed to be his friends he drank their fire water, and found out that they were his enemies. They gave him more and more, telling him it was good; and so he foolishly drank and drank until he lost his senses, and was in a drunken stupor for days.
When he came to himself he found he was out in a cold shed and very miserable. His head ached and he was very sore. His coat was gone, and so were his beautifully beaded leggings and moccasins. His gun was gone, and so were his bales of rich and valuable furs. His wife was also gone, and there he was, half naked and alone.
Alarmed, he cried out for his things, and asked how it was that he was in such a sad plight. Hearing him thus calling out, some of those white men who had pretended to be his friends came to him and said, "Begone, you poor Indian fool!"
"Where are my furs?" he asked.
With a laugh they said, "We have taken them for the whisky you drank."
"Give me my furs," he cried, "or pay me for them."
"But," added the old man, "they were stronger than I, and had taken away, not only my gun, but my axe and knife, so I was helpless before them." " `Where is my wife?' I then asked. But they only laughed at my question, and it was weeks before I heard that they had insulted her, and would have foully treated her but that she had pulled out her knife and threatened to kill the first man that touched her. While keeping them away with her knife she moved around until she got near an open window, when she suddenly sprang out and fled like a frightened deer to the forest. After long weeks of hardship she reached the far-off home. She had had a sad time of it and many strange adventures. Footsore and nearly worn out she had been at times, but she bravely persevered. Her food had been roots and an occasional rabbit or partridge which she snared. Several times she had been chased by wild animals. Once for several days the savage wolves madly howled around the foot of a tree into which she had managed to climb for safety from their fierce attacks. Fortunately for her a great moose deer dashed along not far away, and the wolves which had been keeping watch upon her rushed off on its trail. Hurrying down, she, although half starved, quickly sped on her way. Thus had she travelled all alone, her life often in jeopardy from savage beasts; but she feared them less than she did the rude white men from whom she had just fled. The clothing she had on when she reached home, was principally of rabbit skins taken from the rabbits she had captured, and made to supply that in which she had started, but which had been almost torn in rags by the hardships of the way."
The man when kicked out of the place of the white traders had fortunately for himself, after a couple of days' wanderings, fallen in with some friendly Indians, who took pity on him, clothed and fed him, and sent him back in care of some of their best canoe men. The result was he reached home long before his brave wife, who had to work her way along as we have described.
Oowikapun listened to this story of the old man, whose name was Mookoomis, Indianlike, with patience, until he closed; and then in strong language expressed his horror and indignation. It was most unfortunate that he should have heard it in the state of mind that he was in at that time. From his meeting with Memotas and Astumastao he had inferred that all white men were good people, but here was a rude awakening from that illusion. Terrible indeed have been the evils wrought by the white men in these regions where dwell the red men, as well as in other lands. The native prejudices and even their superstitious religions are not as great hindrances to the spread of the Gospel among them as are the abominable actions and rascalities of white men who bring their fire water and their sins from Christian lands.
For a time Mookoomis exerted a strong influence over Oowikapun, and many were the hours they spent together. Oowikapun was in such a state of restlessness that the only times he could be said to be at peace were when either engaged in the excitements of hunting, or when listening to Mookoomis's excited words as he talked away, hour after hour, of the old legends and traditions of his people, whose glory, alas! was now departed.
One evening, when a few interested listeners were gathered around the wigwam fire of the old story-teller, whom they had made happy by gifts of venison and tobacco, Oowikapun said to him, "Good father, you are wise in many things about which we are ignorant, and long ago the old men of our people handed down to you from our forefathers the stories to be kept in remembrance; tell us how the white men come to be here, and if you know, we should like to hear also of the black people of whom the runners from other tribes have told us, who also exist in great numbers." All joined in this request; and so, when the old man had filled and smoked his calumet again, he told them the Indian tradition of the origin of the human races: "Long ago, perhaps as many moons as there are stars in the sky, the Great Spirit made this world of ours, and fitted it up as a dwelling place for his people. Then he set to work to make man. He took a piece of white clay, and moulded it and worked at it until he had formed a man. Then he put him into an oven which he had prepared, and there he baked him to make him firm and strong. When he took him out of the oven he found that he had kept him in too long, and he was burnt black. At this the Great Spirit was not pleased, and he said, `You will never do;' and he gave him a great kick which sent him away south to that land where they have no snow, and where it is very hot, and told the black man that that was to be his land.
"Then the Great Spirit took another piece of clay, and moulded it and formed another man, and put him into the oven to bake. But as he had burnt the first one so badly he did not leave the second one in very long, and so when he took him out he found that he was still very white; and at this he was not pleased, and he said: `Ugh! you will never do. You are too white. You will show the dirt too easily.' So he gave him a great kick, which sent him across the sea to the land where the white man first came from to this country.
"Then," said Mookoomis, "the Great Spirit tried again, and he gathered the finest clay he could, and moulded it and worked it until he was well pleased with it; and then he put it into the oven to bake it; and now having the wisdom which came from the experience of the other two failures, he kept this one in just the right time, and so when he took him out he was of a rich red colour, and he was very much pleased, and he said: `Ho! ho! you are just right; you stay here.' So he gave this country to the Indian."
This account of the origin of the human race, which differs considerably from Darwin's, very much interested Oowikapun and his companions, and so they urged Mookoomis to tell them from Indian traditions how it was that the races had got into the condition in which they now are. So when the old man had filled and smoked his pipe again, and had seemed to be lost in thought for a time, he began once more: "When the Great Spirit had made these different men, and given each wives of their own colour, he went away to his dwelling place beyond the setting sun, and there abode. After a while he thought he would come back and see how these men were getting on. So he called them to meet him at a certain place, and as he talked with them he found they were unhappy because they had nothing to do. When the Great Spirit heard this he told them to come back to-morrow and then he would make this all right for them. On the morrow, when they had met, they saw that the Great Spirit had three parcels. He laid them on the ground, and told them they were to choose which they would have. As the parcels differed very much in size it was decided that they would cast lots, and thus settle who should have the first choice. When this was done it was found that the black man was to choose first, the red man second, and the white man would have to take what was left. So the black man chose the largest parcel; and when he opened it he found that it contained axes and hoes, and spades and shovels, and other implements of toil. The Indian selected the next largest bundle; and when he had opened it he found that it contained bows and arrows, and spears and lances, and knives and other weapons used by the hunter. Then the turn of the white man came, and he took up the last parcel, which was a small one; and when he had opened it there was nothing in it but a book.
"When the black man and the red man saw that the white man had nothing but a book they laughed out loudly, and ridiculed him very much. But the Great Spirit reproved them, and said, `Wait a while, and perhaps you will think differently.' And so they now do; for it has come to pass that because of the possession of that book the white man has become so learned and wise that he is now much stronger than the others, and seems to be able to make himself master of the other races, and to take possession of all lands."
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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8
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SEEKING FOR LIGHT.
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Thus Oowikapun heard Mookoomis at the camp fires tell these weird old stories, and in listening to him he tried to forget his own sorrows and anxieties.
When he thought he had become so well acquainted with him that he could make a confidant of him, he told him a little of what he had learned from Memotas, but he was careful to hide his own secret feelings, for he knew that Mookoomis was a strong pagan, as well as a great hater of the whites. Not as yet having met with any of the detested race who were Christians, he thought they were all alike, and had only come across the ocean to rob and cheat and kill the poor Indian and take possession of all his lands.
One evening, when they were alone, Oowikapun ventured to tell him about the book of heaven which the white man had, and which some Indians had got hold of and were reading with great interest, and that some of them had even accepted its teachings and were believing in them. This news made Mookoomis very angry, and Oowikapun was sorry that he had told him; but it was now too late, and so he had to listen while the angry man talked and gave his views on these things.
He said, referring to the legend, that the Great Spirit never intended the book for the Indian, but that he had made him a hunter, and sent him out into the forest and the prairies, and on the great lakes and rivers, and there he was to listen and hear the Great Spirit's voice and see his works. "This," added Mookoomis, "is the Great Spirit's plan, and he will be angry with any of his red children who become dissatisfied with this arrangement, and try to go the white man's way or read his book."
These talks did not bring comfort to Oowikapun, or lift the burden from his soul; and so, in his desperation, although he did not expect much comfort, he told Mookoomis of his heart sorrows and disquietude of spirit. The old man did not get angry, but listened to him very patiently; and then advised and even urged him to go out into the woods away from every human sound, and in peaceful solitudes let nature speak to him and soothe his troubled spirit.
So Oowikapun obeyed the voice of Mookoomis, and, quickly arranging his affairs, he went out into the solitudes, far away from any human being, in the hope that there, alone with nature, he might get rest for his soul. In doing this he was only imitating thousands who, too stubborn or too ignorant to come to the great Comforter in his own way, are trying in some other way to find that peace which God alone can give.
We pity those who ignorantly do these things, but what can we say of those who have been taught the plan of salvation through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and yet will go on talking pertly about God in nature, and of their ability to find themselves in him by studying him in his works? God in nature, without Christ, is a riddle, a perplexity, a mystery.
We pity poor Oowikapun. Just enough light had come to him to show him that he was a poor, miserable sinner, but he had not yet received enough to show him the true plan of salvation; and so he was still groping along in the gloom, and much more to be pitied than the thousands who know in theory what is God's plan of salvation, but who reject it because of their pride or hardness of heart: Everything seemed against him. His eyes were opened to see things now as never before, for not as a skillful hunter, but as a seeker after peace, was he out in nature's solitudes. Everything around him seemed mysterious and contradictory. This teacher, nature, whose lessons he had come to learn, seemed to be in a very perverse mood, as if to impart just the reverse of what he would learn, and seemed herself to be destitute of the very things he had hoped she would have imparted to him.
Sharp and rude was his first awakening from his illusion. He had not gone far into the wilderness before it came to him, and it happened thus. As he was walking along in the forest he heard, but a short distance ahead of him, a pitiful cry of a creature in distress. Quickly he hurried on, and was just in time to see the convulsive gasp of a beautiful young fawn that had been seized and was being mangled by a great, fierce wolf, which had found it where it had been hidden away by the mother deer before she had gone into the beaver meadows to feed.
To send the death-dealing bullet through the brains of the savage wolf was soon done, but, alas! it was too late to save the little innocent fawn, whose great, big, beautiful eyes were already glassy in death, and whose life-blood pouring out from the gaping wounds was crimsoning the leaves and flowers where it had fallen.
"Is this," said Oowikapun, with sadness of spirit, "the first lesson nature has for me? To her I am coming for peace and quietness of spirit, and is this what I first see?" Thus on he travelled until he reached the shores of a great lake, where he had resolved to stay for a time, at the advice of Mookoomis, to try to find in the solitudes, in communion with nature, that which his soul craved.
As an observant hunter he had ever been a student of nature, but never before with such an object in his heart as now filled it. He found no happiness in his investigations, but was appalled at the sights which met him and the mysteries with which the study of them baffled him. Death and discord seemed to reign everywhere, and the strong seemed ever tyrannising over the weak.
Such sights as the following were ever before him. One day, while sitting near the shore of the lake, where before him the sunlit waters played with the pebbles at his feet, he saw a beautiful kingfisher hover in mid-air for an instant, and then suddenly plunge down in the water and quickly rise up again with a fine fish in his bill. Almost instantly, from the top of an old dead tree near the shore, he observed a fierce hawk, whose sharp eye had seen the fish thus captured. With a scream that rang out sharp and clear, it flew swiftly after the kingfisher, and so terrified it that it quickly dropped the fish and hurriedly flew away to a place of safety. Seizing the fish in its bill, with a scream of triumph, the hawk was about to return to the shore, when another actor appeared upon the scene. Away up on the side of the cliff, which rose up a little back from the shore to the height of several hundred feet, on a projecting ledge of rocks, a pair of eagles came year after year and built their crude, wild nest. One of these great birds was watching the transaction going on below. When it heard the shrill scream of triumph from the fishhawk, it knew that the time for action had arrived. With both wings closed it shot down from the eyrie, and ere the hawk, with its stolen plunder, had reached its old, storm-beaten tree, the king of birds struck it such a blow that, dazed and terrified, it dropped the fish, and barely succeeded in getting away. It was not the fishhawk the eagle was after, but fish; and as the active bird saw the fish drop from the beak of the fishhawk, it flew down after it and caught it in mid-air ere it reached the water. Then, in majestic circles, it slowly ascended to its eyrie. This sight under other circumstances would have been enjoyable; but now, when he was a seeker in nature for peace and happiness, the greed and rapacity of the stronger over the weaker only filled him with sadness.
Thus for several weeks he tried to study nature, or to learn lessons from her, while, far away from all his people, he dwelt in his little camp, which he had made at the foot of a beautiful birch tree, or wandered over the hills or in the forests. But he was no better off, for all the sights that met his eyes were very similar to those we have described. It was cruelty and death and destruction everywhere.
Nature alone and unaided does not reveal Christ the Saviour. Since the fall, and the entrance of sin with all of its attendant miseries into this once glorious world of ours, the study of nature, with all her vagaries, without the light of revelation to clear up her mysteries, is more apt to drive men from God than to draw them to him.
So Oowikapun found out, especially one night, after tossing about on his bed of balsam boughs in his little tent. While lying there, utterly miserable and dissatisfied with himself, he was startled by hearing, far away, the dull, sullen roar of thunder, telling of an approaching storm. Such was the mode in which he was that this sound was welcomed, and he sprang up rejoicing, for there had suddenly come into his mind the thought that perhaps now he would hear something in nature's voice from which he could draw comfort and happiness.
With this hope in his heart he went out of his tent and seated himself on a rock near at hand. One by one the stars disappeared as the thick, black clouds came rolling up, quickly covering the whole expanse of heaven, and making the night one of inky darkness, save when the cliffs and forest, islands and lake, were illumined by the vivid lightning's flash.
Soothed by that awesome feeling which comes to many in the brief last moments which precede the burst of the tempest, Oowikapun was comforted, and began to say to himself, "At last I hear the voice of nature for which I have so long been waiting, and now tranquillised I wait for all she has to tell me of comfort and of rest."
Hardly had these thoughts passed through his mind ere there came a lightning flash so vivid, and a thunderbolt so near and powerful, followed by a crashing peal of thunder so sudden and so deafening, that Oowikapun was completely stunned and thrown helpless to the ground. When he recovered consciousness the storm had nearly died away. A few muttering growls of thunder could still be heard, and some flashes of lightning upon the distant horizon told in which direction the storm had disappeared.
Oowikapun staggered to his feet, and tried to comprehend what had happened. That something had struck him was evident. What it was at first he was too bewildered to understand. Thinking the best thing he could do in this dazed condition would be to go back under the shelter of his little tent, he turned to do so, but found it an impossibility. The thunderbolt that had stunned him had struck the large birch tree, and so shattered it to pieces that, as it fell, it had crushed down the little wigwam into a helpless wreck.
Great indeed was the disappointment and vexation of Oowikapun, who, while vainly imagining that at length he was about to hear the soothing voice of nature to comfort and bless him, got from her such a crack that he was knocked senseless, and, in addition, had his dwelling place completely wrecked. Groping round in the ruins, he succeeded in finding his blanket, which he threw over his shoulders as a slight protection against the heavy rain, which continued falling all night.
Oowikapun still lingered in his lonely forest retreat. His pride revolted at the idea of having to return to the village and confess that all his efforts had been in vain and that only defeat and humiliation had been his lot.
So a new wigwam was built in a more sheltered place amid the dark evergreen trees. His depression of spirit was such that for a long time he left his abode only when hunger compelled him to hunt for his necessary food. When he did resume his wanderings they were generally in the night. The singing of the birds had no charm for him, and the brightness of the summer days chased not away his gloom. More congenial to him were the "watches of the night," when the few sounds that fell upon his ears were weird and ghostly. Here, amid the gloomy shadows where the only sounds were the sighing of the winds among the trees, the melancholy hootings of the owls, or the distant howlings of the wolves, he passed many weary hours.
The psalmist, with adoring love, could say: "Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge," but to Oowikapun neither the "speech" of the day nor the "knowledge" of the night gave any responsive answer to his heart's longings or led him any nearer to the source of soul comfort. And yet nature spoke to him as grandly as it was possible for her to utter her voice, and her last effort was of the sublimest character and such as but few mortals are permitted to witness.
It came to Oowikapun one night when he had aimlessly wandered far out from the shadows of the forest gloom, to a spot where the canopy of heaven, bright with its multitudes of stars, was above him.
Perhaps in no other land can nature in her varied aspects of sublimity and grandeur as regards celestial phenomena, be better studied than in the wild north-land. Her cyclonic storms in summer and her blizzard blasts in winter are at times not only terrific in their destructive power, but they are also overwhelmingly grand in their appearance.
Then her "visions of the night" are at times sublimely beautiful. Her star-decked vault of heaven, absolutely free from all mists and fogs and damps, seems so high and vast. The stars glisten and twinkle with wondrous clearness. The flashing meteors fade out but slowly, and the moon is so white and bright that her shadows cast are often as vivid as those of the sun in some other lands.
But nothing equals a first-class field night of the mysterious aurora borealis. No other phenomenon of nature in magnitude of display, in varied brilliancy of colour, in bewildering rapidity of movement, in grandeur so celestial, in its very existence so unaccountable, is calculated to lift man up and away from things earthly, into the very realm and presence of the spiritual, as does a first-class display of the northern lights, as seen in the far north-land. While they are generally more frequent in the winter months than at other times of the year, yet they are very uncertain in their comings, and sometimes burst upon the world and illuminate and fill up with celestial glory the brief hours of some of the short summer nights.
To Oowikapun, in his mental darkness and disquietude, there came one of these more than earthly visions of entrancing beauty. If in any one of nature's phenomena she could speak to a troubled soul, surely it would be in this. For while to Elijah the answer was in the still small voice, yet man unaided by divine revelation prefers the earthquake and the fire, or some other grand, overwhelming manifestation of nature's power, which appeals to the sensuous rather than to the spiritual.
To these Northern Indians the auroras have ever been associated with the ghostly or spiritual. In some of the tribes the literal translation of the northern lights is the "spirits of their forefathers going out to battle."
The display that Oowikapun gazed upon was one of more than ordinary sublimity. He had left his little wigwam which nestled among the balsams, and had gone out from the forest gloom and had seated himself on the shore of the lake where the little waves made soothing music as they played among the pebbles at his feet. The sun had gone down in splendour, leaving a glorious radiance of sapphire and crimson on hills and waves. Quietly and imperceptibly the shadows of night mantled the long twilight gloaming, and then one by one the stars came out from their hiding places, until the whole high dome of heaven was bright. The milky way brightened into wondrous distinctness, until it seemed to Oowikapun like a great pathway, and he wondered, as held in the tradition of his people, if on it, by and by, he should travel to the happy hunting grounds of his fathers.
After a time a brightness began to dawn in the northern sky, and then from it some brilliant streamers of light suddenly shot up to the heavens above. Then wavy ribbons of light quickly followed, and rapidly unrolling themselves parallel with the horizon, quivered and danced in rhythmic movements, blazing out at times in varied vivid colours as they gracefully undulated from east to west. Often had Oowikapun seen these displays, but up to this time he had only gazed with languid interest upon these nightly visitants. This night, however, there was a display so glorious that he stood as one entranced.
With a suddenness that can be shown only by electrical phenomena, there almost instantaneously shot up from below the eastern horizon a dazzling blaze of gorgeous electrical light, which in successive bounds rushed on and on until, like a brilliant meteor a million times magnified, it spanned the heavens, and for a time in purest white it seemed to hang an arch of truce from heaven to earth. For a little while it quivered in its dazzling whiteness, and then from it flashed out streamers in all the colours of the rainbow. With one end holding on to the arch of snowy whiteness they danced and scintillated and blazed until the whole heavens seemed aglow. Then breaking loose they seemed to form themselves into whole battalions of soldiers, and advanced and fought and retreated until the heavens seemed to be the battlefield of the ages, and stained with the blood of millions slain. During all the apparent carnage, great streamers waved continuously above the contending armies, and seemed like great battle flags leading on the forces to greater deeds of valour. Sometimes they seemed to change into great fiery swords, ready to add to the apparent carnage and destruction that seemed so intensely real.
Thus in ever-changing glories the vision of the heavens above continued, while Oowikapun, awed and subdued in spirit, felt thankful that he was only a spectator upon such scenes of ghostly carnage and blood. But impressive and glorious as what had already been revealed, the auroras had yet in reserve the climax of their display, and when it came it nearly froze his blood in his veins, and threw him trembling and terrified on his face upon the ground. Suddenly did the change come. With, the rapidity of a lightning flash, the great quivering arch of light transformed itself, into a corona of such dazzling splendour that no words can describe it. From purest white the multitudes of streamers, of which it was now composed, suddenly changed to pink and blue, and green and yellow, all the time flitting and scintillating so rapidly that the eyes were pained in their vain efforts to follow the rapid flights.
Then in a twinkling of an eye the whole changed to a deep, blood-red crimson--so bloodlike, so terrible, so dazzling, so awful, that the brave man was crushed down, terrified and subdued before this blinding display of the omnipotent power of the Great Spirit.
The dauntless courage that had made him exult at the prospect of meeting the fiercest bear in the forest, with no other weapon than his trusty hunting knife, or the most hostile foe of his tribe, was of no avail here, and so, a crushed and vanquished man, as soon as he could, he cowered back to his wigwam, where, wrapping himself in his blanket, he long remained. He trembled at the thought of having been in such apparent contact with the spirit land, while his unhappy soul chided him with a sense of his unfitness for that unknown life beyond.
Poor Oowikapun, he was like many who, although they live under happier influences and amid the blaze of Gospel day, yet foolishly think that if some heavenly manifestation of the glory beyond, some glimpse of the land that is afar off, or some sight of its celestial inhabitants, were given them to enjoy, very quickly would they be convinced and converted.
John, the beloved disciple, saw the New Jerusalem and its inhabitants; dazzled and confused he fell at the feet of one of those redeemed ones, and worshipped the creature instead of the Creator.
Something more than the mere visions of heaven's glories or northern auroras are necessary to give peace to the troubled soul. Even so found unhappy Oowikapun, for when the excitement of these night visions wore off, he felt more than ever crushed down with a sense of his own littleness, while darker seemed his spiritual vision than ever before these auroral glories had blazed and flashed around him.
Disgusted and disappointed, he packed up his few things and returned to his village more miserable and depressed in spirit than ever.
He had had many evidences of a Creator, but had met with nothing that told him of a Saviour. The idea of being able to "look up through nature unto nature's God," is an utter impossibility unless the one looking has some knowledge of God in Christ Jesus. With this knowledge in his possession he can answer as did the devout philosopher when asked the question, "What are the latest discoveries in nature?" replied, "God everywhere."
With God revealed in Christ Jesus there is something real in which to trust. Her mysteries that long perplexed are cleared up, and darkness that long continued is dissipated, and the trusting one realises that no longer is he slowly and feebly feeling his way along on the "sinking sands" of uncertainties, but is securely built on the "Rock of ages."
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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9
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PHYSICAL TORTURE.
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Oowikapun shortly after his return to the village found his way to the tent of Mookoomis, and candidly told him of his complete failure to find anything of comfort or peace of mind in communion with nature. He said he had faithfully carried out his directions, but that everything he hoped would have in it help or satisfaction seemed to have had just the reverse. Mookoomis listened intently to all he had to say, and then, perhaps for the first time in his life, freely admitted his own dissatisfaction and uncertainty of belief in their Indian way; but he was an obstinate, wicked old man, and determined, if possible, to keep Oowikapun walking, as he again said, "as our forefathers walked." So he urged him to make the great trial of fasting and personal torture, and see if in the delirium of physical agonies the voice of comfort for which he was longing would, not come to him.
For a long time Oowikapun hesitated to undertake this terrible ordeal, called by the Western Indians the _hock-e-a-yum_, a ceremony so severe and dreadful that many an Indian has never recovered from its agonies. Great indeed must be the wretched disquietude that will cause human beings, who are made to shrink from pain, endure what thousands voluntarily submit to, if only they can get peace to their souls.
Oowikapun spent weeks in a state of indecision, and then resolved to follow the advice of old Mookoomis; and so in his blindness and folly he found himself, although he knew it not, in company with a vast multitude who in their ignorance and superstition, are hoping by inflicting torture on their bodies to atone for sin and merit heaven.
Great indeed was, and still is, this innumerable company of deluded ones. They are found by the missionaries almost everywhere. The poor, ignorant Hindoo on the burning plains of his native land, seated on a stone pillar, with arm extended until it has become fixed and rigid, while the ever-growing finger nails have pierced through his clenched hand, is one of the sad company. Another is that poor fanatic who measured the whole distance, many hundreds of miles, which stretched from his jungle home to the Ganges by prostrating his body on the ground as a measuring rod. In this sad procession are millions, and millions of unhappy souls, without God, and therefore without hope. They are going down from the darkness of sin and error to the darkness of the tomb, with none to whisper in their ears the story of redeeming love; and so in their blindness and folly, believing that God delights in misery and pain and suffering, they torture their poor bodies; and in some instances still, as in olden times, "give of the fruit of their body for the sin of their soul," if by these or any other means they can propitiate the One whom they hope can give them peace.
The contemplation of a multitude so vast and in a condition so deplorable makes our hearts sad, and shows us how imperative is the call to each of us to do all we can to carry to them, or, if this is impossible, to aid in sending to them, the blessed truth which alone can make them happy. Poor Oowikapun was now in this sad company. All his fears are aroused, and in his vain efforts to quiet them he is about to go through a most severe ordeal of fasting and acute physical suffering. How terrible is sin! How dreadful must be the goadings of the guilty conscience when men and women will so punish themselves, if thereby they can find relief!
When Oowikapun had finally resolved on his course of action he immediately set about carrying it out. He joined himself to a company of "braves" who were also going to pass through the ceremony of _hock-e-a-yum_. Different motives were in the hearts of those who were about to undergo the trying ordeal. Some of them were ambitious to become great warriors or hunters, others were ambitious to become leaders or great medicine-men among the tribes. To succeed in their ambitious purposes, it was necessary that the ordeal of suffering should be passed through.
While the majority were thus fired by their selfish hopes of attaining prominence and position as the result of their suffering, there were several like Oowikapun who were unhappy in their souls, and were going to try this method in hope of relief. Perhaps, like him, they had in some way or other been in a place where a few rays of light had shone upon their souls. These had revealed to them the sinfulness of their lives and the hideousness of sin; but being ignorant of the great Physician, instead of looking to him for healing and happiness, they were going to see if there was any efficacy in these trying ordeals.
As the ceremonies were only held in the far West, where the devotees gathered from various tribes, Oowikapun and those with him had to travel for many days ere they reached the place.
Far beyond the limits of the hunting grounds of his people did he and his deluded comrades journey. They had to work up the swift current and make many portages around the rapids of the Nelson River. Then across the northern part of treacherous Lake Winnipeg they ventured in their frail canoes, and only their consummate skill in the management of these frail boats saved them from going down to watery graves.
Up the mighty Saskatchewan for nearly a thousand miles they hurried on. If their minds had not been troubled at the prospect of their coming sufferings, they would as hunters have been delighted by that trip through that glorious western country which then teemed with game. Multitudes of buffalo coming down to the great river to drink, first gazed on them with curiosity and then, when alarmed, went thundering over the plains. The great antlered elks were seen in troops upon the bluffs and hills, and bears of different kinds went lumbering along the shores. Beautiful antelopes with their large luminous eyes looked at them for a moment and then went flying over the prairies like the gazelles in the desert.
They landed at Edmonton, where now there nestles in beauty on its picturesque bluffs a flourishing little town. Oowikapun and his comrades in those days, however, found only the old historic fort, even then famous as the scene of many an exciting event between the enterprising fur traders and the proud, warlike Indians of the plains.
Here they left their canoes, and after exchanging some furs for needed supplies they started southwest on the long trail of many days' toilsome travelling, until at length the place of the fearful ordeal was reached.
Into the details of the scenes and events of the Indian ceremony of torture, I am not going to enter. Catlin has with pen and brush described it in a way to chill the blood and fill our sleeping hours with horrid dreams.
Suffice to say that Oowikapun put himself in the hands of the torturers, and, first of all, they kept him for four days and nights without allowing him a mouthful of food or drink. Neither did they permit him to have a moment's sleep. Then they stripped off his upper garments, and, cutting long, parallel gashes in his breast down to the bone, they lifted up the flesh and there tied to the quivering flesh ends of horsehair ropes about three quarters of an inch in diameter. The other ends of these two ropes were fastened to a high pole about fifteen feet from the ground. At first the upper ends of these ropes were drawn through rude pulleys, and poor Oowikapun was dragged up six or eight feet from the ground and held there for several minutes by the bleeding, lacerated, distended muscles of his breast. Then the ropes were suddenly loosened from above, and he fell with a sickening thud to the ground. Quickly they raised him up on his feet and made fast the ropes to the upper end of the pole, and left him to struggle and pull until the muscles rotted or were worn away, and he was free. Four days passed by ere he succeeded in breaking away, and during that time not a morsel of food or a drop of water was given him.
Weeks passed away ere Oowikapun recovered from those fearful wounds, and, after all, what did they accomplish for him? Nothing at all. He was, if possible, more wretched in mind than in body. No voice of comfort had he heard. No dispelling of the darkness, no lifting of the heavy loads, no assurance of pardon and forgiveness. Is it any wonder that he was discouraged, and that his sharp-eyed neighbours looked at him at times with suspicion, and said one to another that something must be wrong in his head?
To convince them that his mind was not disordered or his reason affected, Oowikapun attended the councils of the tribe, and ever showed himself clear-headed in discussion and debate. He applied himself with renewed diligence to his work as a hunter, and remembering Memotas's love for his household, strove to imitate him in his conduct toward his mother and the younger members of his family. Disgusted and annoyed that nothing but disappointment and suffering had come to him from following the advice of Mookoomis, he shunned his society and would have none of his counsel.
So passed the summer months, and when the winter came again there arose in the breast of Oowikapun a longing desire, doubtless it had been there before, to go and see Astumastao, the brave maiden who had been his real friend, and had told him words which had done him more good than anything else he had heard since he had parted from Memotas.
About her he had never spoken a word to anyone, but her bright eyes had buried themselves in his heart, while her brave words had fixed themselves in his memory.
So making up some excuse in reference to business with his relatives in the distant village where dwelt the fair maiden, he prepared for the journey. He arrayed himself in new and picturesque apparel, and with his little outfit on a light sled, and his gun in his hand, and his axe and knife in his belt, he set off for the village where he had made such a sad fall, after all his resolves to have nothing more to do with devil worship.
Is it surprising that, as he hurried along, he forgot much of his sorrow, and was filled with pleasurable excitement at the prospect of meeting Astumastao again? True, he would check himself and say he was acting or thinking foolishly, for Astumastao might be married or the bride selected, by her uncle, for some one else, for all he knew. Why, then, should he so think about her? True, she had been very kind to him in his sorrow, but then he had only met her once, and so why should he be continually thinking about her? Thus he reasoned with himself, but he kept hurrying along as never before, and he did not try very hard to banish her from his heart and memory. And fortunate it was for Astumastao that Oowikapun was on the way.
When Astumastao returned to the village after her conversation with Oowikapun she found the people excited by his story of the fire burning in his wigwam and the meal prepared and ready for him. How these things could have been done without anyone finding it out, when they were all so alert and quick-witted, amazed them. Then it was to them such a breach of the rules or usages of such occasions. Who, they said in their excitement, could have been so presumptuous as to break the long-established custom, and take in food and fire to one of the dancers?
While some said that one of their number must have done it while the others slept so soundly after the exciting days through which they had been passing, there were others, tinged with superstition, who declared, with bated breath, that the gods must have had special love for him, and had themselves come and supplied his wants.
To all of these things Astumastao listened, and, not being suspected, she kept what she knew in her heart. She was an active, brave girl, and knew how to handle both the paddle and the gun. Kistayimoowin, her uncle, was pleased with her prowess and industry, and while possessing the pagan ideas about women, so that he would never allow himself to show them any particular affection, yet ever since she had been brought as a little child into his wigwam he had treated her not unkindly. With his superstitious nature he had been strongly influenced by the words of the missionary, when he handed the orphan child over to his care, and had told him that if he wanted the favour of the Great Spirit he must treat her kindly and well.
So it happened that as Kistayimoowin had no children of his own, this bright, active girl was always with him and his wife as they, Indianlike, moved from one hunting ground to another in quest of different kinds of game. As she was so quick and observant, her uncle had taught her many things about the habits and instincts of the different animals and the best method known for their capture. The result was she had become a very Diana, skillful and enthusiastic in the chase.
Thus the years rolled on, and she grew to beautiful young womanhood, and more than one pair of eyes looked toward her as the one they would like to woo and win, or, as they thought of it, be able by abundant or valuable gifts to purchase her from her uncle. Up to this time, however, he had repelled most decidedly all advances made to him for her, and had acted in so harsh a manner toward all would-be suitors that they had been obliged to keep at a respectful distance. So Astumastao was still free as a prairie breeze.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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10
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A MORTAL WOUND.
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The summer following the visit of Oowikapun, Kistayimoowin had taken his wife and his niece and gone out to an island in one of the large lakes to hunt and fish. Theirs was the only wigwam on that island that summer. While out in a small canoe on the lake one day shooting ducks, his gun, which was an old flintlock, unfortunately burst, and, not only severely wounded him, but caused him to upset the canoe while out about half a mile from the shore. His wife and Astumastao heard his wild whoop of danger, and quickly realised the sad position he was in. Unfortunately they had no other canoe and no friendly helper was within range of their voices. Astumastao, however, like all Indian girls, could swim like a duck; and so without hesitancy she sprang into the lake and as rapidly as possible swam out to the rescue of her wounded uncle, who sorely needed her assistance. The explosion of the gun had nearly blown off one of his hands, and some pieces of the barrel had entered into his body. The result was that he was very helpless and weak from the loss of blood.
Astumastao reached him as soon as possible, and finding it impossible to right the canoe, she succeeded in tying a deerskin thong around the wounded wrist, and then resolved to try to swim with him to the shore. It was a desperate undertaking, but she knew just what to do to succeed, if it were possible. The wounded man could do nothing to help himself, so she placed him so that he could put his unwounded hand upon her back, and thus keep afloat, then she bravely struck out for the distant shore.
Only those who have tried to rescue a helpless person in the water can have any correct idea of the fearful task she had to perform; but buoyed up by hope and her naturally brave, true heart, she persevered, and, although at times almost exhausted, she succeeded in reaching the shallow water, out into which her feeble aunt had ventured to come to assist her. As well as they could, they helped or carried the almost exhausted man to the wigwam, and immediately made use of every means at their disposal to stop the wounds from which his life's blood seemed to be ebbing away.
The poor man was no sooner laid on his bed, weak and exhausted, than he turned his eyes toward Astumastao and startled her, although he spoke in a voice that was little above a whisper.
What he said was, "Nikumootah!" ("Sing!")
Astumastao hesitated not; but choking back her emotions she began in sweet and soothing notes the song we have already heard her sing: "Jesus, my all, to heaven is gone, He whom I fix my hopes upon; His track I see, and I'll pursue The narrow way, till him I view."
When she had sung two or three verses the sick man said, "Who is this Jesus?"
Not much was it that was remembered through all the long years that had passed away since Astumastao had received her last Sabbath school lesson, but she called up all she could, and in that which still clung to her memory was the matchless verse: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." The sick man was thrilled and startled, and said, "Say it again and again!" So over and over again she repeated it. "Can you remember anything more?" he whispered.
"Not much," she replied, "only I remember that I was taught that this Jesus, the Son of the Great Spirit, said something like this: `Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Did they say," said the dying man, "that that included the Indian? May he, too, go in the white man's way?"
"O yes," she answered; "I remember about that very well. The missionary was constantly telling us that the Great Spirit and his Son loved everybody--Indians as well as whites--and that we were all welcome to come to him. Indeed it must be so, for there are the words I have learned about it out of his great book: `Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Sing again to me," he said. And so she sang: "Lo! glad I come; and thou, blest Lamb, Shalt take me to thee, as I am; Nothing but sin have I to give; Nothing but love shall I receive."
"What did you say his name was?" said the dying man.
"Jesus," she sobbed.
"Lift up my head," he said to his weeping wife. "Take hold of my hand, my niece," he said. "It is getting so dark I cannot see the trail. I have no guide. What did you say was his name?"
"Jesus," again she sobbed. And with that name on his lips he was gone.
Call not this picture overdrawn. Hundreds of these Indians have long lost faith in paganism, and in their hours of peril, or in the presence of death even, many of them who have learned but little about Christianity cling to those who have some knowledge of the great salvation and strive to grope into the way.
The two women were alone on the island with their dead, and with no canoe by which they could return to the distant mainland. But Indian women are quick at devising plans to meet emergencies, and so Astumastao speedily resolved on a plan to bring help to them. What she did was this. She cut a long pole from a clump of tall, slender trees which grew near their wigwam, and then securely fastening her shawl to it, she hoisted it up as a signal on a point where it was visible from the shore. Soon it was observed, and help came speedily.
There was a good deal of genuine sorrow expressed by the Indians in their own quiet way. After many questions had been asked and answered, they wrapped up the body in birch bark, and conveyed it across to the mainland, and there buried it with their usual Indian pagan rites, much to the regret of Astumastao.
Left alone with her aunt, who was quite feeble, upon Astumastao fell the chief work of supplying food for both. Bravely did she apply herself to the task; and such was her skill and industry that a good degree of success crowned her efforts, and very seldom indeed was it that their wigwam was destitute of food. Often had she some to spare for the old and feeble ones who, according to the heartless custom of some of the tribes, when they reach the time of life when they can neither snare rabbits nor catch fish, are either thrown out of the wigwams in the bitter cold, and left to freeze to death, or they are deserted in the forests, and left to be devoured by the wild beasts.
Astumastao, when a poor orphan child, had been rescued and kindly cared for, and she never forgot those early days and kindly deeds performed for her happiness, and so now we see her ever striving to comfort or help others.
During the remaining part of the summer which followed the sad death of her uncle, she succeeded in killing a number of reindeer, which are at times very plentiful in those high latitudes. Annoyed by the numerous flies, these reindeer frequently rush into the great lakes and rivers; and as the Indians can paddle their light canoe much faster than these animals can swim, they easily overtake and kill them.
Astumastao, with a couple of other Indian girls, succeeded in killing quite a number of them. Their plan was to lash a sharp knife to the end of a pole, and then when they had paddled near enough they stabbed the deer and dragged it ashore. All the deer do not give up without a struggle. This Astumastao found to her cost one day. She and a couple of young maidens about her own age had hurried out to try and kill a famous deer whose many-pronged antlers told that he was one of the great monarchs of the forest. When they tried to get near enough to stab him, he suddenly attacked the canoe with such fury that, although Astumastao succeeded in mortally wounding him, yet he so smashed the canoe that it was rendered useless, and the girls had to spring out and swim to the shore, which was a long way off. However, they reached it in safety, amid the laughter of the people, who had observed their discomfiture. Nothing daunted, however, the plucky girls quickly secured another canoe and paddled out and brought in their splendid deer.
When the long, cold winter set in again, Astumastao applied herself very diligently to the work of trapping and snaring rabbits and some of the smaller fur-bearing animals. In her hunting excursions she followed her plans of the preceding winters, and often plunged farther into the dense forest to set her traps and snares beyond those of any other woman hunter.
Here, in the solitude of nature, she could sing to her heart's content while deftly weaving her snares or setting her traps. On one of these trips she caught a glimpse of a black fox, and suspecting him to be the thief who had been robbing her snares of some rabbits during the last few days, she resolved if possible to capture the valuable animal. His rich and costly fur would buy her and her aunt some valuable blankets and other things much required for their comfort. Returning quickly back to her wigwam, she succeeded in borrowing a fox trap from a friendly hunter, and then making all preparations she started very early the next morning for the spot where she intended to set her trap. The distance was so great that she had to tramp along for several hours on her snow-shoes ere she reached the place. But the air was clear and bracing, and hoping for success in her undertaking she felt but little fatigue. Skillfully she set the trap, and then walking backward, and with a heavy balsam brush carefully brushing out her tracks, she retraced her steps to the ordinary trail, and began collecting her rabbits and partridges from the snares. Although the fox had robbed her of several, yet she was more than ordinarily successful and gathered sufficient to make a heavy load.
At one place the path led her through a dense, gloomy part of, the forest, where the great branches of the trees seemed to interlock above her head, and shut out the greater part of the light and sunshine. But she was a brave Indian maiden who knew no such thing as fear, and so, throwing her heavy load over her shoulder, and supporting it with the carrying strap from her forehead, she cheerily moved along, thinking how happy she would be if she captured that fox to-morrow, when suddenly the shriek of a wild beast rang in her ears, and she was hurled down on her face to the ground.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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11
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THE RESCUE.
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We left Oowikapun hurrying along on willing feet at the place in the forest where he had first observed the snowshoe tracks of the hunter of the village he was approaching. Observing that the tracks were those of a woman, he could not help hoping that they were those of the fair maiden whom he had met near that same spot two winters before. This hope filled him with pleasant anticipation, and so on and on he hurried.
As he strode along swiftly but quietly, an object caught his attention that filled him with excitement and called for all his hunter's experience and trained instincts. Crouching down, and yet hurrying along rapidly, in front of him, not three hundred yards away, was an enormous catamount. This was not a mere lynx or wild cat, but one of those great fierce brutes, more allied to the mountain lion of the Rockies, or the panthers, now about extinct, in the western and northern part of this continent.
As Oowikapun watched the graceful, dangerous brute gliding along before him, the thought came into his mind that perhaps this was the very one whose wild, weird shrieks had sounded in his ears so dolefully, as he shivered in the little wigwam of the village he was now approaching.
Knowing the habits of these animals, he supposed this one, from its rapid, persistent, forward movements, and the absence of that alert watchfulness which they generally possess, was on the track of a deer.
Oowikapun dropped to the ground and carefully looked for the tracks of the game that this fierce catamount was pursuing, but to his surprise he could not discover the footprints of any animal. All at once the truth flashed upon him, that this fierce brute had got on the trail of the woman, and, maddened it may be by hunger, was resolved to attack her. As he hastened on he became more thoroughly convinced of this, as he observed how like a great sleuth-hound it glided along in the snowshoe tracks before them. Quickly did Oowikapun prepare for action. His trusty gun was loaded with ball. His knife and axe were so fastened in his belt that they were ready for instant use if needed. The strap of his sled was dropped from his shoulders, and thus disencumbered--with all a hunter's excitement in such a position increased by the thought that perhaps it was Astumastao who was in such danger--he glided along silently, cautiously, and rapidly. Indian trails are very crooked, and so it was that he only now and then caught a glimpse of the bloodthirsty brute; but when he did, he observed it was intent on its one purpose, as it hardly turned its head to the right or the left as it crouched or bounded along. Soon, however, the trail led from the open forest, where the trees were not clustered together very closely, into a dense, gloomy place of venerable old trees, whose great limbs stretched and intertwined with each other for quite a distance. This was the same gloomy part of the forest into which we had seen Astumastao go as she was returning with her heavy load of game.
When Oowikapun reached the entrance to this part of the trail, he was surprised to notice the sudden disappearance of the tracks of the catamount. Rapidly did his eye scan every spot within jumping distance, and still not a vestige of a footstep was visible. However, he was not to be deceived, but, knowing the habits of these animals, he carefully examined the trunks of the trees close at hand, and on one of them he found the marks of the creature's claws, as it had sprung from the trail into it. This discovery, while it added to the excitement of Oowikapun, caused him to be, if possible, more alert and cautious, as he rapidly and silently moved along. These animals can climb trees like squirrels, and glide along from branch to branch with amazing celerity where the trees are large. They seem to prefer to make their attack by springing upon their victims from a tree rather than from the ground, as their aim is, if possible, to seize them by the throat. Oowikapun was aware of this, and it added to his anxiety.
Once or twice he caught sight of the creature as, like a South American puma, it glided along from tree to tree. Soon he saw it pause for an instant, and become greatly agitated, and apparently quiver with excitement. It was still a long shot from him, as he had only a smooth-bore, flintlock gun. The temptation to fire was great, but, wishing to be sure of his aim, he resolved to follow on, and get so near that no second ball would be needed. On again glided the beast, and was soon lost to view, while Oowikapun followed as rapidly as he thought it was best in the crooked trail, when suddenly he heard the wild shriek that seemed to tell of the triumph of the savage beast. As he dashed on, a sharp turn in the trail showed him the bloodthirsty brute tearing at the back of a prostrate woman, upon whom he had sprung from the tree, thus dashing her to the ground.
With all an Indian's coolness and presence of mind, Oowikapun knew that, while he must act quickly, he must also guard against accidentally injuring the woman, and so, raising his gun in position, he shouted the Indian word for "keep still," and as the fierce brute raised his head at the unexpected sound, the bullet went crashing through his brain, and he fell dead as a stone.
To rush forward and find out who the woman was he had rescued, and the extent of her wounds, was but the work of an instant. And that instant was all the woman required to spring up and see who it was that she had to thank for her sudden deliverance from such a terrible death.
Thus face to face they met again--Oowikapun and Astumastao. Reaching out her hand, while her bright eyes spoke more eloquently than her words, she said, "I am very thankful for your coming and for my speedy rescue; and not less so," she added, "when I see it has been by Oowikapun."
"Oowikapun is glad to be of any service to Astumastao," he said, as he took the proffered hand and held it, while he added, "But you are not badly wounded?"
"Only in my arm do I feel hurt," she replied.
On inspection it was found that the wounds there were made by the claws and not by the teeth, and so did not appear serious.
As these very practical young people discussed the attack and escape, it was unanimously agreed that it was fortunate for Astumastao that she had the heavy load of rabbits on her back and several brace of partridges about her neck. So when the brute sprang upon her, with the exception of wounding her arm, he had only plunged his teeth and claws into the game.
We need not here go into the particulars of all the beautiful things which were said by these two interesting young people. Human nature is about the same the world over. This is not a romantic love story, even if it turns out to be a lovely story. Suffice it here to say that at first a fire was kindled and the wounded arm was dressed and bandaged. Some balsam from the trees was easily obtained by Oowikapun for the purpose, and a warm wrapping of rabbit skins taken from the newly caught animals sufficed to keep the cold from the wounds. These prompt and thorough Indian methods for curing wounds were most successful, and in a few days they were completely healed. When the dressing of the arm was attended to, Oowikapun returned for his sled, which he had left at the spot where he first caught sight of the catamount, while Astumastao busied herself with cooking some of the game which she had caught, and which she had about ready when he returned.
Perhaps some of my fastidious readers would not have cared much for a simple meal thus prepared, and eaten without the use of plates or forks; but there are others who have dined in this way, and the remembrance of such meals, with the glorious appetite of forest or mountain air, is to them a delicious memory. This one at any rate was very much enjoyed by these young people. When it was over Oowikapun quickly skinned the catamount, and, leaving the head attached to the skin, he placed it on his sled that it might be shown to the villagers when they arrived. The body he left behind as worthless, as it is never eaten by the Indians, although they are fond of the wild cat, and some other carnivorous animals. Astumastao's load of game was also placed upon his sled, and then together they resumed their journey to the village.
Great was the excitement among the people when the story became known, and in their Indian way they at once promoted Oowikapun to the ranks of the great "braves." He was considered quite a hero and made welcome in all of the wigwams he chose to visit. The aunt of Astumastao welcomed him most cordially, and, kissing him again and again, called him her son, while she thanked him most gratefully for his noble deed. Gladly accepting her invitation, he repeated his visits to her wigwam as often as Indian etiquette would sanction.
One day, when only the three were present, Oowikapun, who had heard from some of the people of the heroic way in which Astumastao had rescued her Uncle Kistayimoowin from a watery grave, asked her to tell him the story.
As a general thing among the Indians, but little reference is made to the dead. The whole thing to them, without any light to illumine the valley of the shadow of death, is so dreadful that they do not mention the word death. When obliged to speak of those who have gone they say, "Non-pimatissit," which means, "He is not among the living." However, Astumastao and her aunt had none of these foolish notions, especially as, since the sad event, the aunt had eagerly drunk in air the information she could get from her niece, who now had none in the wigwam to crush her song or quiet her speech.
As Astumastao had a double object in view, she willingly, at the request of her aunt, described the scene as we have already done. She dwelt fully upon Kistayimoowin calling for her to sing, and his longing to learn all he could about the name of Jesus. The recital produced a deep impression upon Oowikapun, and brought up all the memories of his own darkness and mental disquietude, while, month after month, he had been groping along in his vain attempts to find soul-happiness.
During this interview she told him how she and her aunt had tried ever since her uncle's death to live in the way of the book of heaven; but that they knew so little, and there were so many mysteries and perplexities all around them, that they were at times much discouraged. Yet there was one thing that they had resolved upon, and that was never to go back to the old pagan religion of their forefathers, for they were happier in their minds now, with the glimmering light of the white man's way, than ever they had been in their lives before.
Oowikapun listened and was encouraged. He told them fully of his own troubles, for he felt he had for the first time sympathetic listeners. When he described his various methods to get peace and quiet from his fears and anxieties, and referred to the ceremony of torture through which he had gone, Astumastao's eyes seemed to flash at first with indignation, and then to fill up with tears. Strong words seemed about to come from her lips, but with an effort she controlled herself, and remained quiet.
Very frequently did Oowikapun find his way to the wigwam where dwelt these two women, and doubtless many were the things about which they talked.
For a time he visited the snares and traps and brought in the game. One day he returned with the splendid black fox which Astumastao had tried so hard to capture. For this they gratefully thanked him, as well as for the great, tawny skin of the catamount, which he had carefully prepared as a splendid rug, and spread out for them in their wigwam.
The wounded arm was now completely healed, and the business which Oowikapun had used as his excuse for coming to the village was long ago arranged, still he lingered.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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12
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A NOBLE AMBITION.
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To the villagers the cause was evident, but why there should be any trouble or delay in his courtship they could not make out. Of course he would take Astumastao's aunt to live with them, and therefore there was no price to pay for the maiden. So quickly and promptly do they generally attend to these things, that, when matters have gone between their young folks as they evidently imagined they had between these two, a decision one way or another is quickly reached.
These simple people do not believe in long courtships. So they began to wonder and conjecture why this matter was not settled between them. They were nearly all favourably inclined toward Oowikapun, and were pleased at the prospect of his marrying a maiden of their village. Even some of the young men who had hoped to have won her, when they heard the story of her wonderful deliverance by this fine young hunter of another village, and observed how evident it was that he had set his heart upon her, retired from the field, saying that Oowikapun's claims to her were greater than theirs, and that for themselves they must look elsewhere.
But strange to say, while Astumastao's eyes brightened when Oowikapun entered the wigwam, and her welcome was always kindly, yet she skillfully changed the conversation when it seemed to be leading toward the tender sentiment, and parried with seeming unconsciousness all reference to marriage. And being, as women are, more skillful and quick-witted than men, she, for some reason or other, would never let him see that she appeared to think of him as a suitor for her hand and heart, and by her tact, for some reason unaccountable to him, kept him from saying what was in his heart. And yet she was no mere coquette or heartless flirt. In her great, loving heart was a purpose noble and firm, and a resolve so high that, for the present at least, all other sentiments and feelings must hold a subordinate place. And so, while she did not repel him, or offend his sensitive spirit, she, in some way which he could not exactly define, made him feel that he must defer the thing to him so important, and talk on other subjects. There was one theme on which she was always eager to talk and to get him to talk, and to her it never grew stale or threadbare. It was about what he and she had learned or could remember of the book of heaven, and the good white man's way.
She sang her hymns to him, and called up all the memories possible of that happy year in childhood which she had spent in the home of the missionary. She made him tell her over and over again all he could remember of Memotas and Meyooachimoowin, and as well as she could, in her quiet way, let him see how solicitous she was that he should try to find out how to get into this way, which she said, she was sure was the right way and the one in which he could find that soul comfort for which he had been so long seeking.
Oowikapun was thankful for all this kindness, and was very happy in her presence, but was all the time getting more deeply in love with her, and while anxious to learn all he could from her, had come to the sage conclusion that if she would only marry him he could learn so much the faster.
It is said "that all things come to him who waits," and so the opportunity which our Indian friend had so long desired came to him. Astumastao had been telling him one day when they were alone of the persecutions and oppositions she had met with from her uncle Koosapatum, the conjurer, and from others, and then stated how hard it was for her alone to remember about the good Book, and live up to its lessons. Then she added, if there had only been some one among the people who knew more than she did to stand firm with her, they might have helped each other along and been so firm and brave.
When she had finished. Oowikapun saw his opportunity, and was quick enough in availing himself of it. He replied by deeply sympathising with her, and then, referring to his own difficulties and failures in the past, stated how fearful he was of the future, unless he had some true, brave friend to help him along. Then, suddenly facing her, in strong and loving words he begged and urged her to be his teacher and helper, his counsellor, his wife.
So quickly had the conversation changed, and so suddenly had come this declaration, that Astumastao was thrown off her guard and more deeply agitated than we have ever seen her before. However, she soon regained her composure, and replied to him--not unkindly, but candidly and unmistakably--that she was very sorry he had made such a request, as she had set her heart upon the accomplishment of some work which perhaps would make it impossible for her to think of marriage for years to come.
Vainly he urged his suit, but most firmly she resisted; and with only the satisfaction of getting from her the information that at some future interview she would tell him of the great object she had set her heart upon, he had to leave the wigwam, feeling that his chances of winning Astumastao were not quite so bright as he had vainly imagined.
Oowikapun, as we may well suppose, was very anxious to know the reasons which had so strong a hold upon Astumastao as to cause her thus to act; and, so soon as Indian etiquette would allow another visit to her wigwam, he was not absent.
When some Indian maidens, who had been learning from Astumastao some new designs in beadwork, at which she was very skillful, had retired, and the two young people and the aunt were now left alone, she, in her clear, straightforward manner, told what was uppermost in her heart. It was of a purpose which had been growing there for years, but which she had only seen the possibility of carrying out since her uncle's death. She said she believed they ought to have a missionary to teach them the truths in the book of heaven. Pe-pe-qua-napuay, the new chief, was not unfriendly, as he had himself declared that he had lost faith in the old pagan way; and Koosapatum, the conjurer, had lost his power over the young men, who now feared not his threats; and at Tapastanum, the old medicine man, they even laughed when he threatened them. So she had resolved to go all the way to Norway House, to plead with the missionary there to send away to the land of missionaries, and get one to come and live among them and be their teacher of this right way, as described in the book of heaven. She knew it was far away, and her hands and arms would often get weary with paddling many days, and her feet would get sore, and perhaps the moccasins would wear out in the portages where the stones were sharp and the rocks many. But they had talked it all over, and they had resolved to go. Two women were to go with her. One, who was a widow, was to be the guide. She had gone over the way years ago, with her husband, and thought that she could remember the trail. The other was a young woman, the companion of Astumastao, who from being so much with her had learned what she knew, and so longed, for more instruction that she was willing to go on the long journey, hard and dangerous though it was. These two women, she said, were anxious to go with her. They were sick of the way they were living, and longed for the better life and a knowledge, of what was beyond.
They had been making their preparations for a long time, she said. A friendly family would keep the aunt in her absence and look after her little wigwam. They had been making beadwork and some other things to sell at Norway House, so that they would not be dependent upon the friends there while they pleaded for a missionary.
Thus talked this noble girl, and, as she went on and described the blessing that would come to her people if she should succeed, she became so fired with this noble resolve which had taken such complete possession of her that poor Oowikapun, while more and more in love with her, felt himself, while under the witchery of her impassioned words, verily guilty in having dared to make a proposal of marriage which would in any way thwart a purpose so noble, and which might be followed by such blessed results.
And yet, when alone and in cool blood, Oowikapun pondered over the nature of the task she had decided to undertake, and thought of the perils and difficulties in the way to which she and her companions would be exposed, he resolved to try to persuade her to abandon the perilous undertaking.
Patiently she listened to all he had to say, but she would not be persuaded to abandon this, on which her heart was so set. Seeing this, he tried to arrange some compromise or some other plan. First he asked her to marry him, and let him go along in place of the young Indian maiden, companion of Astumastao. This plan, which seemed so agreeable to Oowikapun, she quickly dismissed, saying that she did not intend to be married until she could be married in the beautiful Christian way she remembered having seen when a child, and by a Christian missionary.
Failing in this scheme, Oowikapun suggested that he should select some strong young fellow, and that together they should set off as soon as the ice disappeared from the rivers, and present her request.
To this Astumastao replied, and there was a little tinge of banter, if not of sarcasm, as well as a good deal of seriousness in her voice: "And suppose, in one of the Indian villages through which you might pass, a sun or ghost dance, or even the ceremony of the devil worship or dog feast might be going on, who knows but you might be persuaded to jump into the magic circle and dance yourself senseless? Or if you did not succeed, might you not in your discouragement go off again to the tortures and miseries of _hock-e-a-yum_?"
These words made him wince, but he could only feel that they were true, and that he deserved them all; and he felt that, until he did something to redeem himself in the eyes of this brave, true woman, he was only worthy of her reproofs.
Seeing that her words had so hurt him, this generous-hearted girl, who, while grieved at the failures he had made, could also appreciate his noble qualities and sympathise with him in his struggles for the light, quickly turned the conversation, and then, as though making a confidant of him, told him of all the plans of their contemplated journey, which was to begin just as soon as the spring opened, as they supposed it would take them all the season of open water in their lakes and rivers to go and return. Then she added: "And shall I not be happy when again I see the spire of that house of prayer at Norway House? And if I can only succeed in getting the promise of a missionary to come and dwell among our people I shall forget all the dangers and hardship of the trip."
One day, while Oowikapun was pondering over the words of Astumastao, and thinking of the risks she and her companions were about to run, and the dangers they would have to encounter in their great undertaking, and contrasting it with the listless, aimless life he had lately been leading, suddenly there came to him, as a revelation, a noble resolve which took such possession of him and so inspired him that he appeared and acted like another man.
To carry it out was quickly decided upon, and so, letting no one know of his purpose, he very early, one crisp, wintry morning, tied his little travelling outfit, with his axe and gun, upon his sled, and, without saying "Good-bye" to anyone, even to Astumastao, secretly left the village.
There were many surmises among the people when it was known that he was gone. Many conjectures were made, and when some hunters returned along the trail which led to his own village, and reported that the tracks of his sled and snow-shoes were not seen in that direction, they were all the more surprised; and it was a long time ere they had any hint of where he had gone or the cause which had taken him away.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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13
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THE SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.
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The mysterious disappearance of Oowikapun from the village of his friends caused a good deal of excitement and innocent gossip. That he was deeply in love with Astumastao was evident to all, and while she did not allow even her most intimate friends to hear her say that she intended to marry him, yet her conduct very plainly indicated that he stood higher than anyone else in her esteem. That she had positively rejected him none of them could believe. Why then had he thus shown the white feather, and so ignominiously and so suddenly left the field when it seemed so evident that a little more perseverance would have surely resulted in his success. In this way the young men and maidens of the village talked, while the old men gravely smoked the calumets and mourned that the times were so changed that a young brave should have so much trouble in capturing a squaw.
When Astumastao was informed of the sudden disappearance of Oowikapun she was troubled and perplexed. Not the slightest hint had he given her of his intended movements when, like a flash, there had come to him the great resolve to be the one who should go on the long journey to find the missionary. She was a maiden, not beautiful, but she was a comely Indian girl, attractive and clever in her way, and she well knew that many a young hunter had sat down beside her wigwam door or had dropped the shining, white pebble before her in the path, thus plainly intimating his desire to win her notice and esteem. But to all of them she had turned a deaf ear, and had treated them, without exception, with perfect indifference. As shy and timid as a young fawn of the forest, she had lived under the watchful and somewhat jealous care of her uncle and aunt, until Oowikapun had appeared in the village.
His coming, however, and his reference to Memotas had strangely broken the quiet monotony of years. Then what she had done for him in the wigwam, their conversation in the trail, and above all, his gallant rescue of her from the terrible catamount, had aroused new emotions within her and opened up her mind to a wider vision, until now she saw that she was no longer the young free Indian girl with no thoughts but those of her childhood, but a woman who must now act and decide for herself. But with the characteristic reserve of her people she kept all the newborn emotions and aspirations hid in her heart.
The power to control the feelings and passions among the Indians is not confined to the sterner sex. Schooled in a life of hardship, the women as well as the men can put on the mask of apparent indifference, while at the same time the heart is racked by intensest feeling, or the body is suffering most horrid torture. Death in its most dreadful form may be staring them in the face, and yet the outsider may look in vain for the blanching of the cheek, or the quivering of a muscle. Very early in life does this stern education begin.
"That is my best child," said an Indian father, as he pointed out an apparently happy little girl seven or eight years old, in his wigwam.
"Why should she be your favourite child?" was asked him.
"Why? Because she, of all my children, will go the longest without food, without crying," was his answer.
To suffer, but to show no sign, is the proverb of the true Indian. And yet Astumastao would not admit even to herself that she was deeply in love with Oowikapun. She had treasured the fond conceit in her heart that the one all-absorbing passion with her was that which she had freely revealed to him, and she in her simplicity had honestly believed that no other love could take its place, or even share the room in her heart.
But here was a rude awakening. She was a mystery to herself. Why these sighs and tears when she was alone and unwatched by her bright-eyed, alert young associates? Why did the image of this one young Indian hunter intrude itself so persistently before her in her waking hours? It is true he came not frequently to her in her dreams, for we dream but little of those we love the most, and who are in our memories and on our hearts continually during the waking hours of active life.
Untaught in the schools and free from all the guiles of heartless coquetry, an orphan girl in an Indian village, with neither prudery on the one hand, nor hothouse teachings on the other, which turn the heads of so many girls, Astumastao was to herself a riddle which she could not solve--a problem the most difficult of any she had tried to understand.
Her maidenly modesty seemed first to tell her to banish his image from her heart, and his name from her lips. To accomplish this she threw herself with renewed diligence into the duties incident to her simple yet laborious life, and by her very activities endeavoured to bring herself back to the sweet simplicities of her earlier days. But fruitless were all her efforts. The heart transfixed, was too strong for her head, and the new love which had so unconsciously come to her would not be stilled or banished.
A true daughter of Eve was this forest maiden, even if she did live in a wigwam, and had never read a novel or a romance, and because she had these feelings and was passing through these hours of disquietude and conflicting emotions we think none the less of her. Our only regret is that she had no judicious friend of her own sex to whom in her perplexity she could have gone for wise and prudent counsel. Happy are those daughters in civilised lands who have their precious mothers or other safe counsellors to whom they can go in these critical hours of their history, when their future weal or woe may turn upon the decisions then made. And happy are those fair maidens who, instead of impulsively and recklessly rejecting all counsel and warning from their truest friends, listen to the voice of experience and parental love, and above all, seek aid from the infinitely loving One who has said: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."
Astumastao unfortunately had no one to whom she could go in her perplexity. Her feeble aunt had been a purchased wife, bought in the long ago by her husband whom she had never seen until the day when he had come from a distant village, and being impressed with her appearance, for she was then a fine-looking young woman, had quickly spread out at her father's feet all the gifts he demanded for her. His first words to her were to inform her that she was his wife, and that very shortly they would set out for his distant home. Crushed, out of her heart were some feelings of affection for a handsome young hunter who had several times met her on the trail, as she was accustomed to go to the bubbling spring in the shady dell for water for her father's wigwam. Few indeed had been his words, but his looks had been bright and full of meaning, and he had let her know that he was gathering up the gifts that would purchase her from her stern, avaricious father. But, alas! her dreams and hopes had been blasted, and her heart crushed by this old pagan custom, and so for long years she had lived the dreary, monotonous life to which we have referred. Such a woman could give no advice that would be of much service to such an alert, thoughtful girl as Astumastao, and so, unaided and undisciplined, she let her thoughts drift and her heart become the seat of emotions and feelings most diverse. Sometimes she bitterly upbraided herself for her coldness and indifference to Oowikapun as she thought of his many noble qualities. Then again she would marshal before her his weaknesses and defects, and would vainly try to persuade herself to believe that the man who had been in the tent of Memotas and had heard him pray, and had then gone into the devil dance and had voluntarily suffered the tortures of _hock-e-a-yum_, was unworthy of her notice. Then suddenly, as the memory of what he must have suffered in those terrible ordeals came before her, her bright eyes would fill with tears, and she found herself impulsively longing for the opportunity to drive the recollection of such suffering from her mind and heart, and to be the one to save him from their repetition. Amid these conflicting emotions there was one thought that kept coming up in her mind and giving her much trouble, and that was, "Why had he left so abruptly? Why did he not at least come and say `Good-bye?' or why had he not left at least some little message for her?"
Over these queries she pondered, and they were more than once thrown at her by the young Indian maidens, as with them she was skillfully decorating with beads some snow-white moccasins she had made.
Thus pondered Astumastao through the long weeks that were passing by since Oowikapun left her, while he, brave fellow, little dreaming that such conflicting feelings were in her heart, was putting his life in jeopardy, and enduring hardships innumerable, to save and benefit the one who had become dearer to him than life itself.
Thus the time rolled on, and all her efforts to banish him from her mind proved failures, and it came to pass that, like the true, noble girl that she was, she could only think of that which was brave and good about him, and so when some startling rumours of a delightful character began to be circulated among the wigwams, our heroine, Astumastao, without knowing the reason why, at once associated them with Oowikapun. News travels rapidly sometimes, even in the lands where telegraphs and express trains are unknown. It does not always require the well-appointed mail service to carry the news rapidly through the land.
During the terrible civil war in the United States there was among the Negroes of the South what was known as the grapevine telegraphy, by which the coloured people in remote sections often had news of success or disaster to the army of "Uncle Abraham," as they loved to call President Lincoln, long before the whites had any knowledge of what had occurred.
So it was among the Indian tribes. In some mysterious, and to the whites, most unaccountable way, the news of success or disaster was carried hundreds of miles in a marvellously short period of time. For example, the defeat and death of General Custer at the battle of the Rosebud was known among the Sioux Indians, near Saint Paul, for several hours before the military authorities at the same place had any knowledge of it, although the whites were able to communicate more than half of the way with each other by telegraph. An interesting subject this might prove for some one who had time and patience to give it a thorough investigation.
The rumours of coming blessings to the people kept increasing. At length they assumed a form so tangible, that the people began to understand what was meant. It seemed that some hunters met some other hunters in their far-off wanderings, who had come across a party of Norway House Christian Indians, who informed them that a visit might be soon expected from the white man with the great book, about which there had been so many strange things circulating for such a long time. When Astumastao heard these rumours she was excited and perplexed. While hoping most sincerely that they were true, and would speedily be fulfilled, yet she could not but feel that she would have rejoiced to have been able to have made the long journey, for which she had been so industriously preparing, and have had something to do in bringing the missionary and the book among her own people. And then she let her thoughts go to some one else, and she said to herself, "I will rejoice if it turns out to be the work of Oowikapun."
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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14
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IN NEED OF A MISSIONARY.
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The success which has attended the efforts of the missionaries in preaching the Gospel among the most northern tribes of Indians has been very encouraging. For a long time they had been dissatisfied with their old paganism. They had in a measure become convinced that their religious teachers, their medicine-men, and conjurers, were impostors and liars, and so, while submitting somewhat to their sway, were yet chafing under it. When the first missionaries arrived among them they were soon convinced that they were their true friends. Not only were they men of saintly lives and pure characters, but they were men who practically sympathised with the people, and to the full measure of their ability, and often beyond, they helped the sick and suffering ones, and more than once divided their last meal with the poor, hungry creatures who came to them in their hours of direst need. The result was that the people were so convinced of the genuineness of these messengers of peace and good will, that large numbers of them gladly accepted the truth and became loving Christians.
The story of the founding of these missions went far and wide throughout all these northern regions, and at many a distant camp fire, and in many a wigwam hundreds of miles away, the red men talked of the white man and his book of heaven.
Occasionally some of these hunters or trappers, from these still remote pagan districts of their great hunting grounds, would meet with some of the Christian hunters from the missions, and from them would learn something of the great salvation revealed in the book of heaven, and they would return more dissatisfied than ever with their old, sinful, pagan ways.
Then it sometimes happened that a missionary, full of zeal for his Master, and of sympathy for these poor, neglected souls in the wilderness, would undertake long journeys into their country to preach to them this great salvation. Many were the hardships and dangers of those trips, which were often of many weeks' duration. They were made in summer in a birch canoe with a couple of noble Christian Indians, who were not only able skillfully to paddle the canoe, and guide it safely down the swift, dangerous rapids, and carry it across the portages, but also be of great help to the missionary in spreading the Gospel by telling of their own conversion, and of the joy and happiness which had come to them through the hearty acceptance of this way.
In winter the missionaries could only make these long journeys by travelling with dogs, accompanied by a faithful guide and some clever dog drivers. Sometimes they travelled for three hundred miles through the cold forests or over the great frozen lakes for many days together without seeing a house. When night overtook them, they dug a hole in the snow, and there they slept or shivered as best they could. Their food was fat meat, and they fed their dogs on fish. The cold was so terrible that sometimes every part of their faces exposed to the dreadful cold was frozen. Once one of the missionaries froze his nose and ears in bed! Often the temperature ranged from forty to sixty degrees below zero. It was perhaps the hardest mission field in the world, as regards the physical sufferings and privations endured; but, fired by a noble ambition to preach the Gospel "in the region beyond," these men of God considered no sufferings too severe, or difficulties insurmountable, if only they could succeed. They were among those of whom it is said: "Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy The rage and rigour of a northern sky, And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose On icy fields amidst eternal snows."
Wherever they could gather the wandering Indians together, even in little companies, for religious worship they did so. On the banks of the lakes or rivers, in the forests, at their camp fires, or in their wigwams, they ceased not to speak and to preach Jesus. The result was, a spirit of inquiry was abroad, and so, in spite of the old conjurers and medicine-men, who were determined, if possible, not to lose their grip upon them, there was a longing to know more and more about this better way.
Norway House Mission was the spot to which many eyes were directed, and to which deputations asking for missionary help often came. It was the largest and most flourishing of those northern missions, and for years had its own printing press and successful schools.
Very pathetic and thrilling were some of the scenes in connection with some of these importunate Indian deputations, who came from remote regions to plead with the resident missionary that they might have one of their own, to live among them and help them along in the right way.
One deputation, consisting of old men, came year after year, and when still refused each successive year, because there was none to volunteer for a life so full of hardships, and no money in the missionary treasury, even if a man could be found, became filled with despair, and even bitterness, and said: "Surely then the white men do not, as they say, consider us as their brothers, or they would not leave us without the book of heaven and one of their members to show us the true way."
Another old man, with bitterness of soul and tremulousness of speech, when replying to the refusal of his request for a missionary for his people, said: "My eyes have grown dim with long watching, and my hair has grown grey while longing for a missionary." These importunate appeals, transmitted year after year to the missionary authorities, at length, in a measure, so aroused the Churches that more help was sent, but not before the toilers on the ground had almost killed themselves in the work. Vast indeed was the area of some of those mission fields, and wretched and toilsome were the methods of travel over them. George McDougall's mission was larger than all France; Henry Steinhaur's was larger than Germany; the one of which Norway House was the principal station was over five hundred miles long, and three hundred wide; and there were others just as large. No wonder men quickly broke down and had soon to retire from such work. The prisoners in the jails and penitentiaries of the land live on much better fare than did these heroic men and their families. The great staple of the North was fish. Fish twenty-one times a week for six months, and not much else with it. True, it was sometimes varied by a pot of boiled muskrat or a roasted leg of a wild cat.
Yet, amid such hardships, which tried both souls and bodies, they toiled on bravely and uncomplainingly, and, as far as possible, responded to the pleading Macedonian calls that came to them for help, from the remote regions still farther beyond, and gladly welcomed to their numbers the additional helpers when they arrived.
With only one of these deputations pleading for a missionary have we here to do.
It was a cold, wintry morning. The fierce storms of that northern land were howling outside, and the frost king seemed to be holding high carnival. Quickly and quietly was the door of the mission house opened, and in there came two Indians. One of them was our beloved friend Memotas, who was warmly greeted by all, for he was a general favourite. The little children of the mission home, Sagastaookemou and Minnehaha, rushed into his arms and kissed his bronzed but beautiful face. When their noisy greetings were over, he introduced the stranger who was with him. He seemed to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age, and was a fine, handsome looking man; in fact, an ideal Indian of the forest. Very cordially was he welcomed, and Memotas said his name was Oowikapun.
Thus was our hero in the mission house, and in the presence of the first missionary he had ever seen. How had he reached this place? and what was the object of his coming? These questions we will try to answer.
The last glimpse we had of Oowikapun was when he was quietly speeding away from the far-off village where dwelt Astumastao, and, according to the hunters, returning not in the trail leading to his own village; His presence here in the mission house, hundreds of miles in the opposite direction, now explains to us the way in which he must have travelled.
From his own lips, long after, the story of his adventurous trip was told.
Oowikapun said that, when he left Astumastao after that last interview in which he so completely failed to divert her from her determination to undertake, with the other women, the long, dangerous journey, and in which she had shown him how little he was to be depended upon, he went back to the wigwam of his friends feeling very uncomfortable. His relatives had all gone off hunting or visiting, and so there he was alone in his tent. He kindled a fire, and by it he sat and tried to think over what had happened, and was full of regret at what Astumastao had resolved to do. While almost frightened at the dangers she was about to face, he could not but be proud of her spirit and courage.
Then the thought came to him, What are you doing? Is there not man enough in you to do this work, and save these women from such risks? Is it not as much for you as anybody else the missionary is needed? Are you not about the most miserable one in the tribe? Here is your opportunity to show what you can accomplish; and, as Memotas was always doing the hard work for his wife, here is your chance to save from danger, and do the work that the one you are longing to call your wife is intending to do.
"While I thought about it," said Oowikapun, "the thing took such hold upon me that it fairly made me tremble with excitement, and I resolved to set about it at once. So I very quickly gathered my few things together, and when all was still I left the village. Some falling snow covered up my snowshoe tracks and the little trail made by my sled, and so no one could tell in which direction I had gone.
"I had many adventures. The snow was deep; but I had my good snow-shoes and plenty of ammunition, and, as there was considerable game, I managed very well. One night I had a supper of marrow bones, which I got hold of in a strange way. I was pushing along early in the forenoon when I heard a great noise of wolves not very far off. Quickly I unstrapped my gun and prepared to defend myself if I should be attacked. Their howlings so increased that I became convinced that they were so numerous that my safest plan was to get up in a tree as quickly as possible. This I did, and then I drew up my sled beyond their reach. Not very long after I had succeeded in this, I saw a great moose deer plunging through the snow, followed by fierce grey wolves. He made the most desperate efforts to escape; but, as they did not sink deeply in the snow, while he broke through at every plunge, they were too much for him, and although he badly injured some of them, yet they succeeded in pulling him down and devoured him. It was dreadful to see the way they snarled and fought with each other over the great body. They gorged themselves ere they went away, and left nothing but the great bones. When they had disappeared, I came down from the tree, in which I had been obliged to remain about six hours. I was nearly frozen, and so I quickly cut down some small dead trees and made up a good fire. I then gathered the large marrow bones from which the wolves had gnawed the meat, and, standing them up against a log close to the fire, I roasted them until the marrow inside was well cooked; then, cracking them open with the back of my axe, I had a famous supper upon what the wolves had left.
"I had several other adventures," said Oowikapun; "but the most interesting of all, and the one most pleasing to me, was that I reached Beaver Lake in time to rescue an old man from being eaten by the wolves. His relatives were some very heartless people of the Salteaux tribe. They were making a long journey through the country to a distant hunting ground, and because this old grandfather could not keep up in the trail, and food was not plentiful, they deliberately left him to perish. They acted in a very cruel and heartless way. They cut down and stuck some poles in the snow, and then over the top they threw a few pieces of birch bark. This in mockery they called his tent. Then seating him on a piece of a log in it, where he was exposed to view from every side, they left him without any fire or blankets, and gave him only a small quantity of dried meat in a birch dish which they call a _rogan_. There, when he had eaten this meat, he was expected to lie down and die.
"When I found him he was nearly dead with the cold. He had eaten his meat and was sitting there on the log brandishing his old tomahawk to keep off several wolves, who were patiently waiting until he would become wearied out, when they would spring in upon him and speedily devour him. So intent were they on watching him, that I was able to get up so close to them that I sent a bullet through two of them, killing them instantly. The others, frightened by the report of the gun, quickly rushed away. I cheered up the old man, and speedily made a fire and gave him some warm soup which I prepared.
"I had to stay there with him a day before he was strong enough to go on with me. I have succeeded in bringing him with me to Norway House by dragging him on my sled most of the way. I took him to the house of Memotas, where he was kindly treated and cared for, as are all who come under the roof of that blessed man."
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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15
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THE MISSIONARY ON HIS JOURNEY.
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Oowikapun, during the days and weeks following, in his pleadings for a missionary had a great helper in Memotas, who had become very much interested in him. This devoted man had often thought about the young wounded Indian who long ago had come to his hunting lodge, so far away, to be cured of the injuries inflicted by the savage wolf.
Since his arrival, he had drawn from him many of the vents that had occurred in his life since they had knelt down in the woods together. He had opened to Memotas his heart, and had told him of his feeble efforts to live the better life, and of his complete failure. He told him of Astumastao, and made the heart of Memotas and others glad, who remembered the little black-eyed maiden from the far North who had dwelt a year in the village. They all rejoiced to hear that she still treasured in her breast so much of the truth and was so anxious for a missionary.
These were happy weeks for Oowikapun. Under the faithful instructions of Memotas he was being rapidly helped along in the way to a Christian life. Perplexities and mysteries were being cleared up, and light was driving the darkness and gloom out of his mind and heart. Frequently did the faithful missionary, who had also become much interested in him, have long conversations with him, giving him much assistance, as well as arranging for the comfort of the old Salteaux whom he had rescued from such a dreadful death. The plan of salvation by faith in the Lord Jesus was unfolded to Oowikapun, and the necessity of a firm and constant reliance upon God for help in times of need was so explained to him that he saw where his failures had been, because, in his own strength, he had tried to resist temptation, and thus had so sadly failed.
The Sabbath services intensely interested him, and he took great delight in them. The Sunday school was a revelation to him, and he gladly accepted the invitation of Memotas, and became an interested member of his class. He seemed to live in a new world, and when he contrasted what he had witnessed nearly all his days amid the darkness and evils of the pagan Indians with what he saw among this happy Christian people, instructed by the missionaries out of the book of heaven, his dream came up vividly before him, and now it had a meaning as never before. Here, in this Christian village, were the people of his own race whom he had seen in the bright and happy way, with Jesus as their guide, and the beautiful heaven beyond as their destination.
As he studied them more and more, the more importunate and anxious he became to have the missionary of this station go and visit his people, and thus prepare the way for their own missionary when he should come to live among them.
Oowikapun's anxiety for light, and his intense interest in everything that pertained to the progress of the people, and, above all, his resolve to succeed in getting the missionary, created a great deal of interest among the villagers. With their usual open-hearted hospitality, they invited him to their comfortable homes, and from many of them he learned much to help him along in the good way.
So marvellously had Christianity lifted up and benefited the people that Oowikapun with his simple forest ways, at times felt keenly his ignorance as he contrasted his crude life with what he now witnessed.
A genuine civilisation following Christianity had come to many of these once degraded tribes, and now comfortable homes and large and happy family circles are to be found where not a generation ago all was dark and degraded, and the sweet word "home" was utterly unknown.
The conversion of some of these Indians was very remarkable, and the recital of how they had come out of the darkness into the light was most helpful to him.
When there is a disposition to surrender we are easily conquered, and such was the condition of mind in which was the missionary to whom Oowikapun had come with his earnest appeals. The decision to go was no sooner reached than the preparation began to be made for the long journey, which would occupy at least a month. Four dog-trains had to be taken. A train consists of four dogs harnessed up in tandem style. The sleds are about ten feet long and sixteen inches wide. They are made of two oak boards, and are similar in construction, but much stronger than the sleds used on toboggan slides.
There are various breeds of dogs used in that country, but the most common are the Eskimos. They are strong and hardy, and when well trained are capital fellows for their work; but beyond that they are incorrigible thieves and unmitigated nuisances.
Other breeds have been introduced into the country, such as the Saint Bernard and the Newfoundlands. These have all the good qualities of the Eskimos, and are happily free from their blemishes. Some few Scottish stag-hounds, and other dogs of the hound varieties, have been brought in by Hudson Bay officers and others; but while they make very swift trains, they can only be used for short trips, as they are too tender to stand the bitter cold and exposure, or the long and difficult journeys, often of many days' duration, through the wild and desolate regions.
The various articles for the long journey were speedily gathered together and the sleds carefully packed. Preparing for such a journey is a very different thing from getting ready for a trip in a civilised land. Here the missionary and his Indian companions were going about three hundred miles into the wilderness, where they would not see a house or any kind of human habitation from the time they left their homes until they reached their destination. They would not see the least vestige of a road.
They would make their own trail on snow-shoes all that distance, except when on the frozen lakes and rivers, where snow-shoes would be exchanged for skates by some, while the others only used their moccasins. Every night, when the toilsome day's travel was over, they would have to sleep in the snow in their own bed, which they carried with them. Their meals they would cook at camp fires, which they would build when required, as they hurried along. So we can easily see that a variety of things would have to be packed on the dog-sleds. Let us watch the old, experienced guide and the dog drivers as they attend to this work.
The heaviest item of the load is the supply of fish for the dogs. As this trip is to be such a long one, each sled must carry over two hundredweight of fish. Then the food for the missionary and his Indians, which consists principally of fat meat, is the next heaviest item. Then there are the kettles, and axes, and dishes, and numerous robes and blankets and changes of clothing, and a number of other things, to be ready for every emergency or accident; for they are going to live so isolated from the rest of the world that they must be entirely independent of it. One thing more they must not forget, and that is a liberal supply of dog shoes, and so on this trip they take over a hundred.
In selecting his Indian companions, the missionary's first thought is for a suitable guide, as much depends on him. The one chosen for this trip was called Murdo, a very reliable man, who had come originally from Nelson River. Very clever and gifted are some of these Northern guides. Without the vestige of a track before them, and without, the mark of an axe upon a tree, or the least sign that ever human beings had passed that way before, they stride along on their big snow-shoes day after day, without any hesitancy. The white man often gets so bewildered that he does not know east from west or north from south; but the guide never hesitates, and is very seldom at fault. To them it makes no difference whether the sun shines or clouds obscure the sky, or whether they journey by day or night. Sometimes it is necessary to do much of the travelling by night, on account of the reflection of the dazzling rays of the sun on the great, brilliant wastes of snow giving the travellers a disease called snow-blindness, which is painful in the extreme. To guard against this, travelling is frequently done through the hours of night, and the sleep secured is during the hours of sunshine.
Yet the experienced guide will lead on just as well by night as by day. To him it makes no difference what may be the character of the night. Stars may shine, auroras may flash and scintillate, and the moon may throw her cold, silvery beams over the landscape, or clouds may gather and wintry storms rage and howl through the forest; yet on and on will the guide go with unerring accuracy, leading to the desired camping ground.
With this guide, three dog drivers, and Oowikapun, the missionary commenced his first journey to Nelson River.
The contemplated trip had caused no little excitement, not only on account of its dangers, but also because it was the pioneering trip for new evangelistic work among a people who had never seen a missionary or heard the name of Jesus. And so it was that, although the start was made very early in the morning, yet there were scores of Indians gathered to see the missionary and his party off, and to wish them "Godspeed" on their glorious work.
The hasty farewells were soon said, and parting from his loved ones, whom he would not see for a month, the missionary gave the word to start, and they were off.
Murdo, the guide, ran on ahead on his snow-shoes. The missionary came next. He had with him Oowikapun, the happiest man in the crowd. When the missionary could ride--which was the case where the route lay over frozen, lakes or along stretches of the rivers--Oowikapun was his driver, and rejoiced at being thus honoured. Following the missionary's train, came the other three in single file, so that those following had the advantage of the road made by the sleds and snow-shoes in front. Where the snow was very deep, or a fresh supply had recently fallen, it sometimes happened that the missionary and all the Indians had to strap on their snow-shoes, and, following in the tracks of the guide, tramp on ahead of the dogs, and thus endeavour to make a road over which those faithful animals could drag their heavy loads.
When our travellers began to feel hungry a fire was quickly kindled, a kettle of tea prepared, and a hearty lunch of cold meat or pemmican was eaten and washed down with the strong tea. So vigorous are the appetites in that cold land, that often five times a day do the travellers stop for lunch. Then on they go until the setting sun tells them it is time to prepare for the wintry camp, where the night is to be spent. If they can possibly find it, they select a place where there are green balsam trees, and plenty of dry dead ones. The green ones will furnish the bed, while the dry ones will make the fire.
When such a place is found a halt is called and everybody is busy. The dogs are quickly unharnessed and gambol about close to the camp and never attempt to desert.
From the spot selected for the camp the snow is quickly scraped by using the great snow-shoes as shovels. Then a roaring fire is made, and on it the kettles, filled with snow, are placed. In the larger kettle a piece of fat meat is cooked, and in the other one tea is made. While supper is cooking the dogs are fed. They are only given one meal a day, and that is at night. Two good whitefish constitute a meal. These are thawed out for them at the fire; and after eating them they curl themselves up in their nests and sleep or shiver through the cold night as best they can. The supper, which consists principally of fat meat, is then eaten, and after prayers preparations are made for retiring. A layer of balsam boughs is placed on the ground; on this the robes and blankets are spread; and then the missionary, wrapping himself up in all the garments he can well get on, retires first and is well covered up by additional blankets and fur robes. So completely tucked in is he that it is a mystery why he does not smother to death. But somehow he manages to survive, and after a while gets to stand it like an Indian. Persons unacquainted with this kind of life can hardly realise how it is possible for human beings to thus lie down in a hole in the snow, and sleep comfortably with the temperature everywhere from forty to sixty below zero. However, difficult as it is, it has to be done if the Gospel is to be carried to people so remote that there is no better way of reaching them. Such travellers are always thankful when a foot or eighteen inches of snow falls upon them. It is a capital comforter, and adds very much to their warmth.
One of the most difficult things in connection with this kind of travelling is getting up. The fire which was burning brightly when they retired was but a flashy one, and so it expired very soon, and did not long add much to their comfort. And now when morning has come, and they have to spring up from their warm robes and blankets, the cold is so terrible that they suffer very much. No wonder they shiver and quickly get to work. Soon a roaring fire is burning, and breakfast prepared and enjoyed. After morning prayers the sleds are packed, the dogs are harnessed, and the journey is resumed.
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{
"id": "23261"
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16
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THE MISSIONARY AT WORK.
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Eight times was the wintry camp made on this long trip, which was full of strange adventures and many hardships to every one of the party; and so they were glad indeed when Murdo and Oowikapun told the others, on the ninth day, at about noon, that they were only six miles from Nelson River.
This was indeed welcome news to all, especially to the missionary. He had not had the severe physical training which naturally falls to the lot of an Indian. True, he had his own dog-sled, and was supposed to ride when possible; but there were whole days when he had to strap on his snow-shoes and march along in single file with his Indians, and, as happy Oowikapun put it in his broken English, "Good missionary help make um track."
The result of this "make um track" business was that he was about worn out ere the journey was ended. Several times had the cramps seized him in such a way that the muscles of his legs so gathered up in knots that he suffered intensely for hours. Then his feet were tender, and they chafed so under the deerskin thongs of the snow-shoes that the blood soaked through his moccasins, and in many places crimsoned the snow as he bravely toiled along. More than once, as he had to stop and rest on a log covered with snow, did he question with himself whether he had done right in undertaking a journey so fraught with sufferings and dangers.
Cheering, then, was the news that the journey was nearly ended. A halt was called, a kettle of tea was prepared, and lunch was eaten with great pleasure. The dog drivers put on some extra articles of finery of beautiful beadwork or silkwork, that they might appear as attractive as possible.
Very cordially were the missionary and his party welcomed by the great majority of the people. They were very much interested and excited when they found that the first missionary with the book of heaven was among them. As many of the people were away hunting, runners were dispatched for those within reach. All of these Northern Indians live by hunting. They are beyond the agricultural regions. Their summers are very short. The result is, they know but little of farinaceous or vegetable food. There are old people there who never saw a potato or a loaf of bread. Their food is either the fish from the waters or the game from the forests. The result is, they have to wander around almost continually in search of these things. The missionaries have learned this, and endeavour to arrange their visits so as to meet them at their gatherings in places where they assemble on account of the proximity of game. While these meeting places are called villages, they do not bear much resemblance to those of civilisation.
As soon as the missionary had rested a little he paid a visit to the tent of Koosapatum, because he had quickly heard of the dire threats of the old sinner. So gloomy was the interior of the wigwam that, as the missionary pulled back the dirty deerskin which served as a door and entered, he could hardly see whether there was anybody in or not; and no kindly word of greeting had been heard. However, his eyes soon got accustomed to the place, and then he was able to observe that the old conjurer and his wife were seated on the ground on the opposite side of the tent. With some tea and tobacco in his left hand, the missionary extended his right, saying, "What cheer, _mis-mis_?" --the Indian for "How are you, grandfather?"
The old fellow was cross and surly, and evidently in a bad humour, and most decidedly refused to shake hands, while he growled out words of annoyance and even threatening at the coming of a missionary among his people.
The missionary, however, was not to be easily rebuffed, and so reaching down he took hold of his hand, and in a pump-handle sort of style gave it quite a shaking. Then taking up the tobacco, which, with the tea, he had dropped upon the ground, he quickly placed it in the hand of the morose old man. At first he refused to take it, but the missionary spoke kindly to him, and after a little, as he had been out of the stuff for days, his fingers closed on it; and then the missionary knew that he had conquered in the first skirmish. Tobacco among these Indians is like salt among the Arabs. Knowing this, the missionary, who never used it himself, adopted this plan to make friends with the old conjurer.
After he had taken the tobacco, the missionary took up the package of tea, and, looking at the dirty strips of meat which hung drying over a stick, said: "You have meat, and I have tea. If you will furnish the meat, I will the tea, and we will have supper together."
The first thought of the old sinner, as he glanced at his medicine bag in which he kept his poisons, was: "What a good chance I shall now have to poison this man who has come to check my power!" However, the missionary saw that wicked gleam, and, being well able to read these men by this time, he quickly said: "Never mind your medicine bag and your poisons. I am your friend, even if as yet you do not believe it. I have come into your wigwam, and you have taken my tobacco, and I offer to eat and drink with you, and poison me _you dare not_!"
Thoroughly cowed and frightened that the white man had so completely read his thoughts, he turned around to his wife, and in imperative tones ordered her to quickly prepare the meat and the tea. So expeditiously was the work accomplished that it was not very long ere the conjurer and missionary were eating and drinking together. The old fellow said the meat was venison; the missionary thought it was dog meat.
Perhaps we cannot do better than to anticipate the work a little and say that at some later visits this old conjurer was induced to give up all of his wicked practices and become an earnest Christian. He so highly prized the visits of the missionary that he followed him like his shadow. He attended all the services, and when, wearied out with the day's toil, the missionary prepared to rest, Koosapatum was not far off; and when the missionary knelt down to say his evening prayer alone, the now devout old man would kneel beside him and say: "Missionary, please pray out loud, and pray in my language, so that I can understand you."
Thus the Gospel had come to the heart and was influencing the life of even the conjurer of the Nelson River Indians. The service at which a great majority of the people decided for Christ was a very memorable one. It began at about eight o'clock in the morning. The majority of the Indians in all that vast district were gathered there.
Oowikapun's people were among the crowd, much to his delight. Astumastao and her aunt had heard of the gathering, and required no second invitation to be on hand. Great indeed was her joy to look again into the face, and hear the voice of a missionary. Very much surprised and bewildered was she at having been anticipated by some one who had succeeded in bringing in the missionary before she had begun her journey for this purpose. And great indeed was her joy and delight, and deeply was she moved when she heard of the part Oowikapun had played in the important work.
The meeting between the two was genuine and natural. The dream of her youth was now accomplished, for here, ready to begin the religious service, was the missionary, with the good book in his hand. His coming was the result of the efforts of Oowikapun. That she really loved him the conflicts of the last few weeks most conclusively answered. His bronzed, weather-beaten appearance showed something of the hardships of the long journey, while his bright, happy face revealed to her how amply repaid he felt for all he had endured and suffered.
As he entered the gathering assembly it was evident to all that his quick, eager eyes were on the lookout for some special friend.
Not long had he to look. Astumastao and her aunt had come in from another wigwam, and were not very far behind him, and so were able to see how eagerly he was scanning the faces of those who had already assembled. So absorbed was he in scanning those in front that the noiseless moccasined feet of others coming in behind him were unheeded.
For a moment Astumastao watched his wistful, eager looks, and well divining the meaning, with flushed and radiant face she advanced toward him and cordially exclaimed: "My brave Oowikapun!" Startled, overjoyed, and utterly unconscious or careless of the hundreds of bright eyes that were on him, he seized the extended hands, and drawing her toward him, he imprinted upon her brow a kiss of genuine and devoted love, and exclaimed: "My own Astumastao!"
Tucking her arm in his as he had lately seen the white Christians do, he proudly marched with her up to a prominent place in the audience, where they seated themselves, while the aunt for the present judiciously looked out for herself.
It was a very picturesque assembly. Indians dress in an endless variety of fashions. Some in their native costumes looked as statuesque and beautiful as the ancient Greeks; others as ridiculous as a modern fop.
All, however, were interested and filled with suppressed excitement. The first hour was spent in singing and prayer and in reading the word of God, or, as the Indians love to call it, the book of heaven.
Then the Indians who had come from Norway House with the missionary, and who were earnest Christians, told of how they had found the Saviour. Very clear and definite are many of the Christian Indians on this point. And as Paul loved to talk about how the Lord Jesus had met him while on the way to Damascus, so it was with many of these happy converted red men; they love to talk of their conversion.
To the great joy of the missionary, Oowikapun asked for the privilege of saying a few words. At first he seemed to falter a little, but soon he rose above all fear, and most blessedly and convincingly did he talk. We need not go over it again; it was the story of his life, as it has been recorded in these chapters. Because of the words and resolves of Astumastao, he said, he had gone for the missionary; and from this man, and from Memotas and others, he had found the way of faith in the Son of God. Now he was trusting in him with a sweet belief that even he, Oowikapun, was a child of God like these other happy Christians who had spoken.
After such an hour of preliminary services it was surely easy for that missionary to preach. He took as his text the sixteenth verse of the third chapter of Saint John's gospel. This is how it reads in Cree, which we give, that our readers may see what this beautiful language looks like: "_Aspeecke saketat Kesa-Maneto askeeyou kah ke ooche maket oopay ye-koo-sah-ke aweyit katapua yaye mah kwa akah keche nese-wah nah-tee-sit maka kacke at ayaky ka-ke-ka pimatissewin_."
It was a long sermon that was preached that day. For four hours the missionary talked without stopping. He had so much to say, for here was a people who had never heard the Gospel before, and were now listening to it for the first time. Everything had to be made plain as he went along. So he had to take them back to the creation of the human family; and tell them of the fall, and of the great plan to save the poor sinning race, who have got out of the right trail, and ate wandering in darkness and death, and bring them back again into the right way, which has in it happiness for them here, and heaven hereafter.
Thus the missionary talked hour after hour, wishing to bring them to a decision for Christ at once. He dwelt upon the greatness and impartiality of God's love, and urged them that as his love was so real and blessed, they should accept of him now, at the first great invitation.
The ever-blessed Spirit carried home to the hearts of these simple people the truths uttered, and deep and genuine were the results. After more singing and prayer the missionary asked for some of them to candidly tell what was in their hearts concerning these truths, and what were their wishes and resolves in reference to becoming Christians.
To write down here all that was said that day would require several more chapters; suffice it to say that, from the chief, who spoke first, through a succession of their best men, they were all thankful for what they had heard, and said that these things about the Great Spirit "satisfied their longing," and, as one put it, "filled up their hearts."
Thus the Gospel had reached Nelson River, and rapidly did it find a lodgment in the hearts of the people. At the close of the second service about forty men and women came forward to the front of the assembly and professed their faith in Christ and desired Christian baptism, the meaning of which had been explained to them. And thus the good work went on day after day, and many more decided fully for Christ.
Do not, my dear reader, say this work was too sudden, and that these baptisms were too soon. Nothing of the kind. It was only another chapter in the Acts of the Apostles, and in perfect harmony with what is stated by infallible Wisdom. There it is recorded of the multitudes, after one sermon by Peter, "Then they that gladly received his word were baptised: and the same day there were added unto them about three thousand souls."
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{
"id": "23261"
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17
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NORWAY HOUSE REVISITED.
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Of course Oowikapun and Astumastao were married. Everybody was invited, and of course everybody came to the wedding, and to the great feast that followed. Very kind and devoted was he to her, even as Memotas had been to his wife. The excitement of the arrival of the missionary after a time died away, but the good results continue to this day. Although at times slowly, yet constantly has the good work gone on, and none who at the beginning decided for the Christian life have ever gone back to the old pagan religion of their forefathers. So much had Oowikapun to say about Memotas that he resolved if possible to see that blessed man once again. And to Astumastao also there came a longing desire to visit the spot to which now, more than ever, her memory turned, where that period, all too brief, in her childhood days had been spent, where in the home of the missionary, and in the house of God she had learned the sweet lessons which had never entirely been forgotten, and which had "after many days" produced such glorious results.
The longed-for opportunity came the next summer, and was gladly accepted.
So successful had been the fur hunters in their trapping the fur-bearing animals such as the silver foxes, beavers, otters, minks, and others whose rich pelts are very valuable, that the Hudson Bay Trading Company resolved to send up to Norway House a second brigade of boats to take up the surplus cargo left by the first brigade, and also to bring down a cargo of supplies for the extra trade, which was so rapidly developing. Oowikapun was appointed steersman of one of the boats, and his wife was permitted to go with him.
With great delight were they both welcomed at Norway House Mission. They had had a long, dangerous trip. Many rapids had to be run where the greatest skill was required in safely steering the little boats, but Oowikapun was alert and watchful and did well. Twenty-five or thirty times did they have to make portages around the dangerous falls and rapids.
The joy of Astumastao on reaching the place where she had spent that eventful year, so long ago, was very great indeed. Absorbed in bringing up the memories of the past she seemed at times like one in a dream. To find the playmates of that time she had to search among those, who now, like herself, had left the years of childhood far behind. Many of them had gone into the spirit land. Still she found a goodly number after a time, and great indeed was their mutual joy to renew the friendships of their earlier days. And great indeed was the pleasure of all to meet the wife of that Indian who had visited the mission in the depth of that cold winter to plead for a missionary, especially when they learned that it was because of her earnest resolve that he had undertaken the long, cold, dangerous journey.
They were welcome visitors at the mission house. Sagastaookemou and Minnehaha seemed intuitively to love them, much to their delight, and as gravely listened as did the older people to the recital of some of the thrilling incidents of their lives. The services of the sanctuary were "seasons of sweet delight," and in them much was to be learned to be helpful in times to come.
Of course the little home of Memotas was visited. Their hearts were saddened at finding the one, who for years had not only, as the missionary's most efficient helper, often ministered to the mind diseased, and brought comfort to the sin-sick soul, but had often, as in the case of Oowikapun, when bitten by the savage wolf, skillfully restored to health and vigour many suffering ones, now rapidly himself hastening to the tomb.
But although he was feeble in body he was joyous in spirit, and had the happy gift of making everybody happy who came to see him. Even in his last illness this remarkable man was a "son of consolation." For months ere he left us, he lived in an atmosphere of heaven, and longed for his eternal home. Only once after the arrival of Oowikapun and Astumastao did he have sufficient strength to go with them to the house of God. Every Indian within twenty miles of the sanctuary was there that bright Sabbath morning. Wan and pale and _spiritual_ looked the saintly man who seemed to have just, by the strength of his will, kept the soul in the frail earthen vessel, that he might once again worship in the earthly sanctuary, ere he entered into that which is heavenly.
When with an effort he raised himself up to speak the place was indeed a Bochim, for the weepers were everywhere. One illustration used by him has lingered with me through all these years. He said: "I am in body like the old wigwam that has been shaken by many a storm. Every additional blast that now assails it only makes the rents and crevices the more numerous and larger. _But the larger the breaks and openings, the more the sunshine can enter in_. So with me, every pang of suffering, every trial of patience, only opens the way into my soul for more of Jesus and his love."
How he did rejoice as they talked with him and rehearsed the story of how the Lord had so wonderfully led them out of the darkness of the old way into the blessed light of the new.
At Astumastao's request Oowikapun told Memotas of his wonderful dream, and of the deep impression it had made upon him. Memotas listened to its recital with the deepest interest, and stated what many others have said, that they believed that still, as in ancient times, the good Spirit in loving compassion speaks in dreams to help or warn those who have not yet received enough of the divine revelation to be completely guided by it. At his feet sat those two happy converts, and, as did many others, learned from his rich testimony many blessed truths.
Happy Memotas; only a little while longer did he tarry with us. A little additional cold was all that was needed to finish the work in a constitution so nearly shattered. When he felt it assailing him there came very clearly to him the presentiment that the end was near. And never did a weary traveller welcome his home and bed of rest with greater delight than did Memotas welcome the grave and the bliss beyond.
The prospect of getting to heaven seemed so glorious that he could hardly think of anything else. This was now his one absorbing thought.
Like all the rest of these Northern Indians, he was very poor, and had nothing in his home for food of his own but fish. But there were loving hearts at the mission house, and so willing hands carried supplies as needed to his little habitation.
On one occasion, when that dear, good missionary, Reverend John Semmens, who had gone with me, as together we had lovingly supplied his wants, said to him: "Now, beloved Memotas, can we do anything else for you? Do you want anything more?"
"O, no," replied Memotas; "I want nothing but Christ. More of Christ."
When we administered to him the emblems of the broken body and spilt blood of the dear Redeemer, he was much affected, and exclaimed, "My precious Saviour. I shall soon see him."
Seeing his intense longing to go sweeping through the gates of the celestial city, I said to him: "Memotas, my brother beloved, why are you so anxious to leave us? I hope you will be spared to us a little longer. We need you in the Church and in the village. We want your presence, your example, your prayers."
He was a little perplexed at first, and seemed hardly to know how to answer. Then he looked up at me so chidingly, and gave me the answer that outweighs all arguments: "I want to go home."
And home he went, gloriously and triumphantly. His face was so radiant and shining that it seemed to us as though the heavenly gates had swung back, and from the glory land some of its brightness had come flashing down, and had so illumined the poor body that still held in its faltering grasp the precious soul, that we could almost imagine that mortal itself was putting on immortality. The triumphant death of Memotas was not only a revelation and a benediction to Oowikapun and Astumastao, and many other Christian Indians, but it caused the full and complete surrender of many hard, stubborn hearts to Christ.
So short a time had our hero and heroine been in the way that, happy as they were in their present enjoyment of the favour of God, they had had their fears as they thought of the last enemy which is death. In the quietude of their wigwam home they had asked themselves, and each other, the solemn question, Will this religion sustain us in the valley and shadow of death? or, How will we do in the swellings of Jordan? Natural and solemn are these questions, and wise and prudent are they in all lands who thoughtfully and reverently ask them.
Comforting and suggestive were the answers which they and others had learned at the bedside of the triumphant Memotas.
"As thy days, so shall thy strength be," had a new meaning to them from that time forward, and so as they reconsecrated themselves to God, they resolved in the divine strength to obtain each day sufficient grace for that day's needs--and who can do any better?
Very anxious was Astumastao to learn all she could about housekeeping and other things which would more fully fit her for helping her less fortunate Indian sisters at the distant Indian village, who, now that they had become Christians, were also trying to attain to some of the customs and comforts of civilisation.
Thus very quickly sped the few weeks during which the brigade of boats waited at Norway House for their return cargo, which had to come from Fort Garry. When this arrived all was hurry and excitement. Two or three days only were required to unpack from the large cases or bales the supplies, and repack them in "pieces," as they are called in the language of the country. These pieces will each weigh from eighty to a hundred pounds. The cargoes are put up in this way on account of the many portages which have to be made, where the whole outfit has to be carried on the men's shoulders, supported by a strap from the forehead. It is laborious work, but these Indians are stalwart fellows, and now being homeward bound, they worked with a will.
Most of them were at this time Christians. So they tarried at the mission for a little time to say "Farewell" and to take on board Astumastao and two or three other Indian women, who had been wooed with such rapidity that ere the short visit of a few weeks rolled round all arrangements had been made and some pleasant little marriage ceremonies had taken place in our little church.
These marriages were a great joy to Astumastao as her intensely practical character saw that the coming to her distant country of some genuine Christian young women would be very helpful in the more rapid extension of Christianity. Indeed, "Dame Rumour," who lives there as well as elsewhere, said that she had a good deal to do in introducing some of the shy, timid bachelor Indians of the Nelson River brigade to some of the blushing damsels whom she had, in her judgment, decided would make good wives for them and also be a blessing in their new homes. Various amusing stories were flying about for a long time in reference to some of the queer misadventures and mixing up of the parties concerned ere everything was satisfactorily arranged and everybody satisfied. Among a people so primitive and simple in their habits this could quickly be done, as no long months were required to arrange jointures or marriage settlements, or a prying into the state of the bank accounts of either of the parties concerned.
But all these things have been attended to, and the long journey begun. It was a matter of thankfulness that no boats were smashed on the rocks or lives lost in the raging waters. The women looked well after the cooking of the meals and the mending of garments torn in the rough portages. Every morning and evening they read from the good book and had prayers. Often in the long gloaming of those high latitudes, when the day's work was done, they clustered around the camp fire on the great, smooth granite rocks, with the sparkling waters of lake or river in front, and the dense, dark forest as their background, and sweetly sang some of the sweet songs of Zion which they had lately learned or were learning from these young Christian wives whom the wise Astumastao had introduced among them.
The three Sabbaths which had to be spent on the journey were days of quiet restfulness and religious worship. It is a delightful fact that all of our Northern Christian Indians rest from their huntings and journeyings on the Lord's Day. And it has been found, by many years of testing, that the Christian Indians who thus rest on the Sabbath can do more and better work in these toilsome trips for the Hudson Bay Company than those brigades that know no Sabbath.
The longest journey has an end. The far-away home was reached at last. The goods, in capital order, were handed over to the officer of the trading post. The men were paid for their work, and supplies were taken up for the winter's hunting, and one after another of the families dispersed to their different hunting grounds, some of which were hundreds of miles away.
Oowikapun, with Astumastao and her aunt, went with a number whose wigwams were so arranged on their hunting grounds that they could meet frequently for religious worship among themselves. Very blessed and helpful to them was this little church in the wilderness. And now here we must leave them for the present. They had their trials and sorrows as all have. Even if their home was but a wigwam, it was a happy one with its family altar and increasing joys.
They had never become weary of talking about the wonderful way in which their loving heavenly Father has led them out of the dark path of the old life into this blessed way.
The only question on which they differed was which had had more to do in bringing the Gospel to their people. Astumastao said it was the visit of Oowikapun; while he declared if it had not been for her true, brave life and faithful words, and her endeavour to live up to what light she had received when a little child, they might all have been in darkness still. And I think my readers will believe with me that I think Oowikapun was right when he so emphatically argued that to Astumastao more than to anyone else was to be given this high honour.
So, while in our story we have given Oowikapun such a prominent place, yet to Astumastao, we think our dear readers with us will say, must be given the first place among those who have been instrumental in having the Gospel introduced among the Nelson River Indians.
THE END.
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{
"id": "23261"
}
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1
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TREATS OF OUR HERO'S EARLY LIFE, AND TOUCHES ON DOMESTIC MATTERS.
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William Osten was a wanderer by nature. He was born with a thirst for adventure that nothing could quench, and with a desire to rove that nothing could subdue.
Even in babyhood, when his limbs were fat and feeble, and his visage was round and red, he displayed his tendency to wander in ways and under circumstances that other babies never dreamt of. He kept his poor mother in a chronic fever of alarm, and all but broke the heart of his nurse, long before he could walk, by making his escape from the nursery over and over again, on his hands and knees; which latter bore constant marks of being compelled to do the duty of feet in dirty places.
Baby Will never cried. To have heard him yell would have rejoiced the hearts of mother and nurse, for that would have assured them of his being near at hand and out of mischief--at least not engaged in more than ordinary mischief. But Baby Will was a natural philosopher from his birth. He displayed his wisdom by holding his peace at all times, except when very hard pressed by hunger or pain, and appeared to regard life in general in a grave, earnest, inquiring spirit. Nevertheless, we would not have it understood that Will was a slow, phlegmatic baby. By no means. His silence was deep, his gravity profound, and his earnestness intense, so that, as a rule, his existence was unobtrusive. But his energy was tremendous. What he undertook to do he usually did with all his might and main--whether it was the rending of his pinafore or the smashing of his drum!
We have said that he seldom or never cried, but he sometimes laughed, and that not unfrequently; and when he did so you could not choose but hear, for his whole soul gushed out in his laugh, which was rich, racy, and riotous. He usually lay down and rolled when he laughed, being quite incapable of standing to do it--at least during the early period of babyhood. But Will would not laugh at everything. You could not make him laugh by cooing and smirking and talking nonsense, and otherwise making an ass of yourself before him.
Maryann, the nurse, had long tried that in vain, and had almost broken her heart about it. She was always breaking her heart, more or less, about her charge, yet, strange to say, she survived that dreadful operation, and ultimately lived to an extreme old age!
"Only think," she was wont to say to Jemima Scrubbins, her bosom friend, the monthly nurse who had attended Will's mother, and whose body was so stiff, thin, and angular, that some of her most intimate friends thought and said she must have been born in her skeleton alone--"Only think, Jemimar, I give it as my morial opinion that that hinfant 'asn't larfed once--no, not once--durin' the last three days, although I've chirruped an' smiled an' made the most smudgin' faces to it, an' heaped all sorts o' blandishments upon it till--. Oh! you can't imagine; but nothink's of any use trying of w'en you can't do it; as my 'usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died--my 'art is quite broken about it, so it is."
To which Jemima was wont to reply, with much earnestness--for she was a sympathetic soul, though stiff, thin, and angular--"You don't say so, Maryhann! P'raps it's pains."
Whereupon Maryann would deny that pains had anything to do with it, and Jemima would opine that it was, "koorious, to say the least of it."
No, as we have said, Baby Will would not laugh at everything. He required to see something really worth laughing at before he would give way, and when he did give way, his eyes invariably disappeared, for his face was too fat to admit of eyes and mouth being open at the same time. This was fortunate, for it prevented him for a little from seeing the object that tickled his fancy, and so gave him time to breathe and recruit for another burst. Had it been otherwise, he would certainly have suffocated himself in infancy, and this, his veracious biography, would have remained unwritten!
To creep about the house into dangerous and forbidden places, at the risk of life and limb, was our hero's chief delight in early childhood. To fall out of his cradle and crib, to tumble down stairs, and to bruise his little body until it was black and blue, were among his most ordinary experiences. Such mishaps never drew tears, however, from his large blue eyes. After struggling violently to get over the rail of his crib, and falling heavily on the floor, he was wont to rise with a gasp, and gaze in bewilderment straight before him, as if he were rediscovering the law of gravitation. No phrenologist ever conceived half the number of bumps that were developed on his luckless cranium.
We make no apology to the reader for entering thus minutely into the character and experiences of a baby. That baby is the hero of our tale. True, it is as a young man that he is to play his part; but a great philosopher has told us that he always felt constrained to look upon children with respect; and a proverb states that, "the child is the father of the man."
Without either pinning our faith to the philosopher or the proverb, we think it both appropriate and interesting to note the budding genius of the wanderer whose footsteps we are about to follow.
Baby Will's mother was a gentle and loving, but weak woman. His father, William Horace Osten by name, was a large, hearty, affectionate, but coarse man. He appreciated his wife's gentle, loving nature, but could not understand her weakness. She admired her husband's manly, energetic spirit, but could not understand his roughness. He loved the baby, and resolved to "make a man of him." She loved the baby, and wished to make him a "good boy." In the furtherance of their designs the one tried to make him a lion, the other sought to convert him into a lamb. Which of the two would have succeeded can never be known. It is probable that both would have failed by counteracting each other, as is no uncommon experience when fathers and mothers act separately in such a matter. If the one had succeeded, he would have made him a bear. The other, if successful, would have made him a nincompoop. Fortunately for our hero, a higher power saved him, and, by training him in the school of adversity, made him both a lion and a lamb. The training was very severe and prolonged, however.
It was long before the lion would consent to lie down in the same breast with the lamb. Certainly it was not during the season of childhood. The lion appeared to have it all his own way during that interesting epoch, and the father was proportionately gratified, while the mother was dismayed.
Boyhood came, and with it an increased desire to rove, and a more fervent thirst for adventure. At school our hero obtained the name that stuck to him through life--"Wandering Will." The seaport town in the west of England in which he dwelt had been explored by him in all its ramifications. There was not a retired court, a dark lane, or a blind alley, with which he was unfamiliar. Every height, crag, cliff, plantation, and moor within ten miles of his father's mansion had been thoroughly explored by Will before he was eight years of age, and his aspiring spirit longed to take a wider flight.
"I want to go to sea, father," said he one evening after tea, looking in his father's face with much more of the leonine gaze than the father had bargained for. His training up to that point had been almost too successful!
This was not the first time that the boy had stated the same wish; his gaze, therefore, did not quail when his father looked up from his newspaper and said sternly--"Fiddlesticks, boy! hold your tongue."
"Father," repeated Will, in a tone that caused Mr Osten to lay down his paper, "I want to go to sea."
"Then the sooner you give up the idea the better, for I won't let you."
"Father," continued Will, "you remember the proverb that you've often told me has been your motto through life, `Never venture never win?'"
"Certainly; you know that I have often urged you to act on that principle at school. Why do you ask the question?"
"Because I mean to act on it now, and go to sea," replied Will firmly.
"What? without permission, without clothes, and without money; for you shan't have a six-pence from me?"
"Yes," replied Will.
Mr Osten was one of those stern, despotic men who cannot bear to be thwarted. He was a rich merchant, and almost the king of the little town in which he dwelt. His greatest ambition was to make his only son a thorough man of business. To be spoken to in such a tone by that rebellious son was too much for him. He lost his temper, leaped up, and, seizing Will by the collar, thrust him out of the room.
The boy ran to his own bedroom, and, seating himself in front of the dressing-table, hit that piece of furniture with his clenched fist so violently that all its contents leaped up and rattled.
"Dear, dear Will," said a gentle voice at his side, while a loving hand fell on his shoulder, "why do you frown so fiercely?"
"How can I help it, mother, when he treats me like that? He is harsh and unfair to me."
"Not so unfair as you think, dear Will," said his mother.
We will not detail the arguments by which the good lady sought to combat her son's desires. Suffice it to say that she succeeded--as only mothers know how--in lulling the lion to sleep at that time, and in awakening the lamb. Wandering Will went back to school with a good grace, and gave up all idea of going to sea.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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2
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RECORDS A SUDDEN DEPARTURE, AND MARYANN'S OPINION THEREON.
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There is a fallacy into which men and women of mature years are apt to fall--namely, that the cares and sorrows of the young are light.
How many fathers and mothers there are who reason thus--"Oh, the child will grow out of this folly. 'Tis a mere whim--a youthful fancy, not worthy of respect,"--forgetting or shutting their eyes to the fact, that, light though the whim or fancy may be in their eyes, it has positive weight to those who cherish it, and the thwarting of it is as destructive of peace and joy to the young as the heavier disappointments of life are to themselves.
True, the cares and sorrows of the young are light in the sense that they are not usually permanent. Time generally blows them away, while the cares of later years often remain with us to the end. But they are not the less real, heavy, and momentous at the time on that account.
Those troubles cannot with propriety be called light which drive so many young men and women to rebellion and to destruction. Well would it have been for Mr Osten if he had treated his son like a rational being, instead of calling him a "young fool," and commanding him to "obey."
Will, however, was not an untractable young lion. He went through school and entered college, despite his unconquerable desire to go to sea, in obedience to his father's wishes. Then he resolved to study medicine. Mr Osten regarded the time thus spent as lost, inasmuch as his son might have been better employed in learning "the business" to which he was destined; still he had no great objection to his son taking the degree of MD, so he offered no opposition; but when Will, at the age of eighteen, spoke to him of his intention to take a run to the north or south seas, as surgeon in a whaler, he broke out on him.
"So, it seems that your ridiculous old fancy still sticks to you," said Mr Osten, in great wrath, for the recurrence of the subject was like the lacerating of an old sore.
"Yes, father; it has never left me. If you will listen for a few moments to my reasons--" "No, boy," interrupted his father, "I will _not_ listen to your reasons. I have heard them often enough--too often--and they are foolish, false, utterly inconclusive. You may go to Jericho as far as I am concerned; but if you do go, you shall never darken my doors again."
"When I was a boy, father," said Will earnestly, "your speaking sharply to me was natural, for I was foolish, and acted on impulse. I am thankful now that I did not give way to rebellion, as I was tempted to do; but I am not now a boy, father. If you will talk calmly with me--" "Calmly!" interrupted Mr Osten, growing still more angry at the quiet demeanour of his son; "do you mean to insinuate that--that--. What do you mean, sir?"
"I insinuate nothing, father; I mean that I wish you to hear me patiently."
"I _won't_ hear you," cried Mr Osten, rising from his chair, "I've heard you till I'm tired of it. Go if you choose, if you dare. You know the result."
Saying this he left the room hastily, shutting the door behind him with a bang.
A grave, stern expression settled on the youth's countenance as he arose and followed him into the passage. Meeting his mother there, he seized her suddenly in his arms and held her in a long embrace; then, without explaining the cause of his strong emotion, he ran down stairs and left his father's house.
In a dirty narrow street, near the harbour of the town, there stood a small public-house which was frequented chiefly by the sailors who chanced to be in the port, and by the squalid population in its immediate neighbourhood. Although small, the Red Lion Inn was superior in many respects to its surroundings. It was larger than the decayed buildings that propped it; cleaner than the locality that owned it; brighter and warmer than the homes of the lean crew on whom it fattened. It was a pretty, light, cheery, snug place of temptation, where men and women, and even children assembled at nights to waste their hard-earned cash and ruin their health. It was a place where the devil reigned, and where the work of murdering souls was carried on continually,-- nevertheless it was a "jolly" place. Many good songs were sung there, as well as bad ones; and many a rough grasp of hearty friendship was exchanged. Few people, going into the house for a few minutes, could have brought themselves to believe that it was such a _very_ broad part of the road leading to destruction: but the landlord had some hazy notion on that point. He sat there day and night, and saw the destruction going on. He saw the blear-eyed, fuddled men that came to drown conscience in his stalls, and the slatternly women who came and went. Nevertheless he was a rosy, jocund fellow who appeared to have a good deal of the milk of human kindness about him, and would have looked on you with great surprise, if not scorn, had you told him that he had a hand in murdering souls. Yes! the Red Lion might have been appropriately styled the Roaring Lion, for it drove a roaring trade among the poor in that dirty little street near the harbour.
The gas was flaring with attractive brilliancy in the Red Lion when Will Osten entered it, and asked if Captain Dall was within.
"No, sir," answered the landlord; "he won't be here for half-an-hour yet."
"A pot of beer," said Will, entering one of the stalls, and sitting down opposite a tall, dark-countenanced man, who sat smoking moodily in a corner.
It was evident that our hero had not gone there to drink, for the beer remained untouched at his elbow, as he sat with his face buried in his hands.
The dark man in the corner eyed him steadily through the smoke which issued from his lips, but Will paid no attention to him. He was too deeply absorbed in his own reflections.
"A fine night, stranger," he said at length, in a slightly nasal tone.
Still Will remained absorbed, and it was not until the remark had been twice repeated that he looked up with a start.
"I beg pardon; did you speak?" he said. "Well, yes," drawled the dark man, puffing a long white cloud from his lips, "I did make an observation regardin' the weather. It looks fine, don't it?"
"It does," said Will.
"You're waitin' for Captain Dall, ain't you?"
"Why, how did _you_ come to know that?" said Will.
"I didn't come to know it, I guessed it," said the dark man.
At that moment the door opened, and a short thick-set man, in a glazed hat and pea-jacket, with huge whiskers meeting under his chin, entered.
His eye at once fell upon the dark man, whom he saluted familiarly--"All ready, Mr Cupples?"
"All ready, sir," replied the other; "it's now more than half-flood; in three hours we can drop down the river with the first of the ebb, and if this breeze holds we'll be in blue water before noon to-morrow."
"Hallo, doctor, is that yourself?" said the captain, whose eye had for some moments rested on Will.
"It is," said the youth, extending his hand, which the other grasped and shook warmly.
"What! changed your mind--eh?"
"Yes, I'm going with you."
"The governor bein' agreeable?" inquired the captain.
Will shook his head.
"Hope there ain't bin a flare-up?" said the captain earnestly.
"Not exactly," said Will; "but he is displeased, and will not give his consent, so I have come away without it."
At this the jovial skipper, who was styled captain by courtesy, sat down and shook his head gravely, while he removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead.
"It's a bad business to run agin the wishes of one's parents," he said; "it seldom turns out well; couldn't you come round him nohow?"
"Impossible. He won't listen to reason."
"Ah, then, it's of no manner of use," said the captain, with a pitying sigh, "when a man won't listen to reason, what's the consequence? why he's unreasonable, which means bein' destitoot of that which raises him above the brutes that perish. Such bein' the case, give it up for a bad job, that's my advice. Come, I'll have a bottle o' ginger-beer, not bein' given to strong drink, an' we'll talk over this matter."
Accordingly the beer was ordered, and the three sat there talking for a couple of hours in reference to a long, long voyage to the southern seas.
After that they rose, and, leaving the Red Lion, went down to the pier, where a boat was in waiting. It conveyed them to a large ship, whose sails were hanging in the loose condition peculiar to a vessel ready to set sail. An hour after that the anchor was raised, and wind and tide carried the ship gently down to the sea. There seemed to Will something very solemn and mysterious in the quiet way in which, during these still and dark hours of the night, the great ship was slowly moved towards her ocean cradle. At length she floated on the sea, and, soon after, the moon arose on the distant horizon, streaming across the rippling surface as if to kiss and welcome an old friend. The wind increased; the ship became submissive to the breeze, obedient to the helm, and ere long moved on the waters like "a thing of life," leaving Old England far behind her.
It was then that young Osten, leaning over the taffrail and looking wistfully back at the point where he had seen the last glimpse of the chalk cliffs, began to experience the first feelings of regret. He tried to quiet his conscience by recalling the harsh and unjustifiable conduct of his father, but conscience would not be quieted thus, and faithful memory reminded him of the many acts of kindness he had experienced at his father's hands, while she pointed to his gentle mother, and bade him reflect what a tremendous blow this sudden departure would be to her.
Starting up and shaking off such thoughts, sternly he went below and threw himself into his narrow cot, where conscience assailed him still more powerfully and vividly in dreams. Thus did Wandering Will leave his native land.
Commenting on his sudden departure, two days afterwards, Maryann said, in strict confidence, to her bosom friend "Jemimar," that she "know'd it would 'appen--or somethink simular, for, even w'en a hinfant, he had refused to larf at her most smudgin' blandishments; and that she knew somethink strange would come of it, though she would willingly have given her last shilling to have prevented it, but nothink was of any use tryin' of w'en one couldn't do it, as her 'usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died,--and that her 'art was quite broken about it, so it was."
Whereupon Jemima finished to the dregs her last cup of tea, and burst into a flood of tears.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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3
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TELLS OF THE SEA, AND SOME OF THE MYSTERIES CONNECTED THEREWITH.
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For many days and nights the good ship _Foam_ sailed the wide ocean without encountering anything more than the ordinary vicissitudes and experiences of sea-life. Dolphins were seen and captured, sharks were fished for and caught, stiff breezes and calms succeeded each other, constellations in the far north began to disappear and new constellations arose in the southern skies. In fact, during many weeks the voyage was prosperous, and young Will Osten began to experience those peculiar feelings with which all travellers are more or less acquainted--he felt that the ship was "home"; that his cabin with its furniture, which had appeared so small and confined at first, was quite a large and roomy place; that all the things about him were positive realities, and that the home of his childhood was a shadow of the past-- a sort of dream.
During all this time the young doctor led a busy life. He was one of those active, intelligent, inquiring spirits which cannot rest. To acquire information was with him not a duty, but a pleasure. Before he had been many days at sea he knew the name and use of every rope, sail, block, tackle, and spar in the ship, and made himself quite a favourite with the men by the earnestness with which he questioned them in regard to nautical matters and their own personal experiences. George Goff, the sail-maker, said he "was a fust-rate feller;" and Larry O'Hale, the cook, declared, "he was a trump intirely, an' ought to have been born an Irishman." Moreover, the affections of long Mr Cupples (as the first mate was styled by the men) were quite won by the way in which he laboured to understand the use of the sextant, and other matters connected with the mysteries of navigation; and stout Jonathan Dall, the captain, was overjoyed when he discovered that he was a good player on the violin, of which instrument he was passionately fond. In short, Will Osten became a general favourite on board the _Foam_, and the regard of all, from the cabin-boy to the captain, deepened into respect when they found that, although only an advanced student and, "not quite a doctor," he treated their few ailments with success, and acted his part with much self-possession, gentleness, and precision.
Larry O'Hale was particularly eloquent in his praises of him ever after the drawing of a tooth which had been the source of much annoyance to the worthy cook. "Why, messmates," he was wont to say, "it bait everything the way he tuk it out. `Open yer mouth,' says he, an' sure I opened it, an' before I cud wink, off wint my head--so I thought--but faix it wor only my tuth--a real grinder wi' three fangs no less--och! he's a cliver lad intirely."
But Will did not confine his inquiries to the objects contained within his wooden home. The various phases and phenomena of the weather, the aspects of the sky, and the wonders of the deep, claimed his earnest attention. To know the reason of everything was with him a species of mania, and in pursuit of this knowledge he stuck at nothing. "Never venture never win," became with him as favourite a motto as it had been with his father, and he acted on it more vigorously than his father had ever done.
One calm evening, as he was leaning over the side of the ship near the bow, gazing contemplatively down into the unfathomable sea, he overheard a conversation between the cook and one of the sailors named Muggins. They were smoking their pipes seated on the heel of the bowsprit.
"Larry," said Muggins, "I think we have got into the doldrums."
"Ye're out there, boy," said Larry, "for I heerd the capting say we wos past 'em a long way."
The men relapsed into silence for a time.
Then Muggins removed his pipe and said-- "Wot ever caused the doldrums?"
"That's more nor I can tell," said Larry; "all I know about them is, that it's aisy to git into them, but uncommon hard to git out again. If my ould grandmother was here, she'd be able to tell us, I make no doubt, but she's in Erin, poor thing, 'mong the pigs and the taties."
"Wot could _she_ tell about the doldrums?" said Muggins, with a look of contempt.
"More nor ye think, boy; sure there isn't nothin' in the univarse but she can spaik about, just like a book, an' though she niver was in the doldrums as far as I knows, she's been in the dumps often enough; maybe it's cousins they are. Anyhow she's not here, an' so we must be contint with spekilation."
"What's that you say, Larry?" inquired the captain, who walked towards the bow at the moment.
The cook explained his difficulty.
"Why, there's no mystery about the doldrums," said Captain Dall. "I've read a book by an officer in the United States navy which explains it all, and the Gulf Stream, and the currents, an' everything. Come, I'll spin you a yarn about it."
Saying this, the captain filled and lighted his pipe, and seating himself on the shank of the anchor, said-- "You know the cause of ocean currents, I dare say?"
"Niver a taste," said Larry. "It's meself is as innocent about 'em as the babe unborn; an' as for Muggins there, _he_ don't know more about 'em than my ould shoes--" "Or your old grandmother," growled Muggins.
"Don't be irriverent, ye spalpeen," said Larry.
"I ax her reverence's pardon, but I didn't know she wos a priest," said Muggins. --"Go on, Cap'n Dall."
"Well," continued the captain, "you know, at all events, that there's salt in the sea, and I may tell you that there is lime also, besides other things. At the equator, the heat bein' great, water is evaporated faster than anywhere else, so that there the sea is salter and has more lime in it than elsewhere. Besides that it is hotter. Of course, that being the case, its weight is different from the waters of the cold polar seas, so it is bound to move away an' get itself freshened and cooled. In like manner, the cold water round the poles feels obliged to flow to the equator to get itself salted and warmed. This state of things, as a natural consequence, causes commotion in the sea. The commotion is moreover increased by the millions of shell-fish that dwell there. These creatures, not satisfied with their natural skins, must needs have shells on their backs, and they extract lime from the sea-water for the purpose of makin' these shells. This process is called secretin' the lime; coral insects do the same, and, as many of the islands of the south seas are made by coral insects, you may guess that a considerable lot of lime is made away with. The commotion or disturbance thus created produces two great currents--from the equator to the poles and from the poles to the equator. But there are many little odds and ends about the world that affect and modify these currents, such as depth, and local heat and cold, and rivers and icebergs, but the chief modifiers are continents. The currents flowin' north from the Indian Ocean and southern seas rush up between Africa and America. The space bein' narrow--comparatively--they form one strong current, on doublin' the Cape of Good Hope, which flies right across to the Gulf of Mexico. Here it is turned aside and flows in a nor'-easterly direction, across the Atlantic towards England and Norway, under the name of the Gulf Stream, but the Gulf of Mexico has no more to do with it than the man in the moon, 'xcept in the way of turnin' it out of its nat'ral course. This Gulf Stream is a _river of warm water_ flowing through the cold waters of the Atlantic; it keeps separate, and wherever it flows the climate is softened. It embraces Ireland, and makes the climate there so mild that there is, as you know, scarcely any frost all the year round--" "Blissin's on it," broke in Larry, "sure that accounts for the purty green face of Erin, which bates all other lands in the world. Good luck to the Gulf Stream, say I!"
"You're right, Larry, and England, Scotland, and Norway have reason to bless it too, for the same latitudes with these places in America have a rigorous winter extendin' over more than half the year. But what I was comin' to was this--there are, as you know, eddies and stagnant places in ornary rivers, where sticks, leaves, and other odds and ends collect and remain fixed. So, in this great ocean river, there are eddies where seaweed collects and stagnates, and where the air above also stagnates (for the air currents are very much like those of the sea). These eddies or stagnant parts are called sargasso seas. There are several of them, of various sizes, all over the ocean, but there is one big one in the Atlantic, which is known by the name of the `Doldrums.' It has bothered navigators in all ages. Columbus got into it on his way to America, and hundreds of ships have been becalmed for weeks in it since the days of that great discoverer. It is not very long since it was found out that, by keeping well out of their way, and sailing round 'em, navigators could escape the Doldrums altogether."
The captain paused at this point, and Larry O'Hale took the opportunity to break in.
"D'ye know, sir," said he, "that same Gulf Strame has rose a lot o' pecooliar spekilations in my mind, which, if I may make so bowld, I'll--" Here the mate's voice interrupted him gruffly with-- "Shake out a reef in that top-gall'n s'l; look alive, lads!"
Larry and his comrades sprang to obey. When they returned to their former place in the bow, the captain had left it, so that the cook's "pecooliar spekilations" were not at that time made known.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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4
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A STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
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In course of time the _Foam_, proceeding prosperously on her voyage, reached the region of Cape Horn--the cape of storms. Here, in days of old, Magellan and the early voyagers were fiercely buffeted by winds and waves. In later days Cook and others met with the same reception. In fact, the Cape is infamous for its inhospitality, nevertheless it shone with bright smiles when the _Foam_ passed by, and a gentle fair-wind wafted her into the great Pacific Ocean. Never, since that eventful day when the adventurous Castilian, Vasco Nunez de Balboa, discovered this mighty sea, did the Pacific look more peaceful than it did during the first week in which the _Foam_ floated on its calm breast. But the calm was deceitful. It resembled the quiet of the tiger while crouching to make a fatal spring.
Will Osten reclined against the top of the mainmast, to which he had ascended in order to enjoy, undisturbed, the quiet of a magnificent evening.
The sun was setting in a world of clouds, which took the form of mountains fringed with glittering gold and with shadows of pearly grey.
Oh what castles young Osten did build on these mountains, to be sure! Structures so magnificent that Eastern architects, had they seen them, would have hung their heads and confessed themselves outdone. But you must not imagine, reader, that the magnificence of all of these depended on their magnitude or richness. On the contrary, one of them was a mere cottage--but then, it was a pattern cottage. It stood in a palm-wood, on a coral island near the sea-shore, with a stream trickling at its side, and a lake full of wild fowl behind, and the most gorgeous tropical plants clustering round its open windows and door, while inside, seated on a couch, was a beautiful girl of fifteen (whom Will had often imagined, but had not yet seen), whose auburn hair shone like gold in the sun, contrasting well with her lovely complexion, and enhancing the sweetness of a smile which conveyed to the beholder only one idea--love. Many other castles were built in the clouds at that time by Will, but the cottage made the most lasting impression on his mind.
"Sleepin'?" inquired Cupples, the mate, thrusting his head through that orifice in the main-top which is technically called the "lubber's hole."
"No, meditating," answered Will; "I've been thinking of the coral islands."
"Humph," ejaculated the mate contemptuously, for Cupples, although a kind-hearted man, was somewhat cynical and had not a particle of sentiment in his soul. Indeed he showed so little of this that Larry was wont to say he "didn't belave he had a sowl at all, but was only a koorious specimen of an animated body."
"It's my opinion, doctor, that you'd as well come down, for it's goin' to blow hard."
Will looked in the direction in which the mate pointed, and saw a bank of black clouds rising on the horizon. At the same moment the captain's voice was heard below shouting--"Stand by there to reef topsails!" This was followed by the command to close-reef. Then, as the squall drew rapidly nearer, a hurried order was giving to take in all sail. The squall was evidently a worse one than had at first been expected.
On it came, hissing and curling up the sea before it.
"Mind your helm! --port a little, port!"
"Port it is, sir," answered the man at the wheel, in the deep quiet voice of a well-disciplined sailor, whose only concern is to do his duty.
"Steady!" cried the captain.
The words had barely left his lips, and the men who had been furling the sails had just gained the deck, when the squall struck them, and the _Foam_ was laid on her beam-ends, hurling all her crew into the scuppers. At the same time terrible darkness overspread the sky like a pall. When the men regained their footing, some of them stood bewildered, not knowing what to do; others, whose presence of mind never deserted them, sprang to where the axes were kept, in order to be ready to cut away the masts if necessary. But the order was not given.
Captain Dall and Will, who had been standing near the binnacle, seized and clung to the wheel.
"She will right herself," said the former, as he observed that the masts rose a little out of the sea.
Fortunately the good ship did so, and then, although there was scarcely a rag of canvas upon her, she sprang away before the hurricane like a sea-gull.
Terrible indeed is the situation of those who are compelled to "scud under bare poles," when He who formed the great deep, puts forth His mighty power, causing them to "stagger and be at their wits' end." For hours the _Foam_ rushed wildly over the sea, now rising like a cork on the crest of the billows, anon sinking like lead into the valleys between. She was exposed to double danger; that of being cast upon one of the numerous coral reefs with which the Pacific in some parts abounds, or being "pooped" and overwhelmed by the seas which followed her.
During this anxious period little was said or done except in reference to the working of the ship. Men snatched sleep and food at intervals as they best might. At length, after two days, the gale began to abate, and the sea to go down.
"It was sharp while it lasted, captain, but it seems to have done us little harm," said Will Osten, on the evening of the second day.
"True," said the captain heartily; "we'll soon repair damages and make all snug. --Is there much water in the hold, Mr Cupples?"
The mate answered gloomily that there was a good deal.
It must not be supposed that Mr Cupples' gloominess arose from anxiety. Not at all. It was simply his nature to be gloomy. If it had been his duty to have proclaimed the approach of his own marriage, he would have done it as sadly as if it had been the announcement of his death. His thoughts were gloomy, and his tones were appropriate thereto. Even his jokes were grave, and his countenance was lugubrious.
"It is gaining on us, sir," added Mr Cupples.
"Then get all the spare hands to work with buckets immediately," said the captain, "and send the carpenter here; we must have the leak discovered."
"Yes, sir," sighed Mr Cupples, as if he had given way to despair; nevertheless, he went off actively to obey the order.
"A strange man that," said the captain, turning to Will; "he is a capital seaman, and a kind-hearted, honest fellow, yet he is melancholy enough to throw a man into the blues."
"He and I get on famously notwithstanding," said Will, with a laugh. "See, he is running aft--with bad news I fear, for his face is longer if possible than--" "Leak's increasing, sir," said the mate hurriedly; "we must have started a plank."
This seemed to be too true. All hands were now plying pumps and buckets vigorously, and every effort was being made to discover the leak, but in vain. Hour by hour, inch by inch, the water gained on them, and it soon became apparent that the ship must sink.
It is difficult for those who have never been at sea to realise the feelings of men who are thus suddenly awakened to the awful fact that the vessel which has been their home for many weeks or months can no longer be counted on, and that, in a few hours, they shall be left in open boats, far from land, at the mercy of the wide and stormy sea. So terrible was the thought to those on board the _Foam_, that every man, from the captain to the cabin-boy, toiled for hours at the pumps in silent desperation. At last, when it was found that the water gained on them rapidly, and that there was no hope of saving the ship, the captain quietly left off working and put on his coat.
"Avast pumping, my lads," said he, in a grave, earnest tone; the good ship is doomed, and now it behoves us to bow to the will of the Lord, and do the best we can to save our lives. Stand by to hoist out the boats. Get up bread and water, steward, and stow in them as much as you can with safety. Mr Cupples, see my orders carried out, and have the provisions properly divided among the boats. I want you, doctor, to come below, and help me to get up a few things that will be of use to us.
The prompt energy of the captain infused confidence into the men, who soon executed the orders given them. Ere long the boats were ready to be launched over the side, but this was a matter of the greatest difficulty and danger, for the sea was still running high, and the ship rolled heavily.
And now the great evil of not being provided with proper tackling to launch the boats became apparent. One of the quarter-boats was the first to be lowered; it was full of men. The order was given to lower, and it dropped on the water all right. Then the order to unhook the tackle was given. The man at the stern tackle succeeded in unhooking, but the man at the bow failed. The result was fatal and instantaneous. When the ship rose on the next wave, the boat was lifted by the bow out of the water until she hung from the davits, and a terrible cry was uttered as all the men were thrown out of her into the sea. Next moment the boat was plunged into the waves, the tackle snapt, and she was swept away.
"Lower away the long-boat!" shouted the captain.
This was eagerly and quickly done, and the mate with a number of men leaped into it. The lowering was successfully accomplished, but when they pulled to the spot where the quarter-boat had gone down, not one of those who had manned her could be found. All had perished.
The remaining four boats were lowered in safety, and all of them pulled away from the sinking ship, for latterly she had been settling down so deep that it was feared every pitch would be her last, and had she sunk while the boats were alongside, their destruction would have been inevitable. They were rowed, therefore, to a safe distance, and there awaited the end.
There was something inexpressibly sad in this. It seemed like standing at the death-bed of an old friend. The sea was still heaving violently; the gale, although moderated, was still pretty stiff, and the sun was setting in wild lurid clouds when the _Foam_ rose for the last time-- every spar and rope standing out sharply against the sky. Then she bent forward slowly, as she overtopped a huge billow. Into the hollow she rushed. Like an expert diver she went down head foremost into the deep, and, next moment, those who had so lately trod her deck saw nothing around them save the lowering sky and the angry waters of the Pacific Ocean.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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5
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ADRIFT ON THE WIDE OCEAN.
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For some time after the disappearance of the ship, the men in the boats continued to gaze, in a species of unbelief, at the place where she had gone down. They evidently felt it difficult to realise the truth of what they had seen. The suddenness of the change and the extreme danger of their position might have shaken the stoutest hearts, for the sea still ran high and none of the boats were fitted to live in rough weather. They were, as far as could be judged, many hundreds of miles from land, and, to add to the horror of their circumstances, night was coming on.
"My lads," said Captain Dall, sitting down in the stern of his boat, and grasping the tiller, "it has pleased the Almighty to sink our ship and to spare our lives. Let us be thankful that we didn't go to the bottom along with her. To the best of my knowledge we're a long way from land, and all of us will have to take in a reef in our appetites for some time to come. I have taken care to have a good supply of salt junk, biscuit, water, and lime-juice put aboard, so that if the weather don't turn out uncommon bad, we may manage, with God's blessing, to make the land. In circumstances of this kind, men's endurance is sometimes tried pretty sharply, and men in distress are occasionally driven to forgetting their duty to their comrades. I tell you beforehand, lads, that I will do all that in me lies to steer you to the nearest port, and to make your lot as comfortable as may be in an open boat; but if any of you should take a fancy to having his own way, I've brought with me a little leaden pill-box (here the captain drew aside the breast of his coat and exposed the handle of a revolver) which will tend to keep up discipline and prevent discord. Now, lads, ship your oars and hoist the foresail close-reefed, and look alive, for it seems to me that we'll have a squally night."
The effect of this speech was very striking. There is nothing that men dislike so much, in critical circumstances, where action is necessary, as uncertainty or want of decision on the part of their leader. The loss of their ship, and their forlorn, almost desperate condition, had sunk their spirits so much that an air of apathetic recklessness had, for a few minutes, crossed the countenances of some of the boldest among the sailors; but while the captain was speaking this expression passed away, and when he had finished they all gave one hearty cheer, and obeyed his orders with alacrity.
In a few minutes the sails, closely reefed, were hoisted, and the long-boat rushed swiftly over the waves. At first the four boats kept company--the other three having also made sail--but as darkness set in they lost sight of each other. The first mate had charge of the jolly-boat, and the second mate and carpenter had the two others. In the captain's boat were Will Osten, Larry O'Hale, Goff, Muggins, and several of the best seamen.
Soon after the sails were set, a heavy sea broke inboard and nearly filled the boat.
"Bail her out, lads," shouted the captain.
There was no occasion for the order, the men knew their danger well enough, and every one seized anything that came to hand and began to bail for life. There was only one bucket on board, and this was appropriated by the cook, who, being one of the strongest men in the boat, thought himself entitled to the post of honour, and, truly, the way in which Larry handled that bucket and showered the water over the side justified his opinion of himself.
"We must rig up something to prevent that happening again," said Captain Dall; "set to work, Goff, and cut a slice out of the tarpaulin, and nail it over the bows."
This was done without delay, and in less than an hour a sort of half-deck was made, which turned off the spray and rendered the task of bailing much lighter--a matter of considerable importance, for, in such a sea, there was no possibility of an open boat remaining afloat without constant bailing.
At first the men talked a good deal in comparatively cheerful tones while they worked, and the irrepressible Larry O'Hale even ventured to cut one or two jokes; but when night began to cover the deep with thick darkness, one after another dropped out of the conversation, and at last all were perfectly silent, except when it became necessary to give an order or answer a question, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the wind and the gurgling of the waves as they rushed past, their white crests curling over the edge of the boat as if greedy to swallow her, and gleaming like lambent fire all around.
"This is a terrible situation," said Will Osten, in a low tone, with an involuntary shudder. "Do you think there is much chance of our surviving, captain?"
"That's not an easy question to answer, doctor," replied Captain Dall, in a tone so hearty that our hero was much cheered by it. "You see, there is much in our favour as well as much against us. In the first place, this is the Pacific, and according to its name we have a right to expect more fine weather than bad, especially at this time of the year. Then we have the trade winds to help us, and our boat is a good one, with at least two weeks' provisions aboard. But then, on the other hand, we're a terrible long way off land, and we must count upon a gale now and then, which an open boat, however good, is not calc'lated to weather easily. See that now," added the captain, looking back over the stern, where, from out of the darkness, Osten could just see a huge wave, like a black mountain with a snowy top, rolling towards them. "If we were only a little more down in the stern, that fellow would drop on board of us and send us to the bottom in half a minute."
Will felt that, although the captain's tones were reassuring, his words were startling. He was ill at ease, and clutched the seat when the billow rolled under them, raising the stern of the boat so high that it seemed as if about to be thrown completely over, but the wave passed on, and they fell back into the trough of the sea.
"Musha! but that was a wathery mountain no less," exclaimed Larry.
"You've heard of Captain Bligh, Larry, I suppose?" said the captain, in a loud voice, with the intention of letting the men hear his remarks.
"May be I have," replied Larry with caution, "but if so I misremimber."
"He was the captain of the _Bounty_, whose crew mutinied and turned him adrift in an open boat in the middle of the Pacific. What I was goin' to tell ye was, that his circumstances were a trifle worse than ours, for he was full four thousand miles from the nearest land, and with short allowance of provisions on board."
"An' did he make out the voyage, sur?" asked Larry.
"He did, and did it nobly too, in the face of great trouble and danger, but it's too long a yarn to spin just now; some day when the weather's fine I'll spin it to 'ee. He weathered some heavy gales, too, and what one man has done another man may do; so we've no reason to get down-hearted, for we're nearer land than he was, and better off in every way. I wish I could say as much for the other boats."
The captain's voice dropped a little in spite of himself as he concluded, for, despite the strength and buoyancy of his spirit, he could not help feeling deep anxiety as to the fate of his companions in misfortune.
Thus, talking at intervals in hopeful tones, and relapsing into long periods of silence, they spent that stormy night without refreshment and without rest. The minutes seemed to float on leaden wings, and the weary watchers experienced in its highest degree that dreary feeling--so common in the sick room--that "morning would _never_ come."
But morning came at length--a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon. It was hailed by Larry with a deep sigh, and the earnest exclamation-- "Ah, then, there's the blessed sun at last, good luck to it!"
Gradually the glimmer increased into grey dawn, then a warm tint brightened up the sky, and golden clouds appeared. At last the glorious sun arose in all its splendour, sending rays of warmth to the exhausted frames of the seamen and hope to their hearts. They much needed both, for want of sleep, anxiety, and cold, had already stamped a haggard look of suffering on their faces. As the morning advanced, however, this passed away, and by degrees they began to cheer up and bestir themselves,--spreading out their clothes to dry, and scanning the horizon at intervals in search of the other boats.
About eight o'clock, as nearly as he could guess, the captain said-- "Now, lads, let's have breakfast; get out the bread-can. Come, Larry, look alive! You've no cooking to do this morning, but I doubt not that your teeth are as sharp and your twist as strong as ever."
"Stronger than iver, sur, av ye plaze."
"I'm sorry to hear it, for you'll have to go on short allowance, I fear."
"Ochone!" groaned the cook.
"Never mind, Larry," said Will Osten, assisting to spread the sea-biscuit and salt junk on one of the thwarts; "there's a good time coming."
"Sure, so's Christmas, doctor, but it's a long way off," said Larry.
"Fetch me the scales; now then, doctor, hold 'em," said the captain, carefully weighing out a portion of biscuit and meat which he handed to one of the men. This process was continued until all had been supplied, after which a small quantity of water and lime-juice was also measured out to each.
The breakfast was meagre, but it was much needed, and as the sea had gone down during the night and the morning was beautiful, it was eaten not only in comfort, but with some degree of cheerfulness. While they were thus engaged, Goff looked up and exclaimed suddenly, "Hallo! look here, boys!"
Every one started up and gazed in the direction indicated, where they saw something black floating on the water. The captain, who had taken the precaution before leaving the ship to sling his telescope over his shoulder, applied it to his eye, and in a few seconds exclaimed, "It's the jolly-boat capsized! Out with the oars, boys--be smart! There's some of 'em clinging to the keel."
It need scarcely be said that the men seized the oars and plied them with all their might. Under the influence of these and the sail together they soon drew near, and then it was distinctly seen that three men were clinging to the boat--it followed, of course, that all the rest must have been drowned. Silently and swiftly they pulled alongside, and in a few minutes had rescued Mr Cupples and the steward and one of the sailors, all of whom were so much exhausted that they could not speak for some time after being taken on board. When they could tell what had happened, their tale was brief and sad. They had kept in sight of the long-boat while light enabled them to do so. After that they had run before the gale, until a heavy sea capsized them, from which time they could remember nothing, except that they had managed to get on the bottom of the upturned boat, to which they had clung for many hours in a state of partial insensibility.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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6
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DESCRIBES A BOAT VOYAGE, AND TOUCHES ON CORAL ISLANDS.
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The gale moderated to a fresh breeze, and all that day the long-boat of the ill-fated _Foam_ flew over the sea towards the west.
"You see," said Captain Dall, in answer to a question put to him by Will Osten, "I don't know exactly whereabouts we are, because there was a longish spell of dirty weather afore the _Foam_ went down, and I hadn't got a sight o' the sun for more than a week; but it's my belief that we are nearer to some of the coral islands than to the coast of South America, though how near I cannot tell. Five hundred miles, more or less, perhaps."
"A mere trifle, sure!" said Larry, filling his pipe carefully--for his was the only pipe that had been rescued from the sinking ship, and the supply of tobacco was very small. Small as it was, however, the captain had taken the precaution to collect it all together, causing every man to empty his pockets of every inch that he possessed, and doled it out in small equal quantities. The pipe, however, could not be treated thus, so it had to be passed round--each man possessing it in turn for a stated number of minutes, when, if he had not consumed his portion, he was obliged to empty the pipe and give it up.
"It's my turn, Larry," cried Muggins, holding out his hand for the coveted implement of fumigation.
"No, ye spalpeen, it's not," said Larry, continuing to press down the precious weed, "owld Bob had it last, an' ivery wan knows that I come after him."
"It's the first time I ever heard ye admit that you comed after anybody," answered Muggins with a grin; "ye ginerally go before us all-- at least ye want to."
"Not at all," retorted the cook; "whin there's dirty work to be done, I most usually kape modestly in the background, an' lets you go first, bekase it's your nat'ral callin'. Arrah! the sun's goin' to set, boys," he added with a sigh, as he commenced to smoke.
This was true, and the knowledge that another long night of darkness was about to set in depressed the spirits which had begun to revive a little. Silence gradually ensued as they sat watching the waves or gazing wistfully towards the gorgeous mass of clouds in which the sun was setting. For a considerable time they sat thus, when suddenly Will Osten started up, and, pointing towards the horizon a little to the left of the sun, exclaimed-- "Look there, captain; what's that?"
"Land ho!" shouted Larry O'Hale at that moment, springing up on the thwart and holding on to the foremast.
All the rest leaped up in great excitement.
"It's only a cloud," said one.
"It's a fog-bank," cried another.
"I never seed a fog-bank with an edge like that," observed old Bob, "an' I've sailed the salt sea long enough to know."
"Land it is, thank God," said the captain earnestly, shutting up his telescope. "Get out the oars again, lads! We can't make it before dark, but the sooner we get there the better, for landing on these coral islands isn't always an easy job."
The oars were got out at once, and the men pulled with a will, but it was late at night before they drew near to the land and heard the roar of the surf on the coral reef that stood as a sentinel to guard the island.
"Captain," said Will Osten, "the wind has almost died away, yet it seems to me that the surf roars as violently as if a storm were raging."
"That surf never goes down in those seas, doctor. Even in calm weather the swell of the big ocean gathers into a huge billow and bursts in foam upon the coral islands."
"Surely, then," said Will, "it must make landing both difficult and dangerous."
"It is, sometimes, but not always," replied the captain; "for a channel of safety has been provided, as you shall see, before long. Take the boat-hook, Goff, and look out in the bows."
The man rose and stood up with the boat-hook ready to "fend off" if necessary.
A word or two here about the coral islands--those wonderful productions of the coral insect--may perhaps render the position of the boat and her subsequent proceedings more intelligible.
They are of all sizes and shapes. Some are small and low, like emeralds just rising out of the ocean, with a few cocoa-nut palms waving their tufted heads above the sandy soil. Others are many miles in extent, covered with large forest trees and rich vegetation. Some are inhabited, others are the abode only of sea-fowl. In many of them the natives are naked savages of the most depraved character. In a few, where the blessed gospel of Jesus Christ has been planted, the natives are to be seen, "clothed and in their right minds." Wherever the gospel has taken root, commerce has naturally sprung up, and the evils that invariably follow in her train have in too many cases been attributed to Christianity. Poor indeed must be that man's knowledge of the influence of Christianity, who would judge of its quality or value by the fruit of its _professors_. "By their fruits ye shall know _them_," truly--_them_, but not Christianity. The world is an hospital, and life the period of convalescence. Christianity is the one grand and all-sufficient medicine. Shall we, the afflicted and jaundiced patients, still suffering from the virulence and effect of sin, condemn the medicine because it does not turn us out cured in a single day? Still, even to fruits we can appeal, mingled and confounded with crab-apples though they be.
Come, sceptic, make a trial of it. Go to the Fiji Islands; get yourself wrecked among them. Be cast into the stormy deep; buffet the waves manfully, and succeed in struggling exhausted to the shore. The savages there, if not Christianised, will haul you out of the sea, roast you, and eat you! They do this in compliance with a humane little law which maintains that all who are shipwrecked, and cast on shore, are thus to be disposed of. Ha! you need not smile. The record of this fact may be read, in unquestionable authorities, in every public library in the kingdom. Search and see.
On the other hand, go and get cast on one of the Fiji group where Christianity holds sway, and there, despite the errors, inconsistencies, and sins of its professors and enemies, the same natives will haul you out of the sea, receive you into their houses, feed and clothe you, and send you on your way rejoicing.
There is one peculiarity which applies to most of the coral islands-- each is partially surrounded by a coral reef which lies at a distance from the shore varying from less than one to two miles. Outside of this reef the sea may heave tumultuously, but the lagoon within remains calm. The great breakers may thunder on the reef, and even send their spray over, for it is little above the level of the sea, and nowhere much more than a few yards in breadth, but inside all is peaceful and motionless. In this reef there are several openings, by which a ship of the largest size may enter and find a safe, commodious harbour. It is found that these openings occur usually opposite to any part of the islands where a stream flows into the sea; and the openings have frequently a little herbage, sometimes a few cocoa-nut palms growing on either side, which form a good natural land-mark to the navigator.
Towards one of these openings the long-boat of the _Foam_ was rowed with all speed. The night was dark, but there was light sufficient to enable them to see their way. As they drew near they came within the influence of the enormous breakers, which rose like long gigantic snakes and rolled in the form of perpendicular walls to the reef, where they fell with a thunderous roar in a flood of milky foam.
Here it was necessary to exercise the utmost caution in steering, for if the boat had turned broadside on to one of these monstrous waves, it would have been rolled over and over like a cask.
"Pull gently, lads," said the captain, as they began to get within the influence of the breakers. "I don't quite see my way yet. When I give the word, pull with a will till I tell ye to hold on. Your lives depend on it."
This caution was necessary, for when a boat is fairly within the grasp of what we may term a shore-going wave, the only chance of safety lies in going quite as fast as it, if not faster. Presently the captain gave the word; the men bent to their oars and away they rushed on the crest of a billow, which launched them through the opening in the reef in the midst of a turmoil of seething foam. Next moment they were rowing quietly over the calm lagoon, and approaching what appeared to be a low-lying island covered with cocoa-nut trees; but the light rendered it difficult to distinguish objects clearly. A few minutes later the boat's keel grated on the sand, and the whole party leaped on shore.
The first impulse of some of the men was to cheer, but the feelings of others were too deep for expression in this way.
"Thanks be to God!" murmured Captain Dall as he landed.
"Amen!" said Will Osten earnestly.
Some of the men shook hands, and congratulated each other on their escape from what all had expected would prove to be a terrible death.
As for Larry O'Hale, he fell on his knees, and, with characteristic enthusiasm, kissed the ground.
"My best blissin's on ye," said he with emotion. "Och, whither ye be a coral island or a granite wan no matter; good luck to the insict that made ye, is the prayer of Larry O'Hale!"
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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7
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HOPES, FEARS, AND PROSPECTS ON THE CORAL ISLAND.
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Few conditions of life are more difficult to bear than that which is described in the proverb, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Day after day, week after week passed by, and every morning the unfortunate men who had been cast on the coral island rose with revived hope to spend the day in anxiety, and to lie down in disappointment.
The island proved to be a low one, not more than four miles in length by about half a mile in breadth, on which nothing grew except a few cocoa-nut palms. These afforded the wrecked crew a scanty supply of food, which, with the provisions they had brought, enabled them to live, but the prospect of a residence on such a spot was so hopeless, that they would have left it immediately had not an accident happened which deprived them of their boat.
A few mornings after landing, several of the men rose early, and, without obtaining the captain's permission, went to fish in the lagoon, intending to surprise their comrades by bringing a supply of fresh fish. They were unsuccessful, but, supposing that their chance would be better in the open sea, they rowed through the opening in the reef. They had, however, miscalculated the size and power of the breakers that continually thundered there. The boat was heavy and unmanageable except by a strong crew. She turned broadside to the breakers, and, in a few seconds, was hurled upon the reef and dashed to pieces. The men were saved almost by a miracle. They succeeded in landing on the reef, and afterwards, with the aid of broken pieces of the wreck, swam across the lagoon to the island.
The loss was irreparable, so that they had now no hope left except in the passing of a ship or a native canoe. This latter contingency they were led to hope for by the discovery, one very clear morning, of what appeared to be the mountain tops of a cluster of islands, barely visible on the horizon. But as day after day passed without the appearance of a canoe, they came to the conclusion that these islands were not inhabited. As weeks passed by and no sail appeared, their hearts began to fail them, for the small stock of provisions was rapidly diminishing.
One morning Captain Dall ascended to the highest point on the island, where he was wont to spend the greater part of each day on the lookout. He found Will Osten there before him.
"Good-morning doctor," said the captain, with a dash of the old hearty spirit in his voice, for he was not easily depressed; "anything in sight?"
"Nothing," replied Will, with a degree of energy in his tone that caused the captain to look at him in surprise.
"Hallo, doctor, have you made a discovery, or have you made up your mind to swim off the island, that you speak and look so resolute this morning?"
"Yes, I have made a discovery. I have discovered that the provisions will not last us another week; that our vigour is not what it used to be; that a sort of apathy is stealing over us all; that the sands of life, in short, are running out while we are sitting idle here making no effort to help ourselves."
"What can we do, lad?" said the captain sadly, supposing that the youth was merely giving vent to a spirit of desperation.
"I'll tell you what we can do," said Will, rising; "we can cut down most of the trees and make a huge pile of them, which, with the broken pieces of the long-boat to kindle them, will create a blaze that will attract the attention of the people who live on yonder island--if there be any. I know the character of South Sea islanders, but it is better to live in captivity or die by the hand of savages than to perish of hunger and thirst. Come, Captain Dall, we _must_ stir the men up to make a last effort. Rather than die here, I will make a raft and hoist a sail on it, and commit myself to the winds and waves. What say you? Shall we try?"
"There is something in what you say, doctor," replied the captain, pondering the subject; "at all events, no harm can come of making the attempt. I'll go speak to the men."
In pursuance of this intention he left the place of outlook accompanied by Will, and the result of their consultation with the men was, that in a few minutes Larry O'Hale and Mr Cupples set to work with all the energy in their natures to fell trees with the two axes they possessed. When they were exhausted, Will Osten and Goff relieved them, and then the captain and old Bob took the axes. Thus the work went on all day, and in the evening a pile of logs was raised almost as large as a medium-sized cottage.
There was something hopeful in the mere act of working with a view to deliverance that raised the spirits of the men, and when the sun began to sink towards the western horizon, they sat down to their slight meal of biscuit and cocoa-nut milk with more appetite and relish than they had experienced for many days.
"I've bin thinkin'," said Larry, pausing in the midst of his supper.
"Well, wot have 'ee bin thinkin', lad?" said Muggins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and wishing for more food--but wishing in vain, for he had finished his allowance--"you're a good deal given to thinkin', but there's not much ever comes on it, 'xcept wind in the shape o' words."
"And what's words," retorted the cook, in supreme contempt, "but the expression o' sintiment, widout which there wouldn't have bin nuthin' wotsomediver in the univarse? Sintiment is the mother of all things, as owld Father O'Dowd used to say to my grandmother whin he wanted to come the blarney over her. It was a philosopher sintimentilisin' over a tay-kittle, I'm towld, as caused the diskivery o' the steam-ingine; it was a sintimintal love o' country as indooced Saint Patrick to banish the varmin from Ireland, an' it was religious sintiment as made Noah for to build the Ark, but for which nother you nor me would have bin born to git cast upon a coral island. Sintiment is iverything, Muggins, and of that same there isn't more in your whole body than I cud shove into the small end of a baccy-pipe. But to return to the pint: I've bin thinkin' as to whether it would be best to set a light to this here little pile in the daylight or in the dark, bekase, in the wan case it's the smoke that would call attintion, an' in the other case it's the flame."
"That is true, Larry," said the captain; "I'm inclined to think it would be better seen at night, fire being more powerful than smoke."
"But they're more likely to be asleep at night, and to miss seein' it," observed Cupples, in a hollow tone.
It may be remarked in passing, that the mate's voice had become much more sepulchral and his aspect more cadaverous since his arrival on the island.
"True for ye," chimed in Larry; "an' who knows, if they did see it, but they might take it for the moon in a fog--or for a volkainy?"
"Wouldn't the best way to settle the matter be to kindle the fire just now, before it grows dark," suggested Will Osten, "so that they will have a chance of seeing the smoke, and then, when it grows dark, the fire will be getting brighter?"
"Right, doctor, you're right. Come, we'll put the light to it at once," cried the captain, rising. "Hand me the match-box, Mr Cupples; it's in the head o' the bread cask."
The whole party rose and went to the pile of timber, which was on the highest part of the islet and towered to a height of nearly twelve feet. Captain Dall applied a match to the tarry pieces of the long-boat, which had been placed at the foundation, and the flames at once leaped up and began to lick greedily round the timber, winding through the interstices and withering up the leaves. Soon a thick smoke began to ascend, for much of the timber in the pile was green, and before the sun had set a dense black cloud was rising straight up like a pillar and spreading out into the sky. As the fire gathered strength, a great tongue of flame flashed up ever and anon into the midst of the rolling cloud and rent it for a single instant; by degrees those tongues waged fierce war with the smoke. They shot through it more and more frequently, licked and twined round it--in and out--until they gained the mastery at last, and rose with a magnificent roar into the heavens. Then it was that Larry O'Hale gave vent to his excitement and admiration in an irrepressible shout, and his comrades burst into a mingled cheer and fit of laughter, as they moved actively round the blazing mass and stirred it into fiercer heat with boat-hooks and oars.
When night had closed in, the brilliancy of the bonfire was intense, and the hopes of the party rose with the flames, for they felt certain that any human beings who chanced to be within fifty miles of them could not fail to see the signal of distress.
So the greater part of the night was passed in wild excitement and energetic action. At last, exhausted yet hopeful, they left the bonfire to burn itself out and sat down to watch. During the first half-hour they gazed earnestly over the sea, and so powerfully had their hopes been raised, that they expected to see a ship or a boat approaching every minute. But ere long their hopes sank as quickly as they had been raised. They ceased to move about and talk of the prospect of speedy deliverance. The hearts of men who have been long exposed to the depressing influence of "hope deferred," and whose frames are somewhat weakened by suffering and insufficient food, are easily chilled. One after another they silently crept under the sail, which had been spread out in the form of a tent to shelter them, and with a sigh lay down to rest. Weariness and exposure soon closed their eyes in "kind Nature's sweet restorer--balmy sleep," and the coral island vanished utterly from their minds as they dreamed of home, and friends, and other days. So, starving men dream of sumptuous fare, and captives dream of freedom.
Will Osten was last to give way to the feeling of disappointment, and last to lie down under the folds of the rude tent. He was young, and strong, and sanguine. It was hard for one in whose veins the hot blood careered so vigorously to believe in the possibility of a few days reducing him to the weakness of infancy--harder still for him to realise the approach of death; yet, when he lay meditating there in the silence of the calm night, a chill crept over his frame, for his judgment told him that if a merciful God did not send deliverance, "the end" was assuredly drawing very nigh.
|
{
"id": "23271"
}
|
8
|
IN WHICH OUR HERO SUGGESTS A PLAN WHICH GETS THE PARTY OUT OF ONE
DIFFICULTY BUT PLUNGES THEM INTO ANOTHER.
|
How long Wandering Will would have lain in the midst of his slumbering comrades, indulging in gloomy reveries, it is impossible to say, for he was suddenly startled out of them by the appearance of a black object on the sea, at a considerable distance from the shore. Will's couch was near the open entrance to the tent, and from the spot where his head lay pillowed on his coat, he could see the lagoon, the opening in the reef, and the ocean beyond. He rose softly, but quickly, and went out to assure himself that his disturbed fancy had not misled him. No--there could be no doubt about it. Grey dawn was already breaking, and enabled him to see it distinctly--a dark moving speck on the sea far outside the reef. It could not be a gull or sea-bird, he felt persuaded; neither was it a ship, for his eye during the voyage had become a practised one in observing distant vessels. It might be a boat!
Full of this idea, and trembling with hope and anxiety, he returned to the tent, and gently awoke the captain.
"Sh! don't speak," he whispered, laying his hand on the captain's mouth.
"I'm convinced it is a boat," continued Will, as he stood beside the now smouldering fire, while the captain gazed long and earnestly through his telescope at the object on the sea.
"You're only half-right," said the other, with unusual seriousness, as he handed the glass to his companion; "it's a canoe--a large one, I think, and apparently full of men; but we shan't be left long in doubt as to that; our fire has evidently attracted them, and now we must prepare for their reception."
"Do you then doubt their friendliness?" asked Will, returning the glass to the captain, who again examined the approaching canoe carefully.
"Whether they shall turn out to be friends or foes, doctor, depends entirely on whether they are Christians or heathens. If the missionaries have got a footing amongst 'em, we are saved; if not--I wouldn't give much for our chance of seeing Old England again."
The captain's voice dropped as he said this, and his face was overspread with an expression of profound gravity.
"Do you _really_ believe in all the stories we have heard of the blood-thirstiness of these savages, and their taste for human flesh?" asked Will, with some anxiety.
"Believe them!" exclaimed the captain, with a bitter, almost ferocious laugh; "of course I do. I have _seen_ them at their bloody work, lad. It's all very well for shore-goin' folk in the old country to make their jokes about `Cold missionary on the sideboard,' and to sing of the `King of the Cannibal Islands;' but, as sure as there is a sky over your head, and a coral island under your feet, so certainly do the South Sea savages kill, roast, and eat their enemies, and so fond are they of human flesh that, when they can't get hold of enemies, they kill and eat their slaves. Look, you can make out the canoe well enough now without the glass; she's makin' straight for the opening in the reef. The sun will be up in half an hour, and they'll arrive about the same time. Come, let us rouse the men."
Hastening down to the tent, the captain raised the curtain, and shouted hoarsely-- "Hallo, lads, turn out there--turn out. Here's a canoe in sight--look alive!"
Had a bomb-shell fallen into the midst of the sleepers, it could scarcely have produced more commotion among them. Every one sprang up violently.
"Hooroo!" shouted Larry O'Hale, "didn't I say so? Sure it's mysilf was draimin' of ould Ireland, an' the cabin in the bog wi' that purty little crature--" He stopped abruptly, and added, "Och! captain dear, what's wrong?"
"Hold you tongue, Larry, for a little, and keep your cheerin' till you have done fightin', for it's my opinion we may have something to do in that way ere long."
"Faix, it's mysilf as can enjoy a taste o' that too," said Larry, buttoning his jacket and turning up his cuffs.
By this time the canoe was approaching the passage in the reef, and the whole party hastened to the beach, where they held a hasty council of war, for it was now clear that the canoe was one of the largest size-- capable of holding nearly a hundred men--and that it was quite full of naked savages. In a few words the captain explained to the men the character of the islanders, as ascertained by himself on previous voyages, and showed how hopeless would be their case if they turned out to be heathens.
"Now," said he, "we are fifteen in number, all told, with two muskets, one pistol, three or four cutlasses, and a small supply of ammunition. If these men prove to be enemies, shall we attack them, and try to take their canoe, or shall we at once lay down our arms and trust to their generosity? Peace or war, that's the question?"
Larry at once declared for war, and several of the more fiery spirits joined him, among whom was Will Osten; for the young doctor shrank with horror from the idea of being roasted and eaten!
"I vote for peace," said the mate gloomily.
"Sure, Mr Cupples," exclaimed Larry, "I wonder at that, for it's little pace ye gave us aboord the _Foam_."
"It's not possible," continued the mate--taking no notice of the cook's remark, nor of the short laugh which followed it--"it's not possible for fifteen men, armed as we are, to beat a hundred savages, well supplied with clubs and spears--as I make no doubt they are--so I think we should trust to their friendliness."
"Bah!" whispered Larry to the man next him; "he knows that he's too tough and dry for any savage in his siven sinses to ait _him_, cooked or raw, and so he hopes to escape."
"Mr Cupples is right, lads," said the captain; "we'd have no chance in a fair fight, an' though I make no doubt we should kill double our number in the scrimmage, what good would that do?"
Some of the men here seconded the captain; the others began to waver, and it was finally decided that they should at least begin with pacific advances.
When the council broke up, the sailors went down to the water's edge and awaited her arrival. As she came nearer, it became apparent that she was a war-canoe fill with warriors. Steadily and swiftly she advanced to within a short distance of the shore. Then the paddlers suddenly ceased, and she was allowed to drift slowly in, while a splendid looking savage stood up in the bow with a shield on his left arm and a javelin in his right hand.
The chief, for such he evidently was, wore no clothing, except a piece of native cloth round his loins; but his whole body was elaborately tatooed with various devices; and this species of decoration, coupled with the darkness of his skin, did away very much with the appearance of nakedness. He seemed as if he had been clothed in a dark skin-tight dress. But the most conspicuous part about him was the top of his head, on which there seemed to be a large turban, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be his own hair curled and fizzed out artificially. Altogether he was an imposing and gigantic fellow.
When about fifty yards from the shore, the savages checked the canoe's progress and stood up. Now was the time for action, so, according to previous arrangement, the sailors laid their weapons down on the beach, and held up their hands, at the same time making such signs of friendship as they thought would be understood. The savages, who were quick-witted fellows, at once ran the canoe ashore, leaped out, and hastened towards the white men.
As they did so, Captain Dall put his telescope to his eye for a moment, wishing to scan closely the features of the chief. Instantly the whole band turned with a howl, and, making towards the canoe, jumped in and pushed off.
"Ha!" exclaimed the captain, with a smile, "these fellows have been fired at by Europeans before now. They evidently mistook my telescope for a musket."
The savages paused, and again faced about at a short distance from the beach, and the captain sought by every imaginable sign and gesticulation to remove the bad impression he had so innocently created. He succeeded. In a short time the natives again landed and advanced towards them. On drawing near, the chief stopped and made a short speech--which, of course, none of the white men understood. To this Captain Dall replied in a short speech--which, of course, none of the natives understood. Both parties looked very amiably, however, at each other, and by degrees drew closer together, when the natives began to manifest much curiosity in reference to the costume of the sailors. Soon they became more familiar, and the truth of the proverb, that, "familiarity breeds contempt," was quickly illustrated by one of the savages seizing hold of the musket which Larry O'Hale carried. The hot blood of the Irishman instantly fired.
"Let go, ye dirty bit o' mahogany," he cried, holding the musket tight with his left hand, and clenching his right in a threatening manner.
Captain Dall, foreseeing what would be the result of a blow, sought to create a diversion by raising his telescope to his eye. The quick-sighted savage observed the motion, let go his hold of the musket and shrank behind his comrades, who, however, did not appear disposed to screen him, for they all began to dodge behind each other until the telescope was lowered.
The temporary distraction of attention which this incident caused emboldened another savage to pounce upon the other musket, which was carried by old Bob. He wrenched it out of the sailor's hand and bounded away with a shout, swinging it over his head. Unfortunately his fingers touched the trigger and the piece exploded, knocking down the man who held it, and sending the ball close past the chief's ear.
Instantly there followed a loud yell, clubs were brandished, cutlasses gleamed, and blood would certainly have been spilt had not Captain Dall suddenly seized the chief by the shoulders and rubbed noses with him. He knew this to be the mode of salutation among some of the South Sea tribes, and sought to make a last effort at conciliation. The act was reciprocated by the chief, who signed to his men to forbear.
Captain Dall now felt convinced that any undecided course of action would only render their case more desperate, so he turned to his men with a look of authority and said sternly-- "My lads, we have only one hope left to us, and that is, submission. Throw down your weapons, and put your trust in the Almighty."
The men obeyed--some with hesitation and others sullenly; they flung their cutlasses on the sand and crossed their arms on their breasts. No sooner was this done than the savages rushed upon them in overwhelming numbers, and they were instantly overpowered. Larry O'Hale and Will Osten, with some of the younger men, struggled fiercely, and knocked down several of their opponents before they were subdued, but against such overwhelming odds they had no chance. It would have been better for them had they acted on the captain's advice. Whatever is worth doing is worth doing well, and this truth is not less applicable to the act of submission than to that of resistance. The only result of their ill-timed display of valour was the tighter fastening of the cords with which the savages bound them hand and foot, and somewhat rough handling when they, with their comrades, were tossed into the bottom of the canoe.
After the sailors were secured, the natives collected the provisions that had been brought by them to the island, and stowed these also in the canoe. This occupied a considerable time, for they were so careful to avoid missing anything, that they ranged over the whole island, examining every part minutely, and leaving nothing behind that had the slightest appearance of value in their eyes. During all this time the white men were left lying in the water which had leaked into the canoe. Indeed, the valiant Larry would certainly have been drowned, but for the aid extended to him by our hero, for he chanced to have been thrown into the canoe with his face downwards near the stern, and as the water gradually settled down there from the prow, which was raised on the sand, it covered his mouth. Fortunately Will, who was near him, managed to assist the unfortunate man in his struggles so as to enable him to rest his head on the blade of a paddle!
When everything belonging to the crew of the _Foam_ had been collected, the savages returned to their canoe, re-launched her, paddled out to sea, and ere long left the little coral island out of sight behind them.
|
{
"id": "23271"
}
|
9
|
CONTAINS AN ACCOUNT OF THE DESPERATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE PRISONERS.
|
Five hours passed away, during which the savages continued to paddle almost without intermission, and our hero with his friends lay fast bound in the bottom of the canoe. They suffered great pain from the swelling of their limbs and the tightening of the cords that bound them; but although Larry O'Hale, in the exasperation of his spirit, gave vent to one or two howls, accompanied by expressions that were the reverse of complimentary, no attention was paid to them until the island towards which they steered was reached.
The instant the canoe touched the sand the captives were lifted out-- their hands and feet were tied together in a bunch, and, each being slung on a stout pole as one might sling a bundle, they were carried up to a native village on the margin of a wood. On the way, Wandering Will could see that the beach swarmed with natives--a fact, however, of which his ears had already assured him, for the air was filled with yells of delight as the captives were successively lifted out of the canoe. He also observed that the island appeared to be a large one, for he got a glimpse of a huge mountain rising over the tree tops. Neither he nor any of his comrades, however, had time to make many observations, for they were hurried up the beach and into the village, where they were thrown down under a rudely built hut which was covered with broad leaves.
Here the cords that fastened them were unloosed; but if this for a moment raised the hope that they were about to be set free, they were quickly undeceived by the savages, who rebound their hands behind them. Our hero, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, Larry O'Hale, and Muggins, were then fastened with cords of cocoa-nut fibre to the several posts of the hut in such a manner that they could stand up or lie down at pleasure. George Goff, old Bob, and the others were led away. Seeing that they were about to be separated, Captain Dall suddenly called out, "Farewell, lads," in a tone so sad, that Goff looked back at him in surprise, but his captors forced him away before he could reply.
"You think we won't see them again?" said Osten, when they were left alone.
"I think not. From what I know of those savages, I fear they have taken our comrades away to be sacrificed, and that our own time will soon come."
Something between a groan and a growl escaped from O'Hale when this was said.
"Cudn't we break thim ropes, and run amuck amongst the murtherin' blackguards," he exclaimed, seizing the rope that bound him with his teeth and endeavouring to tear it--an effort which it is needless to say was futile, and nearly cost him a tooth.
"It's of no use, Larry," said the captain; "we can't help ourselves. If the Lord don't help us, we're dead men."
Although Will Osten was much depressed, not to say alarmed, by what he heard, he could not help wondering why the captain had so suddenly lost his buoyant spirit. At the time when a slow death by starvation had stared him in the face, he had not only retained his own heartiness of spirit, but had kept up wonderfully the spirits of his companions. Now, however--when, as Will thought, they had the chance of escaping by stratagem or by force from their captors, or, at the worst, of selling their lives dearly--his spirit seemed to have utterly forsaken him. Yet the captain was only despondent--not despairing. He had seen the deeds of savages in former years, and knew that with them there was seldom a long period between the resolve to kill and the accomplishment of the crime. He feared for the lives of his shipmates, and would have given his right hand at that moment to have been free to aid them, but the attempts of himself and his comrades to break their bonds were fruitless, so, after making one or two desperate efforts, they sat down doggedly to await their fate.
It might have been a curious study to have noted the different spirit in which these unfortunate men submitted to their unavoidable doom on that occasion. The captain sat down on a log of wood that chanced to be near him, folded his hands quietly on his knees, allowed his head to sink forward on his chest, and remained for a long time quite motionless. Will Osten, on the other hand, stood up at first, and, leaning his head on his arm against the wall of the hut, appeared to be lost in reverie. Doubtless he was thinking of home; perhaps reproaching himself for the manner and spirit in which he had quitted it--as many a poor wanderer has done before when too late! He quickly changed his thoughts, however, and, with them, his position: sat down and got up frequently, frowned, clenched his hands, shook his head, stamped his foot, bit his lips, and altogether betrayed a spirit ill at ease. Mr Cupples, whose soul had from the moment of their capture given way to the deepest possible dejection, lay down, and, resting his elbow on the floor and his head on his hand, gazed at his comrades with a look so dreadfully dolorous that, despite their anxiety, they could hardly suppress a smile. As for Muggins and O'Hale, the former, being a phlegmatic man and a courageous, sat down with his back against the wall, his hands thrust into his pockets, and a quid in his cheek, and shook his head slowly from side to side, while he remarked that every one had to die once, an' when the time came no one couldn't escape and that was all about it! Poor Larry O'Hale could not thus calm his mercurial spirit. He twisted his hard features into every possible contortion, apostrophised his luck, and his grandmother, and ould Ireland in the most pathetic manner, bewailed his fate, and used improper language in reference to savages in general, and those of the South Seas in particular, while, at intervals, he leaped up and tried to tear his bonds asunder.
Thus several hours were spent. Evening approached, and darkness set in; still no one came near the prisoners. During this period, however, they heard the continual shouting and singing of the savages, and sometimes caught a glimpse of them through crevices between the logs of which the hut was built. It was not possible for them to ascertain what they were about, however, until night set in, when several large fires were lighted, and then it could be seen that they were feasting and dancing. Suddenly, in the midst of the din, an appalling shriek was heard. It was quickly succeeded by another and another. Then the yells of the revellers increased in fury, and presently a procession of them was observed approaching the hut, headed by four men bearing a sort of stage on their shoulders.
The shrieks had struck like a death-chill to the hearts of the prisoners. No one spoke, but each had recognised familiar tones in the terrible cries. For the first time some of them began to realise the fact that they were really in the hands of murderers, and that the bloody work had actually begun. Great drops of sweat rolled down the face of Muggins as he gazed in horror through one of the crevices, and his broad chest heaved convulsively as he exclaimed, "God be merciful to us, it's George Goff!" This was too true. On the stage, carried by four natives, sat the unfortunate seaman. It required no second glance to tell that his spirit had fled, and that nothing but a corpse sat swaying there, supported by means of a pole, in a sitting posture. The cannibals were conveying it to their temple, there to cut it up and prepare it for that dreadful feast which is regarded as inexpressibly repulsive by all the human race except these islanders of the South Seas, who, incredible though it may appear, absolutely relish human flesh as a dainty morsel.
At sight of this, poor Will Osten, who had never quite believed in such terrible things, sank down on his knees with a deep groan, and, for the first time in his life, perhaps, prayed _earnestly_.
O'Hale's spirit blazed up in ungovernable fury. Like a wild beast, he tore and wrenched at the rope which bound him, and then, finding his efforts unavailing, he flung himself on the ground, while deep sobs burst at intervals from his oppressed heart.
A few minutes elapsed; then there was a rush of footsteps without, accompanied by fierce yells and the waving of torches. The prisoners leaped up, feeling almost instinctively that there hour had come. A moment later and the hut was filled with natives. All were naked, with the exception of a small piece of cloth round their loins. They were tatooed, however, and painted nearly from head to foot.
The prisoners were instantly seized and overpowered, and preparations were being rapidly made to carry them away, when a shout was heard outside, and a remarkably tall, powerful, and thickly painted savage sprang in. He pushed the natives violently aside, and gave some stern orders to those who held the prisoners. The immediate result was, that the latter were released and allowed to rise, although their hands were still bound behind them. Meanwhile the tall savage, standing beside them, harangued his comrades with great energy of tone and action.
While this was going on, Larry O'Hale whispered excitedly to his companions-- "Howld on, lads, a bit. Sure I've burst the ropes at last. The moment I git howld o' that blackguard's knife I'll cut yer lashin's. Stand by for a rush."
As Larry spoke, the tall savage drew the knife referred to from his girdle, and, glancing over his shoulder, said in English-- "Keep quiet, lads. I'll do my best to save 'ee; but if you offer to fight, you're dead men all in five minutes."
Amazement, if no other feeling had operated, would have rendered the prisoners perfectly quiet after that. They waited in deep anxiety and wonder, while the tall savage continued his harangue, at the conclusion of which his hearers uttered an expressive grunt or growl, as if of assent, and then they all filed out of the hut, leaving the prisoners alone with their deliverer.
|
{
"id": "23271"
}
|
10
|
OUR HERO AND HIS COMRADES IN DISTRESS BECOME SAVAGE WARRIORS FOR THE
NONCE.
|
"Friend," said Captain Dall, taking the hand of the tall savage in his and speaking with some emotion, "you have been sent as our deliverer, I know, but how a South Sea islander should happen to befriend us, and how you should come to speak English as well as ye do, is more than I can understand."
"Onderstand!" exclaimed Larry; "it's past belaif. It baits cock-fightin' intirely."
A grim smile crossed the painted face of the savage, as he said somewhat hurriedly:-- "I'm no more a South Sea islander than you are, lads, but this is not the time for explanations. It's enough for you to know, in the meantime, that I'm an Englishman, and will befriend you if you agree to obey me."
"Obey ye!" cried Larry with enthusiasm, "blissin's on yer painted mug, it's warship ye we will, av ye only git us out o' this scrape."
"That's so," said Muggins, nodding his head emphatically, while Mr Cupples, in tones of the most awful solemnity, and with a look that cannot be described, vowed eternal friendship.
"Well, then," said the tall man, "we have no time to waste, for you are in a greater fix just now than ye think for. About myself it's enough to know that I'm a runaway sailor; that I made my way among these fellers here by offering to join 'em and fight for 'em, and that I won their respect at first by knocking down, in fair stand-up fight, all the biggest men o' the tribe. I don't think they would have spared me even after that, but I curried favour with the chief and married one of his daughters. Now I'm a great man among them. I didn't hear of your having been brought here till half an hour ago, havin' bin away with a war party in canoes. I returned just too late to save your comrades."
"What! are they all dead?" asked Will Osten.
"Ay, all, and if you don't follow them it will only be by attending to what I tell you. My name is Buchanan, but the savages can only manage to make Bukawanga out o' that. The word means fire, and ain't a bad one after all!"
The man smiled grimly as he said this, and then resumed, more rapidly and sternly than before:-- "You have but one chance, and that is to join us. I have come to the village with the news that a neighbouring tribe is about to attack us. If you agree to help us to fight, I may manage to save you; if not your case is hopeless. There is no time for consideration. Ay or no, that's the word."
"Sure I'll jine ye, Mr Bukkie Whangy," said Larry O'Hale, "wid all the pleasure in life. It's always for fightin' I am, at laist whin--" "I don't like to shed human blood," said Captain Dall, interrupting, "where I've no quarrel."
"Then your own must be shed," said Bukawanga firmly.
"There's no help for it, captain," said Will Osten. " 'Tis better to fight for these men than to be murdered by them. What say you, Mr Cupples?"
"War," replied the mate emphatically.
"Ditto," said Muggins, nodding his head and buttoning his jacket.
"Then strip, and we'll paint you right off," said Bukawanga; "look alive, now!"
He fastened the torch which he held in his hand to a beam of the hut, and cut the bonds of the prisoners; then, going to the door, he summoned two men, who came in with a basket made of leaves, in which were several cocoa-nut shells filled with red, white, and black earth, or paint.
"What!" exclaimed Will Osten, "must we fight without clothing?"
"An' wid painted skins?" said Larry.
"Yes, unless you would be a special mark for the enemy," replied Bukawanga; "but you have no chance if you don't become in every way like one of us."
Seeing that the man was in earnest, they were fain to submit. After removing their clothes, the natives began diligently to paint them from head to foot, laying on the colours so thickly, and in such bold effective strokes, that ere long all appearance of nudity was removed. Man is a strange being. Even in the midst of the most solemn scenes he cannot resist giving way at times to bursts of mirth. Philosophy may fail to account for it, and propriety may shudder at it, but the fact is undeniable. With death hovering, they knew not how near, over them, and the memory of the fearful things they had just witnessed strong upon them, they were compelled, now and then, to smile and even to laugh aloud, as the process of painting went on. There was some variety in the adornment of each, but let that of Larry O'Hale serve as an example. First of all his legs were rubbed all over with white earth, and his body with yellow. Then, down each lower limb, behind, a palm-tree was drawn in red--the roots beginning at his heels, and the branches above spreading out on his calves. Various fanciful devices were drawn on his breast and arms, and some striking circles on his back. Last of all, one-half of his face was painted red, and the other half black, with a stripe of white extending from the root of his hair down to the point of his nose. It is needless to say that during the process the enthusiastic Irishman commented freely on the work, and offered many pieces of advice to the operator. Indeed, his tendency to improve upon existing customs had well-nigh put an end to the friendly relations which now subsisted between the white men and the natives, for he took a fancy to have a red stripe down each of his legs. Either the native did not understand him, or would not agree to the proposal, whereupon Larry took the brush and continued the work himself. At this the savage indignantly seized him by the arm and pinched him so violently that he lost temper, and, thrusting the red brush into the native's face, hurled him to the ground. There was a yell and a rush at once, and it is probable that blood would have been shed had not Bukawanga interposed.
When the painting was completed, their protector led the white men (now no longer white!) to the hut of the chief. Bukawanga was received somewhat coldly at first. The chief, a large, fine-looking old man, named Thackombau, with an enormous head of frizzled hair, looked askance at the newcomers, and was evidently disposed to be unfriendly. Observing this, and that the warriors around him scowled on them in a peculiarly savage manner, most of the prisoners felt that their lives hung, as it were, upon a thread. The aspect of things changed, however, when their friend stood up and addressed the assembly.
Bukawanga had not yet said a word about the cause of his sudden return from the war expedition. It was, therefore, with much concern that the chief and his men learned that a neighbouring and powerful tribe, with which they had always been at enmity, were actually on the way to attack them; and when Bukawanga talked of the needful preparations for defence, and, pointing to the prisoners, said that they were his countrymen, able to fight well, and willing to help them, there was a perceptible improvement in the looks of the party. Finally, Thackombau condescended to rub noses with them all, and they were ordered off to another hut to have supper. This latter arrangement was brought about by their deliverer, who knew that if they remained to sup with the natives they would be shocked, and, perhaps, roused to some act of desperate violence, by the horrible sight of portions of the bodies of their poor comrades, which, he knew, were to be eaten that night. He therefore sought to divert their thoughts from the subject by sitting down and relating many anecdotes connected with his own adventurous history, while they partook of a meal of which they stood much in need.
The dishes, although new to them, were by no means unpalatable. They consisted of baked pig and yams served on banana leaves, and soup in cocoa-nut shells. Also a dish made of taro-tops, and filled with a creamy preparation of cocoa-nut done in an oven. Bread-fruits were also served, and these tasted so like the crumb of wheaten loaf, that it was difficult to believe them to be the fruit of a tree. For drink they had the juice of the young cocoa--a liquid which resembles lemonade, and of which each nut contains about a tumblerful. There was also offered to them a beverage named ava, which is intoxicating in its nature, and very disgusting in its preparation. This, however, Bukawanga advised them not to touch.
"Now, Mr Bukkie Whangy," said Larry, after having appeased his appetite, "if I may make so bowld as to ax--how came ye here?"
"The story is short enough and sad enough," replied his new friend. "The fact is, I came here in a sandal-wood trader's ship; I was so disgusted with the captain and crew that I ran away from them when they touched at this island for water. 'Tis eight years ago now, and I have bin here ever since. I have regretted the step that I took, for the devilry that goes on here is ten times worse than I ever saw aboard ship. However, it's too late for regret now."
"Ah! _too late_," murmured Will Osten, and his thoughts leaped back to England.
"The worst of it is," continued the runaway sailor, "that I have no chance of gettin' away, for the cruelty of sailors to the natives of this island has rendered them desperate, and they murder every white man they can get hold of. Indeed there would have been no chance for you but for the breaking out of war, and the fact that they are somewhat short of fightin' men just now. Not long after I landed on the island, an American whaler sent her boats ashore for water. They quarrelled, somehow, with the natives, who drove them into their boats with tremendous hooting and yells and some hard blows, although no blood was spilt. Well, what did the scoundrels do but pulled aboard their ship, brought their big guns to bear on the people, and fired on several villages--killing and wounding a good many of 'em, women and children among the rest. That's the way these fellows set the natives against white men. It was all I could do to prevent them from knocking out my brains after the thing happened."
While Bukawanga was speaking, a great commotion was heard outside.
"They're gettin' ready for action," he said, springing up. "Now, lads, follow me. I'll get you weapons, and, hark-'ee," he added, with a somewhat peculiar smile, "I heerd some of 'ee say ye don't want to spill blood where ye have no quarrel. Well, there's no occasion to do so. Only act in self-defence, and that'll do well enough; d'ye understand?"
The man gave vent to a short chuckle as he said this, and then, leading his countrymen from the hut, conducted them towards a temple, near to which a large band of warriors was busily engaged in making preparations for the approaching fight.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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11
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A FIGHT, WHICH RESULTS IN A MISTAKE AND A HASTY FLIGHT.
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The horrors of war are neither agreeable to write about nor to reflect upon. However much, therefore, it may disappoint those readers whose minds delight to wallow in the abominations of human cruelty, we will refrain from entering into the full particulars of the sanguinary fight that ensued just after the arrival of Wandering Will and his friends in the island. It is sufficient to say that many lives were lost. Of course the loss of life bore no proportion to that which occurs in civilised warfare. One roar from the throats of our terrific engines of destruction will sometimes send more souls into eternity in one moment than all the fierce fury of a hundred savages can accomplish in an hour. But what the savage lacks in power he more than makes up for in cruelty and brutality. During the few days in which the fight raged, the sights that met the eyes of the white men, and the appalling sounds that filled their ears, turned their hearts sick, and induced a longing desire to escape.
The war was carried on chiefly in the way of bush fighting. Our sailors found this mode of warfare convenient, for it enabled them to act very much as spectators. Passing over the details of the brief campaign, we touch only on those points which affected the subsequent movements of the whites.
Bukawanga, who virtually acted the part of commander-in-chief, although all the chiefs considered themselves above him, moved about actively at all times to make sure that the village was properly guarded at every point. While thus employed he had, on one occasion, to pass through a piece of scrub, or thick bush, in which he heard the shriek of a woman. Turning aside he came to an opening where a man was endeavouring to kill a little boy, whose mother was doing her best to defend him. He evidently wished to kill the child and to spare the woman, but she stooped over the child and warded off the blows with her arms so cleverly, that it was still uninjured, although the poor mother was bleeding profusely from many wounds. Bukawanga instantly rushed to the rescue, and raised his club to deal the savage a deadly blow. Unobserved by him, however, another savage had been attracted to the spot, and, seeing what was about to happen, he ran up behind Bukawanga and felled him with a blow of his club. During the scuffle the woman snatched up her boy and escaped. The two savages then began to dispute as to which had the best right to cut off the head of their fallen foe and carry it away in triumph. Both of them were much fatigued with fighting, so they sat down on the back of the prostrate seaman to conduct the discussion more comfortably. The point was still undecided when Bukawanga recovered consciousness, felt the heavy pressure on his back and loins, and heard part of the interesting dialogue!
It chanced, at this point, that Will Osten and Larry O'Hale, who, from natural affinity or some other cause, always kept together, came to the spot and peeped through the bushes. Seeing two men sitting on the body of a third and engaged in an animated dispute, they did not see cause to interfere, but remained for a few minutes almost amused spectators of the scene, being utterly ignorant, of course, as to the purport of their dispute. Suddenly, to their great surprise, they beheld the two men leap into the air; the supposed dead body sprang up, and, before either savage could use his weapons, each received a strong British fist between his eyes and measured his length on the sward, while the conqueror sprang over them into the bush and disappeared.
"Man alive!" exclaimed Larry, "if it isn't Bukkie Whangy himself! Och, the murtherin' daimons!"
With that Larry leaped over the bushes flourishing his club and yelling like a very savage. But Will Osten was before him. Both savages had risen immediately after being knocked down, and now faced their new enemies. They were no match for them. Being expert in all athletic exercises, young Osten found no difficulty in felling the first of the men, while Larry disposed of the other with equal celerity. The Irishman's blood had fired at the thought of the narrow escape of his deliverer, and, still whirling his club round his head, he looked about eagerly as if desirous of finding another foe on whom to expend his fury. At that moment he caught sight of a pair of savage eyes gleaming at him from the bushes.
"Hah! ye dirty polecat," he cried, throwing his club at the eyes with all his force.
Never was there a worse aim or a better shot! The club flew high into the air and would have fallen some fifty yards or more wide of the mark, had it not touched the limb of a tree in passing. It glanced obliquely down, and, striking the owner of the eyes between the shoulders felled him to the earth.
Larry sprang upon him with a yell of triumph, but the yell was changed into a howl of consternation when he made the discovery that he had knocked down, if not killed, one of the principal chiefs of the village! To say that poor O'Hale wrung his hands, and wished bad luck to fightin' in general, and to himself in particular, gives but a feeble idea of the distress of his mind at this untoward event.
"D'ye think I've kilt him intirely, doctor dear?" he asked of Will Osten, who was on his knees beside the fallen chief examining his hurt.
"No, not quite. See, he breathes a little. Come, Larry, the moment he shows symptoms of reviving we must bolt. Of course he knows who knocked him down, and will never forgive us."
"That's true, O murther!" exclaimed Larry, with a mingled look of contrition and anxiety.
"Depend upon it they'll kill us all," continued Osten.
"And bake an' ait us," groaned Larry.
"Come," said Will, rising hastily as the stunned chief began to move, "we'll go search for our comrades."
They hurried away, but not before the chief had risen on one elbow and shaken his clenched fist at them, besides displaying a terrible double row of teeth, through which he hissed an unintelligible malediction.
They soon found their comrades, and related what had occurred. A hurried council of war was held on the spot, and it was resolved that, as a return to the village would ensure their destruction, the only chance of life which remained to them was to take to the mountains. Indeed, so urgent was the necessity for flight, that they started off at once, naked though they were, and covered with blood, paint, and dust, as well as being destitute of provisions.
All that night they travelled without halt, and penetrated into the wildest fastnesses of the mountains of the interior. Bukawanga had already told them, during intervals in the fight when they had met and eaten their hasty meals together, that the island was a large, well wooded, and fruitful one--nearly thirty miles in diameter; and that the highest mountain in the centre was an active volcano. There were several tribes of natives on it, all of whom were usually at war with each other, but these tribes dwelt chiefly on the coast, leaving the interior uninhabited. The fugitives, therefore, agreed that they should endeavour to find a retreat amongst some of the most secluded and inaccessible heights, and there hide themselves until a ship should chance to anchor off the coast, or some other mode of escape present itself.
The difficulties of the way were greater than had been anticipated. There was no path; the rocks, cliffs, and gullies were precipitous; and the underwood was thick and tangled, insomuch that Mr Cupples sat down once or twice and begged to be left where he was, saying that he would take his chance of being caught, and could feed quite well on cocoa-nuts! This, however, was not listened to. Poor Cupples was dragged along, half by persuasion and half by force. Sailors, as a class, are not celebrated for pedestrian powers, and Cupples was a singularly bad specimen of his class. Muggins, although pretty well knocked up before morning, held on manfully without a murmur. The captain, too, albeit a heavy man, and fat, and addicted to panting and profuse perspiration, declared that he was game for anything, and would never be guilty of saying "die" as long as there was "a shot in the locker." As for Larry O'Hale, he was a man of iron mould, one of those giants who seem to be incapable of being worn out or crushed by any amount of physical exertion. So far was he from being exhausted, that he threatened to carry Mr Cupples if he should again talk of falling behind. We need scarcely say that Wandering Will was quite equal to the occasion. Besides being a powerful fellow for his age, he was lithe, active, and hopeful, and, having been accustomed to hill-climbing from boyhood, could have left the whole party behind with ease.
Grey dawn found the fugitives far up the sides of the mountains--fairly lost, as Muggins said, in a waste howlin' wilderness. It was sunrise when they reached the top of a high cliff that commanded a magnificent view of land and sea.
"A good place this for us," said the captain, wiping his forehead as he sat down on a piece of rock. "The pass up to it is narrow; two or three stout fellows could hold it against an army of savages."
"Av there was only a cave now for to live in," said Larry, looking round him.
"Wot's that?" exclaimed Muggins, pointing to a hole in the perpendicular cliff a short distance above the spot where they stood. --"Ain't _that_ a cave?"
Will Osten clambered up and disappeared in the hole. Soon after he re-appeared with the gratifying intelligence that it _was_ a cave, and a capital dry one; whereupon they all ascended, with some difficulty, and took possession of their new home.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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12
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SHOWS HOW SOUTH SEA MISSIONARIES DO THEIR WORK, AND THAT IF THE WHITES
CAN SURPRISE THE NATIVES THE LATTER CAN SOMETIMES ASTONISH THE WHITES!
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For three months did Wandering Will and his friends remain concealed in the mountains. Of course they were pursued and diligently sought for by the natives, and undoubtedly they would have been discovered had the search been continued for any length of time, but to their great surprise, after the first week of their flight, the search was apparently given up. At all events, from that period they saw nothing more of the natives, and gradually became more fearless in venturing to ramble from the cave in search of food. They puzzled over the matter greatly, for, to say the least of it, there appeared to be something mysterious in the total indifference so suddenly manifested towards them by the savages; but although many were the guesses made, they were very far from hitting on the real cause.
During this period they subsisted on the numerous fruits and vegetables which grew wild in great abundance on the island, and spent their days in gathering them and hunting wild pigs and snaring birds. As Larry was wont to observe with great satisfaction, and, usually, with his mouth full of victuals-- "Sure it's the hoith o' livin' we have--what with cocky-nuts, an' taros an' bananas, an' young pigs for the killin', an' ginger-beer for the drinkin', an' penny loaves growin' on the trees for nothin', wid no end o' birds, an' pots ready bilin', night an' day, to cook 'em in--och! it would be hiven intirely but for the dirty savages, bad luck to 'em!"
There was more truth in Larry's remark than may be apparent at first sight. Vegetation was not only prolific and beautiful everywhere, but exceedingly fruitful. The bread-fruit tree in particular supplied them with more than they required of a substance that was nearly as palatable and nutritious as bread. Captain Dall fortunately knew the method of cooking it in an oven, for the uncooked fruit is not eatable. The milk of the young cocoa-nuts was what the facetious Irishman referred to under the name of ginger-beer; but his remark about boiling pots was literally correct. The summit of that mountainous island was, as we have already said, an active volcano, from which sulphurous fumes were constantly issuing--sometimes gently, and occasionally with violence.
Several of the springs in the neighbourhood were hot--a few being almost at the boiling point, so that it was absolutely possible to boil the wild pigs and birds which they succeeded in capturing, without the use of a fire! Strange to say, they also found springs of clear _cold_ water not far from the hot springs.
There is a species of thin tough bark round the upper part of the stem of the cocoa-nut palm--a sort of natural cloth--which is much used by the South Sea islanders. Of this they fashioned some rude but useful garments.
"It seems curious, doesn't it," said Will Osten to Captain Dall, one day, referring to these things and the beauty of the island, "that the Almighty should make such a terrestrial paradise as this, and leave it to be used, or rather abused, by such devils in human shape?"
"I'm not sure," answered the captain slowly, "that we are right in saying that _He_ has left it to be so abused. I'm afraid that it is _we_ who are to blame in the matter."
"How so?" exclaimed Will, in surprise.
"You believe the Bible to be the Word of God, don't you?" said Captain Dall somewhat abruptly, "and that its tendency is to improve men?"
"Of _course_ I do; how can you ask such a question?"
"Did you ever," continued the captain pointedly, "hear of a text that says something about going and teaching all nations, and have, you ever given anything to send missionaries with the Bible to these islands?"
"I--I can't say I ever have," replied Will, with a smile and a slight blush.
"No more have I, lad," said the captain, smiting his knee emphatically; "the thought has only entered my head for the first time, but I _do_ think that it is _we_ who leave islands such as this to be abused by the human devils you speak of, and who, moreover, are not a whit worse--nay, not so bad--as many _civilised_ human devils, who, in times not long past, and under the cloak of religion, have torn men and tender women limb from limb, and bound them at the stake, and tortured them on the rack, in order to make them swallow a false creed."
This was the commencement of one of the numerous discussions on religion, philosophy, and politics, with which the echoes of that cavern were frequently awakened after the somewhat fatiguing labours of each day's chase were over, for a true Briton is the same everywhere. He is a reasoning (if you will, an argumentative) animal, and our little band of fugitives in those mountain fastnesses was no exception to the rule.
Meanwhile, two events occurred at the native village which require notice. Their occurrence was not observed by our friends in hiding, because the summit of the mountain completely shut out their view in that direction, and they never wandered far from their place of retreat.
The first event was very sad, and is soon told. One morning a schooner anchored off the village, and a party of armed seamen landed, the leader of whom, through the medium of an interpreter, had an interview with the chief. He wished to be permitted to cut sandal-wood, and an agreement was entered into. After a considerable quantity had been cut and sent on board, the chief wanted payment. This was refused on some trivial ground. The savages remonstrated. The white men threatened, and the result was that the latter were driven into their boats. They pulled off to their vessel, loaded a large brass gun that occupied the centre of the schooner's deck, and sent a shower of cannister shot among the savages, killing and wounding not only many of the men, but some of the women and children who chanced to be on the skirt of the wood. They then set sail, and, as they coasted along, fired into several villages, the people of which had nothing to do with their quarrel.
Only a week after this event another little schooner anchored off the village. It was a missionary ship, sent by the London Missionary Society to spread the good news of salvation through Christ among the people. Some time before, a native teacher--one who, on another island, had embraced Christianity, and been carefully instructed in its leading truths--had been sent to this island, and was well received; but, war having broken out, the chief had compelled him to leave. A second attempt was now being made, and this time an English missionary with his wife and daughter were about to trust themselves in the hands of the savages.
They could not have arrived at a worse time. The islanders, still smarting under a sense of the wrong and cruelty so recently done them, rushed upon the little boat of the schooner, brandishing clubs and spears, the instant it touched the land, and it was with the utmost difficulty that the missionary prevailed on them to stay their hands and give him a hearing. He soon explained the object of his visit, and, by distributing a few presents, so far mollified the people that he was allowed to land, but it was plain that they regarded him with distrust. The tide was turned in the missionary's favour, however, by the runaway sailor, Buchanan, or Bukawanga. That worthy happened at the time to be recovering slowly from the effects of the wound he had received in the fight, which had so nearly proved to be his last. On hearing of the arrival of strangers he feared that the savages would kill them out of revenge, and hastened, weak and ill though he was, to meet, and, if possible, protect them. His efforts were successful. He managed to convince the natives that among Christians there were two classes--those who merely called themselves by the name, and those who really did their best to practise Christianity; that the sandal-wood traders probably did not even pretend to the name, but that those who had just arrived would soon give proof that they were of a very different spirit. The result of this explanation was, that the chiefs agreed to receive the missionary, who accordingly landed with his family, and with all that was necessary for the establishment of a mission.
Those who have not read of missionary enterprise in the South Seas can form no conception of the difficulties that missionaries have to contend with, and the dangers to which they are exposed on the one hand, and, on the other, the rapidity with which success is sometimes vouchsafed to them. In some instances, they have passed years in the midst of idolatry and bloody rites, the mere recital of which causes one to shudder, while their lives have hung on the caprice of a volatile chief; at other times God has so signally blessed their efforts that a whole tribe has adopted Christianity in the course of a few weeks. Misunderstand us not, reader. We do not say that they all became true Christians; nevertheless it is a glorious fact that such changes have occurred; that idolatry has been given up and Christianity embraced within that short period, and that the end has been the civilisation of the people; doubtless, also, the salvation of some immortal souls.
In about two months after their arrival a marvellous change had taken place in the village.
The natives, like very children, came with delight to be taught the use of the white man's tools, and to assist in clearing land and building a cottage. When this was finished, a small church was begun. It was this busy occupation that caused the savages to forget, for a time, the very existence of Wandering Will and his friends; and if Bukawanga thought of them, it was to conclude that they had taken refuge with one of the tribes on the other side of the island.
That which seemed to amuse and delight the natives most in the new arrivals was the clothing which was distributed among them. They proved very untractable, however, in the matter of putting it on. One man insisted on putting the body of a dress which had been meant for his wife on his own nether limbs--thrusting his great feet through the sleeves, and thereby splitting them to the shoulder. Another tied a tippet round his waist, and a woman was found strutting about in a pair of fisherman's boots, and a straw bonnet with the back to the front!
One of the chiefs thus absurdly arrayed was the means of letting the fugitive white men have an idea that something strange had occurred at the village. This man had appropriated a scarlet flannel petticoat which had been presented to his mother, and, putting it on with the waist-band tied round his neck, sallied forth to hunt in the mountains. He was suddenly met by Larry O'Hale and Will Osten.
"Musha! 'tis a ow-rangy-tang!" cried the Irishman.
His companion burst into a fit of loud laughter. The terrified native turned to flee, but Larry darted after him, tripped up his heels, and held him down.
"Kape quiet, won't ye?" he said, giving the struggling man a severe punch on the chest.
The savage thought it best to obey. Being allowed to get on his legs he was blindfolded, and then, with Will grasping him on one side, and the Irishman on the other, he was led up to the mountain-cave, and introduced to the family circle there, just as they were about to sit down to their mid-day meal.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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13
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REMARKABLE CHANGES FOR THE BETTER.
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It will not surprise the reader to be told that the savage with the red flannel petticoat tied round his neck was received with shouts of laughter by the inmates of the cave, and that his costume filled them with mingled feelings of astonishment and curiosity. The information obtained from him by signs did not enlighten them much, but it was sufficient to convince them that something unusual had occurred at the native village, and to induce Will Osten to act in accordance with his favourite motto.
"I tell you what, comrades," said he, after a few minutes' deliberation, "I have made up my mind to go back to the village with this red-coated gentleman, and see whether they are all decked out in the same fashion. To tell the truth, I have been thinking for some time back that we have been living here to no purpose--" "Only hear that, now," said Larry O'Hale, interrupting; "haven't we bin livin' like fightin' cocks, an' gettin' as fat as pigs? Why, Mr Cupples hisself begins to throw a shadow on the ground whin the sun's pretty strong; an' as for Muggins there--" "You let Muggins alone," growled the seaman; "if we _are_ fatterer, p'raps it'll only be for the good o' the niggers when they come to eat us."
"Well, well," said Will; "at all events we shall never escape from this place by remaining here--(`True for ye,' said Larry)--therefore I shall go to the village, as I have said. If they receive me, well and good; I will return to you. If not--why, that's the end of me, and you'll have to look out for yourselves."
As usual an energetic discussion followed this announcement. The captain said it was madness, Mr Cupples shook his head and groaned, Muggins thought that they should all go together and take their chance, and Larry protested that he would sooner be eaten alive than allow his comrade to go without him; but in time Will Osten convinced them all that his plan was best.
What would be the good of the whole of them being killed together, he said--better that the risk should fall on one, and that the rest should have a chance of escape. Besides, he was the best runner of the party, and, if he should manage to wriggle out of the clutches of the savages, would be quite able to outrun them and regain the cave. At length the youth's arguments and determination prevailed, and in the afternoon he set off accompanied by his sable friend in female attire.
On nearing the village, the first thing that greeted the eyes of our hero was a savage clothed in a yellow cotton vest and a blue jacket, both of which were much too small for him; he also had the leg of a chair hung round his neck by way of ornament.
This turned out to be the principal chief of the village, Thackombau, and a very proud man he obviously was on that occasion. To refrain from smiling, and embrace this fellow by rubbing noses with him, was no easy matter, but Will Osten did it nevertheless. While they were endeavouring to converse by signs, Will was suddenly bereft of speech and motion by the unexpected appearance of a white man--a gentleman clothed in sombre costume--on whose arm leaned a pleasant-faced lady! The gentleman smiled on observing the young man's gaze of astonishment, and advancing, held out his hand.
Will Osten grasped and shook it, but still remained speechless.
"Doubtless you are one of the party who escaped into the hills lately?" said the gentleman.
"Indeed I am, sir," replied Will, finding words at last, and bowing to the lady; "but from what star have _you_ dropt? for, when I left the village, there were none but savages in it!"
"I dropt from the _Star of Hope_," answered the gentleman, laughing. "You have hit the mark, young sir, nearer than you think, for that is the name of the vessel that brought me here. I am a missionary; my name is Westwood; and I am thankful to say I have been successful in making a good commencement on this island. This is my wife--allow me to introduce you--and if you will come with me to my cottage--" "Cottage!" exclaimed Will.
"Ay, 'tis a good and pretty one, too, notwithstanding the short time we took to build it. The islanders are smart fellows when they have a mind to labour, and it is wonderful what an amount can be done when the Lord prospers the work. These good fellows," added the missionary, casting a glance at the two natives, "who, as you see, are somewhat confused in their ideas about dress, have already done me much service in the building of the church--" "Church!" echoed Will.
Again the missionary laughed, and, offering his arm to his wife, turned towards the village, saying-- "Come, Mr Osten--you see I know your name, having heard of you from your friend Buchanan--come, I will show you what we have been about while you were absent; but first--tell me--how fares it with your comrades?"
Will Osten at once entered into a full account of the doings of himself and his friends, and had just concluded, when he was once more rendered speechless by the sight of the missionary's cottage. It was almost the realisation of the waking dream which had captivated him so much on the evening when the storm arose that proved fatal to the _Foam_. He was still gazing at it in silent admiration, listening to an enthusiastic account of the zeal and kindness of the natives who helped to build it, when a young girl, apparently bordering on seventeen or eighteen years of age, with nut-brown curls, rosy cheeks, and hazel eyes, sprang out and hastened to meet them.
"Oh, father," she exclaimed, while the colour of her face came and went fitfully, "I'm so glad you have come! The natives have been so--so--" "Not rude to you, Flora, surely?" interrupted the missionary.
"No, not exactly rude, but, but--" Flora could not explain! The fact turned out to be that, never having seen any woman so wonderfully and bewitchingly beautiful before, the natives had crowded uninvited into the cottage, and there, seated on their hams round the walls, quietly gazed at her to their hearts' content--utterly ignorant of the fact that they were violating the rules of polite society!
Will Osten, to his disgrace be it said, violated the same rules in much the same way, for he continued to gaze at Flora in rapt admiration until Mr Westwood turned to introduce her to him.
That same evening Bukawanga, accompanied by Thackombau, went to the mountain-cave, and, having explained to its occupants the altered state of things at the village, brought them down to the mission-house where they took up their abode.
It need scarcely be said that they were hospitably received. Mr Westwood had not met with countrymen for many months, and the mere sight of white faces and the sound of English voices were pleasant to him. He entertained them with innumerable anecdotes of his experiences and adventures as a missionary, and on the following morning took them out to see the church, which had just been begun.
"Already," said Mr Westwood, as they were about to set forth after breakfast, "my wife and Flora have got up a class of women and girls, to whom they teach needle-work, and we have a large attendance of natives at our meetings on the Sabbath. A school also has been started, which is managed by a native teacher who came with me from the island of Raratonga, and most of the boys in the village attend it."
"But it does seem to me, sir," said Captain Dall, as they sauntered along, "that needle-work and book-learning can be of no use to such people."
"Not of much just now, captain, but these are only means to a great end. Already, you see, they are beginning to be clothed--fantastically enough at present, no doubt--and I hope ere long to see them in their right mind, through the blessed influence of the Bible. Look there," he added, pointing to an open space in the forest, where the four walls of a large wooden building were beginning to rise; "there is evidence of what the gospel of Jesus Christ can do. The labourers at that building are, many of them, bitter enemies to each other. Only yesterday we succeeded in getting some of the men of the neighbouring village to come and help us. After much persuasion they agreed, but they work with their weapons in their hands, as you see."
This was indeed the case. The men who had formerly been enemies were seen assisting to build the same church. They took care, however, to work as far from each other as possible, and were evidently distrustful, for clubs and spears were either carried in their hands, or placed within reach, while they laboured.
Fortunately, however, they restrained their passions at that time, and it is due to them to add that before that church was finished their differences were made up, and they, with all the others, ultimately completed the work in perfect harmony, without thinking it necessary to bring their clubs or spears with them.
The reader must not suppose that all missionary efforts in the South Seas have been as quickly successful as this one. The records of that interesting region tell a very different tale; nevertheless there are many islands in which the prejudices of the natives were overcome almost at the commencement, and where heathen practices seemed to melt away at once before the light of the glorious gospel.
During two months, Wandering Will and the wrecked seamen remained here assisting the missionary in his building and other operations. Then an event occurred which sent them once more afloat, and broke the spell of their happy and busy life among the islanders.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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14
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CONTAINS MORE THAN ONE SURPRISE, AND TOUCHES ON "LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM."
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One quiet and beautiful Sabbath morning, the inhabitants of the South Sea Island village wended their way to the House of God which they had so recently erected. Among them were Will Osten and his friends, with the clergyman's wife and daughter.
Poor Wandering Will was very unhappy. The sunshine was bright, the natives were blithe, and the birds were joyous, but our hero was despondent! The fact was that he had fallen head and ears in love with Flora Westwood, and he felt that he might as well have fallen in love with the moon--as far as any chance of getting married to her was concerned. Will was therefore very miserable, and, like all ardent and very youthful lovers, he hugged his misery to his bosom--rather enjoyed it, in fact, than otherwise. In short, if truth must be told, he took pleasure in being miserable _for her sake_! When he allowed himself to take romantic views of the subject, and thought of the heights of bliss that _might_ be attained, he was, so to speak, miserably happy. When he looked the stern realities in the face, he was miserably sad.
That Sabbath morning poor Will felt more impressed than ever with the hopelessness of his case, as he walked slowly and silently to church beside the modest Flora and her mother. He also became impressed with the ridiculousness of his position, and determined to "overcome his weakness." He therefore looked at Flora with the intention of cutting a joke of some sort, but, suddenly recollecting that it was Sunday, he checked himself. Then he thought of getting into a serious talk, and was about to begin, when his eye happened to fall on Thackombau, who, in honour of the day, had got himself up with unusual care, having covered his shoulders with a cotton jacket, his loins with a lady's shawl, and his head with a white night-cap--his dark tatooed legs forming a curious and striking contrast to the whole.
Before Will could think of another mode of opening the conversation, they had arrived at the church, and here, in front of the open door, there lay the most singular contribution that ever was offered to the cause of Christianity. Many dozens of church-door plates rolled into one enormous trencher would have been insufficient to contain it, for it was given not in money (of course) but in kind. There were a number of lengths of hollow bamboo containing cocoa-nut oil, various fine mats and pieces of native cloth, and sundry articles of an ornamental character, besides a large supply of fruits and vegetables, with four or five baked pigs, cold and ready for table! The entire pile was several feet in diameter and height, and was a freewill offering of the natives to the church--the beginning of a liberality which was destined in future years to continue and extend--a species of liberality which is by no means uncommon among the South Sea Islanders, for there are some of those who were savage idolators not many years ago who now give annually and largely to the support of the missions with which their churches are connected.
Larry O'Hale had just made a remark in reference to "the plate" which was not conducive to the gravity of his companions, when the echoes of the mountains were awakened by a cannon-shot, and a large ship was seen to round the point of land that stretched out to the westward of the island. Instantly the natives poured out of the church, rushed down to the shore, launched their canoes and paddled over the lagoon to meet the vessel, which, running before a stiff breeze, soon entered the natural gateway in the reef. The congregation having dispersed thus unceremoniously, the clergyman and his friends were compelled to postpone service for a time.
The ship which had created such a sensation in the village, was also the means of causing great disturbance in sundry breasts, as shall be seen. She had called for water. Being in a hurry, her captain had resolved not to waste time by conciliating the natives, but, rather, to frighten them away by a cannonade of blank cartridge, land a strong party to procure water while they were panic-stricken, and then up anchor and away. His surprise was great, therefore, when the natives came fearlessly off to him (for he had been warned to beware of them), and he was about to give them a warm reception, when he caught a glimpse of the small spire of the new church, which at once explained the cause of the change.
With rollicking good humour--for he was a strong healthy man with a sleeping conscience--Captain Blathers, on landing, swaggered up to the clergyman and shook him heartily and gratefully by the hand, exclaiming, with a characteristic oath, that he had not much opinion of religion in his own country, but he was bound to say it was "a first-rate institootion in the South Seas."
Mr Westwood rebuked the oath and attempted to correct the erroneous opinion, but Captain Blathers laughed, and said he knew nothing about these matters, and had no time for anything but getting fresh water just then. He added that he had "a batch of noosepapers, which he'd send ashore for the use of all and sundry."
Accordingly, off he went about his business, and left the clergyman and natives to return to church, which they all did without delay.
That night the missionary went on board the ship to see the captain and preach to the crew. While he was thus engaged, our friends, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, O'Hale, Muggins, and Wandering Will, in a retired part of the forest, held an earnest conversation as to whether they should avail themselves of the arrival of the ship to quit the island. Captain Dall had already spoken with Captain Blathers, who said he was quite willing to let them work their passage to England.
"Now, you see, comrades," said Captain Dall, thrusting his right fist into his left palm, "the only trouble is, that he's not goin' direct home--got to visit the coast of South America and San Francisco first, an' that will make it a long voyage."
"But, sure," said Larry, "it won't be so long as waitin' here till next year for the missionary schooner, and then goin' a viage among the islands before gettin' a chance of boording a homeward-bound ship?"
"That's so," said Muggins, with a nod of approval. "I says go, ov coorse."
Mr Cupples also signified that this was his opinion.
"And what says the doctor?" asked Captain Dall, turning to Will Osten with an inquiring look.
"Eh? well, ah!" exclaimed Will, who had been in a reverie, "I--I don't exactly see my way to--that is--if we only could find out if she is--is to remain here _always_, or hopes some day to return to England--" Poor Will stopped in sudden confusion and blushed, but as it was very dark that did not matter much.
"What _does_ the man mean?" exclaimed Captain Dall. "How _can_ she remain here always when she's to be off at daybreak--?"
"True, true," interrupted Will hurriedly, not sorry to find that his reference to Flora was supposed to be to the ship. "The fact is, I was thinking of other matters--of _course_ I agree with you. It's too good an opportunity to be missed, so, good-night, for I've enough to do to get ready for such an abrupt departure."
Saying this, he started up and strode rapidly away.
"Halloo!" shouted Larry after him; "don't be late--be on the baich at daybreak. Arrah he's gone mad intirely."
"Ravin'," said Muggins, with a shake of his head as he turned the quid in his cheek.
Meanwhile Wandering Will rushed he knew not whither, but a natural impulse led him, in the most natural way, to the quiet bay, which he knew to be Flora's favourite walk on moonlight nights! The poor youth's brain was whirling with conflicting emotions. As he reached the bay, the moon, strange to say, broke forth in great splendour, and revealed-- what! --could it be? --yes, the graceful figure of Flora! "Never venture," thought Will, "never--" In another moment he was by her side; he seized her hand; she started, suppressed a scream, and tried to free her hand, but Will held it fast. "Forgive me, Flora, dearest girl," he said in impassioned tones, "I would not dare to act thus, but at daybreak I leave this island, perhaps for ever! yet I _cannot_ go without telling you that I love you to distraction, that--that--oh! say tell me--" At that moment he observed that Flora blushed, smiled in a peculiar manner, and, instead of looking in his face, glanced over his shoulder, as if at some object behind him. Turning quickly round, he beheld Thackombau, still decked out in his Sunday clothes, gazing at them in open-mouthed amazement.
Almost mad with rage, Will Osten rushed at him. The astonished savage fled to the woods, Will followed, and in a few minutes lost himself! How he passed that night he never could tell; all that he could be sure of was that he had wandered about in distraction, and emerged upon the shore about daybreak. His appointment suddenly recurring to him, he ran swiftly in the direction of the village. As he drew near he observed a boat pushing off from the shore.
"Howld on!" shouted a well-known voice; "sure it's himself after all."
"Come along, young sir, you're late, and had well-nigh lost your passage," growled Captain Blathers.
Will jumped into the boat and in a few minutes found himself on board the _Rover_, which, by the time he reached it, was under weigh and making for the opening in the reef.
Another hour, and the island was a mere speck on the horizon. Gradually it faded from view; and the good ship, bending over to the freshening breeze, bounded lightly away over the billows of the mighty sea.
THE END.
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{
"id": "23271"
}
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1
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AT SEA--AN ALARMING CRY AND A RESCUE.
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"At sea once more!" said Will Osten in a meditative mood.
Our hero made this remark one night to himself, which was overheard and replied to by his friend, Captain Dall, in a manner that surprised him.
"It's my opinion, doctor," said the captain in a low voice, "that this is the last time you or I will ever be at sea, or anywhere else, if our skipper don't look better after his men, for a more rascally crew I never set eyes on, and, from a word or two I have heard dropped now and then, I feel sure some mischief is in the wind. Come aft with me to a place where we ain't so likely to be overheard by eavesdroppers, and I'll tell you all about it."
Will Osten was so much astonished at his friend's remark, that he followed him to the after part of the ship without uttering a word, and there sat down on the taffrail to listen to what he had to communicate.
There was no moon in the clear sky, and the hosts of stars that studded the dark vault overhead did not shed any appreciable light on the waters of the Pacific, on which the _Rover_ floated almost motionless. That beautiful and mysterious phosphorescence which sometimes illumines the sea was gleaming in vivid flashes in the vessel's wake, and a glowing trail of it appeared to follow the rudder like a serpent of lambent fire.
It was one of those calm, peaceful nights in which God seems to draw nearer than usual to the souls of His creatures. The only sounds that broke the profound stillness were the pattering of reef-points on the sails as the vessel rose and sank gently on the oily swell; the measured tread of the officer of the watch, and the humming of the man at the wheel, as he stood idly at his post, for the vessel had scarcely steering-way.
"Doctor," said Captain Dall in a low whisper, taking Will Osten by the button-hole and bending forward until his eyes were close to those of his young friend, "I little thought when I set sail from England that, in a few weeks after, my good ship the _Foam_ would come a wreck an' sink to the bottom of the Pacific before my eyes. Still less did I think that I should be cast on a coral island, have to fight like a naked savage, and be saved at last by missionaries from being roasted and eaten. Yet all this has happened within a few months."
At any other time Will Osten would have smiled at the solemn manner in which this was said, but there was something in the hour, and also in the tone of his friend's voice, which tended to repress levity and raise a feeling of anxiety in his mind.
"Well, captain," he said, "what has this to do with the present evil that you seem to apprehend?"
"To do with it, lad? nothing--'xcept that it reminds me that we little know what is in store for us. Here are we becalmed--three day's sail from the coral island, where the niggers were so near converting us into cooked victuals, and I wouldn't at this minute give twopence in security for the life of any one on board the _Rover_."
"Why, what mean you?" asked Will, with increasing perplexity. "Some of the crew are bad enough, no doubt, but many of them are evidently good men--what is it that you fear?"
"Fear! why, there's everything to fear," said the captain in a suppressed but excited whisper, drawing still closer to his friend. "I've often sailed in these seas, and I know that while some of the traders sailing between these islands and South America and other parts are decentish enough, others are as great cut-throats as ever deserved to swing at the yard-arm. But that's not the point. I have overheard, of late, some of the rascals plotting to murder the officers and take this ship. But I cannot point 'em out, for though I heard their voices I couldn't see their faces. I think I know who they are, but could not swear to 'em, and it would be worse than useless to denounce them till we have some evidence to go on. I therefore want you to help me with your advice and assistance, so that we may get up a counterplot to spoil their fun--for I'm quite certain that if we fail to--hark! what's that?"
Will did not answer, but both listened intently to the sound which had interrupted Captain Dall's discourse. It was evident that the officer and men of the watch had also heard it, for they, too, had ceased to walk to and fro, and their figures could be dimly seen in a listening attitude at the gangway.
For several minutes they listened without hearing anything--then a hoarse, guttural shout broke the stillness of the night for a few seconds and died away. The men looked at each other, and some of the more superstitious among them grew pale. Again the cry was repeated, somewhat nearer, and again all was still. Some of the oldest hands in the watch stood transfixed and powerless with terror. They would have faced death in any form manfully, but this mysterious sound unnerved them!
The officer of the watch went down to report it to Captain Blathers, who immediately came on deck. Just as he appeared, the cry was repeated and a slight splash was heard.
"Some one in distress," cried Captain Blathers promptly; "a crew for the starboard quarter-boat to pick him up. Stand by to lower. Be smart, lads!"
These words, heartily uttered, put superstitious fears to flight at once. The men threw off their jackets; the boat was lowered, and in a few minutes was pulling about and searching in all directions. Our hero was one of the first to leap into her, and he pulled the bow oar. For some time they rowed about in vain. The night was intensely dark, and the cry was not repeated, so that they had nothing to guide them in their movements. A lantern was fixed in the ship half way up the mizzen rigging, but the lantern in the boat was concealed until the moment when it should be required, because it is easier for men to distinguish surrounding objects in comparative darkness than when a light is glaring near them. Presently Will Osten saw a dark object like a small canoe right ahead of the boat.
"Back water--all!" he shouted.
The men obeyed, but it was too late; the boat struck the object, and overturned it. Will saw something like a human form roll into the water, and heard a gurgling cry. Without a moment's hesitation he leaped overboard, head foremost, and catching hold of the object, brought it to the surface. He remembered at that moment having heard of a fact which is worth stating here. The best way to save a drowning man is to approach him from behind, seize him under the armpits, and, then, getting on your back, draw him partly on to your breast and swim _on your back_ to the shore, or to a place of safety. Thought is quicker than the lightning flash. Will could not, of course, carry out this plan fully, nevertheless the memory of it served him in good stead, for, the instant he caught the drowning man by the hair, he kept him at arm's length, and thus avoided his death-clutch until he could grasp him under the armpits _from behind_, and thus render him powerless. He then rose and drew him gently upon his breast, at the same time striking out with his feet and shouting-- "Bear a hand, lads--I've got him!"
A loud "hurrah!" burst from the men in the boat, and was re-echoed vehemently from the ship. They had overshot the spot only by a few yards. Instantly they pulled round: two strokes brought them to the spot where Will was swimming, and in another moment our hero and the rescued man were hauled into the boat. The men gave vent to another loud and prolonged cheer, which was again replied to from the ship.
The boat was soon alongside, and the rescued man, who proved to be a man of colour in a very emaciated and exhausted condition, was hoisted on board. His story was soon told. He was not a native of the islands, but had been living on one of them, and had gone off to fish in a canoe, when a gale sprang up and blew him out to sea. Four days and nights had he been exposed to the storm in his frail bark, without food or water, and was on the point of perishing when the ship chanced to pass near him. The utterance of the cry which had attracted attention, was almost the last effort of which he was capable. He spoke a little broken English, having learnt it while serving on board of an English trading vessel. His name, he said, was Bunco, and a fine powerful-looking fellow he was, despite the sad condition to which he had been reduced. His shoulders, and indeed most parts of his body, were blistered by the continual washing of the sea over him, and when he was lifted on board his skin was icy cold. Had he not been a man of iron mould, he must certainly have perished. The poor fellow was at once taken into the cabin and carefully attended to. He was first bathed in fresh water, then rolled in blankets, and a tumbler of hot wine and water administered, which greatly revived him, and soon caused him to fall into a sound sleep.
Whether it was that this incident softened the hearts of the seamen for a time, or that their plans were not yet ripe for execution, we cannot tell, but certain it is that nothing whatever occurred to justify Captain Dall's suspicions for several weeks after that.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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2
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DESCRIBES A MUTINY, AND SHOWS THAT THE BEST OF FRIENDS MAY PART SOONER
THAN THEY EXPECT.
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"A wilful man will have his way." That this is a true proverb is almost universally admitted; indeed, there is reason to believe that it is equally true of women as of men; nevertheless, Captain Blathers did not believe it although he was himself a living illustration of its truth. He laughed at Captain Dall when that worthy warned him of the mutinous intentions of his crew, and when several weeks had passed away without any signs of disaffection appearing, he rallied him a good deal about what he styled his suspicious disposition, and refused to take any steps to guard against surprise. The consequence was, that when the storm did break, he was utterly unprepared to meet it.
Griffin, the second mate, was the leader of the conspiracy, but so ably did he act his villainous part, that no one suspected him. He was a tall, powerful, swarthy man, with a handsome but forbidding countenance.
One evening a little before sunset, while the captain was sitting at tea with those who usually messed in the cabin, Griffin looked down the skylight and reported "a sail on the weather bow." The captain immediately rose and went on deck. The moment he appeared he was seized by Griffin. Captain Blathers was an active and powerful man, and very passionate. He clenched his fist and struck the second mate a blow on the chest, which caused him to stagger back, but, before he could repeat it, two sailors seized him from behind and held him fast. The noise of the scuffle at once brought up the first mate, who was followed by Will Osten, Captain Dall, and others, all of whom were seized by the crew and secured as they successively made their appearance.
Resistance was of course offered by each, but in vain, for the thing was promptly and thoroughly carried out. Four strong men stood at the head of the companion with ropes ready to secure their prisoners, while the greater part of the crew stood close by, armed with pistols and cutlasses.
"It is of no use resisting, Captain Blathers," said Griffin, when the former was pinioned; "you see we are quite prepared, and thoroughly in earnest."
The captain looked round, and a glance sufficed to convince him that this was true. Not a friendly eye met his, because those of the crew who were suspected of being favourable to him, or who could not be safely relied on, had been seized by another party of mutineers at the same time that those in the cabin were captured, and among them were three friends of our hero--Mr Cupples the mate, Muggins, and Larry O'Hale, seamen belonging to the lost _Foam_ to which Captain Dall had referred while conversing with Will.
For a few seconds Captain Blathers' face blazed with wrath, and he seemed about to make a desperate attempt to break his bonds, but by a strong effort he restrained himself.
"What do you intend to do?" he asked at length, in a deep, husky voice.
"To take possession of this ship," replied the second mate, with a slightly sarcastic smile. "These men have taken a fancy to lead a free, roving life, and to make me their captain, and I am inclined to fall in with their fancy, and to relieve you of the command."
"Scoundrel!" exclaimed the captain, "say rather that you have misled the men, and that--" He checked himself, and then said sternly, "And pray what do you intend to do with _me_?"
"I shall allow you a boat and provisions, Captain Blathers, for the use of yourself and your friends, and then bid you farewell. You see we are mercifully inclined, and have no desire to shed your blood. Ho! there-- lower one of the quarter boats."
This order was obeyed with promptitude. Some provisions were thrown into the boat, and the captain was cast loose and ordered to get into it. He turned to make a last appeal to the crew, but Griffin presented a pistol at his head and ordered him peremptorily to get into the boat. It is probable that he would have made another effort, had not two of the men forced him over the side. Seeing this, Will Osten was so indignant and so anxious to quit the ship, that he stepped forward with alacrity to follow him.
"No, no, my fine young fellow," said Griffin, thrusting him back, "we want your help as a doctor a little longer. It may be that you are not inclined to serve us, but we can find a way of compelling you if you're not. Come, Mr Dall, be good enough to go next."
When Captain Dall's hands were loosed, he shook his fist in the second mate's face, and said, "Rascal, you'll swing for this yet; mark my words, you'll swing for it." Having relieved his feelings thus, he went over the side.
While this was going on, Larry O'Hale, Muggins, and Mr Cupples, with several others, were brought to the gangway. Griffin addressed these before ordering them into the boat.
"My lads," he said, "I have no objection to your remaining aboard, if you choose to take part with us."
"I, for one, will have nothing to do with 'e," said Mr Cupples sternly.
"Then you may go," said Griffin, with a sneer. Muggins, who, to use one of his own phrases, looked "as sulky as a bear with a broken head," made no reply, but Larry O'Hale exclaimed, "Sure, then, what better can I do than take part with yees? It's a heavenly raigin o' the arth this, an good company. Put me down on the books, Capting Griffin, dear. I'd niver desart ye in your troubles,--be no mains."
There was a slight laugh at this, and Larry was graciously cast loose, and permitted to remain. Both Will Osten and Muggins gazed at him, however, in amazement, for they had supposed that their comrade would rather have taken his chance in the captain's boat. Suddenly an intelligent gleam shot athwart the rough visage of Muggins, and he said-- "Of coorse I'll remain too. It would be madness for an old salt like me to go paddlin' about the ocean in a cockleshell of a boat when he has the chance of sailin' in a good ship. Put me down too, capting. I'm game for anything a'most, from pitch an' toss to manslaughter."
So Muggins was added to the ship's company, and poor Mr Cupples went over the side with a face almost as long as his thin body, because of what he deemed the depravity and desertion of his old shipmates. Several of the ship's crew, who refused to join, also went into the boat, which was then cast loose, and dropped rapidly astern.
The whole of this exciting scene passed so quickly, that it was only when the boat was far away, like a speck on the sea, that Will Osten realised the fact that he had actually said farewell, perhaps for over, to his late comrades. But he had not much time given him for reflection, for the new captain, after changing the course of the ship, and making a few arrangements to suit the altered state of affairs, ordered him to go forward and do duty as a common seaman, telling him that he did not intend to have any land-lubbers or idlers aboard, and that he would be called to do doctor's work when his services should be required.
That night our hero contrived to hold a whispering interview, in a dark corner of the forecastle, with his friends Larry O'Hale and Muggins. He found that the former had resolved to join the crew in order to be near himself; that Muggins had joined, because of his desire to share the fortunes of Larry; and that both had made up their minds to effect their escape on the first favourable opportunity.
"Now, ye see, boys," said Larry, "this is how it is--" "Don't open your bread-basket hatch so wide," growled Muggins, "else you'll be overheerd--that's wot it is."
"This is how it is," repeated Larry, "not bein' fish, nor gulls, nor say sarpints, we haven't the ghost of a chance of gettin' away from this ship till we're close to land, an' even then we wont have much chance if it's suspected that we want to escape. What then? --why, let us from this hour agree to give each other the cowld shoulder, and go at our work as if we liked it."
"You're right, Larry," said Will. "If they see us much together, they'll naturally suspect that we are plotting, so--" At this point a voice growled from an adjacent hammock-- "Avast spinnin' yarns there, will 'e!" "Ay, it's that sea-cook, Larry O'Hale," cried Muggins aloud; "he was always over fond o' talking."
Larry, who at the first sound had slipped away to his hammock, shouted from under the blankets, "Ye spalpeen, it's no more me than yersilf; sure I'd have been draimin' of ould Ireland if ye--hadn't--(snore) me grandmother--(yawn) or the pig--" A prolonged snore terminated this sentence, and Muggins turned into his hammock, while Will Osten rose, with a quiet laugh, and went on deck.
One morning, some weeks after the conversation just related, our hero was leaning over the bulwarks near the fore-chains, watching the play of the clear waves as the ship glided quietly but swiftly through them before a light breeze. Will was in a meditative frame of mind, and had stood there gazing dreamily down for nearly half an hour, when his elbow was touched by the man named Bunco, who had long before recovered from his exposure in the canoe.
Will was a little surprised, for he had not had much intercourse with the man, and could not comprehend the confidential and peculiar look and tone, with which he now addressed him.
"Mister Os'en," he said, in a low voice, after a few preliminary words, "you be tink of escape?"
Will was startled: "Why do you think so?" he asked, in some alarm.
"Ha!" said the man, with a broad grin, "me keep eyes in head--me doos-- not in pocket. Ho! ho! Yis, me see an' hear berry well Muggins go too if hims can--and Larry O'Hale, ho yis. Now, me go too!"
"You too?"
"Yis. You save me life; me know dis here part ob the univarse,--bin bornded an' riz here. Not far off from de land to-day. You let me go too, an' me show you how you kin do--" At this point Bunco was interrupted by a shout of "Land ho!" from the look-out at the masthead.
"Where away?" cried Griffin.
"On the lee-bow, sir."
Instantly all eyes and glasses were turned in the direction indicated, where, in a short time, a blue line, like a low cloud, was faintly seen on the far-off horizon.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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3
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DESCRIBES A TREMENDOUS BUT BLOODLESS FIGHT.
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Proverbial philosophy tells us--and every one must have learned from personal experience--that "there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." Heroes in every rank of life are peculiarly liable to such slips, and _our_ hero was no exception to the rule.
Finding that the vessel in which he sailed was now little, if at all, better than a pirate, he had fondly hoped that he should make his escape on the first point of South America at which they touched. Land was at last in sight. Hope was high in the breast of Will Osten, and expressive glances passed between him and his friends in captivity, when, alas! the land turned out to be a small island, so low that they could see right across it, and so scantily covered with vegetation that human beings evidently deemed it unworthy of being possessed.
"There's niver a sowl upon it," remarked Larry O'Hale, in a tone of chagrin.
"Maybe not," said Griffin, who overheard the observation; "but there's plenty of _bodies_ on it if not souls, and, as we are short of provisions, I intend to lay-to, and give you a chance of seeing them. Get ready to go ashore; I'm not afraid of you _wandering too far_!"
Griffin wound up this speech with a low chuckle and a leer, which sent a chill to the heart not only of Will Osten but of Larry and Muggins also, for it convinced them that their new master had guessed their intention, and that he would, of course, take every precaution to prevent its being carried out. After the first depression of spirits, consequent on this discovery, the three friends became more than ever determined to outwit their enemy, and resolved to act, in the meantime, with perfect submission and prompt obedience--as they had hitherto done. Of course, each reserved in his own mind the right of rebellion if Griffin should require them to do any criminal act, and they hoped fervently that they should not fall in with any vessel that might prove a temptation to their new captain.
A few minutes after this, the order was given to lower one of the boats, and a crew jumped into her, among whom were Larry and Muggins. Will Osten asked permission to go, and Griffin granted his request with a grin that was the reverse of amiable.
"Musha! what sort o' bodies did the capting main?" said Larry, when they had pulled beyond earshot of the ship.
"Ha, paddy," replied one of the men, "they're pleasant fat bodies-- amusin' to catch and much thought of by aldermen;--turtles no less."
"Ah! then, it's jokin' ye are."
"Not I. I never joke."
"Turthles is it--green fat an' all?"
"Ay, an' shells too."
"Sure it's for the coppers they're wanted."
"Just so, Larry, an' if you'll ship your oar an jump out wi' the painter, we'll haul the boat up an' show you how to catch 'em."
As the sailor spoke, the boat's keel grated on the sand, and the Irishman sprang over the side, followed by his comrades, who regarded the expedition in the light of a "good spree."
The party had to wait some time, however, for the anticipated sport. It was near sunset when they landed, but turtles are not always ready to deliver themselves up, even though the honour of being eaten by London aldermen sometimes awaits them! It is usually night before the creatures come out of the sea to enjoy a snooze on the beach. The men did not remain idle, however. They dragged the boat a considerable distance from the water, and then turned it keel up, supporting one gunwale on several forked sticks, so that a convenient shelter was provided. This look-out house was still further improved by having a soft carpet of leaves and grass spread beneath it.
When these preparations had been made, those men, who had never seen turtle-turning performed, were instructed in their duties by an experienced hand. The process being simple, the explanation was short and easy.
"You see, lads," said the instructor, leaning against the boat and stuffing down the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the point of his (apparently) fireproof little finger--"You see, lads, this is 'ow it is. All that you've got for to do is to keep parfitly still till the turtles comes out o' the sea, d'ye see? --then, as the Dook o' Wellin'ton said at Waterloo--Up boys an' at 'em! W'en, ov coorse, each man fixes his eyes on the turtle nearest him, runs out, ketches him by the rim of his shell an' turns him slap over on his back--d'ye understand?"
"Clear as ditch wather," said Larry.
"Humph!" said Muggins.
"Well, then, boys," continued the old salt with the fireproof little finger, "ye'd better go an' count the sand or the stars (when they comes out), for there won't be nothin' to do for an hour to come."
Having delivered himself thus, he refilled his pipe and lay down to enjoy it under the boat, while the others followed his example, or sauntered along the shore, or wandered among the bushes, until the time for action should arrive.
Will Osten and his two friends availed themselves of the opportunity to retire and hold an earnest consultation as to their future prospects and plans. As this was the first time they had enjoyed a chance of conversing without the fear of being overheard, they made the most of it, and numerous were the projects which were proposed and rejected in eager earnest tones--at least on the part of Larry and Will. As for Muggins, although always earnest, he was never eager. Tremendous indeed must have been the influence which could rouse him into a state of visible excitement! During the discussion the other two grew so warm that they forgot all about time and turtles, and would certainly have prolonged their talk for another hour had not one of the men appeared, telling them to clap a stopper on their potato-traps and return to the boat, as the sport was going to begin.
The moon had risen and commenced her course through a sky which was so clear that the planets shone like resplendent jewels, and the distant stars like diamond dust. Not a breath of air ruffled the surface of the sea; nevertheless, its slumbering energies were indicated by the waves on the outlying coral reef, which, approaching one by one, slowly and solemnly, fell with what can only be called a quiet roar, hissed gently for a moment on the sand, and then passed with a sigh into absolute silence.
"Don't it seem as if the sea wor sleepin'," whispered one of the men, while they all lay watching under the boat.
"Ay, an' snorin' too," answered another.
"Whisht!" exclaimed a third, "if old Neptune hears ye, he'll wake up an' change his tune."
"Och, sure he's woke up already," whispered Larry, pointing with great excitement to a dark object which at that moment appeared to emerge from the sea.
"Mum's the word, boys," whispered the old salt who had charge of the party; "the critters are comin', an' England expec's every man for to do his dooty, as old Nelson said."
In the course of a few minutes several more dark objects emerged from the sea, and waddled with a kind of sigh or low grunt slowly up the beach, where they lay, evidently intending to have a nap! With breathless but eager interest, the sailors lay perfectly still, until fifteen of the dark objects were on the sands, and sufficient time was allowed them to fall into their first nap. Then the word "Turn" was given, and, leaping up, each man rushed swiftly but silently upon his prey! The turtles were pounced upon so suddenly that, almost before they were wide awake, they were caught; a bursting cheer followed, and instantly ten splendid animals were turned over on their backs, in which position, being unable to turn again, they lay flapping their flippers violently.
"That's the way to go it," shouted one of the men who, after turning his turtle, dashed after one of the other five which were now hastening back to the sea, with laborious but slow haste. His comrades followed suit instantly with a wild cheer. Now, to the uninitiated, this was the only moment of danger in that bloodless fight.
Being aware of his incapacity for swift flight, the turtle, when in the act of running away from danger, makes use of each flipper alternately in dashing the sand to an incredible height behind and around him, to the endangering of the pursuer's eyes, if he be not particularly careful. Sometimes incautious men have their eyes so filled with sand in this way that it almost blinds them for a time, and severe inflammation is occasionally the result.
The old salt--Peter Grant by name, but better known among his shipmates as Old Peter--was well aware of this habit of the turtle; but, having a spice of mischief in him, he said nothing about it. The consequences were severe on some of the men, particularly on Muggins. Our sedate friend was the only one who failed to turn a turtle at the first rush. He had tripped over a stone at starting, and when he gathered himself up and ran to the scene of action, the turtles were in full retreat. Burning with indignation at his bad fortune, he resolved to redeem his character; and, with this end in view, made a desperate rush at a particularly large turtle, which appeared almost too fat for its own shell. It chanced that Larry O'Hale, having already turned two, also set his affections on this turtle, and made a rush at it; seeing which Muggins slyly ran behind him, tripped up his heels, and passed on.
"Have a care," cried Will Osten, laughing, "he'll bite!"
"Bad luck to yez!" shouted Larry, leaping up, and following hard on Muggins' heels.
Just then the turtle began to use his flippers in desperation. Sand flew in all directions. The pursuers, nothing daunted, though surprised, partially closed their eyes, bent down their heads, and advanced. Larry opened his mouth to shout--a shower of sand filled it. He opened his eyes in astonishment--another shower shut them both up, causing him to howl while he coughed and spluttered. But Muggins pressed on valorously.
One often reads, in the history of war, of brave and reckless heroes who go through "storms of shot and shell" almost scathless, while others are falling like autumn leaves around them. Something similar happened on the present occasion. While Larry and several of the other men were left behind, pitifully and tenderly picking the sand out of their eyes, the bold Muggins--covered with sand from head to foot, but still not mortally wounded--advanced singlehanded against the foe--rushed at the turtle; tripped over it; rose again; quailed for a second before the tremendous fire; burst through it, and, finally, catching the big creature by the rim, turned him on his back, and uttered a roar rather than a cheer of triumph.
This was the last capture made that night. Immediately after their victory the men returned to the boat, where they kindled an immense bonfire and prepared to spend the night, leaving the turtles to kick helplessly on their backs till the morning light should enable them to load the boat and return with their prizes to the ship. Meanwhile pipes were loaded and lit, and Doctor Will, as Old Peter called him, looked after the wounded.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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4
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IN WHICH ANOTHER FIGHT IS RECORDED AND AN ESCAPE IS MADE, BUT WHETHER
FORTUNATE OR THE REVERSE REMAINS TO BE SEEN.
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The supply of fresh meat thus secured was very acceptable to the crew of the _Rover_, and their circumstances were further improved by the addition of a number of fresh cocoa-nuts which were collected on the island by Bunco, that individual being the only one on board who could perform, with ease, the difficult feat of climbing the cocoa-nut palms. After a couple of days spent at this island, the _Rover_ weighed anchor and stood away for the coast of South America, which she sighted about two weeks afterwards.
Here, one evening, they were becalmed not far from land, and Griffin ordered a boat to be lowered, with a crew to go ashore. The captain had been in low spirits that day, from what cause was not known, and no one ever found out the reason, but certain it is that he was unusually morose and gruff. He was also rather absent, and did not observe the fact that Larry O'Hale, Muggins, and Will Osten were among the crew of the boat. The mate observed it, however, and having a shrewd suspicion of their intentions, ordered them to leave it.
"What said you?" asked Griffin of the mate, as he was about to go over the side.
"I was about to change some of the crew," he replied confidentially. "It would be as well to keep O'Hale and--" "Oh, never mind," said Griffin roughly, "let 'em go."
The mate, of course, stepped back, and Griffin got into the boat, which was soon on its way to the land. On nearing the shore, it was found that a tremendous surf broke upon the beach--owing to its exposure to the long rolling swell of the Pacific. When the boat, which was a small one, entered this surf, it became apparent that the attempt to land was full of danger. Each wave that bore them on its crest for a second, and then left them behind, was so gigantic that nothing but careful steering could save them from turning broadside on, and being rolled over like a cask. Griffin was a skilful steersman, but he evidently was not at that time equal to the occasion. He steered wildly. When they were close to the beach the boat upset. Every man swam towards a place where a small point of land caused a sort of eddy and checked the force of the undertow. They all reached it in a few minutes, with the exception of Griffin, who had found bottom on a sand-bank, and stood, waist deep, laughing, apparently, at the struggles of his comrades.
"You'd better come ashore," shouted one of the men.
Griffin replied by another laugh, in the midst of which he sank suddenly and disappeared. It might have been a quicksand--it might have been a shark--no one ever could tell, but the unhappy man had gone to his account--he was never more seen!
The accident had been observed from the ship, and the mate at once lowered a boat and hastened to the rescue. Those on shore observed this, and awaited its approach. Before it was half way from the beach, however, Peter Grant said to his comrades-- "I'll tell 'e wot it is, boys; seems to me that Providence has given us a chance of gittin' away from that ship. I never was a pirate, an' I don't mean for to become one, so, all who are of my way of thinkin' come over here."
Will Osten and his friends were so glad to find that a shipmate had, unknown to them, harboured thoughts of escaping, that they at once leaped to his side, but none of the others followed. They were all determined, reckless men, and had no intention of giving up their wild course. Moreover, they were not prepared to allow their comrades to go off quietly. One of them, in particular, a very savage by nature, as well as a giant, stoutly declared that he not only meant to stick by the ship himself, but would compel the others to do so too, and for this purpose placed himself between them and the woods, which, at that part of the coast, approached close to the sea. Those who took his part joined him, and for a few moments the two parties stood gazing at each other in silence. There was good ground for hesitation on both sides, for, on the one hand, Will Osten and his three friends were resolute and powerful fellows, while, on the other, the giant and his comrades, besides being stout men, were eight in number. Now, it chanced that our hero had, in early boyhood, learned an art which, we humbly submit, has been unfairly brought into disrepute--we refer to the art of boxing. Good reader, allow us to state that we do not advocate pugilism. We never saw a prize-fight, and have an utter abhorrence of the "ring." We not only dislike the idea of seeing two men pommel each other's faces into a jelly, but we think the looking at such a sight tends to demoralise. There is a vast difference, however, between this and the use of "the gloves," by means of which a man may learn the useful art of "self-defence," and may, perhaps, in the course of his life, have the happiness of applying his knowledge to the defence of a mother, a sister, or a wife, as well as "self." If it be objectionable to use the gloves because they represent the fist, then is it equally objectionable to use the foil because it represents the sword? But, pray, forgive this digression. Ten to one, in _your_ case, reader, it is unnecessary, because sensible people are more numerous than foolish! Howbeit, whether right or wrong, Will Osten had, as we have said, acquired the by no means unimportant knowledge of _where_ to hit and _how_ to hit. He had also the good sense to discern _when_ to hit, and he invariably acted on the principal that--"whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well."
On the present occasion Will walked suddenly up to the giant, and, without uttering a word, planted upon his body two blows, which are, we believe, briefly termed by the "fancy" _one--two_! We do not pretend to much knowledge on this point, but we are quite certain that number _one_ lit upon the giant's chest and took away his breath, while number _two_ fell upon his forehead and removed his senses. Before he had time to recover either breath or senses, number _three_ ended the affair by flattening his nose and stretching his body on the sand.
At this sudden and quite unexpected proceeding Larry O'Hale burst into a mingled laugh and cheer, which he appropriately concluded by springing on and flooring the man who stood opposite to him. Muggins and the old salt were about to follow his example, but their opponents turned and fled, doubling on their tracks and making for the boat. Larry, Muggins, and Old Peter, being thoroughly roused, would have followed them regardless of consequences, and undoubtedly would have been overpowered by numbers (for the boat had just reached the shore), had not Will Osten bounded ahead of them, and, turning round, shouted energetically-- "Follow me, lads, if you would be free. Now or never!"
Luckily the tone in which Will said this impressed them so much that they stopped in their wild career; and when they looked back and saw their young friend running away towards the woods as fast as his legs could carry him, and heard the shout of the reinforced seamen as they started from the water's edge to give chase, they hesitated no longer. Turning round, they also fled. It is, however, due to Larry O'Hale to say that he shook his fist at the enemy, and uttered a complex howl of defiance before turning tail!
Well was it for all of them that day that the woods were near, and that they were dense and intricate. Old Peter, although a sturdy man, and active for his years, was not accustomed to running, and had no wind for a race with young men.
His comrades would never have deserted him, so that all would have certainly been captured but for a fortunate accident. They had not run more than half a mile, and their pursuers were gaining on them at every stride--as they could tell by the sound of their voices--when Will Osten, who led, fell headlong into a deep hole that had been concealed by rank undergrowth. Old Peter, who was close at his heels, fell after him, and Larry, who followed Peter to encourage and spur him on, also tumbled in. Muggins alone was able to stop short in time.
"Hallo, boys!" he cried in a hoarse whisper, "are yer timbers damaged?"
"Broke to smithereens," groaned Larry from the abyss.
Will Osten, who had scrambled out in a moment, cried hastily, "Jump in, Muggins. I'll lead 'em off the scent. Stop till I return, boys, d'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay," said Larry.
Away went Will at right angles to their former course, uttering a shout of defiance, only just in time, for the mate of the _Rover_, who led the chase, was close on him. Soon the sounds told those in hiding that the _ruse_ had been successful. The sounds died away in the distance and the deep silence of the forest succeeded--broken only now and then by the cry of some wild animal.
Meanwhile, our hero used his legs so well that he not only left his pursuers out of sight and hearing behind, but circled gradually around until he returned to the hole where his comrades lay. Here they all remained for nearly an hour, and then, deeming themselves safe, issued forth none the worse of their tumble. They commenced to return to the coast, having settled that this was their wisest course, and that they could easily avoid their late comrades by keeping well to the northward. This deviation, however, was unfortunate. Those who have tried it, know well how difficult it is to find one's way in a dense forest. The more they attempted to get out of the wood the deeper they got into it, and at length, when night began to close in, they were forced to come to the conclusion that they were utterly lost--lost in the forest--"a livin' example," as Larry O'Hale expressed it, "of the babes in the wood!"
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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5
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SHOWS WHAT THE LOST ONES DID, AND HOW THEY WERE FOUND.
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The condition of being "lost" is a sad one in any circumstances, but being lost in a forest--a virgin forest--a forest of unknown extent, in a vast continent such as that of South America, must be admitted to be a peculiarly severe misfortune. Nevertheless, we are bound to say that our hero and his friends did not appear to regard their lost condition in this light. Perhaps their indifference arose partly from their ignorance of what was entailed in being lost in the forest. The proverb says, that "where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise." Whether that be true or not, there can be no question that it is sometimes an advantage to be ignorant. Had our lost friends known the extent of the forest, in which they were lost, the number of its wild four-footed inhabitants, and the difficulties and dangers that lay before them, it is certain that they could not have walked along as light-heartedly as they did, and it is probable that they would have been less able to meet those difficulties and dangers when they appeared.
Be this as it may, Will Osten and Larry O'Hale, Muggins, and Old Peter, continued to wander through the forest, after discovering that they were lost, until the increasing darkness rendered further progress impossible; then they stopped and sat down on the stump of a fallen tree.
"It is clear," said our hero, "that we shall have to pass the night here, for there is no sign of human habitation, and the light is failing fast."
"That's so," said Muggins curtly.
"I'm a'feard on it," observed Old Peter with a sigh.
"Faix, I wouldn't mind spindin' the night," said Larry, "av it worn't that we've got no grub. It would be some comfort to know the name o' the country we're lost in."
"I can tell you that, Larry," said Will Osten; "we are in Peru; though what part of it I confess I do not know."
"Peroo, is it? Well, that's a comfort--anyhow."
"I don't 'xacly see where the comfort o' that lies," said Muggins.
"That's cause yer intellects is obtoose, boy!" retorted Larry; "don't ye know that it's a blissin' to know where ye are, wotiver else ye don't know? Supposin', now, a stranger shud ax me, `Where are ye, Paddy?' --ov course I cud say at wance, `In Peroo, yer honour;' an' if he shud go for to penetrate deeper into my knowledge o' geography, sure I cud tell him that Peroo is in South Ameriky, wan o' the five quarters o' the globe, d'ye see?"
"But suppose, for the sake of argyment as Shikspur says, that the stranger wos to ax ye wot ye know'd about Peroo, what 'ud ye say to that, lad?" asked Old Peter.
"Wot would I say! Why, I'd ax him with a look of offended dignity if he took me for a schoolmaster, an' then may be I'd ax him wot he know'd about it himself--an' krekt him av he wos wrong."
"I can tell you this much about it, at all events," said Will, with a laugh, "that it is a Republic, and a celebrated country for gold mines."
"And I can add to yer information," said Old Peter, "that there's an oncommon lot o' tigers an' other wild beasts in it, and that if we would avoid bein' eat up alive we must kindle a fire an' go to sleep in a tree. By good luck I've got my flint and steel with me."
"By equal good luck I have two biscuits in my pocket," said Will; "come, before we do anything else, let us inquire into our resources."
Each man at once turned his pockets inside out with the following result:-- Our hero, besides two large coarse sea-biscuits, produced one of those useful knives which contain innumerable blades, with pickers, tweezers, corkscrews, and other indescribable implements; also a note-book, a pencil, a small pocket-case of surgical instruments (without which he never moved during his wanderings), and a Testament--the one that had been given to him on his last birthday by his mother. Old Peter contributed to the general fund his flint, steel, and tinder--most essential and fortunate contributions--and a huge clasp-knife. Indeed we may omit the mention of knives in this record, for each man possessed one as a matter of course. It was by no means a matter of course, however, but a subject of intense gratification to at least three of the party, that Muggins had two pipes and an unusually large supply of tobacco. Larry also had a short black pipe and a picker, besides a crooked sixpence, which he always kept about him "for luck," a long piece of stout twine, and a lump of cheese. The sum total was not great, but was extremely useful in the circumstances.
All this wealth having been collected together, it was agreed that the biscuits, cheese, tobacco, and pipes should be common property. They were accordingly divided with the utmost care by Will, who, by the way, did not require a pipe as he was not a smoker. We do not record this as an evidence of his superior purity! By no means. Will Osten, we regret to say, was not a man of strong principle. All the principle he had, and the good feelings which actuated him, were the result of his mother's teaching--not of his own seeking. He did not smoke because his mother had discouraged smoking, therefore--not having acquired the habit--he disliked it. Thousands of men might (and would) have been free from this habit to-day had they been affectionately dissuaded from it in early youth. So, too, in reference to his Testament--Will always carried it about with him, not because he valued it much for its own sake, or read it often, but because it was the last gift he received from his mother. It reminded him of her; besides, it was small and did not take up much room in his pocket. Blessed influence of mothers! If they only knew the greatness of their power, and were more impressed with the importance of using it for the glory of God, this would be a happier world!
The costume of these wanderers, like their small possessions, was varied. All wore white duck trousers and blue Guernsey or cotton shirts with sou'-westers or straw hats, but the coats and cravats differed. Larry wore a rough pilot-cloth coat, and, being eccentric on the point, a scarlet cotton neckerchief. Old Peter wore a blue jacket with a black tie, loosely fastened, sailor fashion, round his exposed throat. Muggins wore the dirty canvas jacket in which he had been engaged in scraping down the masts of the _Rover_ when he left her. Will Osten happened to have on a dark blue cloth shooting-coat and a white straw hat, which was fortunate, for, being in reality the leader of the party, it was well that his costume should accord with that responsible and dignified position. They had no weapons of any kind, so their first care was to supply themselves with stout cudgels, which each cut in proportion to his notions of the uses and capacities of such implements--that of Larry O'Hale being, of course, a genuine shillelah, while the weapon cut by Muggins was a close imitation of the club of Hercules, or of that used by the giant who was acquainted with the celebrated giant-killer named Jack!
"Now, boys, if we're goin' to ait and slaip, the sooner we set about it the better," observed Larry, rising and commencing to collect sticks for a fire. The others immediately followed his example, and in a few minutes a bright blaze illuminated the dark recesses of the tangled forest, while myriads of sparks rose into and hung upon the leafy canopy overhead. There was something cheering as well as romantic in this. It caused the wanderers to continue their work with redoubled vigour. Soon a fire that would have roasted an ox whole roared and sent its forked tongues upwards. In the warm blaze of it they sat down to their uncommonly meagre supper of half a biscuit and a small bit of cheese each--which was washed down by a draught from a neighbouring stream.
They had finished this, and were in the act of lighting their pipes, when a roar echoed through the woods which caused them to pause in their operations and glance uneasily at each other.
"Sure, it's a tiger!" exclaimed Larry.
"There's no tigers in them parts," said Muggins.
"I don't know that, lad," observed Old Peter.
"I've hear'd that there are jaguars an' critters o' that sort, which is as big and as bad as tigers, an' goes by the name, but p'raps--" Old Peter's observations were here cut short by the loud report of a gun close at hand. As if by instinct every man leaped away from the light of the fire and sheltered himself behind a tree. For some time they stood listening eagerly to every sound, but no foe appeared, nor was there a repetition of the shot. The longer they listened the more inclined were they to believe that their senses had deceived them, and Larry O'Hale's heart was beginning to make a troublesome attack on his ribs, as he thought of ghosts--especially foreign ghosts--when all eyes were attracted to a human form which appeared to flit to and fro among the tree stems in the distance, as if to avoid the strong light of the fire.
Knowing that one man with a gun could make certain of shooting the whole party if he chose, and that he would not be more likely to attempt violence if trust in his generosity were displayed, Will Osten, with characteristic impetuosity, suddenly walked into the full blaze of the firelight and made signals to the stranger to approach. Larry and the others, although they disapproved of the rashness of their young leader, were not the men to let him face danger alone. They at once joined him, and awaited the approach of the apparition.
It advanced slowly, taking advantage of every bush and tree, and keeping its piece always pointed towards the fire. They observed that it was black and partially naked.
Suddenly Muggins exclaimed--"I do b'lieve it's--" He paused.
"Sure, it's the nigger--och! av it isn't Bunco!" cried Larry.
Bunco it was, sure enough, and the moment he perceived that he was recognised, he discarded all precaution, walked boldly into the encampment, and shook them all heartily by the hand.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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6
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BUNCO BECOMES A FRIEND IN NEED AND INDEED, AND LARRY "COMES TO GRIEF" IN
A SMALL WAY.
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"Sure yer face is a sight for sore eyes, though it _is_ black and ugly," exclaimed Larry, as he wrung the hand of the good-humoured native, who grinned from ear to ear with delight at having found his friends.
"Wot ever brought ye here?" inquired Muggins.
"Mine legses," replied Bunco, with a twinkle in his coal-black eyes.
"Yer legses, eh?" repeated Muggins in a tone of sarcasm--"so I supposes, for it's on them that a man usually goeses; but what caused you for to desart the ship?" " 'Cause I no want for be pyrit more nor yourself, Mister Muggles--" "Muggins, you lump of ebony--don't miscall me."
"Well, dat be all same--only a litil bit more ogly," retorted Bunco, with a grin, "an' me no want to lose sight ob Doctor Os'n here: me come for to show him how to go troo de forest."
"That's right, my good fellow," cried Will, with a laugh, slapping the native on the shoulder; "you have just come in the nick of time to take care of us all, for, besides having utterly lost ourselves, we are quite ignorant of forest ways in this region--no better than children, in fact."
"True for ye, boy, riglar babes in the wood, as I said before," added Larry O'Hale.
"Well, that being the case," continued Will, "you had better take command at once, Bunco, and show us how to encamp, for we have finished our pipes and a very light supper, and would fain go to sleep. It's a pity you did not arrive sooner, my poor fellow, for we have not a scrap of food left for you, and your gun will be of no use till daylight."
To this Bunco replied by displaying his teeth and giving vent to a low chuckle, while he lifted the flap of his pea-jacket and exhibited three fat birds hanging at the belt with which he supported his nether garments.
"Hooray!" shouted Larry, seizing one of the birds and beginning to pluck it; "good luck to your black mug, we'll ait it right off."
"That's your sort," cried Muggins, whose mouth watered at the thought of such a delightful addition to his poor supper. "Hand me one of 'em, Larry, and I'll pluck it."
Larry obeyed; Old Peter seized and operated on the last bird, and Bunco raked the embers of the fire together, while Will Osten looked on and laughed. In a very few minutes the three birds were plucked and cleaned, and Larry, in virtue of his office, was going to cook them, when Will suggested that he had better resign in favour of Bunco, who was doubtless better acquainted than himself with the best modes of forest cookery. To this Larry objected a little at first, but he was finally prevailed on to give in, and Bunco went to work in his own fashion. It was simple enough. First he cut three short sticks and pointed them at each end, then he split each bird open, and laying it flat, thrust a stick through it, and stuck it up before the glowing fire to roast. When one side was pretty well done he turned the other, and, while that was cooking, cut off a few scraps from the half-roasted side and tried them.
We need scarcely add that none of the party were particular. The birds were disposed of in an incredibly short time, and then the pipes were refilled for a second smoke.
"How comes it," inquired Will, when this process was going on, "that you managed to escape and to bring a gun away with you? We would not have left the ship without you, but our own escape was a sudden affair; we scarcely expected to accomplish it at the time we did. I suppose you had a sharp run for it?"
"Run! ductor, no, me no run--me walk away quite comfrabil an' tooked what me please; see here."
As he spoke, Bunco opened a small canvas bag which no one had taken notice of up to that moment, and took from it a large quantity of broken biscuit, a lump of salt beef, several cocoa-nuts, a horn of gunpowder, and a bag of shot and ball--all of which he spread out in front of the fire with much ostentation. The satisfaction caused by this was very great, and even Muggins, in the fulness of his heart, declared that after all there were worse things than being lost in a forest.
"Well, and how did you manage to get away?" said Will, returning to the original question.
"Git away? why, dis here wos de way. When me did see the rincumcoshindy goin' on ashore, me say, `Now, Bunco, you time come; look alive;' so, w'en de raskil called de fuss mate orders out de boat in great hurry, me slip into it like one fish. Then dey all land an' go off like mad into de woods arter you--as you do knows. Ob coorse me stop to look arter de boat; you knows it would be very bad to go an' leave de boat all by its lone, so w'en deys gone into de woods, me take the mate's gun and poodair an' shot an' ebbery ting could carry off--all de grub, too, but der worn't too moche of dat--and walk away in anoder d'rection. Me is used to de woods, you sees, so kep' clear o' de stoopid seamans, who soon tires der legses, as me knows bery well; den come round in dis d'rection; find you tracks; foller im up; shoots tree birds; sees a tiger; puts a ball in him skin, an' sends him to bed wid a sore head-- too dark for kill him--arter which me find you out, an' here me is. Dere. Dat's all about it."
"A most satisfactory account of yourself," said Will Osten.
"An' purtily towld," observed Larry; "where did ye larn English, boy, for ye have the brogue parfict, as me gran'mother used to say to the pig when she got in her dotage (me gran'mother, not the pig), `only,' says she, `the words isn't quite distinc'.' Couldn't ye give us a skitch o' yer life, Bunco?"
Thus appealed to, the gratified native began without hesitation, and gave the following account of himself:-- "Me dun know when me was born--" "Faix, it wasn't yesterday," said Larry, interrupting.
"No, nor de day before to-morrow nother," retorted Bunco; "but it was in Callyforny, anyhow. Me fadder him wos a Injin--" "Oh! come!" interrupted Muggins in a remonstrative tone.
"Yis, him _wos_ a Injin," repeated Bunco stoutly.
"Wos he a _steam-ingine_?" inquired Muggins with a slight touch of sarcasm.
"He means an Indian, Muggins," explained Will.
"Then why don't he say wot he means? However, go ahead, Ebony."
"Hims wos a Injin," resumed Bunco, "ant me moder him wos a Spanish half-breed from dis yer country--Peru. Me live for years in de forests an' plains an' mountains ob Callyforny huntin' an fightin'. Oh, dem were de happy days! After dat me find a wife what I lub berry moche, den me leave her for short time an' go wid tradin' party to de coast. Here meet wid a cap'n of ship, wot wos a big raskil. Him 'tice me aboord an' sail away. Short ob hands him wos, so him took me, an' me never see me wife no more!"
There was something quite touching in the tone in which the poor fellow said this, insomuch that Larry became sympathetic and abused the captain who had kidnapped him in no measured terms. Had Larry known that acts similar to this wicked and heartless one were perpetrated by traders in the South Seas very frequently, he would have made his terms of abuse more general!
"How long ago was that?" inquired Old Peter.
"Tree year," sighed Bunco. "Since dat day I hab bin in two tree ships, but nebber run away, cause why? wot's de use ob run away on _island_? Only now me got on Sout 'Meriky, which me know is not far from Nord 'Meriky, an' me bin here before wid me moder, so kin show you how to go--and speak Spanish too--me moder speak dat, you sees; but mesilf larn English aboord two tree ships, an', so, speak him fust rate now."
"So ye do, boy," said Larry, whose sympathetic heart was drawn towards the unfortunate and ill-used native; "an', faix, we'll go on travellin' through this forest till we comes to Callyforny an' finds your missus-- so cheer up, Bunco, and let us see how we're to go to roost, for it seems that we must slaip on a tree this night."
During the course of the conversation which we have just detailed, the wild denizens of the forest had been increasing their dismal cries, and the seamen, unused to such sounds, had been kept in a state of nervous anxiety which each did his utmost to conceal. They were all brave men; but it requires a very peculiar kind of bravery to enable a man to sit and listen with cool indifference to sounds which he does not understand, issuing from gloomy recesses at his back, where there are acknowledged, though unknown, dangers close at hand. Bunco, therefore, grinning good-humouredly as usual, rose and selected a gigantic tree as their dormitory.
The trunk of this tree spread out, a few feet above its base, into several branches, any one of which would have been deemed a large tree in England, and these branches were again subdivided into smaller stems with a network of foliage, which rendered it quite possible for a man to move about upon them with facility, and to find a convenient couch. Here,--the fire at the foot of the tree having been replenished,--each man sought and found repose.
It was observed that Larry O'Hale made a large soft couch below the tree on the ground.
"You're not going to sleep there, Larry?" said Will Osten, on observing what he was about. "Why, the tigers will be picking your bones before morning if you do."
"Och! I'm not afraid of 'em," replied Larry; "howsever, I _do_ main to slaip up the tree _if I can_."
That night, some time after all the party had been buried in profound repose, they were awakened by a crash and a tremendous howl just below them. Each started up, and, pushing aside the leaves, gazed anxiously down. A dark object was seen moving below, and Bunco was just going to point his gun at it, when a gruff voice was heard to say-- "Arrah! didn't I know it? It's famous I've bin, since I was a mere boy, for rowlin' about in me slaip, an', sure, the branch of a tree is only fit for a bird after all. But, good luck to yer wisdom an' foresight, Larry O'Hale, for ye've come down soft, anyhow, an' if there's anything'll cure ye o' this bad habit--slaipin' on trees'll do it in the coorse o' time, I make no doubt wotiver!"
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{
"id": "23274"
}
|
7
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WHEREIN ARE RECOUNTED DANGERS, DIFFICULTIES, AND PERPLEXITIES FACED AND
OVERCOME.
|
Next morning the travellers rose with the sun, and descended from the tree in which they had spent the night--much refreshed and "ready for anything."
It was well that they were thus prepared for whatever might befall them, for there were several incidents in store for them that day which tried them somewhat, and would have perplexed them sadly had they been without a guide. Perhaps we are scarcely entitled to bestow that title on Bunco, for he was as thoroughly lost in the forest as were any of his companions, in the sense, at least, of being ignorant as to where he was, or how far from the nearest human habitation: but he was acquainted with forest-life, knew the signs and symptoms of the wilderness, and could track his way through pathless wastes in a manner that was utterly incomprehensible to his companions, and could not be explained by himself. Moreover, he was a shrewd fellow, as well as bold, and possessed a strong sense of humour, which he did not fail at times to gratify at the expense of his friends.
This tendency was exhibited by him in the first morning's march, during which he proved his superiority in woodcraft, and firmly established himself in the confidence of the party. The incident occurred thus:-- After a hearty and hasty breakfast--for, being lost, they were all anxious to get found as soon as possible--they set forth in single file; Bunco leading, Old Peter, Muggins, and Larry following, and Will Osten bringing up the rear. During the first hour they walked easily and pleasantly enough through level and rather open woodland, where they met few obstacles worth mentioning, so that Larry and Muggins, whose minds were filled with the idea of wild beasts, and who were much excited by the romance of their novel position, kept a sharp lookout on the bushes right and left, the one shouldering his gigantic cudgel, the other flourishing his shillelah in a humorous free-and-easy way, and both feeling convinced that with such weapons they were more than a match for any tiger alive! When several hours had elapsed, however, without producing any sign or sound of game, they began to feel disappointment, and to regard their guide as an exaggerator if not worse; and when, in course of time, the underwood became more dense and their passage through the forest more difficult, they began to make slighting remarks about their dark-skinned friend, and to question his fitness for the duties of guide. In particular, Muggins--who was becoming fatigued, owing partly to the weight of his club as well as to the weight of his body and the shortness of his legs--at last broke out on him and declared that he would follow no further.
"Why," said he gruffly, "it's as plain as the nose on yer nutmeg face, that ye're steerin' a wrong coorse. You'll never make the coast on this tack."
"Oh yis, wees will," replied Bunco, with a quiet smile.
"No, wees won't, ye lump o' mahogany," retorted Muggins. "Don't the coast run nor' and by west here away?"
"Troo," assented Bunco with a nod.
"Well, and ain't we goin' due north just now, so that the coast lies away on our left, an' for the last three hours you've bin bearin' away to the _right_, something like nor' and by east, if it's not nor' _east_ an' by east, the coast being all the while on yer port beam, you grampus--that's so, ain't it?"
"Yis, dat's so," replied Bunco with a grin.
"Then, shiver my timbers, why don't ye shove yer helm hard a starboard an' lay yer right coorse? Come, lads, _I'll_ go to the wheel now for a spell."
Will Osten was about to object to this, but Bunco gave him a peculiar glance which induced him to agree to the proposal; so Muggins went ahead and the rest followed.
At the place where this dispute occurred there chanced to be a stretch of comparatively open ground leading away to the left. Into this glade the hardy seamen turned with an air of triumph.
His triumph, however, was short-lived, for at a turn in the glade he came to a place where the underwood was so dense and so interlaced with vines and creeping plants that further advance was absolutely impossible. After "yawing about" for some minutes "in search of a channel," as Larry expressed it, Muggins suddenly gave in and exclaimed,--"I'm a Dutchman, boys, if we ha'n't got embayed!"
"It's let go the anchor an' take soundin's 'll be the nixt order, I s'pose, Captain Muggins?" said Larry, touching his cap.
"Or let the tother pilot take the helm," said Old Peter, "`he's all my fancy painted him,' as Milton says in Paraphrases Lost."
"Right, Peter," cried Will Osten, "we must dethrone Muggins and reinstate Bunco."
"Ha! you's willin' for to do second fiddil _now_?" said the native, turning with a grin to Muggins, as he was about to resume his place at the head of the party.
"No, never, ye leather-jawed kangaroo, but I've no objections to _do_ the drum on yer skull, with _this_ for a drumstick!" He flourished his club as he spoke, and Bunco, bounding away with a laugh, led the party back on their track for a few paces, then, turning sharp to the right, he conducted them into a narrow opening in the thicket, and proceeded in a zig-zag manner that utterly confused poor Muggins, inducing him from that hour to resign himself with blind faith to the guidance of his conqueror. Well would it be for humanity in general, and for rulers in particular, if there were more of Muggins's spirit abroad inducing men to give in and resign cheerfully when beaten fairly!
If the sailors were disappointed at not meeting with any wild creatures during the first part of their walk, they were more than compensated by the experiences of the afternoon. While they were walking quietly along, several snakes--some of considerable length--wriggled out of their path, and Larry trod on one which twirled round his foot, causing him to leap off the ground like a grasshopper and utter a yell, compared to which all his previous shoutings were like soft music. Bunco calmed his fears, however, and comforted the party by saying that these snakes were harmless. Nevertheless, they felt a strong sensation of aversion to the reptiles, which it was not easy to overcome, and Muggins began to think seriously that being lost in the forest was, after all, a pleasure mingled considerably with alloy! Not long after the incident of the snake, strange sounds were heard from time to time in the bushes, and all the party, except Bunco, began to glance uneasily from side to side, and grasped their weapons firmly. Suddenly a frightful-looking face was observed by Larry peeping through the bushes right over Muggins's unconscious head. The horrified Irishman, who thought it was no other than a visitant from the world of fiends, was going to utter a shout of warning, when a long hairy arm was stretched out from the bushes and Muggins's hat was snatched from his head.
"Och! ye spalpeen," cried Larry, hurling his cudgel at the ugly creature.
The weapon was truly aimed; it hit the monkey on the back, causing it to drop the hat and vanish from the spot--shrieking.
"Well done, Larry!" cried Will Osten; "why didn't you warn us to expect visits from such brutes, Bunco?"
"Why, cause me tink you know all 'bout 'im. Hab larn 'im from Jo Gruffy."
"From who?"
"From Jo Gruffy. Him as you was say, last night, do tell all 'bout de countries ob de world, and wot sort of treeses an' hanimals in 'im. Der be plenty ob dem hanimals--(how you call 'im, mongkees?) in Peroo, big an leetil."
"Well!" exclaimed our hero with a laugh, "possibly geography may refer to the fact; if so, I had forgotten it, but I'm sorry to hear that they are numerous, for they are much too bold to be pleasant companions."
"Dey do us no harm," said Bunco, grinning, "only chok full ob fun!"
"Git along wid ye," cried Larry. "It's my belaif they're yer own relations, or ye wouldn't stick up for them."
Thus admonished, the native resumed the march, and led them through the jungle into deeper and darker shades. Here the forest was quite free from underwood, and the leafy canopy overhead was so dense that the sky could seldom be seen. Everything appeared to be steeped in a soft mellow shade of yellowish green, which was delightfully cool and refreshing in a land lying so very near to the equator. The howling and hoarse barking of wild beasts was now heard to an extent that fully satisfied Larry O'Hale and his friend Muggins. There were patches of dense jungle here and there, in which it was supposed the animals lay concealed, and each of these were carefully examined by our travellers. That there was need for caution became apparent from the fact that Bunco carried his gun at full cock in the hollow of his left arm, and had a stern, earnest expression of visage which was quite new to his nautical companions, and made a deep impression on them. Curious and interesting change of sentiment:--the man whom, while at sea, they had treated with good-humoured contempt, was ere long clung to and regarded almost with reverence!
"Be quiet, boys, here," he said, "an' no make noise. Keep de eyes open."
After this he did not speak, but gave his directions by signs.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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8
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IN WHICH BUNCO DISPLAYS UNCOMMON VALOUR, AND TIGERS COME TO GRIEF.
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Advancing cautiously, the travellers arrived at the brink of a dark ravine, in the bottom of which there was a good deal of brushwood, with here and there several pools of water. They had remained a short time here on the top of the bank, listening to the various barks and cries of the wild animals around them, when their attention was arrested by several loud yelps, which sounded as if some creature were approaching them fast. Bunco signed to them to stoop and follow him. They did so, and had not advanced a hundred yards when the loud clatter of hoofs was heard. Bunco crouched instantly and held his gun in readiness, while his black eyes glittered and his expressive features seemed to blaze with eagerness. His followers also crouched among the bushes, and each grasped his club with a feeling that it was but a poor weapon of defence after all--though better than nothing!
They had not to wait long, for, in a few minutes, a beautiful black wild horse came racing like the wind along the clear part of the ravine in the direction of the place where they were concealed. The magnificent creature was going at his utmost speed, being pursued by a large tiger, and the steam burst from his distended nostrils, while his voluminous mane and tail waved wildly in the air. The tiger gained on him rapidly. Its bounds were tremendous; at each leap it rose several feet from the ground. The poor horse was all but exhausted, for he slipped and came down on his knees, when abreast of, and not thirty yards distant from, the place where the travellers lay. The tiger did not miss his opportunity. He crouched and ran along with the twisting motion of a huge cat; then he sprang a clear distance of twenty feet and alighted on the horse's back, seizing him by the neck with a fearful growl. Now came Bunco's opportunity. While the noble horse reared and plunged violently in a vain attempt to get rid of his enemy, the cautious native took a steady aim, and was so long about it that some of the party nearly lost patience with him. At last he fired, and the tiger fell off the horse, rolling and kicking about in all directions--evidently badly wounded. The horse meanwhile galloped away and was soon lost to view.
Instead of loading and firing again, Bunco threw down his gun, and, drawing a long knife, rushed in upon his victim. His comrades, who thought him mad, sprang after him, but he had closed with the tiger and plunged his knife into it before they came up. The creature uttered a tremendous roar and writhed rapidly about, throwing up clouds of dust from the dry ground, while Bunco made another dash at him and a plunge with his long knife, but he missed the blow and fell. His comrades closed in and brandished their clubs, but the rapid motions of man and beast rendered it impossible for them to strike an effective blow without running the risk of hitting the man instead of the tiger. In the midst of a whirlwind of dust and leaves, and a tempest of roars and yells, the bold native managed to drive his knife three times into the animal's side, when it rolled over with a savage growl and expired.
"Are ye hurt, Bunco?" inquired Will Osten with much anxiety, when the man rose, covered with dust and blood, and stood before them.
"No moche hurt, only scrash a bit."
"Scratched a bit!" exclaimed Larry, "it's torn to tatters ye ought to be for bein' so venturesome."
"That's so," said Muggins; "ye shouldn't ha' done it, Bunco; what would have comed of us if ye'd bin killed, eh?"
"Oh, dat am noting," said Bunco, drawing himself up proudly; "me hab kill lots of dem before; but dis one hims die hard."
Will Osten, who was anxious to ascertain whether the man had really escaped serious injury, put a stop to the conversation by hurrying him off to the nearest pool and washing his wounds. They proved, as he had said, to be trifling--only a slight bite on the shoulder and a few tears, by the animal's claws, on the arms and thighs. When these were dressed, Bunco went to work actively to skin the tiger,--an operation which he performed with great expedition, and then, having rolled it into a convenient bundle and slung it on his back, he re-loaded his gun and again resumed his duties as guide. They had not gone far when a fierce growling behind them told that other wild animals, probably tigers, had scented out the carcass of the slain animal, and were already quarrelling over their meal.
Shortly after this they came suddenly and quite unexpectedly on a house or hut, which turned out to be the residence of a man who was half Spaniard half Indian. The man received them kindly, and, finding that Bunco could speak Spanish, offered them hospitality with great politeness and evident satisfaction.
"Good luck to 'e, boy," said Larry, when their host invited them to partake of a substantial meal, to which he had been about to sit down when they arrived, "it's myself'll be proud to welcome ye to ould Ireland if iver ye come that way."
"Ask him, Bunco," said Will Osten, "where we are, how far we are from the coast, and what is the name and distance of the nearest town."
To these questions the Spaniard replied that they were in the northern part of the Republic of Ecuador, and not, as they had supposed, in Peru, which lay some hundreds of miles to the southward; that a couple of days' walking would bring them to the coast, and that in two days more they could reach the town of Tacames. This, being one of the few ports on the western coast of South America where vessels touched, was a place from which they might probably be able to make their way to California. He added that there was a rumour of gold having been discovered of late in that region, but, for his part, he didn't believe it, for he had heard the same rumour several times before, and nothing had ever come of it, at least as far as he knew.
"Ye're wrong there, intirely, mister what's-yer-name," said Larry O'Hale, pausing for a moment in the midst of his devotion to the good things spread before him. "Sure it's my own brother Ted as wos out there a year gone by, an' he swore he picked up goold like stones an' putt them in his pocket, but the capting o' the ship he sailed in towld him it wos brass, an' his mates laughed at him to that extint that he flung it all overboord in a passion. Faix, I've made up my mind that there _is_ goold in Callyforny and that wan Larry O'Hale is distined for to make his fortin' there--so I'll throuble ye for another hunk o' that pottimus, or wotiver ye call it. Prime prog it is, anyhow."
An earnest discussion here followed as to the probability of gold having been found in California, and whether it was worth their while to try their fortune in that direction. During the course of the meal, the Spaniard incidentally mentioned that on the previous night a tiger had broken into his enclosure, and injured a bullock so badly that he had been obliged to kill it, and he had little doubt the same beast would pay him another visit that night.
This was good news to the travellers, all of whom were keen--though not all expert--sportsmen.
As evening had already set in, they begged to be allowed to rest for a little so as to be ready for the tiger when he came. Their host at once conducted them into a small room, where several hammocks were suspended from the walls. Into these they quickly jumped, and, in a few minutes, the concert played by their noses told a tale of sweet repose after a day of unusual toil.
For several hours they slept, and then the Spaniard awoke them with the information that the tiger was coming! Up they sprang, as a matter of course, and with considerable noise too, but Bunco soon impressed them with the necessity of being quiet. The Spaniard had only two guns, one of which he handed to Will Osten. The seamen were of necessity left to be spectators.
It is necessary here to describe the Spaniard's hut, which was peculiar as to its architecture. It was a mere shed made of bamboo canes closely placed together, and roofed with large cocoa and other leaves. The floor was of rough boards covered with matting. The whole structure stood on the top of a number of strong posts about twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, and the entrance was gained by a ladder which could be drawn up at night. The object of this great elevation and the ladder, was protection from the nocturnal visit of wild beasts such as tigers or jaguars, as well as monkeys of a large size. In the door of this hut there was a hole of about two feet square, at which the host stationed himself with the muzzle of his gun thrust through it. Two smaller holes in the walls, which served for windows, were used on the present occasion as loopholes by Will Osten and Bunco.
Perfect silence was maintained for about half an hour. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. Not a breath of wind stirred a leaf of the forest that encircled the small clearing. The buzz of mosquitoes, or the flapping about of a huge bat alone disturbed the silence of the night, and the watchers were beginning to fear it would turn out to be a false alarm, when the cattle in the yard began to low in a quick yet mournful tone. They knew full well that their enemy was at hand! A few minutes, that appeared an age, of anxiety followed. Then some bullocks that had been purposely fastened near the hut began to bellow furiously. Another instant, and the tiger cleared the fence with a magnificent bound, alighted in the yard, and crouched for a spring. The moon shone full in his glaring eyeballs, making his head a splendid target. Three shots crashed out in one report, and with a roar that would have done credit to the monarch of the African wilderness, this king of the western forest fell down and died.
He was a full-grown tiger with a beautifully marked skin, which Bunco was not long in stripping from the carcass, while the Spaniard, who was highly delighted by this success, set about preparing breakfast. They were all too much excited to think of going to bed again; and, besides, it was within an hour of daybreak.
During the morning Will Osten persuaded his host to give him one of his old guns in exchange for a beautiful silver-mounted hunting knife, which was the only article of value that he happened to possess. With this useful addition to their arms, the travellers resumed their journey shortly after dawn, being convoyed several miles on their way by their amiable host. They parted from him, finally, with much regret and many professions of gratitude and esteem, especially from Larry, who, in the fulness of his impulsive nature, reiterated his pressing invitation to pay him a visit in his "swait little cabin in the bog of Clonave, County Westmeath, ould Ireland!"
We will not drag the reader through every step of the rough and adventurous journey which was accomplished by our travellers in the succeeding week, during which they became so familiar with tigers, that Muggins thought no more of their roaring than he did of the mewing of cats, while Larry actually got the length of kicking the "sarpints" out of his way, although he did express his conviction, now and then, that the "counthry wos mightily in want of a visit from Saint Patrick." They travelled steadily and surely under the guidance of the faithful Bunco, through tangled brake, and wild morass, and dense forest, and many a mile of sandy plain, until at length they reached the small town and port of _Tacames_, into which they entered one sultry afternoon, footsore and weary, with their clothes torn almost to tatters, and without a single coin--of any realm whatever--in their pockets.
"Well, here we are at last," said Will Osten, with a sigh.
"True for ye," responded Larry.
"That's so," said Muggins.
"It's all well as ends well, which wos Billy Cowper's opinion," observed Old Peter.
Bunco made no remark, but he gave a quiet grunt, which might have meant anything--or nothing--as they entered the town.
|
{
"id": "23274"
}
|
9
|
DESCRIBES A SURGICAL OPERATION, AND RECORDS THE DELIBERATIONS OF A
COUNCIL.
|
The town of Tacames, in the republic of Ecuador, is not large, neither is it important to the world, but it appeared both large and important in the eyes of our hero and his comrades. In their circumstances any town would have been regarded as a city of refuge, and their joy on arriving was not much, if at all, marred by the smallness and the poor appearance of the town, which, at that time, consisted of about twenty houses. They were built on the top of posts about twelve or fourteen feet from the ground--like the hut of the Spaniard already described-- because, being closely walled in by a dense jungle, tigers and huge monkeys were bold enough to pay the inhabitants nocturnal and unwelcome visits very frequently.
"A curious-looking place," observed Will Osten, as they drew near.
"So would the natives obsarve of London or Liverpool," said Old Peter.
"With less cause, however," replied Will.
"That depends on taste," retorted Old Peter.
"Be no manes," put in Larry; "it neither depinds on taste, nor smell, but feelin'--see now, here's how it is. We being in Tickamis, _feels_ it coorious; well av the natives here wos in London _they_ would feel it coorious. It's all a matter o' feelin' d'ye see--wan o' the five senses."
"Wot a muddlehead you are, Larry," growled Muggins; "ye don't even know that there's six senses."
"Only five," said the Irishman firmly--"seein', hearin', tastin', smellin', and feelin'; wot's the sixth sense?"
"One that you are chock full of--it's non-sense," replied Muggins.
"Think o' that, now!" exclaimed Larry, with a broad grin; "sure I wint an' forgot it, an' the sevinth wan, too, called common sense, of which, Muggins, you haven't got no more in yer skull than a blue-faced baboon. Hallo! wot's that? Is it a wild baist on its hind-legs or only a mad man?"
He pointed as he spoke to a man who approached them from the town, and whose appearance as well as his actions were well calculated to surprise them. He was a fine-looking man of gigantic size, with a poncho over his shoulders and a Spanish-looking sombrero on his head, but the most curious thing about him was his gait. At one moment he sauntered, holding his face between both hands, next moment he bent double and appeared to stamp with his feet. Then he hurried forward a few paces but paused abruptly, bent down and stamped again. Presently he caught sight of the travellers. At once his antics ceased. He raised himself erect, and advancing quickly, lifted his sombrero and saluted them with the air of a prince.
Will Osten addressed him in English, and, to his surprise as well as gratification, the Spaniard replied in the same tongue, which he spoke, however, in a most remarkable way, having learned it chiefly from the skippers of those vessels that touched at the port.
"I sall be happy to offer you hospitabilities, gentelmans," said Don Diego--(for so he styled himself). "If you vill come to meen house you vill grub there."
The grin of unnatural ferocity which Don Diego put on while he spoke, surprised and perplexed the travellers not a little, but he suddenly explained the mystery by clutching his hair, setting his teeth and muttering wildly while he gave a quick stamp with his foot-- "Skuse me, gentelmans, I got most desperable 'tack of toothick!"
Will Osten attempted to console Don Diego by telling him that he was a surgeon, and that if he could only obtain a pair of pincers he would soon remedy that evil; but the Spaniard shook his head and assured him that there was a miserable man in the town calling himself a vendor of physic, who had already nearly driven him mad by attempting several times to pull the tooth, but in vain.
"Indeed," said the Don, "the last time he have try, I 'fraid I shut up won of his days light--it _was_ so sore!"
Will Osten ultimately persuaded the Spaniard, however, to consent to an operation, and the whole party accompanied him to his house, which was the most substantial in the town. Leaving his comrades there, Will went with Bunco in search of the apothecary, whom he soon found, and who readily lent him a pair of forceps, with which he returned to the residence of Don Diego. Considering his size, Will deemed it advisable to have Larry and Muggins standing by ready to hold him if he should prove obstreperous. This was a wise precaution, for, the moment Will began to pull at the obstinate grinder, the gigantic Don began to roar and then to struggle. The tooth was terribly firm. Will did not wonder that the native dentist had failed. The first wrench had no effect on it. The second--a very powerful one--was equally futile, but it caused Don Diego to roar hideously and to kick, so Will gave a nod to his assistants, who unceremoniously seized the big man in their iron gripe and held him fast. Then our hero threw all his strength into a final effort, and the tooth came out with a crash, and, along with it, a terrible yell from Don Diego, who sent Larry and Muggins staggering against the wall! The relief experienced by the poor man was almost instantaneous; as soon as he could speak he thanked Will in fervid Spanish, and with genuine gratitude.
It is interesting to observe how often matters of apparently slight moment in human affairs form turning-points which lead to important results. The incident which we have just related caused Don Diego to entertain such kindly feelings towards Will Osten, that he not only invited him to stay at his house with his companions during their residence in Tacames, but insisted on his accepting a very large fee for the service he had rendered him. Of course this was not objected to in the circumstances, but a still better piece of good fortune than this befell the wanderers. Will found that a number of the inhabitants had been attacked with dysentery, and that the ignorance of the vendor of physic was so great, that he could do nothing for them, except make a few daring experiments, which were eminently unsuccessful. To these poor invalids our embryo doctor was so useful, that after a few days dosing with proper medicine, their health and spirits began to improve rapidly, and their gratitude was such that they heaped upon him every delicacy that the place afforded, such as bananas, plantains, oranges, lemons, pumpkins, melons, sweet potatoes, beef, goat's flesh, venison, and pork, besides filling his pockets with doubloons! Thus it came to pass, that from absolute destitution Will and his comrades suddenly leaped into a condition of comparative affluence.
At the end of a week a council was called, to discuss future proceedings. The council chamber was, as usual, the forest, and Spanish cigarettes assisted the deliberations. Will being called to the chair, which was a tree stump, opened the proceedings by propounding the question, "What shall we do now, for of course we must not trespass too long on the hospitality of Don Diego?"
"I don't see why we shudn't," said Larry, "p'raps he'll have another touch o' toothache, an' 'll want another grinder tuck out."
"That may be, nevertheless it behoves us to fix our future plans without delay. As there are no vessels in port just now, and we cannot tell when any will arrive, it is worth while considering whether we cannot travel by land; also, we must decide whether California or England is to be our destination."
"I vote for Callyforny," said Larry O'Hale with much energy. " `Goold for ever,' is my motto! Make our fortunes right off, go home, take villas in ould Ireland, an' kape our carriages, wid flunkeys an' maid-servants an' such like. Sure av we can't get by say, we can walk."
"If I had wings, which is wot I haven't," said Muggins, with slow precision of utterance, "I might fly over the Andes, likewise the Atlantic, to England, or if I had legs ten fathoms long I might walk to Callyforny; but, havin' only short legs, more used to the sea than to the land, I votes for stoppin' where we are for some time, an', p'raps, a sail will heave in sight an' take us off, d'ye see?"
"Ho!" exclaimed Bunco, with a nod of approval, "and wees kin go huntin' for amoosement in de meaninwhiles."
"It's my opinion, sir," observed Old Peter, "that as we're all dependent on the money earned by yourself, the least we can do, is to leave you to settle the matter of when we start, and where we go. What say you, mates?"
A general assent being given to this, Will Osten decided that they should remain where they were for a week or a fortnight longer, in the hope of a vessel arriving, and that, in the meantime, as suggested by Bunco, they should amuse themselves by going on a hunting expedition.
In accordance with this plan they immediately set about making preparation for a start by borrowing from their host two small canoes, each made of the trunk of a large tree hollowed out. Bunco acted as steersman in one of these. Will Osten, after a few hours' practice, deemed himself sufficiently expert to take the post of honour in the other, and then, bidding adieu to Don Diego, and embarking with their guns and a large supply of ammunition and provisions, they commenced the ascent of the river Tacames, little thinking that some of the party would never descend that river or see Don Diego again!
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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10
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HUNTING IN THE WILDS OF ECUADOR.
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There is something very delightful and exhilarating in the first start on a hunting expedition into a wild and almost unknown region. After one gets into the thick of it the thoughts are usually too busy and too much in earnest with the actual realities in hand to permit of much rambling into the regions of romance--we say _much_ because there is always _some_ rambling of this sort--but, during the first day, before the actual work has well begun, while the adventures are as yet only anticipated, and the mind is free to revel in imaginings of what is possible and probable, there is a wild exultation which swells the heart and induces an irresistible tendency to shout. Indeed, on the present occasion, some of the party did shout lustily in order to vent their feelings; and Larry O'Hale, in particular, caused the jungle to echo so loudly with the sounds of his enthusiasm that the affrighted apes and jaguars must have trembled in their skins if they were possessed of ordinary feelings.
The scenery, with its accompaniments, was most beautiful and interesting. The river, a narrow one, flowed through a dense and continuous forest; rich and lofty trees over-arched it, affording agreeable shade, and on the branches were to be seen great numbers of kingfishers, parrots, and other birds of rich plumage, which filled the air at least with sound, if not with melody. The concert was further swelled by the constant cries of wild beasts--such as the howl of a tiger or the scream of a monkey. But there is no pleasure without some alloy. On this river mosquitoes were the alloy! These tormenting creatures persecuted the hunters by night as well as by day, for they are amongst the few insects which indulge in the pernicious habit of never going to bed. We cannot indeed say, authoritatively, that mosquitoes never sleep, but we can and do say that they torment human beings, and rob them of _their_ sleep, if possible, without intermission. Larry O'Hale being of a fiery nature, was at first driven nearly to distraction, and, as he said himself, he did little else than slap his own face day and night in trying to kill "the little varmints." Muggins bore up stoically, and all of them became callous in course of time. Fish of many kinds were seen in the clear water, and their first success in the sporting way was the spearing of two fine mullet. Soon after this incident, a herd of brown deer were seen to rush out of the jungle and dash down an open glade, with noses up and antlers resting back on their necks. A shot from Bunco's gun alarmed but did not hit them, for Bunco had been taken by surprise, and was in an unstable canoe. Before the deer had disappeared, two or three loud roars were heard.
"Quick! go ashore," whispered Bunco, running his canoe in among the overhanging bushes, and jumping out.
Three tigers bounded at that moment from the jungle in pursuit of the deer. Bunco took rapid aim, but his old flint gun missed fire. Luckily, Will Osten, having followed his example, was ready. He fired, and one of the tigers fell, mortally wounded. Before he could wriggle into the jungle Bunco ran up and put a bullet into his brain.
This was a splendid beginning, and the hunters were loud in their congratulations of each other, while Bunco skinned the tiger. But the reader must not suppose that we intend to chronicle every incident of this kind. We record this as a specimen of their work during the following three weeks. They did not indeed shoot a tiger daily, but they bagged several within that period, besides a number of deer and other game. We must hasten, however, to tell of an event which put a sudden stop to our hero's hunting at that time, and resulted in the breaking-up of that hitherto united and harmonious party.
One evening, a little before sunset, they came upon a small clearing, in the midst of which was a little house erected, in the usual way, upon wooden legs. The hunters found, to their surprise, that it was inhabited by an Englishman named Gordon, who received them with great hospitality and evident pleasure. He lived almost alone, having only one negro man-servant, whose old mother performed the duties of housekeeper. Here they passed the night in pleasant intercourse with a man, who, besides being a countryman--and therefore full of interest about England, from which he heard regularly but at long intervals--was remarkably intelligent, and had travelled in almost every quarter of the globe. As to his motive for secluding himself in such a wild spot, they did not presume to inquire, and never found it out.
Next day they bade their host adieu, promising to make a point of spending another night in his house on their return. Our hunters had not gone far when a growl in one of the bushes induced them to land and search for the growler. They found him in the person of a large tiger, which Will Osten caught a glimpse of sneaking away with the lithe motions of a gigantic cat. A hurried shot wounded the beast, which, instead of flying, turned round suddenly, and, with a bound, alighted on our hero's shoulders. The shock hurled him violently to the ground. During the momentary but terrific struggle for life that followed, Will had presence of mind to draw his hunting-knife, and plunge it, twice, deep into the tiger's side, but the active claws of the creature tore his thighs and arms; several large blood-vessels were injured; the light faded from the eyes of Wandering Will; his strong arm lost its cunning, and, in the midst of a loud report, mingled with a roar like thunder in his ears, he fainted away.
When Will recovered his senses he found himself stretched on his back on a low couch in a hut, with a man kneeling over him, and his comrades gazing into his face with expressions of deep anxiety. Will attempted to speak, but could not; then he tried to move, and, in doing so, fainted. On recovering consciousness, he observed that no one was near him except Larry O'Hale, who lay extended at his side, looking through the open doorway of the hut, while a series of the most seraphic smiles played on his expressive countenance!
It would have been an interesting study to have watched the Irishman on that occasion. Just before Will Osten opened his eyes, he was looking into his pale face with an expression that was ludicrously woe-begone. The instant he observed the slightest motion in his patient, however, he became suddenly abstracted, and gazed, as we have said, with a seraphic expression through the doorway. Poor Larry acted thus, in order to avoid alarming his patient by his looks, but, in spite of his utmost caution, Will caught him in the transition state, which so tickled his risible faculties that he burst into a laugh, which only got the length of a sigh, however, and nearly produced another fainting fit.
"Ah, then, darlin'!" whispered Larry, with the tenderness of a woman, "_don't_ do it now. Sure ye'll go off again av ye do. Kape quiet, dear. 'Tis all right ye'll be in a day or two. Bad luck to the baist that did it!"
This latter remark brought the scene of the tiger-hunt suddenly to Will's remembrance, and he whispered, for he had not strength to speak aloud-- "Was he killed? Who saved me?"
"Kilt!" cried Larry, forgetting his caution in his excitement; "faix he was, an' Bunco did it, too--blissin's on his dirty face--putt the ball betune his two eyes an' took the laist bit of skin off yer own nose, but the blood was spoutin' from ye like wather, an' if it hadn't bin that the cliver feller knowed all about tyin' up an'--there, honey, I wint an' forgot--don't mind me--och! sure, he's off again!"
This was true. Our hero had lost almost the last drop of blood that he could spare with the slightest chance of recovery, and the mere exertion of listening was too much for him.
For many weeks he lay in the hut of that hospitable Englishman, slowly but gradually returning from the brink of the grave, and during this period he found his host to be a friend in need, not only to his torn and weak body, but also to his soul.
Day after day Gordon sat beside his couch with unwearied kindness, chatting to him about the "old country," telling him anecdotes of his former life, and gradually leading him to raise his thoughts from the consideration of time to eternity.
Will Osten, like every unconverted man, rebelled at this at first; but Gordon was not a man to be easily repulsed. He did not _force_ religious thoughts on Will, but his own thoughts were so saturated, if we may say so, with religion, that he could not avoid the subject, and his spirit and manner were so winning that our hero was at last pleased to listen. Will's recovery was slow and tedious. Before he was able to leave Gordon's cottage his "independent" spirit was subdued by the Spirit of God, and he was enabled to exchange slavery to Self, for freedom in the service of Jesus Christ. For many a day after that did Will Osten lie helpless on his couch, perusing with deep interest the Testament given to him by his mother when he left home.
During this period his companions did not forsake him, but spent their time in hunting and conveying the proceeds to Tacames, where they disposed of them profitably. On one of these occasions they found that an English ship had touched at the port in passing, and, among other things, Larry brought a number of old newspapers to the invalid. Among the first that he opened Will read the announcement of the sudden death of his own father! No information was given beyond the usual and formal statement, with the simple addition of the words "deeply regretted."
We need not say that this was a terrible shock to the poor wanderer--a shock which was rendered all the more severe when he reflected that he had parted from his father in anger. In his weak condition, Will could not bear up under the blow, and, for some days, he lay in such a depressed state of mind and body that his comrades began to fear for his life. But after that he rallied, and a sudden improvement took place in his health.
One day he called his companions round him, and said:-- "Friends, I have resolved to leave you, and return to Europe. You know my reasons. I am not a companion, but only a drag upon you; besides, my mother is left unprotected. You will excuse me if I decline to enter into a discussion on this point. I have not strength for it, and my resolve is fixed."
Will paused, and Larry O'Hale, with a leer on his countenance, asked by what road he meant to travel.
"Across the Andes to the northern coast of South America," answered Will, smiling.
"An' you as waik as wather, with legs like the pins of a wather-wagtail!"
"That will soon mend," said Will, jumping up and pulling on his clothes; "get ready to go out hunting with me, Larry, if you have a mind to!"
Despite the remonstrances of his friend, Will Osten went out with his gun, trembling with weakness at every step. He was soon induced to return to the cottage, but his resolve was fixed. Next day he went out again, and, finally, in the course of a week or two, had recovered so much of his old vigour that he felt able to set out on his journey. Of course there were many disputings and arguings as to who should go with him, but it was finally agree that Larry and Bunco should be his companions. Indeed these two would take no denial, and vowed that, if he declined to accept of them as comrades, they would follow him as a rear-guard! Muggins and Old Peter decided that they would return to Tacames, and make their way thence to California.
Just before parting, Larry took Muggins aside and said, in as dismal a tone as his jovial spirit was capable of, "It's little I thought, mate, that you an' me would come for to part in this way, but ov coorse, I couldn't leave Mr Osten in such a fix, so, d'ye see, I must say farewell; but kape yer weather eye open, ould boy, for as sure as Larry O'Hale has got two legs, which makes a pair, you'll see him in Callyforny yit, diggin' for his fortin'. In the main time, as I know ye'll want money, an' as I've made a lot more than you by huntin'-- becase of being a better shot, d'ye see--here's a small sum which I axes you to accept of as a testimoniyall of my ondyin' friendship."
Muggins bluntly refused the leathern bag which Larry thrust into his hand, but he ultimately allowed him to force it into his pocket--and turned away with a sigh.
It was a lovely morning when Wandering Will sorrowfully bade his friends farewell, and, with his faithful followers, turned his face towards the snow-capped range of the mighty Andes.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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11
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WANDERING WILL TRAVELS, FINDS HIS PROFESSION PROFITABLE, AND SEES A GOOD
DEAL OF LIFE IN NEW FORMS.
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The first part of the journey was performed in a canoe on the Tacames river, up which they ascended with considerable speed. The scenery was delightfully varied. In some places the stream was wide, in others very narrow, fringed along the banks with the most luxuriant timber and brushwood, in which the concert kept up by birds and beasts was constant, but not disagreeable to the ears of such enthusiastic sportsmen as Will Osten, Larry O'Hale, and Bunco. The only disagreeable objects in the landscape were the alligators, which hideously ugly creatures were seen, covered with mud, crawling along the banks and over slimy places, with a sluggish motion of their bodies and an antediluvian sort of glare in their eyes that was peculiarly disgusting. They were found to be comparatively harmless, however. If they had chanced to catch a man asleep they would have seized him no doubt, and dragged him into the water, but being arrant cowards, they had not the pluck to face even a little boy when he was in motion.
Towards the afternoon of the first day, the hunters came to a long bend in the river. Here Will Osten resolved to leave Bunco to proceed alone with the canoe, while he and Larry crossed the country in search of game. Their friend Gordon had given them an elaborate chart of the route up to the mountains, so that they knew there was a narrow neck of jungle, over which they might pass, and meet the canoe after it had traversed the bend in the river.
"Have you got the tinder-box, Larry?" inquired Will, as they were about to start.
"Ay, an' the powder an' shot too, not to mintion the bowie-knife. Bad luck to the wild baists as comes to close quarters wid me, anyhow."
He displayed an enormous and glittering knife as he spoke, with which he made two or three savage cuts and thrusts at imaginary tigers before returning it to its sheath.
Cautioning Bunco to keep a good look-out for them on the other side of the neck of land, the hunters entered the forest. For several hours they trudged through bush and brake, over hill and dale, in jungle and morass, meadow and ravine, without seeing anything worth powder and shot, although they _heard_ the cries of many wild creatures.
"Och! there's wan at long last," whispered Larry, on coming to the edge of a precipice that overlooked a gorge or hollow, at the bottom of which a tiger was seen tearing to pieces the carcase of a poor goat that it had captured. It was a long shot, but Larry was impatient. He raised his gun, fired, and missed. Will Osten fired immediately and wounded the brute, which limped away, howling, and escaped. The carcass of the goat, however, remained, so the hunters cut off the best parts of the flesh for supper, and then hastened to rejoin the canoe, for the shades of night were beginning to fall. For an hour longer they walked, and then suddenly they both stopped and looked at each other.
"I do belaive we've gone an' lost ourselves again," said Larry.
"I am afraid you are right," replied Will, with a half smile; "come, try to climb to the top of yonder tree on the eminence; perhaps you may be able to see from it how the land lies."
Larry went off at once, but on coming down said it was so dark that he could see nothing but dense forest everywhere. There was nothing for it now but to encamp in the woods. Selecting, therefore, a large spreading tree, Larry kindled a fire under it, and his companion in trouble discharged several shots in succession to let Bunco know their position if he should be within hearing.
Neither Will nor Larry took troubles of this kind much to heart. As soon as a roaring fire was blazing, with the sparks flying in clouds into the trees overhead, and the savoury smell of roasting goat's flesh perfuming the air, they threw care to the dogs and gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour, feeling assured that Bunco would never desert them, and that all should be well on the morrow. After supper they ascended the tree, for the howling of wild beasts increased as the night advanced, warning them that it would be dangerous to sleep on the ground. Here they made a sort of stage or platform among the branches, which was converted into a comfortable couch by being strewn six inches deep with leaves. Only one at a time dared venture to sleep, however, for creatures that could climb had to be guarded against. At first this was a light duty, but as time passed by it became extremely irksome, and when Larry was awakened by Will to take his second spell of watching, he vented his regrets in innumerable grunts, growls, coughs, and gasps, while he endeavoured to rub his eyes open with his knuckles.
"Have a care, lad," said Will, with a sleepy laugh as he lay down; "the tigers will mistake your noise for an invitation to--" A snore terminated the speech.
"Bad luck to them," yawned Larry, endeavouring to gaze round him. In less than a minute his chin fell forward on his breast, and he began to tumble backwards. Awaking with a start under the impression that he was falling off the tree, he threw out both his arms violently and recovered himself.
"Come, Larry," he muttered to himself, with a facetious smile of the most idiotical description, "don't give way like that, boy. Ain't ye standin' sintry? an' it's death by law to slaip at yer post. Och! but the eyes o' me won't kape open. Lean yer back agin that branch to kape ye from fallin'. There--now howld up like a man--like a--man--ould-- b-o-oy." His words came slower and slower, until, at the last, his head dropped forward on his chest, and he fell into a profound sleep, to the immense delight of a very small monkey which had been watching his motions for some time, and which now ventured to approach and touch the various articles that lay beside the sleepers, with intense alarm, yet with fiendish glee, depicted on its small visage.
Thus some hours of the night were passed, but before morning the rest of the sleepers was rudely broken by one of the most appalling roars they had yet heard. They were up and wide awake instantly, with their guns ready and fingers on the triggers!
"It's draimin' we must have--" A rustling in the branches overhead checked him, and next moment the roar was repeated. Larry, with an irresistible feeling of alarm, echoed it and fired right above his head--doing nothing more serious, however, than accelerating the flight of the already horrified monkey. The shot was followed by another roar, which ended in something like a hideous laugh.
"Sure 'tis a hieena!" exclaimed Larry, reloading in violent haste.
"A hyena!" exclaimed Will--"ay, and a black one, too! Come down, Bunco, you scoundrel, else I'll put a bullet in your thick skull."
At this invocation the rustling overhead increased, and Bunco dropped upon the platform, grinning from ear to ear at the success of his practical joke.
"Och, ye blackymoor!" cried Larry, seizing the native by the throat and shaking him; "what d'ye mean be such doin's, eh?"
"Me mean noting," said Bunco, still chuckling prodigiously; "but it am most glorus fun for fright de bowld Irishesman."
"Sit down, ye kangaroo, an' tell us how ye found us out," cried Larry.
"You heard our shots, I suppose?" said Will. To this Bunco replied that he had not only heard their shots, but had seen them light their fire, and eat their supper, and prepare their couch, and go to sleep, all of which he enjoyed so intensely, in prospect of the joke he meant to perpetrate, that he was obliged to retire several times during the evening to a convenient distance and roar in imitation of a tiger, merely to relieve his feelings without betraying his presence. He added, that the canoe was about five minutes' walk from where they sat, and somewhat mollified the indignation of his comrades by saying that he would watch during the remainder of the night while they slept.
Next morning at daybreak the party re-embarked in the canoe and continued their journey. Soon the character of the country changed. After a few days the thick forests had disappeared, and richly cultivated small farms took their place. Everywhere they were most hospitably entertained by the inhabitants, who styled Will "Physico," because Bunco made a point of introducing him as a doctor. One evening they arrived at a little town with a small and rapid stream of water passing through it. There was a square in the centre of the town, surrounded by orange, lemon, and other trees, which formed an agreeable shade and filled the air with fragrance. Not only was there no doctor here, but one was seldom or never seen. Immediately, therefore, our Physico was besieged for advice, and his lancet, in particular, was in great request, for the community appeared to imagine that bloodletting was a cure for all the ills that flesh is heir to! Will of course did his best for them, and was surprised as well as pleased by the number of doubloons, with which the grateful people fed him. After passing some days very pleasantly here, Will made preparations to continue his journey, when an express arrived bringing intelligence from several of the surrounding towns to the effect that a sort of revolution had broken out. It was fomented by a certain colonel in the employment of the State, who, finding that his services and those of his followers were not paid with sufficient regularity, took the simple method of recruiting his finances by a levy on the various towns in his neighbourhood. He was, in fact, a bandit. Some towns submitted, others remonstrated, and a few resisted. When it was ascertained that the colonel and his men were on their way to the town, in which our travellers sojourned, preparations were at once made for defence, and of course Will Osten and his comrades could do no less than volunteer their services.
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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12
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IN WHICH TERRIBLE THINGS ARE TREATED OF--THE ANDES ARE CROSSED, THE
ORINOCO DESCENDED AND THE BOOK ENDED.
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At the time of which we write it was not an uncommon thing, in the provinces on the western coast of South America, for dissatisfied military officers, with a number of malcontents, to get up miniature revolutions, which were generally put down after much plundering and bloodshed. These bands of armed men went about like regular banditti, disturbing the peace of the whole country. They were not much heard of in Europe, because intercommunication and telegraphy did not exist then as they do now, and insignificant affairs of the kind were not taken much notice of.
One effect of the threatened attack on the town about which we write was, that the people became desperately excited and tremendously vigorous in their preparations. Arms were sought out and distributed; chests were opened, and gold and silver--in quantities that amazed Will and his friends--taken out and buried in the woods. Pistols, guns, and swords were produced in abundance, with plenty of ammunition, and the manner in which the men handled these proved that they meant to make a determined stand. Trees were felled, and the roads leading to the town barricaded. As the express came along he spread the news around, and farmers came in from all quarters driving their cattle before them. All the arrangements for defence were made under the direction of Don Pedro, a retired officer, who proved to be quite equal to the occasion, posted his men judiciously, and sent out scouts on horseback. Will Osten, Larry, and Bunco were left to do as they pleased, so they armed themselves, procured horses, kept close together, and rode about the town observing the arrangements. The night passed without alarm, but early in the morning a horseman arrived with the news that the rebels were advancing. A few hours afterwards they appeared in full view. Some were mounted, but the majority were on foot, and a more villainous set of rascals could not well be imagined. They advanced irregularly, evidently not expecting opposition from so insignificant a town, but those who first approached the barricades were received with such a galling fire that several were killed, many wounded, and the rest driven back.
Their leader, a tall dark man on a powerful charger, rode to the front in a towering passion, and endeavoured to rally the men. At that moment a bold idea flashed upon Will Osten. He suddenly put spurs to his horse, galloped round to the lowest part of the barricade, leaped over it, and, drawing his sword, charged the leader of the rebels like a thunderbolt. The man faced him, and raised his sword, to defend himself, but Will's first cut was so powerful that it broke down his guard, cleft his helmet, and tumbled him out of the saddle.
The contending parties had scarce time to realise what was being done when the deed was completed, and a wild cheer burst from the townspeople, high above which there sounded a terrific "hooroo!" and next instant, Larry O'Hale, followed by Bunco, shot from the barricades, and charged the foe! The consternation caused by the suddenness and the unexpected nature of this onset made the banditti waver, and, when they beheld the townsmen pouring out from their defences and rushing at them with an evident determination to conquer or die, they turned and fled! The rout was complete, and for some time the people of the town continued to chase and slay the enemy, until the pursuit was suddenly stopped by an event as terrible as it was unexpected.
For some weeks previous to the day when the town was assaulted, the neighbourhood, and, indeed, the whole of the surrounding provinces, had been visited by a series of slight earthquakes. So common are these tremblings and heavings of the earth in South America, that unless very severe, not much notice is taken of them. At the time of which we write, the slight shocks had been so frequent that the people were comparatively indifferent to them. On the very day of the assault there had been several smarter shocks than usual, and some of the more thoughtful among the inhabitants remembered that it was on an unusually dry summer, similar to the one that was then passing, that a terrible earthquake had visited the province of Venezuela and entirely demolished the city of Caraccas. But the sudden attack of the rebels had for the time banished all thought of earthquakes.
It was while the people of the town were pursuing their enemies that another shock of the earthquake occurred, and it was so violent that many of the pursuers paused, while others turned at once and ran back to the town. Here they found the women and children in a state of consternation, for they had more thoroughly realised the force of the shock; and the dreadful scenes that had taken place in Caraccas, when upwards of ten thousand of the inhabitants perished, were still fresh in their memory. Another shock occurred just as Don Pedro, Will Osten, and his friends galloped into the principal square of the town. Here there were hundreds of cattle which had been driven there for safety, and crowds of people hurrying to and fro. The horsemen rode towards the principal church of the town, which had been made a place of temporary retreat for the women and children. They had got within a few hundred yards of it when there came a shock so terrible that it seemed as if the binding forces of nature were being dissolved. Hollow thunderings were heard deep in the bowels of the earth, which heaved and undulated almost as if it had been in a semi-liquid state, while great rents and fissures occurred here and there. Will Osten's horse stumbled into one of these and threw him, but he leaped up unhurt. Don Pedro and the others pulled up and dismounted hastily. Before they could make up their minds which way to turn or what to do, another shock occurred; the houses on either side of them began to sway to and fro, and one not far distant fell. Just then a terrible crash was heard, and Will Osten turned round in time to see the large church in the act of falling. Women and children were rushing out of it frantically, but those within were doomed. One wild and awful shriek mingled with the roar of the tumbling edifice, and five hundred souls were instantaneously buried in a common grave.
Terrible though this event was, much of the impression it was fitted to make on those who witnessed it was lost because of the danger that surrounded themselves. The shock or series of shocks continued for several minutes, during which time the houses were falling into ruins in all directions, and there was so much danger in remaining in any of the streets that most of the inhabitants who had escaped flocked, as with one consent, into the great square--many of them, however, being killed by falling masonry on their way thither. Others nearer the outskirts of the town fled into the woods.
When this shock ceased, the earthquake appeared to have terminated for that time, but even if it had continued, further damage could scarcely have been done, for the little town was reduced to a heap of ruins. The desolation was complete. Scarcely a house was left uninjured, and the greater part of the buildings were completely demolished. But the sights that met the eye were not more terrible than the sounds which filled the ear. Death and destruction reigned on every side. Groans of agony and frantic cries for deliverance were heard issuing from beneath the ruins, while men, women, and children were seen rushing about with dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes, wildly searching for, and shouting the names of, their lost relatives and friends, or crying to God for mercy. It was a sickening and terrible sight--a sight in regard to which those who dwell in the more favoured parts of our sin-smitten world can form but a very faint conception.
At first all was disorder, but by degrees the spirits of the survivors began to calm down a little, and then systematic efforts were made to rescue those who had not been killed outright. It need scarcely be said that in this work our hero and his companions were conspicuously energetic. Will and Don Pedro organised the men into gangs and wherever cries or groans were heard, they tore up and removed the ruins so vigorously that the poor sufferers were speedily released; but in performing this work they uncovered the torn, crushed, and mangled bodies of hundreds of the dead.
"Come here, Larry," said Will, in a low, sad tone, as he stood on a pile of rubbish digging towards a spot where he had heard a faint cry as if from a female. The Irishman leaped to his side and saw a small hand sticking out of the rubbish. It quivered convulsively, showing that life still remained. With desperate eagerness, yet tender care, the two men disentombed the poor creature, who proved to be a women with a child clasped tightly in her broken and lacerated right arm. The woman was alive, but the poor child was dead, the skull having been completely smashed and its brains scattered on its mother's bosom. As they carried them away, the woman also expired.
In the course of a few hours great numbers of wounded persons, young and old, were laid under the lemon-trees by the banks of the little stream that traversed the town. Some were slightly hurt, but by far the greater number were terribly crushed and lacerated--many of them past all hope of recovery. To these sufferers Will Osten now gave his undivided attention, washing and bandaging wounds, amputating limbs, and endeavouring by every means to relieve them, and save their lives, while to the dying he tried, in the little Spanish he knew, to convey words of spiritual comfort, sometimes finding it impossible to do more than whisper the name of Jesus in a dying ear, while hurriedly passing from one to another. If earnest heart-expressive glances from eyes that were slowly fading conveyed any evidence of good having been done, Will's labour of love was not spent in vain.
Reader, a volume would not suffice to detail a tithe of the sights and scenes of thrilling and dreadful interest that occurred in that small South American town on the occasion of the earthquake. Yet, awful though these were, they were as nothing compared with the more stupendous calamities that have been caused by earthquakes in that land of instability, not only in times long past, but in times so very recent that the moss cannot yet have begun to cover, nor the weather to stain, the tombstones and monuments of those who perished.
For many weeks Will Osten remained there tending the sick and dying. Then he bade his kind unfortunate friends farewell, and, once more turning his face towards the Cordillera of the Andes, resumed his homeward journey with his faithful attendants.
There are times in the career of a man--especially of one who leads a wandering and adventurous life--when it seems as though the events of a lifetime were compressed into the period of a few months, or weeks, or even days. Such, at least, was the experience of our hero while he travelled in the equatorial regions of South America. Events succeeded each other with such rapidity, and accumulated on each other to such an extent, that when he looked back it appeared utterly incredible that he and his companions had landed on the coast of Peru only a few months before. It was natural, indeed, that in such a region, where the phenomena and the forces of nature are so wild and vast, one incident or adventure should follow quickly on the heels of another, but it did not seem to be altogether natural that each incident should be more singular or tremendous than its predecessor. In short, there seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason, as Larry said, in the fact that they should be continually getting out of the frying-pan into the fire. Yet so it was, and, now that they had left the low country and plunged into the magnificent recesses of the great Andes, the metaphor was still applicable, though not, perhaps, equally appropriate, for, whereas the valleys they had quitted were sweltering in tropical heat, the mountains they had now ascended were clothed in wintry snow.
Far down in the valleys Will Osten and his friends had left their canoe, and hired mules with an _arriero_ or mule-driver to guide them over the difficult and somewhat dangerous passes of the Andes. They had reached the higher altitudes of the mountains when we again introduce them to the reader, and were urging their mules forward, in order to reach a somewhat noted pass, before the breaking out of a storm which the arriero knew, from certain indications in the sky, was rapidly approaching. The party consisted of four--Will, Larry, Bunco, and the arriero--with three baggage-mules.
On reaching an elevated position at a turn in the road whence they could see far in advance, they halted.
"Why, I had supposed _this_ was the pass," said Will Osten, turning to Bunco; "ask the arriero how far off it is now."
"Troth, it's my belaif that there's no pass at all," said Larry, somewhat doggedly, as he shifted about uneasily in the saddle; "haven't we bin comin' up to places all day that we thought was the pass,--but they wasn't; I don't think Mister Arryhairo knows it hisself, and this baist of a mule has blistered my hands an' a'most broke my arms with baitin' of it--not to mintion other parts o' me body. Och, but it's a grand place, afther all--very nigh as purty as the Lakes of Killarney, only a bit bigger."
The country was indeed a little bigger! From the dizzy ledge on which they stood a scene of the wildest sublimity met their gaze, and, for a few minutes, the travellers regarded it in profound silence. Mountains, crags, gorges, snowy peaks, dark ravines, surrounded them, spread out below them, rose up above them everywhere in the utmost confusion. It was the perfection of desolation--the realisation of chaos. At their feet, far down in the gorge below, lay a lake so dark that it might have been ink; but it was clear and so very still that every rock in the cliffs around it was faithfully portrayed. High overhead rose one of the more elevated peaks of the Andes, which, being clothed in pure snow, looked airy--almost unreal--against the blue sky. The highest peak of the Andes (Chimborazo) is more than 21,000 feet above the sea. The one before them was probably a few hundred feet lower. Of living creatures, besides themselves, only one species was to be seen--the gigantic "condor"--the royal eagle of the Andes, which soars higher, it is said, than any other bird of its kind. Hundreds of condors were seen hovering above them, watching for their prey,--the worn-out and forsaken mules or cattle, which, while being driven over the pass, perished from exhaustion.
"The ugly brutes! Is it a goat they've got howld of there?" said Larry, pointing to a place where several of these monstrous eagles were apparently disputing about some prize.
On reaching the place, the object in question was found to be the skeleton of a mule, from which every morsel of flesh had been carefully picked.
"Hold my mule, Larry," whispered Will, throwing the reins to his comrade, and grasping a rifle with which one of his grateful patients who survived the earthquake had presented him. A condor had seated himself, in fancied security, on a cliff about two hundred yards off, but a well-aimed bullet brought him tumbling down. He was only winged, and when Will came up and saw his tremendous talons and beak, he paused to consider how he should lay hold of him.
"Och, what claws!" exclaimed Larry.
"Ah!" said Bunco, smiling, "more teribuble for scratch than yoos grandmoder, eh?"
Before they could decide how to proceed, the arriero came up, threw the noose of his lasso over the head of the magnificent bird, and secured it easily. He measured eight feet seven inches from tip to tip of the expanded wings.
Will Osten was anxious to skin this bird, and carry it away with him as a trophy, but the guide protested. He said that the pass was now really within a short distance of them, but that the thunder-storm would soon come on, and if it caught them in the pass they ran a chance of all being lost. Will, therefore, contented himself with cutting off the head and talons of the condor, and then resumed his toilsome upward journey.
According to the arriero's prophecy, the storm burst upon them in less than two hours, while they were still some distance from the top of the pass.
Although they had now reached the region of snow, the zig-zag track by which they ascended was tolerably visible, but, as they proceeded, dark clouds overspread the sky, and snow fell heavily, while peals of muttering thunder came from afar, echoing among the mountain peaks and betokening the rapid approach of the storm. The arriero looked anxious, and urged the mules on with whip and voice, turning his eyes furtively, now and then, in the direction of the dark clouds. Presently, on turning one of the bends in the track, they came upon a singular party travelling in the opposite direction. Their singularity consisted chiefly in this, that instead of mules they had a train of bullock-waggons, which were laden with ponderous mill-machinery. At their head rode a fine-looking man of middle age, who addressed Will in Spanish. Bunco's services as interpreter being called into requisition, the traveller told them that the pass was pretty clear, but advised them to make haste, as the storm would soon break, and might render it impassable. On the same ground he excused himself for not staying to exchange news with them.
"Your cargo is a strange one," said Will, as they were about to part.
The traveller admitted that it was, and explained that he meant to erect a flour-mill in his native town, towards which he was hastening.
At these words the arriero seemed peculiarly affected. He advanced to the traveller and said a few words. The latter started, turned pale, and asked a few hurried questions. While the arriero was replying, the pallor of the traveller's countenance increased; a wild fire seemed to shoot from his eyes, and his hands clutched convulsively the poncho which covered his breast. Suddenly he returned to his followers and gave them a few hurried orders, then, without noticing any one, he put spurs to his mule, and galloping down the track like a madman, was out of sight in a moment. His men at once unharnessed the cattle and followed him, leaving the waggons and the ponderous machinery in the snow.
The first gust of the storm burst upon the travellers at this moment, and Will with his friends had to ride to a neighbouring cliff for shelter before he could ask the meaning of the peculiar conduct of the stranger. The guide soon cleared up the mystery by telling him, through Bunco, that the traveller was an inhabitant of the town which had been so recently destroyed by the earthquake. "I happened to know him by name," continued the guide, "and am aware that his wife with every member of his family was buried in the ruins. You saw how deeply he took it to heart, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow indeed; God help him," said Will sadly, as he left the shelter of the cliff, and continued the ascent.
They never saw the unfortunate man again, but it is worthy of remark that, years after, Will Osten heard of him through a friend who happened to cross the Andes at the same point. The blow had been so severe that he never returned to claim his property; and there it lay for many a day on the wild mountain pass--perchance there it lies still--far from the abodes of men, and utterly useless, save as a ponderous monument and memorial of the terrible catastrophe which had robbed its owner of home, kindred, wealth, and earthly hope.
The storm had at last burst upon our travellers in all its fury--and very different is the storm in these weird altitudes, where earth and heaven seem to meet, than in the plains below. The wind came whistling down the gorges as if through funnels, driving before it not only snow, but sand and pebbles, so that for a time our travellers being unable to face it, were compelled to seek shelter under a ledge of rock. After the first burst there was a short lull, of which they availed themselves to push on. Will, being mounted on the best mule, went considerably ahead of his companions; but at last the falling snow became so thick as to render objects almost invisible. The track, too, which ran unpleasantly near the edge of a precipice, was almost obliterated, so he thought it best to wait for the others. Just then another squall came howling down the gorge at his right. His mule became restive and frightened, and, slipping on the snow, came down on its knees. The violence of the wind rendered it almost impossible to keep the saddle, so this decided Will. He slid off. Scarcely had he done so when there came a gust which fortunately threw him flat down; at the same time his mule staggered over the edge of the precipice. One moment Will saw the poor animal struggling to regain its footing--the next it was rolling down into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock, and he knew, although the swirling snow prevented him seeing it, that his steed was, in a few minutes, dashed to pieces in the gorge a thousand feet below. For some time Will did not dare to rise. The gale grew fiercer every moment, and the darkness--not of night, but of thick clouds--increased. As the snow accumulated over him he feared being buried alive, so he struggled out of the drift and looked around him. It was utter chaos--not a landmark was visible. Having turned round once or twice, he did not know how to direct his steps. While hesitating as to what he should do, another gust swept by, carried away his hat and poncho, tore his over-coat right up the back and compelled him to lie down again, in which position he remained until he felt benumbed with cold. Knowing that to remain much longer in that position would insure his death, our hero rose and staggered forward a few paces--he scarce knew whither. There was a lull in the gale at this time, and he continued to advance, when a voice behind arrested him.
"Hooroo! doctor, whereabouts are ye?"
"Hallo! Larry, here I am, all right."
"Faix, it's well ye are that same," said Larry, looming through the drifting snow like a white spectre, "for it's all wrong with us. Wan o' the poor baists wi' the packs has gone clane over the cliffs an' bin smashed to smithereens--more be token it's the wan that carried the kittle an' the salt beef, but the wan wi' the biscuit an' the fryin'-pan is safe, an' that's a comfort, anyhow."
Will expressed his regret at this, and was beginning to tell how his own mule had been killed, when Bunco suddenly made his appearance, and, seizing him by the collar, dragged him with extreme violence a few paces forward. For one brief instant a flush of anger mingled with Will's surprise at this unceremonious treatment; but all other feelings gave way to one of gratitude to God when, observing his faithful attendant point to the spot from which he had been dragged, he turned round and saw that he had been standing on the extreme verge of the precipice. Had he advanced one step after being arrested by the voice of his comrade, his mangled body would, in a few seconds, have been lying beside that of his poor mule!
There was no time to speak of these things, however, just then, for the storm, or rather the squall, burst forth again with increased violence, and the pass was still before them--so like the men of a forlorn hope who press up to the breach, they braced themselves to renew the conflict, and pushed on. The truth of the proverb, that "fortune favours the brave," was verified on this occasion. The storm passed over almost as quickly as it had begun, the sky cleared up, and, before night set in, they had crossed the pass, and were rapidly descending the eastern side of the mountains towards the fertile plains and valleys of Columbia.
The transition from the wintry cold of the high regions of the Andes to the intense tropical heat of the plains and forests was rapidly made. In a few days the travellers were obliged to throw off their ponchos and warm garments, and at the end of a few weeks we find them stretched out lazily in the stern of a canoe, under the guidance of four Creoles, floating quietly down one of the numerous tributaries of the Orinoco. The change was not only sudden but also agreeable. In truth, our adventurers had been so long subjected by that time to excitement and exhausting toil--especially while crossing the mountains--that the most robust among them began to long for a little rest, both bodily and mental, and, now that they lay idly on their backs gazing at the passing scenery, listening to the ripple of the water and smoking cigarettes, it seemed as if the troubles of life had all passed away and nothing but peace lay around and before them. " 'Tis paradise intirely," observed Larry, removing his cigarette for a moment, and winking facetiously at a small monkey which happened to peep at him just then through the foliage overhead.
"Him won't be long like dat," said Bunco.
"Come, now, ye ill-omened spalpeen, don't be causin' yer dirty clouds to come over this purty vision. Wot's the use o' cryin' before ye're hurt, or pretendin' to know the futur' whin ye knows nothin' about it? Ye're no better than a baboon, Bunco, as I've fraiquintly had occasion to tell ye before now."
Bunco made no reply to this, but smiled slightly as he changed his position to one of greater comfort, and lit a fresh cigarette.
"Larry," said Will Osten, "did you remember to put the fresh meat in the canoe this morning?"
"Och! morther," cried the Irishman, starting up with a look of desperate annoyance on his expressive face; "sure I've wint an' forgot it! It's hangin' at this minit on the branch where I putt it last night for fear o' the tigers--bad luck to them!"
"Ho, ho!" ejaculated Bunco, "paradise am gone a'ready!"
Larry turned upon his friend with a look that betokened no good, and appeared to meditate an assault, when Will Osten said quietly,--"Never mind, Larry; I luckily observed your omission, and put it into the canoe myself."
"Ah, then, doctor, it's not right of 'e to trifle wid a poor man's feelin's in that way, especially in regard to his stummick, which, wid me, is a tinder point. Howsever, it's all right, so I'll light another o' thim cigarettes. They're not bad things after all, though small an' waik at the best for a man as was used to twist an' a black pipe since he was two foot high."
The Irishman lay down and once more sought to recover his lost paradise, but was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the canoe-men, who pointed to a part of the river's bank where no fewer than eight crocodiles were lying basking in the sun. They were of various sizes, from eight to twenty feet in length, and slept with their jaws wide open, and their formidable rows of teeth exposed to view.
"Well, wot's to do?" asked Larry, half rising.
"Oh! hums only want you to look to de brutes--'tink you hab never seed him 'fore to-day," said Bunco.
"Tell him he's mistaken, then," replied Larry testily; "we've often seed 'em before, an' don't want to be roused up by such trifles."
Saying this, the Irishman once more sank into a recumbent state of felicity; but his peaceful tendency was doomed to frequent interruptions, not only on that day, but on many other occasions during the voyage down the Orinoco.
In the evening of that same day he had an adventure which induced him to suspect, more strongly even than Bunco, that terrestrial paradise was indeed still a long way off. The party landed at a small clearing, where they were hospitably received by a professional tiger-hunter, who, although nearly half-naked and almost black, was a very dignified personage, and called himself Don Emanuel. This Don invited them up to smoke and eat at his residence, which turned out to be a very large one--no less than the wild forest itself, for he disdained houses, and was wont to sling his hammock, nightly, between two trees. At his encampment they were introduced to his wife and two daughters, who were as wild and as lightly clad as himself, and the only evidence (if evidence it was) that the ladies belonged to the gentler sex was, that Donna Isabella--the elder sister--fondled a large cat, for which she appeared to entertain a strong affection. Having supped and smoked, the travellers slung their hammocks to the trees and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, several times, they were awakened by the cries of the denizens of the thickets. It was supposed that when any two of these took to fighting the others were stirred up to roar in sympathy! Be this as it may, the mingled cries, roars, and shrieks, of sapajous, alouates, jaguars, cougars, pacaris, sloths, curassows, parraquas, etcetera, broke forth from time to time with such fury, that sleep was almost unattainable; then a thunderstorm came on which wet them to the skin; after that a large vampire-bat bit Bunco on the nose, causing that worthy to add his noise to the general concert; and, finally, a soft hairy animal dropt from a branch into Larry O'Hale's hammock. The Irishman received it with open arms and a yell of terror. He crushed it to his chest, which drew forth a responsive yell of agony from the animal, whose claws and teeth were instantly fixed in Larry's chin and cheeks. He caught it by the tail--the teeth and claws were at once transferred to his hands; then he seized it by the throat, from which there issued a gasping shriek as he hurled it high into the air, whence it descended into the embers of the expiring fire, and, bolting violently from that too-warm spot, sent up a shower of sparks which revealed the fact that the unfortunate man had all but annihilated Donna Isabella's favourite cat!
Thus they proceeded down the Orinoco, and, finally, reached the sea-coast, where they opportunely found a vessel ready to sail for Old England. It was not long, therefore, before they were once more out upon the wide sea, with the happy consciousness that they were actually "homeward bound."
There are times in a man's career when realities appear to memory like the dim shadows of a dream, just as there are periods when dreams rise up with all the bold and startling vividness of reality. Our adventurers felt something of this when they had been a few days at sea, and began to think of and talk about their recent career in South America. It seemed to them as though their romantic life in the woods, their encounters with wild beasts, their adventures and misadventures in Ecuador, their dangers and difficulties in crossing the Andes, and their tranquil descent of the Orinoco, were a confused yet vivid vision; and often, while pacing the deck together, or sitting on the bulwarks of the ship in the dreamy idleness of passenger-life at sea, did they comment upon the difficulty they had in regarding as indubitable facts the events of the last few months.
Nevertheless, as Larry expressed it, there could be no doubt whatever that it was all true, and after all, according to his carefully formed estimate, worse luck might have befallen them than being "cast away on the shores of Peroo an' lost in the forest!"
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{
"id": "23274"
}
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1
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ERLINGSEN'S "AT HOME."
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Every one who has looked at the map of Norway must have been struck with the singular character of its coast. On the map it looks so jagged, such a strange mixture of land and sea, that it appears as if there must be a perpetual struggle between the two,--the sea striving to inundate the land, and the land pushing itself out into the sea, till it ends in their dividing the region between them. On the spot, however, this coast is very sublime. The long straggling promontories are mountainous, towering ridges of rock, springing up in precipices from the water; while the bays between them, instead of being rounded with shelving sandy shores, on which the sea tumbles its waves, as in bays of our coast, are, in fact, long narrow valleys, filled with sea, instead of being laid out in fields and meadows. The high rocky banks shelter these deep bays (called fiords) from almost every wind; so that their waters are usually as still as those of a lake. For days and weeks together, they reflect each separate tree-top of the pine-forests which clothe the mountain sides, the mirror being broken only by the leap of some sportive fish, or the oars of the boatman as he goes to inspect the sea-fowl from islet to islet of the fiord, or carries out his nets or his rod to catch the sea-trout or char, or cod, or herrings, which abound, in their seasons, on the coast of Norway.
It is difficult to say whether these fiords are the most beautiful in summer or in winter. In summer, they glitter with golden sunshine; and purple and green shadows from the mountain and forest lie on them; and these may be more lovely than the faint light of the winter noons of those latitudes, and the snowy pictures of frozen peaks which then show themselves on the surface: but before the day is half over, out come the stars,--the glorious stars which shine like nothing that we have ever seen. There, the planets cast a faint shadow, as the young moon does with us: and these planets, and the constellations of the sky, as they silently glide over from peak to peak of these rocky passes, are imaged on the waters so clearly that the fisherman, as he unmoors his boat for his evening task, feels as if he were about to shoot forth his vessel into another heaven, and to cleave his way among the stars.
Still as everything is to the eye, sometimes for a hundred miles together along these deep sea-valleys, there is rarely silence. The ear is kept awake by a thousand voices. In the summer, there are cataracts leaping from ledge to ledge of the rocks; and there is the bleating of the kids that browse there, and the flap of the great eagle's wings, as it dashes abroad from its eyrie, and the cries of whole clouds of sea-birds which inhabit the islets; and all these sounds are mingled and multiplied by the strong echoes, till they become a din as loud as that of a city. Even at night, when the flocks are in the fold, and the birds at roost, and the echoes themselves seem to be asleep, there is occasionally a sweet music heard, too soft for even the listening ear to catch by day. Every breath of summer wind that steals through the pine-forests wakes this music as it goes. The stiff spiny leaves of the fir and pine vibrate with the breeze, like the strings of a musical instrument, so that every breath of the night-wind, in a Norwegian forest, wakens a myriad of tiny harps; and this gentle and mournful music may be heard in gushes the whole night through. This music, of course, ceases when each tree becomes laden with snow; but yet there is sound, in the midst of the longest winter night. There is the rumble of some avalanche, as, after a drifting storm, a mass of snow, too heavy to keep its place, slides and tumbles from the mountain peak. There is also, now and then, a loud crack of the ice in the nearest glacier; and, as many declare, there is a crackling to be heard by those who listen when the northern lights are shooting and blazing across the sky. Nor is this all. Wherever there is a nook between the rocks on the shore, where a man may build a house, and clear a field or two;--wherever there is a platform beside the cataract where the sawyer may plant his mill, and make a path from it to join some great road, there is a human habitation, and the sounds that belong to it. Thence, in winter nights, come music and laughter, and the tread of dancers, and the hum of many voices. The Norwegians are a social and hospitable people; and they hold their gay meetings, in defiance of their arctic climate, through every season of the year.
On a January night, a hundred years ago, there was great merriment in the house of a farmer who had fixed his abode within the arctic circle, in Nordland, not far from the foot of Sulitelma, the highest mountain in Norway. This dwelling, with its few fields about it, was in a recess between the rocks, on the shore of the fiord, about five miles from Saltdalen, and two miles from the junction of the Salten's Elv (river) with the fiord. It was but little that Erlingsen's fields would produce, though they were sheltered from the coldest winds, and the summer sunshine was reflected from the rocks, so as to make this little farm much more productive than any near which were in a more exposed situation. A patch of rye was grown, and some beans and oats; and there was a strip of pasture, and a garden in which might be seen turnips, radishes, potatoes, lettuce and herbs, and even some fruits,--a few raspberries, and a great many cherries. There were three or four horses on the farm, five cows, and a small flock of goats. In summer, the cattle and flock were driven up the mountain, to feed on the pastures there; and during the seven months of winter, they were housed and fed on the hay grown at home, and that which was brought from the mountain, and on a food which appears strange enough to us, but of which cows in Norway are extremely fond:--fish-heads boiled into a thick soup with horse-dung. At one extremity of the little beach of white sand which extended before the farmer's door was his boat-house; and on his boat he and his family depended, no less than his cows, for a principal part of their winter subsistence. Except a kid or a calf now and then, no meat was killed on the farm. Cod in winter, herrings in spring, trout and salmon in summer, and salted fish in winter, always abounded. Reindeer meat was regularly purchased from the Lapps who travelled round among the settlements for orders, or drove their fattened herds from farm to farm. Besides this, there was the resource of game. Erlingsen and his housemen brought home from their sporting rambles, sometimes a young bear, sometimes wild ducks, or the noble cock-of-the-woods, as big as a turkey, or a string of snipes, or golden plovers, or ptarmigan. The eggs of sea-birds might be found in every crevice of the islets in the fiord, in the right season; and they are excellent food. Once a year, too, Erlingsen wrapped himself in furs, and drove himself in his sledge, followed by one of his housemen on another and a larger, to the great winter fair at Tronyem, where the Lapps repaired to sell their frozen reindeer meat, their skins, a few articles of manufacture, and where travelling Russian merchants came with the productions of other climates, and found eager customers in the inhabitants who thronged to this fair to make their purchases. Here, in exchange for the salt-fish, feathers, and eider-down which had been prepared by the industry of his family, Erlingsen obtained flax and wool wherewith to make clothing for the household, and those luxuries which no Norwegian thinks of going without,--corn-brandy, coffee, tobacco, sugar, and spices. Large mould candles were also sold so cheap by the Russians that it was worth while to bring them home for the use of the whole family,--even to burn in the stables and stalls, as the supply of bears' fat was precarious, and the pine-tree was too precious, so far north, to be split up into torches, while it even fell so short occasionally as to compel the family to burn peat, which they did not like nearly so well as pine-logs. It was Madame Erlingsen's business to calculate how much of all these foreign articles would be required for the use of her household for a whole year; and, trusting to her calculations, which were never found to be wrong, her husband came home from the winter fair heavily enough laden with good things.
Nor was it only what was required for his own every-day household that he brought. The quantity of provisions, especially corn-brandy, tobacco, coffee, and sugar, consumed in hospitality in Norway, is almost incredible; and retired as the Erlingsens might appear to dwell, they were as hospitable, according to their opportunities, as any inhabitant of Bergen or Christiana. They gave feasts at Christmas, and on every occasion that they could devise. The occasion, on the particular January day mentioned above, was the betrothment of one of the house-maidens to a young farm-servant of the establishment. I do not mean that this festival was anything like a marriage. It was merely an engagement to be married; but this engagement is a much more formal and public affair in Norway (and indeed wherever the people belong to the Lutheran church) than with us. According to the rites of the Lutheran church, there are two ceremonies,--one when a couple become engaged, and another when they are married. In Norway, this betrothment gives the couple a certain dignity beyond that of the unengaged, and more liberty of companionship, together with certain rights in law. This makes up to them for being obliged to wait so long as they often must before they can marry. In a country, scattered over with farmers, like Norway, where there are few money transactions, because people provide for their own wants on their own little estates, servants do not shift their places, and go from master to master, as with us. A young man and woman have to wait long,--probably till some houseman dies or removes, before they can settle; and then they are settled for life,--provided for till death, if they choose to be commonly industrious and honest. The story of this betrothment at Erlingsen's will explain what I have just said.
As Madame Erlingsen had two daughters growing up, and they were no less active than the girls of a Norwegian household usually are, she had occasion for only two maidens to assist in the business of the dwelling and the dairy.
Of these two, the younger, Erica, was the maiden betrothed to-day. No one perhaps rejoiced so much at the event as her mistress, both for Erica's sake, and on account of her two young daughters. Erica was not the best companion for them; and the servants of a Norwegian farmer are necessarily the companions of the daughters of the house. There was nothing wrong in Erica's conduct or temper towards the family. She had, when confirmed, [Note 1] borne so high a character, that many places were offered her, and Madame Erlingsen had thought herself very fortunate in obtaining her services. But, since then, Erica had sustained a shock which hurt her spirits, and increased a weakness which she owed to her mother. Her mother, a widow, had brought up her child in all the superstitions of the country, some of which remain in full strength even to this day, and were then very powerful; and the poor woman's death at last confirmed the lessons of her life. She had stayed too long one autumn day at the Erlingsen's; and, being benighted on her return, and suddenly seized and bewildered by the cold, had wandered from the road, and was found frozen to death in a recess of the forest which it was surprising that she should have reached. Erica never believed that she did reach this spot of her own accord. Having had some fears before of the Wood-Demon having been offended by one of the family, Erica regarded this accident as a token of his vengeance. She said this when she first heard of her mother's death; and no reasonings from the zealous pastor of the district, no soothing from her mistress, could shake her persuasion. She listened with submission, wiping away her quiet tears as they discoursed; but no one could ever get her to say that she doubted whether there was a Wood-Demon, or that she was not afraid of what he would do if offended.
Erlingsen and his wife always treated her superstition as a weakness; and when she was not present, they ridiculed it. Yet they saw that it had its effect on their daughters. Erica most strictly obeyed their wish that she should not talk about the spirits of the region with Orga and Frolich; but the girls found plenty of people to tell them what they could not learn from Erica. Besides what everybody knows who lives in the rural districts of Norway,--about Nipen, the spirit that is always so busy after everybody's affairs,--about the Water-sprite, an acquaintance of every one who lives beside a river or lake,--and about the Mountain-Demon, familiar to all who lived so near Sulitelma; besides these common spirits, the girls used to hear of a multitude of others from old Peder, the blind houseman, and from all the farm-people, down to Oddo, the herd-boy. Their parents hoped that this taste of theirs might die away if once Erica, with her sad, serious face and subdued voice, were removed to a house of her own, where they would see her supported by her husband's unfearing mind, and occupied with domestic business more entirely than in her mistress's house. So Madame Erlingsen was well pleased that Erica was betrothed; and she could only have been better satisfied if she had been married at once.
For this marrying, however, the young people must wait. There was no house, or houseman's place, vacant for them at present. There was a prospect, however. The old houseman Peder, who had served Erlingsen's father and Erlingsen himself for fifty-eight years, could now no longer do the weekly work on the farm which was his rent for his house, field, and cow. He was blind and old. His aged wife, Ulla, could not leave the house; and it was the most she could do to keep the dwelling in order, with occasional help from one and another. Housemen who make this sort of contract with farmers in Norway are never turned out. They have their dwelling and field for their own life and that of their wives. What they do, when disabled, is to take in a deserving young man to do their work for the farmer, on the understanding that he succeeds to the houseman's place on the death of the old people. Peder and Ulla had made this agreement with Erica's lover, Rolf; and it was understood that his marriage with Erica should take place whenever the old people should die.
It was impossible for Erica herself to fear that Nipen was offended, at the outset of this festival day. If he had chosen to send a wind, the guests could not have come; for no human frame can endure travelling in a wind in Nordland on a January day. Happily, the air was so calm that a flake of snow, or a lock of eider-down, would have fallen straight to the ground. At two o'clock, when the short daylight was gone, the stars were shining so brightly, that the company who came by the fiord would be sure to have an easy voyage. Almost all came by the fiord, for the only road from Erlingsen's house led to so few habitations, and was so narrow, steep, and rocky, that an arrival by that way was a rare event. The path was now, however, so smooth with frozen snow, that more than one sledge attempted and performed the descent. Erlingsen and some of his servants went out to the porch, on hearing music from the water, and stood with lighted pine-torches to receive their guests, when, approaching from behind, they heard the sound of the sleigh-bells, and found that company was arriving both by sea and land.
It was a pretty sight,--such an arrival. In front, there was the head of a boat driving up upon the white beach, and figure after figure leaping out, and hastening to be welcomed in the porch; while, in the midst of the greeting, the quick and regular beat of a horse's feet was heard on the frozen ground, and the active little animal rushed into the light, shaking his mane and jingling his bells, till suddenly checked by the driver, who stood upright at the back of the sledge, while the ladies reclined, so wrapped in furs that nothing could be seen of them till they had entered the house, and issued forth from the room where they threw off their pelisses and cloaks. Glad had the visitors been, whether they came by land or water, to arrive in sight of the lighted dwelling, whose windows looked like rows of yellow stars, contrasting with the blue ones overhead; and more glad still were they to be ushered into the great room, where all was so light, so warm, so cheerful! Warm it was, to the farthest corner; and too warm near the roaring and crackling fires; for the fires were of pine-wood. Rows upon rows of candles were fastened against the walls, above the heads of the company; the floor was strewn with juniper twigs; and the spinning-wheels, the carding boards, every token of household labour was removed, except a loom, which remained in one corner. In another corner was a welcome sight--a platform of rough boards, two feet from the floor, and on it two stools. This was a token that there was to be dancing; and indeed Oddo, the herd-boy, old Peder's grandson, was seen to have his clarionet in his belt, as he ran in and out on the arrival of fresh parties.
Before four o'clock, the whole company, consisting of about forty, had arrived. They walked about the large room, sipping their strong coffee, and helping one another to the good things on the trays which were carried round,--the slices of bread-and-butter, with anchovies, or shreds of reindeer ham or tongue, or thin slices of salt cheese. When these trays disappeared, and the young women who had served them returned into the room, Oddo was seen to reach the platform with a hop, skip, and jump, followed by a dull-looking young man with a violin. The oldest men lighted their pipes, and sat down to talk, two or three together. Others withdrew to a smaller room, where card-tables were set out; while the younger men selected their partners, and handed them forth for the gallopade. The dance was led by the blushing Erica, whose master was her partner. It had never occurred to her that she was not to take her usual place, and she was greatly embarrassed, not the less so that she knew that her mistress was immediately behind, with Rolf for her partner. Erica might, however, have led the dance in any country in Europe. All the women in Norway dance well, being practised in it from their infancy, as an exercise for which the leisure of their long winter, and the roominess of their houses, afford scope. Every woman present danced well, but none better than Erica.
"Very well!" "very pretty!" "very good!" observed the pastor, M. Kollsen, as he sat, with his pipe in his mouth, looking on. M. Kollsen was a very young man; but the men in Norway smoke as invariably as the women dance. "Very pretty, indeed! They only want double the number to make it as pretty a dance as any in Tronyem."
"What would you have, sir?" asked old Peder, who sat smoking at his elbow. "Are there not eleven couple? Oddo told me there were eleven couple; and I think I counted so many pairs of feet as they passed."
"Let me see:--yes, you are right, Peder; there are eleven couples."
"And what would you have more, sir? In this young man's father's time--" "Rolf's father's?"
"No, sir,--Erlingsen's. Ah! I forgot that Erlingsen may not seem to you, or any stranger, to be young, but Ulla and I have been used to call him so, and I fear I always shall, as I shall never see the furrows in his face. It will be always smooth and young to me. My Ulla says there is nothing to be sorry for in that, and she does not object to my thinking so of her face. But, as I was saying, in the elder Erlingsen's time we thought we did well when we set up nine couples at Yule: and since then, the Holbergs and Thores have each made out a new farm within ten miles, and we are accustomed to be rather proud of our eleven couples. Indeed, I once knew it twelve, when they got me to stand up with little Henrica,--the pretty little girl whose grave lies behind, just under the rock. But I suppose there is no question but there are finer doings at Tronyem."
"Of course--of course," said the young clergyman. "But there are many youths in Tronyem that would be glad of so pretty a partner as M. Erlingsen has, if she would not look so frightened."
"Pretty she is," said Peder. "As I remember her complexion, it looks as if it was made by the reflection of our snows in its own clearness. And when you do get a full look into her eyes, how like the summer sky they are--as deep as the heavens in a midsummer noon! Did you say she looks frightened, sir?"
"Yes. When does she not? Some ghost from the grave has scared her, I suppose; or some spirit that has no grave to lie still in, perhaps. It is a great fault in her that she has so little faith. I never met with such a case. I hardly know how to conduct it. I must begin with the people about her,--abolish their superstitions,--and then there may be a chance for her. Meanwhile I have but a poor account to give to the bishop [Note 2] of the religion of the district."
"Did you say, sir, that Erica wants faith? It seems to me that I never knew any one who had so much."
"You think so because there is no idea in this region of what faith is. A prodigious work indeed my bishop has given me to do. He himself cannot be aware what it is, till I send him my report. One might suppose that Christianity had never been heard of here, by the absurd credulity one meets with in the best houses,--the multitude of good and evil spirits one hears of at every turn. I will blow them all to the winds presently. I will root out every superstition in a circle of twenty miles."
"You will, sir?"
"I will. Such is my duty as a Christian pastor."
"Do you suppose you can, sir?"
"Certainly. No doubt of that. What sort of a pastor must he be who cannot vindicate his own religion?"
"These beliefs, sir, were among us long before you were born; and I fancy they will last till some time after you are dead. And, what is more, I should not wonder if your bishop was to tell you the same thing when you send him your report of us."
"I thought you had had more faith, Peder. I thought you had been a better Christian."
"However that may be," said Peder, "I have some knowledge of the people about us, having lived nearly fourscore years in the parish; and perhaps, sir, as you are young, and from a distance, you would allow me to say a word. May I?"
"O, certainly."
But while M. Kollsen gave this permission, he took his pipe from his mouth, and beat time with it upon his knee, and with his foot upon the ground, to carry off his impatience at being instructed.
"My advice would be, sir, with all respect to you," said Peder, "that you should lead the people into everything that you think true and good, and pass over quietly whatever old customs and notions you do not understand or like. I have so much belief in the religion you are to teach as to feel sure that whatever will not agree with it will die out of its way if let alone. But if religion is brought in to hurt the people's feelings and notions, that religion will be the thing to suffer."
"I must judge for myself about such matters, of course," said M. Kollsen. He was meditating a change of place, to escape further lecturing about his duty, when Peder saved him the trouble of leaving his comfortable seat by rising and moving away towards the fire. Peder's pipe was smoked out, and he was going for more tobacco to the place where tobacco was always to be found--in a little recess above the fireplace. He felt his way carefully, that he might not interfere with the dancers, or be jostled by them; but he had not far to go. One friend begged to be sent for anything he wanted; another, with a quicker eye, brought him tobacco; and a third led him to his seat again. All looked with wonder at M. Kollsen, surprised that he, Peder's companion at that moment, young and blessed with eyesight, could let the blind old man leave his seat for such a reason. M. Kollsen whiffed away, however, quite unconscious of what everybody was thinking.
"This waltz," said Peder, when the dancers had begun again, "does not seem to go easily. There is something amiss. I think it is in the music that the fault lies. My boy's clarionet goes well enough; no fear of Oddo's being out. Pray, sir, who plays the violin at this moment?"
"A fellow who looks as if he did not like his business. He is frowning with his red brows as if he would frown out the lights."
"His red brows! O, then it is Hund. I was thinking it would be hard upon him, poor fellow, if he had to play to-night; yet, not so hard as if he had to dance. It is weary work dancing with the heels when the heart is too heavy to move. You may have heard, sir, for everyone knows it, that Hund wanted to have young Rolf's place, and, some say, Erica herself. Is she dancing, sir, if I may ask?"
"Yes, with Rolf. What sort of a man is Rolf--with regard to these superstitions, I mean? Is he as foolish as Erica--always frightened about something?"
"No, indeed. It is to be wished that Rolf was not so light as he is--so inconsiderate about these matters. Rolf has his troubles and his faults; but they are not of that kind."
"Enough," said M. Kollsen, with a voice of authority. "I rejoice to hear that he is superior to the popular delusions. As to his troubles and his faults, they may be left for me to discover all in good time."
"With all my heart, sir. They are nobody's business but his own, and, may be, Erica's. Rolf has a good heart, and I doubt not Ulla and I shall have great comfort in him. He lives with us, sir, from this night forwards. There is no fear that he will wish us in our graves, though we stand between him and his marriage."
"That must be rather a painful consideration to you."
"Not at all, sir, at present. Ulla and I were all the happier, we think, to this day, for having had four such years as these young people have before them to know one another in, and grow suitable in notions and habits, and study to please one another. By the time Rolf and Erica are what we were, one or both of us will be underground, and Rolf will have, I am certain, the pleasant feeling of having done his duty by us. It is all as it should be, sir; and I pray that they may live to say at our age what Ulla and I can say at the same season of our lives."
The pastor made no answer. He had not heard the last few words; for what Peder said of being underground had plunged him into a reverie about Peder's funeral sermon, which he should, of course, have to preach. He was pondering how he should at once do justice to Peder's virtues and mark his own disapprobation of the countenance Peder gave to the superstitions of the region in which he lived. He must keep in view the love and respect in which the old man was held by everybody, and yet he must bear witness against the great fault above mentioned. He composed two or three paragraphs in his imagination which he thought would do, and then committed them to memory. He was roused from this employment by a loud laugh from the man whose funeral he was meditating, and saw that Peder was enjoying life at present as much as the youngest, with a glass of punch in his hand, and a group of old men and women round him recalling the jests of fifty years ago.
"How goes it, Rolf?" said his master, who, having done his duty in the dancing-room, was now making his way to the card-tables, in another apartment, to see how his guests there were entertained. Thinking that Rolf looked very absent, as he stood, in the pause of the dance, in silence by Erica's side, Erlingsen clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "How goes it? Make your friends merry."
Rolf bowed and smiled, and his master passed on.
"How goes it?" repeated Rolf to Erica, as he looked earnestly into her face. "Is all going on well, Erica?"
"Certainly. I suppose so. Why not?" she replied. "If you see anything wrong,--anything omitted, be sure and tell me. Madame Erlingsen would be very sorry. Is there anything forgotten, Rolf?"
"I think you have forgotten what the day is: that is all. Nobody that looked at you, love, would fancy it to be your own day. You look anything but merry. Hardly a smile from you to-night! And that is a great omission."
"O, Rolf, there is something so much better than merriment!"
"Yes, love; but where is it? Not in your heart to-night, Erica."
"Yes, indeed, Rolf."
"You look as dull,--as sad,--you and Hund, as if--" "Hund!" repeated Erica, glancing around the room for Hund, and not seeing him till her lover reminded her that Hund was the musician. "Hund does seem dull enough to be sure," said she, smiling; "I hope I do not often look like that."
"I am more sorry for him than you are, I see," said Rolf, brightening when he found how entirely Hund had been absent from her thoughts. "I am more sorry for Hund than you are: and with good reason, for I know what the happiness is that he has missed, poor fellow! But yet I think you might feel a little more for him. It would show that you know how to value love."
"Indeed I am very sorry for him; but more for his disappointment about the house than any other. To-day once over, he will soon fix his love on somebody else. Perhaps we shall be dancing on his betrothment-day before the year is out."
"Then I hope his girl will look merrier than you do to-night," muttered Rolf, with a sigh. "O, Erica! I wish you would trust me. I could take care of you, and make you quite happy, if you would only believe it. Ah! I know what that look means. I know you love me, and all that; but you are always tormenting yourself--" "I think I know one who is cleverer still at tormenting himself," said Erica, with a smile. "Come, Rolf, no more tormenting of ourselves or one another! No more of that after to-day! What is to-day worth, if it is not to put an end to all doubts of one another?"
"But where is the use of that, if you still will not believe that I can keep off all trouble from you--that nothing in the universe shall touch you to your hurt, while--" "O, hush! hush!" said Erica, turning pale and red at the presumption of this speech. "See, they are waiting for us. One more round before supper."
And in the whirl of the waltz she tried to forget the last words Rolf had spoken; but they rang in her ears; and before her eyes were images of Nipen overhearing this defiance,--and the Water-sprite planning vengeance in its palace under the ice,--and the Mountain-Demon laughing in scorn, till the echoes shouted again,--and the Wood-Demon waiting only for summer to see how he could beguile the rash lover. Erica finished her dance; but when the company and the men of the household were seated at the supper-table, and she had to help her mistress and the young ladies to wait upon them, she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. It was so very wrong of Rolf to be always defying the spirits!
Long was the supper, and hearty was the mirth round the table. People in Norway have universally a hearty appetite,--such an appetite as we English have no idea of. Whether it is owing to the sharp climate, or to the active life led by all,--whatever may be the cause, such is the fact. This night, piles of fish disappeared first; and then joint after joint of reindeer venison. The fine game of the country was handed round, cut up; and little but the bones was left of a score of birds. Then there were preserved fruits, and berries, eaten with thick cream;-- almost every dish that could be thought of made of the rich cream of the north. Erica recovered herself as the great business went on, and while her proud lover watched her, forgetting his supper, he thought to himself that no one of the fair attendants trod so lightly as Erica--no one carved so neatly--no one handed the dishes so gracefully, or was so quick at seeing to whom the most respect and attention were owing. Perhaps this last thought was suggested by Rolf's perceiving that, either by her own hand or another's, the hottest dishes and the nicest bits were found, all supper-time, close to his elbow. Madame Erlingsen, he decided, with all her experience, did not do the duties of the table so well; and the young ladies, kind and good-tempered as they were, would never, by any experience, become so graceful as Erica.
At last appeared the final dish of the long feast--the sweet cake, with which dinner and supper in Norway usually conclude. While this was sliced and handed round, Rolf observed that Erica looked anxiously towards him. He took no notice, hoping that she would come and speak to him, and that he should thus be the gainer of a few of her sweet words. She did come, and just said, "The cake and ale are here, Rolf. Will you carry them?"
"O, the treat for old Nipen. Yes, I will carry them," replied Rolf, rising from his seat.
It is the custom in the country regions of Norway to give the spirit Nipen a share at festival times. His Christmas cake is richer than that prepared for the guests; and, before the feast is finished, it is laid in some place out of doors, where, as might be expected, it is never to be found in the morning. Everybody knew therefore why Rolf rose from his seat, though some were too far off to hear him say that he would carry out the treat for old Nipen.
"Now, pray do not speak so,--do not call him those names," said Erica, anxiously. "It is quite as easy to speak so as not to offend him. Pray, Rolf, to please me, do speak respectfully. And promise me to play no tricks, but just set the things down, and come straight in, and do not look behind you. Promise me, Rolf."
Rolf did promise, but he was stopped by two voices, calling upon him. Oddo, the herd-boy, came running to claim the office of carrying out Nipen's cake; and M. Kollsen, from his seat, declared that he could not countenance any superstitious observances,--would not indeed permit any so gross as this in his presence. He requested that the company might have the benefit of the cake, and made a speech in ridicule of all spirits and fairies so very bold and contemptuous, that all present who had to go home that night looked in consternation at their host. If such language as M. Kollsen's were allowed, they looked for nothing less than to have their way beset by offended spirits; so that Erlingsen might hear in the morning of some being frozen, some being lost in the fiord, and others tumbled from precipices. M. Erlingsen made haste to speak. He did not use any scruples with the young clergyman. He told him that every one present would be happy at all times to hear him speak on the matters belonging to his office. He had discharged his office in the morning, in betrothing Rolf and Erica he was now resting from his business as a guest at that table; and he would, of course, allow that the direction of the festivity rested with the host and hostess, whose desire it was that everything should be done which was agreeable to the feelings and habits of the greater number of the guests.
It was settled in a moment that Nipen should have his cake; which so shocked and annoyed M. Kollsen that he declared he would not remain to sanction anything so impious, and requested that his boatmen might be called from their suppers, and desired to have his boat ready immediately. No entreaties would soften him: go he would.
It appeared, however, that he could not go. Not a man would row him, after what he had just said of Nipen. All were sure that a gust would blow the boat over, the minute she was out of reach of land; or that a rock would spring up in deep water, where no rock was before; or that some strong hand would grasp the boat from below, and draw it down under the waters. A shudder went round as these things were prophesied, and, of course, M. Kollsen's return home that night was out of the question, unless he would row himself. At first, he declared he should do this; but he was so earnestly entreated to attempt nothing so rash, that he yielded the point, with a supercilious air which perhaps concealed more satisfaction than he chose to avow to himself. He insisted on retiring immediately, however, and was shown to his chamber at once by Erlingsen himself, who found, on his return, that the company were the better for the pastor's absence, though unable to recover the mirth which he had put to flight. Erica had been shedding a few tears, in spite of strong efforts to restrain them. Here was a bad omen already,--on the very day of her betrothment; and she saw that Hund thought so; for there was a gloomy satisfaction in his eye, as he sat silently watching all that passed.
She could not help being glad that Oddo renewed his request to be allowed to carry out Nipen's cake and ale. She eagerly put the ale-can into his hand, and the cake under his arm; and Oddo was going out, when his blind grandfather, hearing that he was to be the messenger, observed that he should be better pleased if it _were_ somebody else; for Oddo, though a good boy, was inquisitive, and apt to get into mischief by looking too closely into everything,--having never a thought of fear. Everybody knew this to be true, though Oddo himself declared that he was as frightened as anybody sometimes. Moreover, he asked what there was to pry into, on the present occasion, in the middle of the night, and appealed to the company whether Nipen was not best pleased to be served by the youngest of a party. This was allowed, and he was permitted to go, when Peder's consent was obtained, his mistress going to the door with him, and seeing him off, putting him in mind that the dancing could not begin again till he returned to take up his clarionet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The rite of confirmation is thought much more of in Norway than with us. The preparation for it is longer and more strict; and the destiny of young people for life depends much on how they pass through it. A person who has not been confirmed is looked upon as one without a character and without knowledge; while those who pass well stand high in credit; and if they have to earn their living, are sure of good situations. --In the newspapers in Norway you may see among the advertisements, "A _confirmed_ shop-boy wants a place." "Wanted a _confirmed_ girl, who can cook;" which means that their having been confirmed proves that they are considered respectable, and not deficient in capacity or knowledge.
Note 2. A hundred years ago Nordland was included in the diocese of Tronyem.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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2
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ODDO'S WALK.
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The place where Nipen liked to find his offerings was at the end of the barn, below the gallery which ran round the outside of the building. There, in the summer, lay a plot of green grass, and in the winter a sheet of pure frozen snow. Thither Oddo shuffled on, over the slippery surface of the yard, and across the paddock, along the lane made by the snow-plough between high banks of snow; and he took prodigious pains, between one slip and another, not to spill the ale. He looked more like a prowling cub than a boy, wrapped as he was in his wolf-skin coat and his fox-skin cap doubled down over his ears.
As may be supposed from Oddo's declaring that he was sometimes frightened, he was a brave boy. A cowardly boy would not have said it; a cowardly boy would not have offered to go at all; a cowardly boy would, if he had been sent, have wished that the house-door might be left open, that he might see the cheerful yellow light from within; whereas Oddo begged his mistress to shut the door, that his grandfather might not be made to feel his rheumatism by any draught, as he sat at table. A cowardly boy would have run as fast as he could, perhaps slipping or falling, and spilling the ale; and when his errand was done, he would have fled home, without looking behind him, fancying everything he saw and heard a spirit or a wild beast. Oddo did very differently from this. As usual, he was too busy finding out how everything happened to feel afraid, as a less inquisitive boy would.
The cake steamed up in the frosty air under his nose, so warm, and spicy, and rich, that Oddo began to wonder what so very superior a cake could be like. He had never tasted any cake so rich as this, nor had any one in the house tasted such: for Nipen would be offended if his cake was not richer than anybody's else. Oddo wondered more and more how this would taste, till, before he had crossed the yard, he wondered no longer. He broke a piece off, and ate it; and then wondered whether Nipen would mind his cake being just a little smaller than usual. After a few steps more, the wonder was how far Nipen's charity would go, for the cake was now a great deal smaller, and Oddo next wondered whether anybody could stop eating such a cake when it was once tasted. He was surprised to see, when he came out into the starlight, at the end of the barn, how small a piece was left. He stood listening whether Nipen was coming in a gust of wind, and when he heard no breeze stirring, he looked about for a cloud where Nipen might be. There was no cloud, as far as he could see. The moon had set, but the stars were so bright as to throw a faint shadow from Oddo's form upon the snow. There was no sign of any spirit being angry at present: but Oddo thought Nipen would certainly be angry at finding so very small a piece of cake. It might be better to let the ale stand by itself, and Nipen would perhaps suppose that Madame Erlingsen's stock of groceries had fallen short; at least, that it was in some way inconvenient to make the cake on the present occasion. So, putting down his can upon the snow, and holding the last fragment of the cake between his teeth, he seized a birch pole which hung down from the gallery, and by its help climbed one of the posts, and got over the rails into the gallery, whence he could watch what would happen. To remain on the very spot where Nipen was expected was a little more than he was equal to; but he thought he could stand in the gallery, in the shadow of the broad eaves of the barn, and wait for a little while. He was so very curious to see Nipen, and to learn how it liked its ale!
There he stood in the shadow, hearing nothing but his own munching; though there was not much of that: for as he came near the end, he took only a little crumb at a time, to spin out the treat; for never was anything so good! Then he had nothing to do but listen: but the waterfall was frozen up; and the mill stood as still as if it was not made to move. If the wheel should creak, it would be a sign that Nipen was passing.
Presently he heard something.
"Music!" thought he. "I never heard that it liked music; and I don't think it can know much about music, for this is not at all sweet. There again! That was a sort of screech. O, how stupid I am!" thought he again. "So much for my head being full of Nipen! It is only Hund, tuning his violin, because they have all done supper. They will be waiting for me. I wish this Nipen would make haste. It can't be very hungry;--that is clear."
He grew more and more impatient as the minutes passed on, and he was aware that he was wanted in the house. Once or twice he walked slowly away, looking behind him, and then turned again, unwilling to miss this opportunity of seeing Nipen. Then he called the spirit,--actually begged it to appear. His first call was almost a whisper; but he called louder and louder by degrees, till he was suddenly stopped by hearing an answer.
The call he heard was soft and sweet. There was nothing terrible in the sound itself; yet Oddo grasped the rail of the gallery with all his strength, as he heard it. The strangest thing was, it was not a single cry; others followed,--all soft and sweet; but Oddo thought that Nipen must have many companions: and he had not prepared himself to see more spirits than one. As usual, however, his curiosity grew more intense, from the little he had heard; and he presently called again. Again he was answered, by four or five voices in succession.
"Was ever anybody so stupid!" cried the boy, now stamping with vexation. "It is the echo, after all! As if there was not always an echo here, opposite the rock! It is not Nipen at all. I will just wait another minute, however."
He leaned in silence on his folded arms; and had not so waited for many seconds before he saw something moving on the snow at a little distance. It came nearer and nearer, and at last quite up to the can of ale.
"I am glad I stayed," thought Oddo. "Now I can say I have seen Nipen. It is much less terrible than I expected. Grandfather told me that it sometimes came like an enormous elephant or hippopotamus; and never smaller than a large bear. But this is no bigger than--let me see--I think it is most like a fox. I should like to make it speak to me. They would think so much of me at home, if I had talked with Nipen."
So he began gently, "Is that Nipen?"
The thing moved its bushy tail, but did not answer.
"There is no cake for you to-night, Nipen. I hope the ale will do. Is the ale good, Nipen?"
Off went the dark creature, without a word, as quick as it could go.
"Is it offended?" thought Oddo: "or is it really what it looks like,--a fox? If it does not come back, I will go down presently, and see whether it has drunk the ale. If not, I shall think it is only a fox."
He presently let himself down to the ground by the way he had come up, and eagerly laid hold of the ale-can. It would not stir. It was as fast on the ground as if it was enchanted, which Oddo did not doubt was the case; and he started back, with more fear than he had yet had. The cold he felt on this exposed spot soon reminded him, however, that the can was probably frozen to the snow,--which it might well be, after being brought warm from the fire-side. It was so. The vessel had sunk an inch into the snow, and was there fixed by the frost.
None of the ale seemed to have been drunk; and so cold was Oddo by this time, that he longed for a sup of it. He took first a sup, and then a draught: and then he remembered that the rest would be entirely spoiled by the frost if it stood another hour. This would be a pity, he thought; so he finished it, saying to himself that he did not believe Nipen would come that night.
At that very moment he heard a cry so dreadful that it shot, like sudden pain, through every nerve of his body. It was not a shout of anger: it was something between a shriek and a wail,--like what he fancied would be the cry of a person in the act of being murdered. That Nipen was here now, he could not doubt; and at length Oddo fled. He fled the faster, at first, for hearing the rustle of wings; but the curiosity of the boy even now got the better of his terror, and he looked up at the barn where the wings were rustling. There he saw, in the starlight, the glitter of two enormous round eyes, shining down upon him from the ridge of the roof. But it struck him at once that he had seen those eyes before. He checked his speed, stopped, went back a little, sprang up once more into the gallery, hissed, waved his cap, and clapped his hands, till the echoes were all awake again; and, as he had hoped, the great white owl spread its wings, sprang off from the ridge, and sailed away over the fiord.
Oddo tossed up his cap, cold as the night was, so delighted was he to have scared away the bird which had for a moment scared him. He hushed his mirth, however, when he perceived that lights were wandering in the yard, and that there were voices approaching. He saw that the household were alarmed about him, and were coming forth to search for him. Curious to see what they would do, Oddo crouched down in the darkest corner of the gallery to watch and listen.
First came Rolf and his master, carrying torches, with which they lighted up the whole expanse of snow as they came. They looked round them without any fear, and Oddo heard Rolf say-- "If it were not for that cry, sir, I should think nothing of it. But my fear is that some beast has got him."
"Search first the place where the cake and ale ought to be," said Erlingsen. "Till I see blood, I shall hope the best."
"You will not see that," said Hund, who followed, his gloomy countenance now distorted by fear, looking ghastly in the yellow light of the torch he carried. "You will see no blood. Nipen does not draw blood."
"Never tell me that any one that was not wounded and torn could send out such a cry as that," said Rolf. "Some wild brute seized him, no doubt, at the very moment that Erica and I were standing at the door listening."
Oddo repented his prank when he saw, in the flickering light behind the crowd of guests, who seemed to hang together like a bunch of grapes, the figures of his grandfather and Erica. The old man had come out in the cold for his sake; and Erica, who looked as white as the snow, had no doubt come forth because the old man wanted a guide. Oddo now wished himself out of the scrape. Sorry as he was, he could not help being amused, and keeping himself hidden a little longer, when he saw Rolf discover the round hole in the snow where the can had sunk, and heard the different opinions of the company as to what this portended. Most were convinced that his curiosity had been his destruction, as they had always prophesied. What could be clearer by this hole than that the ale had stood there, and been carried off with the cake, and Oddo with it, because he chose to stay and witness what is forbidden to mortals?
"I wonder where he is now?" said a shivering youth, the gayest dancer of the evening.
"O, there is no doubt about that; any one can tell you that," replied the elderly and experienced M. Holberg. "He is chained upon a wind, poor fellow, like all Nipen's victims. He will have to be shut up in a cave all the hot summer through, when it is pleasantest to be abroad; and when the frost and snow come again, he will be driven out with a lash of Nipen's whip, and he must go flying wherever his wind flies without resting or stopping to warm himself at any fire in the country. Every winter now, when Erlingsen hears a moaning above his chimney, he may know it is poor Oddo, foolish boy!"
"Foolish boy! but one can't help pitying him," said another. "Chained astride upon the wind, and never to be warm again!"
Oddo had thus far kept his laughter to himself, but now he could contain himself no longer. He laughed aloud, and then louder and louder as he heard the echoes all laughing with him. The faces below, too, were so very ridiculous--some of the people staring up in the air, and others at the rock where the echo came from; some having their mouths wide open, others their eyes starting, and all looking unlike themselves in the torchlight. His mirth was stopped by his master.
"Come down, sir," cried Erlingsen, looking up at the gallery. "Come down this moment. We shall make you remember this night as well perhaps as Nipen could do. Come down, and bring my can and the ale and the cake. The more pranks you play to-night the more you will repent it."
Most of the company thought Erlingsen very bold to talk in this way; but he was presently justified by Oddo's appearance on the balustrade. His master seized him as he touched the ground, while the others stood aloof.
"Where is my ale-can?" said Erlingsen.
"Here, sir;" and Oddo held it up dangling by the handle.
"And the cake? I bade you bring down the cake with you."
"So I did, sir."
And to his master's look of inquiry the boy answered by pointing down his throat with one finger, and laying the other hand upon his stomach. "It is all here, sir."
"And the ale in the same place?"
Oddo bowed, and Erlingsen turned away without speaking. He could not have spoken without laughing.
"Bring this gentleman home," said Erlingsen, presently to Rolf; "and do not let him out of your hands. Let no one ask him any questions till he is in the house." Rolf grasped the boy's arm, and Erlingsen went forward to relieve Peder, though it was not very clear to him at the moment whether such a grandchild was better safe or missing. The old man made no such question, but hastened back to the house with many expressions of thanksgiving.
As the search-party crowded in among the women, and pushed all before them into the large warm room, M. Kollsen was seen standing on the stair-head, wrapped in the bear-skin coverlid.
"Is the boy there?" he inquired.
Oddo showed himself.
"How much have you seen of Nipen, hey?"
"Nobody ever had a better sight of it, sir. It was as plain as I see you now, and no further off."
"Nonsense,--it is a lie," said M. Kollsen.
"Do not believe a word he says," advised the pastor, speaking to the listeners. "There is the folly of giving such an opportunity to a child of making himself important. If he had had his share of the cake, with the rest of us at table, he would have taken it quietly, and been thankful. As it is, it will be harder work than ever to drive out these wicked superstitions. Go, get along!" he cried to Oddo; "I do not want to hear a word you have got to say."
Oddo bowed, and proceeded to the great room, where he took up his clarionet, as if it was a matter of course that the dancing was to begin again immediately. He blew upon his fingers, however, observing that they were too stiff with cold to do their duty well. And when he turned towards the fire, everyone made way for him, in a very different manner from what they would have dreamed of three hours before. Oddo had his curiosity gratified as to how they would regard one who was believed to have seen something supernatural.
Erlingsen saw that something must be done on the spot, to clear up the affair. If his guests went home without having heard the mysteries of the night explained, the whole country would presently be filled with wild and superstitious stories. He requested Peder to examine the boy, as Oddo stood more in awe of his grandfather than of anyone else; and also because Peder was known to be so firm a believer in Nipen, that his judgment would be more readily received than that of an unbeliever. When seriously questioned, Oddo had no wish to say anything but the truth; and he admitted the whole,--that he had eaten the entire cake, drunk all the ale, seen a fox and an owl, and heard the echoes in answer to himself. As he finished his story, Hund, who was perhaps the most eager listener of all, leaped thrice upon the floor, snapping his fingers, as if in a passion of delight. He met Erlingsen's eye full of severity, and was quiet; but his countenance still glowed with exultation.
The rest of the company was greatly shocked at these daring insults to Nipen: and none more so than Peder. The old man's features worked with emotion, as he said in a low voice that he should be very thankful if all the mischief that might follow upon this adventure might be borne by the kin of him who had provoked it. If it should fall upon those who were innocent, never surely had boy been so miserable as his poor lad would then be. Oddo's eyes filled with tears, as he heard this; and he looked up at his master and mistress, as if to ask whether they had no word of comfort to say.
"Neighbour," said Madame Erlingsen to Peder, "is there any one here who does not believe that God is over all, and that he protects the innocent?"
"Is there any one who does not feel," added Erlingsen, "that the innocent should be gay, safe as they are in the good-will of God and man? Come, neighbours,--to your dancing again! You have lost too much time already. Now, Oddo, play your best,--and you, Hund."
"I hope," said Oddo, "that if any mischief is to come, it will fall upon me. We'll see how I shall bear it."
"Mischief enough will befall you, boy,--never doubt it," said his master, "as long as you trifle with people's feelings as you have done to-night. Go. Make up for it all you can."
The dancing was spiritless, and there was little more of it. The mirth of the meeting was destroyed. The party broke up at three, instead of five or six; and it might have been earlier still, but for the unwillingness of every family present to be the first to go upon the lake, or to try the road. At last, all understood one another's feelings by their own; and the whole company departed at once in two bands,--one by water, and the other by land. Those who went in sleighs took care that a heavy stone was fastened by a rope to the back of each carriage, that its bobbing and dancing on the road might keep off the wolves. Glad would they have been of any contrivance by which they might as certainly distance Nipen. Rolf then took a parting kiss from Erica in the porch, pushed Oddo on before, and followed with Peder. Erica watched them quite to the door of their own house, and then came in, and busied herself in making a clearance of some of the confusion which the guests had left behind.
"Oddo could not get a word from you, Erica," observed her mistress; "not even a look in answer to his `good night'."
"I could not, madam," answered Erica, tears and sobs breaking forth. "When I think of it all, I am so shocked,--so ashamed!"
"How ashamed?"
"Nipen has been so favourable to us to-day, madam! not a breath of wind stirring all the morning, so that nobody was disappointed of coming! And then to serve it in this way! To rob it, and mock it, and brave it as we have done! --So ungrateful! --so very wrong!"
"We are very sorry for Oddo's trick,--your master and I," said Madame Erlingsen; "but we are not in the least afraid of any further harm happening. You know we do not believe that God permits his children to be at the mercy of evil or capricious spirits. Indeed, Erica, we could not love God as we should wish to love Him, if we could not trust in Him as a just and kind protector. Go to rest now, Erica. You have done quite enough since you left your bed. Go to rest now. Rest your heart upon Him who has blessed you exceedingly this day. Whatever others do, do not you be ungrateful to Him. Good sleep to you, Erica! Sleep off your troubles, that Rolf may see nothing of them in the morning."
Erica smiled; and when Orga and Frolich saw the effect of what their mother had said, they too went to rest without trembling at every one of the noises with which a house built of wood is always resounding.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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3
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OLAF AND HIS NEWS.
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When M. Kollsen appeared the next morning, the household had so much of its usual air that no stranger would have imagined how it had been occupied the day before. The large room was fresh strewn with evergreen sprigs; the breakfast-table stood at one end, where each took breakfast, standing, immediately on coming downstairs. At the bottom of the room was a busy group. The shoemaker, who travelled this way twice a year, had appeared this morning, and was already engaged upon the skins which had been tanned on the farm, and kept in readiness for him. He was instructing Oddo in the making of the tall boots of the country; and Oddo was so eager to have a pair in which he might walk knee-deep in the snow when the frosts should be over, that he gave all his attention to the work. Peder was twisting strips of leather, thin and narrow, into whips. Rolf and Hund were silently intent upon a sort of work which the Norwegian peasant delights in,--carving wood. They spoke only to answer Peder's questions about the progress of the work. Peder loved to hear about their carving, and to feel it; for he had been remarkable for his skill in the art, as long as his sight lasted.
Erlingsen was reading the newspaper, which must go away in the pastor's pocket. Madame was spinning; and her daughters sat busily plying their needles with Erica, in a corner of the apartment. The three were putting the last stitches to the piece of work which the pastor was also to carry away with him, as his fee for his services of yesterday. It was an eider-down coverlid, of which Rolf had procured the down, from the islets in the fiord frequented by the eider-duck, and Erica had woven the cover and quilted it, with the assistance of her young ladies, in an elegant pattern. The other house-maiden was in the chambers, hanging out the bedding in an upper gallery to air, as she did on all days of fair weather.
The whole party rose when M. Kollsen entered the room, but presently resumed their employments, except Madame Erlingsen, who conducted the pastor to the breakfast-table, and helped him plentifully to reindeer ham, bread-and-butter, and corn-brandy,--the usual breakfast. M. Kollsen carried his plate and ate, as he went round to converse with each group. First, he talked politics a little with his host, by the fire-side; in the midst of which conversation Erlingsen managed to intimate that nothing would be heard of Nipen to-day, if the subject was let alone by themselves: a hint which the clergyman was willing to take, as he supposed it meant in deference to his views. Then he complimented Madame Erlingsen on the excellence of her ham, and helped himself again; and next drew near the girls.
Erica blushed, and was thinking how she should explain that she wished his acceptance of her work, when Frolich saved her the awkwardness by saying-- "We hope you will like this coverlid, for we have made an entirely new pattern on purpose for it. Orga, you have the pattern. Do show M. Kollsen how pretty it looks on paper."
M. Kollsen did not know much about such things; but he admired as much as he could.
"That lily of the valley, see, is mamma's idea; and the barberry, answering to it, is mine. That tree in the middle is all Erica's work-- entirely; but the squirrel upon it, we never should have thought of. It was papa who put that in our heads; and it is the most original thing in the whole pattern. Erica has worked it beautifully, to be sure."
"I think we have said quite enough about it," observed Erica, smiling and blushing. "I hope M. Kollsen will accept it. The down is Rolfs present."
Rolf rose, and made his bow, and said he had had pleasure in preparing his small offering.
"And I think," said Erlingsen, "it is pretty plain that my little girls have had pleasure in their part of the work. It is my belief that they are sorry it is so nearly done."
M. Kollsen graciously accepted the gift,--took up the coverlid and weighed it in his hand, in order to admire its lightness, compared with its handsome size; and then bent over the carvers, to see what work was under their hands.
"A bell-collar, sir," said Hund, showing his piece of wood. "I am making a complete set for our cows, against they go to the mountain, come summer."
"A pulpit, sir," explained Rolf, showing his work in his turn.
"A pulpit! Really! And who is to preach in it?"
"You, sir, of course," replied Erlingsen. "Long before you came,--from the time the new church was begun, we meant it should have a handsome pulpit. Six of us, within a round of twenty miles, undertook the six sides; and Rolf has great hopes of having the basement allotted to him afterwards. The best workman is to do the basement, and I think Rolf bids fair to be the one. This is good work, sir."
"Exquisite," said the pastor. "I question whether our native carvers may not be found to be equal to any whose works we hear so much of in Popish churches, in other countries. And there is no doubt of the superiority of their subjects. Look at these elegant twining flowers, and that fine brooding eagle! How much better to copy the beautiful works of God that are before our eyes, than to make durable pictures of the Popish idolatries and superstitions, which should all have been forgotten as soon as possible! I hope that none of the impious idolatries which, I am ashamed to say, still linger among us, will find their way into the arts by which future generations will judge us."
The pastor stopped, on seeing that his hearers looked at one another, as if conscious. A few words, he judged, would be better than more; and he went on to Peder, passing by Oddo without a word of notice. The party had indeed glanced consciously at each other; for it so happened that the very prettiest piece Rolf had ever carved was a bowl on which he had shown the water-sprite's hand (and never was hand so delicate as the water-sprite's) beckoning the heron to come and fish when the river begins to flow.
When Erica heard M. Kollsen inquiring of Peder about his old wife, she started up from her work, and said she must run and prepare Ulla for the pastor's visit. Poor Ulla would think herself forgotten this morning, it was growing so late, and nobody had been over to see her.
Ulla, however, was far from having any such thoughts. There sat the old woman, propped up in bed, knitting as fast as fingers could move, and singing, with her soul in her song, though her voice was weak and unsteady. She was covered with an eider-down quilt, like the first lady in the land; but this luxury was a consequence of her being old and ill, and having friends who cared for her infirmities. There was no other luxury. Her window was glazed with thick flaky glass, through which nothing could be seen distinctly. The shelf, the table, the clothes-chest, were all of rough fir-wood; and the walls of the house were of logs, well stuffed with moss in all the crevices, to keep out the cold. There are no dwellings so warm in winter and cool in summer as well-built log-houses; and this house had everything essential to health and comfort: but there was nothing more, unless it was the green sprinkling of the floor, and the clean appearance of everything the room contained, from Ulla's cap to the wooden platters on the shelf.
"I thought you would come," said Ulla. "I knew you would come, and take my blessing on your betrothment, and my wishes that you may soon be seen with the golden crown [Note 1]. I must not say that I hope to see you crowned, for we all know,--and nobody so well as I,--that it is I that stand between you and your crown. I often think of it, my dear--" "Then I wish you would not, Ulla: you know that."
"I do know it, my dear, and I would not be for hastening God's appointments. Let all be in His own time. And I know, by myself, how happy you may be,--you and Rolf,--while Peder and I are failing and dying. I only say that none wish for your crowning more than we. O, Erica! you have a fine lot in having Rolf."
"Indeed, I know it, Ulla."
"Do but look about you, dear, and see how he keeps the house. And if you were to see him give me my cup of coffee, and watch over Peder, you would consider what he is likely to be to a pretty young thing like you, when he is what he is to two worn-out old creatures like us."
Erica did not need convincing about these things, but she liked to hear them.
"Where is he now?" asked Ulla. "I always ask where everybody is, at this season; people go about staring at the snow, as if they had no eyes to lose. That is the way my husband did. Do make Rolf take care of his precious eyes, Erica. Is he abroad to-day, my dear?"
"By this time he is," replied Erica, "I left him at work at the pulpit--" "Ay! trying his eyes with fine carving, as Peder did!"
"But," continued Erica, "there was news this morning of a lodgment of logs at the top of the foss [Note 2]; and they were all going, except Peder, to slide them down the gully to the fiord. The gully is frozen so slippery, that the work will not take long. They will make a raft of the logs in the fiord, and either Rolf or Hund will carry them out to the islands when the tide ebbs."
"Will it be Rolf, do you think, or Hund, dear?"
"I wish it may be Hund. If it be Rolf, I shall go with him. O, Ulla! I cannot lose sight of him, after what happened last night. Did you hear? I do wish Oddo would grow wiser."
Ulla shook her head, and then nodded, to intimate that they would not talk of Nipen; and she began to speak of something else.
"How did Hund conduct himself yesterday? I heard my husband's account: but you know Peder could say nothing of his looks. Did you mark his countenance, dear?"
"Indeed, there was no helping it, any more than one can help watching a storm-cloud as it comes up."
"So it was dark and wrathful, was it,--that ugly face of his? Well it might be, dear; well it might be!"
"The worst was,--worse than all his dark looks together,--O, Ulla! the worst was his leap and cry of joy when he heard what Oddo had done, and that Nipen was made our enemy. He looked like an evil spirit when he fixed his eyes on me, and snapped his fingers."
Ulla shook her head mournfully, and then asked Erica to put another peat on the fire.
"I really should like to know," said Erica, in a low voice, when she resumed her seat on the bed, "I am sure you can tell me if you would, what is the real truth about Hund, what it is that weighs upon his heart."
"I will tell you," replied Ulla. "You are not one that will go babbling it, so that Hund shall meet with taunts, and have his sore heart made sorer. I will tell you, my dear, though there is no one else but our mistress that I would tell, and she, no doubt, knows it already. Hund was born and reared a good way to the south, not far from Bergen. In mid-winter four years since, his master sent him on an errand of twenty miles, to carry some provisions to a village in the upper country. He did his errand, and so far all was well. The village people asked him for charity to carry three orphan children on his sledge some miles on the way to Bergen, and to leave them at a house he had to pass on his road, where they would be taken care of till they could be fetched from Bergen. Hund was an obliging young fellow then, and he made no objection. He took the little things, and saw that the two elder were well wrapped up from the cold. The third he took within his arms and on his knee as he drove, clasping it warm against his breast. So those say who saw them set off; and it is confirmed by one who met the sledge on the road, and heard the children prattling to Hund, and Hund laughing merrily at their little talk. Before they had got half-way, however, a pack of hungry wolves burst out upon them from a hollow to the right of the road. The brutes followed close at the back of the sledge, and--" "O, stop!" cried Erica; "I know that story. Is it possible that Hund is the man? No need to go on, Ulla."
But Ulla thought there was always need to finish a story that she had begun, and she proceeded.
"Closer and closer the wolves pressed, and it is thought Hund saw one about to spring at his throat. It was impossible for the horse to go faster than it did, for it went like the wind; but so did the beasts. Hund snatched up one of the children behind him, and threw it over the back of the sledge, and this stopped the pack for a little. On galloped the horse, but the wolves were soon crowding round again, with the blood freezing on their muzzles. It was easier to throw the second child than the first, and Hund did it. It was harder to give up the third--the dumb infant that nestled to his breast, but Hund was in mortal terror; and a man beside himself with terror has all the cruelty of a pack of wolves. Hund flung away the infant, and just saved himself. Nobody at home questioned him, for nobody knew about the orphans, and he did not tell. But he was unsettled and looked wild; and his talk, whenever he did speak, night or day, was of wolves, for the three days that he remained after his return. Then there was a questioning along the road about the orphan children; and Hund heard of it, and started off into the woods. By putting things together--what Hund had dropped in his agony of mind, and what had been seen and heard on the road, the whole was made out, and the country rose to find Hund. He was hunted like a bear in the forest and on the mountain; but he had got to the coast in time, and was taken in a boat, it is thought, to Hammerfest. At any rate, he came here as from the north, and wishes to pass for a northern man."
"And does Erlingsen know all this?"
"Yes. The same person who told me told him. Erlingsen thinks he must meet with mercy, for that none need mercy so much as the weak; and Hund's act was an act of weakness."
"Weakness!" cried Erica, with disgust.
"He is a coward, my dear; and death stared him in the face."
"I have often wondered," said Erica, "where on the face of the earth that wretch was wandering: and it is Hund! And he wanted to live in this very house," she continued, looking round the room.
"And to marry you, dear. Erlingsen would never have allowed that. But the thought has plunged the poor fellow deeper, instead of saving him, as he hoped. He now has envy and jealousy at his heart, besides the remorse which he will carry to his grave."
"And revenge!" said Erica, shuddering. "I tell you he leaped for joy that Nipen was offended. Here is some one coming," she exclaimed, starting from her seat, as a shadow flitted over the thick window-pane, and a hasty knock was heard at the door.
"You are a coward, if ever there was one," said Ulla, smiling. "Hund never comes here, so you need not look so frightened. What is to be done if you look so at dinner, or the next time you meet him? It will be the ruin of some of us. Go,--open the door, and do not keep the pastor waiting."
There was another knock before Erica could reach the door, and Frolich burst in.
"Such news!" she cried; "you never heard such news."
"I wish there never was any news," exclaimed Erica, almost pettishly.
"Good or bad?" inquired Ulla.
"O, bad,--very bad," declared Frolich, who yet looked as if she would rather have it than none. "Here is company. Olaf, the drug-merchant, is come. Father did not expect him these three weeks."
"This is not bad news, but good," said Ulla. "Who knows but he may bring me a cure?"
"We will all beg him to cure you, dear Ulla," said Frolich, stroking the old woman's white hair smooth upon her forehead. "But he tells us shocking things. There is a pirate-vessel among the islands. She was seen off Soroe, some time ago; but she is much nearer to us now. There was a farm-house seen burning on Alten fiord, last week; and as the family are all gone, and nothing but ruins left, there is little doubt the pirates lit the torch that did it. And the cod has been carried off from the beach, in the few places where any has been caught yet."
"They have not found out our fiord yet?" inquired Ulla.
"O, dear! I hope not. But they may, any day. And father says, the coast must be raised, from Hammerfest to Tronyem, and a watch set till this wicked vessel can be taken or driven away. He was going to send a running message both ways; but here is something else to be done first."
"Another misfortune?" asked Erica, faintly.
"No: they say it is a piece of very good fortune;--at least, for those who like bears' feet for dinner. Somebody or other has lighted upon the great bear that got away in the summer, and poked her out of her den, on the fjelde. She is certainly abroad, with her two last year's cubs; and their traces have been found just above, near the foss. Olaf had heard of her being roused; and Rolf and Hund have found her traces. Oddo has come running home to tell us: and father says he must get up a hunt before more snow falls, and we lose the tracks, or the family may establish themselves among us, and make away with our first calves."
"Does he expect to kill them all?"
"I tell you, we are all to grow stout on bears' feet. For my part, I like bears' feet best on the other side of Tronyem."
"You will change your mind, Miss Frolich, when you see them on the table," observed Ulla.
"That is just what father said. And he asked how I thought Erica and Stiorna would like to have a den in their neighbourhood when they go up to the mountain for the summer. O, it will be all right when the hunt is well over, and all the bears dead. Meantime, I thought they were at my heels as I crossed the yard."
"And that made you burst in as you did. Did Olaf say anything about coming to see me? Has he plenty of medicines with him?"
"O, certainly. That was the thing I came to say. He is laying out his medicines, while he warms himself; and then he is coming over, to see what he can do for your poor head. He asked about you, directly; and he is frowning over his drugs, as if he meant to let them know that they must not trifle with you."
Ulla was highly pleased, and gave her directions very briskly about the arrangement of the room. If it had been the grandest apartment of a palace, she could not have been more particular as to where everything should stand. When all was to her mind, she begged Erica to step over, and inform Olaf that she was ready.
When Erica opened the door, she instantly drew back, and shut it again.
"What now?" asked Frolich. "Are all the bears in the porch?"
"Olaf is there," replied Erica, in a whisper, "talking with Hund."
"Hund wants a cure for the head-ache," Frolich whispered in return; "or a charm to make some girl betroth herself to him;--a thing which no girl will do, but under a charm: for I don't believe Stiorna would when it came to the point, though she likes to be attended to."
When Olaf entered, and Hund walked away, Frolich ran home, and Erica stood by the window, ready to receive the travelling doctor's opinion and directions if he should vouchsafe any.
"So I am not the first to consult you to-day," said Ulla. "It is rather hard that I should not have the best chance of luck, having been so long ill."
Olaf assured her that he would hear no complaints from another till he had given her the first-fruits of his wisdom in this district of his rounds. Hund was only inquiring of him where the pirate-schooner was, having slid down from the height, as fast as his snow-skaits would carry him, on hearing the news from Oddo. He was also eager to know whence these pirates came,--what nation they were of, or whether a crew gathered from many nations. Olaf had advised Hund to go and ask the pirates themselves all that he wanted to know; for there was no one else who could satisfy him. Whereupon Hund had smiled grimly, and gone back to his work.
Erica observed that she had heard her master say that it was foolish to boast that Norway need not mind when Denmark went to war, because it would be carried on far out of sight and hearing. So far from this, Erlingsen had said, that Denmark never went to war but pirates came to ravage the coast, from the North Cape to the Naze. Was not this the case now? Denmark had gone to war; and here were the pirates come to make her poor partner suffer.
Olaf said this explained the matter: and he feared the business of the coast would suffer till a time of peace. Meanwhile, he must mind his business. When he had heard all Ulla's complaints, and ordered exactly what she wished--large doses of camphor and corn-brandy to keep off the night-fever and daily cough, he was ready to hear whatever else Erica had to ask, for Ulla had hinted that Erica wanted advice.
"I do not mind Ulla hearing my words," said Erica. "She knows my trouble."
"It is of the mind," observed Olaf, solemnly, on discovering that Erica did not desire to have her pulse felt.
"Yesterday was--I was--" Erica began.
"She was betrothed yesterday," said Ulla, "to the man of her heart. Rolf is such a young man--" "Olaf knows Rolf," observed Erica. "An unfortunate thing happened at the end of the day, Olaf. Nipen was insulted." And she told the story of Oddo's prank, and implored the doctor to say if anything could be done to avert bad consequences.
"No doubt," replied Olaf. "Look here! This will preserve you from any particular evil that you dread." And he took from the box he carried under his arm a round piece of white paper, with a hole in the middle, through which a string was to be passed, to tie the charm round the neck. Erica shook her head. Such a charm would be of no use, as she did not know under what particular shape of misfortune Nipen's displeasure would show itself. Besides, she was certain that nothing would make Rolf wear a charm; and she disdained to use any security which he might not share. Olaf could not help her in any other way; but inquired with sympathy when the next festival would take place. Then, all might be repaired by handsome treatment of Nipen. Till then, he advised Erica to wear his charm, as her lover could not be the worse for her being so far safe. Erica blushed: she knew, but did not say, that harm would be done which no charm could repair if her lover saw her trying to save herself from dangers to which he remained exposed: and she did not know what their betrothment was worth, if it did not give them the privilege of suffering together. So she put back the charm into its place in the box, and, with a sigh, rose to return to the house.
In the porch she found Oddo, eating something which caused him to make faces. Though it was in the open air, there was a strong smell of camphor, and of something else less pleasant.
"What are you doing, Oddo?" asked Erica: the question which Oddo was asked every day of his life.
Oddo had observed Olaf's practice among his patients of the household, and perceived that, for all complaints, of body or mind, he gave the two things camphor and asafoetida,--sometimes together, and sometimes separately; and always in corn-brandy. Oddo could not refrain from trying what these drugs were like; so he helped himself to some of each; and, as he could get no corn-brandy till dinner-time, he was eating the medicines without. Such was the cause of his wry faces. If he had been anything but a Norway boy, he would have been the invalid of the house to-day, from the quantity of rich cake he had eaten: but Oddo seemed to share the privilege, common to Norwegians, of being able to eat anything, in any quantity, without injury. His wry faces were from no indigestion, but from the savour of asafoetida, unrelieved by brandy.
Wooden dwellings resound so much as to be inconvenient for those who have secrets to tell. In the porch of Peder's house, Oddo had heard all that passed within. It was good for him to have done so. He became more sensible of the pain he had given, and more anxious to repair it. "Dear Erica," said he, "I want you to do a very kind thing for me. Do get leave for me to go with Rolf after the bears. If I get one stroke at them,--if I can but wound one of them, I shall have a paw for my share; and I will lay it out for Nipen. You will, will you not?"
"It must be as Erlingsen chooses, Oddo: but I fancy you will not be allowed to go just now. The bears will think the doctor's physic-sledge is coming through the woods, and they will be shy. Do stand a little further off. I cannot think how it is that you are not choked."
"Suppose you go for an airing," said the doctor, who now joined them. "If you must not go in the way of the bears, there is a reindeer,--" "O, where?" cried Oddo.
"I saw one,--all alone,--on the Salten heights. If you run that way, with the wind behind you, the deer will give you a good run;--up Sulitelma, if you like, and you will have got rid of the camphor before you come back. And be sure you bring me some Iceland moss, to pay me for what you have been helping yourself to."
When Oddo had convinced himself that Olaf really had seen a reindeer on the heights, three miles off, he said to himself, that if deer do not like camphor, they are fond of salt; and he was presently at the salt-box, and then quickly on his way to the hills with his bait. He considered his chance of training home the deer much more probable than that Erlingsen and his grandfather would allow him to hunt the bears: And he doubtless judged rightly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Peasant brides in Norway wear, on their wedding-day, a coronet of pasteboard, covered with gilt paper.
Note 2. Waterfall. Pine-trunks felled in the forest are drawn over the frozen snow to the banks of a river, or to the top of a waterfall, whence they may be either slid down over the ice, or left to be carried down by the floods, at the melting of the snows in the spring.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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4
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ROVING HERE AND ROVING THERE.
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The establishment was now in a great hurry and bustle for an hour, after which time it promised to be unusually quiet.
M. Kollsen began to be anxious to be on the other side of the fiord. It was rather inconvenient, as the two men were wanted to go in different directions, while their master took a third, to rouse the farmers for the bear-hunt. The hunters were all to arrive before night within a certain distance of the thickets where the bears were now believed to be. On calm nights it was no great hardship to spend the dark hours in the bivouac of the country. Each party was to shelter itself under a bank of snow, or in a pit dug out of it, an enormous fire blazing in the midst, and brandy and tobacco being plentifully distributed on such occasions. Early in the morning the director of the hunt was to go his rounds, and arrange the hunters in a ring enclosing the hiding-place of the bears, so that all might be prepared, and no waste made of the few hours of daylight which the season afforded. As soon as it was light enough to see distinctly among the trees, or bushes, or holes of the rocks where the bears might be couched, they were to be driven from their retreat, and disposed of as quickly as possible. Such was the plan, well understood, in such cases throughout the country. On the present occasion it might be expected that the peasantry would be ready at the first summons, as Olaf had told his story of the bears all along the road. Yet, the more messengers and helpers the better; and Erlingsen was rather vexed to see Hund go with alacrity to unmoor the boat, and offer officiously to row the pastor across the fiord. His daughters knew what he was thinking about, and after a moment's consultation, Frolich asked whether she and the maid Stiorna might not be the rowers.
Nobody would have objected if Hund had not. The girls could row, though they could not hunt bears; and the weather was fair enough; but Hund shook his head, and went on preparing the boat. His master spoke to him, but Hund was not remarkable for giving up his own way. He would only say that there would be plenty of time for both affairs, and that he could follow the hunt when he returned, and across the lake he went.
Erlingsen and Rolf presently departed, accompanied by Olaf, who was glad of an escort for a few miles, though nothing was further from his intention than going near the bears. The women and Peder were thus left behind.
They occupied themselves to keep away anxious thoughts. One began some new nets, for the approaching fishing season; another sat in the loom, and the girls appealed to their mother very frequently, about the beauties of a new quilting pattern they were drawing. Old Peder sang to them too; but Peder's songs were rather melancholy, and they had not the effect of cheering the party. Hour after hour they looked for Hund. His news of his voyage, and the sending him after his master, would be something to do and to think of; but Hund did not come. Stiorna at last let fall that she did not think he would come yet, for that he meant to catch some cod before his return; he had taken tackle with him for that purpose, she knew, and she should not wonder if he did not appear till the morning.
Every one was surprised, and Madame Erlingsen highly displeased. At the time when her husband would be wanting every strong arm that could be mustered, his servant chose to be out fishing, instead of obeying orders. The girls pronounced him a coward, and Peder observed that to a coward, as well as a sluggard, there was ever a lion in the path. Erica doubted whether this act of disobedience arose from cowardice, for there were dangers in the fiord, for such as went out as far as the cod. She supposed Hund had heard-- She stopped short, as a sudden flash of suspicion crossed her mind. She had seen Hund inquiring of Olaf about the pirates, and his strange obstinacy about this day's boating looked much as if he meant to learn more.
"Danger in the fiord!" repeated Orga. "O, you mean the pirates; they are far enough from our fiord, I suppose. If ever they do come, I wish they would catch Hund, and carry him off. I am sure we could spare them nothing they would be so welcome to."
Madame Erlingsen saw that Erica was turning red and white, and resolved to ask, on the first good opportunity, what was in her mind about Hund, for no one was more disposed to distrust and watch him than the lady herself.
The first piece of amusement that occurred was the return of Oddo, who passed the windows, followed at a short distance by a wistful-looking deer, which seemed afraid to come quite up to him, but kept its branched head outstretched towards the salt which Oddo displayed, dropping a few grains from time to time. At the sight all crowded to the windows but Frolich, who left the room on the instant. Before the animal had passed the servants' house (a separate dwelling in the yard), she appeared in the gallery which ran round the outside of it, and showed to Oddo a cord which she held; he nodded, and threw down some salt on the snow immediately below where she stood. The reindeer stooped its head, instead of looking out for enemies above, and thus gave Frolich a good opportunity to throw her cord over its antlers. She had previously wound one end round the balustrade of the gallery, so that she had not with her single strength to sustain the animal's struggles.
The poor animal struggled violently when it found its head no longer at liberty, and, by throwing out its legs, gave Oddo an opportunity to catch and fasten it by the hind leg, so as to decide its fate completely. It could now only start from side to side, and threaten with its head when the household gathered round to congratulate Oddo and Frolich on the success of their hunting. The women durst only hastily stroke the palpitating sides of the poor beast; but, Peder, who had handled many scores in his lifetime, boldly seized its head, and felt its horns and the bones from whence they grew, to ascertain its age.
"Do you fancy you have made a prize of a wild deer, boy?" he asked of his grandson.
"To be sure," said Oddo.
"I thought you had had more curiosity than to take such a thing for granted, Oddo. See here! Is not this ear slit?"
"Why, yes," Oddo admitted; "but it is not a slit of this year or last. It may have belonged to the Lapps once upon a time; but it has been wild for so long that it is all the same as if it had never been in a fold. It will never be claimed."
"I am of your opinion there, boy. I wish you joy of your sport."
"You may: for I doubt whether anybody will do better to-day. Hund will not, for one, if it is he who has gone out with the boat; and I think I cannot be mistaken in the handling of his oar."
"Have you seen him? Where? What is he doing?" asked one and another.
Before Oddo could answer, Madame Erlingsen desired that he would go home with his grandfather, and tell Ulla about the deer, while he warmed himself. She did not wish her daughters to hear what he might have to tell of Hund. Stiorna too was better out of the way. Oddo had not half told the story of the deer to his grandmother, when his mistress and Erica entered.
"Did you not see M. Kollsen in the boat with Hund?" she inquired.
"No. Hund was quite alone, pulling with all his might down the fiord. The tide was with him, so that he shot along like a fish."
"How do you know that it was Hund you saw?"
"Don't I know our boat? And don't I know his pull? It is no more like Rolf's than Rolf's is like master's."
"Perhaps he was making for the best fishing-ground as fast as he could."
"We shall see that by the fish he brings home."
"True. By supper-time we shall know."
"Hund will not be home by supper-time," said Oddo, decidedly.
"Why not? Come, say out what you mean."
"Well, I will tell you what I saw. I watched him rowing as fast as his arm and the tide would carry him. It was so plain that there was a plan in his head, that I forgot the deer in watching him; and I followed on from point to point, catching a sight now and then, till I had gone a good stretch beyond Salten heights. I was just going to turn back when I took one more look, and he was then pulling in for the land."
"On the north shore or south?" asked Peder.
"The north--just at the narrow part of the fiord, where one can see into the holes of the rocks opposite."
"The fiord takes a wide sweep below there," observed Peder.
"Yes; and that was why he landed," replied Oddo. "He was then but a little way from the fishing-ground, if he had wanted fish. But he drove up the boat into a little cove, a narrow dark creek, where it will lie safe enough, I have no doubt, till he comes back: if he means to come back."
"Why, where should he go? What should he do but come back?" asked Madame Erlingsen.
"He is now gone over the ridge to the north. I saw him moor the boat, and begin to climb; and I watched his dark figure on the white snow, higher and higher, till it was a speck, and I could not make it out."
"That is the way you will lose your eyes," exclaimed Ulla. "How often have I warned you,--and many others as giddy as you! When you have lost your eyes, you will think you had better have minded my advice, and not have stared at the snow after a runaway that is better there than here."
"What do you think of this story, Peder?" asked his mistress.
"I think Hund has taken the short cut over the promontory, on business of his own at the islands. He is not on any business of yours, depend upon it, madam."
"And what business can he have among the islands?"
"I could say that with more certainty if I knew exactly where the pirate-vessel is."
"That is your idea, Erica," said her mistress. "I saw what your thoughts were, an hour ago, before we knew all this."
"I was thinking then, madam, that if Hund was gone to join the pirates, Nipen would be very ready to give them a wind just now. A baffling wind would be our only defence; and we cannot expect that much from Nipen to-day."
"I will do anything in the world," cried Oddo, eagerly. "Send me anywhere. Do think of something that I can do."
"What must be done, Peder?" asked his mistress. "There is quite enough to fear, Erica, without a word of Nipen. Pirates on the coast, and one farm-house seen burning already!"
"I will tell you what you must let me do, madam," said Erica. "Indeed you must not oppose me. My mind is quite set upon going for the boat,-- immediately--this very minute. That will give us time--it will give us safety for this night. Hund might bring seven or eight men upon us over the promontory: but if they find no boat, I think they can hardly work up the windings of the fiord in their own vessel to-night;--unless, indeed," she added, with a sigh, "they have a most favourable wind."
"All this is true enough," said her mistress; "but how will you go? Will you swim?"
"The raft, madam."
"And there is the old skiff on Thor islet," said Oddo. "It is a rickety little thing, hardly big enough for two; but it will carry down Erica and me, if we go before the tide turns."
"But how will you get to Thor islet?" inquired Madame Erlingsen. "I wish the scheme were not such a wild one."
"A wild one must serve at such a time, madam," replied Erica. "Rolf had lashed several logs before he went. I am sure we can get over to the islet. See, madam, the fiord is as smooth as a pond."
"Let her go," said Peder. "She will never repent."
"Then come back, I charge you, if you find the least danger," said her mistress. "No one is safer at the oar than you; but if there is a ripple in the water, or a gust on the heights, or a cloud in the sky, come back. Such is my command, Erica."
"Wife," said Peder, "give her your pelisse; that will save her seeing the girls before she goes. And she shall have my cap, and then there is not an eye along the fiord that can tell whether she is man or woman."
Ulla lent her deerskin pelisse willingly enough; but she entreated that Oddo might be kept at home. She folded her arms about the boy with tears; but Peder decided the matter with the words, "Let him go; it is the least he can do to make up for last night. Equip, Oddo."
Oddo equipped willingly enough. In two minutes he and his companion looked like two walking bundles of fur. Oddo carried a frail-basket, containing rye-bread, salt-fish, and a flask of corn-brandy; for in Norway no one goes on the shortest expedition without carrying provisions.
"Surely it must be dusk by this time," said Peder.
It was dusk; and this was well, as the pair could steal down to the shore without being perceived from the house. Madame Erlingsen gave them her blessing, saying that if the enterprise saved them from nothing worse than Hund's company this night, it would be a great good. There could be no more comfort in having Hund for an inmate; for some improper secret he certainly had. Her hope was that, finding the boat gone, he would never show himself again.
"One would think," continued the lady, when she returned from watching Erica and Oddo disappear in the dusk--"one would think Erica had never known fear. Her step is as firm and her eye as clear as if she had never trembled in the course of her life."
"She knows how to act to-night," said Peder; "and she is going into danger for her lover, instead of waiting at home while her lover goes into danger for her. A hundred pirates in the fiord would not make her tremble as she trembled last night. Rather a hundred pirates than Nipen angry, she would say."
"There is her weakness," observed her mistress.
"Can we speak of weakness after what we have just seen--if I may say so, madam?"
"I think so," replied Madame Erlingsen. "I think it a weakness in those who believe that a just and tender Providence watches over us all, to fear what any power in the universe can do to them."
"M. Kollsen does not make progress in teaching the people what you say, madam. He only gets distrusted by it."
"When M. Kollsen has had more experience, he will find that this is not a matter for displeasure. He will not succeed while he is displeased at what his people think sacred. When he is an older man, he will pity the innocent for what they suffer from superstition; and this pity will teach him how to speak of Providence to such as our Erica. But here are my girls coming to seek me. I must meet them, to prevent their missing Erica."
"Get them to rest early, madam."
"Certainly; and you will watch in this house, Peder, and I at home."
"Trust me for hearing the oar at a furlong off, madam."
"That is more than I can promise," said the lady; "but the owl shall not be more awake than I."
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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5
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THE WATER-SPRITES' DOINGS.
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Erica now profited by her lover's industry in the morning. He had so far advanced with the raft that, though no one would have thought of taking it in its present state to the mouth of the fiord for shipment, it would serve as a conveyance in still water for a short distance safely enough.
And still, indeed, the waters were. As Erica and Oddo were busily and silently employed in tying moss round their oars to muffle their sound, the ripple of the tide upon the white sand could scarcely be heard, and it appeared to the eye as if the lingering remains of the daylight brooded on the fiord, unwilling to depart. The stars had, however, been showing themselves for some time; and they might now be seen twinkling below almost as clearly and steadily as overhead. As Erica and Oddo put their little raft off from the shore, and then waited, with their oars suspended, to observe whether the tide carried them towards the islet they must reach, it seemed as if some invisible hand was pushing them forth to shiver the bright pavement of constellations as it lay. Star after star was shivered, and its bright fragments danced in their wake; and those fragments reunited and became a star again as the waters closed over the path of the raft, and subsided into perfect stillness.
The tide favoured Erica's object. A few strokes of the oar brought the raft to the right point for landing on the islet. They stepped ashore, and towed the raft along till they came to the skiff, and then they fastened the raft with the boat-hook which had been fixed there for the skiff. This done, Oddo ran to turn over the little boat, and examine its condition: but he found he could not move it. It was frozen fast to the ground. It was scarcely possible to get a firm hold of it, it was so slippery with ice; and all pulling and pushing of the two together was in vain, though the boat was so light that either of them could have lifted and carried it in a time of thaw.
This circumstance caused a good deal of delay: and, what was worse, it obliged them to make some noise. They struck at the ice with sharp stones; but it was long before they could make any visible impression; and Erica proposed, again and again, that they should proceed on the raft. Oddo was unwilling. The skiff would go so incomparably faster, that it was worth spending some time upon it: and the fears he had had of its leaking were removed, now that he found what a sheet of ice it was covered with,--ice which would not melt to admit a drop of water while they were in it. So he knocked and knocked away, wishing that the echoes would be quiet for once, and then laughing as he imagined the ghost-stories that would spring up all round the fiord to-morrow, from the noise he was then making.
Erica worked hard too; and one advantage of their labour was that they were well warmed before they put off again. The boat's icy fastenings were all broken at last: and it was launched: but all was not ready yet. The skiff had lain in a direction east and west; and its north side had so much thicker a coating of ice than the other, that its balance was destroyed. It hung so low on one side as to promise to upset with a touch.
"We must clear off more of the ice," said Erica. "But how late it is growing!"
"No more knocking, I say," replied Oddo. "There is a quieter way of trimming the boat."
He fastened a few stones to the gunwale on the lighter side, and took in a few more for the purpose of shifting the weight, if necessary, while they were on their way.
They did not leave quiet behind them, when they departed. They had roused the multitude of eider-ducks, and other sea-fowl, which thronged the islet, and which now, being roused, began their night-feeding and flying, though at an earlier hour than usual. When their discordant cries were left so far behind as to be softened by distance, the flapping of wings and swash of water, as the fowl plunged in, still made the air busy all round.
The rowers were so occupied with the management of their dangerous craft, that they had not spoken since they left the islet. The skiff would have been unmanageable by any maiden and boy in our country; but, on the coast of Norway, it is as natural to persons of all ages and degrees to guide a boat as to walk. Swiftly but cautiously they shot through the water, till, at length, Oddo uttered a most hideous croak.
"What do you mean?" asked Erica, hastily glancing round her.
Oddo laughed, and looked upwards as he croaked again. He was answered by a similar croak, and a large raven was seen flying homewards over the fiord for the night. Then the echoes all croaked, till the whole region seemed to be full of ravens.
"Are you sure you know the cove?" asked Erica, who wished to put an end to this sound, unwelcome to the superstitious. "Do not make that bird croak so; it will be quiet if you let it alone. Are you sure you can find the cove again?"
"Quite sure. I wish I was as sure that Hund would not find it again before me. Pull away."
"How much farther is it?"
"Farther than I like to think of. I doubt your arm holding out. I wish Rolf was here."
Erica did not wish the same thing. She thought that Rolf was, on the whole, safer waging war with bears than with pirates; especially if Hund was among them. She pulled her oar cheerfully, observing that there was no fatigue at present; and that when they were once afloat in the heavier boat, and had cleared the cove, there need be no hurry,--unless, indeed, they should see something of the pirate-schooner on the way: and of this she had no expectation, as the booty that might be had where the fishery was beginning was worth more than anything that could be found higher up the fiords:--to say nothing of the danger of running up into the country, so far as that getting away again depended upon one particular wind.
Yet Erica looked behind her after every few strokes of her oar; and once, when she saw something, her start was felt like a start of the skiff itself. There was a fire glancing and gleaming and quivering over the water, some way down the fiord.
"Some people night-fishing," observed Oddo. "What sport they will have! I wish I was with them. How fast we go! How you can row when you choose! I can see the man that is holding the torch. Cannot you see his black figure? And the spearman,--see how he stands at the bow,--now going to cast his spear! I wish I was there."
"We must get farther away,--into the shadow somewhere,--or wait," observed Erica. "I had rather not wait,--it is growing so late. We might creep along under that promontory, in the shadow, if you would be quiet. I wonder whether you can be silent in the sight of night-fishing."
"To be sure," said Oddo, disposed to be angry, and only kept from it by the thought of last night. He helped to bring the skiff into the shadow of the overhanging rocks, and only spoke once more, to whisper that the fishing-boat was drifting down with the tide, and that he thought their cove lay between them and the fishing-party.
It was so. As the skiff rounded the point of the promontory, Oddo pointed out what appeared like a mere dark chasm in the high perpendicular wall of rock that bounded the waters. This chasm still looked so narrow, on approaching it, that Erica hesitated to push her skiff into it, till certain that there was no one there. Oddo, however, was so clear, that she might safely do this, so noiseless was their rowing, and it was so plain that there was no footing on the rocks by which he might enter to explore, that in a sort of desperation, and seeing nothing else to be done, Erica agreed. She wished it had been summer, when either of them might have learned what they wanted by swimming. This was now out of the question; and stealthily therefore she pulled her little craft into the deepest shadow, and crept into the cove.
At a little distance from the entrance it widened; but it was a wonder to Erica that even Oddo's eyes should have seen Hund moor his boat here from the other side of the fiord; though the fiord was not more than a gunshot over in this part. Oddo himself wondered, till he recalled how the sun was shining down into the chasm at the time. By starlight the outline of all that the cove contained might be seen; the outline of the boat, among other things. There she lay! But there was something about her which was unpleasant enough. There were three men in her.
What was to be done bow? Here was the very worst danger that Erica had feared--worse than finding the boat gone--worse than meeting it in the wide fiord. What was to be done?
There was nothing for it but to do nothing--to lie perfectly still in the shadow, ready, however, to push out on the first movement of the boat to leave the cove; for, though the canoe might remain unnoticed at present, it was impossible that anybody could pass out of the cove without seeing her. In such a case, there would be nothing for it but a race--a race for which Erica and Oddo held themselves prepared, without any mutual explanation; for they dared not speak. The faintest whisper would have crept over the smooth water to the ears in the larger boat.
One thing was certain--that something must happen presently. It is impossible for the hardiest men to sit inactive in a boat for any length of time in a January night in Norway. In the calmest nights the cold is only to be sustained by means of the glow from strong exercise. It was certain that these three men could not have been long in their places, and that they would not sit many moments more without some change in their arrangements.
They did not seem to be talking; for Oddo, who was the best listener in the world, could not discover that a sound issued from their boat. He fancied they were drowsy; and, being aware what were the consequences of yielding to drowsiness in severe cold, the boy began to entertain high hopes of taking these three men prisoners. The whole country would ring with such a feat, performed by Erica and himself.
The men were, however, too much awake to be made prisoners of at present. One was seen to drink from a flask, and the hoarse voice of another was heard grumbling, as far as the listeners could make out, at being kept waiting. The third then rose to look about him, and Erica trembled from head to foot. He only looked upon the land, however, declared he saw nothing of those he was expecting, and began to warm himself as he stood, by repeatedly clapping his arms across his breast, in the way that hackney-coachmen and porters do in England. This was Hund. He could not have been known by his figure, for all persons look alike in wolf-skin pelisses; but the voice and the action were his. Oddo saw how Erica shuddered. He put his finger on his lips, but Erica needed no reminding of the necessity of quietness.
The other two men then rose; and, after a consultation, the words of which could not be heard, all stepped ashore one after another, and climbed a rocky pathway.
"Now, now!" whispered Erica. "Now we can get away!"
"Not without the boat," said Oddo. "You would not leave them the boat!"
"No--not if--but they will be back in a moment. They are only gone to hasten their companions."
"I know it," said Oddo. "Now two strokes forward."
While she gave these two strokes, which brought the skiff to the stern of the boat, Erica saw that Oddo had taken out a knife, which gleamed in the starlight. It was for cutting the thong by which the boat was fastened to a birch pole, the other end of which was hooked on shore. This was to save his going ashore to unhook the pole. It was well for him that boat-chains were not in use, owing to the scarcity of metal in that region. The clink of a chain would certainly have been heard.
Quickly and silently he entered the boat and tied the skiff to its stern, and he and Erica took their places where the men had sat one minute before. They used their own muffled oars to turn the boat round, till Oddo observed that the boat oars were muffled too. Then voices were heard again. The men were returning. Strongly did the two companions draw their strokes till a good breadth of water lay between them and the shore, and then till they had again entered the deep shadow which shrouded the mouth of the cove. There they paused.
"In with you!" some loud voice said, as man after man was seen in outline coming down the pathway; "in with you! We have lost time enough already."
"Where is she? I can't see the boat," answered the foremost man.
"You can't miss her," said one behind, "unless the brandy has got into your eyes."
"So I should have said; but I do miss her. It is very incomprehensible to me."
Oddo shook with stifled laughter as he partly saw and partly overheard the perplexity of these men. At last one gave a deep groan, and another declared that the spirits of the fiord were against them, and there was no doubt that their boat was now lying twenty fathoms deep at the bottom of the creek, drawn down by the strong hand of an angry water-spirit. Oddo squeezed Erica's little hand as he heard this. If it had been light enough, he would have seen that even she was smiling.
One of the men mourned their having no other boat, so that they must give up their plan. Another said that if they had a dozen boats, he would not set foot in one after what had happened. He should go straight back, the way he came, to their own vessel. Another said he would not go till he had looked abroad over the fiord for some chance of seeing the boat. This he persisted in, though told by the rest that it was absurd to suppose that the boat had loosed itself, and gone out into the fiord, in the course of the two minutes that they had been absent. He showed the fragment of the cut thong in proof of the boat not having loosed itself, and set off for a point on the heights which he said overlooked the fiord. One or two went with him, the rest returning up the narrow pathway at some speed--such speed that Erica thought they were afraid of the hindmost being caught by the same enemy that had taken their boat. Oddo observed this too, and he quickened their pace by setting up very loud the mournful cry with which he was accustomed to call out the plovers on the mountain side on sporting days. No sound can be more melancholy; and now, as it rang from the rocks, it was so unsuitable to the place, and so terrible to the already frightened men, that they ran on as fast as the slipperiness of the rocks would allow, till they were all out of sight over the ridge.
"Now for it, before the other two come out above us there!" said Oddo; and in another minute they were again in the fiord, keeping as much in the shadow as they could, however, till they must strike over to the islet.
"Thank God that we came!" exclaimed Erica. "We shall never forget what we owe you, Oddo. You shall see, by the care we take of your grandfather and Ulla, that we do not forget what you have done this night. If Nipen will only forgive, for the sake of this--" "We were just in the nick of time," observed Oddo. "It was better than if we had been earlier."
"I do not know," said Erica. "Here are their brandy-bottles, and many things besides. I had rather not have had to bring these away."
"But if we had been earlier, they would not have had their fright. That is the best part of it. Depend upon it, some that have not said their prayers for long will say them to-night."
"That will be good. But I do not like carrying home these things that are not ours. If they are seen at Erlingsen's, they may bring the pirates down upon us. I would leave them on the islet, but that the skiff has to be left there too, and that would explain our trick."
Erica would not consent to throw the property overboard. This would be robbing those who had not actually injured her, whatever their intentions might have been. She thought that if the goods were left upon some barren, uninhabited part of the shore, the pirates would probably be the first to find them; and that, if not, the rumour of such an extraordinary fact, spread by the simple country-people, would be sure to reach them. So Oddo carried on shore, at the first stretch of white beach they came to, the brandy-flasks, the bearskins, the tobacco-pouch, the muskets and powder-horns, and the tinder-box. He scattered these about just above high-water mark, laughing to think how report would tell of the sprite's care in placing all these articles out of reach of injury from the water.
Oddo did not want for light while doing this. When he returned, he found Erica gazing up over the towering precipices, at the Northern lights, which had now unfurled their broad yellow blaze. She was glad that they had not appeared sooner, to spoil the adventure of the night; but she was thankful to have the way home thus illumined, now that the business was done. She answered with so much alacrity to Oddo's question whether she was not very weary, that he ventured to say two things which had before been upon his tongue, without his having courage to utter them.
"You will not be so afraid of Nipen any more," observed he, glancing at her face, of which he could see every feature by the quivering light. "You see how well everything has turned out."
"O, hush! It is too soon yet to speak so. It is never right to speak so. There is no knowing till next Christmas, nor even then, that Nipen forgives; and the first twenty-four hours are not over yet. Pray do not speak any more, Oddo."
"Well, not about that. But what was it exactly that you thought Hund would do with this boat and those people? Did you think," he continued, after a short pause, "that they would come up to Erlingsen's to rob the place?"
"Not for the object of robbing the place, because there is very little that is worth their taking, far less than at the fishing-grounds; not but they might have robbed us, if they took a fancy to anything we have. No! I thought, and I still think, that they would have carried off Rolf, led on by Hund--" "O, ho! carried off Rolf! So here is the secret of your wonderful courage to-night--you who durst not look round at your own shadow last night! This is the secret of your not being tired--you who are out of breath with rowing a mile sometimes!"
"That is in summer," pleaded Erica; "however, you have my secret, as you say, a thing which is no secret at home. We all think that Hund bears such a grudge against Rolf, for having got the houseman's place--" "And for nothing else?"
"That," continued Erica, "he would be glad to--to--" "To get rid of Rolf, and be a houseman, and get betrothed instead of him. Well: Hund is balked for this time. Rolf must look to himself after to-day."
Erica sighed deeply. She did not believe that Rolf would attend to his own safety, and the future looked very dark,--all shrouded by her fears.
By the time the skiff was deposited where it had been found, both the rowers were so weary that they gave up the idea of taking the raft in tow, as for full security they ought to do. They doubted whether they could get home, if they had more weight to draw than their own boat. It was well that they left this incumbrance behind, for there was quite peril and difficulty enough without it, and Erica's strength and spirits failed the more the further the enemy was left behind.
A breath of wind seemed to bring a sudden darkening of the friendly lights which had blazed up higher and brighter, from their first appearance till now. Both rowers looked down the fiord, and uttered an exclamation at the same moment.
"See the fog!" cried Oddo, putting fresh strength into his oar.
"O Nipen! Nipen!" mournfully exclaimed Erica. "Here it is, Oddo,--the west wind!"
The west wind is, in winter, the great foe of the fishermen of the fiords: it brings in the fog from the sea, and the fogs of the Arctic Circle are no trifling enemy. If Nipen really had the charge of the winds, he could not more emphatically show his displeasure towards any unhappy boatman than by overtaking him with the west wind and fog.
"The wind must have just changed," said Oddo, pulling exhausting strokes, as the fog marched towards them over the water, like a solid and immeasurably lofty wall. "The wind must have gone right round in a minute."
"To be sure,--since you said what you did of Nipen," replied Erica, bitterly.
Oddo made no answer, but he did what he could. Erica had to tell him not to wear himself out too quickly, as there was no saying how long they should be on the water.
How long they had been on the water, how far they had deviated from their right course, they could not at all tell, when, at last, more by accident than skill, they touched the shore near home, and heard friendly voices, and saw the light of torches through the thick air. The fog had wrapped them round so that they could not even see the water, or each other. They had rowed mechanically, sometimes touching the rock, sometimes grazing upon the sand, but never knowing where they were till the ringing of a bell, which they recognised as the farm bell, roused hope in their hearts, and strengthened them to throw off the fatal drowsiness caused by cold and fatigue. They made towards the bell, and then heard Peder's shouts, and next saw the dull light of two torches which looked as if they could not burn in the fog. The old man lent a strong hand to pull up the boat upon the beach, and to lift out the benumbed rowers, and they were presently revived by having their limbs chafed, and by a strong dose of the universal medicine-- corn-brandy and camphor--which in Norway, neither man nor woman, young nor old, sick nor well, thinks of refusing upon occasion.
When Erica was in bed, warm beneath an eider-down coverlid, her mistress bent over her and whispered, "You saw and heard Hund himself?"
"Hund himself, madame."
"What shall we do if he comes back before my husband is home from the bear-hunt?"
"If he comes, it will be in fear and penitence, thinking that all the powers are against him. But O, madame, let him never know how it really was!"
"He must not know. Leave that to me, and go to sleep now, Erica. You ought to rest well, for there is no saying what you and Oddo have saved us from. I could not have asked such a service. My husband and I must see how we can reward it." And her kind and grateful mistress kissed Erica's cheek, though Erica tried to explain that she was thinking most of some one else, when she undertook this expedition.
"Then let him thank you in his own way," replied Madame Erlingsen. "Meantime, why should not I thank you in mine?"
Stiorna here opened her eyes for an instant. When she next did so, her mistress was gone; and she told in the morning what an odd dream she had had of her mistress being in her room, and kissing Erica. It was so distinct a dream that, if the thing had not been so ridiculous, she could almost have declared that she had seen it.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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6
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SPRING.
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Great was Stiorna's consternation at Hund's non-appearance the next day, seeing as she did, with her own eyes, that the boat was safe in its proper place. She had provided salt for his cod, and a welcome for himself; and she watched in vain for either. She saw, too, that no one wished him back. He was rarely spoken of; and then it was with dislike or fear: and when she wept over the idea of his being drowned, or carried off by hostile spirits, the only comfort offered her was that she need not fear his being dead, or that he could not come back if he chose. She was, indeed, obliged to suppose, at last, that it was his choice to keep away; for amidst the flying rumours that amused the inhabitants of the district for the rest of the winter,--rumours of the movements of the pirate-vessel, and of the pranks of the spirits of the region, there were some such clear notices of the appearance of Hund,-- so many eyes had seen him in one place or another, by land and water, by day and night, that Stiorna could not doubt of his being alive, and free to come home or stay away as he pleased. She could not conceal from herself that he had probably joined the pirates; and heartily as these pirates were feared throughout the Nordland coasts, they were not more heartily hated by any than by the jealous Stiorna.
Her salt was wanted as much as if Hund had brought home a boatful of cod; and she might have given her welcome to the hunting-party. Erlingsen and Rolf came home sooner than might reasonably have been expected, and well laden with bear's flesh. The whole family of bears had been found and shot. The flesh of the cubs had been divided among the hunters; and Erlingsen was complimented with the feet of the old bear, as it was he who had roused the neighbours, and led the hunt. Busy was every farm-house (and none so busy as Erlingsen's) in salting some of the meat, freezing some, and cooking a part for a feast on the occasion.
Erlingsen kept a keen and constant look-out upon the fiord, in the midst of all the occupations and gaieties of the rest of the winter. His wife's account of the adventures of the day of his absence made him anxious; and he never went a mile out of sight of home, so vivid in his imagination was the vision of his house burning, and his family at the mercy of pirates. Nothing happened, however, to confirm his fears. The enemy were never heard of in the fiord; and the cod-fishers who came up, before the softening of the snow, to sell some of their produce in the interior of the country, gave such accounts as seemed to show that the fishing-grounds were the object of the foreign thieves; for foreign they were declared to be: some said Russian; and others, a mixture from hostile nations. This last information gave more impulse to the love of country for which the Norwegians are remarkable, than all that had been reported from the seat of war. The Nordlanders always drank success to their country's arms, in the first glass of corn-brandy at dinner. They paid their taxes cheerfully; and any newspaper that the clergyman put in circulation was read till it fell to pieces; but, the neighbourhood of foreign pirates proved a more powerful stimulant still. The standing toast, _Gamle Norge_ (Old Norway), was drunk with such enthusiasm, that the little children shouted and defied the enemy; and the baby in its mother's lap clapped its hands when every voice joined in the national song, _For Norge_. Hitherto the war had gone forward upon the soil of another kingdom; it seemed now as if a sprinkling of it--a little of its excitement and danger--was brought to their own doors; and vehement was the spirit that it roused; though some thefts of cod, brandy, and a little money, were all that had really happened yet.
The interval of security gave Rolf a good opportunity to ridicule and complain of Erica's fears. He laughed at the danger of an attack from Hund and his comrades, as that danger was averted. He laughed at the west wind and fog sent by Nipen's wrath, as Erica had reached home in spite of it. He contended that, so far from Nipen being offended, there was either no Nipen, or it was not angry, or it was powerless; for everything had gone well; and he always ended with pointing to the _deer_--a good thing led to the very door--and to the result of the bear-hunt--a great event always in a Nordlander's life, and, in this instance, one of most fortunate issue. There was no saying how many of the young of the farm-yard would live and flourish, this summer, on account of the timely destruction of this family of bears. So Rolf worked away, with a cheerful heart, as the days grew longer,--now mending the boat,--now fishing,--now ploughing, and then rolling logs into the melting-streams, to be carried down into the river, or into the fiord, when the rush of waters should come from the heights of Sulitelma.
Hard as Rolf worked, he did not toil like Oddo. Between them, they had to supply Hund's place,--to do his work. Nobody desired to see Hund back again; and Erlingsen would willingly have taken another in his stead, to make his return impossible; but there was no one to be had. It was useless to inquire till the fishing season should be over: and when that was over, the hay and harvest season would follow so quickly, that it was scarcely likely that any youth would offer himself till the first frosts set in. It was Oddo's desire that the place should remain vacant till he could show that he, young as he was, was worth as much as Hund. If any one was hired, he wished that it might be a herd-boy, under him; and strenuously did he toil, this spring, to show that he was now beyond a mere herd-boy's place. It was he who first fattened, and then killed and skinned the reindeer,--a more than ordinary feat, as it was full two months past the regular season. It was he who watched the making of the first eider-duck's nest, and brought home the first down. All the month of April, he never failed in the double work of the farm-yard and islet. He tended the cattle in the morning, and turned out the goats, when the first patches of green appeared from beneath the snow: and then he was off to the islet, or to some one of the breeding stations among the rocks, punctually stripping the nests of the down, as the poor ducks renewed the supply from their breasts; and as carefully staying his hand, when he saw, by the yellow tinge of the down, that the duck had no more to give, and the drake had now supplied what was necessary for hatching the eggs. Then he watched for the eggs; and never had Madame Erlingsen had such a quantity brought home; though Oddo assured her that he had left enough in the nests for every duck to have her brood. Then he was ready to bring home the goats again, long before sunset,--for, by this time, the sun set late,--and to take his turn at mending any fence that might have been injured by the spring-floods; and then he never forgot to wash and dress himself, and go in for his grandmother's blessing; and after all, he was not too tired to sit up as late as if he were a man,--even till past nine sometimes,--spending the last hour of the evening in working at the bell-collars which Hund had left half done, and which must be finished before the cattle went to the mountain: or, if the young ladies were disposed to dance, he was never too tired to play the clarionet, though it now and then happened that the tune went rather oddly; and when Orga and Frolich looked at him, to see what he was about, his eyes were shut, and his fingers looked as if they were moving of their own accord. If this happened, the young ladies would finish their waltz at once, and thank him, and his mistress would wish him good night; and when he was gone, his master would tell old Peder that that grandson of his was a promising lad, and very diligent; and Peder would make a low bow, and say it was greatly owing to Rolf's good example; and then Erica would blush, and be kinder than ever to Oddo the next day.
So came on and passed away the spring of this year at Erlingsen's farm. It soon passed; for spring in Nordland lasts only a month. In that short time had the snow first become soft, and then dingy, and then vanished, except on the heights, and in places where it had drifted. The streams had broken their long pause of silence, and now leaped and rushed along, till every rock overhanging both sides of the fiord was musical with falling waters, and glittering with silver threads,--for the cataracts looked no more than this in so vast a scene. Every mill was going, after the long idleness of winter; and about the bridges which spanned the falls were little groups of the peasants gathered, mending such as had burst with the floods, or strengthening such as did not seem secure enough for the passage of the herds to the mountain.
Busy as the maidens were with the cows that were calving, and with the care of the young kids, they found leisure to pry into the promise of the spring. In certain warm nooks, where the sunshine was reflected from the surrounding rocks, they daily watched for what else might appear, when once the grass, of brilliant green, had shown itself from beneath the snow. There they found the strawberry and the wild raspberry promising to carpet the ground with their white blossoms; while in one corner the lily of the valley began to push up its pairs of leaves; and from the crevices of the rock, the barberry and the dwarf birch grew, every twig showing swelling buds, or an early sprout.
While these cheerful pursuits went on out of doors during the one busy month of spring, a slight shade of sadness was thrown over the household within by the decline of old Ulla. It was hardly sadness; it was little more than gravity; for Ulla herself was glad to go; Peder knew that he should soon follow; and every one else was reconciled to one who had suffered so long going to her rest.
"The winter and I are going together, my dear," said she one day, when Erica placed on her pillow a green shoot of birch which she had taken from out of the very mouth of a goat. "The hoary winter and hoary I have lived out our time, and we are departing together. I shall make way for you young people, and give you your turn, as he is giving way to spring; and let nobody pretend to be sorry for it. Who pretends to be sorry when winter is gone?"
"But winter will come again, so soon and so certainly, Ulla," said Erica, mournfully: "and when it is come again, we shall still miss you."
"Well, my dear, I will say nothing against that. It is good for the living to miss the dead, as long as they do not wish them back. As for me, Erica, I feel as if I could not but miss you, go where I may."
"O, do not say that, Ulla."
"Why not say it if I feel it? Who could be displeased with me for grasping still at the hand that has smoothed my bed so long, when I am going to some place that will be very good, no doubt, but where everything must be strange at first? He who gave you to me, to be my nurse, will not think the worse of me for missing you, wherever I may be."
"There will be little Henrica," observed Erica. "Ah yes! there is nothing I think of more than that. That dear child died on my shoulder. Fain would her mother have had her in her arms at the last; but she was in such extremity that to move her would have been to end all at once; and so she died away, with her head on my shoulder. I thought then it was a sign that I should be the first to meet her again. But I shall take care and not stand in the way of her mother's rights."
Here Ulla grew so earnest in imagining her meeting with Henrica, still fancying her the dependent little creature she had been on earth, that she was impatient to be gone. Erica's idea was that this child might now have become so wise and so mighty in the wisdom of a better world, as to be no such plaything as Ulla supposed; but she said nothing to spoil the old woman's pleasure.
When Peder came in, to sit beside his old companion's bed, and sing her to sleep, she told him that she hoped to be by when he opened his now dark eyes upon the sweet light of a heavenly day; and, if she might, she would meantime make up his dreams for him, and make him believe that he saw the most glorious sights of old Norway,--more glorious than are to be seen in any other part of this lower world. There should be no end to the gleaming lakes, and dim forests, and bright green valleys, and silvery waterfalls that he should see in his dreams, if she might have the making of them. There was no end to the delightful things Ulla looked forward to, and the kind things she hoped to be able to do for those she left behind, when once she should have quitted her present helpless state: and she thought so much of these things, that when M. Kollsen arrived, he found that, instead of her needing to be reconciled to death, she was impatient to be gone. The first thing he heard her say, when all was so dim before her dying eyes, and so confused to her failing ears, that she did not know the pastor had arrived, was that she was less uneasy now about Nipen's displeasure against the young people. Perhaps she might be able to explain and prevent mischief: and if not, the young people's marriage would soon be taking place now, and then they might show such attention to Nipen as would make the spirit forgive and forget.
"Hush, now, dear Ulla!" said Erica. "Here is the pastor."
"Do not say `Hush'!" said M. Kollsen, sternly. "Whatever is said of this kind I ought to hear, that I may meet the delusion. I must have conversation with this poor woman, to prevent her very last breath being poisoned with superstition. You are a member of the Lutheran Church, Ulla?"
With humble pleasure, Ulla told of the satisfaction which the Bishop of Tronyem, of seventy years ago, had expressed at her confirmation. It was this which obtained her a good place, and Peder's regard, and all the good that had happened in her long life since. Yes: she was indeed a member of the Lutheran Church, she thanked God.
"And in what part of the Scriptures of our church do you find mention of--of--(I hate the very names of these pretended spirits). Where in the Scriptures are you bidden or permitted to believe in spirits and demons of the wood and the mountain?"
Ulla declared that her learning in the Scriptures was but small. She knew only what she had been taught, and a little that she had picked up: but she remembered that the former Bishop of Tronyem himself had hung up an axe in the forest, on Midsummer Eve, for the wood-demon's use, if it pleased.
Peder observed that we all believe so many things that are not found mentioned in the Scriptures, that perhaps it would be wisest and kindest, by a dying bed, where moments were precious, to speak of those high things which the Scriptures discourse of, and which all Christians believe. These were the subjects for Ulla now: the others might be reasoned of when she was in her grave.
The pastor was not quite satisfied with this way of attending the dying; but there was something in the aged man's voice and manner quite irresistible, as he sat calmly awaiting the departure of the last companion of his own generation. M. Kollsen took out his Bible, and read what Ulla gladly heard, till her husband knew by the slackened clasp of her hand that she heard no longer. She had become insensible, and before sunset had departed.
Rolf had continued his kind offices to the old couple with the utmost respect and propriety, to the end refusing to go out of call during the last few days of Ulla's decline: but he had observed, with some anxiety, that there was certainly a shoal of herrings in the fiord, and that it was high time he was making use of the sunny days for his fishing. In order to go about this duty without any delay, when again at liberty, he had brought the skiff up to the beach for repair, and had it nearly ready for use by the day of the funeral. The family boat was too large for his occasions, now that Hund was not here to take an oar: and he expected to do great things alone in the little manageable skiff.
When he had assisted Peder to lay Ulla's head in the grave, and guided him back to the house, Rolf drew Erica's arm within his own, and led her away, as if for a walk. No one interfered with them; for the family knew that their hearts must be very full, and that they must have much to say to each other, now that the event had happened which was to cause their marriage very soon. They would now wait no longer than to pay proper respect to Ulla's memory, and to improve the house and its furniture a little, so as to make it fit for the bride.
Rolf would have led Erica to the beach; but she begged to go first to see the grave again, while they knew that no one was there. The grave was dug close by the little mound beneath which Henrica lay. Henrica's was railed round, with a paling which had been fresh painted--a task which Erlingsen performed with his own hands every spring. The forget-me-not, which the Nordlanders plant upon the graves of those they love, overran the hillock, and the white blossoms of the wild strawberry peeped out from under the thick grass; so that this grave looked a perfect contrast to that of Ulla, newly-made and bare. The lovers looked at this last with dissatisfaction.
"It shall be completely railed in before to-morrow night," said Rolf.
"But cannot we dress it a little now? I could transplant some flower-roots presently, and some forget-me-not from Henrica's hillock, if we had sods for the rest. Never mind spoiling any other nook. The grass will soon grow again."
Rolf's spade was busy presently; and Erica planted and watered till the new grave, if it did not compare with the child's, showed tokens of care, and promise of beauty.
"Now," said Rolf, when they had done, and put away their tools, and sat down on the pine log from which the pales were to be made, so that their lengthening shadows fell across the new grave,--"now, Erica, you know what she who lies there would like us to be settling. She herself said her burial day would soon be over; and then would come our wedding-day."
"When everything is ready," replied Erica, "we will fix; but not now. There is much to be done;--there are many uncertainties."
"Uncertainties! What uncertainties? I know of none--except indeed as to--" Rolf stopped to peel off, and pull to pieces, some of the bark of the pine trunk on which he was sitting. Erica looked wistfully at him; he saw it, and went on.
"It is often an uncertainty to me, Erica, after all that has happened, whether you mean to marry me at all. There are so many doubts, and so many considerations, and so many fears! --I often think we shall never be any nearer than we are."
"That is your sort of doubt and fear," said Erica, smiling. "Who is there that entertains a worse?"
"I do not want any rallying or joking, Erica. I am quite serious."
"Seriously then--are we not nearer than we were a year ago? We are betrothed; and I have shown you that I do believe we are to be married, if--" "Ay, there. `If' again."
"If it shall please the Powers above us not to separate us, by death or otherwise."
"Death! at our age! And separation! when we have lived on the same farm for years! What have we to do with death and separation?"
Erica pointed to the child's grave, in rebuke of his rash words. She then quietly observed that they had enemies,--one deadly enemy not very far off, if nothing were to be said of any but human foes. Rolf declared that he had rather have Hund for a declared enemy than for a companion. Erica understood this very well; but she could not forget that Hund wanted to be houseman in Rolfs stead, and that he desired to prevent their marriage.
"That is the very reason," said Rolf, "why we should marry as soon as we can. Why not fix the day, and engage the pastor while he is here?"
"Because it would hurt Peder's feelings. There will be no difficulty in sending for the pastor when everything is ready. But now, Rolf, that all may go well, do promise not to run into needless danger."
"According to you," said Rolf, smiling, "one can never get out of danger. Where is the use of taking care, if all the powers of earth and air are against us? You think me as helpless, under Nipen's breath, as the poor infant that put out into the fiord the other day in a tub."
"I am not speaking of Nipen now,--(not because I do not think of it;)--I am speaking of Hund. Do promise me not to go more than four miles down the fiord. After that, there is a long stretch of precipices, without a single dwelling. There is not a boat that could put off,--there is not an eye or an ear that could bear witness what had become of you, if you and Hund should meet there."
"If Hund and I should meet there, I would bring him home, to settle what should become of him."
"And all the pirates? You would bring them all in your right hand, and row home with your left! For shame, Rolf, to be such a boaster! Promise me not to go beyond the four miles."
"Indeed I can only promise to go where the shoal is. Four miles! Suppose you say four furlongs, love."
"I will engage to catch herrings within four furlongs."
"Pray take me with you; and then I will carry you four times four miles down, and show you what a shoal is. Really, love, I should like to prove to you how safe the fiord is to one who knows every nook and hiding-place from the entrance up. If fighting would not do, I could always hide."
"And would not Hund know where to look for you?"
"Not he. He was not brought up on the fiord, to know its ways, and its holes and corners: and I told him neither that, nor anything else that I could keep from him; for I always mistrusted Hund. --Now, I will tell you, love. I will promise you something, because I do not wish to hurt you, as you sometimes hurt me with disregarding what I say,--with being afraid, in spite of all I can do to make you easy. I will promise you not to go further down, while alone, than Vogel islet, unless it is quite certain that Hund and the pirates are far enough off in another direction. I partly think, as you do, and as Erlingsen does, that they meant to come for me the night you carried off their boat: so I will be on the watch, and go no further than where they cannot hurt me."
"Then why say Vogel islet? It is out of all reasonable distance."
"Not to those who know the fiord as I do. I have my reasons, Erica, for fixing that distance and no other; and that far I intend to go, whether my friends think me able to take care of myself or not."
"At least," pleaded Erica, "let me go with you."
"Not for the world, my love." And Erica saw, by his look of horror at the idea of her going, that he felt anything but secure from the pirates. He took her hand, and kissed it again and again, as he said that there was plenty for that little hand to do at home, instead of pulling the oar in the hot sun. "I shall think of you all while I am fishing," he went on. "I shall fancy you making ready for the seater. [Note 1.] As you go towards Sulitelma any day now, you may hear the voices of a thousand waterfalls, calling upon the herdmen and maidens to come to the fresh pastures. How happy we shall be, Erica, when we once get to the seater!"
Erica sighed, and pressed her lover's hand as he held hers.
"While I am fishing," he went on, "I shall fancy our young mistresses, and Stiorna and you, washing all your bowls in juniper-water, ready for your dairy. I know how the young ladies will contrive that all of my carving shall come under your hand. And I shall be back with my fish before you are gone, that I may walk beside your cart. I know just how far you will ride. When we get the first sight of the grass waving, as the wind sweeps over it on the mountain side, you will spring from the cart, and walk with me all the rest of the way."
"All this would be well," said Erica, "if it were not for--" "For what, love? For Nipen, again! If you will not mind what I say about your silly fears, you shall hear from the pastor how wicked they are. I see him yonder, in the garden. I will call him--" "No, no! I know all he has to say," declared Erica.
But Rolf carried the case before M. Kollsen: and M. Kollsen, glad of every opportunity of discoursing on this subject, came and took Rolfs seat, and said all he could think of in contempt of the spirits of the region, till Erica's blood ran cold to hear him. It was not kind of Rolf to expose her to this: but Rolf had no fears himself, and was not aware how much she suffered under what the clergyman said. The lover stood by watching, and was so charmed with her gentle and submissive countenance and manner, while she could not own herself convinced, that he almost admired her superstition, and forgave her doubts of his being able to take care of himself, while his deadly enemy on earth might possibly be assisted by the offended powers of the air.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Each Norway farm which is situated within a certain distance of the mountains has a mountain pasture, to which the herds and flocks are driven in early summer, and where they feed till the first frosts come on. The herdmen and dairy-women live on the mountain, beside their cattle, during this season, and enjoy the mode of life extremely. The mountain pasture belonging to a farm is called the Seater. The procession of herds and flocks, and herdmen and dairy-women with their utensils, all winding up the mountain--"going to the seater," is a pretty sight on an early summer's day.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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7
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VOGEL ISLET.
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Who was ever happier than Rolf, when abroad in his skiff, on one of the most glorious days of the year? He found his angling tolerably successful near home; but the further he went, the more the herrings abounded; and he therefore dropped down the fiord with tide, fishing as he receded, till all home objects had disappeared. First, the farm-house, with its surrounding buildings, its green paddock, and shining white beach, was hidden behind the projecting rocks. Then Thor islet appeared to join with the nearest shore, from which its bushes of stunted birch seemed to spring. Then, as the skiff dropped lower and lower down, the interior mountains appeared to rise above the rocks which closed in the head of the fiord, and the snowy peak of Sulitelma stood up clear amidst the pale blue sky; the glaciers on its sides catching the sunlight on different points, and glittering so that the eye could scarcely endure to rest upon the mountain. When he came to the narrow part of the fiord, near the creek which had been the scene of Erica's exploit, Rolf laid aside his rod, with the bright hook that herrings so much admire, to guide his canoe through the currents caused by the approach of the rocks, and contraction of the passage; and he then wished he had brought Erica with him, so lovely was the scene. Every crevice of the rocks, even where there seemed to be no soil, was tufted with bushes, every twig of which was bursting into the greenest leaf, while, here and there, a clump of dark pines overhung some busy cataract, which, itself over-shadowed, sent forth its little clouds of spray, dancing and glittering in the sunlight. A pair of fishing eagles were perched on a high ledge of rock, screaming to the echoes, so that the dash of the currents was lost in the din. Rolf did wish that Erica was here when he thought how the colour would have mounted into her cheek, and how her eye would have sparkled at such a scene.
Lower down, it was scarcely less beautiful. The waters spread out again to a double width. The rocks were, or appeared to be lower; and now and then, in some space between rock and rock, a strip of brilliant green meadow lay open to the sunshine; and there were large flocks of fieldfares, flying round and round, to exercise the newly-fledged young. There were a few habitations scattered along the margin of the fiord; and two or three boats might be seen far off, with diminutive figures of men drawing their nets.
"I am glad I brought my net too," thought Rolf. "My rod had done good duty; but if I am coming upon a shoal, I will cast my net, and be home, laden with fish, before they think of looking for me."
Happy would it have been if Rolf had cast his net where others were content to fish, and had given up all idea of going further than was necessary: but his boat was still dropping down towards the islet which he had fixed in his own mind as the limit of his trip; and the long solitary reach of the fiord which now lay between him and it was tempting both to the eye and the mind. It is difficult to turn back from the first summer-day trip, in countries where summer is less beautiful than in Nordland; and on went Rolf, beyond the bounds of prudence, as many have done before him. He soon found himself in a still and somewhat dreary region, where there was no motion but of the sea-birds which were leading their broods down the shores of the fiords, and of the air which appeared to quiver before the eye, from the evaporation caused by the heat of the sun. More slowly went the canoe here, as if to suit the quietness of the scene, and leisurely and softly did Rolf cast his net: and then steadily did he draw it in, so rich in fish that when they lay in the bottom of the boat, they at once sank it deeper in the water, and checked its speed by their weight.
Rolf then rested awhile, and looked ahead for Vogel islet, thinking that he could not now be very far from it. There it lay looming in the heated atmosphere, spreading as if in the air, just above the surface of the water, to which it appeared joined in the middle by a dark stem, as if it grew like a huge sea-flower. There is no end to the strange appearances presented in northern climates by an atmosphere so different from our own. Rolf gazed and gazed as the island grew more like itself on his approach; and he was so occupied with it as not to look about him as he ought to have done at such a distance from home. He was roused at length by a shout, and looked towards the point from which it came; and there, in a little harbour of the fiord, a recess which now actually lay behind him--between him and home--lay a vessel; and that vessel, he knew by a second glance, was the pirate-schooner.
Of the schooner itself he had no fear, for there was so little wind that it could not have come out in time to annoy him; but there was the schooner's boat, with five men in it--four rowing and one steering-- already in full pursuit of him. He knew, by the general air and native dress of the man at the helm, that it was Hund; and he fancied he heard Hund's malicious voice in the shout which came rushing over the water from their boat to his. How fast they seemed to be coming! How the spray from their oars glittered in the sun, and how their wake lengthened with every stroke! No spectator from the shore (if there had been any) could have doubted that the boat was in pursuit of the skiff, and would snap it up presently. Rolf saw that he had five determined foes gaining upon him every instant; and yet he was not alarmed. He had had his reasons for thinking himself safe near Vogel islet; and calculating for a moment the time of the tide, he was quite at his ease. As he took his oars he smiled at the hot haste of his pursuers, and at the thought of the amazement they would feel when he slipped through their fingers; and then he began to row.
Rolf did not overheat himself with too much exertion. He permitted his foes to gain a little upon him, though he might have preserved the distance for as long as his strength could have held out against that of the four in the other boat. They ceased their shouting when they saw how quietly he took his danger. They really believed that he was not aware of being their object, and hoped to seize him suddenly, before he had time to resist.
When very near the islet, however, Rolf became more active, and his skiff disappeared behind its southern point while the enemy's boat was still two furlongs off. The steersman looked for the reappearance of the canoe beyond the islet; but he looked in vain. He thought, and his companions agreed with him, that it was foolish of Rolf to land upon the islet, where they could lay hands on him in a moment; but they could only suppose he had done this, and prepared to do the same. They rowed quite round the islet; but, to their amazement, they could not only perceive no place to land at, but there was no trace of the canoe. It seemed to them as if those calm and clear waters had swallowed up the skiff and Rolf in the few minutes after they had lost sight of him. Hund thought the case was accounted for when he recalled Nipen's displeasure. A thrill ran through him as he said to himself that the spirits of the region had joined with him against Rolf, and swallowed up, almost before his eyes, the man he hated. He put his hands before his face for a moment, while his comrades stared at him; then, thinking he must be under a delusion, he gazed earnestly over the waters as far as he could see. They lay calm and bright, and there was certainly no kind of vessel on their surface for miles round.
The rowers wondered, questioned, uttered shouts, spoke altogether, and then looked at Hund in silence, struck by his countenance, and finished by rowing two or three times round the islet, slowly, and looking up its bare rocky sides, which rose like walls from the water; but nothing could they see or hear. When tired of their fruitless search they returned to the schooner, ready to report to the master that the fiord was enchanted.
Meantime, Rolf had heard every plash of their oars, and every tone of their voices, as they rowed round his place of refuge. He was not on the islet, but in it. This was such an island as Swein, the sea-king of former days, took refuge in; and Rolf was only following his example. Long before, he had discovered a curious cleft in the rock, very narrow, and all but invisible at high-water, even if a bush of dwarf-ash and birch had not hung down over it. At high-water, nothing larger than a bird could go in and out beneath the low arch; but there was a cavern within, whose sandy floor sloped up to some distance above high-water mark. In this cavern was Rolf. He had thrust his little skiff between the walls of rock, crushing in its sides as he did so. The bushes drooped behind him, hanging naturally over the entrance as before. Rolf pulled up his broken vessel upon the little sandy beach, within the cave, saved a pile of his fish, and returned a good many to the water, and then sat down upon the sea-weeds to listen. There was no light but a little which found its way through the bushy screen and up from the green water; and the sounds--the tones of the pirates' voices, and the splash of the waters against the rocky walls of his singular prison-- came deadened and changed to his ear; yet he heard enough to be aware how long his enemies remained, and when they were really gone.
It was a prison indeed, as Rolf reflected when he looked upon his broken skiff. He could not imagine how he was to get away; for his friends would certainly never think of coming to look for him here: but he put off the consideration of this point for the present, and turned away from the image of Erica's distress when he should fail to return. He amused himself now with imagining Hund's disappointment, and the reports which would arise from it; and he found this so very entertaining that he laughed aloud; and then the echo of his laughter sounded so very merry that it set him laughing again. This, in its turn, seemed to rouse the eider-ducks that thronged the island; and their clatter and commotion was so great overhead that any spectator might have been excused for believing that Vogel islet was indeed bewitched.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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8
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A SUMMER APARTMENT.
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"Humph! How little did the rare old sea-king think," said Rolf to himself, as he surveyed his cave--"how little did Swein think, when he played this very trick, six hundred years ago, that it would save a poor farm-servant from being murdered, so many centuries after! Many thanks to my good grandmother for being so fond of that story! She taught it thoroughly to me before she died; and that is the reason of my being safe at this moment. I wish I had told the people at home of my having found this cave; for, as it is, they cannot but think me lost; and how Erica will bear it, I don't know. And yet, if I had told them, Hund would have heard it; or, at least, Stiorna, and she would have managed to let him know. Perhaps it is best as it is, if only I can get back in time to save Erica's heart from breaking. But for her, I should not mind the rest being in a fright for a day or two. They are a little apt to fancy that the affairs of the farm go by nature--that the fields and the cattle take care of themselves. They treat me liberally enough; but they are not fully aware of the value of a man like me; and now they will learn. They will hardly know how to make enough of me when I go back. Oddo will be the first to see me. I think, however, I should let them hear my best song from a distance. Let me see--which song shall it be? It must be one which will strike Peder; for he will be the first to hear, as Oddo always is to see. Some of them will think it is a spirit mocking, and some that it is my ghost; and my master and madame will take it to be nothing but my own self. And then, in the doubt among all these, my poor Erica will faint away; and while they are throwing water upon her face, and putting some camphorated brandy into her mouth, I shall quietly step in among them, and grasp Peder's arm, and pull Oddo's hair, to show that it is I myself; and when Erica opens her eyes, she shall see my face at its very merriest; so that she cannot possibly take me for a sad and solemn ghost. And the next thing will be--" He stopped with a start, as his eye fell upon his crushed boat, lying on its side, half in the water and half out.
"Ah!" thought he, in a changed mood, "this is all very fine--this planning how one pleasant thing will follow upon another; but I forgot the first thing of all. I must learn first how I am to get out."
He turned his boat about and about, and shook his head over every bruise, hole, or crack that he found, till he finished with a nod of decision that nothing could be done with it. He was a good swimmer; but the nearest point of the shore was so far off that it would be all he could do to reach it when the waters were in their most favourable state. At present, they were so chilled with the melted snows that were pouring down from every steep along the fiord, that he doubted the safety of attempting to swim at all. What chance of release had he then?
If he could by any means climb upon the rocks in whose recesses he was now hidden, he might possibly fall in with some fishing-boat which would fetch him off; but, besides that the pirates were more likely to see him than anybody else, he believed there was no way by which he could climb upon the islet. It had always been considered the exclusive property of the aquatic birds with which it swarmed, because its sides rose so abruptly from the water, so like the smooth stone walls of a lofty building, that there was no hold for foot or hand, and the summit seemed unattainable by anything that had not wings. Rolf remembered, however, having heard Peder say that when he was young there might be seen hanging down one part of the precipice the remains of a birchen ladder, which must have been made and placed there by human hands. Rolf determined that he would try the point. He would wait till the tide was flowing in, as the waters from the open sea were somewhat less chilled than when returning from the head of the fiord; he would take the waters at their warmest, and try and try again to make a footing upon the islet. Meantime he would not trouble himself with thoughts of being a prisoner.
His cave was really a very pretty place. As its opening fronted the west, he found that even here there might be sunshine. The golden light which blesses the high and low places of the earth did not disdain to cheer and adorn even this humble chamber, which, at the bidding of nature, the waters had patiently scooped out of the hard rock. Some hours after darkness had settled down on the lands of the tropics, and long after the stars had come out in the skies over English heads, this cave was at its brightest. As the sun drew to its setting, near the middle of the Nordland summer night, it levelled its golden rays through the cleft, and made the place far more brilliant than at noon. The projections of the rough rock caught the beam, during the few minutes that it stayed, and shone with a bright orange tint. The beach suddenly appeared of a more dazzling white, and the waters of a deeper green, while, by their motion, they cast quivering circles of reflected light upon the roof, which had before been invisible. Rolf took this brief opportunity to survey his abode carefully. He had supposed, from the pleasant freshness of the air, that the cave was lofty; and he now saw that the roof did indeed spring up to a vast height. He saw also that there was a great deal of drift-wood accumulated; and some of it thrown into such distant corners as to prove that the waves could dash up to a much higher waterline, in stormy weather, than he had supposed. No matter! He hoped to be gone before there were any more storms. Tired and sleepy as he was, so near midnight, he made an exertion, while there was plenty of light, to clear away the sea-weeds from a space on the sand where he must to-morrow make his fire, and broil his fish. The smell of the smallest quantity of burnt weed would be intolerable in so confined a place: so he cleared away every sprout of it, and laid some of the drift-wood on a spot above high-water mark, picking out the driest pieces of fire-wood he could find for kindling a flame.
When this was done, he could have found in his heart to pick up shells, so various and beautiful were those which strewed the floor of his cave: but the sunbeam was rapidly climbing the wall, and would presently be gone, so he let the shells lie till the next night (if he should still be here), and made haste to heap up a bed of fine dry sand in a corner; and here he lay down as the twilight darkened, and thought he had never rested on so soft a bed. He knew it was near high-water, and he tried to keep awake, to ascertain how nearly the tide filled up the entrance; but he was too weary, and his couch was too comfortable for this. His eyes closed in spite of him, and he dreamed that he was broad awake watching the height of the tide. For this one night, he could rest without any very painful thoughts of poor Erica, for she was prepared for his remaining out till the middle of the next day, at least.
When he awoke in the morning, the scene was marvellously changed from that on which he had closed his eyes. His cave was so dim that he could scarcely distinguish its white floor from its rocky sides. The water was low, and the cleft therefore enlarged, so that he saw at once that now was the time for making his fire--now when there was the freest access for the air. Yet he could not help pausing to admire what he saw. He could see now a long strip of the fiord,--a perspective of waters and of shores, ending in a lofty peak still capped with snow, and glittering in the sunlight. The whole landscape was bathed in light, as warm as noon; for, though it was only six in the morning, the sun had been up for several hours. As Rolf gazed, and reckoned up the sum of what he saw,--the many miles of water, and the long range of rocks, he felt, for a moment, as if not yet secure from Hund,--as if he must be easily visible while he saw so much. But it was not so, and Rolf smiled at his own momentary fear, when he remembered how, as a child, he had tried to count the stars he could see at once through a hole pricked by a needle in a piece of paper, and how, for that matter, all that we ever see is through the little circle of the pupil of the eye. He smiled when he considered that while, from his recess, he could see the united navy of Norway and Denmark, if anchored in the fiord, his enemy could not see even his habitation, otherwise than by peeping under the bushes which overhung the cleft--and this only at low-water; so he began to sing, while rubbing together, with all his might, the dry sticks of fir with which his fire was to be kindled. First they smoked, and then, by a skilful breath of air, they blazed, and set fire to the heap; and by the time the herrings were ready for broiling, the cave was so filled with smoke that Rolf's singing was turned to coughing.
Some of the smoke hung in soot on the roof and walls of the cave, curling up so well at first, that Rolf almost thought there must be some opening in the lofty roof which served as a chimney; but there was not, and some of the smoke came down again, issuing at last from the mouth of the cave. Rolf observed this, and, seeing the danger of his place of retreat being thus discovered, he made haste to finish his cookery, resolving that, if he had to remain here for any length of time, he would always make his fire in the night. He presently threw water over his burning brands, and hoped that nothing had been seen of the process of preparing his breakfast.
The smoke had been seen, however, and by several people, but in such a way as to lead to no discovery of the cave. From the schooner, Hund kept his eyes fixed on the islet, at every moment he had to spare. Either he was the murderer of his fellow-servant, or the islet was bewitched; and if Rolf was under the protection and favour of the powers of the region, he, Hund, was out of favour, and might expect bad consequences. Whichever might be the case, Hund was very uneasy; and he could think of nothing but the islet, and look no other way. His companions had at first joked him about his luck in getting rid of his enemies, but, being themselves superstitious, they caught the infection of his gravity, and watched the spot almost as carefully as he.
As their vessel lay higher up in the fiord than the islet, they were on the opposite side from the crevice, and could not see from whence the smoke issued. But they saw it in the form of a light cloud hanging over the place. Hund's eyes were fixed upon it, when one of his comrades touched him on the shoulder. Hund started.
"You see there," said the man, pointing.
"To be sure I do; what else was I looking at?"
"Well, what is it?" inquired the man. "Has your friend got a visitor,-- come a great way this morning? They say the mountain-sprite travels in mist; if so, it is now going; see, there it sails off,--melts away. It is as like common smoke as anything that ever I saw. What say you to taking the boat, and trying again whether there is no place where your friend might not land, and be now making a fire among the birds' nests?"
"Nonsense!" cried Hund. "What became of the skiff, then?"
"True," said the man; and, shaking his head, he passed on, and spoke to the master.
In his own secret mind, the master of the schooner did not quite like his present situation. The little harbour was well sheltered and hidden from the observation of the inhabitants of the upper part of the fiord: but, after hearing the words dropped by his crew, the master did not relish being stationed between the bewitched islet and the head of the fiord, where all the residents were, of course, enemies. He thought that it would be wiser to have a foe only on the one hand, and the open sea on the other, even at the sacrifice of the best anchorage. As there was now a light wind, enough to take his vessel down, he gave orders accordingly.
Slowly, and at some distance, the schooner passed the islet, and all on board crowded together to see what they could see. None,--not even the master with his glass,--saw anything remarkable: but all heard something. There was a faint muffled sound of knocks,--blows such as were never heard in a mere haunt of sea-birds. It was evident that the birds were disturbed by it; they rose and fell, made short flights and came back again, fluttered, and sometimes screamed so as to overpower all other sounds. But if they were quiet for a minute, the knock, knock, was heard again, with great regularity, and every knock went to Hund's heart.
The fact was, that after breakfast, Rolf soon became tired of having nothing to do. The water was so very cold, that he deferred till noon the attempt to swim round the islet. He once more examined his boat, and though the injuries done seemed irreparable, he thought he had better try to mend his little craft than do nothing. After collecting from the wood in the cave all the nails that happened to be sticking in it, and all the pieces that were sound enough to patch a boat with, he made a stone serve him for a hammer, straightened his nails upon another stone, and tried to fasten on a piece of wood over a hole. It was discouraging work enough, but it helped to pass the hours till the restless waters should have reached their highest mark in the cave, when he would know that it was noon, and time for his little expedition.
He sighed as he threw down his awkward new tools and pulled off his jacket, for his heart now began to grow very heavy. It was about the time when Erica would be beginning to look for his return, and when or how he was ever to return he became less able to imagine, the more he thought about it. As he fancied Erica gazing down the fiord from the gallery, or stealing out, hour after hour, to look forth from the beach, and only to be disappointed every time, till she would be obliged to give him quite up, and yield to despair, Rolf shed tears. It was the first time for some years,--the first time since he had been a man, and when he saw his own tears fall upon the sand, he was ashamed. He blushed, as if he had not been all alone, dashed away the drops, and threw himself into the water.
It was too cold by far for safe swimming. All the snows of Sulitelma could hardly have made the waters more chilly to the swimmer than they felt at the first plunge; but Rolf would not retreat for this reason. He thought of the sunshine outside, and of the free open view he should enjoy, dived beneath the almost closed entrance, and came up on the other side. The first thing he saw was the schooner, now lying below his island; and the next thing was a small boat between him and it, evidently making towards him. When convinced that Hund was one of the three men in it, he saw that he must go back, or make haste to finish his expedition. He made haste, swam round so close as to touch the warm rock in many places, and could not discover, any more than before, any trace of a footing by which a man might climb to the summit. There was a crevice or two, however, from which vegetation hung, still left unsearched. He could not search them now, for he must make haste home.
The boat was indeed so near when he had reached the point he set out from, that he used every effort to conceal himself; and it seemed that he could only have escaped by the eyes of his enemies being fixed on the summit of the rock. When once more in the cave, he rather enjoyed hearing them come nearer and nearer, so that the bushes which hung down between him and them shook with the wind of their oars, and dipped into the waves. He laughed silently when he heard one of them swear that he would not leave the spot till he had seen something, upon which another rebuked his presumption. Presently, a voice, which he knew to be Hund's, called upon his name, at first gently, and then more and more loudly, as if taking courage at not being answered.
"I will wait till he rounds the point," thought Rolf, "and then give him such an answer as may send a guilty man away quicker than he came."
He waited till they were on the opposite side, so that his voice might appear to come from the summit of the islet, and then began with the melancholy sound used to lure the plover on the moors. The men in the boat instantly observed that this was the same sound used when Erlingsen's boat was spirited away from them. It was rather singular that Rolf and Oddo should have used the same sound, but they probably chose it as the most mournful they knew. Rolf, however, did not stop there; he moaned louder and louder, till the sound resembled the bellowing of a tormented spirit enclosed in the rock; and the consequence was, as he had said, that his enemies retreated faster than they came. Never had they rowed more vigorously than now, fetching a large circuit, to keep at a safe distance from the spot, as they passed westward.
For the next few days Rolf kept a close watch upon the proceedings of the pirates, and saw enough of their thievery to be able to lay informations against them, if ever he should again make his way to a town or village, and see the face of a magistrate. He was glad of the interest and occupation thus afforded him,--of even this slight hope of being useful; for he saw no more probability than on the first day, of release from his prison. The worst of it was that the season for boating was nearly at an end. The inhabitants were day by day driving their cattle up the mountains, there to remain for the summer; and the heads of families remained in the farm-houses, almost alone, and little likely to put out so far into the fiord as to pass near him. So poor Rolf could only catch fish for his support, swim round and round his prison, and venture a little further, on days when the water felt rather less cold than usual. To drive off thoughts of his poor distressed Erica, he sometimes hammered a little at his skiff; but it was too plain that no botching that he could perform in the cave would render the broken craft safe to float in.
One sunny day, when the tide was flowing in warmer than usual, Rolf amused himself with more evolutions in bathing than he had hitherto indulged in. He forgot his troubles and his foes in diving, floating, and swimming. As he dashed round a point of the rock, he saw something, and was certain he was seen. Hund appeared at least as much bewitched as the island itself, for he could not keep away from it. He seemed irresistibly drawn to the scene of his guilt and terror. Here he was now, with one other man, in the schooner's smallest boat. Rolf had to determine in an instant what to do, for they were within a hundred yards, and Hund's starting eyes showed that he saw what he took for the ghost of his fellow-servant. Rolf raised himself as high as he could out of the water, throwing his arms up above his head, fixed his eyes on Hund, uttered a shrill cry, and dived, hoping to rise to the surface at some point out of sight. Hund looked no more. After one shriek of terror and remorse had burst from his white lips, he sank his head upon his knees, and let his comrade take all the trouble of rowing home again.
This vision decided Hund's proceedings. Half-crazed with remorse, he left the pirates that night. After long consideration where to go, he decided upon returning to Erlingsen's. He did not know to what extent they suspected him; he was pretty sure that they held no proofs against him. Nowhere else could he be sure of honest work,--the first object with him now, in the midst of his remorse. He felt irresistibly drawn towards poor Erica, now that no rival was there; and if, mixed with all these considerations, there were some thoughts of the situation of houseman being vacant, and needing much to be filled up, it is no wonder that such a mingling of motives took place in a mind so selfish as Hund's.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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9
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HUND'S REPORT.
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Hund performed his journey by night,--a journey perfectly unlike any that was ever performed by night in England. He did not for a moment think of going by the fiord, short and easy as it would have been in comparison with the land road. He would rather have mounted all the steeps, and crossed the snows of Sulitelma itself, many times over, than have put himself in the way a second time of such a vision as he had seen. Laboriously and diligently, therefore, he overcame the difficulties of the path, crossing ravines, wading through swamps, scaling rocks, leaping across water-courses, and only now and then throwing himself down on some tempting slope of grass, to wipe his brows, and, where opportunity offered, to moisten his parched throat with the wild strawberries which were fast ripening in the sheltered nooks of the hills. It was now so near midsummer, and the nights were so fast melting into the days, that Hund could at the latest scarcely see a star, though there was not a fleece of cloud in the whole circle of the heavens. While yet the sun was sparkling on the fiord, and glittering on every farm-house window that fronted the west, all around was as still as if the deepest darkness had settled down. The eagles were at rest on their rocky ledge, a thousand feet above the waters. The herons had left their stand on the several promontories of the fiord, and the flapping of their wings overhead was no more heard. The raven was gone home; the cattle were all far away on the mountain pastures; the goats were hidden in the woods which yielded the tender shoots on which they subsisted. The round eyes of a white owl stared out upon him here and there, from under the eaves of a farm-house; and these seemed to be the only eyes besides his own that were open. Hund knew as he passed one dwelling after another,--knew as well as if he had looked in at the windows,--that the inhabitants were all asleep, even with the sunshine lying across their very faces.
Every few minutes he observed how his shadow lengthened, and he longed for the brief twilight which would now soon be coming on. Now, his shadow stretched quite across a narrow valley, as he took breath on a ridge crossed by the soft breeze. Then, the shadow stood up against a precipice, taller than the tallest pine upon the steep. Then the yellow gleam grew fainter, the sparkles on the water went out, and he saw the large pale circle of the sun sink and sink into the waves, where the fiord spread out wide to the south-west. Even the weary spirit of this unhappy man seemed now to be pervaded with some of the repose which appeared to be shed down for the benefit of all that lived. He walked on and on; but he felt the grass softer under his feet,--the air cooler upon his brow; and he began to comfort himself with thinking that he had not murdered Rolf. He said to himself that he had not laid a finger on him, and that the skiff might have sunk exactly as it did, if he had been sitting at home, carving a bell-collar. There could be no doubt that the skiff had been pulled down fathoms deep by a strong hand from below; and if the spirits were angry with Rolf, that was no concern of Rolf's human enemies. --Thus Hund strove to comfort himself; but it would not do. The more he tried to put away the thought, the more obstinately it returned, that he had been speeding on his way to injure Rolf when the strange disappearance took place; and that he had long hated and envied his fellow-servant, however marvellously he had been prevented from capturing or slaying him. These thoughts had no comfort in them; but better came after a time.
He had to pass very near M. Kollsen's abode; and it crossed his mind that it would be a great relief to open his heart to a clergyman. He halted for a minute, in sight of the house, but presently went on, saying to himself that he could not say all to M. Kollsen, and would therefore say nothing. He should get a lecture against superstition, and hear hard words of the powers he dreaded; and there would be no consolation in this. It was said that the Bishop of Tronyem was coming round this way soon, in his regular progress through his diocese, and everybody bore testimony to his gentleness and mercy. It would be best to wait for his coming. Then Hund began to calculate how soon he would come; for aching hearts are impatient for relief; and the thought how near midsummer was, made him look up into the sky,--that beautiful index of the seasons in a northern climate. There were a few extremely faint stars--a very few,--for only the brightest could now show themselves in the sky where daylight lingered so as never quite to depart. A pale-green hue remained where the sun had disappeared, and a deep-red glow was even now beginning to kindle where he was soon to rise. Just here, Hund's ear caught some tones of the soft harp music which the winds make in their passage through a wood of pines; and there was a fragrance in the air from a new thatch of birch-bark just laid upon a neighbouring roof. This fragrance, that faint vibrating music, and the soft veiled light were soothing; and when, besides, Hund pictured to himself his mind relieved by a confession to the good bishop--perhaps cheered by words of pardon and of promise, the tears burst from his eyes, and the fever of his spirit was allayed.
Then up came the sun again, and the new thatch reeked in his beams, and the birds shook off sleep, and plumed themselves, and the peak of Sulitelma blushed with the softest rose-colour, and the silvery fish leaped out of the water, and the blossoms in the gardens opened, though it was only an hour after midnight. Every creature except man seemed eager to make the most of the short summer season,--to waste none of its bright hours, which would be gone too soon;--every creature except man; but man must have rest, be the sun high or sunk beneath the horizon: so that Hund saw no face, and heard no human voice, before he found himself standing at the top of the steep rocky pathway, which led down to Erlingsen's abode.
Hund might have known that he should find everything in a different state from that in which he had left the place; but yet he was rather surprised at the aspect of the farm. The stable-doors stood wide; and there was no trace of milk-pails. The hurdles of the fold were piled upon one another in a corner of the yard. It was plain that herd, flock, and dairy-women were gone to the mountain: and, though Hund dreaded meeting Erica, it struck upon his heart, to think that she was not here. He felt now how much it was for her sake that he had come back.
He half resolved to go away again: but from the gallery of the house some snow-white sheets were hanging to dry; and this showed that some neat and busy female hands were still here. Next, his eye fell upon the boat which lay gently rocking with the receding tide in its tiny cove; and he resolved to lie down in it and rest, while considering what to do next. He went down, stepping gently over the pebbles of the beach, lest his tread should reach and waken any ear through the open windows, lay down at the bottom of the boat, and, as might have been expected, fell asleep as readily as an infant in a cradle.
Of course he was discovered; and, of course, Oddo was the discoverer. Oddo was the first to come forth, to water the one horse that remained at the farm, and to give a turn and a shake to the two or three little cocks of hay which had been mown behind the house. His quick eye noted the deep marks of a man's feet in the sand and pebbles, below high-water mark, proving that some one had been on the premises during the night. He followed these marks to the boat, where he was amazed to find the enemy (as he called Hund) fast asleep. Oddo was in a great hurry to tell his grandfather (Erlingsen being on the mountain); but he thought it only proper caution to secure his prize from escaping in his absence.
He summoned his companion, the dog which had warned him of many dangers abroad, and helped him faithfully with his work at home; and nothing could be clearer to Skorro than that he was to crouch on the thwarts of the boat, with his nose close to Hund's face, and not to let Hund stir till Oddo came back. Then Oddo ran, and wakened his grandfather, who made all haste to rise and dress. Erica now lived in Peder's house. She had taken her lover's place there, since his disappearance; as the old man must be taken care of, and the house kept; and her mistress thought the interest and occupation good for her. Hearing Oddo's story, she rushed out, and her voice was soon heard in passionate entreaty, above the bark of the dog, which was trying to prevent the prisoner from rising.
"Only tell me," Erica was heard to say, "only tell me where and how he died. I know he is dead,--I knew he would die; from that terrible night when we were betrothed. Tell me who did it,--for I am sure you know. Was it Nipen? --Yes, it was Nipen, whether it was done by wind or water, or human hands. But speak, and tell me where he is. O, Hund, speak! Say only where his body is, and I will try--I will try never to speak to you again--never to--" Hund looked miserable; he moved his lips; but no sound was heard mingling with Erica's rapid speech.
Madame Erlingsen, who, with Orga, had by this time reached the spot, laid her hand on Erica's arm, to beg for a moment's silence, made Oddo call his dog out of the boat, and then spoke, in a severe tone, to Hund.
"Why do you shake your head, Hund, and speak no word? Say what you know, for the sake of those whom, we grievously suspect, you have deeply injured. Say what you know, Hund."
"What I say is, that I do not know," replied Hund, in a hoarse and agitated voice. "I only know that we live in an enchanted place, here by this fiord, and that the spirits try to make us answer for their doings. The very first night after I went forth, this very boat was spirited away from me, so that I could not come home. Nipen had a spite against me there, to make you all suspect me. I declare to you that the boat was gone, in a twinkling, by magic, and I heard the cry of the spirit that took it."
"What was the cry like?" asked Oddo, gravely.
"Where were you that you were not spirited away with the boat?" asked his mistress.
"I was tumbled out upon the shore, I don't know how," declared Hund:--"found myself sprawling on a rock, while the creature's cries brought my heart into my mouth as I lay."
"Alone? --were you alone?" asked his mistress.
"I had landed the pastor some hours before, madame; and I took nobody else with me, as Stiorna can tell; for she saw me go."
"Stiorna is at the mountain," observed madame, coolly.
"But, Hund," said Oddo, "how did Nipen take hold of you when it laid you sprawling on the rock? Neck and heels? Or, did it bid you go and harken whether the pirates were coming, and whip away the boat before you came back? Are you quite sure that you sprawled on the rock at all before you ran away from the horrible cry you speak of? Our rocks are very slippery, when Nipen is at one's heels."
Hund stared at Oddo, and his voice was yet hoarser when he said that he had long thought that boy was a favourite with Nipen; and he was sure of it now.
Erica had thrown herself down on the sand, hiding her face on her hands, on the edge of the boat, as if in despair of her misery being attended to,--her questions answered. Old Peder stood beside her, stroking her hair tenderly; and he now spoke the things she could not say.
"Attend to me, Hund," said Peder, in the grave, quiet tone which every one regarded. "Hear my words, and, for your own sake, answer them. We suspect you of being in communication with the pirates yonder: we suspect that you went to meet them when you refused to go hunting the bears. We know that you have long felt ill-will towards Rolf,--envy of him,--jealousy of him;--and--" Here Erica looked up, pale as ashes, and said, "Do not question him further. There is no truth in his answers. He spoke falsehood even now."
Peder saw how Hund shrank under this, and thought the present the moment to get truth out of him, if he ever could speak it. He therefore went on to say-- "We suspect you of having done something to keep your rival out of the way, in order that you might obtain the house and situation,--and perhaps something else that you wish."
"Have you killed him?" asked Erica, abruptly, looking full in his face.
"No," returned Hund, firmly. From his manner everybody believed this much.
"Do you know that anybody else has killed him?"
"No."
"Do you know whether he is alive or dead?"
To this Hund could, in the confusion of his ideas about Rolf's fate and condition, fairly say "No:" as also to the question, "Do you know where he is?"
Then they all cried out, "Tell us what you do know about him."
"Ay, there you come," said Hund, resuming some courage, and putting on the appearance of more than he had. "You load me with foul accusations; and when you find yourselves all in the wrong, you alter your tone, and put yourselves under obligation to me for what I will tell. I will treat you better than you treat me; and I will tell you plainly why. I repent of my feelings towards my fellow-servant, now that evil has befallen him--" "What? O what?" cried Erica.
"He was seen fishing on the fiord, in that poor little worn-out skiff. I myself saw him. And when I looked next for the skiff, it was gone,-- it had disappeared."
"And where were you?"
"Never mind where I was. I was not with him, but about my own business. And I tell you, I no more laid a finger on him or his skiff than any one of you."
"Where was it?"
"Close by Vogel islet!"
Erica started, and, in one moment's flush of hope, told that Rolf had said, he should be safe at any time near Vogel islet. Hund caught at her words so eagerly as to make a favourable impression on all, who saw, what was indeed the truth, that he would have been glad to know that Rolf was alive. Their manner so changed towards Hund, that if Stiorna had been there, she would have triumphed. But the more they considered the case, the more improbable it seemed that Rolf should have escaped drowning.
"Mother, what do you think?" whispered the gentle Orga.
"I think, my dear, that we shall never forgive ourselves for letting Rolf go out in that old skiff."
"Then you think,--you feel quite sure,--mother, that Nipen had nothing to do with it."
"I feel confident, my dear, that there is no such being as Nipen."
"Even after all that has happened? --after this, following upon Oddo's prank that night?"
"Even so, Orga. We suffer by our own carelessness and folly, my love: and it makes us neither wiser nor better to charge the consequence upon evil spirits;--to charge our good God with permitting revengeful beings to torment us, instead of learning from his chastisements to sin in the same way no more."
"But, mother, if you are right, how very far wrong all these others are!"
"It is but little, my child, that the wisest of us knows: but there is a whole eternity before us, every one, to grow wise in. Some," and she looked towards Oddo, "may outgrow their mistakes here; and others," looking at old Peder, "are travelling fast towards a place where everybody is wiser than years or education can make us here. Your father and I do wish, for Frolich and you, that you should rest your reverence, your hopes and fears, on none but the good God. Do we not know that not even a sparrow falleth to the ground without his will?"
"Poor Erica would be less miserable if she could think so," sighed Orga. "She will die soon, if she goes on to suffer as she does. I wish the good bishop would come: for I do not think M. Kollsen gives her any comfort. Look now! what can she have to say to Hund?"
What Erica had to say to Hund was, "I believe some of the things you have told. I believe that you did not lay hands on Rolf."
"Bless you! Bless you for that!" interrupted Hund, almost forgetting how far he really was guilty in the satisfaction of hearing these words from the lips that spoke them.
"Tell me, then," proceeded Erica, "how you believe he really perished. -- Do you fully believe he perished?"
"I believe," whispered Hund, "that the strong hand pulled him down--down to the bottom."
"I knew it," said Erica, turning away.
"Erica,--one word," exclaimed Hund. "I must stay here--I am very miserable, and I must stay here, and work and work till I get some comfort. But you must tell me how you think of me--you must say that you do not hate me."
"I do hate you," said Erica, with disgust, as her suspicions of his wanting to fill Rolf's place were renewed. "I mistrust you, Hund, more deeply than I can tell."
"Will no penitence change your feelings, Erica? I tell you I am as miserable as you."
"That is false, like everything else that you say," cried Erica. "I wish you would go,--go and seek Rolf under the waters--" Hund shuddered at the thought, as it recalled what he had seen and heard at the islet. Erica saw this, and sternly repeated, "Go and bring back Rolf from the deeps; and then I will cease to hate you. Ah! I see the despair in your face. Such despair never came from any woman's words where there was not a bad conscience to back them."
Hund felt that this was true, and made no reply.
As Erica slowly returned into Peder's house, Oddo ran past, and was there before her. He closed the door when she had entered, put his hand within hers, and said, "Did Rolf really tell you that he should be safe anywhere near Vogel islet?"
"Yes," sighed Erica,--"safe from the pirates. That was his answer when I begged him not to go so far down the fiord: but Rolf always had an answer when one asked him not to go into danger. You see how it ended;--and he never would believe in _that_ danger."
"I shall never be happy again, if this is Nipen's doing," said Oddo. "But, Erica, you went one trip with me, and I know you are brave. Will you go another? Will you go to the islet, and see what Rolf could have meant about being safe there?"
Erica brightened for a moment; and perhaps would have agreed to go: but Peder came in; and Peder said he knew the islet well, and that it was universally considered that it was now inaccessible to human foot, and that that was the reason why the fowl flourished there as they did in no other place. Erica must not be permitted to go so far down among the haunts of the pirates. Instead of this, her mistress had just decided that, as there were no present means of getting rid of Hund,--as indeed his depressed state of spirits seemed to give him some title to be received again,--and as Erica could not be expected to remain just now in his presence, she should set off immediately for the mountain, and request Erlingsen to come home. This was only hastening her departure by two or three days. At the seater she would find less to try her spirits than here: and when Erlingsen came he would, if he thought proper, have Hund carried before a magistrate; and would, at least, set such inquiries afloat through the whole region as would bring to light anything that might chance to be known of Rolf's fate.
Erica could not deny that this was the best plan that could be pursued, though she had no heart for going to the seater, any more than for doing anything else. Under Peder's urgency, however, she made up her bundle of clothes, took in her hand her lure [Note 1], with which to call home the cattle in the evenings, bade her mistress farewell privately, and stole away without Hund's knowledge, while Oddo was giving him meat and drink within the house. Old Peder listened to her parting footsteps; and her mistress watched her up the first hill, thinking to herself how unlike this was to the usual cheerful departure to the mountain dairies. Never, indeed, had a heavier heart burdened the footsteps of the wayfarer, about to climb the slopes of Sulitelma.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The Lure is a wooden trumpet, nearly five feet long, made of two hollow pieces of birch-wood, bound together, throughout the whole length, with slips of willow. It is used to call the cattle together on a wide pasture; and is also carried by travelling parties, to save the risk of any one being lost in the wilds. Its notes, which may be heard to a great distance, are extremely harsh and discordant; having none of the musical tone of the Alp-horn,--(the cow-horn used by the Swiss for the same purpose,)--which sounds well at a distance.
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{
"id": "23277"
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10
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SEEKING THE UPLANDS.
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Now that the great occasion was come,--that brightest day of the year,-- the day of going to the seater, how unlike was it to all that the lovers had imagined and planned! How unlike was the situation of the two! There was Rolf, cooped up in a dim cave, his heart growing heavy as his ear grew weary of the incessant dash and echo of the waters! And here was Erica on the free mountain side, where all was silent, except the occasional rattle of a brook over the stones, and the hum of a cloud of summer flies. The lovers were alike in their unhappiness only: and hardly in this, so much the most wretched of the two was Erica.
The sun was hot; and her path occasionally lay under rocks which reflected the heat upon the passenger. She did not heed this, for the aching of her heart. Then she had to pass through a swamp, whence issued a host of mosquitoes, to annoy any who intruded upon their domain. It just occurred to Erica that Rolf made her pass this place on horseback last year, well veiled, and completely defended from these stinging tormentors: but she did not heed them now. When, somewhat higher up, she saw in the lofty distance a sunny slope of long grass undulating in the wind, like the surface of a lake, tears sprang into her eyes; for Rolf had said that when they came in sight of the waving pasture, she would alight, and walk the rest of the way with him. Instead of this, and instead of the gay procession from the farm, musical with the singing of boys and girls, the lowing of the cows, and the bleating of the kids, all rejoicing together at going to the mountain, here she was alone, carrying a widowed heart, and wandering with unwilling steps further and further from the spot where she had last seen Rolf!
She dashed the tears from her eyes, and looked behind her, at the entrance of a ravine which would hide her from the fiord and the dwelling she had left. Thor islet lay like a fragment of the leafy forest cast into the blue waters; but Vogel islet could not be seen. It was not too far down to be seen from an elevation like this; but it was hidden behind the promontories by which the fiord was contracted. Erica could see what she next looked for,--knowing, as she did, precisely where to look. She could see the two graves belonging to the household,--the two hillocks which were railed in behind the house: but she turned away sickening at the thought that Rolf could not even have a grave; that that poor consolation was denied her. She looked behind her no more; but made her way rapidly through the ravine,--the more rapidly because she had seen a man ascending by the same path at no great distance, and she had little inclination to be joined by a party of wandering Laplanders, seeking a fresh pasture for their reindeer; still less by any neighbour from the fiord, who might think civility required that he should escort her to the seater. This wayfarer was walking at a pace so much faster than hers, that he would soon pass; and she would hide among the rocks beside the tarn [small lake upon a mountain] at the head of the ravine till he had gone by.
It was refreshing to come out of the hot, steep ravine upon the grass at the upper end of it. Such grass! A line of pathway was trodden in it straight upwards, by those who had before ascended the mountain; but Erica left this path, and turned to the right, to seek the tarn which there lay hidden among the rocks. The herbage was knee-deep, and gay with flowers,--with wild geranium, pansies, and especially with the yellow blossoms which give its peculiar hue and flavour to the Gammel cheese, and to the butter made in the mountain dairies of Norway. Through this rich pasture Erica waded till she reached the tarn which fed the stream that gambolled down the ravine. The death-cold unfathomed waters lay calm and still under the shelter of the rocks which nearly surrounded them. Even where crags did not rise abruptly from the water, huge blocks were scattered; masses which seemed to have lain so long as to have seen the springing herbage of a thousand summers.
In the shadow of one of these blocks, Erica sank down into the grass. There she, and her bundle, and her long lure were half-buried; and this, at last, felt something like rest. Here she would remain long enough to let the other wayfarer have a good start up the mountain; and by that time she should be cool and tranquillised:--yes, tranquillised; for here she could seek that peace which never failed when she sought it as Christians may. She hid her face in the fragrant grass, and did not look up again till the grief of her soul was stilled. --Then her eye and her heart were open to the beauty of the place which she had made her temple of worship; and she gazed around till she saw something that surprised her. A reindeer stood on the ridge, his whole form, from his branching head to his slender legs, being clearly marked against the bright sky. He was not alone. He was the sentinel, set to watch on behalf of several companions,--two or three being perched on ledges of the rock, browsing,--one standing half-buried in the herbage of the pasture, and one on the margin of the water, drinking as it would not have dreamed of doing if the wind had not been in the wrong quarter for letting him know how near the hidden Erica was.
This pretty sight was soon over. In a few moments the whole company appeared to take flight at once, without her having stirred a muscle. Away they went, with such speed and noiselessness that they appeared not to touch the ground. From point to point of the rock they sprang, and the last branchy head disappeared over the ridge, almost before Erica could stand upright, to see all she could of them.
She soon discovered the cause of their alarm. She thought it could not have been herself; and it was not. The traveller, who she had hoped was now some way up the mountain, was standing on the margin of the tarn, immediately opposite to her, so that the wind had carried the scent to the herd. The traveller saw her at the same moment that she perceived him; but Erica did not discover this, and sank down again into the grass, hoping so to remain undisturbed. She could not thus observe what his proceedings were; but her ear soon informed her that he was close by. His feet were rustling in the grass.
She sat up, and took her bundle and lure, believing now that she must accept the unwelcome civility of an escort for the whole of the rest of the way, and thinking that she might as well make haste, and get it over. The man, however, seemed in no hurry. Before she could rise, he took his seat on the huge stone beside her, crossed his arms, made no greeting, but looked her full in the face.
She did not know the face, nor was it like any that she had ever seen. There was such long hair, and so much beard, that the eyes seemed the only feature which made any distinct impression. Erica's heart now began to beat violently. Though wishing to be alone, she had not dreamed of being afraid till now: but now it occurred to her that she was seeing the rarest of sights--one not seen twice in a century; no other than the mountain-demon. Sulitelma, as the highest mountain in Norway, was thought to be his favourite haunt; and considering his strange appearance, and his silence, it could hardly be other than himself.
The test would be whether he would speak first; a test which she resolved to try, though it was rather difficult to meet and return the stare of such a neighbour without speaking. She could not keep this up for more than a minute: so she sprang to her feet, rested her lure upon her shoulder, took her bundle in her hand, and began to wade back through the high grass to the pathway, almost expecting, when she thought of her mother's fate, to be seized by a strong hand, and cast into the unfathomable tarn, whose waters were said to well up from the centre of the earth. Her companion, however, merely walked by her side. As he did not offer to carry her bundle, he could be no countryman of hers. There was not a peasant in Nordland who would not have had more courtesy.
They walked quietly on till the tarn was left some way behind. Erica found she was not to die that way. Presently after, they came in sight of a settlement of Lapps,--a cluster of low and dirty tents, round which some tame reindeer were feeding. Erica was not sorry to see these; though no one knew better than she the helpless cowardice of these people; and it was not easy to say what assistance they could afford against the mountain-demon. Yet they were human beings, and would appear in answer to a cry. She involuntarily shifted her lure, to be ready to utter a call. The stranger stopped to look at the distant tents, and Erica went on, at the same pace. He presently overtook her, and pointed towards the Lapps with an inquiring look. Erica only nodded.
"Why you no speak?" growled the stranger, in broken language.
"Because I have nothing to say," declared Erica, in the sudden vivacity inspired by the discovery that this was probably no demon. Her doubts were renewed, however, by the next question.
"Is the bishop coming?"
Now, none were supposed to have a deeper interest in the holy bishop's travels than the evil spirits of any region through which he was to pass.
"Yes, he is coming," replied Erica. "Are you afraid of him?"
The stranger burst into a loud laugh at her question: and very like a mocking fiend he looked, as his thick beard parted to show his wide mouth, with its two ranges of teeth. When he finished laughing, he said, "No, no--we no fear bishop." " `We!'" repeated Erica to herself. "He speaks for his tribe, as well as himself."
"We no fear bishop," said the stranger, still laughing. "You no fear--?" and he pointed to the long stretch of path--the prodigious ascent before them.
Erica said there was nothing to fear on the mountain for those who did their duty to the powers, as it was her intention to do. Her first Gammel cheese was to be for him whose due it was; and it should be the best she could make.
This speech she thought would suit, whatever might be the nature of her companion. If it was the demon, she could do no more to please him than promise him his cheese.
Her companion seemed not to understand or attend to what she said. He again asked if she was not afraid to travel alone in so dreary a place, adding, that if his countrywomen were to be overtaken by a stranger like him, on the wilds of a mountain, they would scream and fly; all which he acted very vividly, by way of making out his imperfect speech, and trying her courage at the same time.
When Erica saw that she had no demon for a companion, but only a foreigner, she was so much relieved as not to be afraid at all. She said that nobody thought of being frightened in summer time in her country. Winter was the time for that. When the days were long, so that travellers knew their way, and when everybody was abroad, so that you could not go far without meeting a friend, there was nothing to fear.
"You go abroad to meet friends, and leave your enemy behind."
At the moment, he turned to look back. Erica could not now help watching him, and she cast a glance homewards too. They were so high up the mountain that the fiord and its shores were in full view; and more;--for the river was seen in its windings from the very skirts of the mountain to the fiord, and the town of Saltdalen standing on its banks. In short, the whole landscape to the west lay before them, from Sulitelma to the point of the horizon where the islands and rocks melted into the sea.
The stranger had picked up an eagle's feather in his walk; and he now pointed with it to the tiny cove in which Erlingsen's farm might be seen, looking no bigger than an infant's toy, and said, "Do you leave an enemy there, or is Hund now your friend?"
"Hund is nobody's friend, unless he happens to be yours," Erica replied, perceiving at once that her companion belonged to the pirates. "Hund is everybody's enemy; and, above all, he is an enemy to himself. He is a wretched man."
"The bishop will cure that," said the stranger. "He is coward enough to call in the bishop to cure all. When comes the bishop?"
"Next week."
"What day, and what hour?"
Erica did not choose to gratify so close a curiosity as this. She did not reply; and while silent, was not sorry to hear the distant sound of cattle-bells, and Erlingsen's cattle-bells too. The stranger did not seem to notice the sound, even though quickening his pace to suit Erica's, who pressed on faster when she believed protection was at hand. And yet the next thing the stranger said brought her to a full stop. -- He said he thought a part of Hund's business with the bishop would be to get him to disenchant the fiord, so that boats might not be spirited away almost before men's eyes; and that a rower and his skiff might not sink like lead one day, and the man be heard the second day, and seen the third, so that there was no satisfactory knowledge as to whether he was really dead. Erica stopped, and her eager looks made the inquiry which her lips could not speak. Her eagerness put her companion on his guard, and he would explain no further than by saying that the fiord was certainly enchanted, and that strange tales were circulating all round its shores--very striking to a stranger;--a stranger had nothing more to do with the wonders of a country than to listen to them. He wanted to turn the conversation back to Hund. Having found out that he was at Erlingsen's, he next tried to discover what he had said and done since his arrival. Erica told the little there was to tell--that he seemed full of sorrow and remorse. She told this in hope of a further explanation about drowned men being seen alive; but the stranger stopped when the bells were heard again, and a woman's voice singing, nearer still. He complimented Erica on her courage, and turned to go back the way he came.
"Stay," said Erica. "Do come to the dairy, now you are so near."
The man walked away rapidly.
"My master is here close at hand; he will be glad to see a stranger," she said, following him, with the feeling that her only chance of hearing something of Rolf was departing. The stranger did not turn, but only walked faster and with longer strides down the slope.
The only thing now to be done was to run forwards, and send a messenger after him. Erica forgot heat, weariness, and the safety of her property, and ran on towards the singing voice. In five minutes she found the singer, Frolich, lying along the ground and picking cloud-berries with which she was filling her basket for supper.
"Where is Erlingsen? --quick--quick!" cried Erica.
"My father? You may just see him with your good eyes,--up there."
And Frolich pointed to a patch of verdure on a slope high up the mountain, where the gazer might just discern that there were haycocks standing, and two or three moving figures beside them.
"Stiorna is there to-day, besides Jan. They hope to finish this evening," said Frolich; "and so here I am, all alone: and I am glad you have come to help me to have a good supper ready for them. Their hunger will beat all my berry-gathering."
"You are alone?" said Erica, discovering that it was well that the pirate had turned back when he did. "You alone, and gathering berries, instead of having an eye on the cattle! Who has an eye on the cattle!" [Note 1.]
"Why, no one," answered Frolich. "Come now, do not tease me with bidding me remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle. The underground people have something to do elsewhere to-day; they give no heed to us."
"We must give heed to them, however," said Erica. "Show me where the cattle are, and I will collect them, and have an eye on them till supper is ready."
"You shall do no such thing, Erica. You shall lie down here and pick berries with me, and tell me the news. That will rest you and me at the same time; for I am as tired of being alone as you can be of climbing the mountain. --But why are your hands empty? Who is to lend you clothes? And what will the cows say to your leaving your lure behind, when you know they like it so much better than Stiorna's?"
Erica explained that her bundle and lure were lying on the grass, a little way below; and Frolich sprang to her feet, saying that she would fetch them presently. Erica stopped her, and told her she must not go: nobody should go but herself. She could not answer to Erlingsen for letting one of his children follow the steps of a pirate, who might return at any moment.
Frolich had no longer any wish to go. She started off towards the sleeping-shed, and never stopped till she had entered it, and driven a provision-chest against the door, leaving Erica far behind.
Erica, indeed, was in no hurry to follow. She returned for her bundle and lure: and then, uneasy about the cattle being left without an eye upon them, and thus confided to the negligence of the underground people, she proceeded to an eminence where two or three of her cows were grazing, and there sounded her lure. She put her whole strength to it, in hope that others, besides the cattle, might appear in answer; for she was really anxious to see her master.
The peculiar and far from musical sounds did spread wide over the pastures, and up the slopes, and through the distant woods, so that the cattle of another seater stood to listen, and her own cows began to move,--leaving the sweetest tufts of grass, and rising up from their couches in the richest herbage, to converge towards the point whence she called. The far-off herdsman observed to his fellow that there was a new call among the pastures; and Erlingsen, on the upland, desired Jan and Stiorna to finish cocking the hay, and began his descent to his seater, to learn whether Erica had brought any news from home.
Long before he could appear, Frolich stole out trembling, and looking round her at every step. When she saw Erica, she flew over the grass, and threw herself down in it at Erica's feet.
"Where is he?" she whispered. "Has he come back?"
"I have not seen him. I dare say he is as far off by this time as the Black Tarn, where I met with him."
"The Black Tarn! And do you mean that--no, you cannot mean that you came all the way together from the Black Tarn hither. Did you run? Did you fly? Did you shriek? Oh, what did you do? --with a pirate at your heels!"
"By my side," said Erica. "We walked and talked."
"With a pirate! But how did you know it was a pirate? Did he tell you so?"
"No: and at first I thought,"--and she sank her voice into a reverential whisper,--"I thought for some time it was the demon of this place. When I found it was only a pirate, I did not mind."
"Only a pirate! Did not mind!" exclaimed Frolich. "You are the strangest girl! You are the most perverse creature! You think nothing of a pirate walking at your elbow for miles, and you would make a slave of yourself and me about these underground people, that my father laughs at, and that nobody ever saw. --Ah! you say nothing aloud; but I know you are saying in your own mind, `Remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle.'"
"You want news," said Erica, avoiding, as usual, all conversation about her superstitions. "How will it please you that the bishop is coming?"
"Very much, if we had any chance of seeing him. Very much, whether we see him or not, if he can give any help,--any advice... My poor Erica, I do not like to ask, but you have had no good news, I fear."
Erica shook her head.
"I saw that in your face, in a moment. Do not speak about it till you tell my father; he may help you--I cannot; so do not tell me anything."
Erica was glad to take her at her word. She kissed Frolich's hand, which lay on her knee, in token of thanks, and then inquired whether any Gammel cheese was made yet.
"No," said Frolich, inwardly sighing for news. "We have the whey, but not sweet cream enough till after this evening's milking; so you are just in time."
Erica was glad, as she could not otherwise have been sure of the demon having his due.
"There is your father," said Erica. "Now do go and gather more berries, Frolich; there are not half enough, and you cannot be afraid of the pirate, with your father within call. Now do go."
"You want me not to hear what you have to tell my father," said Frolich, unwilling to depart.
"That is very true. I shall tell him nothing till you are out of hearing; he can repeat to you what he pleases afterwards, and he will indulge you all the more for your giving him a good supper."
"So he will, and I will fill his cup myself," observed Frolich. "He says the corn-brandy is uncommonly good, and I will fill his cup till it will not hold another drop."
"You will not reach his heart that way, Frolich. He knows to a drop what his quantity is, and there he stops."
"I know where there are some manyberries [Note 2] ripe," said Frolich, "and he likes them above all berries. They lie this way, at the edge of the swamp, where the pirate will never think of coming."
And off she went, as Erica rose from the grass to curtsey to Erlingsen on his approach.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. It is a popular belief in Norway that there is a race of fairies or magicians living underground, who are very covetous of cattle; and that, to gratify their taste for large herds and flocks, they help themselves with such as graze on the mountains; making dwarfs of them to enable them to enter crevices of the ground, in order to descend to the subterranean pastures. This practice may be defeated, as the Norwegian herdsman believes, by keeping his eye constantly on the cattle.
A certain Bishop of Tronyem lost his cattle by the herdsmen having looked away from them, beguiled by a spirit in the shape of a noble elk. The herdsmen, looking towards their charge again, saw them reduced to the size of mice, just vanishing through a crevice in the hill-side. Hence the Norwegian proverb used to warn any one to look after his property, "Remember the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle."
Note 2. The Molteboeer, or Manyberries, so called from its clustered appearance. It is a delicious fruit, amber-coloured when ripe, and growing in marshy ground.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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11
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DAIRY-MAIDS' TALK.
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It may be supposed that Erlingsen was anxious to be at home, when he had heard Erica's story. He was not to be detained by any promise of berries and cream for supper. He put away the thought even of his hay, yet unfinished on the upland, and would not hear nothing that Frolich had to say of his fatigue at the end of a long working day. He took some provision with him, drank off a glass of corn-brandy, kissed Frolich, promised to send news, and, if possible, more helping hands, and set off, at a good pace, down the mountain.
The party he left behind was a dull one. When Jan came in to supper he became angry that he was left to get in the hay alone; even Stiorna could not help him to-morrow, for the cheese-making had already been put off too long while waiting for Erica's arrival, and it must now be delayed no longer. It was true some one was to be sent from below, but such an one could not arrive before the next evening, and Jan would meanwhile have a long day alone, instead of having, as hitherto, his master for a comrade. Stiorna, for her part, was offended at the wish, openly expressed by all, that Hund might not be the person sent; she was sure he was the only proper person, but she saw that he would meet with no welcome, except from her.
Scarcely a word was spoken till Erica and Frolich were about their cheese-making the next morning. Erica had rather have kept the cattle, but Frolich so earnestly begged that she would let Stiorna do that, as she could not destroy the cattle in her ill-humour, while she might easily spoil the cheese, that Erica put away her knitting, tied on her apron, tucked up her sleeves, and prepared for the great work.
"There! let her go!" cried Frolich, looking after Stiorna, as she walked away slowly, trailing her lure after her. "She may knit all her ill-humour into her stocking, if she likes, as Hund is to wear it, and that is better than putting it into our cheese. Erica," said the kind-hearted girl. "You are worth a hundred of her. What has she to disturb her, in comparison with you? --and yet you do just what I ask you, and work at our business as if nothing was the matter. If you chose to cry all day on the two graves down there at home, nobody could think it unreasonable."
Erica was washing the bowls and cheese-moulds in juniper-water at this moment; and her tears streamed down upon them at Frolich's kind words.
"We had better not talk about such things, dear," said she, as soon as she could speak.
"Nay, now, I think it is the best thing we can do, Erica. Here, pour me this cream into the pan over the fire, and I will stir, while you strain some more whey. My back is towards you, and I cannot see you; and you can cry as you like, while I tell you all I think."
Erica found that this free leave to cry unseen was a great help towards stopping her tears; and she ceased weeping entirely while listening to all that Frolich had to say in favour of Rolf being still alive and safe. It was no great deal that could be said; only that Hund's news was more likely to be false than true, and that there was no other evidence of any accident having happened.
"My dear!" exclaimed Erica; "where is he now, then? --why is he not here? O, Frolich! I can hardly wonder that we are punished when I think of our presumption. When we were talking beside those graves on the day of Ulla's funeral, he laughed at me for even speaking of death and separation. `What! at our age!' he said. `Death at our age,--and separation!' --and that with Henrica's grave before our eyes!"
"Then, perhaps, this will prove to be a short and gentle separation, to teach him to speak more humbly. There is no being in the universe that would send death to punish light gay words, spoken from a joyful heart. If there were, I and many others should have been in our graves long since. Why, Erica! this is even a worse reason than Hund's word. Now, just tell me, Erica, would you believe anything else that Hund said?"
"In a common way, perhaps not: but you cannot think what a changed man he is, Frolich. He is so humbled, so melancholy, so awe-struck, that he is not like the same man."
"He may not be the better for that. He was more frightened than anybody at the moment the owl cried, on your betrothment night, when you fancied that Nipen had carried off Oddo. Yet never did I see Hund more malicious than he was half an hour afterwards. I doubt whether any such fright would make a liar into a truthful man, in a moment."
Erica now remembered and told the falsehood of Hund about what he was doing when the boat was spirited away:--a falsehood told in the very midst of the humiliation and remorse she had described.
"Why there now!" exclaimed Frolich, ceasing her stirring for a moment to look round; "what a capital story that is! and how few people know it! and how neatly you catch him in his fib! And why should not something like it be happening now with Rolf? Rolf knows all the ins and outs of the fiord: and if he has been playing bo-peep with his enemies among the islands, and frightening Hund, is it not the most natural thing in the world that Hund should come scampering home, and get his place, and say that he is lost, while waiting to see whether he is or not! --O dear!" she exclaimed after a pause, during which Erica did not attempt to speak, "I know what I wish."
"You wish something kind, dear, I am sure," said Erica, with a deep sigh.
"We have so many,--so very many nice, useful things,--we can go up the mountains and sail away over the seas,--and look far abroad into the sky. I only wish we could do one little thing more. I really think, having so many things, we might have had just one little thing more given us;--and that is wings. I grudge them to yonder screaming eagles, when I want them so much."
"My dear child, what strange things you say?"
"I do so very much want to fly abroad, just for once, over the fiord. If I could but look down into every nook and cove between Thor Islet and the sea, I would not be long in bringing you news. If I did not see Rolf, I would tell you plainly. Really, at such times it seems very odd that we have not wings."
"Perhaps the time may come, dear."
"I can never want them so much again."
"My dear, you cannot want them as I do, if I dared to say such bold things as you do. You are not weary of the world, Frolich."
"What! this beautiful world? Are you weary of it all, Erica?"
"Yes, dear."
"What! of the airy mountains, and the silent forests, and the lonely lakes, and the blue glaciers, with flowers fringing them? Are you quite weary of all these?"
"O that I had wings like a dove! Then would I flee away, and be at rest." Erica hardly murmured these words; but Frolich caught them.
"Do you know," said she, softly, after a pause, "I doubt whether we can find rest by going to any place, in this world or out of it, unless-- if--The truth is, Erica, I know my father and mother think that people who are afraid of selfish and revengeful spirits, such as demons and Nipen, can never have any peace of mind. Really religious people have their way straight before them;--they have only to do right, and God is their friend, and they can bear everything, and fear nothing. But the people about us are always in a fright about some selfish being or another not being properly humoured, and so being displeased. I would not be in such bondage, Erica,--no, not for the wings I was longing for just now. I should be freer if I were rooted like a tree, and without superstition, than if I had the wings of an eagle, with a belief in selfish demons."
"Let us talk of something else," said Erica, who was at the very moment considering where the mountain-demon would best like to have his Gammel cheese laid. "What is the quality of the cream, Frolich? Is it as good as it ought to be?"
"Stiorna would say that the demon will smack his lips over it. Come and taste."
"Do not speak so, dear."
"I was only quoting Stiorna--" "What are you saying about me?" inquired Stiorna, appearing at the door. "Only talking about the cream and the cheese? Are you sure of that? Bless me! what a smell of the yellow flowers! It will be a prime cheese."
"How can you leave the cattle, Stiorna?" cried Erica. "If they are all gone when you get back--" "Well, come, then, and see the sight. I get scolded either way, always. You would have scolded me finely to-night if I had not called you to see the sight--" "What sight?"
"Why there is such a procession of boats on the fiord, that you would suppose there were three weddings happening at once."
"What can we do?" exclaimed Frolich, dolefully looking at the cream, which had reached such a point as that the stirring could not cease for a minute without risk of spoiling the cheese.
Erica took the long wooden spoon from Frolich's hand, and bade her run and see where the bishop was going to land. The cream should not spoil while she was absent.
Frolich bounded away over the grass, declaring that if it was the bishop, going to her father's, she could not possibly stay on the mountain for all the cheeses in Nordland. --Erica remained alone, patiently stirring the cream, and hardly heeding the heat of the fire, while planning how the bishop would be told her story, and how he would examine Hund, and perhaps be able to give some news of the pirates, and certainly be ready with his advice. Some degree of hope arose within her as she thought of the esteem in which all Norway held the wisdom and kindness of the bishop of Tronyem: and then again she felt it hard to be absent during the visit of the only person to whom she looked for comfort.
Frolich returned after a long while, to defer her hopes a little. The boats had all drawn to shore on the northern side of the fiord, where, no doubt, the bishop had a visit to pay before proceeding to Erlingsen's. The cheese-making might yet be done in time, even if Frolich should be sent for home, to see and be seen by the good bishop.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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12
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PEDER ABROAD.
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The day after Erica's departure to the dairy, Peder was sitting alone in his house, weaving a frail-basket. Sometimes he sighed to think how empty and silent the house appeared to what he had ever known it before. Ulla's wheel stood in the corner, and was now never to be heard, any more than her feeble, aged voice, which had sung ballads to the last. Erica's light, active step was gone for the present, and would it ever again be as light and active as it had been? Rolf's hearty laugh was silent; perhaps for ever. Oddo was an inmate still, but Oddo was much altered of late, and who could wonder? Though the boy was strangely unbelieving about some things, he could not but feel how wonders and misfortunes had crowded upon one another since the night of his defiance of Nipen.
From the hour of Hund's return, the boy had hardly been heard to speak. All these thoughts were too melancholy for old Peder, and, to break the silence, he began to sing as he wove his basket.
He had nearly got through a ballad of a hundred and five stanzas, when he heard a footstep on the floor.
"Oddo, my boy," said he, "surely you are in early. Can it be dinner-time yet?"
"No, not this hour," replied Oddo, in a low voice, which sank to a whisper as he said, "I have left Hund laying the troughs to water the meadow, and if he misses me, I don't care. I could not stay;--I could not help coming;--and if he kills me for telling you, he may, for tell you I must."
And Oddo went to close and fasten the door, and then he sat down on the ground, rested his arms on his grandfather's knees, and told his story in such a low tone that no "little bird" under the eaves could "carry the matter."
"O grandfather, what a mind that fellow has! he will go crazy with horror soon. I am not sure that he is not crazy now."
"He has murdered Rolf, has he?"
"I can't be sure, but the oddest thing is that he mixes up wolves with his rambling talk. Rolf can hardly have met with mischief from any wolf at this season."
"No, boy; not Rolf. But did not. Hund speak of orphan children, and how wolves have been known to devour them when snow was on the ground?"
"Why, yes," said Oddo, surprised at such a guess.
"There was a reason for Hund's talking so of wolves, my dear. Tell me quick what he said of Rolf, and what made him say anything to you,--to an inquisitive boy like you."
"He is like one bewitched, that cannot hold his tongue. While I was bringing the troughs, one by one, for him to lay, where the meadow was dryest, he still kept muttering and muttering to himself. As often as I came within six yards of him, I heard him mutter, mutter; then, when I helped him to lay the troughs, he began to talk to me. I was not in the mind to make him many answers, but on he went, just the same as if I had asked him a hundred questions."
"It was such an opportunity for a curious boy, that I wonder you did not."
"Perhaps I might, if he had stopped long enough. But if he stopped for a moment to wipe his brows, he began again before I could well speak. He asked me whether I had ever heard that drowned men could show their heads above water, and stare with their eyes, and throw their arms about, a whole day,--two days, after they were drowned."
"Ay! indeed! Did he ask that?"
"Yes, and several other things: he asked whether I had ever heard that the islets in the fiord were so many prison-houses."
"And what did you say?"
"I wanted him to explain; so I said they were prison-houses to the eider-ducks when they were sitting, for they never stir a yard from their nests. But he did not heed a word I spoke; he went on about drowned men being kept prisoners in the islets, moaning because they can't get out. And he says they will knock, knock, as if they could cleave the thick hard rock."
"What do you think of all this, my boy?"
"Why, when I said I had not heard a word of any such thing, even from my grandmother or Erica, he declared he had heard the moans himself,-- moaning and crying; but then he mixed up something about the barking of wolves that made confusion in the story. Though he had been hot just before, there he stood shivering, as if it was winter, as he stood in the broiling sun. Then I asked him if he had seen dead men swim and stare, as he said he had heard them moan and cry."
"And what did he say then?"
"He started bolt upright, as if I had been picking his pocket. He was in a passion for a minute, I know, if ever he was in his life. Then he tried to laugh as he said what a lot of new stories--stories of spirits, such stories as people love--he should have to carry home to the north, whenever he went back to his own place."
"In the north,--his own place in the north! He wanted to mislead you there, boy. Hund was born some way to the south."
"No, was he really? How is one to believe a word he says, except when he speaks as if he was in his asleep,--straight out from his conscience, I suppose? He began to talk about the bishop next, wanting to know when I thought he would come, and whether he was apt to hold private talk with every sort of person at the houses he stayed at."
"How did you answer him? You know nothing about the bishop's visits."
"So I told him: but, to try him, I said I knew one thing,--that a quantity of fresh fish would be wanted when the bishop comes with his train; and I asked him whether he would go fishing with me, as soon as we should hear that the bishop was drawing near."
"He would not agree to that, I fancy."
"He asked how far out I thought of going. Of course I said to Vogel islet,--at least as far as Vogel islet. Do you know, grandfather, I thought he would have knocked me down at the word. He muttered something, I could not hear what, to get off. By that time we were laying the last trough. I asked him to go for some more, and the minute he was out of sight I scampered here. Now, what sort of a mind do you think this fellow has?"
"Not an easy one, it is plain. It is too clear also that he thinks Rolf is drowned."
"But do you think so, grandfather?"
"Do you think so, grandson?"
"Not a bit of it. Depend upon it, Rolf is all alive, if he is swimming and staring, and throwing his arms about in the water. I think I see him now. And I will see him, if he is to be seen, alive or dead."
"And pray, how?"
"I ought to have said if you will help me. You say, sometimes, grandfather, that you can pull a good stroke with the oar still: and I can steer as well as our master himself: and the fiord never was stiller than it is to-day. Think what it would be to bring home Rolf, or some good news of him. We would have a race up to the seater afterwards to see who could be the first to tell Erica."
"Gently, gently, boy! What is Rolf about not to come home, if he's alive?"
"That we shall learn from him. Did you hear that he told Erica he should go as far as Vogel islet, dropping something about being safe there from pirates and everything?"
Peder really thought there was something in this. He sent off Oddo to his work in the little meadow, and himself sought out Madame Erlingsen, who, having less belief in spirits and enchantments than Peder, was in proportion more struck with the necessity of seeing whether there was any meaning in Hund's revelations, lest Rolf should be perishing for want of help. The story of his disappearance had spread through the whole region; and there was not a fisherman on the fiord who had not, by this time, given an opinion as to how he was drowned. But Madame was well aware that, if he were only wrecked, there was no sign that he could make that would not terrify the superstitious minds of the neighbours, and make them keep aloof, instead of helping him. In addition to all this, it was doubtful whether his signals would be seen by anybody, at a season when every one who could be spared was gone up to the dairies.
As soon as Hund was gone out after dinner, the old man and his grandson put off in the boat, carrying a note from Madame Erlingsen to her neighbours along the fiord, requesting the assistance of one or two rowers on an occasion which might prove one of life and death. The neighbours were obliging. The Holbergs sent a stout farm-servant with directions to call at a cousin's, lower down, for a boatman; so that the boat was soon in fast career down the fiord,--Oddo full of expectation, and of pride in commanding such an expedition; and Peter being relieved from all necessity of rowing more than he liked.
Oddo had found occasionally the truth of a common proverb; he had easily brought his master's horses to the water, but could not make them drink. He now found that he had easily got rowers into the boat, but that it was impossible to make them row beyond a certain point. He had used as much discretion as Peder himself about not revealing the precise place of their destination; and when Vogel islet came in sight, the two helpers at once gave him hints to steer so as to keep as near the shore, and as far from the island, as possible. Oddo gravely steered for the island, notwithstanding. When the men saw that this was his resolution, they shipped their oars, and refused to strike another stroke, unless one of them might steer. That island had a bad reputation: it was bewitched or haunted; and in that direction the men would not go. They were willing to do all they could to oblige: they would row twenty miles without resting, with pleasure; but they would not brave Nipen, nor any other demon, for any consideration.
"How far off is it, Oddo?" asked Peder.
"Two miles, grandfather. Can you and I manage it by ourselves, think you?"
"Ay, surely, if we can land these friends of ours. They will wait ashore till we call for them again."
"I will leave you my supper if you will wait for us here, on this headland," said Oddo to the men.
The men could make no other objection than that they were certain the boat would never return. They were very civil--would not accept Oddo's supper on any account--would remain on the watch--wished their friends would be persuaded; and, when they found all persuasion in vain, declared they would bear testimony to Erica, and as long as they should live, to the bravery of the old man and boy who thus threw away their lives in search of a comrade who had fallen a victim to Nipen.
Amidst these friendly words the old man and his grandson put off once more alone, making straight for the islet. Of the two Peder was the greater hero, for he saw the most ground for fear.
"Promise me, Oddo," said she, "not to take advantage of my not seeing. As sure as you observe anything strange, tell me exactly what you see."
"I will, grandfather. There is nothing yet but what is so beautiful that I could not, for the life of me, find out anything to be afraid of. The water is as green as our best pasture, as it washes up against the grey rock. And that grey rock is all crested and tufted with green again wherever a bush can spring. It is all alive with sea-birds, as white as snow, as they wheel about it in the sun." " 'Tis the very place," said Peder, putting new strength into his old arm. Oddo rowed stoutly too for some way, and then he stopped to ask on what side the remains of a birch ladder used to hang down, as Peder had often told him.
"On the north side; but there is no use in looking for that, my boy. That birch ladder must have rotted away with frost and wet long and long ago."
"It is likely," said Oddo; "but thinking that some man must have put it there, I should like to see whether it really is impossible for one with a strong hand and light foot to mount this wall. I brought our longest boat-hook on purpose to try. Where a ladder hung before, a foot must have climbed; and if I mount, Rolf may have mounted before me."
It chilled Peder's heart to remember the aspect of the precipice which his boy talked of climbing; but he said nothing, feeling that it would be in vain. This forbearance touched Oddo's feelings.
"I will run into no folly, trust me," said he. "I do not forget that you depend on me for getting home; and that the truth, about Nipen and such things, depends, for an age to come, on our being seen at home again safe. But I have a pretty clear notion that Rolf is somewhere on the top there."
"Suppose you call him, then."
Oddo had much rather catch him. He pictured to himself the pride and pleasure of mastering the ascent; the delight of surprising Rolf asleep in his solitude, and the fun of standing over him to waken him, and witness his surprise. He could not give up the attempt to scale the rock: but he would do it very cautiously.
Slowly and watchfully they passed round the islet, Oddo seeking with his eye any ledge of the rock on which he might mount. Pulling off his shoes, that his bare feet might have the better hold, and stripping off almost all his clothes, for lightness in climbing, and perhaps swimming, he clambered up to more than one promising spot, and then, finding that further progress was impossible, had to come down again. At last; seeing a narrow chasm filled with leafy shrubs, he determined to try how high he could reach by means of these. He swung himself up by means of a bush which grew downwards, having its roots firmly fixed in a crevice of the rock. This gave him hold of another, which brought him in reach of a third; so that, making his way like a squirrel or a monkey, he found himself hanging at such a height, that it seemed easier to go on than to turn back. For some time after leaving his grandfather, he had spoken to him, as an assurance of his safety. When too far off to speak, he had sung aloud, to save the old man from fears; and now that he did not feel at all sure whether he should ever get up or down, he began to whistle cheerily. He was pleased to hear it answered from the boat. The thought of the old man sitting there alone, and his return wholly depending upon the safety of his companion, animated Oddo afresh to find a way up the rock. It looked to him as like a wall as any other rock about the islet. There was no footing where he was looking;--that was certain. So he advanced farther into the chasm, where the rocks so nearly met that a giant's arm might have touched the opposite wall. Here there was promise of release from his dangerous situation. At the end of a ledge, he saw something like poles hanging on the rock,--some work of human hands, certainly. Having scrambled towards them, he found the remains of a ladder, made of birch poles, fastened together with thongs of leather. This ladder had once, no doubt, hung from top to bottom of the chasm; and its lower part, now gone, was that ladder of which Peder had often spoken as a proof that men had been on the island.
With a careful hand, Oddo pulled at the ladder; and it did not give way. He tugged harder, and still it only shook. He must try it; there was nothing else to be done. It was well for him now that he was used to dangerous climbing,--that he had had adventures on the slippery, cracked glaciers of Sulitelma, and that being on a height with precipices below, was no new situation to him. He climbed, trusting as little as possible to the ladder, setting his foot in preference on any projection of the rock, or any root of the smallest shrub. More than one pole cracked: more than one fastening gave way, when he had barely time to shift his weight upon a better support. He heard his grandfather's voice calling, and he could not answer. It disturbed him, now that his joints were strained, his limbs trembling, and his mouth parched so that his breath rattled as it came.
He reached the top, however. He sprang from the edge of the precipice, unable to look down, threw himself on his face, and panted and trembled, as if he had never before climbed anything less safe than a staircase. Never before, indeed, had he done anything like this. The feat was performed,--the islet was not to him inaccessible. This thought gave him strength. He sprang to his feet again, and whistled loud and shrill. He could imagine the comfort this must be to Peder; and he whistled more and more merrily till he found himself rested enough to proceed on his search for Rolf.
Never had he seen a place so full of water-birds and their nests. Their nests strewed all the ground; and they themselves were strutting and waddling, fluttering and vociferating in every direction. They were perfectly tame, knowing nothing of men, and having had no experience of disturbance. The ducks that were leading their broods allowed Oddo to stroke their feathers; and the drakes looked on, without taking any offence.
"If Rolf is here," thought Oddo, "he has been living on most amiable terms with his neighbours."
After an anxious thought or two of Nipen,--after a glance or two round the sky and shores for a sign of wind,--Oddo began in earnest his quest of Rolf. He called his name,--gently,--then louder.
There was some kind of answer. Some sound of human voice he heard, he was certain; but so muffled, so dull, that whence it came he could not tell. It might even be his grandfather, calling from below. So he crossed to quite the verge of the little island, wishing with all his heart that the birds would be quiet, and cease their civility of all answering when he spoke. When quite out of hearing of Peder, Oddo called again, with scarcely a hope of any result, so plain was it to his eyes that no one resided on the island. On its small summit there was really no intermission of birds' nests;--no space where any one had lain down;--no sign of habitation,--no vestige of food, dress, or utensils. With a saddened heart, therefore, Oddo called again; and again he was sure there was an answer; though whence and what he could not make out. He then sang a part of a chant that he had learned by Rolf singing it as he sat carving his share of the new pulpit. He stopped in the middle, and presently believed that he heard the air continued, though the voice seemed so indistinct, and the music so much as if it came from underground, that Oddo began to recall, with some doubt and fear, the stories of the enchantment of the place. It was not long before he heard a cry from the water below. Looking over the precipice he saw what made him draw back in terror: he saw the very thing Hund had described,--the swimming and staring head of Rolf, and the arms thrown up in the air. Not having Hund's conscience, however, and having much more curiosity, he looked again; and then a third time.
"Are you Rolf, really?" asked he, at last.
"Yes; but who are you,--Oddo or the demon,--up there where nobody can climb? Who are you?"
"I will show you. We will find each other out," thought Oddo, with a determination to take the leap, and ascertain the truth. He leaped, and struck the water at a sufficient distance from Rolf. When he came up again, they approached each other, staring, and each with some doubt as to whether the other was human or a demon.
"Are you really alive, Rolf?" said the one.
"To be sure I am, Oddo," said the other: "but what demon carried you to the top of that rock, that no man ever climbed?"
Oddo looked mysterious, suddenly resolving to keep his secret for the present.
"Not that way," said Rolf. "I have not the strength I had, and I can't swim round the place now. I was just resting myself when I heard you call, and came out to see. Follow me home."
He turned, and began to swim homewards. Oddo had the strongest inclination to go with him, to see what would be revealed; but there were two objections. His grandfather must be growing anxious; and he was not perfectly sure yet whether his guide might not be Nipen in Rolf's likeness, about to lead him to some hidden prison.
"Give me your hand, Rolf," said the boy, bravely.
It was a real, substantial, warm hand.
"I don't wonder you doubt," said Rolf. "I can't look much like myself,--unshaven, and shrunk, and haggard as my face must be."
Oddo was now quite satisfied; and he told of the boat and his grandfather. The boat was scarcely farther off than the cave; and poor Rolf was almost in extremity for drink. The water and brandy he brought with him had been finished, nearly two days, and he was suffering extremely from thirst. He thought he could reach the boat, and Oddo led the way, bidding him not mind his being without clothes till they could find him some.
Glad was the old man to hear his boy's call from the water: and his face lighted up with wonder and pleasure when he heard that Rolf was not far behind. He lent a hand to help him into the boat, and asked no questions till he had given him food and drink. He reproached himself for having brought neither camphor nor asafoetida, to administer with the corn-brandy. Here was the brandy, however; and some water, and fish, and bread, and cloud-berries. Great was the amazement of Peder and Oddo at Rolf's pushing aside the brandy, and seizing the water. When he had drained the last drop, he even preferred the cloud-berries to the brandy. A transient doubt thence occurred whether this was Rolf after all. Rolf saw it in their faces, and laughed: and when they had heard his story of what he had suffered from thirst, they were quite satisfied, and wondered no longer.
He was all impatience to be gone. It tried him more now to think how long it would be before Erica could hear of his preservation than to bear all that had gone before. Being without clothes, however, it was necessary to visit the cave, and bring away what was there. In truth, Oddo was not sorry for this. His curiosity about the cave was so great, that he felt it impossible to go home without seeing it; and the advantage of holding the secret knowledge of such a place was one which he would not give up. He seized an oar, gave another to Rolf; and they were presently off the mouth of the cave. Peder sighed at their having to leave him again: but he believed what Rolf said of there being no danger, and of their remaining close at hand. One or the other came popping up beside the boat, every minute, with clothes, or net, or lines, or brandy-flask, and finally with the oars of the poor broken skiff; being obliged to leave the skiff itself behind. Rolf did not forget to bring away whole handsful of beautiful shells, which he had amused himself with collecting for Erica.
At last, they entered the boat again; and while they were dressing, Oddo charmed his grandfather with a description of the cave,--of the dark, sounding walls, the lofty roof, and the green tide breaking on the white sands. It almost made the listener cool to hear of these things: but, as Oddo had remarked, the heat had abated. It was near midnight, and the sun was going to set. Their row to the shore would be in the cool twilight: and then they should take in companions, who, fresh from rest, would save them the trouble of rowing home.
When all were too tired to talk, and the oars were dipping somewhat lazily, and the breeze had died away, and the sea-birds were quiet, old Peder, who appeared to his companions to be asleep, raised his head, and said, "I heard a sob. Are you crying, Oddo?"
"Yes, grandfather."
"What is your grief, my boy?"
"No grief--anything but grief now. I have felt more grief than you know of though, or anybody. I did not know it fully myself till now."
"Right, my boy: and right to say it out, too."
"I don't care now who knows how miserable I have been. I did not believe, all the time, that Nipen had anything to do with these misfortunes--" "Right, Oddo," exclaimed Rolf, now.
"But I was not quite certain: and how could I say a word against it when I was the one to provoke Nipen? Now Rolf is safe, and Erica will be happy again, and I shall not feel as if everybody's eyes were upon me, and know that it is only out of kindness that they do not reproach me as having done all the mischief. I shall hold up my head again now, as some may think I have done all along: but I did not in my own eyes,--no, not in my own eyes, for all these weary days that are gone."
"Well, they are gone now," said Rolf. "Let them go by and be forgotten."
"Nay,--not forgotten," said Peder. "How is my boy to learn if he forgets--" "Don't fear that for me, grandfather," said Oddo, as the tears still streamed down his face. "No fear of that. I shall not forget these last days,--no, not as long as I live."
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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13
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PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.
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The comrades who were waiting and watching on the point were duly amazed to see three heads in the boat on her return; and duly delighted to find that the third was Rolf,--alive, and no ghost. They asked question upon question, and Rolf answered some fully and truly, while he showed reserve upon others; and at last, when closely pressed, he declared himself too much exhausted to talk, and begged permission to lie down in the bottom of the boat and sleep. Upon this, a long silence ensued. It lasted till the farm-house was in sight at which one of the rowers was to be landed. Oddo then exclaimed, "I wonder what we have all been thinking about. We have not settled a single thing about what is to be said and done; and here we are almost in sight of home, and Hund's cunning eyes."
"I have settled all about it," replied Rolf, raising himself up from the bottom of the boat, where they all thought he had been sleeping soundly. "My mind," said he, "is quite clear. The first thing I have decided upon is that I may rely on the honour of our friends here. You have proved your kindness, friends, in coming on this expedition, but for which I should have died in my hole, like a superannuated bear in its den. This is a story that the whole country will hear of; and our grandchildren will tell it on winter nights, when there is talk of the war that brought the pirates on our coasts. Your names will go abroad with the story, comrades, and, on one condition, with high honour: and that condition is, that you say not a word beyond the family you live in, for the next few days, of the adventure of this night, or of your having seen me. More depends on this than you know of now; more than I will tell, this day, to any person but my master. My good old friend there will help me to a meeting with my master, without asking a question as to what I have to say to him. Will you not, Peder?"
"Surely. I have no doubt you are right," replied Peder.
The neighbours were rather sorry, but they could not object. They smiled at Oddo, and nodded encouragement, when he implored Rolf to fix a time when everything might be known, and to answer just this and just that little inquiry.
"Oddo," said his grandfather, "be a man among us men. Show that your honour is more to you than your curiosity."
"Thank you, grandfather, I will. I will ask only one more question; and that Rolf will thank me for. Had we not better fix some place, far away from Hund's eyes and thoughts, for my master and Rolf to have their talk; and then I will guide my master--" "Guide your master," cried Rolf, laughing, "when your master knew every rock and every track in the country years enough before you were born!"
"You did not let me finish," said Oddo. "You may want a messenger,--he or you; and I know every track in the country: and there is no one swifter of foot, or that can keep counsel better."
"That is true, Rolf," said Peder. "If the boy is too curious to know everything, it is not for the sake of telling it again. If you should happen to want a messenger, it may be worth attending to what he says."
"I have no objection to add that to my plan, if Erlingsen pleases," said Rolf. "I must see Erlingsen; but there is another person that I must make haste to see,--that I would fly to if I could. What I wish is, that my master would meet me on the road to where she is; supposing Hund to remain at home."
He was told that there was no fear of Hund's roving while the bishop was daily expected. Rolf having been out of the way, the whole story of the journey of the bishop of Tronyem had to be told him. It made him thoughtful; and he dropped a word or two of satisfaction, as if it had thrown new light upon what he was thinking of.
"All this," said he, "only makes me wish the more to see Erlingsen immediately. I should say the best way will be for you to set me ashore somewhere short of home, and ask Erlingsen to meet me at the Black Tarn. There cannot be a quieter place: and I shall be so far on my way to the seater."
"If you will just make a looking-glass of the Black Tarn," said Oddo, "you will see that you have no business to carry such a face as yours to the seater. Erica will die of terror at you for the mountain-demon, before you can persuade her it is only you."
"I was thinking," observed one of the rowers, who relished the idea of going down to posterity in a wonderful story,--"I was just thinking that your wisest way will be to take a rest in my bed at Holberg's, without anybody knowing, and shave yourself with my razor, and dress in my Sunday clothes, and so show yourself to your betrothed in such a trim as that she will be glad to see you."
"Do so, Rolf," urged Peder. Everybody said "Do so," and agreed that Erica would suffer far less by remaining five or six hours longer in her present state of mind, than by seeing her lover look like a ghastly savage, or perhaps hearing that he was lying by the roadside, dying of his exertions to reach her. Rolf tried to laugh at all this: but he could not contradict it. He would not hear a word of any messenger being sent. He declared that it would only torment her, as she would not believe in his return till she saw him: and he dropped something about everybody being so wanted at home that nobody ought to stray.
All took place as it was settled in the boat. Before the people on Holberg's farm had come in to breakfast, Rolf was snug in bed, with a large pitcher of whey by the bedside, to quench his still insatiable thirst. No one but the Holbergs knew of his being there; and he got away unseen in the afternoon, rested, shaven, and dressed, so as to look more like himself, though still haggard. Packing his old clothes into a bundle, which he carried with a stick over his shoulder, and laden with nothing else but a few rye-cakes, and a flask of the everlasting corn-brandy, he set forth, thanking his hosts very heartily for their care, and somewhat mysteriously assuring them that they would hear something soon, and that meantime they had better not have to be sought far from home.
As he expected, he met no one whom he knew. Nine-tenths of the neighbours were far away on the seaters, and of the small remainder, almost all were attending the bishop on the opposite shore of the lake. Rolf shook his head at every deserted farm-house that he passed, thinking how the pirates might ransack the dwellings, if they should happen to discover that few inhabitants remained in them but those whose limbs were too old to climb the mountain. He shook his head again when he thought what consternation he might spread through these dwellings by dropping at the doors the news of how near the pirate-schooner lay. It seemed to be out of the people's minds now because it was out of sight, and the bishop had become visible instead. As for the security which some talked of from there being so little worth taking in the Nordland farm-houses,--this might be true if only one house was to be attacked, and that one defended: but half-a-dozen ruffians, coming ashore, to search eight or ten undefended houses in a day, might gather enough booty to pay them for their trouble. Of money they would find little or none; but in some families there were gold chains, crosses, and ear-rings, which had come down from a remote generation, or silver goblets and tankards. There were goats worth carrying away for their milk, and spirited horses and their harness, to sell at a distance. There were stores of the finest bed and table linen in the world; sacks of flour, cellars full of ale, kegs of brandy, and a mass of tobacco in every house. Fervently did Rolf wish, as he passed by these comfortable dwellings, that the enemy would cast no eye or thought upon their comforts till he should have given such information in the proper quarters as should deprive them of the power of doing mischief in this neighbourhood.
Leaving the last of the farm-houses behind, he ascended the ravine, and came out upon the expanse of rich herbage which Erica had trodden but a few days before. He thought, as she had done, of his own description of their journeying together to the seater, and of the delight with which she would leap from the cart to walk with him on the first sight of the waving grass upon the upland. His heart beat joyously at the thought, instead of mourning like hers. He was transported with happiness when he thought how near he was to her now, and on the eve of a season of delight,--a few balmy summer weeks upon the pastures, to be followed by his marriage. This affair of the pirates once finished, was ever man so happy as he was going to be? The thought made him spring as lightly through the tall grass that lay between him and the Black Tarn as the reindeer from point to point of the mountain steep.
The breeze blew in his face, refreshing him with its coolness, and with the fragrance of the birch, with which it was loaded. But it brought something else,--a transient sound which surprised Rolf,--voices of men, who seemed, if he could judge from so rapid a hint, to be talking angrily. He began to consider whom, besides Oddo, Erlingsen could have thought it safe or necessary to bring with him, or whether it was somebody met with by chance. At all events, it would be wisest not to show himself, and to approach with all possible caution. Cautiously, therefore, he drew near, keeping a vigilant watch all around, and ready to pop down into the grass on any alarm. Being unable to see any one near the tarn, he was convinced the talkers must be seated under the crags on its margin, and he therefore made a circuit, to get behind the rocks, and then climbed a huge fragment, which seemed to have been toppled down from some steep, and to have rolled to the brink of the water. Two stunted pines grew out from the summit of this crag, and between these pines Rolf placed himself, and looked down from thence.
Two men sat on the ground in the shadow of the rock: one was Hund, and the other must undoubtedly be one of the pirate crew. His dress, arms, and broken language all showed him to be so; and it was, in fact, the same man that Erica had met near the same place; though that she had had such an adventure was the last thing her lover dreamed of as he surveyed the man's figure from above. This man appeared surly. Hund was extremely agitated.
"It is very hard," said he, "when all I want is to do no harm to anybody,--neither to my old friends nor my new acquaintances,--that I cannot be let alone. I have done too much mischief in my life already. The demons have made sport of me;--it is their sport that I have as many lives to answer for as any man of twice my age in Nordland; and now that I would be harmless for the rest of my days--" "Don't trouble yourself to talk about your days," interrupted the pirate; "they will be too _few_ to be worth speaking of, if you do not put yourself under our orders again. You are a deserter; and as a deserter you go back with me, unless you choose to go as a comrade."
"And what might I expect that your orders would be, if I went with you?"
"You know very well that we want you for a guide. That is all you are worth. In a fight, you would only be in the way, unless--indeed, you could contrive to get out of the way."
"Then you would not expect me to fight against my master and his people?"
"Nobody was ever so foolish as to expect you to fight, more or less, I should think. No; your business would be to pilot us to Erlingsen's, and answer truly all our questions about their ways and doings."
"Surprise them in their sleep!" muttered Hund. "Wake them up with the light of their own burning roofs! And they would know me by that light! They would point me out to the bishop;--they would find time in their hurry to mark me for the monster they might well think me."
"Yes; you would be in the front, of course," observed the pirate. "But there is one comfort for you,--if you are so earnest to see the bishop as you told me you were, my plan is the best. When once we lock him down on board our schooner, you can have him all to yourself. You can confess your sins to him the whole day long; for nobody else will want a word with either of you. You can show him your enchanted island down in the fiord, and see if he can lay the ghost for you."
Hund sprang to his feet in an agony of passion. The well-armed pirate was up as soon as he. Rolf drew back two paces to be out of sight, if by chance they should look up, and armed himself with a heavy stone. He heard the pirate say-- "You can try to run away, if you like. I shall shoot you through the head before you have gone five yards. And you may refuse to return with me; and then I shall know how to report of you to my captain. I shall tell him that you are lying at the bottom of this lake--if it has a bottom--with a stone tied round your neck, like a drowned wild cat. I hope you may chance to find your enemy there, to make the place the pleasanter."
Rolf could not resist the impulse to send his heavy stone into the middle of the tarn, to see the effect upon the men below. He gave a good cast on the very instant, and prodigious was the splash as the stone hit the water precisely in the middle of the little lake. The men did not see the cause of the commotion that followed; but, starting and turning at the splash, they saw the rings spreading in the dark waters which had lain as still as the heavens but a moment before. How could two guilty, superstitious men doubt that the waters were thrown into agitation by the pirate's last words? Yet they glanced fearfully round the whole landscape, far and near. They saw no living thing but a hawk, which, startled from its perch on a scathed pine, was wheeling round in the air in an unsteady flight. The pirate pointed to the bird with one hand, while he laid the other on the pistol in his belt.
"Yes," said Hund, trembling; "the bird saw it. Did you see it?"
"See what?"
"The water-sprite, Uldra. Before you throw me in to the water-sprite, we will see which is the strongest." And in desperation, Hund, unarmed as he was, threw himself upon the pirate, sprang at his throat, and both wrestled with all their force. Rolf could not but look; and he saw that the pirate had drawn forth his pistol, and that all would be over with Hund in a moment if he did not interfere. He stood forward between the two pine stems on the ridge of the rock, and uttered very loud the mournful cry which had so terrified his enemies at Vogel islet. The combatants flew asunder as if parted by a flash of lightning. Both looked up to the point whence the sound had come, and there they saw what they supposed to be Rolf's spectre pointing at them, and the eyes staring as when looking up from the waters of the fiord. How could these guilty and superstitious men doubt that it was Rolf's spectre which, rising through the centre of the tarn, had caused the late commotion in its waters? Away they fled, at first in different directions; but it amused Rolf to observe that, rather than be alone, Hund turned to follow the track of the tyrant who had just been threatening and insulting him, and driving him to struggle for his life.
"Ay," thought Rolf, "it is his conscience that makes me so much more terrible to him than that ruffian. I never hurt a hair of his head; and yet, through his conscience, my face is worse than the blasting lightning to his eyes. --When will all the people hereabouts find out, as my mistress said when I was a boy,--when will people find out that the demons and sprites they live in fear of all come out of their own heads and hearts? Here, in Hund's case, is guilt shaping out visions whichever way he turns. Not one of his ghost-stories is there for months past, but I am at the bottom of; and that only through his consciousness of hating and wanting to injure me. Then, in the opposite case--of one as innocent as the whitest flower in all this pasture--in my Erica's case, the ghosts she sees are all from passions that leave her heart pure, but bewilder her eyes. It is the fear that she was early made subject to, and the grief that she feels for her mother, that create demons and sprites for her. The day may come, if I can make her happy enough, when I may convince her that, for all she now thinks, she never yet saw a token of any evil spirit--of any spirit but the Good One that rules all things. What a sigh she will give--what a free breathing hers will be, the day when I can show her, as plainly as I see myself, that it is nothing but her own fears and griefs that have crossed her path, and she never doubting that they were demons and sprites! Heigh-ho! Where is Erlingsen? It is nothing short of cruel to keep me waiting to-day, of all days, and in this spot of all places, almost within sight of the seater where my poor Erica sits pining, and seeing nothing of the pastures, but only with her mind's eye, the sea-caves where she thinks these limbs are stretched, cold and helpless, as in a grave. A pretty story I shall have to tell her, if she will only believe it, of another sort of sea-cave."
To pass the time, he took out the shells he had collected for Erica, and admired them afresh, and planned where she would place them, so as best to adorn their sitting-room, when they were married. Erlingsen arrived before he had been thus engaged five minutes; and indeed before he had been more than a quarter of an hour altogether at the place of meeting.
"My dear master!" exclaimed Rolf, on seeing him coming, "have pity on Erica and me; and hear what I have to tell you, that I may be gone."
"You shall be gone at once, my good fellow! I will walk with you, and you shall tell your story as we go."
Rolf shook his head, and objected that he could not, in conscience, take Erlingsen a step further from home than was necessary, as he was only too much wanted there.
"Is that Oddo yonder?" he asked. "He said you would bring him."
"Yes: he has grown trustworthy of late. We have had fewer heads and hands among us than the times require since Peder grew old and blind, and you were missing, and Hund had to be watched instead of trusted. So we have been obliged to make a man of Oddo, though he has the years of a boy, and the curiosity of a woman. I brought him now, thinking that a messenger might be wanted, to raise the country against the pirates; and I believe Oddo, in his present mood, will be as sure as we know he can be swift."
"It is well we have a messenger. Where is the bishop?"
"Just going to his boat, at this moment, I doubt not," replied Erlingsen, measuring with his eye the length of the shadows. "The bishop is to sup with us this evening."
"And how long to stay?"
"Over to-morrow night, at the least. If many of the neighbours should bring their business to him, it may be longer. My little Frolich will be vexed that he should come while she is absent. Indeed, I should not much wonder if she sets out homeward when she hears the news you will carry, so that we shall see her at breakfast."
"It is more likely," observed Rolf, "that we shall see the bishop up the mountain at breakfast. Ah! you stare; but you will find I am not out of my wits when you hear what has come to my knowledge since we parted, and especially within this hour."
Erlingsen was indeed presently convinced that it was the intention of the pirates to carry off the Bishop of Tronyem, in order that his ransom might make up to them for the poverty of the coasts. He heard besides such an ample detail of the plundering practices which Rolf had witnessed from his retreat as convinced him that the strangers, though in great force, must be prevented by a vigorous effort from doing further mischief. The first thing to be done was to place the bishop in safety on the mountain; and the next was so to raise the country as that these pirates should be certainly taken when they should come within reach.
Oddo was called, and entrusted with the information which had to be conveyed to the magistrate at Saltdalen. He carried his master's tobacco-pouch as a token,--this pouch, of Lapland make, being well known to the magistrate as Erlingsen's. Oddo was to tell him of the danger of the bishop, and to request him to send to the spot whatever force could be mustered at Saltdalen; and moreover to issue the budstick, [Note 1] to raise the country. The pirates having once entered the upper reach of the fiord, might thus be prevented from ever going back again, and from annoying any more the neighbourhood which they had so long infested.
Erlingsen promised to be wary on his return homewards, so as not to fall in with the two whom Rolf had put to flight. He said, however, that if by chance he should cross their path, he did not doubt he could also make them run, by acting the ghost or demon, though he had not had Rolfs advantage of disappearing in the fiord before their eyes. They were already terrified enough to fly from anything that called itself a ghost.
The three then went on their several ways,--Oddo speeding over the ridges like a sprite on a night errand, and Rolf striding up the grassy slopes like (what he was) a lover anxious to be beside his betrothed, after a perilous absence.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. When it is desired to send a summons or other message over a district in Norway where the dwellings are scattered, the budstick is sent round by running messengers. It is a stick, made hollow, to hold the magistrate's order, and a screw at one end to secure the paper in its place. Each messenger runs a certain distance, and then delivers it to another, who must carry it forward. If any one is absent, the budstick must be laid upon the "house-father's great chair, by the fire-side;" and if the house is locked, it must be fastened outside the door, so as to be seen as soon as the host returns. Upon great occasions it was formerly found that a whole region could be raised in a very short time. The method is still in use for appointments on public business.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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14
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MIDNIGHT.
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This was the day when the first cheese of the season was found to be perfect and complete. Frolich, Stiorna, and Erica examined it carefully, and pronounced it a well-pressed, excellent Gammel cheese, such as they should not be ashamed to set before the bishop, and therefore one which ought to satisfy the demon. It now only remained to carry it to its destination,--to the ridge where the first cheese of the season was always laid for the demon, and where, it appeared, he regularly came for his offering, as no vestige of the gift was ever to be found the next morning,--only the round place in the grass where it had lain, and the marks of some feet which had trodden the herbage.
"Help me up with it upon my head, Stiorna," said Erica. "If Frolich looks at it any longer, she will grudge such a cheese going where it ought. Is not that the thought that is in your mind at this moment, Frolich, dear?"
"No. I do not grudge it," replied Frolich. "My mother says it is right freely to give whatever the feelings of those who help us require."
"And you do thus freely give,--my mistress and all who belong to her, without a sign of grudging," declared Erica. "But, would you not be better pleased if the gift required was a bunch of mossflowers, or a basket of cloud-berries?"
"Perhaps so;--yet, no; I think not. Our good cheeses are not wasted. They do not lie and rot in the sun and the mists. Somebody has the benefit of them, whether it be the demon or not."
"Who else should it be?" asked Stiorna. "There is not a man, woman, or child, on any seater in Sulitelma, who would touch a cheese laid out for the mountain-demon."
"Perhaps not. I never watched, to see what happens when the Gammel cheese is left alone. I only say I do not grudge our cheese, as somebody has it. I will carry it myself, in token of good-will, if you will let me, Erica. Here,--shift it upon my head."
Erica would not hear of this, and began to walk away with her load, begging Stiorna to watch the cattle,--not once to take her eye off them, till she should return to assume her watch for the night hours.
"I know why you will not let me carry the cheese," said Frolich, smiling. "You are thinking of Oddo with the cake and ale. Nobody but you must deposit offerings henceforward. You are afraid I should eat up that cheese, almost as heavy as myself. You think there would not be a paring left for the demon, by the time I got to the ridge."
"Not so," replied Erica. "I think that he to whom this cheese is destined had rather be served by one who does not laugh at him. And it is a safer plan for you, Frolich."
And off went Erica with her cheese.
The ridge on which she laid it would have tempted her at any other time to sit down. It was green and soft with mosses, and offered as comfortable a couch to one tired with the labours of the day as any to be found at the farm. But, to-night it was to be haunted: so Erica merely stayed to do her duty. She selected the softest tuft of moss on which to lay the cheese, put her offering reverently down, and then diligently gathered the brightest blossoms from the herbage around, and strewed them over the cheese. She then walked rapidly homewards, without once looking behind her. If she had had the curiosity and courage to watch for a little while, she would have seen her offering carried off by an odd little figure, with nothing very terrible in its appearance; namely, a woman about four feet high, with a flat face, and eyes wide apart, wearing a reindeer garment like a waggoner's frock, a red comforter about her neck, a red cloth cap on her head, a blue worsted sash, and leather boots up to the knee:--in short, such a Lapland girl as Erica would have given a rye-cake to as charity, but would not have thought of asking to sit down, even in her master's kitchen;--for the Norwegian servants are very high and saucy towards the Lapps who wander to their doors. It is not surprising that the Lapps who pitch their tents on the mountain should like having a fine Gammel cheese for the trouble of picking it up: and the company whose tents Erica had passed on her way up to the seater, kept a good look-out upon all the dairy people round, and carried off every cheese meant for the demon. While Erica was gathering and strewing the blossoms, this girl was hidden near: and, trusting to Erica's not looking behind her, the rogue swept off the blossoms, and threw them at her, before she had gone ten yards, trundled the cheese down the other side of the ridge, made a circuit, and was at the tents with her prize before supper-time! What would Erica have thought if she had beheld this fruit of so many milkings and skimmings, so much boiling and pressing, devoured by greedy Lapps in their dirty tent?
On her way homewards, Erica remembered that this was Midsummer Eve,--a season when her mother was in her thoughts more than at any other time, for Midsummer Eve is sacred in Norway to the Wood-Demon, whose victim she believed her mother to have been. Every woodman sticks his axe into a tree that night, that the demon may, if he pleases, begin the work of the year by felling trees, or making a fagot. Erica hastened to the seater, to discover whether Erlingsen had left his axe behind, and whether Jan had one with him.
Jan had an axe, and remembering his duty, though tired and sleepy, was just going to the nearest pine grove with it when Erica reached home; she seized Erlingsen's axe and went also, and stuck it in a tree, just within the verge of the grove, which was in that part a thicket, from the growth of underwood. This thicket was so near the back of the dairy that the two were home in five minutes; yet they found Frolich almost as impatient as if they had been gone an hour. She asked whether their heathen worship was done at last, so that all might go to bed, or whether they were to be kept awake till midnight by more mummery?
Erica replied by showing that Jan was already gone to his loft over the shed, and begging leave to comb and curl Frolich's hair, and see her to rest at once. Stiorna was asleep; and Erica herself meant to watch the cattle this night. They lay couched in the grass, all near each other, and within view, in the mild slanting sunshine, and here she intended to sit, on the bench outside the home-shed, and keep her eye on them till morning.
"You are thinking of the Bishop of Tronyem's cattle," said Frolich.
"I am, dear. This is Midsummer Eve, you know,--when, as we think, all the spirits love to be abroad."
"You will die before your time, Erica," said the weary girl. "These spirits give you no rest of body or mind. What a day's work we have done! And now you are going to watch till twelve, one, two o'clock! I could not keep awake," she said, yawning, "if there was one demon at the head of the bed, and another at the foot, and the underground people running like mice all over the floor."
"Then go and sleep, dear; I will fetch your comb, if you will just keep an eye on the cattle for the moment I am gone."
As Erica combed Frolich's long fair hair, and admired its shine in the sunlight, and twisted it up behind, and curled it on each side, the weary girl leaned her head against her, and dropped asleep. When all was done, she just opened her eyes to find her way to bed, and say, "You may as well go to bed comfortably, for you will certainly drop asleep here, if you don't there."
"Not with my pretty Spiel in sight. I would not lose my white heifer for seven nights' sleep. You will thank me when you find your cow, and all the rest, safe in the morning. Good night, dear."
And Erica closed the door after her young mistress, and sat down on the bench outside, with her face towards the sun, her lure by her side, and her knitting in her hands. She was glad that the herd lay so that by keeping her eye on them she could watch that wonder of Midsummer night within the Arctic Circle, the dipping of the sun below the horizon, to appear again immediately. She had never been far enough to the north to see the sun complete its circle without disappearing at all, but she did not wish it; she thought the softening of the light which she was about to witness, and the speedy renewing of day, more wonderful and beautiful. She sat soothed by her employment and by the tranquillity of the scene, and free from fear. She had done her duty by the spirits of the mountain and the wood; and in case of the appearance of any object that she did not like, she could slip into the house in an instant. Her thoughts were therefore wholly Rolf's. She could endure now to contemplate a long life spent in doing honour to his memory by the industrious discharge of duty. She would watch over Peder, and receive his last breath,--an office which should have been Rolf's. She would see another houseman arrive, and take possession of that house, and become betrothed and marry: and no one, not even her watchful mistress, should see a trace of repining in her countenance, or hear a tone of bitterness from her lips. It should be her part to see that others were happier than she had been. However weary her heart might be, she would dance at every wedding,--of fellow-servant or of young mistress. She would cloud nobody's happiness, but would do all she could to make Rolf's memory pleasant to those who had known him, and wished him well. She thought she could do all this in prospect of the day when her grave should be dug beside those of Peder and Ulla, and when her spirit should meet Rolf, and learn at length how he had died, and be assured that he had watched over her as faithfully as she had remembered him.
As these thoughts passed through her mind, making her future life appear shorter and less dreary than she could have imagined possible a few hours before, her fingers were busily at work, and her eyes rested on the lovely scene before her. From the elevation at which she was, it appeared as if the ocean swelled up into the very sky, so high was the horizon line: and between lay a vast region of rock and river, hill and dale, forest, fiord, and town, part in golden sunlight, part in deep shadow, but all, though bright as the skies could make it, silent as became the hour. As Erica found that she could glance at the sun itself without losing sight of the cattle, which still lay within her indirect vision, she carefully watched the descent of the orb, anxious to observe precisely when it should disappear, and how soon its golden spark would kindle up again from the waves. When its lower rim was just touching the waters, its circle seemed to be of an enormous size, and its whole mass to be flaming. Its appearance was very unlike that of the comparatively small, compact, brilliant luminary which rides the sky at noon. Erica was just thinking so, when a rustle in the thicket, within the pine grove, made her involuntarily turn her head in that direction. Instantly remembering that it was a common device of the underground people for one of them to make the watcher look away, in order that others might drive off the cattle, she resumed her duty, and gazed steadfastly at the herd. They were safe--neither reduced to the size of mice, nor wandering off, though she had let her eye glance away from them.
The sky, however, did not look like itself. There were two suns in it. Now, Erica really did quite forget the herd for some time, even her dear white heifer,--while she stared bewildered at the spectacle before her eyes. There was one sun,--the sun she had always known,--half sunk in the sea, while above it hung another, round and complete; somewhat less bright perhaps, but as distinct and plain before her eyes as any object in heaven or earth had ever been. Her work dropped from her hands, as she covered her eyes for a moment. She started to her feet, and then looked again. It was still there, though the lower sun was almost gone. As she stood gazing, she once more heard the rustle in the wood. Though it crossed her mind that the Wood-Demon was doubtless there making choice of his axe and his tree, she could not move, and had not even a wish to take refuge in the house, so wonderful was this spectacle,--the clearest instance of enchantment she had ever seen. Was it meant for good,--a token that the coming year was to be a doubly bright one? If not, how was she to understand it?
"Erica!" cried a voice at this moment from the wood,--a voice which thrilled her whole frame. "My Erica!"
She not only looked towards the wood now, but sprang forwards: but her eyes were so dazzled by having gazed at the sun that she could see nothing. Then she remembered how many forms the cunning demon could assume, and she turned back, thinking how cruel it was to delude her with her lover's voice, when, instead of his form, she should doubtless see some horrid monster: most likely a hippopotamus, or, at best, an overgrown bear, showing its long, sharp, white teeth, to terrify her. She turned in haste, and laid her hand on the latch of the door, glancing once more at the horizon.
There was now no sun at all. The burnish was gone from every part of the landscape, and a mild twilight reigned.
One good omen had vanished; but there was still enchantment around; for again she heard the thrilling "Erica."
There was no huge beast glaring through the pine stems, and trampling down the thicket; but, instead, there was the figure of a man advancing from the shadow into the pasture.
"Why do you take that form?" said the trembling girl, sinking down on the bench. "I had rather have seen you as a bear. Did you not find the axe? I laid it for you. Pray,--pray, come no nearer."
"I must, my love, to show you that it is your own Rolf. Erica, do not let your superstition come for ever between us."
She held out her arms;--she could not rise, though she strove to do so. Rolf sat beside her,--she felt his kisses on her forehead,--she felt his heart beat,--she felt that not even a spirit could assume the very tones of that voice.
"Do forgive me," she murmured; "but it is Midsummer Eve; and I felt so sure--" "As sure of my being the demon as I am sure there is no cruel spirit here, though it is Midsummer Eve. Look, love! See how the day smiles upon us!"
And he pointed to where a golden star seemed to kindle on the edge of the sea. It was the sun again, rising after its few minutes of absence.
"I saw two just now," cried Erica,--"two suns. Where are we, really? And how is all this? And where do you come from?"
And she gazed, still wistfully,--doubtfully in her lover's face.
"I will show you," said he, smiling. And while he still held her with one arm, lest, in some sudden fancy, she should fly him as a ghost, he used the other hand to empty his pockets of the beautiful shells he had brought, tossing them into her lap.
"Did you ever see such, Erica? I have been where they lie in heaps. Did you ever see such beauties?"
"I never did, Rolf; you have been at the bottom of the sea."
And once more she shrank from what she took for the grasp of a drowned man.
"Not to the bottom, love," replied he, still clasping her hand. "Our fiord is deep; perhaps as deep as they say. I dived as deep as a man may, to come up with the breath in his body; but I could never find the bottom. Did I not tell you that I should go down as far as Vogel island; and that I should there be safe?"
"Yes! You did--you did!"
"Well! I went to Vogel island; and here I am safe!"
"It _is_ you! We are together again!" she exclaimed now in full belief. "Thank God! Thank God!"
As she wept upon his shoulder, he told her where he had been, what perils he had met, how he had been saved, and how he had arrived the first moment he could; and then he went on to declare that their enemies would soon be disposed of, that they would be married, that they would take possession of Peder's house, and make him comfortable, and would never be separated again as long as they lived.
They did not heed the time, as they talked and talked; and Rolf was just telling how he had more than once seen a double sun, without finding any remarkable consequences follow, when Stiorna came forth with her milk-pails, just before four o'clock. She started and dropped one of her pails, when she saw who was sitting on the bench; and Erica started no less at the thought of how completely she had forgotten the cattle and the underground people all this time. The herd was all safe, however,--every cow as large as life, and looking exactly like itself; so that the good fortune of this Midsummer Eve had been perfect.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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15
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MOUNTAIN FARE.
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The appearance of Stiorna reminded the lovers that it was time to begin the business of the morning. They startled Stiorna with the news that a large company was coming to breakfast. Being in no very amiable temper towards happy lovers, she refused, after a moment's thought, to believe what they said, and set down sulking to her task of milking. So Rolf proceeded to rouse Jan; and Erica stepped to Frolich's bedside, and waked her with a kiss.
"Erica! No--can it be?" said the active girl, up in a moment. "You look too happy to be Erica."
"Erica never was so happy before, dear; that is the reason. You were right, Frolich--bless your kind heart for it! Rolf was not dead. He is here."
Frolich gallopaded round the room like one crazy, before proceeding to dress.
"Whenever you like to stop," said Erica, laughing, "I have some good news for you too."
"I am to go and see the bishop!" cried Frolich, clapping her hands, and whirling round on one foot, like an opera-dancer.
"Not so, Frolich."
"There, now! You promise me good news, and then you won't let me go and see the bishop, when you know that is the only thing in the world I want or wish for."
"Would it not be a great compliment to you, and save you a great deal of trouble, if the bishop were to come here to see you?"
"Ah! that would be a pretty sight! The Bishop of Tronyem over the ankles in the sodden, trodden pasture--sticking in the mud of Sulitelma! The Bishop of Tronyem sleeping upon hay in the loft, and eating his dinner off a wooden platter! That would be the most wonderful sight that Norland ever saw."
"Prepare, then, to see the Bishop of Tronyem drink his morning coffee out of a wooden bowl. Meantime, I must go and grind his coffee. -- Seriously, Frolich, you must make haste to dress and help. The pirates want to carry off the bishop for ransom. Erlingsen is raising the country. Hund is coming here as a prisoner; and the bishop, and my mistress, and Orga to be safe; and if you do not help me, I shall have nothing ready, for Stiorna does not like the news."
Never had Frolich dressed more quickly. She thought it very hard that the bishop should see her when she had nothing but her dairy dress to wear; but she was ready all the sooner for this. Erica consoled her with the belief that the bishop was the last person who could be supposed to make a point of a silk gown for a mountain maiden.
A consultation about the arrangements was held before the door by the four who were all in a good humour; for Stiorna remained aloof. This, like other mountain dwellings, was a mere sleeping and eating shed, only calculated for a bare shelter at night, at meals, and from occasional rain. There was no apartment at the seater in which the bishop could hold an audience, out of the way of the cooking and other household transactions. It could not be expected of him to sit on the bench outside, or on the grass, like the people of the establishment; for, unaccustomed as he was to spend his days in the open air, his eyes would be blinded and his face blistered by the sun. The young people cast their eyes on the pine-wood as the fittest summer parlour for him, if it could be provided with seats.
Erica sprang forward to prevent any one from entering the wood till she should have seen what state the place was in on this particular morning. No trees had been felled, and no branches cut since the night before, and the axes remained where they had been hung. The demon had not wanted them, it seemed, and there was no fear of intruding upon him now. So the two young men set to work to raise a semicircular range of turf seats in the pleasantest part of the shady grove. The central seat, which was raised above the rest, and had a footstool, was well cushioned with dry and soft moss, and the rough bark was cut from the trunk of the tree against which it was built; so that the stem served as a comfortable back to the chair. Rolf tried the seat when finished; and as he leaned back, feasting his eyes on the vast sunny landscape which was to be seen between the trees of the grove, he declared that it was infinitely better to sit here than in the bishop's stall in Tronyem cathedral.
"Surely," said Erica, whom he had summoned to see the work, "when God plants a lofty mountain overlooking the glorious sea, with the heavens themselves for a roof, He makes a temple with which no church built by men can compare. I suppose men build cathedrals in cities because they are not so happy as to have a mountain to worship on."
"How I pity the countries that have no glorious mountains!" cried Frolich; "especially if few of their people live in sight of the vast sea, or in the heart of deep forests."
And, by one impulse, they all struck up the national air "For Norge,"--a thanksgiving for their home being planted in the midst of the northern seas.
All being done now for which a strong arm was wanted, Rolf declared that he and Jan must be gone to the farm. Not a man could be spared from the shores of the fiord, till the affairs of the pirates should be settled. Erica ought to have expected to hear this: but her cheek grew white as it was told. She spoke no word of objection, however, seeing plainly what her lover's duty was.
She turned towards the dairy when he was gone, instead of indulging herself with watching him down the mountain. She was busy skimming bowl after bowl of rich milk, when Frolich ran in to say that Stiorna had dressed herself, and put up her bundle, and was setting forth homewards, to see, as she said, the truth of things there;--which meant, of course, to learn Hund's condition and prospects. It was now necessary to tell her that she would presently see Hund brought up to the seater a prisoner: and that the farm was no place for any but fighting-men this day. To save her feelings and temper, Erica asked her to watch the herd, leading them to a point whence she could soonest see the expected company mounting the uplands.
Frolich shook her head often and mournfully over the breakfast. The skill and diligent hands of two people could not, up in the clouds here, cover the long table in a way which appeared at all creditable to Nordland eyes. Do what they would, it was only bread, cheese, butter, berries, and cream: and then berries and cream, butter, cheese, and bread. They garnished with moss, leaves, and flowers; they disposed their few bowls and platters to the best advantage,--taking some from the dairy which could ill be spared. It was still but a poor apology for a feast; and Frolich looked so ready to cry as to make Erica laugh.
Presently, however, there were voices heard from the hill above. Some traveller who had met the budstick had reported the proceedings below, and the news had spread to a northern seater. The men had gone down to the fiord and here were the women, with above a gallon of strawberries, fresh gathered, and a score of plovers' eggs. --Next appeared a pony, coming westward over the pasture, laden with panniers containing a tender kid, a packet of spices, a jar of preserved cherries, and a few of the present season, early ripe; and a stone bottle of ant-vinegar [Note 1]. Frolich's spirits rose higher and higher, as more people came from below, sent by Rolf on his way down. A deputation of Lapps came from the tents, bringing reindeer venison, and half of a fine Gammel cheese. Before Erica had had time to pour out a glass of corn-brandy for each of this dwarfish party, in token of thanks, and because it is considered unlucky to send away Lapps without a a treat, other mountain dwellers came with offerings of tydder, roer, ryper, and jerper [Note 2]: so that the dresser was loaded with game enough to feed half a hundred hungry men.
Some of these willing neighbours stayed to help. One went to pick more cloud-berries on the edge of the nearest bog. Another rode off, on the pony, to beg a supply of sugar from a house where it was known to abound. Two or three more cleared a space for a fire behind a thicket, and prepared to broil the venison and stew the kid, while others sat down to pluck the game. The Lapps, as being dirty and despised, were got rid of as soon as possible.
Erica and Frolich returned to their breakfast-table, to make the new arrangements now necessary, and place the fruits and spices. Erica closely examined the piece of Gammel cheese brought by the Lapps, and then, with glowing cheeks, called Frolich to her.
"What now?" said Frolich. "Have you found a way of telling fortunes with the hard cheese, as some pretend to do with the soft curds?"
"Look here," said Erica. "What stamp is this? The cheese has been scraped,--almost pared, you see: but they have left one little corner. And whose stamp is there?"
"Ours," said Frolich, coolly. "This is the cheese you laid out on the ridge last night."
"I believe it. I see it," exclaimed Erica.
"Now, dear Erica, do not let us have the old story of your being frightened about what the demon will say and do. Nobody but you will be surprised that the Lapps help themselves with good things that lie strewing the ground. You know I gave you a hint, just twelve hours since, of what would become of this same cheese."
"You did," admitted Erica. To Frolich's delight and surprise, she appeared too busy,--or was rather, perhaps, too happy--to lament this mischance, as she would formerly have done. Possibly she comforted herself with thinking, that if the demon had set its heart upon the cheese, it might have been beforehand with the Lapps. She contented herself with setting apart the dish till her mistress should decide what ought to be done with it. Just when a youth from the highest pasture on Sulitelma had come, running and panting, to present Frolich with a handful of fringed pinks and blue gentian, plucked from the very edge of the glacier, so that their colours were reflected in the ice, Stiorna appeared, in haste, to tell that a party, on horseback and on foot, were winding out of the ravine, and coming straight up over the pasture. --All was now certainty; and great was the bustle, to put out of sight all unseemly tokens of preparation. In the midst of the hurry, Frolich found time to twist some of her pretty flowers into her pretty hair; so that it might easily chance that the bishop would not miss her silk gown. --When, however, were unfashionable mothers known to forget the interests of their daughters? Madame Erlingsen never did! and she now engaged one of the bishop's followers to ride forward with a certain bundle which Orga had carried on her lap. The man discharged his errand so readily that, on the arrival of the train, Frolich was seen so dressed, walking "in silk attire," as to appear to all eyes as the daughter of the hostess.
The bishop's reputation preceded him, as is usual in such cases.
"Where is he now?"
"How far off is he?"
"Why does he not come?" asked one and another of the expectant people, of those who first appeared before the seater.
"He is at the tents, speaking to the Lapps."
"Speaking to the Lapps! Impossible! What Lapp would ever dream of being spoken to by a bishop of Tronyem?"
"He is with them, however. When I left him, he was just stooping to enter one of their tents."
"Now, you must be joking. The Lapps are low people enough in the open pasture: but in their tents, pah!"
He did not go in without a reason. There was a sick child in the tent, who could not come out to him. The mother wished him to see and pronounce upon the charms she was employing for her child's benefit, and he himself chose to be satisfied whether any medical knowledge which he possessed could avail to restore the sick. Nothing was more certain than that the Bishop of Tronyem was in a Lapland tent. The fact was confirmed by M. Kollsen, who next appeared, musing as he rode, with a countenance of extreme gravity. He would fain have denied that his bishop was smiling upon Lapps who wore charms; but he could not. He muttered that it was very extraordinary.
"Quite as much so," whispered Erica to Frolich, "as that the Holiest should be found in the house of a publican."
"What is that?" inquired the vigilant M. Kollsen. "What was your remark?"
Erica blushed deeply; but Frolich readily declared what it was that she had said: and in return M. Kollsen remarked on the evil of ignorant persons applying Scripture according to their own narrow notions.
"Two--four--eight horses," observed a herdsman. "I think the neighbours should each take one or two; or here will soon be an end of Erlingsen's new hay. This lot of pasture will never feed eight horses, besides his own and the herd."
"Better than having them carried off by the pirates," said a neighbour. "But I will run home and send a load of grass."
In such an amiable mood did the bishop find all who were awaiting him at his place of refuge. On their part, they were persuaded that he deserved all their love, even if he had some low notions about the Lapps.
As the bishop's horse, followed by those which bore the ladies, reached the house-door, all present cried, "Welcome to the mountain!"
"Welcome to Sulitelma!"
The bishop observed that, often as he had wished to look abroad from Sulitelma, and to see with his own eyes what life at the seaters was like, he should have grown old without the desire being gratified, but for the design of the enemy upon him. It was all he could do to go the rounds of his diocese, from station to station below, without thinking of journeys of pleasure. Yet here he was on Sulitelma!
When he and M. Kollsen and the ladies had dismounted, and were entering the house to breakfast, the gazers found leisure to observe the hindmost of the train of riders. It was Hund, with his feet tied under his horse, and the bridle held by a man on each side. He had seen and heard too much of the preparations against the enemy to be allowed to remain below, or at large anywhere, till the attack should be over. He could not dismount till some one untied his legs; and no one would do that till a safe place could be found, in which to confine him. It was an awkward situation enough, sitting there bound before everybody's eyes; and not the less for Stiorna's leaning her head against the horse, and crying at seeing him so treated: and yet Hund had often been seen, on small occasions, to look far more black and miserable. His face now was almost cheerful. Stiorna praised this as a sign of bravery; but the truth was, the party had been met by Rolf and Jan, going down the mountain. It was no longer possible to take Rolf for a ghost: and, though Hund was as far as possible from understanding the matter, he was unspeakably relieved to find that he had not the death of his rival to answer for. It made his countenance almost gay to think of this, even while stared at by men, women, and children, as a prisoner.
"What is it?" whimpered Stiorna,--"what are you a prisoner for, Hund?"
"Ask them that know," said Hund. "I thought at first that it was on Rolfs account; and now that they see with their own eyes that Rolf is safe, they best know what they have to bring against me."
"It is no secret," said Madame Erlingsen. "Hund was seen with the pirates, acting with and assisting them, when they committed various acts of thievery on the shores of the fiord. If the pirates are taken, Hund will be tried with them for robberies at Thore's, Kyril's, Tank's and other places along the shore, about which information has been given by a witness."
"Thore's, Kyril's, Tank's!" repeated Hund to himself; "then there must be magic in the case. I could have sworn that not an eye on earth witnessed the doings there. If Rolf turns out to be the witness, I shall be certain that he has the powers of the region to help him."
So little is robbery to be dreaded at the seaters, that there really was no place where Hund could be fastened in,--no lock upon any door,--not a window from which he might not escape. The zealous neighbours therefore, whose interest it was to detain him, offered to take it in turn to be beside him, his right arm tied to the left of another man. And thus it was settled.
After breakfast, notice was given that the party who had travelled all night wished to repose for a few hours; all others therefore withdrew, to secure quiet some within the pine-wood, others to the nearest breezy hill, to gossip and sport, while some few took the opportunity of going home, to see after their cattle, or other domestic affairs, intending to return in the afternoon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Ants abound in Norway, both in the forests and on the mountains. Some, of a large kind, are boiled for the sake of the (formic) acid they contain; and the water when strained is used for vinegar. It is as good as weak vinegar.
Note 2. Tydder and roer are the cock and hen of the wild bird called in Scotland the capercailzie. The ryper is the ptarmigan. The jerper is of the grouse species. --Lloyd's "Field Sports of the North of Europe."
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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16
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OLD TALES AND BETTER TIDINGS.
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When the bishop came forth in the afternoon to take his seat in the shade of the wood, those who were there assembled were singing "For Norge." Instead of permitting them to stop, on account of his arrival, he joined in the song, and solely because his heart was in it. Seldom had he witnessed such a scene as this; and as he looked around him, and saw deep shades and sunny uplands, blue glaciers above, green pastures and glittering waters below, and all around herds on every hill-side, he felt his love of old Norway, and his thankfulness for being one of her sons, as warm as that of any one of the singers in the wood. Out of the fulness of his heart, the good bishop addressed his companions on the goodness of God in creating such a land, and placing them in it, with their happiness so far in their own hands as that little worthy of being called evil could befall them, except through faults of their own. M. Kollsen, who had before uttered his complaints of the superstition of his flock, hoped that his bishop was now about to attack the mischief vigorously.
The bishop, however, only took his seat,--the mossy seat prepared for him,--and declared himself to be now at the service of any who wished to consult or converse with him. Instead of thrusting his own opinions and reproofs upon them, as it was M. Kollsen's wont to do, he waited for the people to open their minds to him in their own way, and by this means, whatever he found occasion to say had double influence from coming naturally. The words dropped by him that day to the anxious mother awaiting the confirmation of her child,--to the young person preparing for that important event,--to the bereaved,--to the penitent,--to the thoughtless,--and to those who wondered why God had given them so many rich blessings--what the good bishop said to all these was so fit and so welcome, that not a word was forgotten through long years after, and he was quoted half a century after he had been in his grave, as old Ulla had quoted the good bishop of Tronyem of her day.
In a few hours many of the people were gone for the present,--some being wanted at home, and others for the expected affair on the fiord. The bishop and M. Kollsen had thought themselves alone in their shady retreat when they saw Erica lingering near among the trees. With a kind smile, the bishop beckoned to her, and bade her sit down, and tell him whether he had not been right in promising, a while ago, that God would soothe her sorrows with time, as is the plan of his kind providence. He remembered well the story of the death of her mother. Erica replied that not only had her grief been soothed, but that she was now so blessed that her heart was burdened with its gratitude. She wished,-- she needed to pour out all that she felt; but M. Kollsen was there, and she could not speak quite freely before him. He, for his part, observed that, if she was now so happy, she must have given up some of her superstitions, for certainly he had never known any one less likely to enjoy peace than Erica, on all occasions on which he had seen her,--so great was her dread of evil spirits on every hand.
"I wish," said Erica, with a sigh,--"I do wish I knew what to think about Nipen."
"Ay! here it comes," observed M. Kollsen, folding his arms, as if for an argument.
Encouraged by the bishop, Erica told the whole story of the last few months, from the night of Oddo's prank to that which found her at the feet of her friend, for she had cast herself down at the bishop's feet, sitting as she had done in her childhood, looking up in his face.
"You want to know what I think of all this?" said the bishop, when she had done. "I think that you could hardly help believing as you have believed, amidst these strange circumstances, and with your mind full of the common accounts of Nipen. Yet I do not believe there is any such spirit as Nipen, or any demon in the forest, or on the mountain. Did you ever hear what spirits everybody in this country believed in before the blessed gospel was brought to old Norway?"
"I have heard of Thor, that yonder islet was named after; and that, when there was a tempest, with rolling thunder, such as we never hear in this region, the people used to say it was Thor driving his chariot over the mountain-ridge."
"That was what people said of the thunder. What they said of fire and frost was that they were giants called Loke and Thrym, who dwelt in a dreadful tempestuous place, at the end of the earth, and came abroad to do awful things among men. The giant Frost drove home his horses at night,--the hail-clouds that sped through the air; and there sat the giant on the frost winds, combing the manes of his horses as they went. Fire was a cunning demon that stole in where it was not wanted: and when once in, it devoured all that it chose, till it rose into the sky at last in smoke. --Then there was the giant Aegir, who brought in squalls from the sea, and made whirlpools in the fiords."
"Why, that is like Nipen."
"Very like Nipen;--perhaps the same. Then there was the good god Balder (the white god), who made everything bright and beautiful, and ripened the fruits of the earth. This god Balder was the sun. Then there were the three magical women, the Fates, who made men's lives happy or miserable. Did you ever hear how these giants and Fates were worshipped before Jehovah and Christ were known in this land?"
"I have heard Ulla sing many old songs about these and more; and how Thor and two companions as mighty as himself were travelling, and entered a curious house for the night; and wandered about in the great house, being frightened at a strange loud noise outside: and how they found in the morning that this house was the mitten of a giant, infinitely greater than themselves; and that what they had taken for a separate chamber in the great house was the thumb of his mitten; and that the strange noise was the snoring of this giant Skrymir, who was asleep close by, after having pulled off his mittens."
"That is one of the many tales belonging to the old religion of this country. And how did this old religion arise? --Why, the people saw grand spectacles every day, and heard wonders whichever way they turned; and they supposed that the whole universe was alive. The sun as it travelled they thought was alive, and kind and good to men. The tempest they thought was alive, and angry with men. The fire and frost they thought were alive, pleased to make sport with men."
"As people who ought to know better," observed M. Kollsen, "now think the wind is alive, and call it Nipen, or the mist of the lake and river, which they call the sprite Uldra."
"It is true," said the bishop, "that we now have better knowledge, and see that the earth, and all that is in it, is made and moved by One Good Spirit, who, instead of sporting with men, or being angry with them, rules all things for their good. But I am not surprised that some of the old stories remain, and are believed in still,--and by good and dutiful Christians too. The mother sings the old songs over the cradle; and the child hears tell of sprites and demons before it hears of the good God who `sends forth the snow and rain, the hail and vapour, and the stormy winds fulfilling his word.' And when the child is grown to be a man or woman, the northern lights shooting over the sky, and the sighing of the winds in the pine-forest, bring back those old songs, and old thoughts about demons and sprites; and the stoutest man trembles. I do not wonder; nor do I blame any man or woman for this; though I wish they were as happy as the weakest infant, or the most worn-out old man, who has learned from the gentle Jesus to fear nothing at any time, because his Father is with him."
"But what is to be done?" asked M. Kollsen.
"The time will come," said the bishop, "when the mother will sing to her babe of the gentle Jesus; and tell her growing child of how he loved to be alone with his Father in the waste and howling wilderness; and bade his disciples not be afraid when there was a tempest on the wide lake. Then, when the child grows up to be a man, if he finds himself alone on the mountain or in the forest, he will think of Jesus, and fear no demon: and if a west wind and fog should overtake a woman in her boat on the fiord," he continued, looking with a smile at Erica, "she will never think of Nipen, but rather that she hears her Saviour saying, `Why are ye afraid, O! ye of little faith?'"
Erica hid her face, ashamed under the good man's smile.
"In our towns," continued he, "much of this blessed change is already wrought. No one in my city of Tronyem now fears the angry and cunning fire-giant Loke; but every citizen closes his eyes in peace when he hears the midnight cry of the watch, `Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' [The watchman's call in the towns of Norway.] In the wilds of the country every man's faith will hereafter be his watchman, crying out upon all that happens, `It is the Lord's hand: let Him do what seemeth to Him good!' This might have been said, Erica, as it appears to me, at every turn of your story, where you and your friends were not in fault."
He went on to remark on the story she had told him; and she was really surprised to find that there was not the slightest reason to suppose that any spirit had been employed to vex and alarm her. The fog and the pirates had overtaken and frightened many in the fiord with whom Nipen had no quarrel. Rolfs imprisonment, and all the sorrows that belonged to it, had been owing to his own imprudence. The appearance of a double sun the night before was nothing uncommon, and was known to take place when the atmosphere was in a particular state. She herself had seen that no Wood-Demon had touched the axes in this very grove last night; and that it was no mountain-sprite, but a Laplander, who had taken up the first Gammel cheese. She had also witnessed how absurdly mistaken Hund had been about the boat having been spirited away, and Vogel island being enchanted, and Rolf's ghost being allowed to haunt him. Here was a case before her very eyes of the way in which people with superstitious minds may misunderstand what happens to themselves.
"Oh!" exclaimed Erica, dropping her hands from before her glowing face, "if I dared but think there were no bad spirits--if I dared only hope that everything that happens is done by God's own hand, I could bear everything! I would never be afraid again!"
"It is what I believe," said the bishop. Laying his hand on her head, he continued, "We know that the very hairs of your head are all numbered. I see that you are weary of your fears--that you have long been heavy-laden with anxiety. It is you, then, that He invites to trust Him when He says by the lips of Jesus, `Come, ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"Rest--rest is what I have wanted," said Erica, while her tears flowed gently; "but Peder and Ulla did not believe as you do, and could not explain things; and--" "You should have asked me," said M. Kollsen; "I could have explained everything."
"Perhaps so, sir; but--but, M. Kollsen, you always seemed angry; and you said you despised us for believing anything that you did not: and it is the most difficult thing in the world to ask questions which one knows will be despised."
M. Kollsen glanced in the bishop's face, to see how he took this, and how he meant to support the pastor's authority. The bishop looked sad, and said nothing.
"And then," continued Erica, "there were others who laughed--even Rolf himself laughed; and what one fears becomes only the more terrible when it is laughed at."
"Very true," said the bishop. "When Jesus sat on the well in Samaria, and taught how the true worship was come, He neither frowned on the woman who inquired, nor despised her, nor made light of her superstition about a sacred mountain."
There was a long silence, which was broken at last by Erica asking the bishop whether he could not console poor Hund, who wanted comfort more than she had ever done. The bishop replied that the demons who most tormented poor Hund were not abroad on the earth or in the air, but within his breast--his remorse, his envy, his covetousness, his fear. He meant, however, not to lose sight of poor Hund, either in the prison to which he was to travel to-morrow, or after he should come out of it.
Here Frolich appeared running to ask whether those who were in the grove would not like to look forth from the ridge, and see what good the budstick had done, and how many parties were on their way from all quarters to the farm.
M. Kollsen was glad to rise and escape from what he thought a schooling, and the bishop himself was as interested in what was going on as if the farm had been his home. He was actually the first at the ridge.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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17
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THE WATCH ON THE HILL.
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This part of the mountain was a singularly favourable situation for seeing what was doing on the spot on which every one's attention was fixed this day. While the people on the fiord could not see what was going forward at Saltdalen, nor those at Saltdalen what were the movements of the farm, the watchers on the ridge could observe the proceedings at all the three points. The opportunity was much improved by the bishop having a glass--a glass of a quality so rare at that time, that there would probably have been some talk of magic and charms, if it had been seen in Olaf's hands, instead of the bishop's.
By means of this glass, the bishop, M. Kollsen, or Madame Erlingsen announced, from time to time, what was doing, as the evening advanced;-- how parties of two or three were leaving Saltdalen, creeping towards the farm under cover of rising grounds, rocks, and pine-woods;--how small companies, well-armed, were hidden in every place of concealment near Erlingsen's;--and how there seemed to be a great number of women about the place. This was puzzling. Who these women could be, and why they should choose to resort to the farm when its female inhabitants had left it for safety, it was difficult at first to imagine. But the truth soon occurred to Frolich. No doubt some one had remembered how strange and suspicious it would appear to the pirates, who supposed the bishop to be at the farm, that there should be no women in the company assembled to meet him. No doubt, these people in blue, white, and green petticoats, who were striding about the yards, and looking forth from the galleries, were men dressed in their wives' clothes, or in such as Erlingsen furnished from the family chests. This disguise was as good as an ambush, while it also served to give the place the festive appearance looked for by the enemy. It was found afterwards that Oddo had acted as lady's maid, fitting the gowns to the shortest men, and dressing up their heads, so as best to hide the shaggy hair. Great numbers were certainly assembled before night; yet still a group might be seen now and then, winding down from some recess of the wide-spreading mountain, making circuits by the ravines and water-courses, so as to avoid crossing the upland slopes, which the pirates might be surveying by means of such a glass as the bishop's.
The bishop was of opinion that scarcely a blow would be struck,--so great was the country force, compared with that of the pirates. He believed that the enemy would be overpowered and disarmed, almost without a struggle. Erica, who could not but tremble, with fear as well as expectation, blessed his words in her heart: and so, in truth, did every woman present.
No one thought of going to rest, though Madame Erlingsen urged it upon those over whom she had influence. Finding that Erica had sat up to watch the cattle the night before, she compelled her to go and lie down: but no compulsion could make her sleep; and Orga and Frolich did the best they could for her, by running to her with news of any fresh appearance below. Just after midnight, they brought her word that the bishop had ordered every one but M. Kollsen away from the ridge. The schooner had peeped out from behind the promontory, and was stealing up with a soft west wind-- "A west wind!" exclaimed Erica. "Any fog?"
"No, not a flake of mist. Neither you nor any one will say that Nipen is favourable to the enemy to-night, Erica."
"You will hear me say less of Nipen, henceforward," said Erica.
"That is wise for to-night, at least. Here is the west wind; but only to waft the enemy into our hands. But have you really left off believing in Nipen, and the whole race of sprites?"
These words jarred on Erica's yet timid feelings. She replied that she must take time for thought, as she had much to think about: but the bishop had to-day spoken words which she believed would, when well considered, lift a heavy load from her heart.
The girls kindly left this impression undisturbed, and went on to describe how the schooner was working up, and why the bishop thought that the people at the farm were aware of every inch of her progress.
Erica sprang from the bed, and joined the group who were sitting on the grass, awaiting the sunrise, and eagerly listening for every word from their watchman, the bishop. He told when he saw two boats full of men put off from the schooner, and creep towards Erlingsen's cove under the shadow of the rocks. He told how the country-people immediately gathered behind the barn, and the house, and every outbuilding; and, at length, when the boats touched the shore, he said-- "Now come and look yourselves. They are too busy now to be observing us."
Then how eyes were strained, and what silence there was, broken only by an occasional exclamation, as it became certain that the decisive moment was come! The glass passed rapidly from hand to hand; but it revealed little. There was smoke, covering a struggling crowd: and such gazers as had a husband, a father, or a lover there, could look no longer. The bishop himself did not attempt to comfort them, at a moment when he knew it would be in vain. In the midst of all this, some one observed two boats appearing from behind the promontory, and making directly and rapidly for the schooner; and presently there was a little smoke there too;--only a puff or two; and then all was quiet till she began to hang out her sails, which had been taken in, and to glide over the waters in the direction of a small sandy beach, on which she ran straight up, till she was evidently fast grounded.
"Excellent!" exclaimed M. Kollsen. "How admirably they are conducting the whole affair! The retreat of these fellows is completely cut off,-- their vessel taken, and driven ashore, while they are busy elsewhere."
"That is Oddo's doing," observed Orga, quietly.
"Oddo's doing! How do you know? Are you serious? Can you see? Or did you hear?"
"I was by when Oddo told his plan to my father, and begged to be allowed to take the schooner. My father laughed so that I thought Oddo would be for going over to the enemy."
"No fear of that," said Erica. "Oddo has a brave, faithful heart."
"And," said his mistress, "a conscience and temper which will keep him meek and patient till he has atoned for mischief that he thinks he has done."
"I must see more of this boy," observed the bishop. "Did your father grant his request?" he inquired of Orga.
"At last he did. Oddo said that a young boy could do little good in the fight at the farm; but that he might lead a party to attack the schooner, in the absence of almost all her crew. He said it was no more than a boy might do, with half a dozen lads to help him; for he had reason to feel sure that only just hands enough to manage her would be left on board; and those the weakest of the pirate party. My father said there were men to spare; and he put twelve, well-armed, under Oddo's orders."
"Who would submit to be under Oddo's command?" asked Frolich, laughing at the idea.
"Twice twelve, if he had wanted so many," replied Orga. "Between the goodness of the joke and their zeal, there were volunteers in plenty,-- my father told me, as he was putting me on my horse."
In a very few minutes, all signs of fighting were over at the farm. But there was a fire. The barn was seen to smoke, and then to flame. It was plain that the neighbours were at liberty to attend to the fire, and had no fighting on their hands. They were seen to form a line from the burning barn to the brink of the water, and to hand buckets till the fire was out. The barn had been nearly empty; and the fire did not spread farther; so that Madame Erlingsen herself did not spend one grudging thought on this small sacrifice, in return for their deliverance from the enemy, who, she had feared, would ransack her dwelling, and fire it over her children's heads. She was satisfied and thankful, if indeed the pirates were taken.
At the bishop's question about who would go down the mountain for news, each of Hund's guards begged to be the man. The swiftest of foot was chosen; and off he went,--not without a barley-cake and brandy-flask,-- at a pace which promised speedy tidings.
As Madame Erlingsen hoped in her heart, he met a messenger despatched by her husband; so that all who had lain down to sleep,--all but herself, that is,--were greeted by good news as they appeared at the breakfast-table. The pirates were all taken, and on their way, bound, to Saltdalen, there to be examined by the magistrate, and, no doubt, thence transferred to the jail at Tronyem. Hund was to follow immediately, either to take his trial with them, or to appear as evidence against them.
One of the pirates was wounded, and two of the country-people; but not a life was lost; and Erlingsen, Rolf, Peder, and Oddo were all safe and unhurt.
Oddo was superintending the unlading of the schooner, and was appointed by the magistrate, at his master's desire, head-guard of the property, as it lay on the beach, till the necessary evidence of its having been stolen by the pirates was taken; and the owners could be permitted to identify and resume their property. Oddo was certainly the greatest man concerned in the affair, after Erlingsen. And like a really great man, Oddo's head was not turned with his importance, but intent on the perfect discharge of his office. When it was finished, and he returned to his home, he found he cared more for the pressure of his grandfather's hand upon his head, as the old man blessed his boy, than for all the praises of the whole country round.
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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18
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TO CHURCH.
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An idea occurred to everybody but one, within the next few hours, which occasioned some consultation. Everybody but Erica felt and said that it would be a great honour and privilege, but one not undeserved by the district, for the Bishop of Tronyem to marry Rolf and Erica before he left Nordland. The bishop wished to make some acknowledgment for the zealous protection and hospitality which had been afforded him; and he soon found that no act would be so generally acceptable as his blessing the union of these young people. He spoke to Madame Erlingsen about it: and her only doubt was whether it was not too soon after the burial of old Ulla. If Peder, however, should not object on this ground, no one else had a right to do so.
So far from objecting, Peder shed tears of pleasure at the thought. He was sure Ulla would be delighted, if she knew;--would feel it an honour to herself that her place should be filled by one whose marriage-crown should be blessed by the bishop himself. Erica was startled, and had several good reasons to give why there should be no hurry: but she was brought round to see that Rolf could go to Tronyem, to give his evidence against the pirates, even better after his marriage than before, because he would leave Peder in a condition of greater comfort: and she even smiled to herself as she thought how rapidly she might improve the appearance of the house during his absence, so that he should delight in it on his return. When the bishop assured her that she should not be hurried into her marriage within two days, but that he would appoint a day and hour when he should be at the distant church, to confirm the young people resident lower down the fiord, she gratefully consented, wondering at the interest so high and reverend a man seemed to feel in her lot. When it was once settled that the wedding was to be next week, she gave hearty aid to the preparations, as freely and openly as if she was not herself to be the bride.
The bishop embarked immediately on descending the mountain. His considerate eye saw, at a glance, that there was necessarily much confusion at the farm, and that his further presence would be an inconvenience. So he bade his host and the neighbours farewell, for a short time, desiring them not to fail to meet him again at the church, on his summons.
The kindness of the neighbours did not cease when danger from the enemy was over. Some offered boats for the wedding procession; several sent gilt paper to adorn the bridal crown which Orga and Frolich were making: and some yielded a more important assistance still. They put trusty persons into the seater, and over the herd, for two days; so that all Erlingsen's household might be at the wedding. Stiorna preferred making butter, and gazing southwards, to attending the wedding of Hund's rival; but every one else was glad to go. Nobody would have thought of urging Peder's presence; but he chose to do his part,--(a part which no one could discharge so well),--singing bridal songs in the leading boat.
The summons arrived quite as soon as it could have been looked for; and the next day there was as pretty a boat procession on the still waters of the fiord as had ever before glided over its surface. Within the memory of man, no bride had been prettier,--no crown more glittering,-- no bridegroom more happy; no chanting was ever more soothing than old Peder's--no clarionet better played than Oddo's,--no bridesmaids more gay and kindly than Orga and Frolich. The neighbours were hearty in their cheers as the boats put off; and the cheers were repeated from every settlement in the coves and on the heights of the fiord, and were again taken up by the echoes, till the summer air seemed to be full of gladness. The birds of the islands, and the leaping fish, might perhaps wonder as the train of bowery boats floated down,--for every boat was dressed with green boughs and garlands of flowers;--but the matter was understood and rejoiced in by all others.
To conclude, the bishop was punctual, and kindly in his welcome of Erica to the altar. He was also graciously pleased with Rolfs explanation that he had not ventured to bring a gift for so great a dignitary; but that he hoped the bishop would approve of his giving his humble offering to the church instead. The six sides of the new pulpit were nearly finished now; and Rolf desired to take upon himself the carving of the basement as his marriage fee. As the bishop smiled approbation, M. Kollsen bowed acquiescence; and Rolf found himself in prospect of indoor work for some time to come.
Erica carried home in her heart, and kept there for ever, certain words of the bishop's address, which he uttered with his eye kindly fixed upon hers. "Go, and abide under the shadow of the Almighty. So shall you not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day: nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noon-day. When you shall have made the Lord your habitation, you shall not fear that evil may befall you, or that any plague shall come nigh your dwelling.
"Go: and peace be on your house!"
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{
"id": "23277"
}
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1
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TOUCHES ON OUR HERO'S EARLY LIFE, EXPERIENCES, AND ADVENTURES.
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Bill Bowls was the most amiable, gentle, kindly, and modest fellow that ever trod the deck of a man-of-war. He was also one of the most lion-hearted men in the Navy.
When Bill was a baby--a round-faced, large-eyed, fat-legged baby, as unlike to the bronzed, whiskered, strapping seaman who went by the name of "Fighting Bill" as a jackdaw is to a marlinespike--when Bill was a baby, his father used to say he was just cut out for a sailor; and he was right, for the urchin was overflowing with vigour and muscular energy. He was utterly reckless, and very earnest--we might almost say _desperately_ earnest. Whatever he undertook to do he did "with a will." He spoke with a will, listened with a will, laughed, yelled, ate, slept, wrought, and fought with a will. In short, he was a splendid little fellow, and therefore, as his father wisely said, was just cut out for a sailor.
Bill seemed to hold the same opinion, for he took to the water quite naturally from the very commencement of life. He laughed with glee when his mother used to put him into the washtub, and howled with rage when she took him out. Dancing bareheaded under heavy rain was his delight, wading in ponds and rivers was his common practice, and tumbling into deep pools was his most ordinary mishap. No wonder, then, that Bill learned at an early age to swim, and also to fear nothing whatever, except a blowing-up from his father. He feared that, but he did not often get it, because, although full of mischief as an egg is full of meat, he was good-humoured and bidable, and, like all lion-hearted fellows, he had little or no malice in him.
He began his professional career very early in life. When in after years he talked to his comrades on this subject, he used to say-- "Yes, mates, I did begin to study navigation w'en I was about two foot high--more or less--an' I tell 'e what it is, there's nothin' like takin' old Father Time by the forelock. I was about four year old when I took my first start in the nautical way; and p'r'aps ye won't believe it, but it's a fact, I launched my first ship myself; owned her; commanded and navigated her, and was wrecked on my first voyage. It happened this way; my father was a mill-wright, he was, and lived near a small lake, where I used to splutter about a good deal. One day I got hold of a big plank, launched it after half an hour o' the hardest work I ever had, got on it with a bit of broken palm for an oar, an' shoved off into deep water. It was a splendid burst! Away I went with my heart in my mouth and my feet in the water tryin' to steady myself, but as ill luck would have it, just as I had got my ship on an even keel an' was beginnin' to dip my oar with great caution, a squall came down the lake, caught me on the starboard quarter, and threw me on my beam-ends. Of coorse I went sowse into the water, and had only time to give out one awful yell when the water shut me up. Fortnitly my father heard me; jumped in and pulled me out, but instead of kicking me or blowin' me up, he told me that I should have kept my weather-eye open an' met the squall head to wind. Then he got hold of the plank and made me try it again, and didn't leave me till I was able to paddle about on that plank almost as well as any Eskimo in his skin canoe. My good old dad finished the lesson by tellin' me to keep always _in shoal water till I could swim_, and to look out for squalls in future! It was lucky for me that I had learned to obey him, for many a time I was capsized after that, when nobody was near me, but bein' always in shoal water, I managed to scramble ashore."
As Bill Bowls began life so he continued it. He went to sea in good earnest when quite a boy and spent his first years in the coasting trade, in which rough service he became a thorough seaman, and was wrecked several times on various parts of our stormy shores. On reaching man's estate he turned a longing eye to foreign lands, and in course of time visited some of the most distant parts of the globe, so that he may be said to have been a great traveller before his whiskers were darker than a lady's eyebrows.
During these voyages, as a matter of course, he experienced great variety of fortune. He had faced the wildest of storms, and bathed in the beams of the brightest sunshine. He was as familiar with wreck as with rations; every species of nautical disaster had befallen him; typhoons, cyclones, and simooms had done their worst to him, but they could not kill him, for Bill bore a sort of charmed life, and invariably turned up again, no matter how many of his shipmates went down. Despite the rough experiences of his career he was as fresh and good-looking a young fellow as one would wish to see.
Before proceeding with the narrative of his life, we shall give just one specimen of his experiences while he was in the merchant service.
Having joined a ship bound for China, he set sail with the proverbial light heart and light pair of breeches, to which we may add light pockets. His heart soon became somewhat heavier when he discovered that his captain was a tyrant, whose chief joy appeared to consist in making other people miserable. Bill Bowls's nature, however was adaptable, so that although his spirits were a little subdued, they were not crushed. He was wont to console himself, and his comrades, with the remark that this state of things couldn't last for ever, that the voyage would come to an end some time or other, and that men should never say die as long as there remained a shot in the locker!
That voyage did come to an end much sooner than he or the tyrannical captain expected!
One evening our hero stood near the binnacle talking to the steersman, a sturdy middle-aged sailor, whose breadth appeared to be nearly equal to his length.
"Tom Riggles," said Bill, somewhat abruptly, "we're goin' to have dirty weather."
"That's so, lad, I'm not goin' to deny it," replied Tom, as he turned the wheel a little to windward: Most landsmen would have supposed that Bill's remark should have been, "We _have_ got dirty weather," for at the time he spoke the good ship was bending down before a stiff breeze, which caused the dark sea to dash over her bulwarks and sweep the decks continually, while thick clouds, the colour of pea-soup, were scudding across the sky; but seafaring men spoke of it as a "capful of wind," and Bill's remark was founded on the fact that, for an hour past, the gale had been increasing, and the appearance of sea and sky was becoming more threatening.
That night the captain stood for hours holding on to the weather-shrouds of the mizzen-mast without uttering a word to any one, except that now and then, at long intervals, he asked the steersman how the ship's head lay. Dark although the sky was, it did not seem so threatening as did the countenance of the man who commanded the vessel.
Already the ship was scudding before the wind, with only the smallest rag of canvas hoisted, yet she rose on the great waves and plunged madly into the hollows between with a violence that almost tore the masts out of her. The chief-mate stood by the wheel assisting the steersman; the crew clustered on the starboard side of the forecastle, casting uneasy glances now at the chaos of foaming water ahead, and then at the face of their captain, which was occasionally seen in the pale light of a stray moonbeam. In ordinary circumstances these men would have smiled at the storm, but they had unusual cause for anxiety at that time, for they knew that the captain was a drunkard, and, from the short experience they had already had of him, they feared that he was not capable of managing the ship.
"Had we not better keep her a point more to the south'ard, sir?" said the mate to the captain, respectfully touching his cap; "reefs are said to be numerous here about."
"No, Mister Wilson," answered the captain, with the gruff air of a man who assumes and asserts that he knows what he is about, and does not want advice.
"Keep her a point to the west," he added, turning to the steersman.
There was a cry at that moment--a cry such as might have chilled the blood in the stoutest heart-- "Rocks ahead!"
"Port! port! hard-a-port!" shouted the men. Their hoarse voices rose above the gale, but not above the terrible roar of the surf, which now mingled with the din of the storm.
The order was repeated by the mate, who sprang to the wheel and assisted in obeying it. Round came the gallant ship with a magnificent sweep, and in another moment she would have been head to wind, when a sudden squall burst upon her broadside and threw her on her beam-ends.
When this happened the mate sprang to the companion-hatch to get an axe, intending to cut the weather-shrouds so that the masts might go overboard and allow the ship to right herself, for, as she then lay, the water was pouring into her. Tom Riggles was, when she heeled over, thrown violently against the mate, and both men rolled to leeward. This accident was the means of saving them for the time, for just then the mizzen rigging gave way, the mast snapped across, and the captain and some of the men who had been hastening aft were swept with the wreck into the sea.
A few minutes elapsed ere Tom and the mate gained a place of partial security on the poop. The scene that met their gaze there was terrible beyond description. Not far ahead the sea roared in irresistible fury on a reef of rocks, towards which the ship was slowly drifting. The light of the moon was just sufficient to show that a few of the men were still clinging to the rail of the forecastle, and that the rigging of the main and foremasts still held fast.
"Have you got the hatchet yet?" asked Tom of the mate, who clung to a belaying-pin close behind him.
"Ay, but what matters it whether we strike the rocks on our beam-ends or an even keel?"
The mate spoke in the tones of a man who desperately dares the fate which he cannot avoid.
"Here! let me have it!" cried Tom.
He seized the hatchet as he spoke and clambered to the gangway. A few strokes sufficed to cut the overstrained ropes, and the mainmast snapped off with a loud report, and the ship slowly righted.
"Hold on!" shouted Tom to a man who appeared to be slipping off the bulwarks into the sea.
As no reply was given, the sailor boldly leapt forward, caught the man by the collar, and dragged him into a position of safety.
"Why, Bill, my boy, is't you?" exclaimed the worthy man in a tone of surprise, as he looked at the face of our hero, who lay on the deck at his feet; but poor Bill made no reply, and it was not until a glass of rum had been poured down his throat by his deliverer that he began to recover.
Several of the crew who had clung to different parts of the wreck now came aft one by one, until most of the survivors were grouped together near the wheel, awaiting in silence the shock which they knew must inevitably take place in the course of a few minutes, for the ship, having righted, now drifted with greater rapidity to her doom.
It was an awful moment for these miserable men! If they could have only vented their feelings in vigorous action it would have been some relief, but this was impossible, for wave after wave washed over the stern and swept the decks, obliging them to hold on for their lives.
At last the shock came. With a terrible crash the good ship struck and recoiled, quivering in every plank. On the back of another wave she was lifted up, and again cast on the cruel rocks. There was a sound of rending wood and snapping cordage, and next moment the foremast was in the sea, tossing violently, and beating against the ship's side, to which it was still attached by part of the rigging. Three of the men who had clung to the shrouds of the foremast were swept overboard and drowned. Once more the wreck recoiled, rose again on a towering billow, and was launched on the rocks with such violence that she was forced forward and upwards several yards, and remained fixed.
Slight although this change was for the better, it sufficed to infuse hope into the hearts of the hitherto despairing sailors. The dread of being instantly dashed to pieces was removed, and with one consent they scrambled to the bow to see if there was any chance of reaching the shore.
Clinging to the fore-part of the ship they found the cook, a negro, whose right arm supported the insensible form of a woman--the only woman on board that ship. She was the wife of the carpenter. Her husband had been among the first of those who were swept overboard and drowned.
"Hold on to her, massa," exclaimed the cook; "my arm a'most brok."
The mate, to whom he appealed, at once grasped the woman, and was about to attempt to drag her under the lee of the caboose, when the vessel slipped off the rocks into the sea, parted amidships, and was instantly overwhelmed.
For some minutes Bill Bowls struggled powerfully to gain the shore, but the force of the boiling water was such that he was as helpless as if he had been a mere infant; his strength, great though it was, began to fail; several severe blows that he received from portions of the wreck nearly stunned him, and he felt the stupor that preceded death overpowering him, when he was providentially cast upon a ledge of rock. Against the same ledge most of his shipmates were dashed by the waves and killed, but he was thrown upon it softly. Retaining sufficient reason to realise his position, he clambered further up the rocks, and uttered an earnest "Thank God!" as he fell down exhausted beyond the reach of the angry waves.
Soon, however, his energies began to revive, and his first impulse, when thought and strength returned, was to rise and stagger down to the rocks, to assist if possible, any of his shipmates who might have been cast ashore. He found only one, who was lying in a state of insensibility on a little strip of sand. The waves had just cast him there, and another towering billow approached, which would infallibly have washed him away, had not Bill rushed forward and dragged him out of danger.
It proved to be his friend Tom Riggles. Finding that he was not quite dead, Bill set to work with all his energy to revive him, and was so successful that in half-an-hour the sturdy seaman was enabled to sit up and gaze round him with the stupid expression of a tipsy man.
"Come, cheer up," said Bill, clapping him on the back; "you'll be all right in a short while."
"Wot's to do?" said Tom, staring at his rescuer.
"You're all right," repeated Bill. "One good turn deserves another, Tom. You saved my life a few minutes ago, and now I've hauled you out o' the water, old boy."
The sailor's faculties seemed to return quickly on hearing this. He endeavoured to rise, exclaiming-- "Any more saved?"
"I fear not," answered Bill sadly, shaking his head.
"Let's go see," cried Tom, staggering along the beach in search of his shipmates; but none were found; all had perished, and their bodies were swept away far from the spot where the ship had met her doom.
At daybreak it was discovered that the ship had struck on a low rocky islet on which there was little or no vegetation. Here for three weeks the two shipwrecked sailors lived in great privation, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, and subsisting chiefly on shell-fish. They had almost given way to despair, when a passing vessel observed them, took them off, and conveyed them in safety to their native land.
Such was one of the incidents in our hero's career.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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2
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COMMENCES THE STORY.
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About the beginning of the present century, during the height of the war with France, the little fishing village of Fairway was thrown into a state of considerable alarm by the appearance of a ship of war off the coast, and the landing therefrom of a body of blue-jackets. At that time it was the barbarous custom to impress men, willing or not willing, into the Royal Navy. The more effective, and at the same time just, method of enrolling men in a naval reserve force had not occurred to our rulers, and, as a natural consequence, the inhabitants of sea-port towns and fishing villages were on the constant look-out for the press-gang.
At the time when the man-of-war's boat rowed alongside of the little jetty of Fairway, an interesting couple chanced to be seated in a bower at the back of a very small but particularly neat cottage near the shore. The bower was in keeping with its surroundings, being the half of an old boat set up on end. Roses and honeysuckle were trained up the sides of it, and these, mingling their fragrance with the smell of tar, diffused an agreeable odour around. The couple referred to sat very close to each other, and appeared to be engaged in conversation of a confidential nature. One was a fair and rather pretty girl of the fishing community. The other was a stout and uncommonly handsome man of five-and-twenty, apparently belonging to the same class, but there was more of the regular sailor than the fisherman in his costume and appearance. In regard to their conversation, it may be well, perhaps, to let them speak for themselves.
"I tell 'ee wot it is, Nelly Blyth," said the man, in a somewhat stern tone of voice; "it won't suit me to dilly-dally in this here fashion any longer. You've kept me hanging off and on until I have lost my chance of gettin' to be mate of a Noocastle collier; an' here I am now, with nothin' to do, yawin' about like a Dutchman in a heavy swell, an' feelin' ashamed of myself."
"Don't be so hasty, Bill," replied the girl, glancing up at her lover's face with an arch smile; "what would you have?"
"What would I have?" repeated the sailor, in a tone of mingled surprise and exasperation. "Well, I never--no, I never did see nothin' like you women for bamboozlin' men. It seems to me you're like ships without helms. One moment you're beatin' as hard as you can to wind'ard; the next you fall off all of a sudden and scud away right before the breeze; or, whew! round you come into the wind's eye, an' lay to as if you'd bin caught in the heaviest gale that ever blow'd since Admiral Noah cast anchor on Mount Ararat. Didn't you say, not three weeks gone by, that you'd be my wife? and now you ask me, as cool as an iceberg, what I would have! Why, Nelly, I would have our wedding-day fixed, our cottage looked after, our boat and nets bought; in fact, our home and business set a-goin'. And why not at once, Nelly? Surely you have not repented--" "No, Bill Bowls," said Nelly, blushing, and laying her hand on the arm of her companion, "I have not repented, and never will repent, of having accepted the best man that ever came to Fairway; but--" The girl paused and looked down.
"There you go," cried the sailor: "the old story. I knew you would come to that `but,' and that you'd stick there. Why don't you go on? If I thought that you wanted to wait a year or two, I could easily find work in these times; for Admiral Nelson is glad to get men to follow him to the wars, an' Tom Riggles and I have been talkin' about goin' off together."
"Don't speak of _that_, Bill," said the girl earnestly. "I dread the thought of you going to the wars; but--but--the truth is, I cannot make up my mind to quit my mother."
"You don't need to quit her," said Bill; "bring her with you. I'll be glad to have her at my fireside, for your sake, Nell."
"But she won't leave the old house."
"H'm! well, that difficulty may be got over by my comin' to the old house, since the old 'ooman won't come to the noo one. I can rent it from her, and buy up the furniture as it stands; so that there will be no occasion for her to move out of her chair. --Why, what's the objection to that plan?" he added, on observing that Nelly shook her head.
"She would never consent to sell the things,--not even to you, Bill; and she has been so long the head of the house that I don't think she would like to--to--" "To play second fiddle," put in the sailor. "Very good, but I won't ask to play first fiddle. In fact, she may have first, second, and third, and double bass and trombone, all to herself as far as I am concerned. Come, Nelly, don't let us have any more `buts'; just name the day, and I'll bear down on the parson this very afternoon."
Leaving them to continue the discussion of this interesting point, we will turn into the cottage and visit the old woman who stood so much in the way of our hero's wishes.
Mrs Blyth was one of those unfortunates who, although not very old, have been, by ill-health, reduced to the appearance of extreme old age. Nevertheless, she had been blessed with that Christian spirit of calm, gentle resignation, which is frequently seen in aged invalids, enabling them to bear up cheerfully under heavy griefs and sufferings. She was very little, very thin, very lame, very old-looking (ninety at least, in appearance), very tremulous, very subdued, and _very_ sweet. Even that termagant gossip, Mrs Hard-soul, who dwelt alone in a tumble-down hut near the quay, was heard upon one occasion to speak of her as "dear old Mrs Blyth."
Beside Mrs Blyth, on a stool, engaged in peeling potatoes, sat a young woman who was in all respects her opposite. Bessy Blunt was tall, broad, muscular, plain-looking, masculine, and remarkably unsubdued. She was a sort of maid-of-all-work and companion to the old woman. Mrs Blyth lived in the hope of subduing her attendant--who was also her niece--by means of kindness.
"Who came into the garden just now?" asked Mrs Blyth in a meek voice.
"Who would it be but William Bowls? sure he comes twice every day, sometimes oftener," replied Bessy; "but what's the use? nothing comes of it."
"Something _may_ come of it, Bessy," said Mrs Blyth, "if William settles down steadily to work, but I am anxious about him, for he seems to me hasty in temper. Surely, Bessy, you would not like to see our Nell married to an angry man?"
"I don't know about that," replied the girl testily, as she cut a potato in two halves with unnecessary violence; "all I know is that I would like to see her married to Bill Bowls. He's an able, handsome man. Indeed, I would gladly marry him myself if he asked me!"
Mrs Blyth smiled a little at this. Bessy frowned at a potato and said "Humph!" sternly.
Now it happened just at that moment that the press-gang before referred to arrived in front of the cottage. Bessy chanced to look through the window, and saw them pass. Instantly she ran to the back door and screamed "Press-gang," as a warning to Bill to get out of the way and hide himself as quickly as possible, then, hastening back, she seized one of old Mrs Blyth's crutches, ran to the front door, and slammed it to, just as the leader of the gang came forward.
Meanwhile William Bowls, knowing that if he did not make his escape, his hopes of being married speedily would be blasted, turned to leap over the garden wall, but the leader of the press-gang had taken care to guard against such a contingency by sending a detachment round to the rear.
"It's all up with me!" cried Bill, with a look of chagrin, on observing the men.
"Come, hide in the kitchen; quick! I will show you where," cried Nelly, seizing his hand and leading him into the house, the back door of which she locked and barred.
"There, get in," cried the girl, opening a low door in the wall, which revealed the coal-hole of the establishment.
Bill's brow flushed. He drew back with a proud stern look and hesitated.
"Oh, do! for _my_ sake," implored Nell.
A thundering rap on the front door resounded through the cottage; the sailor put his pride in his pocket, stooped low and darted in. Nelly shut the door, and leaned a baking-board against it.
"Let us in!" said a deep voice outside.
"Never!" replied Bessy, stamping her foot.
"You had better, dear," replied the voice, in a conciliatory tone; "we won't do you any harm."
"Go along with you--brutes!" said the girl.
"We'll have to force the door if you don't open it, my dear."
"You'd better not!" cried Bessy through the keyhole.
At the same time she applied her eye to that orifice, and instantly started back, for she saw the leader of the gang retire a few paces preparatory to making a rush. There was short time for action, nevertheless Bessy was quick enough to fling down a large stool in front of the door and place herself in an attitude of defence. Next moment the door flew open with a crash, and a sailor sprang in, cutlass in hand. As a matter of course he tripped over the stool, and fell prostrate at Bessy's feet, and the man who followed received such a well-delivered blow from the crutch that he fell on the top of his comrade. While the heroine was in the act of receiving the third she felt both her ankles seized by the man who had fallen first. A piercing yell followed. In attempting to free herself she staggered back and fell, the crutch was wrenched from her grasp, and the whole gang poured over her into the kitchen, where they were met by their comrades, who had just burst in the back door.
"Search close," cried one of these; "there's a big fellow in the house; we saw him run into it."
"You may save yourselves the trouble; there's no man in this house," cried Bessy, who had risen and followed her conquerors, and who now stood, with dishevelled locks, flushed countenance, and gleaming eyes, vowing summary vengeance on the first man she caught off his guard!
As the men believed her, they took care to keep well on their guard while engaged in the search. Poor old Mrs Blyth looked absolutely horror-stricken at this invasion of her cottage, and Nelly stood beside her, pale as marble and trembling with anxiety.
Every hole and corner of the house was searched without success; the floors were examined for trap-doors, and even the ceilings were carefully looked over, but there was no sign of any secret door, and the careless manner in which the bake-board had been leaned against the wall, as well as its small size, prevented suspicion being awakened in that direction. This being the case, the leader of the gang called two of his men aside and engaged in a whispered conversation.
"It's quite certain that he is here," said one, "but where they have stowed him is the puzzle."
"Well, it is indeed a puzzle," replied the leader, "but I've thought of a plan. He may be the father, or brother, or cousin of the household, d'ye see, and it strikes me if we were to pretend to insult the women, that would draw him out!"
"But I don't half like that notion," said one of the men.
"Why not?" asked the other, who wore a huge pair of whiskers, "it's only pretence, you know. Come, I'll try it."
Saying this he went towards old Mrs Blyth and whispered to Nelly--"Don't be frightened, my ducky, we're only a-goin' to try a dodge, d'ye see. Stand by, we won't do you no harm."
The man winked solemnly several times with the view of reassuring Nelly, and then raising his voice to a loud pitch exclaimed-- "Come now, old 'ooman, it's quite plain that there's a feller in this here house, an' as we can't find him nowheres, we've come to the conclusion he must be under your big chair. In coorse we must ask you to git up, an' as ye don't seem to be able to do that very well, we'll have to lift you. So here goes."
The man seized the old woman's chair and shuffled with his feet as though he were about to lift it. Nelly screamed. Bessy uttered a howl of indignation, and rushed upon the foe with teeth and nails ready, but being arrested by a powerful man in the rear, she vented her wrath in a hideous yell.
The success of the scheme was great--much greater, indeed, than had been anticipated. The bake-board fell flat down, the door of the coal-hole burst open, and our hero, springing out, planted a blow on the nose of the big-whiskered man that laid him flat on the floor. Another blow overturned the man who restrained Bessy, and a third was about to be delivered when a general rush was made, and Bill Bowls, being overpowered by numbers, was finally secured.
"Now, my fine fellow," said the leader of the gang, "you may as well go with us quietly, for ye see resistance is useless, an' it only frightens the old woman."
This latter part of the remark had more effect on the unfortunate Bill than the former. He at once resigned himself into the hands of his captors. As he was about to be led away, he turned towards Mrs Blyth, intending to speak, but the poor old woman had fainted, and Nelly's fears for her lover were lost for the moment in her anxiety about her mother. It was not until the party had left the room that the poor girl became fully aware of what was going on.
Uttering a loud cry she rushed towards the outer door. Bill heard the cry, and, exerting himself to the utmost, almost succeeded in overturning the five men who held him.
"Make your mind easy," said one of them; "no harm will come to the women. We ain't housebreakers or thieves. All fair an' above board we are--true-blue British tars, as would rather swing at the yard-arm than hurt the feelin's of a woman, pretty or ugly, young or old. It's all in the way of dooty, d'ye see? The King's orders, young man so belay heavin' about like that, else we'll heave ye on your beam-ends, lash you hand and futt to a handspike, and carry you aboord like a dead pig."
"Hold on!" cried the man with the big whiskers, who, after having been knocked down, had become emphatically the man with the big nose, "I'll go back an' comfort them a bit: don't you take on so. _I_ know all about it--see through it like a double patent hextromogriphal spy-glass. Only goin' on a short cruise, d'ye see? Come back soon with lots o' prize-money; get spliced right off, buy a noo gown with big flowers all over it for the old mother, pension off the stout gal wi' the crutch-- all straight; that's the thing ain't it?"
"Don't, don't," entreated Bill earnestly; "don't go for to--to--" "No fear, young man," replied the sailor, seeing that Bill hesitated; "Ben Bolter ain't the man to do anything that would bring discredit on His Majesty's service, and I bear you no grudge for this," he added, pointing to his swelled nose; "it was given in a good cause, and received in the reg'lar way o' business."
Saying this Ben Bolter ran back to the cottage, where he tried to comfort the women to the best of his power. How he accomplished his mission does not remain on record, but it is certain that he rejoined his party, in little more than five minutes, with sundry new marks of violence on his huge honest face, and he was afterwards heard to remark that some creatures of the tiger species must have been born women by mistake, and that stout young females who had a tendency to use crutches, had better be pensioned off--or, "drownded if possible."
Thus was William Bowls impressed into the Royal Navy. On hearing that his old shipmate had been caught, Tom Riggles at once volunteered into the service, and they were both sent on board a man-of-war, and carried off to fight the battles of their country.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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3
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BILL IS INITIATED INTO THE DUTIES OF HIS NEW STATION.
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At the time of which we write, England's battles and troubles were crowding pretty thick upon one another. About this period, Republican France, besides subduing and robbing Switzerland, Italy, Sardinia, and other States, was busily engaged in making preparation for the invasion of England,--Napoleon Bonaparte being in readiness to take command of what was styled the "army of England." Of course great preparations had to be made in this country to meet the invading foe. The British Lion was awakened, and although not easily alarmed or stirred up, he uttered a few deep-toned growls, which showed pretty clearly what the Frenchmen might expect if they should venture to cross the Channel. From John o' Groats to the Land's End the people rose in arms, and in the course of a few weeks 150,000 volunteers were embodied and their training begun.
Not satisfied with threatening invasion, the Directory of France sought by every means to corrupt the Irish. They sent emissaries into the land, and succeeded so well that in May 1798 the rebellion broke out. Troops, supplies, and munitions of war were poured into Ireland by France; but the troops were conquered and the rebellion crushed.
Finding at length that the invasion of England could not be carried out, this pet projection was abandoned, and Napoleon advised the Directory to endeavour to cripple her resources in the East. For the accomplishment of this purpose, he recommended the establishment on the banks of the Nile of a French colony, which, besides opening a channel for French commerce with Africa, Arabia, and Syria, might form a grand military depot, whence an army of 60,000 men could be pushed forward to the Indus, rouse the Mahrattas to a revolt, and excite against the British the whole population of those vast countries.
To an expedition on so grand a scale the Directory objected at first, but the master-spirit who advised them was beginning to feel and exert that power which ultimately carried him to the throne of the Empire. He overcame their objections, and the expedition to Egypt was agreed to.
With characteristic energy and promptitude Napoleon began to carry out his plans, and Great Britain, seeing the storm that was brewing, commenced with equal energy to thwart him. Accordingly, the great Sir Horatio Nelson, at that time rear-admiral, was employed with a squadron to watch the movements and preparations of the French in the Mediterranean.
Such was the state of matters when our hero, Bill Bowls, was conveyed on board the _Waterwitch_, a seventy-four gun frigate, and set to work at once to learn his duty.
Bill was a sensible fellow. He knew that escape from the service, except in a dishonourable manner, was impossible, so he made up his mind to do his duty like a man, and return home at the end of the war (which he hoped would be a short one), and marry Nelly Blyth. Poor fellow, he little imagined what he had to go through before--but hold, we must not anticipate the story.
Well, it so happened that Bill was placed in the same mess with the man whose nose he had treated so unceremoniously on the day of his capture. He was annoyed at this, but the first time he chanced to be alone with him, he changed his mind, and the two became fast friends. It happened thus:-- They were standing on the weather-side of the forecastle in the evening, looking over the side at the setting sun.
"You don't appear to be easy in your mind," observed Ben Bolter, after a prolonged silence. " _You_ wouldn't be if you had left a bride behind you," answered Bill shortly.
"How d'ye know that?" said Ben; "p'r'aps I _have_ left one behind me. Anyhow, I've left an old mother."
"That's nothin' uncommon," replied Bill; "a bride may change her mind and become another man's wife, but your mother can't become your aunt or your sister by any mental operation that I knows of."
"I'm not so sure o' that, now," replied Ben, knitting his brows, and gazing earnestly at the forebrace, which happened to be conveniently in front of his eyes; "see here, s'pose, for the sake of argiment, that you've got a mothers an' she marries a second time--which some mothers is apt to do, you know,--and her noo husband has got a pretty niece. Nothin' more nat'ral than that you should fall in love with her and get spliced. Well, wot then? why, your mother is her aunt by vartue of her marriage with her uncle, and so your mother is _your_ aunt in consikence of your marriage with the niece--d'ye see?"
Bill laughed, and said he didn't quite see it, but he was willing to take it on credit, as he was not in a humour for discussion just then.
"Very well," said Ben, "but, to return to the p'int--which is, if I may so say, a p'int of distinkshun between topers an' argifiers, for topers are always returnin' to the pint, an' argifiers are for ever departin' from it--to return to it, I say: you've no notion of the pecoolier sirkumstances in which I left my poor old mother. It weighs heavy on my heart, I assure ye, for it's only three months since I was pressed myself, an' the feelin's ain't had time to heal yet. Come, I'll tell 'e how it was. You owe me some compensation for that crack on the nose you gave me, so stand still and listen."
Bill, who was becoming interested in his messmate in spite of himself, smiled and nodded his head as though to say, "Go on."
"Well, you must know my old mother is just turned eighty, an' I'm thirty-six, so, as them that knows the rule o' three would tell ye, she was just forty-four when I began to trouble her life. I was a most awful wicked child, it seems. So they say at least; but I've no remembrance of it myself. Hows'ever, when I growed up and ran away to sea and got back again an' repented--mainly because I didn't like the sea--I tuk to mendin' my ways a bit, an' tried to make up to the old 'ooman for my prewious wickedness. I do believe I succeeded, too, for I got to like her in a way I never did before; and when I used to come home from a cruise--for, of course, I soon went to sea again--I always had somethin' for her from furrin' parts. An' she was greatly pleased at my attentions an' presents--all except once, when I brought her the head of a mummy from Egypt. She couldn't stand that at all--to my great disappointment; an' what made it wuss was, that after a few days they had put it too near the fire, an' the skin it busted an' the stuffin' began to come out, so I took it out to the back-garden an' gave it decent burial behind the pump.
"Hows'ever, as I wos goin' to say, just at the time I was nabbed by the press-gang was my mother's birthday, an' as I happened to be flush o' cash, I thought I'd give her a treat an' a surprise, so off I goes to buy her some things, when, before I got well into the town--a sea-port it was--down comed the press-gang an' nabbed me. I showed fight, of course, just as you did, an floored four of 'em, but they was too many for me an' before I knowed where I was they had me into a boat and aboord this here ship, where I've bin ever since. I'm used to it now, an' rather like it, as no doubt you will come for to like it too; but it _was_ hard on my old mother. I begged an' prayed them to let me go back an' bid her good-bye, an' swore I would return, but they only laughed at me, so I was obliged to write her a letter to keep her mind easy. Of all the jobs I ever did have, the writin' of that letter was the wust. Nothin' but dooty would iver indooce me to try it again; for, you see, I didn't get much in the way of edication, an' writin' never came handy to me.
"Hows'ever," continued Ben, "I took so kindly to His Majesty's service that they almost look upon me as an old hand, an' actooally gave me leave to be the leader o' the gang that was sent to Fairway to take you, so that I might have a chance o' sayin' adoo to my old mother."
"What!" exclaimed Bowls, "is your mother the old woman who stops at the end o' Cow Lane, where Mrs Blyth lives, who talks so much about her big-whiskered Ben?"
"That same," replied Ben, with a smile: "she was always proud o' me, specially after my whiskers comed. I thought that p'r'aps ye might have knowed her."
"I knows her by hearsay from Nelly Blyth, but not bein' a native of Fairway, of course I don't know much about the people. --Hallo! Riggles, what's wrong with 'e to-day?" said Bill, as his friend Tom came towards him with a very perplexed expression on his honest face, "not repenting of havin' joined the sarvice already, I hope?"
"No, I ain't troubled about that," answered Riggles, scratching his chin and knitting his brows; "but I've got a brother, d'ye see--" "Nothin' uncommon in that," said Bolter, as the other paused.
"P'r'aps not," continued Tom Riggles; "but then, you see, my brother's such a preeplexin' sort o' feller, I don't know wot to make of him."
"Let him alone, then," suggested Ben Bolter.
"That won't do neither, for he's got into trouble; but it's a long story, an' I dessay you won't care to hear about it."
"You're out there, Tom," said Bowls; "come, sit down here and let's have it all."
The three men sat down on the combings of the fore-hatch, and Tom Riggles began by telling them that it was of no use bothering them with an account of his brother Sam's early life.
"Not unless there's somethin' partikler about it," said Bolter.
"Well, there ain't nothin' very partikler about it, 'xcept that Sam was partiklerly noisy as a baby, and wild as a boy, besides bein' uncommon partikler about his wittles, 'specially in the matter o' havin' plenty of 'em. Moreover, he ran away to sea when he was twelve years old, an' was partiklerly quiet after that for a long time, for nobody know'd where he'd gone to, till one fine mornin' my mother she gets a letter from him sayin' he was in China, drivin' a great trade in the opium line. We niver felt quite sure about that, for Sam wornt over partikler about truth. He was a kindly sort o' feller, hows'ever, an' continued to write once or twice a year for a long time. In these letters he said that his life was pretty wariable, as no doubt it was, for he wrote from all parts o' the world. First, he was clerk, he said, to the British counsel in Penang, or some sich name, though where that is I don't know; then he told us he'd joined a man-o'-war, an' took to clearin' the pirates out o' the China seas. He found it a tough job appariently, an' got wounded in the head with a grape-shot, and half choked by a stink-pot, after which we heard no more of him for a long time, when a letter turns up from Californy, sayin' he was there shippin' hides on the coast; and after that he went through Texas an' the States, where he got married, though he hadn't nothin' wotever, as I knows of, to keep a wife upon--" "But he may have had somethin' for all you didn't know it," suggested Bill Bowls.
"Well, p'r'aps he had. Hows'ever, the next we heard was that he'd gone to Canada, an' tuk a small farm there, which was all well enough, but now we've got a letter from him sayin' that he's in trouble, an' don't see his way out of it very clear. He's got the farm, a wife, an' a sarvant to support, an' nothin' to do it with. Moreover, the sarvant is a boy what a gentleman took from a Reformation-house, or somethin' o' that sort, where they put little thieves, as has only bin in quod for the fust time. They say that many of 'em is saved, and turns out well, but this feller don't seem to have bin a crack specimen, for Sam's remarks about him ain't complimentary. Here's the letter, mates," continued Riggles, drawing a soiled epistle from his pocket; "it'll give 'e a better notion than I can wot sort of a fix he's in, Will you read it, Bill Bowls?"
"No, thankee," said Bill; "read it yerself, an' for any sake don't spell the words if ye can help it."
Thus admonished, Tom began to read the following letter from his wild brother, interrupting himself occasionally to explain and comment thereon, and sometimes, despite the adjuration of Bill Bowls, to spell. We give the letter in the writer's own words:-- "`My dear mother [it's to mother, d'ye see; he always writes to her, an' she sends the letters to me],--My dear mother, here we are all alive and kicking. My sweet wife is worth her weight in gold, though she does not possess more of that precious metal than the wedding-ring on her finger--more's the pity for we are sadly in want of it just now. The baby, too, is splendid. Fat as a prize pig, capable of roaring like a mad bull, and, it is said, uncommonly like his father. We all send our kind love to you, and father, and Tom. By the way, where _is_ Tom? You did not mention him in your last. I fear he is one of these roving fellows whom the Scotch very appropriately style ne'er-do-weels. A bad lot they are. Humph! you're one of 'em, Mister Sam, if ever there was, an' my only hope of ye is that you've got some soft places in your heart.'"
"Go on, Tom," said Ben Bolter; "don't cut in like that on the thread of any man's story."
"Well," continued Riggles, reading with great difficulty, "Sam goes on for to say--" "`We thank you for your good wishes, and trust to be able to send you a good account of our proceedings ere long. [You see Sam was always of a cheery, hopeful natur, he was.] We have now been on the place fifteen days, but have not yet begun the house, as we can get no money. Two builders have, however, got the plans, and we are waiting for their sp-s-p-i-f- oh! spiflication; why, wot can that be?'"
"It ain't spiflication, anyhow," said Bolter. "Spell it right through."
"Oh! I've got him, it's _specification_," cried Riggles; "well--" "`Specification. Many things will cost more than we anticipated. We had to turn the family out who had squatted here, at two days' notice, as we could not afford to live at Kinmonday--that's the nearest town, I s'pose. How they managed to live in the log cabin I do not know, as, when it rained--and it has done so twice since we came, furiously--the whole place was deluged, and we had to put an umbrella up in bed. We have had the roof raised and newly shingled, and are as comfortable as can be expected. Indeed, the hut is admirably adapted for summer weather, as we can shake hands between the logs. " `The weather is very hot, although there has been much more rain this season than usual. There can be no doubt that this is a splendid country, both as regards soil and climate, and it seems a pity to see such land lying waste and unimproved for so many years. It far surpasses my expectations, both in natural beauty and capabilities. We have a deal of work to do in the way of fencing, for at present everybody's livestock is running over a large part of our land; but we haven't got money to buy fencing! Then we ought to have two horses, for the boy that was sent to me from the Reformatory can plough; but again, we haven't a rap wherewith to buy them. One reason of this is that in a new place a fellow is not trusted at first, and the last two hundred dollars we had went in tools, household furniture, utensils, etcetera. We have been living on credit for an occasional chicken or duck from our neighbours, which makes but a poor meal for three--not to mention baby, being very small--and George, that's the boy, having a tremendous appetite! " `I walked into town twice to try to get some meat, but although there are ostensibly two butchers, I failed to get any. They actually wanted payment for it! Heigho! how I wish that money grew on the trees--or bread. By the way, that reminds me that there are bread-fruit trees in the South Sea Islands. I think I'll sell the farm and go there. One day I had the good luck to rescue a fine young chicken from the talons of a big hawk, upon which we all made a good meal. I really don't know what we should have done had it not been for the great abundance of blackberries here. They are fine and large, and so plentiful that I can gather a bucketful in an hour. We have made them into jam and pies, and are now drying them for winter use. We have also hazel-nuts and plums by the cart-load, and crab-apples in numbers almost beyond the power of figures to express. There is also a fruit about the size of a lime, which they call here the "May apple," but which I have named "omnifruct," as it combines the flavour of apples, pears, peaches, pine-apples, gooseberries, strawberries, rasps--in fact, it is hard to tell what it does _not_ resemble. But after all, this is rather light food, and although very Eden-like living--_minus_ the felicity--it does not quite satisfy people who have been used most part of their lives to beefsteak and stout. " `George came to me a week ago. The little rascal would have been here sooner, but first of all the stage-coach upset, and then he fell asleep and was carried ten miles beyond our clearing, and had to walk back as best he could with a big bundle on his shoulder. He is an uncommonly silent individual. We can hardly get him to utter a word. He does what he is told, but I have first to show him how, and generally end by doing it myself. He appears to be a remarkably dead boy, but my excellent wife has taken him in hand, and will certainly strike some fire out of him if she can't put it into him! She has just gone into town on a foraging expedition, and I fondly hope she may succeed in making a raise of some edibles. " `I have distinguished myself lately by manufacturing a sideboard and dresser, as well as a table and bench for the female authority, and expect to accomplish a henhouse and a gate next week. You see we work in hope. I fervently wish we could live on the same. However, I'm pretty jolly, despite a severe attack of rheumatism, which has not been improved by my getting up in the night and rushing out in my shirt to chase away trespassing cows and pigs, as we have not got a watch-dog yet. " `When my wife shuts her eyes at night her dreams are of one invariable subject--blackberries! She cannot get rid of the impression, and I have serious fears that we shall all break out in brambles. There are not so many mosquitoes here as I had expected; just enough to keep us lively. How I shall rejoice when we have got a cow! It will be a great saving in butter and milk to our neighbours, who at present supply us with such things on credit! We can raise here wheat, oats, Indian corn, etcetera. The only difficulties are the want of seed and money! But it is unkind in me writing to you, mother, in this strain, seeing that you can't help me in my difficulties. However, don't take on about me. My motto is, "Never give in." Give our love to father, also to Tom. He's a good-hearted fellow is Tom, though I fear he'll never come to much good. --Believe me, your affectionate son, SAM. RIGGLES.'"
"There," said Tom, folding up the letter; "what d'ye think o' that, mates?"
Tom did not at that time get an answer to his question, for just as he spoke the order was given to beat to quarters for exercise, and in a few minutes the decks were cleared, and every man at his post.
But the order which had been given to engage in mimic warfare, for the sake of training the new hands, was suddenly changed into the command to clear for action in earnest, when the look-out reported a French vessel on the weather-bow. Sail was immediately crowded on the _Waterwitch_, and all was enthusiasm and expectation as they gave chase to the enemy.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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4
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OUR HERO AND HIS FRIENDS SEE SERVICE.
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The _Waterwitch_ was commanded at this time by Captain Ward, a man possessed of great energy and judgment, united to heroic courage. He had received orders to join that portion of the British fleet which, under Nelson, was engaged in searching for the French in the Mediterranean, and had passed Cape St. Vincent on his way thither, when he fell in with the French vessel.
During the morning a thick fog had obscured the horizon, concealing the enemy from view. When the rising sun dispersed it he was suddenly revealed. Hence the abrupt order on board the _Waterwitch_ to prepare for action. As the fog lifted still more, another French vessel was revealed, and it was soon found that the English frigate had two Frenchmen of forty-four guns each to cope with.
"Just as it should be!" remarked Captain Ward, when this was ascertained. "There would have been no glory in conquering one Frenchman equal to my own ship in size!"
The _Waterwitch_ was immediately steered towards the ship that was nearest, in the expectation that she would show fight at once, but the French commander, probably wishing to delay the engagement until his other vessel could join him, made sail, and bore down on her. Captain Ward, on perceiving the intention, put on a press of canvas, and endeavoured to frustrate the enemy's design. In this he was only partially successful.
"Surely," said Bill Bowls to his friend Ben Bolter, with whom he was stationed at one of the starboard guns on the main deck, "surely we are near enough now to give 'em a shot."
"No, we ain't," said Tom Riggles, who was also stationed at the same gun; "an' depend on it Cap'n Ward is not the man to throw away his shot for nothin'."
Ben Bolter and some of the other men at the gun agreed with this opinion, so our hero, whose fighting propensities were beginning to rouse up, had to content himself with gazing through the port-hole at the flying enemy, and restrained his impatience as he best could.
At last the order was given to fire, and for an hour after that a running fight was maintained, but without much effect. When, however, the two ships of the enemy succeeded in drawing sufficiently near to each other, they hove to, and awaited the advance of the _Waterwitch_, plying her vigorously with shot as she came on.
Captain Ward only replied with his bow chasers at first. He walked the deck with his hands behind his back without speaking, and, as far as his countenance expressed his feelings, he might have been waiting for a summons to dinner, instead of hastening to engage in an unequal contest.
"Cap'n Ward niver growls much before he bites," said Patrick Flinn, an Irishman, who belonged to Bowls's mess. "He minds me of a spalpeen of a dog I wance had, as was uncommon fond o' fightin' but niver even showed his teeth till he was within half a yard of his inemy, but, och! he gripped him then an' no mistake. You'll see, messmates, that we won't give 'em a broadside till we're within half pistol-shot."
"Don't take on ye the dooties of a prophet, Paddy," said Ben Bolter, "for the last time ye tried it ye was wrong."
"When was that?" demanded Flinn.
"Why, no longer ago than supper-time last night, when ye said ye had eaten such a lot that ye wouldn't be able to taste another bite for a month to come, an' didn't I see ye pitchin' into the wittles this mornin' as if ye had bin starvin' for a week past?"
"Git along wid ye," retorted Flinn; "yer jokes is as heavy as yerself, an' worth about as much."
"An' how much may that be?" asked Ben, with a grin.
"Faix, it's not aisy to tell. I would need to work it out in a algibrabical calkilation, but if ye divide the half o' what ye know by the double o' what ye don't know, an' add the quarter o' what ye might have know'd--redoocin' the whole to nothin', by means of a compound o' the rule o' three and sharp practice, p'r'aps you'll--" Flinn's calculation was cut short at that moment by the entrance of a round shot, which pierced the ship's side just above his head, and sent splinters flying in all directions, one of which killed a man at the next gun, and another struck Bill Bowls on the left arm, wounding him slightly.
The exclamations and comments of the men at the gun were stopped abruptly by the orders to let the ship fall off and fire a broadside.
The _Waterwitch_ trembled under the discharge, and then a loud cheer arose, for the immediate result was that the vessel of the enemy which had hit them was partially disabled--her foretopmast and flying jibboom having been shot away.
The _Waterwitch_ instantly resumed her course and while Bill Bowls was busily employed in assisting to reload his gun, he could see that the two Frenchmen were close on their lee bow.
Passing to windward of the two frigates, which were named respectively _La Gloire_ and the _St. Denis_, Captain Ward received a broadside from the latter, without replying to it, until he had crossed her bow within musket range, when he delivered a broadside which raked her from stem to stern. He then wore ship, and, passing between the two, fired his starboard broadside into the _Gloire_, and, almost immediately after, his port broadside into the _St. Denis_.
The effect on the two ships was tremendous.
Their sails and rigging were terribly cut up, and several of the yards came rattling down on their decks. The _Gloire_, in particular, had her rudder damaged. Seeing this, and knowing that in her crippled state she could do him no further damage, Captain Ward passed on, sailed round the stern of the _St. Denis_, and, when within six yards of her, sent a broadside right in at her cabin windows. Then he ranged alongside and kept up a tremendous fire.
The Frenchmen stuck to their guns admirably, but the British fired quicker. At such close quarters every shot told on both sides. The din and crash of such heavy artillery was terrific; and it soon became almost impossible to see what was going on for smoke.
Up to this point, although many of the men in the _Waterwitch_ had been killed or wounded, only one of those who manned the gun at which Bill Bowls served had been hit.
"It's too hot to last long," observed Flinn, as he thrust home a ball and drew out the ramrod; "run her out, boys."
The men obeyed, and were in the act of pulling at the tackle, when a shot from the enemy struck the gun on the muzzle, tore it from its fastenings, and hurled it to the other side of the deck.
Strange to say, only one of the men who worked it was hurt by the gun; but in its passage across the deck it knocked down and killed three men, and jammed one of the guns on the other side in such a way that it became for a time unserviceable. Ben Bolter and his comrades were making desperate efforts to clear the wreck, when they heard a shout on deck for the boarders. The bowsprit of the _Waterwitch_ had by that time been shot away; her rigging was dreadfully cut up, and her wheel smashed; and Captain Ward felt that, if the _St. Denis_ were to get away, he could not pursue her. He therefore resolved to board.
"Come along, lads," cried Tom Riggles, on hearing the order; "let's jine 'em."
He seized his cutlass as he spoke, and dashed towards the ladder, followed by Bowls, Bolter, Flinn, and others; but it was so crowded with men carrying the wounded down to the cockpit that they had to pause at the foot.
At that moment a handsome young midshipman was carried past, apparently badly wounded.
"Och!" exclaimed Flinn, in a tone of deep anxiety, "it's not Mister Cleveland, is it? Ah! don't say he's kilt!"
"Not quite," answered the midshipman, rousing himself, and looking round with flashing eyes as he endeavoured to wave his hand in the air. "I'll live to fight the French yet."
The poor boy almost fainted from loss of blood as he spoke; and the Irishman, uttering a wild shout, ran towards the stern, intending to gain the deck by the companion-hatch, and wreak his vengeance on the French. Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter followed him. As they passed the cabin door Bowls said hastily to Bolter, "I say, Ben, here, follow me; I'll show ye a dodge."
He ran into the cabin as he spoke and leaped out upon the quarter gallery, which by that time was so close to the quarter of the _St. Denis_ that it was possible to jump from one to the other.
Without a moment's hesitation he sprang across, dashed in one of the windows, and went head foremost into the enemy's cabin, followed by Bolter. Finding no one to oppose them there, they rushed upon deck and into the midst of a body of marines who were near the after-hatchway.
"Down with the frog-eaters!" cried Ben Bolter, discharging his pistol in the face of a marine with one hand, and cleaving down another with his cutlass.
The "frog-eaters," however, were by no means despicable men; for one of them clubbed his musket and therewith hit Ben such a blow on the head that he fell flat on the deck. Seeing this, Bill Bowls bestrode his prostrate comrade, and defended him for a few seconds with the utmost fury.
Captain Ward, who had leaped into the mizzen chains of the enemy, leading the boarders, beheld with amazement two of his own men on the quarter-deck of the _St. Denis_ attacking the enemy in rear. Almost at the same moment he observed the fall of one of them. His men also saw this, and giving an enthusiastic cheer they sprang upon the foe and beat them back. Bill Bowls was borne down in the rush by his friends, but he quickly regained his legs. Ben Bolter also recovered and jumped up. In five minutes more they were masters of the ship--hauled down the colours, and hoisted the Union Jack at the Frenchman's peak.
During the whole course of this action the _Gloire_, which had drifted within range, kept up a galling fire of musketry from her tops on the deck of the _Waterwitch_. Just as the _St. Denis_ was captured, a ball struck Captain Ward on the forehead, and he fell dead without a groan.
The first lieutenant, who was standing by his side at the moment, after hastily calling several men to convey their commander below, ordered the starboard guns of the prize to be fired into the _Gloire_. This was done with such effect that it was not found necessary to repeat the dose. The Frenchman immediately hauled down his colours, and the fight was at an end.
It need scarcely be said that the satisfaction with which this victory was hailed was greatly modified by the loss of brave Captain Ward, who was a favourite with his men, and one who would in all probability have risen to the highest position in the service, had he lived. He fell while his sun was in the zenith, and was buried in the ocean, that wide and insatiable grave, which has received too many of our brave seamen in the prime of life.
The first lieutenant, on whom the command temporarily devolved, immediately set about repairing damages, and, putting a prize crew into each of the French ships, sailed with them to the nearest friendly port.
The night after the action Bill Bowls, Ben Bolter, and Tom Riggles sat down on the heel of the bowsprit to have a chat.
"Not badly hit?" asked Ben of Bill, who was examining the bandage on his left arm.
"Nothin' to speak of," said Bill; "only a scratch. I'm lucky to have got off with so little; but I say, Ben, how does your head feel? That Mounseer had a handy way o' usin' the handspike. I do believe he would have cracked any man's skull but your own, which must be as thick as the head of an elephant. I see'd it comin', but couldn't help ye. Hows'ever, I saved ye from a second dose."
"It wos pritty hardish," said Ben, with a smile, an' made the stars sparkle in my brain for all the world like the rory borailis, as I've see'd so often in the northern skies; but it's all in the way o' trade, so I don't grumble; the only thing as bothers me is that I can't git my hat rightly on by reason of the bump.
"You've no cause to complain--neither of ye," said Tom Riggles, whose left hand was tied up and in a sling, "for you've lost nothin' but a little blood an' a bit o' skin, whereas I've lost the small finger o' my right hand."
"Not much to boast of, that," said Ben Bolter contemptuously; "why, just think of poor Ned Summers havin' lost an arm and Edwards a leg--not to mention the poor fellows that have lost their lives."
"A finger is bad enough," growled Tom.
"Well, so it is," said Bowls. "By the way, I would advise you to try a little of that wonderful salve invented by a Yankee for such cases."
"Wot salve wos that?" asked Tom gruffly, for the pain of his wound was evidently pretty severe.
"Why, the growin' salve, to be sure," replied Bill. "Everybody must have heard of it." " _I_ never did," said Tom. "Did you, Ben?"
"No, never; wot is it?"
"It's a salve for growin' on lost limbs," said Bill. "The Yankee tried it on a dog that had got its tail cut off. He rubbed a little of the salve on the end of the dog, and a noo tail grow'd on next mornin'!"
"Gammon!" ejaculated Tom Riggles.
"True, I assure ye, as was proved by the fact that he afterwards rubbed a little of the salve on the end of the tail, and a noo dog growed on it in less than a week!"
"H'm! I wonder," said Tom, "if he was to rub some of it inside o' your skull, whether he could grow you a noo set o' brains."
"I say, Bill," interposed Ben Bolter, "did you hear the first lieutenant say where he intended to steer to?"
"I heard somethin' about Gibraltar, but don't know that he said we was goin' there. It's clear, hows'ever, that we must go somewhere to refit before we can be of any use."
"Ay; how poor Captain Ward would have chafed under this delay!" said Bill Bowls sadly. "He would have been like a caged tiger. That's the worst of war; it cuts off good and bad men alike. There's not a captain in the fleet like the one we have lost, Nelson alone excepted."
"Well, I don't know as to that," said Ben Bolter; "but there's no doubt that Admiral Nelson is the man to lick the French, and I only hope that he may find their fleet, and that I may be there to lend a hand."
"Ditto," said Bill Bowls.
"Do," added Tom Riggles.
Having thus expressed their sentiments, the three friends separated. Not long afterwards the _Waterwitch_ sailed with her prizes into Gibraltar.
Here was found a portion of the fleet which had been forwarded by Earl St. Vincent to reinforce Nelson. It was about to set sail, and as there was every probability that the _Waterwitch_ would require a considerable time to refit, some of her men were drafted into other ships. Among others, our friends Bill Bowls, Ben Bolter, and Tom Riggles, were sent on board the _Majestic_, a seventy-four gun ship of the line, commanded by Captain Westcott, one of England's most noted captains.
This vessel, with ten line-of-battle ships, set sail to join Nelson, and assist him in the difficult duty of watching the French fleet.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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5
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NELSON HUNTS THE FRENCH.
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At this time Sir Horatio Nelson had been despatched to the Mediterranean with a small squadron to ascertain the object of the great expedition which was fitting out, under Napoleon Bonaparte, at Toulon.
Nelson had for a long time past been displaying, in a series of complicated and difficult operations in the Mediterranean, those splendid qualities which had already won for him unusual honours and fame, and which were about to raise him to that proud pinnacle which he ultimately attained as England's greatest naval hero. His address and success in matters of diplomacy had filled his superiors and the Government with sentiments of respect; his moral courage in risking reputation and position, with unflinching resolution, by _disobeying_ orders when by so doing the good and credit of his country could be advanced, made him an object of dread to some, of admiration to others, while his lion-like animal courage and amiability endeared him to his officers and men. Sailors had begun to feel that where Nelson led the way victory was certain, and those who were ordered to join his fleet esteemed themselves most fortunate.
The defeat of the French armament was considered by the English Government a matter of so great importance, that Earl St. Vincent, then engaged in blockading the Spanish fleet, was directed, if he thought it necessary, to draw off his entire fleet for the purpose, and relinquish the blockade. He was, however, told that, if he thought a detachment sufficient, he was to place it under the command of Sir Horatio Nelson. The Earl did consider a detachment sufficient, and had already made up his mind to give the command to Nelson, being thoroughly alive to his great talents and other good qualities. He accordingly sent him to the Mediterranean with three ships of the line, four frigates, and a sloop of war.
This force was now, by the addition to which we have referred, augmented so largely that Nelson found himself in possession of a fleet with which he might not only "watch" the enemy, but, if occasion should offer, attack him.
He was refitting after a storm in the Sardinian harbour of St. Pietro, when the reinforcements hove in sight. As soon as the ships were seen from the masthead of the Admiral's vessel, Nelson immediately signalled that they should put to sea. Accordingly the united fleet set sail, and began a vigorous search for the French armament, which had left Toulon a short time before.
The search was for some time unsuccessful. No tidings could be obtained of the destination of the enemy for some time, but at length it was learned that he had surprised Malta.
Although his fleet was inferior in size to that of the French, Nelson-- and indeed all his officers and men--longed to meet with and engage them. The Admiral, therefore, formed a plan to attack them while at anchor at Gozo, but he received information that the French had left that island the day after their arrival. Holding very strongly the opinion that they were bound for Egypt, he set sail at once in pursuit, and arrived off Alexandria on the 28th of June 1798.
There, to his intense disappointment, he found that nothing had been seen or heard of the enemy. Nelson's great desire was to meet with Napoleon Bonaparte and fight him on the sea. But this wish was not to be gratified. He found, however, that the governor of Alexandria was endeavouring to put the city in a state of defence, for he had received information from Leghorn that the French expedition intended to proceed against Egypt after having taken Malta.
Leaving Alexandria, Nelson proceeded in various directions in search of the French, carrying a press of sail night and day in his anxiety to fall in with them, but being baffled in his search, he was compelled to return to Sicily to obtain fresh supplies in order to continue the pursuit.
Of course Nelson was blamed in England for his want of success in this expedition, and Earl St. Vincent was severely censured for having sent so young an officer on a service so important. Anticipating the objection, that he ought not to have made so long a voyage without more certain information, Nelson said, in vindication of his conduct:-- "Who was I to get such information from? The Governments of Naples and Sicily either knew not, or chose to keep me in ignorance. Was I to wait patiently until I heard certain accounts? If Egypt were their object, before I could hear of them, they would have been in India. To do nothing was disgraceful; therefore I made use of my understanding. I am before your lordships' judgment; and if, under all circumstances, it is decided that I am wrong, I ought, for the sake of our country, to be superseded; for at this moment, when I know the French are not in Alexandria, I hold the same opinion as off Cape Passaro--that, under all circumstances, I was right in steering for Alexandria; and by that opinion I must stand or fall."
It was ere long proved that Nelson _was_ right, and that Earl St. Vincent had made no mistake in sending him on a service so important; for we now know that in all the British fleet there was not another man so admirably adapted for the duty which was assigned to him, of finding, fighting, and conquering, the French, in reference to whom he wrote to the first lord of the Admiralty, "Be they bound to the antipodes, your lordship may rely that I will not lose a moment in bringing them to action!"
Re-victualled and watered, the British fleet set sail on the 25th of July from Syracuse. On the 28th, intelligence was received that the enemy had been seen about four weeks before, steering to the South East from Candia.
With characteristic disregard of the possible consequences to his own fame and interest, in his determination to "do the right," Nelson at once resolved to return to Alexandria. Accordingly, with all sail set, the fleet stood once more towards the coast of Egypt.
Perseverance was at length rewarded. On the 1st of August 1798, about ten in the morning, they sighted Alexandria, and saw with inexpressible delight that the port was crowded with the ships of France.
And here we venture to say that we sympathise with the joy of the British on this occasion, and shall explain why we do so.
Not every battle that is fought--however brilliant in military or naval tactics it may be, or in exhibitions of personal prowess--deserves our sympathy. Only that war which is waged against oppression is entitled to respect, and this, we hold, applies to the war in which the British were engaged at that time.
France, under the Directory, had commenced a career of unwarrantable conquest, for the simple purpose of self-aggrandisement, and her great general, Bonaparte, had begun that course of successful warfare in which he displayed those brilliant talents which won for him an empire, constituted him, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, a hero, and advanced France to a high position of tyrannical power. But brilliant talents and success could not free him from the charge of being a wholesale murderer.
To oppose such pretentions and practices was a bounden duty on the part of those who loved justice, just as much as it is the duty of every one who has the power to thwart the designs of, and forcibly overcome, a highwayman or a pirate.
Observe, reader, that we do not intend here to imply an invidious comparison. We have no sympathy with those who hold that England was and always is in favour of fair play, while France was bent on tyranny. On the contrary, we believe that England has in some instances been guilty of the sin which we now condemn, and that, on the other hand, many Frenchmen of the present day would disapprove of the policy of France in the time of Napoleon the First. Neither do we sympathise with the famous saying of Nelson that "one Englishman is equal to three Frenchmen!" The tendency to praise one's-self has always been regarded among Christian nations as a despicable, or at least a pitiable, quality, and we confess that we cannot see much difference between a boastful man and a boastful nation. Frenchmen have always displayed chivalrous courage, not a whit inferior to the British, and history proves that in war they have been eminently successful. The question whether they could beat us or we could beat them, if tested in a fair stand-up fight with equal numbers, besides being an unprofitable one, is not now before us. All that we are concerned about at present is, that in the war now under consideration the British _did_ beat the French, and we rejoice to record the fact solely on the ground that we fought in a righteous cause.
With these remarks we proceed to give an account of one of the greatest naval victories ever achieved by British arms.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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6
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THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.
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After Napoleon Bonaparte had effected his landing in Egypt, the French fleet was permitted to remain at Alexandria for some time, and thus afforded Nelson the opportunity he had sought for so long.
For many previous days he had been almost unable, from anxiety, to take sleep or food, but now he ordered dinner to be served, while preparations were being made for battle, and when his officers rose to leave the table, he said to them:-- "Before this time to-morrow, I shall have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey."
The French had found it impossible to enter the neglected and ruined port of Alexandria. Admiral Brueys had, by command of Napoleon, offered a reward of 10,000 livres to any native pilot who would safely convey the squadron in, but not one was found who would venture to take charge of a single vessel that drew more than twenty feet. The gallant admiral was compelled, therefore, to anchor in Aboukir Bay, and chose the strongest position that was possible in the circumstances. He ranged his ships in a compact line of battle, in such a manner that the leading vessel lay close to a shoal, while the remainder of the fleet formed a curve along the line of deep water so that it was thought to be impossible to turn it by any means in a South Westerly direction, and some of the French, who were best able to judge, said that they held a position so strong that they could bid defiance to a force more than double their own. The presumption was not unreasonable, for the French had the advantage of the English in ships, guns, and men, but they had omitted to take into their calculations the fact that the English fleet was commanded by one whose promptitude in action, readiness and eccentricity of resource, and utter disregard of consequences when what he deemed the path to victory lay before him, might have been equalled; but certainly could not have been surpassed, by Bonaparte himself.
The French force consisted of thirteen ships of the line and four frigates, carrying in all 1196 guns and 11,230 men. The English had thirteen ships of the line and a fifty-gun ship, carrying in all 1012 guns and 8068 men. All the English line-of-battle ships were seventy-fours. Three of the French ships carried eighty-eight guns, and one, _L'Orient_, was a monster three-decker with 120 guns.
In order to give the reader a better idea of the forces engaged on both sides, we give the following list of ships. It is right, however, to add that one of those belonging to the English (the _Culloden_) ran aground on a shoal when about to go into action, and took no part in the fight.
ENGLISH SHIPS.
+===+===============+=============================+====+===+===========+ Ý ÝNames ÝCommanders ÝGunsÝMenÝ Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 1. ÝVanguard ÝAdmiral Nelson, Captain BerryÝ 74Ý595Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 2. ÝMinotaur ÝThos. Louis Ý 74Ý640Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 3. ÝTheseus ÝR.W. Millar Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 4. ÝAlexander ÝA.J. Ball Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 5. ÝSwiftsure ÝB Hallowell Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 6. ÝAudacious ÝD Gould Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 7. ÝDefence ÝJ Peyton Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 8. ÝZealous ÝS Hood Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý 9. ÝOrion ÝSir James Saumarez Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý10.ÝGoliath ÝThomas Foley Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý11.ÝMajestic ÝG.B. Westcott Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý12.ÝBellerophon ÝH.D.E. Darby Ý 74Ý590Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý13.ÝCulloden ÝT Trowbridge Ý 74Ý590ÝNot engagedÝ +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý14.ÝLeander ÝT.B. Thomson Ý 50Ý343Ý Ý +---+---------------+-----------------------------+----+---+-----------+ Ý15.ÝLa Mutine, BrigÝ Ý Ý Ý Ý +===+===============+=============================+====+===+===========+ FRENCH SHIPS.
+===+====================+==============+====+====+===============+ Ý ÝNames ÝCommanders ÝGunsÝMen Ý Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 1. ÝL'Orient ÝAdmiral BrueysÝ 120Ý1010ÝBurnt Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 2. ÝLe Franklin Ý Ý 80Ý 800ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 3. ÝLe Tonnant Ý Ý 80Ý 800ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 4. ÝLe Guillaume Tell Ý Ý 80Ý 800ÝEscaped Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 5. ÝLe Conquerant Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 6. ÝLe Spartiate Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 7. ÝL'Aquilon Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 8. ÝLe Souverain Peuple Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý 9. ÝL'Heureux Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý10.ÝLe Timoleon Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝBurnt Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý11.ÝLe Mercure Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý12.ÝLe Genereux Ý Ý 74Ý 700ÝEscaped Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý13.ÝLe Guerrier Ý Ý 74Ý 600ÝTaken Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý14.ÝLa Diane (Frigate) Ý Ý 48Ý 300ÝEscaped Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý15.ÝLa Justice (Frigate)Ý Ý 44Ý 300ÝEscaped Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý16.ÝL'Artemise (Frigate)Ý Ý 36Ý 250ÝBurnt Ý +---+--------------------+--------------+----+----+---------------+ Ý17.ÝLa Serieux (Frigate)Ý Ý 36Ý 250ÝDismasted, sunkÝ +===+====================+==============+====+====+===============+ Such were the forces that met to engage in deadly conflict on the 1st of August 1798, with not only national but world-wide interest pending on the issue, for the battle of the Nile was one of the leading battles of the world.
When Nelson perceived the position of the enemy, his fertile and active mind at once evolved a characteristic course of action. Where there was room, he said, for an enemy's ship to swing, there was room for one of his to anchor. He therefore at once formed the plan of doubling on the French ships, stationing one of his ships on the bow and another on the quarter of each of the enemy.
Nelson immediately explained his intended course to his officers. It had been his custom during the whole time he was engaged in searching for the French fleet, to have his captains as frequently as possible on board the _Vanguard_, when he explained to them his opinions as to the best mode of attack in all the various positions in which it was possible or probable that the enemy might be found. Hence they knew their commander's tactics so well, that when the hour for action arrived, no time was lost in the tedious operation of signalling orders. He had such confidence in all his officers, that after thoroughly explaining his intended plan of attack, he merely said to them, "Form as is most convenient for mutual support, and anchor by the stern. First gain the victory, and then make the best use of it you can."
When Captain Berry, perceiving the boldness of the plan, said, "If we succeed, what will the world say?" Nelson replied, "There is no _if_ in the case; that we shall succeed is certain: who may live to tell the story is a very different question!"
Nelson possessed in an eminent degree the power of infusing into his men the irresistible confidence that animated his own bosom. There was probably not a man in the British fleet who did not sail into Aboukir Bay on that memorable day with a feeling of certainty that the battle was as good as gained before it was begun. The cool, quiet, self-possessed manner in which the British tars went to work at the beginning must have been very impressive to the enemy; for, as they advanced, they did not even condescend to fire a shot in reply to the storm of shot and shell to which the leading ships were treated by the batteries on an island in the bay, and by the broadsides of the whole French fleet at half gunshot-range, the men being too busily engaged in furling the sails aloft, attending to the braces below, and preparing to cast anchor!
Nelson's fleet did not all enter the bay at once, but each vessel lost no time in taking up position as it arrived; and as, one after another, they bore down on the enemy, anchored close alongside, and opened fire, the thunder of the French fleet was quickly and increasingly augmented by the British, until the full tide of battle was reached, and the shores of Egypt trembled under the incessant rolling roar of dreadful war; while sheets of flame shot forth and rent the thick clouds which enwrapped the contending fleets, and hung incumbent over the bay.
An attempt was made by a French brig to decoy the English ships towards a shoal before they entered Aboukir Bay, but it failed because Nelson either knew the danger or saw through the device.
It seemed as if the _Zealous_ (Captain Hood) was to have the honour of commencing the action, but Captain Foley passed her in the _Goliath_, and successfully accomplished that feat which the French had deemed impossible, and had done their best to guard against. Instead of attacking the leading ship--the _Guerrier_--outside, he sailed round her bows, passed between her and the shore, and cast anchor. Before he could bring up, however, he had drifted down to the second ship of the enemy's line--the _Conquerant_--and opened fire. It had been rightly conjectured that the landward guns of the enemy would not be manned, or even ready for action. The _Goliath_, therefore, made short and sharp work of her foe. In ten minutes the masts of the _Conquerant_ were shot away! The _Zealous_ was laid alongside the _Guerrier_, and in twelve minutes that vessel was totally disabled. Next came the _Orion_ (Sir J. Saumarez), which went into action in splendid style. Perceiving that a frigate lying farther inshore was annoying the _Goliath_, she sailed towards her, giving the _Guerrier_ a taste of her larboard guns as long as they would bear upon her, then dismasted and sunk the frigate, hauled round towards the French line, and anchoring between the _Franklin_ and the _Souverain Peuple_, received and returned the fire of both.
In like manner the _Audacious_ (Captain Gould) justified her name by attacking the _Guerrier_ and _Conquerant_ at once, and, when the latter struck passed on to the _Souverain Peuple_.
The unfortunate _Guerrier_ was also worthy of her title, for she bore the brunt of the battle. Every ship that passed her appeared to deem it a duty to give her a broadside before settling down to its particular place in the line, and finding its own special antagonist or antagonists--for several of the English ships engaged two of the enemy at once. The _Theseus_ (Captain Miller), after bringing down the main and mizzen-masts of the _Guerrier_, anchored inside the _Spartiate_ and engaged her.
Meanwhile, on the other side of this vessel, Nelson's ship, the _Vanguard_, bore down on the foe with six flags flying in different parts of the rigging, to guard against the possibility of his colours being shot away! She opened a tremendous fire on the _Spartiate_ at half pistol-range. The muscular British tars wrought with heroic energy at the guns. In a few minutes six of these guns, which stood on the fore-part of the _Vanguard's_ deck, were left without a man, and three times afterwards were these six guns cleared of men--so terrific was the fire of the enemy.
Other four of the British vessels sailed ahead of the _Vanguard_ and got into action. One of these--the _Bellerophon_ (Captain Darby)--engaged the gigantic _L'Orient_, which was so disproportionately large that the weight of ball from her lower deck alone exceeded that from the whole broadside of her assailant. The result was that the _Bellerophon_ was overpowered, 200 of her men were killed or wounded, all her masts and cables were shot away, and she drifted out of the line. Her place, however, was taken by the _Swiftsure_, which not only assailed the _L'Orient_ on the bow, but at the same time opened a steady fire on the quarter of the _Franklin_.
Before this time, however, the shades of night had fallen on the scene. The battle began at half-past six in the evening--half-an-hour afterwards daylight was gone, and the deadly fight was lighted only by the lurid and fitful flashing of the guns.
Those vessels of the English squadron which happened to be in rear were some leagues astern when the fight began, and it was so dark when they entered that extreme difficulty was experienced in getting in. One of these--the _Culloden_ (Captain Trowbridge)--sounded carefully as she went, but got aground, where she remained helpless during the action, despite the efforts of the _Leander_ and _La Mutine_ brig to get her off. She served, however, as a beacon to the _Alexander_ and _Swiftsure_.
The latter ship, on entering the bay, fell in with the drifting and disabled _Bellerophon_, which was at first supposed to be one of the enemy, because she did not show the signal ordered by Nelson to be hoisted by his ships at the mizzen peak. This arose, of course, from the masts having been shot away. Captain Hallowell wisely refrained from firing on her, saying that, if she was an enemy, she was too much disabled to escape. He passed on, therefore, and, as we have said, took the station and the duty from which the other had been driven.
The huge _L'Orient_ was now surrounded. Captain Ball, in the _Alexander_, anchored on her larboard quarter, and, besides raking her with his guns, kept up a steady fire of musketry on her decks. Captain Thomson also, in the _Leander_, took up such a position that he could fire into her and the _Franklin_ at the same time.
Standing in the midst of death and destruction, the hero of the Nile did not escape scathless. He remained unhurt, however, until he knew that victory was certain. The first and second ships of the enemy's line were disabled, as we have said, at the commencement of the action, and the third, fourth, and fifth were taken between eight and nine; so that Nelson could not have much, if any, doubt as to the issue of the battle.
Suddenly he received a wound on the head from a piece of langridge shot, and fell into the arms of Captain Berry. A large flap of skin was cut from the bone and fell over his sound eye,--the other having been lost in a previous engagement. The flow of blood was very great, and, being thus totally blinded, he thought that he had received a mortal wound. He was immediately carried down to the cockpit.
The cockpit of a man-of-war lies in that part of the ship which is below water, and is never visited by the light of day. Being safe also from the visitation of shot or shell, it has been selected as the place to which the wounded are conveyed during an action to have their wounds dressed and limbs amputated by the surgeons--whose hands at such seasons are, as may easily be supposed, much too full. No pen can describe adequately the horrors of that dimly-lighted place, with its flickering lights, glittering knives, bloody tables and decks, and mangled men, whose groans of agony burst forth in spite of their utmost efforts to repress them. Here, in the midst of dead, dying, and suffering men, the great Admiral sat down to wait his turn.
The surgeon was engaged in dressing the wounds of a sailor when he was brought down. On learning who it was that required his services, he quitted the man who was under his hands. "No," said Nelson, refusing his proffered assistance, "no; I will take my turn with my brave fellows." Accordingly, there he remained, persistently refusing aid, until every man who had been previously wounded had been attended to! When his turn came, it was found that his wound was merely superficial and heartfelt was the joy expressed by the wounded men and the crew of the _Vanguard_ when this was made known.
But before this had been ascertained, and while he believed himself to be dying, Nelson called the chaplain, and gave him his last remembrance to Lady Nelson, appointed a successor to Captain Berry, who was to go to England with the news of the victory, and made other arrangements in anticipation of his death. But his hour had not yet come. When the surgeon pronounced his hurt to be superficial, he refused to take the rest which was recommended, and at once sent for his secretary to write despatches.
While he was thus engaged, a cry was heard which rose above the din of battle, proclaiming that the _L'Orient_ was on fire. In the confusion that followed, Nelson found his way upon deck unassisted, and, to the astonishment of every one, appeared on the quarter-deck, and gave orders to lower the boats, and send relief to the enemy.
But before describing the scene that followed, we shall turn aside for a little to watch more closely the proceedings of Captain Westcott in the _Majestic_, and the personal deeds of Bill Bowls and his messmates.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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7
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BATTLE OF THE NILE--CONTINUED.
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The _Majestic_ was one of the four ships which sailed into action in the wake of the Admiral. Our hero, Bill Bowls, and his friend Ben Bolter, were stationed at one of the guns on the larboard side of the main deck. Flinders stood near them. Everything was prepared for action. The guns were loaded, the men, stripped to the waist, stood ready, and the matches were lighted, but as yet no order had been given to fire. The men on the larboard side of the ship stood gazing anxiously through the portholes at the furious strife in which they were about to engage.
"Ah, then! but it's hot work is goin' on," said Flinders, turning to Ben Bolter just after a crash of artillery somewhat louder than usual.
"It's hotter work ye'll see soon, when the Admiral gits into action," said Ben.
"True for ye," answered Flinders; "he's a broth of a boy for fightin'. It's an Irishman he should have been born. Hooroo, my hearties! look out!"
This latter exclamation was drawn forth by the crashing of a stray shot, which entered the ship close to the spot where they stood, and passed out on the starboard side, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions, without hurting any one.
"There goes the first!" said Bill Bowls, looking up at the ragged hole that was left.
"Faix, but it's not the last!" cried Flinders, as another stray shot hit the ship, wounding one of the men, and sending a splinter so close past the Irishman that it grazed his cheek. "Hooroo, boys! come on, the more the merrier! Sure it's death or victory we'll be havin' in half-an-hour."
At this moment of intense excitement and expectation, when every man's nerves tingled to be called into vigorous action, Ben Bolter saw fit to give Flinders a lecture.
"Ye shouldn't ought to speak misrespectful of death, boy," said he gravely. "He's a rough customer when he gits hold of 'e, an' is sartin sure to have the upper hand. It's my opinion that he'll pay this ship a pretty stiff visit to-night, so you'd better treat him with respect, an' belay yer jokin'--of which yer countrymen are over fond."
To this Flinders listened with a humorous expression about the corners of his eyes, while he stroked his chin, and awaited a pause in order to make a suitable reply, but an exclamation from Bill Bowls changed the subject abruptly.
"Ho! boys," he cried, "there goes the Admiral."
A tremendous crash followed his words, and the _Vanguard_ was seen to pour a broadside into the _Spartiate_--as before related.
The men of the _Majestic_ gazed eagerly at the Admiral's ship, which was almost enveloped in thick smoke as they passed ahead, but an order from Captain Westcott to be ready for action called the attention of every man on his duty. Whatever might have been, at that moment, the thoughts of the hundreds of men on board the _Majestic_, the whole soul and body of every man appeared to be concentrated on his own gun, as he awaited in stern silence the order to act.
It came at last, but somewhat differently from what had been expected. A sudden and peculiar motion was felt in the ship, and it was found that she had got entangled with the main rigging of one of the French vessels astern of the _L'Orient_. Instantly men were sent aloft to cut clear, but before this could be accomplished a perfect storm of shot and shell was sent into them from the towering sides of the three-decker. Men fell on all sides before they had an opportunity of firing a shot; again and again the crushing shower of metal came; spars and masts fell; the rigging was cut up terribly, and in a short time the _Majestic_ would certainly have been sunk had she not fortunately managed to swing clear. A moment afterwards Captain Westcott, finding himself close alongside the _Heureux_--the ninth ship of the enemy's line--gave the word to open fire, and Bill Bowls had at last the satisfaction of being allowed to apply a light to the touch-hole of his gun. Seventy-four men had for some time past felt their fingers itching with an almost irresistible desire to do this, and now upwards of thirty of them were allowed to gratify their wish. Instantly the good ship received a shock that caused her to quiver from the trucks to the keel, as her broadside went crashing into the _Heureux_.
No longer was there impatient inaction on board the _Majestic_, for not only did the _Heureux_ reply vigorously, but the _Tonnant_--the eighth of the enemy's line--opened fire on their other side. The _Majestic_ therefore fought on both sides. Throughout the whole ship the stalwart, half-naked men heaved at the huge guns. Everywhere, from stem to stern, was exhibited in full swing the active processes of sponging out, passing along powder and ball, ramming home the charges, running out, working the handspikes, stepping aside to avoid the recoil--and the whole operation of working the guns, as only British seamen know how to work them! All this was done in the midst of smoke, flame, crashing shot, and flying splinters, while the decks were slippery with human blood, and strewn with dead men, from amongst whom the wounded were raised as tenderly as the desperate circumstances in which they were placed would admit of, and carried below. Many of those who were thus raised never reached the cockpit, but again fell, along with those who bore them.
One of the men at the gun where Bill Bowls was at work was in the act of handing a round shot to Bill, when a ball entered the port-hole and hit him on the head, scattering his brains over the gun. Bill sprang forward to catch him in his arms, but slipped on the bloody deck and fell. That fall saved his life, for at the same moment a musket ball entered the port and passed close over his head, shattering the arm of a poor boy--one of those brave little fellows called powder-monkeys--who was in the act of carrying a cartridge to Ben Bolter. Ben could not delay the loading of the piece to assist the little fellow, who used his remaining strength to stagger forward and deliver the cartridge before he fell, but he shouted hastily to a passing shipmate-- "Here, Davis, carry this poor little chap to the cockpit."
Davis turned and took the boy in his arms. He had almost reached the main hatchway when a shell entered the ship and burst close to him. One fragment killed the boy, and another almost cut Davis in two. They fell and died together.
For a long time this terrible firing at short range went on, and many men fell on both sides. Among others, Captain Westcott was killed. He was the only captain who fell in that battle, and was one who, had his life been spared, would certainly have risen to the highest rank in the service. He had "risen from the ranks," having been the son of a baker in Devonshire, and gained the honourable station in which he lost his life solely through his conspicuous abilities and courage.
Up to this point none of those who are principally concerned in this tale had received any hurt, beyond a few insignificant scratches, but soon after the death of the little boy, Tom Riggles received a severe wound in the leg from a splinter. He was carried below by Bill and Ben.
"It's all over with me," he said in a desponding tone as they went slowly down the ladders; "I knows it'll be a case o' ampitation."
"Don't you go for to git down-hearted, Tom," said Ben earnestly. "You're too tough to be killed easy."
"Well, I _is_ tough, but wot'll toughness do for a feller agin iron shot. I feels just now as if a red-hot skewer wos rumblin' about among the marrow of my back-bone, an' I've got no feelin' in my leg at all. Depend upon it, messmates, it's a bad case."
His comrades did not reply, because they had reached the gloomy place where the surgeons were engaged at their dreadful work. They laid Tom down on a locker.
"Good-bye, lads," said Tom, as they were about to turn away, "p'r'aps I'll not see ye again, so give us a shake o' yer flippers."
Bill and Ben silently squeezed their comrade's hand, being unable to speak, and then hastened back to their stations.
It was about this time that the _L'Orient_ caught fire, and when Bill and his friend reached the deck, sheets of flame were already leaping out at the port-holes of the gigantic ship. The sides of the _L'Orient_ had been recently painted, and the paint-buckets and oil-jars which stood on the poop soon caught, and added brilliancy to the great conflagration which speedily followed the first outbreak of fire. It was about nine o'clock when the fire was first observed. Before this the gallant French Admiral had perished. Although three times wounded, Brueys refused to quit his post. At length a shot almost cut him in two, but still he refused to go below, and desired to be left to die on his quarter-deck. He was spared the pain of witnessing the destruction of his vessel.
Soon the flames got the mastery, and blazing upward like a mighty torch, threw a strong and appropriate light over the scene of battle. The greater part of the crew of the _L'Orient_ displayed a degree of courage which could not be surpassed, for they stuck to their guns to the very last; continuing to fire from the lower deck while the fire was raging above them, although they knew full well the dire and instantaneous destruction that must ensue when the fire reached the magazine.
The position and flags of the two fleets were now clearly seen, for it was almost as light as day, and the fight went on with unabated fury until about ten o'clock, when, with a terrific explosion, the _L'Orient_ blew up. So tremendous was the shock that it seemed to paralyse the combatants for a little, for both fleets ceased to fire, and there ensued a profound silence, which continued for some time. The first sound that broke the solemn stillness was the splash of the falling spars of the giant ship as they descended from the immense height to which they had been shot!
Of the hundreds of human beings who manned that ship, scarcely a tithe were saved. About seventy were rescued by English boats. The scattered and burning fragments fell around like rain, and there was much fear lest these should set some of the neighbouring vessels on fire. Two large pieces of burning wreck fell into the _Swiftsure_, and a port fire into the _Alexander_, but these were quickly extinguished.
On board the _Majestic_ also, some portions of burning material fell. While these were being extinguished, one of the boats was ordered out to do all that was possible to save the drowning Frenchmen. Among the first to jump into this boat were Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter. Bill took the bow oar, Ben the second, and in a few moments they were pulling cautiously amid the debris of the wreck, helping to haul on board such poor fellows as they could get hold of. The work was difficult, because comparative darkness followed the explosion, and as the fight was soon resumed, the thunder of heavy guns, together with the plunging of ball, exploding of shell, and whizzing of chain-shot overhead, rendered the service one of danger as well as difficulty.
It was observed by the men of the _Majestic's_ boat that several French boats were moving about on the same errand of mercy with themselves, and it was a strange as well as interesting sight to see those who, a few minutes before, had been bent on taking each other's lives, now as earnestly engaged in the work of saving life!
"Back your starboard oars," shouted Ben, just as they passed one of the French boats; "there's a man swimming on the port bow--that's it; steady; lend a hand, Bill; now then, in with him."
A man was hoisted over the gunwale as he spoke, and the boat passed onward. Just then a round shot from one of the more distant ships of the fleet--whether English or French they could not tell--struck the water a few yards from them, sending a column of spray high into the air. Instead of sinking, the shot ricochetted from the water and carried away the bow of the boat in passing, whirling it round and almost overturning it. At the same moment the sea rushed in and swamped it, leaving the crew in the water.
Our hero made an involuntary grasp at the thing that happened to be nearest him. This was the head of his friend Ben Bolter, who had been seated on the thwart in front of him. Ben returned the grasp promptly, and having somehow in the confusion of the plunge, taken it into his head that he was in the grasp of a Frenchman, he endeavoured to throttle Bill. Bill, not being easily throttled, forthwith proceeded to choke Ben, and a struggle ensued which might have ended fatally for both, had not a piece of wreck fortunately touched Ben on the shoulder. He seized hold of it, Bill did the same, and then they set about the fight with more precision.
"Come on, ye puddock-eater!" cried Ben, again seizing Bill by the throat.
"Hallo, Ben!"
"Why, wot--is't you, Bill? Well, now, if I didn't take 'e for a Mounseer!"
Before more could be said a boat was observed rowing close past them. Ben hailed it.
"Ho!" cried a voice, as the men rested on their oars and listened.
"Lend a hand, shipmates," cried Ben, "on yer port bow."
The oars were dipped at once, the boat ranged up, and the two men were assisted into it.
"It's all well as ends well, as I've heerd the play-actors say," observed Ben Bolter, as he shook the water from his garments. "I say, lads, what ship do you belong to?"
"Ve has de honair to b'long to _Le Guillaume Tell_," replied one of the men.
"Hallo, Bill!" whispered Ben, "it's a French boat, an' we're nabbed. Prisoners o' war, as sure as my name's BB! Wot's to be done?"
"I'll make a bolt, sink or swim," whispered our hero.
"You vill sit still," said the man who had already spoken to them, laying a hand on Bill's shoulder.
Bill jumped up and made a desperate attempt to leap overboard, but two men seized him. Ben sprang to the rescue instantly, but he also was overpowered by numbers, and the hands of both were tied behind their backs. A few minutes later and they were handed up the side of the French ship.
When day broke on the morning of the 2nd of August, the firing still continued, but it was comparatively feeble, for nearly every ship of the French fleet had been taken. Only the _Guillaume Tell_ and the _Genereux_--the two rear ships of the enemy--had their colours flying.
These, with two frigates, cut their cables and stood out to sea. The _Zealous_ pursued, but as there was no other British ship in a fit state to support her, she was recalled; the four vessels, therefore, escaped at that time, but they were captured not long afterwards. Thus ended the famous battle of the Nile, in regard to which Nelson said that it was a "conquest" rather than a victory.
Of thirteen sail of the line, nine were taken and two burnt; and two of their four frigates were burnt. The British loss in killed and wounded amounted to 896; that of the French was estimated at 2000.
The victory was most complete. The French fleet was annihilated. As might be supposed, the hero of the Nile was, after this, almost worshipped as a demigod. It is worthy of remark here that Nelson, as soon as the conquest was completed, sent orders through the fleet that thanksgiving should be returned, in every ship, to Almighty God, for the victory with which He had blessed His Majesty's arms.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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8
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OUR HERO AND HIS MESSMATE GET INTO TROUBLE.
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On the night after the battle, Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter were sent on board a French transport ship.
As they sat beside each other, in irons, and securely lodged under hatches, these stout men of war lamented their hard fate thus-- "I say, Bill, this is wot I calls a fix!"
"That's so, Ben--a bad fix."
There was silence for a few minutes, then Ben resumed-- "Now, d'ye see, this here war may go on for ever so long--years it may be--an' here we are on our way to a French prison, where we'll have the pleasure, mayhap, of spendin' our youth in twirlin' our thumbs or bangin' our heads agin the bars of our cage."
"There ain't a prison in France as'll hold me," said Bill Bowls resolutely.
"No? how d'ye 'xpect to git out--seein' that the walls and doors ain't made o' butter, nor yet o' turnips?" inquired Ben.
"I'll go up the chimbley," said Bill savagely, for his mind had reverted to Nelly Blyth, and he could not bear to think of prolonged imprisonment.
"But wot if they've got no chimbleys?"
"I'll try the winders."
"But if the winders is tight barred, wot then?"
"Why, then, I'll bust 'em, or I'll bust myself, that's all."
"Humph!" ejaculated Ben.
Again there was a prolonged silence, during which the friends moodily meditated on the dark prospects before them.
"If we could only have bin killed in action," said Bill, "that would have been some comfort."
"Not so sure o' that, messmate," said Ben. "There's no sayin' wot may turn up. P'r'aps the war will end soon, an' that's not onlikely, for we've whipped the Mounseers on sea, an' it won't be difficult for our lobsters to lick 'em on land. P'r'aps there'll be an exchange of prisoners, an' we may have a chance of another brush with them one o' these days. If the wust comes to the wust, we can try to break out o' jail and run a muck for our lives. Never say die is my motto."
Bill Bowls did not assent to these sentiments in words, but he clenched his fettered hands, set his teeth together, and gave his comrade a look which assured him that whatever might be attempted he would act a vigorous part.
A few days later the transport entered a harbour, and a guard came on board to take charge of the prisoners, of whom there were about twenty. As they were being led to the jail of the town, Bill whispered to his comrade-- "Look out sharp as ye go along, Ben, an' keep as close to me as ye can."
"All right, my lad," muttered Ben, as he followed the soldiers who specially guarded himself.
Ben did not suppose that Bill intended then and there to make a sudden struggle for freedom, because he knew that, with fettered wrists, in a strange port, the very name of which they did not know, and surrounded by armed enemies, such an attempt would be utterly hopeless; he therefore concluded, correctly, that his companion wished him to take the bearings (as he expressed it) of the port, and of the streets through which they should pass. Accordingly he kept his "weather-eye open."
The French soldiers who conducted the seamen to prison, although stout athletic fellows, and, doubtless, capable of fighting like heroes, were short of stature, so that the British tars looked down on them with a patronising expression of countenance, and one or two even ventured on a few facetious remarks. Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, who both measured above six feet in their stockings, towered above the crowd like two giants.
"It's a purty place intirely," said an Irish sailor, with a smiling countenance, looking round upon the houses, and nodding to a group of pretty girls who were regarding the prisoners with looks of pity. "What may be the name of it, av I may make bowld to inquire?"
The question was addressed to the soldier on his right, but the man paid no attention. So the Irishman repeated it, but without drawing forth a reply.
"Sure, yer a paltry thing that can't give a civil answer to a civil question."
"He don't understand Irish, Pat, try him with English," said Ben Bolter.
"Ah, then," said Pat, "ye'd better try that yersilf, only yer so high up there he won't be able to hear ye."
Before Ben had an opportunity of trying the experiment, however, they had arrived at the jail. After they had passed in, the heavy door was shut with a clang, and bolted and barred behind them.
It is probable that not one of the poor fellows who heard the sound, escaped a sensation of sinking at the heart, but certain it is that not one condescended to show his feelings in his looks.
They were all put into a large empty room, the window of which looked into a stone passage, which was itself lighted from the roof; the door was shut, locked, bolted, and barred, and they were left to their meditations.
They had not remained long there, however, when the bolts and bars were heard moving again.
"What say 'e to a rush, lads?" whispered one of the men eagerly.
"Agreed," said Bill Bowls, starting forward; "I'll lead you, boys."
"No man can fight with his hands tied," growled one of the others. "You'll only be spoilin' a better chance, mayhap."
At that moment the last bolt was withdrawn, and the door swung open, revealing several files of soldiers with muskets, and bayonets fixed, in the passage. This sight decided the question of a rush!
Four of the soldiers entered with the turnkey. The latter, going up to Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter, said to them in broken English:-- "You follows de soldat."
Much surprised, but in silence, they obeyed the command.
As they were going out, one of their comrades said, "Good-bye, mates: it's plain they've taken ye for admirals on account o' yer size!"
"Niver a taste," said the Irishman before mentioned, "'tis bein' led, they are, to exekooshion--" The remainder of this consolatory suggestion was cut off by the shutting of the door.
After traversing several passages, the turnkey stopped before a small door studded with iron nails, and, selecting one of his huge keys, opened it, while the soldiers ranged up on either side.
The turnkey, who was a tall, powerful man, stepped back, and, looking at Bill, pointed to the cell with his finger, as much as to say, "Go in."
Bill looked at him and at the soldiers for a moment, clenched his fists, and drew his breath short, but as one of the guard quietly brought his musket to the charge, he heaved a sigh, bent his head, and, passing under the low doorway, entered the cell.
"Are we to stop long here, Mister Turnkey?" asked Ben, as he was about to follow.
The man vouchsafed no reply, but again pointed to the cell.
"I've always heered ye wos a purlite nation," said Ben, as he followed his messmate; "but there's room for improvement."
The door was shut, and the two friends stood for a few minutes in the centre of their cell, gazing in silence around the blank walls.
The appearance of their prison was undoubtedly depressing, for there was nothing whatever in it to arrest the eye, except a wooden bench in one corner, and the small grated window which was situated near the top of one of the walls.
"What d'ye think o' this?" asked Ben, after some time, sitting down on the bench.
"I think I won't be able to stand it," said Bill, flinging himself recklessly down beside his friend, and thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
"Don't take on so bad, messmate," said Ben, in a reproving tone. "Gittin' sulky with fate ain't no manner o' use. As our messmate Flinders used to say, `Be aisy, an' if ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.' There's wot I calls sound wisdom in that."
"Very true, Ben; nevertheless the sound wisdom in _that_ won't avail to get us out o' _this_."
"No doubt, but it'll help us to bear this with equablenimity while we're here, an' set our minds free to think about the best way o' makin' our escape."
At this Bill made an effort to throw off the desperate humour which had taken possession of him, and he so far succeeded that he was enabled to converse earnestly with his friend.
"Wot are we to do?" asked Bill gloomily.
"To see, first of all, what lies outside o' that there port-hole," answered Ben. "Git on my shoulders, Bill, an' see if ye can reach it."
Ben stood against the wall, and his friend climbed on his shoulders, but so high was the window, that he could not reach to within a foot of it. They overcame this difficulty, however, by dragging the bench to the wall, and standing upon it.
"I see nothin'," said Bill, "but the sky an' the sea, an' the prison-yard, which appears to me to be fifty or sixty feet below us."
"That's not comfortin'," observed Ben, as he replaced the bench in its corner.
"What's your advice now?" asked Bill.
"That we remain on our good behaviour a bit," replied Ben, "an' see wot they means to do with us, an' whether a chance o' some sort won't turn up."
"Well, that's a good plan--anyhow, it's an easy one to begin with--so we'll try it for a day or two."
In accordance with this resolve, the two sailors called into play all the patience, prudence, and philosophy of which they were possessed, and during the three days that followed their incarceration, presented such a meek, gentle, resigned aspect; that the stoniest heart of the most iron-moulded turnkey ought to have been melted; but the particular turnkey of that prison was made of something more or less than mortal mould, for he declined to answer questions,--declined even to open his lips, or look as if he heard the voices of his prisoners, and took no notice of them farther than to fetch their food at regular intervals and take away the empty plates. He, however, removed their manacles; but whether of his own good-will or by order they did not know.
"Now, Ben," said Bill on the evening of the third day, as they sat beside each other twirling their thumbs, "this here sort o' thing will never do. I mean for to make a dash when the turnkey comes in the mornin'; will you help me?"
"I'm yer man," said Ben; "but how d'ye mean to set about it?"
"Well, somewhat in this fashion:--W'enever he opens the door I'll clap my hand on his mouth to stop his pipe, and you'll slip behind him, throw yer arms about him, and hold on till I tie a handkerchief over his mouth. Arter that we'll tie his hands and feet with whatever we can git hold of--his own necktie, mayhap--take the keys from him, and git out the best way we can."
"H'm; but wot if we don't know the right turnin's to take, an' run straight into the jaws of other turnkeys, p'r'aps, or find other doors an' gates that his bunch o' keys won't open?"
"Why, then, we'll just fail, that's all; an' if they should scrag us for it, no matter."
"It's a bad look-out, but I'll try," said Ben.
Next morning this plan was put in execution. When the turnkey entered the cell, Bill seized him and clapped his hand on his mouth. The man struggled powerfully, but Ben held him in a grasp so tight that he was as helpless as an infant.
"Keep yer mind easy, Mounseer, we won't hurt 'e," said Ben, while his comrade was busy gagging him.
"Now, then, lift him into the corner," whispered Bill.
Ben and he carried the turnkey, whom they had tied hand and foot with handkerchiefs and neckties, into the interior of the cell, left him there, locked the door on him, and immediately ran along the passage, turned a corner, and came in sight of an iron grating, on the other side of which sat a man in a dress similar to that of the turnkey they had left behind them. They at once drew back and tried to conceal themselves, but the man had caught sight of them, and gave the alarm.
Seeing that their case was desperate, Bill rushed at the grating with all his force and threw himself heavily against it. The whole building appeared to quiver with the shock; but the caged tiger has a better chance of smashing his iron bars than poor Bill Bowls had. Twice he flung his whole weight against the barrier, and the second time Ben helped him; but their efforts were in vain. A moment later and a party of soldiers marched up to the grating on the outside. At the same time a noise was heard at the other end of the passage. Turning round, the sailors observed that another gate had been opened, and a party of armed men admitted, who advanced with levelled muskets.
Seeing this, Bill burst into a bitter laugh, and flung down the keys with a force that caused the long passage to echo again, as he exclaimed-- "It's all up with us, Ben. We may as well give in at once."
"That's so," said Ben sadly, as he suffered himself to be handcuffed, after which he and his companion in misfortune were conducted back to their cell.
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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9
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BILL AND BEN SET THEIR BRAINS TO STEEP WITH UNCONQUERABLE PERSEVERANCE.
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In its slow but steady revolution, the wheel of fortune had now apparently brought Bill Bowls and Ben Bolter to the lowest possible point; and the former of these worthies consoled himself with the reflection that, as things could scarcely get worse with them, it was probable they would get better. His friend disputed this point.
"It's all very well," said Ben, crossing his legs and clasping his hands over his knees, as he swayed himself to and fro, "to talk about havin' come to the wust; but we've not got to that p'int by a long way. Why, suppose that, instead o' bein' here, sound in wind and limb, though summat unfort'nate in regard to the matter o' liberty,--suppose, I say, that we wos lyin' in hospital with our right legs an' mayhap our left arms took off with a round shot."
"Oh, if you go for to _supposin'_," said Bill, "you may suppose anything. Why not suppose at once that we was lyin' in hospital with both legs and arms took off by round shot, an' both eyes put out with canister, an' our heads an' trunks carried away by grape-shot?"
"I didn't suppose that," said Ben quietly, "because that would be the best instead o' the wust state we could come to, seein' that we'd know an' care nothin' about it. Hows'ever, here we are, low enough, an' havin' made an assault on the turnkey, it's not likely we'll get much favour at the hands of the Mounseers; so it comes to this, that we must set our brains to steep, an' see if we can't hit upon some dodge or other to escape."
"That's what we must do," assented Bill Bowls, knitting his brows, and gazing abstractedly at the blank wall opposite. "To git out o' this here stone jug is what I've set my heart on, so the sooner we set about it the better."
"Just so," said Ben. "Well, then, let's begin. Wot d'ye propose fust?"
To this Bill replied that he must think over it. Accordingly, he did think over it, and his comrade assisted him, for the space of three calendar months, without any satisfactory result. But the curious thing about it was that, while these men revolved in their minds every conceivable plan with unflagging eagerness, and were compelled to give up each, after brooding over it for a considerable time, finding that it was unworkable, they were not dispirited, but rather became more intense in their meditations, and ingenious as well as hopeful in their devisings.
"If we could only git hold of a file to cut a bar o' the winder with, an' a rope to let ourselves down with, I think we could manage to git over the walls somehow."
"If we was to tear our jackets, trousers, vests, and shirts into strips, an' make a rope of 'em, it might be long enough," suggested Bill.
"That's so, boy, but as we would be stark naked before we got it finished, I fear the turnkey would suspec' there wos somethin' wrong somehow."
Ben Bolter sighed deeply as he spoke, because at that moment a ray of sunshine shot through the little window, and brought the free fresh air and the broad blue sea vividly to his remembrance. For the first time he experienced a deep sinking of the heart, and he looked at his comrade with an expression of something like despair.
"Cheer up," said Bill, observing and thoroughly understanding the look. "Never say die, as long as there's a--shot--in--" He was too much depressed and listless to finish the sentence.
"I wonder," resumed Ben, "if the Mounseers treat all their prisoners of war as bad as they treat us."
"Don't think they do," replied Bill. "I've no doubt it's 'cause we sarved 'em as we did when they first put us in quod."
"Oh, if they would only give us summat to do!" exclaimed Ben, with sudden vehemence.
It seemed as if the poor fellow's prayer were directly answered, for at that moment the door opened, and the governor, or some other official of the prison, entered the cell.
"You must vork," he said, going up to Bill.
"We'll be only too glad to work, yer honour, if you'll give us work to do."
"Ver' good; fat can you vork?"
"We can turn handy to a'most anything, yer honour," said Ben eagerly.
It turned out, however, after a considerable amount of talk, that, beyond steering a ship, reefing topsails, splicing ropes, tying every species of complex knot, and other nautical matters, the two seamen could not claim to be professionally acquainted with any sort of handicraft. Somewhat discomfited, Ben at last said with a perplexed air-- "Well, yer honour, we'll try anything ye choose to put us at. I had a brother once who was a sort of tinker to trade, an' great at mendin' pots, pans, old umbrellas, and the like. I wos used to help him when a boy. P'r'aps if yer honour, now, has got a old umbrella as wants refittin', I might try my hand on that."
The governor smiled. "Vell, I do tink I have von old omberilla. You sall try for to mend him."
Next day saw Bill and Ben surrounded by tools, scraps of wood and whalebone, bits of brass and tin, etcetera, busy as bees, and as happy as any two children who have invented a new game.
Ben mended the umbrella admirably. At the same time, Bill fashioned and carved two or three paper-knives of wood with great neatness. But when it was discovered that they could sew sail-cloth expeditiously and well, a quantity of that material was given to them, and they were ordered to make sacks. They set to work accordingly, and made sack after sack until they grew so wearied of the monotonous work that Ben said it made him wish to sit down in sackcloth and ashes; whereupon Bill remarked that if the Mounseers would only give them the sack altogether, it would be very much to their credit.
Soon the imprisoned mariners began again to plot and plan their escape. Of course they thought of making ropes of the sail-cloth and twine with which they wrought, but as the turnkey took the material away every night, and brought it back every morning, they gave up this idea, as they had given up many other ideas before.
At last, one afternoon, Bill looked up from his work, hit his thigh a slap which produced a pistol-shot crack that echoed up into the high ceiling of the cell, as he exclaimed, "I've got it!"
"I hope you'll give us a bit of it, then," said Ben, "if it's worth havin'."
"I'll give you the benefit of it, anyhow," said Bill, throwing down his tools and eagerly beginning to expound the new plan which had struck him and caused him to strike his thigh. It was to this effect:-- That they should beg the turnkey to let them have another old umbrella to work at by way of recreation, as the sack-making was rather monotonous; that, if they should be successful in prevailing on him to grant their request, they should work at the umbrella very slowly, so as to give them time to carry out their plan, which was to form a sort of parachute by adding sail-cloth round the margin of the umbrella so as to extend it to twice its circumference. After it should be finished they were to seize a fitting opportunity, cut the bars of their window, and, with the machine, leap down into the yard below.
"Wot!" exclaimed Ben, "jump together!"
"Ay, why not, Ben? Sink or swim, together, boy."
"Very true, but I've got my doubts about flyin' together. Better do it one at a time, and send the umbrella up by means of a piece of twine."
"Well, we might do it in that way," said Bill; "but what d'ye think o' the plan?"
"Fuss rate," said Ben, "we'll try it at once."
In accordance with this resolution, Ben made his petition that night, very humbly, to the turnkey, who at first turned a deaf ear to him, but was finally prevailed on to fetch them one of his own umbrellas to be repaired. It happened to be a very large one of the good old stout and bulgy make, and in this respect was the better suited to their purpose. All the tools necessary for the work of repair were supplied except a file. This, however, was brought to them, when Ben pointed out, with much earnestness, that if he had such an implement he could clean up and beautify the ivory handle to such an extent that its owner would not recognise it.
This device of improving the ivory handle turned out to be a happy hit, for it enabled Ben to keep the umbrella much longer by him than would otherwise have been possible, for the purpose of covering it with elaborate and really beautiful carving, the progress of which was watched by the turnkey with much interest from day to day.
Having gained their end the sailors wrought with indefatigable zeal, and resolutely overcame the difficulties that met them from time to time. Each day they dragged the bench under the window. Ben got upon it, and Bill climbed on his shoulders, by which means he could just reach the iron grating of the window, and there, for half-an-hour at a time, he cautiously used the file. They thought this enough of time to bestow on the work, because the bars could be easily filed through before the parachute was ready.
In the preparation of the umbrella, the first difficulty that met them was how they were to conceal their private work when the turnkey came in the evenings to take away their materials for sack-making. After some examination they discovered a plank in the floor, in the corner where they were wont to sleep, which was loose and easily forced up with one of Bill's unfinished paper-knives, which he made very strong for this special purpose! Beneath there was sufficient room to stow away the cloth with which they fashioned the additional breadth to the umbrella. To have cabbaged at one time all the sail-cloth that was required would have risked discovery; they therefore appropriated small scraps each day, and sewed these neatly together until they had enough. Soon they had a ring of canvas formed, into the centre of which the umbrella fitted exactly, and this ring was so cut and sewn in gores that it formed a continuation of the umbrella, which was thus made to spread out and cover a space of about nine or ten feet in diameter. All round the extremity or margin of the ring, cords of twisted twine were fixed, at intervals of about six inches. There were about sixty of these cords or stays, all of which met and were fastened at the end of the handle. A stout line, made of four-ply twine, was fastened at the top of the umbrella, and passing through a small hole in it was tied round the whalebones inside, and twisted down the stick to the handle, to which it was firmly secured. By this means the whole machine was, as it were, bound together.
All these additionals and fixings had, however, to be so constructed that they could be removed, or affixed with some rapidity, for there was always before the sailors the chance that the turnkey might look in to observe how their work was progressing.
Indeed one afternoon they were almost discovered at work on the parachute. The turnkey was heard coming along the passage when Ben was in the act of fitting on the new appendages, and the key was actually in the door before the last shred of them was thrust into the hole in the floor, and the loose plank shut down! Ben immediately flung several of the sacks over the place, and then turning suddenly round on his comrade began to pommel him soundly by way of accounting for the flushed condition of his countenance.
Thus taken by surprise, Bill returned the blows with interest, and the combatants were separated by the turnkey when in a rather breathless condition!
"If you do so more agin, you sall go separate," said the turnkey.
The mere thought of separation at such a moment struck like a chill to the hearts of the sailors, who forthwith shook hands, and vowed earnestly that they would "never do it again." In order to conciliate the man, Ben took up the umbrella, and pointing to the beautifully carved handle said-- "You see it's all but finished, and I'm very anxious to git it done, so if you'll let me keep it by me all to-night, I'll work as long as I can see, and be at it the first thing in the morning."
The man, pleased at the unusual interest which Ben took in the worn-out piece of goods, agreed to let him keep it by him. After carrying away all the other materials, and looking round to see that all was right, he locked them up for the night.
Left to themselves, they at once began to prepare for action. They drew forth all the different parts of the parachute (for such it really was, although the machine so named had never been seen, but only heard of, by the seamen), and disposed them in such a manner beside the hole in the floor as to be ready at a moment's notice, either to be fitted on to the umbrella or thrust back into the place of concealment.
Their manacles had been taken off at the time they began to work, so that these were no longer impediments in the way.
"Now, Bill, are the bars sure to give way, d'ye think?"
"Sartin sure," said Bill; "they're holdin' by nothin' thicker than a pin."
"Very good, then, let's go to work. In an hour or so it will be dark enough to try our flyin' machine, and then good-bye to France--or to the world. It's neck or nothin', d'ye see?"
"All right," answered Bill.
They sat down to work in good earnest. The spreading rim of canvas, instead of being tagged on as on former occasions, was now sewn securely to the umbrella, and when the latter was expanded, the canvas hung down all round it, and the numerous stays hung quite loose. Ben expected that the rapidity of the descent would suddenly expand this appendage, and check the speed. The ends of the loose cords were gathered up and fastened to the handle, as was also the binding-cord before referred to--all of which was done with that thoroughness of workmanship for which sailors are celebrated.
Then a stout cord was fastened to one of the stanchions of the window, which had been left uncut for the purpose.
When everything was ready the adventurous sailors began to experience all the anxiety which is inseparable from an action involving much danger, liability to frustration, and requiring the utmost caution combined with energy.
They waited until they thought the night was at its darkest. When all sounds around them had ceased, they took off their shoes and carefully lifted the bench to the wall under the window. Ben went up first by mounting on Bill's shoulders. With one powerful wrench he pulled the iron framework of the window into the room, and handed it down to Bill, who stooped a little and placed it gently against the wall. His comrade then thrust his head and shoulders out at the window, and while in that awkward position spread his jacket over the sill. This was intended to protect the cord which was fastened to the top of the umbrella, and by which it was to be drawn up after his descent.
When this was done, Bill clambered up by the cord which hung from the uncut stanchion, and pushed the umbrella past Ben's body until he got hold of the end of it, and drew it out altogether. Bill then descended into the cell, having the small cord in his hand, and watched the motions of his comrade with intense anxiety.
The window was so small that Ben could barely get his head and shoulders through it. There was no possibility of his getting on his feet or his knees to make a leap. The only course that remained for him, therefore, was to expand the umbrella, hold on tight, and then wriggle out until he should lose his balance and fall head foremost! It was an awful position. Bold though the seaman was, and desperate the circumstances, his strong frame quivered when he gazed down and felt himself gradually toppling. The height he knew to be little short of sixty feet, but in the dark night it appeared an abyss of horrible profundity. A cold sweat broke out upon him, and for one moment he felt an almost irresistible tendency to let go the umbrella and clutch the window-sill, but he was too late. Like lightning he shot down for a couple of yards; then the parachute expanded and checked him with such violence, as he swung round, that he nearly lost his hold and was thrown into a horizontal position--first on one side, then on the other. Finally, he reached the ground with a shock that almost took away his breath. He sat still for a moment or two, then rose slowly and shook himself, to ascertain whether he were still alive and sound! Immediately after he examined the parachute, found it all right, and gave his comrade the signal--a couple of tugs at the cord--to haul up.
Bill was scarcely less agitated than his friend. He had seen Ben's legs disappear with a suddenness that told eloquently of his having taken flight, and stood in the cell above listening intently, while large drops of perspiration coursed down his face. On feeling the tug at the string, a mountain appeared to be lifted off his chest. Carefully he pulled up the umbrella. When it showed its point above the window-sill he clambered up and went through the same terrible ordeal. He was not, however, so fortunate as his friend, for, when he jumped, three of the stays gave way, which had the effect of slightly deranging the motion of the umbrella, and he came to the ground with such violence that he lay stunned and motionless, leading his horrified comrade to fear that he was killed. In a few minutes, however, he revived, and, on examination, found that no bones had been broken.
"Now, Ben, what next?" said Bill, getting up, and giving himself a shake.
"The wall," said Ben, "can't be far from where we stand. If there wos only a bit of moonshine it would help us."
"Better as it is," whispered Bill, groping about, for the night was so intensely dark that it was scarcely possible to see a yard. "I knows the way to the harbour, if we only manage to get out. --Ah, here's the wall, but it's an oncommon high one!"
This was indeed too true. The top of the wall was faintly visible like a black line across the dark sky, and when Ben mounted on Bill's shoulders, it was found that he could only reach to within three feet of the bristling iron spikes with which it was surmounted. For half-an-hour they groped about, and made the discovery that they were in a small enclosure with bare walls of fifteen feet in height around them, and not a projection of any kind large enough for a mouse to lay hold of! In these circumstances many men would have given way to despair; but that was a condition of mind which neither of our tars ever thought of falling into. In the course of their explorations they came against each other, and immediately began an animated conversation in whispers, the result of which was that they groped for the umbrella, and, having found it, cut off all the cords about it, with which they proceeded to plait a rope strong enough to bear their weight. They sat down in silence to the work, leaning against the prison wall, and wrought for a full hour with the diligence of men whose freedom depends on their efforts. When finished, the rope was found to be about a yard too short for their purpose; but this defect was remedied by means of the canvas of their parachute, which they tore up into strips, twisted into an additional piece of rope, and spliced it to the other. A large loop was made on the end of it. Going once more to the wall, Ben mounted on Bill's shoulders, and threw the loop over the top of the wall; it caught, as had been expected, on one of the iron spikes. Ben then easily hauled himself up, hand over hand, and, getting hold of two spikes, raised himself so that he could see over the wall. Immediately after he descended.
"I sees nothin', Bill, so we must just go over and take our chance."
Bill agreed. Ben folded his coat, and ascending again, spread it over the spikes, so that he could lean on them with his chest without being pierced. Having re-ascended, Bill followed; the rope was then hauled up, and lowered on the other side. In another moment they slipped down, and stood on the ground.
"Now, the question is, where are we!" whispered Bill. "P'r'aps we're only in another yard after all."
The sound of footsteps pacing slowly towards them was heard at that moment.
"I do believe," whispered Bill, in an excited tone, "that we've got into the street, an' that's the sentry. Let's bolt."
"We can't bolt," said Ben, "'cause, if I took my bearin's right, he's between us an' the shore, an' it would be of no manner o' use boltin' into the country to be hunted down like a couple of foxes."
"Then we'll floor him to begin with," whispered Bill.
"That's so," said Ben.
The sentry approached, and the sailors drew up close against the wall. Presently his dark form became faintly visible. Bill rushed at him at once, and delivered a blow that might have felled an ox at the spot where he supposed his chest was, sending the man back almost heels over head, while his arms rattled on the pavement. Instantly there were heard the sounds of opening locks, bolts, and bars. The two friends fled, and shouts were heard behind them, while lights flashed in various directions.
"This way, Bill," cried Ben, turning down a narrow lane to avoid a lamp which came in sight when they turned a corner. A couple of belated and drunken French fishermen happened to observe them, and gave chase. "Hold on, Ben, let's drop, and trip 'em up," said Bill.
"All right," replied Ben; "down with 'e." They stopped suddenly, and squatted as low as possible. The lane was very narrow; the fishermen were close behind; they tumbled right over them, and fell heavily on their faces. While they were rising, our heroes knocked them both insensible, and hastily appropriating their coats and red caps put them on as they ran. By this time a crowd of fishermen, sailors, and others, among whom were a few soldiers and turnkeys with lanterns, were pursuing the fugitives as fast as was possible in so dark a night. Bill suggested that they should turn into a dark corner, and dodge them. The suggestion was acted on at once. They dashed round the first corner they came to, and then, instead of continuing their flight, turned sharp to the left, and hid in a doorway. The pursuers came pouring round the corner, shouting wildly. When the thickest of the crowd was opposite their place of concealment, Bill and Ben rushed into the midst of them with a shout, imitating the tones of the Frenchmen as nearly as possible, but taking care to avoid the use of word, and thus they joined in the pursuit! Gradually they fell behind, as if out-run, and, when they found themselves in rear, turned about, and made off in the opposite direction, then, diverging to the left, they headed again towards the shore, ran down to the beach, and leaped into the first boat they came to.
It happened to be a very small one,--a sort of dinghy. Ben thought it was too small, and was about to leap out and search for a larger, when lights suddenly appeared, and the shouts of the pursuers--who had discovered the _ruse_--were heard as they approached.
"Shove off, Ben!"
"Hurrah, my hearties!" cried the seaman with a stentorian shout as he seized an oar.
Next moment the little boat was flying over the smooth water of the port, the silence of which was now broken by exclamations and cries from the shipping in reply to those from the shore; while the splashing of oars were heard in all directions as men leaped into boats and rowed about at random. Darkness favoured the Englishmen, but it also proved the cause of their being very nearly re-captured; for they were within two yards of the battery at the mouth of the harbour before they observed it, and swerved aside just in time to avoid a collision. But they had been seen, and a random discharge of musketry followed. This was succeeded by the sudden blaze of a blue light, which revealed the whole port swarming with boats and armed men,--a sight which acted so powerfully on the warlike spirits of the sailors that they started up simultaneously, flung their red caps into the air, and gave vent to a hearty British cheer, which Ben Bolter followed up as they resumed the oars, with "Old England for ever! farewell, Mounseers!"
The blue light went out and left everything in darkness thicker than ever, but not before a rapid though ineffective discharge of musketry had been made from the battery. Another blue light, however, showed that the fugitives were getting rapidly out to sea beyond the range of musketry, and that boats were leaving the port in chase. Before the light expired a cloud of smoke burst from the battery, and the roar of a heavy gun rushed over the sea. An instant later and the water was torn up by grape-shot all round the little boat; but not a ball touched them save one, which struck Bill Bowls on the left hand and cut off his thumb.
"I think there's a mast and sail in the bottom of the boat, and here comes a breeze," said Ben; "give me your oar, and try to hoist it, Bill."
Without mentioning his wound, our hero did as he was bid; and not until the boat was leaping over the ruffled sea did he condescend to bind up the wounded hand with his necktie. Soon they were beyond the range of blue lights and artillery.
"Have 'e any notion what course we're steerin'?" inquired Bill.
"None wotsomediver," answered Ben.
Soon after that, however, the sky cleared a little, and Bill got sight of part of the constellation of the Great Bear. Although the pole-star was not visible, he guessed pretty nearly its position, and thus ascertained that the breeze came from the south-west. Trimming the lug-sail accordingly, the tars turned the prow of the little craft to the northward, and steered for the shores of old England.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ About a year after this stirring incident, a remarkably noisy party was assembled at tea in the prim little parlour of Mrs Blyth's cottage in Fairway. Besides the meek old soul herself, there were present on that occasion our old friends Ben Bolter and Tom Riggles, the latter of whom flourished a wooden stump instead of a right leg, and wore the garb of a Greenwich pensioner. His change of circumstances did not appear to have decreased his love for tobacco. Ben had obtained leave of absence from his ship for a day or two, and, after having delighted the heart of his old mother by a visit, had called at the cottage to pay his respects to his old messmate, little thinking that he would find Tom Riggles there before him. Miss Bessy Blunt was also present; and it was plain, from the expression of her speaking countenance, that she had not forgiven Ben, but tolerated him under protest. Our hero and sweet Nelly Blyth were not of the party, however, because they happened just then to prefer a quiet chat in the summer-house in the back-garden. We will not presume to detail much of the conversation that passed between them. One or two of the concluding sentences must suffice.
"Yes, Bill," said Nelly, in reply to something that her companion had whispered in her ear, "you know well enough that I am glad to-morrow is our wedding-day. I have told you so already, fifty times at least."
"Only thrice, Nell, if so often," said Bill. "Well, that _was_ the luckiest shot the Frenchmen ever fired at me; for if I hadn't had my thumb took off I couldn't have left the sarvice, d'ye see; and that would have delayed my marriage with you, Nell. But now, as the old song says-- "`No more I'll roam Away from home, Across the stormy sea. I'll anchor here, My Nelly dear, And live for love and thee.'"
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{
"id": "23370"
}
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1
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THE FLEET.
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Manx Bradley was an admiral--"admiral of the fleet"--though it must be admitted that his personal appearance did not suggest a position so exalted.
With rough pilot coat and sou'-wester, scarred and tarred hands, easy, rolling gait, and boots from heel to hip, with inch-thick soles, like those of a dramatic buccaneer, he bore as little resemblance to the popular idea of a lace-coated, brass-buttoned, cock-hatted admiral as a sea-urchin bears to a cockle-shell. Nevertheless Manx was a real admiral--as real as Nelson, and much harder worked.
His fleet of nearly two hundred fishing-smacks lay bobbing about one fine autumn evening on the North Sea. The vessels cruised round each other, out and in, hither and thither, in all positions, now on this tack, now on that, bowsprits pointing north, south, east, and west, as if without purpose, or engaged in a nautical game of "touch." Nevertheless all eyes were bent earnestly on the admiral's vessel, for it was literally the "flagship," being distinguishable only by a small flag attached to its fore stay.
The fleet was hovering, awaiting orders from the admiral. A fine smart "fishing breeze" was blowing. The setting sun sparkled on the wave-crests; thin fleecy clouds streaked the sky; everything gave promise of a satisfactory night, and a good haul of fish in the morning.
With the quiet air of an amiable despot Manx nodded his venerable head. Up went the signal, and in a few minutes the fleet was reduced to order. Every smack swept round into position, and, bending over on the same tack, they all rushed like a shoal of startled minnows, away in the same direction--the direction signalled by the admiral. Another signal from our venerable despot sent between one and two hundred trawl-nets down to the bottom of the sea, nets that were strong enough to haul up tons of fish, and rocks, and wreckage, and rubbish, with fifty-feet beams, like young masts, with iron enough in bands and chains to sink them, and so arranged that the beams were raised a few feet off the ground, thus keeping the mouths of the great nets open, while cables many fathoms in length held the gears to their respective vessels.
So the North Sea Fishermen began the night's work--the _Nancy_, the _Coquette_, the _Rattler_, the _Truant_, the _Faith_, the _Playfellow_, the _Cherub_, and all the rest of them. Of course, although the breeze was fresh, they went along slowly, because of the ponderous tails that they had to draw.
Do you ask, reader, why all this order? why this despotic admiral, and all this unity of action? why not "every man for himself"? Let me reply by asking you to think for a moment.
Wind blowing in one direction, perhaps you are aware, does not necessarily imply vessels sailing in the same direction. With variation of courses possible, nearly two hundred tails out astern, and no unity of action, there would arise the certainty of varied and striking incident. The _Nancy_ would go crashing into the bows of the _Coquette_, the bowsprit of the _Rallier_ would stir up the cabin of the _Truant_, the tail of the _Faith_ would get entangled with that of the _Cherub_, and both might hook on to the tail of the _Playfellow_; in short, the awful result would be wreck and wretchedness on the North Sea, howling despair in the markets of Columbia and Billingsgate, and no fish for breakfast in the great metropolis. There is reason for most things--specially good reason for the laws that regulate the fisheries of the North Sea, the fleets of which are over twelve in number, and the floating population over twelve thousand men and boys.
For several hours this shoal of vessels, with full sails and twinkling lights, like a moving city on the deep, continued to tug and plunge along over the "banks" of the German ocean, to the satisfaction of the fishermen, and the surprise no doubt of the fish. About midnight the admiral again signalled, by rocket and flares, "Haul up," and immediately, with capstan, bar, and steam, the obedient crews began to coil in their tails.
It is not our intention to trouble the reader with a minute account of this process or the grand result, but, turning to a particular smack, we solicit attention to that. She is much like the others in size and rig. Her name is the _Lively Poll_. Stephen Lockley is her skipper, as fine a young fisherman as one could wish to see--tall, handsome, free, hearty, and powerful. But indeed all deep-sea fishermen possess the last quality. They would be useless if not physically strong. Many a Samson and Hercules is to be found in the North Sea fleets. "No better nursery or training-school in time of war," they say. That may be true, but it is pleasanter to think of them as a training-school for times of peace.
The night was very dark. Black clouds overspread the sky, so that no light save the dim rays of a lantern cheered the men as they went tramp, tramp, round the capstan, slowly coiling in the trawl-warp. Sheets of spray sometimes burst over the side and drenched them, but they cared nothing for that, being pretty well protected by oilskins, sou'-westers, and sea-boots. Straining and striving, sometimes gaining an inch or two, sometimes a yard or so, while the smack plunged and kicked, the contest seemed like a doubtful one between _vis inertiae_ and the human will. Two hours and a half it lasted, until the great trawl-beam came to the surface, and was got up on the vessel's side, after which these indomitable men proceeded to claw up the huge net with their fingers, straining and heaving with might and main.
"Yo, ho!" cried the skipper, "heave her in, boys!"
"Hoy!" growled Peter Jay, the mate, giving a tug that should have torn the net to pieces--but didn't!
"Looks like as if we'd got hold of a lump o' wreck," gasped Bob Lumsden, the smack's boy, who was also the smack's cook.
"No, no, Lumpy," remarked David Duffy, who was no respecter of names or persons, "it ain't a wreck, it's a mermaid. I've bin told they weigh over six ton when young. Look out when she comes aboard--she'll bite."
"I do believe it's old Neptune himself," said Jim Freeman, another of the "hands." "There's his head; an' something like his pitchfork."
"It does feel heavier than I ever knowed it afore," remarked Fred Martin.
"That's all along of your bein' ill, Fred," said the mate.
"It may be so," returned Martin, "for I do feel queer, an' a'most as weak as a baby. Come heave away!"
It was indeed a huge mass of wreck entangled with sea-weed which had rendered the net so heavy on that occasion, but there was also a satisfactory mass of fish in the "cod-end," or bag, at the extremity of the net, for, when, by the aid of the winch, this cod-end was finally got inboard, and the cord fastening the bottom of it was untied, fish of all kinds gushed over the wet decks in a living cataract.
There were a few expressions of satisfaction from the men, but not much conversation, for heavy work had still to be done--done, too, in the dark. Turbot, sole, cod, skate, and all the other treasures of the deep, had to be then and there gutted, cleaned, and packed in square boxes called "trunks," so as to be ready for the steam-carrier next morning. The net also had to be cleared and let down for another catch before daybreak.
Now it is just possible that it may never have occurred to the reader to consider how difficult, not to say dangerous, must be the operation of gutting, cleaning, and packing fish on a dark night with a smack dancing a North Sea hornpipe under one's feet. Among the dangers are two which merit notice. The one is the fisherman's liability, while working among the "ruck," to run a sharp fish-bone into his hand, the other to gash himself with his knife while attempting to operate on the tail of a skate. Either accident may be slight or it may be severe.
A sudden exclamation from one of the men while employed in this cleaning and packing work told that something had happened.
"There goes Martin," growled Joe Stubley; "you can always tell when it's him, 'cause he don't curse an' swear."
Stubley--or Stubby, as his mates called him--did not intend this for a compliment by any means, though it may sound like one. Being an irreligious as well as a stupid man, he held that all who professed religion were hypocritical and silly. Manliness, in poor Jo's mind, consisted of swagger, quiet insolence, cool cursing, and general godlessness. With the exception of Fred Martin, the rest of the crew of the _Lively Poll_ resembled him in his irreligion, but they were very different in character,--Lockley, the skipper being genial; Peter Jay, the mate, very appreciative of humour, though quiet and sedate; Duffy, jovial and funny; Freeman, kindly, though reckless; and Bob, the boy-cook, easy-going both as to mind and morals. They all liked Martin, however, in spite of his religion, for he practised much and preached little.
"What's wrong?" asked Lockley, who stood at the tiller looking out for lights ahead.
"Only a bone into my left hand," replied Martin, going on with his somewhat dirty labours.
"Well that it's no worse, boy," observed Freeman, "for we've got no medicine-chest to fly to like that lucky Short-Blue fleet."
"That's true, Jim," responded Martin; "I wish we had a Gospel smack with our fleet, for our souls need repairing as well as our bodies."
"There you go," growled Stubley, flinging down a just finished fish with a flap of indignation. "A feller can't mention the name o' them mission craft without rousin' you up to some o' your hypocritical chaff. For my part, if it wasn't for the medicine-chest and the mittens, I think we'd be better by a long way without Gospel ships, as ye call 'em. Why, what good 'ave they done the Short-Blues? I'm sure _we_ doesn't want churches, or prayin', or psalm-singin' or book--" "Speak for yourself, Jo," interrupted Puffy.
"Although your head may be as thick as a three-inch plank, through which nothin' a'most can pass either from books or anything else, you mustn't think we've bin all built on the same lines. I likes a good book myself, an', though I don't care about prayin' or psalm-singin', seein' I don't understand 'em, I say `good luck' to the mission smacks, if it was for nothin' else than the books, an' doctor stuff, an' mitts what the shoregoin' ladies--bless their hearts! --is so fond o' sendin' to us."
"Ay, an the cheap baccy, too, that they say they're a-goin' to send to us," added Freeman.
"P'r'aps they'll send us cheap grog at last," said Puffy, with a laugh.
"They'll hardly do that," remarked Martin; "for it's to try an' keep us from goin' for our baccy to the _copers_ that they've started this new plan."
"I wish 'em success," said Lockley, in a serious tone. And there was good ground for that wish, for our genial and handsome skipper was peculiarly weak on the point of strong drink, that being to him a powerful, almost irresistible, temptation.
When the fish-cleaning and packing were completed, the men went below to snatch a few hours' repose. Wet, weary, and sleepy, but with a large stock of reserve strength in them, they retired to the little cabin, in which they could scarcely stand up without bumping their heads, and could hardly turn round without hitting their elbows on something or other. Kicking off their long boots, and throwing aside oilskin coats and sou'-westers, they tumbled into their narrow "bunks" and fell asleep almost without winking.
There was one among them, however, who did not sleep long that night. Fred Martin was soon awakened by the pain of his wound, which had begun to inflame, and by a feeling of giddiness and intense uneasiness with which he had been troubled for several days past.
Turning out at last, he sat down in front of the little iron stove that served to cook food as well as to warm the cabin, and, gazing into the embers, began to meditate on his strangely uncomfortable sensations.
"Hallo, Martin, anything wrong?" asked the mate, who descended at that moment to relight his pipe.
"I believe there is, mate. I never felt like this afore. I've fowt against it till I can hardly stand. I feel as if I was goin' to knock under altogether. This hand, too, seems gittin' bad. I do think my blood must be poisoned, or somethin' o' that sort. You know I don't easily give in, but when a feller feels as if little red-hot wires was twistin' about inside of him, an' sees things goin' round as if he was drunk, why--" "Why, it's time to think of goin' home," interrupted Jay, with a laugh. "But let's have a look at you, Fred. Well, there does seem to be some o' your riggin' slack. Have you ever had the measles?"
"Not as I knows of."
"Looks like it," said the mate, lighting his pipe. "P'r'aps it'll be as well to send you into dock to refit. You'd better turn in again, anyhow, for a snooze would do you good."
Fred Martin acted on this advice, while Jay returned to the deck; but it was evident that the snooze was not to be had, for he continued to turn and toss uneasily, and to wonder what was wrong with him, as strong healthy men are rather apt to do when suddenly seized with sickness.
At grey dawn the admiral signalled again. The order was to haul up the nets, which had been scraping the bottom of the sea since midnight, and the whole fleet set to work without delay.
Martin turned out with the rest, and tried to defy sickness for a time, but it would not do. The strong man was obliged to succumb to a stronger than he--not, however, until he had assisted as best as he could in hauling up the trawl.
This second haul of the gear of the _Lively Poll_ illustrated one of those mishaps, to which all deep-sea trawlers are liable, and which are of frequent occurrence. A piece of wreck or a lost anchor, or something, had caught the net, and torn it badly, so that when it reached the surface all the fish had escaped.
"A night's work for nothing!" exclaimed Stephen Lockley, with an oath. " _Might_ have been worse," suggested Martin.
By that time it was broad daylight, and as they had no fish to pack, the crew busied themselves in removing the torn net from the beam, and fitting on a new one. At the same time the crews of the other smacks secured their various and varied hauls, cleaned, packed, and got ready for delivery.
The smoke of the steam-carrier was seen on the horizon early in the forenoon, and all the vessels of the fleet made for her, as chickens make for their mother in times of danger.
We may not pause here to describe the picturesque confusion that ensued--the arriving, congregating, tacking, crossing, and re-crossing of smacks; the launching of little boats, and loading them with "trunks;" the concentration of these round the steamer like minnows round a whale; the shipping of the cargo, and the tremendous hurry and energy displayed in the desire to do it quickly, and get the fish fresh to market. Suffice it to say that in less than four hours the steamer was loaded, and Fred Martin, fever-stricken and with a highly inflamed hand and arm, started on a thirty-six hours' voyage to London.
Then the fleet sheered off and fell into order, the admiral issued his instructions, and away they all went again to continue the hard, unvarying round of hauling and toiling and moiling, in heat and cold, wet and dry, with nothing to lighten the life or cheer the heart save a game at "crib" or "all fives," or a visit to the _coper_, that terrible curse of the North Sea.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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2
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ACCIDENTS AFLOAT AND INCIDENTS ASHORE.
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Now, although it is an undoubted fact that the skippers of the North Sea trawling smacks are first-rate seamen, it is an equally certain fact that strong drink can render them unfit for duty. One of the skippers was, if we may say so, unmanned by drink at the time the fleet sheered off from the steam-carrier, as stated in the last chapter. He was named Georgie Fox--better known in the fleet as Groggy Fox.
Unfortunately for himself as well as others, Skipper Fox had paid a visit to one of the _copers_ the day before for the purpose of laying in a stock of tobacco, which was sold by the skipper of the floating grog-shop at 1 shilling 6 pence a pound. Of course Fox had been treated to a glass of fiery spirits, and had thereafter been induced to purchase a quantity of the same. He had continued to tipple until night, when he retired in a fuddled state to rest. On rising he tippled again, and went on tippling till his fish were put on board the steamer. Then he took the helm of his vessel, and stood with legs very wide apart, an owlish gaze in his eyes, and a look of amazing solemnity on his visage.
When a fleet sheers off from a steam-carrier after delivery of cargo, the sea around is usually very much crowded with vessels, and as these cross and re-cross or run past or alongside of each other before finally settling into the appointed course, there is a good deal of hearty recognition--shouting, questioning, tossing up of arms, and expressions of goodwill--among friends. Several men hailed and saluted Fox as his smack, the _Cormorant_, went by, but he took no notice except with an idiotic wink of both eyes.
"He's bin to the _coper_," remarked Puffy, as the _Cormorant_ crossed the bow of the _Lively Poll_. "I say, Lumpy, come here," he added, as Bob Lumsden came on deck. "Have 'ee got any o' that coffee left?"
"No, not a drop. I gave the last o't to Fred Martin just as he was goin' away."
"Poor Fred!" said Puffy. "He's in for suthin' stiff, I doubt, measles or mulligrumps, if not wuss."
"A great pity," remarked Peter Jay, who stood at the helm, "that Martin couldn't hold out a week longer when our turn comes round to run for Yarmouth."
"It's well we got him shipped off to-day," said Lockley. "That hand of his would have made him useless before another day was out. It's a long time for a man in his state to be without help, that run up to Lun'on. Port your helm a bit, Jay. Is it the _Cormorant_ that's yawin' about there in that fashion?"
"Ay, it's the _Cormorant_," replied Jay. "I seed her just now a'most run foul o' the _Butterfly_."
"She'll be foul of us. Hi! Look out!" cried Lockley, becoming excited, as he saw the _Cormorant_ change her course suddenly, without apparent reason, and bear straight down upon his vessel.
There was, indeed, no reason for the strange movements of the smack in question, except that there was at the helm a man who had rendered his reason incapable of action. With dull, fishy eyes, that stared idiotically at nothing, his hand on the tiller, and his mind asleep, Georgie Fox stood on the deck of the _Cormorant_ steering.
"Starboard a bit, Jay," said Lockley, with an anxious look, "she'll barely clear us."
As he spoke, Fox moved his helm slightly. It changed the course of his vessel only a little, but that little sufficed to send the cutwater of the _Cormorant_ straight into the port bows of the _Lively Poll_ with a tremendous crash, for a smart breeze was blowing at the time. The bulwarks were cut down to the deck, and, as the _Cormorant_ recoiled and again surged ahead, the bowsprit was carried away, and part of the topmast brought down.
Deep and fierce was the growl that burst from Lockley's lips at this disaster, but that did not mend matters. The result was that the _Lively Poll_ had to quit the fleet a week before her time of eight weeks afloat was up, and run to Yarmouth for repairs. Next day, however, it fell calm, and several days elapsed before she finally made her port.
Meanwhile Fred Martin reached London, with his feverish complaint greatly aggravated, and his undressed wound much worse. In London he was detained some hours by his employers, and then sent on to Yarmouth, which he reached late in the afternoon, and ultimately in a state of great suffering and exhaustion, made his way to Gorleston, where his mother lived.
With his mind in a species of wild whirl, and acute pains darting through his wounded hand and arm, he wended his way slowly along the road that led to his mother's house. Perhaps we should style it her attic, for she could claim only part of the house in which she dwelt. From a quaint gable window of this abode she had a view of the sea over the houses in front.
Part of Fred's route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, "Fred!"
The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, "Isa!" as he drew her towards him.
"Fred--not here. Behave!" said Isa, holding up a warning finger.
Fred consented to behave--with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.
"But what is the matter!" asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth's arm.
Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa's hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover's arm.
"Nothing serious," replied the youth lightly; "only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an' besides I'm out o' sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I've been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won't need either physic or doctor now."
"No? why not?" asked the girl, with a simple look.
"Cause the sight o' your sweet face does away with the need of either."
"Don't talk nonsense, Fred."
"If that's nonsense," returned the fisherman, "you'll never hear me talk sense again as long as I live. But how about mother, Isa? Is she well!"
"Quite well. I have just left her puzzling herself over a letter from abroad that's so ill-written that it would bother a schoolmaster to read it. I tried to read it, but couldn't. You're a good scholar, Fred, so you have come just in time to help her. But won't she be surprised to see you!"
Thus conversing, and walking rather slowly, the pair made their way to the attic of Mrs Martin, where the unexpected sight of her son threw the patient woman into a great flutter of surprise and pleasure. We use the word "patient" advisedly, for Mrs Martin was one of those wholesome-minded creatures who, having to battle vigorously for the bare necessaries of life in the face of many adverse circumstances, carry on the war with a degree of hearty, sweet-tempered resolution which might put to shame many who are better off in every way. Mrs Martin was a widow and a washerwoman, and had a ne'er-do-well brother, a fisherman, who frequently "sponged" upon her. She also had a mother to support and attend upon, as well as a "bad leg" to endure. True, the attendance on her mother was to the good woman a source of great joy. It constituted one of the few sunbeams of her existence, but it was not on that account the less costly, for the old woman could do nothing whatever to increase the income of the widow's household--she could not, indeed, move a step without assistance. Her sole occupation was to sit in the attic window and gaze over the sands upon the sea, smiling hopefully, yet with a touch of sadness in the smile; mouthing her toothless gums, and muttering now and then as if to herself, "He'll come soon now." Her usual attitude was that of one who listens expectantly.
Thirty years before Granny Martin had stood at the same attic window, an elderly woman even then, looking out upon the raging sea, and muttering anxiously the same words, "He'll come soon now." But her husband never came. He was lost at sea. As years flew by, and time as well as grief weakened her mind, the old woman seemed to forget the flight of time, and spent the greater part of every day in the attic window, evidently on the look-out for some one who was to come "soon." When at last she was unable to walk alone, and had to be half carried to her seat in the attic window by her strong and loving daughter, the sadness seemed to pass away, and her cheery spirit revived under the impression, apparently, that the coming could not be delayed much longer. To every one Granny was condescendingly kind, especially to her grandchild Fred, of whom she was very fond.
Only at intervals was the old woman's cheerfulness disturbed, and that was during the occasional visits of her ne'er-do-well son Dick, for he was generally drunk or "half-seas-over" when he came. Granny never mentioned his name when he was absent, and for a long time Mrs Martin supposed that she tried to forget him, but her opinion changed on this point one night when she overheard her mother praying with intense earnestness and in affectionate terms that her dear Dick might yet be saved. Still, however much or frequently Granny's thoughts might at any time be distracted from their main channel, they invariably returned thereto with the cheerful assurance that "_he_ would soon come now."
"You're ill, my boy," said Mrs Martin, after the first greetings were over.
"Right you are, mother," said the worn-out man, sitting down with a weary sigh. "I've done my best to fight it down, but it won't do."
"You must have the doctor, Fred."
"I've had the doctor already, mother. I parted with Isa Wentworth at the bottom o' the stair, an' she will do me more good than dozens o' doctors or gallons o' physic."
But Fred was wrong.
Not long afterwards the _Lively Poll_ arrived in port, and Stephen Lockley hastened to announce his arrival to his wife.
Now it was the experience of Martha Lockley that if, on his regular return to land for his eight days' holiday, after his eight weeks' spell afloat, her handsome and genial husband went straight home, she was wont to have a happy meeting; but if by any chance Stephen first paid a visit to the Blue Boar public-house, she was pretty sure to have a miserable meeting, and a more or less wretched time of it thereafter. A conversation that Stephen had recently had with Fred Martin having made an impression on him--deeper than he chose to admit even to himself--he had made up his mind to go straight home this time.
"I'll be down by daybreak to see about them repairs," he said to Peter Jay, as they left the _Lively Poll_ together, "and I'll go round by your old friend, Widow Mooney's, and tell her to expect you some time to-night."
Now Peter Jay was a single man, and lodged with Widow Mooney when on shore. It was not, however, pure consideration for his mate or the widow that influenced Lockley, but his love for the widow's little invalid child, Eve, for whose benefit that North Sea skipper had, in the kindness of his heart, made a special collection of deep-sea shells, with some shreds of bright bunting.
Little Eve Mooney, thin, wasted, and sad, sat propped up with dirty pillows, in a dirty bed, in a dirtier room, close to a broken and paper-patched window that opened upon a coal-yard with a prospect rubbish-heap beyond.
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad it's you!" cried Eve, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, as the fisherman entered.
"Yes, Eve, my pretty. I'm back sooner than I expected--and look what I've brought you. I haven't forgot you."
Joy beamed in the lustrous eyes and on every feature of the thin face as the sick child surveyed the treasures of the deep that Lockley spread on her ragged counterpane.
"How good--how kind of you, Stephen!" exclaimed Eve.
"Kind!" repeated the skipper; "nothing of the sort, Eve. To please you pleases me, so it's only selfishness. But where's your mother?"
"Drunk," said the child simply, and without the most remote intention of injuring her parent's character. Indeed, that was past injury. "She's in there."
The child pointed to a closet, in which Stephen found on the floor a heap of unwomanly rags. He was unable to arouse the poor creature, who slumbered heavily beneath them. Eve said she had been there for many hours.
"She forgot to give me my breakfast before she went in, and I'm too weak to rise and get it for myself," whimpered Eve, "and I'm _so_ hungry! And I got such a fright, too, for a man came in this morning about daylight and broke open the chest where mother keeps her money and took something away. I suppose he thought I was asleep, for I was too frightened to move, but I could see him all the time. Please will you hand me the loaf before you go? It's in that cupboard."
We need scarcely add that Lockley did all that the sick child asked him to do--and more. Then, after watching her till the meal was finished, he rose.
"I'll go now, my pretty," he said, "and don't you be afeared. I'll soon send some one to look after you. Good-bye."
Stephen Lockley was unusually thoughtful as he left Widow Mooney's hut that day, and he took particular care to give the Blue Boar a wide berth on his way home.
|
{
"id": "23377"
}
|
3
|
THE SKIPPER ASHORE.
|
Right glad was Mrs Lockley to find that her husband had passed the Blue Boar without going in on his way home, and although she did not say so, she could not feel sorry for the accident to the _Lively Poll_, which had sent him ashore a week before his proper time.
Martha Lockley was a pretty young woman, and the proud mother of a magnificent baby, which was bordering on that age when a child begins to have some sort of regard for its own father, and to claim much of his attention.
"Matty," said Stephen to his wife, as he jolted his daughter into a state of wild delight on his knee, "Tottie is becoming very like you. She's got the same pretty little turned-up nose, an' the same huge grey eyes with the wicked twinkle in 'em about the corners."
"Don't talk nonsense, Stephen, but tell me about this robbery."
"I know nothin' about it more than I've told ye, Matty. Eve didn't know the man, and her description of him is confused--she was frightened, poor thing! But I promised to send some one to look after her at once, for her drunken mother isn't fit to take care of herself, let alone the sick child. Who can I send, think 'ee?"
Mrs Lockley pursed her little mouth, knitted her brows, and gazed thoughtfully at the baby, who, taking the look as personal, made a face at her. Finally she suggested Isabella Wentworth.
"And where is she to be found?" asked the skipper.
"At the Martins', no doubt," replied Mrs Lockley, with a meaning look. "She's been there pretty much ever since poor Fred Martin came home, looking after old granny, for Mrs Martin's time is taken up wi' nursing her son. They say he's pretty bad."
"Then I'll go an' see about it at once," said Stephen, rising, and setting Tottie down.
He found Isa quite willing to go to Eve, though Mrs Mooney had stormed at her and shut the door in her face on the occasion of her last visit.
"But you mustn't try to see Fred," she added. "The doctor says he must be kep' quiet and see no one."
"All right," returned the skipper; "I'll wait till he's out o' quarantine. Good day; I'll go and tell Eve that you're coming."
On his way to Mrs Mooney's hut Stephen Lockley had again to pass the Blue Boar. This time he did not give it "a wide berth." There were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. Trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. When close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by Skipper Ned Bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. Bryce was skipper of the _Fairy_, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the Ironclad.
"Hullo! Stephen. _You_ here?"
"Ay, a week before my time, Ned. That lubber Groggy Fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an' some o' my top-hamper."
"Come along--have a glass, an' let's hear all about it," said Bryce, seizing his friend's arm; but Lockley held back.
"No, Ned," he said; "I'm on another tack just now."
"What! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!"
"No," returned Lockley, with a laugh. "I've no need to do that."
"You haven't lost faith in your own power o' self-denial surely?"
"No, nor that either, but--but--" "Come now, none o' your `buts.' Come along; my mate Dick Martin is in here, an' he's the best o' company."
"Dick Martin in there!" repeated Lockley, on whom a sudden thought flashed. "Is he one o' your hands?"
"In course he is. Left the Grimsby fleet a-purpose to j'ine me. Rather surly he is at times, no doubt, but a good fellow at bottom, and great company. You should hear him sing. Come."
"Oh, I know him well enough by hearsay, but never met him yet."
Whether it was the urgency of his friend, or a desire to meet with Dick Martin, that shook our skipper's wavering resolution we cannot tell, but he went into the Blue Boar, and took a glass for good-fellowship. Being a man of strong passions and excitable nerves, this glass produced in him a desire for a second, and that for a third, until he forgot his intended visit to Eve, his promises to his wife, and his stern resolves not to submit any longer to the tyranny of drink. Still, the memory of Mrs Mooney's conduct, and of the advice of his friend Fred Martin, had the effect of restraining him to some extent, so that he was only what his comrades would have called a little screwed when they had become rather drunk.
There are many stages of drunkenness. One of them is the confidential stage. When Dick Martin had reached this stage, he turned with a superhumanly solemn countenance to Bryce and winked.
"If--if you th-think," said Bryce thickly, "th-that winkin' suits you, you're mistaken."
"Look 'ere," said Dick, drawing a letter from his pocket with a maudlin leer, and holding it up before his comrade, who frowned at it, and then shook his head--as well he might, for, besides being very illegibly written, the letter was presented to him upside down.
After holding it before him in silence long enough to impress him with the importance of the document, Dick Martin explained that it was a letter which he had stolen from his sister's house, because it contained "something to his advantage."
"See here," he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: "`If Mr Frederick Martin will c-call at this office any day next week between 10 an' 12, h-he will 'ear suthin' to his ad-advantage. Bounce and Brag, s'licitors.' There!"
"But _you_ ain't Fred Martin," said Bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.
"Right you are," said Martin; "but I'm his uncle. Same name c-'cause his mother m-married her c-cousin; and there ain't much difference 'tween Dick and Fred--four letters, both of 'em--so if I goes wi' the letter, an' says, `I'm Fred Martin,' w'y, they'll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me--d'ee see?"
"No, I don't see," returned Bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when Bryce lost his eyesight.
"When I first saw _you_, and thought you worth your salt," shouted Bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table.
Both men were passionate. They sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. In doing so they let the letter fall. It fluttered to the ground, and Lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket.
"You'd better look after them," said Lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out.
In a few minutes he stood in Widow Mooney's hut, and found Isa Wentworth already there.
"I'm glad you sent me here," said the girl, "for Mrs Mooney has gone out--" She stopped and looked earnestly in Lockley's face. "You've been to the Blue Boar," she said in a serious tone.
"Yes, lass, I have," admitted the skipper, but without a touch of resentment. "I did not mean to go, but it's as well that I did, for I've rescued a letter from Dick Martin which seems to be of some importance, an' he says he stole it from his sister's house."
He handed the letter to the girl, who at once recognised it as the epistle over which she and Mrs Martin had puzzled so much, and which had finally been deciphered for them by Dick Martin.
"He must have made up his mind to pretend that he is Fred," said Isa, "and so get anything that was intended for him."
"You're a sharp girl, Isa; you've hit the nail fair on the head, for I heard him in his drunken swagger boast of his intention to do that very thing. Now, will you take in hand, lass, to give the letter back to Mrs Martin, and explain how you came by it?"
Of course Isa agreed to do so, and Lockley, turning to Eve, said he would tell her a story before going home.
The handsome young skipper was in the habit of entertaining the sick child with marvellous tales of the sea during his frequent visits, for he was exceedingly fond of her, and never failed to call during his periodical returns to land. His love was well bestowed, for poor Eve, besides being of an affectionate nature, was an extremely imaginative child, and delighted in everything marvellous or romantic. On this occasion, however, he was interrupted at the commencement of his tale by the entrance of his own ship's cook, the boy Bob Lumsden, _alias_ Lumpy.
"Hullo, Lumpy, what brings you here?" asked the skipper.
But the boy made no answer. He was evidently taken aback at the unexpected sight of the sick child, and the skipper had to repeat his question in a sterner tone. Even then Lumpy did not look at his commander, but, addressing the child, said-- "Beg parding, miss; I wouldn't have come in if I'd knowed you was in bed, but--" "Oh, never mind," interrupted Eve, with a little smile, on seeing that he hesitated; "my friends never see me except in bed. Indeed I live in bed; but you must not think I'm lazy. It's only that my back's bad. Come in and sit down."
"Well, boy," demanded the skipper again, "were you sent here to find _me_?"
"Yes, sir," said Lumpy, with his eyes still fixed on the earnest little face of Eve. "Mister Jay sent me to say he wants to speak to you about the heel o' the noo bowsprit."
"Tell him I'll be aboard in half an hour."
"I didn't know before," said Eve, "that bowsprits have heels."
At this Lumpy opened his large mouth, nearly shut his small eyes, and was on the point of giving vent to a rousing laugh, when his commander half rose and seized hold of a wooden stool. The boy shut his mouth instantly, and fled into the street, where he let go the laugh which had been thus suddenly checked.
"Well, she _is_ a rum 'un!" he said to himself, as he rolled in a nautical fashion down to the wharf where the _Lively Poll_ was undergoing repairs.
"I think he's a funny boy, that," said Eve, as the skipper stooped to kiss her.
"Yes, he _is_ a funny dog. Good-bye, my pretty one."
"Stay," said Eve solemnly, as she laid her delicate little hand on the huge brown fist of the fisherman; "you've often told me stories, Stephen; I want to tell one to you to-night. You need not sit down; it's a very, very short one."
But the skipper did sit down, and listened with a look of interest and expectation as the child began-- "There was once a great, strong, brave man, who was very kind to everybody, most of all to little children. One day he was walking near a river, when a great, fearful, ugly beast, came out of the wood, and seized the man with its terrible teeth. It was far stronger than the dear, good man, and it threw him down, and held him down, till--till it killed him."
She stopped, and tears filled her soft eyes at the scene she had conjured up.
"Do you know," she asked in a deeper tone, "what sort of awful beast it was?"
"No; what was it?"
"A Blue Boar," said the child, pressing the strong hand which she detained.
Lockley's eyes fell for a moment before Eve's earnest gaze, and a flush deepened the colour of his bronzed countenance. Then he sprang suddenly up and kissed Eve's forehead.
"Thank you, my pretty one, for your story, but it an't just correct, for the man is not quite killed _yet_ and, please God, he'll escape."
As he spoke the door of the hut received a severe blow, as if some heavy body had fallen against it. When Isa opened it, a dirty bundle of rags and humanity rolled upon the floor. It was Eve's mother!
Lifting her up in his strong arms, Lockley carried her into the closet which opened off the outer room, and laid her tenderly on a mattress which lay on the floor. Then, without a word, he left the hut and went home.
It is scarcely necessary to add that he took the longer road on that occasion, and gave a very wide berth indeed to the Blue Boar.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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4
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HARDSHIPS ON THE SEA.
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Fly with us now, good reader, once more out among the breeze-ruffled billows of the North Sea.
It was blowing a fine, fresh, frosty fishing breeze from the nor'-west on a certain afternoon in December. The Admiral--Manx Bradley--was guiding his fleet over that part of the German Ocean which is described on the deep-sea fisherman's chart as the Swarte, or Black Bank. The trawls were down, and the men were taking it easy--at least, as easy as was compatible with slush-covered decks, a bitter blast, and a rolling sea. If we had the power of extending and intensifying your vision, reader, so as to enable you to take the whole fleet in at one stupendous glance, and penetrate planks as if they were plate glass, we might, perhaps, convince you that in this multitude of deep-sea homes there was carried on that night a wonderful amount of vigorous action, good and bad--largely, if not chiefly bad--under very peculiar circumstances, and that there was room for improvement everywhere.
Strong and bulky and wiry men were gambling and drinking, and singing and swearing; story-telling and fighting, and skylarking and sleeping. The last may be classed appropriately under the head of action, if we take into account the sonorous doings of throats and noses. As if to render the round of human procedure complete, there was at least one man--perhaps more--praying.
Yes, Manx Bradley, the admiral, was praying. And his prayer was remarkably brief, as well as earnest. Its request was that God would send help to the souls of the men whose home was the North Sea. For upwards of thirty years Manx and a few like-minded men had persistently put up that petition. During the last few years of that time they had mingled thanksgiving with the prayer, for a gracious answer was being given. God had put it into the heart of the present Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen to inaugurate a system of evangelisation among the heretofore neglected thousands of men and boys who toil upon the North Sea from January to December. Mission or Gospel smacks were purchased, manned by Christian skippers and crews, and sent out to the various fleets, to fish with them during the week, and supply them with medicine for body and soul, with lending libraries of wholesome Christian literature, and with other elevating influences, not least among which was a floating church or meeting-house on Sundays.
But up to the time we write of, Manx Bradley had only been able to rejoice in the blessing as sent to others. It had not yet reached his own fleet, the twelve or thirteen hundred men and boys of which were still left in their original condition of semi-savagery, and exposure to the baleful influences of that pest of the North Sea--the _coper_.
"You see, Jacob Jones," said the admiral to the only one of his "hands" who sympathised with him in regard to religion, "if it warn't for the baccy, them accursed _copers_ wouldn't be able to keep sich a hold of us. Why, bless you, there's many a young feller in this fleet as don't want no grog--especially the vile, fiery stuff the _copers_ sell 'em; but when the Dutchmen offers the baccy so cheap as 1 shilling 6 pence a pound, the boys are only too glad to go aboard and git it. Then the Dutchmen, being uncommon sly dogs, gives 'em a glass o' their vile brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an' that flies to their heads, an' makes 'em want more--d'ee see? An' so they go on till many of 'em becomes regular topers--that's where it is, Jacob."
"Why don't the mission smacks sell baccy too?" asked Jacob, stamping his feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the tiller for the same purpose.
"You're a knowing fellow," returned the admiral, with a short laugh; "why, that's just what they've bin considerin' about at the Head Office--leastwise, so I'm told; an' if they manage to supply the fleets wi' baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen do, they'll soon knock the _copers_ off the North Sea altogether. But the worst of it is that _we_ won't git no benefit o' that move till a mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an' to the half-dozen other fleets that have got none."
At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the fleet, to his meditations.
One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank not far from the admiral was the _Lively Poll_--repaired, and rendered as fit for service as ever. Not far from her sailed the _Cherub_, and the _Cormorant_, and that inappropriately named _Fairy_, the "ironclad."
In the little box of the _Lively Poll_--which out of courtesy we shall style the cabin--Jim Freeman and David Duffy were playing cards, and Stephen Lockley was smoking. Joe Stubby was drinking, smoking, and grumbling at the weather; Hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of Fred Martin, was looking on. The rest were on deck.
"What's the use o' grumblin', Stub?" said Hawkson, lifting a live coal with his fingers to light his pipe.
"Don't `Stub' me," said Stubley in an angry tone.
"Would you rather like me to stab you?" asked Hawkson, with a good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe.
"I'd rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw."
"Ah--so's you might have all the jawin' to yourself?" retorted Hawkson.
Whatever reply Joe Stubley meant to make was interrupted by Jim Freeman exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more. He flung down the cards recklessly, and David Duffy gathered them up, with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor.
"Come, let's have a yarn," cried Freeman, filling his pipe, with the intention of soothing his vanquished spirit.
"Who'll spin it?" asked Duffy, sitting down, and preparing to add to the fumes of the place. "Come, Stub, you tape it off; it'll be better occupation than growlin' at the poor weather, what's never done you no harm yet though there's no sayin' what it may do if you go on as you've bin doin', growlin' an' aggravatin' it."
"I never spin yarns," said Stubley.
"But you tell stories sometimes, don't you?" asked Hawkson.
"No, never."
"Oh! that's a story anyhow," cried Freeman.
"Come, I'll spin ye one," said the skipper, in that hearty tone which had an irresistible tendency to put hearers in good humour, and sometimes even raised the growling spirit of Joe Stubley into something like amiability.
"What sort o' yarn d'ee want, boys?" he asked, stirring the fire in the small stove that warmed the little cabin; "shall it be comical or sentimental?"
"Let's have a true ghost story," cried Puffy.
"No, no," said Freeman, "a hanecdote--that's what I'm fondest of-- suthin' short an' sweet, as the little boy said to the stick o' liquorice."
"Tell us," said Stubley, "how it was you come to be saved the night the _Saucy Jane_ went down."
"Ah! lads," said Lockley, with a look and a tone of gravity, "there's no fun in that story. It was too terrible and only by a miracle, or rather--as poor Fred Martin said at the time--by God's mercy, I was saved."
"Was Fred there at the time!" asked Duffy.
"Ay, an' very near lost he was too. I thought he would never get over it."
"Poor chap!" said Freeman; "he don't seem to be likely to git over this arm. It's been a long time bad now."
"Oh, he'll get over that," returned Lockley; "in fact, it's a'most quite well now, I'm told, an' he's pretty strong again--though the fever did pull him down a bit. It's not that, it's money, that's keepin' him from goin' afloat again."
"How's that?" asked Puffy.
"This is how it was. He got a letter which axed him to call on a lawyer in Lun'on, who told him an old friend of his father had made a lot o' tin out in Austeralia, an' he died, an' left some hundreds o' pounds--I don't know how many--to his mother."
"Humph! that's just like him, the hypercrit," growled Joe Stubley; "no sooner comes a breeze o' good luck than off he goes, too big and mighty for his old business. He was always preachin' that money was the root of all evil, an' now he's found it out for a fact."
"No, Fred never said that `money was the root of all evil,' you thick-head," returned Duffy; "he said it was the _love_ of money. Put that in your pipe and smoke it--or rather, in your glass an' drink it, for that's the way to get it clearer in your fuddled brain."
"Hold on, boys; you're forgettin' my yarn," interposed Lockley at this point, for he saw that Stubley was beginning to lose temper. "Well, you must know it was about six years ago--I was little more than a big lad at the time, on board the _Saucy Jane_, Black Thomson bein' the skipper. You've heard o' Black Thomson, that used to be so cruel to the boys when he was in liquor, which was pretty nigh always, for it would be hard to say when he wasn't in liquor? He tried it on wi' me when I first went aboard, but I was too--well, well, poor fellow, I'll say nothin' against him, for he's gone now."
"Fred Martin was there at the time, an' it was wonderful what a hold Fred had over that old sinner. None of us could understand it, for Fred never tried to curry favour with him, an' once or twice I heard him when he thought nobody was near, givin' advice to Black Thomson about drink, in his quiet earnest way, that made me expect to see the skipper knock him down. But he didn't. He took it well--only he didn't take his advice, but kep' on drinkin' harder than ever. Whenever a _coper_ came in sight at that time Thomson was sure to have the boat over the side an' pay him a visit.
"Well, about this time o' the year there came one night a most tremendous gale, wi' thick snow, from the nor'ard. It was all we could do to make out anything twenty fathom ahead of us. The skipper he was lyin' drunk down below. We was close reefed and laying to with the foresail a-weather, lookin' out anxiously, for, the fleet bein' all round and the snow thick, our chances o' runnin' foul o' suthin' was considerable. When we took in the last reef we could hardly stand to do it, the wind was so strong--an' wasn't it freezin', too! Sharp enough a'most to freeze the nose off your face.
"About midnight the wind began to shift about and came in squalls so hard that we could scarcely stand, so we took in the jib and mizzen, and lay to under the foresail. Of course the hatchways was battened down and tarpaulined, for the seas that came aboard was fearful. When I was standin' there, expectin' every moment that we should founder, a sea came and swept Fred Martin overboard. Of course we could do nothing for him--we could only hold on for our lives; but the very next sea washed him right on deck again. He never gave a cry, but I heard him say `Praise the Lord!' in his own quiet way when he laid hold o' the starboard shrouds beside me.
"Just then another sea came aboard an' a'most knocked the senses out o' me. At the same moment I heard a tremendous crash, an' saw the mast go by the board. What happened after that I never could rightly understand. I grabbed at something--it felt like a bit of plank--and held on tight, you may be sure, for the cold had by that time got such a hold o' me that I knew if I let go I would go down like a stone. I had scarce got hold of it when I was seized round the neck by something behind me an' a'most choked.
"I couldn't look round to see what it was, but I could see a great black object coming straight at me. I knew well it was a smack, an' gave a roar that might have done credit to a young walrus. The smack seemed to sheer off a bit, an' I heard a voice shout, `Starboard hard! I've got him,' an' I got a blow on my cocoanut that well-nigh cracked it. At the same time a boat-hook caught my coat collar an' held on. In a few seconds more I was hauled on board of the _Cherub_ by Manx Bradley, an' the feller that was clingin' to my neck like a young lobster was Fred Martin. The _Saucy Jane_ went to the bottom that night."
"An' Black Thomson--did he go down with her?" asked Duffy.
"Ay, that was the end of him and all the rest of the crew. The fleet lost five smacks that night."
"Admiral's a-signallin', sir," said one of the watch on deck, putting his head down the hatch at that moment.
Lockley went on deck at once. Another moment, and the shout came down--"Haul! Haul all!"
Instantly the sleepers turned out all through the fleet. Oiled frocks, sou'-westers, and long boots were drawn on, and the men hurried on the decks to face the sleet-laden blast and man the capstan bars, with the prospect before them of many hours of hard toil--heaving and hauling and fish-cleaning and packing with benumbed fingers--before the dreary winter night should give place to the grey light of a scarcely less dreary day.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
|
5
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THE TEMPTER'S VICTORY.
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"I wouldn't mind the frost or snow, or anything else," growled Joe Stubley, pausing in the midst of his labours among the fish, "if it warn't for them sea-blisters. Just look at that, Jim," he added, turning up the hard sleeve of his oiled coat, and exposing a wrist which the feeble rays of the lantern showed to be badly excoriated and inflamed.
"Ay, it's an ugly bracelet, an' I've got one myself just begun on my left wrist," remarked Jim Freeman, also suspending labour for a moment to glance at his mate's wound. "If our fleet had a mission ship, like some o' the other fleets, we'd not only have worsted mitts for our wrists, but worsted helmets for our heads an' necks--to say nothin' of lotions, pills an' plasters."
"If they'd only fetch us them things an' let alone tracts, Bibles, an' religion," returned Stubley, "I'd have no objection to 'em, but what's the use o' religion to a drinkin', swearin', gamblin' lot like us?"
"It's quite clear that your notions about religion are muddled," said David Duffy, with a short laugh. "Why, what's the use o' physic to a sick man, Stubs?"
"To make him wuss," replied Stubs promptly.
"You might as well argify with a lobster as with Joe Stubs," said Bob Lumsden, who, although burdened with the cares of the cooking department, worked with the men at cleaning and packing.
"What does a boy like you know about lobsters, 'cept to cook 'em?" growled Stubley. "You mind your pots an' pans. That's all your brains are fit for--if you have brains at all. Leave argification to men."
"That's just what I was advisin' Duffy to do, an' not waste his breath on the likes o' you," retorted the boy, with a grin.
The conversation was stopped at this point by the skipper ordering the men to shake out a reef, as the wind was moderating. By the time this was accomplished daybreak was lighting up the eastern horizon, and ere long the pale grey of the cold sea began to warm up a little under the influence of the not yet visible sun.
"Goin' to be fine," said Lockley, as he scanned the horizon with his glass.
"Looks like it," replied the mate.
Remarks were few and brief at that early hour, for the men, being pretty well fagged, preferred to carry on their monotonous work in silence.
As morning advanced the fleet was clearly seen in all directions and at all distances around, holding on the same course as the _Lively Poll_. Gradually the breeze moderated, and before noon the day had turned out bright and sunny, with only a few thin clouds floating in the wintry sky. By that time the fish-boxes, or trunks, were all packed, and the men availed themselves of the brief period of idleness pending the arrival of the steam-carrier from Billingsgate to eat a hearty breakfast.
This meal, it may be remarked, was a moveable feast, depending very much on the duties in hand and the arrival of the steamer. To get the fish ready and shipped for market is always regarded as his first and all-important duty by the deep-sea trawler, who, until it is performed, will not condescend to give attention to such secondary matters as food and repose. These are usually taken when opportunity serves. Pipes and recreation, in the form of games at cards, draughts, dominoes, and yarns, are also snatched at intervals between the periods of severe toil. Nevertheless, there are times when the fisherman's experience is very different. When prolonged calms render fishing impossible, then time hangs heavily on his hands, and--in regard to the fleet of which we write and all those similarly circumstanced--the only recreations available are sleeping, drinking, gambling, and yarn-spinning. True, such calms do not frequently occur in winter, but they sometimes do, and one of them prevailed on the afternoon of the particular winter's day, of which we treat.
After the departure of the carrier that day, the wind fell so much that the admiral deemed it advisable not to put down the nets. Before long the light air died away altogether, and the fleet was left floating idly, in picturesque groups and with flapping sails, on the glassy sea.
Among the groups thus scattered about, there was one smack which had quietly joined the fleet when the men were busy transhipping or "ferrying" the fish to the steam-carrier. Its rig was so similar to that of the other smacks that a stranger might have taken it for one of the fleet but the fishermen knew better. It was that enemy of souls, that floating grog-shop, that pirate of the North Sea, the _coper_.
"Good luck to 'ee," muttered Joe Stubley, whose sharp, because sympathetic, eye was first to observe the vessel.
"It's bad luck to _you_ anyhow," remarked Bob the cook, who chanced to pass at the moment.
"Mind your own business, Lumpy, an' none o' your sauce, if you don't want a rope's-endin'," retorted the man.
"Ain't I just mindin' my own business? Why, wot is sauce but part of a cook's business?" returned the boy.
"I _won't_ go to her," thought Stephen Lockley, who overheard the conversation, and in whose breast a struggle had been going on, for he also had seen the _coper_, and, his case-bottle having run dry, he was severely tempted to have it replenished.
"Would it not be as well, skipper, to go aboard o' the _coper_, as she's so near at hand!" said the mate, coming aft at the moment.
"Well, no, Peter; I think it would be as well to drop the _coper_ altogether. The abominable stuff the Dutchmen sell us is enough to poison a shark. You know I'm not a teetotaller, but if I'm to be killed at all, I'd rather be killed by good spirits than bad."
"Right you are," replied Jay, "but, you see, a lot of us are hard up for baccy, and--" "Of course, of course; the men must have baccy," interrupted the skipper, "an' we don't need to buy their vile brandy unless we like. Yes, get the boat out, Jay, an' we'll go."
Stephen Lockley was not the first man who has deceived himself as to his motives. Tobacco was his excuse for visiting the floating den of temptation, but a craving for strong drink was his real motive. This craving had been created imperceptibly, and had been growing by degrees for some years past, twining its octopus arms tighter and tighter round his being, until the strong and hearty young fisherman was slowly but surely becoming an abject slave, though he had fancied himself heretofore as free as the breezes that whistled round his vessel. Now, for the first time, Lockley began to have uncomfortable suspicions about himself. Being naturally bold and candid, he turned sharply round, and, as it were, faced _himself_ with the stern question, "Stephen, are you sure that it's baccy that tempts you aboard of the _coper_? Are you clear that schnapps has nothing to do with it?"
It is one of the characteristics of the slavery to which we refer, that although strong-minded and resolute men put pointed questions of this sort to themselves not unfrequently, they very seldom return answers to them. Their once vigorous spirits, it would seem, are still capable of an occasional heave and struggle--a sort of flash in the pan--but that is all. The influence of the depraved appetite immediately weighs them down, and they relapse into willing submission to the bondage. Lockley had not returned an answer to his own question when the mate reported that the boat was ready. Without a word he jumped into her, but kept thinking to himself, "We'll only get baccy, an' I'll leave the _coper_ before the lads can do themselves any harm. I'll not taste a drop myself--not a single drop o' their vile stuff."
The Dutch skipper of the _coper_ had a round fat face and person, and a jovial, hearty manner. He received the visitors with an air of open-handed hospitality which seemed to indicate that nothing was further from his thoughts than gain.
"We've come for baccy," said Lockley, as he leaped over the bulwarks and shook hands, "I s'pose you've plenty of that?"
"Ya," the Dutchman had "plenty tabac--ver sheep too, an' mit sooch a goot vlavour!"
He was what the Yankees would call a 'cute fellow, that Dutchman. Observing the emphasis with which Lockley mentioned tobacco, he understood at once that the skipper did not want his men to drink, and laid his snares accordingly.
"Com'," he said, in a confidential tone, taking hold of Lockley's arm, "com' b'low, an' you shall zee de tabac, an' smell him yourself."
Our skipper accepted the invitation, went below, and was soon busy commenting on the weed, which, as the Dutchman truly pointed out, was "_so_ sheep as well as goot." But another smell in that cabin overpowered that of the tobacco. It was the smell of Hollands, or some sort of spirit, which soon aroused the craving that had gained such power over the fisherman.
"Have some schnapps!" said the Dutch skipper, suddenly producing a case-bottle as square as himself, and pouring out a glass.
"No, thank 'ee," said Stephen firmly.
"No!" exclaimed the other, with well-feigned surprise. "You not drink?"
"Oh yes, I drink," replied Lockley, with a laugh, "but not to-day."
"I not ask you to buy," rejoined the tempter, holding the spirits a little nearer to his victim's nose. "Joost take von leetle glass for goot vellowship."
It seemed rude to decline a proposal so liberally made, and with such a smiling countenance. Lockley took the glass, drank it off and went hurriedly on deck, followed by the Dutchman, with the case-bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. Of course the men had no objection to be treated. They had a small glass all round.
"That's the stuff for my money!" cried Stubley, smacking his lips. "I say, old chap, let's have a bottle of it. None o' your thimblefuls for me. I like a good swig when I'm at it."
"You'd better wait till we get aboard, Joe, before you begin," suggested Lockley, who was well aware of Joe's tendencies.
Joe admitted the propriety of this advice, but said he would treat his mates to one glass before starting, by "way o' wetting their whistles."
"Ya, joost von glass vor vet deir vistles," echoed the Dutchman, with a wink and a look which produced a roar of laughter. The glass was accepted by all, including Lockley, who had been quite demoralised by the first glass.
The victory was gained by the tempter for that time at least. The fishermen who went for baccy, remained for schnapps, and some of them were very soon more than half drunk. It was a fierce, maddening kind of spirit, which produced its powerful effects quickly.
The skipper of the _Lively Poll_ kept himself better in hand than his men, but, being very sociable in disposition, and finding the Dutchman a humorous and chatty fellow, he saw no reason to hurry them away. Besides, his vessel was close alongside, and nothing could be done in the fishing way during the dead calm that prevailed.
While he and his men were engaged in a lively conversation about nothing in particular--though they were as earnest over it as if the fate of empires depended on their judgment--the Dutch skipper rose to welcome another boat's crew, which approached on the other side of the _coper_. So eager and fuddled were the disputants of the _Lively Poll_ that they did not at first observe the newcomers.
It was the _Fairy's_ boat, with Dick Martin in charge.
"Hallo, Dick, mein boy; gif me your vlipper."
A sign from Martin induced the Dutchman to lean over the side and speak in lower tones.
"Let's have a keg of it," said Dick, with a mysterious look. "Ned Bryce sent me for a good supply, an' here's _fish_ to pay for it."
The fish--which of course belonged to the owner of the _Fairy_, not to Ned Bryce--were quickly passed up, and a keg of spirits passed down. Then the Dutchman asked if Dick or his men wanted tabac or schnapps for themselves.
"I vill take jersey, or vish, or sail, or boots, or vat you please in exchange. Com' aboard, anyhow, an' have von leetle glass."
Dick and his men having thus smartly transacted their chief business, leaped on deck, made fast their painter, let the boat drop astern, and were soon smoking and drinking amicably with the crew of the _Lively Poll_. Not long afterwards they were quarrelling. Then Dick Martin, who was apt to become pugnacious over his liquor, asserted stoutly that something or other "was." Joe Stubley swore that it "_was not_," whereupon Dick Martin planted his fist on Joe Stubley's nose and laid its growly owner flat on the deck.
Starting up, Joe was about to retaliate, when Lockley, seizing him by the neck thrust him over the side into the boat, and ordered his more or less drunken crew to follow. They did so with a bad grace, but the order was given in a tone which they well understood must not be disobeyed.
As they pushed off, Stubley staggered and fell into the sea. Another moment and he would have been beyond all human aid, but Lockley caught a glimpse of his shaggy black head as it sank. Plunging his long right arm down, and holding on to the boat with his left, he caught the drowning man by the hair. Strong and willing arms helped, and Stubley was hauled inboard--restored to life, opportunity, and hope--and flung into the bottom of the boat.
The oars were shipped, and they pulled for the _Lively Poll_. As they rode away they saw that other boats were proceeding towards the _coper_. The men in them were all anxious to buy baccy. No mention was made of drink. Oh dear no! They cared nothing for that, though, of course, they had no sort of objection to accept the wily Dutchman's generous offer of "von leetle glass vor goot vellowship."
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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6
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THE POWER OF SYMPATHY.
|
One fine afternoon, not long after the visit to the _coper_, Bob Lumsden, _alias_ Lumpy, was called from his culinary labours to assist in hauling in the net.
Now it is extremely interesting to note what a wonderful effect the power of loving sympathy can have on a human being. Lumpy was a human being--though some of his mates insisted that he must have been descended from a cod-fish, because his mouth was so large. No doubt it was, and when the boy laughed heartily he was, indeed, apt to remind one of that fish; nevertheless it was a good, well-shaped mouth, though large, with a kindly expression about it, and a set of splendid white teeth inside of it. But, whether human or fishy in his nature, Bob Lumsden had been overwhelmed by a flood of sympathy ever since that memorable day when he had first caught a glimpse of the sweet, pale face of the little invalid Eve Mooney. It was but a brief glimpse, yet it had opened a new sluice in Lumpy's heart, through which the waters of tenderness gushed in a wild torrent.
One of the curious results of this flood was that Bob was always more prompt to the summons to haul up the trawl than he had ever been before, more energetic in clawing the net inboard, and more eager to see and examine the contents of the cod-end. The explanation is simple. He had overheard his skipper say how fond Eve was of shells--especially of those which came from the bottom of the North Sea, and of all sorts of pretty and curious things, wherever they came from.
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a diligent collector of marine curiosities, and the very small particular corner of the vessel which he called his own became ere long quite a museum. They say that sympathy is apt to grow stronger between persons of opposite constitutions. If this be so, perhaps it was his nature--his bold, hearty, gushing, skylarking spirit, his strong rugged frame, his robust health, his carroty hair, his appley cheeks, his eagle nose, his flashing eyes--that drew him so powerfully to the helpless, tender little invalid, with her delicate frame and pale cheeks, straight little nose, bud of a mouth, and timid, though by no means cowardly, spirit.
On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. "I'm sorry for the poor thing," he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; "she's got such a wretched home, an' her mother's such a drunken bru--" Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.
"The doctor says," he resumed, "that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin' o' that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she'd very likely get better as she growed older--specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she's over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an' her mother can't do it--or won't."
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up "baccy." He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the _copers_, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich--in an extremely small way.
There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.
One day, a considerable time after Bob's discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.
"Take care, Lumpy," cried the boy, "I'm wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You'd better set me down before I comes in pieces."
"Why, Stiver, you're the very man I was thinkin' of," said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.
Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.
"Listen," said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; "I want help. Will you do somethin' for me?"
"Anything," replied the boy with emphasis, "from pitch and toss to manslaughter!"
"Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?"
"Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?"
"She's ill--very ill," said Lumpy.
"You might as well tell me, when it's daytime, that the sun's up," returned Pat.
"Don't be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I'll have to snub you."
"Which you've on'y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an' the deed's done."
Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.
"It's the wittles as bothers me, Stiver," said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.
"H'm! well," returned the small boy seriously, "wittles has bothered me too, off an' on, pretty well since I was born, though I'm bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an'--" "Hold on, Stiver; you're away on the wrong tack," cried Bob, interrupting. "I don't mean the difficulty o' findin' wittles, but how to get Eve to take 'em."
"Tell her to shut her eyes an' open her mouth, an' then shove 'em in," suggested Pat.
"I'll shove you into the sea if you go on talking balderdash," said Bob. "Now, look here, you hain't got nothin' to do, have you!"
"If you mean in the way o' my purfession, Bob, you're right. I purfess to do anything, but nobody as yet has axed me to do nothin'. In the ways o' huntin' up wittles, howsever, I've plenty to do. It's hard lines, and yet I ain't extravagant in my expectations. Most coves require three good meals a day, w'ereas I'm content with one. I begins at breakfast, an' I goes on a-eatin' promiskoously all day till arter supper--w'en I can get it."
"Just so, Stiver. Now, I want to engage you professionally. Your dooties will be to hang about Mrs Mooney's, but in an offhand, careless sort o' way, like them superintendent chaps as git five or six hundred a year for doin' nuffin, an' be ready at any time to offer to give Eve a shove in the chair. But first you'll have to take the chair to her, an' say it was sent to her from--" "Robert Lumsden, Esquire," said Pat, seeing that his friend hesitated.
"Not at all, you little idiot," said Bob sharply. "You mustn't mention my name on no account."
"From a gentleman, then," suggested Pat.
"That might do; but I ain't a gentleman, Stiver, an' I can't allow you to go an' tell lies."
"I'd like to know who is if you ain't," returned the boy indignantly. "Ain't a gentleman a man wot's gentle? An' w'en you was the other day a-spreadin' of them lovely shells, an' crabs, an' sea-goin' kooriosities out on her pocket-hankercher, didn't I _see_ that you was gentle?"
"I'll be pretty rough on you, Pat, in a minit, if you don't hold your jaw," interrupted Bob, who, however, did not seem displeased with his friend's definition of a gentleman. "Well, you may say what you like, only be sure you say what's true. An' then you'll have to take some nice things as I'll get for her from time to time w'en I comes ashore. But there'll be difficulties, I doubt, in the way of gettin' her to take wittles w'en she don't know who they comes from."
"Oh, don't you bother your head about that," said Pat. "I'll manage it. I'm used to difficulties. Just you leave it to me, an' it'll be all right."
"Well, I will, Pat; so you'll come round with me to the old furnitur' shop in Yarmouth, an' fetch the chair. I got it awful cheap from the old chap as keeps the shop w'en I told him what it was for. Then you'll bring it out to Eve, an' try to git her to have a ride in it to-day, if you can. I'll see about the wittles arter. Hain't quite worked that out in my mind yet. Now, as to wages. I fear I can't offer you none--" "I never axed for none," retorted Pat proudly.
"That's true Pat; but I'm not a-goin' to make you slave for nuthin'. I'll just promise you that I'll save all I can o' my wages, an' give you what I can spare. You'll just have to trust me as to that."
"Trust you, Bob!" exclaimed Pat, with enthusiasm, "look here, now; this is how the wind blows. If the Prime Minister o' Rooshia was to come to me in full regimentals an' offer to make me capting o' the Horse Marines to the Hemperor, I'd say, `No thankee, I'm engaged,' as the young woman said to the young man she didn't want to marry."
The matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Bob Lumsden and his little friend went off to Yarmouth, intent on carrying out the first part of their plan.
It chanced about the same time that another couple were having a quiet chat together in the neighbourhood of Gorleston Pier. Fred Martin and Isa Wentworth had met by appointment to talk over a subject of peculiar interest to themselves. Let us approach and become eavesdroppers.
"Now, Fred," said Isa, with a good deal of decision in her tone, "I'm not at all satisfied with your explanation. These mysterious and long visits you make to London ought to be accounted for, and as I have agreed to become your wife within the next three or four months, just to please _you_, the least you can do, I think, is to have no secrets from _me_. Besides, you have no idea what the people here and your former shipmates are saying about you."
"Indeed, dear lass, what do they say?"
"Well, they say now you've got well they can't understand why you should go loafing about doin' nothin' or idling your time in London, instead of goin' to sea."
"Idlin' my time!" exclaimed Fred with affected indignation. "How do they know I'm idlin' my time? What if I was studyin' to be a doctor or a parson?"
"Perhaps they'd say that _was_ idlin' your time, seein' that you're only a fisherman," returned Isa, looking up in her lover's face with a bright smile. "But tell me, Fred, why should you have any secret from _me_?"
"Because, dear lass, the thing that gives me so much pleasure and hope is not absolutely fixed, and I don't want you to be made anxious. This much I will tell you, however: you know I passed my examination for skipper when I was home last time, and now, through God's goodness, I have been offered the command of a smack. If all goes well, I hope to sail in her next week; then, on my return, I hope to--to take the happiest. Well, well, I'll say no more about that, as we're gettin' near mother's door. But tell me, Isa, has Uncle Martin been worrying mother again when I was away?"
"No. When he found out that you had got the money that was left to her, and had bought an annuity for her with it, he went away, and I've not seen him since."
"That's well. I'm glad of that."
"But am I to hear nothing more about this smack, not even her name?"
"Nothing more just now, Isa. As to her name, it's not yet fixed. But, trust me, you shall know all in good time."
As they had now reached the foot of Mrs Martin's stair, the subject was dropped.
They found the good woman in the act of supplying Granny Martin with a cup of tea. There was obvious improvement in the attic. Sundry little articles of luxury were there which had not been there before.
"You see, my boy," said Mrs Martin to Fred, as they sat round the social board, "now that the Lord has sent me enough to get along without slavin' as I used--to do, I takes more time to make granny comfortable, an' I've got her a noo chair, and noo specs, which she was much in want of, for the old uns was scratched to that extent you could hardly see through 'em, besides bein' cracked across both eyes. Ain't they much better, dear?"
The old woman, seated in the attic window, turned her head towards the tea-table and nodded benignantly once or twice; but the kind look soon faded into the wonted air of patient contentment, and the old head turned to the sea as the needle turns to the pole, and the soft murmur was heard, "He'll come soon now."
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{
"id": "23377"
}
|
7
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A RESCUE.
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Never was there a fishing smack more inappropriately named than the _Fairy_,--that unwieldy iron vessel which the fleet, in facetious content, had dubbed the "Ironclad," and which had the honour of being commanded by that free and easy, sociable--almost too sociable--skipper, Ned Bryce.
She was steered by Dick Martin on the day of which we now write. Dick, as he stood at the helm, with stern visage, bloodshot eyes, and dissipated look, was not a pleasant object of contemplation, but as he played a prominent part in the proceedings of that memorable day, we are bound to draw attention to him. Although he had spent a considerable portion of the night with his skipper in testing the quality of some schnapps which they had recently procured from a _coper_, he had retained his physical and mental powers sufficiently for the performance of his duties. Indeed, he was one of those so-called seasoned casks, who are seldom or never completely disabled by drink, although thoroughly enslaved, and he was now quite competent to steer the _Fairy_ in safety through the mazes of that complex dance which the deep-sea trawlers usually perform on the arrival of the carrying-steamer.
What Bryce called a chopping and a lumpy sea was running. It was decidedly rough, though the breeze was moderate, so that the smacks all round were alternately presenting sterns and bowsprits to the sky in a violent manner that might have suggested the idea of a rearing and kicking dance. When the carrier steamed up to the Admiral, and lay to beside him, and the smacks drew towards her from all points of the compass, the mazes of the dance became intricate, and the risk of collisions called for careful steering.
Being aware of this, and being himself not quite so steady about the head as he could wish, Skipper Bryce looked at Martin for a few seconds, and then ordered him to go help to launch the boat and get the trunks out, and send Phil Morgan aft.
Phil was not a better seaman than Dick, but he was a more temperate man, therefore clearer brained and more dependable.
Soon the smacks were waltzing and kicking round each other on every possible tack, crossing and re-crossing bows and sterns; sometimes close shaving, out and in, down-the-middle-and-up-again fashion, which, to a landsman, might have been suggestive of the 'bus, cab, and van throng in the neighbourhood of that heart of the world, the Bank of England.
Sounds of hailing and chaffing now began to roll over the North Sea from many stentorian lungs.
"What cheer? what cheer?" cried some in passing.
"Hallo, Tim! how are 'ee, old man! What luck?"
"All right, Jim; on'y six trunks."
"Ha! that's 'cause ye fished up a dead man yesterday."
"Is that you, Ted?"
"Ay, ay, what's left o' me--worse luck. I thought your mother was goin' to keep you at home this trip to mind the babby."
"So she was, boy, but the babby fell into a can o' buttermilk an' got drownded, so I had to come off again, d'ee see?"
"What cheer, Groggy Fox? Have 'ee hoisted the blue ribbon yet?"
"No, Stephen Lockley, I haven't, nor don't mean to, but one o' the fleet seems to have hoisted the blue flag."
Groggy Fox pointed to one of the surrounding vessels as he swept past in the _Cormorant_.
Lockley looked round in haste, and, to his surprise, saw floating among the smaller flags, at a short distance, the great twenty-feet flag of a mission vessel, with the letters MDSF (Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen) on it, in white on a blue ground.
"She must have lost her reckoning," muttered Lockley, as he tried to catch sight of the vessel to which the flag belonged--which was not easy, owing to the crowd of smacks passing to and fro between it and him.
Just at that moment a hearty cheer was heard to issue from the Admiral's smack, the _Cherub_. At the same time the boat of the _Lively Poll_ was launched into the sea, Duffy and Freeman and another hand tumbled into her, and the skipper had to give his undivided attention to the all-important matter of transhipping the fish.
Dozens of boats were by that time bobbing like corks on the heaving sea, all making for the attendant steamer. Other dozens, which had already reached her, were clinging on--the men heaving the fish-boxes aboard,-- while yet others were pushing off from the smacks last arrived to join the busy swarm.
Among these was the boat of the _Fairy_, with Dick Martin and two men aboard. It was heavily laden--too heavily for such a sea--for their haul on the previous night had been very successful.
North Sea fishermen are so used to danger that they are apt to despise it. Both Bryce and Martin knew they had too many trunks in the boat, but they thought it a pity to leave five or six behind, and be obliged to make two trips for so small a number, where one might do. Besides, they could be careful. And so they were--very careful; yet despite all their care they shipped a good deal of water, and the skipper stood on the deck of the _Fairy_ watching them with some anxiety. Well he might, for so high were the waves that not only his own boat but all the others kept disappearing and re-appearing continually, as they rose on the crests or sank into the hollows.
But Skipper Bryce had eyes for only one boat. He saw it rise to view and disappear steadily, regularly, until it was about half-way to the steamer; then suddenly it failed to rise, and next moment three heads were seen amid the tumultuous waters where the boat should have been.
With a tremendous shout Bryce sprang to the tiller and altered the vessel's course, but, as the wind blew, he knew well it was not in his power to render timely aid. That peculiar cry which tells so unmistakably of deadly disaster was raised from the boats nearest to that which had sunk, and they were rowed towards the drowning men, but the boats were heavy and slow of motion. Already they were too late, for two out of the three men had sunk to rise no more--dragged down by their heavy boots and winter clothing. Only one continued the struggle. It was Dick Martin. He had grasped an oar, and, being able to swim, kept his head up. The intense cold of the sea, however, would soon have relaxed even his iron grip, and he would certainly have perished, had it not been that the recently arrived mission vessel chanced to be a very short distance to windward of him. A slight touch of the helm sent her swiftly to his side. A rope was thrown. Martin caught it. Ready hands and eager hearts were there to grasp and rescue. In another moment he was saved, and the vessel swept on to mingle with the other smacks--for Martin was at first almost insensible, and could not tell to which vessel of the fleet he belonged.
Yes, the bad man was rescued, though no one would have sustained much loss by his death; but in Yarmouth that night there was one woman, who little thought that she was a widow, and several little ones who knew not that they were fatherless. The other man who perished was an unmarried youth, but he left an invalid mother to lifelong mourning over the insatiable greed of the cold North Sea.
Little note was taken of this event in the fleet. It was, in truth, a by no means unusual disaster. If fish are to be found, fair weather or foul, for the tables on land, lives must be risked and lost in the waters of the sea. Loss of life in ferrying the fish being of almost daily occurrence, men unavoidably get used to it, as surgeons do to suffering and soldiers to bloodshed. Besides, on such occasions, in the great turmoil of winds and waves, and crowds of trawlers and shouting, it may be only a small portion of the fleet which is at first aware that disaster has occurred, and even these must not, cannot, turn aside from business at such times to think about the woes of their fellow-men.
Meanwhile Dick Martin had fallen, as the saying is, upon his feet. He was carried into a neatly furnished cabin, put between warm blankets in a comfortable berth, and had a cup of steaming hot coffee urged upon him by a pleasant-voiced sailor, who, while he inquired earnestly as to how he felt, at the same time thanked the Lord fervently that they had been the means of saving his life.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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8
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TELLS OF MORE THAN ONE SURPRISE.
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"Was that your boat that went down?" shouted Groggy Fox of the _Cormorant_, as he sailed past the _Fairy_, after the carrying-steamer had left, and the numerous fishing-smacks were gradually falling into order for another attack on the finny hosts of the sea.
They were almost too far apart for the reply to be heard, and possibly Bryce's state of mind prevented his raising his voice sufficiently, but it was believed that the answer was "Yes."
"Poor fellows!" muttered Fox, who was a man of tender feelings, although apt to feel more for himself than for any one else.
"I think Dick Martin was in the boat," said the mate of the _Cormorant_, who stood beside his skipper. "I saw them when they shoved off, and though it was a longish distance, I could make him out by his size, an' the fur cap he wore."
"Well, the world won't lose much if he's gone," returned Fox; "he was a bad lot."
It did not occur to the skipper at that time that he himself was nearly, if not quite, as bad a "lot." But bad men are proverbially blind to their own faults.
"He was a cross-grained fellow," returned the mate, "specially when in liquor, but I never heard no worse of 'im than that."
"Didn't you?" said Fox; "didn't you hear what they said of 'im at Gorleston? --that he tried to do his sister out of a lot o' money as was left her by some cove or other in furrin parts. An' some folk are quite sure that it was him as stole the little savin's o' that poor widdy, Mrs Mooney, though they can't just prove it agin him. Ah, he is a bad lot, an' no mistake. But I may say that o' the whole bilin' o' the Martins. Look at Fred, now."
"Well, wot of him?" asked the mate, in a somewhat gruff tone.
"What of him!" repeated the skipper, "ain't he a hypocrite, with his smooth tongue an' his sly ways, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' now--where is he?"
"Well, _where_ is he!" demanded the mate, with increasing gruffness.
"Why, in course nobody knows where he is," retorted the skipper; "that's where it is. No sooner does he get a small windfall--leastwise, his mother gets it--than he cuts the trawlers, an' all his old friends without so much as sayin' `Good-bye,' an' goes off to Lunnon or somewheres, to set up for a gentleman, I suppose."
"I don't believe nothin' o' the sort," returned the mate indignantly. "Fred Martin may be smooth-tongued and shy if you like, but he's no hypercrite--" "Hallo! there's that mission ship on the lee bow," cried Fox, interrupting his mate, and going over to the lee side of the smack, whence he could see the vessel with the great blue flag clearly. "Port your helm," he added in a deep growl to the man who steered. "I'll give her a wide berth."
"If she was the _coper_ you'd steer the other way," remarked the mate, with a laugh.
"In course I would," retorted Fox, "for there I'd find cheap baccy and brandy."
"Ay, bad brandy," said the mate; "but, skipper, you can get baccy cheaper aboard the mission ships now than aboard the _coper_."
"What! at a shillin' a pound?"
"Ay, at a shillin' a pound."
"I don't believe it."
"But it's a fact," returned the mate firmly, "for Simon Brooks, as was in the Short-Blue fleet last week, told me it's a noo regulation-- they've started the sale o' baccy in the Gospel ships, just to keep us from going to the _copers_."
"That'll not keep _me_ from going to the _copers_," said Groggy Fox, with an oath.
"Nor me," said his mate, with a laugh; "but, skipper, as we are pretty nigh out o' baccy just now, an' as the mission ship is near us, an' the breeze down, I don't see no reason why we shouldn't go aboard an' see whether the reports be true. We go to buy baccy, you know, an' we're not bound to buy everything the shop has to sell! We don't want their religion, an' they can't force it down our throats whether we will or no."
Groggy Fox vented a loud laugh at the bare supposition of such treatment of his throat, admitted that his mate was right, and gave orders to launch the boat. In a few minutes they were rowing over the still heaving but now somewhat calmer sea, for the wind had fallen suddenly, and the smacks lay knocking about at no great distance from each other.
It was evident from the bustle on board many of them, and the launching of boats over their bulwarks, that not a few of the men intended to take advantage of this unexpected visit of a mission vessel. No doubt their motives were various. Probably some went, like the men of the _Cormorant_, merely for baccy; some for medicine; others, perhaps, out of curiosity; while a few, no doubt, went with more or less of desire after the "good tidings," which they were aware had been carried to several of the other fleets that laboured on the same fishing-grounds.
Whatever the reasons, it was evident that a goodly number of men were making for the vessel with the great blue flag. Some had already reached her; more were on their way. The _Cormorant's_ boat was among the last to arrive.
"What does MDSF stand for?" asked Skipper Fox, as they drew near.
"Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen," answered the mate, whose knowledge on this and other points of the Mission were due to his intercourse with his friend Simon Brooks of the Short-Blue. "But it means more than that," he continued. "When we are close enough to make 'em out, you'll see little letters _above_ the MDSF which make the words I've just told you, an' there are little letters _below_ the MDSF which make the words Mighty Deliverer, Saviour, Friend."
"Ay! That's a clever dodge," observed Groggy Fox, who, it need hardly be said, was more impressed with the ingenuity of the device than with the grand truth conveyed.
"But I say, mate, they seems to be uncommonly lively aboard of her."
This was obviously the case, for by that time the boat of the _Cormorant_ had come so near to the vessel that they could not only perceive the actions of those on board, but could hear their voices. The curiosity of Skipper Fox and his men was greatly roused, for they felt convinced that the mere visit of a passing mission ship did not fully account for the vigorous hand-shakings of those on the deck, and the hearty hailing of newcomers, and the enthusiastic cheers of some at least of the little boats' crews as they pulled alongside.
"Seems to me as if they've all gone mad," remarked Groggy Fox, with a sarcastic grin.
"I would say they was all drunk, or half-seas over," observed the mate, "if it was a _coper_, but in a Gospel ship that's impossible, 'cause they're teetotal, you know. Isn't that the boat o' the Admiral that's pullin' alongside just now, skipper?"
"Looks like it, mate. Ay, an' that's Stephen Lockley of the _Lively Poll_ close astarn of 'im--an' ain't they kickin' up a rumpus now!"
Fox was right, for when the two little boats referred to ranged alongside of the vessel, and the men scrambled up the side on to her deck, there was an amount of greeting, and hand-shaking, and exclaiming in joyful surprise, which threw all previous exhibitions in that way quite into the shade, and culminated in a mighty cheer, the power of which soft people with shore-going throats and lungs and imaginations cannot hope to emulate or comprehend!
The cheer was mildly repeated with mingled laughter when the crowd on deck turned to observe the arrival of the _Cormorant's_ boat.
"Why, it's the skipper o' the _Ironclad_!" exclaimed a voice. "No, it's not. It's the skipper o' the _Cormorant_," cried another.
"What cheer? what cheer, Groggy Fox?" cried a third, as the boat swooped alongside, and several strong arms were extended. "Who'd have looked for _you_ here? There ain't no schnapps."
"All right, mates," replied Fox, with an apologetic smile, as he alighted on the deck and looked round; "I've come for _baccy_."
A short laugh greeted this reply, but it was instantly checked, for at the moment Fred Martin stepped forward, grasped the skipper's horny hand, and shook it warmly, as well as powerfully, for Fred was a muscular man, and had fully recovered his strength.
"You've come to the right shop for baccy," he said; "I've got plenty o' that, besides many other things much better. I bid you heartily welcome on board of the _Sunbeam_ in the name of the Lord!"
For a few seconds the skipper of the _Cormorant_ could not utter a word. He gazed at Fred Martin with his mouth partially, and his eyes wide, open. The thought that he was thus cordially received by the very man whose character he had so lately and so ungenerously traduced had something, perhaps, to do with his silence.
"A-are--are _you_ the skipper o' this here wessel!" he stammered.
"Ay, through God's goodness I am."
"A _mission_ wessel!" said Fox, his amazement not a whit abated as he looked round.
"Just so, a Gospel ship," answered Fred, giving the skipper another shake of the hand.
"You didn't mistake it for a _coper_, did 'ee?" asked David Duffy, who was one of the visitors.
The laugh which followed this question drowned Groggy Fox's reply.
"And you'll be glad to hear," said Fred, still addressing Fox, "that the _Sunbeam_ is a new mission ship, and has been appointed to do service for God in _this_ fleet and no other; so you'll always be able to have books and baccy, mitts, helmets, comforters, medicines, and, best of all, Bibles and advice for body and soul, free gratis when you want 'em."
"But where's the doctor to give out the medicines," asked Fox, who began to moderate his gaze as he recovered self-possession.
"Well, mate," answered Fred, with a bashful air, "I am doctor as well as skipper. Indeed, I'm parson too--a sort of Jack-of-all-trades! I'm not full fledged of course, but on the principle, I fancy, that `half a loaf is better than no bread,' I've been sent here after goin' through a short course o' trainin' in surgery--also in divinity; something like city missionaries and Scripture-readers; not that trainin', much or little, would fit any man for the great work unless he had the love of the Master in his heart. But I trust I have that."
"You have, Fred, thank God!" said the Admiral of the fleet.
"And now, Skipper Fox," continued Fred facetiously, "as I'm a sort of doctor, you must allow me to prescribe something for your complaint. Here, boy," he added, hailing one of his crew, "fetch Skipper Fox a draught o' that physic--the brown stuff that you keep in the kettle."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered a youthful voice, and in another minute Pat Stiver forced his way through the crowd, bearing in his hand a large cup or bowl of coffee.
"It's not exactly the tipple I'm used to," said Fox, accepting the cup with a grin, and wisely resolving to make the best of circumstances, all the more readily that he observed other visitors had been, or still were, enjoying the same beverage. "Howsever, it's not to be expected that sick men shall have their physic exactly to their likin', so I thank 'ee all the same, Dr Martin!"
This reply was received with much approval, and the character of Groggy Fox immediately experienced a considerable rise in the estimation of his comrades of the fleet.
Attention was drawn from him just then by the approach of another boat.
"There is some genuine surgeon's work coming to you in that boat, Fred, if I mistake not," remarked Stephen Lockley, as he stood beside his old friend.
"Hasn't that man in the stern got his head tied up?"
"Looks like it."
"By the way, what of your uncle, Dick Martin?" asked the Admiral. "It was you that picked him up, wasn't it?"
This reference to the sad event which had occurred that morning solemnised the fishermen assembled on the _Sunbeam's_ deck, and they stood listening with sympathetic expressions as Fred narrated what he had seen of the catastrophe, and told that his uncle was evidently nothing the worse of it, and was lying asleep in the cabin, where everything had been done for his recovery and comfort.
In the boat which soon came alongside was a fisherman who had met with a bad accident some days before. A block tackle from aloft had fallen on his head and cut it severely. His mates had bound it up in rough-and-ready fashion; but the wound had bled freely, and the clotted blood still hung about his hair. Latterly the wound had festered, and gave him agonising pain. His comrades being utterly ignorant as to the proper treatment, could do nothing for him. Indeed, the only effectual thing that could be done was to send the poor man home. This sudden and unexpected appearance of one of the mission ships was therefore hailed as a godsend, for it was well-known that these vessels contained medicines, and it was believed that their skippers were more or less instructed in the healing art. In this belief they were right; for in addition to the well-appointed medicine-chest, each vessel has a skipper who undergoes a certain amount of instruction, and possesses a practical and plain book of directions specially prepared under the supervision of the Board of Trade for the use of captains at sea.
One can imagine, therefore, what a relief it was to this poor wounded man to be taken down into the cabin and have his head at last attended to by one who "knew what he was about." The operation of dressing was watched with the deepest interest and curiosity by the fishermen assembled there, for it was their first experience of the value, even in temporal matters, of a Gospel ship. Their ears were open, too, as well as their eyes, and they listened with much interest to Fred Martin as he tried, after a silent prayer for the Holy Spirit's influence, to turn his first operation to spiritual account in his Master's interest.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, observing that his patient winced a little when he was removing the bandage.
"Go on," said the man quietly. "I ain't a babby to mind a touch of pain."
The cabin being too small to hold them all, some of the visitors clustered round the open skylight, and gazed eagerly down, while a few who could not find a point of vantage contented themselves with listening. Even Dick Martin was an observer at that operation, for, having been roused by the bustle around him, he raised himself on an elbow, and looking down from his berth, could both hear and see.
"There now," said Fred Martin, when at last the bandage was removed and the festering mass laid bare. "Hand the scissors, Pat."
Pat Stiver, who was assistant-surgeon on that occasion, promptly handed his chief the desired instrument, and stood by for further orders.
"I'll soon relieve you," continued Fred, removing the clotted hair, etcetera, in a few seconds, and applying a cleansing lotion. "I cut it off, you see, just as the Great Physician cuts away our sins, and washes us clean in the fountain of His own blood. You feel better already, don't you?"
"There's no doubt about that," replied the patient looking up with a great sigh of relief that told far more than words could convey.
We will not record all that was said and done upon that occasion. Let it suffice to say that the man's wound was put in a fair way of recovery without the expense and prolonged suffering of a trip home.
Thereafter, as a breeze was beginning to blow which bid fair to become a "fishing breeze," it became necessary for the visitors to leave in haste, but not before a few books, tracts, and worsted mittens had been distributed, with an earnest invitation from the skipper of the _Sunbeam_ to every one to repeat the visit whenever calm weather should permit, and especially on Sundays, when regular services would be held on deck or in the hold.
On this occasion Bob Lumpy and Pat Stiver had met and joined hands in great delight, not unmingled with surprise.
"Well, who'd ever have expected to find _you_ here?" said Bob.
"Ah, who indeed?" echoed Pat. "The fact is, I came to be near _you_, Bob."
"But how did it happen? Who got you the sitivation? Look alive! Don't be long-winded, I see they're gittin' our boat ready."
"This is 'ow it was, Bob. I was shovin' Eve about the roads in the bath-chair, as you know I've bin doin' ever since I entered your service, w'en a gen'lem'n come up and axed all about us. `Would ye like a sitivation among the North Sea fishermen?' says he. `The very ticket,' says I. `Come to Lun'on to-night, then,' says he. `Unpossible,' says I, fit to bu'st wi' disappointment; `'cos I must first shove Miss Eve home, an' git hold of a noo shover to take my place.' `All right,' says he, laughin'; `come when you can. Here's my address.' So away I goes; got a trustworthy, promisin' young feller as I've know'd a long time to engage for Miss Eve, an' off to Lun'on, an'-- here I am!"
"Time's up," cried the Admiral at this point, shaking hands with Fred Martin; while Bob Lumsden sprang from the side of his little friend, and there was a general move towards the boats.
"Good-bye, mate," said Skipper Fox, holding out his hand.
"Stop, friends," cried Fred, in a loud voice; "that's not the way we part on board o' the _Sunbeam_."
Taking off his hat and looking up,--a sign that all understood, for they immediately uncovered and bowed their heads,--the missionary skipper, in a few brief but earnest words, asked for a blessing on the work which he had been privileged that day to begin, that Satan might be foiled, and the name of Jesus be made precious among the fishermen of the North Sea.
Thereafter the boats scattered towards their various smacks, their crews rejoicing in this latest addition to the fleet. Even Groggy Fox gave it as his opinion that there might be worse things after all in the world than "mission wessels!"
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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9
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BEGINNING OF THE GOOD WORK.
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The breeze which had begun to blow freshened as the day advanced, and the Admiral, directing his course to the nor'-east, made for the neighbourhood of the Dogger Bank. Having reached what he deemed suitable fishing-ground, he changed his course and gave the signal to "put to." With the precision of well-trained troops the smacks obeyed, and let down their trawls. The _Sunbeam_ also let down her net, and shaped her course like the rest, thus setting an example of attention to secular duty. She trawled for fish so as to help to pay expenses, until such time as suitable weather and opportunity offered for the main and higher duty of fishing for men.
The first haul of the mission vessel was a great success, prophetic of the great successes in store, thought her skipper, as the cod-end was finally swung inboard in an almost bursting condition. When the lower end was opened, and the living fountain of fish gushed over the deck, there was a general exclamation of satisfaction, mingled with thanksgiving, from the crew, for fishes great and small were there in abundance of every sort that swims in the North Sea.
"All sorts and conditions of men" leaped into Fred Martin's mind, for he was thinking of higher things at the moment. "A good beginning and a good omen," he murmured. " _Wot_ a haul!" exclaimed Pat Stiver, who was nearly swept off his legs, and to whom the whole thing was an entirely new experience.
"Use your eyes less and your hands more, my boy," said Fink, the mate, setting the example by catching hold of a magnificent turbot that would have graced a lord mayor's feast, and commencing to clean it.
Pat was by no means a lazy boy. Recovering from his surprise, he set to work with all the vigour of a man of purpose, and joined the rest of the crew in their somewhat disagreeable duty.
They wrought with such goodwill that their contribution of trunks to the general supply was the largest put on board the steamer next day.
Calm and storm sometimes succeed each other rapidly on the North Sea. It was so on the present occasion. Before the nets could be cleared and let down for another take, the breeze had died away. The weather that was unsuited, however, for fishing, was very suitable for "ferrying" to the steamer; and when that all-important duty was done, the comparative calm that prevailed was just the thing for the work of the _Sunbeam_.
Well aware of this, Manx Bradley and other like-minded skippers, kept close to the mission ship, whose great blue flag was waving welcome to all. Boats were soon pulling towards her, their crews being influenced by a great variety of motives; and many men who, but for her presence, would have been gambling or drinking, or oppressed with having nothing to do, or whistling for a breeze, found an agreeable place of meeting on her deck.
On this occasion a considerable number of men who had received slight injuries from accidents came on board, so that Fred had to devote much of his time to the medical part of his work, while Fink, his mate, superintended the distribution of what may be styled worsted-works and literature.
"Hallo, Jim Freeman!" said Fred, looking round from the medicine shelves before which he stood searching for some drug; "you're the very man I want to see. Want to tempt you away from Skipper Lockley, an' ship with me in the _Sunbeam_."
"I'm not worth much for anybody just now," said Freeman, holding up his right hand, which was bound in a bloody handkerchief. "See, I've got what'll make me useless for weeks to come, I fear."
"Never fear, Jim," said Fred, examining the injured member, which was severely bruised and lacerated. "How got ye that?"
"Carelessness, Fred. The old story--clapped my hand on the gunwale o' the boat when we were alongside the carrier."
"I'd change with 'ee, Jim, if I could," growled Joe Stubley, one of the group of invalids who filled the cabin at the time.
There was a general laugh, as much at Joe's lugubrious visage as at his melancholy tone.
"Why, what's wrong with _you_, Stubs?" asked Fred.
"DT," remarked the skipper of the _Cormorant_, who could hardly speak because of a bad cold, and who thus curtly referred to the drunkard's complaint of _delirium tremens_.
"Nothin' o' the sort!" growled Joe. "I've not seed a _coper_ for a week or two. Brandy's more in your way, Groggy Fox, than in mine. No, it's mulligrumps o' some sort that's the matter wi' me."
"Indeed," said Fred, as he continued to dress the bruised hand. "What does it feel like, Stubs?"
"Feel like?" exclaimed the unhappy man, in a tone that told of anguish, "it feels like red-hot thunder rumblin' about inside o' me. Just as if a great conger eel was wallopin' about an' a-dinin' off my witals."
"Horrible, but not incurable," remarked Fred. "I'll give you some pills, boy, that'll soon put you all to rights. Now, then, who's next?"
While another of the invalids stepped forward and revealed his complaints, which were freely commented on by his more or less sympathetic mates, Fink had opened out a bale of worsted comforters, helmets, and mitts on deck, and, assisted by Pat Stiver, was busily engaged in distributing them. "Here you are--a splendid pair of mitts, Jack," he said, tossing the articles to a huge man, who received them with evident satisfaction.
"Too small, I fear," said Jack, trying to force his enormous hand into one of them.
"Hold on! don't bu'st it!" exclaimed Pat sharply; there's all sorts and sizes here. "There's a pair, now, that would fit Goliath."
"Ah, them's more like it, little 'un," cried the big fisherman. "No more sea-blisters now, thanks to the ladies on shore," he added, as he drew the soft mittens over his sadly scarred wrists.
"Now then, who wants this?" continued Fink, holding up a worsted helmet; "splendid for the back o' the head and neck, with a hole in front to let the eyes and nose out."
"Hand over," cried David Duffy.
"I say, wot's this inside?" exclaimed one of the men, drawing a folded paper from one of his mittens and opening it.
"Read, an' you'll maybe find out," suggested the mate. " `God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy,'" said the fisherman, reading from the paper.
"Just so," said Fink, "that's what the lady as made the mitts wants to let you know so's you may larn to think more o' the Giver than the gifts."
"I wish," said another of the men testily, as he pulled a tract from inside one of his mitts, and flung it on the deck, "I wish as how these same ladies would let religion alone, an' send us them things without it. We want the mitts, an' comforters, an' helmets, but we don't want their humbuggin' religion."
"Shame, Dick!" said David Duffy, as he wound a comforter round his thick neck. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We're bound to take the things as they've been sent to us, an' say `Thank 'ee.'"
"If it wasn't for what you call `humbuggin' religion,'" remarked Fink, looking Dick straight in the face, "it's little that we'd see o' comforters, or books, or mission ships on the North Sea. Why, d'ee think that selfishness, or greed, or miserliness, or indifference, or godlessness would ever take the trouble to send all them things to us? Can't you understand that the love of God in the heart makes men and women wish to try to keep God's commandments by bein' kind to one another, an' considering the poor, an' feedin' the hungry, an' clothin' the naked?"
"Right you are, Fink," said Lockley, with a nod of approval, which was repeated by several of those around.
"But, I say, you spoke of books, mate," remarked Bob Lumsden, who came forward at the moment, much to the satisfaction of his little friend Pat Stiver; "you han't showed us any books yet."
"One thing at a time, boy," returned the mate.
"We've got lots o' books too. Go below, Pat, an' ask the skipper to send up that big case o' books; say I've about finished givin' out the mitts an' mufflers."
"Just so, boy," put in his friend Bob; "say that the mate has distributed the soft goods, an' wants some hard facts now."
"Don't be cheeky, you young rascal!" cried the mate, hitting Bob on the nose with a well aimed pair of mittens.
"Thankee! On'y them things was meant for the hands not for the nose. Howsever, I won't quarrel with a gift, no matter what way it comes to me," retorted Bob, picking up the mitts and putting them in his pocket.
While he was speaking two men brought on deck a large box, which was quickly opened by the mate. The men crowded around with much interest and curiosity, for it was the first batch of books that had ever reached that fleet. The case was stuffed to the lid with old periodicals and volumes, of every shape, and size, and colour.
"W'y, they've bin an' sent us the whole British Museum, I do believe!" exclaimed David Duffy, whose younger brother chanced to be a porter in our great storehouse of literature.
"Here you are, lads!" cried Fink, going down on his knees and pulling out the contents. "Wollum of _The Leisure Hour, Sunday Magazine_, odd numbers o' _The Quiver_, wollum of _The Boy's Own Paper, Young England, Home Words_, and _Good Words_ (to smother our bad words, you know). There you are, enough to make doctors or professors of every man Jack o' you, if you'll on'y take it all in."
"Professors!" growled Joe Stubley, who had come on deck, still suffering from his strange internal complaint. "More like to make fools on us. Wot do _we_ want wi' books and larnin'!"
"Nothin' wotsumdever," answered Pat Stiver, with a look of the most patronising insolence. "You're right, Joe, quite right--as you always are. Smacksmen has got no souls, no brains, no minds, no hintellects."
"They've got no use for books, bless you! All they wants is wittles an' grog--" The boy pulled up at this point, for Stubley made a rush at him, but Pat was too quick for him.
"Well said, youngster; give it him hot," cried one of the men approvingly, while the others laughed; but they were too much interested in the books to be diverted from these for more than a few seconds. Many of them were down on their knees beside the mate, who continued in a semi-jocular strain--"Now then, take your time, my hearties; lots o' books here, and lots more where these came from. The British public will never run dry. I'm cheap John! Here they are, all for nothin', _on loan_; small wollum--the title ain't clear, ah! --_The Little Man as Lost his Mother_; big wollum--_Shakespeare; Pickwick_; books by Hesba Stretton; Almanac; Missionary Williams; _Polar Seas an' Regions; Pilgrim's Progress_--all sorts to suit all tastes--Catechisms, Noo Testaments, _Robinson Crusoe_."
"Hold on there, mate; let's have a look at that!" cried Bob Lumsden eagerly--so eagerly that the mate handed the book to him with a laugh.
"Come here, Pat," whispered Bob, dragging his friend out of the crowd to a retired spot beside the boat of the _Sunbeam_, which lay on deck near the mainmast. "Did you ever read _Robinson Crusoe_?"
"No, never--never so much as 'eard of 'im."
"You can read, I suppose?"
"Oh yes; I can read well enough."
"What have you read?" demanded Bob.
"On'y bits of old noospapers," replied Pat, with a look of contempt, "an' I don't like readin'."
"Don't like it? Of course you don't, you ignorant curmudgeon, if noospapers is all you've read. Now, Pat, I got this book, not for myself but a purpus for _you_."
"Thankee for nothin'," said Pat; "I doesn't want it."
"Doesn't want it!" repeated Bob. "D'ee know that this is the very best book as ever was written?"
"You seems pretty cock-sure," returned Pat, who was in a contradictory mood that day; "but you know scholards sometimes differ in their opinions about books."
"Pat I'll be hard upon you just now if you don't look out!" said Bob seriously. "Howsever, you're not so far wrong, arter all. People _does_ differ about books, so I'll only say that _Robinson Crusoe_ is the best book as was ever written, in _my_ opinion, an' so it'll be in yours, too, when you have read it; for there's shipwrecks, an' desert islands, an' savages, an' scrimmages, an' footprints, an'--see here! That's a pictur of him in his hairy dress, wi' his goat, an' parrot, an' the umbrellar as he made hisself, a-lookin' at the footprint on the sand."
The picture, coupled with Bob Lumsden's graphic description, had the desired effect. His little friend's interest was aroused, and Pat finally accepted the book, with a promise to read it carefully when he should find time.
"But of that," added Pat, "I ain't got too much on hand."
"You've got all that's of it--four and twenty hours, haven't you?" demanded his friend.
"True, Bob, but it's the _spare_ time I'm short of. Howsever, I'll do my best."
While this literary conversation was going on beside the boat, the visitors to the _Sunbeam_ had been provided with a good supply of food for the mind as well as ease and comfort for the body, and you may be very sure that the skipper and his men, all of whom were Christians, did not fail in regard to the main part of their mission, namely, to drop in seeds of truth as they found occasion, which might afterwards bear fruit to the glory of God and the good of man.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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10
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THE FIRST FIGHT AND VICTORY.
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There was on board the _Sunbeam_, on this her first voyage, a tall, broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone expression and a yellowish-green countenance. To look at him was to pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope--a man of no heart or imagination.
Never before, probably, did a man's looks so belie his true character. This youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty Christian, full of love to his Master and to all mankind, and a student for the ministry. But John Binning had broken down from over-study, and at the time we introduce him to the reader he was still further "down" with that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness.
Even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of Binning's true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. One of those gleams was on the occasion of Dick Martin being rescued. Up to that period, since leaving Yarmouth, Binning had lain flat on his back. On hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly forced him to retire. Again, when the first visitors began to sing one of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed.
At last however, Neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. His recovery--at least as regarded the sea-sickness--was sudden. He awoke, on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored. He could hardly believe it. His head no longer swam; other parts of him no longer heaved. The first intimation that Skipper Martin had of the change was John Binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a stentor. He rose and donned his clothes.
"You've got your sea legs at last, sir," said Fred Martin, as Binning came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation.
"Yes, and I've got my sea appetite, too, Mr Martin. Will breakfast be ready soon?"
"Just goin' on the table, sir. I like to hear that question. It's always a sure and good sign."
At that moment Pat Stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. He dived, as it were, into the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table, on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside it. To this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat down. After a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully understand. The student, in particular, became irrepressible after the first silent and ravenous attack.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "the sea! the sea! the open sea! If you are ill, go to sea. If you are fagged, go to sea! If you are used up, seedy, washed-out, miserable, go to sea! Another slice of that turbot, please. Thanks."
"Mind your cup, sir," said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a warning voice; "with a breeze like this it's apt to pitch into your lap. She lays over a good deal because I've got a press of sail on her this morning."
"More than usual?" asked Binning.
"Yes. You see I'm trying to beat a _coper_ that's close ahead of us just now. The _Sunbeam_ is pretty swift on her heels, an' if the breeze holds--ha! you've got it, sir?"
He certainly had got it, in his lap--where neither cup, saucer, nor tea should be.
"You are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it I should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. But no matter. As I've had enough now, I'll go on deck and walk myself dry."
On deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly reviving student, for the race between the _Sunbeam_ and the _coper_ was not yet decided. They were trying which would be first to reach a group of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port bow. At first the _coper_ seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards the breeze freshened and the _Sunbeam_ soon left it far astern. Seeing that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course.
"Ah, she'll steer for other fleets where there's no opposition," remarked the skipper.
"To win our first race is a good omen," said John Binning, with much satisfaction. "May the _copers_ be thus beaten from every fleet until they are beaten from the North Sea altogether!"
"Amen to that," said Fred Martin heartily. "You feel well enough now, sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don't you?"
"Think of it, my friend! I have done more than think," exclaimed the student; "I have been busy while in bed preparing for the Sabbath, and if the Master sends us calm weather I will surely help in the good work you have begun so well."
And the Master did send calm weather--so calm and so beautiful that the glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet "rest that remaineth for the people of God." Indeed, the young student was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the theme. And when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the _Sunbeam_, and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free.
In fact the young man's mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever heard the Gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard, cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and deliverance from the death of sin. Many of these men had come there only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the Lord, and some because they had nothing better to do.
Groggy Fox was among them. He had come as before for "baccy," forgetting that the weed was not sold on Sundays, and had been prevailed on to remain to the service. Dick Martin was also there, in a retired and dark corner. He was curious to know, he remarked, what the young man had to talk about.
It was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that God opened the flood-gates. Then the stream gushed forth.
"It is," said the preacher--in tones not loud, but so deep and impressive that every soul was at once enthralled--"it is to the servants of the devil that the grand message comes. Not to the good, and pure, and holy is the blessed Gospel or good news sent, but, to the guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary God has sent by His blessed Spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in Jesus Christ for the chief of sinners. Deliverance from sin changes godless men into the children of God, and there is _rest_ for these. Do I need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out body? Surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it better than I do. But it _is_ needful to tell you about rest for the soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is. Is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit that sin? Is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster-- strong drink--who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage, would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?"
"Yes," shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. "Thank God!" murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were men in that vessel's hold who were longing for the salvation of other as well as their own souls.
No notice was taken of the interrupters. The preacher only paused for an instant as if to emphasise the words--"Jesus Christ is able to save to the _uttermost_ all who come to God through Him."
We will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student evidently did not think that he should be "heard for his much speaking!" The prayer which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the Hearer of prayer. It was merely--"God have mercy on me."
Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing. It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have been lost in it. Saint Paul's Cathedral organ could not have drowned it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular of Sankey's hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men, then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather by the student's God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest, formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "The Lifeboat" was, appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome. With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore."
But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said--"you're right, sir. A grievous sin _does_ lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's--twenty pounds it was."
The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.
"What d'ee think, Pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with indignation in his eye and tone.
"I ain't thinkin' at all," said Pat.
"Would you believe it, Pat?" continued Bob, "I've just heerd that scoun'rel Dick Martin say that it _was_ him as stole the money from Mrs Mooney--from the mother of our Eve!"
"You _don't_ say so!" exclaimed Pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and round.
"Yes, I does, an' I've long suspected him. Whether he was boastin' or not I can't tell, an' it do seem strange that he should boast of it to the young parson--leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. But now mark me, Pat Stiver, I'll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain't spent it all. I give you leave to make an Irish stew o' my carcase if I don't. Ay, ay, sir!"
The concluding words of Bob Lumsden's speech were in reply to an order from Skipper Lockley to haul the boat alongside. In a few minutes more the mission ship was forsaken by her strange Sabbath congregation, and left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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11
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A CONSULTATION, A FEAST, AND A PLOT.
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There was--probably still is--a coffee-tavern in Gorleston where, in a cleanly, cheerful room, a retired fisherman and his wife, of temperance principles, supplied people with those hot liquids which are said to cheer without inebriating.
Here, by appointment, two friends met to discuss matters of grave importance. One was Bob Lumsden, the other his friend and admirer Pat Stiver. Having asked for and obtained two large cups of coffee and two slices of buttered bread for some ridiculously small sum of money, they retired to the most distant corner of the room, and, turning their backs on the counter, began their discussion in low tones.
Being early in the day, the room had no occupants but themselves and the fisherman's wife, who busied herself in cleaning and arranging plates, cups, and saucers, etcetera, for expected visitors.
"Pat," said Bob, sipping his coffee with an appreciative air, "I've turned a total abstainer."
"W'ich means?" inquired Pat.
"That I don't drink nothin' at all," replied Bob.
"But you're a-drinkin' now!" said Pat.
"You know what I mean, you small willain; I drink nothin' with spirits in it."
"Well, I don't see what you gains by that, Bob, for I heerd Fred Martin say you was nat'rally `full o' spirit,' so abstainin' 'll make no difference."
"Pat," said Bob sternly, "if you don't clap a stopper on your tongue, I'll wollop you."
Pat became grave at once. "Well, d'ee know, Bob," he said, with an earnest look, "I do b'lieve you are right. You've always seemed to me as if you had a sort o' dissipated look, an' would go to the bad right off if you gave way to drink. Yes, you're right, an' to prove my regard for you I'll become a total abstainer too--but, nevertheless, I _can't_ leave off drinkin'."
"Can't leave off drinkin'!" echoed Bob.
Pat shook his head. "No--can't. 'Taint possible."
"Why, wot _do_ you mean?"
"Well, Bob, I mean that as I've never yet begun to drink, it ain't possible for me to leave it off, d'ee see, though I was to try ever so hard. Howsever, I'll become an abstainer all the same, just to keep company along wi' you."
Bob Lumsden gave a short laugh, and then, resuming his earnest air, said-- "Pat, I've found out that Dick Martin, the scoun'rel, has bin to Mrs Mooney's hut again, an' now I'm sartin sure it was him as stole the 'ooman's money--not because I heerd him say so to Mr Binning, but because Eve told me she saw him flattenin' his ugly nose against her window-pane last night, an' recognised him at once for the thief. Moreover, he opened the door an' looked into the room, but seein' that he had given Eve a terrible fright, he drew back smartly an' went away."
"The willain!" exclaimed Pat Stiver, snapping his teeth as if he wanted to bite, and doubling up his little fists. It was evident that Bob's news had taken away all his tendency to jest.
"Now it's plain to me," continued Bob, "that the willain means more mischief. P'r'aps he thinks the old 'ooman's got more blunt hid away in her chest, or in the cupboard. Anyhow, he's likely to frighten poor Eve out of her wits, so it's my business to stop his little game. The question is, how is it to be done. D'ee think it would be of any use to commoonicate wi' the police?"
The shaking of Pat Stiver's head was a most emphatic answer.
"No," said he, "wotiver you do, have nothin' to do wi' the p'leece. They're a low-minded, pig-headed set, wi' their `move on's,' an' their `now then, little un's;' an' their grabbin's of your collars, without no regard to w'ether they're clean or not, an' their--" "Let alone the police, Pat," interrupted his friend, "but let's have your adwice about what should be done."
After a moment's consideration, the small boy advised that Mrs Mooney's hut should be watched.
"In course," he said, "Dick Martin ain't such a fool as to go an' steal doorin' the daytime, so we don't need to begin till near dark. You are big an' strong enough now, Bob, to go at a man like Dick an' floor him wi a thumpin' stick."
"Scarcely," returned Bob, with a gratified yet dubious shake of his head. "I'm game to try, but it won't do to risk gettin' the worst of it in a thing o' this sort."
"Well, but if I'm there with another thumpin' stick to back you up," said Pat, "you'll have no difficulty wotsumdever. An' then, if we should need help, ain't the `Blue Boar' handy, an' there's always a lot o' hands there ready for a spree at short notice? Now, my adwice is that we go right off an' buy two thumpin' sticks--yaller ones, wi' big heads like Jack the Giant Killer--get 'em for sixpence apiece. A heavy expense, no doubt, but worth goin' in for, for the sake of Eve Mooney. And when, in the words o' the old song, the shades of evenin' is closin' o'er us, we'll surround the house of Eve, and `wait till the brute rolls by!'"
"You're far too poetical, Pat, for a practical man, said his friend. Howsomediver, I think, on the whole, your adwice is not bad, so well try it on. But wot are we to do till the shades of evenin' comes on?"
"Amoose ourselves," answered Pat promptly.
"H'm! might do worse," returned his friend. "I s'pose you know I've got to be at Widow Martin's to take tea wi' Fred an' his bride on their return from their weddin' trip. I wonder if I might take you with me, Pat. You're small, an' I suppose you don't eat much."
"Oh, don't I, though?" exclaimed Pat.
"Well, no matter. It would be very jolly. We'd have a good blow-out, you know; sit there comfortably together till it began to git dark, and then start off to--to--" "Go in an' win," suggested the little one.
Having thus discussed their plans and finished their coffee, the two chivalrous lads went off to Yarmouth and purchased two of the most formidable cudgels they could find, of the true Jack-the-Giant-Killer type, with which they retired to the Denes to "amoose" themselves.
Evening found them hungry and hearty at the tea-table of Mrs Martin-- and really, for the table of a fisherman's widow, it was spread with a very sumptuous repast; for it was a great day in the history of the Martin family. No fewer than three Mrs Martins were seated round it. There was old Granny Martin, who consented to quit her attic window on that occasion and take the head of the table, though she did so with a little sigh, and a soft remark that, "It would be sad if he were to come when she was not watching." Then there was widow Martin, Fred's mother--whose bad leg, by the way, had been quite cured by her legacy.
And lastly, there was pretty Mrs Isa Martin, Fred's newly-married wife.
Besides these there were skipper Lockley of the _Lively Poll_, and his wife Martha--for it will be remembered Martha was cousin to Isa, and Stephen's smack chanced to be in port at this time as well as the _Sunbeam_ and the _Fairy_, alias the _Ironclad_, which last circumstance accounts for Dick Martin being also on shore. But Dick was not invited to this family gathering, for the good reason that he had not shown face since landing, and no one seemed to grieve over his absence, with the exception of poor old granny, whose love for her "wandering boy" was as strong and unwavering as was her love to the husband, for whose coming she had watched so long.
Bob Lumsden, it may be remarked, was one of the guests, because Lockley was fond of him; and Pat Stiver was there because Bob was fond of _him_! Both were heartily welcomed.
Besides the improvement in Mrs Martin's health, there was also vast improvement in the furniture and general appearance of the attic since the arrival of the legacy.
"It was quite a windfall," remarked Mrs Lockley, handing in her cup for more tea.
"True, Martha, though I prefer to call it a godsend," said Mrs Martin. "You see it was gettin' so bad, what wi' standin' so long at the tub, an' goin' about wi' the clo'es, that I felt as if I should break down altogether, I really did; but now I've been able to rest it I feel as if it was going to get quite strong again, and that makes me fit to look after mother far better. Have some more tea, granny!"
A mumbled assent and a pleased look showed that the old woman was fully alive to what was going on.
"Hand the butter to Isa, Pat. Thankee," said the ex-washerwoman. "What a nice little boy your friend is, Bob Lumpy! I'm so glad you thought of bringin' him. He quite puts me in mind of what my boy Fred was at his age--on'y a trifle broader, an' taller, an stouter."
"A sort of lock-stock-an'-barrel difference, mother," said Fred, laughing.
"I dun know what you mean by your blocks, stocks, an' barrels," returned Mrs Martin, "but Pat is a sight milder in the face than you was, an I'm sure he's a better boy."
The subject of this remark cocked his ears and winked gently with one eye to his friend Bob, with such a sly look that the blooming bride, who observed it, went off into a shriek of laughter.
"An' only to think," continued Mrs Martin, gazing in undisguised admiration at her daughter-in-law, "that my Fred--who seems as if on'y yesterday he was no bigger than Pat, should have got Isa Wentworth--the best lass in all Gorleston--for a wife! You're a lucky boy!"
"Right you are," responded Fred, with enthusiasm. "I go wi' you there, mother, but I'm more than a lucky boy--I'm a highly favoured one, and I thank God for the precious gift; and also for that other gift, which is second only to Isa, the command of a Gospel ship on the North Sea."
A decided chuckle, which sounded like a choke, from granny, fortunately called for attentions from the bride at this point.
"But do 'ee really think your mission smack will do much good?" asked Martha Lockley, who was inclined to scepticism.
"I am sure of it," replied Fred emphatically. "Why, we've done some good work already, though we have bin but a short time wi' the fleet. I won't speak of ourselves, but just look at what has bin done in the way of saving drunkards and swearers by the _Cholmondeley_ in the short-Blue Fleet, and by the old _Ensign_ in the Fleet started by Mr Burdett-Coutts, the _Columbia_ fleet, and in the other fleets that have got Gospel ships. It is not too much to say that there are hundreds of men now prayin' to God, singin' the praises o' the Lamb, an' servin' their owners better than they ever did before, who not long ago were godless drunkards and swearers."
"Men are sometimes hypocrites," objected Martha; "how d'ee know that they are honest, or that it will last?"
"Hypocrites?" exclaimed Fred, pulling a paper hastily from his pocket and unfolding it. "I think you'll admit that sharp men o' bussiness are pretty good judges o' hypocrites as well as of good men. Listen to what one of the largest firms of smack-owners says: `Our men have been completely revolutionised, and we gladly become subscribers of ten guineas to the funds of the Mission.' Another firm says, `What we have stated does not convey anything like our sense of the importance of the work you have undertaken.'"
"Ay, there's something in that," said Martha, who, like all sceptics, was slow to admit truth.
We say not this to the discredit of sceptics. On the contrary, we think that people who swallow what is called "truth" too easily, are apt to imbibe a deal of error along with it. Doubtless it was for the benefit of such that the word was given--"Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good."
Fred then went to show the immense blessing that mission ships had already been to the North Sea fishermen--alike to their souls and bodies; but we may not follow him further, for Bob Lumsden and Pat Stiver claim individual attention just now.
When these enterprising heroes observed that the shades of evening were beginning to fall, they rose to take their leave.
"Why so soon away, lads?" asked Fred.
"We're goin' to see Eve Mooney," answered Bob. "Whatever are the boys goin' to do wi' them thick sticks?" exclaimed Martha Lockley.
"Fit main an fore masts into a man-o'-war, I suppose," suggested her husband.
The boys did not explain, but went off laughing, and Lockley called after them-- "Tell Eve I've got a rare lot o' queer things for her this trip."
"And give her my dear love," cried Mrs Fred Martin.
"Ay, ay," replied the boys as they hurried away on their self-imposed mission.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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12
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THE ENTERPRISE FAILS--REMARKABLY.
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The lads had to pass the "Blue Boar" on their way to Widow Mooney's hut, and they went in just to see, as Bob said, how the land lay, and whether there was a prospect of help in that quarter if they should require it.
Besides a number of strangers, they found in that den of iniquity Joe Stubley, Ned Bryce, and Groggy Fox--which last had, alas! forgotten his late determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck and pull for the shore." He and his comrades were still out among the breakers, clinging fondly to the old wreck.
The boys saw at a glance that no assistance was to be expected from these men. Stubley was violently argumentative, Fox was maudlinly sentimental, and Bryce was in an exalted state of heroic resolve. Each sought to gain the attention and sympathy of the other, and all completely failed, but they succeeded in making a tremendous noise, which seemed partially to satisfy them as they drank deeper.
"Come, nothin' to be got here," whispered Bob Lumsden, in a tone of disgust, as he caught hold of his friend's arm. "We'll trust to ourselves--" "An' the thumpin' sticks," whispered Pat, as they reached the end of the road.
Alas for the success of their enterprise if it had depended on those formidable weapons of war!
When the hut was reached the night had become so nearly dark that they ventured to approach it with the intention of peeping in at the front window, but their steps were suddenly arrested by the sight of a man's figure approaching from the opposite direction. They drew back, and, being in the shadow of a wall, escaped observation. The man advanced noiselessly, and with evident caution, until he reached the window, and peeped in.
"It's Dick," whispered Bob. "Can't see his figure-head, but I know the cut of his jib, even in the dark."
"Let's go at 'im, slick!" whispered Pat, grasping his cudgel and looking fierce.
"Not yet. We must make quite sure, an' nab him in the very act."
As he spoke the man went with stealthy tread to the door of the hut, which the drunken owner had left on the latch. Opening it softly, he went in, shut it after him, and, to the dismay of the boys, locked it on the inside.
"Now, Pat," said Bob, somewhat bitterly, "there's nothin' for it but the police."
Pat expressed strong dissent. "The p'leece," he said, "was useless for real work; they was on'y fit to badger boys an' old women."
"But what can we do?" demanded Bob anxiously, for he felt that time was precious. "You an' I ain't fit to bu'st in the door; an' if we was, Dick would be ready for us. If we're to floor him he must be took by surprise."
"Let's go an' peep," suggested the smaller warrior.
"Come on, then," growled the big one.
The sight that met their eyes when they peeped was indeed one fitted to expand these orbs of vision to the uttermost, for they beheld the thief on his knees beside the invalid's bed, holding her thin hand in his, while his head was bowed upon the ragged counterpane.
Bob Lumsden was speechless.
"Hold me; I'm a-goin' to bu'st," whispered Pat, by way of expressing the depth of his astonishment.
Presently Eve spoke. They could hear her faintly, yet distinctly, through the cracked and patched windows, and listened with all their ears.
"Don't take on so, poor man," she said in her soft loving tones. "Oh, I am _so_ glad to hear what you say!"
Dick Martin looked up quickly.
"What!" he exclaimed, "glad to hear me say that I am the thief as stole your mother's money! that I'm a low, vile, selfish blackguard who deserves to be kicked out o' the North Sea fleet--off the face o' the 'arth altogether?"
"Yes," returned Eve, smiling through her tears--for she had been crying--"glad to hear you say all that, because Jesus came to save people like you; but He does not call them such bad names. He only calls them the `lost.'"
"Well, I suppose you're right, dear child," said the man, after a pause; "an' I do think the Blessed Lord has saved me, for I never before felt as I do now--hatred of my old bad ways, and an _awful_ desire to do right for His sake. If any o' my mates had told me I'd feel an' act like this a week ago, I'd have called him a fool. I can't understand it. I suppose that God must have changed me altogether. My only fear is that I'll fall back again into the old bad ways--I'm so helpless for anything good, d'ee see."
"You forget," returned Eve, with another of her tearful smiles; "He says, `I will never leave thee nor forsake thee'--" "No, I don't forget that," interrupted Dick quickly; "that is what the young preacher in the mission smack said, an' it has stuck to me. It's that as keeps me up. But I didn't come here to speak about my thoughts an' feelin's," he continued, rising and taking a chair close to the bed, on which he placed a heavy bag. "I come here, Eve, to make restitootion. There's every farthin' I stole from your poor mother. I kep' it intendin' to go to Lun'on, and have a good long spree--so it's all there. You'll give it to her, but don't tell her who stole it. That's a matter 'tween you an' me an' the Almighty. Just you say that the miserable sinner who took it has bin saved by Jesus Christ, an' now returns it and axes her pardon."
Eve gladly promised, but while she was yet speaking, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the hut. The man started up as if to leave, and the two boys, suddenly awakening to the fact that they were eavesdropping, fled silently round the corner of the hut and hid themselves. The passer-by, whoever he was, seemed to change his mind, for the steps ceased to sound for a few moments, then they were heard again, with diminishing force, until they finally died away.
A moment later, and the key was heard to turn, and the door of the hut to open and close, after which the heavy tread of the repentant fisherman was heard as he walked quickly away.
The boys listened in silence till all was perfectly still.
"Well, now," said Bob, drawing a long breath, "who'd have thought that things would have turned out like this?"
"Never heard of sich a case in _my_ life before," responded Pat Stiver with emphasis, as if he were a venerable magistrate who had been trying "cases" for the greater part of a long life. "Why, it leaves us nothin' wotiver to do! Even a p'leeceman might manage it! The thief has gone an' took up hisself, tried an' condemned hisself without a jury, pronounced sentance on hisself without a judge, an' all but hanged hisself without Jack Ketch, so there's nothin' for you an' me to do but go an' bury our thumpin' sticks, as Red Injins bury the war-hatchet, retire to our wigwams, an' smoke the pipe of peace."
"Wery good; let's go an' do it, then," returned Bob, curtly.
As it is not a matter of particular interest how the boys reduced this figurative intention to practice, we will leave them, and follow Dick Martin for a few minutes.
His way led him past the "Blue Boar," which at that moment, however, proved to be no temptation to him. He paused to listen. Sounds of revelry issued from its door, and the voice of Joe Stubley was heard singing with tremendous energy--"Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves," although he and all his companions were at that very moment thoroughly--in one or two cases almost hopelessly--enslaved to the most terrible tyrant that has ever crushed the human race!
Dick went on, and did not pause till he reached his sister's house. By that time the family party had broken up, but a solitary candle in the attic window showed that old Granny Martin was still on her watch-tower.
"Is that you, Dick?" said his sister, opening to his tap, and letting him in; but there was nothing of welcome or pleasure in the widow's tone.
The fisherman did not expect a warm welcome. He knew that he did not deserve it, but he cared not, for the visit was to his mother. Gliding to her side, he went down on his knees, and laid his rugged head on her lap. Granny did not seem taken by surprise. She laid her withered hand on the head, and said: "Bless you, my boy! I knew you would come, sooner or later; praise be to His blessed name."
We will not detail what passed between the mother and son on that occasion, but the concluding sentence of the old woman was significant: "He can't be long of coming _now_, Dick, for the promises are all fulfilled at last, and I'm ready."
She turned her head slowly again in the old direction, where, across the river and the sands, she could watch the moonbeams glittering on the solemn sea.
Three days later, and the skipper of the _Sunbeam_ received a telegram telling him to prepare for guests, two of whom were to accompany him on his trip to the fleet.
It was a bright, warm day when the guests arrived--a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen who sympathised with the Mission, accompanied by the Director.
"All ready for sea, Martin, I suppose?" said the latter, as the party stepped on board from the wharf, alongside of which the vessel lay.
"All ready, sir," responded Fred. "If the wind holds we may be with the fleet, God willing, some time to-morrow night."
The _Sunbeam_ was indeed all ready, for the duties on board of her had been performed by those who did their work "as to the Lord, and not to men." Every rope was in its place and properly coiled away, every piece of brass-work about the vessel shone like burnished gold. The deck had been scrubbed to a state of perfect cleanliness, so that, as Jim Freeman said, "you might eat your victuals off it." In short, everything was trim and taut, and the great blue MDSF flag floated from the masthead, intimating that the Gospel ship was about to set forth on her mission of mercy, to fish for men.
Among the party who were conducted by Fred and the Director over the vessel were two clergymen, men of middle age, who had been labouring among all classes on the land: sympathising with the sad, rejoicing with the glad, praying, working, and energising for rich and poor, until health had begun to give way, and change of air and scene had become absolutely necessary. A week or so at the sea, it was thought, would revive them.
And what change of air could be more thorough than that from the smoke of the city to the billows of the North Sea? The Director had suggested the change. Men of God were sorely wanted out there, he said, and, while they renewed their health among the fresh breezes of ocean, they might do grand service for the Master among the long-neglected fishermen.
The reasoning seemed just. The offer was kind. The opportunity was good, as well as unique and interesting. The land-worn clergymen accepted the invitation, and were now on their way to the scene of their health-giving work, armed with waterproofs, sou'westers, and sea-boots.
"It will do you good, sir, both body and soul," said Skipper Martin to the elder of the two, when presented to him. "You'll find us a strange lot, sir, out there, but glad to see you, and game to listen to what you've got to say as long as ever you please."
When the visitors had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they went on shore, and the _Sunbeam_, hoisting her sails and shaking out the blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.
Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time and this one which toiled for eternity.
Soon the _Sunbeam_ swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double fishing-ground.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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13
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THE TIDE BEGINS TO TURN, AND DEATH STEPS IN.
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Let us now, good reader, outstrip the _Sunbeam_, and, proceeding to the fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks. We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of perpendicular lightning.
It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is the _Lively Poll_. Let us descend into her cabin.
A wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling, diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.
On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet. They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.
David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his elbows resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into hearty ripples of laughter.
But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his favourite game of "checkers." The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely in his mind.
"Well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a trump!"
"Shush!" exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up his hand as if to check interruption. "There's somethin' in this, although I can't quite see it yet."
A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found something quite to his taste. "First-rate--ha! ha! I wonder if it's all true."
"Hold your noise there," cried Hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' Duffy snortin' like a grampus?"
"Ah, just so," chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. "Why don't you let it out, David? You'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a bigger safety-valve than your nose."
"Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir," said the mate, looking down the hatchway.
The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.
In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the _Cormorant_. Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the _Sunbeam's_ beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox's crew was noted as one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men were busy with books, pamphlets, and tracts. One who had, as his mate said, come by a broken head, was slumbering in his berth, scientifically bandaged and convalescent, and Groggy himself, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, was deep in a book which he pronounced to be "one o' the wery best wollums he had ever come across in the whole course of his life," leaving it to be inferred, perhaps, that he had come across a very large number of volumes in his day.
While he was thus engaged one of the men whispered in his ear, "A _coper_ alongside, sir."
The skipper shut the "wery best wollum" at once, and ordered out the boat.
"Put a cask o' oysters in her," he said.
Usually his men were eager to go with their skipper, but on this night some of them were so interested in the books they were reading that they preferred to remain on board. Others went, and, with their skipper, got themselves "fuddled" on the proceeds of the owner's oysters. If oysters had not been handy, fish or something else would have been used instead, for Skipper Fox was not particular--he was still clinging to "the poor old stranded wreck."
It was dawn when, according to their appropriate phrase, they "tumbled" over the side of the _coper_ into their boat. As they bade the Dutchman good night they observed that he was looking "black as thunder" at the horizon.
"W-wat's wrong, ol' b-boy?" asked Groggy.
The Dutchman pointed to the horizon. "No use for me to shtop here, mit _dat_ alongside!" he replied.
The fishermen turned their drunken eyes in the direction indicated, and, after blinking a few seconds, clearly made out the large blue flag, with its letters MDSF, fluttering in the light breeze that had risen with the sun.
With curses both loud and deep the Dutchman trimmed his sails, and slowly but decidedly vanished from the scene. Thus the tide began to turn on the North Sea!
The light breeze went down as the day advanced, and soon the mission vessel found herself surrounded by smacks, with an ever-increasing tail of boats at her stern, and an ever-multiplying congregation on her deck. It was a busy and a lively scene, for while they were assembling, Fred Martin took advantage of the opportunity to distribute books and medicines, and to bind up wounds, etcetera. At the same time the pleasant meeting of friends, who never met in such numbers anywhere else--not even in the _copers_--and the hearty good wishes and shaking of hands, with now and then expressions of thankfulness from believers-- all tended to increase the bustle and excitement, so that the two invalid clergymen began at once to experience the recuperative influence of glad enthusiasm.
"There is plenty to do here, both for body and soul," remarked one of these to Fred during a moment of relaxation.
"Yes, sir, thank God. We come out here to work, and we find the work cut out for us. A good many surgical cases, too, you observe. But we expect that. In five of the fleets there were more than two thousand cases treated last year aboard of the mission smacks, so we look for our share. In fact, during our first eight weeks with this fleet we have already had two hundred men applying for medicine or dressing of wounds."
"Quite an extensive practice, Dr Martin," said the clergyman, with a laugh.
"Ay, sir; but ours is the medical-missionary line. The body may be first in time, but the soul is first in importance with us."
In proof of this, as it were, the skipper now stopped all that had been going on, and announced that the _real_ work of the day was going to begin; whereupon the congregation crowded into the hold until it was full. Those who could not find room clustered on deck round the open hatch and listened--sometimes craned their necks over and gazed.
It was a new experience for the invalid clergymen, who received another bath of recuperative influence. Fervour, interest, intelligence seemed to gleam in the steady eyes of the men while they listened, and thrilled in their resonant voices when they sang. One of the clergymen preached as he had seldom preached before, and then prayed, after which they all sang; but the congregation did not move to go away. The brother clergyman therefore preached, and, modestly fearing that he was keeping them too long, hinted as much.
"Go on, sir," said the Admiral, who was there; "it ain't every day we gets a chance like this."
A murmur of assent followed, and the preacher went on; but we will not follow him. After closing with the hymn, "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer's ear," they all went on deck, where they found a glory of sunshine flooding the _Sunbeam_, and glittering on the still tranquil sea.
The meeting now resolved itself into a number of groups, among whom the peculiar work of the day was continued directly or indirectly. It was indeed a wonderful condition of things on board of the Gospel ship that Sunday--wheels within wheels, spiritual machinery at work from stem to stern. A few, whose hearts had been lifted up, got out an accordion and their books, and "went in for" hymns. Among these Bob Lumsden and his friend Pat Stiver took an active part. Here and there couples of men leaned over the side and talked to each other in undertones of their Saviour and the life to come. In the bow Manx Bradley got hold of Joe Stubley and pleaded hard with him to come to Jesus, and receive power from the Holy Spirit to enable him to give up all his evil ways. In the stern Fred Martin sought to clear away the doubts and difficulties of Ned Bryce. Elsewhere the two clergymen were answering questions, and guiding several earnest souls to a knowledge of the truth, while down in the cabin Jim Freeman prevailed on several men and boys to sign the temperance pledge. Among these last was Groggy Fox, who, irresolute of purpose, was still holding back. " 'Cause why," said he; "I'll be sure to break it again. I can't keep it."
"I know that, skipper," said Fred, coming down at the moment. "In your own strength you'll _never_ keep it, but in God's strength you shall conquer _all_ your enemies. Let's pray, lads, that we may all be enabled to keep to our good resolutions."
Then and there they all knelt down, and Skipper Fox arose with the determination once again to "Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore."
But that was a memorable Sunday in other respects, for towards the afternoon a stiff breeze sprang up, and an unusually low fall in the barometer turned the fishermen's thoughts back again to wordly cares. The various boats left the _Sunbeam_ hurriedly. As the _Lively Poll_ had kept close alongside all the time, Stephen Lockley was last to think of leaving. He had been engaged in a deeply interesting conversation with one of the clergymen about his soul, but at last ordered his boat to be hauled alongside.
While this was being done, he observed that another smack--one of the so-called "ironclads"--was sailing so as to cross the bows of his vessel. The breeze had by that time increased considerably, and both smacks, lying well over, were rushing swiftly through the water. Suddenly some part of the ironclad's tackling about the mainsail gave way, the head of the vessel fell to leeward; next moment she went crashing into the _Lively Poll_, and cut her down to the water's edge. The ironclad seemed to rebound and tremble for a moment, and then passed on. The steersman at once threw her up into the wind with the intention of rendering assistance, but in another minute the _Lively Poll_ had sunk and disappeared for ever, carrying Peter Jay and Hawkson along with her.
Of course several boats pushed off at once to the rescue, and hovered about the spot for some time, but neither the men nor the vessel were ever seen again.
There was a smack at some distance, which was about to quit the fleet next morning and return to port. The skipper of it knew well which vessel had been run down, but, not being near enough to see all that passed, imagined that the whole crew had perished along with her. During the night the breeze freshened to a gale, which rendered fishing impossible. This vessel therefore left the fleet before dawn, and carried the news to Gorleston that the _Lively Poll_ had been run down and sunk with all her crew.
It was Fred Martin's wife who undertook to break this dreadful news to poor Mrs Lockley.
Only those who have had such duty to perform can understand the struggle it cost the gentle-spirited Isa. The first sight of her friend's face suggested to Mrs Lockley the truth, and when words confirmed it she stood for a moment with a countenance pale as death. Then, clasping her hands tightly together, the poor woman, with a cry of despair, sank insensible upon the floor.
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{
"id": "23377"
}
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